Complete Draft

I'm still missing the appendix, I have to review for errors, and I need to write up an abstract, acknowledgments, and table of contents. Besides these miscellaneous tasks, I have a full and complete draft of the dissertation that I just sent to my committee members. Who will promptly ignore it, make me badger them for a response, and then get annoyed at me for the minor hassle I am to them. Shit, I am almost there... I just need to hold on a little while longer...

Miss Piggy in My Dreams

After a considerable period of time of not thinking about Miss Piggy (it's scary how much I don't remember about this event that consumed my life so completely for so long), I had a dream in which Miss Piggy played a starring role. The setting was a party, not unlike the typical work party we used to have for the holidays or someone's leaving or whatnot. He was there with his wife and I was there with some friends of mine. At first, seeing him made my blood pressure race and I could feel my heartbeat, but after a while his presence no longer bothered me. He wanted attention and I just found him bothersome and boring. While this is all pretty easy to interpret, there was one thing I couldn't figure out, though as I write I now have an inkling as to the symbolism. I was eating really good french fries (like the kind they serve at Bistro du Coin in DC) and he was eating boiled potatoes (just whole, peeled, slightly brownish looking plain boiled potatoes). I couldn't imagine why he'd eat such boring food, and after a while watching him eat these plain boiled potatoes was disconcerting, and eventually became disgusting. And then I woke up. Go figure.

My job sucks. I feel... impotent... here, and get frustrated. My supervisor is utterly unhelpful.
I stay up late making dissertation revisions. I toss and turn and can't fall asleep till the wee hours, despite being tired as hell. My committee sucks - they are so totally disinterested in my
dissertation and give me the feeling I am just a pain in the ass for them (another email from me they have to ignore -- I am, lucky for them, a very mild pain, if I do say so). I tried to schedule a
defense date in October, and N told me she doesn't yet know what she'll have going on in October so she can't say. I was mildly insulted but tried not to get irritated. I also wrote her about something unrelated and she copied Miss Piggy on the email (he has no business in my business) and asked me to cc him on my reply (I owe him no explanations for anything) and he sent me an email saying no need to keep him in the loop (I **HATE** to see his name in my inbox -- this one REALLY got me riled up). I also hate that he's (still!) a part of my life, even if marginally so. I want that entire experience eradicated from my memory.

Sigh....

While I can't quite balance out my whining with equal parts pleasantness, I can at least report that I met a really nice guy today for lunch. Just super nice and really smart and mild mannered and all those good things. And after work I go to meet some woman (they're
hard to meet in these here parts) at a wine bar. I've never done the "girlfriend" thing, and am giving it a whirl.

Another little milestone

I finished my first draft of chapter 4 of the dissertation this weekend (finally). I sent it off today, with a schedule for returning comments to me... I find myself getting nervous when I think about it -- nervous with excitement about finishing, and nervous about getting things done in time (the schedule is tight), and nervous about defending. But it's also invigorating, especially at a time when I don't have much at work that keeps me engaged and focused.

Illuminations

Last week I attended a talk (by Wanda Corn, Professor of Art and Art History at Stanford, organized by the DC Stanford alumni association) about Saul Steinberg, a 20th c. graphic artist featured frequently in the New Yorker. Apparently he had over 80 covers with the magazine, which I find amazing. After the talk we walked over to the Smithsonian American Art Museum (SAAM) to view the exhibit on his work. It was a very satisfying couple of hours.

The talk was supposed to be held at SAAM, but the museum canceled our use of their lecture room and the organizer had to find another venue. Being a Stanford alum has its privileges, I suppose. She found a lawyer (another Stanford alum, part of the network) who is a partner at his law firm and had the liberty to lend the facilities at his firm for the gathering. The conference room was fancy, at least to someone like me who has never been able to take such privilege for granted, and who recently spent 8 years in the hinterlands of the Midwest, no less. I was really impressed, from the art on the walls (real art, not the fake hotel-like art I am used to seeing in business establishments), to the frosted glass that walls off the room, to the automatic blinds that open and close at the press of a button (and allow you to choose the level of daylight), to the incredibly comfortable, sleek, modern looking executive type chairs that adjust automatically to your posture. Wanda Corn, who is married to another professor at Stanford, happened to have a photo of her new (large) vacation home on Cape Cod on her desktop, a concept that, while totally foreign to me, seemed entirely relatable to others in the audience. There were also two current students there ("rising juniors," they called themselves rather finely), one of whom is spending the summer with the other's family, another foreign concept to me (who has the space and resources and time to do that?).

