A Twist of Things to Come

I just got the LJ email with the subheading "Holiday Debuggery" which sent me to my naughty/happy place giggling like a loon. There were "kinks" with their holiday promotion, see.

ROFL. I'm a naughty cow.

***

An old friend(ish) from Christian School friended me on Facebook. Hadn't spoken to her or her sister (whom I rather liked) in many years. I liked her mother a lot, and just found out she died last year, which sucks. I've seen one friend from the Christian school years semi-regularly -- one who was particularly nice to me (by comparison) and who turned into a really nice grown up. She called me in tears when she heard my mother died and even came to the funeral. Her name is Johnie.

Anyway, a few newsy notes about the other 'friend,' and some of that group. They all still live in a 30 mile radius of the school, seems like. Apparently, most of them homeschool. There's talk of having a reunion, even. They still keep in touch with our tenth grade teacher, which blows my mind. I liked her well enough, but my time in that school was easily the worst period of my life, ever. Seems like most of them married right out of high school. The one I know who didn't and may have attended college is on her second marriage, with kids and steps, too. She was the worst of the lot - to me, anyway.

I won't go into why I have such a visceral reaction to anyone from that group (even Johnie, to a lesser degree). I like to think I'm beyond wanting them to be miserable, but apparently I'm not above enjoying it when it happens. I'm a bit ashamed of the fact, but there you go. Christian middle school was the only hell I've really known, and in the grand scheme of things that makes me a lucky bitch. I admit that.

One of the best things about leaving home was knowing I'd never have to make nice with some of those bints again. Now, with age and a bit of perspective, I'm anxious to meet up with them and see how they take it when I tell them I've written gay erotica for pay. I've tried to imagine it, and I just can't. If they have a reunion, I just might go.

***

Now, for the fun, via narniadear :



That's the first of four, and I found it very enjoyable. "Barrowman!"

... sifting through the layers of the geological record. Going through mounds of crap left unexamined for years but once deemed worthy of keeping has been a revelation.

Pictures, picture frames, scrapbooking supplies and so forth have now been consolidated, years of paperwork sorted through. I still had all the legal docs from a minor fender-bender in 1994, and a lot of my pay stubs from the government. Sure, I need to keep my separation papers and so forth, just in case I ever get desperate enough to revisit the hell of civil service, but still.

I cleaned out my beloved oak roll-top desk, the first bit of new furniture I ever bought. It had been sitting in our entryway with photos displayed on top of it and a multitude of junk hidden beneath its rolling top. I found all sorts of neat stuff, and cleared out enough space to collect and file the writing I did before I had my own computer. Plus, the notes from my Ancient Greek classes (the only college course whose materials I've kept.

I found pictures of me and my Beloved from back then, and added one special memory of us to a picture frame displayed on top. *happy sigh* I'm going to hold onto this image of a clean, orderly home in which I can find things that are useful, beautiful or meaningful to me. I'm going to have faith that there will be a place like that in my future in New Orleans, though the road to finding it may be a long one. We can do this.

***

We got Wee Boy's class assignment and supplies list for next year in the mail. The one lingering worry about moving now is that he will not get that last year at this really great school around the corner. But, he's been accepted to a free public homeschooling program that is coordinated online, so I can make sure we get to do a lot of the same cool stuff.

It's going to be super-hard for him to leave behind his friend Jake from down the street. Jake practically lives here, most days. I'm going to miss him, too.

I guess I just have to have faith that we will find appropriate social outlets for both my boys in our new hometown.

As you may know, a pipe burst in our house whilst we were in New Orleans over Spring Break. My brother-in-law found it and my father-in-law and good friend decon1313 came to the rescue and moved several sections of our bookshelves aside and dealt with the plumbing and flooring as best they could.

When the hubby came home Friday night (early Saturday morning) they moved the shelves back. We spent some time Saturday cleaning, sorting and re-shelving books and such. That done, I attempted to put the kitchen to rights, as it was no longer full of furniture and books. On the table I found a little pile of folded sheets of notebook paper.

