Meet Wynne

I did promise this, and though I'm sure none of you are likely to care, I figured it's halfway through November, and I'm just over halfway done my NaNoWriMo word count (25.5k!), so here it is: novellish blurb.

It's nowhere near done (so no line-editing, please), but I've tried to cut out most of the throat-clearing and the expository bits that are relevant only if you're going to read the whole thing, and pared it down to just the bits that introduce you to Wynne, one of my main characters.

Besides the prohibition on line-editing you're free to make any comments you like on style, content, who you think Wynne is, if I "got" her or not, and what you think might happen to her. Or not. If you're very bored you could even cut and paste it in an email to your friends and make fun of it. It's up to you.

This introductory bit is in the omniscient third voice, but afterwards it jumps into limited third and stays there. So the tone of the blurb after this one will be quite different.

It was an atypically overcast early August day, prematurely chill, as if the weather were forecasting what was to come in November. The skies were low and grey, and a bitter mist fell, a cold rain so fine it felt more as if the air were wet. The followers of the Seer, each priest and priestess and acolyte, from the newest and youngest child member to the eldest and most frail, and including those from Glade and other centres of worship around the country if they could make it, gathered around the Oracle's pond and joined hands. It was a huge mass of men, women, girls and boys, a thousand or more; only a fraction of them were in front and could see the pond with their own eyes. They knelt their heads and recited the prayer in the old tongue and closed their eyes, waiting until the energy from the combined magic was so strong that it vibrated from hand to hand, from arm to arm, the entire chain of linked humans shaking like a chain of paper dolls, and then looked into the perfectly still mirror of the pond, looked to see who the replacement would be. Always it was a single image, and they knew it was true when a blue flame appeared over the chosen one's head, then flickered out.

In the pond that day was a child's face, Wynne's, looking perplexed and anxious. The gasp from the followers at the front might have been heard back in the city. The blue flame appeared over Wynne's head and flickered out; and so did Wynne, as distressed as she was, only to reappear and disappear again in half a dozen different places, ranging from her bedroom back at the temple, to her parents' kitchen, to an old park she liked to play in before having been called to the Seer, back to the circle, to her mother's bedroom, and then to the Oracle's stone in the centre of the pond. When she landed there and stayed, she burst into tears.

"She can't do this on her own. She's only a child," said Eyr, who was promptly volunteered to be Wynne's guardian and caretaker until such time as she had learned the ceremonies and rituals, mastered her anxious flickering, and possibly had learned how to sleep through the night without clutching her stuffed coyote. Despite their skills in precognition, not a man or woman there could understand what the Goddess might be up to.

...

Her life changed unrecognizably over the following twelve hours. Her few belongings were moved from the dormitory she shared with other acolytes to the High Priestess’s quarters; from having only lessons every day and ample time to play, she had both lessons in the magic of the Seer for the morning and then lessons in the duties of the High Priestess for most of the afternoon, followed by trying to actually fulfill them with Eyr’s help. Wynne no longer had time to spend with her friends; she worked from the moment she rose in the morning until she was laid half-asleep already in her bed at night, and in between every moment was spent with an adult. The evenings were the worst. People would come for an oracle. Wynne had to give them one, it was her duty. She would sit in the High Priestess’s chambers and let the visions come when she did not yet have enough strength to keep herself present nor enough maturity to understand or deal with what she saw. Would the baby live? (No, it wouldn’t; it would be dead in six months’ time.) Would the ship come back from its voyage to Nibier? (Yes, it would; but missing half its crew after a vicious storm.) Should my son marry Maild? (No; she will hurt him; within five years he will be sick and lost and die.) Eyr had a cot set up in Wynne’s new room to be with her overnight and offer some comfort, for the new High Priestess would often cry herself to sleep.

Sometimes, when she had crawled into Eyr’s bed and it hadn't helped, and she was still shaking and crying hard, sometimes, she would close her eyes, wish herself at home, and flicker into her mother's bed. This was easier than it used to be. At first her mother had been scared by the sudden appearance of her traumatized daughter in her bed in the middle of the night; but now these visits had become, if not normal, then common, and she would reach out her arms and pull her little girl close, stroke her hair and kiss her head, pull Wynne’s wet face to her shoulder, and murmur softly in her ear. What difficulties she faced each day to send her home this way so many nights she ached to ask but never did, instead doing what she had learned to do since Wynne was a baby and having a hard time sleeping, even then flickering in and out of air when she was sad and crying. Hold her close, calm her down, let her sleep. Kiss her hair, stroke the tears from her cheeks. Try to keep her from flickering away again. Give her something solid to anchor herself to.

She’d dredge all of her memories of Wynne as a baby and toddler and young child through her mind, looking for the clue she had missed, the sign she should have realized meant that her unprepossessing youngest child was meant to be anything other than a highly distractable woman given to making too much out of little things. Wynne was never precocious in the way some children are, she showed no early aptitude for letters or numbers, she was not unusually advanced manually, not especially coordinated. Her only unusual trait—besides, of course, the flickering itself, the tenuousness of her corporeality, as if she were not convinced she was real—was her immense sensitivity. Wynne cried often, many times over things no one else understood. Clearly she would one day be called to the Seer because of the flickering, that was obvious. She would serve as a priestess. But she’s not special, she felt like arguing with the universe. Wynne can’t be a High Priestess, she’s not special. It felt treasonous to think this as her mother, but it was true.

Her husband would wake at the sobbing and roll over to see their daughter in his wife's arms again. Scared for Wynne and feeling impotent, he would pull the hair back from his daughter's face, and watch her, wishing he could wrench her back from the temple and bring her home to have a normal childhood. But what could they do? If she resisted the call she would only end up in the asylum. Eventually Wynne would fall asleep, face still buried in her mother's shoulder, small hands clenching her mother’s nightclothes. Eventually, her parents too would fall asleep, staring at each other over their daughter’s head.

In the morning, when they woke, Wynne was always gone.

Things I already know about:

-occasional word repetitions
-no physical descriptions of characters yet
-it's not very good. It's a first draft, ok?

Posted by Andrea at 4:33 PM | Comments (6)

Monday Mission on Tuesday: Untitled

(I forgot the name of this exercise, but the goal is to write a scene of dialogue in which one of the characters is silent but not absent. 700 words. This week I decided to pull some characters and a scenario from something else I'm working on--I'm not sure I can use this, but it was an interesting challenge nonetheless. If you'd really like to help me out you can take a guess at what Kyrie was feeling/thinking in the comments box.)

They stood on the Promenade: Freya, Samuel, Kyrie and Benjamin, facing the Temple. To their back was the Mother’s Tears, water level down from a long dry summer, but the trees along its bank as green as ever. Around them young children laughed and played while their parents helplessly tried to keep up with them, and the teenagers beside the fountain were almost certainly truant. The flatbread sellers were doing a brisk trade in iced drinks and sweets, but Samuel and Benjamin had eyes only for the Temple on the other side of the Palace. The midday summer sun glittered off its sodalite and quartz facings, making the split pyramid appear almost like a brighter section of the sky, while about it base to tip flew priests and priestesses, so dwarfed by the massive structure that they looked like dragonflies or hummingbirds.

