SuspendedAnimation

Hope they have DSL in the underworld ...

Hello. I'm in Hell! What do you think of that!

But I may get a reprieve or a pass out, tomorrow, when I get my test result, and I don't know precisely when that will be, but I will update the blog as soon as possible when I find out what is going on, since my pelvis is mum on the subject. Suffice to say that if anyone was led to believe by my little dharma lesson that I have been anything less than a literally bloody mess today, then the more fool you I say.

Here's the problem with me and dharma: a dharma path really requires practice. By which I mean, a sitting practice. And by this I mean, you know, meditation. And in fact theoretically my study is also a meditation room, in that I have a cushion, and an extremely simple shrine consisting of a very small plain table with a pretty green mirrored and embroidered Indian cloth on it and a teensie (2.5" high?) Buddha statue, just a focal point, not a fetish. Also, a supply of some nice, subtle incense, which I use kind of as a timer.

Theoretically. Only I think it's been over a year since I actually sat.

The reason that the sitting practice is crucial is that it's exercise. Being personally devoted to dharma, in the sense of believing that this wisdom really will potentially help wake you up, will ease your suffering and the suffering of others you touch, and learning about this wisdom from others, and just reflecting on it as things arise--these are all to the good. But to expect that you're really going to get a lot of awakening only from that--it's kind of like thinking that if you just read every existent book about fencing, you're bound to get a spot on the Olympic fencing team. (Is there an Olympic fencing team? I am sooo not going to fact-check that.) Meditation strengthens the mind, and eventually from that strength what you think you know, becomes what you deeply know, and from there I think the dharma actually works in your life. My mind has been practically on bed rest lately. I am very, very close to making a commitment to resume my practice.

When entirely flummoxed--make lists.

Five Booby Prizes For a Failed Pregnancy

1. No worry that first-trimester nausea will ruin your summer vacation


2. Time on fertility disabled list (three months) gives opportunity to lose weight and strengthen abdominal and pelvic floor muscles


3. Licence to consume all pregnancy-proscribed foods and drugs (ignore contradiction to 2. Shut up.)


4. Indefinite free pass for all obnoxious behavior, passed off as 'mourning' by tolerant friends until they decide that you're just an asshole


5. Two words: extra venopuncture!

Four Trivial Things to Regret About Failed Pregnancy

1. Lost opportunity to sample Old Navy summer '04 maternity collections


2. No longer eligible for handicapped parking privileges on campus this coming fall


3. Brain malfunctions cannot be passed off as hormonal


4. No chance of synchronous pregnancy with excruciatingly cool person

Four Obnoxious Metaphors For A Blastocyte That Doesn't Respond to First Dose Of Methotrexate

1. Idiot Savant


2. Post-Apocalyptic Cockroach


3. Party Crasher


4. Leech

Official announcements

I am lame at being mean.
This should not be interpreted as an admission that, contrary to my assertions in previous posts, I really am a nice person. It's just that my evil is of (by all accounts and the consensus of commenters) of an insipid and pH-neutral variety. All right. I can live with that.

Since documenting Hortense as a shallow, disloyal, petty lush, I've thought of half a dozen worse things I could have related about her. Just as a little postscript: what possessed me to omit describing her habit of making pruriently-flavored comments to my supervisor in my presence? (Not that it would have been any more appropriate in my absence--but at least it would have spared me.) And as a final garnish on the topic, when I was out with the Jellybean yesterday (treating her to a pizza lunch in a fancy trattoria as reward for patiently breathing in toxic fumes for an hour at the salon so that I could look bee-yoo-teous as usual), I ran into a whole tableful of my ex-colleagues, including the same Hortense--seated directly in my line of sight--and she pointedly ignored me when the Jellybean and I came over to greet them all. Which is consistent, but it was freakish to witness nonetheless. If it hadn't been for the generally high level of dysfunction distributed over the table, it would have been noticed.

