Last Days

This last day of 2007 I’m spun back in time to my father’s last days. Don’t worry – I’ve got a cheery post stuffed in my back pocket for later. But right now I’m reading about people whose dads have died. Depressing stuff.

I hear you need at least a year to grieve, for me it’s been two months. Thinking the worst is over – I’m blindsided by little things. I don’t want to break down, but I can’t help it. Yesterday, I found my iPod shuffle in a coat pocket. The last person to listen to it was my dad. I had loaded it with gypsy music, his favorite.

The concept that his ear drums transmitted sound waves to a functioning brain just weeks ago baffles me. It’s like things don’t compute, I’ve got a system overload. My brain doesn’t know he’s gone and I have to keep telling it over and over that’s the case. I’m getting sick of it! I had some of my dad’s relatives over for a party before Christmas. I actually had the thought, “I wonder what Daddy will think of my Ron Paul sign.” I had to kindly explain to myself that he’s not coming to the party.

I drive past Beaumont Hospital on the way to work every day. This is where my father died. Thankfully most days I don’t notice it’s there – but when I do, I find the need to quickly gasp for air and hold it. This helps to keep me from crying. Glancing up at his room on the 8th floor, I remember looking out the window on visits to him. It was a pretty view. I would sit there, read books, pray the rosary, stumble through Serbo-Croatian conversations with his sister, wipe away his sweat, my tears, ask the nurses for updates.

Thomas H. Benton writes about his father’s death:

Sitting in silence, I had a lot of time to think. Prayers memorized in childhood surfaced into my consciousness, but, more often, I involuntarily recalled passages from beloved literary works like Hamlet:

"Do not forever with thy vailed lids seek for thy noble father in the dust. Thou know'st tis common; all that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity" .

The sitting and waiting was poetic like that. You start to float, fade, reminisce. You start to think of songs, poems, art, music. You imagine writing a novel, writing a screenplay. You start to think of all these things that escape you most days. These things distract you and bring you closer to the event at hand all at the same time. It’s like doing LSD. I’d be guessing.

Actor Steve Martin, in his essay “The Death of My Father”:

In his death, my father, Glenn Vernon Martin, did something he could not do in life. He brought our family together.

This observation strikes me. I’ve been sick with grief over my dad, but also about my perceived faults. Wishing I was easier to get along with during his illness, wishing I’d taken more time off work, wishing I’d have made all that money I’d hoped for since I was 10 so I could save my family and send them to the Croatian coastline to relax and dine on lamb and wine. Well, I didn’t save them.

And Steve Martin is right. The family, the support, it’s crazy. I thank God that my sister had the time to care for my dad. You love these people, you don’t talk for weeks, months, years, and then they are right there, loving you. Family is amazing. Friends are amazing. I’m not going to dissect this all here – let’s just say it was a mental and emotional carnival. Which brings me to Freud.

Sigmund Freud writes that a father's death was always "the most important event, the most poignant loss, of a man's life."


Ugh. Freud is an asshole, but a smart one. I concur with what he says here because my experience of my father’s death so far proves his words are true.

Count Your Enemies, One by One

Okay – so more of my making up what the book “The Artist’s Way” is about. I cannot bring myself to buy it, yet. I seem to like reading other people’s blogs about it more.

This is an exercise of naming the Enemies of Your Creative Self. Here are my Greatest Hits:

1. The FBI and other shady characters. And I don’t mean Eminem. When you are 9 and come home to a ransacked house, federal agents leaving their card with you after school, mother urging you to hide and not answering the door until she got home in case someone tried to kill me, hearing the click, click, click of a phone tap tape running out, you begin to think in conspiracy theories and about protecting yourself. I didn’t feel safe, money was scarce and pursuing a creative field felt like financial suicide, still does.

2. Rotten classmates. Recently read a horrifying post on this one. In grade school I’d been punched in the stomach, damn near molested, and otherwise generally tormented and ridiculed by kids with rich parents. Add to this (some) of my colleagues in college. Egad. They didn’t realize that I could hear them talking about me through the vents in our house. Shame on you guys. At least I found a private location.

3. Teachers.

Mrs. N. accused me of plagiarism because my in-class essay was too good? Too good? You get punished for that?

S. Y. K. while well-meaning, told me to pursue a degree in biology instead of music. See, she was a vocal prodigy in Korea by the age of 10, and at the time she taught me, a single mother with a doctorate in voice, singing nursing home gigs, living with her mother, and teaching high schoolers. Seeing her glorious talent stifled freaked me out.

Mr. M. wrote me a mediocre recommendation saying something like, “She’s not the top of her class, but she’s reliable.” I mean, just turn down writing the recommendation if you are going to say something like that.

4. Boyfriends. I had one tell me, “It’s not like you’ll get the job, but it’s good to try.” Another, “No [future] wife of mine will ever kiss some dude on stage.” Dude…it’s acting. Oh, and they both cheated on me.

