...

Words are not ideal. Music would be better.

This unwind should not involve speech. When you haven't spoken since three o'clock and it is now after ten, all the verbal expressions seem to breakdown, compress themselves into something that this language is not able to describe. Words are clumsy, but I cannot try to go to sleep without it getting out, somehow. Darkness and the stupid limiting power of other people's drive for control prohibit my right to release through running. So I am left to stay inside safe walls, with a computer as my only outlet. Concern for others even takes away the option for screaming it out through music, flute or otherwise (if only others would be so kind). Even so, the horn was never fulfilling without the power of a living breathing group to engulf and support it.

So here I am, sending messages out the world beyond these walls and questioning if it will ever be seen. My talent for being invisible in a crowded room may have been past on to my message board. But there is a naive hope that it will be seen by someone. Unrealistic but for this one moment I don't mind my ignorance. Even if read, will this make any sense to anyone? Probably not. I'm not even sure it helped; the statements that I am still unable to articulate continue to strain at my throat and mind, repeatedly requesting release. But the hope that perhaps this silly rambling will make it to someone, even if it is not understood, and is considered, even for the briefest of moments, may be just enough to bring some sleep. Tomorrow's a new day.

Okay biological clock, I get the point

I don't usually divulge dreams this willingly, but when this one had my eyes snapping open to the sound of my alarm, counting days (albeit in a most disoriented fashion) and trying to figure out if me being labor was even possible (in dream form it is a most frightening experience; I mean it's not like I had nine months to prepare), I figured it was worth asking: do biological clocks have snooze buttons? Because mine seems to be going off about a decade early.

Damn nurturing instincts.

In other news I spent Thanksgiving in Cleveland, churning out easy-to-sew mittens for the needy, watching with amusement as the men watched football and played pool while the women gathered around one cousin's new baby and the other's bulging belly (complete with visible kicks, no wonder the previously mentioned clock got excited and felt the need to chime in), and enjoying a small space of excellent lighting that many of my family members were kind enough to unknowingly wander into, so hopefully I have some decent black and whites for my yearly photo gifts. For a family with such a range of interests and activists I must say it's rather funny to watch the group split so evenly down gender lines. I had to go argue the validity of the crossing-the-plane rule with my dad and uncles just to bring some normalcy back to the place. Thanks to one of my male cousins for helping with the sewing.

Overall it was a good time; with that much family the chaos can only serve to add to the hilarity of every situation. Everyone talking at once, the same story changing exceptionally quickly from one telling to the next, politics being argued, pictures being passed, shoes being shared, grandma's dog begging for attention, everyone trying to walk out the door at the same time, taking last-minute pictures, and trying to get four cars to pull out of the driveway in three different directions and generally causing an amusing scene.

The (para)phrase of the trip: some people leave without saying goodbye, others say goodbye and never leave. We would be the latter.

Thanksgiving at my parents was far more calm (sans the four-year-old nephew who was super excited about pumpkin pie), the food tasty and eaten more slowly. And it was good to see that my dog missed me.

Now back to the insanely speedy treadmill before the end of the term. Campus is full of people rushing around to meetings and study groups. Ah to have the drive and energy of an undergrad.

Ta ta for now!

A post about nothing

Hey, it worked for Seinfeld.

Here's the deal. I spent 8 hours in a windowless room staring at a computer screen with the only human interaction involving two phone calls and whatever excuse I could come up with to run upstairs and drop something off. Came home to six day old soup and a choice between homework and America's Funniest Pets. More entertaining distractions involved folding laundry and doing dishes. Yeah, my day was exciting.

So this is what happens when a person doesn't have those seemingly meaningless conversations during the day. "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" "What did you think of the game?" "Anyone have any brilliant lunch ideas?"

Answers untold until now: going to Cleveland, I'm sad and yet somehow happy about the game, and lunch involved leftovers. Not bad actually.

For you Michigan fans that are giving me the evil eye for that "somehow happy" comment about our tearful loss to OSU, allow me to explain. On Michigan's first big play, the thing that I loved the most was the fact that the players were grinning from ear to ear. It was tough, it was cold, it was "the game of the century" and it was fun. And even when the clock was winding down, they still played hard. You know why that was a great game? Challenge. Luck. Tough breaks. No breaks. And at the end of it, all the emotion and cheering and superfanning and "do it for Bo" chants were all energy put towards something fun. No politics, no national divide over whether kids should be sent to die "for their country", no save the clock tower fliers. Just the beauty of life encapsulated in sports.

