uncomplicated

another one of those first chapters. actually, the first two paragraphs stood alone for a while, and at times i stop there. i've not finished this one...though there is another chapter or two. but i wouldn't have it too lengthy. it's file name is uncomplicated and so it will remain for now.

please don't make assumptions as to how i relate to my mother upon reading this. (especially you mom)

aside: i did update melted crayon.

Nothing could be more uncomplicated, under it all. That which I had always avoided, I had become. The one I swore would not direct my life, that annoying matter of being born excluded, has, in fact, guided every path via misdirection. If she would have me go here or do this, I reacted in opposition. And yet, with cruel irony, I am back at the beginning, a minor reflection of the creator: my mother.

And as I had begun, I return, screaming, protesting the cold discomfort of entering the world as she willed me to. I am but a girl screaming, naked, and bound in a single sheet wondering why I could not escape this fate.

Maybe I should have started earlier.

Blood coated skin was expected in such circumstances. It was fascinating how the effect didn’t mar the skin, lovely alabaster. Such pale flawless skin required care. The temporary splotching of trauma would fade into an even complexion. Clouded eyes would clear and settle into placid pools of smoke. Hair could be smoothed, tamed waves of dark earth, or her favorite ground espresso, she mused.

Lovely colors and scents under the rawness of the moment. It was all about focus, wasn’t it? She had kept the main objective in mind. She could admire the mess as her goal had been achieved, a byproduct; one sacrifice for a greater purpose.

Serenity Levine was named with all the longing her mother possessed. Her name was her mission statement, her citizenship, her responsibility. She wrote her name with skillfully controlled patience. The script was delicate under a light hand. Serenity Jane Levine, Jane for all the women before her. None had been plain, but dependable feminine counterparts to their strong and sound men.

Serenity would be the epitome of feminine graciousness. Lessons begin early, under the careful guidance of tradition. She would be the calming center of her family. The malleable wife, the organized mother, the dutiful neighbor, the charming hostess.

She would be her mother, and then some. Isn’t that the privilege of the former generation? The mother would make the daughter one ladder step better. One more layer of polish had the instrument shining brighter.

The beginning required stimulating surroundings. Everything appropriate for a baby girl was provided. The soft, the silk, the pink, the lace, the delicate, the fragile, the floral.

The middle required the best education, private lessons. If it wasn’t a tutor it was an all girl’s school. Piano, voice, and dance. Etiquette, painting, French, German, and Mandarin.

Schedules were kept with precision. Punctuality was necessary. To make someone feel important was to be sure you showed good manners. Caring was keeping time and not smiling too big.

Middle school brought about the usual independence. For this reason she went by Seren to her friends. She attended her lessons and kept social obligations, surrounding herself with other goal oriented girls. They would become the best women they could be, together. Networking was crucial for success, though they didn’t know it at the time.

With puberty, Siren would come, a name her mother had never been called herself, so she could not have anticipated such an outcome for her only daughter.

Just when she was wondering if her father’s blood offered any redemption, she was acing her math classes without effort, and heating the blood of the opposite sex she was competing against.

Her mother wouldn’t have her compete, but complement. She wasn’t to rile anyone but a rival, and in that, she would proceed with a cool head. She wasn’t to seduce anyone but ‘the one’.

The boys smirked over their nickname for the earthy brunette dressed in pearls. Girls pouted with practiced petulance. Siren, Seren, Serenity maintained the calm exterior letting everyone have their way. Inside, she contemplated her future for the first time.

It is easy to hate someone who has failed you. To blame them, lash out with angry words and cold shoulders. Is that not why I hate myself so often? Muttering under hot breath and refusing to look in the mirror at the offender. I have a mirror that does not require a reflection. And I lash out with all the fervor of a Sunday morning, with all the guilt of a hard, unyielding pew.

