Monday, March 21, 2005
I've got half a mind...
I find it hard to devote time to this blog on the weekends...or maybe it was just this past weekend, which disappeared in a whirlwind of baby care and basketball. Whirlwind? Perhaps too active a description for three days of heavy duty coach potato-ing, but nevertheless, the time did seem to slip away. I think my presence slipped away at times as well, in that I allowed my day-to-day agenda to be driven the NCAA Tournament more than anything else. This was Nicola's perception, and I can't say that she's totally wrong, even if I don't like the implication that March Madness could draw my focus more than our first solo weekend with Lindsay. It was just us -- no Ella, no grandparents, only one group of visitors (Friday evening). And the Bucknell Bison, and the UNC Tar Heels, and the Vermont Catamounts, and the other teams playing basketball -- they were present too...too much.
Was I perhaps channeling some buried disappointment or frustration that I was here instead of Boise? That's the most likely explanation, and unfortunately, the explanation that points out the black lining (pouting indirectly) in my silver cloud (making the right, grown-up decision to not go to Boise). Well, baby steps. There was a time, probably not that long ago, when I would have gone to Boise, so the fact that I chose not to and made this choice for the right reasons...not because Nicola told me not to go...is progress in and of itself. Even if the weekend was spent being distracted as a form of whiny bitch protest or whatever.
Why the hell do I keep writing about Boise and alternately patting myself on the back and complaining about it in some way? So I decided not to go. Big fucking deal -- it was not Sophie's Choice, for Christ sake. It was a no-brainer: family or frolic (expensive frolic at that, at a time when the funds are tight and getting tighter). So Bill, get over yourself, and get on with it. I must be wanting some sort of greater expression of thanks and appreciation for my "selfless" gesture -- is that it? There's some faint whiff of a pattern here: I can't put my finger on it, but it involves doing things or making gestures not for the sake of the thing itself or for the sake of the beneficiary of the gesture...but for the kudos and the ego stroke that results. It's not a characteristic of mine that is particularly pronounced, I don't think. Maybe others will tell me different...that my spotlight whore inclinations are not so secret. But I would prefer to think that this is a seamy trait of mine that rubs at my conscience like a shoe's hotspot creating a blister...it nags at you, but it will stop if you quit wearing the shoes. Um, that analogy sucked.
ANYWAY. This a characteristic, interestingly, that I spoke of tonight at dinner. Nicola's step-mom and step-sister are here, and somehow we got talking with Phoenix about...Barry Manilow! There's the thread. Stay with me. James Taylor is playing, and on this CD there's a Christmas song; Nicola wonders why it's on there etc. etc. I say, well, he can't even touch the Barry Manilow Christmas classics. Which leads to some smart ass comments on Barry Manilow, which are deserved, but still, that music has some powerful emotional cues for me -- it is the music of my father, of my sad pre-teen years when I would listen to Manilow tunes and cry about how much I missed him (my Dad). It was nearly self-torture, but in hindsight, I think making myself feel sad was a way to make myself feel connected to him...without the sadness, there was not much of an emotional connection. Now, the sadness is gone -- I don't really miss him like I did when I was 8 or 10 -- so guess what? No emotional connection! Barry, come back! (Certain songs can still get me to cry in a second. Seriously.)
Rambling here. The point was the Manilow reference led to a discussion about my Dad and how he's changed over the years. In discussing the sudden death of my step-mother at age 50, I made note of how I felt my Dad gloried a bit too much in the role of the grieving widower. He loved the spotlight and the attention...and isn't there a glimmer of that in my own drive to be patted on the back? Now that I lay it out, I'm honestly not sure...but I think there's something there.
I go back and forth on the motivations for this blog (changing subjects again before I wrap up). At times I want to delve into my semi-twisted psyche, and at times I want to keep it light and reminisce in an attempted humorous way about my past. Now that I know a few people are reading this, I am even more conflicted, to some degree. But I'll just stick with it and do what feels right day to day...you "readers" can come or go as you wish. I promise that some day soon I'll tell the story of going to Jerusalem or driving through Europe at age 14 with the Thompson Twins on heavy rotation on my Walkman.
Chalk up this over-wrought explanation of a minor character trait to...?? Being overtired? Recoiling when I sense things about myself that are anything like my father? Now there's another entry for another time...or another round of therapy.
