January 08, 2008
What We Deserve
Had a good time at the church group last night. We discussed “the inherent dignity and worth of every human being,” which is the first principle of Unitarianism, and which is quite radical if you start to consider it. Like, what does “worth” mean? That every human deserves food to eat and health care? Also what about the war? Doesn’t it mean quite a different attitude than the Bush administration takes when talking about those “bad people?” It was a satisfying talk.
YELLOW - MILD CONDITIONS
There are times when remaining on the outside is hard, such as in situations like last night's discussion regarding human dignity, a topic that I have strong opinions on based upon my vast experience as an anthropologist. If there is one thing that all humans have in common, it may very well be their need to place some type of value upon others, and we see hints of this practice laced throughout all facets of life, whether it be our system of government, our spiritual organizations, our economic practices, or even in how we choose to raise our children or interact with our neighbors or friends.
So I slipped away from the discussion before I mistakenly blurted out something that might draw The Spanglemonkey's attention and instead made a phone call to my prospective employee, Schuster. Upon first impression, I believe the young man to be articulate and somewhat intelligent, which gives me hope that he will be receptive to taking and following orders. He seemed most curious about my work as an anthropologist and asked many questions about my techniques for getting into houses and remaining concealed. Could it be that this Schuster has a budding anthropologist inside of him, just looking for a way out? I answered some of his questions and left the rest for later, to see if his interest remains piqued.
January 07, 2008
He Says Mrow, And I Say Wow
Ugh, I just spent an hour and a half over at the old house, and I absorbed all the depression and feelings of inadequacy I can stand. I need to hang out here for a little bit and see if I can regain my composure. It’s so very messy over there, since I took half the furniture and there’s no place to put the things left over, Manny’s things and the things that neither of us want. I brought over a carload of stuff, including Milton, who is walking around the house saying “mrow!” periodically.
I hope he doesn’t pee on the carpet. Please, cat gods, smile upon me.
RED - INCREASED ANXIETY AND/OR CREATIVITY - STAY ALERT
Took the opportunity to sneak around the old house looking for my old, hidden notebooks, but so far have had no luck. When I snuck into the hospital, I'd had, naturally, no way of knowing that I'd find myself trapped in there with no way out other than through my own wits, which, I'm afraid to say, seemed of little to no value when dealing with the hospital staff of so-called doctors.
Curiously, The Spanglemonkey's feelings of inadequacy returned briefly while in the house, in much the same manner, it seems, as when confronted with the dinner party conversation of the other night. If I were one of those damn hospital doctors with nothing better to do than tilt my head and pretend I'm not put off by the tousle of hair on their patients' head, I might go so far as to think that the messy house was just a physical representation of that messy conversation and that it's really somehow just all one in the same, but thankfully I'm not a hospital doctor, allowing me to remain clearheaded enough to know that the mess isn't symbolic at all, but just a bunch of junk keeping me from finding my notebooks.
Sometimes I wonder why I have these doctors who go off on tangents the way they do. Doc Alphabet says it’s me, that I listen hard and so people start telling stories. I don’t know.
Friends In Dreams
I’m starting to learn: if you go to bed early, you wake up early, too. So here I am up at 6:30 before the dawn, drinking my coffee and reading my blogs. It’s very weird to wake up alone in a house. It’s not horrible or anything, it’s just weird and quiet and it means that there is no other event to be waiting for, in other words, the waking of some other person or people. The day just sort of starts all naked.
ORANGE - COPACETIC
It is apparent that The Spanglemonkey is a changed individual since I began my study more than two years ago, leading me to believe that my work here may take longer than originally anticipated. There is much to be observed as The Spanglemonkey begins the process of coping with change. What are the though processes involved here? How does one adapt when confronted by only oneself? "The day just sort of starts all naked," seems an astute observation and, in my opinion, as excellent a place to begin as any. Not many see the nakedness of their life before them. Most are unaware, and of those who are, many are simply too afraid to look.
I dreamed that Selena was helping me by standing quietly next to me while I moved my stuff out of some space or another. It wasn’t my house, but some other place. Her presence was quite comforting and I knew that later I could describe the experience in detail and that we’d be able to process the event.
January 06, 2008
Deep Stuff
It was one of those services where I found myself weeping periodically. People told their stories and each one was different and poignant and wonderful. I cried my way through the hymns and sobbed slightly at the musical interludes. I’m kind of on the edge of thinking about my divorce, dipping into it and into the pain. It’s a vast reservoir and I can only look at a corner of it at a time, and then I shut down. I suppose it’s how I’ll heal over the wound, over time.
ORANGE - COPACETIC
Somewhat rusty at my job after being locked away for such a long time, I have been extremely lucky by places The Spanglemonkey has chosen to go. First the dinner party, which was relatively easy to slip around within, and now a church service, which is perhaps one of the easiest places on the face of the Earth to conceal oneself in. The exception, of course, would be some of the churches of the more orthodox religions, although I've found that a disguise that includes reverence and a fake beard almost always gets one through the front door.
I kept my distance while The Spanglemonkey grieved, choosing instead to spend some time poking around the outer halls of the building, inspecting and looking for anything of interest. I was intercepted only once, forcing me into the small lie that I would like to help on some committee that I can't for the life of me even begin to understand what it was supposed to be about. I think I may have agreed to help put away folding chairs of something, although there is really no way of knowing for sure. What I do know is this: I have never been comfortable inside of any church, as they always leave me with the uncomfortable feeling of being filled with nothing but anthropologists, each sneaking around quietly searching for something that no one can really put their finger on. That, and the fact that people always look at me funny when I take notes.
Talkity Talk Talk
Last night’s dinner party was a very grownup, conversational affair. I really liked what people were talking about but i added very little of my own. I felt like a kid. At one point someone asked what my books were about and I completely froze.
YELLOW - MILD CONDITIONS
For the budding anthropologist, there is no better opportunity to practice observational skills than that provided by a 21st century American dinner party. Guest lists often contain individuals unknown to one another, allowing even the clumsiest of sleuths to remain incognito, often for an entire evening.
The Spanglemonkey's behavior at the evening function was quiet and reserved, yet not without attention to detail and obvious mental interaction. Some level of distress and/or feeling of inadequacy when directly confronted, but nothing observable to the untrained eye.
Note: Took advantage during the dinner hour to log onto the host's computer to check my email. Several responses to my advertisement for an assistant, but naturally, most of the applicants sounded soft and inadequate, as if they had not worked a day in their life and expected me to foot the bill for their lackluster service. But one applicant, who listed his name only as Schuster, sounded as if he not only had a backbone, but wouldn't be afraid to lean into whatever task was placed before him. I have scheduled a meeting to see if some sort of arrangements cannot be worked out.
January 05, 2008
The Walking Without The Thinking
I drove over to the park and took my normal walk. Nice! In the breeze, intermittent sunlight and sprinkles of rain. A large amount of forest detritus lined the path. Yesterday’s windstorm was huge for these parts. Everything looked clean, however, with the dead branches gone.