“They actually fly,” said Samuel.

“A mark of the Huntress’s favour,” said Freya, leading them toward a stone bench nearby.

“So you say.”

“You disbelieve me?” Freya’s brow briefly rose. “Well. Many of the Queendom’s own citizens do as well. You may have heard tales of doubters and skeptics, or even believers who do not want to travel to End, jumping off of barns or rooftops in the countryside. Many young men and women are injured this way every year.”

Kyrie studied the two of them, then returned her purposefully blank gaze to the Temple. It was beautiful, no doubt of it.

Samuel smiled, a genuine one, it seemed. “This seems convenient, doesn’t it? That the priests and priestesses of the Huntress can truly fly—ah, but only around her Temples.”

“It leaves room for skepticism I suppose, but faith without challenge means little.” Freya shrugged. “We know it is true. I can fly wherever I choose, but doing so off of temple ground is blasphemy. The act is sacred to the Goddess.”

Kyrie’s jaw clenched. She smoothed out her red fire dancer’s skirt as she sat, choosing to look, for the moment, at two girls running after a rolling hoop toward her right. The bigger one with her black curls and small beaked nose reminded her of Skadi.

“How many men dream of flying?” said Samuel quietly.

“Does anyone not?” asked Benjamin.

“And what of the other orders?” said Samuel. “The Water Goddess—the Mother, you call her?”

Freya inclined her head. “Yes. They can create—bring into existence living things.”

“I know of many a king who would love to raise an army that way,” said Samuel.

“Or a harem.” Benjamin smirked and slouched against the bench’s stone back. Kyrie thought of smacking him, and sat on her hands.

“I think not,” said Freya. “Such an act could only be punished in the gravest possible way. I’m not sure you grasp this: magic is sacred. It is not a game or a parlour trick, it is a serious calling and no one would dare abuse it. Why do you think you have no magic in Senot?”

“Who says we don’t?” Benjamin said. Kyrie didn’t even have to look to know the infuriatingly insolent gaze Benjamin must be turning on Freya at that moment. Oh to be back at Circle House with Skadi.

“Anyone who has met your priests would know that they are powerless.” Freya’s voice was growing brittle.

“And the Seer’s followers,” said Samuel quickly. “They see the future, I hear?”

“Yes,” said Freya, “As do we, although in different ways and by different means.”

Kyrie looked back towards the three of them, and saw Samuel shaking his head. “What would stop someone from abusing such a power? If you know the future, it would be so easy to shape it.”

“Indeed it is. Why do you think the Queendom is stable, prosperous, and scientifically advanced while the people of Senot still get around by horse and live in shacks?” Freya seemed oblivious to the look that Samuel and Benjamin shared. “But the goddesses and the gods call only those who will serve them truly; manipulators and tyrants are not given the ability to see the future.”

“What happens to those who are called and choose not to serve?” asked Samuel.

“They go mad,” Freya replied.

Kyrie’s gaze slid back to the girls and their hoop, laughing while they lunged and sprinted, and their parents standing nearby and shaking their heads. She kept her features even, and bit her tongue so hard it hurt.

Posted by Andrea at 10:21 AM | Comments (1)

Monday Mission: No Ideas but in Things

(Today's mission is to write a 500-word postcard story without dialogue or any description of characters' interior states. Every idea needs to be placed in an object or an action.)

She fastened her skirt behind her hips, tucked in her high-necked green sweater, pulled up her tights and squirmed her feet into her black boots. Reflexively, before leaving for her new job, she fastened her silver pentacle around her neck, then did up her winter coat and grabbed her purse and ran for the bus.

The bus was late and full and she found a spot by the rear door to stand, holding the railing, staring out the window. Outside grey empty trees and dingy grey snowbanks creeped by, but her eyes focused elsewhere. Maybe on the dim grey sky behind the grey buildings. Not, certainly, on the eyes of the woman sitting in the seat by the window, pointedly staring at her.

She got off, raced to her desk, checked the clock. Ten minutes early. She poured a cup of tea and let it steep at her desk while she checked emails before the morning’s meetings. The next one in the Yonge Room—where would that be? Third floor? No, fifth. This hallway? No, that. There it was. Five minutes late. She found an empty seat and pulled out her notebook and pen and took notes, referring frequently to the binder left behind by the last person in her job. She took frequent small sips of her tea and made careful notes in a neat hand. Blue ball-point pen, nothing fancy, just a Bic. When the break came she grabbed a mini muffin and sat back in her seat, re-reading her notes and the binder, annotating the margin; eventually she put the pen down and leaned back, breaking small pieces of muffin off and putting them in her mouth, wiping her fingertips on the napkin between bites. The room was corporate beige and corporate grey and corporate red, the carpeting laid in inoffensive tiles, whiteboards and corkboards hanging in place of art in any other room.

