Tonight it was just me and the baby and I kept looking at him and getting really sad. He’s becoming more of a person and I know to say I feel a little bad about that is so morose it’s funny, but I do. He is starting to get preferences and to want things, more and more, beyond food. He’s wildly happy most of the time but sometimes he will just stare quietly and look sad if I ignore him and I want to cry. If I put him down for a minute to pee or to get a glass of water or god forbid, eat a meal, he gets so spastic and scrambly when I pick him up, his arms tight around my neck, all of him gasping and kicking. Babies do not “play it cool,” haha. Dustin thinks he is learning to miss me, though everything seems to say that he won’t develop that for a couple more months (separation anxiety). “But remember, our baby is a genius.”
My son loves me so much, is what I’m saying, and it’s making me sad, reflexively. I love him too, and it’s like, Oh god, ok, all this and love, too? Just when I thought there wasn’t room for anything else. Dustin and were talking about baby love the other day, and I was trying to say how it feels very close to romantic love for me, minus the sexual attraction obviously, but like the physical need to be close to / affectionate with him is more similar than I would have guessed. The idea that I once felt this with my own mother is wild to think about, and really sad because where is that now? I have faint memories of loving the way she smelled, too, and of wanting to rub my face on her upper arm, or remarking on how soft her skin was. Does she still feel that way with me? I can’t even think about it.
As the baby moves from alien intruder who could slip into death at any moment to person who is funny and needy and beautiful and charming and alive, the intimacy is intrusive and surprising. Sometimes he looks at me across the chasm between his barely-there personhood and my own, and I am shocked. And a little creeped out, to be honest, like he must be a ghost or God or some universal something or other, communing with me on the changing table.
It’s been wild to experience new love alongside the, for me, intense personal transformative shit of becoming a mother. They should be one and the same I guess and maybe they are. But on the one hand I feel this wild desire to be alone and to think and to write. I feel a stronger Self than I ever have, almost as a defensive move I suspect, as I feel like the world wants me to give it up. Catholics talk about “dying to self” when you get married, and certainly when you have kids. I am worried someone is going to snatch my Self out from under me, so I’m scrambling and kicking my legs and wrapping my arms around its neck.
And then my baby is reclining in his Boppy and staring at me and his face breaks out into a smile and we laugh together and I think, Oh fuck, dude, you are really in for it, out here with us. I am so so sorry.
10:26 pm • 15 October 2014 • 414 notes
We spent almost all of the day indoors but it was beautiful out today, I know; I saw enough of it to know that much. It felt like fall. Or actually to me it felt like Christmas because I am from Florida. It felt like I needed to go shopping, or that I was going to walk into my cousin’s house for dinner and there would be decorations up.
My hair is falling out. It’s major. Or I think it is. I can’t tell if it feels like it’s so much because my hair didn’t fall out at all for the past year and I’m just not used to it anymore or — either way, hair is everywhere. It’s in the shower drain, all over my hands, in balls on the floor, twisted around the baby’s fingers and curled up in the folds of his neck. Today it was all over the black sweater we tore out of a garbage bag of winter clothes this morning.
So re: the hair, that’s the thing, I was excited to find this out so I hope you don’t know either and I get to be the one to tell you: In pregnancy, it’s not that you grow extra hair or your existing hair somehow gets thicker. It’s that your hair stops falling out. Isn’t that somehow so much witchier than the alternative? A year went by and my brush and my hands and the shower drain stayed empty.
It was a nice break and now it’s over.
I’m glad though, overall. It feels like a marker, like I’m returning to the land of the living. I do worry what else will go, what else I’ll lose when I lose the last of these crazy hormones. What if this new DGAF-ness and creative drive is all because of estrogen? Not that those feelings seem very estrogen-y at all. Maybe it’s the estrogen drop? The velocity of it? My knowledge is limited.
I took a walk tonight, to get out of the house and to be alone a little bit before the sun went down. It was at Dustin’s suggestion. It seemed like such a novel idea, and so easy, too. Why didn’t I think of it? I think sometimes — often — we forget that it doesn’t have to be so hard.
I felt very young again on this walk, it must have been the changing of the seasons, or else that I was wearing huge, noise-canceling headphones, and listening to a song I used to listen to when I was 24. Not that I had noise-canceling headphones then, but it seems like a young person thing to do, to wear them walking down the street.