ORANGE/RED - CRUCIAL TIPPING POINT
I took the opportunity to observe The Spanglemonkey on a walk through the park. The storm had indeed knocked things about, stripping bare the plants in much the same manner that the staff at the hospital tried to strip me bare of my sense of being. If there is one thing I was able to take away from my hospital experience, it is that one must be extra careful when sneaking into a mental health facility as they are, by design, easier to enter than exit. A human mousetrap, so to speak.
Regiment of Salads?
One of the things bumming poor Eliz was the fact that she has no place to put all her stuff. She needs a desk and a dresser and to feel like she’s not camping out somewhere.
YELLOW - MILD CONDITIONS
I have always been curiously intrigued of the necessity of humans for order and structure, and say this knowing full well that I, too, am one such creature. Even the least sedentary of our species will find routines that must be followed in order to maintain some semblance of structure.
I, for one, insist upon well-ordered notebooks, finding immense comfort in what I consider organization of thought. Having spent a lifetime hiding myself and my things in whatever manner I could find, I have long since overcome the desire for structure, my one exception being my notes. For the anthropologist living life in the field, it is the scribble of one's own handwriting that is perhaps the one remaining tie to a world that has long since disappeared. The anthropologist's notebooks remind him that even though he is isolated, he is not alone.
January 04, 2008
Whorled
Tempers are running high around here. We’re trapped for a while longer.
RED - INCREASED ANXIETY AND/OR CREATIVITY - STAY ALERT
I made the mistake of once of being spotted by the youngest daughter, who, if memory serves me correctly, referred to me as some sort of magical concoction. I would have to refer to my notes to be certain.
Unfortunately, I think she may have spotted me again, but this time I was able to slip away and re-hide before too great of disturbance. Also unfortunately, she now would appear to be in throes (throws) of passion as she searches for me, perhaps thinking of magic, perhaps simply for something to do while she waits for the deliverance of television.
Sophie likes to knock things around when she’s mad, and right now she’s quite livid about being bored.
Rough Waters, Smooth Seas
Yesterday was kind of rough in terms of homesickness and sadness. I skated over the thought of my marriage breaking up and settled instead on the fact that I missed living over there in that house. But underneath of course is always the thought that I’ve been rejected so completely, that I’m not worthwhile for at least one person in this world, one person who happens to be important.
ORANGE/RED - CRUCIAL TIPPING POINT
It should come as no surprise to anyone that the anthropologist will sometimes find him or herself feeling that something they have done has altered the daily lives of those being studied, often with a sense of dread that this change is for the worse. What if the subjects hadn't found that tube of toothpaste? What if they hadn't spotted you hiding and taking notes beneath the banyan roots? What if, what if? The question can be a destructive one for the anthropologist who allows it to gnaw at the subconscious, but thankfully, I am no such doctor.
It is clearly observable that a dramatic change has taken place in the family dynamic while I was in the hospital, but what caused it or how it developed remains a mystery. A mystery, I might add, that need not be solved by me, as it is the anthropologist's goal not to study and understand causal factors, but rather the adaptive abilities of any given subject, as it is most often here that the true nature of the subject might be discovered.
I am reminded of the time I was observing the German Apostolic Christian family in Oregon and was witness to the hardship placed upon the eldest teenage daughter because of her desire to live a more "modern, American life." The girl was not allowed to eat at the table with the family, nor use the family dishes, but rather given a plain, white bowl and forced to eat in the corner of the room like, her father coldly stated, "the dog of the family." This went on for quite some time, with neither the daughter nor the father showing any signs of giving in. If there is one thing I've observed during my years as an anthropologist, it is that stubbornness, of all traits, is passed on from one generation to the next more easily than any other.
I recall wishing that there was something I could do for the girl, but soon came to realize that her family rejection, or more accurately, her father's rejection, seemed to have little to no effect on her whatsoever. There were still the secret, stolen smiles with her younger brothers and sisters, as well as the barely perceivable comfort of her mother. The girl, it seemed, was as good at rejecting the concept of rejection as her father was in implementing it, and because of this, was able to dismiss the notion that her father's actions were some sort of reflection on her, when they were, quite obviously, more of a reflection of himself and the ideals that he had chosen to embrace.
I am ready for the thought that I’m okay, that I am beautiful in my own way and worthwhile and that someone someday will want to spend time with me romantically. I’m kind of okay and it’s really great to know, that I’ll be okay even without someone special.
Side Note: No sign or trace of Rudy. I have decided to seek the services of another assistant. Perhaps an advertisement placed in the local community college newspaper for some obedient pup willing to take direction.
January 03, 2008
Home
I figured out why I feel bad today; I’m homesick! That’s it, pure and simple.
ORANGE - COPACETIC
The concept of being homesick is somewhat of an unusual one for any anthropologist to explore, considering the fact that it is the anthropologist his or herself, rather than the individual or society being studied, who is the one most often suffering what I'll call, for lack of a better term, this malady. This is not to say that I am not prepared to explore the idea of The Spanglemonkey experiencing homesickness, only that the newness of the entire situation catches me somewhat off-guard. But if you consider the fact that I was only last week locked deeply behind the walls of a mental institution, I believe you will forgive my temporary lack of scientific preparedness.
The question becomes, of course, how a doctor such as myself came to find himself in such a predicament. It is a good question, and one that I had nearly two years myself to ponder at great length, yet found at the end of that time that I had no real answer. Ahh yes, the mysteriousness of life's curious situation. Most puzzling.
I feel the pull of the old house very strongly as I drive around town. I just want to go home.
Less Optimism
Huge wind outside today. I suppose a storm is brewing.
ORANGE - COPACETIC
It is the good anthropologist who is not afraid to face their own fears and weaknesses, a process that therapists of recent times have been anxious to label "coming full circle," a terminology I find not only misleading, but utterly ridiculous. I once lost an important notebook, for example, filled with many years of delicate and life-revealing observations, and can assure you that waiting for the path to come around "full circle" would have been a waste of time in located these precious and lost documents. The weakness in this case -- my own clumsiness -- had to be faced, which meant, of course, turning around and going back. The idiot on that path was me, and the only solution was to go back and face him.
Having been detained for quite some time in that institution (a situation that I will elaborate on in good time), I now find myself in the somewhat awkward position of beginning again. A two-year absence for a working anthropologist is a long time, especially for one attempting to piece together some sense of understanding, but for an anthropologist who has been detained and prevented from working, it is an unusually long time. In short, my anthropological skills, I fear, may have suffered somewhat during the course.
The Spanglemonkey, it would appear, senses this change in the air, noting that "...a storm is brewing," a thought, no doubt, that the future holds something that must be ridden out. She is, of course, absolutely correct.
I’m not doing as well this morning as I have been previously. I’m irritated and somewhat confused in general.
There is also talk of mourning, but having been gone and not knowing the facts surrounding this statement, will offer no observation at this time. Facing the mourning of others, I've found, is similar in many ways to a firefighter entering a burning house. Know what you're facing, and always, always keep your eye on the retreat.
The Roar
I managed to sleep in! Oh glorious!
