doctoral candidate in rhetoric and scientific and technical communication
self portrait
self-portrait, week #15
05 years ago
Today was the meeting of the kids. Dakota and Frank got along famously. It was funny. They are so much alike – although there are nearly 9 1/2 years between them. Frank definitely has the ability to wear Dakota out. Dakota has the ability to calm Frank down. They were adorable. They are both love sluts. “Love me, love me,” they say. Their big brown eyes, floppy ears, sweet faces spoke to me, begging me to love them. And if one got too close, the other moved in to get even closer. They were actually fighting for a spot on my lap at one point early on. It was making me laugh.
We went on a hike through the forest, through foot deep snow. It was so incredibly beautiful out. The sun was bright. The snow was the perfect white. The weather was warming up (it almost felt like spring and youngguy commented to that effect). It was really so lovely. I could have stayed out for much longer.
We headed back to youngguy’s house to hang out. We talked about music and family and wines. We just hung out and enjoyed one another’s company.
And I realized something (well, not right at that point – it’s something I have thought about previously but it really hit me today). I’ve never actually dated someone in a slow, easy dating process. All of my relationships have been whirlwinds – happening so fast that I couldn’t remember how they had begun. At my age, I’ve never really dated. And I’m not sure what to do or if I’m doing it right.
So then I started questioning myself. Then I got antsy. Was I staying too long at his house? Was he ready for me to be gone? Should I make my way out? Oh, god. How does all of this work?
I like him. He’s a very nice man. He’s funny and interesting. We both have passions that are interesting and creative. We have similar outlooks on life and are both concerned with the environment.
I don’t want to appear over eager. I’m not, really. I have too much going on to be over eager about relationships. But I also want to get to know him better. I want to learn more about him – and the type of person I am, when I want to know something or someone better, I jump right in and immerse myself in the subject. But I’m not sure I want to do that. I like the slow easy way it’s working but I’m also not sure if I’m doing it right.
Argh!
I’m so self-concious about this. I was actually upset with myself because I feel a bit lost and came home and cried — when really I should have been happy because it was a lovely day. I wonder if that self doubt ever goes away. When will I stop feeling like I did when I was 12, or 15, or 23? When will I ever be sure — about anything?
self-portrait, week #13
05 years ago
by dawn
in self portrait
I’m taking another class in autobiography. I have to write an introduction to my professor about myself — how I see autobiography, how I see myself, how we identify ourselves, what is identity, etc.
These courses always make me take a long look at myself. They make me question where I’m going, what I’m doing. Do I have valid things to write about? Am I projecting myself in the manner I wish to be viewed in? Is my identity clear or muddled?
I start paying closer attention (as if that is possible) to the rhetorical value of my text and my images. What do they all mean? Do my images add or detract from my writing? It matters.
In my work, I am consistently facing the needs of faculty members trying to emphasize their lectures through online mediums. We face the issues of textual and visual rhetoric on a daily basis. We assess the images we create or use to make sure that they are supporting and increasing the validity of the language the instructor is putting forth.
It is a battle. When is there enough visual media to promote a concept? When is it too much? What is that fine balance? And what if we choose an image that is not right for the text? Does that throw off the balance of the lecture? (It does, btw.)
Every image I choose to accompany my words here is thought about before being used. I want to make sure to emphasize my words — and my images. They are a pair. They go together.
So why sneakers today? It’s a part of me, a part of my identity. I get compliments every time I wear these particular shoes — and they are just a pair of sneakers. They give me an identity, though. They add to peoples’ perception of me. They see me in a certain light when I wear these particular shoes — as opposed to my Birks, Tevas, or leather boots.
The shoes, with the words, create an image of me for you. What do you see?
self portrait, week #12
05 years ago
Willow and I went to the movies today. We saw Charlotte’s Web, which was absolutely adorable.
And I cried. Every time Charlotte wove a new word, I cried. When Charlotte died, I cried. When the baby spiders were born and rode off on the currents of air, I cried.
It wasn’t because it was particularly sad (although there were noticeable sniffles throughout the theater). I think it was because I can remember reading the book when I was about Willow’s age and how sad it was to me and how much loss I felt when Charlotte died.
