What I want to see, hear, learn, generally swim in
- a translation of my innermost heart
- emotional landscapes. the limbic system translated into some second language.
- exaggerated colors, characters, landscapes
- more women at the helm
- outstanding photography
- circadian rhythms visualized and utilized beautifully, helpfully, carefully
- surprising and correct juxtapositions
- the intelligences of animals
- superlative eloquence
- native north american cultures
- big words, well used
- short, easy prose
- stubbornly long prose
- preposterously camera shots
- rural settings
- visual non sequiturs
- perfect pitch, and the idea of Si, of introverted sensing.
- acrobatic inventiveness
- an abundance of luxurious detail
- lite sci-fi
- religious, mystical, alchemical, or obtuse physics references/processes said simply, poetically. like old fashioned science, maybe, before science has methods. back when it was a part of philosophy.
- objects of great and obscure import: like, the grail is actually a rock
- generational psychology
- evolutionary anthropology
- cults, mystical societies and the like
- joycean streaks
I was told recently by a career coach that this effort here is a bunch of bullshit, and that if I care about my child, motherhood is all I really can expect to manage until my child leaves home. It was definitely a really weird conversation. That I should just figure out over the next five years how to “rearrange my life” (give up professional career) so I can be home with my child at the age he starts worrying about social problems and decimal math.
I knew this person was eccentric going into the conversation, but even so, I think she gave me some terrible advice. I do not agree that the effort of trying to understand one’s mind and one’s life is ever bullshit. Sharing the growth-effort with others, however small, is a good thing to do. I mean, duh.
What the actual
So even though the advice was terrible and actually pretty abusive, I’m still intrigued by the sentiment. She was telling me to focus, and that it’s hard to live the big life you are told you can live when you’re a little girl. She was telling me to hole up, to batten down the hatches, to get fierce and execute my main job (of being a mom)(or whatever my main deal is) instead of acting like a time-wasting dummy who wants to yank open a big, heavy cellar door and deal with what happens when light and air gets on the underground parts. It was rough talk, but there’s truth the idea of focus and that’s also part of the consderation of growth.
But I don’t wanna give up on the dream. Self-knowledge can be hard to come by when you have a job and a kid and a spouse, and patriarchal, capitalist society is up in your lady business at all moments of the day. Picking extra-curriculars worth the investment never feels easy. Honoring all eleventy-thousand agreements while still trying to find time to explore whatever wisdom can be found in one’s path can be so elusive.
Who am I, anyway?
Just a human ladyperson.
I’m the usual eleventy-thousand modern things: mother, married lady, worker lady, dog lover, designer, writer, painter, digital tinkerer, person who tries to think a little about what makes a good life. Gardener, lapsed cook. I swear a lot, have a shorter temper than some, longer than others. Pretty sure I’m dominant function Ne, auxiliary function Fi.
Also, apparently capable of further social talents such as being cold, aloof, arrogant, a snob, negative, a terrible person. I suppose it’s all true occasionally. I guess that makes me well-rounded. And maybe misunderstood sometimes, too. I daresay I’m fun, warm, a good conversationalist, considerate, full of ideas, smart, conscientious as well. Are you getting all this? I’m tall. I have a bunch of fillings. I could go on. But instead, you know what I’m thinking? I was born, same as everybody else. I have a right to be here. I should be here.
So here I am, starting small.
Read this double dactyl from John Hollander:
Was, and, as such,
Served between Clevelands and
Save for this trivial
Didn’t do much.
Here are the rules driving the structure:
Two stanzas, each with three lines of dactylic dimeter and a final choriamb line
Choriambs need to rhyme
First line of poem is jabberwock
Second line is the subject, written as proper noun
At least one line is a single double-dactylic word
Roger L. Robison’s teaching-you-the-way version:
Dactyls in dimeter,
Verse form with choriambs
One sentence (two stanzas)
Challenges poets who
Don’t have the time.
Here’s my first double dactyl:
Alex P. Weatherby—
Already known as the
World’s tallest man—
Eating an albatross
Chopped up and fricasseed
All that he can
Hecht & Hollander Jiggery-Pokery: A Compendium of Double Dactyls
80 Works from Peter Klappert
I am my mother’s daughter, I am my father’s son
My brother hews a stack of sticks and gives my sister none.
I sit and knit and count the days: one and one and one.