Groups of attendees stood around the room in clumps of two or three or four, talking and laughing, but sometimes, too, staring at her. Or not precisely at her. At her neck. She flushed, and traced the silver chain with her index finger, held the pentacle in her palm. As the meeting reconvened she kept it there, thumb and forefinger worrying the line of the star, still taking notes with her right hand, still flushed, looking only at her page or at the speaker. By the time the lunch break came around, she had carefully tucked the pentacle inside her green shirt, chain and all.

~~~~~

422 words. Not bad.

In this morning's Toronto Star there is a story about Stephanie Conover, invited to participate in judging a beauty pageant, then de-invited when the organizers found out she practiced Tarot and Reiki. Just in case any of you were under the impression that we had freedom of religion in this country.

More on this tomorrow (or Wednesday, depending on how busy I am). Today it might make my head explode.

Posted by Andrea at 10:01 AM | Comments (5)

Deserving

Andrea: I have a bone to pick with you.

World: Excuse me?

Andrea: I said, I have a bone to pick with you?

World: Just a second. (rifles through stacks of files) Ah! OK, here you are. You do? Are you sure?

Andrea: Yes. You've probably noticed that Christmas is coming soon to some parts of the world, and it's a pretty big deal to preschoolers. And you might have in your file that I've recently separated...

World: Yep.

Andrea: So. I just thought you should know that I really, really wanted there to be a pile of presents from Santa under the tree this year.

World: And?

Andrea: And? And don't you think Frances deserves it?

Luke 12:15 Then He said to them, “Beware, and be on your guard against every form of greed; for not even when one has an abundance does his life consist of his possessions.” 16 And He told them a parable, saying, “The land of a rich man was very productive. 17 “And he began reasoning to himself, saying, ‘What shall I do, since I have no place to store my crops?’ 18 “Then he said, ‘This is what I will do: I will tear down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. 19 ‘And I will say to my soul, “Soul, you have many goods laid up for many years to come; take your ease, eat, drink and be merry.”’ 20 “But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your soul is required of you; and now who will own what you have prepared?’"

World: (snorts)

Andrea: What?

World: Let me show you your ledger.

Andrea: (in a small voice) Oh. Never mind.

World: Look at the partial list that just covers all the things you have that you can currently see, without turning your head: desktop garbage can, box of kleenex, monitor, telephone, keyboard, hand lotion, two mugs--TWO MUGS! You never drink coffee!, a can of diet coke, box of paperclips, stacks of paper, TWO hardbacked notebooks, fifteen pictures of your daughter...

Andrea: I see your point.

World: Fifteen! How many versions of her face do you need to reflect on, exactly, in the course of a nine-hour workday? OK, she's cute, but...

Andrea: She is very cute.

World: And do you see the stacks of impossibly thin, one-sheet files over there? The millions and millions of them? Care to guess how many of them are for kids who won't be eating this Christmas?

Andrea: All right. I get it.

World: Deserves! What's wrong with you westerners? How could any of you possibly look around and think that you don't already have much more than you could ever deserve? With the exception of a few of you who truly don't have enough, but the whole North American concept of enough is another problem....

Andrea: I said all right! Never mind. We can drop the whole business. Frances will get the yellow duckie under the tree that she asked Santa for, and maybe one or two other things because I really really really want to give her things.

World: Want. Yes. That's the crux of it. But not so fast, I'm afraid. There is still the matter of your outstanding account.

Andrea: My what? Excuse me?

World: Right here. See?

Andrea: Oh. Oh my.

Luke 12:42 And the Lord said, “Who then is the faithful and sensible steward, whom his master will put in charge of his servants, to give them their rations at the proper time? 43 “Blessed is that slave whom his master finds so doing when he comes. 44 “Truly I say to you that he will put him in charge of all his possessions. 45 “But if that slave says in his heart, ‘My master will be a long time in coming,’ and begins to beat the slaves, both men and women, and to eat and drink and get drunk; 46 the master of that slave will come on a day when he does not expect him and at an hour he does not know, and will cut him in pieces, and assign him a place with the unbelievers. 47 “And that slave who knew his master’s will and did not get ready or act in accord with his will, will receive many lashes, 48 but the one who did not know it, and committed deeds worthy of a flogging, will receive but few. From everyone who has been given much, much will be required; and to whom they entrusted much, of him they will ask all the more.

World: Yes. And what are you going to do about it?

Andrea: There's no way I can possibly pay all that back.

World: Tough nuts, I'm afraid. We have certain expectations for those of you who are truly blessed, and there are no opt-out clauses. Fortunately we have a few generous payment plans.

Andrea: But I already work full-time as an environmentalist...

World: Yes. And you'll see that's already been applied towards your debt.

Andrea: ...and I already donate five per cent of my income to different groups...

World: Five per cent. How much does it impress you when someone like Bill Gates gives five per cent of their income to some grand cause?

Andrea: (small voice) Not a whole lot.

World: You are a lot closer to the Bill Gates's of the world than the refugees and sweatshop workers. See that kid over there? He's asked for a soccer ball for Christmas, every year for the past five years.

Andrea: Maybe I could do six.

World: I don't understand. So many people just come up and pick my pocket--can you believe it?--thinking I owe them more, they deserve more, and they've got one of these fat files, like you have. Why isn't anyone ever satisfied?

Andrea: I'm sorry.

World. Yeah, well don't you worry. They get theirs. When they die we sic the extra-nasty worms on their corpses.

Andrea: (pause) That doesn't sound all that bad, actually, after a lifetime of privilege and wealth. They can't even feel it.

World: I know, we're working on it. Look, if you want to make serious progress on your debt, you know what you can do? You can work on that kid of yours. All she wants is a little yellow duckie, so just give her that little yellow duckie. Make Christmas about all the other stuff--the baking and cooking and songs. The parts all you crazy people get all sentimental about. Do you remember what you got for Christmas when you were growing up?

Andrea: Noooooo.

World: But you remember the daisybraid and the gingerbread trees, don't you? And the year your dog ate all the christmas cookie ornaments off the bottom of the tree? Singing alternative lyrics to Jingle Bells at the school pageants? The handmade felt stocking with your name on it in glitter? All the paper chain ornaments hanging on the family tree? Give Frances the stuff she'll remember.

Andrea: Good point.

World: And teach her how lucky she is, you know? Teach her how much closer she is to the top than the bottom. Maybe she won't rack up her debt quite so fast that way. Help her start paying it back now. She's got a good heart, I think it'll stick. And she's already got a pretty fat file. Besides, where would you even put new toys?

Andrea: (sighs)

World: In the meantime, I'm sure you could be doing more.

Andrea: I could. You're right. I will.

World: Make sure that you do. That might knock a portion of a per cent off of your accumulated total. And if you really, really wanted to impress me....

Andrea: Don't say it. I know what you're going to say, and just don't.

World: ...then cut down on the book purchases. You already have enough to get you through the next six months...

Andrea: I knew it. I knew that's what you were going to say.

World: ...and there is a library across the street...

Andrea: Yeah, I know.

World: ...do you know how lucky you are to even have a library, period?

Andrea: OK. Fine. Shut up.

World: So?

Andrea: I'll think about it.

~~~~~

Normally, when someone asks a girl when she's going to have a baby, the questioner is risking a broken nose, a missing tooth, or at least a clenched-jaw grin with a nominally-polite "fuck you" disguised as a "not yet." The response one normally does not get is, "What a great idea! I'm going to go home and get started right away!"

So you can imagine my surprise. What you probably can't imagine is how happy I was.

Unlike a real-life labour, this time, the more hours the better. But it's not a contest. If all you can see for you next year is an afternoon free to stuff envelopes, then put your three hours into the ring and be happy that it's three hours more than you otherwise would have done. Not everybody needs to bring a stroller to the baby shower--booties and rattles and bottles are valuable and needed, too.

Meanwhile, not all of you have blogs of your own, I know. So for those of you who don't, I'll put the comments and emails into a separate post, so they're all collected somewhere. Look for it early in the new year.

Posted by Andrea at 10:32 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

Didn't you say you weren't going to do this, Andrea?

Well. Yes.

But, see. Last year I made it a New Year's Resolution for 2007: Write a Book. And I am running out of time. And I can't see any way to get writing into the schedule that is ... how shall I put this ... realistic? Pragmatic? Easy? Sane? Not going to devour every second of spare time I have anyway?

A day goes like this:

6:30 Frances pads into my room. "Is it morning time, Mommy?" "Sort of." "Is it a play day?" "No, it's a school day." "But I don't want to go to school!" "I know."

7:45ish: We finally head out the door, with full tummies and packed lunches.

8:30ish: I get to work.

5:20ish: I leave work.

