It's been a very long time since I posted on here... maybe since I started facebooking? Or around then anyway. I made only a weak and half-hearted attempt to resist the lure of facebook. It's a far less creative forum, but the temptation of being able to stay in touch, quite simply, with friends from all over the world, and to follow their lives even without talking to them, through their pictures and comments etc was just too much. Facebook is far more interactive than the blogosphere (was for me at least), but there's something blogging has that you just can't get on facebook. There is the potential with blogging to just free write, to reflect, to wonder out loud, whether or not anyone is listening. Because of the format of it, it's possible for someone, someone you don't even know, to hear you months or even years later (if you, like me, leave your verbal detritus strewn about on the internet). Anyway, I felt having a little random crazy-person-rambling-on-the bus style write, so here I am. You can blame it on the fact that it's the new year, or the fact that three months into doing my PhD I finally figured out a system which allows me to do a full day of work and then not feel so guilty in the evening that I couldn't possibly blog. In other words, I've worked enough today and I'm allowed to play now.
I thought about starting a new blog since my life, and I think my self, has changed a lot since I first started this one. I mean, I think fundamentally I'm the same person that I ever was, but at the same time, when significant things change about your life, you change along with them, even if all that means is that different aspect of your personality become more pronounced. And a lot has changed.
I haven't taken the time to review any of my old blog posts, although I must admit, that is one of my favorite and also most-hated things about keeping a blog. Going back is such a journey of self-discovery, and sometimes it's scary what you find. Particularly if you are like me, and don't tend to censor or edit what you put out there.
I do remember though, that I've written about my mother more than once. In many ways, my relationship with my mother has defined me so much. Strangely, her goodness turned into my badness... if that makes any sense. Well, it's not fair to blame her for my badness, such as it is, but she probably contributed in some ways. What I mean is, by being so hard-working, so self-sacrificing, so excessively indulgent while not seeming indulgent at all, she spoiled me silly. And then, through her kind of extreme moral code, her Amish-like commitment to and love of hard work, her own piety and goodness, she made me feel as though her standards were impossible to live up to, and me being me, I think I just gave up on the whole damn thing and went the other way.
But again, I'm making excuses. I have to own up to my own nature. Pleasure-seeker, sensual, playful, adventurous... lazy? At the time when we had grown furthest apart, and I was left to my own devices to mess up my life as much as I wanted, I took those characteristics to an extreme. Living with alcoholics and ex-convicts, later, smoking pot every day, making terrible decisions, some of them financially crippling...
In spite of that, there was always a responsible side, a practical side, that sought to clean up the mess that the naughty child part of my personality had created. Even in the worst of times I still kept a full-time job, often worked overtime, or additional jobs, made regular payments on my loans, walked away from REALLY bad scenes and harder drugs and so on and so forth. I could have been worse. I guess I just wanted to experiment a bit, play with small amounts of fire and see if I could make it out without crisping my skin.
It's hard to say if things would have been different if my mum and I had got along better, and I'd moved back home after I finished my undergrad degree, which was when things, in my eyes now, seemed to go downhill. They say hindsight is 20/20, but in fact mine seems blurred through the warped glass of memory and its hard to see how things might have turned out... so many factors involved.
When I think of the past, all the things I would have liked to have done differently, all the missed opportunities and regrets, it's hard not to blame it on some failing of my self, my personality. But I know this is not a productive way of looking at things. It's much better to try and keep things in perspective and say hey, well maybe I didn't have my head screwed on entirely straight when I did such and such, but at least in the end I got out of it. At least in the end I did some good things too. And with the benefit of hindsight, hopefully I can continue doing good things and eventually even maybe do some great things! Just gotta stay on a good path.
I'm happy with the path I'm on now. It may seem illogical in a way, since these days it seems like people do PhDs when they can't get proper jobs. Not a bad time really, considering the economic downturn, to be a paid postgraduate student. Besides the fact that I have always been a bit of a nerd, and generally enjoy this reading and thinking stuff. Although, man, sometimes it feels like with the subject area I've chosen that I'm trying to figure out the problems of the whole world and that it's just ridiculous and I can't possibly ever hope to manage to contribute anything this way. But we're only three months in and I tell myself not to panic... just keep plugging away at it.
Plugging away at it, in PhD land, looks something like this. I sit at my desk in the office I share with 10 other PhD students. It's pretty quiet in there usually, as we're mostly reading. Generally at least one person is clacking away at the keyboard, which, if you have something due to be written, is a sound that strikes fear into your heart. Maybe more like anxiety. Until you find yourself once again absorbed in reading some new interpretation of Marxist writings or some such and then suddenly it's two hours later and someone is talking to you but you haven't heard them. Then you reply, promptly forget what you've said, and spend 45 minutes staring with big round eyes in your pallid face, out the window, or just at some fixed point in the room while your brain tries to grasp what you've read as it meets all the other thoughts floating about in your skull, introduces itself, knocks a few of them out and causes general turmoil.