It got me to thinking about how I cry at movies and how bad I feel about doing that. I am a sap. A big one, at that. And I hate it. I have a friend that says there is nothing wrong with being a sap. He’s probably right. But the sad fact is that in my head, there is always something wrong with crying during a movie and yet I can’t help myself from doing it because I feel strongly about things in movies.
When I was seventeen, I was at home watching a made-for-tv show about teen suicide. It broke my heart and I was in tears. I couldn’t stop crying. It was so upsetting to me.
My dad looked at me and said, “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you something to cry about.”
To this day, I hear those words. Over and over. As if it was wrong to feel something. As if it is wrong to be sad or happy or anything other than flat, emotionless, and stoic.
I cry at movies. And I still feel bad about it. But I can’t stop myself and wouldn’t even if I could.
self portrait, week #11
05 years ago
I didn’t write yesterday because I was too nervous. Too nervous because fireguy was coming in to town to meet me.
And he did — come in to town and met me. We had a lovely dinner actually. We had good conversation. It ended rather early because we had plans to go to the Grand Canyon in the morning.
Morning came around. He came over. He smelled like smoke and I asked him about it.
He smokes.
One of the things that I’ve said is a limit for who I’ll date/be involved with is smoking. I have a hard time breathing when someone smokes around me.
So, I asked him how much he smokes. Instead of answering, he said that he had a feeling this was going to be an issue between us and we should end it here. He said he smokes when he’s not working and his mother (who lives with him) smokes heavily.
He’s a really nice guy. He has a great personality. He is a generous person.
But it just wasn’t meant to be. And I feel bad about that for some reason. Not necessarily for me. I really hate that he came all this way, bought me dinner, and it didn’t work out. That’s an expensive first/only date.
So, instead of heading up to the Canyon (which I could do by myself, I know), I’m doing homework. I have some things to catch up on and I want them done before the new semester starts.
Maybe I should bow out of the dating game until I’m done with school anyway. I mean…there are only a few places I want to go for my doctorate and they aren’t here — so I’d have to move anyway. I don’t think most men are going to be up to moving with me when I go.
And, you know, being single isn’t so bad. It does have its perks.
self-portrait, week #10
05 years ago
I hate this time of the year and I love this time of the year. It’s a quandary for me, an unexplained phenomenon.
I think a lot during this time of the year, assessing everything that has happened over the past year and what I will look forward to doing in the next year. I think about my reactions to events and if I can adjust my reactions to become a better person. I contemplate the people in my life, whether they are good for me, bad for me, or just don’t matter (overall, I’m fortunate enough to have mostly good people in my life). I think about what I’m doing — with school, with work, with life in general — and if that is healthy, needs work, or requires some more thought.
This hasn’t been a bad year.
I’ve been cancer-free all year. I’ve met some amazing people and started some friendship that I think are going to last a long time (and I really, truly hope they do). I’ve become respected in a field that I really enjoy and want to share with others. I’ve learned that I can love people on so many different levels and be loved back and not be stressed about any of it. I’ve realized that my support system is bigger than I could have ever imagined and that people I didn’t know last year are a part of my life this year and I can’t imagine life without them.
Yeah, I feel lonely. And yeah, I get upset. And yeah, this is also the hardest time of the year for me because being alone is even more pronounced when everyone is talking about family, exchanging gifts, visiting people they love, and talking about all of the things they’ll be doing with family. It’s hard to hear all of that when I know I’ll be alone on most of those days because the people I want to be with are elsewhere with others or doing their own thing.
But that’s okay. It’s okay to feel lonely and sad and a bit down. I always bounce back and it’s never so overwhelming that I can’t function. And I never feel completely alone — because I know those people would rush to my side if I truly needed them and asked them to do so.
I don’t need them to do that, though. Sometimes it’s enough to hear them say they love me, that they care, that they miss me, and want to see me more in the coming year, and are making plans to do so. That’s often enough. And lately, it’s been spectacular. The people I care about the most are making plans with me in the new year. From dinners for birthdays to monthly visits to a grand trip, I will be seeing people I love and care about more than anything and I know that these events will make all the difference.