6:00ish: Frances and I arrive home. This is followed by supper for both of us, playtime, and chatting about our day.

7:00: Frances talks to her dad on the phone for a few minutes.

7:15: Frances gets into her jammies, teeth brushed, then a story or two, possibly including one in the ongoing series about Princess Frances, who is very brave and strong.

7:40: Frances is tucked into bed. She babbles, kicks her feet against the wall, sings to her stuffed toys, rolls around, and generally protests bedtime in the most pleasant way possible. I tear hair from my scalp.

8:00: Generally, she sleeps. I then wash dishes, sweep dirt, sand and leaves from the floor, scrub the counters and the table, sort the mail, pay the bills, carry out the garbage, work out for 30-60 minutes, have a shower, finish putting Frances's toys away, and collapse. It is then nearly 10 pm. The day is gone.

I seriously don't have the time. But then I look ahead and realize I will never have the time. This is life. Life does not make time.

Last weekend I went to a writing workshop on creative blocks put on by a psychiatrist/editor/writer. It was entertaining; and while much of what was under discussion was not relevant to me (I don't think anyone could read this blog and believe that I am seriously bothered by what other people might think of me or my writing--I have hang-ups but that's not one of them), some of it was. It was based on gestalt theory, which seemed to involve a whole lot of role-playing, and thank goodness I managed to avoid being called to the front. One woman who was not so fortunate was put into a chair with an empty chair facing her, and instructed to tell her book why she wasn't writing it.

It was just as goofy as it sounds, but what she said was, "I like you a lot, but I just don't have time for you. I wish I did, but I don't."

Said the presenter: "Is there anyone or anything else you would ever say that to? I like you a lot, but I don't have time for you. Would you say that to a friend or a lover?"

So it was goofy, but illustrative, because of course not. If there is something that matters or that we enjoy, we make time for it. Gods know that working out five or six days a week is not easy. It's not even fun, most of the time. It swallows up a chunk of my day and makes it hard to keep to a consistent sleep schedule. But I do it because it matters (having learned through experience that I find it much easier to deal with stress when I am getting plenty of vigorous activity, I now know that when I have the least time for exercise is the very time I must not under any circumstances drop it from my schedule).

She also argued that much of what gets in the way of getting the writing done is stuff that is outside of a writer's control: will this be marketable? Will my third grade teacher think that I based the Florp character on her, and call my mother to complain? Will my grandmother be so mortified by the sex scenes that she'll never invite me over to christmas dinner again? Will this be brilliant and original? Her answer was to lower the bar: just get the damned thing done and worry about the fall-out later.

This seems like a reasonable--no scratch that: this seems like a completely unreasonable but possibly effective way of finding out. I want to see what happens when I take choice out of the equation and give myself a deadline. Fifty thousand words by November 30. Good god. I don't even know what book I'm going to write yet (guess I'll find out this evening). That's about two thousand words per day with five days off for good behaviour. I want to see what happens when I stop caring if it's any good because I don't have time to go back and revise it.

"Why are you telling us this? Why should we care if you write a book this month?"

Well. You know. I'm probably not going to have much, if any, time to put things here. Two thousand words a day plus a blog post would surely court a nervous breakdown. If I do post here, it will probably be fiction or related to the novel, or both. With the exception of Frances Fridays, which shall be and shall for ever be.

("That's all we really care about, Andrea. Just tell us we're still going to get our Frances fix.")

Yes. I know.

Posted by Andrea at 6:00 AM | Comments (17)

Moderating Clod and Pebble

Pebble: Your readers are idiots.

Andrea: I disagree. Different people have different perspectives on these things, depending on their own experiences and expectations.

Clod: I'm still right.

Pebble: Shut up.

Clod: You think that because I'm just a kid, I don't know anything, I don't know any better, but I do. And I'm right.

Andrea: You're both wrong.

Clod & Pebble: (silent)

Andrea: Sorry. But in the first instance, neither of you actually exist. You are inventions of a very smart man called William Blake who was trying to make a point about love....

Pebble: Right, so. Let's pretend this Blake person really existed and I am just a figment of his long-dead imagination. What is the point he was trying to make?

Clod: That I'm right and you are evil!

Pebble: Shut up!

Andrea: That love is a choice.

Clod & Pebble: (silence)

Andrea: That any one of us can choose either perspective. It is a choice.

Look, he included this, first of all, in his Songs of Experience. As many have argued, this puts the emphasis on the voice of the Pebble, the experienced and hardened one, who has seen and survived and been burnt badly by love in the past, and is protecting itself. Yet the structure of the poem defies this simplistic interpretation: in other instances there are matched poems, The Lamb in Songs of Innocence and The Tyger in Songs of Experience. If the Clod's viewpoint was simply intended to be superseded by a more intelligent or wiser Pebble, then they would not have both been included in a single piece in the second volume. The Clod would be in the first, and the Pebble in the second.

Secondly, the Pebble's vision of love is not one that Blake seems to advocate anywhere else. Elsewhere, he is a proponent of free love, openly opining that the experience and expression of love should not be caged by any conventions. So it's hard to reconcile the Pebble's viewpoint with Blake's other works, for instance, from A Little Girl Lost, "Children of the future age,/ Reading this indignant page,/ Know that in a former time / Love, sweet love, was thought a crime." This is also from Songs of Experience. So where to put the Pebble?

Pebble: I'm quite happy in the brook.

Andrea: Right. Sorry. I meant metaphorically.

I think what he was getting at was that the Pebble's viewpoint was a result of certain experiences, making it wiser and tougher, but not necessarily endorsing it. I mean, building a hell in heaven--that's pretty damning. (No pun intended.)

What he's done is presented readers with the two choices: love for others, love for self. Free love, bound love. Heaven in hell, hell in heaven. Now pick one. Where do you stand?

Clod: Who could possibly choose to be a narcissistic Pebble?

Pebble: Who could possibly choose to be a foolish Clod?

Andrea: That's where it gets interesting, isn't it? Every parent knows (as Mary G pointed out) that the job of being a parent is being a Clod. Your kids walk all over you, and it's your job to let them do it and love them anyway. The test of your love's strength is in your ability to put their needs ahead of your own, to value their happiness more than yours, even when the little shits take you utterly for granted and push every button a thousand times an hour.

Clod: Ha!

Andrea: But romantic love is not so simple. It seems that way when you're younger, but then you get trodden on by a few cows, and you turn into a Pebble and run away to the brook. Then what? Do you stay a Pebble, eternally making heaven into hell by trying to tie someone to you for your own pleasure at the expense of theirs?

I think the presentation of both viewpoints in the same poem within the second book means that the reader has a choice of how to respond to their experiences. They can allow the pain of love gone badly to harden them, or they can do something much more difficult: know what you are risking by keeping yourself open, know what the pain is like when you are wrong, know what the cost will be, do it anyway. Pay it anyway. You've learned more than the Pebble--that you cannot actually bind anyone to you, people not being objects; that a love which makes heaven into hell is not worth it.