I felt very irresponsible wearing them. Like a car could hit me or a mom friend might be out walking her baby, trying, too, to get out before the sun went down. I imagined this unspecified mom calling out to me and I wouldn’t hear her, would just keep walking in my happy, solitary daze. She’d think I was rude or cool or both. I decided I could live with that, and also that none of this would happen, probably, and kept going.
The parents with babies all do go out around the same time at night (and well, all the time), one last gasp at being a person, at fresh air. You nod at each other with your carriers, then look away, kind of embarrassed. Or I am. But I always am.
Dustin put a picture of me on a walk with the carrier up on Facebook and I hated it so much. “But you hate every picture of you,” he said. “Yes, because I hate the way I look,” I said to him, defiant. I meant ‘right now’ but decided to leave it at that, to give me coverage for any point in the future, too.
The song I was listening to is, I suspect, pretty bad. I am not a great judge of these things. I like it, though, even though I am sure it is objectively not-great. Not in a ‘guilty pleasure’ way just in a semi-embarrassed for the musician way. Oh well! I enjoy it. I went to this man’s apartment once, late at night. I took a cab. He read my blog and we IMed and I got there and he showed me his books and we took turns sitting in a single wooden chair and lying on his rug, next to the piano. We did not kiss, or even flirt. I stayed there for a few hours and one of us, it must have been him, said, “Well,” and I’m sure it took too much hinting to get me to leave, because I had a big crush on him, but I appreciate that he did eventually, get me out of there. For that I feel bad saying this song of his I like is bad but it really is. And yet tonight it made me feel young and happy and alone (alone is a positive quality now, now that I never can be) and I kept taking my phone out of my pocket to replay it. At a certain point I realized I could just hit the ‘repeat song’ button so I did, then wondered how I do that to myself in other ways, how I forget that there is a button for what I’m trying to do.
I crossed under the BQE and then turned around and came back, running into some friends of mine who I know are in the middle of something and did not want to be making small talk with me on the street corner. I saw them when it was too late and I was wearing my big headphones so I pulled them down around my neck — the bad song blaring — and said, quickly, “Hi I’m sorry I have to get back!” and kept walking. “Oh! Okay! Talk to you soon!” We waved and smiled and I put my headphones back on. I did have to get back, sort of. It’s not like me to lie, to run, but in this moment it felt like the easiest and kindest thing to do for everyone.
Sometimes they are one in the same.
10:09 pm • 5 October 2014 • 79 notes
Four Month Sleep Regression
Last night the baby woke up at 2 in the morning, hungry, instead of his usual 4 or 5 or 6. Then he woke up again at 3am, shitting himself wide awake, his little eyes smiling at me when I appeared over him in the crib. He laughed at the changing table and kicked his legs. He grabbed my fingers and held on, smiling and cooing. I was happy to spend time with him, to commune with him like this in the middle of the night, but thinking about how I’d feel in the morning, and all the work I was excited to do. I wanted my brain to be there for it, too. I wanted to save my brain for the work. But here he was, reaching out to me. I held him to me and he wrapped his arms around my neck, which is not quite a hug, just holding on, but it feels close to it that I let myself pretend.
I had to pee and I was desperately thirsty so I laid him in bed next to Dustin, who woke up enough to pull him towards him. I came back and laughed, they were both awake, playing with each others’ hands, the baby talking baby talk into the dark room, Dustin quiet and bleary. He hadn’t done this in months, not since he was brand new. He usually sleeps from 8pm to 4am, sometimes longer.
This is temporary. If I say it enough it will have no choice but to be true.
I fell in and out of sleep, had nightmares involving fireworks and the baby in danger. Someone put him face down in his carseat and someone else shot a flaming arrow into my back and I woke up with pain in my spine. It was 4 now. He was still awake and wiggling about in the dark, between us in bed. I picked him up and walked him into the living room. I fed him a little on the couch to see if that was what it was. His eyes started to close a little but he kept eating. I stood up with him still on my boob, swaying back and forth while I paced the apartment and whispered ssh sssh sssh to the tune of Ride a Little Horsey. When I sing or hum or sssh or dance to him, it is barely conscious. Half the time I don’t realize what I am singing. The Farmer in the Dell comes out. Three Blind Mice comes out. Where had they been all this time?
