I listen too hard to the underlying meaning and when I try to speak to it, folks sometimes have no idea what I’m talking about.

I’m an introvert and I’ve met with around 10 people a week every week since I got here, plus sent over 1000 emails. I am totally excited by what I’m doing, but for different reasons than my boss and when I try to echo my bosses words, I get tangled up.

Relationships are hard and wonderful. The more I try to figure them out, the more confusing them seem to get. I think this is why I like new friends–I haven’t had the opportunity to make them mad at me yet.

I try to put my whole self out there when I meet folks so they know what they are getting into. But then later in the friendship/relationship, I become convinced that folks are gonna drop me like a hot potato if they know what I’m really like.

I bought the bullet and got furniture. They delivered the wrong table. I couldn’t decide if I liked that table better or the one I bought, but I asked for the table I had ordered to be delivered. Now I wonder if the wrong table might have fit better. I got a new loveseat that was 70% off the price and now I am worried that it doesn’t really fit the living room. The cat loves it.

I’m tired of worrying and obsessing. I want to just let go and relax, but then on the other hand I’ve gotten a ton of stuff done since I’ve been here…….art projects if not my work projects.

I’m trying to decide what to do about a house warming type party I tried to throw for myself tomorrow. Right afterwards, I was invited to hang out with a bunch of theater profs that evening. I love theater totally and completely. No one has responded to my invitation to come to my house except those who can’t make it. So do I send out an email to those who are left and rescind the invitation? And seem like even more of a flake than I already am?

I started out with an email that was married name maiden name @ my school.edu. But I realized that that is totally confusing, because this school is very rigid about people using their legal names. So i switched it to first.married name@school.edu, hoping that folks would just reply to my emails and all would be well.

So far a ton of people have told me that their emails to me have bounced back. Great. Just great.

Today I took off so I could be home for the furniture delivery and to work on my class. So far……..I’ve answered email. Received the love seat and rejected the table. …….. made coffee.

Read, damn you, read! Plan, prepare! All I want to do is sleep!

And I will be going to get my drivers license today. Really.

In Imprisoned in a Luminous Glare, Leigh Raiford argues that over the past one hundred years activists in the black freedom struggle have used photographic imagery both to gain political recognition and to develop a different visual vocabulary about black lives. Raiford analyzes why activists chose photography over other media, explores the doubts some individuals had about the strategies, and shows how photography became an increasingly effective, if complex, tool in representing black political interests.

Lots of great books out recently. I’m starting to think about a book proposal and will need to figure out where my book will fit in recent literature. Having been under a primary source rock for the past couple of years, I know I’ve missed a lot of cool things. Now there is just the mental strategies of avoiding the anxiety that hits when I realize all the things others have already published on and how I will shape my contribution.

Just a quick update. I’m currently sitting on my red corner from a sectional with my feet on my improvised ottoman (a basket with my magazines in it with a brown floor pillow on top). Darcy’s new favorite spot is on the ottoman. I’m trying to finish Mandela’s autobiography, which I’ve been reading for what seems like forever now. It’s very interesting, but I still get distracted.

My foot is bandaged because I drove a knife into the bottom of my foot last Tuesday evening. It’s terribly ironic, because I was in a very good frame of mind, quite happily working on an art project. I was determined to work on it, even without a workshop. I was worried about the wood floors and also about using the knife carefully. The first set of cuts I made, I did very carefully, but then I tried to mount it to the wall and it was proving more difficult than I could handle. It’s a six-seven foot tree branch I want to use as the basis for an improvised headboard. The brackets I got were not long enough and I couldn’t balance the weight of the branch while trying to attach the brackets to the wall and/or the wood (I tried premounting the brackets to the branch and also starting with one on the wall). I sheared off three screws–one with the new drill I got and two with just my arm power and the screw-driver.

So I suppose I was frustrated. I decided to take off this big knot at the back of the branch (based on how I decided I wanted to mount it–I made the decision visually instead of seeking out the side that would lay flattest against the wall, unfortunately). I sat down cross-legged and started to chip away at the knot. Instead of the tiny careful cuts I made just a few minutes before, I was doing an unsafe hackjob. And the knife slipped and embedded itself in the bottom of my foot. It looks a bit like the following picture, though I bought it for only a couple of bucks at the hardware store.

