I started this blog a few years ago, and when I started, the blog had no purpose at all. AT. ALL.
Then it developed a purpose. It got me through the death of my father and all manner of other related crapulence. I have maintained the blog - though it had no clear purpose - and since those events (see: crapulence), I have tried to write.
I think we all agree that the better posts are in the archives.
The advice I request has not to do with whether I should keep blogging. I shall. Really. (Please don't look at me like that).
What I want to know is this: as I embark on the book project unrelated to this blog (but not without overlap)... can I, should I, shall I... write about the book?
And what is the book...?
It is a novel. It is not the Whole Story of Why I Sharpen My Knives.
It is just a story.
(In which perhaps one character will maintain a shocking collections of very sharp knives).
Can I blog about it... ?
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Learning
Things I have learned this year:
1) People really can change. I have changed several times this year.
2) It is possible, with the proper motivation, to eat an entire bag of Veggie Booty.
3) And then drink a beer
4) Good grammar is wholly unnecessary if the sentiment is sincere.
1) People really can change. I have changed several times this year.
2) It is possible, with the proper motivation, to eat an entire bag of Veggie Booty.
3) And then drink a beer
4) Good grammar is wholly unnecessary if the sentiment is sincere.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Place Holder
In order to maintain my "back" status, I am posting this uselessness.
Is it useless?
It depends.
Have you heard of Joseph Arthur?
....
Good heavens.
....
Get you some.
Is it useless?
It depends.
Have you heard of Joseph Arthur?
....
Good heavens.
....
Get you some.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Yes, Jane
Yes, Jane. I am back.
Although to be fair I am working on acquiring my own URL and to be fair I am fairly sure I am going to transfer few (if any) old posts from here. But Nina, so far as Nina goes, is back.
So very back.
(But not the old Nina. The past is over. I didn't know. I really didn't know. Meaning: When I started this blog with a careless post about making out with platonic friends... I didn't KNOW that this blog would be the public record of the most fucked up {to date! to date!} time of my life).
I just didn't know. But now I do. Now I can blog with a little more self awareness. Although... seriously.... I am making no promises in the area of promising. Which might be construed as unpromising.
But I am going to write.
And also: no one answered my question. How are you?
ps. I know. I should check your blogs if I want to know how you are. I will. I will. I want to, and I will, and soon you will see me there, but right now I am just sticking my toe into the water. But yeah, see you soon. Meantimes, how are you?
Although to be fair I am working on acquiring my own URL and to be fair I am fairly sure I am going to transfer few (if any) old posts from here. But Nina, so far as Nina goes, is back.
So very back.
(But not the old Nina. The past is over. I didn't know. I really didn't know. Meaning: When I started this blog with a careless post about making out with platonic friends... I didn't KNOW that this blog would be the public record of the most fucked up {to date! to date!} time of my life).
I just didn't know. But now I do. Now I can blog with a little more self awareness. Although... seriously.... I am making no promises in the area of promising. Which might be construed as unpromising.
But I am going to write.
And also: no one answered my question. How are you?
ps. I know. I should check your blogs if I want to know how you are. I will. I will. I want to, and I will, and soon you will see me there, but right now I am just sticking my toe into the water. But yeah, see you soon. Meantimes, how are you?
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Welcome to Latvia!
I was in the airport last week for six hours. And while I was there, I had a moment of pure ______________. It occurred to me that I had my passport and enough funds on my person to get out of the country. Options: Casablanca, Lima, Sydney, Riga, Hong Kong, Ulan Bator.
Seriously. I could have been gone. Just gone. Deferring problems so great and terrible that the very wizard himself would have fled the curtain and run screaming from the set. I could have been drinking fermented horse milk (and stuff like that). In Ulan Bator. (Latvia, I hear, is also an excellent option. Someday I will go).
I did not board a flight for some foreign land. I exited the airport and took my passport and my small accumulation of cash (some of which isn't even mine) and went... home.
Instead I am going to try to make my life work. Fix up the broken pieces and toss out that which cannot be fixed. All from right here: New York City.
Latvia will have to wait, but when I do make it there, I sincerely hope that I am wearing a set of raggedy overalls.
And how are you?
Love,
Nina
PS Photo from some recent decade when overalls were fashionable (at least among us Target dwellers). I still wear those sometimes...)
Seriously. I could have been gone. Just gone. Deferring problems so great and terrible that the very wizard himself would have fled the curtain and run screaming from the set. I could have been drinking fermented horse milk (and stuff like that). In Ulan Bator. (Latvia, I hear, is also an excellent option. Someday I will go).
I did not board a flight for some foreign land. I exited the airport and took my passport and my small accumulation of cash (some of which isn't even mine) and went... home.