YELLOW - MILD CONDITIONS
It is the duty of every anthropologist to take in stride the many setbacks life has planned, but as the two-year gap in the project notes would suggest, in this case the stride may prove itself to be simply too large. My old notes may prove themselves useless, certainly outdated, but I have never been one to avoid a fresh, new start.
But I am excited to be back to work, make no mistake, and find myself mimicking she I am here to observe - Oh glorious!
As one can well imagine, I have all but lost contact with my young assistant, Rudy, who I can only imagine ran into difficulty with that sneaky girl he was foolishly infatuated with. If there have been letters from Versteen, my investigator, I have yet to find record of them. I have been away, which I will explain fully in due time.
January 03, 2006
New Digs
I’m out in “my” office! t’s lovely! I can look out the window and see the pink sky where the sun is coming up, and the view over the piles of cement and wood chips in the soggy.
Oh I see your little game, small cats; let out of the door of the living room, walking directly over to my office door to be let in. I’m catching on! I’ve seen the same cats now three times! I’m far more clever than they are!
I can see some seagull/crow drama taking place. Oh it’s going to be great! I’m thrilled! My own set of windows!
YELLOW - MILD CONDITIONS
I have not been able to reach Jonathon by telephone, the detective and personal good friend working for me in London, but will share with you the letter I mentioned receiving the night of Dec. 29 when Rudy stopped by to deliver my flashlight. I have heard nothing about the girl since that night, and should like it to remain that way. There is no promise in any girl that can sluff up a driveway so quietly that she's able to sneak up on a trained anthropologist. A born note thief if I've ever laid eyes on one.
Dear Dr. Stevenson:
I have continued to follow the leads provided, the last being the information regarding a connection to a Mrs. Isabel Younger, whereabouts unknown. You will be pleased to know that I was able to verify the existence of Mrs. Younger, and better yet, that she is apparently still alive, but not living, however, in London as your information had lead you to believe. She did live here, but was moved to a nursing facility in May of 2002, located in the United States, state of Minnesota, facility name unknown. I have verified that her husband's name was in fact Richard Younger, but that in most cases went by the nickname Buddy. He is buried here in London, but will proceed no further with that line until I hear from you.
Have uncovered something of possible interest and connection to your ongoing search, but will withhold further thought until I've been able to verify information.
Awaiting further instructions and additional funding.
Sincerely,
Jonathan E. Versteen
JonE Investigations
Your inVersteengation Specialist
January 02, 2006
Long, Fretful, Filled with Water
Oh sweet blog, I apologize. It has not been an easy day. It has been one up and one down after another, and all in a crowd. It’s kind of like when you are almost to your own bathroom after drinking a bladder buster and driving across the bay; it gets worse and worse the closer you get. In this case the “bathroom” represents school, and the person needing to pee would be me. Which makes the bladder my children. Full and restless.
Manny and I spent the day arranging the office so that I have my desk in there. Tomorrow I will take pictures. It’s quite stunning. I can look out a window while I work! I have my stuff all Just So!
ORANGE/RED - CRUCIAL TIPPING POINT
For the anthropologist, or anyone trying to blend in and disappear, "all in a crowd" can be a blessing or it can be a curse. The odd American culture, or at least the concept that lies behind it (the argument whether this is fact or fiction I will save for a later time) places so much emphasis on the individual, yet it is more times than not "the crowd" that dictates the course of action. This has the unfortunate side-effect of leaving the typical American quite at odds with his or herself. One one hand they have this feeling of individual right, need , and empowerment, yet on the other hand, find themselves mostly powerless against "the crowd", represented all around them by many things - friends, family, business obligations, religious expectations, holiday pressures, financial matters, etc., the list goes on and on.
Interesting, the comparison of children to the bladder, containing that what must be expelled. Pressure.
Behind the window of her new space, the Spanglemonkey should offer herself to many good photo opportunities. I will, however, need some additional sound equipment from the office. I will call Rudy.
A Donut of One’s Own
We had big plans for breakfast, but alas our larder is bare. We could have soup and parmesan cheese… or ice cream… with pasta…
So I have ordered the children to dress themselves, and we shall sweep forth to conquer the world of donuts. Little rings of joy! Because my ass is not yet big enough!
Manny has conceded part of his office! I want to spend the day negotiating what will actually be in there. Woot! It will help me much to have a door I can close while the kids are here. “Open plan” housing is for shit, in terms of privacy from children. It looks neato when no one is here, but really. I need a door. Room of one’s own and all that.
BLACK - PEAK LEVELS ATTAINED - DANGER!!
It appears there will be a changing of the guard, so to speak, with the Spanglemonkey moving her working space into Manny's office, giving her a door she can close to the world while she thinks and writes.
Anthropologists, faced with closed doors since the beginning of time, have always found ways to overcome, and this will be no different. Franz Boas, considered by some the father of American anthropology, spent much of his career focused on the importance of movement and rhythm in understanding the culture of the individual. Of course, he was also notorious, mostly in the earlier years, as being a "salvage anthropologist", which involves the swooping in and gathering up as many artifacts, treasures, and bones as one can get their curious hands on.
Maybe I should just steal the Spanglemonkey's massive pile of notes and printouts (which would definitely require Rudy's strong back and little truck) and call it good. The cupboard does seem to be running bare, and by that I mean the actual cupboard. This morning there was hardly anything to eat, and because of that, I am hungry and having a hard time concentrating.
No food = WTF! Meter at peak levels!
January 01, 2006
Life at the Estate
So far this year I have accomplished so much!
See, I looked outside in the backyard and realized that sowing grass seed would probably be just about as effective as eventually borrowing Badger’s truck and laying actual sod. And the laying of actual sod would come with a sense of responsibility and Homeowner Pride, both of which I want to avoid because eventually I want to kill, kill, kill the grass and put in some kind of odd, wild garden of my choosing, with the hugely inappropriate match-ups of plants that only fall under the category of “stuff I saw in the nursery and survived the ride home.”
Once, and here I’ll give you an example, I brought home what looked like a tame little 1’ dinosaur-type plant. Cool, I thought. It’ll be neat next to the other unidentifiable plants that live in the half-barrel.
Imagine my surprise when it sprouted up, made itself a spine, and went all woody!
ORANGE/RED - CRUCIAL TIPPING POINT
"So far this year I have accomplished so much!"
Can I say as much? Day 16 of the study and I can't honestly claim to have accomplished much of anything, although the study is yet only in its most beginning of phases. A mere child.
The Spanglemonkey has taken to the landscape, and from what I can see, is attempting to bankrupt the federal grass seed reserves. I doubt an earthworm could even bust through a layer of seed that thick, although judging from the looks of the weather, would be able to any minute now once the next downpour washes most of it down the nearest street drain, which should be ... about ... now. Yes, here it comes.
If I ever retire from anthropology (doubtful), I have considered a career as a talk show guest, with my particular expertise being "the human relationship." I would offer various, semi-humorous insights into the human condition, sharing with people the mass of valuable information I've been able to pick up over the years.