From time to time you have a meeting with your supervisor. Generally, beforehand you try to prepare yourself. You make feeble attempts at sorting out what's going on in your head and you make some notes of things to say. If you've been reading too much, you may go into this meeting and discover that you are completely unable to express yourself and you sound like an imbecile. Fortunately if your supervisor has any experience, they have seen this before and know that you are not actually an imbecile, but have merely hit that point where you are pushing your brain's capacity and can no longer form sentences. Usually they suggest you stop reading before you have reached the next stage at which point you can generally only grunt and drool.
So that's life as a PhD thus far. It's more joy than I could have ever imagined. Hahaha. Well actually, it is pretty enjoyable, in spite of the FEAR and PANIC that sets in periodically.
In other news, I'm now in a relationship with one of my fellow PhD students. He is lovely. We sit across the big office and occasionally msn. Things like 'you waaaaan coffee?' to which an affirmative answer results in a trip to the top floor of the tower where there is a nice big coffee room with a view over the town and the sea. Gorgeous on a clear day. Even though we see each other every day we still seem to find things to talk to each other about, and usually they are quite interesting. He also gives wonderful hugs, much appreciated when I hit panic mode and forget what my research is about.
Ok, that is all for now. I might keep updating on here... or I may start a whole new blog for the whole new mature, proper relationship, PhD-student me. Although admittedly the contrast is sort of amusing.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Monday, March 24, 2008
Roots
I am back home after an impromptu vacation in Italy with friends. Through the floor I can hear my grandma and mum talking late into the night. It's 2am. Over the last couple of days, between lengthy chats, we've watched films in Farsi, German and English. All of them good. My German is not as bad as I thought it was, and my Farsi is nearly as good as it ever was. What with all this and the bits of Italian I learned while away, my mind is a convoluted mess of languages and film plots and endless stories told by the women as we sit around the table and consume seemingly endless quantities of food. They tell stories of relatives and friends, old and new, and discuss the conditions in Iran under Shah, after the revolution and now... Things are forever in flux and the only constant is change, but each moment is a mosaic of moments that came before it, and each person is a patchwork of so many peices of the past. History is ingrained into all of us and is as inescapable as our own skins, and as I listen to the stories I know that all I have is what I am, and what I am emerged out of all of this.
My grandma who not too long ago had caused concern by going on a random excursion - through the window - while my aunt and uncle were out, is a picture of sane lucidity, and as observant and attentive as ever. My aunt has the memory of an elephant, although the memories are bathed in a prism of color as seen through a stained glass lens of emotion. They debate god and religion, each of them muslim and each in a completely different way. Their divergent and complicated variations of the belief are testimony to the personalizability of religion. They agree on some things, no booze, no pork, but diverge in their belief of god. My aunt is political, a bleeding heart for all the souls out there in the world, each of their miseries. My mother's views are more complicated. There are mixed feelings about the old homeland and the new. The UK is held in high esteem, particularly with my mother, who respects and adores all things British and frequently derides aspects of Iranian culture. When it comes down to it though, you can tell that underneath it all she loves and respects her own homeland, her original people as well. There are connections there that refuse to be forgotten, cultural and religious frameworks that she cannot extract herself from.
We sit around the table eating. BBC Radio 4 is on, as usual. The story is about Iranian smuggling of weapons to Iraqi insurgents. The talk is of bombing Iran. We sit there and wait for the lead to settle in our stomachs.
My aunt and gran will visit this year as they always do, surrounded by family and friends there. They phone to wish everyone a happy new year (the Persian New Year occurs at the spring equinox). They phone our former neighbor, who has become a close friend of my aunts. They hand the receiver to me and the voice over the phone flows over the wire to me from twelve years ago when we last spoke. Sohaila, our former neighbor, ratted me out when I started seeing the boy next door. And then spent hours along with my mum lecturing me about it. When we left Iran I was endlessly relieved at not being in that position anymore. I couldn't wait to get out. I forgave her though and wrote her a letter from Canada, saying I appreciated how she'd tried to help, and that she'd been like a second mother to me (true - in the sense that mother's lecture endlessly). Over the phone now, more than a decade later, she insists that I have to come visit, a week, 10 days, I should stay with her, her daughter is grown up now, has a car, they'll take me around, it'll be great... In this strange, fluent Farsi that has revisted me, I promise to come visit when I can, perhaps next year. And secretly hope that I will be able to, that things won't have gone all awry before then.
