Reason Breeds Insanity

Genius, really, this book by Erika Lopez called Flaming Iguanas. Masquerading as a kitschy story about two women who ride cross-country on motorcycles, the book is actually a collection of funny observations and creatively portrayed quirks of humanity. For example, I am only on page 26, and here are some of the great things she writes:

Ever since the scene in the movie Casino where Joe Pesci’s brother gets beaten with a baseball bat until he’s a rag doll to be buried alive, the thought of accidentally burying anything alive fucking whips shivers up my back like a nasty little janitor. (12)

As the doctor looked at me, his eyes narrowed, his lips got thinner, his brow furrowed, and I could almost hear his sphincter tighten like a Protestant’s. (14)

The little dead cat reminded how, bam!—just like that—you’re yanked out of the game. I’ve spent a lot of fucking money on self-help and spiritual books to remind me to just cut the shit out and enjoy myself, but I always get bored and resentful after the third or fourth paragraph. Like why am I paying them to sit at home, turn the heat on full blast, stare at the ceiling, and tell me basic shit I already know? (15)

Even though she had a velvet matador painting above her bed, she worried about how she looked to other people. (20)

And about her motorcycle trip:

What the fuck was this myth that said you had to leave your job, your life, your tear-stained woman waving good-bye with a kitchen towel behind the screen door so you can ride all over the country with a sore ass, battling crosswinds, rain, arrogant Volvos, and minivans? (26)

Seriously, this is the stuff writing is made of!

Today couldn’t have started out better if I had known what to expect and planned it to go that way. For a long time, my friend Molly has been saying to me, “I want to get together to watch these Nooma videos, so we can talk about them. There’s a really good one called Lump that I want you to see. It’s my favorite.” My favorite one is Dust, and I don’t care if the historical part isn’t entirely accurate, what I care about is that it encourages me to follow Jesus pretty closely, close enough to get dirty. And actually, I have to make an addendum to a previous post: being a jerk IS in my nature. In fact, it is in all of our natures. If we believe St. Augustine, which I happen to believe a lot of what he says (mostly I just ignore the misogynistic things he says, because I am sure he couldn’t help himself, being from the fourth century and all), but if we believe him, we are born selfish. And if we believe Darwin, which I, again, mostly do, we are really only concerned about ourselves in that whole survival of the fittest thing, so it is in my nature to want to preserve my best interests. Survival of the most-selfish. So weighing and measuring my friends is absolutely in my nature, but that doesn’t mean I can’t overcome it. What I should have written is: being selfish and spiteful is in my nature, but through Christ, I no longer have to be a slave to that. I am not of the world, I am merely in the world. I know this is a little more Jesus-y than I usually get, but I want it to be clear that I realize I screwed up. I am called to love, not to weigh and measure.

Anyway, the Nooma video that we watched, Lump, is about shame and grace, my favorite binary in Christendom. In it Rob Bell’s son lies about a white ball and then lies about hitting his brother. Once he is caught in the lies, by his mother, he is flooded with shame. He goes upstairs and hides under the blanket on his parents’ bed. When Rob goes upstairs to find him, he makes this analogy: we can hide under the blanket of shame, or we can let someone (God) pull back the blanket and expose us. Of course, Rob exposes his son for the theft and lying, but then he offers him grace: “Nothing you can do will make me love you less.” He repeats this to his son, over and over again, while his son just cries. This is one of the best examples of God’s grace toward us that I have seen. We have two choices: wallow in self-pity, riddled with shame and guilt, or be exposed and overcome with grace. I choose grace. Every time. Thanks, Molly, for reminding me of this.

That said, I have decided to try something: focus on the positive and let the negative recede. It’ll be like a close-up photo of a flower. The positives will be in focus like the flower, and the negatives will be the blurred background of the plant, all leaves and stems, that I never really pay attention to anyway. I pay too much attention to what other people think of me. I pay too much attention to the negative things people say. For both of these reasons, I find myself weighing and measuring people, trying to figure out which ones build me up. My worth is not in the opinions of other people. Duh?!? My worth is in me. My worth is founded in my spiritual well-being. So, I am going to go all new-agey and concentrate on the warm-fuzzies instead of the cold-pricklies. This morning, one of my friends said: “I was going to say something constructive.” May whatever I say be more constructive and less destructive.