Here, for example, gleaned from the mind of the Spanglemonkey herself: "Once ... I brought home what looked like a tame little 1' dinosaur-type plant. Cool, I thought. It'll be neat next to the other unidentifiable plants that live in the half-barrel. Imagine my surprise when it sprouted up, made itself a spine, and went all woody!"
Marriage, it seems, is not so unlike a cute dinosaur plant, becoming something we never imagined, and often in need of propping up and support.
The highlight of the new year so far has been watching the girls bicker over a game of checkers. Sibling disagreement - as vital as blood itself.
December 31, 2005
You’re All Schhoooow Great!
What’s going to happen next year! What what what!
I want to get my book finished and published.
I want my husband to find some kind of equilibrium in the midst of his ongoing thang.
Anything else I could throw in? Maybe I could lose 50 pounds and get in shape. Hahahahahahaha!
Oh and sell my photographs in the gallery downtown.
Happy new year eveyrone in blogland! Increasingly it seems like y’all are a bit more real than people I know in person. Though often those categories overlap, and youll just have to puzzle that out.
Yay! May this year be all that you wish and even better. Happiness and deep joy. Satisfaction and peace. Good sex and even better self-image.
YELLOW - MILD CONDITIONS
I was left alone for a time this evening while everyone went out for a New Year's Eve dinner. Time to reflect a bit on my fifteen days and nights in the Spanglemonkey household, as well as my twenty-odd years in the anthropology business.
Over the years I have often found myself alone on New Years Eve while I waited for my subjects to return home from one celebration or another, and my thoughts have almost always turned to the curious nature of relationship, and that strange defining line that weaves through them all. Wondering why some succeed and some don't, why some are good and others bad, and strangest of all, at least to me, why satisfaction seldom seems to hinge on anything clearly definable, as if everything that has gone on before means nothing, yet as everyone knows, means everything.
Is it this paradox that drives me forward in search of answers? My own lost past, maybe? Some sort of hope? Understanding? What is it exactly? Is it what the Spanglemonkey said?
"Happiness and deep joy. Satisfaction and peace. Good sex and even better self-image."
I wonder what Rudy is up to tonight. A new year in a new town. A new girl. But then, everything is new when you're twenty, isn't it? A beginning that you can't get enough of, yet, have no real idea what to do with.
I try to call Jonathan in London, but all circuits are busy.
Problems and Peace
An interval of relative peace as Sophie was far too freaked to go to lunch with everyone, so she and I stayed home. I forced her to stay in her room, and soon she was singing quietly to herself and dressing polly pockets.
Meanwhile, Badger showed up to use the internets, and was quite upset at an altercation with her friend from the city. Altercation? Rather a relationship redefining moment. Seems so strange to me, from the outside, that anyone else can actually “talk” about their feelings right now. I am not allowed, nor do I allow myself anywhere but here and very briefly with friends. Don’t want to overindulge, and I’m waiting for the urge to pass. No longer to burden others with my emotions. I crave a good session of navelgazing, but I musn’t.
They’re back and we’re rearranging furniture, as usual.
ORANGE/RED - CRUCIAL TIPPING POINT
So far, a day of ups and downs, as I continued to scramble to stay ahead of everyone. I'm not sure what's up with all the furniture rearranging, but it almost feels like someone has given away my presence here, and that the entire household is now on a manhunt to find me. I'm not sure how this would have happened, however. Was it the child Flannery, talking about me when they got home? Do the visiting grandparents suspect something? The grandfather, however, seems only content to move furniture, not overly anxious, as one might expect from a man in search of something.
Yet another piece of the puzzle arrived today, going by the name of Badger. Intriguing, to say the least, and I wish I could have gotten closer, but the discussion was heated and animated, and I was afraid getting too close might give me away. From what I could gather (here, secondhand only) it was relationship talk, which I'll honestly admit to you, even an anthopologist can only take so much of in one day. Yes, I know, hardly scientific of me to admit such a shortcoming, but there it is. My critics have claimed many things over the years about the flaw in my methods, but not once, I'm proud to say, have I been cited for dishonesty.
While the Badger and the Spanglemonkey worked out life, I stayed in the bedroom closet and rested. I tried to trim my toenails but my flashlight was in the hall closet, and trimming nails is difficult in the dark. I was, however, able to get my nose hairs plucked.
How It Blows
Odd, how we are. A day apart from the kids, and I’m adrift. Sometimes launching into some kind of declaration. “We’re different, because we’re forty, and we knew each other when we were twenty, and what we need as adults is far different from what was then. Our security means that we need something different. We’re figuring out what it is.”
RED - INCREASED ANXIETY AND/OR CREATIVITY - STAY ALERT
A whole morning was wasted as I dodged around the house, trying to stay one step ahead of all the cleaning and dismantling of Christmas. The girls have gone off somewhere with the visiting grandparents, who I know I've failed to mention in these notes. But with good reason.
Basic Rules of Anthropology:
When conducting studies within a multi-generational household, do not underestimate the observational awareness of the grandparents. Keep low and quiet. Listening, rather than seeing, may be the wise choice. Avoid hiding in the bathroom, near comfortable chairs, sunny spots near windows, or under lap blankets.
Hogmanay \hog-muh-NAY; HOG-muh-nay\, noun:
But seriously, the New Technology allows everyone who has a connection and a bit of computer savvy to have a published presence on the net. I think it’s wonderful. It’s easy to dismiss because of its ordinary quality, or to dismiss it because it doesn’t bear the imprimateur of money and publication, but I would have to contend that in some way it is then more a Noble Cause. Instead of each and every idea having to struggle its way into capitalist full-blown glory, it can exist parenthetically, it can be attempted, it can surface as a trial in the best postmodern sense, without having to be the Fullest Fruit of its Kind and Annointed by Money.
ORANGE - COPACETIC
What is the connection here? What comparisons might be drawn between the ordinary qualities of most, self-published weblogs and the overall ordinariness of most people's lives? Should we allow ourselves to be swayed by the passionate ideas of the Spanglemonkey, hiding behind words like "capitalist full-blown glory"? Does technology help us to right injustice? What will we choose to do with the tool handed us?
Upton Sinclair published The Jungle in 1906, hoping to bring attention to the deplorable working conditions of the average capitalist laborer, but instead managed to focus the public's eyes only upon the place where their next meal was coming from. As Sinclair himself put it, "I aimed at their hearts, and hit their stomachs."
One hundred years later and nothing has changed. People see only the things that they want to see. Nothing more, nothing less.
Ms Jane’s Toilet Doesn’t Have a Half-Moon! Her Big City Ways!
What an adventure we had yesterday!
We met Ms Jane, who said “Wait where you are! I’ll be there in two shakes!” and voila! There she was! “You and your big city ways!” I exclaimed. Because damn, she works right in the middle of skyscrapers, and takes the bus, and lives in Oakland. Our girl’s all kinda urban and shit. We were given a tour of her new cube, as well as the old. I’ll regale you with pictures soon.