These events have made me contemplative. Memories have rushed back like so many creatures that have been hiding in the folds of new experiences and new lives. They demand my attention. I think of my classes here, my dissertation focusing on Welsh government restructuring, my connection to the land here... and I think of the past, the chaos and drama of Iran, the tears and the poetry and skiing and the dark-eyed men living dangerous lives, jumping over walls to escape the 'commitee' whenever a party was busted. Everyone living secret lives like cockroaches, in the dark. Hiding and pretending in the light. So many lives, so many lies, so much to bear...
There are no simple solutions to be had... but geopolitics often resembles playground fights, and sandcastles often get stomped by bigger kids. For all its imperfections, for all our conflicts, I know that I too love Iran with a fierce defensiveness. Love its pride and even its contradiction. Its danger and its chaos and its determination. No matter where I am, and how long I've been away, it is always going to be a significant part of me, and I cherish that.
My grandma who not too long ago had caused concern by going on a random excursion - through the window - while my aunt and uncle were out, is a picture of sane lucidity, and as observant and attentive as ever. My aunt has the memory of an elephant, although the memories are bathed in a prism of color as seen through a stained glass lens of emotion. They debate god and religion, each of them muslim and each in a completely different way. Their divergent and complicated variations of the belief are testimony to the personalizability of religion. They agree on some things, no booze, no pork, but diverge in their belief of god. My aunt is political, a bleeding heart for all the souls out there in the world, each of their miseries. My mother's views are more complicated. There are mixed feelings about the old homeland and the new. The UK is held in high esteem, particularly with my mother, who respects and adores all things British and frequently derides aspects of Iranian culture. When it comes down to it though, you can tell that underneath it all she loves and respects her own homeland, her original people as well. There are connections there that refuse to be forgotten, cultural and religious frameworks that she cannot extract herself from.
We sit around the table eating. BBC Radio 4 is on, as usual. The story is about Iranian smuggling of weapons to Iraqi insurgents. The talk is of bombing Iran. We sit there and wait for the lead to settle in our stomachs.
My aunt and gran will visit this year as they always do, surrounded by family and friends there. They phone to wish everyone a happy new year (the Persian New Year occurs at the spring equinox). They phone our former neighbor, who has become a close friend of my aunts. They hand the receiver to me and the voice over the phone flows over the wire to me from twelve years ago when we last spoke. Sohaila, our former neighbor, ratted me out when I started seeing the boy next door. And then spent hours along with my mum lecturing me about it. When we left Iran I was endlessly relieved at not being in that position anymore. I couldn't wait to get out. I forgave her though and wrote her a letter from Canada, saying I appreciated how she'd tried to help, and that she'd been like a second mother to me (true - in the sense that mother's lecture endlessly). Over the phone now, more than a decade later, she insists that I have to come visit, a week, 10 days, I should stay with her, her daughter is grown up now, has a car, they'll take me around, it'll be great... In this strange, fluent Farsi that has revisted me, I promise to come visit when I can, perhaps next year. And secretly hope that I will be able to, that things won't have gone all awry before then.
These events have made me contemplative. Memories have rushed back like so many creatures that have been hiding in the folds of new experiences and new lives. They demand my attention. I think of my classes here, my dissertation focusing on Welsh government restructuring, my connection to the land here... and I think of the past, the chaos and drama of Iran, the tears and the poetry and skiing and the dark-eyed men living dangerous lives, jumping over walls to escape the 'commitee' whenever a party was busted. Everyone living secret lives like cockroaches, in the dark. Hiding and pretending in the light. So many lives, so many lies, so much to bear...
There are no simple solutions to be had... but geopolitics often resembles playground fights, and sandcastles often get stomped by bigger kids. For all its imperfections, for all our conflicts, I know that I too love Iran with a fierce defensiveness. Love its pride and even its contradiction. Its danger and its chaos and its determination. No matter where I am, and how long I've been away, it is always going to be a significant part of me, and I cherish that.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Hanging around in the lost and found*
For basically the past year now, ever since I bid farewell to the last boyfriend in the first days of May, I have been trying to turn myself into some kind of asexual being who doesn't need a partner, nor casual flings. This has mostly been successful (which will probably come as a big shock to some of you), with the exception of two drunken make-out sessions, one of which was with a slightly scary dom lesbian and the other with a guy leaving two days later for Australia (I don't think either of these events really count, do you?). My position on the whole thing is a bit all or nothing at the moment. I'm focused on my studies and don't need any distractions, but would make an exception for my dream guy (whom I'm expecting to miraculously ride into my life on a white stallion at some point). Nevertheless, a little tiny bit of romance does manage to creep its way into my life in spite of my best efforts... and that's what's been happening with this sweetheart from work who I danced with at the Christmas party (Simon). I know, I sound like I'm 12 or something. Even more so when I tell you that the physical extent of our relationship consists of dancing til 2 at the xmas party (at which my ex-boss drunkenly gushed about how we made such a lovely couple); working together for a couple of months, without touching (except maybe the odd time his hand brushed mine when reaching for the mouse to demonstrate something on my computer); a drum and bass night with a bunch of friends at which we danced separately til 4 and ended the night with a heartfelt hug; and an impromptu walk on a lovely sunny day in the hills. I'll keep you posted on when we finally hold hands. In between that though, we've been getting to know each other extensively via text messaging. I have never had a mostly text-message based relationship before so I had no idea how intimate it could be. We've actually confessed some deep dark secrets via text, not to mention talked about just about everything else... We texted back and forth last week as he waited excitedly in London for his sister to give birth to the first of their families next generation. Over text we've confessed our deepest desires and talked about our pasts. He's brilliant at rolling with my jokes and metaphors and we've had some hilarious conversations. On the occasions I've been stressed or bummed out about something he's given me such solid, wise advice that it's made me feel better immediately.