5. People at cocktail parties. “Oh, you’re an opera singer. How exactly do you plan on making a living?” As if I’d never considered such a thought-provoking question! Then, it just dawned on us both - we’d discuss luck, networking, and having something to fall back on like teaching. Thanks a lot, couldna done it without ya.....

Most of these relationships are based on trust, and then something needs to break for you not to trust them. You go on like this until the default is reset to Not Trusting, like me! That’s why it hurts so bad and burns so deep when people say stupid things.

You’ll notice my parents are nowhere in that list. Don’t you hear all the time about tormented stars and the parents who crushed their dreams? Then rising to success in spite of it all? i.e., Michael Jackson? Unfortunately, I wasn’t so lucky. Maybe with a little bit of “You’re worthless and your music sucks!” from my mom and dad I would have rebelled enough to make it to La Scala.

My mom is my biggest fan, comes to all my performances, has a great musical ear, and will tell me the truth. I can’t tell you how many times she urged me to start a duet with her (she plays piano) and tour the world performing on cruise ships, or how my dad, barely able to provide for himself, offered to find a way to help me pay to live in New York City or Italy to study and audition. They still have this innocent faith in me. (Yes, I said “they”). I recently brought my mother to tears by calling singing a “hobby.” It crushed her.

Try this exercise yourself. You can substitute the enemies to your creative self with whatever else you are interested in – sexy self, assertive self, peaceful self…should prove interesting. Don’t know what I’m to do with it though. Recognizing my enemies doesn’t make it easier to overcome them. I guess I need to buy the book....

One Small Thing

Okay - so as I was on the elliptical machine today, feeling weird about my last post, feeling helpless about my last post. And - I thought of one really great thing anyone could do right now to help their loved ones. And while it is not specific to those with cancer, it would be valuable to any families who've had a diagnosis, or not.

Create a will. Even if you are not rich or don't think you need one. At the very least, pull out some paper, write down some ideas about what you would wish to happen when you die, sign and date and keep somewhere safe. Oh, and tell someone where it is. I implore you.

The reason is, my dad didn't. I understand why not, but it made his last days of care, funeral arrangements, and what to do with his few belongings traumatic, and gut-wrenchingly difficult. Don't leave it up to chance, figuring you don't really care what happens. If that is the case, tell your family exactly what "I don't care what you do" means. It is foolish and selfish to assume there will be anything less than turmoil and anguish surrounding what to do with you and your belongings, no matter how meager, once you've passed. Working in the financial industry, I come across surviving family members left mired in financial documents saying, "Oh, he just didn't want to talk about it, he didn’t want to prepare, it was too hard." I know it's hard. But it’s hard on those left behind too.

Also, be specific. For example, don't tell your significant other to give your CD collection away at the funeral as guests exit, then adding, “unless you want some of them for yourself.” He or she will be torn between giving away free music 'cause that's what you wanted and tearing the copy of The Best of Morissey out of Aunt Hilda’s hands because that was playing when you first met. This is a mixed signal. When you are gone, your words are gold. Their value skyrockets and those left behind can't know what you would have wanted unless you are crystal clear.

So. Please. Make a will. If you want to get fancy, follow some additional simple steps outlined below. If you are stinkin' rich - get your lawyer and financial advisor on the line and they'll take care of the rest.

Extra Tips to Prepare for The Stuff No One Wants to Talk About:

1. Designate Durable Powers of Attorney. There is one for Health Care/Medical and Finances. Here's a sample - they often go by state. Choose someone responsible, able and willing to be in a tough situation. You will both need to sign a form and some states require a notarized signature. (If you are married and do not choose your spouse, I think they might have to sign off on that, not sure.)

2. Think about Advance Directives and Do Not Resuscitate Orders, again, check with your state. How do you feel about “end of life” care and extra measures to keep you alive? Do you know? If you feel you cannot make the decision, there are guidelines based on ethical views of legislative, medical, or religious teachings. These sources may help you sort your thoughts and feelings.

3. Consider organ donation, if you believe it is a good decision for you and your family. This can be listed in the above forms, and kept on record with the Secretary of State (just Google yours) in conjunction with your driver’s license.

4. Write down your wishes for your funeral or lack thereof. Make sure you add all details, cremation or burial, religious customs to add or avoid, people you want to be there or not, etc.

5. Draft a simple will, for a small fee on Nolo.com you can get one. It doesn’t matter how much stuff you have or how valuable you think it is. A jean shirt, ratty, worn, paint-spattered…it’s worth it to know who it belongs to.

6. Let someone (see #1) you know have a copy, tell them the location, or store
in a safe deposit box, again letting someone know where this is.

These decisions can't be made hastily, and perhaps that is why people don’t make them at all. But make them. You can change your mind while you are still living at any time. At the very least, begin to have conversations with those closest to you about these things. It’s hard, but avoiding it would be careless.

