Suffism and Giving Up

I've been having a time of it.

Walking back from school this morning, after having been locked out of my first history exam by an obtuse 5 minutes (my own damn fault), I decided to give up.

I have been attempting to give up for at least a month now, and I sincerely hope that this is NOT just another attempt, but in fairness the genuineness of this give-up is not really my responsibility. I was walking down Broadway, stuck in my own head full of self-recrimination and anger, when I suddenly realized that I can't do this. Any of it. I am not able to deal with life as such- lonely, confusing, impossible, standard-driven, ridiculous. I can not cope; the best I can do is spiral downward into a self-shaming puddle of embarrassing goo.

I walked a little farther before realizing- with an almost maniacal laugh- that I don't have to do any of it. Why do I have to make everything such a struggle? What am I so worried about?? I can just GIVE UP!!! If the universe wants stuff done, then the universe will have to do it, because I'm sick of blaming myself for not doing the impossible.

(ahem, by 'give up' I am in no way intimating an immediate withdrawal from classes or a reticence to fulfill regular duties. I am giving up on worthless struggling)

Last night I was reading a book my boss/friend recommended, The Drama of the Gifted Child, when I started to cry. I was so surprised by this. After all, I've had a lot of experiences in my life, but I've been through therapy, and I've talked through my stuff til my eyes were dry. I think I thought that I could get it over with once and be done, but life has added new layers to old hurts. And new actions have greater meanings. I realized that my neurotic episodes of late have been symptomatic not just of the transition inherent in moving cross-country alone, but of a greater underlying problem. Or problems.

Recent experiences and growth and change are allowing for a greater understanding and examination of myself. And I can't do it alone. Goddess knows I spend all my time on public transit in self-'discovery' or other such nonsense, and it always devolves into the stern voice in my head upbraiding the weakness within. Those silly human bits, you know- the ones that continuously have feelings. When I realized that an old habit, a perverse habit from my dark ages, is still hanging out in fully fledged form, I felt truly frightened.

This is when I thought that maybe I ought to think about starting therapy again. It would be so helpful to get out of my head during these times. I need to. I immediately thought about how much therapy would cost in New York, and how impossible an option that was until-

Wait-

I have health insurance! How bizarre. I am arbitrarily allowed affordable help for my mind because my dad works for an insurance company. I'll take it. I need it.

When I got back home after missing my exam, only newly resolved to give up, I sat down to read a little Rumi. I certainly needed a little enlightenment. I flipped the book open to a random page, as I usually do when looking for a little help, and I'll be damned if the following wasn't exactly what I turned to:

Cry Out in Your Weakness

A dragon was pulling a bear into its terrible mouth.

A courageous man went and rescued the bear.
There are such helpers in the world, who rush to save
anyone who cries out. Like Mercy itself,
they run toward the screaming.

And they can't be bought off.
If you were to ask one of those, "Why did you come
so quickly?" he or she would say, "Because I heard
your helplessness."
Where lowland is,
that's where the water goes. All medicine wants
is pain to cure.
And don't just ask for one mercy.
Let them flood in. Let the sky open under your feet.
Take the cotton out of your ears, the cotton
of consolations, so you can hear the sphere-music.

Push the hair out of your eyes.
Blow the phlegm from your nose,
and from your brain.

Let the wind breeze through.
Leave no residue in yourself from that bilious fever.
Take the cure for impotence,
that your manhood may shoot forth,
and a hundred new beings come of your coming.

Tear the binding from around the foot
of your soul, and let it race around the track
in front of the crowd. Loosen the knot of greed
so tight on your neck. Accept your new good luck.

Give your weakness
to one who helps.

Crying out loud and weeping are great resources.
A nursing mother, all she does
is wait to hear her child.

Just a little beginning-whimper,
and she's there.

God created the child, that is, your wanting,
so that it might cry out, so that milk might come.

Cry out! Don't be stolid and silent
with your pain. Lament! And let the milk
of loving flow into you.

The hard rain and wind
are ways the cloud has
to take care of us.

Be patient.
Respond to every call
that excites your spirit.

Ignore those that make you fearful
and sad, that degrade you
back toward disease and death.

This made me laugh and cry almost at the same time. "Give your weakness to one who helps". As though my needing help is a gift and not a burden. What a message to, ahem, ruminate on.

