| Copyright 1999 and beyond. Merv/Marv Productions. |
| September 4, 2003 ::5:54am:: I just ate one of those smallish frozen bagels with some reduced-fat hazelnut cream cheese. I ate it standing up, against the advice of a body-acceptance book I found in the dieting section of the library a few months ago. My parents are walking around our neighborhood in the darkness. My dad's doctor suggested he get some exercise to maintain the use of his feet since he's stopped taking his arthritis medicine. This medicine, I believe (I avoid this subject with my parents like the plague), is why he's waiting to have a liver transplant. I'm contemplating taking a walk. I've become lethargic, as is my tendency during "times like these," and dirty and soft. I've lost my appetite and with it, some weight, but laziness has made my muscles mushy. Most of this information would be trivial to most people, but to me it's everything. I kept a written journal before I started keeping this one, and it was filled with things like "I'm eating eggs" and "I'm waiting for my calculus test." It didn't matter. I was doing nothing, and writing about doing nothing was something to do, something productive. I'm the producer/director/actor of all sorts of mini-productions in times like these. I cleaned my room. I crocheted a purse. I baked a cake. I might just pat myself on the back. And in the past few years of inhabiting this free little webspace, I felt guilty and ashamed every time I wrote about doing nothing, forsaking its therapeutic value. My guess is that I was afraid of branding myself a loser for all the world to see. People have asked me why I don't join one of the many weblogging communities out there or why I don't at least have some sort of commenting system. The answer is easy--isn't it? I don't want to be subjected to feedback for every dumb little thing I put up here while delirious at 5 a.m.. And more than that, I'm afraid of encouragement, of criticism, of praise, and of people missing my point entirely. I'm afraid of falling prisoner to the opinions of others. I've written less and less it seems, not wanting to seem uncool or unaware by writing about the minor happenings of a 20-something underachiever while grander issues were taking hold of the world, and not wanting to talk about the things that mattered most to me. like my brother dying of liver cancer. or my father needing a liver transplant. I'm thinking about taking a walk. more of what Sarah's saying >> |
| September 21, 2003 ::1:43pm:: I've started another project which I'm calling The Daily Query. As one of my favorite hobbies is asking/answering questions, I thought I'd give it a somewhat official and physical presence and thus get credit for all my trouble. Every day I'll post a question to those who may happen upon it, and hopefully it will create an avenue for self-reflection. That's the plan, Sam. You'll need a Xanga account to participate, but don't let that stop you. It's free! September 13, 2003 ::8:37pm:: I�m so tired today. This past week has been relatively hectic compared to my usual sedentary non-schedule. I set up four interviews this week, and I�ve been trying to accompany my parents on their too-early morning walks. I�m anxious for my life to begin. I almost will it to do so, but I haven�t quite mastered that yet. I worry mostly. And today, my late-night restlessness has caught up with me; I�m fighting to stay awake. Mom found me half-asleep laying on the couch watching TV. �What have you done today?� Nothing. �Do something with your life.� All I could do was turn to face the other way and allow my eyes to close. September 9, 2003 ::2:17am:: On Saturday morning, I went to the flea market with Mom and Dad after a morning walk and a breakfast of ham, eggs, and sourdough bread. Here's a little slice of Americana: |
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| First day as a student - Sept. 1985 |
| First day as a teacher - Sept. 2003 |
| September 29, 2003 ::7:31pm:: Karaoke is evil. No, no... I take that back. Karaoke at a bar with your friends is fun and slightly liberating. Karaoke at my house is like The Gong Show with no gong. In the early '90's we got a karaoke laser disc player that projects half-naked girls with '80's hair onto the TV as you sing along to the text. And now--hoorah--we have some fancy microphone that has a bunch of songs in its memory and doesn't need a player. All Mom has to do is punch the song code in and BAM! --The Gong Show. The problem is not with Mom and Dad's singing (not the problem I'm addressing anyway), but with the fact that it gives you a score after you've sung. My family is competitive. That these machines give you a grade out of 100 possible points is pure madness. Dad, who is not a shy singer, didn't want to sing at first because he was afraid of the scoring. Mom loves it, because instead of getting scores in the 70's like she did on our old machine, she's getting 90's. They take turns singing the same song just to compare scores. You should hear her while waiting for Dad's evaluation. "95. [pause for staring at screen as score appears] What?!? 67?! That can't be right..." Anyway, I'm angry because this microphone seems to be calibrated for Filipino-accented off-key off-beatedness. Now I must go sing Paper Roses, and I must beat somebody's arse. 'Til next time, au revoir... P.S. You haven't lived until you've seen a little 55-year old Filipino woman belt out her rendition of Yellow Submarine with her husband singing back-up. September 26, 2003 ::11:26pm:: I'm a teacher. I'm a high school English teacher at an inner-city school. Life is weird sometimes. One minute I'm griping about my life going nowhere; the next minute I have four job offers. I picked the right one, I think, albeit the most challenging. I'm a bit intimidated by the students. I know, because I get that choked-up shy feeling and I can feel my cheeks flush. I am supposed to be observing other teachers until I begin teaching in October, but I will probably spending the time in their classes trying to convince myself that I'm capable. September 24, 2003 ::11:51pm:: |
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