the general sense of things

I would there are three things that I'm pretty obsessed with:

1. The general state of the world and figuring out ways to change it.

2. Yoga.

3. Cats/animals in general.

This list is not in order of importance as one eclipses the others at different periods in my life. I've been tootling around the blogosphere lately. Reading blogs is something that's a little new to me. I generally do not follow political blogs. Rather, I have been following ashtanga blogs and cat rescue blogs. I got so obsessed with one cat rescue blog that I actually had to block blogger from my computer for stretches at a time so I could get some work done. I was so fascinated by the sheer volume of cats that this woman was rescuing. I couldn't tear myself away. She is also just likable and it was around the time that I was grading a bunch of incoherent tests, so I just enjoyed reading the tremendous backlog of blog posts just to feast my eyes on something that was easy to read, well written, and gave me the feel-goods.

Something that I'm noticing, however, is the crossover in my interests on these blogs. More specifically, all the yogis who are doing animal rescue or are obsessed with the fucked up state of the world. I mean, who isn't noticing the overall feeling that things are falling apart. This is particularly reflective in the posts from people in the US. One yoga-blog post actually said something like, "Things are so messed up, I can't understand why people aren't taking to the streets!" And here's the problem. I can't either. And it ain't as if there have been no protests to go to. But I can't help but feel kind of, well, bored by them. They're sort of ceremonial and rote, like perfectly usual sex that feels kind of good but you could be just as satisfied by a yummy slice of banana cream pie.

What is that? The world is exploding and there is no shortage of things to get pissed off about. Yet, I'm still kind of uninspired by the resistance here in Canada (and maybe the US but I can't say for sure because I haven't lived there for almost three years).* Maybe it's because I'm not actually organizing any of these protests. That probably has a lot to do with it. But I can't help but think about Katsiaficas's 'eros effect'. This is likely because I just wrote a section in my comp yesterday on The Subversion of Politics: European Autonomous Social Movements and the Decolonization of Everyday Life. In The Imagination of the New Left: A Global Analysis of 1968, Katsiaficas defines the eros effect as:

"the eros effect [is] the massive awakening of the instinctual human need for justice and freedom. When the eros effect occurs, it becomes clear that the status quo has been torn, and the forms of social control have been ruptured. This rupture becomes clear when established patterns of interaction are negated, and new and better ones are created."

Katsiaficas recently published an article about Egypt, framing it in terms of the eros effect. And while a structure of feeling cannot be measured, I believe in its power. What I've been noticing in the blogosphere and in facebook posts is that there is a sense that things in the US are profoundly disturbing and infuriating. I hear more and more a collective sense that we have to do something. While the happenings in Wisconsin signal, um, something, I'm not sure we're there yet in terms of the massive, necessary uprisings that will push this current administration into not caving to the neocons.

Long story short, the sentiments are there, but the action isn't. What will it take to build a sustained movement that will rouse those who, for the most part, are outraged? When will "the forms of social control" be ruptured? When will we (we being those who think things are in the shitter) actually think better things are not only necessary, but possible?

*Please do not take this to mean that the very real and amazing campaigns like OCAP and NOII etc. are "uninspiring." I'm not really talking about the grassroots campaigns that do important and radical and effective work. I'm talking about that feeling of being swept up in resistance so that people who might not define themselves as 'activists' might be compelled to participate in uprisings.

My biggest fear

I am really excited to move back to Baltimore. There are three things I'll really really miss in Toronto:

1. My friends (but that doesn't mean I live in a community and that's a biggie for me)

2. My yoga studio. I mean that with everything in me. I'm really gonna miss that place.

3. My health insurance. THIS IS HUGE.

1. My friends. I've made some wonderful friends here. But the thing about them is is that they're all kind of separate. My relationships with them are sort of singular. One of the things that I like about Baltimore is the community thing I got going on. I used to hate that I knew everyone. It felt suffocating. But now. Now I'm so happy to go to the coffee shop and run into people and chat. And this doesn't just mean I go to M***c here in Toronto and listen to a bunch of university students (grad or otherwise) talk about school. I'm talking about having chats with all kinds of people, old, young, business folks, crust punks, hippies, dippies, grad students, musicians, whoever, that you just run into on any given day. It's nice. I know that there are communities here in Toronto. It's obvious in Kensington Market that there is that kind of community. But, I just don't have access to it. So I never cultivated it here. I cultivated it in San Francisco. That's the benefit of doing food service work. But here, not so much.

