In my dream my little brother seemed like such a grown up. It was like I was re-meeting him. He seemed taller and bigger than I remember him in real life, and blonder. And cleaner.
We were in a filthy filthy filthy house, not dissimilar from ones I'd seen him live in with other artist college boy roommates. There was an air of apprehension permeating, though, there was a sense of violence. I remember feeling like I needed to be close to Brendan. Did I ever say his name in the dream? I don't remember. I can't remember if I wanted to be close to him so I could protect him or if I could feel safe.
I remember body parts somewhere in the dream; in the street? That seems violent enough that it would have tipped me off to it being a dream, but it didn't.
I remember him being very tall, and very blonde, and wanting to be near to him and feeling very anxious when i couldn't see him, and either wanting to feel safe or to protect.
I woke up and I felt shocked after a few breaths when I realized I had been dreaming, and angry that I couldn't tell if it was really Brendan in my dream because it was so far out there.
In the moments before really being able to be awake, when I was suspended in that undefinable world, I thought that I wanted to believe in something, I wanted to BELIEVE in a faith, in a god, that could assure me that one thing or another was real, that something could comfort me and assure me or dissuade me from the uncertainty that that I have a connection with Brendan beyond the cells in my brain that have memory and that grieve so powerfully; powerful to the point of creating illusion. Grasping for that weaker option, for that easy out, made me more angry than the uncertainty.
This never gets easier. We are just accustomed to this pain now. I have trained myself how to breathe and too keep breathing when the wind gets knocked out unexpectedly. I have to remind myself, at times, just how strong I am. After waking up from a dream where there are body parts in the street and all I want to do is be close to my brother, I have to remind myself how much of a survivor I am.
One week from today Brendan would have turned 28.
Showing posts with label brother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label brother. Show all posts
13 March 2012
26 June 2011
Blueprint
I remember this pain. I remember this sadness, that permeates everything, that makes the sun less warm and the smiles confusing.
There are no cliches for murder trials. There was no blueprint of what-this-might-look-like when it's done. There aren't books to tell me how to get the crime scene images out of my head. There isn't an obituary in the newspaper that lets everyone know it's our tragedy, our time to grieve. We have to figure out this new pain, this re-run of our hearts shattering, this opened raw wound on our own. There isn't weeks to take off of work, there isn't a black armband to wear for a year, no black veil to let me people know to be nicer to us, to be quiet, to please be gentle.
I remember all the crying, the desperation, the unwillingness to accept the new normal and inability to comprehend the depth of the absence, the profundity of my loss. Laughter is tainted, everything feels heavy. I don't know if it should be better doing this now because it's familiar, but it feels worse, it seems so unfair to have to go through this again. I've said they can't kill him again, and they can't, but I am questioning my own spirits survival.
There are no cliches for murder trials. There was no blueprint of what-this-might-look-like when it's done. There aren't books to tell me how to get the crime scene images out of my head. There isn't an obituary in the newspaper that lets everyone know it's our tragedy, our time to grieve. We have to figure out this new pain, this re-run of our hearts shattering, this opened raw wound on our own. There isn't weeks to take off of work, there isn't a black armband to wear for a year, no black veil to let me people know to be nicer to us, to be quiet, to please be gentle.
I remember all the crying, the desperation, the unwillingness to accept the new normal and inability to comprehend the depth of the absence, the profundity of my loss. Laughter is tainted, everything feels heavy. I don't know if it should be better doing this now because it's familiar, but it feels worse, it seems so unfair to have to go through this again. I've said they can't kill him again, and they can't, but I am questioning my own spirits survival.
04 January 2011
Morgue
Sometimes still, after all this time, it is too much. I sit and can't understand what happened, how he could really be gone, and how I am never going to hear his voice again.
To make it real I inevitably think of seeing his body, which is horrible. Horrible that it was a body, that it was my brother's body, and that my mind goes there because that was the most real moment of his death. It was a nightmare out of a poem that we stood in the morgue on Father's Day and looked at his face hovering in front of us on the closed captioned TV screen they now use for next-of-kin to identify bodies. We knew cerebrally he was in there but before the screen flipped on I know our souls were screaming for it to be a mistake and to see some other young mans face appear. It was Brendan, unmistakeably B with his messy curly blonde hair. He had a bruise on his cheek, his mouth was slightly open, as were his eyes. He didn't look asleep, as processed bodies almost do, he just looked dead. You couldn't see the bright beautiful blue-gray color of his eyes, but they weren't cloudy or creepy. They just weren't anything.
I had to eventually ask the old sad man who was working alone in the morgue on Father's Day to please turn it off. I was crying and I said something about yes it was him and what were we supposed to do and please turn it off, and I remember feeling like I had to because I was the only one not sitting on the couch in the room and I could feel my family crumbling behind me. Later in the car my mom said she though Brendan looked like a picture of Jesus on the screen, because his hair formed this gold halo around his face. He did. He'd laugh at me for saying that.
To make it real I inevitably think of seeing his body, which is horrible. Horrible that it was a body, that it was my brother's body, and that my mind goes there because that was the most real moment of his death. It was a nightmare out of a poem that we stood in the morgue on Father's Day and looked at his face hovering in front of us on the closed captioned TV screen they now use for next-of-kin to identify bodies. We knew cerebrally he was in there but before the screen flipped on I know our souls were screaming for it to be a mistake and to see some other young mans face appear. It was Brendan, unmistakeably B with his messy curly blonde hair. He had a bruise on his cheek, his mouth was slightly open, as were his eyes. He didn't look asleep, as processed bodies almost do, he just looked dead. You couldn't see the bright beautiful blue-gray color of his eyes, but they weren't cloudy or creepy. They just weren't anything.
I had to eventually ask the old sad man who was working alone in the morgue on Father's Day to please turn it off. I was crying and I said something about yes it was him and what were we supposed to do and please turn it off, and I remember feeling like I had to because I was the only one not sitting on the couch in the room and I could feel my family crumbling behind me. Later in the car my mom said she though Brendan looked like a picture of Jesus on the screen, because his hair formed this gold halo around his face. He did. He'd laugh at me for saying that.
07 December 2010
I don't know what my first memory of my sister is, but I like to tell people it's the time when I was still a baby and she, a toddler, was holding me on her lap, and she leaned over as if to kiss me but instead bit my ear. (She describes it now as if she meant to show me, her baby sister, affection, but was overcome by a wave of jealousy that somehow manifested into an ear bite.)
Megan is two years and twenty days older than me; she was born on my parents 10th wedding anniversary and I like to think many of her personality traits reflect the manner in which she was conceived: planned, organized, calculated, logical... (She will think I'm teasing there, but really, they are traits that I wish I carried more strongly. Or at all.) My growth spurt and puberty hit not long after hers did (I think because I was always trying to catch up and play with the big girls, maybe my body took a cue) and I used to make people guess who was older, and giggle with glee when they guessed me. In reflection, I shouldn't have been surprised many years later when after a couple bottles of wine my sister mentioned casually how much she hated me in high school.
Megan didn't go to college right away; instead, she went to South America and worked with orphans, learned Spanish, ate lots of street food, and got her first tattoo. Then she went to college, which included a year in Africa as well as a return trip to Bolivia to research her undergraduate honors thesis, and graduated about six months before I did. The years between then and now included two in the Peace Corps, three getting two masters degrees from an ivy-covered school in the Northeast, and lots of travel.
If Megan and I hadn't had Brendan to balance us out I think we may have actually hurt each other in middle or high school. He was often a little shit, but he was our little shit, and we loved him more than anything, and that was often the one thing we knew we had in common. The morning that Brendan died, and I called my sister after hanging up with my parents, knowing she already knew and dreading what we had to do, I remember holding on to the phone and listening to her sob and telling her I loved her over and over. We knew from that moment that the only way to survive was together. It still is, and we are, and we do.
