My Dogma Ate My Homework.

I had a very educational early life. By that, I mean that I could read before I was five. I've heard people talk about the moment when all those lines and squiggles "decoded" and became words and numbers. I don't ever remember them being lines and squiggles. I watched a lot of television. I don't mean that I sat mindlessly in front of the "electronic babysitter". I mean I watched. I started to pair words being spoken with the words being displayed in advertisements. I would walk through the grocery with my mother pointing to labels and saying the names of different products. My mother wrote this off as a simple parroting mechanism. Then I started reading store names, billboards, movie marquees. Polly want a precocious child? Aside from this, I was also very artistic as a child. From the time I could hold a pencil, I was drawing. I drew swans a lot. I think it was an early indicator of a latent "ugly duckling" complex, but that's a subject for another post. The drawing paved the way for early attempts at writing. I would sit for hours with magazines and newspapers, copying the letters and numbers. In retrospect, I might as well have shot myself in the foot. By the time I got to the first grade, I could already do all of the things they were charged with teaching me. I have such a vivid memory of the short-lived excitement I felt as I stepped off the bus for my first day at Paxton Wilt Elementary School, clutching my pencil box and writing tablet. I had visions of great stores of information that would be made available to me, of all the books I would get to read, and the problems I would get to solve. Once in class, however, I was shocked and disappointed that all I was offered was a slow introduction to the alphabet. Seriously? I raised my hand, albeit tentatively, and inquired when we would get the chance to actually read.

"But you can't read until you learn your alphabet," I was told.

The problem was that I already knew my alphabet, and proceeded to tell my overly perky teacher so (I couldn't abide such energy that early in the day, even at the tender age of six). My proclamation was met with skepticism, until I was forced to recite the entire alphabet for the class. Even though I was able to do so, she still had her doubts, and with a yardstick, she approached the front of the classroom where the letters were displayed on a long banner above the chalkboard. She pointed to random letters in relatively quick succession and I announced them just as quickly. Her perkiness faded and she leveled a narrow gaze at me. The other children were silent, staring at me like I had two heads. The experience taught me to stand up for myself, and it prepared me for a lifetime of similar scrutiny. It also taught me that I didn't need other people to teach me things.

In the ensuing years of my public education, I grew to hate school. Not because it was hard. It was just bothersome. I resented being told what and how fast (or slow) to learn. My only salvation was that we moved a lot when I was young. By a lot, I mean that I attended eight different schools in twelve years. I had the blessed distraction of having to adapt to a new environment over, and over, and over again. Ad nauseum. Amen. Teachers and administrators never knew what to do with me. I usually refused to do homework. At the same time, I consistently tested in the top one percent of students my age in the country. Take that. They tried putting me in an "advanced" program in the third grade in an effort to "engage" me, as they put it. Nice try. Not only did it not work, but to this day, I don't think I've met a more arrogant, pain in the ass group of students. EVER. I made it to the sixth grade before I put my foot down. I basically demanded that I be put back in regular classes, and threatened to fail everything and stay in school until I was thirty if I wasn't. My parents caved. I went back to "normal" school and got to have a semi-normal pre-adolescence. I still hated school, but I'd learned to keep my mouth shut and play the game by then. I started doing my homework, but kept my grades squarely in the average range, being ever careful not to stand out. That takes more planning than you would think. I was fine until high school. My first year was spent at Moore High School in Louisville's south end. Nightmare. It was over-crowded, violent, and drug-ridden. I cut school more days than I went. My parents, who had divorced by then, were called in for a meeting late in the school year. I was failing four of my six classes. I managed a D- in another class, and a pity C in Art. In spite of this, I still scored in the top one percent of the country on my achievement test scores. Again, take that. After much discussion -of which I was not a part - it was decided that I would be passed to the next grade level, based solely on the merits of my test scores. I was living with my mother at the time, and after more discussion within the family, I decided to go live with my father in southern Indiana. My mother was a musician at the time, and she had the opportunity to do some touring. With me safely ensconced at my father's house, she was able to take advantage of the opportunity. Win/win.

