It is possible to hate the media without being a paranoid conservative.
In fact, this reporter, Emily Lopez, is a reporter for the local Fox News affiliate. But she's not any different from any of the other reporters who have been swarming over our apartment complex for the past few days.
Last night, on the hour, the pond would light up and the freshly made-up and coifed Talents would emerge from their heated news vans to deliver fresh intros to the heartwarming story of the woman who drove into a freezing pond and the hero who rescued her. And her little dog, too.
A few things. First of all, this photo is pretty representative of the attitude of this reporter, as well as the others on the scene. It's not a trick of the moment. Most of the bystanders were pretty nice to the poor woman who drove her car into the water, but unless there was a camera pointing in their direction, the Talents were unconcerned.
Their reporting is pretty sloppy, too. In her report, Lopez reports that the driver hit an icy patch and went into the pond. Really? You don't think perhaps she tried to back out of a parking place in front of the pond and was in drive instead of reverse? And perhaps hit the gas instead of the brake when she realized what was going on? Because she didn't go into the pond from the street, she went in from the parking lot, from an angle perpendicular to the driveway.
No, apparently Emily Lopez, crack reporter, got out of the heated news van, put down her Starbucks cup long enough to use her mad journalism skills to determine that the driver was moving through the parking lot (with a speed bump next to the spot where she went in the water) at such a high rate of speed that when she hit this mysterious icy patch, she lost control of her car, did a hard left, hopped a curb, crossed about twenty feet of ground, crashed into a big rock wall and still had enough momentum to make out about fifteen feet out onto the pond.
Because the other possibility? There's no tragic victim and no tie-in to the Big Scary Winter Storm. Just a person who made a mistake and freaked out. Hard to come up with a 3-D graphic for that.
Slow news day, for the local media and for me, too, come to think of it.
December 2, 2006
December 1, 2006
No parking.
So I've mentioned the duckpond right outside my door before, right? It's very nice and serene and peaceful and is in fact one of the nicer things about living here. Julie and I spend a great deal of time out there with Schuyler. Very fancy.
So imagine my surprise today when I stepped outside to see four news helicopters circling overhead and crowds of reporters and onlookers gathering to look into the pond? It's a nice pond and all, and the ducks are swell, but what they were looking at was, well, a Nissan.
Someone had a rough afternoon.
Being what kind of gawker, blogger and all-around swell person would I be if I didn't go see for myself?
I can't wait to see how they get it out.
So imagine my surprise today when I stepped outside to see four news helicopters circling overhead and crowds of reporters and onlookers gathering to look into the pond? It's a nice pond and all, and the ducks are swell, but what they were looking at was, well, a Nissan.
Someone had a rough afternoon.
At about 4:14 p.m. Thursday afternoon a woman reportedly lost control of her vehicle and ran into the pond at the Steeplechase Apartments in the 7400 block of Alma in Plano, according to reports from the Plano Fire and Police departments.
The woman frantically dialed 911 as her car slowly sank beneath the frigid water, according to Plano dispatchers. While she was about to be submerged, rescuers dove into the icy pond and got her and her dog out of the car.
Being what kind of gawker, blogger and all-around swell person would I be if I didn't go see for myself?
I can't wait to see how they get it out.
November 25, 2006
It beats the alternative.
Anyone who has read me for a while knows that I don't generally love having birthdays. And tomorrow's not one that I've exactly looked forward to over the years. Tomorrow I turn thirty-nine.
Well. Yeah. When I just come out and say it like that, it sounds even worse.
This year, however, I find that my feelings about my birthday, usually pretty straightforward ("oh, fuck THIS"), are a little more complicated. While I'm not in love with turning thirty-nine and particularly not thrilled about being a short year away from, you know, thirty-ten, I'm not looking for something sharp or a bus to step in front of, either.
So yeah, I see that as a step up.
If I stop and take stock of my life the day before my birthday, I find that it's not a bad report at all.
I'm developing new relationships and understanding my old ones and have a pretty good sense of the people in my life and what I mean (and sometimes don't mean) to them. At thirty-nine, I am developing a sense of self that has at its core my own understanding of who I am rather than someone else's. I'm not there yet (does anyone ever actually get there?), but I feel closer than I ever have before.