He fell asleep with my boob still in my mouth. I kept swaying long enough to be sure he stayed asleep. I extricated myself and laid him down and stood there rubbing his belly and sssh-ing him and then tried to flop down into our Ikea bed with my weight distributed in such a way that the bed would not creak. It creaked anyway. I cringed. Dustin, I’m sure, cringed. The baby moved around in his crib. I laid very still. Dustin fell asleep and I tried to hear for the baby’s breathing over Dustin’s. He breathes more quickly and could catch his on Dustin’s inhales. I started to fall asleep when I heard a whine. I could hear him kicking around. He can roll over onto this stomach but not so well from stomach to back. I have a vision of him rolling over and getting stuck there, which has me jumping out of bed to peek at him way too often. I went over, he was back asleep. I laid back down as quietly as I could. He woke back up. I went back over, held in his pacifier, sssh-ed him.
I laid down and Dustin moved over towards me in the bed and we held each other for an hour or two, before the baby woke up at 7:30 like he always does.
Dustin let me sleep late which means I didn’t shower today and I am missing a half hour or so of work. The whites of my eyes are red. My eyes have been itching and red for weeks now. I thought it was pink eye, and then maybe fall allergies, and then dehydration from breastfeeding, or a hormonal thing from breastfeeding, or allergies from the rug I keep rolling around on with the baby. It’s everything, I think. All of it.
10:51 am • 1 October 2014 • 52 notes
We got a crib from Ikea and put it where my desk was. That sounds worse than it is because I never really used my desk, just piled bills on top of it then did all my work at the kitchen table or in bed. Still, the fact of this shift had to be tiptoed around. I said to throw it out but that I was sad, too. It seemed important to say that. So it’s still here taking up room.
The desk is an old school desk from my aunt — she’s a high school teacher, U.S. History — when they were throwing things out at work one year. I took it to New York the year I moved into my first apartment. It’s probably 40 years old and there are no drawers and it squeaks, and it’s ugly and I don’t use it but it’s mine. It’s been with me.
So there is my paean to this desk. I’m sitting at it now, it’s squeaking the way it used to in my first apartment on Diamond St. I used to light tea candles and set them around my laptop when I would stay in on Friday nights to try to write and end up on Adium talking to Tumblr crushes. The candles were for warmth.
I can hear the baby breathing from here, in his sleep. I like this. It’s distracting but not as distracting as getting up every few minutes to see if he’s breathing.
It takes an enormous act of faith to let myself fall asleep at night these days, to not be checking on him. It’s sort of a faith I don’t have but indulging the impulse would mean I would have to evaluate my mental health even though I think the impulse is fairly logical so rather than have to defend it, and risk making myself seem even crazier, I just work against my own personal maternal instincts and eventually I get so tired that none of this matters.
He is screeching a lot now, this week. That is this week’s thing. There was the week of smiles, of moving his head to follow something, of discovering his hands, of grasping something, of laughing, of discovering his feet. Watching these things emerge, and the person behind them emerge, watching him come into contact with us, it feels like a kind of childhood wish fulfillment; like the way you’d stare at your dog and hope that one day he would communicate some glint of recognition. Like maybe out of nowhere some time he would start laughing, or just say hi. It feels like that. Like your toys coming alive at night.
The screeching though, we could take or leave. I like it. I like the insistence of it, the extremity. He really screams, over and over. We know when he’s gonna do it, too, because his whole body tenses up and he takes in a lot of breath. It’s driving Dustin crazy, hurting his ears. I can’t stop laughing. We’re left wondering where he learned this. No one around him makes these sounds. My yoga teacher called him a tea kettle. We do own a tea kettle but the whistle is broken. It must be just inside of him, his voice went there one day and he liked the way it felt.
9:52 pm • 27 September 2014 • 95 notes
I am finally on a monitor which I love so much, with all my heart. It is behind me a bit, over my left shoulder, and I lie in the bed and look up at it the whole time, craning my neck. It's my heart rate and blood pressure and the baby's heart rate and my contractions. I tell them again and again about my pregnancy, totally uncomplicated -- perfect even. I've been in labor for 28 hours. No one cares. No one gives me a medal or bats an eye. They write it down. I wonder if they believe me. I wonder if they can know the pain I've been in. I wish for a way to communicate pain more precisely than a scale of 1 to 10. But the scale is subjective, I long to say. We have no way to know. I hate this. I say 7, 8. I don't know. It's the worst pain I've ever felt but I have never had my arm cut off. That's what I always imagine to be the worst pain: having a limb chopped off. I save 10 for it, out of respect. I want to save 9 for the moment the baby tears its way out of vagina. So what's left is 8. I want to seem brave so I say 7, but then I worry they won't understand the immediacy of the situation so I come back with 8. I shrug. I try to communicate in a gesture that I don't agree with their method, with these yellow emoticons, with the spanish above it. DOLOR. I have stared at this sign so much, waiting for some answer to come from it. MUY DOLOROSO.