Instead I am going to try to make my life work. Fix up the broken pieces and toss out that which cannot be fixed. All from right here: New York City.
Latvia will have to wait, but when I do make it there, I sincerely hope that I am wearing a set of raggedy overalls.
And how are you?
Love,
Nina
PS Photo from some recent decade when overalls were fashionable (at least among us Target dwellers). I still wear those sometimes...)
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Track Abandoned
"I am a railroad track abandoned."
You could know, of course, by googling.
On the other hand you try to relate to Buckley's insights. What do you have to add?
You could know, of course, by googling.
On the other hand you try to relate to Buckley's insights. What do you have to add?
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Liar
There is a commandment somewhere on the tablets the anthropologists can't manage to find. It says (reportedly): don't lie.
Oh.
Eek.
I lie all the time. I do it to protect other people from truths I fear people cannot - or should not have to - handle.
Sometimes I lie because the truth would break the hearts of people I love.
But I also lie to make money. (I have two jobs and neither employers knows the other exists).
Other times I lie about where I am going (Kate doesn't need to know that I am going out at 9pm for a cheap bottle of hootch because I can't sleep and oh dear God please tell me that in heaven, everyone sleeps, all the time. Please? Thank you).
My lying concerns me. It is true that I can go to confession and bore some sweet old priest with a list of all the times I told my brother I was really feeling fine, and thank you for asking, when the truth was I was sharpening my knives and looking for a way to commit the deed - and still look pretty in the casket.
But we - the priest and I - would be there in that hot and uncomfortable cell for a long time if I gave all this information. And sometimes I think to myself: how terrible for the priest who has to listen to people's sins.
"Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been three months since my last confession. Twice I drank a bottle of Night Train and ran naked through Cooper's Square. Nine times I interfered with myself while thinking of Anna Nicole. I hate animals and children because they are loud and smelly. I rarely bathe and I have not flossed in a year. Oh! And I got fired from my job for drunkenness and something they call sexual harassment. Bastards! Is that their sin, or mine? Okay! That about covers it. What's the penance?"
Where was I?
Oh. My lying. There has been something (lately) that I lie about all the time, to everyone. Even to Lindsey.
Sometimes when work is slow and I have the inclination, I go to Woodlawn - all the way up there in the Bronx. There, I sit in the cemetery (it's a big one). Because my parents don't have graves, looking at those of other people gives me peace. I do not know the people buried at Woodlawn, but I wonder who those people - all those people - are. And I hope they don't mind that I come and sit with them, even though my visits are for my own benefit - that at best, their resting places are a proxy for the graves of my deceased parents.
It is not a sadness thing. I don't go up there and cry or cling to a stranger's headstone. But I do spend hours and hours there. I sit and think about there people buried there, and I wonder who they are, and I ask myself if I could talk to them, what one thing they wished they had done differently before it was all over.
My mother, who went out with real style, said on her deathbed, "I wish I had worried less and laughed more."
My father probably said something but I'll never know what it was. I wasn't there. But I can damn sure tell you what he would have done differently, and if you have been reading my internet diary this long, you know, too.
But that was not my point.
Lying. I lie far more than my conscience allows.
How much lying do you do? Do you have regrets? And if lying is ever legal, when? why? how?
Oh.
Eek.
I lie all the time. I do it to protect other people from truths I fear people cannot - or should not have to - handle.
Sometimes I lie because the truth would break the hearts of people I love.
But I also lie to make money. (I have two jobs and neither employers knows the other exists).
Other times I lie about where I am going (Kate doesn't need to know that I am going out at 9pm for a cheap bottle of hootch because I can't sleep and oh dear God please tell me that in heaven, everyone sleeps, all the time. Please? Thank you).
My lying concerns me. It is true that I can go to confession and bore some sweet old priest with a list of all the times I told my brother I was really feeling fine, and thank you for asking, when the truth was I was sharpening my knives and looking for a way to commit the deed - and still look pretty in the casket.
But we - the priest and I - would be there in that hot and uncomfortable cell for a long time if I gave all this information. And sometimes I think to myself: how terrible for the priest who has to listen to people's sins.
"Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been three months since my last confession. Twice I drank a bottle of Night Train and ran naked through Cooper's Square. Nine times I interfered with myself while thinking of Anna Nicole. I hate animals and children because they are loud and smelly. I rarely bathe and I have not flossed in a year. Oh! And I got fired from my job for drunkenness and something they call sexual harassment. Bastards! Is that their sin, or mine? Okay! That about covers it. What's the penance?"
Where was I?
Oh. My lying. There has been something (lately) that I lie about all the time, to everyone. Even to Lindsey.