I've gotten used to hearing from him every day, usually starting in the morning and continuing on and off until one of us passes out at around 2 or 3am, sending a last message from under the covers before rolling into dreamland where he's made appearances as well. It's strange, but sweet too. And maybe just the kind of thing to ease me out of my relationship-phobia. This morning when I didn't hear from him I didn't think much of it, just figured he was busy. I sent him a message around 11am and continued on with my busy day. I didn't hear from him all day. Then at 9:00pm he sent a message saying sorry for not getting back to me, he's been ill all day and has just been admitted to the hospital to have his appendix removed! I got the message 15 mins after he'd sent it because I was downstairs. I messaged back right away, but no reply. I contemplated calling but figured it would probably be more disruptive than anything and so I am just waiting. It doesn't help that I have zero faith in the medical system here. We have one shitty hospital in town with really limited services, and the next one is two hours away. I don't know which one he's at. If it's a burst appendix that could be serious and needs to be operated on very quickly. So basically right now I am really worried about him. I'm sending him all my good vibes (he'll need them to make it out of an NHS hospital alright) but kind of wish there was more I could do. I always feel that way when people I love are sick, like Sadie, poor darling. If you're reading this I'm thinking of you too.
I'm sure he'll be fine. I'm just worrying too much. Still, if you're reading this, send a good thought this way for Simon. He would do the same for you.
*I've had this Elliot Smith song stuck in my head all day. On my mental radio station I'm dedicating it to Simon right now.
I've gotten used to hearing from him every day, usually starting in the morning and continuing on and off until one of us passes out at around 2 or 3am, sending a last message from under the covers before rolling into dreamland where he's made appearances as well. It's strange, but sweet too. And maybe just the kind of thing to ease me out of my relationship-phobia. This morning when I didn't hear from him I didn't think much of it, just figured he was busy. I sent him a message around 11am and continued on with my busy day. I didn't hear from him all day. Then at 9:00pm he sent a message saying sorry for not getting back to me, he's been ill all day and has just been admitted to the hospital to have his appendix removed! I got the message 15 mins after he'd sent it because I was downstairs. I messaged back right away, but no reply. I contemplated calling but figured it would probably be more disruptive than anything and so I am just waiting. It doesn't help that I have zero faith in the medical system here. We have one shitty hospital in town with really limited services, and the next one is two hours away. I don't know which one he's at. If it's a burst appendix that could be serious and needs to be operated on very quickly. So basically right now I am really worried about him. I'm sending him all my good vibes (he'll need them to make it out of an NHS hospital alright) but kind of wish there was more I could do. I always feel that way when people I love are sick, like Sadie, poor darling. If you're reading this I'm thinking of you too.
I'm sure he'll be fine. I'm just worrying too much. Still, if you're reading this, send a good thought this way for Simon. He would do the same for you.
*I've had this Elliot Smith song stuck in my head all day. On my mental radio station I'm dedicating it to Simon right now.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
An email conversation with a friend...
To any of you who might have been stopping by here hoping for an update, please accept my apologies, I have just been busy with school etc and haven't had time... I still don't, but I did make time for an email exchange with a friend who just bought an apartment in Vancouver and I thought I'd copy and paste some of it here in lieu of a post. I like exchanges, I think that's a bit of what's missing with blogs, internal dialogue into the void can be like I said before, like talking to yourself on the bus. You know people can hear you, but you don't know if they'll respond and if they don't you feel a bit barmy. Anyway, without further ado, here are some excerpts from this email convo I had today.