Wanda Corn looks exactly like Edna E Mode from the Incredibles, that eccentric and bold Edith Head-like clothing designer. Her hair was cut in a severe bob, and her large, perfectly round, bold red plastic glasses (with lenses that enlarged her eyes) reinforced the likeness. While she did say a few of the usual things ("... Steinberg takes the line and turns it back on itself...") they were mostly sensible. She also summed him up a few times in ways that, after seeing the exhibit, seemed rather felicitous.

I wished I could take some of Steinberg's illustrations home with me. They are so pleasant to look at, and each one seemed to elicit a chuckle. The illustrations are minimal; as Corn said, he knew when to stop. It's not that the page is bare in all of his illustrations, but that he doesn't fill up the page for the sake of doing so or add unnecessary flourishes if they are not there to say something. Some of them almost seemed like doodles. Corn asked something that has often occurred to me when I go to view modern art, especially graphic art, and that is how is this person's doodle or line different from a doodle I might draw? What is it about this one that makes it art and makes mine scratch? I can't pinpoint what that quality is, but somehow Steinberg's lines seem to say something (mine don't). They are also very self assured (mine aren't) while still being very light. And they are lightly ironic, so they make you chuckle and linger at the page.

It was a moment that made me appreciate being here in DC.

Stranger than Fiction

Unsatisfying is the only word that comes to mind when I think about how to describe this movie. It has some nice touches, but not enough to warrant calling it "uncommonly intelligent" (Roger Ebert). It also makes use of some visual and plot devices that ultimately add nothing to the content and only serve to fill up air time. Will Ferrell never takes it over the top, to his credit. And I like how detached the academic is (played by Dustin Hoffman) when he talks about literature. The writer (Emma Thompson) starts out the same way, talking about literature with detachment as though it has no emotional content or consequence and is simply a technical exercise (one that requires expertise, but is still a technical skill). Harold (Ferrell's character) has a crush on a woman who owns a bakery, and he shows up at her store with an assortment of flours. That was nicely expressed, and seemed true to how the characters would express themselves (i.e. it wasn't cute for the sake of being cute).

However the film has these quirky little graphics, ostensibly to show how Harold compulsively counts and sees spatial relationships. But they add nothing and are often distracting. Queen Latifah's character is entirely unnecessary. She's fine in the role, but none of the scenes with her character serve any purpose. The story doesn't hold much interest, and the dialog is mostly empty. Scenes intended to denote the passage of time or to express existential anxiety seem to have come from a template; they all seem pat.

A O Scott (NYTimes) puts it well, namely that there is "something soft and unfinished about the movie; it wanders about in its own conceit, collecting stray moments of intelligence or feeling without adding up to very much." not unlike the Andy Kauffman films, which seem to have inspired the style of this movie, but which, despite having even more conceit, also have a lot more content than this one.

Anaheim

After all the mental preparation for seeing Miss Piggy in Anaheim, I find I am still affected in ways beyond my control and it seriously hurts. My eyes were darting to and fro at the airport in Chicago, worried he'd be on my flight. When I arrived at the hotel I couldn't help but look about, and of course, there he was, in the hotel bar drinking and having a good time with TTC, CK, JD, and my old-new colleagues (well, with DW, since he can't stand MS). But my initial reaction (again) was immediate and physical - rapid heart beat, quick breathing, largely fight-or-flight, and painful. I thought about him last night, and now this morning. My challenge today is to remain centered, and remember to enjoy the conference and take care of myself while I am here. So what if he is in the room? So what if he is talking to people I want to talk to? And so what if I can't talk to them? It's not a huge deal - one conference is not going to determine anything important about my life, so if I don't get anything out of being here, that's ok too. There had to be a first time to see him, and this is it, and that's ok. If only I can hold onto that today and not break into tears....

Fear of Falling

I seem to be in rather high spirits today. I am definitely above my "normal" equilibrium point. This always scares me when I am aware of it because I am attached to the feeling and I don't want to drop. And since I know myself, I am afraid that I will fall pretty low. I have to remember to appreciate this while it lasts.