Anyone can be a Clod when they don't know any better, and anyone can be a Pebble when they do. But knowing better and choosing to be a Clod anyway, having experience and choosing innocence--that's hard.

Which doesn't mean you have to choose innocence or that, having chosen it, you are obliged to be blind to when you are being taken advantage of. Then you have the option of being two adults who are making choices and being responsible for them. Who are not together because they have to be, or believe they have to be, but because every day they wake up and look the other person in the eye and choose to be.

Pebble: You're crazy.

Clod: Bonkers.

Andrea: I've never actually met Mr. Blake, so I could be wrong.

Clod: You are definitely wrong. Pebble is wrong but you are much, much wronger.

Pebble: Wronger? Is that a word?

Clod: Love conquers all! You just have to believe.

Pebble: You are delusional and you are going to get your heart broken.

Andrea: (shrugs) Well, maybe.

Posted by Andrea at 5:55 AM | Comments (6)

The Clod and the Pebble are at it again

The Clod and the Pebble, William Blake

"Love seeketh not itself to please
nor for itself hath any care,
but for another gives its ease
and builds a heaven in hell's despair."

So sang a little clod of clay,
trodden by the cattle's feet.
But a pebble of the brook
warbled out these meters neat:

"Love seeketh only self to please,
to bind another to its delight,
joys in another's loss of ease
and build's a hell in heaven's despite."

Clod: How can you say such a thing?

Pebble: What?

Clod: How can you say such a thing? How can you call that love?

Pebble: Look, I'm not saying that's the way things are supposed to be. That's just the way things are.

Clod: Things are not that way.

Pebble: (snorts)

Clod: They don't have to be, anyway. To say that you love someone and then use it as an excuse to deprive them of happiness...

Pebble: Oh, here we go.

Clod: To say that you love someone and that it imposes on them an obligation to make you happy! To use it to bind and control them!

Pebble: (sighs)

Clod: Love is about making the beloved happy.

Pebble: And this is exactly why cows walk around on you all day and night, while I am here in some nice soft dirt by a beautiful brook.

Clod: That's not true, I just fell here.

Pebble: It's only natural to want to make someone stay close to you when you love them. That's what love is.

Clod: Coercion is not love. You can't make anyone do anything. I might want them there...

Pebble: Right. Exactly.

Clod: ...but I wouldn't try to make them be there.

Pebble: Then they won't be.

Clod: Make them! How do you make them? Leg irons?

Pebble: One would need legs, first. This is stupid. We've been having this argument now for three hundred years. It's time to change stations.

Clod: Well, we have an audience. Why don't we ask them what they think?

Pebble: Sure. Let's do it.

(You heard them, Dear Readers. Who has the right of it? What's love? Are you on the clod's side, or the pebble's? Keeping in mind that neither designation is especially flattering.)

Clod: I'm still right.

Pebble: Shut up.

Posted by Andrea at 9:27 AM | Comments (8)

Horton Doesn't Hear a Who

(The original, slightly altered by Yours Truly. You'll have to read the whole thing to find the alterations--can you find them all? This is my contribution to Goldfish's Blogging Against Disablism day. Click on the sidebar button for more information and to see the rest of the entries.)

On the fifteenth of May, in the jungle of Nool,
In the heat of the day, in the cool of the pool,
He was splashing…enjoying the jungle’s great joys…
When Horton the elephant heard a small noise.

So Horton stopped splashing. He looked towards the sound.
“That’s funny,” thought Horton. “There’s no one around.”
Then he heard it again! Just a very faint yelp
As if some tiny person were calling for help.
“I’ll help you,” said Horton. “But who are you? Where?”
He looked and he looked. He could see nothing there
But a small speck of dust blowing past though the air.

“I say!” murmured Horton. “I’ve never heard tell
Of a small speck of dust that is able to yell.
So you know what I think?…Why, I think that there must
Be someone on top of that small speck of dust!
Some sort of a creature of very small size,
too small to be seen by an elephant’s eyes…

“…some poor little person who’s shaking with fear
That he’ll blow in the pool! He has no way to steer!
I’ll just have to save him. Because, after all,
A person’s a person, no matter how small.”

So, gently, and using the greatest of care,
The elephant stretched his great trunk through the air,
And he lifted the dust speck and carried it over
And placed it down, safe, on a very soft clover.

“Humpf!” humpfed a voice. Twas a sour Kangaroo.
And the young kangaroo in he pouch said “Humpf!” too
“Why, that speck is as small as the head of a pin.
A person on that?…why, there never has been!”

“Believe me,” said Horton. “I tell you sincerely,
My ears are quite keen and I heard him quite clearly.
I know there’s a person down there. And, what’s more,
Quite likely there’s two. Even three. Even four.
Quite likely…

“…a family, for all that we know!
A family with children just starting to grow.
So, please,” Horton said, “as a favour to me,
Try not to disturb them. Just let them be.”

“I think you’re a fool!” laughed the sour kangaroo
And the young kangaroo in her pouch said, “Me, too!
You’re the biggest blame fool in the jungle of Nool!”
And the kangaroos plunged in the cool of the pool.
“What terrible splashing!” the elephant frowned.
“I can’t let my very small persons get drowned!
I’ve got to protect them. I’m bigger than they.”
So he plucked up the clover and hustled away.

Then Horton stopped walking.
The speck-voice was talking!
The voice was so faint he could just barely hear it.
“Speak up, please,” Said Horton. He put his ear near it.
“Can you hear me?” the voice said. "Is anyone there?
Am I talking through my machine to empty air?"
"Oh no!" said Horton. "I heard you yelp!
And so of course, I decided to help."

"Help?" said the small voice. "I don't understand.
Were we in danger? Did we need a hand?"

And Horton called back to the Mayor of the town,
“You’re safe now. Don’t worry. I won’t let you down.”

But, just as he spoke to the Mayor of the speck,
Three big jungle monkeys climbed up Horton’s neck!
The Wickersham Brothers came shouting, “What rot!
This elephants talking to Whos who are not!
There aren’t any Whos! And they don’t have a Mayor!
And we’re going to stop all this nonsense! So there!”

They snatched Horton’s clover! They carried it off
To a black-bottomed eagle named Valad Vlad-I-Koff,
A mighty strong eagle, of very swift wing,
And they said, “Will you kindly get rid of this thing?”
And, before the poor elephant could even speak,
That eagle flew off with the flower in his beak.

All that late afternoon and far into the night
That black-bottomed bird flapped his wings in fast flight,
While Horton chased after, with groans, over stones
That tattered his toenails and battered his bones,
And begged, “Please don’t harm all my little folks, who
Have as much right to live as us bigger folk do!”

But far, far beyond him, that eagle kept flapping
And over his shoulder called back, “Quit your yapping.
I’ll fly the night through. I’m a bird. I don’t mind it.
And I’ll hide this, tomorrow, where you’ll never find it!”