I sat on the floor and sobbed because it was such a stupid thing to do. It didn’t actually hurt yet. I was just so mad at myself and at the evening I was about to have and the week that I had ruined. I could have called 911, but I decided to try one of my new friends first. I sat with my thumb pressed against the cut and called the first person. The conversation went a bit like this:

Roses (catching breath so it doesn’t sound like she’s crying): Hey there, what’s up?

B: not much, how are you?

R: Oh, pretty good. What are you up and B2 up to tonight?

B: Well, B2 is out right now and going to have dinner later at an old friend’s house and I’m going to go do my radio show and then I have band practice.

R: Oh, ok. I’ll try somebody else.

B: Yep, sorry. Bye.

He told me later I’m supposed to lead with the whole “I’ve got a massive gaping wound” bit. I know, I know. But I really knew this was going to ruin the evening of the lucky person who answered the phone. Cause these are good folks and would try to help me. Second person didn’t pick up and I didn’t leave a message.

Third person was just leaving work and dropped everything and rushed to pick me up. She was completely awesome and wonderful and stayed with me for the whole ordeal. I wrapped my foot in a clean pair of undies, put a hair tie around it to stay put and shoved it into an old gym shoe (came home later to smooshes of blood where I hobbled through the house. Thank goodness for hardwood floors. All the dried blood came up when I had the energy to clean a couple days later). By the time we got to the ER, blood was leaking out of the gym shoe, but it did at least cause the bleeding to stop for a bit.

I was at the ER for about 4 hours. After they removed my MacGyver bandage and scolded me about how dirty gym shoes are, I bled continuously for the first 2 or more hours. It was dripping down onto the floor and finally a nurse came over and wrapped two compress bandages on me and put a big towel thing under me. When I soaked through both bandages and again started dripping on the floor (despite moving my foot around on the towel), nurses would come and stare and move on. Finally the jokey nurse returned and sat a big huge gauze pad next to me that he said was for major trauma patients and could hold gallons of blood. But it just sat there for awhile till he decided to put it on me, too. It didn’t stick like the compress bandages and I soaked through that one fairly quickly too.

They finally stuck me with some morphine, waited for that to set in, then stuck my foot with numbing agent. The prick hurt and then my whole body fluttered. I got really dizzy and an icy cold breeze blew over my body. I guess I have a reaction to that numbing stuff–not an allergy, just the way that some people react to it. After that reaction settled down (my pulse had dropped way down), the nurse practitioner started to sew. A couple of the stitches, I couldn’t feel a thing, but then she got to a place that wasn’t numb. Ahhhh! It’s not numb. She asks me if it hurts. Well, duh, that would be the closing eyes, stiff body thing I’m doing. But I’m such a proud dumbass, I can’t say “it hurts.” Did I mention I’ve been laughing and joking and asking questions of my friend (got part of her life history that night) the whole time up to this point? So I figured the change in demeanor would be enough to communicate my discomfort. But the nurse kept saying, “I don’t know if it hurts, you have to tell me!” So she gave me more of the numbing agent and the reaction wasn’t as bad this time. She got another couple of stitches in, before she got to the callous on the bottom of my foot. I’ve had serious ugly callouses on that foot since my ankle surgery. It broke two or three needles. And the numbing was wearing off again by the time she got the final stitch in there.

I thought for sure I was going to feel horrible the next few days, but I really didn’t. I didn’t have to fill the serious pain medication prescription she wrote me. Advil was enough. I slept the whole day Wednesday. Spent part of Thursday at a work retreat. Spent Friday trying to work from home and also waiting for the internet guy to show up.

Part of the reason I haven’t written as much is that I haven’t had the internet at home. Hopefully some of my good habits will translate over now that I have a source of easy entertainment again. We’ll see. I’ve been watching a lot of tv since I got the internet, but that is in part b/c I was trying to be “good” and lay around and rest my foot. Except that ‘good” to me says active. At least I got the place somewhat cleaned up. I still have a bucket of nasty sink water. My sink and my neighbor’s sink was stopped up for about 5 days till they came and fixed it. And evidently decided to leave a bucket of nasty sink water–the same day I hurt my foot. Haven’t wanted to try to move it to the bathroom to empty it into the toilet till I’m steadier on my feet.

