meeeeeeeeeh
OH BOY
@sanctimonypony / sanctimonypony.tumblr.com
meeeeeeeeeh
OH BOY
Leslie Jamison, “The Empathy Exams” (via The Believer)
Last night at Kaleidoscope I very very very briefly mentioned that November 16th is my least favorite day of the year, and then I didn't elaborate on it at all because I got scared by the possibility of being a big big bummer.
My mom had a little boy on November 16th, 1996 around 8pm. My parents named him Edgar. There were unexpected complications that I still don't understand, and he died around 11pm. I was six years old and home during all that. I reluctantly went to sleep around 9:30pm, so my last update was that he was alive and well. I still don't have a good grasp of what happened.
I woke up from a nightmare at 2:17am and then I woke up for real at 7:02am. I put on slippers and went to my parents' room and saw that their bed was made and that the crib was empty and I thought nothing of it. I went downstairs and saw that my parents, sisters, aunt, and uncle were sitting on our sofas but I didn't immediately take in their faces. I saw my four year-old cousin, Rodrigo, sitting on a rug playing with a wooden toy train that I knew to be a baby shower gift for Edgar and I wanted very badly to take it away from him because it didn't belong to him. Then I finally realized the room felt sad.
I hate that The First Time You See Your Dad Cry is some sort of extra painful rite of passage but oof-- that morning was the first time I saw him cry. He looked just done. His eyes were bloodshot and entirely without focus. My mom looked just purely devastated. Her tears seemed to overwhelm her-- they made her choke and cough and hyperventilate and shake. I don't know how she managed to speak at all, but she did. I can't remember who said that Edgar had died, but when I asked why my mom answered by saying that God had needed another angel. I felt very angry and robbed and I don't remember anything else until the funeral.
Everyone talked about how his coffin was very small, but I remember Edgar's coffin seemed very big to me. He was a whole entire big baby and his size made the death seem even more unfair. He wore pants, a sweater with a little collar, and a cap all made by my Abuelita Chuche with light green yarn. His nails were sharp, his lips were a little bit purple, and his skin was brown and darker than mine even after all the sun I'd gotten that summer. I put this stupid little pyramid thing I'd colored in his coffin.
Our house was full of food. That cliche was fine and welcome. People brought platters of enchiladas, bags of tamales, big vats of stews, buckets of almonds, grocery store pumpkin and apple pies, canned peaches and apricots, and pan dulce and donuts. My sisters, my dad, and I picked at the sweets for breakfast. My sisters and I got free lunch at school, so we only had the savory food reheated at dinner. My dad packed three small burritos stuffed with leftovers in a thermos for his lunch and dinner every day. My mom was bedridden for a few months, and all she ate was a small bowl of rice every day, maybe with little bits of hard-boiled egg or banana mixed in.
These were the weeks I first felt useless. I don't think I ever felt like I had to be useful before that, but suddenly it felt like we needed so many things and I helped with none of them. I felt like I was just in everyone's way.
I don't remember noticing as things got better. I know my older sister yelled at my mom one day in February and that both she and my mom attribute my mom's recovery to that. I know that my mom said she was at peace with losing Edgar all the time after that and that I didn't believe her and still feel a little unsure. I know that anytime a big bad thing happens within our family, my mom brings up Edgar by saying something to the effect of, "See? This is why he died. God took him so that he wouldn't have to be here to see [bad or sad thing]" and that it makes me furious even now as an adult who understands that people feel and cope with things differently or whatever. I still get very mad.
And I don't know how my dad is. I spoke to him for the last time in October 2010. I didn't mean for it to be the last time-- I just said I'd call sometime around the holidays when I'd be home. I thought I would, but then I went home and saw that my mom was in a really bad headspace and I felt angry at him and didn't want to speak to him or see him. And then I went to Argentina for a few months and didn't have my phone on. And then a friend died and I came back and I rejected most calls regardless of who they were from. And then he stopped calling and I never bothered to try him again.
So I also think about my dad at this time of year. I don't know how or if he copes. I don't know how lucid he might be or if anything about his old life matters to him at this point.
I thought I could find a way to acknowledge all this succinctly and without mucking everything up yesterday, and then I panicked. Saying, "my little brother died" makes it sound like a slightly grown child died after an accident or after an illness or at least after years of knowing them. Saying, "my mom had a little boy and he only lived three hours" is maybe more accurate but it feels distant and like the whole thing was self-contained instead of something that rattled our family. I could not figure out how to say any of this yesterday without being a bummer, so I alluded to it and that felt silly and needlessly dramatic and so I think maybe that is why I am explaining myself.
Today's #tbt is a reminder that it is unacceptable to photograph folks while they are eating, no matter how sweet their hair and hoop earring game might be.
