doctoral candidate in rhetoric and scientific and technical communication
Archive for September, 2004
grad school
0I took a big step yesterday. I asked three people for letters of recommendation for grad school.
I didn’t realize how big of a deal that would be. I was left shaken afterwards. I haven’t graduated yet and I’m having to ask for letters of recommendation.
Grad school.
Yikes.
I don’t think, 5 years ago, I would have thought this was possible. I’m living my dream.
I’m living my dream.
I can’t even express what this means. I’m almost brought to my knees in tears when I realize where I’ve been, where I’m going, and what is going on in my life.
This is good stuff.
This is GREAT stuff.
Tuesday September 28, 2004
0I took a big step yesterday. I asked three people for letters of recommendation for grad school.
I didn’t realize how big of a deal that would be. I was left shaken afterwards. I haven’t graduated yet and I’m having to ask for letters of recommendation.
Grad school.
Yikes.
I don’t think, 5 years ago, I would have thought this was possible. I’m living my dream.
I’m living my dream.
I can’t even express what this means. I’m almost brought to my knees in tears when I realize where I’ve been, where I’m going, and what is going on in my life.
This is good stuff.
This is GREAT stuff.
abandonment
0This is the right follow-up to perfection for me. I strive for perfection for a single reason: to be loved.
My entire life, love has been tied up in a lot of things. The better I did, the more love I got. The better I was, the more love I got.
If I didn’t do well, I got silence. If I wasn’t good, I got silence.
To this day, I get silence when I don’t perform in the way that is expected of me. It has permeated every fiber of my body. I have linked silence to being bad, to doing things wrong. Silence is the way I have been abandoned in life.
I’m ok with good silence. That is, if I know that things are going well and I’m in a happy place, I deal with silence well. It’s when I’m unsure of myself, unsure of my role, unsure of my place within a dynamic that silence absolutely tears me apart.
I panic. I can feel the panic rise in me and take me over. My skin tingles, my mind rages, and I feel like I’m either on the verge of tears or some crazed rant.
I go a little insane and do things I wouldn’t normally do when I’m at peace.
Even writing about it, I can feel it right below the surface. It scares me. It is the scariest thing that I face in my life, this panic. It is all-consuming.
With some help, I’m working on finding calm when I feel the panic rising. I’m working on finding peace. I’m working on understanding that silence is not necessarily about me, about my actions, but could be about life or about time or about any number of things but not always about me.
I’m a work in progress. I’m learning new lessons each day. I’m learning to focus on perspective, flexibility, patience, and compassion.
—
Self-Abandonment
Li PoI sat drinking and did not notice the dusk,
Till falling petals filled the folds of my dress.
Drunken I rose and walked to the moonlit stream;
The birds were gone, and men also few.
Monday September 27, 2004
0I’m a forgotten demographic.
Pollsters pay attention to soccer moms, security moms, pink-collar women (those who are blue-collar working women), Nascar dads, Bubbas (blue collar, typically southern but not necessarily so), minorities, and many other demographics.
They rarely pay attention to educated, working single women.
We don’t factor in.
We pay taxes. We have money to donate to causes that interest us. We are motivated to make things happen. We could be a powerful voice because of our relative affluence. We could make all the difference in an election.
No one cares about our opinions, though.
I realized this today when listening to a report about those demographics that are being targeted.
I’m forgotten.
That could be a mistake.
forgotten
0I’m a forgotten demographic.
Pollsters pay attention to soccer moms, security moms, pink-collar women (those who are blue-collar working women), Nascar dads, Bubbas (blue collar, typically southern but not necessarily so), minorities, and many other demographics.
They rarely pay attention to educated, working single women.
We don’t factor in.
We pay taxes. We have money to donate to causes that interest us. We are motivated to make things happen. We could be a powerful voice because of our relative affluence. We could make all the difference in an election.
No one cares about our opinions, though.
I realized this today when listening to a report about those demographics that are being targeted.
I’m forgotten.
That could be a mistake.
perfectionist
0I’m a perfectionist.
This is not a trait I would wish on my worst enemy. I feel like I should be in a 12-step program. It eats away at you like so many diseases.
The life of a perfectionist is fraught with perils: living up to abnormal expectations, always feeling like you have to be a certain type of person, feeling like you let people down constantly, feeling like a failure in so many things. Many of us had this instilled within us as very young children by parents who were still learning how to impart information to their children in a beneficial manner. It’s tied up in acceptance and love. If we’re not perfect, are we loveable?
The road to a “non-perfectionist” life is difficult. It is filled with tears and understanding that failure is bound to happen.
There are still times, though, when I kick myself. I beat up on myself when I know I could have done better or when I’m ashamed that I didn’t *get* it the first go around. It might not have been possible to do better or to *get* it but I still feel I should have.
Hi, my name is….and I’m a perfectionist.