Last Friday at 5 a.m. my parents and I put Megan on a bus to Chicago to get on a plane headed to Indonesia. She'll be there a few months certainly, most likely a year or two, or more. She's in Jakarta now, I've gotten a text and a couple emails, and all is well. I miss her terribly.
Megan is two years and twenty days older than me; she was born on my parents 10th wedding anniversary and I like to think many of her personality traits reflect the manner in which she was conceived: planned, organized, calculated, logical... (She will think I'm teasing there, but really, they are traits that I wish I carried more strongly. Or at all.) My growth spurt and puberty hit not long after hers did (I think because I was always trying to catch up and play with the big girls, maybe my body took a cue) and I used to make people guess who was older, and giggle with glee when they guessed me. In reflection, I shouldn't have been surprised many years later when after a couple bottles of wine my sister mentioned casually how much she hated me in high school.
Megan didn't go to college right away; instead, she went to South America and worked with orphans, learned Spanish, ate lots of street food, and got her first tattoo. Then she went to college, which included a year in Africa as well as a return trip to Bolivia to research her undergraduate honors thesis, and graduated about six months before I did. The years between then and now included two in the Peace Corps, three getting two masters degrees from an ivy-covered school in the Northeast, and lots of travel.
If Megan and I hadn't had Brendan to balance us out I think we may have actually hurt each other in middle or high school. He was often a little shit, but he was our little shit, and we loved him more than anything, and that was often the one thing we knew we had in common. The morning that Brendan died, and I called my sister after hanging up with my parents, knowing she already knew and dreading what we had to do, I remember holding on to the phone and listening to her sob and telling her I loved her over and over. We knew from that moment that the only way to survive was together. It still is, and we are, and we do.
Last Friday at 5 a.m. my parents and I put Megan on a bus to Chicago to get on a plane headed to Indonesia. She'll be there a few months certainly, most likely a year or two, or more. She's in Jakarta now, I've gotten a text and a couple emails, and all is well. I miss her terribly.
07 July 2010
June Was a Big Month...
Which should explain why I only published three blogs over the month.
I was my best friends maid of honor and shared a magical weekend with her family, mine, and a group of some of the most wonderful people on the planet. I loved taking charge and knowing what needed to be done without her having to tell me, I loved feeling like I was really helping her marry this man, whom I love too; I loved being around all the people, I loved the ceremony of it all, I loved the kids, I loved staying up until sunrise every night with her brother who became a man and a father in the eight years since I had last seen him, I loved all the music and drinking and food, all the quotations that only those of us who were around all weekend really get ("that's what she said"), I loved my sister being such a help to me and everyone and my parents being able to celebrate with us, I loved being around my oldest and best friends for days straight, and I love being included in everything this family that invited me in 20 years ago did.
I spent about 36 hours in Virginia for a wedding that most of this country would consider invalid. The 'best-of-times-worst-of-times' year of my life was survived because of a small group of friends, a few of whom have survived in this group we call the Jager Girls. (Yes, that Jager.) That year in Fayetteville we drank a lot, we fought a little, we never got arrested, and together we survived what was for most of us the most difficult year of our lives. They are the ones that didn't ask but just showed up after Brendan died; they cooked and brought liquor (Jager, duh) and cigarettes, distraction, tissues, hugs, and so much love.
Around that time two years ago Mel was about to leave the job she had held and excelled at for most of her adult life because they said she couldn't love Dawn and still do her job. (They are proof, by the way, that that rule is bullshit.) Dawn and Mel live together in Virginia now and as of early June are happily (and legally, thanks to the District of Columbia) married. I got to be there to celebrate, help with a garter, drink a lot, cry a little, laugh more than anything, and love some of my favorite women (and some of their children) in the world.
My sister spent the last three years, arguably the most difficult of her life, working on a masters degree from a very important and very expensive school. She'd argue the ivy is bullshit but damn if it doesn't have a nice ring to it. She finished in May. In June (the day I came back to Madison from VA) we had a nice little party for her. Our sister from another mister gave us the theme, my mom and I brainstormed the map as guestbook, I found Dora napkins, and we had enough sparkling goodness that Megan had a full glass the whole night. It was lovely.
The day after Megan's party was the day before the 2-year mark of our brother dying. This year it rained, and there were fewer people, but it was just about perfect. There was printing and drinking and crying and laughing. Brendan was remembered, and toasted more than once. This sting is so much less now than it was even a year ago, yet the absence is larger than ever. It's been that much longer since I heard him laugh, since I heard him say "HI sister...". I have some new shirts, and Solve has many more fans. He'll never be gone, but my life will never be whole.
A few days later, I came back to California. I wasn't as happy as I should have been to come home, but seeing Aunt and Uncle and the dogs (who helped Uncle pick me up from the bus stop, along with a cold beer hidden under an ice pack) made it warm and loving.
Now I am moving forward. Spending lots of time on things that feel good and spending enough time on things that I have to. I am making decisions and sticking to them. I am practicing trusting myself. I am feeling loved. I am feeling hope. I am so excited for what's to come. I am 10 days in to being 29, and it's going to be a great year.
I was my best friends maid of honor and shared a magical weekend with her family, mine, and a group of some of the most wonderful people on the planet. I loved taking charge and knowing what needed to be done without her having to tell me, I loved feeling like I was really helping her marry this man, whom I love too; I loved being around all the people, I loved the ceremony of it all, I loved the kids, I loved staying up until sunrise every night with her brother who became a man and a father in the eight years since I had last seen him, I loved all the music and drinking and food, all the quotations that only those of us who were around all weekend really get ("that's what she said"), I loved my sister being such a help to me and everyone and my parents being able to celebrate with us, I loved being around my oldest and best friends for days straight, and I love being included in everything this family that invited me in 20 years ago did.
I spent about 36 hours in Virginia for a wedding that most of this country would consider invalid. The 'best-of-times-worst-of-times' year of my life was survived because of a small group of friends, a few of whom have survived in this group we call the Jager Girls. (Yes, that Jager.) That year in Fayetteville we drank a lot, we fought a little, we never got arrested, and together we survived what was for most of us the most difficult year of our lives. They are the ones that didn't ask but just showed up after Brendan died; they cooked and brought liquor (Jager, duh) and cigarettes, distraction, tissues, hugs, and so much love.
Around that time two years ago Mel was about to leave the job she had held and excelled at for most of her adult life because they said she couldn't love Dawn and still do her job. (They are proof, by the way, that that rule is bullshit.) Dawn and Mel live together in Virginia now and as of early June are happily (and legally, thanks to the District of Columbia) married. I got to be there to celebrate, help with a garter, drink a lot, cry a little, laugh more than anything, and love some of my favorite women (and some of their children) in the world.
My sister spent the last three years, arguably the most difficult of her life, working on a masters degree from a very important and very expensive school. She'd argue the ivy is bullshit but damn if it doesn't have a nice ring to it. She finished in May. In June (the day I came back to Madison from VA) we had a nice little party for her. Our sister from another mister gave us the theme, my mom and I brainstormed the map as guestbook, I found Dora napkins, and we had enough sparkling goodness that Megan had a full glass the whole night. It was lovely.
The day after Megan's party was the day before the 2-year mark of our brother dying. This year it rained, and there were fewer people, but it was just about perfect. There was printing and drinking and crying and laughing. Brendan was remembered, and toasted more than once. This sting is so much less now than it was even a year ago, yet the absence is larger than ever. It's been that much longer since I heard him laugh, since I heard him say "HI sister...". I have some new shirts, and Solve has many more fans. He'll never be gone, but my life will never be whole.
A few days later, I came back to California. I wasn't as happy as I should have been to come home, but seeing Aunt and Uncle and the dogs (who helped Uncle pick me up from the bus stop, along with a cold beer hidden under an ice pack) made it warm and loving.