That fall, I started my sophomore year at Clarksville High School. It was as close to bliss as the situation would allow. Clarksville was a small town, and the school was an appropriate reflection of that - not overly crowded (I graduated 3 years later in a class of 111 people), with an attentive, somewhat colourful faculty. I became involved in extra curricular activities, LOVED my teachers, and was given a fairly wide berth to learn what I wanted. The entirety of my sophomore year was spent atoning for the academic sins of my freshman year. I spent most of the year on the honor roll. Most of the people with whom I would become friends in my junior and senior years confessed to me that they hadn't even known I had gone to the school that first year. At the start of my junior year, I was called into the guidance office. The counselor, Mr. Strauss, was an intelligent, empathetic man. As a guidance counselor, he was an absolute dream. I'd had him as a civics teacher the year before. He knew the kind of student I was, and I knew the kind of teacher he had been. He was also aware of my academic history before coming to Clarksville. I remember sitting in front of his desk, calm, but not knowing why he had called me in. He sat, hands folded in front of him, carefully considering how to begin our conversation. "I'm not sure what to think of you," he finally confessed. I laughed nervously. "Let me explain," he continued, leaning forward. "When you transferred to this school, your transcripts made us a little nervous. Normally, someone with your, um, "history" usually presents disciplinary problems." I smiled sheepishly. "Imagine the surprise of all of your teachers, myself included, when we were presented with an intelligent, attentive, articulate, sensitive student."

I was confused. "What are you trying to say?"

"What I'm trying to say, is that I've never encountered a student whom I wished I could just turn loose in the world. But I can't. I want you to understand that. You have to be here, and you only get one pass at this part of your life. I don't want you to get in your own way. Enjoy it. Participate. Make friends. High School isn't just about homework and tests and grades. It's a practicing ground for life. Don't screw it up, because once you get out of here, it gets harder, and less forgiving. I personally would hate to see someone like you miss out on the opportunity to contribute something special to the world because you turned your back on it."

It was a conversation that changed my life. It was the first time I ever felt like someone really understood where I was coming from. That even though I'd spent my entire youth learning how to fit in, I had never once felt that I actually belonged anywhere. He was telling me that it was okay. And I heard him.

From that point, I took a very different tack with school, both academically and socially. I became involved in the theater department. I went to almost every sporting event. I made lots of friends, and not just the jocks, or the band geeks, or the cheerleaders, or the Honor Society kids. I made friends with everyone. It's a tendency I have to this day. I harbour a strict non-discriminatory policy in inviting people into my affections. I don't care if you're male, female, black, white, gay, straight, rich, poor, young, old - if you can deal with my crap, I'll deal with yours.

I had as close to a normal, happy high school experience as I could have hoped for. The only snag I ran into was with my senior year English class. In the second semester, we were told that our graduation assignment was to write a research paper, and that if we failed the assignment, no matter what our performance in the class had been otherwise, we would fail the semester. That ultimatum sparked the radical in me, and I stated outright that I had no intention of completing the assignment. I already knew that I had fulfilled my English requirements for graduation, and didn't need the passing grade, so I made good on my word. I refused participation in any in-class activities connected to the assignment. Conversely, I scored perfectly on every test and assignment related to the rest of the syllabus. My teacher, Dr. Lewis, professed that I was, by far, her best student, but she was forced by policy to fail me. I knew from my younger siblings that mine was the last year that that particular policy was in place. My rebellions aren't always pretty, but they get the job done. Dr. Lewis and I had dinner a year or so after I graduated. Despite that one experience, I was profoundly fond of her. She was the first person to tell me that I had the soul of a writer. When I finish my first book, it's already dedicated to her. That night at dinner, she asked why I had done what I had done. I stated simply that the policy wasn't fair. It was ridiculous to limit one's ability to pass any course to the successful completion of one assignment, when so much time and effort went into the other elements of the curriculum, apparently for no reason whatsoever. I also told her that it would have been different if that second semester was devoted solely to the research paper. It wasn't. We still had weekly vocabulary assignments, required reading and reports to do, on all of which we were graded. It was a lot of work. She agreed, and said that for as mystified as she had been at my refusal to do the paper, what really knocked her for a loop was that I continued with the rest of my assignments as though nothing had happened. I laughed and confessed to her that I actually enjoyed the other assignments. I couldn't very well sacrifice everything. We had a good laugh about it. A year or so later, she wrote a sweet, very honest letter of recommendation for my college application, including an account of that incident. I was told the admissions office got quite a kick out of it, receiving a letter of recommendation from a teacher who had given the applicant a failing grade.