Meaghan O’Connell, from What It Felt Like to Get an Epidural After 32 Hours of Labor, 2014. More.
Giving birth, the excruciating, brilliant, immediate essay by O’Connell that boiled my brains down last night. Subscribe to her TinyLetter and read it all, then never procreate. Or do.
See also, The study makes visible a disturbing set of assumptions: It’s not just that women are prone to hurting—a pain that never goes away—but also that they’re prone to making it up.
She has a medical-identification tag that she clips to a silicone wristband — she has eight in different colors, which she mixes and matches with her wardrobe. On the back of the tag it reads, “Cannot feel pain — sweats minimally.
It’s been really, I don’t know what. Not fun, though a little fun. Satisfying? This has been an emotionally/creatively satisfying experience. I am trying not too think about writing about mom stuff too much. It’s a thing that annoys a lot of people and it’s not exactly valued by society but I am loving doing it and it’s where my head is. I feel like I have something to say, even though who am I to say it, et cetera. What’s been fascinating is the little bit of ire I have seen has been from other moms. They’re like, “Such drama! When I gave birth…” then they proceed to tell their story. Which is what we all want. So fuck anyone who objects; I’m doing it.
I can’t stop thinking about this bit from an interview between Ceridwen Morris and Jenny Offill:
All this is happening, but I refuse to be turned into a mother. Just a mother. If I have to sit at a Mommy & Me thing and sing idiotic songs for hours or talk about the relative merits of various hand-sanitizers, or compare nursing bras on the playground, I am going to wonder where my life went. That’s a world you’re not even supposed to talk about. You’re supposed to give yourself over to this avalanche of minutae, not ever be bothered by the tedium of it or by the way you go from having many roles that matter—writer, wife, friend, daughter—to suddenly only one: Mother. People who don’t have children will respond to stories like that by saying, “Well, you didn’t have to have a kid.” As if that’s the point. As if there’s any other similar huge experience that an over-talking, over-analyzing person like me, wouldn’t get to talk about.
Offill is talking about Rachel Cusk’s A Life’s Work which I learned about from a different interview with her and the book is, to a woman who feels occasionally trapped in the tedium and the trauma of motherhood with never enough time and no language to talk about it, life-giving.
10:52 am • 22 September 2014 • 61 notes
It’s 8:30 in the morning, I’ve been up since a little after six. The baby was sleeping between us and he started kicking and grumbling, I opened my eyes — in a panic, always now — and he had his eyes open, too. He smiled at me. This is a very bad sign, to see his eyeballs so early in the morning.
We keep staying up too late. My friend came over last night after she was done with work. She brought him these adorable little bibs. We ordered sushi, talked about our lives a little bit in between trying to make the baby laugh. Eventually he fell asleep in my arms, on my boob. We kept talking, me on the couch and my friend sitting across the room, on the floor. We were half-whispering, trying not too laugh too loud, talking about weddings and all the drama they create, retelling stories about different friends. Dustin came in from a reading with his bike. He said it sucked. He took the baby from me and put him in his bed then went back out to get a slice of pizza. We all opened a beer. I got a little drunk. Dustin sat next to where the baby was asleep, reading the internet on his phone and putting the pacifier back in the baby’s mouth whenever it fell out and he started crying. I would tense up, over in the kitchen, whenever I heard him stir, but tried to ignore it. My friend and I stayed around the table talking, about her family, and ambition, and then Dustin came back in and we talked about Chernobyl for a long time. Chernobyl is one of many things that we talked about when I was a kid — I lived in Germany when it happened, my mom had thyroid cancer — but have not looked back on now that I’m an adult. I realized everything I thought I knew had been filtered through my parents and my child’s mind. Could radiation even have reached Germany? My mom said you weren’t supposed to let your dog out. When she said this I pictured the radiation it like dew on the grass.
We went to bed a little before midnight. I think we woke up once in the night, I’m never sure. Dustin probably woke up more. The baby crying, sadly or terrifically, does not wake me up. I am not sure what this says about what kind of mother I am. He is in a bassinet thing right next to my side of the bed. Dustin has to crawl over me to get to him. He paces the apartment with him, sighing, and I keep on sleeping. He tries to slyly tell me about it the next morning, in a way that won’t seem passive aggressive.
