February 28, 2000
"Womanly Words"
Words of a Woman Net Society
I can proudly display the above bit of web jewelry, for they INVITED me. Yes, no hoping, begging, and fretting if one is worthy enough was needed. I like that.
Since the invitation, I've been doing a lot of thinking about gender. Several years ago, when I joined the Poetry Webring, (link tucked here), the then-manager told me my poetry had a feminine quality to it. ''Huh??'', I thought with dismay. I'd been priding myself on having a sort of androgenous personality. After all, that's how I'd tested on a gender test whose URL has since been misplaced. I forgot about it, until now.
I can't deny being a woman has influenced my writing. I write about my life here, and this factors in occasionally. I, in my pristine mental ivory towers, can't be very far from it, for those towers are rather attached to the foundation of my physical self.
Of course the physical aspects enter into it. In July of 1998, I stopped to marvel on the amazing regularity of the 'monthly'. Over twenty nine years, my body has never failed in this monthly reminder of femaleness.
But there are more than just the physical aspects which go along with being a woman. There is a whole mental grid which places itself over our perception of every event in our life. This is partially because of how females are raised in this society. And it's also because of our unique emotional make up. We are not necessarily moodier than men, but we do seem to be more aware of our moods. In Why I Don't Write An Online Journal, John Scalzi says men's '' . . . journals tend to not to be naked recitations of personal turmoil or need . . . .'' Still, that doesn't make men better writers. Scalzi happens to be a fine writer, but it's not his manhood that makes it possible. Skill with words requires no huge testesterone charged muscles.
Still being female doesn't mean I'm one of those ''people who have no discrimination, plopping their issues in front of you like so much raw meat.'' who John mentions. That would not make for good writing, nor would it do well for one's self esteem. Yet I do reveal a great deal of personal matters here, more than the average man would. Quite a few of them revolve around typically female issues, such as body image. Few men feel the need to proudly declare finally at forty one years of age, being able to accept their body, as I did: ''I'll claim it so that in just this one large corner of the world, there is a woman who does not hate her body.'' If they do, it isn't infused with a particularily feminist sort of rage.
Still, for all the revelations of ' personal turmoil' that go on around here, hopefully tasteful, and mercifully concise, I'm as '' . . . easily distracted by the daily detrius of life, looking for silly or trivial bits of experience the way a crow looks for tin foil and glass buttons'' as any man could be. I count myself fortunate to be amused by all sorts of silly things, from batty antics in England, frogs in crystalline caves, to singing with the heroes; silliness is one of my greatest joys.
silly doodle from last March
March 1, 2000
"Who Can Guess?"
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Scattered remains on the shelf - forgotten bits of lore, so much leaves and so much dust. Here comes the wind now.
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I wrote that yesterday, and have been thinking about it all morning while I sewed. What becomes of all those old books in libraries nobody reads? Some words do not age, even if the paper which holds them does. Will those words, still youthful, be among them? This is only the dawning of the digital age, will libraries go digital also? Is that the 'wind'? Or is it something else, even evil? Neglect, ignorance and apathy allow despots to come in and destroy. Who can guess what the libraries of Alexandria held?
March 2, 2000
"Suicide"
I may be inadequate to this subject, but I'm going to plunge in and say my piece anyway. If my thoughts on this are just useless bits cluttering the superinfohighway, then forgive me, I'm going to do it anyway. Journaller Columbine has a friend who is suicidal. S/he doesn't know if s/he can help the friend. That's got to be hard. Al of Nova Notes took a chance and sent an e-mail to someone he thought possibly could be the person. However, someone on Al's discussion board said maybe his letter could do more harm than good, because we're not professionals. Yet if no one tries, because we're not professionals, what kind of world would this be? If ever I get in a bad way, I want people to reach in and try. Just knowing people care enough to try might be the thing to pull me back from the brink.
Okay, maybe I have absolutely no authority on this, for I've never been seriously suicidal. Yet I had some awful low times when I was in college. I feared I never would get well.
I felt so ashamed of myself. I was ashamed too because I felt so nervous all the time. I must surely be of weak stuff to have fallen so low. I felt as if I could not get any lower. `I don't deserve to live, not when I'm like this,' I thought. I realized that meant suicide. Shocked at how low I fell, I called my Gramma up, and told her I felt I didn't deserve to live. Gramma said, Hang in there, Aunt June and I will be up there to bring you home tomorrow. I said I would wait until then.When I cried for help, people came running. Once they brought me home, they didn't leave me to the 'professionals'. Of course, if I was making serious attempts, I'm sure they would have sought some professional help.
Most of us when we're fallen down into that deep pit of dispair just want to see that there's light above and a way to get out. Knowing we're not alone when we're depressed and anxious alleviates the shame and guilt. Knowing others have felt this way and gotten better DOES give hope to continue the fight.
That's the way it works in most situations. If someone is so determined to end their life that nothing we do makes a difference, we still need to make the attempt to help. Yet, if they persist, and go ahead with it, yes, we must realize the person had 'free will', and not blame ourselves. That isn't easy. We always think we could have done more. But sometimes, that's just not possible. The guilt racked person left behind just can't live with themselves. In trying to rescue their loved one from the pit, they fall in themselves. Too often one suicide sets off another.
If you are counseling a suicidal friend, make sure you reach out to sources of strength yourself. Don't let yourself get pulled in with them. If you are suicidal yourself, reach out and seek help. Don't rush to the conclusion that things will never get better. You don't know that. What if you are wrong? In college, I feared I would only know dispair and anxiety for the rest of my life. But I got better. Things didn't stay that way. Take the bet that this will happen for you, as well. Please.