Unfortunately, my one year of college was marred by personal demons that I'm still battling in one way or another to this very day. I'm sure I'll write about those demons eventually, but from the time they reared their ugly little heads, they've commandeered every ounce of intelligence, patience, resourcefulness, and adaptive capabilities that where forged in the fires of my mercurial education. I realise more and more as I get older how lucky I was to cross paths with some of the people I encountered along the way. I'm also thankful for the attention I was able to pay to the less conventional lessons they offered me, because somehow, my brain had tackled the conventional ones waaay ahead of schedule.

I don't know that I'll ever make another attempt at a "formal" education. I seem to have done alright without it. I still have an inherent curiosity that guides and grows my acumen at every turn. I still love the quiet sanctity of a great library or museum. I've always been grateful for the mind that I was given. It's the only thing that has instilled in me a sense of universal balance against the harsh realities of a "difficult" body. Hopefully someday soon, I will be free of those difficulties and will finally be able to explore the true potential of my brain. My experience has bred in me the tendency to look for the lesson in every triumph and difficulty of my life. Those are the lessons that have stuck with me over time. Those are the only grades that ever mattered to me. The ones I've given myself, that have allowed me to look my own reflection in the eye, and know that even though the road has been long and hard, Graduation day is just around the corner.

To Marketing We Must Go

It's late. I turned on the computer against my better judgement. While checking e-mail and Facebook, and the myriad other sites I frequent, I got a delicious surprise - Jay has a new video! Yaaay! Sometimes, insomnia has its perks. So, my entry is a little different this time. I'm doing my part to help promote my dear, sweet friend.

Here is the new video. Tell your friends. Buy his CD. Fear my wrath if you don't (kidding!). But seriously, you won't be disappointed.

Enjoy.




Bonus tracks - the other two "official" videos:






I'm going to TRY and get some sleep now.

Jobless the Hutt...

Last fall, I left my job with the intention of moving to New York. If you've read the previous "Flight of Daedalus" post, you know how that turned out. What I didn't write was an account of the five months I spent not working. It was, at turns, restful, challenging, lazy, frustrating, solitary, and ultimately, indulgent. I was determined to take a break from my overly complicated life, from humanity, and from my normal routine. I was tired. I've been a part of the work force since I was sixteen. Actually, I started working the coat check at my grandparents night club a little earlier than that, but my point is, I'd been running in the rat race for over a quarter of a century. I wanted a vacation. In retrospect, I could have done without the "indulgent" part.


This divergence from my normal workaholic existence left behind it an unfortunate and appalling wake. I gained about 35 pounds. Mind you, these weren't 35 voluptuous, "more of me to love" pounds. Nooo. These were 35 "Oh my God, it's coming this way, and it's hungry" pounds. They're lumpy, bumpy, ugly pounds. Seriously, once you pass the age of 40, all of the rules change. It sucks, but as the song says, "That's just the way it is...". Indeed. The thing that did me in over the duration of my sabbatical was a steady diet of take-out Chinese food--with all of its sodium--and no-cheese veggie pizza. These things are fine in moderation, as can be said of just about anything, but when the bulk of your calorie intake comprises them for several sedentary months, with not nearly enough fluid intake, you're asking for Trouble with a capital T, and that rhymes with Z and that stands for zaftig. I'm also reasonably sure that, thanks to me, Nabisco weathered the stock market crash fairly well. It is both a blessing and a curse that Oreos are vegan. Just doing my part to bolster the economy.


Now, a normal person might be satisfied to to simply shrug off this predicament as part of the normal course of ageing. Ask anyone who knows me and they'll tell you--I'm not normal. I'm just getting around to having something of a life. I need this old bod' to hold up as looong as it possibly can. In that spirit, I took a deep breath, rolled up my sleeves, and started working out. A lot. I'm sure that there are gym rats in this world who spend a great deal more time at it than I do, but I'm just getting started. I've gone back to my habit of preparing all of my meals ahead of time. I drink about a gallon of water a day (yes, a WHOLE gallon). I'm taking my supplements, getting enough rest, and managing my stress as well as I can. It seems to be working. Granted, it's only been a few weeks, but I have the advantage of muscle memory. I was a gymnast, and then a dancer, when I was younger. This body has been through some extreme changes over the last couple of decades, but it does remember some of its old ways. Not a moment too soon, might I add. I'm very stubborn about not giving in and buying bigger clothes. In fact, I'm certain that button and zipper manufacturers around the globe are uniting as we speak to issue a fatwa against me.