When the baby needs to eat in the middle of the night sometimes Dustin puts his crying face next to my ear. Even this takes a minute. Often my boobs will wake up before I do, hearing their siren call. I wake up and my shirt is soaked, my breasts rock hard, like they’re going to crumble and break off.
8:58 am • 19 September 2014 • 66 notes
We know when you happened, too. We were at a bed and breakfast in Vermont, he had proposed to me that day, hours before. That day. I was terrified and at peace all at once. It really did feel different. All my second guessing gave way to profound peace. Like, oh, you will be the one. Oh we will have children together. Oh, I’ll see you get old. It will really be you! And it felt so wonderful. It was the night after that, that same day. We had hiked for hours and driven through the mountains for hours and had maple ice cream on a Great Lake and had a flight of beers at a brewery and a dinner somewhere, seated at the bar. We didn’t tell anyone though I wondered if we should have ordered champagne, if we were doing engagement correctly.
We got to the B&B late and they left out tea and cookies for us and we tiptoed around the house in the dark, looking at prints of whales and family photos, all the while eating our ginger snaps. Back in our room I took a bath in the dark and then got into bed. We laughed at the teddy bear in a chair, I think I texted Anna a picture of it. We had, it must be said, and I’m sorry to tell you this, life-affirming sex. Near the end I think I might have been crying tears of joy and love and peace. Which is when, fortunately or unfortunately, which is the question of the hour, of the year, of your lifetime and ours, I said, “it’s fine, just go ahead” and your dad said no no and I said, IT’S FINE! And then there you were. Or you know, the start of you. Don’t mean to get political here.
The first day you existed we ate breakfast over candlelight. The door to the dining room was open and it was pouring rain. You could feel the rain, not the wet of it but the air, the feel of rain, in the room. Or was it just foggy? Was it just dark? We ate a big Vermont dutch baby type of pancake with syrup and berries and then something else, I don’t remember, just that we had told them we were vegetarians but they served us sausages and we debated either eating them or saying something (this is one thing I hate about b&b’s) but we cowered out and back to our room and when we met the mom of the place in the kitchen she apologized, saying she forget we were vegetarians and we had to do a big dance of self-immolation and “no, no“‘s and then we drove into town and went to a bookshop and then drove for an hour to a farm in the middle of nowhere and helped herd goats from the barn out to pasture. I teared up seeing the baby goats in a pen all their own, separated from their moms. The goat farmers were the nicest people ever and we asked them a million questions and felt so magical out there, stepping in the mud.
That was your first day.
4:22 pm • 31 August 2014 • 368 notes
Concern-trolling the entire media
I was thinking in the shower about the Buzzfeed cash injection from Andreessen Horowitz.
I do think this signals that Buzzfeed is a competitor to Medium, that they see themselves as a platform/ad network. And like Medium, they pay an editorial team as a way to ‘bring people in’ / ‘establish their brand’ and so on.
I think about them both a lot with regard to Tumblr, partially because in early days the idea that Tumblr was really a media company was tossed around. Now media companies are really platforms/startups/disruptors/whatever.
Re: Tumblr being a media company, I have always cringed a little observing technology companies searching for the validation that they are meant to “disrupt.”
Anyway my concern —- am I concern-trolling media companies, now? — is that if your model is paid editorial team as a way to build a user base of people willing to create content for free on your platform, who will then use distributed social networks to bring in traffic which you will then serve ads against — vs say, building an a product that is its own social network (like Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook) and building the user base “organically” and then turning on ads (which: god ads are so BORING but no one has come up with something better unfortunately — no one WANTS to use ads as their business model and they kind of assume they will come up with something better and then they don’t) — well my CONCERN is you bring in this editorial team and pretend for awhile to be this upstanding media company and then you get the UGC you wanted in the first place, people doing the labor of content production for you for free. And then what? What does Andreessen Horowitz say then? Now that Buzzfeed has hired away all of New York media and there are no other publications left? (I don’t think this will happen — building a huge ass editorial team when they are “engineering heavy” or whatever Chris Dixon said, I assume they have other plans for that 50 mil. Plans that will inevitably end in “revolutionize ads” or something.)
[And of course every freelancer who refused to go work at Buzzfeed because they’re snobs now writes for Medium because at least they don’t have the WOW buttons and they fucking PAY, nevermind that it’s with VC money that is no real reflection of the work’s potential to make any money whatsoever, and it’s just as unsustainable. ]
Venture capital, as opposed to the rich philanthropists that typically fund publications, are interested in this little thing called A RETURN ON THEIR INVESTMENT. They aren’t going to be like, “Oh keep spending the money to keep these 500 reporters on the ground because it’s a value to society.” I mean I certainly hope they would but I don’t really think capitalism dictates that they would. Hubris will take you far, but how far?