That's not a big deal because Wee Boy has become a champion "Note to self" writer. There are usually at least three of these in his pocket at the end of every school day. They usually say things like "Play Little Big Planet with Cory" or "Remember to feed Bitey" (or dog), and sometimes designs for characters in his ongoing comics. Most of them are the sort of thing you'd find funny or charming. Occasionally there's something a little thrilling -- something that reminds me how scary-smart the wee monkey is. In any case, I always read them before I toss them, and occasionally keep a few to show him when he's older.

Among them, I found a different sort of note entirely. It had been torn from a spiral notebook, while the others are always loose paper. It was folded in eighths, and I noticed on one side in pen it read, "John C. would you give this to Libby (please)" in blue ink. Two things are wrong with that -- Wee Boy's notes are always in pencil, and his name is not Libby.

Mine is. Or was, to be more precise. It was a nickname I had growing up -- much of my family still calls me "Libby" on occasion. (I lost it when I went to college and everything said "Olivia." I was anxious to leave the past behind, so I discarded my old nickname like an itchy Christmas sweater.) I realized it must have fallen out of one of my books, but I had no recollection of who John C. might have been, so I read the whole thing, hoping it would jog a memory.

Libby,
Hi! What's up? not much, here. Write me sometime ok. [the ok is double underlined] I miss you & Love you.
I hope you will write me, so next time I will have something to say. OK [double-underlined, again] Well, I hope you feel ok & everything & that you are doing ok in school. I hope you have a Merry Christmas & Happy New Year [both holiday greetings are double-underlined] Well got to go.
Love Ya
Peggy Sue
P.S. -- write me please

There's an address in Proctorville, Ohio. I had no immediate idea how I would have met anyone from Ohio while I was still in school, other than summer camp, but there are two reasons I don't think that's it. It was a hand-delivered note probably written after Thanksgiving in whatever year it was, and the overwhelming majority of the summer camp kids were from Knoxville, TN and Charlotte, NC.

In any case, I have no idea who Peggy Sue was, or why she loved me. I'm certain I didn't write to her, because I was a horrible correspondent, in my youth. I'm only slightly better now.

I've come around to thinking she must have been someone's cousin who came to visit during the summer or perhaps the tag-along friend of someone's cousin, who then saw the cousin at a Thanksgiving thing and had him slip me a note.

The funny thing is, although I have no idea who Peggy Sue (or John C. for that matter) was, I feel quite guilty for not writing to her. She sounds like she needed a friend, and while I have always been quite outgoing with people in person, I pretty much never made any attempt to stay in touch, ever.

The second funny thing is, I remember conversations that occurred when I was six years old, verbatim, the combinations to every locker or campus mailbox I ever had, the names and faces of several kids I went AWANA Scholarship Camp with when I was ten, and many, many other parts of my past in nauseating detail. I am vaguely thrilled by the mystery. Peggy Sue has been tickling at the back of my brain, and I suspect she will come to me when I least expect it.

Not that it really matters now. ;)

This is a thorny, twisty subject for me, so I put off posting about it. I've given the topic a lot of thought over the years. My views are still evolving, but here is what I think, in a nutshell:

1. Religions come about as a means to improve ourselves, to achieve a sort of connectedness with something larger than ourselves or with each other. Usually, the systems we refer to as "major religions" (as opposed to tribal belief systems or cultural superstitions and mythologies -- I think this is an arbitrary distinction, but one most people make) spring up around individuals whose lives or words profoundly affect those around them. The teachings of these individuals are written and codified, at which point they start to become legalistic. Social and cultural interpretations vary on the teachings, and people become more concerned with behavioral minutia than with the more internal, spiritual distinctions.

2. I think true religion (of whatever flavor) is something that happens inside an individual. It is indescribably and lovely, but also somewhat variable and progressive. I believe that most religious teachings arise from people experiencing this, and trying to explain it to others -- a process that never fully succeeds. Moses or Christ or the Buddha certainly did their best, and I imagine some folks "got it" while others didn't (even though they thought they did).

The thing that stands out to me about religion, is that I have heard people from different religions describe the same experience. What a Christian describes as "living in the center of God's will, in a place of perfect love" seems to me to be very similar to the Oneness with the Universe described in the Vedic tradition, enlightenment in Buddhism, and so on. I tend to see it as people trying to describe the same thing from different vantage points.