And at 6:56 the next morning he did it.
It sure was a terrible place that he hid it.
He let that small clover drop somewhere inside
Of a great patch of clovers a hundred miles wide!
“Find THAT!” sneered the bird. “But I think you will fail.”
And he left
With a flip
Of his black-bottomed tail.

“I’ll find it!” cried Horton. “I’ll find it or bust!
I SHALL find my friends on my small speck of dust!”
And clover, by clover, by clover with care
He picked up and searched the, and called, “Are you there?”
But clover, by clover, by clover he found
That the one that he sought for was just not around.
And by noon poor old Horton, more dead than alive,
Had picked, searched, and piled up, nine thousand and five.

Then, on through the afternoon, hour after hour…
Till he found them at last! On the three millionth flower!
“My friends!” cried the elephant. “Tell me! Do tell!
Are you safe? Are you sound? Are you whole? Are you well?”

"What? Oh!" said the voice. "Is this Horton again?
Our too-big-to-be-seen elephant friend?
Yes, of course, we're quite well. Things got a bit breezy,
But compared to some storms we've been in, this was easy."
"You are so brave!" said Horton. "So brave and so strong!
Boy, it's a good thing that I came along."

“Humpf!” humpfed a voice!
“For almost two days you’ve run wild and insisted
On chatting with persons who’ve never existed.
Such carryings-on in our peaceable jungle!
We’ve had quite enough of your bellowing bungle!
And I’m here to state,” snapped the big kangaroo,
“That your silly nonsensical game is all through!”
And the young kangaroo in her pouch said, “Me, too!”

“With the help of the Wickersham Brothers and dozens
Of Wickersham Uncles and Wickershams Cousins
And Wickersham In-Laws, whose help I’ve engaged,
You’re going to be roped! And you’re going to be caged!
And, as for your dust speck…hah!
That we shall boil
In a hot steaming kettle of Beezle-Nut Oil!”
“Boil it?…” gasped Horton!
“Oh, that you can’t do!
It’s all full of persons!
They’ll prove it to you!”

“Mr. Mayor! Mr. Mayor!” Horton called. “Mr. Mayor!
You’ve got to prove that you really are there!
So call a big meeting. Get everyone out.
Make every Who holler! Make every Who shout!
Make every Who scream! If you don’t, every Who
Is going to end up in a Beezle-Nut stew!”

And, down on the dust speck, the furious Mayor
Quick called a big meeting in Who-ville Town Square.
And his people cried loudly. They cried out in fear:
“We are here! We are here! We are here!”

The elephant smiled: “That was clear as a bell.
You Kangaroos surely heard that very well.”
“All I heard,” snapped the big kangaroo, “Was the breeze,
And the faint sound of wind through the far-distant trees.
I heard no small voices. And you didn’t either.”
And the you kangaroo in her pouch said, “Me, neither.”

“Grab him!” they shouted. “And cage the big dope!
Lasso his stomach with ten miles of rope!
Tie the knots tight so he’ll never shake lose!
Then dunk that dumb speck in the Beezle-Nut juice!”

Horton fought back with great vigor and vim
But the Wickersham gang was too many for him.
They beat him! They mauled him! They started to haul
Him into his cage! But he managed to call
To the Mayor: “Don’t give up! I believe in you all
A person’s a person, no matter how small!
And you very small persons will not have to die
If you make yourselves heard! So come on, now, and TRY!”

The Mayor grabbed a tom-tom. He started to smack it.
And, all over Who-ville, they whooped up a racket.

Great gusts of loud racket rang high through the air.
They rattled and shook the whole sky! And the Mayor
Called up through the howling mad hullabaloo:
“Hey Horton! How's this? Is our sound coming through?”

And Horton called back, “I can hear you just fine.
But the kangaroos’ ears aren’t as strong, quite, as mine.
They don’t hear a thing! Are you sure all you boys
Are doing their best? Are they ALL making noise?
Are you sure every Who down in Who-ville is working?
Quick! Look through your town! Is there anyone shirking?”

Through the town rushed the Mayor, From the east to the west.
But everyone seemed to be doing his best.
Everyone seemed to be yapping or yipping!
Everyone seemed to be beeping or bipping!
But it wasn’t enough, all this ruckus and roar!
He HAD to find someone to help him make more.
He raced through each building! He searched floor-to-floor!

And, just as he felt he was getting nowhere,
And almost about to give up in despair,
He suddenly burst through a door and that Mayor
Discovered one shirker! Quite hidden away
In the Fairfax Apartments (Apartment 12-J)
A very small, very small shirker named Jo-Jo
was standing, just standing, and bouncing a Yo-Yo!
Not making a sound! Not a yipp! Not a chirp!
And the Mayor rushed inside and he grabbed the young twerp!

And he climbed with the lad up the Eiffelberg Tower.
“This,” cried the Mayor, “is your town's darkest hour!
The time for all Whos who have blood that is red
To come to the aid of their country!” he said.
“We’ve GOT to make noises in greater amounts!
So, open your mouth, lad! For every voice counts!”

Thus he spoke as he climbed. When they got to the top,
The lad cleared his throat and he shouted out, “YOPP!”

And that Yopp…
That one small, extra Yopp put it over!
Finally, at last! From that speck on that clover
Their voices were heard! They rang out clear and clean.
And the elephant smiled. “Do you see what I mean?…
They’ve proved they ARE persons, no matter how small.
And their whole world was saved by the smallest of All!”

“How true! Yes, how true,” said the big kangaroo.
“And, from now on, you know what I’m planning to do?…
From now on, I’m going to protect them with you!”
And the young kangaroo in her pouch said…
“…ME, TOO!”

"Oh for crying out loud!" The mayor now yelled,
"Protect us from what? If Horton hadn't held
Onto that clover, if he'd let us fall
Into the grass, you'd not have found us at all.
We'd be perfectly safe now, without all that shouting!
Wipe that smirk off your face! No more pouting!
Don't you think we've always floated through the air
And been perfectly fine, without ever a care?
We don't need your protection! We don't need your help!
We don't need you to come thundering when we yelp!
We know we are persons; we don't need your say!
We just need you giants to get out of our way!"

"Now, that's just silly," said Horton with a grin.
"Be fine on your own? You never have been!
You almost were drowned, and you almost were lost.
I don't mind helping, I don't count the cost.
I am an elephant; I am strong and tall,
And so of course I know what's best for you all.
I remember quite clearly that I heard you yelp;
I know that I heard you call out for help."

"Help?" yelled the Mayor. "Help? I didn't say help!

