So after that first marathon of the Walking Dead, I decided I could (mostly) handle the zombie killing and violence. This season has gotten messier though seeing as the zombies are now more wasted. The FX folks have added new layers of sound and squishiness that has me squirming while watching. If the show had smell-o-vision that would be the end of my watching.
The evolution of Carol has been great though. Not like Michonne’s friend Andrea, who I thought seemed to be willing to protect herself until she could find a man to protect her and then “every woman for herself” as far as she was concerned.
Sasha gets the “Angry Black Woman” sash for this show. Michonne is a much rounder “angry” than Sasha is but actually falls into the “mammie” ; nurturing, counseling and pumping up the young white chirren. (Rick and Carl).
I’m just identifying the tropes; I like the characters very much.
Carol started out as the battered woman with no agency separate from her role as battered woman. The writers developed her through that; arriving at this current season (10/2014) with Carol being able to use her knowledge, experience in the world to create the opportunity for escape by the entire cabal AND return hope of a future by returning Judith and reuniting Sasha and Tyrese.
Hadn’t thought of it before but you could say that Carl is the present: violent, shaky and callous, striving for a sense of balance, under development every day. Judith is their potential future. Women are always the future.
I started with Carol and Leadership. There was a great line in 10/19 episode after the rescue. Rick has been the organizing gateway of the group based on his decision making and direction. Nobody gets in the group except they go through Rick. He acknowledged Carol as his equal in gateway keeping by saying that they were joining her. She didn’t deny it. Equals.
We’re into the third month of the year. I’m still loving the Cs. Back to work. Back to thinking that it won’t be me who will hold me up but my manager; and I know that he feels he is doing his best. Unfortunately, it just doesn’t meet my needs and leaves me frustrated more often than not.
I don’t trust that he does what he says or even tries to get the things that we ask for. I’m pretty sure he feels he knows best or that he has important information that cannot be shared with us but upon which he bases his decisions on what to tell us. I just don’t see how that is helpful. But I’m tired of fighting. tired of feeling like I’m being a nag to ask for what will help me do my job better or help improve moral. I can see how before I fell into complacency. I can see how it could happen again. I am not sure how to resolve this yet.
It’s cold outside. The temperature is below freezing and it’s beginning to rain a bit.
Panic ensues in Georgia.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want to do next. I’ve got about 40 good years left if I’m lucky. If I am really lucky all of them will be good, mobile, thinking years.
I want to be an automechanic and a lawyer; a web designer and a photographer. Only the first two do I want to do because of money. the other two because i just want to be good at them; sort of like I want to be good at piano. Except with the piano I feel like I already know that my fingers just will not do what I want them to do. They don’t stretch to hit the right keys. I can only play the music if it’s already written and even then my ability to read what is written is questionable. If I just practiced more I would be better but at what point do you say to yourself, I really am no good at this and practice won’t make me any better it will just help me maintain my current level of mediocrity. I live in the mediocre. I want to be fantastically good at something but I don’t want to have to work at it anymore.
I’m so sick of working hard. I dream of getting rid of my possessions and living in an rv with my dogs. and doing whatever I want to do. The only problem with that is I know that it wouldn’t take long for me to get really really sick of working even harder to figure out my day to day existence. I imagine that what I would really do is lay around for a couple of weeks doing absolutely as little as possible. I’d probably waste away from not eating or drinking because that is entirely too much work. Even having the dogs would be too much responsibility for how I feel. But having the dogs would be the only reason to keep getting up in the morning. They depend on me. I invited them in and I could not abandon them because I got tired of taking care.
I wonder if those thoughts are a prelude to a depression or if it’s just clear indication that there is a void in my life that I don’t have any clue how to fill.
20 years later
she* got up the nerve
to call Anita Hill
on the phone
She prayed for the
and got her wish
She wanted to say
She wanted to say
I know how he is
I knew what he was
But I married him and
I followed him
and I believed in him
like you probably did
before you didn’t
She wanted to ask.
She wanted to ask
how did you do it
in front of the cameras
and his friends
and the senate subcommittee
on keeping the priviledge in place
in front of all the bosses
you ever had
or ever would have
who sat across
from you and him
in front of all those people
who knew the truth
but stayed blind under oath
and pain of lost elections
20 years later
She called to ask for
for something she couldn’t
put her finger on
she called as if time
will have had some effect on
she chickened out
turned the tables
like they’ve always been turned
when something ugly
gets thrown into
*She is Mrs Clarence Thomas who phoned Anita Hill’s office to ask for an apology.
I drove 14 hours this summer on my way to a week’s vacation. The beginning– let’s say first four hours–were easy. My mind was awash with how far I’d gone, what I’d do when I’d get there, am I hungry, am I thirsty, am I good on gas, look at that car, this road is cool. The end –let’s say the last 2 hours –were about being close to the goal, only 2 more hours, do I have to use the bathroom, should I fill up before I get there so I don’t have to stop too soon on the way out, I hope I brought everything.
The middle part is a blur and it’s in that middle part where I imagine my mind was as close to quiet as it was going to get. By that middle part, not much about the journey was going to change, I just had to keep driving; keep my mileage steady, I wasn’t hungry, thirsty, or needing a break.
I feel that way right now. Like the brain is chugging away on its rails, doesn’t need a lot of watching, fiddling with, or tending. Yet, I get the sense that the light and sound that I sort of hear off in the distance might be important but all I can do is keep chugging on my present course and adjust when I have more details.
That is all.
There are some people who like to think that they are nice. They have a million little pass phrases to cover up the million little jabs they make to help themselves feel better when they imagine that they have made you feel just a little bit of their pain. Unintentional, of course.
Self effacing and overly modest, you’re golden until they imagine that you have done them harm. With them, passive/aggressive is an art form practiced daily, hourly even.
nothing prompts me to put up a wall faster than this type of meanness.