I have trouble with basements, but out of practical necessity live in one. In mine. From time to time, I find myself not wanting to sleep there, and very patient room-mates eventually find me passed out on the couch.
The nightmares tend to obvious symbolic content that grows increasingly disturbing as I wake. In the last one, a doppleganger was picking off my friends and family, starting with those I loved the most; I killed her over and over, but nothing I could do would keep them safe. Every time she died, I had to smother her till there was a sharp exoskeletal crunch and her blood would burst out all over me. It was exhausting, tracking her down and crushing her time and time again. She would re-materialize from the blood on the floor, laughing, and sprint away far faster than I could follow.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Therapy
They spend a day or three in rape crisis training teaching you about long term recovery. Group therapy is the norm for sexual assault survivors, because often there are certain things a rape victim won't believe from anyone except other rape victims. "It's not your fault," for instance.
CWCIC (which also provides services for men, despite the name) runs a sixteen week closed group for sexual assault survivors. The group covers a fixed curriculum; some people will go through it more than once, but there's a specific progression that takes place. One of the counselors I didn't get along with well was telling about something they do a few weeks into group, and laughing. "We do a spa day," she said with a chuckle. "Before the funding got cut, we used to take these women out to get their nails done," she said, "and they resist the idea so hard. They refuse. They start crying. It's almost impossible for them to do anything for themselves, to take care of anything beyond their basic needs. They feel like the should give it all to everyone else." The therapist found this infantile incompetence hilarious.
In retrospect I can see a certain morbid humor, but I was staring at her completely raw, serious, wounded, incredulous, and fully experiencing the thing she was making fun of--and she looked away, reproved. I felt there was a flashing neon sign above my head screaming BROKEN! and I couldn't turn it off. After all, normal people don't fight violently back when you make them a free, legitimate offer of professional pampering. Even now the, the concept strikes me as excessive, even offensive or obscene. I can't explain why, really.
The first seven months or so of therapy succeeded in convincing me that, though perhaps no one deserves to live, at least I don't deserve it particularly less than anyone else. Probably. And there's irony. When you don't believe you deserve anything for yourself except bare bones survival, you self-maintain so poorly that your ability to contribute is greatly less.
CWCIC (which also provides services for men, despite the name) runs a sixteen week closed group for sexual assault survivors. The group covers a fixed curriculum; some people will go through it more than once, but there's a specific progression that takes place. One of the counselors I didn't get along with well was telling about something they do a few weeks into group, and laughing. "We do a spa day," she said with a chuckle. "Before the funding got cut, we used to take these women out to get their nails done," she said, "and they resist the idea so hard. They refuse. They start crying. It's almost impossible for them to do anything for themselves, to take care of anything beyond their basic needs. They feel like the should give it all to everyone else." The therapist found this infantile incompetence hilarious.
In retrospect I can see a certain morbid humor, but I was staring at her completely raw, serious, wounded, incredulous, and fully experiencing the thing she was making fun of--and she looked away, reproved. I felt there was a flashing neon sign above my head screaming BROKEN! and I couldn't turn it off. After all, normal people don't fight violently back when you make them a free, legitimate offer of professional pampering. Even now the, the concept strikes me as excessive, even offensive or obscene. I can't explain why, really.
The first seven months or so of therapy succeeded in convincing me that, though perhaps no one deserves to live, at least I don't deserve it particularly less than anyone else. Probably. And there's irony. When you don't believe you deserve anything for yourself except bare bones survival, you self-maintain so poorly that your ability to contribute is greatly less.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Friday night
21:04
The library closed while I was in the shower. I'll be working more than 25 solitary hours in the next two days, and I've had little social interaction today; therapy was also this morning, and I feel unsteady. Yesterday, for the first time ever, I made a food plan--three days of menus, so that I'm not crushed with deciding what to eat. . and so I don't end up living on junk food I don't even like because it's in front of me and avoids the dilemma. Now I don't feel like making, or eating, the red lentil soup that's supposed to be dinner. Also, my favorite labor organizer is turning into a sociopath.
Ladies and gentlemen, I officially suck.
p.s. I eventually made the soup. It was delicious-- I'm looking forward to leftovers. For crazy folk who don't like lentils solely for textural reasons, it'll need a blender and cream. . .
The library closed while I was in the shower. I'll be working more than 25 solitary hours in the next two days, and I've had little social interaction today; therapy was also this morning, and I feel unsteady. Yesterday, for the first time ever, I made a food plan--three days of menus, so that I'm not crushed with deciding what to eat. . and so I don't end up living on junk food I don't even like because it's in front of me and avoids the dilemma. Now I don't feel like making, or eating, the red lentil soup that's supposed to be dinner. Also, my favorite labor organizer is turning into a sociopath.
Ladies and gentlemen, I officially suck.
p.s. I eventually made the soup. It was delicious-- I'm looking forward to leftovers. For crazy folk who don't like lentils solely for textural reasons, it'll need a blender and cream. . .