At thirty-nine, I am feeling healthier than I have in a long time, aside from my little kidney misadventure last month. My diabetes is under control, enough so that I've stopped wearing my medic alert tag unless I'm traveling and I don't really think about the Beedies all that much. I take my meds, I eat reasonably intelligently and I spend an hour a day on the treadmill. I'm losing weight, my eyesight has returned to its normal badness, and I can feel my feet again. Everything works the way it's supposed to, and I'm not Jabba the Hutt anymore.
As far as that goes, I don't see it when I look in the mirror, but I've lost enough weight that when I went shopping yesterday for some clothes for New York City, I found that I have gone down ANOTHER size. This puts me at the same size jeans I wore in high school. Let me say that again. High school. And I honestly don't remember the last time I wore a shirts in a large, but I suspect I was still receiving lunch money at the time.
I will turn thirty-nine as something I always wanted to be but never quite was: an author. The word still feels snotty and pretentious, but like your first pair of boots, the more I legitimately wear it, the more comfortable it feels. The day I mailed off my contract, I talked to my agent. She asked me if I planned to write more books, and when I said yes, she was pleased.
"I think you've got more books to write, Robert," she said in her unmistakable accent, that hard-to-nail-down Manhattan cadence, two parts vaguely British Empire and one part old Cary Grant movies. "Your book works because you are a talented writer. When you're in New York, I'd like to talk to you about a few ideas."
In two weeks, I'll be in New York City to talk about making the transition from online writer (okay, fine, blogger) to author, and the next day, I will walk into the Flatiron Building and the offices of St. Martin's Press, and I'll belong there. Thirty-nine is the year that becomes real.
Most of all, however, I turn thirty-nine with the unfamiliar but exhilarating feeling that Schuyler is going to be okay. In Austin, she was treated like a pretty little tragedy, one who would never be capable of using her Big Box of Words and who was expected to be a ward of the public school system until she was old enough to go home and live out her days with her heartbroken and aging parents.
Now Schuyler is actually learning in school, much of her time spent with mainstream students in a regular first grade classroom. She's got teachers and support people who talk about what she'll have to do to graduate high school and go on to college, not as "wouldn't that be grand?" pipe dreams but with the same level of expectation as any neuro-typical student. I turn thirty-nine with a child who is still strange and still broken, but who is also finding her own way and remains the most extraordinary person I have ever known.
So yeah, thirty-nine. I'm not thrilled about the idea, but I'm okay with it.
Not ready to talk about thirty-ten just yet, though. Baby steps.
Well. Yeah. When I just come out and say it like that, it sounds even worse.
This year, however, I find that my feelings about my birthday, usually pretty straightforward ("oh, fuck THIS"), are a little more complicated. While I'm not in love with turning thirty-nine and particularly not thrilled about being a short year away from, you know, thirty-ten, I'm not looking for something sharp or a bus to step in front of, either.
So yeah, I see that as a step up.
If I stop and take stock of my life the day before my birthday, I find that it's not a bad report at all.
I'm developing new relationships and understanding my old ones and have a pretty good sense of the people in my life and what I mean (and sometimes don't mean) to them. At thirty-nine, I am developing a sense of self that has at its core my own understanding of who I am rather than someone else's. I'm not there yet (does anyone ever actually get there?), but I feel closer than I ever have before.
At thirty-nine, I am feeling healthier than I have in a long time, aside from my little kidney misadventure last month. My diabetes is under control, enough so that I've stopped wearing my medic alert tag unless I'm traveling and I don't really think about the Beedies all that much. I take my meds, I eat reasonably intelligently and I spend an hour a day on the treadmill. I'm losing weight, my eyesight has returned to its normal badness, and I can feel my feet again. Everything works the way it's supposed to, and I'm not Jabba the Hutt anymore.
As far as that goes, I don't see it when I look in the mirror, but I've lost enough weight that when I went shopping yesterday for some clothes for New York City, I found that I have gone down ANOTHER size. This puts me at the same size jeans I wore in high school. Let me say that again. High school. And I honestly don't remember the last time I wore a shirts in a large, but I suspect I was still receiving lunch money at the time.
I will turn thirty-nine as something I always wanted to be but never quite was: an author. The word still feels snotty and pretentious, but like your first pair of boots, the more I legitimately wear it, the more comfortable it feels. The day I mailed off my contract, I talked to my agent. She asked me if I planned to write more books, and when I said yes, she was pleased.