I must at this time go to work. I'm not sure how this will all turn out, but it's kind of nice to give oneself a break after all of the intensity.


Currently Reading: (actually just finished) Ruby Fruit Jungle

Apologies and Such

I've been neglecting my blog lately.  What can I say?  Life has kept me quite busy.  Though I've had several thoughts and quite a few rants come to mind, I couldn't quite find both the time AND energy to commit anything to the electronic page.

A couple of housekeeping notices, first:

(1). Congratulations to my brother and his wife, who were married last week in Michigan (this lady got to be in the wedding party!!)

(2). Congratulations also to A & G, whose wedding I am currently in the process of attending.  A and I have been friends for more than ten years- ever since I pretended to shoot up with my mechanical pencil during choir.  (this lady ALSO got to be in their wedding party!!)

Down to business, now!  I need to clear the air after my last post.  It was brought to my attention (by one of the ladies I referred to, hereafter known as the assigned name, Veronica) that some of my language was a bit unclear.  This lack of clarity was easily misconstrued, and was thus rather hurtful.  This was not at all my intention.

I sometimes forget that by posting things on this blog I display them to the possibility of the entire world indiscriminately.  This is not to say that I post things I don't want people to read, but rather that I often assume much about my audience.  I assume, for example, that the only people reading my blog are people who already know me quite well.  This has proven itself to be absolutely untrue.  As I found out this week, I cannot assume that my blog audience knows me at all, or that they understand what I mean between the lines.  

So, to clarify, when I said:

These are the popular, chic, pretty students. . . At least that's how they carry themselves.  I'm not in awe of them or disgusted by them- mostly I'm intrigued by them.  They must spend so much time in the morning putting all that makeup on.  And by *all that* I simply mean that they always look very coiffed, with makeup and outfits and shoes and hair. . . and they invited me to sit with them?

I did not mean this description in a derogatory way at all.  I was trying to establish the fact that I felt out of my element.  I did not mean "pretty" and therefore "stupid" or "pretty" and therefore "snobby".  I meant that I have spent a lot of time with quasi-hippies over much of my adult life, and the situation I found myself in was different from the very start.

I had the excellent fortune of being able to talk about "Cattiness" with Veronica.  She had seen a link to my blog on my facebook page and followed it out of curiosity.  Imagine her surprise (and hurt) when she found that there was a post about her at the top of the page.  To Veronica's immense credit, she responded by contacting me to talk about the entry and her feelings about it.  

I am so grateful that she did so.  It would have been so easy to absorb such hurt and let it play out passively over time.  And I might always have carried a little reservation about her, too.

Instead, we talked.

Thankfully, due to the communication age, we processed all of this over chat.  Though that might sound like a passive way to resolve conflict, I rather think it allowed both of us to be more direct and honest than a face to face conversation would have.  

I will admit that it was a difficult conversation for me to have, even so.  My first inclination was to make everything ok- do whatever I had to to make Veronica happy with me.  Instead, sweaty palms and all, I stuck my ground.  I listened to what she had to say with my listening ears.  I re-read the entry, and I saw how I had been hurtful.

This was such a growing experience for me.  I was able to take ownership for my words and feelings.  I explained the context of my words, and apologized for hurting her feelings, all while maintaining my original point: the conversation I had been drawn into had been uncomfortable and inappropriate.  

A magical thing happened: just as I had listened to Veronica, she listened to me!  She explained that her comments had come out of continued frustration with a fellow student's work ethic.  It hadn't occurred to Veronica that a table in the cafeteria filled with future colleagues (at least one of whom only just arrived from San Francisco) might not be the best place to vent such frustrations.  Veronica apologized.  I apologized.  I felt such relief.  In a funny way, my faith in humanity rose quite a bit. 

People like to rant about how inhuman the internet makes interactions, and often enough they have a valid point.  But after exchanges like this, I feel the need to extoll the possible virtues of the interweb.  Sure, it allows dis-empowering porn to multiply faster than bacteria on stinky tofu, AND it allows trolls to air the most disgusting fruit of their overactive ids to the entire internet-world, but it's not ALL bad- 

sometimes it can be downright revolutionary.  

Cattiness

Cattiness makes me feel awkward.

