At the Foot of the Stairs

Fortunately, this made me laugh at myself. Hard .  Thanks to Dooce for tweeting. 

Ordinarily, I am a fan of Judith Butler : JUDITH BUTLER is influenced by Lacanian psychoanalysis, phenomenology (Edmund Husserl, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, George Herbert Mead, etc.), structural anthropologists (Claude Levì-Strauss, Victor Turner, Clifford Geertz, etc.) and speech-act theory (particularly the work of John Searle) in her understanding of the "performativity" of our identities. All of these theories explore the ways that social reality is not a given but is continually created as an illusion "through language, gesture, and all manner of symbolic social sign" ( "Performative" 270 ).  Generally speaking, I am a fan of creating my own reality. I like the idea that observation and performance are both informative and and persuasive. Most distinctly, I like the idea that even if I am not happy, I can sort of perform or fake my way into it. I'm having a bit of a problem with that this winter. And I think that is okay. Several years ago, a frie...

The sun is actually shining today. As you can't go anywhere in this town without seeing someone you know, I exchanged polite chitchat at the eye doctor about the weather. We talked about how sad it is that it's a banner day in a Kirksville winter when there is sunlight. This is going to be the most boring blog post ever. I *did* have a fairly boring day yesterday, up to a point, but the reason it's going to be boring is one of the most frustrating things to me as both a person and a writer: There are things I just can't blog about-- and there are things I just won't blog about. One of the things I was taught in college (or, directly after college, to be more precise) is that writers should be honest. Anne Lamott directs readers of Bird by Bird to write the truth, to write for revenge, not to hold back from writing things just because the truth will hurt someone else. However, I have noticed that she has never identified or given any details about the father o...

What are the sounds of longing and regret? Who sees the lovers who will only be friends? The last embrace of evening, smells of musk and cigarettes, goodbye at the gate, his kiss at her cheek-- one part serenade and one aubade.

I know the script. You say how are you And I say fine You say how are you And I say fine I’m fine, she’s fine, we’re all fine I think we’re fine But before I can answer my mouth cracks open and my throat is screaming and screaming and screaming

The sunwax remnants of the afternoon Pale yellow sky You sitting Legs crossed on your Twin bed Reading of how he stole bodies at night And cut them open to look at them. We didn’t think Of the smells or bugs Steam rising from a fresh intestine In the cold graveyard of a Snowy night How romantic, how awful Night after night with his knife Scrape scrape scrape Blade on bone

She spreads herself thinly, pat of butter bony on the couch her favorite afghan coming unspooled. There is space she will never take up again. Her ankles are so small, sharp edges in calf-length hose she barely sees them anymore. She sleeps on the couch after lunch. Cup of tea, tomato soup, this is it. She is older than her teeth.

When I taught Freshman comp (Writing as Critical Thinking, or WACT (Whacked)), I tormented my students with Noam Chomsky. The students hate Chomsky because he argues that the very things they enjoy most (sports, for instance) are sort of designed to breed apathy about what matters most in life. However, what Chomsky has to say cannot be reduced to a sound bite, which makes him unpopular in popular media (haha, the juxtaposition of those words strikes me as very funny). I argue that most of the essential conversations in life cannot be boiled down easily. And that is the justification I am using for what is going to be, I promise, a monumental blog post. It is in part a continuation of many conversations I have been having with many people lately. What sent me opening my blog post page in a scurry lest I forget what I have not yet thought before I write it was a post I read in my Google Reader (which I just learned how to use). I found out last week (can you tell it was terrible? I...

When I was a young creative writing major in college at Ohio University in my salad days in Athens, Ohio, I had the opportunity to have workshops with a few highly-regarded writers. I had a fiction workshop with Jane Smiley , of whom I had not yet heard in 1990. I found her unpleasant and inapproachable. I went to the first two workshops with her; at the second one, she discussed my work. She had some nice things to say. I don't remember any of them. She came to class in curlers, with a handkerchief over them. She said she had no time for us outside of the workshop because she was busy writing. I didn't like her, so I skipped the third workshop, and skipped her reading. Later, I went on to read some of her work: The Age of Grief , and Good Will.  I kicked myself hard for my hubris then. I had the audacity to blow off Jane Smiley. She went on to win the Pulitzer for A Thousand Acres (a modern day Lear ), which I believe she must have been working on during that workshop. I ...

At times during the past year, I have noted [with humor and goodwill] that a lot of the people I was surrounding myself with were a little crazy. I also noted that one of the things we had in common was that we had all endured some pretty scathing life experiences. To some extent, I think that it is sometimes easier to relate to people who have some scars too than it is to relate to people whose lives have been relatively serene. Particularly people who think that they somehow deserve their serene lives. It really pisses me off when I get a sense from the Serene that perhaps my misfortunes in life are MY fault, simply because I am a part of the equation. The Serene shy away from the broken because they think we (The Broken) are somehow diseased or contagious. And that's not the way it works. We are all standing over here together because we understand each other and because we know that the bad things in life can come to anyone at anytime. We have stared mortality in the eye, and ...

Edited to provide a link to the whole gory story.  Nobody prepares you for parenthood. This much is true. But in all fairness, how could they? One of the biggest surprises I have had, though, is how much my kids make me laugh. This morning, I was laughing so hard while driving them to school that Sam asked me if I was okay. The conversation started in the house. The boys were talking about reading stories on Cracked.com, and poking fun of understatement. A police officer was shot through the arm, and when asked if it hurt, replied, "It did a bit, yes." I asked, "Was he Canadian?" "No, British." Then, there was the British officer, when asked about whether a crime scene at which a man had committed suicide by cutting off his own head with a chainsaw was a shock, replied, "In some ways it was, sir." Sam continued the conversation in the car, imitating the officer first, and then immediately asking, "In what ways WASN'T it a sh...

