It is usually dark now by the time I get home from work. Usually there is requisite TV to watch while we eat dinner and the little one takes his bath. Yes, we eat dinner in front of the television. At least we eat together as a family! The so-called "robot room" is our family retreat. It is called the robot room, by the way, because it is populated by more than 100 transformers and action figures. I know the names of many of them, being a good wife. Also my guy is very good at making just about anything seem interesting if he is excited about it. I know a great deal of comic lore, though I've only read a few myself, just from listening to his explanations.
Some of the comics (or "graphic novels") I have actually read include
Fables (the entire series published so far in collected form)
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (much better than the movie)
Marvel 1602 (and the sequal)
About half of Watchmen (I have promised to finish as soon as I can- this is required reading)
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Another go at it...
The "blogosphere", a great ethereal other world of which I have had little part. I wish to be an occasional resident of this brave new world. Just because I hate to feel that I'm missing something. I've tried this before with little success. I am kept very busy by an almost three year old son, an engaging full time job, several tutoring gigs, and my constant struggle to keep my home comfortable and up to my own aesthetic standards.
I'd really like to do this, though, even if noone ever reads anything I write. When I was in middle school, high school, and college I wrote copiously in blank books about everyone I knew and all the major events in my life. I felt unsettled until I had it down in black and white. I also wrote dozens of letters to a friend who had moved away and home to my family once I was in college.
I have come to suspect that the main way people cope with living is by making it all a story that they tell themselves. I have heard psychologists say that there is no better therapy than writing out experiences. I don't particularly need therapy, despite my melancholy byline* I am a naturally optimistic person. I seem to have a fortunate mix of chemicals in my brain that dispose me towards overall contentment. That doesn't mean I delude myself into thinking that the world is right or fair or even good. I don't think it is. I know there are some people for whom this life brings nothing but torment. I am sporadically plagued by thoughts of all those "less fortunate." Yet I can't bring myself to join the ranks of the wretched as an act of solidarity. I try to be kind and understanding and helpful to those I come into contact with. I try to give my son the best beginning in life I can.
The chaos and the darkness crowd in on me sometimes, though. Words give form to the void. "In the beginning was the word..." There are some elegantly put insights in that book.
I feel better about things when they are given a narrative form. I've missed doing that. Hopefully I'll be able to find a few moments every once in a while to tell myself stories about my life. (Even sad things seem beautiful in a story.)
* It is from Greek and means "a song of mourning or lamentation." I've always thought that it would be a beautiful name for a girl. I'm also fond of "symphora" (Greek for "misfortune") and "anathema." One of my friends has a little black cat named Anathema. This makes me smile every time I think of it.
I'd really like to do this, though, even if noone ever reads anything I write. When I was in middle school, high school, and college I wrote copiously in blank books about everyone I knew and all the major events in my life. I felt unsettled until I had it down in black and white. I also wrote dozens of letters to a friend who had moved away and home to my family once I was in college.
I have come to suspect that the main way people cope with living is by making it all a story that they tell themselves. I have heard psychologists say that there is no better therapy than writing out experiences. I don't particularly need therapy, despite my melancholy byline* I am a naturally optimistic person. I seem to have a fortunate mix of chemicals in my brain that dispose me towards overall contentment. That doesn't mean I delude myself into thinking that the world is right or fair or even good. I don't think it is. I know there are some people for whom this life brings nothing but torment. I am sporadically plagued by thoughts of all those "less fortunate." Yet I can't bring myself to join the ranks of the wretched as an act of solidarity. I try to be kind and understanding and helpful to those I come into contact with. I try to give my son the best beginning in life I can.
The chaos and the darkness crowd in on me sometimes, though. Words give form to the void. "In the beginning was the word..." There are some elegantly put insights in that book.
I feel better about things when they are given a narrative form. I've missed doing that. Hopefully I'll be able to find a few moments every once in a while to tell myself stories about my life. (Even sad things seem beautiful in a story.)
* It is from Greek and means "a song of mourning or lamentation." I've always thought that it would be a beautiful name for a girl. I'm also fond of "symphora" (Greek for "misfortune") and "anathema." One of my friends has a little black cat named Anathema. This makes me smile every time I think of it.
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