Now I am moving forward. Spending lots of time on things that feel good and spending enough time on things that I have to. I am making decisions and sticking to them. I am practicing trusting myself. I am feeling loved. I am feeling hope. I am so excited for what's to come. I am 10 days in to being 29, and it's going to be a great year.
05 July 2010
Blowing In The Wind
On July 4th weekend two years ago I arrived back in California with my boyfriend Greg, who had packed me into his truck to carry me home after spending three weeks in Madison following my brother's death.
Today I had lunch on the porch at the farm, with my aunt and uncle and two friends, and I was staring absentmindedly at some laundry I had hanging to dry when I focused on a shirt that was just screen printed on the day we commemorated the two year mark of Brendan's death. It's a print of his face from a photo where he had aviator shades and a cigar in his mouth that was shaped into a cocky smile. He would have been laughing when the photo was taken.
The shirt was inside out blowing in the breeze. Two years ago I was in the cab of a Toyota Tacoma curled up on the passenger seat wearing my brother's sweatshirt that still smelled so much like him. I remember being hot and crying into it a lot and wanting to sleep and erase reality. Today was a gloriously beautiful day, hot and sunny but breezy; we drank some tumblers of cold dry rose with lunch, and I watched a shirt with my brothers face on it blow in the wind.
Today my brothers sweatshirt hangs from the back of a chair in my room and smells mostly like dust, but if you bury your face deep enough there's still a faint whiff of Brendan. I guess I should wash it when I pack to leave here in a few months, as it's hard to justify not washing it for even this long. I'll probably hang it on the porch to dry, as clothes dry so quickly in the dry heat we get here in the summer.
Today I had lunch on the porch at the farm, with my aunt and uncle and two friends, and I was staring absentmindedly at some laundry I had hanging to dry when I focused on a shirt that was just screen printed on the day we commemorated the two year mark of Brendan's death. It's a print of his face from a photo where he had aviator shades and a cigar in his mouth that was shaped into a cocky smile. He would have been laughing when the photo was taken.
The shirt was inside out blowing in the breeze. Two years ago I was in the cab of a Toyota Tacoma curled up on the passenger seat wearing my brother's sweatshirt that still smelled so much like him. I remember being hot and crying into it a lot and wanting to sleep and erase reality. Today was a gloriously beautiful day, hot and sunny but breezy; we drank some tumblers of cold dry rose with lunch, and I watched a shirt with my brothers face on it blow in the wind.
Today my brothers sweatshirt hangs from the back of a chair in my room and smells mostly like dust, but if you bury your face deep enough there's still a faint whiff of Brendan. I guess I should wash it when I pack to leave here in a few months, as it's hard to justify not washing it for even this long. I'll probably hang it on the porch to dry, as clothes dry so quickly in the dry heat we get here in the summer.
18 May 2010
08 May 2010
C&R left early this morning for Mexico...
In the car on the way to the airport I told them about something that happened last night that was horrible and terrifying. It was resolved, but such a scare left me in a bit of a haze.
A few hours later I wrote them this email:
"So,
I have the most anxious dreams last night that consist of being late to a choir concert, to my best friends wedding, not having the dress altered, not having make up on, being locked out of the hotel room and when I finally get in finding they have taped over everything in the shower to fix something.
As I'm standing in the kitchen this morning looking at the oil and vinegar next to the stove (irl) I remember that part of the dream was also that you had turned around and come home from the airport because they wouldn't let you check everything that you wanted to. (In the dream Colleen you were defiantly telling Ridge I'll make that same stuff without all this, you won't even know the difference.)
I'm so glad you weren't actually back home. Not because I (and the pups of course) don't want you here but because you two of all the folks in the world deserve some sun on your bods and smiles on your faces - 2 things I think you'll be able to find on that Mexican beach.
So. After one of the weirdest (horrible) nights, feeling such darkness and desperation, albeit briefly, last night, then with those dreams, then when I finally decide to pay attention to things around me and can handle whatever might be in the roll on the coffee table, then I read your note on it Colleen, and then I cry because I don't know what else to do. Then I unroll Brendan's painting, and it is, and it's different then I remember, but more beautiful then I could ever imagine.
I don't know what planets are shifting or passing or setting, but in a completely weird moment I am so grateful for these dogs, so grateful to be here at this place, and so grateful for you. (In no particular order.)
I love you,
Ole!
Caitlin"
A few hours later I wrote them this email:
"So,
I have the most anxious dreams last night that consist of being late to a choir concert, to my best friends wedding, not having the dress altered, not having make up on, being locked out of the hotel room and when I finally get in finding they have taped over everything in the shower to fix something.
As I'm standing in the kitchen this morning looking at the oil and vinegar next to the stove (irl) I remember that part of the dream was also that you had turned around and come home from the airport because they wouldn't let you check everything that you wanted to. (In the dream Colleen you were defiantly telling Ridge I'll make that same stuff without all this, you won't even know the difference.)
I'm so glad you weren't actually back home. Not because I (and the pups of course) don't want you here but because you two of all the folks in the world deserve some sun on your bods and smiles on your faces - 2 things I think you'll be able to find on that Mexican beach.
So. After one of the weirdest (horrible) nights, feeling such darkness and desperation, albeit briefly, last night, then with those dreams, then when I finally decide to pay attention to things around me and can handle whatever might be in the roll on the coffee table, then I read your note on it Colleen, and then I cry because I don't know what else to do. Then I unroll Brendan's painting, and it is, and it's different then I remember, but more beautiful then I could ever imagine.
I don't know what planets are shifting or passing or setting, but in a completely weird moment I am so grateful for these dogs, so grateful to be here at this place, and so grateful for you. (In no particular order.)
I love you,
Ole!
Caitlin"
20 April 2010
Stroll
Take a walk with me...
I go to clean out my inbox every once in a while but there are emails that I cannot archive much less delete - emails from my brother Brendan. They remain in my inbox, the most recent one almost two years old.
I notice tags and stickers, graffiti, street art, on public property everywhere now, some ugly and poorly thought out, others well planned and well executed, real works of art. I know that the former are probably gang tags, and the latter most likely have nothing to do with turf. I know this because since Brendan died his friends, many of whom put art on the streets, have done what they can to educate me about the difference.
Sometimes in the morning I eat oatmeal. Brendan went through a phase when he was small where he would eat instant oatmeal for breakfast everyday, and after one St. Patrick's Day when Dad added green food dye to his bowl, I don't think he ever ate an oatmeal colored bowl again.
Brendan was born on the 20th day of a month. He died on the 14th day of a different month. Every month has a 20th and a 14th. Every so often, a Friday falls on the 13th day of a month. The last full day Brendan was alive was a Friday the 13th.
I spend a couple days a week standing behind a table at a farmers market and I get to see lots of people, lots of families walk by. There are some boys that have very blonde curly hair. That's what Brendan looked like when he was a child.
Sometimes in a conversation it is relevant for someone to bring up their siblings. Many other women have younger brothers. Brendan was my younger brother.
Most of us every day will deal with font and typeface. Most of us don't know the difference. I found out from his graphic design colleagues that people using those terms interchangeably was a huge pet peeve for Brendan. I also found out that he "didn't do bullet points" in presentations. I use bullet points. Since he died, I question whether I really need to.
Do not hesitate in conversation with me out of fear of reminding me of Brendan or that he died - I would rather you say something that could sound insensitive and have it in front of us than see your pause and the flicker of worry behind your eyes. I need no reminder; my brother, and his absence, are always present. Better you share in it with me than keep yourself at arms length from my honesty - it is much warmer here walking closer to me.
I go to clean out my inbox every once in a while but there are emails that I cannot archive much less delete - emails from my brother Brendan. They remain in my inbox, the most recent one almost two years old.