I will go where I want to go. This is the modern age. My name will become an irony. I will not be of a ‘calm disposition’. I will not keep a simpleton’s view of the world and only dwell in the tiniest corner of it. I will jump off the edge of it first.

swatting flies

on monday we had a woman come to our family studies class to share her experience of becoming pregnant at 16 in rural missouri in the 1960s. yep, she was sent to a maternity home (up here in portland, no less (her mother and stepdad lived in eugene))

she spoke about 6 million girls and women (13-28; ave. 25) between 1945-1972 who were sent to maternity homes to give birth and give their child up for adoption.... all these girls/women were white middle class. she spoke of the attitudes of the time and what was going on, etc...

today the teacher asked what we thought about that session. plenty shared the sadness, the horror, the appreciation for the changes that have occurred since...etc.

of course, not everyone was satisfied... someone: [essentially] who cares about white middle class women, when at close to the same time in history there was governmental sterilization efforts on reservations? in the scope of suffering... (those native mothers were more deserving--and are therefore valid, as if the 'white' mothers could now not be?)
another: the discussion felt lacking in validity because no minorities were mentioned.. (though there was a brief mention of many Latino groups assimilating the child into their families).

can we not have a discussion about the 'white middle class' without that particular group being demonized or viewed through lenses of absolute contempt: such contempt that would not allow compassion and horror? we've done studies/readings on other groups... those groups solely...

needless to say, i was annoyed.

something over nothing

everything i started to blog about was taking a turn for the worse... i'd start and i realized, wow, that sounds really pitiful, and whiny... not good for the morale. but i didn't want to not blog anything, so this is that something.

the other friday

no pen stories today. my best intentions yesterday found a big distraction and so those ideas swimming in my head will wait. here is chapter two of the temporarily named: imaginary. one can be read here.

Chapter two

Tallulah Vann breezed into the studio just after Jenavie had entered, trying to decide where to start. The two took in the disarray with a sweeping glance.

Tallulah, Jenavie’s furthest neighbor in the small town of Slink, had dropped in for a ‘hello’. The children were at her mother-in-law’s for the morning and she had to get away. Jenavie’s was the furthest she dared, but far enough as the mother-in-law shared her part of Chelsea Lane.

Jenavie could be possessive of her studio space but Tallulah, a childhood friend, had excused herself. That was what people like Tallulah do; they excuse the odd behaviors such as social appropriateness and make their own decisions.

For instance, when Tallulah Shaw met Jenavie Twist at age five, young Jenavie was already known as a special child. If it wasn't her odd hair and compelling gaze, it was the fact she rarely spoke and wore mismatched knee socks with her always the same chartreuse skirt. The girl needed a mother, and no one would volunteer. What Tallulah saw was that the girl needed a friend and she was just the one for the job. The day following introduction at kindergarten, Tallulah wore mismatched ruffled socks with her over-bright orange Sunday dress.

Jenavie had since grown out of the skirt and matched her knee socks but she had never outgrown Tallulah and her invasive sense of caring.

“You’ve left a sketchbook on the floor,” her friend commented, thinking such a find the only thing out of place in the unusually disorganized space. It was because she knew that Jenavie kept her sketchbooks in lockers lining the far wall. It wouldn’t do to have someone drop in and see what she had been sketching, but more so, to witness the notes in the margins and start asking questions.

Tallulah set the book on the clean surface of a writing desk near the door. She was the only one at this point to move about the room. Jenavie was still puzzling out which painting to continue with, waiting for inspiration to whisper in her ear.

Recently manicured fingers flipped through the pages industriously. Almond shaped blue eyes scanned the content expertly. Where you’d see a competent woman in navy slacks and a tailored coordinating shirt, you wouldn’t help but notice the girlish habit of twirling chocolate strands around and around then the tug into knots.

“This is disturbing,” Tallulah finally remarked. She had that rare crease between her eyes and a familiar tug on her lip by upper teeth.

Jenavie formed her own crease and decided she should wonder what Tallulah was talking about. That was when she noticed what sketchbook her friend had been studying.

“I did that early this morning. I’m not sure I want to think about it just yet.” She’d considered her options during breakfast and decided she would deal in distraction a bit longer.