2. Yoga. Oy. My yoga studio is so unique that I couldn't have learned nearly as much as I have anywhere else. It got me through a somewhat debilitating injury and helped me learn how to practice so that I can practice for a long time. It's wonderful and I'm going to miss it.

3. Here's the biggie. I'm terrified of not having health care. Having a shitty, somewhat affordable health insurance package is not the same as having guaranteed health care. Those are two entirely different things. I mean, we've all heard the horror stories about people getting rejected and bankrupted and left to die. I just cannot understand a system that ties a fundamental right - the right to health care - to employment. All you read and hear about is that employers can't afford to insure their employees, especially small employers, or that people are chronically unemployed or underemployed. In a system where full-time, steady employment with good health care benefits is more fiction than fact, I cannot for the life of me understand why people think that basic access to care is somehow "socialist," i.e., evil.* I've chosen a field where there is no guarantee that I'll get a job. In fact, I've chosen several fields where health insurance has not been attached to my employment. Some would say, "choose better jobs." But, even if I was going to be a waitress or a yoga teacher for the rest of my life, does that not guarantee me access to health care. It really boils my blood and terrifies me at the same time.

People here in Canada cannot fathom such a system. While the "perks" of health care are tied to employment contracts, nobody is left to die of or be bankrupted by cancer or a car accident or a fall down the stairs. It's fucking absurd and I'm really worried that when (not if) I get cancer (hey, we live in a toxic, chemical, radiation-filled world), bye bye my house, bye bye my savings or any cushion I have to maybe save for retirement. And that mentality will keep me a fucking wage slave for the rest of my life. Fuck this system.

* I think socialism is kind of awesome, by the way.

Hardness

I have been told that I am "hard." This has recently been said to me by several people in several different contexts which leads me to assume that it's something that people see in me as a defining trait. Even people I would define as "hard" see me this way.

What do I mean by hard? I think there are several ways that this manifests. The first is that I'm hard on myself. I've heard that I don't give myself a break. I don't let myself make mistakes. I have very high standards for myself. As a result, I'm hard on other people. I have similarly high standards for them. And because I am in the business of evaluating people, this makes me seem unrealistic, harsh, unapproachable, and not warm.

Let me be more specific. I went out a few weeks ago with some friends. I drank more than I usually do (which means more than two drinks) and stayed out a little later than I usually do (which means past 10). I was told that, as I got drunker, I got warmer, less "hard." This came from someone who might be considered one of the more rigid people I know. Someone who is notorious for (their) insensitivity and rigidity. I was kind of floored.

To piggy-back on my last post, this has also manifested, of course, in teaching. My evaluations tend towards these adjectives: knowledgeable, organized, harsh. "Harsh" comes up a lot. I think I'm harsh in two ways. First, I am a "harsh" grader. Second, I have a "harsh" demeanor. Perhaps I see the ever-diminishing standards of higher education as a trend to buck rather than give in to. Of course, if I perceive that a student really is in trouble, I am more than willing to accommodate her. But, I'm very suspicious of excuses and, frankly, some students are manipulative. In my opinion, if I allow them to get away with pulling fast ones, it shows that that kind of behavior pays off. I think a lot of TAs and professors give students the benefit of the doubt because 1. it's the compassionate thing to do and, 2. it's easier than fighting. I'll admit to tending toward just saying, "okay fine..." and letting the student do xyz just because I don't feel like fighting. But most times, I don't bite. That said, I can kind of tell when a student is really worn down and struggling. In those cases, it's usually a student who put in the time and effort and all of a sudden, their tendencies change - they stop coming to class, the quality of their work drops suddenly. In these cases, of course, compassion is the way to go.