P-Trunk Gets Fired

Penelope Trunk, one of my favorite writers, got fired today. Not a shocker, as the comments from her column on Yahoo! Finance column are overwhelmingly negative. Although she explains it was from some sort of low CPM rating which has nothing to do with the traffic she produced, but how relevant her content was to Yahoo!'s advertisers. Her traffic was high since she is sort of a controversial writer. Either way, her column had little finance-specific advice and, in my opinion wasn’t appropriate for the audience.

My dirty little secret: When I heard the news I was relieved.

Okay, I’ll admit how I felt was closer to glee at first, but please don’t accuse me of being callous. I like her writing style, content, honesty, and hutspa. I don’t actually enjoy the fact that she got fired and now has to worry about her next job, money, etc. That would be cruel. Why the rejoicing? She’s human! Not some genius writing columns, publishing books, working her own hours, while we all wonder to ourselves how she does it and if she’s happy. She tells us. Sometimes she’s happy, sometimes she’s not. She works hard, struggles, wonders, waits, makes mistakes…just like the rest of us. Just like me. She’s breaking my illusions of what being rich and famous are. I don’t know if she really is rich and famous, but a lot of people know who she is and she writes about her six-figure book deals, which is way better than I’m doing.

The reason I was happy was selfish – not because I like seeing people fall – but because I continually struggle with fear of falling and doing everything to avoid falling and…well, she fell and she’s lived to tell the tale. That’s why I’m happy. It’s triumphant! In a way, her failure is a huge success. And I’m going to enjoy seeing what she does next.

So, congrats, Penelope – you are on to better things.

Our Cancer

Just seeing the title "My Cancer" on the NPR website struck me. Whose cancer? My cancer? Oh, his cancer. A blog about a man, a journalist, living with cancer.

Since my father's loss I have been ignoring cancer. Stopped reading and collecting information. Pretending it's just not there. I realize this as I click towards Leroy Sievers' blog in fear and revulsion (and later, gratitude - he writes what my father couldn't or wouldn't communicate). I skim the pages, painfully familiar scenes. Transported back in time. Hospitals: wheeling my dad around, his eyes darting around uncomfortably waiting for appointments. Home: my family struggling to care for him; he, struggling to maintain autonomy, dignity. Doctors: clutching clipboards and pens garnered from drug reps on their lunch breaks. They would address us…their pinched faces, squeezing out the portentous words that felt like sealing his fate.

It’s very serious.

We can’t say.

You must understand how it is with someone in his condition.

I hated them, but they knew so much more than me…so.

Oh stop stop stop. No one wants to read this. Honestly. Furthermore, I don’t want to write it.

I feel like I don’t have a right to write about cancer and my experience with it. We lost that battle. We, because cancer affects the whole family. You will read that on websites. I feel like talking about my own experiences, delusions, misunderstandings, missteps, and failures is selfish and takes away from people who know better than I, who were more successful, selfless, whatever. I also don’t want to glorify my experience while omitting the vast horrors that cancer creates and leaves in its wake, whether its victims survive or not.

I feel the same way about discussing cancer as I would if I were asked to tell blatant lies. I don’t know or understand cancer. I don’t know or understand where it comes from.

What I do know, I hate. I hate that it is an anomaly of cells, God’s mutant mutiny. It cannot be seen or felt with the naked eye. You could see a man tall and strong, fall, and wonder why? In my opinion, there is nothing redeeming about the cancer experience. Survivors are heroes, but they will continue to fight their whole lives. They cannot rest.

I don’t know where I fit in this conversation. You, me, cancer. What are we going to do about that?

And So It Goes

Continuing to read Clea Simon's "Fatherless Women" (I tend to read anywhere from 4 to 6 books at once, reading a few pages to chapters at a time.) She posits that women learn about their self-worth in relation to how their fathers view them. I'm not sold on this, but if it were true, what does this say about me?

I seem to be able to simultaneously believe I can do anything, and also completely convinced my attempts will only end up with minor modicums of success, if not utter despair. Maintaining the status quo seems preferable, if not inevitable.

I often choose a project, something exciting that I’m attracted to. I’ll begin to make plans, good, solid plans that could lead to a fruitful result. But unfailingly I get a feeling in the early planning stages. Almost like I’m being emotionally strangled. I can’t choose any other word that less dramatically describes it. I cease planning and action, not out of disinterest, but of utter fear that I will fail big, cripplingly big. Like if I fail at this I can’t just go back to my desk job, I'll just be destitute.

Is this a pattern many people play out? I imagine people have brief flirts with drastic changes, experience fear, make decisions to continue forward or stop, but I cannot imagine their emotions swing so wildly, or are so regularly patterned. Who knows?

I only have my experience and again, how did I get this way in relation to my father? I guess what I learned was less a direct edict from him, but was from observing his life and persona. He certainly never discouraged my dreams. But watching his life, I saw dreams, an empire really, crash. Boom, gone. Not once, but now, twice.