—
Perfect
Alanis MorrissetteSometimes is never quite enough
If you’re flawless, then you’ll win my love
Don’t forget to win first place
Don’t forget to keep that smile on your faceBe a good boy
Try a little harder
You’ve got to measure up
And make me prouderHow long before you screw it up
How many times do I have to tell you to hurry up
With everything I do for you
The least you can do is keep quiet
Be a good girl
You’ve gotta try a little harder
That simply wasn’t good enough
To make us proudI’ll live through you
I’ll make you what I never was
If you’re the best, then maybe so am I
Compared to him compared to her
I’m doing this for you’re own damn good
You’ll make up for what I bled
What’s the problem…why are you cryingBe a good boy
Push a little farther now
That wasn’t fast enough
To make us happy
We’ll love you just the way you are if you’re perfect
lullabye
0I love stories. I have loved stories my whole life. I’ve loved to be told stories, to have someone make something up and tell me some delicious tale or to read to me from a book. I sink into this place of security and comfort. I escape into the fantasy of the story. When I was in my 20s, my brother and I worked in merchandising together. We would have to travel hundreds of miles to various grocery stores around our state. Before we’d leave, we’d choose a book of short stories. As we drove, we’d read to one another, sharing in this experience of story and comraderie and a type of intimacy that only siblings can understand. One of our favorite authors to read on these trips was Raymond Carver. Perhaps it was because my brother had met him. Maybe it was because he speaks of themes we understand. Whatever it was, Raymond Carver became our shared experience.
While we don’t travel together anymore, we still tell stories. We make up stories to tell to his two kids. We share our histories and embellish and make our childhood memories sound exciting and fun.
One of the greatest delights in my lifetime is sharing a story with a partner. Curled up in bed, we read to one another from books we’ve chosen to share. Bodies wrapped around one another, comfortable and safe, we tell one another stories under the cover of darkness before slipping off to sleep.
Storytelling is incredibly intimate. Even if I’m being read to from a book, it is a sharing of one’s loves, passions, and joys. We share a piece of ourselves when we read or tell stories.
Late night stories are, for me, a lullabye. They comfort me. They make me feel special. They wrap me in a cocoon and surround me completely. I’m being sung to sleep by the voice of a lover. I’m being cradled in his voice. I’m being rocked by the cadence of words.
—
Lullabye
Concrete Blonde
When the sky has fallen
like a blanket on your shoulder
and the moon is like a mother
looking over you forever
and the dawn is so familiar
you were meant to be together
like a fog around a mountain-forever
Chorus:
so softly-so sweetly
surrounding you completely
sing you a lullabye-a lullabye to you
when your breathing is the wind
and your crying is the rain
well I know you will remember
because the music is forever
the living of a lover-
and the loving of another
like a sister to a brother
like a father to a mother
(Chorus)
Tuesday September 21, 2004
0I love stories. I have loved stories my whole life. I’ve loved to be told stories, to have someone make something up and tell me some delicious tale or to read to me from a book. I sink into this place of security and comfort. I escape into the fantasy of the story.
When I was in my 20s, my brother and I worked in merchandising together. We would have to travel hundreds of miles to various grocery stores around our state. Before we’d leave, we’d choose a book of short stories. As we drove, we’d read to one another, sharing in this experience of story and comraderie and a type of intimacy that only siblings can understand. One of our favorite authors to read on these trips was Raymond Carver. Perhaps it was because my brother had met him. Maybe it was because he speaks of themes we understand. Whatever it was, Raymond Carver became our shared experience.
While we don’t travel together anymore, we still tell stories. We make up stories to tell to his two kids. We share our histories and embellish and make our childhood memories sound exciting and fun.
One of the greatest delights in my lifetime is sharing a story with a partner. Curled up in bed, we read to one another from books we’ve chosen to share. Bodies wrapped around one another, comfortable and safe, we tell one another stories under the cover of darkness before slipping off to sleep.
Storytelling is incredibly intimate. Even if I’m being read to from a book, it is a sharing of one’s loves, passions, and joys. We share a piece of ourselves when we read or tell stories.
Late night stories are, for me, a lullabye. They comfort me. They make me feel special. They wrap me in a cocoon and surround me completely. I’m being sung to sleep by the voice of a lover. I’m being cradled in his voice. I’m being rocked by the cadence of words.
—
Lullabye
Concrete Blonde
When the sky has fallen
like a blanket on your shoulder
and the moon is like a mother
looking over you forever
and the dawn is so familiar
you were meant to be together
like a fog around a mountain-forever
Chorus:
so softly-so sweetly
surrounding you completely
sing you a lullabye-a lullabye to you
when your breathing is the wind
and your crying is the rain
well I know you will remember
because the music is forever
the living of a lover-
and the loving of another
like a sister to a brother
like a father to a mother
(Chorus)
quote of the day
07 years ago
by dawn
in quote of the day
We need the stories from artists, we need the poetry, we need the music, we need the artwork, everything. We need that in order to know what life is. And how to go on and make any kind of relationship with other people. We need it to have any kind of apprehension of what it is to be human. Otherwise we’re always at the forefront, moment by moment, and we have only the fumbling ways of getting there, and we learn by our mistakes. No wonder it takes an entire life to finally get a tiny bit of wisdom. Well, wisdom is available in the arts. That’s where it is! Free. Almost free. We need everything we can get to have a little bit of wisdom about living.
~Ruth Stone (LA Times January 5, 2003), winner of the National Book Award~
Sunday September 19, 2004
0We need the stories from artists, we need the poetry, we need the music, we need the artwork, everything. We need that in order to know what life is. And how to go on and make any kind of relationship with other people. We need it to have any kind of apprehension of what it is to be human. Otherwise we’re always at the forefront, moment by moment, and we have only the fumbling ways of getting there, and we learn by our mistakes. No wonder it takes an entire life to finally get a tiny bit of wisdom. Well, wisdom is available in the arts. That’s where it is! Free. Almost free. We need everything we can get to have a little bit of wisdom about living.
~Ruth Stone (LA Times January 5, 2003), winner of the National Book Award~