EDIT:
Stuff from my other, old, defunct blog. I wake up. Good morning, Bec. I walk dogs. Lily, Sydney, Celie. Breath nature in. I eat breakfast. Banana, juice, soymilk. I run occasionally. Comtemplate spiritual truths. I write daily. Writing reconciles life. Coffee is consumed. Unless Rachel decafs. School happens intensely. Classes are attended. Classes are taught. I eat lunch. Followed by Oreos. School carries on. Tuesday, Thursday dinner. Then I teach. Night class, different. Students get antsy. Other days home. Then consumption of dinner. Homework violently ensues. L&O:SVU gets watched. Watched like religion. Good night, Bec. Sleep comes softly. Not in terrors. Repeat, repeat, repeat. These are days. Days of life.

Annie Dillard says, “What we do with our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” This is how I spend mine. Jill made us do an exercise dreamed up by Abigail Thomas in which we write ten years of our lives in two pages in three word sentences. The exercise was challenging, but it also helped me to see that as much can be captured with a few well chosen words, as can be captured with long, convoluted, complex sentences. Sometimes, in writing, less is more. I think I am going to work on writing a few short, short nonfiction pieces. We’ll see what happens with that.

The point in all of this, on this blog, is that food makes up a good third of my day, since eating three times a day is what I do. I find myself thinking about food, comsumption, and body image quite frequently. I have been paying closer attention to all of this because of my Fat Studies class. How am I perceived by the world? How does my perception of myself fit with dominant ideologies? How does being a vegan fit, attempting to be a runner, and trying to live a healthy life fit with being fat?

About food: Bec made some fantastic dishes for my lunches this week. They are both from one of the Moosewood Collective’s 11 Cookbooks. One is called Peruvian Quinoa Stew, and the other is Tunisian Stew. Both are fantastic and nutritious and filling. Three things that can’t be said about every stew recipe you find in a commercial cookbook. I think I’ll go eat lunch right now. I need some healthy food since I had a donut, two cups of coffee, and a soda for breakfast! So far today, my life is junk!

My writing grows by leaps and bounds like a tiny, feather whispy fetus rubbing against my intellectual womb, and then the story slides out all slick and crying. I sit in class everyday with people who can write better than I can, and it strengthens me.

When I read stories like this one by Deb Marquardt, I realize that it doesn’t always matter how well you write, but it matters that you have something to say. I pause, and I reflect. What do I have to say? I write all the time, but what am I really saying?

One of my professors made an entry on his blog about beginnings of stories. If the beginning sucks, do I still read? If my (hypothetical) baby has a colicky first year, do I still love it? Yes, to both, but I’ll damn sure try to fix both of them. When I read his post, I realized I have never had a good first line of writing. It takes me a while to sort of ease into my writing. I don’t flop into it like I do an easy chair, and I am never as comfortable in it either. I can’t just sit back and put my feet up and relax while I write; I have to think about every word, every jot and tiddle. I wish I could relax.

Switch gears.

I am in a much better place today than I was yesterday. Yesterday was bad in a way that I can’t and won’t try to describe. Today, I realize that I just have to keep on. I have to own my share, as well as I can, and go forward. I wonder if it is any wonder that I wore my “I have no more fruit to give” t-shirt. I just need to be, and not waste my energy on things I can’t control. I have no more fruit to give.

You would think, wouldn’t you, that by the time you were in graduate school that you wouldn’t have to play silly games? I called Merideth last night and gave her a list of people that I was allowed to talk about, and I told her that if mention someone not on that list, she should ask me why I was bothering. I said, “I feel like I am 34 and still in middle school.” One of the good things about Merideth is that when I am my most irrational, she always sides with me! I said to her: “Just say to me, ‘Stop investing. You will only get hurt.'” She agreed. I hung up. I cried. I wanted to get drunk, but I had to read about the social construction of Indians, and I thought being drunk while doing it wouldn’t work out too well. So, instead of drinking, I made a more detailed list of people who make me feel better about myself instead of worse.

I invested in the hate. I actually spent time weighing and measuring the worth of people. I held each one up, as if I was putting them on scales, and I decided whether or not they were worth my investment. I am actually surprised I didn’t pull out a monocle and inspect each one like a diamond, putting aside the ones who didn’t measure up. Don’t worry, you know if you are on that list. Chances are if you are reading this, you are on the “good list.” Please don’t try to guess or call anyone out, because this blog is open for all readership, and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I don’t want to feel like this at all, but I am tired of being hurt by people I trust.