Lindsay's kidney ultrasound is tomorrow. Go healthy kidneys!
Was I perhaps channeling some buried disappointment or frustration that I was here instead of Boise? That's the most likely explanation, and unfortunately, the explanation that points out the black lining (pouting indirectly) in my silver cloud (making the right, grown-up decision to not go to Boise). Well, baby steps. There was a time, probably not that long ago, when I would have gone to Boise, so the fact that I chose not to and made this choice for the right reasons...not because Nicola told me not to go...is progress in and of itself. Even if the weekend was spent being distracted as a form of whiny bitch protest or whatever.
Why the hell do I keep writing about Boise and alternately patting myself on the back and complaining about it in some way? So I decided not to go. Big fucking deal -- it was not Sophie's Choice, for Christ sake. It was a no-brainer: family or frolic (expensive frolic at that, at a time when the funds are tight and getting tighter). So Bill, get over yourself, and get on with it. I must be wanting some sort of greater expression of thanks and appreciation for my "selfless" gesture -- is that it? There's some faint whiff of a pattern here: I can't put my finger on it, but it involves doing things or making gestures not for the sake of the thing itself or for the sake of the beneficiary of the gesture...but for the kudos and the ego stroke that results. It's not a characteristic of mine that is particularly pronounced, I don't think. Maybe others will tell me different...that my spotlight whore inclinations are not so secret. But I would prefer to think that this is a seamy trait of mine that rubs at my conscience like a shoe's hotspot creating a blister...it nags at you, but it will stop if you quit wearing the shoes. Um, that analogy sucked.
ANYWAY. This a characteristic, interestingly, that I spoke of tonight at dinner. Nicola's step-mom and step-sister are here, and somehow we got talking with Phoenix about...Barry Manilow! There's the thread. Stay with me. James Taylor is playing, and on this CD there's a Christmas song; Nicola wonders why it's on there etc. etc. I say, well, he can't even touch the Barry Manilow Christmas classics. Which leads to some smart ass comments on Barry Manilow, which are deserved, but still, that music has some powerful emotional cues for me -- it is the music of my father, of my sad pre-teen years when I would listen to Manilow tunes and cry about how much I missed him (my Dad). It was nearly self-torture, but in hindsight, I think making myself feel sad was a way to make myself feel connected to him...without the sadness, there was not much of an emotional connection. Now, the sadness is gone -- I don't really miss him like I did when I was 8 or 10 -- so guess what? No emotional connection! Barry, come back! (Certain songs can still get me to cry in a second. Seriously.)
Rambling here. The point was the Manilow reference led to a discussion about my Dad and how he's changed over the years. In discussing the sudden death of my step-mother at age 50, I made note of how I felt my Dad gloried a bit too much in the role of the grieving widower. He loved the spotlight and the attention...and isn't there a glimmer of that in my own drive to be patted on the back? Now that I lay it out, I'm honestly not sure...but I think there's something there.
I go back and forth on the motivations for this blog (changing subjects again before I wrap up). At times I want to delve into my semi-twisted psyche, and at times I want to keep it light and reminisce in an attempted humorous way about my past. Now that I know a few people are reading this, I am even more conflicted, to some degree. But I'll just stick with it and do what feels right day to day...you "readers" can come or go as you wish. I promise that some day soon I'll tell the story of going to Jerusalem or driving through Europe at age 14 with the Thompson Twins on heavy rotation on my Walkman.
Chalk up this over-wrought explanation of a minor character trait to...?? Being overtired? Recoiling when I sense things about myself that are anything like my father? Now there's another entry for another time...or another round of therapy.
Lindsay's kidney ultrasound is tomorrow. Go healthy kidneys!
// posted by Bill @ 9:02 PM 
Comments:
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I just want to acknowledge the choice that you did make to stay home. I so appreciate you making the decision not to go to Boise on your own. I know it wasn't necessarily easy for you to make, but you relieved so much stress for a brand-new, highly-emotional, over-tired mother.
I'll have to find some way to adequately "pat you on the back" for making the RIGHT choice (and yes, there was a right choice here). Thank you!
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I'll have to find some way to adequately "pat you on the back" for making the RIGHT choice (and yes, there was a right choice here). Thank you!
# posted by 
: 8:51 AM
: 8:51 AM << Home