In his encouragement, he made me believe I was worth the moon and stars, in his reality, he sufferingly demonstrated it cannot be so. “Your dreams are worthwhile, but also mirages.” He would never say the last part, but it would end up happening, through faults of his own or from trusting others. Life is so fucked up sometimes. You can take a great man and bring him down if he is not a skeptic and total asshole. A great man, like a magestic sunflower, full of life, vibrance, vitality…can be so fragile, but never appear so until you see it being easily pecked away at. A strong stalk struck, severed at a moment’s notice, falling.

I have images of 9/11 in my mind as I type this. The image comes to mind as America, tall strong, proud, optimistic, we’re just doing our thing…and along come radical, evil, and just plain wrong people to ruin things. I cannot say what happened to my father had that magnitutde, and I’m not comparing. I’m just saying, this is an echoing pattern in life, something great falling. Fast and hard. Thank God it’s rare, but never the less unbelievable, life-changing, crushing.

I suppose this is why I formed my thoughts about myself and what I was capable of. Why I believe the promises of the stars one moment, only to dig a hole and hide for cover the next. Ingrained.

Life will be great, I’ll repeat my mantra. The act of living is tricky, but I can uncover, hopefully conquer. I don’t mind where I came from, I don’t mind my delusions, I can recognize them and shed them I suppose, if I find it useful. I guess protection mechanisms serve a purpose. That’s why they are called protection mechanisms. And if I’m feeling bold I can shed that armor, and move forward. I guess you have to have optimism and bravado to succeed, even if it means you have a chance of falling, you also had a chance at greatness. My father was truly great.

Learning to Love Yourself

Just when I'm back on the brink of shaving my head and moving to Nepal, Penelope Trunk writes a post that keeps me in line and makes me feel a lot less crazy.

She suggests that one doesn't have to torture themselves because they don’t do what they love for a living. This hit home because I have an ongoing struggle about the discrepancy between what I love to do, and what I have chosen as a primary career path.

Penelope says,

"Often, the thing we should do for our career is something we would only do if we were getting a reward. If you tell yourself that your job has to be something you’d do even if you didn’t get paid, you’ll be looking for a long time. Maybe forever. So why set that standard? The reward for doing a job is contributing to something larger than you are, participating in society, and being valued in the form of money."

Point well taken. I'm hoping I can finally take advice like this to heart.

I can certainly move towards things I like better, which I've started doing. Plus, I already get paid to sing and teach, and I spend time writing about it. And despite my mounting frustration that "I'm not creative enough," I should end the charade. I make time for being creative. I am doing what I love. (I even married what I love.) So what if I can't wear a badge that says, "I earn 100% of my income from my passions in life. You can too - ask me about it!"

Furthermore, I'm getting a little sick of myself. Well, my thought processes about myself. My husband probably is too, God bless his patience. I seem to relish in self-analysis that leads to self-deprecating conclusions about how I'm not smart, pretty, skinny, and perfect enough. I actually ask Mike every morning to check my outfit before I leave for work asking, "Do I look dumb or stupid?" He is baffled as to how to answer this asinine question, but playing along says, "Stupid!" It's a joke, but partly how I really feel.

It's odd because I do have the intelligence to realize I'm not as big as a house and my clothes are fairly current. But I think intelligence is no match for whacked out hormones and misfiring brain synapses. I swear it's my DNA. It's got to be genetic because I remember being like this when I was a kid, far before societal pressures could have taught me I wasn't good enough. One of my first stories (my mother chronicles it at age 4) was titled, "Nobody likes me today or never." It's a narrative of all the bad things I did (crying, shouting, being sad) along with the reasons why my family should truly hate me. Illustrated.

But...in true Milena style, the last page reveals a bit of enlightened thinking: "If I wasn't all that, I'd be nothing, so love me for who I am."

How I Met My Husband

I love this story. In particular because EVERYONE thinks he’s responsible for our pairing because he’s the man.

After I graduated college and moved back home, the man pool dried up immediately. I ventured to online dating, which was tragic…let’s just put it this way: I didn’t mind if you were short, chubby, and balding. No biggie. Just don’t LIE to me about how you are shorter, fatter, and balder than you purport on your online profile. That’s what makes me not like you. It’s a moot point now, but I believe I speak for more women than myself.

I gave up on dating and I thought I’d throw myself into a new hobby. I had long been fantasizing about finding musicians to work with who weren't married to classical idioms and posted an ad on Craigslist for a pianist or guitarist, listing influences such as Maria Callas, Joao Gilberto, Antonio Carlos Jobim, Kings of Convenience and Jethro Tull.

I got three replies. One was from a drummer, but I imagined our collaborations would end up a bit avant garde and limited artistically. Then, two more contenders, “T&A Guy” and “WellFellow.” I didn’t bother responding to T&A Guy.

