Unschool Resources

 ●Dumbing Us Down, any John Taylor Gatto

●School Can Wait, any Dr Raymond Moore

●Any John Holt

●Any Peter Gray

●Teaching From Rest Sarah Mackenzie

●A Pocket Full of Pinecones (Karen Andreola, I think?)

Some Thoughts on Patricia George

 It's strange how easily people can slip in an out of each other's lives. We're born unaware of anyone but ourselves and as we grow, so does our circle. We weave a net made up of the fibers of personal connections. As we get older, the net grows bigger still. And some of the fibers come loose. They get lost in the noise and colors of our life. But the universe has a way of reminding us to "tighten the net:" marriages, illness, births, and deaths. Such an event has occurred this week for me.

I met Patricia George the first day of my freshman year of high school. She was our choir director and accompanist. We were a small but passionate group, branding ourselves as a show choir, choosing our favorite musical theater pieces and even choreographed some interpretive dance sequences using recordings of Carmina Burana. It was a ton of fun. As the year came to a close, there were rumors that we would be getting a choir director. A "real" choir director. I was nervous and bitter. I didn't want our little team to change. And I felt bad for Patricia. This was probably the misplaced angst of an emerging young adult.

And then Mo walked in and they just clicked. And something magical happened. She was a true accompanist, not just in music, but in life. She made each one of us kids feel like she was a partner in our lives; something some of us desperately needed. She was there when we forgot our words, missed our cues, or missed the high note and tearfully slinked off the stage. And she did it while being perfectly imperfect. She smoked like a chimney, and her car was a mess. But she was always classy, always unapologetically herself; and, above all else, always there.

I am forever grateful that this beautiful woman was a part of my life.

Trigger Rants

While reading the Vulture article and accidentally reading what he allegedly said in his voice. A habit of mine, I'll admit. It being "liquid sex" and all. I have found some strong runners-up on Literotica, though...

Somewhere, somehow, something happened involving a penis and it just...triggered me. I will admit that in my youth I was a frisky vixen. I looked good, and I could get myself to feel good. So it wasn't surprising that my first boyfriend and I would be on the fast track to pound town. But, and this was weird, and I totally didn't remember it until we reconnected again in our 40s. When he, you know, whipped it out, I cried. Like, full-on meltdown. I don't think whatever happened to me would have been enough to cause such a reaction on its own. But I grew up Mormon, so...that's a whole other boatload of trauma to unload. Anyway, he was actually really sweet about it, and we remained friends even as our romantic relationship soured and he proceeded to date the girl that I had had my first physical attraction to. With Jen, it was an emotional and intellectual desire. With Cat, it was physical and ethereal. She was just so cool. And her family was cool. I didn't know Mormons could be cool. I also didn't realize as a 10-year-old that money goes a long way in the pursuit of coolness. But it went beyond that with Cat. She introduced me to the scifi subculture. I started watching the X-Files. The first really big disagreement I got in with my parents was over it. She introduced me to music: The Beatles and The Beach Boys, Pink Floyd and The Doors. We listened to vinyl in their music room and we both played the flute. We had a little duo for a while. But, again, another boatload of trauma I'm not ready to unpack yet.

The next penis I saw might have been a serial killer. I don't know. He was working in HR at Disneyland. I desperately wanted to work at Disneyland. It was a dream. And I had received a scholarship to...no. This is not the time to tell this story. Back to the article.

Not Me Live-Tweeting the Vulture Article

Notes While Reading 

Look. I'll admit it. I had a mad crush on Neil Gaiman. I mean, menacingly, penetratingly mad. To the point that when I would read his books, it would be his voice in my head. That soul-crushing, desperate voice that I had once dubbed "liquid sex." Make of that what you will.

Note: I got triggered at this point when the author gives the victim's account of the "bathtub incident" (iykyk) and started digressing into my own repressed, hypersexual adolescence. It's there to read if you like, but fair warning, it is deeply personal.

Okay, so that was a twist to my schema. I was not expecting the perceived betrayal of a victim of sexual violence by THE Amanda Fucking Palmer. I mean, I love her, and always will. Her honesty is intoxicating. And "Bigger on the Inside" changed my life in quite literal ways.