I know that a huge part of my 'hardness' in school is because I started teaching when I was 25, I looked like a teenager, and when I tried to be buddy buddy with everyone, people walked all over me. No way. So I start off hard and lighten up, so that they know there is a side to me that they just don't want to see. I am not sure if it's great pedagogy, but it works, for the most part. Hey, we live in a misogynistic world. I can't be that great dude who won't be called a 'bitch' for having standards.

While I am aware that I cultivate a certain tough exterior in the classroom, it makes me sad to hear that this is how I am perceived in other areas of my life. Chris has even noted it. In fact, he once said the very words, "You are so hard." What is it? Is it that I've developed a particular exterior so that I can live in a world that breaks my heart? Is it that I've struggled, somewhat, in my life and I didn't 'give into it' and now don't tolerate 'softness'? I'm not sure. And I'm not sure what to change about myself so that I come off as warmer or something. Or if I want to change.

Warning: yoga analogy coming up. I was in a yoga workshop last week with this dude who was super strong and doing a ton of handstands and arm balances, etc. Stuff that requires strength. Strength as always been my forte in yoga. Flexibility has always been my struggle. I've been told over and over again that I over-work in poses. I was chatting with a woman before the workshop started and she's super flexible but has a real difficulty with strength-based poses - pretty much the 'opposite' of me. She said people who are strong physically often have strong/willed personalities to match. She said that she was not very strong willed and that showed in her body.

Anyway, this rambly note is to say that people have noticed a hardness in me either lately or always and have been commenting on it. I can't help but think that this is the 'universe' (or whatever) telling me something.

new direction?

The primary reason I decided to go back to school was because I wanted to teach and make a living at it. For some reason, this year of teaching kicked my ass and I'm really looking forward to not teaching sociology next year. I don't know if it's the structure of the university, the increasing illiteracy of the students, my not wanting to be here, the lack of chemistry with my students, or whatever other reasons I can think of, but this year of teaching left me uninspired and utterly frustrated. This will inevitably sound cruel, but I got so little from my students. They were such lumps. Ordinarily, I get hugs from students at the end of the year. This year, I'll be lucky if I don't get punched in the face. They hate me and I kind of hate them. When I think of most of them individually, I don't really hate them. But there was no chemistry, no fun, no engagement in the classrooms this year. It was maddening.

It used to be that the political nature of my courses is made some students have a distaste for me. But this year, it's just us. We don't like one another very much. I am probably harder on them than I should be but, please - in university one should know the difference between their, they're, and there and that a lot is two words. One should be able to structure a coherent sentence and engage in more than basic regurgitation.

Yet, I can't help but wonder if I am punishing people who are forced to engage in a failed system. The more I teach, and the longer I teach, I'm noticing the decline of students' ability to translate the ideas in their heads to the page. I'm noticing their inability or unwillingness to move beyond description into analysis. I think this is a function of a failing school system and their performance has been determined well before I get ahold of them.

But I also think (and here's where I become the asshole who sounds old) that the internet is ruining the classroom experience. Nothing irritates me more than 25% of the class checking their email, texting, chatting, looking at pictures on facebook, and watching fucking TV while in the classroom. It's a new-ish phenomenon and it sucks. It sucks that I have to be the disciplinarian jerk telling other adults to knock it the fuck off. It sucks that their attention is so scattered that the most basic things that I said a gagillion times in class show up on their papers and tests in the form of omission or flagrant rule-breaking. I feel like a failure when I see it.

I co-TAed this term - splitting a set of tutorials with another TA. They love her and didn't really like me. My course director said, "***** has all the same complaints that you have. But you put it out there." I can't help it. I see this thing that was so important to me flushed further and down the toilet. I think I need to take a break, regroup, and think through if and how to be committed to teaching in this increasingly irritating context.

walls and walls and walls

Like it always does, life goes on. The sting of losing Gordon has subsided. I hate that it has because all the Gordon-ness is absent from my life. The sting at least made it feel like he was with me a little.

