tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52376321168300481382024-03-18T05:46:01.955-07:00Ball 'n' ChainObservations from an adventurous and aging type 1 diabetic woman in transition. Join me on the journey. Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.comBlogger173125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-28062378275785089792024-03-02T11:27:00.000-08:002024-03-02T11:27:41.609-08:00Journey of Old Journals: 1986<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVQsu9ex8p8q1HE9_MDQ_Pc37SfbBVvzEExDALcyX-hDBVIgJXBfhRJ6tbrj5q1hwM4HWq4x5anNmctErgio52outOtuOjYIFhBunwIfA_y9kbJacpv2L0lagIa6QUJHeaGG0ooV2dDLbcKeBydVTHfqSqc8vzc75LiiVg6K7PUIcZZSgL3d1aLBVg_MHb/s4032/20240219_164306.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVQsu9ex8p8q1HE9_MDQ_Pc37SfbBVvzEExDALcyX-hDBVIgJXBfhRJ6tbrj5q1hwM4HWq4x5anNmctErgio52outOtuOjYIFhBunwIfA_y9kbJacpv2L0lagIa6QUJHeaGG0ooV2dDLbcKeBydVTHfqSqc8vzc75LiiVg6K7PUIcZZSgL3d1aLBVg_MHb/w240-h320/20240219_164306.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Early in the year and after the crazy client stalking incident, I was ready to leave the job. I started getting therapy; the therapist thought writing was a great idea. I focused on character studies, bubble maps of thoughts that led to short essays, and writing more of what I saw on the streets. I was withdrawing from friends because I felt "I needed silence to hear the important things." In hindsight, I laugh as I read that I was "breathing in rainbows", a habit I still use today when I am particularly distressed. I wrote of the emergence of AIDS on the streets, the whole scene at </span><a href="http://jacquescabaret.com/v3/" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">Jacques</a><span style="text-align: left;">, and the teens in Harvard Square. </span></div><p></p><p>My life alternated between the continued violence on the streets and the respite of the backcountry. I started volunteering with the Appalachian Mountain Club, which at the time operated a couple of canoe campgrounds on the Saco River, one at Swans Falls (a busy put-in and dam portage site) and Walkers' Falls. Walkers was where I went alone to spend time. It's simple cabin, where I slept in exchange for answering a few questions and selling firewood, was down a long dirt road. I invoked <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miriam_O%27Brien_Underhill" target="_blank">Marian Underhill</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grandma_Gatewood" target="_blank">Grandma Gatewood</a>, and Helen Bromwell (whose name I wrote then, but I couldn't find on the internet.) It was there that I explored the neighborhood. I encountered moose tracks, purple mushrooms, herons, immense dragonflies, and Pleasant Pond. </p><p>I paddled upstream to access the marshy pond. It was easy to get to the leeward side of the lake, but when I turned the big canoe, with only me in the middle, to head to the other side, I floundered. Trying and trying again, I thought more about survival. So I pinned the key to the cabin on the strap of my bathing suit, tried one more time, and found the right angle to the wind to start moving. I wrote odes to the Goddess, asking to listen to the voices of her children through me. I wanted to attune to the woods, the rocks, the tracks of deer and the rushing of water babies. I wanted to bear witness to her complexity, picking up a rotting birch log and inhaling the clean, unique scent of decay. I circled treasures of pine boughs to the north, acorn at the east, bark at the west, and moss at the south, bringing myself to the stars. I wrote of infinity and protection, and of the richness of uninterrupted time. "I am frenzied with the purpose of being."</p><p>As the weather turned to the early winter, I found a girlfriend. I had an easier time processing the pain and violence on the streets. I wrote their stories down so I wouldn't have to carry them. </p><p><i>Nov 12</i></p><p>Met Patty on the streets tonight. I hadn't seen her for about six months at least- mentioned that she was burnt out of a hotel room at (<i>illegible.</i>) Eye makeup smeared all around like a misguided raccoon. Jeff G tells me that his parents and all his family were killed in a car accident and he is the only one left. How callous of me not to believe it, in my own unrealistic mind frame. Steve talks about how his army jacket was ripped off, Anita tells me about court (and the fact that Jizz went on a binge and no one hears from him. Diane discusses how 'no one hangs out anymore.' I talk with Lee for a long time about life. </p><p>These stories sit like a knot in my stomach. Turning in on itself until I purge here, in the journal, berating myself for not catching the moment: the passion of being. Sometimes, I don't feel sorry for them, caught up int heir swirling denial that may lead to their death. I wonder- what dealt me this hand of cards, to be here and alive." </p><p><i>Dec 12</i></p><p>"High. (This was a common coping mechanism for the second shift work, sometimes combined with alcohol.) My head spinning with all sorts of thoughts, my eyes glued barely open. The image of Jimmy by the state house. His eye so bruised that it was bulging out of his head like frogs' but red, blue, and purple swollen skin. Face flecked with small, deep cuts, the eyelashes barely visible, oozing blood. I am firm, trying to control my sense of fear and horror of pain with a professional demeanor. His chest is bare with bandages. A person should not be walking around homeless on the streets in that condition. It tears my heart out to remember. Wish I could wash it all out with the good things I feel when I'm with the younger kids. I told Jimmy he had to go to the hospital, but he staggered off downtown instead. I wonder if he will live through this year, or tonight, or how he will feel when he does. Somehow, this thought doesn't become real until I imagine myself articulating it. "</p><p>I didn't write about why, but instead of quitting I decided to go for a management position, replacing my mentor and friend. On January 1, 1987 I wrote of the syzgy, <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/1987/01/02/us/syzygy-when-high-tides-run-very-high.html" target="_blank">the rare alignment of the Sun, Moon, and Earth. </a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe09MMGUPOAn482HrhtiaOgrjtdec65S5ljPs1g8GHjg8dXatBcwp-ZH29YLu-0oxRmx-xyyYUWkWsmeWVrLz39IhC2HWpmkFDptuj4zmg30uqhkuMfXRjSmH_ui_1rQhbyC_I3JvilLO70JQUyDGitp8N8OvR6yk3T7SN4FbW2CUtpBou30YsvpBWWBGP/s4032/20240218_134353.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe09MMGUPOAn482HrhtiaOgrjtdec65S5ljPs1g8GHjg8dXatBcwp-ZH29YLu-0oxRmx-xyyYUWkWsmeWVrLz39IhC2HWpmkFDptuj4zmg30uqhkuMfXRjSmH_ui_1rQhbyC_I3JvilLO70JQUyDGitp8N8OvR6yk3T7SN4FbW2CUtpBou30YsvpBWWBGP/s320/20240218_134353.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><br /><br />Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-65574708567539613622024-01-21T14:46:00.000-08:002024-01-21T14:46:00.397-08:00Year In Review <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDGo2TNjasBP1prdheskror0WRWTBMWgoZprR2a21vIGvzahHfdZ9LWLtcqAvYTzKYwDsYJDF3UlKr8wGBH2uCTDAp_YJLA3kr7izL67soiIW3JF_bQ7FPNlkjaS32M42pQp1BzOZuYJYzt9OQPoYd2FDzUp7hGbIsu2Sbfcv2QwuQMm1HHh9nZym60sE/s3296/Year%20in%20Review%202024-01-21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3296" data-original-width="2544" height="733" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDGo2TNjasBP1prdheskror0WRWTBMWgoZprR2a21vIGvzahHfdZ9LWLtcqAvYTzKYwDsYJDF3UlKr8wGBH2uCTDAp_YJLA3kr7izL67soiIW3JF_bQ7FPNlkjaS32M42pQp1BzOZuYJYzt9OQPoYd2FDzUp7hGbIsu2Sbfcv2QwuQMm1HHh9nZym60sE/w567-h733/Year%20in%20Review%202024-01-21.jpg" width="567" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-11566791024926944492023-11-26T11:54:00.000-08:002024-02-19T04:56:38.894-08:00Journey of Old Journals: 1985<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4c3Mgo7d3QSuHL3eyJiEBiZn6rvFlu2-MCrKxIwZpLuar-DAtXFW3sUS5L-9DxlbNvVxAd9a-hUx6owVh6vYrdymXuJahw0NhGp_3XH6K_ozzjigrrV2O_XulRzd8PLobnjdQbWpgruaWR6IL3fkmCYIcOFbm6EZl1TdkCwl9Ws6wqx_8CnkoaxYX278/s4032/20231126_120726.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4c3Mgo7d3QSuHL3eyJiEBiZn6rvFlu2-MCrKxIwZpLuar-DAtXFW3sUS5L-9DxlbNvVxAd9a-hUx6owVh6vYrdymXuJahw0NhGp_3XH6K_ozzjigrrV2O_XulRzd8PLobnjdQbWpgruaWR6IL3fkmCYIcOFbm6EZl1TdkCwl9Ws6wqx_8CnkoaxYX278/s320/20231126_120726.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Thus began my life as a streetworker in Boston, working for a longstanding social service agency. The job was second shift, walking through the neighborhoods that came alive at night. The Combat Zone, adjacent to the theatre district and Chinatown, Park Square near the T Station on the edge of the Boston Common, and the "Block" from Arlington to Boylston, adjacent to the grayhound station when it was there. My primary beat was Harvard Square, the locus of disaffected suburban punk rockers. </p><p>Themes in the journal, where I wrote on the long train ride home on the Orange Line back to Jamaica Plain most nights, were centered around what I saw and what I tried to process before arriving home. Infected wounds, psychosis, my own stress, the never ending violence, and the rabbit fur coats of the prostitutes. The neighborhood where I lived was puncuated by cockroaches, sounds of alteractions from the cats, the neighbors, and random people in the street.</p><p>We'd decided, after that year together, to split up the apartment.Two friends were moving in with each other, my former lover was planning a move to an internship in the midwest, and I reviewed classifed ads and flyers seeking seeking a place to live. After four interviews with the women living there, I was happy to move into a two story house in Cambridge, just a short walk from Fresh Pond and a bike ride to Harvard Square. There, I was able to breathe amid a backyard, and an attic bedroom wiht views of the treetops. </p><p>That helped, as I downloaded each night at work. On March 8, I wrote a list. "Prosititues, drug addicts, bums lying int eh streets, theives discussing napalm, small tiem pretzel vendors, condused kids, violent roommates who throw TVs, isloation within an all night pizza store, young boys with skin problems who couldn't hold down a job, gay hustlers, the life that, at times, I cannot fathom." </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQAaR7n-Ptj4g8m0rAn05zaEvnQ0-YOQfpWQd85xhhAWadqcg8bBIQNiYDQvPJj5RQzgrhGLhntMJZ3hDB7d4z5rkKVlSbCy15L4xrGk7it8P2YGiLvTZDOAz0yhoQ-jwgQBTkJYUKNou5FPWIIhToQvyC9nbphHtC3h2hTK6gDLN174vJH399FZtaJkn5/s4032/20231126_121533.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQAaR7n-Ptj4g8m0rAn05zaEvnQ0-YOQfpWQd85xhhAWadqcg8bBIQNiYDQvPJj5RQzgrhGLhntMJZ3hDB7d4z5rkKVlSbCy15L4xrGk7it8P2YGiLvTZDOAz0yhoQ-jwgQBTkJYUKNou5FPWIIhToQvyC9nbphHtC3h2hTK6gDLN174vJH399FZtaJkn5/s320/20231126_121533.