I can't say how much weight I've lost thus far. I can definitely see that I have lost weight, but I threw out my scale about a month ago. I figured that if I was going to do this, I was going to do it for the right reason: My health. I didn't want to be a slave to a number. I know plenty of "skinny" people who are in horrible shape. That's not what I'm going for. I want this body to be a reflection of its health and well-being, not a reflection of some ridiculous, emaciated standard of beauty. I want to be able to do my job without feeling like someone needs to carry my tired, broken body home in a shoe box at the end of the day. I want to be able to participate in the world around me (eventually). I don't think that's asking too much. Especially considering that I'm not looking for any short-cuts. I'm willing to go "old school" and work for it. The lines of this body have already started to smooth out and draw up and in to their original(ish) positions. By my current estimates, I should be in glorious, glamazon shape by mid-July, at which point I'll go to a costume shop and buy myself a Princess Leia space bikini. You know, the one she was wearing when she strangled the crap out of Jabba. Yeah, that's what I think I'll do.


Just because the rules have changed, it doesn't mean that the game is over.

Once Upon a Time...Coming Soon

While going through some old papers, I discovered a weathered, partially edited copy of a short story I wrote several years ago. It was a favour for a friend who was given a writing assignment for her "Gender in Sociology" course in college. The assignment was to write a fairy tale, with yourself as the main character. Given that the course was not in her major, and that she had an excessive amount of work to do for the courses that were, she approached me at work and asked if I would like to have a crack at it on her behalf. The story I ended up with was called "The Weeping Princess", but given the short amount of time I had to write it, I was only able to complete a first draft. Even at that, it was a pretty good first draft, and everyone who read it was very fond of the story. I just always wanted to take another pass (or two) at it. Having found the original, I'm currently doing just that. It's rather long as it is, and in the course of the re-write, it's bound to get longer. I'll more than likely break it up into several parts and post each one as I finish it. My eventual goal is to turn the story into a novel, but for now, I'll try to stay as close to the original story line as possible. So, consider this a "Heads up!", and stay tuned. I'll even see what I can do about a "happily ever after".

The Flight of Daedalus.

I was supposed to move to New York last fall. I've wanted to live there since I was sixteen. I remember specifically the first time I set foot in Times Square. I was home. I knew that no matter where my life took me, part of my consciousness would always oriented to that place - like a sunflower to the sun. There's an energy there that vibrates at a certain frequency. My frequency. One of the most significant events of my life happened in front of the statue of George M. Cohan that stands in Duffy Square, at the north end of Times Square. It was a major crossroads for me, and I couldn't think of a more appropriate place to mark it than the"Crossroads of the World". Maybe someday, I'll write about that event. For now, however, suffice it to say that New York is home to me in a way that many of the places I've actually lived can never be.

As I said, I was supposed to move. That was Plan A. As I am writing from Philadelphia, things obviously didn't go as planned. For starters, I left my job at the end of August so I could devote as much time as necessary to the job hunt in New York. I had money in the bank. I was covered. Shortly thereafter, I had a front row seat for the Great Economic Crash and Burn of 2008. You might have heard about it. It was on ALL of the news channels. Riveting. It occurred to me that relocating anywhere was probably not the best idea. Furthermore, relocating to New York fell into the category of - ooh, what's the word I'm looking for?...Oh, yeah, insane. Also, as much as I hated to admit it, I still have certain other issues to resolve in my personal life. It took some adjustment, but I took a deep breath, and pondered the question: What do you do when Plan B kicks Plan A's butt. Answer: Suck it up and go with Plan B. Sigh.

Plan B was to stay put, go back to work, keep my head down, and plow through the rest of the path in front of me. That's what I do. When you spend a lifetime in an observatory capacity, you learn to analyse things differently. I have the hard won ability to divorce my objectives from any emotional expectations. I tend to celebrate things long after they are faits accomplis. It makes for much less disappointment in my life. Additionally, the few disappointments I do feel are less keen. They don't have enough emotional momentum to throw me off course. Steady as she goes.