When I met Mike I thought he was one of the most unique people I’d ever met; courteous, opinionated, eccentric, hilarious. I was also convinced he was part Chinese. Oddly enough, he gets the strongest arguments from people who are Chinese themselves. He’s not. We didn’t start dating until after about a year working together on the band. In that year we got to know each other well, we’d hang out talking a lot. I grin thinking about how diligent we were about rehearsing, successfully forming our duet “En Passant.” We still perform regularly, but rehearsals have now been largely replaced by DVD marathons.

Meeting him was the most exciting thing that had happened to me in a long time and still is. Seeing his grinning face is one of my favorite things. So far, in our three-ish months of marriage, we’re ridiculously happy. And though devastating things have happened, they’ve also given us the opportunity to show how deeply committed we are to the serious work marriage takes.

I guess people aren’t wrong when they say Mike found me, but I placed the ad, so I should get the credit…: )

I have taken few significant risks in my life

I have been following “The Artist’s Way” by Julia Cameron. Well, the poor-man’s version because I’m too proud to shell out a few bucks for a used copy on Amazon. I have found this website to guide me, which chronicles one woman’s experiences and thoughts (whose name I cannot find, sorry!) as she works through the book. I follow her articles, fend for myself with the daily and weekly writing exercises, sometimes skipping, um, tailoring critical elements, and plan to “delve in later.”

Wow. Risky business, Milena.

The website author talks about jumping into an endeavor she had always dreamed of and the struggles she faced. Yadda yadda. Me too…I’ve been there...

"As I set things in place to make this dream a reality, I experienced an increase in intestinal problems. In addition, emotionally, something wasn't feeling right. It all came to a head the day after I staffed a booth at an art convention. I spent 2 days telling thousands of people about the new studio, when it would open, what it would offer, etc. The day after, I collapsed. I was sicker than a dog. It wasn't the flu. My gut was wrenching, but I had no fever, no cough, no vomiting...no real symptoms.”

I must confess something. I, too, have been having intestinal and emotional problems. Not surprising considering the past months, but I was struck by how my experiences seem to echo her.

And wouldn't you know it. This week's focus is about "money, God, and creative abundance."

Yippee! I’m particularly well versed in pooh-poohing all three. If you were a fly on the wall of our home you could hear me quipping to Mike, “The only people who can make it in the arts have large trust funds, or parents who are financially secure enough that they could catch their fall, or benefactors who support them...” And so on. (Note: I like to ignore hard work, risk, and talent for purposes in this equation.)

This convenient blanket of assurance is on me at all times. Wrapped snugly, I swear to myself that in an alternate universe, with my lawyer on speed dial, cutting checks to pay my Big City living expenses, that I too would be the proud owner of “Emerging Artist” awards and critics reviews of my operatic debuts going something like this: “the shimmering timbre of Ms. Grubor’s pure voice, coupled with the artistic bravado of her performance lifted my soul from out of my very being, and into the palms of her milk-white hands.”

Uh.

Luckily, I have the convenience of never knowing if my thesis is true because I don’t have said trust fund. But never mind that. Victorious! I have won, with sharp wit and wisdom the battle in my mind over why I’m not really pursuing singing professional anymore. Did I ever? It’s just not practical, teaching and singing on the side is soooo much better. Singing on the side? On the side? “I’d like an order of a life, with just a little singing on the side.”

This a metaphorical meal I’ve grown tired of.

Type Till It Hurts

For those of you who are into personal development type stuff, I have found Steve Pavlina's advice to be helpful for directing my thoughts in productive ways, without getting too airy fairy about life. His approach is practical, realistic, and takes into consideration you may not want to sell all your belongings, shave your head, wear burlap, and move to Nepal to fulfill your life's purpose. (I came to this conclusion once - let's just say I was sorely misguided.)

Here's some practical advice for finding your life's purpose that I have used from time to time. You might wonder why one would have to do it more than once if it's so good, right? Well, I do it just to make sure I still want to do that thing, that thing that sits way down deep that I always say I'll get around to? It will change just slightly from time to time, but it's more of a refining than shifting, and yeah, that's still it.

Here's what Steve advises:

1. Take out a blank sheet of paper or open up a word processor where you can type (I prefer the latter because it’s faster).

2. Write at the top, “What is my true purpose in life?”

3. Write an answer (any answer) that pops into your head. It doesn’t have to be a complete sentence. A short phrase is fine.

4. Repeat step 3 until you write the answer that makes you cry. This is your purpose.

That’s it. It doesn’t matter if you’re a counselor or an engineer or a bodybuilder. To some people this exercise will make perfect sense. To others it will seem utterly stupid. Usually it takes 15-20 minutes to clear your head of all the clutter and the social conditioning about what you think your purpose in life is. The false answers will come from your mind and your memories. But when the true answer finally arrives, it will feel like it’s coming to you from a different source entirely.