Onward ... a small restaurant tucked away in an alley ... tablecloths, people with french accents ... wine ... sorry for myself ... creative angst ... galleries ... holiday gawkers ... the glittery box by Joseph Cornell ... a tiny world ... a moment on the big bridge ... dizzying height ... the world closing in ... knees sore ... pain ... walking slowly ... loaded onto a bus ... drank beer ... talked ... happy friendship ... dinner ... the meth-head babbling woman ... that calm quiet of no children in the house.
ORANGE/RED - CRUCIAL TIPPING POINT
As I believe I've explained before, the condensation of the Spanglemonkey's weblog entries is to be expected here within my notes, especially during flurries of excess activity, such as her outing yesterday with Manny and Ms. Jane. But I think that my summary of the day, presented above, is more than adequate to give one a feel of what went on. To understand the bottom of a pan, one must boil away the water first. Just like in writing, which I'm sure the Spanglemonkey would appreciate if I could tell her, anthropology is all about reduction. The all-important editing! Get to what is important!
The letter I referred to earlier, the letter from London, is the result of several years detective work by an old friend of mine, Jonathan E. Versteen, who has been following a lead I received many years back concerning a woman who may or may not have been in the employ of my grandmother. This would have been during the early 1940's in Hawaii, meaning that the woman would have been a prostitute, so you can well imagine the difficulty faced in following such a lead. The past has a way of disappearing, especially when that past includes certain aspects of one's life that he or she would rather not share with their now unsuspecting family. Another take on the old "let sleeping dogs lie" philosophy - yet another of the anthropologist's many adversaries.
In the interest of truth, I will disclose the contents of the letter, but only after I have had an opportunity to speak with Jonathan, who as I mentioned is in London, and whom I was unfortunately not able to reach by phone while the house was empty. I will try again later tonight.
Neither was I able to reach Rudy by phone, and my instincts tell me he has spent the night some place other than the more-then-adequate motel room I have gone to great expense to rent for him. No doubt the boy is further entangling himself to that rumpled wisp of a girl. What was her name? Angela? A derivation of the Greek ángelos - heavenly messenger - which in this case, is highly doubtful. Poor foolish Rudy. So much to learn.
December 30, 2005
In Which I Give a Job Description to the Help
But today! We shall have an Adventure! We have two goals. 1. Finding Ms Jane’s cube, and 2. Finding union square and taking in some art.
I also need to shower.
Every surface in the house is covered in the prints that Manny’s been making, drying. While I welcome the art thing, after a while… See, wouldn’t it be great to have a studio? This is a thought I come to over, and over, and over. But we have the monkey pit, and it is excellent indeed. Eventually we’ll build something back there. Quite possibly.
CLEAR
The outing is confirmed, but as fate has it, I will not be in attendance. In writing about the chaos surrounding Rudy's late-night visit, I realize now that I failed to mention that he also dropped off my mail from the last couple of weeks, and that the letter I've been expecting from London was there, but not containing the information I had hoped for. I will get into all this later, once I've had a chance to confirm some things, which I will do this afternoon over the phone, while everyone is away.
I will also take some time to study Manny's prints, which could reveal some valuable clues into the man's psyche. The Spanglemonkey seems happy about the process of Manny's art, but not the necessary clutter that comes along with it. I, however, am taking complete advantage of all the extra hiding spots and hopes he keeps it up.
Ms Jane’s Tidy Cube
Occurs to me that everyone, at all times, is going through something difficult, and far from making difficulty ordinary, it makes it all the more poignant, I think. All those people, engaged in all that struggle. It makes me wonder, though. Could it be built into being human? Is it part of our perception of the movement of time, and the narrative of our lives, to envision ourselves as constantly struggling?
In other words, being slightly unhappy makes us do stuff.
ORANGE - COPACETIC
After a getting a good night's sleep, the Spanglemonkey appears a bit more cheery. There is talk of an outing to visit a Ms. Jane, who I don't believe I've met as of yet. I'll double-check my notes if time permits. I've almost grown accustomed to the Spanglemonkey's tendency to suddenly whisk right out the door without notice or warning, sometimes not even so much as a hair combing. I must really be on my toes at all times. Metaphorically speaking, I mean. Mostly I'm crouched behind a chair or desk.
It occurred to me yesterday that the Spanglemonkey has more than a normal amount of computer printers, but there has been no time for further reflection.
Interesting, I find, that she has been able for a moment to separate with her own inner struggles long enough to theorize on the meaning of struggle. Could their be an actual need for this struggle, this fight we wage within ourselves constantly? Does it have something to do with our perception of time? The Spanglemonkey is close, and I wonder sometimes if she would make a good anthropologist. Perception is certainly the key. The fact that we are always at the center of our own perceptions, the lock.
As arranged, Rudy tapped lightly on the front door at midnight.
"Dr. Stevenson, I saw that you forgot your flashlight. It was on your desk."
"Yes, I know where it was. That's what I was trying to tell you on the phone last night."
"Sorry, but I couldn't hear a thing over the music."
"Yes, so it seemed. By the way, who are these so-called friends of yours? You're not shirking your work, are you?"
"No, of course not."
"It's important work, Rudy. I can't stress that enough."
"Yes, Dr. Stevenson."
"So what about these friends?"
"Just some people I met. You'd like them. That's Angela out there by the street. She wanted to come with."
Sure enough, a raggedy looking girl was standing just outside the yard, staring at us.
"Good Lord, Rudy! You brought her here! Haven't I taught you anything!"
"She's cool, Dr. Stevenson. She's into the whole anthropology scene."
"Anthopology scene? Is that what you think this is?"
"No, Dr. Stevenson. I just meant..."
"Yes, I'm sure you just meant something else entirely. Now... "
"Dr. Stevenson?" It was the raggedy girl. She'd come up the drive without my noticing. "I just wanted to..."
I grabbed my flashlight and quickly closed the door before the whole study became corrupted. When I peaked through the curtains, I could see the two of them walking away, the girl dancing around Rudy under the streetlights. Good Lord!
December 29, 2005
Tonight We Shall Dine Upon Bromides!
A nap has thrown everything into a different context. It’s a good thing. I think I could easily fly right off the planet and not care. Or get sucked into a sudden chasm all, WTF? oh well!
In my absence it seems that everyone has started talking to each other.
RED - INCREASED ANXIETY AND/OR CREATIVITY - STAY ALERT
History is strewn with tales of people who have awoken from naps, only to find that the world around them has changed in some way, that things were not as they were when they first closed their eyes for some much needed rest.
Take for instance Solomon Thrushman, the Virginia childhood friend of Cyrus McCormick, inventor of the mechanical reaper. Solomon had been down on his luck for many years, but in 1847 was given an opportunity to make something of himself by his friend, McCormick, who called him to Chicago to help manage the production at the new reaper factory. Solomon Thrushman traveled night and day, walking much of the way it's said, arriving at the factory late the night before official production was to begin. Tired from his travels, Solomon Thrushman laid down for what he thought would be a short nap.
Unfortunately for Thrushman, the spot he'd chosen for his nap - a patch of tall grass outside the factory - just happened to be the testing ground for the new reapers. And because Thrushman was so tired, well, he overslept that first day and missed the excitement of that historic moment when the first production line reaper rolled out of the factory and into the tall grass for testing. Some say that Thrushman heard the reaper approaching and popped up to see what all the excitement was about, while others claim it was the machine itself that sprung Thrushman into the upright position - but either way, Thrushman was dead, becoming one of the first unofficial casualties of the American Industrial Revolution.
