dianadragonfly: (Default)
I wonder what the requirement is, although I'll know tomorrow when I ask evil advisor.
She's not evil.
Just exasperated.
I'm always not getting shit done for her class. She has also been one of the most encouraging people when it comes to my writing. I don't think she doubts my talent, but she doubts my ability. Meaning, she doesn't think I'll ever produce anything.

And it pissed me off so much because I have those same doubts.
A million more times than she does.
dianadragonfly: (Default)
It's time for a literal and metaphorical housecleaning.
I went through my file cabinets and purged my undergrad notebooks. God, it felt good to see compositions in French, notes on Aristotle and Liebnez and Derrida flying into a recycle pile. What the hell was a monad? Why was it important enough to me once that I could write 5 pages on it as sophomore? Did I ever understand Aristotle? My papers look like I did once, but it's all Greek to me now. (heh)

My favorite was my deconstruction notebook from spring of my second senior year where I realized what a friggin SHAM it all was -- all these boys sitting around talking about how they were really madmen and no one understood them in this police state. Just glancing through my margin notes cracks me up:

sample notes:
"You're not mad -- you're stupid."

"The poles -- always the poles!!" (Because Derrida has a thing -- or was it Foucault?-- about everything being at opposite poles...funnier in context)

"People in police states don't wear birkenstocks, asshole."

"ooooooohhhhhhhhhh tell me again how misunderstood you are. Wait, is that your hand on my butt?"

"If you're against prozac, don't take it."

yeah, I was bitter. I was in that class with all the members of a bizarre love triangle (tho it wasn't love and it wasn't a triangle -- maybe a hexagon) including the instructor, my advisor, who was king of the lost boys. (and unfortunately, banged the one I was banging. Made life awkward in our small campus. That's another story, tho...)

Anyway, it feels good to trash these notebooks. If I ever need to know exactly what I studied in communication law, or media design, or history of ancient philosophy, or modern British novel, I can look it up now. No need for the notes taken as a 19 year old to persist into posterity.

But it does sort of hurt to let some of them go... I kept some of my senior year courses, and my portfolios and all but my most painful papers. (freshman comp SUCKED. Lord, I hated taking it and I HATE TEACHING IT!)

Heiddegar? Who the hell was he? Dewey? Hegel? Alfred North Whitehead? Does god exist? What does it mean to be thinking?

Good god I'm glad to see all of this recycled. I think I'm glad I went through it all, glad I sat in study lounges and debated some little philosophical point with some arrogant guy (never a girl... always guys). I'm glad, though, that I got my little philosophy degree and moved on. Good god, what if I'd gone to GRAD SCHOOL in philosophy like I'd planned? fuckin a. shoot me twice.

Glad to be here. 30 and a little overwieght and cleaning my office on a windy Arkansas night.
dianadragonfly: (Default)
When I'm not on here, I'm not thinking in text.
When I'm not thinking in text, I'm not really having any sort of inner creative life-- just reacting.

When you don't see me on here, smack me, k? Remind me that as much as I love my kids, I'm here to learn to WRITE and I need to finish my thesis. Everything, including my sweet 5 year old who starts conducitve education next week and I'm starting his communication system next week too, to my 12 year old who was throwing a tantrum so bad, his mom called me and asked if I'd take him so she could take a shower (after an hour of riding around together, I told him we were going home and giving his mom a big hug and kiss. He got out of my car and nearly broke the door down, and gave his mom a big "I'm sorry" hug) to my 20 year old who made me pizza the other day -- is secondary to my thesis this semester. I know this.

To know someone who is nonverbal is to really connect in a way that few people on this earth are able to do.
I'm blessed and to convince myself that there is something WRONG with me for liking this, or for doing this work, or that I should pull back -- I think that might cut out the best part of me and the part that gives me the most joy.

But I know that it's not healthy to sit here and plan how to rearrange my great-uncle's room in the nursing home if I could just get to visit. It's not healthy to worry about the future of two little girls in separate group homes, both hours away from me, both totally beyond my reach, even if I did love them and care about them once. I have to untangle.

When I first went to counseling, it was because I couldn't separate myself from problems in my family -- my mom and stepdad were separating and I felt the need to fix it. John helped me learn to put up boundries there. But I think I have learned to withdraw from those closest to me that have the most power and instead I attach it to kids, who have the power to break my heart, but not totally devastate me. Moving on is part of the relationship with my kids and is built into everything I do. i have to explain to my 20 year old all the time that I'm her friend, but I'm also like a teacher. My job is to make sure she's okay without me. That "out" is built into the relationship.

But other relationships? Like, say, with my husband? The only out there is divorce or death, both options so heartbreaking that I can't wrap my head around them. So I have a distance between us. Same with sisters and mom and relatives. But my kids -- I can let them break my heart over and over and know that there's always another kid that will want me, another family that needs help. I'm in demand. I'm valued. I'm appreciated. I'm not someone that can be walked away from -- it's me that usually has to walk away. I'm not gonna lie and say that's not part of it. But it's sheer joy. It really is. It's like knowing something mysterious and wonderful and you try to convince the rest of the world of this and all they see is brokenness. Today, while the 12 year old cooled off and ran around the park, mismatched clothes, waving his hands in the air, making dolphin sounds, I felt sorry for all the people who stared and had no idea what a beautiful creature he is.

And des[ite all the things I'm scared of, that I get off on the power of it, or that I enjoy being wanted, that moment in the park reminds me that there is good in what I do and need not mistrust my motives so much.

If I can pull away long enough to write my book, I can help convince the world of the beauty of this kiddo, of all of them I've come in contact with. I just have to get this done.

it's late

Jun. 30th, 2005 01:05 am
dianadragonfly: (Default)
I'm tired
must finish paper.
must finish paper.
must finish paper.
must... must.... must.....

S. emailed me a copy of the poem. what a sweetie. must finish...

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