Friend: "Thanks for the compliment of me keeping to my plans, its all just baby steps, and just being able to look a few years in advance at where i want to be and then breaking through each barrier with the emotional support of family and friends. I'd say you are in a really great position to navigate yourself towards even more success, just take a look at what the positions you want today demand and give yourself a 2 year buffer or as required to get there, you're smart just find the end goal, map out the game plan, then stick with it."
Me: "I love how you describe this too: "its all just baby steps, and just being able to look a few years in advance at where i want to be and then breaking through each barrier with the emotional support of family and friends" :)
While my goals are clearly different from yours, the same method completely applies. It's so simple and obvious in a way, so much so that it's often overlooked. That help and support bit is hard to overvalue. I've overcome some major barriers to progress with the help and support of my family and I'm now on the path to where I want to be. And it's like you said before as well (and Aerosmith before you), life's a journey not a destination: the path IS the destination in a sense, as long as you are on the right path and moving in the right direction, that is exactly where you need to be.
There is so much peace is being on the path that feels right, and knowing that you have the support to be able to continue down it. There is nothing like it for building the strength within in order to overcome any obstacles that may fall in the way. There is nothing like it for finding yourself. The journey towards the goals is a journey of self-discovery too. The self is there all along but cannot be found without traveling through life. It's like in The Alchemist, or in Siddhartha. Such truth. If you get a chance read those two books, I think you may enjoy them as they are deeply philosophical. I know you're busy, but they are both short and easy to read and will give you a great deal of food for thought.
I am sitting at my desk at the moment, surrounded by a few mountains of books, and watching out my window as an unusually thick fog rolls rapidly in from the sea smoothly engulfing the landscape in ethereal gray. The earth and the skies are so intimate here it is hard to tell them apart sometimes. This place has never lost its magic for me, as I sometimes feared it would if I came back. I was busy preserving the memory of my childhood and my dad here, untouched by new memories, but I found that by coming back, I brought him - and myself - back to life in my memory and in my soul. It's as though I opened a static photo album I had been carrying with me for years and suddenly my childhood self, my dad, my family the way it was, memories and connections all jumped out and inserted themselves like jigsaw peices into my nowself. I feel a new kind of wholeness.
I am investing in my future today. Revising a research proposal. I see two potential paths ahead for the next few years, a career in spatial planning, or a career in academia. The latter still seems more of a fantasy than anything, but nonetheless requires very concrete proposal writing. I have accepted that my very humble ultimate goal is simply to change the world in some positive way. I am ignoring Radiohead's advice not to get any big ideas and I'm letting mine run free. Karl Marx, and undoubtably many before and after him, noted that it is through our understanding of the world that we understand ourselves, and through attempting to do so we not only change the world but change ourselves as well. If you look at it from a buddhist perspective, the further you immerse yourself in it the more you are part of it and less part of something separate, you become it, it becomes you, and you are one. This is the path I wish to follow.
That probably sounds strange. I haven't lost it, I promise:)
Thanks for the messages, I always enjoy hearing from you. All the best, Kat."
Friend: "Thanks for the compliment of me keeping to my plans, its all just baby steps, and just being able to look a few years in advance at where i want to be and then breaking through each barrier with the emotional support of family and friends. I'd say you are in a really great position to navigate yourself towards even more success, just take a look at what the positions you want today demand and give yourself a 2 year buffer or as required to get there, you're smart just find the end goal, map out the game plan, then stick with it."
Me: "I love how you describe this too: "its all just baby steps, and just being able to look a few years in advance at where i want to be and then breaking through each barrier with the emotional support of family and friends" :)
While my goals are clearly different from yours, the same method completely applies. It's so simple and obvious in a way, so much so that it's often overlooked. That help and support bit is hard to overvalue. I've overcome some major barriers to progress with the help and support of my family and I'm now on the path to where I want to be. And it's like you said before as well (and Aerosmith before you), life's a journey not a destination: the path IS the destination in a sense, as long as you are on the right path and moving in the right direction, that is exactly where you need to be.
There is so much peace is being on the path that feels right, and knowing that you have the support to be able to continue down it. There is nothing like it for building the strength within in order to overcome any obstacles that may fall in the way. There is nothing like it for finding yourself. The journey towards the goals is a journey of self-discovery too. The self is there all along but cannot be found without traveling through life. It's like in The Alchemist, or in Siddhartha. Such truth. If you get a chance read those two books, I think you may enjoy them as they are deeply philosophical. I know you're busy, but they are both short and easy to read and will give you a great deal of food for thought.