The poets who look down on the game have no grasp of what could be one of the world's greatest metaphors.

Nice to meet you. I hear that we're related.

In my hometown, everyone else was related and I was the kid with the German mother.

At U-M, I have to be careful, because there's a chance I might be related to that cute guy over in the corner. Seriously, when you discover six months into your freshman year that you have a cousin living one floor away from you in a building that's not that big, you start to be cautious. Anything you say or do may be used against you over Thanksgiving dinner.

So tonight was a meeting of family connected by my great-grandfather. He had two sisters who managed to make it out of Europe, and somehow we're all related in some way. Let's just say this was the first time that name tags were necessary at a family event, but not the first time that a very confusing family tree tried to be constructed (I believe the last time I ended up laying on the floor in the middle of a very heated conversation re: family history with a notebook in front of me and a pillow over my head).

"Your mother and my grandfather's father were siblings. So that makes us.... um.... family?" (Actually I think that it's 3rd cousins 3 times removed, but hell if I know, the "removeds" always get me.)

Lots of confusing conversation, and loud conversation, and is-this-monologue-ever-going-to-end conversation. Oh and food. Meat, squash, potatoes, salad, apple crisp and toffee bars for 20 people. You know, just something we threw together.

Pictures were passed around. A letter my namesake wrote was shared. Lively discussions over the legend of the family name's spelling were initiated. And continued. And repeated. And repeated. Ah family.

In the end, it was nice to meet them, and apparently the guy who owns Big Ten Burrito is (let me see if I get this right) the cousin of my grandfather's father's sister's daughter's daughter in law. Somehow I don't think that will count for family discounts.

A short week, a long weekend, and then the treadmill of time kicks into over drive until the end of December. Goooo team!

Subject exhibits inability to sit down and shut up

Once upon a time this trait was called "precocious", and maybe even encouraged in classrooms where it was feared that girls would not have enough confidence to voice their opinions.

Now I think I might just be classified as annoying.

Here's the challenge: if you know a way that works, do you a) voice your opinion, suggestions, and experiences, or b) allow the group to go through the learning process (even if it can be annoying a hell to when you have to deal with the problematic ramifications that you can see brewing in the distance... this isn't a very subjective question is it?). Part of me says that they have brought in and relied upon my expertise in the past, so it's okay for me to just continue to offer suggestions. The other part of me says "um, hello? remember that whole "learning experience" thing you always preach about? Let them learn! And by the way, you don't know everything! (shocker I know.)"

Clearly this is not a recent problem, just a reflection on a recent occurrence. I guess the problem has always been that, although I want people to learn, we always manage to be in situations where we also need to get something done. Ah the never-ending battle of process vs. product. The process IS the product, except that said process won't get funded unless it produces another, more tangible product as well.

Bored by my rambling yet? I am.

Educational/leadership style in a nutshell (as of 11/14/06 at 10:23 p.m.): If I can provide as much information and knowledge as possible, in a way that people are able to learn, understand, and appreciate, they will have the tools to move further, ask questions, and push beyond any success that I may have experienced at one time, so that these organizations and groups can move forward and make a difference in the lives of those involved, and in the community. Does/will it work? Ask someone else; I've already talked too much this evening.

Excuse me while I clear my throat...

...and allow me to introduce myself.

(I have this habit of getting into a conversation with someone, and then introducing myself several minutes, days, weeks, or even months later.)

Of course seeing as how this is the realm of cyberspace, and I'm not exactly sure who I am introducing myself to, this could be a problem. Maybe it would be better if I just started with why I am here.

Why AM I here??? Anyone? Suggestions? Bueller? Bueller?

Well I suppose this is my way of pretending that after every exhausting spin on this globe someone is asking, "how was your day?". It's amazing how many fragments of thoughts and observations between sunrise and sunset can wind themselves into quite the tangled mess in my mind. And without a verbal sort (or purge) at the end of the day, well let's just say that the whole knot will quickly turn into something looking like an electrified batch overcooked spaghetti (now there's an interesting thought; maybe just "tangle of electrical wires" would me sufficient...See what I mean?).

So this will serve as that conversation; you are filling in as someone to respond to, even if you didn't actually ask the question. Maybe the need to write (or type, or post, or whatever the appropriate verb is these days) will ebb and flow, maybe it will be steady and constant, who knows. Hopefully those of you who will check this from time to time will add in your two cents, and not see this as an excuse not to check in with the real person every once in a while! Writing has its value, there is no question there, but I'm always willing to close this computer down in exchange for face-to-face conversation.