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>Part of the job was driving around a rebuilt Winnebago that was intended to deliver medical services through a couple of exam rooms. Getting into the garage at night from North Station was an adventure, something I still have nightmares about. </p><p>In the middle of this journal was a weeklong Outward Bound canoe trip in the Adirondacks. I felt a glimpse of power there, amid the rain and the ponds and the woods. It was a beginning to recognizing my connections with the natural world. And then I returned to the streets, feeling changed and the same. </p><p>"Today I met a 15-year old drag queen, the potential in the large hulking body with dancing steps. Another pudgy teen, both from Peabody. The queen dragging the boy to BAGLY. Karina got cut again above her left breast. The stitches opened up again, she says she's leaving Joey on Monday for California. Last night, Mark I picked me up in a big hug and swirled me around and around. I think you are the greatest, I love you I love you I love you. This beats getting spit in the face. Mark's friend had just gotten kicked out of the house- he was a small young man with half a t-shirt; taking hormones. </p><p>Ronnie had gotten stabbed a few weeks ago. Keeps getting drunk in the park everyday, as he lifts up his same old t-shirt and says, 'Look I fot the stitches out.' I see a huge scar across his stomach, terrible and dramatic. </p><p>Mucci had a seizure from booting coke. A terrible addiction- to money, drugs, security, that keep these youth imprisoned in destruction. How do you convey that prostitition can destroy everything you have, because it feeds on your self esteem. The women pretend, but they still say, 'I feel guilty when I see you.' I feel so much of the endless cycle of abuse. Janet "Ma" holding her daughter's child, when only a baby herself. Homeless at 13. You feel as thoough your prescence, your commitment, your way of walking down the street makes one kid thing- then the pain that you see and the you know you can't cure, will somehow be lessened through the levels of streetwork. How to get more in-depth about issues is not making a concious effort to change the way you are, but letting things happen.</p><p>Timmy Flynn, very short, always drunk. Knows he can get away with so much, because of his stature. He says to a passerby, 'Mistah, can you help me out, out the door, out the window, whatever! I'm going to drop my pants, see? I'm doing it, I know you want to see. Ha ha I'm wearing shorts. Giggling. My parents, they planned me. I wasn't no mistake, no sah. If they really wanted me, they wouldn't let me live like this.' "</p><p>Through the year, I find myself being tired of listening all the time. In hindsight, re-reading, I realize how hard this job must have been for me as an introvert. I was writing of my own addiction to sugar, trying to keep myself balanced. By the end of the year, I was making a commitment to therapy. There were conflicts around this, articulating my goals:</p><p>"Feeling more like a centered, confident woman. Many things will arise from this: self esteem, ability to make friends more easily, and become intimate. Open myself up- honestly- to others. I do this already,, but feel a sense of secrecy about my true emotions. </p><p>Reduce the emotional obstacles that prevent me from meeting new people, achiveing sucess, and becoming a more creative person. </p><p>Feel a sense of peace aobut my role in the world. My work the potential for social change, the balance with nature, and my sexuality. </p><p>DISCIPLINE- eating, writing, finding freedom. </p><p>In three words: Search (dig), confront (hit a rock), resolve (strain until the rock is released and I can clear the land for farming.)"</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6rzpTh2bAdGqYs9jRWshAqqMiu_Fh2eJkTNkzpkYLA8ud7bZJJH-SPcFBrDy6GGivdG4GWzlVtLSpr24_ooLLwhs0w0BQDok8lMnyhMy7sKkwIqu3S0of0etYJMI_xy1W5c9QI5fpgZnd5nttjVVP9R0fls0us3GOnPhUr-i5NikvM2sXSXn8Q3NvQ0ni/s4032/20231126_121520.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6rzpTh2bAdGqYs9jRWshAqqMiu_Fh2eJkTNkzpkYLA8ud7bZJJH-SPcFBrDy6GGivdG4GWzlVtLSpr24_ooLLwhs0w0BQDok8lMnyhMy7sKkwIqu3S0of0etYJMI_xy1W5c9QI5fpgZnd5nttjVVP9R0fls0us3GOnPhUr-i5NikvM2sXSXn8Q3NvQ0ni/s320/20231126_121520.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b>Epilogue</b><div>After I published this post, I found another journal that detailed a scary incident with a client. "Ann" had developed a serious obsession with me, following me around, continually approaching me, and leaving love notes at the office. One night, she followed me in a car while I was working the ewbuilt RV medical van. She wouldn't leave me alone. She was drunk, unpredictable and unstable. My streetworker teammate tried also, but she was relentless. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since I was driving, I made a decision to send the volunteers home and took the van back to the North End garage, which entailed backing into a parking space. She pulled her car in so I couldn't park it. Fortunately, a colleague showed up and tried to talk her down. Got her to leave (not before she crashed into a piling) and I left for home, wracked. The conclusion from the leadership- it was my fault for losing control of the situation and I shouldn't have brought the van in early. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'd forgotten about this, completely. Part of me wondered if I wanted to relive it again. But I had little emotional memory about that particular incident. It was just one int he stream of trauma, abuse, pain, and violence that I saw daily. It was one chink of the armor of why I was doing this job, and why I began to think I should leave. <br /><p></p><p><br /></p></div>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-68712487019668876642023-10-29T06:58:00.002-07:002023-10-29T07:08:18.000-07:00Journey of Old Journals: 1984- 1985<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhohmynDgucFbXUNuDQB-zl1Emewz7RCtuTqw2-p7FU8YVSWcGBN877j8jrAASdJxuvYEaJYvwSiPKgAkKQH_2JduNylrVReqoNcgIV4U0BNXNU3vappCKxGk6z3h3YctygteXbMEBPCvgTQp1sUQWs0mmXEVFSUNiq069jogHV4yvGgOrixlsyzlwAxY9j/s4032/20231022_132953.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhohmynDgucFbXUNuDQB-zl1Emewz7RCtuTqw2-p7FU8YVSWcGBN877j8jrAASdJxuvYEaJYvwSiPKgAkKQH_2JduNylrVReqoNcgIV4U0BNXNU3vappCKxGk6z3h3YctygteXbMEBPCvgTQp1sUQWs0mmXEVFSUNiq069jogHV4yvGgOrixlsyzlwAxY9j/s320/20231022_132953.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>I started this journal by mentioning the "countdown to Seneca", the <a href="http://peacecampherstory.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Women's Encampment for Peace and Justice</a>, a righteous collection of women forging a new path to peace at the Seneca Army Depot. "It was a good feeling to come alone, to set up my tent. I feel like I've entered something important a year after it was first founded." I wrote of the feminist process, discussions that I felt went nowhere but reached a far more satisfactory goal. I noted that the women weren't interested in engaging (visitor fatigue in hindsight) and knew I should have stayed longer than a couple of days. But I commented to myself that I was brave to go alone. </p><p>And alone, I ventured to Boston, getting there in advance while G and J drove the van down. I wrote, being perturbed that they "broke down" on the way, a happenstance in the location where G's new lover lived. I got the keys to the new apartment and tried to make the best of it. My high school friend helped me rent a carpet cleaner from the local supermarket. But when G and J arrived, my housemates collectively freaked out. It was a blur, but I'd seen another ad in the local newspaper for a place in Jamaica Plain. Old, clean, hardwood floors, and cheap. So we were able to move there. </p><p>Tension living with G, she wanted to return to our past amid all this change. I was looking forward: to new friends, a job. Copying and delivering the resumes around town. Community organizing jobs, something meaningful. I had two interviews with Bridge Over Troubled Waters, which I was fairly sure I'd get the job, and then "failed at my own great expectations" when I didn't. I took the offer as an intake worker for ABCD. That job, at the desk, involved a new slew of characters in my world. The stories were mindblowing for my suburban mind. A deaf Chinese woman who did not speak English and sought services. An elderly man spitting on me as he was seeking a flu shot, with hairs growing from his nose and ears that reminded me of a sea urchin. It was an urban adventure, back in the day when Jamaica Plain was gritty and real. </p><p>Through this, I still took notes on the books I read, May Sarton, Kinds of Love. "Was growing old a matter of learning to close doors on the unbearable?" </p><p>Sketched out more embroidery pieces (now long gone), dreamed of dresses for my new sewing machine. Dealt with the realities of sharing a space with former intimates, cockroaches on the toothbrush in the middle of the night, and sounds of violence in the city. Found a new lover, who was too clingy and gushy for my taste and eventually left for a trip to India. Bridge offered me the job and I started working second shifts. I began my search for a new place to live. </p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-68717497945394374202023-01-14T10:04:00.000-08:002023-01-14T10:04:35.264-08:002022 Year in Review<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdMqzPSSJCNQaSQcQpslvL6mhq-MLcbcMFIBK_GhXqQ3lW07L9HiQZVqhSWbMP6O692gLq2aL-p4oB2W8UXblN3eMlTX0Hwn617pc5kiX6I0AKUD-Qlap4mJNVQu1jvqJZ7J18HLN6Gc0sMw9q2EV3-nKcQK2cDkw2ZnHJGN1WPfMLFS4zkXZLGjTBkw/s4285/Year%20in%20Review%202022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4285" data-original-width="3375" height="690" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdMqzPSSJCNQaSQcQpslvL6mhq-MLcbcMFIBK_GhXqQ3lW07L9HiQZVqhSWbMP6O692gLq2aL-p4oB2W8UXblN3eMlTX0Hwn617pc5kiX6I0AKUD-Qlap4mJNVQu1jvqJZ7J18HLN6Gc0sMw9q2EV3-nKcQK2cDkw2ZnHJGN1WPfMLFS4zkXZLGjTBkw/w543-h690/Year%20in%20Review%202022.jpg" width="543" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-13348416614620647712022-08-07T07:40:00.012-07:002023-10-29T07:07:12.646-07:00Journey of Old Journals: 1984<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLAl8e8Gwn0ieLwLZDlOCFD_ZWJWPyVXNzRXhHTTxUoWQb7822i2vTh3a9k5-Sb0aC9otsWJjHBgtYsmBLPPUsBi2tSYwtC0bG7qFAGlWMpuT1XDhtbaiHVybe5hQXFcSnzu0pWnk-ZA6QlSu0l7iJ1Yj1Os-2KLgufUCScul-jPUi3HlidIKexFo12g/s4032/20220804_090750.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLAl8e8Gwn0ieLwLZDlOCFD_ZWJWPyVXNzRXhHTTxUoWQb7822i2vTh3a9k5-Sb0aC9otsWJjHBgtYsmBLPPUsBi2tSYwtC0bG7qFAGlWMpuT1XDhtbaiHVybe5hQXFcSnzu0pWnk-ZA6QlSu0l7iJ1Yj1Os-2KLgufUCScul-jPUi3HlidIKexFo12g/w240-h320/20220804_090750.jpg" width="240" /></a></p><p></p><div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">As we open, I’m back in Fredonia, sorting things out with G.