"I think you've got more books to write, Robert," she said in her unmistakable accent, that hard-to-nail-down Manhattan cadence, two parts vaguely British Empire and one part old Cary Grant movies. "Your book works because you are a talented writer. When you're in New York, I'd like to talk to you about a few ideas."
In two weeks, I'll be in New York City to talk about making the transition from online writer (okay, fine, blogger) to author, and the next day, I will walk into the Flatiron Building and the offices of St. Martin's Press, and I'll belong there. Thirty-nine is the year that becomes real.
Most of all, however, I turn thirty-nine with the unfamiliar but exhilarating feeling that Schuyler is going to be okay. In Austin, she was treated like a pretty little tragedy, one who would never be capable of using her Big Box of Words and who was expected to be a ward of the public school system until she was old enough to go home and live out her days with her heartbroken and aging parents.
Now Schuyler is actually learning in school, much of her time spent with mainstream students in a regular first grade classroom. She's got teachers and support people who talk about what she'll have to do to graduate high school and go on to college, not as "wouldn't that be grand?" pipe dreams but with the same level of expectation as any neuro-typical student. I turn thirty-nine with a child who is still strange and still broken, but who is also finding her own way and remains the most extraordinary person I have ever known.
So yeah, thirty-nine. I'm not thrilled about the idea, but I'm okay with it.
Not ready to talk about thirty-ten just yet, though. Baby steps.
November 21, 2006
My pants, they are quite fancy.
It's been three months of contract negotiations and working out all the tiny details, a lengthy process with any publisher but especially tricky with a large house like St. Martin's Press, with their in-house divisions for things like audio books and overseas editions.
(And merchandising and game rights, oddly enough, although both remain sadly blocked out of my agreement. That's too bad; I was looking forward to my action figure, and Schuyler's Monster for Playstation 3 would have been extreme.)
Today, I am holding the first tangible result of all my agent's hard work.
Friends, I have my contract. Eleven pages.
I'm sure I'll write more about this over at the book blog later tonight, but I just wanted to mention the moment here, with all of you. (Even the assmonkeys.) Many of you have been with me from the very beginning, back before Schuyler was even born, and I know a lot of your hearts broke when she was diagnosed, too. Every time she does something great, I can feel how much pride is out there, among people who will probably never even meet her. When she stumbles, I sense all the invisible hands reaching out to catch her.
Incidentally, there's not much to say about Schuyler at the moment. She's doing well in school, keeping up with all the jabbering mainstream kids in her class and getting excited about the holidays and her birthday. Perhaps it's tempting Fate by saying this (although really, by now it should be pretty clear that Fate can kiss my ass), but Schuyler may have entered a somewhat boring part of her life, at least until she takes a copy of the book to school sometime in the next year or two and uses it to smack some pretty blonde cheerleader in the head.
I'm taking her to The Nutcracker on Friday. There's your Schuyler news. I love classical music but have always been strangely cool towards ballet, so it'll be interesting to see who becomes a twitchy freak first, Schuyler or me.
Things are moving inexorably toward the day when Schuyler's life changes because of this book. It's impossible not to consider that, and we have. It was one of the first conversations Julie and I had about the book. We decided, and still believe, that the concerns (real and imagined) are outweighed by the potential benefits for Schuyler and all the other kids out there with their own particularly monsters, and even more so for other parents who find themselves in their own world of "WTF?" when their lives get turned upside down.
I've mentioned the monkey paw aspects of this book before, but today, I'm going to allow myself to set that aside and enjoy the moment. Just a moment, and then back to the work of finishing the book, and the very real work of being Schuyler's father.
Today I'm going to enjoy looking at that last page of my contract, at the line with my signature on it, beside the word "Author". Today, I don't feel like a fraud when I read that word. And that, my friends, makes this a very, very good day.
(And merchandising and game rights, oddly enough, although both remain sadly blocked out of my agreement. That's too bad; I was looking forward to my action figure, and Schuyler's Monster for Playstation 3 would have been extreme.)
Today, I am holding the first tangible result of all my agent's hard work.
Friends, I have my contract. Eleven pages.