Let the commentary begin.

Hello, this is OnStar

Just call me your personal assistant.

With one phone call, you too can have easy access to any information you require, provided that I happen to be on a computer with an internet connection.

So when someone calls because they're lost on the maze of roads that wrap themselves around Indianapolis, no problem. Give me some cross streets and a few google pages (one to find the address of their desired locations, the other to track them on a map) and it's almost as good as Harry Potter's Marauder's Map. How the hell did people get from here to there before the internet and cell phones? Oh right. Maps. Amusing characters at gas stations giving directions.

Planning ahead.

So should I be impressed with my ability to navigate the on-ramps and lane mergers of cyberspace? Or concerned about people's disintegrating ability to travel without electronic navigational assistance? Hmm...

It's rainin' men --err, squirrels?!

So I'm walking to class today, semi-asleep due to two late nights of paper writing, but nonetheless enjoying the warm air, fresh sunshine, fall colors, and whatever random pick-me-up song happened to be murmuring its way through my headphones. Ahh, the beautiful autumn of Michigan. Birds chirping. Neighbors raking leaves.

Squirrels falling out of trees.

You got it. I looked up at a tall oak tree just in time to see and hear a squirrel plummet to the ground from a large limb some 15 feet high. Not scampering. Not scrambling. Falling.

I looked around at the other sleepy students heading the same direction, but none of them seemed to notice much less flinch. They just continued to trudge on, absorbed in the sidewalk and their ipods (one of these days we'll have to have a little discussion on this whole technological invasion to which I have succumbed). Seriously, isn't that something people would notice? I mean Ann Arbor seems to have a lot of squirrels, but they don't usually come diving out of the sky and crash-land on earth. Maybe we were witnessing the early years of the next Rocky (as in Rocky and Bullwinkle).

Fortunately the squirrel was moving a moment later (I think it was embarrassed). He (or she, it's so hard to tell with squirrels) looked around as if to check if anyone had noticed, then trotted off to what must have appeared to be a safer tree and climbed up in typical spiraling squirrel fashion, although it was a little slow, probably a few bruises to ego, and brain.

What to do when a fire alarm goes off

Stay in the house of course.

Apparently somewhere between kindergarten and grad school I determined that smoke alarms and the smell of smoke do not constitute a reason to immediately head outside. It must have been all those years of associating the alarm going off with dinner being done. Or maybe it was the result of living in residence halls where the damn things went off all the time, and you got used to packing as you headed out, because who knew when you could get back in to finish your oh-so-lovely paper. Or maybe it's because fire was something we learned to handle in my house; when sparks flew out of the woodstove it was perfectly logical to grab the red-hot glowing cinder with your bare hand and toss it back into the fire (if your reflexes were slower than the heat energy transfer from smoldering wood to wool carpets it was a decent indication that you just weren't going to make it in this world).

That must be it.

So when the neighbor's smoke alarm goes off at 11 p.m., the logical procedure is as follows:

-assume it is someone's alarm clock and ignore it
-become annoyed when it doesn't turn off after a minute
-have an IM conversation with a friend from Hong Kong
-wander around the apartment trying to figure out if it's coming from upstairs or downstairs
-listen for any movement in other apartments
-begin to worry
-go back to paper-writing
-continue to worry
-save paper and e-mail it to self
-grab phone, flashlight, and keys
-find shoes
-go to neighbor's door and smell smoke
-knock
-knock on other neighbors' doors to see if they smell it too
-discuss calling the fire department
-attempt to break in to apartment while calling fire department
-wait for them to arrive
-go back to writing paper
-hand out baked goods
-discuss phone bill
-pack usual day bag with research materials and clothes reasonably presentable for public on the off chance it's an electrical fire and you might be out of your apartment for the night or longer
-continue working on paper
-go outside once the flashing lights of the fire truck become visible

So much for what we learned in kindergarten.

The beginning

A scene in black and white.
An old stage,
scratched wood floor from past jams
of speakers famous and musicians unknown.
A single light
shining from the unseen above onto a lone, old-fashion mic.

The young artist walks onto the stage in silence
guitar in hand.
His sunglasses drop to the floor
perfectly,
the two clicks echoing
as corner hinges hit woodwithout scratching the lenses.
He looks out into the black silence beyond the stage
and slowly
faces,
expectations
begin to emerge
and he wonders,
what does his guitar--no,

what does he have to say?