Vegetable Therapy

I'm not vegetarian, but I love cooking all-veggie dishes. I find it theraputic in a way. It makes me feel healthy, happy, connected to the earth. I eat a vegetarian meal and feel like I've accomplished something worthwhile. I've got a dehydrator and I've made my own raw fruit roll ups, sprouted and dried my own live-grain cereal, I use agave nectar or stevia, the whole nine. I love baking vegan sweets! Where else can you get yumma delicious stuff that isn't going to kill you?

And, Oh my gosh, for totally selfish reasons, buy grass fed organic locally grown food. I know, saving the planet is awesome, but until you go raw, you don't know what you are missing. Since Michigan has aggravating laws about what people can and cannot eat, (raw milk for example). I purchased a share of my own cow a few years ago (from which I can do whatever I want with as it is considered private property) and I try to get most of my meat and dairy from a local-ish farmer (Find Your Own!) who delivers to our town every two weeks delivering, fresh, raw cream, milk, and grass fed everything else! Your coffee, cereal, and stew will never be the same.

Check out Campaign for Raw Milk if you are interested. Supposedly it cures all sorts of stuff. I can't say, I just like the way it tastes and how it is humanely produced. If you are an omivore, you should be pleased to learn that fat from a grass fed cows is GOOD for you, not like most poor farm animals who are fed defective cereal and junk food from factories that over-sugared or salted, and cardboard slop, which I read about earlier this year in the Wall Street Journal. Ick.

While I don't believe we should have laws to rectify the treatment of animals, I still strongly believe we owe it to them and ourselves to take care of them. Word of mouth, ya'll!

Descending soap box...

Hypnotised

I was hypnotised last night. I have footage.

I was at our office Christmas, er, Holiday party last night and there was a hypnotist for entertainment. Ever inquisitive, I decided to be one of the volunteers for what ended up being a scene of group hysteria. Either you believe me or you don't, so I'm not going to try to prove that it was real, I can only describe it this way:

You know when you are sitting, typing, reading, etc. and your mind begins to wander to a million other things, all the while you are still doing the same thing? That is your mind in its "normal" state, a lot of thoughts at once, but you are still in control of what you are doing, the other thoughts don't send you in new directions of action, otherwise you'd never get anything done. Well, under hypnosis, my experience was one where all other thoughts were emptied from my mind, completely, I didn't wander, and there was only the sound of the hypnotist's voice, telling me to fall asleep, drive a car, go fishing, pick flowers, etc. He gave directions and I followed, it wasn't that I was unconscious, but there was nothing else entering my mind, so it felt like I didn't have a choice but to accept and act on the input the hypnotist was giving. Very interesting.

Among many other things, I fell asleep on my boss, at one point another woman from the office applied suntan lotion on me, I crashed a car, and ended with a beautiful ballet scene.

Afterwards, I "awoke" on the floor, our office manager keeled out on some chairs, my boss on the other end of the room, everyone else had their shoes off. It was hilarious.

I was told that I was very entertaining in particular, most likely due to my theatrical training. When he told us to do ballet, apparently I had the foot positions down and everything. I wish I could've seen it.

This experience got me to thinking about the state of the mind, and if it is possible to similarly clear my mind for other activities, while not "under the spell" of a hypnotic state. I'm sure I can, I think there has to be willingness to let go. Something I don't feel particularly safe doing these days.

Has anyone else had such an experience? Either with a hypnotists aid or not? A time when their mind was blank and actions and decisions felt easy?

Stop Trying to Look For Answers

It is Serbian custom to have a party of some sort six months after someone passes away. I'm excited about this idea in relation to my dad's passing. I'd been planning this blog to be more of a tribute to him and that I'd have some sort of release party for it, make a recording of "Starogradski Pjesme" (means old world music in Serbian). We'd all gather, happily recounting tales of his life, our experiences with him, tears would be wiped away...

But that doesn't seem right anymore. I am not making time to interview people about his life. I find it tedious and tiresome and I can barely listen to the recordings we did just a few weeks ago. I breakdown crying and the aftermath is almost unbearable. Listening to his voice...The three and a half month warning we got from the time he was diagnosed until his death was nothing. A blink. Six months will be two blinks.

And then what? I don't suppose there needs to be a "then what." I think I need to stop trying to find answers to things. I know that I'm supposed to look, to be introspective, use creativity to get through the pain. I'm just not sure I'm ready to write his life story. At least I don't know how yet.

I just don't want this to slip away. I know this will sound crazy, but I told him I was writing his story. The doctors thought he wasn't responding to stuff, but I was there in his room, alone, and I was holding his hand and told him I loved him and would write all about his life. A single tear fell from his eye. As much as I like to explain it away as coincidence, his eyes weren't perpetually watery after his stroke...he had some cognitive ability, even towards the very end. One or two days before he passed, I was trying some rehabilitation moves with him, moving his leg up and down. After a minute of this I asked, "Daddy am I bothering you?" And he smiled. I was. And that was okay. He was dying.

Oh well. I know when I'm ready I'll write. I know I will capture what I need. I already have. I guess I am just upset because so far it is not pretty, it is not glossy, it is not even coherent sometimes. I can't imagine what I'm doing is a proper commemoration.