I have known people from many different religions who have this love in their hearts for their fellow men. Most of my life experience is with Christians, and I have encountered more than one Christian whose presence was like cool water, who gave the impression of being very accepting and loving and very much in the moment. In all my time in Christian education, I met one -- a fellow student at King College named Rebecca, who cheerfully failed every time our fellows tested her skill at being judgmental. *g*

I remember when another friend at school chastised me for hanging with the theater crowd, the weird intellectuals and various delightfully androgynous fellows. I will never forget what she said to me, because the words she spoke sounded alien in her mouth. I knew she was repeating something she'd been told by a youth minister, or someone in fellowship group.

She said, "God has called us to have a spotless reputation."

"I gaped for a moment, startled by how ridiculous a statement that was. "God has called us to do something Jesus Himself never managed?" I did not add that I thought that was one of the stupidest things I'd ever heard, but I'm sure she inferred that from my giggles.

3. My bottom line is that doing what is really right and following the lead of the spirit is actually more likely to get you a bad reputation among religious communities than not. Why? Because true religion -- whatever form that may take -- challenges prejudice. It upsets the apple cart, and turns over the money-changers' tables. The spirit knows the difference between what is right and true and what is merely habitual or "customary."

Sometimes that is a dangerous, even revolutionary, thing. Sometimes it's not. But whatever it actually is, that is what I aspire to.

Last night, Big Boy played the following movie trailer on the Xbox Media Center Apple Movie Trailers Plug-in:



I'd already seen it, because I'm an animated film Geek, but it had not occurred to me that my 11 year old would dig it. It seems... dark. In any case, he immediately began jumping up and down and saying he wished September would hurry up and get here.

O_O

My little apple did not, in fact, fall far from the tree.

It reminds me of my odd little flights of fancy, when I was a kid. For example, I must have been twelve when I developed a crush on the Antichrist from the Omen films. I cannot remember why -- it wasn't a looks thing, based on the evidence, so I shall posit that it was an accent thing. And probably an unhealthy fascination with the more taboo elements of my religious upbringing. *smirk*

Some time after that, I fixed upon Margaret Thatcher as a sort of hero. It wasn't a political thing -- I had very little grasp of politics. I just remember seeing this woman with my grandmother's haircut shouting down a roomful of men in wigs, and thinking it looked like fun. >;D

I've no political aspirations, but of the opportunity to shout at a room full of men in wigs presents itself, I am SO there.

What brought this to mind was that a friend across the pond happened to offer good wishes to her American friends about the historic inauguration yesterday, and someone rather hurt her feelings by de-friending her on account of it.

Not that I equate her good wishes with Maggie Thatcher somehow becoming a role model to my blossoming inner dominatrix, just that things have a way of looking very different, depending on who you are and where you are.

And also that maybe people should lighten the frak up, if you'll pardon my Geeky profanity. ;) If Sarah Palin can go on TV (the Neil Boorts show, which I happened to see a bit of while at the in-laws' house) and say that, while she might not agree with Obama on policy, he was still her President and the fact of his his election was historic (and proof of what makes America great), and you can't say that, maybe you should ask yourself why not. I was brought up to respect the office, and I have done it for many years, even when the men themselves didn't seem to do so.

Not saying we have to agree. Disagreement is cool -- it's what makes us grow and learn, and what changes things for the better. Of course we all have the right to friend or unfriend as we like, and that is cool, too. I just find the negativity unnecessary. Hissy fits don't do anyone any good, is all I'm saying.

Right now, I'm sort of taking my time going through a process of recapitulation, recalling my life, more or less in detail. It may seem sort of hokey, but I'm beginning to see how vital even the worst mistakes of my life have been to the person I am today.

I'm told that George Foreman has a big framed picture of himself being knocked out at the Rumble in the Jungle, that he points to it as the best thing that ever happened to him.

I think I'm learning that lesson. How vital it has been to remember what it was like to be teased in school, now that my kids are facing some of the same things. How lucky my post-partum depression was, after all, because it showed me I could be more than just my brain chemistry, and how strong my core relationships really are.

To regret those things is to regret who I am because of it, and just can't do that.

So, basically, that's part of why I posted what I did yesterday. I have discovered that the course of my life has flowed around the constant of my closest relationship. It has been the defining characteristic of my life, and even if what blessing I have now are the only ones I will ever have, it is more than enough.