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
and nonsense
I've been thinking and reading a lot lately about stuff--material objects that we own, or want to own, or don't own, or love, or feel resentful about. I think it started a long time before I picked up this book, but seeing so much interesting information about the way human beings bond with objects all in one place was something of a fire starter.
Commodity fetishism and anti-consumerism have always struck me as particularly important and interesting, too. . . I think these topics are incredibly relevant to how ordinary people live their lives. The more I read, the clearer it becomes that I want to coalesce and present in an organized way. . .
Some things that drew me in:
-according to one of the videos I just linked, only 1% of what people buy is still in use six months later.
-advertising encourages us to adopt a "what we have" identity rather than a "what we do" identity. . . but the line between our experience and our possessions is hardly a sharp one.
-a willingness to spend money on non-essential possessions keeps a lot of people far more bound up in wage slavery than they might be.
-possessions often give people a deep sense of security, which is not unreasonable. With none, we would die.
I'm working my way through the literature on compulsive hoarding, after which I'll need to read at least Adorno's critical theory, and then some analysis of what an ecologically sustainable economy/consumption level would look like. . . And I want to interweave this with personal experiments. Suppose I track everything I acquire for two or three months; how many of the objects did I use? How many did I become attached to? What did I dispose of, and how? What could I have survived without? How much more did I consume than what would be ecologically sustainable? How do possessions influence my social status, place in the community, and ability to find satisfying connections with other people? How do these objects, and the other objects I own, interact with my sense of identity?
I am answer mining, from books and life.
Commodity fetishism and anti-consumerism have always struck me as particularly important and interesting, too. . . I think these topics are incredibly relevant to how ordinary people live their lives. The more I read, the clearer it becomes that I want to coalesce and present in an organized way. . .
Some things that drew me in:
-according to one of the videos I just linked, only 1% of what people buy is still in use six months later.
-advertising encourages us to adopt a "what we have" identity rather than a "what we do" identity. . . but the line between our experience and our possessions is hardly a sharp one.
-a willingness to spend money on non-essential possessions keeps a lot of people far more bound up in wage slavery than they might be.
-possessions often give people a deep sense of security, which is not unreasonable. With none, we would die.
I'm working my way through the literature on compulsive hoarding, after which I'll need to read at least Adorno's critical theory, and then some analysis of what an ecologically sustainable economy/consumption level would look like. . . And I want to interweave this with personal experiments. Suppose I track everything I acquire for two or three months; how many of the objects did I use? How many did I become attached to? What did I dispose of, and how? What could I have survived without? How much more did I consume than what would be ecologically sustainable? How do possessions influence my social status, place in the community, and ability to find satisfying connections with other people? How do these objects, and the other objects I own, interact with my sense of identity?
I am answer mining, from books and life.
Monday, December 06, 2010
Sci-fi? {1}
Note: this was published o'er hastily after being jotted down around 1 am. A second version with basic edits is now below the original post, which is the italics. Please comment on the edits or suggest additional ones, if you feel at all inclined! Also. . . I've never tried sci-fi before. This is kind of fun. :)
Things are quiet on Pharmacon7 tonight, but there is still work left to do. Gregor has left the last section of this weekend's install to me, which shouldn't bother me, I guess, but what does that man do when he's on shift? Minding the station's data core is flawlessly boring, much of the time, and there's no record of disturbance in his log. Of course, that's why most of us will put up with this. It's like a deadbeat heaven.
The floor panels are heavy, so I curse the artificial gravity and make do with lifting two of them away from the grid to which they're attached. The blast of cold air pushes my hair back from my face and holds it there perfectly. Grabbing the sides of the grid-square I've just emptied, I lower myself into the chill. Attempting to make my way towards the nest--ten bundles of new cable to run along this strand--I find myself scooching gracelessly over cables, pipes, and power connectors the size of a fanboy's arm. The mounting brackets my instructions promised are conspicuously absent, I've been here for fourteen hours, and I can tell I'll be leaving them a tangled mess. No worry. Weave in, weave out, get them to the exit point and back above floor.
It isn't a hard job, but as I drag my heel over a taut raised wire that grounds the entire core, I'm sharply aware that the thin denim of my jeans (which are against dress code--thank God I didn't wear a skirt today. So much for the business casual we're required. . . or the space suits we wanted when we were kids?) wouldn't really insulate. . . not against that kind of voltage. While I'm not praying, I hope with the utmost sincerity that whoever wired these sockets had more training before I did when they were sent off on their own. In fact, it occurs to me to prefer that these aren't my handy-work. So to speak.
I slide the first floor panel back into place with a heavy snap, careful to keep my fingers free ("that's how you loose a finger!" Mike had said), and then kick dutifully at the second panel, nudging it back in line. When I finish, my ass is frozen solid and my hands smell like cabling grease that won't wash off for months. Welcome to the life.
Pharmacon7 is quiet, but there's still work left to do. Gregor left the last section of this weekend's install to me, which shouldn't bother me, I guess, but what does that man do when he's on shift? Minding the station's data core is flawlessly boring most of the time, and there's no record of disturbance in his log. Of course, that's why most of us will put up with this. It's like a deadbeat heaven.