Pink is the new "Blech"

Yet again, Kate Hutchinson has posted something which made me think. In her recent job search, she has considered teaching as something she is drawn towards. However, she ends with...

"One thing I keep coming back to is the idea of teaching. I'm thinking of it as a way to return to my love of learning and take on something more challenging than I've done with my life so far. On the other hand, I don't know if I want to take a pink-collar job. I don't necessarily want to be typecast in a typical female role. Although, to look at the development world right now, that's becoming a pink-collar job too."

Pink-collar. This is a phrase I only came across two weeks ago on Rebecca Thorman's blog. I approach the moniker much like I would the jelled fish dish at an ethnic wedding. "What is it?" "Is it bad?" "Should I ask for guidance?"

Before I tackle that though - I want to mention that teaching is something I have done for five years. I work a corporate job during the week, and I teach private voice lessons on the weekends. When I was first approached to teach, I was apprehensive. I didn't think I would like teaching, I thought kids would prove annoying and difficult to communicate to, and was worried I wouldn't have much to offer.

However, I was wrong. Teaching is the most rewarding personal and professional activity I engage in. I like it better than performing. This was a huge surprise to me. I thought putting on costumes and blaring out opera on stages was the peak of my expressive abilities. But I love to teach more. My young students are smart, and comprehend tasks easily. For those who have learning disabilities, I have expanded my abilities to communicate with and challenge them to think in new ways. Additionally, they are much more open than my adult students, who've had a whole lifetime of learning and aren't afraid to show it. But they eventually give in to learning new ways of doing old things.

As a teacher I have flexibility (over pay and scheduling), control (over content), and authority (earned by my hard-won studies of vocal pedagogy). Perhaps this type of teaching falls under entrepreneurship, as I'm not shackled by curricula handed down by the government. Thank god. I also think teaching at a charter school or at the collegiate level would be rewarding as well. I often think that when I'm done with my masters I'd love to start a finance course for artists. Something I didn't have in my undergrad that I felt was sorely needed.

But back to pink-collar. I'm guessing it is bad, as Kate implies it is something she'd be happier to avoid. I imagine the great trifecta - secretary, teacher, nurse - iconic in their imagery of women in skirts, sweater sets, and little white caps, placating bosses, shushing children, and gently tending to the sick. But is there something inherently wrong with these activities? Or do women still get paid less? What is the issue with these jobs? Why do women feel they should be avoided to save their pride? If you ask me, they are still worthwhile. I happen to be a women who holds two of those positions, and have considered the third. They suit my personality, and I'm no shrinking violet. They will allow me to have babies and work at the same time too. I know I know, this is somehow supposed to be a tragedy, that I can't be a CEO and bounce Johnny on my knee at the next shareholders conference. But I wouldn't want that anyways.

Perhaps pink-collar isn't all that bad, for the people who like that type of work. It's not that I particularly enjoy having assignments land on my desk for prompt completion, not too much brain work invovled, but that is just the nature of the business I'm in, no indication that my bosses think I'm incapable of more just because I'm a woman. As a matter of fact, yesterday I got a fun assignment, to write our team's vision statement. Out of everyone on our team I was chosen because of my "creative inclincations" as my boss put it. I don't get treated like less because I'm a woman, and at one point I was given the opportunity to accept a position that would have drastically increased my salary, but I opted out, a man taking my place. If I was willing to do stay late most nights of the week, schmooze with clients after work hours, make endless phone calls to drum up new business, I would be compensated like he is. I'm simply not willing to give up my precious time from my family and creative endeavors in order to win those wages. And if that is in some way negative or anti-woman, it would be news to me.

I think it just comes down to personal choice, what kind of role allows me to be satisfied professionally and personally. I'm clear I could take on more conventionally "male" roles professionally. What are those? Hefty-collar jobs? But I just don't want to.

While we are talking about Serbs

Again searching for Serbian and Bosnia funeral customs, I came across an interesting article.

While this article doesn't directly resonate with my experience as a Serbo-Croatian-American, some slices of it do. The overall tone does remind me of my father and family. My father was younger than this woman's father, and lived in Serbia in between wars, born in 1947 and coming to the US in 1973. Like when the author says, "Serbs are literal." It reminded me of how my father was like that.

A recent example was when I had decided that if Mike asked for my hand in marriage, I would say yes. I also knew he would be the type of guy to ask my father first. So, I ever-so-slyly prepped my dad, telling him that if Mike asked him to just say Yes. He nodded, smiling, "Okay." Mike and I also had a ritual of coming to the family home each Thursday to watch sappy prime time dramas, which my father usually opted-out of, spending his time in the basement.

Soon I started to notice him sitting upstairs in the kitchen every week instead. I figured that he was making an attempt to get to know Mike better, or maybe liked the TV shows. After a few weeks I asked him, "So, do you like the TV show?" "No, not really." He replied. After seeing my quizzical look he offered, "Well, I thought you said Mike was going to ask me to marry you, so I'm waiting."