Sometimes when work is slow and I have the inclination, I go to Woodlawn - all the way up there in the Bronx. There, I sit in the cemetery (it's a big one). Because my parents don't have graves, looking at those of other people gives me peace. I do not know the people buried at Woodlawn, but I wonder who those people - all those people - are. And I hope they don't mind that I come and sit with them, even though my visits are for my own benefit - that at best, their resting places are a proxy for the graves of my deceased parents.
It is not a sadness thing. I don't go up there and cry or cling to a stranger's headstone. But I do spend hours and hours there. I sit and think about there people buried there, and I wonder who they are, and I ask myself if I could talk to them, what one thing they wished they had done differently before it was all over.
My mother, who went out with real style, said on her deathbed, "I wish I had worried less and laughed more."
My father probably said something but I'll never know what it was. I wasn't there. But I can damn sure tell you what he would have done differently, and if you have been reading my internet diary this long, you know, too.
But that was not my point.
Lying. I lie far more than my conscience allows.
How much lying do you do? Do you have regrets? And if lying is ever legal, when? why? how?
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Air
Love is in air, or at least the air between my ears.
His name was (is?) Torrey. I could just go for it and embarrass myself, but the post would confuse us all.
But I will divulge that there was a man named Torrey and though I have not spoken with him in years, I loved him like I have never loved anyone else, ever.. He brought me back to myself and made me feel again. In that sense, he saved my life.
Of course, that is not the whole story.
But oh, Torrey, Oh lord. I loved Torrey. Writer, poet, lover, vagabond, boy of no fixed address. My darling.
The relationship is over. But the love, the innocent good intentioned kind, is forever. I have never stopped missing him.
What about the rest of you? Who rearranged the workings of your heart, forever? Who do you miss?
Come on, tell. I did, after all.
Love,
Nina
His name was (is?) Torrey. I could just go for it and embarrass myself, but the post would confuse us all.
But I will divulge that there was a man named Torrey and though I have not spoken with him in years, I loved him like I have never loved anyone else, ever.. He brought me back to myself and made me feel again. In that sense, he saved my life.
Of course, that is not the whole story.
But oh, Torrey, Oh lord. I loved Torrey. Writer, poet, lover, vagabond, boy of no fixed address. My darling.
The relationship is over. But the love, the innocent good intentioned kind, is forever. I have never stopped missing him.
What about the rest of you? Who rearranged the workings of your heart, forever? Who do you miss?
Come on, tell. I did, after all.
Love,
Nina
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Questions
I have been thinking. (I know. I know. Drink more, think less: happy life). (But I have been thinking anyway).
I have questions for God.
No, the are not questions such as "why have you been so not awesome to me?" and they are not questions like "is there a paradise for Cathead -- even though Cathead was a dirty, dirty sinner (even in his most charming moments)?
My questions are:
1) God, what if the fall angel, Lucifer, the evil one, requested a meeting with you and repented of all his pridefulness and bad behaviors and begged forgiveness? Would you grant it? And if you did, how might that decision impact the whole everything? (I am serious about this question. I really want to know if the fallen angel has ever said to him or herself: gosh... I probably made a serious error, here. Can I fix it?).
2) Catholic theology teaches that if you skip Mass to go bowling with your friends and you get hit by a car on the way home, you are damned just as surely and completely as mass murderers and and child rapists. Are you serious?
3) God, I believe in you. I think you exist and I think you are powerful and probably good looking, too. But love you? I am sorry, but I don't really love you. Don't get me wrong. I want to love you. I am told that I should. But love is something people feel for their friends, their family, their Catheads - maybe even their favorite board game. The fact is, God, I cannot picture you, unless you count the endless images of Jesus stretched out on a cross and looking for all the world like he was of Swiss descent, even though the overwhelming likelihood is that he was short and dark and certainly had brown eyes. Oh wait. Where was I? Love is personal. It is big hearted and faithful and hopeful. However, in your case, my images of you are ephemeral and my understanding of your influence in my life is at best... confusing. Frankly, I am terrified of you. Love? Where do I even start? I mean thanks that I am I fat, white, American person. Thanks that I am not deformed or prohibitively stupid. But I think you know I would rather have had other challenges. More on that later.
I ask these questions well aware that if I die in the next ten minutes I will be pulled to pieces by demons and roasted alive (dead) for the consumption of demon-types who love the taste of fat white girls. But I still have to ask.
Comments: if you have one (or two questions) that you would ask God (assuming you believe in God and assuming you would get an answer), what would it be?)
I have questions for God.
No, the are not questions such as "why have you been so not awesome to me?" and they are not questions like "is there a paradise for Cathead -- even though Cathead was a dirty, dirty sinner (even in his most charming moments)?