Hard to limit myself to 140 characters when I am feeling SO MUCH
Lauren Bacall photographed by Nina Leen, 1945.
What a slim.
Big Sean and E-40 really earn that Parental Advisory label on “I Don’t Fuck With You.”
Us? We fuck with this song. For sure. Read more.
"Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, I Don’t Fuck With You."
I've listened to this song at least twenty times in the past week. That s my conservative estimate.
Lupita | SAG Awards [x]
Love.
So many good dresses.
Lupita is completely rocking the “yeah, I won this award last year and now I can wear whatever I want to this party and rock the fuck out of it” aesthetic and she’s doing it with such aplomb.
#75: Maritza Montañez — HITCHING TO HOLLYWOOD
He knows his type.
Go see Maritza’s improv team Bear Golf: http://beargolf.improvteams.com/
And check out her Spanish-language comedy show: https://www.facebook.com/loquequieraaas
Hey!
Morgan Phillips let me do a scene for his 1000 scenes project! If you are an improviser ANYWHERE get at that Tumblr and look for the form to submit and get in on one of these scenes!
And if you do, maybe don't rest your laptop on a pile of pillows like I did!
It was the 1980s. Disco was out, and exploding space shuttles were in. Ronald Reagan was ordering people to break down their walls, both at home and abroad. During that entire decade, American homes were built in a sort of “open” floor-plan, with only floors and ceilings, and no walls, as walls...
I love this.
Have neglected Tumblr like whoa. Will try to do better now. Hi! Bye!
Bear Sounds in Other Languages
#beargolf
beaaaaaars
Okay this makes me feel better about everything.
A smart and cool thing to do if you hate yourself and want to make yourself sick with anxiety is invite someone out (a little but like not actually really for real but like kind of or at least more than you've ever asked anyone out since like high school ugh ugh ugh what the fuck is wrong with yooooooooooou) right before you are supposed to go to sleep.
My stomach huuuuuuuuuuurts.
“You Remind Me of Someone”
Hi, Chris.
Thanks for staying after class. I want to talk to you for a minute – I really loved your essay on The Great Gatsby. I know you like to goof around and be the funny guy – and yes, I know you have a lot going on at home. And if you ever need to talk about anything that’s on your mind, I’m here as an English teacher and as a friend. But today I just want to let you know that I think you could become a writer someday. You have a lot of potential. In fact, you remind me of someone I knew when I was younger.
I see a little bit of my Uncle Hector in you, Chris. Wow, was he evera weird guy. Always eating dried figs. Huge shiny eyes. No eyelashes at all. Oh man, and he loved Garfield – he had shelves upon shelves full of Garfield collections in his garage. I’ll never forget watching him rollerblade home from the Barnes and Noble on Sunday mornings with a JanSport full of Garfield books. What a dude.
By the way, I have a copy of your essay with my comments here, if you’d like to ask me any questions about it. Before we talk about that, I just want to get across how shiny Uncle Hector’s eyes were. Shiny to the point where the whole time he was talking to you, you would be thinking, “Are those eyes or marbles? Am I talking to a human or a giant living doll?” I think of him when I look at your eyes, Chris. I sense that you share his eyes. And also his spirit.
So, on to your writing: I’ve been very impressed with all your assignments this semester and I can tell that you’d thrive if you got to work on some more creative projects. The University of Iowa is nearby and has a great creative writing program that you should look into.
Actually, Uncle Hector lived right by the University. He was a cat groomer down at PetSmart for a few years. Those cats didnot like him. Honestly, until I went to pick him up there one day when one of the wheels fell off his recumbent bike, I’d never seen an animal take such a strong dislike to a person in my life. It was shocking to watch. But also, I can see where the cats were coming from.
Anyway, my Uncle Hector was not a writer, never wrote a word in his life. But you could be, Chris. Based on the drive and the talent I’ve seen from you, I really think you could. God, when I look at you I just see him.
That’s all I wanted to tell you – I was just hoping to catch you early in the school year and let you know that writing is something to think about for your future. It’s almost 3:00 now so you’re probably off to baseball practice, but if you have anything you’ve written that you’d like me to read over, shoot me an email anytime.
Oh, and if you want to bring in a clarinet and play along with the soundtrack when we watch One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest in class next week , feel free. My Uncle Hector used to do that for every movie. And you two are exactly the same!
Okay, that’s all I’ve got for you, Chris! I can bring an amp if you need it for the clarinet, just let me know in advance. Have a good weekend! Keep writing!
[Jewel Galbraith is a writer and improviser living in New York City. Follow her on twitter at @jewelfg.]
YEAH.
Oh my god this is the funniest I can’t even ….
Oh word.