I notice tags and stickers, graffiti, street art, on public property everywhere now, some ugly and poorly thought out, others well planned and well executed, real works of art. I know that the former are probably gang tags, and the latter most likely have nothing to do with turf. I know this because since Brendan died his friends, many of whom put art on the streets, have done what they can to educate me about the difference.
Sometimes in the morning I eat oatmeal. Brendan went through a phase when he was small where he would eat instant oatmeal for breakfast everyday, and after one St. Patrick's Day when Dad added green food dye to his bowl, I don't think he ever ate an oatmeal colored bowl again.
Brendan was born on the 20th day of a month. He died on the 14th day of a different month. Every month has a 20th and a 14th. Every so often, a Friday falls on the 13th day of a month. The last full day Brendan was alive was a Friday the 13th.
I spend a couple days a week standing behind a table at a farmers market and I get to see lots of people, lots of families walk by. There are some boys that have very blonde curly hair. That's what Brendan looked like when he was a child.
Sometimes in a conversation it is relevant for someone to bring up their siblings. Many other women have younger brothers. Brendan was my younger brother.
Most of us every day will deal with font and typeface. Most of us don't know the difference. I found out from his graphic design colleagues that people using those terms interchangeably was a huge pet peeve for Brendan. I also found out that he "didn't do bullet points" in presentations. I use bullet points. Since he died, I question whether I really need to.
Do not hesitate in conversation with me out of fear of reminding me of Brendan or that he died - I would rather you say something that could sound insensitive and have it in front of us than see your pause and the flicker of worry behind your eyes. I need no reminder; my brother, and his absence, are always present. Better you share in it with me than keep yourself at arms length from my honesty - it is much warmer here walking closer to me.
09 April 2010
27 March 2010
Favorite Things
Since I have been really preoccupied lately, I haven't been writing much and what I have posted seemed (at least to one) "a bit morose".
In the spirit of spring, and to assuage any concerns about my state of mind, here is a list of things that make me really happy, particularly so in the last week:
*Note: This is by no means a complete list, but rather a highlight of current goodies.
- Della Fattoria, aka the best bakery in the world, and all the folks associated with it. I get to be next to Mr. Edmund, aka Poppa, one day of the week at a farmers market, and it is a true joy.
- Sitting by the fireplace long enough to feel the cold leave my perpetually chilly fingers, feet, and rear end.
- Bourbon. Maker's Mark and I have been really tight lately, but my cousin Phil and adopted cousin Ritchie are going to introduce me to Bulleit next week. (I think that was the one anyway.)
- The fact that I have a disproportionately smart and creative family (see above and below), and that we number so many that I keep being pleasantly surprised by "discovering" wonderful things they do. This week? Baby cousin Katy's visit to the farm, conspiring and shopping, watching her sew with Colleen, and talking about her blog. (Baby girl's got chops, y'all.)
- Red Wine. My uncle always tells the story when somebody asks "Red or White?" of Sophia Loren responding to that question by saying (with the delivery I imagine only Sophia Loren can do), "Darling... Wine Is Red."
- My sister. One day we'll live close enough to walk to the bar on the corner and get drunk on a Tuesday for no good reason.
- I live in one of the best areas of the world for really good food. Be it something straight from the market, or at one of the multitudes of amazing restaurants within a couple hours of me, I love to eat. One of the worlds few pure pleasures. Love it.
- Playing with puppies. Our puppies, cousin puppies, or friend puppies; spending hours running around trails or after dinner rolling on the living room floor in a pile of puppy pulchritude; all of these are good for the soul.
- Being able to stop what I'm doing, turn my face up, and feel the warmth of the sun.
This week has reminded more than usual that it's not really the paths we take that matter as much as who accompanies us on the journey. I sent some messages to people last weekend on the occasion of Brendan's birthday to tell them how much they mattered to me, and the responses I received were beautiful and touching and a little overwhelming. What right have I to feel lonely with such incredible people in my life?
I am so grateful.
In the spirit of spring, and to assuage any concerns about my state of mind, here is a list of things that make me really happy, particularly so in the last week:
*Note: This is by no means a complete list, but rather a highlight of current goodies.
- Della Fattoria, aka the best bakery in the world, and all the folks associated with it. I get to be next to Mr. Edmund, aka Poppa, one day of the week at a farmers market, and it is a true joy.
- Sitting by the fireplace long enough to feel the cold leave my perpetually chilly fingers, feet, and rear end.
- Bourbon. Maker's Mark and I have been really tight lately, but my cousin Phil and adopted cousin Ritchie are going to introduce me to Bulleit next week. (I think that was the one anyway.)
- The fact that I have a disproportionately smart and creative family (see above and below), and that we number so many that I keep being pleasantly surprised by "discovering" wonderful things they do. This week? Baby cousin Katy's visit to the farm, conspiring and shopping, watching her sew with Colleen, and talking about her blog. (Baby girl's got chops, y'all.)
- Red Wine. My uncle always tells the story when somebody asks "Red or White?" of Sophia Loren responding to that question by saying (with the delivery I imagine only Sophia Loren can do), "Darling... Wine Is Red."
- My sister. One day we'll live close enough to walk to the bar on the corner and get drunk on a Tuesday for no good reason.
- I live in one of the best areas of the world for really good food. Be it something straight from the market, or at one of the multitudes of amazing restaurants within a couple hours of me, I love to eat. One of the worlds few pure pleasures. Love it.
- Playing with puppies. Our puppies, cousin puppies, or friend puppies; spending hours running around trails or after dinner rolling on the living room floor in a pile of puppy pulchritude; all of these are good for the soul.
- Being able to stop what I'm doing, turn my face up, and feel the warmth of the sun.
This week has reminded more than usual that it's not really the paths we take that matter as much as who accompanies us on the journey. I sent some messages to people last weekend on the occasion of Brendan's birthday to tell them how much they mattered to me, and the responses I received were beautiful and touching and a little overwhelming. What right have I to feel lonely with such incredible people in my life?
I am so grateful.
30 October 2009
SadNaughtySexy
I have over 1300 emails in my inbox right now.
Ever since Gmail advertised to me that I'd never have to delete a message again, I almost haven't.
While the sheer number is a little astounding, the breadth of emails have proven quite an interesting exercise in self-awareness and examination over the last few weeks as I've been trying to whittle the total down. I go to the oldest emails on the last page of the inbox and apply the handy little label and archive most of them. Some of them I do delete, and it is quite satisfying to delete a bunch at once.
This system has hiccups though when I run across ones that I can't decide how to label, or ones I don't want out of the in-box, from some compulsive fear I can't really specify. Namely ones from Brendan - how on earth can I archive those? They are proof of his existence, mostly brief and sporadic and often funny thoughts passed through the internet that are infinitely more poignant because of his absense.
The other inner conflict I have regarding my filing arises when I come across messages that I don't really want to label and archive because it's not deleting - which would signify a decision not to delete, which means I've made the decision to keep. In particular messages between old loves/lovers and me. (I forgot how filthy and creative I can be when someone makes me feel comfortable enough to take the filter off.) I've almost convinced myself that keeping these messages is more a way of preserving my past rather than remembering what inspired such straightforward expressions of desire and love.
Ever since Gmail advertised to me that I'd never have to delete a message again, I almost haven't.
While the sheer number is a little astounding, the breadth of emails have proven quite an interesting exercise in self-awareness and examination over the last few weeks as I've been trying to whittle the total down. I go to the oldest emails on the last page of the inbox and apply the handy little label and archive most of them. Some of them I do delete, and it is quite satisfying to delete a bunch at once.