I'm sure I'll write more about this over at the book blog later tonight, but I just wanted to mention the moment here, with all of you. (Even the assmonkeys.) Many of you have been with me from the very beginning, back before Schuyler was even born, and I know a lot of your hearts broke when she was diagnosed, too. Every time she does something great, I can feel how much pride is out there, among people who will probably never even meet her. When she stumbles, I sense all the invisible hands reaching out to catch her.
Incidentally, there's not much to say about Schuyler at the moment. She's doing well in school, keeping up with all the jabbering mainstream kids in her class and getting excited about the holidays and her birthday. Perhaps it's tempting Fate by saying this (although really, by now it should be pretty clear that Fate can kiss my ass), but Schuyler may have entered a somewhat boring part of her life, at least until she takes a copy of the book to school sometime in the next year or two and uses it to smack some pretty blonde cheerleader in the head.
I'm taking her to The Nutcracker on Friday. There's your Schuyler news. I love classical music but have always been strangely cool towards ballet, so it'll be interesting to see who becomes a twitchy freak first, Schuyler or me.
Things are moving inexorably toward the day when Schuyler's life changes because of this book. It's impossible not to consider that, and we have. It was one of the first conversations Julie and I had about the book. We decided, and still believe, that the concerns (real and imagined) are outweighed by the potential benefits for Schuyler and all the other kids out there with their own particularly monsters, and even more so for other parents who find themselves in their own world of "WTF?" when their lives get turned upside down.
I've mentioned the monkey paw aspects of this book before, but today, I'm going to allow myself to set that aside and enjoy the moment. Just a moment, and then back to the work of finishing the book, and the very real work of being Schuyler's father.
Today I'm going to enjoy looking at that last page of my contract, at the line with my signature on it, beside the word "Author". Today, I don't feel like a fraud when I read that word. And that, my friends, makes this a very, very good day.
November 20, 2006
Rob Rocks the Peg
(Originally posted at SCHUYLER'S MONSTER.)
An observant blog reader spotted this in the Sunday edition of the Winnipeg Free Press:
It’s not really news or anything, I just thought it was fun that I popped up in Winnipeg, just sort of at random.
I’m a news item, by golly, and not in that “He was always such a quiet neighbor...” sort of way. So much for my high school guidance counselor’s powers of prognostication...
An observant blog reader spotted this in the Sunday edition of the Winnipeg Free Press:
Blogger Robert Rummel-Hudson has landed a book deal based on his blog, 'Beloved Monster and Me' (belovedmonsterandme.blogspot.com), a chronicle of life with his daughter, now seven, who has an extremely rare neurological disorder. His memoir, 'Schuyler's Monster', will be published by St. Martin's Press in the Winter of 2008, Publisher's Weekly reports.
It’s not really news or anything, I just thought it was fun that I popped up in Winnipeg, just sort of at random.
I’m a news item, by golly, and not in that “He was always such a quiet neighbor...” sort of way. So much for my high school guidance counselor’s powers of prognostication...
Better
Schuyler and I bought these Chuck Taylors over the weekend. Think of it. Shoes with something to say, worn by a little girl who can't say a word. That's some fated footwear right there.
There's one good thing about depression, a great thing, actually, even if it's a little manic. When it finally lifts, you feel fucking awesome, like nothing can beat you. You may not suddenly have all the answers, but you feel like you do, and that's not nothing.
I'm sure there's a chemical element to the passive of a depressive episode. I'm not sure I care so much. It's the other reasons for improvement that interest me more. There's clarity of thought and good advice of smart friends who listen and care, and improved health, too.
And exercise. I've started hitting the treadmill at my apartment complex's workout room for an hour a day, walking at 3.5 mph. Not exactly tearing it up, but compared to the ass-to-couch regimen I've been following, it's a start.
Mostly, however, it involves reaching the point where you're just not going to be down anymore. That's how it works for me. I never know exactly why I go into a down period, other than identifying the things that trigger it on the surface, and likewise I have no idea exactly what makes my mind arrive at "Oh, fuck this", either.
But I feel better, and stronger, and ready for the next few weeks. I need to finish the book, have a productive and successful New York City trip, and turn thirty-nine without stepping in front of a bus.
I can handle that.
There's one good thing about depression, a great thing, actually, even if it's a little manic. When it finally lifts, you feel fucking awesome, like nothing can beat you. You may not suddenly have all the answers, but you feel like you do, and that's not nothing.