This morning my Phonetics class was canceled.  This left me with an unexpected coffee break, which I proceeded to take without delay in the school cafeteria.  I thought I'd sit and do some reading, maybe write a little bit, sip my caffeine, and then head on up to the library to do some printing of pages.  However, on my way to an uninhabited, sunlit table I was stopped and invited to join a different table. 

Me?  Invited??  To sit with other students???  Why, of course!

So, I picked up my coffee and parked at a table with other sophomore voice students, several of whom I'd met in an assortment of classes.  These are the popular, chic, pretty students (I hate to revert to high school terminology, but in many ways, that is where I am).  

At least that's how they carry themselves.  I'm not in awe of them or disgusted by them- mostly I'm intrigued by them.  They must spend so much time in the morning putting all that makeup on.  And by *all that* I simply mean that they always look very coiffed, with makeup and outfits and shoes and hair. . . and they invited me to sit with them?

At any rate, I sat down and tried to engage in conversation.  The general questions that everyone asks came up- 

Where did you transfer from?  

. . .

Ooooh- so you're like, way older than us?

To which I smile (hopefully demurely) and try to explain in as polite a tone of voice as I can muster that yes, I AM quite a bit older.  I usually hope that this does not come off as calling them infants, though sometimes I hope it does.  Today my intentions straddled both hopes.  Soon, though, I was fairly forgotten in lieu of more salacious topics.  

Maybe I felt more aware of this behavior because I was not part of the active conversation.  Or maybe it's because I don't really know the people that were talked about (well, I could point them out, but I've never had a conversation with them).  Or maybe I am growing up a little bit at a time.

At any rate, I felt very weird sitting at the table while a great number of other students were picked apart for all sorts of things.  It really seemed to me that their greatest offense was not being there for this conversation, and that if they had been sitting at the table then they would have been treated quite civilly and without the slightest hint of meanness.  

It made me sad to see how much energy these students were wasting on lambasting others- energy they could have spent in self-direction or musical pursuits or in finding the shared humanity in these other students.  Instead, they let their insecurities feed on the insecurities of others, which is just a painful (and pitiful?) sight to behold.  

I wasn't exactly sure how to extricate myself from this situation.  I felt suddenly as though I were in high school again, having received an invitation by the popular girls to sit with them only to find that sitting with the popular girls is both glamorous and abysmal.  I kept thinking about leaving the table, but I didn't want to miss out on new friendships.

And that's when it hit me- I don't want friends like this.  

I'm sure that each of the people at that table has the potential to be a lovely person, and I'm not saying that I reject them wholly because of today, but there's no reason on earth why I should put myself in the middle of such silliness just to meet new people.  People I don't want to be surrounded by anyways!  

As soon as I realized this I excused myself to go to the library, which is where I am at this very moment- constructing this love note to you, my generous internet audience.  

Wait, are you generous??

Currently Reading: Full Frontal Feminism

An Internal Conversation

*Warning* This entry is long, but I believe it is worthwhile. Read when you have more than 2 minutes (but hopefully less than 10!)

Last night I suddenly hit a wall with regards to patience. I have spent so much time in self-analysis that I think I've gotten sick on it. I'm terribly frustrated and full of self-judgment.

And why, you may ask, am I judging myself?

I am relentlessly flinging mean thoughts at myself because I keep catching myself flinging mean thoughts at others. I'm judging myself for judging the world. Well, not exactly the world, that's perhaps a bit too much hyperbole, but only just.

This tragicomedy began in earnest on Tuesday night, in my humanities class. We are currently studying Thomas More's 'Utopia', a work that has vast discussion/debate possibilities, in my debate-thirsty-opinion. Private Property, Corporate Greed, The Prison System, Communal Accountability, Shared Humanity, Class, Privilege- these are all discussion topics that could be gleaned from Book I of 'Utopia'. And with an initial gratitude (and a retrospective one as well) I watched as the professor led our circle of students into discussion, only to be horrified by the results.