I did a bad, bad thing.
Or I'm not doing a good, good thing. Or at least I'm a negligent blog hostess. It has not escaped my notice that I have been blogging much, much less of late--from upwards of five times a week, to barely scraping in one or two a week. Furthermore I've been a dilatory follower of, and commenter on, other blogs in which I take a keen personal interest. When did this whole blogging enterprise become yet another opportunity for me to stuff some guilt into my life? All of these activities are ostensibly not only optional, but done for my own satisfaction. Furthermore I think the entries are better when I keep my hand in and, as one of my favorite bloggers might put it, frequently stir the pot. Isn't it odd that this reduction in blogtivity can be traced quite precisely to when I left my job? I thought I'd have great everlasting gobs more time!

Anyway, I'm resolving to do better. So feel free to drive up my stats by dropping by often, and I'll try to oblige by maintaining you in the off-dry, semi-witty banter to which you are by now accustomed.

Feel the Unlove

Since I haven't been publishing this site for very long, it's probably the work of less than an hour to read through my archives chronologically (or, if you're a Memento fan, reverse-chronologically). And if you decide to do so, you will notice a pattern: every once in a while I write about my torrid affair with self-loathing.

That's probably not really the most accurate word for it. Abjection? Do you prefer abjection? It has a nice ring to it. I almost typed "a nice wring to it", and that would have been an amusing parapraxis. Just throttle that bad boy, abjection!

2. The condition or estate of one cast down; abasement, humiliation, degradation; downcastness, abjectness, low estate. --OED

That sounds about right ...

I wish I had some exquisite story to relate about my abasement, humiliation, degradation, and let's not forget my low estate, which I really ought to raise one of these days, but I keep procrastinating and the grass is knee-high, and the price of topsoil has meanwhile gone through the roof. The bitter truth is that there is never a really tangible reason for why I feel like ... Oh! Wait! Shins lyrics from Know Your Onion! say this really well:

When every other part of life seemed locked behind shutters
I knew what worthless dregs we've always been.

Well, I'm sorry--I didn't mean to implicate you, too--especially after you've been so nice, coming by and all.

As I was saying (this is a really scattered post, eh?), there's no reason other than samsara: the Great Big Go-Round you continue to experience if you are making your happiness contingent on ever-changing circumstances.

Even circumstances aren't particularly conspiring against me, but my mind is. I'm feeling horrrrribly isolated, probably the result of leaving my job. Poor Jill! She was able to leave her job, just to make life a little easier on her as she finishes her degree under conditions 100% of her own choosing, and now has nothing to do but help take care of her child and her home, and attend to a ridiculously easy (though boring as shit) summer course! O weep for the pitiable soul as she withers in her comfortable home, lacking no middle-class comfort that her husband's income can buy! Extend the warm rays of compassion to her as she whines and mopes about how nobody loves her, not really, well they wouldn't if they really knew what a sniveling worm she was!

Well--now you do.

The gorilla post

I could just refer you to this post, or this one, or this one ... but what the hell, let's see how many variations on a theme I can cook up here. I may have to rename the blog "Why not just take a moment while surfing the web to check out whether jilbur is feeling clinically depressed right now." But it would be hard to fit all of that on a banner.

Here's how it happened:

In the course of an otherwise unremarkable day, about mid-morning I go on break with Jo, and over the usual hot bev and carb session we're talking about some light things, some heavy. For no reason that I can pinpoint, something about 2 inches below the diaphragm starts tightening on the way back from the break ... slight paranoia--was I getting on Jo's nerves? Am I a dork? On the way back to the airless, fluorescent, dank dungeon that is our work-home, I glance in the mirror at a work sink, and much to my surprise I saw this:

So naturally I emailed Jo as soon as I got back to my desk.
"What's the deal with the gorilla head?"
"Oh, that? Don't make such a big deal about it. I barely noticed it. You're cool."
"Was I being especially annoying at break?"
"No, not at all, sweetie. What's wrong?"
"I dunno ... I think this gorilla head thing is freaking me out."
"Well, if there's anything I can do ..."
"Naw, don't worry about it." But the weird gut doesn't go away.

Well, I continued with my work day, and overall I wasn't doing too badly. I don't talk about my job much--In fact, most bloggers don't talk about their work much. Maybe because most people's work is staggeringly, brain-meltingly boring. I doubt that mine is any exception. Do you know what librarians do? This one spends most of each day describing items that are generally in an advanced state of decay (flakey, moldy, dissolving into dust upon being gently touched--sound like anyone you know?), in an excruciatingly specific and detailed way. One benefit of this job, though, is that I get to sneeze a lot. The extensive metal shelving beside my workstation reverberates with the sound of my sneezing, so I have an opportunity to engage in a sort of sneezy exhibitionism.