This system has hiccups though when I run across ones that I can't decide how to label, or ones I don't want out of the in-box, from some compulsive fear I can't really specify. Namely ones from Brendan - how on earth can I archive those? They are proof of his existence, mostly brief and sporadic and often funny thoughts passed through the internet that are infinitely more poignant because of his absense.
The other inner conflict I have regarding my filing arises when I come across messages that I don't really want to label and archive because it's not deleting - which would signify a decision not to delete, which means I've made the decision to keep. In particular messages between old loves/lovers and me. (I forgot how filthy and creative I can be when someone makes me feel comfortable enough to take the filter off.) I've almost convinced myself that keeping these messages is more a way of preserving my past rather than remembering what inspired such straightforward expressions of desire and love.
08 October 2009
Hang On Little Tomato
This morning I was in a great mood. Slept in, read a book, went for coffee, and when I came back to the farm to start my work day I searched through a box to look for an Emmylou Harris CD I thought I had in there, because I saw her perform last night and was inspired to dig it out.
Instead I found, almost immediately, a cd my bother Brendan made for me. I'm pretty sure it was Christmas either 2006 or 2007, because the color theme was as such.
It is a thin cd case with a red square insert and CAITLIN written out on the top in a slightly darker red. Inside the blank cd has my name scrawled on it what I'm pretty sure was a well used sharpie in Brendan's distinctive handwriting. On the inside face of the cover sheet is the track list, as follows...
1 Think I'm in Love - Beck
2 Hang on Little Tomato - Pink Martini
3 Over and Over Again - Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
4 Wildcat - Ratatat
5 Ciagarettes and Chocolate Milk - Rufus Wainwright
6 Dois Rios - Skank
7 Nausea - Beck
8 Hail to Whatever You Found in the Sunlight - Rilo Kiley
9 Amando Mio - Pink Martini
10 The Skin of my Country Yellow Teeth - Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
11 Loud Pipes - Ratatat
12 Electrik Boogie - Ursula 1000
13 She Crys Your Name - Beth Orton
14 Crips - Ratatat
15 Le Plus - Carla Bruni
16 Soldier Jane - Beck
17 Superrob - Tosca
I didn't know what to do but really wanted to put the cd back in the box and not to have found it, and not to have to feel the way about it that I do because he's dead. I think I gasped (in my head I did anyway) and then started crying and sat down where I was, between my bed and my dresser. I was left there for a while wondering if anything I could wipe my face off was within arms reach and if I was going to dry up and be able to have a good day, or if this one was going to change it. Luckily it was the former, and eventually I climbed up off the floor and put the cd down on some pads of paper I had also pulled out, wiped off my face and went to work.
At point this afternoon I opened up my personal email along with my work one, and I saw I had a message from Corporate Perks. I'm not totally sure what Corporate Perks is, but Brendan signed Megan and me up for it when he officially got his job in the spring of '08 and I think it gives you discounts on a bunch of stuff. I remember him emailing us to let us know it wasn't spam, it was legitimately from him and valid. I never got around to doing anything with it beyond not deleting the emails. I get them every once in a while still, but I usually open them briefly so they're not marked as 'new' but don't want to read them and can't delete them.
Dear Caitlin,
Brendan Scanlon has invited you to have guest access to Corporate Perks, an exclusive benefit for Corporate Perks employees. Your guest account expires in 30 days unless you register, and so please act now. Corporate Perks can help you save money on everything from groceries, cell phone bills, movie tickets, clothes and accessories to electronics, vacations and personal care items.
To access your guest account simply login to Corporate Perks by using the information below:
This thankfully didn't reduce me to a soggy mess but rather made me smile as my gut ached. "Oh Corporate Perks...", I thought, "If only you knew who you were talking to about expiring..."
It was a good day today. It was full of reminders that things Brendan touched are limited - finite. But I got off the floor and and smiled more than a few times so it was a good day.
09 September 2009
Aftershocks
I have spent a couple of months not thinking about my brothers absence.
My group grief counseling ended some months ago and I have not sought out more. The group sessions were a mostly pleasant and vaguely helpful exercise, but I don't know if I could name any lasting effects. (Other than everyone confirming that it must be much harder to lose a brother to murder than an elderly parent to age.)
There are shows happening in Madison, a tribute downtown by other artists and a show in our high school of his own work. Other things are being planned, his dear friends are continuing their work in spreading his legacy with the website, and so it continues.
It's hard to explain what I mean when I say I haven't spent a lot of time thinking about Brendan or his death in the last couple of months... I am always thinking about him in the sense that he, or his memory, is always present somewhere in my mind, just as I don't technically forget that he's dead. But it's almost like I've taken a vacation from grief, and frankly it really hasn't done me any good.
I've found myself thinking of his murderer as I fall asleep, not just at night but when I try and take naps. It's the subject that is most painful and difficult to face so when my guards and consciousness are most relaxed it confronts my mind. I wake up feeling unsettled and tense, like something is wrong and you can't figure out what it is nor can you fix it. In this case I do know what it is, but I certainly can't fix it.
The sadness and anger hits me harder now, and more suddenly. I feel like the best way to describe my state is functionally devastated. More than a year has passed since Brendan died so if there was one, the official period of mourning would be over. I talk to his friends less and less, we've passed all the holidays and birthdays at least once, and it's just not new anymore for most people...
To us, it's Always new.
I wish I could describe it more accurately but I don't know how.
The pain, while duller, is just as painful. The absence is just as large if not larger. The things that remind us how much we miss him are more numerous the more days that pass. As I accept how much I want my own children one day I grow equally angry they won't get to know their Uncle, and that he won't get to know my children. It is devastatingly unfair that he won't get to have children and that I won't get to know my nieces or nephews.
So while my brother is always on my mind, I'm not thinking moment to moment about what I'm missing. These days rather than a steady absence, I will remember suddenly, at the deepest part of a deep breath, that Brendan's not coming back; rather than a constant numbness it's short and brutal.
I am exhausted.
My group grief counseling ended some months ago and I have not sought out more. The group sessions were a mostly pleasant and vaguely helpful exercise, but I don't know if I could name any lasting effects. (Other than everyone confirming that it must be much harder to lose a brother to murder than an elderly parent to age.)
There are shows happening in Madison, a tribute downtown by other artists and a show in our high school of his own work. Other things are being planned, his dear friends are continuing their work in spreading his legacy with the website, and so it continues.
It's hard to explain what I mean when I say I haven't spent a lot of time thinking about Brendan or his death in the last couple of months... I am always thinking about him in the sense that he, or his memory, is always present somewhere in my mind, just as I don't technically forget that he's dead. But it's almost like I've taken a vacation from grief, and frankly it really hasn't done me any good.
I've found myself thinking of his murderer as I fall asleep, not just at night but when I try and take naps. It's the subject that is most painful and difficult to face so when my guards and consciousness are most relaxed it confronts my mind. I wake up feeling unsettled and tense, like something is wrong and you can't figure out what it is nor can you fix it. In this case I do know what it is, but I certainly can't fix it.
The sadness and anger hits me harder now, and more suddenly. I feel like the best way to describe my state is functionally devastated. More than a year has passed since Brendan died so if there was one, the official period of mourning would be over. I talk to his friends less and less, we've passed all the holidays and birthdays at least once, and it's just not new anymore for most people...
To us, it's Always new.
I wish I could describe it more accurately but I don't know how.
The pain, while duller, is just as painful. The absence is just as large if not larger. The things that remind us how much we miss him are more numerous the more days that pass. As I accept how much I want my own children one day I grow equally angry they won't get to know their Uncle, and that he won't get to know my children. It is devastatingly unfair that he won't get to have children and that I won't get to know my nieces or nephews.
So while my brother is always on my mind, I'm not thinking moment to moment about what I'm missing. These days rather than a steady absence, I will remember suddenly, at the deepest part of a deep breath, that Brendan's not coming back; rather than a constant numbness it's short and brutal.