Tallulah looked pointedly to Jenavie’s flat stomach, and more to the point, the hand rubbing absently across it. Jenavie would say it was because she ate a platter full for breakfast. They both wondered if she was lying.

Fact was neither had seen Jenavie fidget. It wasn’t a new notion that she showed anxiety about something, but the belly rubbing denoted a churning that wasn’t a part of the usual repertoire.

“The Shadow Man said he wanted you dead, Jenavie. And he called you there, purposefully. How did he do that? I mean, I’ve been trying for years.” Some of her earliest memories after learning about Jenavie’s sleep were to scare herself into nightmares so Jenavie would come over. After sneaking in a horror flick or ghost story she would fall into a horrible dream. But any summoning she could muster was delivered to her sure footed mother who arrived in the next second. A long month with a sleepless mother put her off the experiment until she was out of the house. Then she decided at least she had the sketchbooks, at least she had the paintings.

“I don’t know how he called me.” Jenavie studied the rough drawing of the shadow with clearly outlined bunched fists. “I don’t know of anyone who looks like that.”

Tallulah flipped to the first page, the door. Jenavie spent five pages on the carved images. “Anything familiar here?”

“It is the size of that canvas against the wall, away from the windows.” She answered without helping, distracting.

“You think if you paint it on that canvas you could recreate the door and walk through it?” Tallulah was morbidly fascinated.

“I don’t want to go there again. And besides, I do not enter places uninvited. That is not wise.” Jenavie had a habit of turning phrases that sounded like a classroom memorization. ‘I do no enter places uninvited’ had the droning quality of it occurring number four on a list of rules.

The following six pages were about the creature. Tallulah thought it was one of the more hideous she had seen depicted. Where did these things come from?

“Can we do this another time, Lulah?” Jenavie liked the light coming into the windows. It slanted across a nearly finished portrait of a child curled up in dark closet stifling a giggle. A tiny fairy princess held out a wand with a crystal star on its end. Between the two was a jester upside down on one hand, the other occupied with pinching his nose; one shoe absent from a steaming bare foot. The other foot was encased in a shoe that didn’t attend to his cheerful purple and gold costume but was a woman’s stiletto of carnation pink.

The light would be where the door’s smooth edge encountered dents. Some soft light peeked through. The only light at present was from the miniature sun suspended like the blown bubble it was.

“You can’t ignore this, Jenavie.” Tallulah used her best mommy voice. It was a tone she couldn’t regret. She had the heebie-jeebies all over the place, and this book was the cause.

“I’m not likely to forget it, Lulah. I just want a moment or two from it. I can’t waste this kind of light.”

Tallulah recognized the stubborn tilt of that chin. Jenavie looked fragile, especially in that precious beam of light, but she was not one to be underestimated. But neither was the small-town housewife with five children all under the age of ten. She refused to look frumpy and harried. She refused to forget when someone she loved was avoiding certain disaster, much less let them forget.

Jenavie had almost forgotten that Tallulah was still hanging around. When her friend popped the tab on a cold soda from the mini-fridge, Jenavie looked over with a frown.

Tallulah was studying the painting over Jenavie’s shoulder between sips. She’d always had that habit of sipping loudly and smacking her gum. Then there were the chewed pencils.

Jenavie checked the digital clock on the desk as well as scanned the surface for any pencils. Tallulah was twirling one bitten standard #2 in her free hand.

“Dang it, Lulah, now I’m going to have to throw that one away.”

Tallulah rolled her eyes, and tucked the stricken object behind one ear. “I was taking it with me, along with a couple pages of notes I made.” She waved a hand toward the desk. She’d gone and used the expensive business stationary, again.

“Notes for what?” Which community project was Mrs. Vann fine-tuning, or was it the children’s nutritious lunch menu for next week?

“Questions for when you are ready to talk about that sketch book. And a few notes of contention I have with the school board. You know, Jenavie, that you can’t sell that one. Someone is bound to recognize it.” She turned from it quickly, uncomfortable.