The floor panels are heavy, so I curse the artificial gravity and make do with lifting two of them away from the grid to which they're attached. The blast of cold air pushes my hair back from my face and holds it there perfectly. Grabbing the sides of the grid-square I've just emptied, I lower myself into the chillspace. Attempting to make my way towards the nest--ten bundles of new cable to run along this strand--I scooch gracelessly over cables, coolant pipes, power connectors the size of a fanboy's arm. The mounting brackets my instructions promised are conspicuously absent, I've been here for fourteen hours, and I can tell I'll be leaving them a tangled mess. No matter. Weave in, weave out, just get them to the exit point and back above floor.
It isn't a hard job, but as I drag my heel over a taut raised wire that grounds the entire core, I'm sharply aware that the thin denim of my jeans (against dress code--thank God I didn't wear a skirt today. So much for business casual. . .) wouldn't insulate, not against that voltage. I hope with utmost sincerity that whoever wired these sockets got more training than I did before they were sent off on their own. In fact, it occurs to me to prefer that these aren't my handy-work, but on further consideration I'm pretty sure they are.
I slide the first floor panel back into place with a heavy snap, careful to keep my hands free ("that's how you loose a finger!" Mike had said), and then kick dutifully at the second panel, nudging it back in line. When I finish, my ass is frozen solid and my hands smell of cabling grease that never washes off. Welcome to the life.
Things are quiet on Pharmacon7 tonight, but there is still work left to do. Gregor has left the last section of this weekend's install to me, which shouldn't bother me, I guess, but what does that man do when he's on shift? Minding the station's data core is flawlessly boring, much of the time, and there's no record of disturbance in his log. Of course, that's why most of us will put up with this. It's like a deadbeat heaven.
The floor panels are heavy, so I curse the artificial gravity and make do with lifting two of them away from the grid to which they're attached. The blast of cold air pushes my hair back from my face and holds it there perfectly. Grabbing the sides of the grid-square I've just emptied, I lower myself into the chill. Attempting to make my way towards the nest--ten bundles of new cable to run along this strand--I find myself scooching gracelessly over cables, pipes, and power connectors the size of a fanboy's arm. The mounting brackets my instructions promised are conspicuously absent, I've been here for fourteen hours, and I can tell I'll be leaving them a tangled mess. No worry. Weave in, weave out, get them to the exit point and back above floor.
It isn't a hard job, but as I drag my heel over a taut raised wire that grounds the entire core, I'm sharply aware that the thin denim of my jeans (which are against dress code--thank God I didn't wear a skirt today. So much for the business casual we're required. . . or the space suits we wanted when we were kids?) wouldn't really insulate. . . not against that kind of voltage. While I'm not praying, I hope with the utmost sincerity that whoever wired these sockets had more training before I did when they were sent off on their own. In fact, it occurs to me to prefer that these aren't my handy-work. So to speak.
I slide the first floor panel back into place with a heavy snap, careful to keep my fingers free ("that's how you loose a finger!" Mike had said), and then kick dutifully at the second panel, nudging it back in line. When I finish, my ass is frozen solid and my hands smell like cabling grease that won't wash off for months. Welcome to the life.
Pharmacon7 is quiet, but there's still work left to do. Gregor left the last section of this weekend's install to me, which shouldn't bother me, I guess, but what does that man do when he's on shift? Minding the station's data core is flawlessly boring most of the time, and there's no record of disturbance in his log. Of course, that's why most of us will put up with this. It's like a deadbeat heaven.
The floor panels are heavy, so I curse the artificial gravity and make do with lifting two of them away from the grid to which they're attached. The blast of cold air pushes my hair back from my face and holds it there perfectly. Grabbing the sides of the grid-square I've just emptied, I lower myself into the chillspace. Attempting to make my way towards the nest--ten bundles of new cable to run along this strand--I scooch gracelessly over cables, coolant pipes, power connectors the size of a fanboy's arm. The mounting brackets my instructions promised are conspicuously absent, I've been here for fourteen hours, and I can tell I'll be leaving them a tangled mess. No matter. Weave in, weave out, just get them to the exit point and back above floor.
It isn't a hard job, but as I drag my heel over a taut raised wire that grounds the entire core, I'm sharply aware that the thin denim of my jeans (against dress code--thank God I didn't wear a skirt today. So much for business casual. . .) wouldn't insulate, not against that voltage. I hope with utmost sincerity that whoever wired these sockets got more training than I did before they were sent off on their own. In fact, it occurs to me to prefer that these aren't my handy-work, but on further consideration I'm pretty sure they are.
I slide the first floor panel back into place with a heavy snap, careful to keep my hands free ("that's how you loose a finger!" Mike had said), and then kick dutifully at the second panel, nudging it back in line. When I finish, my ass is frozen solid and my hands smell of cabling grease that never washes off. Welcome to the life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)