So I am thankful for this year. I’ve grown in ways I never knew I had in me. I love and am loved.
And I know that I won’t die, my corpse eaten by my dog, and no one will notice (this is a joke my brother and I laugh about).
Someone would notice. More than one person would notice.
And that’s enough for me.
late
05 years ago
Yesterday was my birthday. My mom did not talk to me. She didn’t bother to pick up the phone to call me to wish me a happy birthday.
She did write a blog entry (which I just found). So, here’s to my beginnings.
My daughter Dawn Maurie turned forty years old today, hard to believe, so I thought in honor of her day I would tell some of the story that led up to and how she was born.
Dawn’s daddy and I were going to be married on Feburary 12, 1966, on his 30 day leave before he went to his next duty station, but as guys sometimes do, he got cold feet. My sister in San Diego had lost her baby sitter so within a few days I was there living with her and her three little boys.
Charles and I stayed in touch, he called and we wrote letters. After a month or so I noticed I was gaining weight, and told my sister I thought I might be pregnant. I always wanted to be a mommy, I wanted six children as far back as I could remember.
I was thrilled, and could hardly wait, I wrote my Charlie a letter the night I found out, but did not tell him we had to get married, just the opposite, I told him that this was my baby and I was going to have it and keep it no matter what he decided to do, and I ment it, I think I still have the letter.
Probably a week or so later I got a call from a really drunk sailor crying and telling me he was going to be a daddy, and he would make arrangments for me to fly to Florida to be married. We were married, Charlie went out to sea and I went to Idaho to have our baby.
Six months later at about midnight or one a.m. I woke up Mom and told her I thought I was in labor, we sure hoped so because I was 2 weeks over due. I had decided to go to Sacred Heart Hospital, the catholic hospital in our town. My pains didn’t seem real bad but the nuns said I was in labor, and sent me to a room.
They gave me something for the pain so most of what I remember is pretty foggy. I remember Mom sitting beside the bed and rubbing my back when the pain radiated, she was so sweet. Mostly I just didn’t want to be touched, especially when the nuns and nurses would check to see how much I had dialated. Finally that morning the doctor showed up and told me it was getting close, wow, finally it seemed to take so long.
I had a paracervical block, which at the time was pretty new to birthing and still considered experimental, it was amazing because as soon as it takes effect the pain goes away. So at 1:36 in the afternoonon December 10, 1966 Dawn was born.They didn’t let ya watch then, and wisked my baby off so fast I hardly got to see her and didn’t see her until many hours later.
When I finally got to be with my little girl I really didn’t know what to do, she was so tiny, precious, and pretty, had all her fingers, all her toes blue eyes like her dad and a hint of red hair. Dawn nor I new how to nurse, we had a pretty hard start at it. The hospital was so regimented, I couldn’t get up and walk around like you can now, and the worst of it was we had to stay for five days because they didn’t know what kind of reactions we might get from the block.
We had decided to name her Dawn Marie, but she was to special for Marie so I added the u for Maurie. Dawn Maurie Armfield and her mom went home to Grandpa and Grandma Robinson’s until daddy came home in February.
Mom had my room ready with the bassenett next to my bed and my Dad was crazy about her as soon as he would get home from work he would start wiggling the bassenet and trying to wake her up so he could hold her.
Grandpa and Grandma Armfield with Connie, Steve and Tammy came between Christmas and New Years to see our new girl.
Well, those are Dawn’s beginnings, she couldn’t have been loved nor wanted more than her mommy loved and wanted her. Happy Birthday Punkin, I love you.
Sunday December 10, 2006 – 08:51pm (MST)
self-portrait, week #8
05 years ago
by dawn
in self portrait
“An identity would seem to be arrived at by the way in which the person faces and uses his experience.”
James Baldwin
It is the journey.
The journey we take makes us who we are. Right?
People are proud of me. How far I’ve come. What I’ve made of my life. What I’ve gotten through. How well I’m doing. What I’m doing. Who I am.
