Category: Burningbird

Gary awakened in me a nostalgia with his compelling description of a cold afternoon and a wait for a ride home:

She’s here. One minute early, you smile and grab each other closely by the arm for warmth and then briskly walk off into the crowd telling tales of the day. Before long you’ll be home, eating, living, loving, safe. Warm.

Perhaps I’m worn down a bit by the heat and humidity of my new home, but the thought of cold, brisk air appeals to me. Tonight I feel oddly homesick for the home I had in Vermont. For the home I had in San Francisco. For the home I had in Boston. For the home I had in St. Louis before things changed. For Gary’s home.

Today was a totally wasted day trying to get my car registered in Missouri. First there was a trip to the county assesor’s to get a “property tax waiver”. Next, waiting over an hour at an auto shop to get an ID/OD. Finally, this afternoon, I went into the DMV office to turn in all of the paperwork, only to be told that I need an emission inspection.

But, I told the lady at the window, I was told last week I only needed the ID/OD.

No, the lady told me, I needed to have an emission inspection.

But, I told the lady, my car’s brand new.

Tough cookies, babes.

The emissions place tells me that, no, I don’t need the emissions inspection; I had moved, not transferred title. So I call the DMV office and speak to a supervisor. She concurs, I don’t need the inspection. The person helping me earlier today — after waiting over 1/2 hour in line — was confused.

If the people who work in the DMV don’t know the laws and rules, how the hell do they expect the rest of us to figure them out?

So, tomorrow morning, with supervisor’s name in hand, I go back and get this finished. And then I can return to working on the friggen RDF book, which is due in two weeks.

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

A thunderstorm rolled through at 3AM this morning, continuous lightening illuminating the bedroom, thunder rattling the windows. I got up and sat in front of the window watching the storm until it stopped. And since I was up anyway, I stayed up to work on the RDF book. With this early start, I had such a productive day that I decided to take the afternoon off and go down to my favorite river spot, this time taking my camera and grabbing some pictures (at the end of the posting).

At the river a group of young men were sitting and chatting, enjoying the cool breeze and late afternoon sunshine. With them was a dog that took one look at me, and immediately tore across the grass to plant its front paws on me, much to the chagrin of his owner. The dog’s name was Cairo, and for some reason, this very big pup was mightily taken with yours truly. What a delight — for a moment, I was transported back to my favorite Dog beach in San Francisco. Except with dragonflies instead of pelicans.

After the river walk, I indulged myself in my favorite activity when I move to a new home — I went to the local library to get a library card.

My closest library is the Buder branch of the St. Louis public library system. As I filled out the simple application, the librarian explained that all of the libraries in the St. Louis area have reciprocal arrangements with each other, which means I can borrow books from any library within any town for over 50 miles around. When told this I felt a rush of gluttonous anticipation; I came close to rubbing my hands together in glee, accompanied by obscenely fat little chuckles.

A brief exploration and I found that the St. Louis library system is well organized, with one of the best computer systems I’ve used at a public library. My branch is four stories, with meeting rooms in the basement; fiction, new releases, and movies and music on the first floor; research on the second; and non-fiction and the childrens area on the 3rd. Also on the second floor, in the midst of a surprisingly extensive research area, were glassed in rooms containing computers that people can use to access the Internet in complete privacy.

(There was a woman in one of them. I wonder if she was weblogging?)

After my explorative foray, I hit the fiction shelves. I contained my greed (unlike one gentleman who had what looked like 30 music CDs in his arms), and only checked out three books in addition to putting in an order for two others to be sent from the main library. First consumable is Whitney Otto’s A Collection of Beauties at the Height of their Popularity.

I can almost taste it now.

View down river

View up river

Golden Girl’s happy

Oh these little rejections how they add up quickly
One small sideways look and I feel so ungood
Somewhere along the way I think I gave you the power to make
Me feel the way I thought only my father could.

Alanis Morissette, “So Unsexy” from Under Rug Swept

 

Rejection. Being last picked for a side in a game of Red Rover. Not being invited to a party all your friends are attending. Calling or writing someone who’s too busy to respond. Running into an old lover who has forgotten your name.