He looks at her without speaking, gives her books. She smokes and reads the small scraps of papers signed his name. They speak publicly, politely. They are never alone. Just once, he held her hands at their parting pressed her gently with his palms and let her go.

Months ago they cupped their hands around one lighter and the tip of his cigarette burned her right middle knuckle: The small white scar an emblem of desire that scalds her now, scalds her now.

hates me a little less today. And kindness comes from unexpected corners of the planet. And I am grateful. Don't get me wrong, I am also, at the same moment of negative capability, an angry, bitter, vengeful bitch today, but also grateful for the good.

is proof that there is a God and she hates us.

Last night, someone said, "Jen loves harder than anyone I know." Well. Just imagine, then, how hard I can hate.

What in hell is happening in the cosmos this week? It seems ridiculous to complain, given the utter decimation in Haiti. But globally, among so many people I know in varying geographical locations, this week has been atrocious, if not downright scarring. I hope I'm not scarred-- but I feel like my world has been rocked to its core (again), and I really don't like this feeling. For one thing, it makes me sweat constantly. Sweaty palms make it hard to type, and then there's having to change clothes and bathe a lot. It also fucks with my sleep. I mean, there was a ten-minute period of stress on Wednesday night that still makes me want to burst into tears with its intensity. Not to mention the two hours of stress Monday night, added to the 13 hours of pure hell between Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday morning. I'm not sorry to be vague though. I can't talk about my own stuff, and I can't talk about my friends' stuff. Oh, well, I mean I could. I have choices...

This week has been chock full of both drama and melodrama. Enough to choke a herd of elephants. And I am quite ready for it to be over.

The first time, we park across the square from Jaarsma Bakery so we can walk, stretch our legs breathe the air outside the car. Three men near a truck filled with soil lean on shovels, planting bulbs in mid-Autumn, late October morning sun. We go back: Pella in the spring, brick sidewalks, red awnings, purple tulips everywhere. Drizzle falls and people on the square turn heads to speak, walk through the rain in silent, floured motion.

Sometimes days are bad. Today was such a day here. At least there's haiku.

Two weeks ago when I went running, the only thing between me and three black bulls was their perception of the fence. Staring at my hands, knuckle to palm, I said out loud, This is just matter. This morning I hear the quiet swish a horse makes rolling in the hay. He sees me, so he stands with dignity to watch me from the field. A mile or more away I hear repeated horn blasts and turn for home, sure in the knowledge I cannot know it's calling me, or run a mile or more up hills in time to answer.

Flat Back on a Razor aligned like digits a zipper seamed up her chest Eve dies first   she lies in leaves naked he wants to touch her he touches her and waits for air he licks her hair with his fingers and bends and bows and shots! he claws her breasts he thinks he can peel the stitches back and crawl inside ______________________________________ Adam Undertaker The first cut is hardest you flinch but she just lies there never bleeding, lies in sunlight, arms quiet at her sides her hair is so long! spread over the grassy floor it has become part of. These are the days without marble slabs, pre- linoleum. What is it like? Take something sharp like tooth or white like bone. Start at the throat. Cut her all the way down to her... well she doesn't have a navel. Lungs    breast plate   heart lie under skin dark from a lifetime in gardens. You stand there bone in hand (or tooth) and shake your head. How do you sp...

I was a little nervous about the response I would get to this. I didn't get much response, but I was grateful to receive this from a woman who has also left the Church. Reprinted with her permission.  " It's funny how little people understand that haven't left the Mormon church. My husband has never understood my complete and utter inability to casually attend another church. He grew up on a farm in Ohio so they just had some small community church that was more about socializing than religion. Every once in awhile he tries to get me to try out another church and I can't, if I were to truly believe it, not go 500% into it because if you believe it why wouldn't you practice every tiny little suggestion they make? And I don't truly believe in any church so I can't bring myself to go. People don't really realize how all or nothing that church really is. I have problems with Christianity in general in addition to the Mormon church though so I don...

1 The tree in March is fruit-white-- it will be green with pear in summer. Nearby the apple tree is leafy green, open. Petunia pinks are pomegranate small seeds in the flakey green. 2 Saturday midday sun white and glares from my truck. I know the people only by their cars. We move in parallel on narrow dirty roads. Gaps close between us, and I see my neighbors, cast in shadow, raise their hands to pass, to wave. 3 I heard the story of a nun, stripped of black robes and band of gold, laid in white cotton, stark relief in a hospital bed, surrounded by priests and sisters. When the old nun died, she raised her arms from her sides, to summon Christ, she lifted hands from the bed to wave, to praise, to greet Him. 4 Maybe it's all cloud perception the way the night air seems thick and even the moon appears to be smoking. The trees stand heavy, hold their limbs low in the dark gray sky. Not like the evening two weeks ago. I stood on the deck, clear ai...

Do not mistake grace for weakness .-- Aion online. Quote my kid put up as his FB status message. Awesome.

Editorial note: This was written first in 1991, then edited and revised in 2003. Some names and details have been changed. These thoughts and opinions are my own, and do not reflect the official policies or positions of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints or its members. Yes, I know the formatting is wonky, but after more than an hour of trying to fix it, my throat is killing me and I am going to bed. Try selecting all, then copying and pasting into an email. :) Took my own advice and emailed it to myself in the text of the email to strip it of its formatting. Should be mostly good now with a few weird punctuation issues.  And Pengo , thanks for the follow ;) This is also tl;dr. ;)   My best friend Kara called me from Provo, Utah, during my first year of marriage to tell me that a close friend of hers from her mission had recently committed suicide.  My first inclination was to blame the Mormon Church, particularly the mission experience....