I am sitting at my desk at the moment, surrounded by a few mountains of books, and watching out my window as an unusually thick fog rolls rapidly in from the sea smoothly engulfing the landscape in ethereal gray. The earth and the skies are so intimate here it is hard to tell them apart sometimes. This place has never lost its magic for me, as I sometimes feared it would if I came back. I was busy preserving the memory of my childhood and my dad here, untouched by new memories, but I found that by coming back, I brought him - and myself - back to life in my memory and in my soul. It's as though I opened a static photo album I had been carrying with me for years and suddenly my childhood self, my dad, my family the way it was, memories and connections all jumped out and inserted themselves like jigsaw peices into my nowself. I feel a new kind of wholeness.
I am investing in my future today. Revising a research proposal. I see two potential paths ahead for the next few years, a career in spatial planning, or a career in academia. The latter still seems more of a fantasy than anything, but nonetheless requires very concrete proposal writing. I have accepted that my very humble ultimate goal is simply to change the world in some positive way. I am ignoring Radiohead's advice not to get any big ideas and I'm letting mine run free. Karl Marx, and undoubtably many before and after him, noted that it is through our understanding of the world that we understand ourselves, and through attempting to do so we not only change the world but change ourselves as well. If you look at it from a buddhist perspective, the further you immerse yourself in it the more you are part of it and less part of something separate, you become it, it becomes you, and you are one. This is the path I wish to follow.
That probably sounds strange. I haven't lost it, I promise:)
Thanks for the messages, I always enjoy hearing from you. All the best, Kat."
Monday, January 28, 2008
Past presence
Oh mama, I am emerging, a butterfly!
I wrote a long letter to my sister tonight. The one that called me "step-sister" and inspired that forlorn post earlier in the month. I wrote her a letter the day after that post, which involved a torrential downpour of tears but was incredibly cathartic. She wrote me back in a sweet card filled with lots of love and reassurance, including the statement that our dad would be proud of me if he were still alive. Needless to say, reading the card started another downpour of tears. Come to think of it, I've been a bit of an emotional mess lately. I cried at dinner the other night when I was out with a whole bunch of girls for a girls (and honorary girls aka gay guys) night out. That was partly due to PMS and maybe the intense estrogen in the room. But mostly it was because, as ridiculous as it sounds, twenty years later I am just now dealing with my dad's death and the impact that it has had on my life.
After twenty years, I'm finally allowing myself to give in and grieve and mourn and in fact feel sorry for myself that I didn't have the pleasure of having my dad around while I was growing up. I had never let myself feel this before, particularly not the feeling sorry for myself bit. It's like it wasn't allowed. After he died, we didn't talk about him for years. Once or twice my sister lamented what a different person she would have been if we'd never left the UK and if dad was still alive. I think I admonished her then for being ungrateful for all mum was doing for us and failing to appreciate what we had. It's hard to believe how cold I was, how hard on both of us. We weren't allowed to grieve. Other people had it worse, we were lucky. Feeling sorry for yourself is pathetic, look at how strong others are!
It's twenty years later and I've moved back into the midst of a place where his spirit roams, like a legend, in the minds of people around, the neighbours, his friends and colleagues, my mother who finally after all these years talks about him, tells me stories. And every object, the very places that he carved out of the land, the stones he collected and placed in the garden, his handicrafts every where. So many things he touched, so many memories we shared here. I've never had the time before to immerse myself in them since he died, to trace them on my own with him in my mind. To miss him properly like I do now, wishing I could talk to him, share my thought with him, have his advice and support and encouragment. Feel like I had some right to it.
I realized tonight, when writing to my sister, how much the fact that we never let ourselves mourn right after it happened has impacted me my whole life. My mum was always so strong and just carried on, putting on foot after the other and carrying us along. I always felt taken care of and loved, grateful and sorrowful at the same time. We all had an obligation to each other to be brave and not give in to the temptation to cry. While our mother battled on to support us and care for us, we two girls separated from all our familiar comforts, and all the people we knew, bottled up our feelings, internalized this great gaping void of lonliness, these persistent feelings of weakness and inferiority, and morphed into quite different little souls.
I cried secretly and guiltily for years, but never acknowledged what my sadness was about. Felt lonely without being able to describe it. Later in life I sought out men who had lost parents too, people who could share my sadness, whose sadness I could share and immerse myself in, so that I could feel less guilty for the floods of tears, for the weakness I saw in myself. I felt alienated from my mother too, unable to emulate her harsh stoicism, desperate for affection and love myself. Her strength became my weakness.
I feel like I finally understand. I'm finally both accepting the pain, sorrow, and the great aching hole in my heart that my dad left when he died. And by accepting it and accepting my right to feel it, even now, twenty years later, I'm setting myself free to be whole again. I'm not entirely there yet but I feel like I'm on my way, it's not far. I am building up a whole self, one that is happy, one that accepts sadness in a healthy way, without feeling guilty and ashamed of it, but without wallowing in it either.