I am speeding up my reading progress, which is great. I know I can probably get away with doing a lot less than I am. I do want to make the process worthwhile. My biggest problem is concentrating. I'm struggling with staying on task. The internet, the cats, my toenails, the litter box, the laundry, grocery shopping, tooth brushing. Any and everything deserves my attention other than the task at hand. I'm sure I'm describing almost everyone's life here and saying nothing particularly special.

Part of the reason I feel like this is the floaty-ness of my current existence. My house is coming together. Chris is in Baltimore. I am homesick. Uprisings are happening everywhere. Here I am in a city I don't particularly care for reading somewhat obscure books theorizing the real things that are actually happening and struggling to write a document that three people will read. At least I am grading papers that nobody wanted to write and I certainly don't want to read. It all feels so useless and like a grand waste of time.

My angst is real but it's so boring, I swear to g-d. I read a study that Facebook makes people kind of depressed because it looks like other people are having a great time and here you are, lonely, in this virtual reality, looking at peoples' weddings and parties and fabulous vacations thinking, "my life is so boring." I feel like that nonetheless. I just want to go home. I know I am wrongly thinking of going home as a panacea and I fear I will always be waiting for my life to start. Shit, I'm probably half way through it (knock on wood), shouldn't I realize that this is it?

A lot of this rambly bullshit post is to say that I don't think I'll really ever feel comfortable in a world like this. I am coming to accept it. I have strongly internalized the pain of injustice and the magnitude of wrong-living. I don't think I'll be able to shake it off, especially if I've made it my job to hole myself in my house and read about it. I envy those that are conscious but still able to find the beauty and joy in the world. I am praying that my Baltimore community will do just that.

Crying

I think I've mentioned in another post somewhere that I am not a crier. I'll cry out of frustration on occasion and out of grief on occasion. My relationship to crying is really weird. Because it is a physical manifestation of emotion, or at least the most obvious one, I feel like it's what I should do to express the sadness I feel. So when I'm crying about Gordon, I feel like I'm doing the right thing, though I wish I could stop crying. When I'm not crying about Gordon, I feel like I'm not honoring him or that I'm somehow "getting over" him or that I'm once again learning how to obscure my emotions - putting the emptiness and grief wherever I put all the other sources of emptiness and grief so that I can get-on-with-my-life. Busy busy. There are things to be done, books to be read, forms to be filled, papers to be written, emails to be answered.

My dreams betray me. I think I've mentioned that in another blog post too. Last night I dreamt about Gordon. In the dream, he'd died, just as in life. But I kept seeing him in the dream and I kept saying in the dream, I still see him and I miss him and I was crying and crying. I didn't cry as much yesterday and lo and behold, my dreams did the crying for me. Of course, I woke up and cried and it felt terrible and wonderful. I know the grief will subside and that loss will go somewhere in my body, where all the other grief and loss lives. I will bury it so completely that I will only be able to access it in the depths of my subconscious where I will cry in the dream or scream in anger in the dream so that I can keep it together in the real-life.

The Love of a Cat

I have been crying and crying about the loss of my dear Gordon. A strange thought occurred to me - would he mourn my passing? But that's not why I'm writing. I'm writing to remember him and to think about what this grief is; this grief that feels unbearable. I have been given books that philosophically and theoretically expound on the human/animal connection. I've not wanted to read them. My relationship with animals is one that gets me out of my head. This is a great comfort for someone who is already in her head. But this love, this palpable, consuming love that I felt for him. He was such an entity in the most profound way possible to me.

Gordon, unlike my other cats, always felt precarious to me. He was the cat that escaped out the window weeks after getting him from the Humane Society. Still fresh from my grief over the cat that used to get out but I could count on coming home - until that cat came home with Feline Leukemia and got really sick - I worried about Gordon's not coming home or coming home sick. That night, I went to the Kinkos, made hundreds of Missing Cat posters procured for free given my wellspring of tears, and proceeded to plaster the neighborhood. Gordon came back that morning no worse for the wear.