I'm sure there's a chemical element to the passive of a depressive episode. I'm not sure I care so much. It's the other reasons for improvement that interest me more. There's clarity of thought and good advice of smart friends who listen and care, and improved health, too.
And exercise. I've started hitting the treadmill at my apartment complex's workout room for an hour a day, walking at 3.5 mph. Not exactly tearing it up, but compared to the ass-to-couch regimen I've been following, it's a start.
Mostly, however, it involves reaching the point where you're just not going to be down anymore. That's how it works for me. I never know exactly why I go into a down period, other than identifying the things that trigger it on the surface, and likewise I have no idea exactly what makes my mind arrive at "Oh, fuck this", either.
But I feel better, and stronger, and ready for the next few weeks. I need to finish the book, have a productive and successful New York City trip, and turn thirty-nine without stepping in front of a bus.
I can handle that.
November 16, 2006
Dreaming
Like many nights these days, I was up pretty late writing last night, finally going to bed around 2am. I woke up not long after and rolled over to discover Schuyler lying between Julie and me, watching me quietly in the dark with wide eyes. She smiled sadly when she saw me open my eyes, like she was safe at last. I knew then that she'd had a nightmare.
Schuyler's bad dreams mystify me, along with her good ones, too, I suppose. One day she'll be proficient enough on her device to describe them to us, but until then, they are lost to everyone but her. Schuyler's dreams create a world that may sometimes frighten her but is nevertheless entirely her own. That's true in some way for all of us, I guess, but for her, the things that she sees and experiences in her sleep defy explanation. I wish I could share in more of Schuyler's experiences, and her dreams most of all.
Dreams are complicated for me. In general, I am not a very New Age kind of a guy. That's probably not a huge surprise. And yet.
I won't get too moonbaby on you. It's not that I think I can predict the future or anything, because while I've had dreams that might be described as prescient, I also understand that dreams like that are most likely the subconscious working out things that the conscious mind is still trying to figure out. I had a long paragraph about how something I dreamed came true recently in a way that suggested a weird connection with Schuyler, but when I went back and read it, all I could think was "Good lord, what a load."
So I'll spare you the Crossing Over crazy talk and simply say that I have begun to listen more closely to my dreams. I wish I understood them better. And I wish I knew more about Schuyler's. I feel like there are answers there, for her and for me.
I also wish she didn't have to experience hers alone. But then, I wish that about a lot of things that I can't help her with.
Schuyler's bad dreams mystify me, along with her good ones, too, I suppose. One day she'll be proficient enough on her device to describe them to us, but until then, they are lost to everyone but her. Schuyler's dreams create a world that may sometimes frighten her but is nevertheless entirely her own. That's true in some way for all of us, I guess, but for her, the things that she sees and experiences in her sleep defy explanation. I wish I could share in more of Schuyler's experiences, and her dreams most of all.
Dreams are complicated for me. In general, I am not a very New Age kind of a guy. That's probably not a huge surprise. And yet.
I won't get too moonbaby on you. It's not that I think I can predict the future or anything, because while I've had dreams that might be described as prescient, I also understand that dreams like that are most likely the subconscious working out things that the conscious mind is still trying to figure out. I had a long paragraph about how something I dreamed came true recently in a way that suggested a weird connection with Schuyler, but when I went back and read it, all I could think was "Good lord, what a load."
So I'll spare you the Crossing Over crazy talk and simply say that I have begun to listen more closely to my dreams. I wish I understood them better. And I wish I knew more about Schuyler's. I feel like there are answers there, for her and for me.
I also wish she didn't have to experience hers alone. But then, I wish that about a lot of things that I can't help her with.
November 13, 2006
Hootenanny
There's not much new to report about Schuyler other than the completely uninteresting details of the cold that she's enduring (two words to strike fear into your heart: green elevens) and the (probably inappropriate) high black boots she wants me to get for her. (She's currently wearing a camouflage half-jacket and grapey purple hair, so I suspect we all know how this is going to end.)