If these words strike you as hopelessly naive, consider why I'm trying. Life is precious. I will fight for each moment of it. If these words ring hollow, then understand I just need to say them, anyway. Thanks for listening.
March 3, 2000
"Even In My Dream Life"
The alarm rang this morning, ripping me from my dream world.
The three of us were in a tree-rich forest. Anyway the three of us were seeking a place to live in Forest City. ''You can't have any more than three people living in this house. If I discover you do, you're out,'' the manager almost growled at us. ''We won't, but we do have a lot of friends visit. That's got to be all right, isn't it?'' ''Friends are fine, but if I find more than three people actually living here, you're OUT. Feeling a bit stung by the severity, we agreed, for we had no choice.I was looking at the prized machine, contemplating the taste of my favorite lemon-lime beverage, hoping I could find a quarter, when the alarm rang.The world had changed since it ended some time ago, and nothing was the same. I never did learn just what caused it, but it was cataclysmic and it was world wide. Some how all three of us were working for some factory. I can't remember exactly what we were doing, but it wasn't heavy labor, possibly some sort of light assembly. We sat in a big cafeteria with yellow walls and long folding tables. Roughly twenty other people were there with us. Everyone was just a little more talkative than usual, even festively cheerful, for we were about to be paid for our labors.
When our checks arrived, they looked like they'd been printed out using a computer from the eighties. Fine, but would they spend? Was there real money behind them and of a sufficient quantity? Things were hard, all right. Our big luxury, of which the company officials were very proud, was a pop machine. That's SODA, for some of you. For only a quarter, a cold can of bubbly sweet stuff could be ours. However quarters were rare, so the treat was rare as well.
It's easy to see where some of the dream elements came from. It's no surprise Forest City resembled Greater Faydark in Norrath. Laura and I have been playing that game a lot. Today is payday in reality, and I've been busy paying bills. The budget is tighter now, with a car payment. So maybe a few real life money worries snuck in there. But the dream wasn't all bad. Although things were hard financially, we weren't alone in that. We were together, and we had our friends. Even in my dream life, I can find things to be grateful for.
March 4, 2000
"For The Birds"
Remember the bird that serenaded us last Sunday?
Apparently she was testing the safety of her perch, while singing so sweetly there. It's passed her test. She pried the door of the old Primestar satellite TV box open, and has made herself a cozy nest there!
March 5, 2000
"It's True"
March 6, 2000
"No Small Temptation"
Rather than the Barbarian or Elven lands, we chose the Halfling region today. The druid seems to be the best all around magic user, though I am still partial to my pretty wizard Giannissi, who I understand later on will have some ferocious spells. So Laura and I were both druids. I can identify with the halfing ladies who, unlike the other humanoid races, don't look like scantily clad Barbie dolls. They rather quite resemble short, full busted me, except for some uniquely humongous FEET! We'll have fun with these characters.
I, clad in similar clothes, look even more like my character Nerrani
March 7, 2000
"Playing Around"
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March 8, 2000
"Ashes"
I'm not sure of the religious significance of Ash Wednesday. However it does call to mind a phrase I've heard used, ''Ashes to ashes, dust to dust'' which speaks of the transience of life. With Shayna's passing exactly three months ago, we are more than usually aware of life's brevity. Serena, Shayna's mother, has a memorial page with some of Shayna's writings. A few you may have already seen, having been published on our pages, but other articles are new, and give more insight into Shayna's mind.
Three months ago, she was a living, breathing, vital human being. Now all that's left are those digitized bits and some ashes.
March 9, 2000
"I Didn't Quite Believe Them Then"
The National Enquirer claimed as a 'FAST FACT': One out of eight people suffer from severe shyness. But I've never held the Enquirer to be a good source of information. However, to back up his claims. the writer quotes a therapist who authored a book on shyness, ''Extreme shyness is the third most prevalent mental health problem in the United States behind depression and substance abuse'' While it's nice to know I'm not alone in that, the article goes on to blame the web for making people MORE shy. People who were formerly confident in social dealings slowly start to withdraw from the 'real' world.
Such therapists may be basing their observations on their patients' experience. There's no doubt that such a thing can happen. However they could be pulling in their own prejudices towards the web as well.
I can't speak for other shy people. I can only speak for myself. I do know that since I began writing my online journal over three years ago, I have grown in my ability to talk to live, in-the-flesh people. Quite simply, the skills that writing demands of me, in time has allowed me to think faster when I'm on my feet. Wrestling with words slowly, with few distractions, helps me to think better. The word-wrestling muscle gets stronger, and I can do it quicker with practice. I can keep up with conversations better. Granted, I'm not a silver tongued orator by any means, but I notice distinct improvement. I still cling to the wall, or to Julia or Laura at parties, but I'm capable of more than a blush and a stammer when I do engage in small talk.
I've noticed another curious phenomenom. I met both Laura and Julia through writing. When I meet anyone else with whom I've corresponded through the written word, I don't feel so shy with them. Is this because writers are of a particular mindset, while those whose strength is primarily in the spoken word have little in common with me mentally? They seem to be on a different wavelength, neither better nor worse, and somehow we don't connect easily.
I'd suggest to all shy people to reach out in all the ways you feel comfortable. Communicating in any method is good. The important thing is not to let yourself become isolated. If you feel positively paralyzed by fright, know that it does get better in time.
People told me this years ago, when I was having my college difficulties. I didn't quite believe them then. Now I'm the same age as they were. They were right.
March 10, 2000
"From Within"
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But it was not at the moment
One hand is staying the wheel, Recognition comes from within.
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