Mrs. Brown broke the dense quiet of the following seconds. “Excuse me, Ms. Tallulah; there is a call for you. It is Mrs. Vann, I believe.”

“Thank you, Imogen. I’ll pick it up in the hall.”

Jenavie did not look up from the little girl as Tallulah breezed out of the room. Instead, after a moment, she caught a tear on her thumb and pressed it into the wet paint at the corner of the finished painting. “No, no one will recognize this one; but I will never forget, Sylvia, never forget.”

trick or treats cafe

last friday, natalya came up with a 'brilliant' notion to play restaurant.

this would of course mean that she would be cooking dinner for sean and me.

how could i refuse.

and then it grew.

we need a menu, and she would need a costume, oh, and what are you and sean wearing, everyone wears a costume, you can borrow some of my dress-up things, what to make, what do we have ingredients for, how much to charge for what, set the table, prep the kitchen, come up with fancy names for dishes, dessert.

natalya's tricks or treats cafe was born (for one night only, so far). it is halloween themed from the dish names to dressing up in costume. friday was mexican food (things she can make confidently).


she dressed up as a pirate, greeted us at the stairs and showed us to our seats. she took drink orders, served them, took food orders, 'cooked', and served that. and yes, there was a pretend bill. but her hopes for a (cash) tip was not pretend.

aside: she comes home yesterday and offers to sell us her artwork, $2. as there were pictures on both sides they were a dollar each. cash up front. i should make sure they are hers, eh? and i was hoping the lemonade stand requests would pass. going to send her to her uncle neal's next summer, the little entrepreneur.

anyway, it was an enjoyable evening.. she makes a good burrito (does not skimp on the green sauce).

academia

we watched Hot Fuzz in class tonight (the Utopia/Dystopia class).

we had been assigned to have More's "Utopia" read.

so we discussed More and Hot Fuzz.

tra-la-la

yes, i should be reading Evelyn Waugh's "Vile Bodies" for ModBritLit...but i just finished Thomas More's "Utopia" for another class. that 7o-some page book kicked my butt. course falling asleep toward the beginning did nothing for my confidence. finally it became interesting around pages 50-something... yes, i am whining. ah.. and what to read for family studies..now that the latest two readings were despairing.---i feel the need to sink into the oblivion of middle-class white surroundings where everyone pretends that everything is okay and we need no one else to survive... can anyone facilitate this?? anyone?!

alright... deep breathing, and on to reading and coming up with a response paper.. they (the others in the class) promised this would be a quick read..and a funny one.. so here goes, and maybe if i begin to drift off to sleep i'll remember to mark my place this time.

Pen (story three): a little different

welcome to friday...

back to the Pen stories. this is #3 (or maybe 2 1/2). i started it yesterday and this where it is. my usual disclaimer: first draft, and there will someday be illustrations to accompany the text. considering how to handle incorporating information learned in #1 and #2 without belaboring anything.

Good evening! We haven’t visited with one another in the evening time yet have we? Usually we part at quiet time just as it is ending.

Well, today was a usual day. Well, except for Makepeace Lane where I go by Natalie Mae Plumlee instead of Penelope. There, today was Saturday, and today I got a hair cut. They cut inches off of my long streaming chocolate colored hair. I can still wear my pig tails, but they are short tails. I was pretty upset by this at the beginning of the day but I think I’ll adjust. I just hope my friends will recognize me. I look different, and I’m not sure if it is in a good way.

If you are wondering where I am in my day, I just arrived home after the evening performance. The evening performance is a nightly thing where we are entertained by the weather. This occurs after the supper time.

The weather said Shugglooflyspat music would inspire the day. The Shugglooflyspat music section demonstrated how the instruments actually work along with a short documentary by their history and film sections.

Now I am home to my apartment. For the next hour I can watch or listen to any of the channels on the screen that was programmed for the day. I am going to use this time to tell you a story. And I’ll speak loudly enough so you’ll hear me over the screen because the screen is on whether I want it or not. Unfortunately even the Shugglooflyspat lullabies are loud and raucous.

