Since this one relates to what I just posted:
SATURDAY, JULY 08, 2006
Found # 2 - My Going Away Card Signed by AOL Co-workers (circa 1997)
"Reb, we will certainly miss your pessimistic face. Just kidding!"
Um, no you weren't. (1)
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(1) No, they really weren't.
Showing posts with label CJVault. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CJVault. Show all posts
Sunday, June 1, 2014
from the Cackling Jackal Vault
WEDNESDAY, MAY 14, 2008
Dear Substitute Pilates Instructor, (1)
Tell me what to do with my legs, arms, hands, feet, back and butt. Tell me to lift my toes, wrap my thigh muscles, bend my elbows. Tell me to look forward. Tell me to stop shrugging my shoulders. You're the boss. I submit.
But don't tell me to smile. That's the one muscle I get to fully to decide what to do with. I'm concentrating on all my various parts. As a busy mom, I have not a second to spare on a smile. I have something called a "powerhouse" that I'm supposed to be engaging. Times like these, I must not be distracted with frivolities. (2)
And for that matter, where does anyone get off telling anyone else to smile? Nothing makes me want to stick a shank in some guy's gut faster than when a random stranger approaches and tells me to smile. Fuck you. What's next, telling me what to do with my uterus? (3)
Exactly.
My smile is my domain. My smile is sincere and true. Or I'm trying to trick you into being at ease and liking me. But that's my call. I decide when I'm false. You decide when I half-assed my elephant and whether or not I need to do it again.
Sincerely,
Little Ms. Frowny Pants with the Tight Hamstrings (4)
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(1) Eventually I returned to yoga. Pilates was too much like going to the gym. Loud and harsh. Not for me.
(2) Yoga instructors seem to want me to smile too, although at least they don't say "smile." Sometimes they ask me if I'm OK. Just shut up and teach. I'll let you know if I got a problem I care to share with the class.
(3) I feel even stronger about this now than I did back 2008. Seriously. Unless you're snapping my picture, don't ever tell me to smile. Actually, even if you're taking my photograph, don't tell me to smile. Just don't do it.
(4) Goddamn hamstrings.
Dear Substitute Pilates Instructor, (1)
Tell me what to do with my legs, arms, hands, feet, back and butt. Tell me to lift my toes, wrap my thigh muscles, bend my elbows. Tell me to look forward. Tell me to stop shrugging my shoulders. You're the boss. I submit.
But don't tell me to smile. That's the one muscle I get to fully to decide what to do with. I'm concentrating on all my various parts. As a busy mom, I have not a second to spare on a smile. I have something called a "powerhouse" that I'm supposed to be engaging. Times like these, I must not be distracted with frivolities. (2)
And for that matter, where does anyone get off telling anyone else to smile? Nothing makes me want to stick a shank in some guy's gut faster than when a random stranger approaches and tells me to smile. Fuck you. What's next, telling me what to do with my uterus? (3)
Exactly.
My smile is my domain. My smile is sincere and true. Or I'm trying to trick you into being at ease and liking me. But that's my call. I decide when I'm false. You decide when I half-assed my elephant and whether or not I need to do it again.
Sincerely,
Little Ms. Frowny Pants with the Tight Hamstrings (4)
-----
(1) Eventually I returned to yoga. Pilates was too much like going to the gym. Loud and harsh. Not for me.
(2) Yoga instructors seem to want me to smile too, although at least they don't say "smile." Sometimes they ask me if I'm OK. Just shut up and teach. I'll let you know if I got a problem I care to share with the class.
(3) I feel even stronger about this now than I did back 2008. Seriously. Unless you're snapping my picture, don't ever tell me to smile. Actually, even if you're taking my photograph, don't tell me to smile. Just don't do it.
(4) Goddamn hamstrings.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
from the Cackling Jackal Vault
FRIDAY, JUNE 27, 2008 (1)
One of those mornings when Gideon didn't want to do anything. Didn't want to get dressed. Didn't want to sit on the potty. Didn't want breakfast. Didn't want to kiss mommy. Didn't want to go to camp.
Finally I came up with something that he wanted to do.
Do you want to get locked in a box? (2)(3)
Yes, he most certainly wanted to get locked in a box. So I helped him get ready to be locked in a box. I helped him get dressed and served him breakfast so he could be locked in a box cause there's no food when you're locked in a box.