When I watched Spiderman 3 last Friday, the movie had an unusual effect on me. I don't usually become absorbed in the superhero films, and I have never wished for a superhero ability. But the way the camera followed Spiderman -- when he swings in the air by his web or when in the midst of falling he latches onto the sides of tall buildings or poles -- gave me this weird sense of security, especially when contrasted with the normal human fragility of the non-super characters. Like when MJ is hanging from a web at the top of a skyscraper, I actually felt some anxiety for her precarious situation, whereas with Spiderman, I never feel fear no matter how high up he is or how many stories down he might fall. And given my fear of heights (which I admit begrudgingly) and how heights are so important to the visuals in this film, I suddenly for the first time ever wished to have Spiderman's superpower. It was strange for me to notice that.

Can't help but wonder...

From the New Yorker, May 14, 2007 issue.

Muppet Show

Miss Piggy asked if I want to have coffee at AAPOR. I am trying to resist acknowledging that he even sent me the email. But I want to write him the following:

I won't ever WANT to have coffee with you. The only thing I feel is an overwhelming urge to remind you what a stupid fucker you really are and to let other people know it. I'm still angry I'm the only one who does. When I think of how much I was thriving and making friends and enjoying my work and belonging to an organization I cared about, and of how I let myself be manipulated by you, the things I enjoyed and excelled at became a burden because of you, how you harassed me out my job, how so utterly isolated I became, and how I have to deal with the shit of picking up my life, moving elsewhere, not knowing a soul, starting a new job I'm not crazy about, investing every once of energy in starting over and establishing myself in a new place, about how generous I was (and still am) with you, down to the last minute I saw you before leaving... I still think daily about sending someone somewhere a letter about why I left. What can you possibly offer me over coffee?

Life Hurts

I talked to my mom tonight. I asked her how she is doing (besides the hassles of returning to the business after their vacation).... Now is my moment to have that conversation with my parents that has been hanging over my head for so long. It's an extended conversation that unfortunately can't be over with in one dose, so I'm still in the midst of it and surrounded by the fog of all that family turmoil. Hence my frequent incoherence.

When I refused my dad's gift on the phone, it didn't come out right. It wasn't a planned conversation, so a rush of words - many of them thoughtless - just came pouring out. When I spoke it was regarding my immediate (and not necessarily fair) reaction to how much he annoys me, not to the deeper issues. Today my mom said that what I had said was hurtful and though it's good I said howI feel, I was wrong about the things I had said.

Luckily today I was not bombarded with words or surprised by anyone's behavior so I could think clearly and my emotions, while strong, were calm. I told my mom that my problem is not (as they had heard it) that I feel unloved or that I don't get the attention I need or deserve or that I think they take no interest in my life. I know all those things are true. When I said there is no relationship, I meant that when all those overtures of love and affection are made towards me, it is I that doesn't give back and that it's for a reason. (It's hard not to weep when I write this because I know how hurtful it is...).

I first explained why I don't have positive feelings towards my dad (he was mean...) and I used a couple of stories to explain the context in which I interpreted my dad's most recent gift (a history of gifts given in a certain way and often after an argument). My mom was a bit defensive on his behalf, and mentioned how much he worked and didn't have a life and gave everything he had to support his family. I let her say it - it is true after all. I said that the feelings I have are the feelings I have and they are justified. I have a choice about how I behave and what I say and I can be held responsible for them. But my feelings are not entirely in my power. She said she understood that, and we as girls paid a price, and she paid a price (I think she meant paid a price for his behavior, and obliquely for her having chosen to stay with him). When I asked her what she meant about the price she paid, she said "in my health." It's very true that her health has suffered pretty directly as a result of her inability (and perhaps unwillingness?) to deal with difficulties, and in fact I think the price is greater than she is willing to admit. However, in retrospect it was also a guilt tactic. She also said that there were good times too and those seem to be entirely forgotten, and with a kind of resigned sigh she said that perhaps all kids have issues with their parents. I told her that was an unfair comment. This is not "issues" that all kids have. I didn't say he was abusive - I think that's too hard a word to use over the telephone - but I did say that he was mean, scary, and humiliating. And in fact she took offense to that word, as though I was being oversensitive.