I may have mentioned that I am fortunate to have made friends with Cornelia and Carle. It is not easy to make friends here. Do you know what an acquaintance is? You can look the word up, or ask, if you don’t know. I do that, you know. That is encouraged in both places. Although--you wouldn’t believe the difference between looking at a dictionary there and here.

To continue, I have acquaintances aplenty. Friendship is not encouraged as much as civility. I must be friendly and courteous where possible. We all are, except those that are allowed their tempers. Those that work with banned or contested books have good cause for their moods. Then there is the art (anyone but watercolors), heavy metal music, pop music, architecture, and cuisine sections. Are there times when extreme emotions might be tolerated? For that moment, are they okay?

I will tell you the story of how I met Cornelia and Carle, as I said I would the other day.

The day was as any other except that the this was my first day at level 2. It was also “Snow day”. The forecast had prepared us for this day. My long underwear (pink with polar bears), thick woolly socks, waterproof pants, gloves, hat, scarf, and heavy coat were delivered to my door. I would look like a purple and blue marshmallow. If I had fallen, I doubt that I would have gotten up. And falling was a possibility.

The cold white flakes pile up and stick together and all that can be tricky to try and negotiate. With the gear and the snow, it was hard to walk down the hallway, down the balcony, and finding my bubble.

In the tradition of a proper “Snow Day” the day gets started after a two hour delay. The stretches had been done one hour fifty-eight minutes before work, because no matter the occasion, we all wake at the same hour. I had one hour and fifty-eight minutes to fill as the stretches and grumbling took two minutes. What did I do those almost two hours? I watched the ‘travel network’ that showed warm island destinations. This was interrupted by frequent and alarmingly long beeps that warned of an important news bulletin. I guess that when it snows there are closures. This was to tell us that there were no actual closures.

The bubble needs no caution in travel. It goes where it needs to, efficient in its task. It doesn’t worry, or whine, or wonder. It goes and arrives rather mindlessly.

The line into work moves quickly between the plowed drifts. Everyone is covered in a fine layer of snow, like frosting. I look to my left and I see someone licking their fingers like they are tasting the snow. I step forward as the line moves. There was the suggestion that we might want to try catching a snowflake on our tongue. Does it taste like frosting? Do you know?

In front of me I see the warm autumn orange fingernails on the hand holding the card for the Stamper to read. Very few of us care to color our nails. And fewer attempt unusual colors. Do you know your primary colors and what fills a box of 16? Those are the usual colors. Maybe she was from the children’s educational board books area?

Sometimes, it is just noticing them and not realizing they may be special. Except that suddenly noticing them is special, right? For some reason I never noticed them before, not since my creation one year, one month, three days, and three hours ago. How could I not? Were they new?

I found out at lunch that they were not new.

By some strange circumstance I ended up at the table with the snow taster and autumn orange.

The circumstance was this: My move from entry level to what I do now was disruptive to my regular schedule. I was late to the elevators and ended up with another group migrating to the lunch room. In the line that formed out of the elevator I was unable to sit at my new regular table with those that I work with now.

When you are late, off-schedule, or just not in the right line at the expected time you are put at an “other” table. You can’t disrupt everyone else by sitting in a new seat. What if you took someone else’s seat? They would have to find another and steal someone else’s. And then they would have to find another seat and take another’s usual spot.

Carle “the snow taster” and Cornelia “autumn orange” were sitting at the “other” table when I was ready to sit. I sat down next to Carle, on his left. Cornelia sat to his right. feel free to raise the appropriate hand, left. And now, right. Good.

Anyway, we were the only ones at the ‘other’ table.

Cornelia was looking at her steaming hot mush (food) with some concern. Carle was reading from the brochure left by the table setters: “Proceed with caution as food will be sufficiently hot. It will warm your insides, and will slowly expand to fill your bellies contentedly. Apple cider is the perfect compliment drink. Enjoy.”