In the interest of continued shameless self-promotion, let's take a look at the newly-expanded list of speakers for the MediaBistro "Blogger to Author" panel in December:
-----
-- Jessica Cutler, author of The Washingtonienne: A Novel (Hyperion), a book loosely based on her blog about her raunchy exploits as a congressional staff assistant
-- Maxwell Gillingham-Ryan, author of Apartment Therapy (Bantam), and New York editor and co-founder of Apartment Therapy, the design blog the New York Times called "quietly addicting"
-- Kate Lee, literary agent at ICM, whose client list includes prominent bloggers, reporters, editors, publishers, novelists, and memoirists
-- Laura Mazer, Managing Editor at Seal Press (an imprint of Avalon), which has published numerous titles that began as blogs
-- Robert Rummel-Hudson, author of the forthcoming memoir Schuyler's Monster (St. Martins Press) which began as an online journal about how his life was transformed when his daughter Schuyler was diagnosed with an extremely rare neurological disorder that left her unable to talk
-- Rachel Kramer Bussel, moderator, Senior Editor at Penthouse Variations, writes The Village Voice's Lusty Lady column. She's edited 13 erotic anthologies and her first novel, Everything But..., will be published by Bantam in 2008.
-----
I think it looks like an awesome mix of writers and publishing professionals, even though I think making a parenting memoir interesting in the context of everything else on the program is going to be, and I think I'm putting this charitably, challenging. I exchanged very nice email with moderator Rachel Kramer Bussel and I think this is going to be a fun and well-run panel. The end-all hootenanny of hootenannies!
I've seen photos of the other participants, and yeah, everyone's all young and good looking and hip. Well, I should say, everyone else. I clearly have some work to do. ("Hey, look at that. I had no idea Ernest Borgnine had a blog!")
If my book advance pays out in time, I do believe I may just do something that I don't believe I have ever done in my life, or at least not since I was taller than four feet high and able to choose my own clothes. I think I might buy a suit. An actual, fancy pants snazzy suit.
You know, I should get a semi-stylish haircut, too. And yeah, I know. The beard. I know.
In the interest of continued shameless self-promotion, let's take a look at the newly-expanded list of speakers for the MediaBistro "Blogger to Author" panel in December:
-----
-- Jessica Cutler, author of The Washingtonienne: A Novel (Hyperion), a book loosely based on her blog about her raunchy exploits as a congressional staff assistant
-- Maxwell Gillingham-Ryan, author of Apartment Therapy (Bantam), and New York editor and co-founder of Apartment Therapy, the design blog the New York Times called "quietly addicting"
-- Kate Lee, literary agent at ICM, whose client list includes prominent bloggers, reporters, editors, publishers, novelists, and memoirists
-- Laura Mazer, Managing Editor at Seal Press (an imprint of Avalon), which has published numerous titles that began as blogs
-- Robert Rummel-Hudson, author of the forthcoming memoir Schuyler's Monster (St. Martins Press) which began as an online journal about how his life was transformed when his daughter Schuyler was diagnosed with an extremely rare neurological disorder that left her unable to talk
-- Rachel Kramer Bussel, moderator, Senior Editor at Penthouse Variations, writes The Village Voice's Lusty Lady column. She's edited 13 erotic anthologies and her first novel, Everything But..., will be published by Bantam in 2008.
-----
I think it looks like an awesome mix of writers and publishing professionals, even though I think making a parenting memoir interesting in the context of everything else on the program is going to be, and I think I'm putting this charitably, challenging. I exchanged very nice email with moderator Rachel Kramer Bussel and I think this is going to be a fun and well-run panel. The end-all hootenanny of hootenannies!
I've seen photos of the other participants, and yeah, everyone's all young and good looking and hip. Well, I should say, everyone else. I clearly have some work to do. ("Hey, look at that. I had no idea Ernest Borgnine had a blog!")
If my book advance pays out in time, I do believe I may just do something that I don't believe I have ever done in my life, or at least not since I was taller than four feet high and able to choose my own clothes. I think I might buy a suit. An actual, fancy pants snazzy suit.
You know, I should get a semi-stylish haircut, too. And yeah, I know. The beard. I know.
November 8, 2006
An Important Message to Democrats, from an Independent voter and swell guy
Dear Democratic Party,
Please don't fuck this up.
Lovingly,
The Rob
Please don't fuck this up.
Lovingly,
The Rob
November 6, 2006
Morning
I just walked in from putting Schuyler on the bus. This is almost always the worst part of the day.