"I said HELLO!"

~~~~~

Because as much as I love Dr. Seuss, Horton is a bit of a paternalistic dope who, if he really believed that persons were persons no matter how small, might have bothered to ask them what they wanted.

Posted by Andrea at 6:10 AM | Comments (12)

Psychology Exam

1. The coolest kid in kindergarten:

a. Has the toy everyone else wants and has.
b. Has a toy very similar to the toy everyone else wants and has.
c. Has a toy that no one else wants or has.
d. May or may not have any toys at all. May or may not care about toys. Perhaps is reading a book, making a rug out of fabric scraps or peeling chewing gum off the playground.
e. Is pulling the heads off the toys that everyone else wants and has, and making up stories about how a much cooler and badder toy villian comes along which hates all these stupid wimpy toys and their stupid wimpy guns because everything popular sucks.

2. By grade six, the coolest girl in the class:

a. Is the one whose parents let her dye her hair blonde and wear really short skirts and trendy clothes so she looks just like the picture of Mary Kate on the cover of Teen Vogue.
b. Is the one who wears really short skirts and all the trendiest clothes but who dyes her hair red.
c. Is the one who is wearing soccer cleats and shorts and whose hair is in a ponytail and who just won a bunch of sports trophies.
d. Is in the corner reading a book.
e. Is sitting in another corner with some friends mocking the fake-blonde girl who looks just like Mary Kate.

3. By grade nine, the coolest girl in the class:

a. Is a cheerleader with fake boobs bought with her Daddy's investment money.
b. Keeps trying out for the chearleading squad but never quite makes the cut; but she hangs out with them.
c. Plays in the school band.
d. Is the school president.
e. Organizes protests against the principal's oppressive stance on LGBT rights.
f. Sells dope and gets into clubs underage.
g. Is sitting in the corner, reading a book.
h. Is sitting in the corner with her friends, making fun of everyone from a through g.

4. After highschool, the coolest girl in town:

a. Is working for minimum wage and engaged to her highschool sweetheart.
b. Was the highschool valedictorian and is going to Harvard.
c. Is going to a local school on scholarship.
d. Is so glad to never have to go to school again, and is backpacking through Europe.
e. Same, only is backpacking through Asia.
f. Is producing art in a cheap studio downtown.
g. Is sitting at home, reading a book.
h. Is sitting at a cafe with friends, making fun of everyone from a through g.

5. The coolest wife is:

a. So into that retro housewife shit. She loves aprons and makes a mean casserole and adores Martha Stewart.
b. So against that retro housewofe shit. She burns aprons and casseroles, loathes Martha Stewart, and names her dust bunnies.
c. Not a wife.
d. Sitting in a comfy chair, reading a book.
e. Hanging out with her online friends on a bulletin board, making fun of all the other stupid wives who like actually enjoy baking or who elsewise are total slobs and name their dustbunnies, not to mention the losers who never get married!

6. The coolest mom is:

a. The one with the bugaboo and the baby bjorn and the mural on the nursery wall.
b. The one who makes organic baby food and breastfeeds for two years and co-sleeps and doesn't vaccinate.
c. The one who quits her job because she just can't stand being separated from her baby.
d. The one who works full-time because if she doesn't get some separation from her baby she's going to go freaking insane.
e. The one who works part-time and has the perfect work-life balance. Plus good hair.
f. Sitting in a comfy chair with a nursing pillow on her lap, feeding the baby, and reading a book.
g. Talking about those snobby moms with bugaboos and the crunchy anti-vacc idiots and how evil the SAHM/WOHMs are, and how can a good mother possibly ever have time to read a book!
h. Happy.

7. If lots of people love you:

a. You are totally awesome. Rest on your laurels, woman.
b. That is a good thing.
c. Oh, you so totally suck. You are a popularity whore who is all fakey-nice and stifling your negative feelings in a false pseudo-positivity, and you are evil.

8. If you love lots of people:

a. You are totally awesome. Rest on your laurels, woman.
b. That is a good thing.
c. Oh, you so totally suck. You are a poser. No one could be that sickly sweet. Ick. Yuck. You make me nauseous.

9. If you hate lots of people:

a. You totally suck. Stop being such a meanie.
b. That is a bad thing.
c. Oh, you so totally rock. Like, you're taking a stand against the corporate mediocrity of western civilization! You see through the bullshit to the essential rotten core of everyday life! You are so much smarter than everybody.

10. If lots of people hate you:

a. You totally suck. You are obviously a hateful, horrid person, and I hope you die.
b. That is a bad thing.
c. Oh, you so totally rock. They just hate you for telling it like it is, man! Way to speak truth to power! Everyone should be just like you, fearlessly speaking the truth no matter how cruel!

11. Your motto is:

a. Mean Is Cool.
b. Mean Is Honest.
c. Mean Is Mean.
d. Mean Is Fun.
e. Mean Is Wrong.
f. Who's Been Telling You I'm Mean? I'll Punch Their Eyes Out.

Posted by Andrea at 6:55 AM | Comments (11)

Others

Welcome Trainwrecks viewers. I understand this post has been interpreted to be a statement on something that happened to Amalah a while back. I hate to disappoint, but I don't read Amalah, so if events similar to those portrayed in this post happened to her it is a coincidence. This is the danger of writing fiction. Everyone seems to think that it's based on something.

In any case, I think life is too short to spend my time inventing problems to work myself up over (e.g. "What other people like is crap!" or "No one else likes what I like and that means they're stupid!" or even "This person does not enjoy my preferred style of music in the correct way!"). And we wonder why world peace is so elusive.

Enjoy your stay.

Sincerely, The Management.

The two women were sitting on a couch in a darkened room, eating out of the same bowl of cheddar-flavoured popcorn and watching a story unfold on the screen; a woman was holding her daughter on her hip, and talking to the cashier about something--something inane and unimportant--while struggling to hold four full bags of groceries. In the background the laughtrack yucked it up.

"God, this is boring. Who cares about this boring woman and her groceries?" said H, one of the women on the couch.

"I know. So so so boring. I mean, the little girl's cute; that's the only reason I watch this crap," said D.

"Yeah. Poor kid, though. Can you imagine being saddled with a mother like that?"

"I KNOW!"

"She can't even act. Look at her face."

On the screen, the protagonist, whose bags of groceries had spilled and who was now trying to scoop them up while the wailing baby sat abandoned on the floor, muttered her lines woodenly: "Shh. Shh. It's ok, I'm going as fast as I can, it's ok." She seemed not only distraught at her daughter's tears but also pained, as if struck by a headache. The cashier rolled her eyes.

D snorted. "Poor me! My groceries spilled!"

"Who puts this crap on the air anyway?"

The protagonist now had her daughter on her knees while the remnants of the groceries still lay scattered on the floor; harried shoppers hurried around or over them with a mutter and a dark look, except for one who, although she appeared angry, knelt down to repackage the rest of the food. The protagonist bent her head and touched foreheads with her daughter, who quieted, but she herself seemed near tears.

"This is utter shit," said H. "How long until the next commercial?"

D laughed.

The protagonist stood, still holding her daughter, and walked to the camera. "I can hear you," she said.

D and H sat on the couch, stunned.

"I can hear you," she said again. "This isn't television. I'm not fiction. I'm not entertainment. I'm a person."

"Like hell you are!" said H.

"You invite a camera into your life, and you invite criticism. If you can't take it, maybe you don't belong in the business," said D.

"Does that make sense to you?" The protagonist's voice was tinny, as if recorded. "I'm a person, but I deserve no consideration? Yes, I put my life on display, or part of it. I work hard to make it entertaining and interesting for you. I think if I do this well it might make the world a better place in a small but important way. And I want a record of my daughter's life."

"What-ever," said D. "You're just a fucking narcissist who's trying to ride a ticket to fame on your daughter's story. I know it and you know it. And I'm watching, right? I'm increasing your ratings. Isn't that what you want?"

"No!" the protagonist cried. "I just want you to enjoy this. It's supposed to be fun for both of us. Would you spend money on a book you don't think you'll like or a movie you think you'll hate? Why would you spend your time here just to criticize?"

"Maybe it's fun to criticize," said D.

"Just get back in the box. I'm tired of this meta shit," said H.

"It's a little hard to concentrate on doing my thing when I'm constantly overhearing conversations about how horrible I am," said the protagonist. "Don't you think I see the referrals from bulletin boards? Don't you think I pop in to see what they say? Don't you think I see the link from your blog? Don't you think those emails get back to me? Nothing is private on the internet. This show isn't private, and neither is that conversation you're having in your living room."

"I don't care," said D. "I'm tired of this, and I'm not talking to you anymore."

"You are so mean," said H.

"This is not a TV show. I am not a made up person. This is not a made up story. I am a real person, and this is my real life. You don't have to like me, but if you don't, why are you watching?"

The woman who'd stopped to help her package her groceries stood up, carrying the bags, and walked to her side. "Just ignore them, S. They're just a bunch of fucking trolls."

The protagonist looked at her quietly for a few moments. "Is that where we are, then? I'm not a person, I'm entertainment, so they can treat me like shit and it's ok. And they're not people, they're trolls, so I can treat them like shit and it's ok too. We'll demonize and dehumanize each other just like people always do. They're not people and I'm not a person because we're not standing in the same room face to face."

She sighed, and shrugged. "Yeah. Probably. It sucks, but what can you do?"

"There has to be a better way. Doesn't there?" She took the grocery bags. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

D gave an exasperated snort. "Oh god. I am so tired of this. I'm switching to Dooce."

"No kidding," said H. "At least her posts about hate mail are funny."

Posted by Andrea at 7:02 AM | Comments (17)

Strange

S: God, she really bugs me.

T: What? Why?

S: She's so negative. Did you read that last post about diabetes?

T: Yeah. It was kind of a downer.

S: I mean, get over it already! You've been diabetic for what, twenty years? Get over it! Stop with the whining!

T: Hmm.

S: You know?

T: Well....

S: What?

T: Doesn't it strike you as kind of odd that you are more negative about someone's reaction to diabetes than you are about the disease?

S: What's that supposed to mean?

T: Well ... it's just .... I mean, there's diabetes, a chronic illness that is fatal without constant treatment and often causes a whole whack of nasty complications, and that's fine. That you can deal with. But a person who is depressed about having that chronic illness, that's too much.

S: I just don't like her attitude.

T: OK. Take this for what it's worth, but is there maybe a bit of displacement or projection going on here?

S: I just--you know, so many of us deal with it, you know? And we just deal with it. We don't whine and bitch and complain all the time.

T: So? So what? So you cover the happy, she covers the sad. This doesn't explain to me why you are so pissed off at her about it. Seriously. You're angry at her for being depressed about being sick? It makes no sense.

S: Whatever.