The journal proceeds with thruminations and doubts about why I couldn’t pick up and </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">start </span><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre;">my own life without her.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Questioning myself, the unknowing why of who I was, and the bond that transcended </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">fights, passion, and disagreement. There were nights she was late, arriving with excuses.
I wrote, “Continually, I am disgruntled that my diabetes prevents me from achieving </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">everything I’d like to do, like the Peace Corps or going to an impoverished country and </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">helping the poor.” And a resolution to start “dating my journal,” which only meant </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I added the </span><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre;">dates to mark the passage of time.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">
I remember being very disappointed that G made no effort to meet my parents, noting how</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">unattractive and sullen she appeared at my graduation ceremony. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">We made plans with a group to move to Boston after my application for an internship </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">in Japan </span><span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre;">was denied. I worked on my submission for the Peace Ribbon project. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I worked as a crew chief for the Chautauqua Private Industry Council that summer, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">which I only remembered when I found the business card. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">
<b>Throughout the summer, I read: </b>
Patience and Sarah. Alma Routsong
Mrs. Stevens Hears the Mermaids Singing. May Sarton
The Writer on Her Work, ed. Janet Stanberg
Women Hating, Andrea Dworkin
Silences, Tille Olson
Doris Lessing
Despairwork, Joanna Macy
The Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula LeGuin
Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee
Blue Highways, William Leastheat Moon
Medicine Woman. Lynn Andrews
The Color Purple, Alice Walker
Seven Arrows, Hyemeyohsts Storm
The Politics of Women’s Spirituality, Charlene Spretnak
Adrienne Rich
Witchcraft as Goddess Religion, Starhawk
Les Guerilleres. Monique Wittig
Ariadne's Thread: A Collection of Contemporary Women's Journals, Ed. Lynn Lifshin
The Spiral Dance, Starhawk.
Ultimately, I told G that I was infatuated with a graphic designer who helped me design
a canvas for an embroidered pentacle project, which ended it.
She had no interest in continuing intimacy, and while nothing ever came of the crush
with the recipient, it was the feeling I needed to change the dynamic.
I found solace in a local reservoir where the water rippled in the shade of pines.
I got a tattoo, a yin/yang symbol that I copied from the Tassajara Bread Book.
Through all the travails, I began to get very excited about moving to Boston,
having a support system in place but free to pursue my path.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdhhi3d73RiXVFI8PHzlDx4Jy1OBroZdzWImoXiAixJSogGMVXGREKggdFrZJ7uxBVBnG8U2MQSBkyj1whvVAGBKlr5fdiMiVgL42A7ZDjg2m1P6L1FIvoPTwQjJQ5PyTkIDpeOhiB71j6p2yH3S50VaB1N5i7kllMAQs_XFBjTwg9sAt7yBlrrCy7wg/s4032/20220806_130919.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdhhi3d73RiXVFI8PHzlDx4Jy1OBroZdzWImoXiAixJSogGMVXGREKggdFrZJ7uxBVBnG8U2MQSBkyj1whvVAGBKlr5fdiMiVgL42A7ZDjg2m1P6L1FIvoPTwQjJQ5PyTkIDpeOhiB71j6p2yH3S50VaB1N5i7kllMAQs_XFBjTwg9sAt7yBlrrCy7wg/s320/20220806_130919.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p></p></div>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-21951322620805884182022-08-07T07:33:00.000-07:002022-08-07T07:33:38.640-07:00Journey of Old Journals- 1983<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQzfqYH8lLHbtNej9es7OMFLWKveZe-wkFD6a-S__erYjdAyR7b_K_Y4LnLRph82GOhjklDWFKOPIhS8r9rnkv8giUofHj_zHanAet0IKbc1mCRUlShKAvoDLIBnW8FjEo4ZSp5cOo8ypbni-iBwToEbishqU0zjeLGvMMLvODz5foYMl8T-Yt5T2nRQ/s4032/20220317_073952.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQzfqYH8lLHbtNej9es7OMFLWKveZe-wkFD6a-S__erYjdAyR7b_K_Y4LnLRph82GOhjklDWFKOPIhS8r9rnkv8giUofHj_zHanAet0IKbc1mCRUlShKAvoDLIBnW8FjEo4ZSp5cOo8ypbni-iBwToEbishqU0zjeLGvMMLvODz5foYMl8T-Yt5T2nRQ/s320/20220317_073952.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-8711df5a-7fff-7ae3-cdbd-7372de4b8d2c"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This journal begins on the last day of my summer internship at the New York State Archives, where my main project was to rebox files from SingSing prison from the old to the new acid-free archival boxes. As I would review the contents, I would heft the larger files from the box to see how they began. Inevitably, juvenile petty shenanigans (at 8-13 years) escalated into larger and more serious crimes. I looked at Julius and Ethel Rosenberg's telegrams received before they were executed and marveled over a handmade weapon resembling a circular saw. In the end, I let without anyone saying goodbye; I was not supervised well. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">However, I did a great job on a paper I had to write for the college credit, which explored the nuances of how the dehumanizing elements of the prison system perpetuated the trauma instead of being rehabilitative. I explored the Friends Alternatives to Violence Project and read prison notes from people who were published. I remember leaving my notes in a folder on the grass, losing the details yet being able to reconstruct enough to create an acceptable final product. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I spent time at the </span><a href="http://peacecampherstory.blogspot.com/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">women’s peace encampment in Romulus, New York</span></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, and was fascinated by the culture, bravery, and long, drawn-out discussions about nonviolent action. I also learned you could put a wooden platform beneath a tent and have a bed and dresser inside. I think I went back to Joslin clinic for more education. I remember traveling from Boston to Buffalo on a plane, writing about low blood sugar tears from a missed flight and the saffron-robed Hare Krishnas.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the end, as I returned to school, my love interest at the time had found a new apartment and a new lover. My writing is fueled by betrayal, anger, hanging on, and the complicated approach of staying within a relationship because “monogamy is misogyny.” </span></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I ended with an observation, “I feel like I’m losing my leaves becoming bare, shedding a part of my life which has changed colors, dried out, and shall pass into a different stage.” </span></span></p><br /><br /></span><p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-28552476235745260282022-03-26T14:06:00.002-07:002022-03-26T14:06:40.078-07:002021 Year in Review <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5sRJXBVPk-cN8tTU1GvPePxh4fpFoB0GLtL4p6HvqdUuhMnEEJvnV3tMC0hWAwIZ7FXLvfdpQLHe72gqe4WvOLbCmqinK9EtuVFz-TpFPtjUC251lISCjNhA7kkSd3x7B72q5LzhnGv4k_7jhWTjgHiIl0Q-VQTvz7Lu1k50lzJXfUFU2IK0XmTFx6Q/s3300/Year%20in%20Review%202021-page-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3300" data-original-width="2541" height="756" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5sRJXBVPk-cN8tTU1GvPePxh4fpFoB0GLtL4p6HvqdUuhMnEEJvnV3tMC0hWAwIZ7FXLvfdpQLHe72gqe4WvOLbCmqinK9EtuVFz-TpFPtjUC251lISCjNhA7kkSd3x7B72q5LzhnGv4k_7jhWTjgHiIl0Q-VQTvz7Lu1k50lzJXfUFU2IK0XmTFx6Q/w582-h756/Year%20in%20Review%202021-page-001.jpg" width="582" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-39021466536237762192022-03-06T06:00:00.001-08:002022-03-06T06:00:37.702-08:00Journey of Old Journals- 1983<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEib87wvoOlHDTw0dqolc7KWryPEhrkCK2MJhc3Qs1MK9-4GGA8Uo1GmYa4o353KYpIgO5BRqugCgpOA7hlauIZEctuuOpB0V1-ccVCQNpul4s1hyLr1WEQwKuSORR8ChOb95XsFSbo6qHqMNUp40t1LneyePDCjjFhHGEhQkl-VclIhSQISXFw7pFJD4A=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEib87wvoOlHDTw0dqolc7KWryPEhrkCK2MJhc3Qs1MK9-4GGA8Uo1GmYa4o353KYpIgO5BRqugCgpOA7hlauIZEctuuOpB0V1-ccVCQNpul4s1hyLr1WEQwKuSORR8ChOb95XsFSbo6qHqMNUp40t1LneyePDCjjFhHGEhQkl-VclIhSQISXFw7pFJD4A=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">This was a journal filled with observations and active reading. In the midst of transitions and preparations for my internship in Albany and discussions/arguments with G, I made a list of books in the beginning and set to read my way through them. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">The new roommates, surrounded by a lingering aroma of immature masculinity, made for a very lonely time in the early days of my internship at the New York State Archives. In this new landing spot, I was afraid to disclose any personal information. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I still have a vivid memory of one night, where they were up late, drinking too much and giggling, where I hid out in my room. In the morning, I woke up early, and, as I suspected, there was a sharpie-marker bush of public hair under the skirt of the female mannequin they had in the living room. Thus, I retreated into books, and here are a few salient quotes that I share again. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><u>Anarchism, and Other Essays</u>, Emma Goldman</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">“All that can be done is to plant the seeds of thought whether something vital will develop depends largely on the physicality of the human soil, though the quality of the intellectual seed must not be overlooked.”</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">“In our present pygmy state love is indeed a stranger to most people. Misunderstood and shunned, it rarely takes root; or if it does, it soon withers and dies. Its delicate fiber cannot endure the stress and strain of the daily grind. Its soul is too complex to adjust itself to the slimy wealth of our social fabric. It weeps and moans and suffers with those who have no need of it, yet lack the capacity to rise to love’s summit. Someday women and men will rise, they will reach the mountain peak, they will meet big and strong and free, ready to receive, to partake, and to bask in the golden rays of love. What fancy, what imagination, what poetic genius can foresee... The potentialities of such a force in the life of men and women. If the world is ever to give birth to true companionship and oneness, not marriage, but love will be the parent.”</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><u>The Golden Notebook, </u>Doris Lessing </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">“... you choose to be alone rather than get married for the sake of not being lonely. You're afraid of writing what you think about life, because you might find yourself in an exposed position, you might expose yourself, you might be alone. “</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><u>Wash Us and Comb Us</u>, Barbara Deming, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">“All right,” she said, “a little sand gets into a shell. The pearl is this dirt, this irritation.” She said. “Don't smile. It's out of that which soils us, which irritates us, which rubs – it’s out of evil suffered and understood, that an artist creates.”</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><u>The Wanderground </u>Sally Miller Gearhart</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> “What is the task? To work as if the Earth, the mother, can be saved. To work as if our healings and care we're not too late. Work to say the slayer's hand, helping him to change or helping him to die. Work as if the Earth, the mother, can be saved.”</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHeubdkHEzGz9sLpOKUd9B-_96Xi1VuwLjwcxzSuMtejEUI_pItBWLBb3daDf8FEip2MaURHzFnnisyvCKaQh1TjvheV3Az9ekpDPdgPc9dLpwYWLOmvQ-UTcmPhlf7uCbPRTHEGcYlnxQZfmZiyD7RKt4BmWXNaybq937ab0PHymRKd7F_E7XX_A3eQ=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHeubdkHEzGz9sLpOKUd9B-_96Xi1VuwLjwcxzSuMtejEUI_pItBWLBb3daDf8FEip2MaURHzFnnisyvCKaQh1TjvheV3Az9ekpDPdgPc9dLpwYWLOmvQ-UTcmPhlf7uCbPRTHEGcYlnxQZfmZiyD7RKt4BmWXNaybq937ab0PHymRKd7F_E7XX_A3eQ=s320" width="320" /></span></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-68803815965320429032022-02-22T13:16:00.001-08:002022-03-01T05:14:44.266-08:00Journey of Old Journals- 1983<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiSahM7HOzaeSAeVqoFuoGFoIs--J1lbn2GW-QW7WbedOpI6Wabh9VQQF-56GYrmmqS658hAy6VBO7qll1VRO-7ORt0eQH8XMrnxpa2O7a68AiQ7ZYilB4R6ZbYocCDZ_eadpbhmViaeqp_JU8rEk_S1g7-FAaiJqmZdoJXPfPi9DcmWWk-0YD2TFt2Q=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiSahM7HOzaeSAeVqoFuoGFoIs--J1lbn2GW-QW7WbedOpI6Wabh9VQQF-56GYrmmqS658hAy6VBO7qll1VRO-7ORt0eQH8XMrnxpa2O7a68AiQ7ZYilB4R6ZbYocCDZ_eadpbhmViaeqp_JU8rEk_S1g7-FAaiJqmZdoJXPfPi9DcmWWk-0YD2TFt2Q=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">This journal was a gift. Not my usual style, but I ended up bringing it to training and conferences that fueled my budding activism. during the anti-war movement was escalating in the mid-80s. Regan in office, nuclear weapons escalating, and U.S. military action in El Salvador, Nicaragua, and who knows where else. </span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">The note is partially filled with notes of legalities of select-service, conscientious objection, small tidbits of locations for rallies and the meetings after the rallies, notes, and phone numbers. So instead of being up location for all these “peaceful thoughts”, it ended up being an organizing notebook.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 16px; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Signs I saw in DC</span></span></div></div></div><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">No more genocide in my name.<br /></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">It’s 1983. Do you know where your country is?<br /></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Reagan thinks justice is “just us”.<br /></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Up your arsenal, Pentagon.</span></span></div><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> <span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I also included a short tidbit about a direct action I took at the ROTC military ball in April 1983. I noted the date, which made it a lot easier to reach out to the reference librarian at my alma mater and ask her to send me some images of the day. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilMP32N7T5URNvPJivrdESR8ffCTe19eX-sW4hIc1wIkU7rx-rN-6XfQbQORkTPefAqh_BPhbuKrkK7_70zPqXhIuuYN3ut6vpC_ym2mfVMvID2jGUwoSNXipHd_w_ciwA2n8cEJPexTJJJI2Bk15y_KeI9dpaPTHB8EqirVg8pdcL9FaC34hjiEW4fw=s624" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="443" data-original-width="624" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilMP32N7T5URNvPJivrdESR8ffCTe19eX-sW4hIc1wIkU7rx-rN-6XfQbQORkTPefAqh_BPhbuKrkK7_70zPqXhIuuYN3ut6vpC_ym2mfVMvID2jGUwoSNXipHd_w_ciwA2n8cEJPexTJJJI2Bk15y_KeI9dpaPTHB8EqirVg8pdcL9FaC34hjiEW4fw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAoB-m56scokO6pRiPEuZhFVh3vOt_i0e-_IZPRaq-6P_9fQlGjSW9u0lKahtPCaZleRmD26nTtPgJqjc6H_rlNYY8ZwuoVmLpbmnMgeyzB7DxAuVgm2EQjlaTiW7HTE11NLCT39uS2k8Ousl6GUUr0t3VHcrLFgrzOVtXidEwmpIWS9GJkTUCMNgY9g=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAoB-m56scokO6pRiPEuZhFVh3vOt_i0e-_IZPRaq-6P_9fQlGjSW9u0lKahtPCaZleRmD26nTtPgJqjc6H_rlNYY8ZwuoVmLpbmnMgeyzB7DxAuVgm2EQjlaTiW7HTE11NLCT39uS2k8Ousl6GUUr0t3VHcrLFgrzOVtXidEwmpIWS9GJkTUCMNgY9g=s320" width="240" /></a></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><p></p><div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-82346955152264586792022-02-13T06:01:00.000-08:002022-02-13T06:01:55.609-08:00Journey of Old Journals-1982<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrKCEkb-XDNKJlQiTuhg4jY2N0-6Nqe_Cy-P10I_qzbGzNW9LSuSD7paJbLfUhnYpXi1eIm3LLmlGpEDxREKNE25fbfUjKy-D9xYupHyfBdUg9d0ojTgS4zRwlqKPQHY0DN5j-RPdToLW5sacqCS2GcdpOw94DtV63ptlreyqeWpgRRyk7MojIEn69lQ=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrKCEkb-XDNKJlQiTuhg4jY2N0-6Nqe_Cy-P10I_qzbGzNW9LSuSD7paJbLfUhnYpXi1eIm3LLmlGpEDxREKNE25fbfUjKy-D9xYupHyfBdUg9d0ojTgS4zRwlqKPQHY0DN5j-RPdToLW5sacqCS2GcdpOw94DtV63ptlreyqeWpgRRyk7MojIEn69lQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div> In this journal, I wrote about the disjointed unity of the June 12th rally for nuclear disarmament in 1982. Nearly a million people gathered in Central Park that day. <div><br /></div><div>That sentiment was reinforced by <a href="https://www.armscontrol.org/blog/2018-06-10/fight-continues-reflections-june-12-1982-rally-nuclear-disarmament#:~:text=On%20the%20morning%20of%20June,carrying%20signs%20for%20nuclear%20disarmament.&text=By%20mid%2Dafternoon%2C%20the%20police,an%20end%20to%20nuclear%20weapons." target="_blank">this blog post</a>, which recognized the power of the gathering; the author calls out the intersectionality of poverty, war toys, Latin American foreign policy, and racism.