I am exhausted.
02 September 2009
All The Way Home and Back Again
A lot of things have been happening and I feel like I am having a hard time catching up...
Ted Kennedy died last week. One of my first memories of my father crying had something to do with Robert Kennedy. There are countless Kennedy books on my parents bookshelves, and I've stood at JFK's Eternal Flame with my father more than a couple times to pay our respects and shed our tears for could have been. I didn't read the articles the day Edward Kennedy died nor have I watched the President's eulogy, nor did I spring for the $10 Newsweek Special Commemorative Edition... it's all happened to fast and I want to give it due time and reflect properly but it's been a week and it's getting ahead of me.
I was in Wisconsin for almost 80 hours last weekend, Madison for most of it. I walked through my high school for the first time in almost a decade and was impressed with how clean it was yet how it had only seemed to change in insignificant surface ways. I walked through with my father to see an art show of my brothers work that he did as himself and as Solve, curated in by my mother and cousin in the gallery in the high school that he almost didn't graduate from.
It was unseasonably cold but sunny and beautiful all weekend. Friday night there was an unexpected thunderstorm that I got to feel start standing on my parents front porch with a glass of whiskey in my hand and the arms of a man around me.
I found out one of my oldest and best friends is having a baby, I cried when she told me and when I saw a photo of the sonogram.
I went to the farmers market with my sister and we bought coffee, cheese curds, tomatoes, and pastries full of carbohydrates because she said that was the only thing she really wanted.
I saw my cousin get married on Saturday with almost my whole family and it was a fabulous party, complete with a wardrobe malfunction (mine), a drunk best man that quoted Macbeth and called me a bitch in the same breath (which he was quite proud of), a speech from the father-of-the-groom that brought everyone to tears, first in laughter then not, and a bad ass first dance.
Most of us drank a little too much but as always we had not nearly enough time together, and it made me want to do it all over again next weekend, and not just for the generous open bar. My family is just... well, they are amazing. Everyone thinks so. And now they've started placing bets on who will be the next cousin to get hitched.
Sunday I went to a movie. It was totally unplanned and not a movie I would have seen by myself but I was invited and I went and it actually felt like a proper and wonderful date. It was a perfect Sunday afternoon and then we met my family to eat food from the festival that happens every year in the park across the street from my parents house.
My sister slept off the fever she'd had for a day and a half by Monday morning, and we bought coffee and t-shirts from the closest coffee shop to my parents house, then walked the mile and a half downtown to see the show in honor of my brother downtown. My Dad bought us some of my favorite sandwiches on the way to my airport.
Before I knew it I was back in California. I had a scratchy throat and I cried to my sister on my two hour drive from the airport to home about not knowing what I wanted to do with my life. Then I got home and my aunt and uncle were happy to see me and I felt like I was home, and the dogs wagged their tails.
Yesterday I worked for around ten hours and today my throat's still scratchy. I have not yet blocked off time to read about Ted Kennedy, although I did manage to unpack my over packed carry-on suitcase.
Ted Kennedy died last week. One of my first memories of my father crying had something to do with Robert Kennedy. There are countless Kennedy books on my parents bookshelves, and I've stood at JFK's Eternal Flame with my father more than a couple times to pay our respects and shed our tears for could have been. I didn't read the articles the day Edward Kennedy died nor have I watched the President's eulogy, nor did I spring for the $10 Newsweek Special Commemorative Edition... it's all happened to fast and I want to give it due time and reflect properly but it's been a week and it's getting ahead of me.
I was in Wisconsin for almost 80 hours last weekend, Madison for most of it. I walked through my high school for the first time in almost a decade and was impressed with how clean it was yet how it had only seemed to change in insignificant surface ways. I walked through with my father to see an art show of my brothers work that he did as himself and as Solve, curated in by my mother and cousin in the gallery in the high school that he almost didn't graduate from.
It was unseasonably cold but sunny and beautiful all weekend. Friday night there was an unexpected thunderstorm that I got to feel start standing on my parents front porch with a glass of whiskey in my hand and the arms of a man around me.
I found out one of my oldest and best friends is having a baby, I cried when she told me and when I saw a photo of the sonogram.
I went to the farmers market with my sister and we bought coffee, cheese curds, tomatoes, and pastries full of carbohydrates because she said that was the only thing she really wanted.
I saw my cousin get married on Saturday with almost my whole family and it was a fabulous party, complete with a wardrobe malfunction (mine), a drunk best man that quoted Macbeth and called me a bitch in the same breath (which he was quite proud of), a speech from the father-of-the-groom that brought everyone to tears, first in laughter then not, and a bad ass first dance.
Most of us drank a little too much but as always we had not nearly enough time together, and it made me want to do it all over again next weekend, and not just for the generous open bar. My family is just... well, they are amazing. Everyone thinks so. And now they've started placing bets on who will be the next cousin to get hitched.
Sunday I went to a movie. It was totally unplanned and not a movie I would have seen by myself but I was invited and I went and it actually felt like a proper and wonderful date. It was a perfect Sunday afternoon and then we met my family to eat food from the festival that happens every year in the park across the street from my parents house.
My sister slept off the fever she'd had for a day and a half by Monday morning, and we bought coffee and t-shirts from the closest coffee shop to my parents house, then walked the mile and a half downtown to see the show in honor of my brother downtown. My Dad bought us some of my favorite sandwiches on the way to my airport.
Before I knew it I was back in California. I had a scratchy throat and I cried to my sister on my two hour drive from the airport to home about not knowing what I wanted to do with my life. Then I got home and my aunt and uncle were happy to see me and I felt like I was home, and the dogs wagged their tails.
Yesterday I worked for around ten hours and today my throat's still scratchy. I have not yet blocked off time to read about Ted Kennedy, although I did manage to unpack my over packed carry-on suitcase.
13 August 2009
Small Kindnesses
On Monday June 16th of last year I woke up early in my parents house in Madison so my cousin Danny and I could drive back to Chicago to attend a public court appearance of the young man who stands accused of murdering my brother. Although I had just arrived in Madison from Chicago the night before, we thought it was important that one of us attend and I felt I was best suited for the trip. Danny volunteered to come with me and drive and in hindsight I can't imagine how I would have done it without him.
We arrived at the courthouse by 9am and waited in line to get through security. I recognized the security guard from the day before when we had stopped by the courthouse thinking we were supposed to be there for an appearance that day. He seemed a little surprised to see me again and I remember thinking he wanted to help me somehow but was in serious security mode and so simply made sure we knew where we needed to be. I got to the front of the line to find out I couldn't bring in my ipod, which I had at the bottom of my purse. I went back out to the car and came back through again the whole time wondering how soon I would have to step into the courtroom, what it would look like, and what would happen.
At it turned out we had more than an hour to wait before anything happened but didn't want to leave and risk missing things. So we went to the little mini cafeteria/food stand right there on the first floor and got coffee, and Danny got something to eat. I picked up a copy of the Chicago Tribune and remember that there was going to be an article about Brendan's murder in it. We had set ourselves up in a corner by a window and were using the window ledge as a counter to put our things down and I stood and held the paper with both hands.
At this time it for some reason there were a fair amount of people passing by in the large open hallway. As I was standing reading this article about Solve the street artist being murdered, with a quote from my parents that my sister and I had helped prepare the night before, tears started coming down my face. I started to weep and as I got to the end of the article I set the paper down and put my face in my hands and cried. Danny put his arms around me and when I looked up and caught my breath there was a woman who had noticed and was walking towards us. For a moment the thought crossed my mind that she might suggest we go somewhere else, but she didn't. She was much shorter than me, a black woman with short hair, a soft face, large motherly breasts, and a gentle way.