He got out again a day or two before I was to turn in my master's thesis. He exploited a tiny crack in the window and slithered his way out. I again canvassed the neighborhood, hiring a little girl who lived across the alley, and stared out the window through my tears all day until his little head emerged from under the steps in a neighbor's back yard. I called to the little girl to grab him and we were once again reunited.

He almost got out once again when I lived in a basement apartment in Bolton Hill. I remember I was sleeping and I heard Tilly going mad jumping up to the window and down again - Tilly, unlike her brother, does NOT enjoy even having access to the outdoors, nervous as she is. I look up at the window over my bed, saw Gordon give me a double-take, and grabbed him back inside. Strangely, that's the day Pinkerton was the one who actually made the escape only to be found a couple doors down waiting to be let back into the wrong basement.

My last scare came in the house on, oddly enough, Gordon St. It was there he surely had his most harrowing escape. We had a series of break-ins at that house and had a new alarm system to remember to trip when going in and out of the house. My roommate Jeff, remembering to put the alarm on while halfway out the door, kept the door open while he was doing this and missed the little black cat escape. Again, I stayed up all night waiting for him, first with Neale and then with Mike. He returned about 3 am, shit stained and definitely frightened. He'd encountered something in the woods that surrounded our house though that really did not quench his thirst for escape.

All of this is to say that I've always worried about losing him somehow. I began to let him explore the outdoors when we lived in San Francisco. He would wander around the yard, eating grass and sniffing, and it was my job to make sure he didn't go under the house or slide through the cracks of the neighbors' fences. When we lived on Powers St., he would sit for hours on his leash and enjoy the backyard. I could never let him loose though. Too much traffic and too many feral cats.

But what I really remember about him, what I really held onto, was our bond. I swear that cat could see into my soul. I would call him into the bedroom to read with me and he'd perk up, make a little Gordon sound, and run into the bedroom. He'd trounce on my reading materials with that purr (that beautiful purr). After he'd settle down, he'd hold my hand - I swear to god - and we'd hang out. I would look into his face and there was nothing but perfection.

Gordon liked any excuse for an outing so we'd do laundry together and he, with his crooked little back legs and his meow that would squeak at the end (I wish I had that on tape), would run down the hall with me. Going back up the stairs, he'd dart to the landing and flop over and I'd rub his belly.

Gordon would sleep right on top of me at night. He wouldn't do this every night but he is the only of my cats that would sleep on me or sit on my lap. He wouldn't always do it and he wasn't an annoyingly clingy cat, but it was so wonderful to be around him. We felt like a team.

Gordon LOVED to steal my gloves, though he didn't do this later in his life. I would buy him his own gloves to play with but he liked the ones that were worn, the ones that smelled like his people. He also loved to chase earplugs. EARPLUGS. He remained active and playful until three weeks before he died. His demeanor was so goddam affable that it was only in his fainting and weight loss rather than in his energy levels and blood stream, that the disease could be found. In looking back, it took a long time for the cancer to take him, as he began showing symptoms in May. Nobody could figure out what was wrong with him. I knew he was dying and everyone told me I was paranoid. Not in a mean way but in a you-love-your-cat-too-much way.

Colon cancer is the said to be the worst nightmare of a pet owner as it is difficult to detect until it is too late. Further, his cancer was called adenocarcinoma, the most aggressive of the malignancies. Despite expensive and painful surgery, Gordon was gone less than 3 months after his diagnosis.

The thing about the relationship with a cat is in its dailiness, its in the momentness. That means it's not the memories I will miss. For me, this isn't a relationship with memories. Rather, it's a relationship that I cherished in its structure of feeling and pure joy. Gordon filled a house with Gordon-ness. There will never be a relationship like that particular relationship in my life again and that is a pain that is very difficult to endure, at least in its early sting.