My point is this: I hate having to be like this, because it is not in my nature. I want everyone to get along, you know, Rodney Kind style. I don’t want to feel like I can’t talk openly to people. I don’t like my name slung around in order for other people to be able to feel better about themselves. Remember I am not a screen for you to project your issues on. I wish everyone could be who they are without pretense. If we could, then no one would have to guess who is mad at whom and why. No one would have to wonder why people aren’t talking to them only to find out that they somehow brought it on themselves unknowingly. Really? Grow up. We are all adults. I am an adult who is tired of lurking around wondering what other people think of me. I never thought I would be excited to be finished with school. I am. I want to work alone. I could use a year off from this. Don’t get me wrong. I love Ball State. I love the faculty. I love my program, and I am so appreciative for my academic experience here. But, I am over the drama. I am over the constancy of pettiness. I just want it to stop.Whatever happened to talking about ideas and concepts, dreams and visions? Isn’t it wasting precious time to talk about people? Besides, no one is that interesting!

On a happy note: Amy and I went to meet with Jay who is going to be the faculty adviser for our new organization. We had a great discussion and he was incredibly helpful, insightful, and kind. I am writing the constitution this weekend, which shouldn’t take long thanks to Ed, Amy is going to proofread it, and then Jay is going to do a final run through to make sure it is all okay. Now we need a name. We want it to be a good one, not like LBGSTQI (LMNOP, just kidding) for Grad Students. The undergraduate group is called Spectrum. I thought Continuum might be fun, like we are continuing our education, and continuum sort of encapsulates all the sexualities that will be involved without using all the damned letters. We suggested something with the word Queer but a couple of people were in loud opposition to that, so we nixed that idea. We also thought something like Spectrum Platinum, but that sort of insinuates that we think we are one step up from Spectrum, which I think is a bad idea. I also thought about the Lambda Union or something else that hearkens back to the earlier gay movements, right after Stonewall. Plus I think the Lambda Unions are a national organization, which means job opportunities and networking for our members. I am still researching that aspect of all of it. I suppose, too, that we could call it whatever we want and then join up with a national organization later. We’ll see. I’ve never done this before. It’s a little scary, but it seems to be the bright spot in my school stuff. For today anyway.

Have you ever noticed how the word really is like the word fuck? You can convey any message you need with either word. You can act surprised: Really?!? You can express disbelief: Really? You can express disgust: Really. You can make anything sound better: really sweet, really amazing, really quick. I love the word really. Just like I love the word fuck. Fuck is nearly every part of speech, which is what makes it special, but I won’t belabor that point because once it is on a t-shirt, it is no longer news. And it is no longer worthy of extrapolation. Everyone knows fuck is almost every part of speech.

Speaking of fuck, several freshman boys sitting at the next table were just talking about me without trying to be noticed: “That chick is bald.” His buddy couldn’t hear, so the other guy kept saying louder and louder: “That chick is bald. That one right there.” So I just raised my hand and said, “Right here.” The guy who was making such a ruckus about seeing a bald woman tried to act pissed off, like I was the one being a douche bag and saying something offensive: “What did you just say?” I said, “What’s up?” They tried to play it off like they were talking about some guy who had walked up the stairs earlier. The worst thing is to get caught at your own little game. Really. Really?!? Really? Wow.

I am ready for the weekend. The sad thing about it is that I have so much homework to do because I was gone all weekend last weekend. I have about four books to read, three by Monday and one by Tuesday. I also have two papers to write, one by Wednesday and one by Thursday. Should be a banner weekend. We are having Ed and Abbie over for dinner on Friday night, and I am so excited! We are making vegetable lasagna with low carbohydrate noodles for them and with no cheese on part of it for me. Probably some salad and maybe a bit of boxed Shiraz will happen as well. On Saturday morning, we are taking a short road trip to Anderson to return Adam’s bike, and then I think I will paint some of the house. Good thing Bec is playing taxi for a friend on Saturday. I will need the time to get some reading done.

Classes have started off well. I didn’t think that my students this year could possibly be better than the ones from last, and maybe they aren’t, maybe it’s just me having some experience, though I doubt it, but we actually have good discussions because they aren’t afraid to talk. They actually read their assignments or pretend to, and they contribute to discussions so I don’t have to hear myself talk, which even bores me. All in all, I say this semester has gotten off to a very good beginning.