My questions are:
1) God, what if the fall angel, Lucifer, the evil one, requested a meeting with you and repented of all his pridefulness and bad behaviors and begged forgiveness? Would you grant it? And if you did, how might that decision impact the whole everything? (I am serious about this question. I really want to know if the fallen angel has ever said to him or herself: gosh... I probably made a serious error, here. Can I fix it?).
2) Catholic theology teaches that if you skip Mass to go bowling with your friends and you get hit by a car on the way home, you are damned just as surely and completely as mass murderers and and child rapists. Are you serious?
3) God, I believe in you. I think you exist and I think you are powerful and probably good looking, too. But love you? I am sorry, but I don't really love you. Don't get me wrong. I want to love you. I am told that I should. But love is something people feel for their friends, their family, their Catheads - maybe even their favorite board game. The fact is, God, I cannot picture you, unless you count the endless images of Jesus stretched out on a cross and looking for all the world like he was of Swiss descent, even though the overwhelming likelihood is that he was short and dark and certainly had brown eyes. Oh wait. Where was I? Love is personal. It is big hearted and faithful and hopeful. However, in your case, my images of you are ephemeral and my understanding of your influence in my life is at best... confusing. Frankly, I am terrified of you. Love? Where do I even start? I mean thanks that I am I fat, white, American person. Thanks that I am not deformed or prohibitively stupid. But I think you know I would rather have had other challenges. More on that later.
I ask these questions well aware that if I die in the next ten minutes I will be pulled to pieces by demons and roasted alive (dead) for the consumption of demon-types who love the taste of fat white girls. But I still have to ask.
Comments: if you have one (or two questions) that you would ask God (assuming you believe in God and assuming you would get an answer), what would it be?)
Sunday, July 19, 2009
M15
This post reveals facts I am uncomfortable sharing. OH! My blog is (nominally) anonymous.
Though Cathead died on Saturday morning, I did not dispose of his body until today. Why? Because the humane society closed early, a development I welcomed.
Por Que?
Because I was not ready to let go.
Internet, I did not like my cat very much. I loved him a lot, but like him? No. Herewith, some highlights of Cathead's life:
1) When he was a kitten, he bit my dad so badly that only a trip to the emergency room prevented my dad from losing his right arm. (No lie).
2) The night before my best friend's wedding, Cathead bit said friend so badly that she had to go to the emergency room. And when she got there, the ER doctors put her on anti-biotics so serious that her birth control was rendered ineffective. That's right, people. Condoms on her HONEYMOON.
3) Once, when I was asleep, Cathead chewed off a large hank of my hair. Then he decorated my apartment with it.
But we did have our good times, too. The night my dad died he slept in my arms and patted my crumpled face with his tiny paw. The day we moved into Bob and Kate's asylum for middle aged refugees, he did a charming rendition of "The Sun will Come Out Tomorrow" on the pool table. He scattered about 50 puzzle pieces onto the floor, but the sentiment was genuine. And as Julie notes, back in his happier days, nothing pleased him more than to steal my rosary beads and entangle himself in their sparkly goodness. In the floor of my shower. Where (I assume) he prayed all day that I might turn my heart and mind back to God - or at least get some compassion skills. (It did not work).
I am trying to get to the comedy of today. The segue is just not happening, so sloppy segue. Here it is.
This morning, I had to take Cathead to the Humane Society for cremation. I put him in his cat carrier (please, oh please don't ask me how I kept him cold all night. Use your imagination. Or check Twitter). I was composed during the loading process and I was numb during the walk to the M15 bus station. It was the activity on the bus that did me in.
Cathead died with his eyes open. Therefore, people could see his eyes, and because lots of people who ride the public bus are not very bright, many of them wanted to stick their hands into my cat carrier and pet my deceased cat.
I kid you not.
Please note, internet: cats who do not blink are DEAD. Cute they may be, but they are DEAD.
I managed to keep the hands of my fellow metro riders out of the box of death by explaining (lying). I told them Cathead was sedated, you know, since he had just been to the vet. It worked. (Have I mentioned that some people, while children of God and possessing excellent hearts, are stupid?)
I arrived at the Humane Society, I stood in line for a few minutes. That was ok.
Until the woman behind me spotted the dead cat in my carrier and started sobbing. For my loss.
"Oh, I know you are grieving," she said. (Have I mentioned crying is contagious)?
"Yeah," I sobbed.
"How old was he?" she said.
"Seventeen," I sniffled.
"OH! Mine is seventeen. It could be any time!" she sobbed.
So we cried and we made asses of ourselves at the Humane Society. I cried for Cathead and she cried because she knew very soon she would be just like me, standing in line in an animal shelter carrying a box of DEAD.
Here is my last living picture of Cathead. I like it because it captures both his repose and his restlessness. He is chillin' because he is in his favorite chair. But his ears are up because he is about to smack the shit out of an unsuspecting spider.