About half an hour ago, I woke from a recurring dream, a variation on one that I've had ever since Schuyler's diagnosis in the summer of 2003. It's the dream where she talks to me. I hate the dream, even though I also love it a little. I hate how I feel when I wake up and Schuyler's reality hits me all over again, dissipating the dream like smoke.
This time it was a little different. I was holding a baby girl -- our baby, the second child we were never able to have -- and I was wondering where Schuyler was and how she was doing, in that way that I usually think about her during the day, from the moment I put her on the bus and give her over to the world.
Just then, in my dream, she came up behind me and put her hand on my shoulder, and she said the same thing she always does. "It's going to be okay," she said. And then she asked where her beanbag chair was.
Julie woke me in the middle of the dream so I could put Schuyler on the bus after she left for work. I found Schuyler on the couch, getting her morning Zaboomafoo fix. I asked her how she was doing. She smiled and silently gave me a thumbs up.
It's going to be okay. I still hurt for her, though.
About half an hour ago, I woke from a recurring dream, a variation on one that I've had ever since Schuyler's diagnosis in the summer of 2003. It's the dream where she talks to me. I hate the dream, even though I also love it a little. I hate how I feel when I wake up and Schuyler's reality hits me all over again, dissipating the dream like smoke.
This time it was a little different. I was holding a baby girl -- our baby, the second child we were never able to have -- and I was wondering where Schuyler was and how she was doing, in that way that I usually think about her during the day, from the moment I put her on the bus and give her over to the world.
Just then, in my dream, she came up behind me and put her hand on my shoulder, and she said the same thing she always does. "It's going to be okay," she said. And then she asked where her beanbag chair was.
Julie woke me in the middle of the dream so I could put Schuyler on the bus after she left for work. I found Schuyler on the couch, getting her morning Zaboomafoo fix. I asked her how she was doing. She smiled and silently gave me a thumbs up.
It's going to be okay. I still hurt for her, though.
October 31, 2006
Halloween Confession
Yesterday morning, after we'd gotten ready for school but before the bus arrived, Schuyler and I were sitting on the couch, watching television. She was eating her breakfast of apple slices and generally absorbed in a high energy show about animals, hosted by a lemur puppet whose name I am entirely too lazy to look up how to spell. Parents, you know the one.
I looked over at her and asked, "Are you excited about Halloween?"
"Yeah," she said, not looking away from her show.
"Are you looking forward to being a witch?"
"Uh huh," she answered, clearly a little irritated that I was still bothering her while she was trying to watch baby animals on tv.
"Tell me, Schuyler, are you a good witch or a bad witch?"
She sighed and pulled her device over to her side. She quickly punched a few buttons and then hit the speak button, turning back to her television show without so much as a glance as it spoke for her in its calm computer voice.
"BAD."
Well. There you go.
I looked over at her and asked, "Are you excited about Halloween?"
"Yeah," she said, not looking away from her show.
"Are you looking forward to being a witch?"
"Uh huh," she answered, clearly a little irritated that I was still bothering her while she was trying to watch baby animals on tv.
"Tell me, Schuyler, are you a good witch or a bad witch?"
She sighed and pulled her device over to her side. She quickly punched a few buttons and then hit the speak button, turning back to her television show without so much as a glance as it spoke for her in its calm computer voice.
"BAD."
Well. There you go.
Come see Mister Fancy Pants
NYC
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.
Those of you living in the New York City area might be wondering to yourselves, "Say, I wonder what I'm going to be doing on the evening of Monday, December 11? Surely there's some way I can spend, say, twenty bucks or so and be both informed and amused!"
From Blogger to Author: How Bloggers Got Book Deals, and What Happened Next
Monday, December 11, 7-9 pm
Small Press Center
20 West 44th Street
New York, NY 10036
212-764-7021
I had no idea that Jessica "Washingtonienne" Cutler is going to be one of the speakers. I'm going to have to try extra hard to be interesting now. "Yeah yeah yeah, crazy sexual exploits in the halls of power are interesting, I suppose, but what we REALLY want to hear about is the Big Box of Words!"
Don't worry. I'll make stuff up if I have to. For twenty bucks, you deserve some zazz.
On second thought...
First of all, I want to thank everyone who has been concerned about my health. I really appreciate it.