I've also been surprised by two other things that I find miraculous:

1). I was such an unrepentant, nerd girl freakshow that it is either a statistical miracle I found love... or else it just isn't that hard to find, once you relax and let stuff happen.

2). It seems miraculous to me that I have lived to be as old as I am, having been a giant, self-absorbed prat most of that time, that no one has ever punched me right in the face. 'Cause thinking back to stuff I said and did, I want to punch myself. What an idiot! Heh.

In any case, I am blessed to be loved, and to have been spared the beatings I so richly deserved. ;)

Warning: This post contains schmoop. It is completely true, no matter what you might think by the end. I won't apologize for it, but I will stash most of it behind the cut, to spare you.

In the spring of 1988, I was in my second semester as an undergrad. Up to that point, I had presented myself to my fellow students as shallow and not terribly bright, in the hopes that people would like me. I was always in the middle of activities, and generally left the all night study sessions in favor of having a fresh brain for the tests. My attempt to reinvent myself had been thwarted by the school's practice of posting a list of all the students with 4.0 averages on every door in the student's center. My cover was blown.

I had studied a lot less than the fellow I was dating, and although he was also on the list, he became somewhat passive-aggressive about it. I think he needed to feel like he was smarter than me. It was a great relief when he said, "We just have different values" and we went our separate ways. I was free. Then I realized that everyone assumed I'd broken his heart somehow, and the circle of friends we had shared had begun to close me out. That was fine, too. The theater geeks were more fun, anyway.

On a day late in April, I dressed nice and put my hair up. This was my signal to myself that I was now going to reinvent myself again, this time being more honest with myself and those around me. I was not at all sure how to do such a thing, except I knew I should stop hiding my studious nature.

I set out for the library, a suitably public place to be seen studying. It was directly across the Oval from my dorm. It was a sunny, late afternoon, but it had rained several days previous and the grassy Oval was still squishy. I was wearing my favorite shoes, so I took the brick path around, instead of cutting across. Didn't want to sink in the muck.

That path led past the brick-paved Chapel entryway, where they were practicing for the Greek play, due to be performed on an upcoming alumni weekend. This was a classics project, so not the usual theater crowd. The play was Antigone, and the scene being rehearsed featured Crion, played by a fellow I knew in passing.

( Standing behind him, watching, was a god. )

So, the course of my life was changed utterly by three days of constant rain and an unusual fondness for a particular pair of shoes.

I was preparing to pack this morning, and while handling one of the suitcases, I had the oddest flash of memory.

The tan bag I usually put the boy's clothes in (yes, I make then share a suitcase, oh, the humanity, but they have separate drawers at Papa's house) has a monogram of my husband's initials. He got it for Christmas when we were in college, from one of his uncles.

He had loaned it to me to use on a couple of occasions before we married, and I know I used it afterward. I used to travel quite a bit, with him and on my own.

I remember being on one of those buses that drives you out to the wee little commuter planes I used to affectionately call "Winnebagos with wings." There was a very handsome man across from me, engaging me in conversation. Where I was going, whom I was going to see, etc. On this occasion I was going to see my Beloved, and I was plain about that, so the fellow wouldn't get the wrong idea. I'm chatty and I smile a lot, which tends to give people the impression that I'm into them. Usually I am into them, just not like that. I like chatting. This effect was much more pronounced when I was younger and hotter.

After a bit we stopped talking, and I started checking my boarding pass and itinerary, etc.

"So, what is it? Wendy?"

I looked up and he was giving me this appraising look. I had no freaking clue what he was talking about, and it must have shown on my face.

"Your name." He gestured at the monogram. "Is it Wendy?"

"No. I borrowed this bag from my finance. His first name is William."

"But you called him R__."

Had I mentioned his name? Probably. (His name is actually William R__ but he goes by R__, which is what I call him.) Here is where I got a little nervous. I mean, the attitude, like I was lying about my name, or about my fiancé, or about having a fiancé in the first place. Like he thought I was making it up because I didn't trust him.

It seemed like an odd conclusion to jump to, and THAT was when I stopped trusting him. His regard was a little too direct, or maybe I just decided that he'd been paying too much attention. I don't know. My Spidey Sense was tingling.

"He's named after his father, so they use his middle name to avoid confusion." That was a lie. He and his father both use their middle names, for whatever reason, but it wasn't any of his damned business.