I found myself deeply entrenched in a debate that flitted between the practical and the philosophical from sentence to sentence (which is in itself annoying when you are trying to make a clear argument). This was not horrifying, only tedious- navigating a discussion of humanity's potential intermingled with a discussion of humanity's present state. The horrifying part came in when we started talking about the concept of greed. I believe that More contends that Greed is one of the most destructive forces at work in 'modern' society, and I agree with him. My fellow students (not all of them I'm sure, but a vocal majority), however, could not seem to get beyond the idea that what they had in their life they had earned completely on their own merit.

Now, admittedly, this doesn't sound too horrid, but when one carries this statement to its logical reverse it sounds much worse. If a person has exactly what they deserve- the fruit of their own labors- then a person who lacks fruit does so because of their own laziness. The poor people of the world, and especially in the proximate United States culture, are poor because they aren't smart enough, haven't worked hard enough, or they just don't want it enough. This is the way the system works. You work hard, you get rewarded. You slack off, you starve. Or you just don't get the big mansion, because as everyone knows, people who own mansions have done proportionately more work in their life than people living in public housing. Definitively. This system works and is fair, damn it! After all, as one student said, he's 'not jealous of the guy who has a BMW, because [the student] didn't work for that'. Not only was there no acknowledgment of privilege or classism, there wasn't even the faintest comprehension that such things could possibly exist.

My fairly educated guess is that I'm the eldest student in the room by a solid 4 years, a span of time that can admittedly change much for a person's perspective and place in the world. Here's where the judgment demons (and their reactive judgment-of-judgment demons) entered the picture, for I immediately found myself battling internal conflict.

Can you believe those kids?

They're not kids, they're adults.

No they're not, they're 19!

Hey, when you were 19 you thought of yourself very much as an adult an-

I know, but-

-d got quite pissed off when people dismissed your voice because they thought of you as a kid.

YES, but these kids-

People-

OK, these people are ignorant and obtuse!

Well, maybe.

Maybe?

Ok, they are, but that's no excuse to get all Ageist on them.

Wait- was I being ageist???

Um, yes. Extremely. You were judging them because of their age.

But. No. Um. I mean. . .

Grrrrrrrr

Ok, so I may at some times play the hated 'age card', and I'll admit that that's wrong-

Good. That will be 50 lashes and 2 Hail Marys.

Wai- What?

You heard me. (Oh I do love a good flagellation!)

But- that's not helpful! OR productive!

Maybe not, but it sure does feel good to feel bad!

Wait- I have more to say!

*sighs* What?

It's just that, well, ageism acknowledged, these people are still being selfish!

That may be true, but you can't blame it on their age without negating your arguments from when you were 19. So let's just skip it and move back to the whipping!

But why?

Why the whipping?? Because it's so deliciously human! Don't you love loathing yourself???

Ugh, I don't know. This obsession with whipping and soul-mutilation is disgusting. At any rate, that's not what I meant. Why would blaming my classmate's ignorance on their being young negate my younger arguments?

Because if you decide to disregard their self-centered opinions just because they're younger than you, then you're doing the exact thing you used to rant about so vehemently.

Really?

Yes. And didn't you just scold an elder for this two days ago?

*ashamed panda* yes.

A-HA!!! More hypocrisy to be shamed for!!!! (it's going to be an absolute party later!!!!!) Though if you must discuss it, what can you blame their lack of awareness on? It's not as though they're 8 years old and have seen none of the world.

Well, no. That's true. But. . . but. . . they probably haven't experienced any of the world!

But they're 19! They've been on this planet for 19 years!! How is that possible???

Uh, they're conservatory musicians-?- They've probably spent at least half their life in a practice room. Alone. With a dead white man's scrawling and a lonely piano.

But that would mean they've spent almost no time actually experiencing the world-?-

Exactly.

But. . . that's preposterous. How can their musical endeavors impact a world about which they know nothing??

EXACTLY.

And why would they even CARE to impact it?

You See?? They probably don't. They might want to perform in it. Show off. Be on center stage.

Surely not ALL of them.

No, of course not ALL of them. But a damnable majority of them. Especially in class.

And you WANT to be a part of this world???????? You're CHOOSING it????????

This is the point at which my head began to go a bit fuzzy. Surprising though it may be that this fuzziness didn't take precedent sooner, it came lurking in with a heady vengeance at this point.

Why AM I going into this world? I have always refused to spend my life in a practice room. Though I've been blessed with the aptitude to not have to spend years of my life repeating scales (ugh, bo-ring), I have also always rebelled against the very concept of forfeiting my life for a technique that might someday be imbued with genius. I've just never thought of it that way.