That kind of literal. It warmed my heart.

Forty Days, Holy Nights, and Faking Your Own Death

Today is the forty day anniversary of my father's death. In Bosnian culture, 40 days marks a time of remembrance. You light a candle and let it burn all day, pray, observing the death, the life. In Bosnia, all the family would get together for breakfast, go visit the gravesite, and then light the candle and hang out all day. I'm American and my father has no real grave, so I'm not going to do this, but I'm lighting a candle all day. Then tonight, I suppose I'd be paying homage in the best way I know how, singing with a tamburitza orchestra for "Christmas in Croatia."

Bosnian, Serbian, Croatian, American. My dad was all of these. How fitting. I'll be singing "O Holy Night." Also fitting.

In trying to look up more about Bosnian funeral customs, I came across this downright hilarious piece. It's about a Bosnian man who faked his own death see how many people would attend his funeral, only to write an infuriated letter to his "friends" once he saw only his mother cared enough to mourn.

This type of story is just the kind that would send my father into fits of laughter. He loved jokes and he loved to tell funny stories. Even Wikipedia has a page on "Comedy in Bosnia and Herzegovina". If my dad wasn't telling hilarious stories about his brother-in-law or his childhood, he would tell the ever popular Mujo, Suljo, and Haso jokes that are pervasive in Bosnian culture. Everyone over there knows these jokes. There are whole websites dedicated to them, and now there are sites that host video sketches of the jokes.

I'm trying to remember my dad how I best knew him, not the as the anamoly of a personality I experienced of his during his last months. Many times it wasn't him, but the cancer talking.

I love my dad, with all my heart. And this photo is how I remember him. Don't bother calling professionals! We'll chop down fifty foot trees ourselves! In true Serbo-Croatian Bosnian style!

Abandoning a Difficult Exercise

I've decided, while the "Reading Deprivation" exercise has it's usefulness, and I plan to return to it one day, I'm going to "allow" myself to read again. I must admit, not-reading at work has produced increased productivity and concentration, and I'm going to stick with it. Standing up and talking to co-workers may seem annoying, but it really cuts down on miscommunication. I had a great opportunity to be direct with someone today, instead of sending quasi-barbed emails and talking behind their back. It is interesting how gossip has less to do with gripes about another person and more about how the gossiper cannot seem to face their issues with that person, either through problem-solving through direct communication or permanently walking away. Whatever, I get sometimes it's not possible.

Regarding giving up not-reading. At a time filled with immense grief and doubts, when answers are there one minute and disappear the next, I need a book, an article, a distraction. I cannot seem to come up all the answers on my own. (!)

I have found taking away all reading materials has simply left me with an empty mind, which some might argue is a good thing, the only problem is that my mind almost immediately floats and clings to thoughts of my father, guilt, sadness, anger, and perhaps now more than ever, I need distractions and other thoughts to fill my head.

I have new appreciation for those who write. Whether it's "drivel or genius", it's all good.

Things To Do While Not Reading

Any of you who think that this is easy - I challenge you to try it. Here are some of the things I've done instead of reading.

1. Mailed my mother a pamphlet on saving energy. Mailing pamphlets??? I'm totally 80 years old.

2. Eat lunch without a magazine in front of me. Actually make eye contact with co-workers who enter, they look uncomfortable. "Where is her magazine? What is she doing?"

3. Cry in the bathroom stall at work. Seriously. I did this. I was alone with my thoughts and realized how I'd been distracting myself from thinking about my dad.

4. Wait for a Tropicana OJ juice box to bloat without refrigeration. This happens surprisingly fast. Hours.

5. Become grateful for filling out forms at work. Cheat by reading the fine print.

6. Talk to people. Have conversations instead of email one-liners. Email is great - but a real conversation is better!

7. Watch TV. Can't help think that this also counts as distraction, but how could I miss Method Man's cameo on L&O?

8. Get hair done without searching the internet for a "hair idol". I don't really look like Mandy Moore anyways…

9. Not admit how horribly sad I still am. Tell people I'm okay. Lie lie lie.

Can't wait to see what else happens.

How Interesting Can It Get?

More observations on not-reading. I carry books with me at all times. Did I learn this from my mother, who in my childhood baffled me with her back seat full of books, Franklin planners, journals, and tape recorders? Running into a store or appointment, she'd have to ruffle through her treasure trove of choices to grab at least one item to stuff in her purse, "Mom, are you really going to read in The Gap?"

I peer into my gigantor purse. Do I need two books? I don't have time to read them.

They are like first aid kits for thought. Lest I find myself alone, with 5 minutes and nothing to do, THANK GOD! I have a book. Book book bookie book. You sweet bastion of thought, pour forth your wisdom. I don't care much what your pages contain, drivel or genius. Someone cared enough to publish you. I need YOUR thoughts, not my own.