It's funny how things work out. Like forces in the universe pushing and pulling you in different directions. I needed to come back here and face up to the past, embrace it, cry over it, hold it close in order to be able to leave it behind.
I wrote a long letter to my sister tonight. The one that called me "step-sister" and inspired that forlorn post earlier in the month. I wrote her a letter the day after that post, which involved a torrential downpour of tears but was incredibly cathartic. She wrote me back in a sweet card filled with lots of love and reassurance, including the statement that our dad would be proud of me if he were still alive. Needless to say, reading the card started another downpour of tears. Come to think of it, I've been a bit of an emotional mess lately. I cried at dinner the other night when I was out with a whole bunch of girls for a girls (and honorary girls aka gay guys) night out. That was partly due to PMS and maybe the intense estrogen in the room. But mostly it was because, as ridiculous as it sounds, twenty years later I am just now dealing with my dad's death and the impact that it has had on my life.
After twenty years, I'm finally allowing myself to give in and grieve and mourn and in fact feel sorry for myself that I didn't have the pleasure of having my dad around while I was growing up. I had never let myself feel this before, particularly not the feeling sorry for myself bit. It's like it wasn't allowed. After he died, we didn't talk about him for years. Once or twice my sister lamented what a different person she would have been if we'd never left the UK and if dad was still alive. I think I admonished her then for being ungrateful for all mum was doing for us and failing to appreciate what we had. It's hard to believe how cold I was, how hard on both of us. We weren't allowed to grieve. Other people had it worse, we were lucky. Feeling sorry for yourself is pathetic, look at how strong others are!
It's twenty years later and I've moved back into the midst of a place where his spirit roams, like a legend, in the minds of people around, the neighbours, his friends and colleagues, my mother who finally after all these years talks about him, tells me stories. And every object, the very places that he carved out of the land, the stones he collected and placed in the garden, his handicrafts every where. So many things he touched, so many memories we shared here. I've never had the time before to immerse myself in them since he died, to trace them on my own with him in my mind. To miss him properly like I do now, wishing I could talk to him, share my thought with him, have his advice and support and encouragment. Feel like I had some right to it.
I realized tonight, when writing to my sister, how much the fact that we never let ourselves mourn right after it happened has impacted me my whole life. My mum was always so strong and just carried on, putting on foot after the other and carrying us along. I always felt taken care of and loved, grateful and sorrowful at the same time. We all had an obligation to each other to be brave and not give in to the temptation to cry. While our mother battled on to support us and care for us, we two girls separated from all our familiar comforts, and all the people we knew, bottled up our feelings, internalized this great gaping void of lonliness, these persistent feelings of weakness and inferiority, and morphed into quite different little souls.
I cried secretly and guiltily for years, but never acknowledged what my sadness was about. Felt lonely without being able to describe it. Later in life I sought out men who had lost parents too, people who could share my sadness, whose sadness I could share and immerse myself in, so that I could feel less guilty for the floods of tears, for the weakness I saw in myself. I felt alienated from my mother too, unable to emulate her harsh stoicism, desperate for affection and love myself. Her strength became my weakness.
I feel like I finally understand. I'm finally both accepting the pain, sorrow, and the great aching hole in my heart that my dad left when he died. And by accepting it and accepting my right to feel it, even now, twenty years later, I'm setting myself free to be whole again. I'm not entirely there yet but I feel like I'm on my way, it's not far. I am building up a whole self, one that is happy, one that accepts sadness in a healthy way, without feeling guilty and ashamed of it, but without wallowing in it either.
It's funny how things work out. Like forces in the universe pushing and pulling you in different directions. I needed to come back here and face up to the past, embrace it, cry over it, hold it close in order to be able to leave it behind.
Blah blah blah
First off, an apology to anyone who might have gotten used to my prolific posting on here for a while. It seems I go through phases with this thing, much like everything else in my life. I am the least consistent person I think I've ever met.
I haven't been writing on here because I've been so busy writing stuff for school. I had two papers due kind of back to back, a research proposal and another 7000 word intense paper on the subject of how "political economies of scale" guide our understanding of the "production of knowledge in relation to economic development." Yeah I had no idea what that meant either. So I basically locked myself in my room for a week and read until my brain would no longer absorb and then spent several very late nights writing like mad. We'll see how I do, eek.
I need to be working on the next things now, but I'm taking a little break. Hmm... ok, what to share that might be interesting...
On the social front all of a sudden there seems to be lots going on, which makes me happy. Been out on the town quite a bit since handing in the big paper, and this week looks to be the same. Going to see some kind of awful 'nu-folk' band on Wednesday after a talk by one of my favorite geographers which I'm looking forward to. Then it's Latin night on Thursday so I may go to that as well...