The steam had vanished from his clay bowl so he dug in enthusiastically. Cornelia used the time to introduce herself to me. “I’m Cornelia. I work in Juvenile. This is my second time to sit here. And the last time I was by myself. Who are you?”

Who am I? “I’m Penelope. I am level 2 in Picture Books. I’m going to end up in Juvenile. This is my first time at this table. My new level assignment got me behind.” How do you introduce yourself to someone new?

Carle introduced himself and said he’d been at the table five times. “They send you a letter after the third time.” He didn’t seem concerned. “Once they create another like me, I’ll keep time better,” he informed. (That next creation day they made another to work up to his level, division, and section.) Carle is older than Cornelia and me. And Cornelia is older than me. They are both in the position they will eventually retire from. What happens when one retires is still a mystery to me. But I’m sure I will view that screen in more detail later on. They wouldn’t have us concerned over too many matters at once. Actually, they wouldn’t have us concerned at all.

“What did the letter say?” Cornelia asked Carle.

“The first suggested I set an alarm and not wear earplugs. The second said they were programming my screen for lunch hour protocol. The rest go to the supervisors and they said I don’t have to worry about anymore letters or lateness until after a new creation is approved and brought up.”

“I was late because I received a new book today and it was great; a good kind of different, you know?”

Carle seemed to know. I did not. A good kind of different?

“Who was it?” Carle asked.

“Frances Harginge’s "Fly By Night". Wonderful! Usually I like something spooky, but this was a nice change. Not that I get to choose spooky. I didn’t hear my alarm. I’m glad though. I can’t wait for the table transition to take place. My table is really dull. They are trapped in coming of age themes. It is all they want to talk about.”

Carle emptied his bowl and drink. He sits back and turns his head in question. “Level 3’s aren’t supposed to be spending time reading the books are they?”

He was right, Level 3’s in any section do this: checks Level 2’s work, sorts, returns to ‘finished’. I became nervous because I think Cornelia may be in trouble.

“I’m quick,” she defends.

When Carle didn’t say anything, and Cornelia didn’t continue with anything more, the table became really quiet.

“Where do you get the colors for your nails?” I ask. Cornelia’s hands move when she speaks. Maybe I would try speaking with my hands, I think. You have to be careful that you don’t get too excited when you do; just a warning.

“My neighbor across the hall is in color in the art section. He mixes me new colors. I have a cabinet full of different polishes. Do you want to borrow a few colors? What colors do you prefer?”

I hadn’t thought about this. I wasn’t sure of all the names.

“I’ll bring you some,” Cornelia said after I didn’t answer right away. “We should have supper together. Let’s pick a table. If you arrive first, save two spots.”

And we did. That very evening we met at the table. Carle had made it through the line first. Then we decided that was our table. And next, we would linger in line before heading in through the Stamper. We decided we needed a morning ‘hello’ before work. We began deciding things all over the place and the decisions included each other.

The best part was that it didn’t interfere with anything else we were supposed to do. Carle and Cornelia may not have been worried about being different, but I was. And sometimes, I am still.

i couldn't say no

there has been a lot of discussion on 'simple'. do we need 'simple'? when is it the efficient way to go? is it ever the inappropriate course? when necessary, how to implement a process comes into play.

i've been thinking about the conscious and unconscious ways we move to simplify things for ourselves. i say unconscious because we may not communicate a deliberate attempt to filter, but we do. some would blame their abilities (or disabilities) on personality. i would classify that under 'unconscious' movement.

there is also the inevitable: we thought of this goal, have we revisited it? one example would be: we want natalya to deepen her awareness of the assembly on sunday morning. we thought first grade, but i became lazy...we've determined 2nd but how to help facilitate the 'become more aware' part. sunday worked out fairly well... she drew pictures depicting every activity of our assembly time and worship... and she later mentioned something from the lesson. sounds like an effortless slide? unfortunately, we've had to implement the "no sitting with friends until we see the behaviors we want for you to have". parental prerogative and an unhappy girl. of course we reminded her of the incentives...