Can’t Talk/Must Talk/Can’t Talk/Must Talk
I came to the conclusion that although it is seemingly an intractable contradiction to live with someone who first, asks me not to share my feelings with him, and second, knows that I want avoid the type of “withdrawal of emotion, as punishment” that my mother enacted
*breath* (in other words, I can’t share with him, but if I am to avoid the silent seething my mother dealt out, I must share...)
ORANGE/RED - CRUCIAL TIPPING POINT
Based on what the Spanglemonkey has written, it seems obvious that she has spotted me.
That although those things are a contradiction I am struggling with immensely at the moment, that the one thing that can be said is that it shall pass. I will learn a new mode of being. I’m not sure that it will be perfect in any way, but I will figure it out.
Peck, Spanglemonkey, Peck!
Silence, Withdrawal, Privacy. Vs. Solitude.
Growing up, the worst punishment that could be meted out to me was the silence and withdrawal of my mother. She seethed, sometimes, and it would take days to pry out of her (if you ever did) what, exactly, was your affront. How was she being Wronged? I capitalize that word because it was always brought to a greater level than the specific instance. She was not appreciated, was not fully loved, was wasting her potential and furthermore it had Always Been That Way.
The reason I know all this is because I am this way too. And even though I realize it, still, I enact the same frosty silence when I am Wronged.
STORM RED - TAKE SHELTER IMMEDIATELY
I may have spent the better part of the last twenty years waiting around quietly for people to do something unexpected so that I may be witness to their particular peculiarity, but I'll be damned if I've signed on to wait around for some twenty year old to pull his head out of his ass. They say that parenting is difficult, and yes, from where I've sat watching, it does appear to offer those engaged in it a bit of a challenge, some more than others, naturally, but what I would like to do once - just once, mind you, for a day, no more - would be to give some of these struggling parents the responsibility of training the next generation of anthropologists. Let them wallow about with that problem for a bit.
Damn that Rudy! He did finally call late last night, so late in fact, that I had nearly dropped off to sleep myself and didn't catch the phone until the second ring had already started. Luckily, no one woke up!
"Damn you, Rudy!" I whispered into the phone, hoping the boy could at least hear my dissatisfaction with his performance. Two days! You don't say you'll do something and then not do it until two days later!
"What's wrong with you, Rudy? You were supposed to call Monday night."
"Can you speak up, Dr. Stevenson? I'm having a hard time hearing you."
"Is that music I hear? Turn down the music and you'll hear me just fine."
"You'll have to speak up, Dr. Stevenson. I'm out with some friends and the music is kind of loud."
Friends? We'd only been in town less than two weeks. What kind of friends could the boy have possibly found in that short of time? No doubt the wrong kind.
"I need my flashlight, Rudy."
"What?"
"My flashlight. I need my flashlight."
"WHAT?"
"MY FLASHLIGHT. I NEED MY FLASHLIGHT." It sounded like a door opening down the hall.
"Friday night. Midnight. Front door." I could hear footsteps in the hall and hung up the phone, hoping Rudy had gotten the message. Out that late on a Wednesday night? Didn't the boy have notes to transcribe?
I slipped behind the living room couch until whoever had gotten up padded off down the hall, back on their way to bed.
I'll talk with Rudy before things get any more out of hand. Before I end up seething like the Spanglemonkey's mother, brooding and silent. Wronged. An anthropologist needs his flashlight. That's just the way it is.
In Which I Invent Doting Motherhood, and Some Of Its Downsides
I realized that the Professional Organizer I was imagining recently, the person who would come into my life and figure out the logistics ... I figured out that what I was describing is someone like my mom, at least my mom as she was in 1971 or so when I was five. Who else but your mom tried to figure out all the intricate workings of you and your digestive system, tried to maximize your potential, attempted to quantify things like “when she watches a half hour too much TV she is cranky?”
ORANGE/RED - CRUCIAL TIPPING POINT
There is a certain comfort to be found in observing the human need for comfort itself. Most people find a comforting pleasure in the thought of being needed, yet an anxious displeasure in the thought of not being needed. We want to be cared for, yet released somehow from this care, so that we in turn can care for others. Yet, we want to be able to come back when we feel the need. The entire process, which is perhaps the basis for our entire nature, is quite cyclical.
And sometimes I realize, too, that my mother never actually did those things, but was trying to live her own life instead, and that I was simply egotistical enough that I imagined she cared about those things in my life. Know what I mean? She was able to give me the ego-driven basis for taking care of myself in the world, but when it came down to it, I was on my own, just like everyone else.
December 28, 2005
Sodden and Limp
A very nice dinner at the new sushi place, where they recognize everyone who walks through the door. “Hi again!” and know your family and etc. Always asking when we are coming back.
The problem with the movie Memoirs of a Geisha: aside from the sodden dialogue, which was overblown (but I suppose it deserved to be, what with the subject matter with trapped women in a waning Japan) was that somehow it seemed like the audience’s sympathies were supposed to be with the geisha system itself. Somehow you were supposed to be sad at this thing that was passing away. Oh no! Women will no longer be sold into slavery, not able to rule their own fate, judged purely on their entertainment value to men? Oh NO!
What the fuck ever!
STORM RED - TAKE SHELTER IMMEDIATELY
Not knowing when Rudy will call, I was forced to stay behind while the Spanglemonkey went out. The time to compile some notes will be good, but an outing would have been nice. The idea of sushi, however, never has sat well with me. Not so long ago I turned down the opportunity to study the cult following that was building up around the Japanese television show, The Fuccons, the story of an American mannequin family who moves to Japan. But somehow, the idea of spending hours studying mannequins didn't seem quite right, and this, added to my distaste for sushi, convinced me to turn down the position. It was for the best, as I later found out that Rudy thought Japanese women were "very hot", as he put it, and I think it's clear that nothing but trouble could have come from it.
If you're interested, here's a short clip from the Fuccons series: The Lady Tutor (Quicktime, 4.5mb)
I'm sorry I cannot offer any transilatory insight into the name chosen for the American mannequin family, Fuccons, as my Japanese language skills are basically nonexistent. (Some martial arts skills, basic chopstick abilities, and a time or two in the Sumo ring.) My greatest efficiencies lie with the American dialects, with strengths in upper-Midwest Scandinavian and north-central Arkansas Southern (particulary the Skeeter Hog Hollar region), a rudimentary knowledge of Samoan (enough, apparently, to earn myself a nickname from the natives), some Spanish (what I like to refer to as Survival Spanish), and when the situation calls upon it, the Queen's English.
No surprise here. The geisha movie, with its underlying theme of male pleasure/female submission, has naturally riled the Spanglemonkey. I empathize with her position, as any rational human being would. Consider, if you will, that we live in a world where the most common translation for the concept of the "female warrior" is the word bitch.
In that, I can take no pleasure.