I think about justice all the time. It is the only thing that offers hope that we live in a world with meaning. If my hope is not in vain, Cathead is at peace, praying the rosary, and beating the ever loving shit out of whatever displeases him. That's what he loved to do, and though he was... challenging... he was my kind of challenge. He was my first, my last, my only. My Cathead.
Though Cathead died on Saturday morning, I did not dispose of his body until today. Why? Because the humane society closed early, a development I welcomed.
Por Que?
Because I was not ready to let go.
Internet, I did not like my cat very much. I loved him a lot, but like him? No. Herewith, some highlights of Cathead's life:
1) When he was a kitten, he bit my dad so badly that only a trip to the emergency room prevented my dad from losing his right arm. (No lie).
2) The night before my best friend's wedding, Cathead bit said friend so badly that she had to go to the emergency room. And when she got there, the ER doctors put her on anti-biotics so serious that her birth control was rendered ineffective. That's right, people. Condoms on her HONEYMOON.
3) Once, when I was asleep, Cathead chewed off a large hank of my hair. Then he decorated my apartment with it.
But we did have our good times, too. The night my dad died he slept in my arms and patted my crumpled face with his tiny paw. The day we moved into Bob and Kate's asylum for middle aged refugees, he did a charming rendition of "The Sun will Come Out Tomorrow" on the pool table. He scattered about 50 puzzle pieces onto the floor, but the sentiment was genuine. And as Julie notes, back in his happier days, nothing pleased him more than to steal my rosary beads and entangle himself in their sparkly goodness. In the floor of my shower. Where (I assume) he prayed all day that I might turn my heart and mind back to God - or at least get some compassion skills. (It did not work).
I am trying to get to the comedy of today. The segue is just not happening, so sloppy segue. Here it is.
This morning, I had to take Cathead to the Humane Society for cremation. I put him in his cat carrier (please, oh please don't ask me how I kept him cold all night. Use your imagination. Or check Twitter). I was composed during the loading process and I was numb during the walk to the M15 bus station. It was the activity on the bus that did me in.
Cathead died with his eyes open. Therefore, people could see his eyes, and because lots of people who ride the public bus are not very bright, many of them wanted to stick their hands into my cat carrier and pet my deceased cat.
I kid you not.
Please note, internet: cats who do not blink are DEAD. Cute they may be, but they are DEAD.
I managed to keep the hands of my fellow metro riders out of the box of death by explaining (lying). I told them Cathead was sedated, you know, since he had just been to the vet. It worked. (Have I mentioned that some people, while children of God and possessing excellent hearts, are stupid?)
I arrived at the Humane Society, I stood in line for a few minutes. That was ok.
Until the woman behind me spotted the dead cat in my carrier and started sobbing. For my loss.
"Oh, I know you are grieving," she said. (Have I mentioned crying is contagious)?
"Yeah," I sobbed.
"How old was he?" she said.
"Seventeen," I sniffled.
"OH! Mine is seventeen. It could be any time!" she sobbed.
So we cried and we made asses of ourselves at the Humane Society. I cried for Cathead and she cried because she knew very soon she would be just like me, standing in line in an animal shelter carrying a box of DEAD.
Here is my last living picture of Cathead. I like it because it captures both his repose and his restlessness. He is chillin' because he is in his favorite chair. But his ears are up because he is about to smack the shit out of an unsuspecting spider.
I think about justice all the time. It is the only thing that offers hope that we live in a world with meaning. If my hope is not in vain, Cathead is at peace, praying the rosary, and beating the ever loving shit out of whatever displeases him. That's what he loved to do, and though he was... challenging... he was my kind of challenge. He was my first, my last, my only. My Cathead.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Waiting, part two
My cat is on my bed exactly where I placed him last night. The food and water is untouched. And my cat is dead.
I feel surprisingly emotionless about it... so far. I keep telling myself that I have cleaned up my last sand dollar of cat puke. I keep telling myself that he will never scream at me again and again and again for no reason. I keep telling myself that he was old and that he was tired. (He was). Also it had to happen someday. And he was (obviously) suffering (last night, anyway). But I still feel like shit.
Should I have taken him to the vet last night when I realized he wasn't breathing right? Should I have gotten on the cat boards and hoped that cat fanatics on the west coast had an answer? Should I have been done something other than shove food and water at him? What could have saved him?
Well, whatever the case may be, he is not saved. I have stressed tested him and he is most assuredly not living.
As I write this, he is just where I left him on my bed last night, and yes, I know that is a violation of something or other. I'll have to take him to be cremated today (isn't that what I am supposed to do)? But right this minute, I am just waiting until I feel up to putting him in a duffle bag and taking him to the vet. Let's hope I get that going before the flies arrive.