we develop a passion for our goal (our new topic that saturates everything). our lens tints and we look around our life and find the coordinating colors, the rest goes in the rag bin, a perhaps not without regret. we communicate our intentions to anyone that may matter and be affected by the implementation. we pull out all our 'love words' and charm. the pursuit of ideals involves alienation on some level. we hone our ability to say 'no'.

believe it or not, some people have criticized the way i've handled things or people in the past. in one particular way, it is the upfront way i would say 'no' to a dating offer, or would 'cold-heartedly' clarify the outing as platonic. i made a terrible error of playing the 'ease out' spare feelings game early on and chose to make the cut on the front end--out of respect to mine and other feelings (crazy as that sounds). this is very simplifying. one: you scare people into not asking. two: the persistent and stalkers become enchanted into pursuit.... okay bad example. or is it, really? and not that i say 'no' perfectly.

when don't i say 'no'? and why? when do i say 'no'? when is it easy?

when i've anticipated the scenario. when i know who i am or want to be or where i am going. when i've communicated those things effectively enough to warrant a reputation (people know this about me). it doesn't necessarily alienate possibility. it just adds greater consideration to my approach and those who approach me. it tints the lens.

as i change, such as life makes this necessary (willingly or no), the evaluation follows the new calendar, the new list, the refreshed conversation. this would be the conscious aspect of the deliberate movement forward. i tend to become aware when i am hip deep in the clutter.

i guess i've been thinking about the ability to say 'no'. it is a common conversation to overhear in leadership circles--the inability to say 'no'. is it because the people who can say 'no' aren't at the meetings or gatherings where these occur? or have we trained them to say 'no' because we've assigned them that job title through presenting the least popular and stinky works as their only options? (where we aren't trainable in that way, we go away) is "can't say no" personality driven or a reflection of a role we have in our family (kinscripted guilt to be responsible)? indecisiveness? not wanting to be closed to possibility or opportunity? consideration of others' feelings above own? thinking it won't get done? not wanting to become unpopular (peer pressure)? willing to take risks? to learn? to be led? out of support of someone you care about? inability to envision outcomes? or the ability to and feeling you can control it or handle it anyway?

i think i would like a collection of whys. above is merely speculation, some worded in the positive, others in the negative. some probably completely irrelevant. or have i worded it already in simpler terms.

and why should we even think about it? progress. and i don't want to be left to my own answers as they may not be as compassionate as a good church leader's daughter/friend could be. maybe it is worthy of visitation from time to time.

and if you are wondering if i have a self-prescribed "weakness" in the matter of saying 'no' to any church environs programs or activities. (everyone has their vice/virtue.) i don't as a general rule (maybe i haven't been asked enough?), wouldn't make that assumption too readily. and that could stem a whole other blog on why? (both the good and the ugly aspects in answering said question)

enough... i have to get to writing paper for family studies concerning "what is family?" while consciously avoiding the use of the words (and their variations) utopia and dystopia.

infections and intersections

we watched Easy Rider in my tuesday evening class. the soundtrack and the last scene, and the acid trip, and george's death aren't the only things lingering in my mind after class.

i'm almost through the 2nd week of James Joyce's "Dubliners".. and yes there are plenty of things therein to stimulate thought and mild forms of depression.

then there is family studies and the lengthy intake of terms over the last 24 hours, which will lead (hopefully) to a paper due on monday that will answer "what is a family?"..family forms, critical perspectives, structural/functionalism, kinscripts, urban tibes, linear vs circular causality...

simple church...process, goals, clarity, movement, alignment, focus, maturity... do i feel/think? how? how intensely? and then....

in general: figuring out time, efficiency, quality...being deliberate, goal oriented in the sense that: i have a list of things i want done...

it all collides in the intersection and tweaks the lens of my view.. i have a strange desire to assign terms to another session, as if to try them on, to say: that's it, or no not a good example of that. worse, the way things are revolving there are moments of overlap that provide workable scenarios. i suppose that as long as i can find equilibrium, by using the rose tint to stain the overall, i will be spared an pervading sense of blurred futures.