I drove him to speech camp, where they would lock him in a box if he asked to be locked in a box, but he had to be sure to ask.
Thank God he can't talk. (4)
-----
(1) I double-checked with G and he's AOK with my reposting these old posts about him as long as I make it clear that these are old posts, not current ones. So note the date, people!
(2) Not sure how that one popped into my head, "locked in a box" must have been floating around in my subconscious for a while.
(3) I would never lock G in a box. I don't have one big enough.
(4) G can and does talk now. A lot. Like so very much. Like he has to make up for early years of lost talking time. And then all the other lost years of all the other speech-delayed children of the world.
One of those mornings when Gideon didn't want to do anything. Didn't want to get dressed. Didn't want to sit on the potty. Didn't want breakfast. Didn't want to kiss mommy. Didn't want to go to camp.
Finally I came up with something that he wanted to do.
Do you want to get locked in a box? (2)(3)
Yes, he most certainly wanted to get locked in a box. So I helped him get ready to be locked in a box. I helped him get dressed and served him breakfast so he could be locked in a box cause there's no food when you're locked in a box.
I drove him to speech camp, where they would lock him in a box if he asked to be locked in a box, but he had to be sure to ask.
Thank God he can't talk. (4)
-----
(1) I double-checked with G and he's AOK with my reposting these old posts about him as long as I make it clear that these are old posts, not current ones. So note the date, people!
(2) Not sure how that one popped into my head, "locked in a box" must have been floating around in my subconscious for a while.
(3) I would never lock G in a box. I don't have one big enough.
(4) G can and does talk now. A lot. Like so very much. Like he has to make up for early years of lost talking time. And then all the other lost years of all the other speech-delayed children of the world.
from the Cackling Jackal Vault
From 2004-2009 I had a blog called Home-Schooled by a Cackling Jackal. I closed it down five years ago and started this blog for a variety of reasons. One reason was that I was tired of writing what I felt were becoming the same recycled posts about publishing. I felt like I was in a rut and wanted to write somewhere that felt like a fresh start. I wanted to separate myself more as a writer, something I felt was overshadowed by my role as a publisher. I did that here for a little while before, like a lot of bloggers around 2010, I let things sputter out. Part of that was the growing popularity of Facebook and Twitter. Another part was that I lost my passion for blogging, much like I lost my passion for publishing. Passion is a funny, fickle thing.
Another issue was that one of my main sources of "material" was getting to an age where I needed to be more careful and thoughtful what I wrote about him. At age 6 he asked that if he didn't approve beforehand the post or picture, he wanted me to only use his initial, G, instead of his name. Fair request. I also decided that I wasn't going to write anything about him that he might consider embarrassing. He's not embarrassed by what I wrote about him as a baby or preschooler, but he's 9 years old now & current anecdotes of a more personal nature feel off limits. So while G still makes the occasional appearance or mention here, it's not the same level as before.
Luckily we now have a dog named Loki who can't read and has plenty of bowel movements to write about. 4 times a day! And yes, we're feeding him the expensive, no filler dog food recommended by the vet. That little guy is just FULL of shit.
I too was starting to feel exposed and vulnerable even though I never wrote anything I wasn't comfortable sharing. It was more the position I found (put?) myself in. Despite what some people (who didn't know me) thought, I left a great deal of my life off the blog. But I suppose blogging about anything personal opens the door for some to consider you open season for whatever projected madness they come up. It started to get to me.
What I didn't recognize when I stopped blogging was how conducive it was to my own creative process. Writing regularly for an audience, no matter how casually or off-the-cuff, kept me in better writing shape. Writing just flowed better when I regularly blogged.
Anyhow, C.M. Mayo recently wrote about her 8 years blogging and included Cackling Jackal on her list of memorable blogs saying it was her "all-time fave." Even though the blog has been dormant for 5 years and for several years (until today) offline, people do still mention it to me.
So I thought it might be fun from time to time to repost here an old post from the good ole days of poetry blogging with a little commentary. I'll start with a short one:
-----
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 2008
Letter to Sam (1)
Yeah, I never painted a pumpkin with you either, etc. You see where this is going.