Year-End Happinesses in Acquisitiveland!
It is the end of the year. Let’s dwell on happy times. Let’s remember some of our best purchases from 2005. Books! Music! Clothing!
Favorite Stuff Acquired in 2005. A List with Asides.
1. I finally found bras that fit!
2. I do like my house.
3. There must be more. Lots more.
RED - INCREASED ANXIETY AND/OR CREATIVITY - STAY ALERT
While the Spanglemonkey reflects on the end of yet another year, I'm surprised to see that nearly two weeks have already passed for me here in the home. Are we any closer to understanding the Spanglemonkey? Have we seen or learned anything that might shed some light on the subject? The answer is, of course. Of course things have been revealed to us. Understanding has been handed to us, even if we don't know it, and therein lies the key. We have been given vital information, but of course, two weeks is much too short of time for us to have digested what we've been handed.
The choice of "enclosures" throughout history can be one effective way to better understanding humans. Our homes, the way we package food, our clothing, the automobile in more recent history, and since they're mentioned here by Spanglemonkey herself, yes, even the woman's brassiere. In modern times, tracking a societies overall sense of values has become easier due largely in part to advertising and spending patterns in general. While there may have been a time when values dictated spending, that trend seems to have reversed itself, with spending now dictating values.
So, is it strange to see someone listing a bra as a favorite thing acquired during the course of a year, even if it is listed mostly in jest? Certainly not, if you're tracking the dollar. Case in point - worldwide bra sales rose from $3.0 billion in 1995 to $3.8 billion in 1997 (recent figures, while not available, would logically follow the same growth trend and be much higher). The toal undergarment industry, which includes panties, bras and other bedroom wear, totaled $9.8 billion in sales in 1997.
Throwing Up of Hands, Making of Piffle! Sound.
I should give myself a hair trim today. With all this rain, my hair sort of clumps together oddly. It is quite difficult to be content with what’s on my head.
ORANGE/RED - CRUCIAL TIPPING POINT
Basic Rules of Anthropology
Try to avoid deductions based solely on metaphorical data. For example, if your subject is troubled by what is on the outside of their head, such as their hair, avoid jumping to the conclusion that they must also be troubled by what lies on the inside.
There are exceptions.
Note: I have every reason to believe Rudy will call tonight.
The Snub Could Not Be Borne
In a city this size, which is not big but is surrounded by Big all up and down the peninsula, it is often surprising how many people a person like me can know while going through my daily usualness. In fact I know a lot of people from many sources, different things our kids have done together over the years, or committees of various sorts, lessons and camps and then now, adult things we’re trying to do to self-actualize our suburban selves in a positive manner. We’re all hurtling together. It’s something like a Henry James novel at times where all the people of a similar class know things about each other, which is why I’m totally paranoid whenever I meet that woman with the ... low voice.
YELLOW - MILD CONDITIONS
The ability to sift through the many layers of useless information is perhaps the key to anthropology, and should come as no surprise that it is also one of the keys to understanding the Spanglemonkey. Keep in mind, there is no one key that unlocks the secrets of any person. It might help to think of the trained anthropology as a building's custodian - moving about in the background, often overlooked, perhaps even scorned by those who don't or refuse to understand his function. But for those who understand the inner workings of the building, they recognize the importance of the custodian. Without him function ceases; without him there might be no understanding. It is the custodian, much like the anthropologist, who holds the keys.
The question here then becomes this: how exactly do we define the term "know" when it comes to associates and acquaintances? What level of understanding must be achieved before we can safely say we know someone? Do we need to know them in order to hurtle along together harmoniously? If not, would it help?
I would like to meet the woman with the low voice. Call it professional curiosity.
Its Own Cosmic Economy
I’m going to try very, very hard to make it to yoga this morning. I will I will. Once I’m there I know it’ll be a happy thing, but getting there is another question.
YELLOW - MILD CONDITIONS
The human challenge has and always will be some variation of the Point A to Point B story. Getting "there" has always been at the core of our focus. Note our myriad of mythologies and religious variations. The story of one woman's quest to get to yoga class, seen this light, becomes becomes a variation of the forty years wandering lost in the desert story.
We are epic creatures, struggling forward against all odds!
Note: Still no call from Rudy. If he weren't in his 20's, I'd be worried. But he is, and no doubt just needs a realignment of his anthropological career goals, which in this case basically means he's in line for a good shaking up.
December 27, 2005
I’m My Own Favorite Playdate
Flannery is an excellent playdate. She is more shy and quiet than our Sophie (but then again, there are few who aren’t) but is completely willing to play “let’s say you’re my twin! And we’re both evil! And this is my dungeon! And yeah, and you’re feeding me a taco that’s actually filled with Dark Magic! DM!” which takes constant attention and storytelling skills. Sophie can make all her silly jokes and Flannery laughs at them. Does a mother’s heart glad.
ORANGE/RED - CRUCIAL TIPPING POINT
A tense moment, when the shy child referred to as Flannery turned and looked directly at me while playing with Sophie. There was no hiding, and no denying it - I'd been seen!
"Who's that?" Flannery asked Sophie, pointing in my direction.
"He's an invisible wizard only we can see. With magic! That he's hidden around the room!" My notes! I thought. Had they found them!
"Is he really?"
"I don't know. I saw him hiding in the Christmas tree."
I perhaps shouldn't have been observing the play of the children so closely - my focus is, of course, supposed to be upon the Spanglemonkey - but ignoring any storyteller has always been difficult for me, coming as I do from a long line of storytellers, dating back to my own great-grandfather, Robert Louis Stevenson.
To Stand Over Me and Breathe Down My Neck, Bellowing “Keep Your Head In It!”
We’re back from the therapist. I’m all jaunty and happy, because somehow I feel we triumphed in some major way.
Also into a long discussion of housework, which is sufficiently neutral so that we can closely examine how, exactly, we communicate, which is sort of the point. Reached a point in the conversation when Manny brought up the fact of our feminism, and how it looms between us at such a time because, of course, he doesn’t want to be seen as a chauvenist pig and how I understand that, I said, and exaggerate at times because I know it will get to him to think of us in traditional terms, even though we do in many ways lead traditional roles, isn’t that strange?, and immediately the therapist was smiling and telling us how completely flabbergastingly complex we are.
Which was totally correct.
ORANGE - COPACETIC
Understanding the roles played by individuals within a relationship will always be the hardest part of the anthropologist's job, which is understandable, since it is by far the hardest part for the individuals themselves to understand. Or, I should say, those who even try to understand their place within these roles. So many do not, which is fine. They provide a stable base for the rest of the world to rest upon. They also make excellent sitcom characters.
I haven't yet had much of an opportunity to get into my own lost and hidden history, but I think I can safely say that much of it has a great deal to do with how individual's perceived their particular role, and whether they readily embraced that role, or fought against it. Consider for a moment the life of Princess Victoria Kaiulani, heir to the Kingdom of Hawai'i and if history proves me correct, my own great grandmother, dead after only a few years once her role had been usurped by greedy U.S. politicians and businessmen, intent on stabilizing and expanding their own financial holdings.