Bon Voyage, Cathead. I loved you. I liked you. I wanted to feed you to other, foul-tempered animals.
But mostly I loved you. (You were darn cute).
Love,
Nina
I feel surprisingly emotionless about it... so far. I keep telling myself that I have cleaned up my last sand dollar of cat puke. I keep telling myself that he will never scream at me again and again and again for no reason. I keep telling myself that he was old and that he was tired. (He was). Also it had to happen someday. And he was (obviously) suffering (last night, anyway). But I still feel like shit.
Should I have taken him to the vet last night when I realized he wasn't breathing right? Should I have gotten on the cat boards and hoped that cat fanatics on the west coast had an answer? Should I have been done something other than shove food and water at him? What could have saved him?
Well, whatever the case may be, he is not saved. I have stressed tested him and he is most assuredly not living.
As I write this, he is just where I left him on my bed last night, and yes, I know that is a violation of something or other. I'll have to take him to be cremated today (isn't that what I am supposed to do)? But right this minute, I am just waiting until I feel up to putting him in a duffle bag and taking him to the vet. Let's hope I get that going before the flies arrive.
Bon Voyage, Cathead. I loved you. I liked you. I wanted to feed you to other, foul-tempered animals.
But mostly I loved you. (You were darn cute).
Love,
Nina
Waiting
Today I walked into my bathroom to find my cat curled up behind the sink. He was not moving and he appeared short of breath. I watched him for a few minutes and then I came back half an hour later. Same thing. Labored breathing. Glassy-eyed. And not liking me at all. (He has always hated me, so... whatever).
I decided to pick him up and move him to a more comfortable section of my apartment.
Uh oh.
He hissed when I picked him up and placed him on my bed. When I placed a clean bowl of water under his chin, his face sank into the water until her snarfed it up his nose. Then he drank a little and glared at me as if I were the Worst Person in the World.
So I put some food near the water. On my bed. Next to the water on my bed. And he is still motionless, breathing. And hating me, I am sure.
I sincerely do not expect him to live until morning. He is 17, which is probably about right for a pure bred cat, but I don't know. I do know that if he does go, I will have an ocean of guilt to wallow in. He is a pain in the ass, but he is my pain in the ass.
Anyone else had a cat behave... like this and magically be ok in the end?
It's going to be a long, long night.
Love,
Nina
PS: By the way, he has faked dying before... just never this convincingly. Last time it was swaying and drooling for about three hours - and then eating two pounds of cat food. (I don't see that happening this time).
I decided to pick him up and move him to a more comfortable section of my apartment.
Uh oh.
He hissed when I picked him up and placed him on my bed. When I placed a clean bowl of water under his chin, his face sank into the water until her snarfed it up his nose. Then he drank a little and glared at me as if I were the Worst Person in the World.
So I put some food near the water. On my bed. Next to the water on my bed. And he is still motionless, breathing. And hating me, I am sure.
I sincerely do not expect him to live until morning. He is 17, which is probably about right for a pure bred cat, but I don't know. I do know that if he does go, I will have an ocean of guilt to wallow in. He is a pain in the ass, but he is my pain in the ass.
Anyone else had a cat behave... like this and magically be ok in the end?
It's going to be a long, long night.
Love,
Nina
PS: By the way, he has faked dying before... just never this convincingly. Last time it was swaying and drooling for about three hours - and then eating two pounds of cat food. (I don't see that happening this time).
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
More Again?
My family continues to shrink. My sister's husband has abandoned their marriage after 9 years. They dated 5 years before they married in 2000. I would post a picture if it were not a violation of their privacy. And I have to say that although my sister is her own special snowflake, I couldn't be married to her for ten minutes. This post is not about blame. It is about grief.
Regardless of my feelings or opinions about Chiara and her marriage and her spouse, I am heartbroken.
Is it normal to feel heartbroken when a marriage fails? A marriage that is not your own?
I suspect I am suffering from transference; am I making all the sad I won't let myself feel about the loss of my mother and my father come out through this seemingly ordinary civic event.
So much loss. So much regret. So much sadness. So little to hold onto. My sister's husband was (is) just a regular guy, but once the gates of my family corral close behind you, they close behind you forever - or so I thought. It breaks my heart to think that anyone would want to get out, to no longer be one of us.
Regardless of my feelings or opinions about Chiara and her marriage and her spouse, I am heartbroken.
Is it normal to feel heartbroken when a marriage fails? A marriage that is not your own?
I suspect I am suffering from transference; am I making all the sad I won't let myself feel about the loss of my mother and my father come out through this seemingly ordinary civic event.