This is my concern. Like the book industry handing their asses to Amazon and then wondering why their “friends” have betrayed them (such naivete!), the media industry is so starry-eyed at the possibility at all.this.money and hiring these amazing teams of people who, if they succeed, will render themselves irrelevant.
My only hope is that advertisers for some reason demand quality journalism to put their ads next to? Really great longform shit to pop their videos out on top of?
God that would be great. Unfortunately instead I am sitting here wondering how soon it will be before USER-GENERATED BRANDED CONTENT is a thing, if it isn’t already. Don’t we all already have friends from high school Liking things like Lysol on Facebook and acting as one-woman native advertising distribution networks? I fucking cried at a Japanese Pampers ad last night, that my friend voluntarily shared on her newsfeed. SHE PASTED IN THE EMBED. I WATCHED IT. I almost — almost — made my boyfriend watch it, too.
9:39 am • 13 August 2014 • 62 notes
from January 2013
Yesterday was a good day, and I suppose that bears celebrating.
I woke up late, made coffee, ate my leftover thank you muffin, wrote my 750words, and headed to yoga. Yoga was the longer than usual class (an hour and a half) and I really liked it. It was the same amount of intensity, but more fun stuff, and more stretching. More quiet moments. That is more the type of yoga I need. And I do need yoga. It’s indoors and makes me sane.
Then I walked in the cold sun to Saltie, had lunch with H, talked about how we will each be “doubling down” on life — taking more risk, even though we’re here in New York so we can’t do that move to new york with a dollar and a dream thing. Her thing is she wants to do a one-woman show about her adolescence and how it’s shaped her — ie, dorkiness, Catholicism, virginity. It sounds great to me, and everyone loves her, and I think it could be a big hit if she nails it. Halfway into our conversations she says, “How are you going to double down, Meg?” And I say I don’t know, and shake my head, and stare into space.
But I did go home, and make vegetable stock, and sweep and swiff the kitchen floor, and read a cookbook, then finish a book review I started the week before. Finishing the book review was obviously the important one, and everything else was just leading up to that.
Halfway into writing it I found my groove, which goes to show you get rewarded for just showing up. People say this and I know it to be true but I also know it takes great patience and frustration. In her email newsletter this morning, Diana said, “epiphanies belong to the rummagers.” She was talking about the crossword puzzle but also the blank page. That moment of finding the exact right word after minutes of racking your brain. It is all the more rewarding, but I know I have to walk through shit to get there. And I’m lazy and unwilling and afraid.
When I finished and published my blog post — after briefly considering submitting it to the rumpus, then reviewing and seeing it was dotted with expletives and trailing off ideas, and “Dustin” too much — it was 9ish at night and I was hungry. Dustin was still playing FTL, which he’d been doing all day. He’d eaten whole sleeves of Ritz crackers so he was fine, but I dragged us out to dinner, spent way too much on it, and that was that. Dinner was nice, though. To be held captive together at a table for an hour or so is good for us, sometimes. When the mood is right. When I spent the day doing things that are good for me and I don’t feel miserable about it. We talked a lot about omens, and how they presuppose some outside force (or, to me, impose narrativity and some sense of predetermination on our lives), or call into being some thread. Declaring something an omen is performative, creating meaning and some kind of “moment” (or forward-lookingness to one) where there wasn’t any or one before. It was interesting. He says he’s been thinking about it a lot. I went there with him and it was fun. He is so much like me but not at all. Sometimes I wonder if that is who I’d be if I were a man. Thinking about omens in my head in the shower, and talking about them in this grandiose, definitive way. As if there is true knowledge to be wrested from the world, that no one has ever thought of before. And that you could be right.
I just don’t think like that.
This is where I come up at odds with my bosses, too. P thinks there is an absolute right way and wrong way, and their differences are measurable. “How do we know this revision is any clearer?” he asks us, when it’s indisputably clearer. One passage is legal mumbo-jumbo and the next is made up of short, declarative sentences. I know it’s clearer because I live in the world, and speak to other people, and have a good sense of what people understand. I don’t think I have stumbled on the precise correct answer, because I don’t believe there is one. I know this will be the issue again and again with us. I want to tell Y that I see where this is going. And it’s nowhere good.
2:45 pm • 27 July 2014 • 44 notes