Soon it was time for lunch--and as it happens, this is my last work-lunch with Jo while we share the same workplace, because she's transferring far, far away down the street from me, and the level of neurosis in this office environment is such that she will be missed to my marrow. So we celebrate with lunch in a fancy al fresco kind of place where we each drink a very large glass of excellent white wine.

So we're heading back to work, mighty late and feelin' fine, and as we're strolling past the storefronts of the Charming Shoppes of the Sweet Elite Olde Towne in which we work, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in one of the storefronts. Aieeeee!

"Do you see that?"I squeak to Jo. Her level gaze encompasses compassion and unconditional love. "Ah, man, you'll be fine. No worries. What do you expect, with all the chaos going down? Don't beat yourself up over it. You know we all love you just the way you are." "But it's a gorilla!" "Gorilla schmorilla."

Well, we get back to work, and the rest of the day continues as the previous hours had. Still had the cold lump of oatmeal in the gut, but functioning. Nothing else extraordinary happens. No one seems to be at all put out by my transformation.

That night, after avoiding mirrors for hours, I take a peek in my bathroom mirror.

*sigh* Hey there. Make yourself at home. I'll put bananas on the shopping list.

Each day, we're given many opportunities to open up or shut down. The most precious opportunity presents itself when we come to the place where we think we can't handle whatever is happening. ... There's no way we can manipulate the situation to make ourselves come out looking good. ... Basically, life has just nailed us. It's as if you just looked at yourself in the mirror, and you saw a gorilla. The mirror's there; it's showing you, and what you see looks bad. You try to angle the mirror so you will look a little better, but no matter what you do, you still look like a gorilla. That's being nailed by life, the place where you have no choice except to embrace what's happening or push it away." --Pema Chödrön, "This Very Moment is the Perfect Teacher"

You know, I'm not overweeningly ambitious. If I can eventually get back to something like this ...

I guess I'll call it a day.

Wooohoooo! Mr Melancholy and his Family Fun Hellpark!

Welcome to our demusement park! Remember--You must be feeling like this to ride.

Slingshot Tilt-A-Whirl
You're fine! You're desperate! You're perky (or as someone put it, "franty")! You feel as if 11 packs' worth of chewing gum is lodged in your gut! You'll be skidding all over the map with this action-packed projectile tour through wildly disparate affective states.

Raging RiverRide of Denial
It really ain't just in Egypt! Didn't I just tell you on the Tilt-A-Whirl that I'm fine? Am I not acting fine? Why are you all up in my snatch--just leave me sitting here with a catatonic look on my face, okay? Well, maybe I wouldn't be snapping at you and looking like I'm about to cry and wandering around like a motherless child if you just listened to me when I'll tell you, I'm fine.

Haunted House of Anomies Past
Calm down--it's all made of wax. That clinically depressed woman with the newborn wandering around Marshalls eyeballing all the other moms with the "Would you be my friend?" expression is a fake ghost. So is the preschooler mom sitting in the bad, boring coffeehouse for the Parents' Association meeting, feeling like a freak. And the one trying to make conversations with the other moms at the playground, while her 2-yr. old wails "Mommy play with me! no talk to grownups!"
This is not a house of mirrors.

Bleak House

A few years and one house ago, I bought this book. I guess it's clear that anyone who would buy such a thing ... needs it. I loathe housework. I'm not so very good at it, either, apparently.
The author is a kook--afflicted with the same heritable insanity, perhaps, as this guy. My favorite quotation:
The truth is that we are all made in the image of God. God is not a God of disorder. [...] When God first put Adam in the world, He told him to have dominion. We need to take that position in our homes--we are going to have dominion. I believe it is God's will that we take control of that portion of our lives which is our responsibility and rule it competently and well.