Why DO I sing? I am a musician going into the world of opera. I am an activist with goals and philosophies that hopefully lead toward the continued evolution of some sort of justice in this world. Opera and Social Justice- judging from the culture of my class the other night this seems like a complete non sequitur.

And yet I believe strongly that it is not. Or at least that it doesn't have to be. Music at its most empowered can be such a redemptive force. It can be an art form rife with thought and change and the ability to challenge the status quo. It can enable people. Music can make a person think and feel and speak. It gives a language to grief and anger and joy in a way that words alone can not. Music can, and does, change the world.

Opera is a conduit for the exploration of feelings; the inner motivations of humanity are the very soul of the art form. It is not simply a glorious show for which one should dress up and spend exorbitant amounts of money. It is a shame that this is often how it is viewed. It is even more shameful that this viewpoint has shaped opera into the flaccid art of the aristocracy that it is in many communities, but opera is not beyond redemption. There are strong, active movements to make opera an accessible art form, and this is the creative world I hope to enter.

I want to be a part of opera for the hope that I can make a difference in the world through a craft that encourages self-exploration. Unexamined feelings at work in the world are dangerous indeed. I think that an art form that encourages emotional honesty and growth is inherently a positive force.

And with this renewed sense of self, of trajectory, I find myself less desiring of that flagellatory appointment. It's amazing to me that I can sink so quickly to shaming myself, which always turns into a complete waste of time, both in that it takes time and energy to feel bad about myself, and it takes even more time and energy to then pull myself back out of that funk. What if I could bypass the 40 lashes stage and just move onto changing what I don't like about myself? Wouldn't that be revolutionary. Ha.

At least for today, I feel redeemed. I feel a renewed sense of patience for myself, for my ever-present faults, and for the fact that it takes time to grow and learn. It's funny how that happens.


Currently Reading: Skinny Legs and All

Recently Finished: Mozart in the Jungle: Sex, Drugs, and Classical Music by Blair Tindall

**I am unable to link to the above book from school, as the page has been blocked by the censor. . . This book is about a former student at MSM, and it is full of lascivious information about the music industry. It's autobiographical, and I am a bit disturbed that I am unable to look up any information about the author or the book from school. DAMN CENSORSHIP!!!!!**

The Brooklyn Museum of Art

I had an unexpectedly intense day.

I went with my friend, B, to the Brooklyn Museum of Art this afternoon as part of our New York Museum Tour. A friend of hers had tipped her off to the fantastic and provocative exhibition of Yinka Shonibare MBE's work (an amazing exhibit, that you should make a trip to see), and so we trudged all the way (phew!) to Brooklyn, a rare venture for Manhattanites.

Upon paying our preferred donation of $1 (BMA is a suggested donation venue, Goddess love them, as we are quite poor), we attempted to get our bearings by perusing the pictorial directory. At this point B became very excited by something in a picture- 'The Dinner Party' by Judy Chicago. I looked at B with my customary blend of curiosity and ignorance. B has an excellent background in Art History and Museum Studies, so I am quite accustomed to her vast knowledge surpassing my own, especially in the art world. However, there was shock on B's face when she realized that I did not know of Ms. Chicago.

'The Dinner Party' is the single biggest piece of feminist art ever acknowledged, B informed me with a look tinged with disbelief and, perhaps, a bit of horror. We then skipped over the Shonibare exhibit, heading directly to the Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art.

Let me coo for a moment- How AMAZING is it that an art museum has a permanent gallery dedicated to feminist art? I've never heard of this before, and in the wake of such an experience I'm a bit saddened by this. Ideally feminist art would have a role in art of all types and in many galleries and there would be no need for a specially designated 'feminist section', but this is not yet an ideal world. I wish I had had the opportunity to visit a Center for Feminist Art before I was 24 years old, but I am grateful for today, however hurtful it may have been.