She called me back a few minutes after we hung up to ask if she should or shouldn't say anything to my dad about what I had told her. I said that I think it is best if I tell him these things directly - it is only fair. But that if it would hurt and surprise less if he's prepared for it, then she can mention it. She said she probably will because he has no clue. This really surprises me! I thought he was aware of the horrible, awkward, clumsy, tense and uncomfortable silence that ensues whenever my mom leaves the room. And this is the part that is causing my self-doubt. If everything was fine, if he had no clue, and if my mom preferred it with all the dirt swept under the rug, then why do I have to say what I have to say and cause the both of them so much hurt? Why can't I just go on forever with this particular lie? It's not like they haven't suffered terribly in their lives.

I don't know where it goes from here. I can't really see where I'm going and am kind of scared of the next few conversations. For very brief moments, I can ALMOST imagine the release that may come in a while. I'm not quite there yet though, so I am still a bit incoherent and can't quite name all the things I am feeling. Or even recount things logically. But maybe... someday...

Two men talking in a bar...

Sometimes someone just hits the nail right on the head:
http://tinyurl.com/2ggjkb

Paranoid

In the last three days, I wrote N (who is on my committee), B, M (who I will see at the conference soon), and S (whom I haven't had a chance to keep in contact with lately) and no one has replied yet. I am worried that someone knows something and all hell is breaking loose somewhere because of something I said or wrote about Miss Piggy. I think it's because I have the conference (and having to see Miss Piggy there) on my mind, so I'm counting on this feeling just being paranoia. I know N is always busy, M is defending his dissertation next week, S has a family, a full time teaching job, and a dissertation to write, and it's not like I don't chat with B all the time as it is.

I'm also wondering how many years it will take before Miss Piggy no longer figures so prominently in my mind, on my emotions, and in my life more generally.

Claim

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Expanding My Vocabulary

Today I learned cockblocker and wingman.

Thanks to J's concern for gender-parity, I also have beaver-deflector... He says that if the beautiful guy in my building (Justin, the one that makes me swoon) lives with a woman he calls his "roommate," it's fair to call her a beaver deflector.

Avenue Montaigne

I keep thinking about why I went on that date and why I feel like it is a situation I just found myself in rather than one I chose to be in... I sometimes feel like a passive observer of my own life, where I just watch myself as though in a banal scene in a rather unimaginative film or book about someone like me. I am watching myself doing things that give me no pleasure and that I have no interest in at all. They're not necessarily things I have a strong aversion to - I am not a masochist (I don't think). Most often they're just things I feel apathetic about, and I'm just passive and unresponsive when the decision moment happens and I end up responding with what the other person wants of me rather than exerting any will of my own. That's when I most feel like a character (maybe that's my problem...). I see myself playing a role. This fellow, who was a complete gentleman by the way (so I'm not disparaging him), wants me to need something from him. Like when he treated me to dinner and a big dessert, and when he wanted to buy me ice cream after the movie, and when he asked me if where I live is safe and approved of its nearness to the metro, he was being, oh, slightly paternal. And my job was to take great comfort and delight in that (the ice cream, especially). I dont mind that sort of relationship in principle, but this one is too artificial. If I had developed that kind of relationship, that is, if I had asserted some of myself rather than just adopted a role, I'd maybe take pleasure in it. But this weird paternal-older-man wants approval (and probably sex) from a youthful, possibly adoring, definitely grateful and sympathetic part-woman part-girl.... I can't do it. Not that that's all he wants - he's lonely and wants company like we all do. But still....

Speaking of playing roles, Avenue Montaigne was mildly charming but forgettable. The actress that played the part of Jessica (Cecile de France) seemed a little too old to play someone so hapless and cute, but except for that, the actors are all nice to look at and are decent at portraying the caricatures they are playing. Manohla Dargis of the NYTimes called it a humble pleasure. I don't think it was that humble. But it was a pleasant film. There is no story or reason to care for any of the characters, except for a few cliched nostalgic portrayals. I couldn't care less about the petulant pianist with the mid-life crisis. I liked the charming, handsome son of the art collector, not that he had much going for him though. The soap opera actress was charming in her silly way. Dargis also says it's easy to dismiss the film for its lack of heft, given recent events in Paris. But I think the film just lacks heft (regardless of whether or not it acknowledges any turmoil in the world beyond its own little corner). That said, the movie is like candy - very enjoyable while you watch it, but doesn't leave a lasting impression of any kind.

Salmon

I have a dinner-and-a-movie date with an older gentleman that reminds me of a certain (smelly) person I used to work with. I really need to run the I-like-you-but-not-that-way line by someone before I go on this date!!