So much loss. So much regret. So much sadness. So little to hold onto. My sister's husband was (is) just a regular guy, but once the gates of my family corral close behind you, they close behind you forever - or so I thought. It breaks my heart to think that anyone would want to get out, to no longer be one of us.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Then again
I don't want her to die. What a hateful thing to say. And not what I meant at all.
What I am resenting is that no one in my entire family is willing to confront her except me, and frankly I feel that since I have already told her off, I am no longer obligated. I should get to log off this problem.
Except that I don't, but for a different reason. It is a reason I don't like at all.
The reason is that forgiveness is a problem, and it is not a tiny little irksome fly in the ointment kind of problem. It is a genuine fat ass issue. And thinking about the issue has brought to my attention a certain defect of character that I can no longer avoid confronting.
I suck at forgiveness. For years I just didn't do it at all. People who wronged me got cold and stony irreversible nothing from me forever and ever and ever and ever. I did more than just hold grudges. I completely removed offenders from my life. (This is the reason why so very many of my ex-boyfriends haunt me for years after we break up - often well after they have married other people and had children and the whole show. It is because they hurt me and I shunned them and they feel... like... crap. As they probably should. Oh I am sorry. I am digressing. Let me stop that.
Oh wait just a little more digression. Please note that I still shun people who hurt me and I defend my right to do this because I don't think there is anything in the bible that says you have to let people kick you in the face twice. There is that thing about turning the other cheek but I think whoever put in the bible should have left it out. I hope it wasn't Jesus. Was it Jesus? Ugh).
Back to my story. One fine day, I made a great stride, a breakthrough in the forgiveness area. I was reading a book about the last words of Christ and some incredibly smart person pointed out that there is more than one way to take this one thing that Jesus said. Here is the thing:
"Forgive them, for they know not what they do."
At first glance, this just looks like forgiveness muckity muck. Nothing special. However, if you look carefully at the grammar of the sentence (which is exactly the kind of thing I like to do in my spare time), you will see that the word "for" in this case could be translated as "because". When one reads the sentence as "Forgive them, because they know not what they do" or even closer to today's vernacular "Forgive them, because, seriously, if they knew exactly how bad the thing they are doing right now was, WOW. They would SO not do it." Jesus put things with more elegance, even when in terrible pain. He was... well. Let me just get back to my point.
So I got much better at the business of forgiving because I got to apply the idea that the people who were kicking me in the face simply wouldn't do it if they were aware that they were hurting me so very badly. And so then by that logic, well, of course I could forgive them. No one who knew they were being such a total ass hole would behave in such a way, so obviously they were under the influence of a terrible portion of ignorance - a portion so enormous that I could even feel kind of sorry for the person who kicked me in the face.
So now I can forgive people. Some of them. The ones I can find ignorance or error with, the people whose real intention wasn't to kick me in face.
But her?
She knew. And my dad?
He knew too.
And they both did it anyway and I can't forgive them. And that is likely to be the biggest spiritual problem of my entire life. Good thing I got to it this early. If I live to be 100, I might maybe work it out. But I am not hopeful.
And anyway, is anyone else as sick of this subject as I am? I am so tired of it. I am tired of writing about it and I am sorry for continuing to dwell on it. The fact is, I am mentally better all the time. It just doesn't show here because it's hard to write about being happy or feeling better because everything is fine over here posts are pretty boring and I am pretty sure that is not what you come here for. Is that what you come here for? I don't even know.
Whatever your reason for coming here, thank you for reading.
Love,
Nina
What I am resenting is that no one in my entire family is willing to confront her except me, and frankly I feel that since I have already told her off, I am no longer obligated. I should get to log off this problem.
Except that I don't, but for a different reason. It is a reason I don't like at all.
The reason is that forgiveness is a problem, and it is not a tiny little irksome fly in the ointment kind of problem. It is a genuine fat ass issue. And thinking about the issue has brought to my attention a certain defect of character that I can no longer avoid confronting.
I suck at forgiveness. For years I just didn't do it at all. People who wronged me got cold and stony irreversible nothing from me forever and ever and ever and ever. I did more than just hold grudges. I completely removed offenders from my life. (This is the reason why so very many of my ex-boyfriends haunt me for years after we break up - often well after they have married other people and had children and the whole show. It is because they hurt me and I shunned them and they feel... like... crap. As they probably should. Oh I am sorry. I am digressing. Let me stop that.
Oh wait just a little more digression. Please note that I still shun people who hurt me and I defend my right to do this because I don't think there is anything in the bible that says you have to let people kick you in the face twice. There is that thing about turning the other cheek but I think whoever put in the bible should have left it out. I hope it wasn't Jesus. Was it Jesus? Ugh).