On the love front, sparks have been flying between me and that guy at work that I mentioned I danced with all evening at the work xmas party. I decided though that I didn't want to take it anywhere, in spite of my strong desire for someone to cuddle. He's a super nice guy, smart, funny, athletic (volunteer coast guard, surfer), likes music and dancing, has a great group of friends, all kinds of well-adjusted. He's also just the kind of real sweetheart that I would end up destroying through my indecision, lack of ability to commit and general incomprehensible-ness. The bottom line is, I'm pretty sure I'm not ready for another relationship at the moment, so it just wouldn't work out. Fortunately I just quit my job (again) so I won't be seeing him as much anymore. It was being together in close proximity all the time and all these chats and little flirty things that were starting to push it over the edge. Over the weekend I thought long and hard about it, and then I texted 'summerlove' and we ended up having a great chat on msn and I decided I needed to hold out for a connection like that and not get involved with anyone else.
I was really inspired by a couple of Kat's posts (will link to them here momentarily) and wanted to write a proper peice/response, but honestly I'm a bit drained from all the academic writing and the best I can do right now is an update on my life, for anyone who might care. I'm thinking I should set up an RSS feed here so that the two or three interested parties can get my posts emailed to them when they come rather than having to check back. I will figure that out soon. Ok, bye for now!
I haven't been writing on here because I've been so busy writing stuff for school. I had two papers due kind of back to back, a research proposal and another 7000 word intense paper on the subject of how "political economies of scale" guide our understanding of the "production of knowledge in relation to economic development." Yeah I had no idea what that meant either. So I basically locked myself in my room for a week and read until my brain would no longer absorb and then spent several very late nights writing like mad. We'll see how I do, eek.
I need to be working on the next things now, but I'm taking a little break. Hmm... ok, what to share that might be interesting...
On the social front all of a sudden there seems to be lots going on, which makes me happy. Been out on the town quite a bit since handing in the big paper, and this week looks to be the same. Going to see some kind of awful 'nu-folk' band on Wednesday after a talk by one of my favorite geographers which I'm looking forward to. Then it's Latin night on Thursday so I may go to that as well...
On the love front, sparks have been flying between me and that guy at work that I mentioned I danced with all evening at the work xmas party. I decided though that I didn't want to take it anywhere, in spite of my strong desire for someone to cuddle. He's a super nice guy, smart, funny, athletic (volunteer coast guard, surfer), likes music and dancing, has a great group of friends, all kinds of well-adjusted. He's also just the kind of real sweetheart that I would end up destroying through my indecision, lack of ability to commit and general incomprehensible-ness. The bottom line is, I'm pretty sure I'm not ready for another relationship at the moment, so it just wouldn't work out. Fortunately I just quit my job (again) so I won't be seeing him as much anymore. It was being together in close proximity all the time and all these chats and little flirty things that were starting to push it over the edge. Over the weekend I thought long and hard about it, and then I texted 'summerlove' and we ended up having a great chat on msn and I decided I needed to hold out for a connection like that and not get involved with anyone else.
I was really inspired by a couple of Kat's posts (will link to them here momentarily) and wanted to write a proper peice/response, but honestly I'm a bit drained from all the academic writing and the best I can do right now is an update on my life, for anyone who might care. I'm thinking I should set up an RSS feed here so that the two or three interested parties can get my posts emailed to them when they come rather than having to check back. I will figure that out soon. Ok, bye for now!
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Saturday, January 05, 2008
heeeeeeey chaaaaaaarlie
It's almost 2am. I just watched these two videos. I kinda feel like i just had an acid trip. Not that i would actually know what that would feel like. But I think I do now.
I actually went to the gym today and worked out for a proper hour. I thought I was gonna have a heart attack on the cross-trainer thing. Not really, but ya know. It kinda felt like I was dying.
In a good way.
Then I worked for five hours. Then i came home at 10:30ish and decided i was gonna get some work done on this bloody paper. I think I wrote/edited about 3 paragraphs before I ended up blog-browsing and then youtube wandering until now. So much for LESS TIME ON THE INTERNET. Urgh. Ah well, at least I went to the gym.
Tomorrow I am going to the library and I am getting this freaking paper done. Jeebus.
I actually went to the gym today and worked out for a proper hour. I thought I was gonna have a heart attack on the cross-trainer thing. Not really, but ya know. It kinda felt like I was dying.
In a good way.
Then I worked for five hours. Then i came home at 10:30ish and decided i was gonna get some work done on this bloody paper. I think I wrote/edited about 3 paragraphs before I ended up blog-browsing and then youtube wandering until now. So much for LESS TIME ON THE INTERNET. Urgh. Ah well, at least I went to the gym.
Tomorrow I am going to the library and I am getting this freaking paper done. Jeebus.
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