Want to raise the level of pain? Telling someone you love them and they only want to be friends. Up the ante? Someone you love falls out of love, walks away, leaves.

Excuse me, is this your heart I’m stepping on?

 

Oh these little rejections how they seem so real to me
One forgotten birthday I’m all but cooked
How these little abandonments seem to sting so easily
I’m 13 again am I 13 for good?

 

Rejection hurts. It can reduce us to a primal urge to fold ourselves into a fetal ball, locked behind drawn curtains, chained doors. It can silence the eloquent, and strip away any hope or joy. Rejection maims but doesn’t kill cleanly. And the worst part of rejection is wondering what it is about ourselves that failed somehow. The endless question: what’s wrong with me?

 

I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful
So unloved for someone so fine
I can feel so boring for someone so interesting
So ignorant for someone of sound mind

 

Rejection.

My best friend in first grade telling me that Betty was now going to be her best friend, but I could be her second best friend.

Divorce and my Mom giving my brother to my Dad, and keeping me. The hurt and pain in my brother’s eyes; the hurt and pain in mine.

At 15, being dumped by my 27 year old lover at a party when he went into a bedroom with a brassy blonde with projectile boobs and ruby lips, leaving me surrounded by looks of pity and humor, all shy, gauche, soft curves, and sad gray/green eyes.

All those assholes who don’t hire us for the jobs we apply for. The unreturned calls, the unanswered emails, the hand left unshaken, the unlinked weblog.

 

Oh these little protections how they fail to serve me
One forgotten phone call and I’m deflated
Oh these little defenses how they fail to comfort me
Your hand pulling away and I’m devastated

 

There are a million stories of rejection in the naked world. Funny thing about rejection, though, is it’s also an act with two performers; we can’t experience rejection without being in a position of being rejected. As Alanis sings, Somewhere along the way I think I gave you the power to make me feel the way I thought only my father could.

Rejection ends when you pull the plug on the power.

You’re too busy to talk? Well, so am I. And sometime we’ll connect, or we won’t, but I won’t waste time worrying about it. Don’t want to hire me? Well, bud, that’s your loss. The party I’m not invited to isn’t a party worth attending, and yes, we can be just friends.

Remove the sense of failure and the rejection fades. Life happens.

But rejection can dig mighty big holes sometimes, and the deepest hole is the loss of love. Life is suddenly crowded with ghosts: the ghost making coffee, the ghost eating dinner, the ghost reading the book, caring for the kids, driving the car, laughing, talking, making love. You could find peace if only you weren’t surrounded by so many damn ghosts. And if only you understood why.

No easy answers. And no easy return when someone you love leaves you, but there is a return. You have to remember that the trip home takes one day at a time, with a little help from your friends. Meeting rejection with acceptance.

 

Oh these little projections how they keep springing from me
I jump my ship as I take it personally
Oh these little rejections how they disappear quickly
The moment I decide not to abandon me

 

To all the rejected in the world.

Saturday, Jonathon posted that he’s now the top Jonathon in Google. He’s also the top ranked Delacour. Mark Pilgrim is top score for Mark as well as the top ranked Pilgrim.

I checked my Google rank and found that I’ve dropped a spot and am now the number three Shelley at Google, behind Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley and the Keats-Shelley Journal, Shelley in this case being Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, a poet who once wrote:

 

In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O’er which clouds are bright’ning,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

 

And then there’s this Mary Shelley who happened to write an early sci-fi book, called Frankenstein, and whose mother was Mary Wollstonecraft, author of A Vindication of the Rights of Women:

 

It would be an endless task to trace the variety of meannesses, cares, and sorrows, into which women are plunged by the prevailing opinion, that they were created rather to feel than reason, and that all the power they obtain, must be obtained by their charms and weakness.

 

On second thought, I find that I am extremely happy and content to be number three at Google. In fact, considering the company I’m keeping, I’m honored.

(But I’m not happy about being the sixth Powers, behind that ridiculous Austin Powers and some trivial math stuff — something about powers of ten or some such nonsense.)