Back to my story. One fine day, I made a great stride, a breakthrough in the forgiveness area. I was reading a book about the last words of Christ and some incredibly smart person pointed out that there is more than one way to take this one thing that Jesus said. Here is the thing:
"Forgive them, for they know not what they do."
At first glance, this just looks like forgiveness muckity muck. Nothing special. However, if you look carefully at the grammar of the sentence (which is exactly the kind of thing I like to do in my spare time), you will see that the word "for" in this case could be translated as "because". When one reads the sentence as "Forgive them, because they know not what they do" or even closer to today's vernacular "Forgive them, because, seriously, if they knew exactly how bad the thing they are doing right now was, WOW. They would SO not do it." Jesus put things with more elegance, even when in terrible pain. He was... well. Let me just get back to my point.
So I got much better at the business of forgiving because I got to apply the idea that the people who were kicking me in the face simply wouldn't do it if they were aware that they were hurting me so very badly. And so then by that logic, well, of course I could forgive them. No one who knew they were being such a total ass hole would behave in such a way, so obviously they were under the influence of a terrible portion of ignorance - a portion so enormous that I could even feel kind of sorry for the person who kicked me in the face.
So now I can forgive people. Some of them. The ones I can find ignorance or error with, the people whose real intention wasn't to kick me in face.
But her?
She knew. And my dad?
He knew too.
And they both did it anyway and I can't forgive them. And that is likely to be the biggest spiritual problem of my entire life. Good thing I got to it this early. If I live to be 100, I might maybe work it out. But I am not hopeful.
And anyway, is anyone else as sick of this subject as I am? I am so tired of it. I am tired of writing about it and I am sorry for continuing to dwell on it. The fact is, I am mentally better all the time. It just doesn't show here because it's hard to write about being happy or feeling better because everything is fine over here posts are pretty boring and I am pretty sure that is not what you come here for. Is that what you come here for? I don't even know.
Whatever your reason for coming here, thank you for reading.
Love,
Nina
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Time again
What happens next?
Seven months after moving into Bob and Kate's Asylum, I have been thinking a lot - probably more than is healthy for a girl like me.
Everything I assumed would happen in my life did not happen, and a whole lot of other things happened instead. Let me assure you that this is not whining; it is a simple statement of facts.
I wanted to graduate from college without having learned anything temporally relevant, and for the most part, I succeeded. Byron, Shakespeare, Sylvia Plath - cool. I even composed a performance art piece during which I extinguished candles on various parts of my body. (I got an A on in that class).
I am not constituted to solve world famine, genocide, dirty terrible people of other cultures were the jurisdiction of other young idealists. I just wanted peace. Green grass. Leafy trees, waterfalls, smiling babies. This makes me a lightweight. Morally speaking, of course.
And of course, because on the very best of days, God thinks I am fit for... what? a spittoon? I find that I am the person my family and my therapist believe is responsible for confronting the evil of Erika. Why? Because of everyone in my family, I was the one most injured. Also, because no one else in my family wants to explain it to her because it's all so very untidy and Gosh, what to say? So Nina should just do it.
Normally I am up for a writing project, especially if I can be vituperative and profane.
But this time? This time... internet, I confess that I simply would not know where to start. I just want her to die. But before she does, I want her to know perhaps for the first time, what she did to me, my family, and my father, the love of my life.
Crazy train? I'll be at the bar.
Love,
Nina
Seven months after moving into Bob and Kate's Asylum, I have been thinking a lot - probably more than is healthy for a girl like me.
Everything I assumed would happen in my life did not happen, and a whole lot of other things happened instead. Let me assure you that this is not whining; it is a simple statement of facts.
I wanted to graduate from college without having learned anything temporally relevant, and for the most part, I succeeded. Byron, Shakespeare, Sylvia Plath - cool. I even composed a performance art piece during which I extinguished candles on various parts of my body. (I got an A on in that class).
I am not constituted to solve world famine, genocide, dirty terrible people of other cultures were the jurisdiction of other young idealists. I just wanted peace. Green grass. Leafy trees, waterfalls, smiling babies. This makes me a lightweight. Morally speaking, of course.
And of course, because on the very best of days, God thinks I am fit for... what? a spittoon? I find that I am the person my family and my therapist believe is responsible for confronting the evil of Erika. Why? Because of everyone in my family, I was the one most injured. Also, because no one else in my family wants to explain it to her because it's all so very untidy and Gosh, what to say? So Nina should just do it.
Normally I am up for a writing project, especially if I can be vituperative and profane.
But this time? This time... internet, I confess that I simply would not know where to start. I just want her to die. But before she does, I want her to know perhaps for the first time, what she did to me, my family, and my father, the love of my life.
Crazy train? I'll be at the bar.
Love,
Nina
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