Recently I had a conversation about how opposites were once the same thing before they split and became opposites. (2) The goal is not to pick a side, but to balance the two, let the two's strengths offset one another's weaknesses. The person I was speaking with brought up the play Wicked as an example. You gave me the book as a gift years ago.(3) I never read it because it was a novel and I'm better than that.(4) Hearing this person describe it made me feel like I missed an important opportunity. Then I remembered that I still have the book and I still know how to read. It's never too late, Sam. (5)
-----
(1) Sam is a good friend from college. I'm not sure why, but in October 2008 I posted a series of public "Letters" to him. Probably just to be creepy.
(2) I wish I remembered who I had this conversations with. My best guess is Anne Gorrick, but I could be totally wrong. If you're the person I had this conversation with, I apologize for not remembering the details.
(3) I still have, but have not read, Wicked. It's still on my to-read shelf. If I had it as an ebook, I probably would have read it by now. I don't like to hold fat books. My hands sometimes cramp when I do. I think I've fucked-up my hands with all the typing. These days I do hand stretches I learned in yoga.
(4) I read novels all the time now. I don't know what poetry-centric mindfuck I was living in, but I'm glad I left that place.
(5) I agree. It's never too late, Sam.
Another issue was that one of my main sources of "material" was getting to an age where I needed to be more careful and thoughtful what I wrote about him. At age 6 he asked that if he didn't approve beforehand the post or picture, he wanted me to only use his initial, G, instead of his name. Fair request. I also decided that I wasn't going to write anything about him that he might consider embarrassing. He's not embarrassed by what I wrote about him as a baby or preschooler, but he's 9 years old now & current anecdotes of a more personal nature feel off limits. So while G still makes the occasional appearance or mention here, it's not the same level as before.
Luckily we now have a dog named Loki who can't read and has plenty of bowel movements to write about. 4 times a day! And yes, we're feeding him the expensive, no filler dog food recommended by the vet. That little guy is just FULL of shit.
I too was starting to feel exposed and vulnerable even though I never wrote anything I wasn't comfortable sharing. It was more the position I found (put?) myself in. Despite what some people (who didn't know me) thought, I left a great deal of my life off the blog. But I suppose blogging about anything personal opens the door for some to consider you open season for whatever projected madness they come up. It started to get to me.
What I didn't recognize when I stopped blogging was how conducive it was to my own creative process. Writing regularly for an audience, no matter how casually or off-the-cuff, kept me in better writing shape. Writing just flowed better when I regularly blogged.
Anyhow, C.M. Mayo recently wrote about her 8 years blogging and included Cackling Jackal on her list of memorable blogs saying it was her "all-time fave." Even though the blog has been dormant for 5 years and for several years (until today) offline, people do still mention it to me.
So I thought it might be fun from time to time to repost here an old post from the good ole days of poetry blogging with a little commentary. I'll start with a short one:
-----
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 2008
Letter to Sam (1)
Yeah, I never painted a pumpkin with you either, etc. You see where this is going.
Recently I had a conversation about how opposites were once the same thing before they split and became opposites. (2) The goal is not to pick a side, but to balance the two, let the two's strengths offset one another's weaknesses. The person I was speaking with brought up the play Wicked as an example. You gave me the book as a gift years ago.(3) I never read it because it was a novel and I'm better than that.(4) Hearing this person describe it made me feel like I missed an important opportunity. Then I remembered that I still have the book and I still know how to read. It's never too late, Sam. (5)
-----
(1) Sam is a good friend from college. I'm not sure why, but in October 2008 I posted a series of public "Letters" to him. Probably just to be creepy.
(2) I wish I remembered who I had this conversations with. My best guess is Anne Gorrick, but I could be totally wrong. If you're the person I had this conversation with, I apologize for not remembering the details.
(3) I still have, but have not read, Wicked. It's still on my to-read shelf. If I had it as an ebook, I probably would have read it by now. I don't like to hold fat books. My hands sometimes cramp when I do. I think I've fucked-up my hands with all the typing. These days I do hand stretches I learned in yoga.
(4) I read novels all the time now. I don't know what poetry-centric mindfuck I was living in, but I'm glad I left that place.
(5) I agree. It's never too late, Sam.
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