Anyway, was gonna tell you about the new job too, but I suppose that that is a long enough post for today.

I read this book last year when you first suggested it. At that point I was on the cusp of coming out to myself, but wasn’t there yet. I’ve also been drenched in conservative Christianity since birth. And I wrote my dissertation on African American history. So I was very eager to read this book, but it just didn’t click for me. The faith aspect didn’t work. I didn’t recognize the Christians I knew in the main character. He was so ambivalent about faith and yet controlled by it. The folks in Christian circles I know are so much more passionate about faith and gripped by this desire to be close to God.

But when I started thinking about writing this comment, I realized nine months of being out to myself might just have changed my perspective on this. I’m starting to realize how entrenched my own internal homophobia has been. I don’t care any more what the Bible says about stuff, but I do care immensely that I maintain a good relationship with my mom. How does one do both, when my wonderful mom believes that faith in God is the most meaningful thing in life, and indeed the only way to have meaning in life. She is more willing to accept my homosexuality as long as it doesn’t alienate me from God. Well, I’ve been alienated from a didactic God far longer than I’ve been aware of my own sexuality, and for many reasons other than sexuality (though that is a major piece).

So I guess I can understand better how the main character could basically be alienated from his faith in high school, but continue to feel controlled by it–something I couldn’t understand when I read the book initially.

I do think one of the reasons I had such a hard time with the book is that so many of my own objections to Christianity are rooted in my identification as a thinking woman. The kind of Baptist church I was raised in praised schoolwork, introduced me to the possibilities of literary criticism and multiple translations, and yet I walked away with this idea that becoming a scholar was one of the most demeaning of life choices. Really, an arm-chair intellectual, when I could be a missionary? (African American history has in some ways continued this line of thought–though replacing missionary with activist). It is hard for me to believe that my thirsty mind is the sign of health instead of latent wickedness that needs to be curbed.

But the main character in this book does not seek an intellectual understanding of Christianity, nor does his problems or wrestling with faith really arise from his mind. So I had a hard time relating to him, when I thought that I would perfectly relate to the book based on your interview. Maybe that is an indication of the success of the author in achieving this very particular narrator, who is not very smart–and how rarely, really, we read a novel written from that perspective.

But my biggest frustration was that I did not come away from the book with new insights into this thing that is such a close and yet often hated aspect of myself. I thought perhaps as an outsider, he would be able to introduce me to new aspects of the faith, particularly as it is explored in the South (I’m from the West).

I’m still not sure whether my frustration with the book is either the author’s fault of writing or my fault in imagination.

Tattoos have become the ubiquitous cliché of subversive cool. Like kooky eyeglasses and statement haircuts, they are props for people who would like to announce to the world that they are interesting. But in the vocabulary of personal style, there is something jarringly inarticulate about a tattoo.

I feel all of a jangle these days trying to craft my new self while emerging out of 29-almost-30 years of experience of being half me and half someone else masquerading as all the stuff I thought I should be.

I want to be outre and cool and a hipster and have kooky eyeglasses and a statement haircut and a tattoo. I’ve tried to get the statement haircut twice now and failed–once because the Mandarin speaking hairdresser did not believe me, despite the fact that I brought in pictures. The second time I didn’t bring in pictures, relying upon going to an English speaking hairstylist. I told her I wanted an asymetrical cut, but instead she just straightened out the bob the previous guy had given me.

I want cool clothes, but nothing feels cool on this chunky, muscular body of mine. I got all these shirts with wild patterns and interesting cuts, so why do I still feel so dowdy?

I wouldn’t mind being a hipster, but I’ve never seen a large hipster. It seems they all are straight up and down, like modern day flappers.