She came up to me, took my arms, looked up at my face and told me that although she didn't know what had happened to me, she felt that God had something good for me. She said she was sorry that something bad had happened to me, but God had something good for my life. Then she hugged me and held on to me for a minute patting and cooing, looked in my face and squeezed my arms again and I think (I hope) I thanked her and she walked away. She said it with such peaceful conviction that I actually believed her.
I don't care why she was in the courthouse that day and I don't care if I was one of many weeping people she told about God's love. I don't care that we probably don't believe in the same God. I just care that she hugged me and I'm glad she believed that better things were coming my way. She didn't make me feel better, nothing could have, but she did make me feel love, and that's everything.
We arrived at the courthouse by 9am and waited in line to get through security. I recognized the security guard from the day before when we had stopped by the courthouse thinking we were supposed to be there for an appearance that day. He seemed a little surprised to see me again and I remember thinking he wanted to help me somehow but was in serious security mode and so simply made sure we knew where we needed to be. I got to the front of the line to find out I couldn't bring in my ipod, which I had at the bottom of my purse. I went back out to the car and came back through again the whole time wondering how soon I would have to step into the courtroom, what it would look like, and what would happen.
At it turned out we had more than an hour to wait before anything happened but didn't want to leave and risk missing things. So we went to the little mini cafeteria/food stand right there on the first floor and got coffee, and Danny got something to eat. I picked up a copy of the Chicago Tribune and remember that there was going to be an article about Brendan's murder in it. We had set ourselves up in a corner by a window and were using the window ledge as a counter to put our things down and I stood and held the paper with both hands.
At this time it for some reason there were a fair amount of people passing by in the large open hallway. As I was standing reading this article about Solve the street artist being murdered, with a quote from my parents that my sister and I had helped prepare the night before, tears started coming down my face. I started to weep and as I got to the end of the article I set the paper down and put my face in my hands and cried. Danny put his arms around me and when I looked up and caught my breath there was a woman who had noticed and was walking towards us. For a moment the thought crossed my mind that she might suggest we go somewhere else, but she didn't. She was much shorter than me, a black woman with short hair, a soft face, large motherly breasts, and a gentle way.
She came up to me, took my arms, looked up at my face and told me that although she didn't know what had happened to me, she felt that God had something good for me. She said she was sorry that something bad had happened to me, but God had something good for my life. Then she hugged me and held on to me for a minute patting and cooing, looked in my face and squeezed my arms again and I think (I hope) I thanked her and she walked away. She said it with such peaceful conviction that I actually believed her.
I don't care why she was in the courthouse that day and I don't care if I was one of many weeping people she told about God's love. I don't care that we probably don't believe in the same God. I just care that she hugged me and I'm glad she believed that better things were coming my way. She didn't make me feel better, nothing could have, but she did make me feel love, and that's everything.
31 July 2009
Proust & Me
I am copying dear Tommy's idea and answering Vanity Fair's Proust Questionnaire. I have thought of my own answers every time I've read it in the magazine anyway so I thought they might be interesting to actually write down.
1. What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Being with my favorite people, with good food, wine, and either a fire or sunshine. Being whole.
2. What is your greatest fear?
Being 90 and wishing I would have done more.
3. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
My girlish insecurities (that can be paralyzing.)
4. What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Dishonesty.
5. Which living person do you most admire?
My mother.
6. What is your greatest extravagance?
Plane tickets. One day I hope it will be shoes.
7. What is your current state of mind?
Frustrated and disappointed, but hopeful. (Tomorrow it will already be different.)
8. What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Prudence.
9. On what occasion do you lie?
I don't. I'm incapable of it. Oops that's a lie - once in a while when I say I was going to call someone when I really wasn't. Only if it's insignificant to both me and them.
10. What do you most dislike about your appearance?
Bad skin.
11. Which living person do you most despise?
Kurt Tobolski.
12. What is the quality you most like in a man?
Confidence.
13. What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Loyalty.
14. Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
"Right?!?" and ".. so ..." as in "I so agree" or "I so wouldn't do that."
15. What or who is the greatest love of your life?
So far I'm not ready to put this in print.
16. When and where were you happiest?
April - June 2007, mostly in Fayetteville, NC.
17. Which talent would you most like to have?
The ability to move on from emotional stress after I've paid it enough attention.
18. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
I wouldn't get my heart tangled up so easily.
19. What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Being able to feel joy over the last year.
20. If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be?
A well cared for cat.
21. Where would you most like to live?
I would most like to want to live wherever I am living at the moment.
Madison, Granada, Galway, San Francisco.
22. What is your most treasured possession?
A CD my brother made me for Christmas one year.
23. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Visiting a morgue to identify a loved body.
24. What is your favorite occupation?
Teacher. (Note - this does not mean I want it to be my occupation.)
25. What is your most marked characteristic?
My height combined with love of high heels and ability to talk to anyone in the room no matter how much they have to tilt up.
26. What do you most value in your friends?
Loyalty, honesty, and patience.
27. Who are your favorite writers?
Pablo Neruda, Dr. Suess, William Shakespeare
28. Who is your hero of fiction?
Wesley.
29. Which historical figure do you most identify with?
I don't identify personally with any historical figure.
30. Who are your heroes in real life?
My mother and my sister.
31. What are your favorite names?
Ava, John, Stella, Leah, Michael, Raul, Eve, Caitlin, Megan, Brendan
32. What is it that you most dislike?
Feeling left behind.
33. What is your greatest regret?
Not keeping better track of the big pastel drawing my brother did for me five years ago.
34. How would you like to die?
Happily, peacefully, quickly but not suddenly, and almost last.
35. What is your motto?
"I'm just livin' the dream..."
1. What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Being with my favorite people, with good food, wine, and either a fire or sunshine. Being whole.
2. What is your greatest fear?
Being 90 and wishing I would have done more.
3. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
My girlish insecurities (that can be paralyzing.)
4. What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Dishonesty.
5. Which living person do you most admire?
My mother.
6. What is your greatest extravagance?
Plane tickets. One day I hope it will be shoes.
7. What is your current state of mind?
Frustrated and disappointed, but hopeful. (Tomorrow it will already be different.)
8. What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Prudence.
9. On what occasion do you lie?
I don't. I'm incapable of it. Oops that's a lie - once in a while when I say I was going to call someone when I really wasn't. Only if it's insignificant to both me and them.
10. What do you most dislike about your appearance?
Bad skin.
11. Which living person do you most despise?
Kurt Tobolski.
12. What is the quality you most like in a man?
Confidence.
13. What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Loyalty.
14. Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
"Right?!?" and ".. so ..." as in "I so agree" or "I so wouldn't do that."
15. What or who is the greatest love of your life?
So far I'm not ready to put this in print.
16. When and where were you happiest?
April - June 2007, mostly in Fayetteville, NC.
17. Which talent would you most like to have?
The ability to move on from emotional stress after I've paid it enough attention.
18. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
I wouldn't get my heart tangled up so easily.
19. What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Being able to feel joy over the last year.
20. If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be?
A well cared for cat.
21. Where would you most like to live?
I would most like to want to live wherever I am living at the moment.
Madison, Granada, Galway, San Francisco.
22. What is your most treasured possession?
A CD my brother made me for Christmas one year.
23. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Visiting a morgue to identify a loved body.
24. What is your favorite occupation?
Teacher. (Note - this does not mean I want it to be my occupation.)
25. What is your most marked characteristic?
My height combined with love of high heels and ability to talk to anyone in the room no matter how much they have to tilt up.
26. What do you most value in your friends?
Loyalty, honesty, and patience.
27. Who are your favorite writers?
Pablo Neruda, Dr. Suess, William Shakespeare
28. Who is your hero of fiction?
Wesley.
29. Which historical figure do you most identify with?
I don't identify personally with any historical figure.
30. Who are your heroes in real life?
My mother and my sister.