I was utterly unprepared for this installation. How could I have expected it? The catalog itself reports it as consisting of:

39 dinner place settings of porcelain flatware (fork, knife and spoon), porcelain chalice, and decorated porcelain plate. Each setting is laid out on a separate embroidered textile runner. Thirteen place settings are on each side (48 feet long) of a triangular table draped with a white felt cloth, with a triangular millennium runner at each of three corners. Each of the settings represents one of thirty-nine historically significant women. The table sits on a floor of 2304 porcelain triangular tiles (in 129 units) inscribed with the names of 999 significant women.

Ok, so it's a big table set for dinner and there are lots of women's names. Cool. This will be interesting. Right. How can I tell you what it was like walking into that room? Rather, walking into the room was just what I expected. Each setting is quite particular, and placed in a mostly chronological order. First? 'Primordial Goddess'

Ok. That makes sense.

Next? 'Fertile Goddess'

Sure.

Of note, the plates at each setting are decorated in personalized floral/butterfly/vulva patterns. I add floral and butterfly to the description mostly because the plaque at the exhibit did so. My impression of the plates was overwhelmingly linked to feminine power, to clitoral and sexual potency, power, depth, mystery, and strength. There were cunts all over this table, each beautiful and different. Each cunt-plate brought its own sacred history to the table.

Next? 'Ishtar', 'Kali', 'Snake Goddess', 'Sophia', 'Amazon', 'Hatshepsut', 'Judith', 'Sappho', 'Boadaceia', 'Hypatia', 'Marcella', 'Saint Bridget'. . .

By this point, I had finished one third of the table, and I was starting to get worried. The women who earned a place at the table were assumedly at the top of the list, a list that involves more than a thousand names. Only 39 received special settings, and I guess I assumed that of those 39 I would know a vast majority. I was discovering how naïve that assumption had been.

'Theodora', 'Hrosvitha', 'Trotula', 'Eleanor of Aquitaine', 'Hildegarde of Bingen', 'Petronilla de Meath', 'Christine de Pisan', 'Isabella d'Este', 'Elizabeth R.', 'Artemisia Gentileschi'. . .

I recognized two of these names, and I could tell you about one of them. The names continued almost in defiance of my ignorance. A grief I had never experienced began to overwhelm me, and I felt tears begin to well up. I have never before cried because of a piece of art. Art has moved me toward thought, toward debate, toward laughter, toward anger, toward many things- but never tears. Of the more than thousand names celebrated in 'The Dinner Party", I would recognize a perhaps generous figure of 100.

Less than 10%.

'Anna van Schurman', 'Anne Hutchinson', 'Sacajawea', 'Caroline Herschel', 'Mary Wollstonecraft', 'Sojourner Truth', 'Susan B. Anthony', 'Elizabeth Blackwell', 'Emily Dickinson', 'Ethel Smyth'. . .

I realized even more so, that at least 50% of the names I recognized belonged to women about which I knew nothing. For example, I could not have told you yesterday (I am very sorry to admit) who Mary Wollstonecraft was or what contributions she had made. A horrifying thought occurred to me: should a similar celebration of man's historical contributions be constructed in such a manner, I would easily recognize at least 50% of the names. I would probably also be able to explain in depth the contributions of at least 15% of them. Of course, that's just a guess.

I don't remember at what point I began to cry, but I know it was after I had left the table settings and had moved to the Herstory Board section- a chronology/brief description of the contributions of every name on exhibit. I felt as though I'd been punched in the gut. Somewhere, deep within, something had been stolen from me. My education had failed me. My culture had failed me. I had failed myself. How could I know so little about the power of the feminine? How had I missed my own history so succinctly? Who was Margaret Sanger? Natalie Barney? Virginia Woolf and Georgia O'Keefe were names familiar to me, but they provided little comfort after the onslaught of the unfamiliar.

I cried. I cried for myself. For my culture. For the education that I and my sisters and brothers were missing. It was a quiet cry, privately witnessed by an almost unending row of names.

I sat down on a bench and tried to center myself, attempting to pull myself back from the brink of destructive self-pity, searching for the redemptive righteous anger that I knew must be on the other side of such a deep wound. While I waited a man came over to the lady sitting next to me on the bench and commented on the 'fascinating' board of names.





. . .





Fascinating.





Even now I am filled with an anger and a hurt that is beyond my ability to capture.





Fascinating.





I understand how a board filled with the history of influential women one has never heard of could be a fascinating concept. I understand and respect this man's ability to recognize a resource he had not previously encountered. I understand to a certain extent.