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjilA3bxH-ngT__RoF-xhK73ghoDBkC77D4ifQ-vhQdwvS9tCAKEVBNZJTjfi63jPwkFTwpEwwkrC9CWw_yYhHwlF8UtUmzBUJZ9AuRwTe71lgxl_4xqnDWkHC-mwYOkIwKFBwdd6dAqCsgap97zSP2FzNwDwf2qP5PPvocgnGT5iKp4AS-lmO7o68_2A=s546" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="546" data-original-width="381" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjilA3bxH-ngT__RoF-xhK73ghoDBkC77D4ifQ-vhQdwvS9tCAKEVBNZJTjfi63jPwkFTwpEwwkrC9CWw_yYhHwlF8UtUmzBUJZ9AuRwTe71lgxl_4xqnDWkHC-mwYOkIwKFBwdd6dAqCsgap97zSP2FzNwDwf2qP5PPvocgnGT5iKp4AS-lmO7o68_2A=w222-h320" title="Upwards of one million people demonstrated in New York City's Central Park June 12, 1982 against nuclear weapons and for an end to the cold war arms race. It was the largest anti-nuclear protest in American history. (Photo: WagingNonViolence.org)" width="222" /></a></div><div>Life went on. I wrote about a friend's elderly Siamese cat who bit my bit me right on the nose when I was petting her. After taking the cat to the vet, I expressed concerns to her owner. I could tell the cat was dying and yet the vet was doing marginal “vitamin treatments”, which didn’t appear helpful.</div><div><br /></div><div>I lived in a group house with a number of other students close to campus. I shared a room with a difficult personality, who once watched me create a pile of cooked cookies, delighting in the fact that I didn’t know to put them on a rack to cool. We had other conflicts in our shared room and I sensed her seething anger about what I thought was a stealthy simulation habit I pursued to relax. Truly, I thought she was already asleep herself. Little did I know she was a light sleeper. </div><div><br /></div><div>I came home from college when my grandmother died. I remember being in her room as she passed and the profound regret of not learning more about her life when she was alive. That’s a topic for another post…</div><div><br /></div><div>A professor inspiration to look to dogs for stress management because they were rested and relaxed until the moment they were triggered into action. I’d tucked a mimeographed “How to tell if you are a stress-prone personality” quiz into the journal. My score was off the charts. Dr. Rosalind Forbes’ adapted quiz is <a href="https://www.upi.com/Archives/1981/12/11/Are-You-a-Candidate-for-Burnout-This-Test-Will-Let-You-Know/3444376894800/">here</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEisI2i1ksugE6l0XLCMVtYAwLymsUJkadjRi1yUccVZ2UL67AoSLWDCoDwjtDF9rDd5W6Q3IoXtEYLLyiMHESaNcZt-kdbrcRCxmKXFZrdlzQqj61ucGlRjaPhcXN4kJ_BieVPfoZ9EyMATm5Za906uHW-jyRKO5Gg5htK_FyuI7Fl95DeSjS8wdn5EGA=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEisI2i1ksugE6l0XLCMVtYAwLymsUJkadjRi1yUccVZ2UL67AoSLWDCoDwjtDF9rDd5W6Q3IoXtEYLLyiMHESaNcZt-kdbrcRCxmKXFZrdlzQqj61ucGlRjaPhcXN4kJ_BieVPfoZ9EyMATm5Za906uHW-jyRKO5Gg5htK_FyuI7Fl95DeSjS8wdn5EGA=s320" width="240" /></a>I think I was taking a creative writing class and had a lot of angst about not having any ideas for stories. I was surrounded by creative people, yet felt completely disabled in forming worlds in my own mind. Again writing about all the internal machinations, not directing it into the creation of new work.</div><div><br /></div><div>Falling in with the lesbian posse, I found a group to belong to and it was only a question of time before relationships became intimate. In my “practice letters”, I referred to one lover as a perfect pine cone, then became increasingly disenchanted as she burned dinner while she was passed out from drinking. I was getting feedback from the others that this wasn’t a good idea, but I couldn't let go for a while. My friends were chagrined, as I think they knew that she had been double-timing me. I remember I wrote about being very excited to be alone again. That's where I felt comfortable</div><div><br /></div><div>The journal ends with moving in with G. We shook on the deal not to sleep with each other when we lived together. Weeks later, there were continued overtures. Our house was way out of town, cheap and cold. We moved in on January 1st, 1983. The son of the recently passed mother lived downstairs. He showed me how to use a microwave, a novel technology at the time. A young Welsh woman on work-study stayed with us for a semester which forced the issue of sharing a bed. On a beautiful spring day, I begged off staying in bed and instead went out to the gardens that were alongside the house and cleared off old leaves. The bulbs were emerging, as they do. The elderly neighbors next door were excited. neighbors were so excited. They brought me in for a cup of tea, the calendar on the wall reflecting the local feed store, and crocheted dishcloths the likes of which I hadn’t seen before. </div><div><br /></div><div>In hindsight, I don't remember what the blossoms looked like from the garden. I remember a horrific lung infection and coughing. G made an onion poultice for my chest, continuing to push for a relationship when really I wanted to be left alone.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdqMBTKDZfq1GoWkXhUb12TIA0Smg5pExaCCRbU4N0zD7v3mmHocJtKAgL0FIMVmwn8h-JeYwWfwfrULs5pFUJ5oOLF_xmQK7o1l-G3iQ6HIgWMdh0dIVlSqNMySgdcoQGmRJWqf-3blu_QGKkGlDSFVlCpeCMPN95OZM5CLj728uTFNrIsazliQi2LA=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdqMBTKDZfq1GoWkXhUb12TIA0Smg5pExaCCRbU4N0zD7v3mmHocJtKAgL0FIMVmwn8h-JeYwWfwfrULs5pFUJ5oOLF_xmQK7o1l-G3iQ6HIgWMdh0dIVlSqNMySgdcoQGmRJWqf-3blu_QGKkGlDSFVlCpeCMPN95OZM5CLj728uTFNrIsazliQi2LA=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEib4yrSI38FWmuIkzIlT5dLa2JUf_5mK-iqIZ2iVy-WQhgNxXT-RS4wVoOVZNe39_Dr_gYEMqbdrhV51vFzNjWOGjegdGJdDdoYj8pnM1uY7V-KaxrWz0REsWwI4_0aC7HOhUaC7T1AUycs72UDUFiSIiMN5LvSc1569Tg0gKZUJurGwcavRNjcrf0qlA=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEib4yrSI38FWmuIkzIlT5dLa2JUf_5mK-iqIZ2iVy-WQhgNxXT-RS4wVoOVZNe39_Dr_gYEMqbdrhV51vFzNjWOGjegdGJdDdoYj8pnM1uY7V-KaxrWz0REsWwI4_0aC7HOhUaC7T1AUycs72UDUFiSIiMN5LvSc1569Tg0gKZUJurGwcavRNjcrf0qlA=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHp1O0qt5llvlQWAMOiEvh6OncoLTv4qTAa8d6EtP1OI0fmOVCv1FkStXUO-VGQO-KQ1x0vvk43ieJyhd1k3oH5zJRU94yEt8_aeo0JB99SiWywi-qXD_KnZfmKWtP5_aqVeDO-Zx_vZxtt4rv5vi5yw9QVKhCeTusaXgr2rU--IZ2jzwNeCubOIbgyw=s4032" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHp1O0qt5llvlQWAMOiEvh6OncoLTv4qTAa8d6EtP1OI0fmOVCv1FkStXUO-VGQO-KQ1x0vvk43ieJyhd1k3oH5zJRU94yEt8_aeo0JB99SiWywi-qXD_KnZfmKWtP5_aqVeDO-Zx_vZxtt4rv5vi5yw9QVKhCeTusaXgr2rU--IZ2jzwNeCubOIbgyw=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My love of flow charts!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-85706110161815240542022-02-06T08:01:00.000-08:002022-02-06T08:01:48.285-08:00Journey of Old Journals-1982 <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioPZ-H4aQ-PYdj5oYtFM9h4LUXhWFsfTL2YRTaAAx7yIxxwbhBaCoBMaQ8Yiaeg5tU2sBEmv8tB0y_7wU6sY1bDOdBLgNBG-JfrVbWq7wuNzcEHJDqHkGMMYVfE1mQh_3kRQSmR_KvJqViWHHERvsNjPwTzSQSWNO6OfnsqcFKUN4mWyQ3Kk2ccCiiEw=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioPZ-H4aQ-PYdj5oYtFM9h4LUXhWFsfTL2YRTaAAx7yIxxwbhBaCoBMaQ8Yiaeg5tU2sBEmv8tB0y_7wU6sY1bDOdBLgNBG-JfrVbWq7wuNzcEHJDqHkGMMYVfE1mQh_3kRQSmR_KvJqViWHHERvsNjPwTzSQSWNO6OfnsqcFKUN4mWyQ3Kk2ccCiiEw=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I didn't put dates in this journal ~except for the first page at the beginning and the last page at the end. This rambling discombobulated notebook doesn’t contain a lot of strong sentences of time and place, instead more internal musings and recycled poetry themes. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br />However, it became clear at this point that I was using the journal for my own best friend, a practice that remains true to this day. This new format also facilitated some more flow. There's a page where I gush on and on about the ability to just free write on anything. I wrote about what was happening In my mind, not what was happening in the world.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br />Here are a few things that happened during this time:</span><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I became increasingly concerned and “radicalized” around the issue of Mutually Assured Destruction, which was the banter of the military justification at the time.</span></li></ul></div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I supported the World Peace March as the group traveled through Buffalo and Fredonia. What I didn't write about, but remember vividly, was the very strong proposition from one of the young men in the group. He did his best to entice me into a wild field clear we could just get it on. his hips vibrated wildly in desperation. It felt pathetic. </span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I was coming out as a lesbian and fell in love with H. New emotions, intensity, navigating an unfamiliar path. I also felt accepted and part of a group, the first time since my party-buddies in High School.</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I wrote about being away for the weekend with the gal team and coming back to find obscenities written on my dorm door.