There's no real point to that story, other than people are strange sometimes. Maybe he was just playing Sherlock Holmes to pass the time. Maybe he saw a 21 year old girl (who looked much younger than that, really) traveling alone and saw an opportunity to be charming and impressive. I don't know.

I do know that I've handled the monogrammed bag a thousand times or more since then, but today, for some reason, I thought of the aggressively handsome man who was offended when my name wasn't Wendy.

Some days it's thrill ride, just being inside my head.

***

To those on flist whose fiction I have fallen behind on reading-- I've nipped your recent work and hope to catch up while I'm away from the internet. I hope I haven't' missed anybody.

Catch you on the flip side!

...at the home of our dearest friends. The boys are beside themselves. My Beloved is slaving away at improvements on the Bender costume and various bits of the boy's costumes. I have no idea what I will wear, Ha!

I am in the process of making some nifty Halloweenish snacks. Perhaps I will get pictures.

***

By way of hedgegoth and too good not to share:



***

I watch the show Supernatural. Have ever since the darling jedi_diplomat mailed me some rips of the first two seasons. Then of course, micehell keeps me up to date. I like it for what it is, though I maybe do not see what many of my friends see in the, ah, subtext.

Aaaanyway. The last show had this amusing outtake after the episode was over:



It got... that song... stuck in my head. HARD.

On the upside, it reminded me of a girl I knew in Christian school. A bunch of us were hanging out, and someone either played that song or it came on the radio. Actually, I think it was *takes deep breath before startling revelation* at cheerleading practice. Now you know my secret shame.

In any case, this girl was singing along, and I heard her sing, "... and the last known survivor stacks his bread in the night..." I laughed so hard (though as quietly as possible) I pulled an abdominal muscle. I wasn't the only one laughing, and the girl took it in good humor.

But it still gives me the mad giggles whenever I hear it. Then my mind goes down these rabbit trails, like, A person who stockpiled bread might survive a famine, but it would have to be the mold-resistant sort of bread. And, I wonder what made J. think of that. Was she in a death camp in a past life...

Then I come back to myself and am mildly annoyed that not only do I have that song stuck in my head, but also have been repeatedly reduced to pondering the karmic debt of a girl I haven't clapped eyes on in twenty years. It also reminds me of cheerleading. The less said about that, the better.

They say that having children makes you appreciate your parents, or at least see them in a new light. I think this is true.

It also helps you see yourself in a new light. Recent stuff with Big Boy's hunger strike (I'm now convinced he was merely reluctant to go back to school after the break, and took our talk about Gandhi, Thoreau and Martin Luther King (this past MLK Day) a little too much to heart. I should have known that a scrawny guy in a diaper winning independence for his country by sheer non-violent obstinance would spark his imagination...Pardon my digression) brought back memories of my own childhood.

I never went on a hunger strike, but I remember my early struggles with the somewhat dogmatic Christian Private schools I attended. (I believe my mother put me in private schools hoping I'd get a better education. I probably did, because it was there I learned that the only way I'd ever learn anything was on my own, and that I didn't want to be like the people around me.)

There were strict rules about language at the school where I spent 7th through 10th grade. So much so that the popular kids came up with code words for curse words, that they used instead. That way they could be cool and cuss but not get in trouble for it. Foofoo Duckies, souffle, that sort of thing. Took me a while to decode them because I was the uncool kid who didn't use foul language as a general rule.

We also got a stern word or two if we said mild words, such as "shoot" or "darn."

The memory that came to me today went much like this:

Me, frustrated with a geometry problem: Darn it!

Teacher: Watch your language, young lady! Saying that is just as bad as saying the other!

Me, having taken about all I could stand: No it isn't.

Teacher, annoyed and talking in a higher pitch than before: Yes, it is!

Me: You've just proven it isn't.

Teacher: I've done no such thing.

Me: Yes, you have. I say "Darn it" and you say that is just as bad as saying "Damn it" but if I say "Damn it" I get sent to the principal's office.

Teacher, red in the face: Go to the Principal's office!

The best part was my too-smart-for-his-own-good close friend (also the cutest guy in class) trying so hard not to laugh. He was the only other person in the room who really understood what a farce some of those rules were.

The memory warms my heart to this day. *sigh*