I think I'm more sympathetic toward Neil at this point, I guess. Just...the way the Sandman shaped this whole...universe. So...which is the real Neil? The Sandman, or Richard Madoc? I believe it's a "yes, and" moment. He's both of those things, and more. As the trope goes, "we are all so much bigger on the inside." (thanks, Amanda)

What a sad, twisted tale. I was ready to forgive him. I really was. But, then I read this article from NPR. And clicked through to read his final words, "I don't accept there was any abuse."

In his last post on his personal website, Gaiman has once again woven together some beautiful words. For example, " Nah, I can't find anything redeemable in that post except for maybe this:

And I also realise, looking through them, years later, that I could have and should have done so much better. I was emotionally unavailable while being sexually available, self-focused and not as thoughtful as I could or should have been. I was obviously careless with people's hearts and feelings, and that's something that I really, deeply regret. It was selfish of me. I was caught up in my own story and I ignored other people's.

 

I’ve spent some months now taking a long, hard look at who I have been and how I have made people feel. 

 

Like most of us, I’m learning, and I'm trying to do the work needed, and I know that that's not an overnight process. I hope that with the help of good people, I'll continue to grow. I understand that not everyone will believe me or even care what I say but I’ll be doing the work anyway, for myself, my family and the people I love. I will be doing my very best to deserve their trust, as well as the trust of my readers.*

*but, of course i know that this is exactly the kind of thing you would say if you wanted to appear apologetic...I am praying it is sincere.

The 9,000 Reincarnations of Gwendolyn

 I binge-watch old TV Shows and then write about them. Because that's what my life has come to.

I write about failing at a teaching career after spending 13 years and $100,000 on a degree.

I write about my cooking failures because I don't have the attention span to pay attention to a timer.

I complain about everything...and people pay money to subscribe to my newsletter about it.

I write five million different story lines, but follow through on none of them. 

After Amy - Thoughts on "All American RAGE"

 

I think I feel drawn to this case because I see a lot of myself in Amy at first blush. At least from what I know, which isn't a lot. But Amy Bishop seemed to be the kind of woman whose whole identity was wrapped up in her job. I'm only presuming that Amy has some sort of personality disorder, which shakes a person to their core. You have no sense of who you are unless you practice at it. A lot. And if you're high-functioning like Amy Bishop: smart, pretty, white, wealthy; it seems you can get pretty far without ever having to face your demons. And her case just goes to show that you can't outrun yourself. And once it catches up with you, the rage that you feel will be overpowering.

Oh, never mind. What the fuck?!? She shot her kid brother? Nah, this bitch is just crazy.

I think I was trying to identify with her on a human level because I'm experiencing precisely this. Though, perhaps, not nearly as high-functioning. And the fact that she was an intelligent professional who did not belong in the classroom. 

Complex PTSD, The Wise Mind, and The True Self

 I Feel Like There's Two Sides to Me. The wacky one who comes up with all these crazy ideas while she's high.

And the normal one who tries to piece together all the random bits of creative debris that get left behind.

And I feel like the further I go into myself, the more these two halves are starting to communicate. Like a business merging two entities together. We started by just communicating with one another. Send a quick email here, tour the building, get to know the employees. You visit, but you're still an outsider. You're not ready to take up space.

But there comes a time when you have to move into negotiations. Just how much of me is "real" and how much is drug induced. That makes me sound like an addict, but hear me out. I feel like I've surpressed so much of my creative side that I need to get high to unlock it. If I have just a little bit of THC, usually 5 to 10mg around 3:00 in the afternoon, I find I'm really productive and motivated. I can juggle a few different tasks at once without feeling overwhelmed. I stop caring whether I'm stepping on somebody's toes. In fact, I'm GLAD I'm stepping on them. Because frankly, they haven't been stepped on in a very long time, and I'm not going to baby her the way other people have for half her life or longer. And honestly, even under the influence, saying that kind of seems like too much. Like I had to stop what I was doing and have a conversation with that inner voice, my Piglet self. 

"Oh d-d-d-dear...are you SURE it's okay to complain?"

"Yes, Piglet. There's no one here to harm you."

I'm not even sure WHY I think that there WOULD be someone to harm me. How is it possible to have loving parents who did their best for you and STILL feel like you're drowning? Am I just being paranoid when I think that there must have been some big, profound, traumatic experience in my past? Isn't it normal for a 40-year-old woman to have big chunks of her childhood missing from her childhood? And even if it isn't, do I really want to open that can of worms?

I think I just need to read up on complex ptsd more. 

I'm curious to know if anyone else feels that way. Like there's two people inside and you're trying to get them to work together.