I want to look gay and I’m terrified to look gay. I don’t know what fits me better–skirts and heels or more masculine clothes. Part of me would also love to be a crunchy granola type (I am, after all, relying entirely on bike, foot, and bus transportation!). But again, there are few XLs in that style and even fewer that look decent. Unfortunately, XL just needs a lot more structure to the top than organic cotton usually comes in.

And then I want to do and do and do, but I’m also pretty darn exhausted these days. From not eating well enough? From biking everywhere? From working longer hours and at a faster pace than usual? Is my body slowly beginning to release tensions that I have carried around for years?

And I’ve only been here a couple of weeks–why does it bother me that I haven’t plunked on down in a community yet? I mean, last weekend I went to three things (a gallery opening/cocktail hour, an outdoor play, and a minor league baseball game). Yesterday I went to a dance club (which was a big downer–probably at least part of the reason for my mood. The same group of gals I met online is going to a movie tonight and I just don’t think I have the energy to bike downtown again. I just got home from some afternoon errands/ finding a better web connection to watch my first hour of tv in almost 3 weeks).

And what do I want? Do I want to spend my off hours reading harmless lesbian fiction that makes me feel more connected to the lesbian identity that sometimes feels rock solid and sometimes feels very shaky? Is fluff harmless? Or reading something more in-depth, like the history books I don’t have time for in my job right now? Do I want to spend the off hours working on polishing chunks of the dissertation into publishable articles? Do I have any brain left after working all day? Or do I want to do art? All of these things are lonely activities. What about finding a tennis club, or a dance club, or something else to do with folks? Or go to movies by myself? Or get my library card and new license and sign up for the gym and find the rest of the furniture I “need” and all that house-setting up I need to do? What about spending time with my cat, who is lonely without someone home with him all day (either me, or E, or Grandma, as has been the case for the past 2 years) and who doesn’t yet have a good scratching post because I can’t find one. I went in search of a petstore supposedly downtown, but couldn’t find it. Should have called first before riding my bike all the way over there!

Why do I feel like I have to do all these things at once? Oh, and I also want to write–write for this blog, and for my professional blog, and in my journal, and maybe on the couple of pieces of non-history fiction and non-fiction in my brain, as well as polishing diss stuff. And I’d love to work on some kind of a comedy show or something to get me back on stage. The only thing I’ve watched this summer is Last Comic Standing and I’m starting to think a minor career as a comedian wouldn’t be so bad. Actually it’d be very fun. I love to make folks laugh and sometimes i can be the life of the party. But I need to start writing down my observations in a humorous way.

And then there’s stuff like just figuring out where to put all the clothes currently in some state of dissaray between my closet and the floor and my suitcases. For awhile I ran out of hangers and I don’t have a dresser, so suitcases it is.

All this anxiety about who I am is driving me back to images of self-harm. I thought I was done with those. I’ve also been feeling my heart in my throat–because I’m back on caffeine or am I having panic attacks? They don’t normally happen when I am any more or less anxious, but then I am riding on anxiety these days. I saw a psychiatrist here (took 9 miles of riding–which doesn’t seem a lot compared to the 42 miles in 2 hours my friend rode the other day, but I do have a comfort bike and she has a road bike!) But therapy doesn’t really start helping until you’ve established a relationship with someone–and the psychiatrist wants to know all about me, but he only prescribes medicine. I have to wait almost a month to see my new therapist (would have been even longer–almost 2 months, but I requested someone comfortable with LGBT folk and that person had an earlier opening). I was great, I thought, when I left CA. Why am I falling to bits now?

And who the fuck am I? And why can’t I meditate? Is it because I feel like I “should?”

And again I forgot to go to the store (stopped at the farm stand for fresh peaches and blueberries and ivy for my porch), so i can’t make more coffee b/c I have no filters. Tomorrow it is a must, because I’m out of two meds and will need to get refills. I hope the Kroger down the street has $4 generics! Maybe I should call ahead of time? Yathink?

I’m sorry I only seem to write here when I’m anxious or frustrated or angry.

By the way, I started this article off with the tattoo reference because it is another place where I feel jangly. I want a tatto0, but I’m too nervous to even go into a tattoo parlor. All these different places I think I’ll be laughed out of–bike stores for being too chubby, hiking stores for being too urban and chubby, boutique clothing stores for being too chubby, gay places for only having just come out and being too chubby and also kinda boring.