</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">An across the hall dorm neighbor stole a couple of my syringes for drugs. I have lots of letters from her, too. We were close for most of college and a couple of years after. </span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I moved off-campus for the summer~ I didn't return to Poughkeepsie for the first time in my life. I found a job working with my buddies on a vineyard In Western New York where I trimmed overgrown grapevines grown for the Welch brand amid asparagus gone to seed and the miracle of ladybugs piled on top of each other, everywhere. </span></li></ul><p></p><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2EC6rmAOZDckyLO6faSFJM6ResNz5ZB9oZ_fxgc3bwQQOz1HOHacQgqY9rI9U9U0jghbRmRWxdeDfDxy4W-bH5e7vY9QlEu1pY6lYvMw_VhBh1KAkBPKJ9vUT1PZwOlsEGbtbCJQpKKT8ngBuDMz3nsC6MCe06NcAiBebiVju5s1y24Hac1rP0j3qxg=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2EC6rmAOZDckyLO6faSFJM6ResNz5ZB9oZ_fxgc3bwQQOz1HOHacQgqY9rI9U9U0jghbRmRWxdeDfDxy4W-bH5e7vY9QlEu1pY6lYvMw_VhBh1KAkBPKJ9vUT1PZwOlsEGbtbCJQpKKT8ngBuDMz3nsC6MCe06NcAiBebiVju5s1y24Hac1rP0j3qxg=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzb24GFOWOwh-0KEhDPrA8FR6ZBHM0fIsOwi8GRwlAhEvBNvSEtb6ii8enLP4byXQxrEWX7QKLqVPoqyE_uSyuQiepYj43J9jGC_IE7nrX7YAB4nJznzcUdGrqRe5YQkbv5aSV-ac7I9s6Tx5U9XJo_f5jySyNtbLqX0Ks6t2tQOMII-Ka2ZFCJuwgcA=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzb24GFOWOwh-0KEhDPrA8FR6ZBHM0fIsOwi8GRwlAhEvBNvSEtb6ii8enLP4byXQxrEWX7QKLqVPoqyE_uSyuQiepYj43J9jGC_IE7nrX7YAB4nJznzcUdGrqRe5YQkbv5aSV-ac7I9s6Tx5U9XJo_f5jySyNtbLqX0Ks6t2tQOMII-Ka2ZFCJuwgcA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-28789025929667844932022-01-16T12:00:00.000-08:002022-01-16T12:00:17.688-08:00Journey of Old Journals- 1981?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgDRvf5sZnGejpICZd2hTAhrO5HUo-cw6nDqb37QnS5eTE6-nqhO1FfFyYYlif-2pKQW2of0dmAbfX2kdnLfzsKTtzbURKjVyd5o2iliHXjNkQv8uKtTmcmDsHdV2eo4ZfJtfR0McAoGO_KoPmfTL9eBMkr_7l5dHYM1j7sOo4p9g6LEpsWSykdaX4McQ=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgDRvf5sZnGejpICZd2hTAhrO5HUo-cw6nDqb37QnS5eTE6-nqhO1FfFyYYlif-2pKQW2of0dmAbfX2kdnLfzsKTtzbURKjVyd5o2iliHXjNkQv8uKtTmcmDsHdV2eo4ZfJtfR0McAoGO_KoPmfTL9eBMkr_7l5dHYM1j7sOo4p9g6LEpsWSykdaX4McQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span id="docs-internal-guid-8403ef36-7fff-5672-a25c-902d8df68f2e"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This journal was an assignment for a "women in literature" class; the professor directed us to read and respond to the text we were reading at the time. </span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In hindsight, I can see my beginning as a feminist and as an advocate for peace. I remembered a detail– I’d put effort into setting up Draft Counseling Center on campus, resurrected when the registration requirement resumed in 1980. </span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wondered if children could write poetry on an LCD screen.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wrote about my mother, who worked so hard in her first term at Community College. She received a D+ on her first term paper. Mom did her homework at the kitchen table. The phone rang, the dog scratched to go out, J asks where his jeans are and B </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">returns from a liaison with her boyfriend. The phone rings again, and dad asks a monetary question. Mom thinks about what to have for dinner, about tomorrow's errands, the dog's vet appointment, and her mind drifts back to the empty page. Her letters are rushed, I observed and thought to myself that she deserved a desk and a room of her own. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">During a discussion of the Sapphic meter, my Latin teacher asked the class what female poets were called. “They are poets,'' I replied and elaborated that it was there was no use in using a diminutive term for those of the female gender. My classmates thought I was radical. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjeT8zSZB7Psw_PQ5tFcn2LLoBP4D5EwsivIBUAiHBIwWof39Q0-uBPjwLZhNfNfurVlTN2k8amTYsOzSAWKFH1pUZ4N9NlNlYgbEf8pZJk0MxTOkNMcsTApy6e8Tmu-aTRSlwIB4pDkbq1YEvjwFzAYLNyHcWAt-fA6i-8tkharrb3lZqgMKmG-SDEA=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: times;"><img alt="typewritten poem" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjeT8zSZB7Psw_PQ5tFcn2LLoBP4D5EwsivIBUAiHBIwWof39Q0-uBPjwLZhNfNfurVlTN2k8amTYsOzSAWKFH1pUZ4N9NlNlYgbEf8pZJk0MxTOkNMcsTApy6e8Tmu-aTRSlwIB4pDkbq1YEvjwFzAYLNyHcWAt-fA6i-8tkharrb3lZqgMKmG-SDEA=w300-h400" width="300" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><p></p><br /></span><p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-61430784925759173422021-12-30T11:19:00.000-08:002021-12-30T11:19:11.295-08:00Journey of Old Journals- 1981<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFgAg4q2yVO9lbQYSszoxrmlVtmNGqSU0VavHnkZFEBG5vBlfg10Xq8oEe2zIDYCO4JDj9swpw2RiYtBFCXp8oq74ZPwHY7qtphv__Bil29UJGMEVGFBvVPdVi1Z9Q8mUs_XCbf757Uc3eRXkZ7cZTmoX51H7atP5jGZmvhNHGgyxgpDH_0noTsfHbeQ=s4032" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFgAg4q2yVO9lbQYSszoxrmlVtmNGqSU0VavHnkZFEBG5vBlfg10Xq8oEe2zIDYCO4JDj9swpw2RiYtBFCXp8oq74ZPwHY7qtphv__Bil29UJGMEVGFBvVPdVi1Z9Q8mUs_XCbf757Uc3eRXkZ7cZTmoX51H7atP5jGZmvhNHGgyxgpDH_0noTsfHbeQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div>Beginning in the second semester of my freshman year, I begin to hit my stride. I'm getting great feedback from professors, classes are resonating, and I'm feeling the groove on the college experience. <p></p><p>Conflicts persist with my freshman roommate, Barbara, who irons for relaxation. Pressing underwear and t-shirts fills her time when she isn't occupied with her boyfriend. She confesses to me that she'll never be without a man. Then, she kicks me out of the dorm room when she needed private time with the current one. </p><p>The journal contains a few notes written on the eve of my sister's birthday, sharing my story of the time I let go of my younger brother while we were twirling around in anticipation of her party. The story begins with me at the core, spinning my brother around with outstretched arms, our laugher as his feet leave the floor. Energy abounds. </p><p>The doorbell rang, and for a second my attention drifted, then I released him into a very large ground floor window. I hear the breaking glass, the screams of his 5-year-old self, his head hanging there. The shards cut my fingers as I got him loose. B yells at me for ruining everything, and mom is calling the emergency room, and then reaching all of the parents of the invitees telling them not to come. I'm given a cold washcloth and told to press it to his forehead. Blood drips on the floor the drops extending like sun rays. After my mom drives to the emergency room, I stand in the driveway to tell all the mothers that the party is off. 16 stitches, a Frankenstein-like scar on his forehead, and me still carrying this with me, still, 50 years later. </p><p>I wrote of other traumas of the past and even those that occurred in the months of this journal. These, I am not ready to share here. I saved the pages, however, to sit with at a later time. </p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-7995623363815601072021-12-29T12:36:00.005-08:002022-01-01T12:41:06.566-08:00December<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwmw9kwfS2gOfZhaS6OngHvq-6elA_4xjTf-KMSpF6tmFclnQ9DKifcVf8QXzWwAN5WuUzZqK85ZEJhf9h27BCpYQkbRTDvoaM2WEEz0PpC1E4vZwFiNrTPV_z8eofLFwuPujlMdnwZ8kbdMAdMnFveoWFL1v-z8nKwKgJAK3_9HvUKefUp-Zt9BpuXA=s1612" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1275" data-original-width="1612" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwmw9kwfS2gOfZhaS6OngHvq-6elA_4xjTf-KMSpF6tmFclnQ9DKifcVf8QXzWwAN5WuUzZqK85ZEJhf9h27BCpYQkbRTDvoaM2WEEz0PpC1E4vZwFiNrTPV_z8eofLFwuPujlMdnwZ8kbdMAdMnFveoWFL1v-z8nKwKgJAK3_9HvUKefUp-Zt9BpuXA=w571-h450" width="571" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-75968839818333662982021-12-27T05:49:00.000-08:002021-12-27T05:49:30.185-08:00Journey of Old Journals: Nov-Jan 1981<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgeGpVAIKyuJ57CXMUOUpj2ksXUneNIVbhsjHi6bp5KDe7IbXDY7yHQVzpbhYXtDBchnFhpk-hPICFFZce923i_8wcpr2fcQks8mMBgtklVDP1FWsCfDwoC2PxmIctPfp54icIf-0sqCYjiWUKsZd9h-6-DQHXMIxqs5nxP2-iN8lIu5kKaAyt5miM9Q=s4032" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgeGpVAIKyuJ57CXMUOUpj2ksXUneNIVbhsjHi6bp5KDe7IbXDY7yHQVzpbhYXtDBchnFhpk-hPICFFZce923i_8wcpr2fcQks8mMBgtklVDP1FWsCfDwoC2PxmIctPfp54icIf-0sqCYjiWUKsZd9h-6-DQHXMIxqs5nxP2-iN8lIu5kKaAyt5miM9Q=w166-h221" width="166" /></a></div> This journal begins with Halloween reflections of a party where I went in costume, drank too much, and ended up coming home without very specific memories of what happened, except for a discussion with a Sheik in an Arco suit. <p></p><p>I wrote a letter to the teacher of a drawing class. I thought it would be fun to try art and see what would happen. Shortly after buying all the expensive supplies, I realized I was completely and totally out of my league. I'd gotten a C- on my poetry paper the previous day. The professor said, "look at what you did wrong" and laughed. I felt humiliated, inconsequential, and a bother from the others who were more worthy. I knew I wasn't as good as the other students, who were likely taking the required course for the rest of their art degrees. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I wrote of my volunteer work with the Help Service, a phone hotline open to the community, and made new friends. Now, I remember that we often killed time by flipping pencils into the ceiling tiles. As the Thanksgiving holidays approached, I began to write more of my connections to the friends back home. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We were a rambunctious bunch, heady in the days of ample access to marijuana, alcohol, and other drugs. There was a group of boys that I would meet at the train tracks down by the Hudson River. We would meet for beer, bonfires, guitars, and bad singing. Often, I was the only female. There was a fellow that was particularly sweet on me and I still have the beautiful wooden lap desk box he made for me. The group dynamics got complicated after I left for college (poor decisions when I returned home on breaks), and one particularly hilarious moment of car-necking when my knee hit a button on the radio and a radio host proclaimed, "Jesus died for your sins" and both of us collapsed into laugher.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The journal ends with narrating a near-miss accident with my family on a dark winter highway on the way home from Maine. A car in front of us skidded on the ice, around and around, and crashed into the guard rail in front of us. As I contemplated the eventuality of death, I wrote a letter to my friends to be read at my funeral. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>"All I ask of you is ~when the summer nights are clear and the fire glows anew with another log~ that you sing those songs louder for me. Friendship has always been a very important to me. The solace of your voices drifting up into the night with the flames will tell me that you think of me and the past times, however good or bad. I've always thought that one could anything when another human loves you. When I'm gone, all I ask is that you smile and remember that you always crash land at reality airport. The river spirit flows on." </i></div></blockquote><p>And, in the final pages of the notebook dated early 1981, grumbling about my college roommate, I wrote, <i>"I think I'll be a plant always looking for a pot, transplanted from home, adjustment periods, growing by still lacking real root space." </i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiTp3p1T42lh8OA0yvNxy0YXnRiif9ku6yrwuZMpeYi4BIU37G-QSp37FftZyBtgaD-qkz-UvcOkqosHC45pvnBq7Fl4OSFQefnEoPQA6Ha4UuD0WuHI3mBSdQANMYcnmkodRfkB9ptjKF7Do4_J-1813r7uNq5Eu273QaTXN-Ay8KPqHw2m9TVYCIWw=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiTp3p1T42lh8OA0yvNxy0YXnRiif9ku6yrwuZMpeYi4BIU37G-QSp37FftZyBtgaD-qkz-UvcOkqosHC45pvnBq7Fl4OSFQefnEoPQA6Ha4UuD0WuHI3mBSdQANMYcnmkodRfkB9ptjKF7Do4_J-1813r7uNq5Eu273QaTXN-Ay8KPqHw2m9TVYCIWw=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I enrolled in W.S.I anyway. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><i><br /></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><br /></p><br /><p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-70299278579236383652021-12-18T05:59:00.002-08:002022-03-01T05:19:45.548-08:00Journey of Old Journals-1981<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYTfRlMiFrQfBwJWSpKgc3DSGFKd4eD8GmuwDFFIy9__xD98Z65e9AiXOSVGCfzjemlGpiwAYqBtrX5FlIvbYx8T_5r_iCCBammtIxBG2rzi_c2g5tlE_1P9i8dIwRqDqr80udcOCN8nydPfCFodnQpq8two-esnri7pNq-EC7sRyz06nZkz3IoG8feQ=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYTfRlMiFrQfBwJWSpKgc3DSGFKd4eD8GmuwDFFIy9__xD98Z65e9AiXOSVGCfzjemlGpiwAYqBtrX5FlIvbYx8T_5r_iCCBammtIxBG2rzi_c2g5tlE_1P9i8dIwRqDqr80udcOCN8nydPfCFodnQpq8two-esnri7pNq-EC7sRyz06nZkz3IoG8feQ=w150-h200" width="150" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Not much to see here folks. another year early in college as I was navigating through a new identity. I drank too much. I had a bad trip. There were a lot of internal ramblings. One of the telling gleanings from this journal is remembering A. I met when visiting a friend in Plattsburgh.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Something clicked, or at least I had an opportunity to experience intimacy and jumped on it. Andrew wore a colostomy bag. It didn't bother me; it was just something to work around. And as a diabetic, I felt like this was part of the “isn’t this interesting” experience. I had no judgment. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I remember that he lived in a log cabin in the woods. His house was cold with the living area heated by a wood stove. His bed had many quilts on it, and I was surrounded by the peace of the mountains for a few days. This was a very special experience as it happened, a glimpse and moment of time, nothing more. I created a love poem filled with images of the night sky and stars, of breezes and delicacy. “You are my north star”, I wrote.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">He continued to think there would be an ongoing relationship. I thought there might be something if he had mustered up and slowed down, but then the entreatments were offputting. I may have created a hole he hadn't known existed before, and now he sought more to fill what wasn’t there. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">After he wrote me yet another letter, I wrote a break-up poem. It was brutal. ‘He was just a sensitive worm unaccustomed to sunshine. Therefore he got burned. I don't care anymore but I would have liked to see the infatuation of a few mountain days fade into a black night from pink purple sunset clouds. The Stars wink reminding me of the dreams you had. Don't try to be my friend, former lover, you're joblessly sinking like your bank account.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Later, I made a note. My friend’s friend, whose brother I’d hooked up with, told me that I’d broken his heart. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><i><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">“The writers’ task is to take one thing and make it stand for twenty.” ~Virginia Woolf</span></i></b></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsRkNKDcMt6kH4wZL4hiYk-7v3VIu214dE0OaIkv-k5fMpsx1qv7aCVNqyPCu36-Wi9gO1BddN3ZLHZk5QOfH1e-Wwn1T2RSZid_7qDHaSS04xlz7HGiVmJy_BVXeWIDcznEiHntIEFyvwWwpX6sd1bbYhG3_4MpSCKSBKGVLKbd326TXCE5NkS_c1jQ=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsRkNKDcMt6kH4wZL4hiYk-7v3VIu214dE0OaIkv-k5fMpsx1qv7aCVNqyPCu36-Wi9gO1BddN3ZLHZk5QOfH1e-Wwn1T2RSZid_7qDHaSS04xlz7HGiVmJy_BVXeWIDcznEiHntIEFyvwWwpX6sd1bbYhG3_4MpSCKSBKGVLKbd326TXCE5NkS_c1jQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhU8xhbH2OfGEK3VOoKE4xVMWw3HtfV-mAzets_E85AithXb2TP39TwEU3BFD1Kz3rxJeeIHzWFyCUyUgwf9JPQ7RmlWTc3klBdnUop7Wv5c3jsSsnWIOVA9tmU0IPLTg9g6pmkcW_VxRnQbgNPkPCUNuK1gHkwcXSL3BbS76F8BqDDqKfrwKb2Qdwh9Q=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhU8xhbH2OfGEK3VOoKE4xVMWw3HtfV-mAzets_E85AithXb2TP39TwEU3BFD1Kz3rxJeeIHzWFyCUyUgwf9JPQ7RmlWTc3klBdnUop7Wv5c3jsSsnWIOVA9tmU0IPLTg9g6pmkcW_VxRnQbgNPkPCUNuK1gHkwcXSL3BbS76F8BqDDqKfrwKb2Qdwh9Q=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-90725008392536803602021-11-30T15:53:00.001-08:002021-12-18T16:01:47.888-08:00November<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnXgdOMDv-XabGBC11Mgg_n6y7StYdn7aBzaLEshSq0tVDaKljqoOfRRCqTDbvj5hwyKGHkwAxfaNsp8gxsEVkYSN1eJ8D6cPxiaa-9SXU3XpbeD0wTuUi0vaImMO_36Y9I0OkqnOKYZqlVvi2Powc8aklU66NwZel-hJQI8F8ybmJtfzVvrKE5lCkhA=s764" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="594" data-original-width="764" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjnXgdOMDv-XabGBC11Mgg_n6y7StYdn7aBzaLEshSq0tVDaKljqoOfRRCqTDbvj5hwyKGHkwAxfaNsp8gxsEVkYSN1eJ8D6cPxiaa-9SXU3XpbeD0wTuUi0vaImMO_36Y9I0OkqnOKYZqlVvi2Powc8aklU66NwZel-hJQI8F8ybmJtfzVvrKE5lCkhA=w559-h436" width="559" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-35657525831163746712021-11-28T07:05:00.004-08:002023-11-26T11:57:27.191-08:00Journey of Old Journals: 1980 <div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmDu6RjEBAoRgGQePWj56Ql8YF3fOpjxeMKvm0dQQYtxbJOR8wEeZ_KflnKflqeXJUVzeo5pgqznjcJbfDPYa8LF5VGjtL-8y6m-ZKe6_bT7TkKH-AK6T_xQXW6BvrNKOHkP7IBqNG72_S/s4032/20211126_082744.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmDu6RjEBAoRgGQePWj56Ql8YF3fOpjxeMKvm0dQQYtxbJOR8wEeZ_KflnKflqeXJUVzeo5pgqznjcJbfDPYa8LF5VGjtL-8y6m-ZKe6_bT7TkKH-AK6T_xQXW6BvrNKOHkP7IBqNG72_S/s320/20211126_082744.