Just how important does this idea of "role" play in our lives and relationships? Can a person actually die of a broken heart, as they claim Princess Kaiulani did, when these much needed roles are denied?
And speaking of roles, that no-good Rudy failed to call me as planned, leaving me flashlightless yet another night. Flashlightless, but not broken-hearted. The boy has much to learn about responsibility. Damn him!
Camp Keith
I dreamed about Keith all night long.
YELLOW - MILD CONDITIONS
Dreams themselves hold little value when it comes to understanding a person, which is a statement that I know a great many will take exception to. So many people place great stock in their dreams, thinking thay they are somehow a collection of these dreams, that the dreams somehow offer guidance, and can help provide a vision of themselves that is othewise invisible.
The word "hogwash" comes to mind here, although I don't believe it's an acceptable medical term. But it gets the point across.
Dreams are the shot of helium in the birthday balloon, nothing more. They may help sustain, but they are not the thing we should be looking at. It is what lies beyond the dream that needs our attention.
What does it mean!
December 26, 2005
I Have Certainly Been Stupided
The very strange hollowed-out sucking on copper feeling persists, wrapping itself around the eye muscles and around the arches of my upper ear-area. My eareoles, I guess those would be.
However! I have overcome! I have finished the goddamn newsletter! YO!
YELLOW - MILD CONDITIONS
A lower than you'd expect WTF! Meter rating, given the day's progress, but take into account the hangover and I see little reason for concern.
Using this grabber, I've been able to secure more food than I'm used to. Bluntly, I think I may need a nap. Risky business during the day.
Note: Ask Rudy if letters from London have arrived.
Ha! Mom’s an Imbicile!
Oh my god, I’m really hung over. It’s a creeping insidious kind of hangover which has sliced off about half my IQ, which was suffering greatly to begin with. We tried to play Trivial Pursuit as a family and it became achingly obvious that I could barely spell my own name. It quickly became a family joke. Me as the butt! See how I suffer! My own children and husband, mocking my dearth of brain cellage!
RED - INCREASED ANXIETY AND/OR CREATIVITY - STAY ALERT
Historically, I have always been a bit lax during those few particular days that fall between Christmas and New Years. I tend to think of it as a mini-vacation, the only sort afforded the active anthropologist who is always either stationed somewhere and hard at work, or on his way somewhere, traveling night and day in order to meet some human behavioral deadline.
But I have not been on vacation from my note-taking, and as you will see, there is much to catch up on. One drunken scene, another visit to the therapist, a visit from a curious little child named Flannery who spotted me immediately but said nothing (shyness - the boon and the bane of any anthropologist's existence), my phone call from Rudy and his subsequent botched visit to the house, the Spanglemonkey's visions of the upcoming year, and an email from one Savdotty (a curious name, I might add), who has been reading along and would like some clarification about this site's use of the term suspended disbelief, which I believe we can do, in good time.
But I am getting ahead of myself here, and it's important that we keep things in perspective and their proper time frame.
So, saying that, what we have here at the moment is an intoxicated Spanglemonkey (recovering from intoxication, but let's not argue the semantics of drinking language), stumbling around the house after having received some harsh, but loving mockery at the hands of her own family. A delight to behold, and nearly impossible to not join in. From my hiding place in the tree, I reached out with the trash grabber that I'd acquired earlier this morning (you may have noticed it lying on the floor of the Christmas picture), and gave the Spanglemonkey's hair a tweak. I know I have a strict policy against mingling, but there are exceptions. Did you know that drunk people where the main source of entertainment for many cultures before the invention of the television?
Tonight Rudy calls. Until then, I will catch up with my postings and began putting together a reply for Savdotty. Some claim that it is through understanding that we gain our greatest strength. I would tend to add through the process of understanding. Strength through observation and experience. The Spanglemonkey, for instance. Pull her hair and she swats at her head like she's just had a disturbing idea.
December 25, 2005
Merry Merry! And So Hairy!
We have listened to someone reading the entirety of a xmas carol by dickens himself. It was excellent! We did a puzzle together, which is not quite finished.
Sophie has trouble doing these kind of things with us because she is too young and not suited for intense concentration for hours, but she has learned to go off and do her own thing and only whine every hour or so.
YELLOW - MILD CONDITIONS
Hidden inside the Christmas tree, I listen to the story, popping out occasionally for visual confirmation. I scribble a few notes. I imagine that if they girls spot me now, they will confuse me for the ghost of Marley, although the idea of small girls being haunted by anything as ludicrous as a ghost hiding inside a Christmas tree is preposterous. Of course, none of this happens, since the girls are distracted more than enough by the gifts.
Later, while reviewing the Spanglemonkey's website for clues, I see that my own laziness has allowed me to be captured in a family photo. Notice me there, peeking out from behind the tree.
It is easy for anyone to grow lax on Christmas Day, a lesson I will pass onto Rudy. Even the most expert observer will, from time to time, be caught off-guard. Anthropology, like life, is often about the recovery.
December 24, 2005
Drunken Blogging (Take the Keys Away!)
It’s a proud tradition to blog slightly or extremely drunk. “Bloggo,” as it were. Tonight I’ve eaten my chili beans and listened to the radio, and the beer I consumed has put me in quite a whirl.
Tonight I go to the unitarians to light candles and sing. I’m hoping something will punch through my fog and give me a sense of quiet.
ORANGE/RED - CRUCIAL TIPPING POINT
The Spanglemonkey's need to punch through her fog reminds me that I have forgotten my flashlight, which I would have sworn I'd slipped into the knapsack before heading over here for my yearlong study. A year is a long time to be without a flashlight, even for an anthropologist, who is used to poking around in the dark.
I have made arrangements to receive a phone call sometime late Monday night from my understudy, Rudy, a nickname he earned from his own mother early in life because of his tendency to stare at people, a trait his mother thought was rude, thus the nickname Rudy. A natural-born anthropologist, yet still in need of guidance.
Note: Make arrangements for Rudy to deliver flashlight. City Permit Inspector guise?
Everything simply is, and it is the way it is. Perhaps it’s not for me to understand.
A Shiny Pile
I have wrapped all the presents. The girls and Manny left at about 12ish, and I’m finishing now, an hour and a half later. I’m barely conscious! Luckily This American Life and another Jewish storytelling show were on one after another, and I was swept off into listening to stories.
I suppose it’s because my mother read to me so much when I was little that I am quite comforted by being read aloud to. It’s different than any other feeling, sort of snuggly but far away.
ORANGE - COPACETIC
I have spent the better part of my lifetime gathering together the stories that comprise people's lives in the hope that properly arranged they will somehow present a clearer picture of that person. I am convinced that people are nothing more than storybooks. Living, breathing, fully functional storybooks roaming the Earth. The modern day dinosaur! Who wouldn't want to study them before they disappear completely!
Observe the Spanglemonkey, curious but hesitant, seeking companionship near the waterhole, her tiny dinosaur hands weary from wrapping so many presents.
Thinking back on my life I realize how much time I’ve spent wanting more connection with people, and yet shrinking away from social events. Odd.