The dilemma brought to mind the legend of Daedalus and Icarus. It's a cautionary tale from Greek Mythology that struck a chord with me as a child. Daedalus was an Athenian architect and sculptor. His works were known far and wide, and he is largely credited with ushering in the modern age of sculpture. He took his young nephew Talus as an apprentice. When it became obvious that he was much more talented and clever than his celebrated uncle, Daedalus threw the boy from atop the Acropolis, killing him. He fled Athens to avoid persecution and death, and was granted asylum on the island of Crete. He served its king, Minos, as his artist and architect. Minos commissioned Daedalus to build the Labyrinth to house the Minotaur, a dreaded beast with the head and shoulders of a bull atop the body of a man. There are many versions of the legend, each giving a different reason for Daedalus' eventual imprisonment in the Labyrinth. The most well-known is a tale of betrayal, stating that the hero Theseus came to Crete to battle the Minotaur. King Minos had demanded tributes be paid from neighbouring kingdoms in the form of young boys and girls, who were sacrificed to the beast by being led into the Labyrinth where they were then captured and eaten. Daedalus had made the structure so serpentine and illusory that no one ever escaped, including the Minotaur. When Theseus came to challenge the beast, hoping to kill it and put an end to the barbaric tributes, Minos' daughter Ariadne fell in love with the brave hero. Not wanting him to perish, she went to Daedalus and begged him for the secret of the Labyrinth. He told her that if Theseus trailed a piece of twine behind him, once he reached the center of the Labyrinth, if he defeated the crazed Minotaur, he could follow the twine out. Theseus followed this instruction, defeated the beast, made his way out and eventually escaped with Ariadne. King Minos learned of Daedalus' betrayal and sealed him inside the Labyrinth, along with his young son Icarus. Not one to be outsmarted, Daedalus gathered sticks and bones, as well as feathers, candle stubs, and Theseus' twine from throughout the maze. Being a talented sculptor, he fashioned two sets of great wings from the materials. He fastened one set to his own back, and the other to his son's, warning Icarus all the while, "Always fly the middle course, my son. If you fly too close to the sea, your feathers will grow heavy with water and drag you into the waves. Nor should you rise too high, for the nearness of the great sun shall burn away your feathers and you will fall from the sky like a stone. Fly between the two, and stay close to me." Icarus nodded, understanding his father's concern. Wings secured and warnings given, the two took to the air, flying up and out of their prison, away from Crete and on toward freedom.

Their flight was well and good up to a point. Icarus, being young and headstrong, was so taken with the ease of flying that he began dipping down just out of reach of the hungry Mediterranean, then rising high above his pleading father. Daedalus begged Icarus to be calm and fly behind him, but the boy was so overcome with joyous freedom, he flew higher and higher. While he didn't fly high enough for his feathers to burn, he had forgotten that they were anchored with wax, and as he rose through the clouds, the wax melted away and Icarus' wings came undone. Daedalus watched in agony as his only son plunged to his death, done in by his own youthful folly. Daedalus, though overwhelmed with grief, made his way to Sicily, where he made a new life for himself. He contributed many great things to his new home and culture, but in the end, he died heartbroken and alone.

This tale always held many lessons for me. Sometimes the "prisons" in our lives are of our own making, like Daedalus and his Labyrinth. Very often, the tools we need to escape those prisons are already within our reach. All we have to do is look around. Unfortunately, the ingenuity we have to save ourselves isn't always going to save the people and things we love. Maybe it's not supposed to. Also, Karma's a bitch.

I have many dreams in my life. A good number of them have made their way to fruition. Some still hang in the ether. My job, as the custodian of those dreams and the abilities I have been granted to fulfill them, is to fly a strong and steady course, not too close to the sun or the sea. I made peace long ago with the possibility--actually, the probability--of having to finish that flight alone. I haven't reached my destination yet, but I will. Once my feet find their purchase on solid ground, I'm sure I will have losses to mourn. I will also have a life to build, being ever mindful of the wholeness of my heart and the tenuous nature of my solitude. Manhattan is the island I'm flying toward. It's full of people from all walks of life and every corner of the globe, come to live new lives and build new dreams, free of the twisted mazes and monsters of their pasts. I think I'll fit right in. I won't even mind the longer flight to get there.