Who I am?
Who am I?
Ever since I was a kid, I have looked in the mirror and not recognized the face looking back. That person isn’t me. I don’t know that person. The elements are right. Blue eyes. Freckles. Reddish hair (it used to be much more red and I wonder what happened to that, too). But something isn’t right. Hasn’t been right.
I am translucent. See? Right through me.
The sums of my experiences make me like this. Translucent.
I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel accomplished. I don’t feel special or unique or amazing.
I just am.
We live through the things we live through because the alternative is so much worse. We survive because if we don’t, what else is left?
But what does that mean? You see me as one thing. I see me as another. Someone else sees me in a totally different light. And what does all of that mean? Who am I? Really? Which one of those images is the real me?
Will the real dawn please stand up?
self-portrait, week #7
05 years ago
by dawn
in self portrait
I doubt myself more than anyone else ever could. I doubt myself far more than I ever doubt anyone else.
I doubt my importance in other peoples’ lives.
I doubt that my life makes a huge impact on others.
Mostly this is because I don’t seem to keep people in my life for very long. And even if I do, it’s not like I have that best friend that I’ve done everything with and who knows me better than anyone. No one has stuck around for that long or been involved that much.
I’m sure this is because of me. I have a feeling that I push people away.
People scare me. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. People scare me.
A lot of that fear is from my past. But a lot of it comes from just not reading people well. I don’t understand them.
And today, I’m filled with a lot of self-doubt and wondering what it is about me that pushes people away, doubts about my worth in others’ lives, and how I can change that.
self-portrait, week #6
05 years ago
by dawn
in self portrait
“Between my chin and throat
his mouth slipped over and over.
Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair.”
Hilda Doolittle
There are those spots, those little places on your skin that can make you squirm or smile or want to be touched more.
While at the Dixie Chicks concert, my sister-in-law reached over to Willow to put her tag back in on the back of her shirt. Willow turned around and took her tag out again and asked her mom to do it again. She told her that she liked having her neck touched right there.
And I completely understood what she meant.
Neck, shoulders, small of my back, stomach, that curve at my waist – just above my hips – when I lay on my side, my lips, the slope of my jawline, my fingers and the palm of my hand…
All of these are intimate spots for me. They get touched and I’m immediately transported.
It makes me think of the way a cat moves when they are being petted in exactly the way they want. They purr and move against the touch.
That would be me. I purr and move. Move and purr. Okay, maybe not purr exactly but sighs are elicited.
The better I feel about myself, the more I take notice of those spots. I like those spots more because they say something about me: that I’m desirable or sexy or sensitive.
I like that.
self-portrait, week #5
05 years ago
“And now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.”
~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery ~
I’m using an older image this week for my self-portrait check in but the words are all new.
I stumbled upon a blog this morning that hit me in the stomach like a ton of bricks (oh, don’t you love similes?). Losing Lucy is about one woman’s weight loss journey.
I know. You’re saying that there are a million of these out there and why is this one so different? It’s probably not that different but it is new and she is refreshingly honest. She tells us how much she weighs and what her struggles have been.
I’ve never been that honest on here. I’m embarrassed about how much I weigh. I shouldn’t weigh this much and I wonder how I ever got here.
I was that skinny girl. For most of my life, I was that girl. I’m 5’10″ and weighed 110 pounds. I was skinny. Dangerously so, I’m guessing.
So, I’m changing my lifestyle. I eat around 1500 calories per day. I eat anything I want (and I typically eat pretty healthy – lots of fruits and veggies) but I eat around that many calories. I’m exercising between 30 and 40 minutes a day. I am losing weight.
It’s slow because my body is rebelling against me. It thinks we should be eating more and I’m trying to retrain it into knowing that we don’t actually need that much food and I had been abusing it with all of the food I was putting into it. We struggle against one another but I know I will win out.
I’m stubborn that way.
It’s paying off. I got several comments this week from co-workers who asked if I’m losing weight. That was nice. People are actually noticing.
I just nod and blush. I don’t want to jinx it. I just want to do it. I want to make this happen.
And I will.