But it goes so much deeper than the cognitive whimsy of a 'fascinating' history display. This is personal. It is my mother, my great-grandmother, my as-yet-undreamt-of-daughter. It is me. It is the mantle I inherited by being born into this body, or rather more so by living in it. It is the lie that has been perpetuated by silence. It is the gaping holes in my history. In me. It is the lack of acknowledgment of those holes- my previous inability to even conceptualize how many holes there might be.

I knew, of course, that there was much of the history and contributions of women that I didn't know, but I had never before been confronted so tangibly by the vastness of the unknown of feminine beauty, strength, thought, and power.

I am enraged.

I am crying.

I am crying, and I am enraged by the bleeding hole where my knowledge of my grandmothers should be. I have been robbed. So have you.

We, all of us, have been robbed by patriarchal thieves bent on silencing the brilliance of half our forebears. This cannot stand, but who will stand with me?

Why do we allow such silence? What do we do about it? How can I turn this wounded-ness, this anger, into a vehicle for change?

How can we?

Start of Term

It's been a little while since I last updated, but I've been busy. Too busy to get a full night's sleep, actually, so though I've thought about reporting my most recent escapades to my anonymous blog audience, I haven't had the opportunity to do so until now.

What a week it's been, too. Summary in list form: my first guest Beth has been here since last Friday, working 30 hours for Carolyn, The Frick Collection, The American Museum of Natural History, The Museum of Modern Art, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, seeing Sarah JEssica Parker filming SatC Two, Beth's birthday with sushi, beer, and an attempted visit to the Empire State Building, a date, first day of classes, finding my first piece of furniture on the street (a table!), the arrival of boxes and boxes of things from SF, more classes, and much start-of-term geekiness.

I am so tired at the moment. I seem to be at that weird mid point between events, when one has enough time to realize just how sleepy one is even though there isn't enough time to truly relax. I have a rehearsal room with my name on it in an hour or so, and a class after that. Yay for humanities at my music conservatory. I'm sure I'm quite thrilled and exhilarated by the prospect.

*ahem*

It's not that I don't like books, but rather that the very concept of taking a course in humanities at the college level is a bit abysmal sounding. It's not a literature class, it's not a philosophy class, it's a humanities class- a 'let's see how much we can cram into a required course so that we can maintain accreditation' class. It might turn out to be ok, especially since I was able to comp out of HU0001, and am taking HU0003 this semester instead, but I am a little skeptical. That and the class runs from 8.30-9.45pm two nights per week, which is a ridiculous hour to spend in discussion of said things.

Otherwise, school is looking rather excellent. And obnoxiously intense. I'm taking the following courses:

• Voice Lessons (3 Credits)
  
• Sophomore Aural Skills (2 Credits)
• Humanities III (3 Credits)
  
• Medieval/Renaissance History (2 Credits)
  
• Advanced Freshman Theory (3 Credits)
  
• Freshman Theory Lecture (1 Credit)
  
• Phonetics (2 Credits)
  
• Symphonic Chorus (0.5 Credit)
  
• 2nd Year Performance Class (0.5 Credit)
  
• Concert Attendance (0 Credits)
• Humanities Lecture (0 Credits)

To be fair, though, I was able to sign out of my humanities no-credit lecture, as it conflicts with my theory class, so my schedule isn't as intimidating, but that only saves me 50 minutes.

I am overwhelmed by both the breadth of work I have ahead of me and the sheer joy of being here with such opportunities. My professors (thus far) are all absolutely engaging and at the top of their game. Zillions of nerdy jokes have already made me laugh again and again. I am surrounded by people who take their craft seriously, which is intimidating but extremely validating at the same time.

I'm eager to dive into academia of this sort- my theory prof. wants us to explore both the mechanics of music and the philosophical concepts of where those mechanics came from. Fascinating. My history prof. is dynamic and a bit of a drama queen, and I hope I am never late to his 9 AM lecture. My phonetics course requires that I learn a completely new and MUCH larger alphabet. The very first thing I had to do at school was perform for my as yet unmet peers in my performance class when I had *of course* neither warmed up nor brought music (thank you beloved Library for saving my ass!).

This program is going to alter me significantly. I am ready.