But I’m not boring! And I’m cute in my own way! But it is a sign of a depressive funk for me to have lost all my self-esteem. Gone. Out the window.

Which brings up another pet peeve and then I’m done. Folks my age and older complain about this generation of undergrads for having too strong a self esteem. Ummm, isn’t that we wanted out of the 80s? Isn’t it better to have self-esteem than this tearing apart of myself, ice-pick and butcher knife at the ready, that seems to happen to me? Is it because academics are usually on that precipice of insecurity/arrogance so they dislike someone who is just stably self-assured? let’s try to figure out a way to work with these kids as they are instead of change them into insecure manic producers like ourselves? ‘K?

I’m suddenly very tired right now and I don’t know why. Haven’t been sure exactly what to eat what with trying to reestablish my pantry and not having a ton of utensils, but also not wanting to eat out all the time. So maybe the low ebb is an indication of not eating enough. Also sleeping on a cot and that may also not be giving me perfect rest.

Also interacting with folks all day instead of just sitting in a room writing or else puttering around with Grandma. Guess I gotta give myself some slack for being a bit tired while I adjust to everything.

The town is very beautiful and the heat/humidity index is definitely something I can manage. Not at all overwhelming, though there was a fierce thunderstorm this morning I didn’t feel like riding through. So I worked from home for a bit and will work a bit late tonight to compensate. But I think right now I really need to find dinner cause my energy is really flagging.

No frustrations from the sermon, other than my six month meditation on what it means to be a pacifist liberal type. The pastor included many elements of praise for the Civil Rights Generation and for freedom as an expression of caring for the poor and doing justice. The service was concluded with “Lift Every Voice”–the African American anthem, after having sung several American hymns to start off. During coffee hour, as I was pouring juice, the pastor and I talked about what it meant to incorporate politics into church life–i.e. the red, blue, and white I had willingly decorated the homemade goodies with, even though I normally objected to combining church and politics (in many things I let Grandma have her way without challenge. Not something the rest of my family does, but it is the way I have acted while living here). He shared about a church he pastored which had had many Vietnam vets or family’s of vets that objected if soldiers were not remember, but then also encouraged peace talk. As long as the pastor prayed for the service members every week, he could criticize foreign policy as much as he wanted–because these families knew what the cost of war truly was.

My parents are visiting and we’re going to go have a chat with the pastor and his wife in a couple of hours.

I point all of this out to make it clear that I do know that church people have been very good to me. And I do know that there are a lot of complicated thinkers with Christianity. But I am still very relieved to have a full weekend to myself next week and the week after. To not have to look at runners and bikers with jealousy while driving around in my Sunday best.

It will be interesting just to see what I choose. Will I miss the camaraderie of church or find it elsewhere?  Will I miss the music–which I sang with gusto, but often disagreed with (after the years in which I did not sing b/c I did not agree, I got to the point of most music majors of enjoying religious music without paying attention to the words–the height of profanity to some, I imagine). Well, not always paying attention. I usually note when I’m singing something I don’t agree with, but go on and sing it anyway.

What will my life be like without that weekly soundtrack?

Oh my heavens, this is going to be an interesting adventure.

Three stories caught my eye in this bizarre world we live in:

There is a doctor researching a medicine to give to pregnant women to stop their daughter from having interest in women or expressing “inappropriate” gender expressions. You know, like not being interested in dolls or wanting “masculine” professions. This is a woman doctor. I guess we’re getting closer to a cure! Ack!

In a more upbeat story–a group of Christians went to a Pride parade extending apologies for how badly Christians have treated gays. What I was touched by more than the Christians, was the response of the parade goers.

Also, some Republicans decided to attack Elena Kagan for her connection to Thurgood Marshall. Because, um, Marshall thought that the Constitution was not a perfect document. You know, um, that whole acceptance of slavery thing? And the fact that the constitutional authors set up a system for amending the constitution because they knew it was not perfect?

Will be very interesting!