~~~~~

C: If I have to hear one more time about how much she hates motherhood, I'm going to kill her.

D: What?

C: So many women would kill to have what she's got, and all she can do is wah wah wah.

D: I don't know. A lot of women would kill to have a baby, sure ... but three months premature with reflux and sleeping problems and developmental delays? I don't see too many people lining up for that.

C: She should just be grateful for what she's got. It's all negativity all the time.

D: No it's not. She spent twenty minutes bragging about her son rolling over yesterday.

C: Whatever. More like two, with all the "and it took so loooooooong."

D: Well it did. He was eight months old. Isn't this whole conversation a little strange?

C: Yeah, because you're strange.

D: I mean it. On the one hand, we have a person who is depressed because of her son's health problems and her difficulty in coping with them, who hasn't slept in nine months and can't leave the house for more than ninety minutes at a stretch. On the other hand, we've got someone who thinks that not being able to sleep or shop and constant worry over your child's future and health ought to be met with a smile and a light step, while a person's "bad attitude" should be met with contempt and shunning.

C: That is not what I said.

D: That's what it sounded like. Seriously, if you're trying to tell me that she should be able to deal with all this "positively," then shouldn't you be able to deal with her depression "positively"? I mean, aren't you basically saying that her son's prematurity and health problems are not as hard for her to deal with as occasional depressing conversations are for you to deal with? Isn't that strange?

C: You are so annoying.

D: Doesn't it seem a bit out of proportion, to be thrown into a fit because someone else isn't handling a major stressor as well as you think you would?

C: If I were a real person, I'd hit you.

Posted by Andrea at 7:30 AM | Comments (19)

Diabetes Awareness Month: No Such Thing as a Free Lunch

Wednesday was a workplace celebration of the sort involving speeches by upper management, goofy skits by the proletariat, and a paid-for lunch with cake.

"Are you coming?" a colleague asked me, smiling brightly.

"Hmm, not right now. I missed a bit of work for the daycare Hallowe'en parade, so I'm going to stay put and catch up."

Later on, coworkers trickled back to their desks to read a few emails before heading out to collect their free lunches. Pizza. Drinks. Chips. Cake.

"Are you coming?" another colleague asked on his way past.

Was I coming?

My blood sugar had been a bit high that morning. It's Hallowe'en Leftover season and I'm already eating plenty of junk I shouldn't. But it would be nice not to have to pay for lunch.

"The cake is really good," he said.

I'd have to guess what was in the pizza, the chips, and the cake. The drinks were probably not diet, so I probably couldn't drink them. I'd have to test all afternoon to see if I got it right. I'd have to politely refuse the non-diet soft drinks with a pained smile--after working here for four years, it's still more often forgotten than remembered.

Or I could eat the frozen lunch in my lunchbag that contained a known 84 grams of carbohydrate for an insulin bolus of 4.2u. I wouldn't have to test to see what was happening to my blood sugar afterwards. I could drink the small can of Diet Coke I brought from home, and the three miniature chocolates with 13 grams of carbs for another unit of insulin. I could avoid the repeated explanations, the "no thanks, I'm diabetic."

"No thanks," I said. "I forgot about the pizza and brought my lunch anyway, so I'll eat that."

"OK," he said. "But you don't know what you're missing."

Yeah. I think I do.

Posted by Andrea at 7:19 AM | Comments (15)