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><b>The Spiral Bound Series: 1980<br /></b><b>Concerts, Bermuda, Graduation from High School and my first semester of College </b></div><p>This opens with concerns about my friend, C, who apparently ran away just before I started my trip to Literary England. I groaned a lot about being on the bus, as we went all over the continent and up to Scotland too. I talked a lot about sex. I got really drunk in a bar in Hastings for my 18th birthday, writing of my friend who escorted me up a few flights of stairs and into bed. My co-conspirator Jim showed up to board the bus with a 3-foot promotional bottle of whiskey (empty). Others in the group were judgy. </p><p>I did not go to my senior prom, but my sister did. I think I probably got drunk instead. C had another attempted suicide and crashed her parent's car. </p><p>Shortly after returning, I packed up the parent's station wagon and road tripped with a few friends to camp out in advance of the Eagles concert at Yale Bowl, with Heart and the Little River Bank opening. We filled a watermelon with vodka because no glass was allowed, we wore matching T-shirts that said, "US Coke Team" with our first names on them. </p><p>I graduated. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7zjJDNsGxrMeEbWOUpMrFrnpw_E5VNMsKKuWBlTLe4Ytp-nqhbkZ6hhdopRC6uuAaI46zUTZRBA1iEuz8mOX7HeUi-DkMBLhnDyaWXJtqkpNyBSjaK5VoUCKeckRiTrpq4nDvsMsGEwOA/s4032/20211128_083212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7zjJDNsGxrMeEbWOUpMrFrnpw_E5VNMsKKuWBlTLe4Ytp-nqhbkZ6hhdopRC6uuAaI46zUTZRBA1iEuz8mOX7HeUi-DkMBLhnDyaWXJtqkpNyBSjaK5VoUCKeckRiTrpq4nDvsMsGEwOA/s320/20211128_083212.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I went to Bermuda in July of that year. I think my sister and her boyfriend went, too. That might have been the show where the MC called me out for attending alone. I did a lot of writing. I wrote of the evening peepers, the blue-green ocean, big frogs, grief and loneliness, hibiscus, Kay's accent, and the wonder of my grandparent's house on Burnt House Hill, "Outlook".</p><p>The summer progressed with the 1st Annual Romping Stomping BBQ Keg when my parents were out of town. We had submarine races at the Hudson River, under the bridge with the townies were on Saturday night, youth would play music and drink. There was a wild road trip to Albany for a Frank Zappa concert. C got kicked out of her house for having her boyfriend over in her bedroom. </p><p>In the first week of college, I had acute low blood sugar, caused a scene trying to get food out of the vending machine without any money, and apparently lost conscious control and was taken to the hospital by ambulance. I didn't write about this at the time. I was barely in for a few hours to stabilize, but I remember the elderly woman in my room who was losing her second foot to neuropathy. </p><p>Later, I must have had another episode of low blood sugar and pissed off a new friend. I wrote to her, </p><p><i>"Sometimes- all I would ever want to to be is normal. I know it will never happen (perhaps in my lifetime.) It's hard to really want to take charge and the system fucks you up so you feel as though you're fine and you're here to just prove to yourself that you can try and live normally, but you can't because you always need to make allowances for your body. Always having to be careful, always watching out for foods and drugs may tempt you into the darkness of death. </i></p><p><i>Yeah, I guess you can say our alien race can be normal - always able to do things that normal people can. I'll never accept it. I can try, but I'll always be diabetic before I am a person." </i></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-85476346401015383112021-11-28T06:52:00.002-08:002021-12-18T16:04:55.581-08:00The Journey of Old Journals: 1978-1980 <p> As another winter begins, I am recommitting to the "never moving all the journals again" project. The premise is simple. I'll take a photo and add a few memories, recollections, reflections, and observations from those old words on the page. Hopefully, moving through at least the 2000s this winter. One step at a time. Letting go of objects, staying in tune with memories. </p><p><b>The Maui Sunset Folder: 1978, Thanksgiving Trip to Hawai'i </b></p><p>A few sheets of stationary depict a family trip to Hawaii in 1978. Big Island, Maui, Kauai, Oahu. Black sand, waterfalls near Kona, huge ranches, swimming like a fish when snorkeling, graffiti spelled out in white rocks, a "smoke Hawaiian" t-shirt, my first exposure to the pedicab, and Klonk shoes. Showing up at a fancy restaurant on Thanksgiving without a reservation. </p><p> What I remember most is one of our last evenings on Waikiki Beach. A young man, "just sitting in the dark," asked Barb and me if we wanted to get high. We used a matchbook crutch and he was apparently, quite silent. We just sat on the beach and spoked pot. I wrote about worrying about carrying the conversation. I remembered Barb not being entirely confident about this plan. I wrote of grief in leaving Hawai'i. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVuyfxFFKdNQpwQnh4gcDNU1T-KldQ8TeoF7paG2Uu-xNDhWjKZpnoyC9js-3ZuKqyXByzVxZ5FIe3__5ack8Alay93VAZ1LP6l4-LSNcPz7f1JoJCeG2-5qGqoFPe3GgqY8cLkkueUBKF/s4032/20211126_082843.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVuyfxFFKdNQpwQnh4gcDNU1T-KldQ8TeoF7paG2Uu-xNDhWjKZpnoyC9js-3ZuKqyXByzVxZ5FIe3__5ack8Alay93VAZ1LP6l4-LSNcPz7f1JoJCeG2-5qGqoFPe3GgqY8cLkkueUBKF/w240-h287/20211126_082843.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The folder. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK2x_-7LNvOOX9vL6X6Df5wXWg6qmv3q6bTKRzDuElzDQwNDAFr5kk0U3UJRQZ2AGGPQUDaAeQyL-RlbQHW4mjffuc4rTpj4sGe5QXUoGmWzMoFKKXmLgiDFfn5djSIDuHfelcav-CnaV9/s4032/20211126_090943.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK2x_-7LNvOOX9vL6X6Df5wXWg6qmv3q6bTKRzDuElzDQwNDAFr5kk0U3UJRQZ2AGGPQUDaAeQyL-RlbQHW4mjffuc4rTpj4sGe5QXUoGmWzMoFKKXmLgiDFfn5djSIDuHfelcav-CnaV9/w200-h150/20211126_090943.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The letter.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-88313784634154354072021-10-31T15:21:00.017-07:002021-11-07T15:24:15.181-08:00October<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFpFTtnat9-LPxBNmIf2nlWXVpq5wrXkEc1ckBFYCpSAZ2yRYu5AIUBCkdiL8jFYSciukZM8x1JoiXizeOGRZ-pZb4o_FwSssGTL14XsAsFgqux0eAl9wdbkXIgmkQjD_jPhFPo1aLxM9k/s2048/October-page-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1676" data-original-width="2048" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFpFTtnat9-LPxBNmIf2nlWXVpq5wrXkEc1ckBFYCpSAZ2yRYu5AIUBCkdiL8jFYSciukZM8x1JoiXizeOGRZ-pZb4o_FwSssGTL14XsAsFgqux0eAl9wdbkXIgmkQjD_jPhFPo1aLxM9k/w537-h440/October-page-001.jpg" width="537" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-1636982076856763462021-09-30T16:43:00.003-07:002021-10-03T16:47:20.206-07:00September<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPqWpJQmHmgYya5XxxlZlRMcUVcgNIxGd9eisIHaTENrD-bWttaRSxA9CQ4RTMaSpHLLffyVhewyS4WjqlkHh8XNonss-5Jmqsp310XgzXUc-IJgJKKrx4XFKvoEz33P7-RRdnYyVILGAN/s775/Sept2021.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="775" height="419" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPqWpJQmHmgYya5XxxlZlRMcUVcgNIxGd9eisIHaTENrD-bWttaRSxA9CQ4RTMaSpHLLffyVhewyS4WjqlkHh8XNonss-5Jmqsp310XgzXUc-IJgJKKrx4XFKvoEz33P7-RRdnYyVILGAN/w553-h419/Sept2021.jpg" width="553" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-1683620236733373232021-08-29T06:52:00.002-07:002021-10-03T16:47:05.471-07:00August <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmJovJmSwMCvIAItQiEoDOSp0WlSTuj6jaJhNWvPwDYT44H1yevQa8WwxOYq0zCwLc2ixvobfJ2qkyXoNmwyIZrIEZEgNwLP8STV7p2HDHCBldWhyphenhyphenNWicm2xFyqNtjmAq5y_VGixKbvhm2/s779/August+2021.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="593" data-original-width="779" height="429" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmJovJmSwMCvIAItQiEoDOSp0WlSTuj6jaJhNWvPwDYT44H1yevQa8WwxOYq0zCwLc2ixvobfJ2qkyXoNmwyIZrIEZEgNwLP8STV7p2HDHCBldWhyphenhyphenNWicm2xFyqNtjmAq5y_VGixKbvhm2/w563-h429/August+2021.jpg" width="563" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-27823555618377671622021-07-31T06:42:00.001-07:002021-09-12T06:52:27.661-07:00On the Path to Recovery<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsHPFCMR2hTAv7gh9orYl1NZjtVKYkhRaW4B30DVNEB0d42TMQEdDC8d73Brg_mq1qApyuTJRYkO0lKCT2wFBYFh7kBGAqhdCWp_Dcnple5_5RUrm04JAlgyN4h5b_OoikEpFYPTW7VRJo/s751/Recovery1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikvTBIPffJJO3pjShr7XFVs0_LUUBX8bsRsBEkxy2hFH7x22zItGlunBCZt8ZqL1uAkI5jopuPXxzGteG-f33moloGXjPFtlFU09GDjo5y9pJo6lT_EZly7W40WM1Oe6jSLW-ZVkSZhhGT/s751/Recovery3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="751" height="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikvTBIPffJJO3pjShr7XFVs0_LUUBX8bsRsBEkxy2hFH7x22zItGlunBCZt8ZqL1uAkI5jopuPXxzGteG-f33moloGXjPFtlFU09GDjo5y9pJo6lT_EZly7W40WM1Oe6jSLW-ZVkSZhhGT/w506-h399/Recovery3.jpg" width="506" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5237632116830048138.post-15523416328607014082021-07-15T09:48:00.001-07:002021-07-23T16:04:04.976-07:00The Journey of My Lung Questions <div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><p></p>Ellen Malinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03007895156989837582noreply@blogger.com0