Baal

Each spectral port,
each human eye

is shot through with a hole, and everything we know
goes in there, where it feeds a blaze. In a flash

the baby's old . . .

--Heather McHugh (quoted in lit by Mary Karr)

Bazemore thinks she can steal my illustrations and get away with the crime, because, as she stated, "I have the PhD and you don't. Who are they going to believe?"

We aren't considering the same "they," are we? No, indeed, we are not.

Essential Nancy-ness

Sociologists say the Baby-boomers are the first American generation to leave their world worse than they found it for reasons such as: poor economy, greater social strife, and a damaged environment. Nutritionists say my children’s generation will be the first to die before their parents due to obesity and lack of exercise. My generation, labeled “Generation-X,” was deemed angst-ridden, disenfranchised, and lost. Chuck Klosterman has the most dead-on assessment of my generation stating: “Twenty-somethings in the nineties were by and large depressed about the future, mostly because (a) they knew there was very little to look forward to, and (b) they were obsessed with staring into the eyes of their own self-absorbed sadness.” Yet, “Gen-X,” which has many labels, has been the generation to make many contributions to American society such as: the band Nirvana and Spongebob Squarepants. I want to be one of the major contributors of my generation. I want to be revolutionary. I want to change the way people think.

How do I achieve such ambitious goals amidst an unrelenting tide of people who speak negatively against my desires? “You’re a dreamer” and “it’s unlikely” and “good luck” along with not-so-subtle eye rolling accompany comments of those with whom I have shared my dreams. So when asked to write a short essay communicating my hopes and dreams, I stalled. But, dear reader, because I am not looking you in the eye and will not firsthand feel or sense any negativity towards my dreams, I shall make you privy to my plans.

I hope to change the way people think about beauty, about women, about themselves, and about what is truly important in this life (no, it’s not a Hummer, a big house, a boat, vacation property, and a precious stone delivered from the exploitations of slave labor). Beauty: what is beauty and who defines the term? Women should not have to choose between a successful career and a close family. I should be free to work hard and well and reap the rewards of dedication to my field. Yet, I should not be penalized because I was late or absent due to wiping tears from my daughter’s face and holding her until she felt better. What kind of society makes a mother decide between advancing her career and caring for her child simply due to a schedule conflict? I am not a cog in the wheel. I am the wheel.

My dreams are to become a prolific and best-selling author not for writing what is popular but for writing was is good and right. My dream is to leave a legacy of educating others to create a world which is not only good for themselves but also good for their neighbors. My dream is to leave this world better than I found it. I was born in 1968, a year in which my country was in great turmoil. My dream is that my daughters long outlive me in a world in which women are appreciated for who they are and given opportunities based upon the strength of their character. One person can make a difference and I intend to be that person for my generation.

Rooster

Does a piece of our parent’s soul imprint upon us? Do our dreams play scenes from our lives as well as scenes from Mom’s life and Dad’s life? Does my hell play a phantasmagoria in my children’s sleep? Is it real or hyperbole and how do I differentiate?

Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)

I need another chance. I need more time. I need you to hear me. Why did you run away? Why did you hide? And why did you take your life? I abhor your self-absorbed pity. I loved your smile—the happy one—when you were sober.

Damn it. Damn you. Go to hell—but—not really. Don’t go.

Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

It was the ancient superstition that unhappiness resides in the country without not within, and that one may cure a broken heart by a simple change of address.
Ellen Glasgow

I prefer to attend a funeral rather than attending a wedding. I still get to dress up and enjoy a nice buffet. There is generally no dancing which is fine with me because my dancing skills are still at the three-year-old level. And people seem to be more sincere when reflecting upon the life of one who has died.

Why do couples marry? Religious reasons aside, why do couples feel the need to legally entangle themselves to the point where autonomy becomes a foreign concept? Why then, when one or both believe the union no longer works, must there be such contempt?

Breaking up is difficult—yes—but holding on and reopening a wound is worse. Time and distance are necessary. The belief in The One is a myth. There are many good people out there. And many who will be attracted to you. Yet you don’t have to marry the next good guy or gal who comes along. Commitment is much more than a legal document.

Reincarnation

Mary Karr presents her childhood in an almost unbroken panorama. Mine is a fogged-out landscape from which occasional memories appear like isolated trees . . . the kind that look as if they might like to grab and eat you.
Stephen King

Write first and then read books after. That is the deal. I agreed because I need to focus on writing. To write is to give my demons a voice. I fear what they say. And I fear re-entering the dark forest of my past.

Several nights ago I had a dream in which I found a make-shift grave. At first glance there were weathered gray pieces of small flat wood. The wood was neatly stacked over a coffin shaped mound. Rocks held the wood down. I began to pick up the rocks and toss them aside. Then I began tossing the wood aside. Under the wood and rock was chicken wire. The chicken wire formed a cage around a human body.

I completely uncovered the body from its grave. Unafraid and curious, I began to unravel the muslin which covered the figure. Upon exposing her face, the body came to life with a smile, “Hi Nancy.” It was my mom.

She, my mom, came to life and I forged a new relationship with her. We got along. We talked. She listened and took interest in my life, in my interests.

Details in the Fabric

The girl, Maggie, blossomed in a mud puddle.
Stephen Crane

I cannot grasp the life unlived. A mind unlearned. Holding onto hope until the last breath and yet still unrealized. Why did she stop trying? Why did she give up? Why couldn’t she love me and hold me and tell me everything will be all right?

Lachrymose, I sit unable to identify the ache. Lamenting a relationship never realized. Why am I unable to move on? Mom, I need you—still—I need you.

At the time, Mariam did not understand. She did not know what this word harami--bastard--meant. Nor was she old enough to appreciate the injustice, to see that it is the creators of the harami who are culpable, not the harami, whose only sin is being born.
Khaled Hosseini