But I read the book anyway. It may be pertinent (who knows?) that at the time I was probably clinically depressed. Putting aside just for a moment the author's lunacy, the book was helpful in some ways. And for a short time, we had this kind of thrillingly orderly and tidy house. In my opinion, the effort expended was something like, ummm, uh, Herculean. I would get pissed off at SuperHusbandMan because he wouldn't wipe the counters down when he cleaned the kitchen, or put away tiny little things that were marring the vast horizontal expanse that I wanted to continue, undisturbed, to the horizon. In short--it didn't last.

Now the tome which has been gathering dust (heh heh) for I think about 4 years, has been plucked from the shelf again. I have finally finished the incomplete course from last fall, after about 12 weeks of procrastination. Is it possible for me to have dominion?

Maybe it's just a pusillanimous heart that inspires my wiseass self to mock the conqueror's tone, the imperialist spirit of the scary quote above. What's wrong with taking responsibility? I don't want to imply that Felton's books don't have any redeeming qualities. For one thing, this 'manual' helped me realize that there's an element of self-esteem in tidiness (that sounds a little freaky but bear with me here). For one thing, I observe that I absolutely kill myself trying to whip my home into something bordering upon presentable--heck, even hospitable, attractive, pleasant--when I have anyone visiting; so why wouldn't I do that for myself? Clearly, I enjoy the place more when it's looking good. It's my home, dammit--I ought to derive more pleasure from it than my guests.

It's. Just. That. I. Find. Housework. Demoralizing. And. Exhausting.

Fall of 2003, when a lethal combo of 2 graduate courses, full-time work, and mothering a kindergartener was rendering my life into something resembling the various musty and multicolored crumbs festooning the backseat of our car, I could inspire the pity of outsiders. Oh. How ridiculously overloaded your life is. No wonder your household is a sight to strike terror in the hearts of women and men, and you won't let even your friends open your refrigerator door. Now, those days are behind me--no more classes until I quit my job; and anyway, it's possible that we'll have to put our house on the market in a matter of a month or two, if SuperHusbandMan gets the job offer, so it's time pull out the stops and turn it into the Pottery Barn palace I know it could be.

I haven't got any better resource to turn to than this madwoman, so, off I go. Will report periodically on results.

Whatever you meet unexpectedly, join with meditation

Sometimes, you just don't get the day you thought you were going to get.

Well, more precisely, always, you don't get the day you thought you were going to get. I'd be more than happy to offer a didactic example. Sometime last fall, a tornado passed overhead while I was at the tire dealership having my car serviced first thing in the morning. We live in the mid-atlantic, so this sort of thing makes a great story. I had the satisfying opportunity of calling my boss from my cell phone to say, "I might be a bit later than I thought I would be, as I am at this moment in the middle of a tornado." When I got to work, I was full of stories about how this tornado had passed right over the building, with debris flying by, and the enormous bay door of the service area blown off, and all that. I emailed my dear husband, a weather enthusiast, and had exchanged a couple of emails with him (he, disbelievingly, 'are you sure it was a tornado? I didn't see any report of a tornado') ...

and that was going to be my story, that day. My storyline was all set up. Only, in the full flush of how, unexpectedly, my day had been transformed into 'the day I was caught in a tornado,' my husband phoned me at work to tell me that, finally, his number had come up. On this, the fourth or so round of layoffs in his company that year, his name was one of the ones on the list.
...
So, today I spent all the little odd moments of the day wondering what my first really substantial blog entry was going to be about. And that, of course, was going to be the storyline of the blog entry. But it seems that my dear husband has a sneaky way of running off with the agenda, because yet again I got a phone call at work. Finally we've heard from one of the 6 universities where he's applied for a faculty position, and they're inviting him for an interview. After an indeterminate number of gnawingly uncertain weeks waiting to hear something--please, anything!--that could give me a focus for my anxiety about not knowing where we'll be next fall, we now have one possibility beginning to unfold.

I'm quite aware that, in fact, really nothing in our situation has substantially changed. but frick that. I'm all about flying to pieces, right now. I'm all about wanting to quit my job, this very instant, and spend every waking moment--and most of the ones where I by all sane reasoning oughta be asleep, as well--putting my life in order. Such a shallow phrase: 'putting my life in order.' That would certainly be a switch. I doubt I've had an orderly moment in my entire dust-bunnified life.