Lagaan

I keep waiting for the ideal moment to write my reviews of movies and books, but that moment never arrives. Since I intended this "blog" mostly to document what I've seen and read and to jog my failing memory, I guess I don't need to insist on the ideal writing conditions (which include motivation and time). I just need to document enough to jog my memory...

So I'm starting with Lagaan... I liked it. It was like one of those old Hollywood epic film made modern, with scenes that have wide camera pans across a dramatic landscape in a far away land. The cast is also huge. The movie feels a bit like a fairy tale with a strong moral component to it. And with song and dance. The musical aspect of it is slightly weird at the first musical number, but I think that's true of any musical when the characters suddenly break out into song and dance at a dramatic moment. But after the first song, you come to expect it. The musical numbers also move the plot forward, so they're important to the story.

The acting is great and Amir Khan is wonderful, and the leads are attractive! (The lead female character, Gauri, reminded me of an Indian woman I once saw at the INS office in San Francisco - very pretty, heavily made up, decorated in bright colors and jewelry, and very flirty with coquettish gestures. Her man was definitely smitten). The love song is wonderful. The gender roles are generic, but not insultingly so. I also like how the movie roots for the underdog. Though the Indian characters are in this cricket game ostensibly for their livelihood, it is easy to forget that. Pride dominates the story and it seems like that is what is really on the line for them. The Indian men cry a lot at moments when they might lose, which is interesting and doesn't detract from the pride issue at all. The pride aspect is more compelling than the livelihood issue, especially since the British characters are such arrogant and capricious swine.

I Hate Miss Piggy

I'm depressed. Not the searing-pain kind of depressed I felt while I was dealing with Miss Piggy. This is a more generalized kind of no-joy-in-anything sort of depression, where the slightest obstacle feels impossible to overcome and every little incident feels like a huge setback and hopelessness sets in. I'll never have any local friends or people to hand out with. I'll never have another relationship. I'll never have sex again. Work sucks. I can't be happy here. This was a total failure. At these moments I want to send Miss Piggy an email telling him how much I hate him for putting me here....

My purse is heavy

The mobile pharmacy I carry in my purse:

Excedrin - for headaches, of course
Tylenol - for other aches and pains I seem to be afflicted with as of late
Claritin - I need to take every day to help ward of evil allergies
Hydroxizine - I take as needed when my face blows up
Epi-pen - I hope never to have a need for this
Tums - For just in case moments - if I didn't have it with me, I'd have heartburn all day every day. But simply carrying it around seems to keep the problem at bay.

I've also got Flonase and Penlac at home, among other things.

Sigh.... Frontier life can wear you down....

Therapy

I had a first meeting with a "behavioral health" specialist -- that's what they call them at Kaiser. It sounds so much like a surveillance term that it is very difficult to reveal anything about yourself in the therapist's office, which at Kaiser is a small, cramped office with old, dirty chairs that resemble the kind they have in the medical exam rooms. Needless to say, the surroundings are not conducive to therapeutic feelings of any kind. The woman I was assigned to (I did not get to choose her) was perfectly nice and competent seeming, but alas....

Marlene

http://www.suzannevega.com/lyrics/w54lyr.htm#marlene

Since I talked to B about J (aka Miss Piggy) the other day, and since I recently heard this song, I thought I'd share... J burned Suzanne Vega's first album for me, presumably because I once mentioned liking some of her music, but that may be giving him too much credit. I would listen to these lyrics and figured that he burned the CD for me because of this song...

After the breakup (I will call it that even though it's not quite the right word) I asked if he gave me this song for a reason or if he was saying something with it or how it might be relevant. He was bewildered and had no clue what I could possibly mean. He asked me to explain (I did not). I left thinking I must be so far gone, making these connections where none exist.

Though I threw away the Suzanne Vega album he burned for me, I recently came across an old mix CD that I made long ago with this song on it. I considered throwing it away because it contains music he gave me, but then figured it had nothing to do with him and the song was totally incidental, so I kept it. I don't think it's merely the teenage narcisist or romantic in me (which does in fact exist, I learned these last two years) that feels like every song was written about her life. Now that I am sober and recovered (mostly) from the J-illness, I still hear something in the lyrics that are applicable to my relationship with him. So... mostly sober, and mostly in my right mind, when I listen to this song, the lyrics are still about me. And I wonder at the varying levels of thoughtlessness he has demonstrated during the course of my relationship with him, and at what it was that blinded me to it so.

Sigh....