31. What are your favorite names?
Ava, John, Stella, Leah, Michael, Raul, Eve, Caitlin, Megan, Brendan
32. What is it that you most dislike?
Feeling left behind.
33. What is your greatest regret?
Not keeping better track of the big pastel drawing my brother did for me five years ago.
34. How would you like to die?
Happily, peacefully, quickly but not suddenly, and almost last.
35. What is your motto?
"I'm just livin' the dream..."
26 July 2009
I get to be in Madison for a quick weekend at the end of next month and I am so happy I get to see this...
http://77square.com/arts/visualarts/story_459399
http://77square.com/arts/visualarts/story_459399
15 July 2009
Solve at Overture Center
"Friends of SOLVE Converge on Overture Center"
Oh, Brendan. What would you say if you knew work in honor of You is now hanging in the Overture Center? Surely you'd laugh. And get up all over State Street.
You'd probably scoff at the fact that the reporter got the date of your death wrong, but then again, you'd think it's ridiculous you have one of those already.
Today is our Dad's birthday. For his birthday, they're going to the Overture Center.
Oh, Brendan. What would you say if you knew work in honor of You is now hanging in the Overture Center? Surely you'd laugh. And get up all over State Street.
You'd probably scoff at the fact that the reporter got the date of your death wrong, but then again, you'd think it's ridiculous you have one of those already.
Today is our Dad's birthday. For his birthday, they're going to the Overture Center.
05 July 2009
Dreamsharer/Go With It
I love telling people about my dreams.
I especially love telling people when they played a role it the dream. In fact, I wish I knew more about me showing up in other peoples dreams. I can't remember the last time that anybody told me about one. In fact, I can't remember the last time anybody told me about a dream period.
Is sharing your dreams with people a social faux pas? I know your own dreams are never as interesting to someone else as they are to yourself, but I just find them fascinating. A glimpse into our unconsciousness that's unavailable through any other avenue. Why not share?
I feel like my dreams have gotten closer and closer to my waking thoughts in the last couple of years. I used to have dreams that had characters in them that were ostensibly people I knew in real life but were so ludicrous and physically impossible that they wouldn't really affect me much beyond thinking I had a funny dream.
My anxiety dreams alwas used to be about calculus. Usually centering around not knowing where a final was or having a final and not having opened the book nor attending a class all semester. (By the way I haven't been in a math class since first semester freshman year in college. So, almost a decade.) These days I dream about things that have concrete connections to my real life. For example, my sister and I spent many hours planning a 40th wedding anniversary party for my parents last month. In the week before I flew home, I had a very vivid dream that I was in my parents house as I realized not only was our entire neighborhood starting to burn, but that our house was on fire. The only thing I could think was that I had to save my parents wedding photo album.
I've found also that my dreams have a weird way of being a reality check for me. That house burning dream forced me to admit, although not out loud, that I was really stressing out about the planning and worried about all the things that could go wrong. I tend to dream about men that I'm attracted to, whether or not there is actual sexual content in the dream, and I wake up having to own up to it to myself. Which is a good thing actually, but can be really frustrating when in the dream I was cuddled up to a man-friend but when I wake it's a teddy bear.
This is not to say that I think my unconscious thoughts are truths that I need to face up to. I had a dream that involved my ex, who in real life just had a baby with his new wife, and his mother and me, and I really wanted to tell him how much I cared about him and was happy for him. In real life, while I wish him no harm, I certainly don't have anything I need to say to him.
I know I've considered more seriously dreams since Brendan died, which from what I understand is pretty standard in grief. Dreams took on a new meaning for me last summer, when things were still so sharp and so very painful, and I had some dreams with and about Brendan. In the dreams I felt him alive, and that of course made it that much more difficult to wake up. The one I remember most vividly was one night before I was traveling home for a weekend. In the dream it was present tense, we were walking around I think Chicago, and I was explaining to Brendan what had happened and why he'd been gone for a few months. I skipped the part about him dying, because he couldn't have, because I was talking to him. At the end of the dream we were just sitting somewhere and I really had to pee. I told him, "I'm not going to go. I'll hold it. I'll stay asleep, so don't go anywhere. I'm staying asleep." That was the hardest dream to wake up from.
One of the better words of advice and comfort I've received from anyone was from one of my grief counselors. I was telling her about this dream and saying how badly, how desperately I wanted it to really be Brendan, how much I felt that this was him somehow but I didn't know if it was or if it felt like it was because I wanted it to be so badly. Her response? "Who cares?" I hadn't thought about it like that. She pointed out that whatever it was, why question it? Why diagnose and analyze it? It felt real, it felt good, so go with it.
It felt real, it felt good, so go with it.
I especially love telling people when they played a role it the dream. In fact, I wish I knew more about me showing up in other peoples dreams. I can't remember the last time that anybody told me about one. In fact, I can't remember the last time anybody told me about a dream period.
Is sharing your dreams with people a social faux pas? I know your own dreams are never as interesting to someone else as they are to yourself, but I just find them fascinating. A glimpse into our unconsciousness that's unavailable through any other avenue. Why not share?
I feel like my dreams have gotten closer and closer to my waking thoughts in the last couple of years. I used to have dreams that had characters in them that were ostensibly people I knew in real life but were so ludicrous and physically impossible that they wouldn't really affect me much beyond thinking I had a funny dream.
My anxiety dreams alwas used to be about calculus. Usually centering around not knowing where a final was or having a final and not having opened the book nor attending a class all semester. (By the way I haven't been in a math class since first semester freshman year in college. So, almost a decade.) These days I dream about things that have concrete connections to my real life. For example, my sister and I spent many hours planning a 40th wedding anniversary party for my parents last month. In the week before I flew home, I had a very vivid dream that I was in my parents house as I realized not only was our entire neighborhood starting to burn, but that our house was on fire. The only thing I could think was that I had to save my parents wedding photo album.
I've found also that my dreams have a weird way of being a reality check for me. That house burning dream forced me to admit, although not out loud, that I was really stressing out about the planning and worried about all the things that could go wrong. I tend to dream about men that I'm attracted to, whether or not there is actual sexual content in the dream, and I wake up having to own up to it to myself. Which is a good thing actually, but can be really frustrating when in the dream I was cuddled up to a man-friend but when I wake it's a teddy bear.
This is not to say that I think my unconscious thoughts are truths that I need to face up to. I had a dream that involved my ex, who in real life just had a baby with his new wife, and his mother and me, and I really wanted to tell him how much I cared about him and was happy for him. In real life, while I wish him no harm, I certainly don't have anything I need to say to him.
I know I've considered more seriously dreams since Brendan died, which from what I understand is pretty standard in grief. Dreams took on a new meaning for me last summer, when things were still so sharp and so very painful, and I had some dreams with and about Brendan. In the dreams I felt him alive, and that of course made it that much more difficult to wake up. The one I remember most vividly was one night before I was traveling home for a weekend. In the dream it was present tense, we were walking around I think Chicago, and I was explaining to Brendan what had happened and why he'd been gone for a few months. I skipped the part about him dying, because he couldn't have, because I was talking to him. At the end of the dream we were just sitting somewhere and I really had to pee. I told him, "I'm not going to go. I'll hold it. I'll stay asleep, so don't go anywhere. I'm staying asleep." That was the hardest dream to wake up from.
One of the better words of advice and comfort I've received from anyone was from one of my grief counselors. I was telling her about this dream and saying how badly, how desperately I wanted it to really be Brendan, how much I felt that this was him somehow but I didn't know if it was or if it felt like it was because I wanted it to be so badly. Her response? "Who cares?" I hadn't thought about it like that. She pointed out that whatever it was, why question it? Why diagnose and analyze it? It felt real, it felt good, so go with it.
It felt real, it felt good, so go with it.
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