I've been thinking about this all morning, however, and I've come to the conclusion that while blogging is by definition a self-indulgent endeavor, writing about my stupid health issues is beginning to feel like it crosses the line. I'm boring everyone with it, particularly my friends and most of all myself.
For those of you have expressed your concern, I am very grateful. Go get some candy. Talk to you soon.
I've been thinking about this all morning, however, and I've come to the conclusion that while blogging is by definition a self-indulgent endeavor, writing about my stupid health issues is beginning to feel like it crosses the line. I'm boring everyone with it, particularly my friends and most of all myself.
For those of you have expressed your concern, I am very grateful. Go get some candy. Talk to you soon.
October 30, 2006
Wiccan nugget
First off, no, I haven't had my little pebble baby yet. And everything you've heard about how painful kidney stones can be? Um, it's all true. Fuck a duck, this hurts.
But I really don't want to go on about that, mostly because "it hurts" is about the most illuminating thing I have to share. It may be an understatement on the same scale as "Hitler was mean", but really, it hurts. Not much more to say about it.
We just finished the annual ritual of deciding what Schuyler is going to be for Halloween, and as you can see, she settled on being a witch again. Unlike last year's punky, sassy and yeah, kind of slutty Spider Witch, however, this year she has opted for the more traditional, Wizard of Oz-ish Old Skool Witch.
I suppose her costume might be even more borderline offensive than last year, both to Religious Conservatives (ie. kooks) who don't dig the supernatural ("Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live"; thanks for nothing, silly Bible) and would prefer Barbie or a little miniature Ann Coulter to come to their door, and also to Wiccans (ie. you know, actual witches) who probably don't love the idea of the traditional negative cackling witch with the broom, eating up Hansel ünd Gretel, etc.
But the costume was Schuyler's choice, and it didn't involve a character from a television show or a corporate product endorsement. Besides, we're not going to turn her green or give her a wart. She's actually a very cute little witch, albeit perhaps a slightly wicked one. She looks more Amish than evil.
The route to this costume was, like last year, a circuitous one. For months she's been saying that she wanted to be a mermaid for Halloween, but when we started looking for costumes, the ones we found looked ridiculously crappy or Jon Benet-whoreish. Leave it to the Disney store to have the only halfway decent-looking mermaid costume, and they wanted... (wait for it, wait for it...) EIGHTY ACTUAL AMERICAN REAL DOLLARS for it, for no other apparent reason than they just released The Little Mermaid on DVD and can jack up the price as a result of all the little girls with Ariel on the brain. I hate you, Disney. I hate you more than ever before, and I hated you pretty hardcore before this.
We then found an awesome pirate costume and were both set to go as matching pirates. (Julie is insisting on going as a soldier, for reasons that escape me but have something to do with already having the costume, and I think I'm going to take a "don't ask, don't tell" approach to that particular acquisition of hers.) Something happened inside the mysterious head of Schuyler, however, and suddenly she didn't want to be a pirate anymore. With only minutes to spare before exhausting our last molecules of patience, she suddenly saw this costume and decided that she wanted to be a witch, of the "Wicked Witch of the Pick a Direction" variety, and that was that. Being Schuyler, she opted to bypass the traditional twiggy broom for the stylish purple model and the purple striped tights, and of course the addition of her traditional pink Chuck Taylors finished the look.
Finished, of course, except for the hair. We did that tonight, with a color that she picked out months ago and which was just patiently waiting in the bathroom cupboard for the right moment. Tonight was the night of the Great Purpling, both for Schuyler's hair and, for a while, her skin, my fingernails and most of the tile in our bathroom. Everything's back to its preferred color now except for my fingernails, which are now zombie-purple. (Say, there's an idea for a costume. It would fit well with the effects of the Vicodin I'm taking.)
You'll be especially amused to know that in order to appease Schuyler even further, I finally gave in to the request that she has made every time we color her hair. I tried a little on myself, purpling up a big strand in the front. Sadly, my hair is so dark that it is almost invisible. You can be the judge of whether or not that's really bad news; I do have a job, after all, although it is in academia where that sort of thing is probably expected from time to time.
Halloween is a strange day for Schuyler, and one that she and I both dig more than I can explain. Neither of us can really eat very much of the candy, after all. Her dysphagia makes hard candy dangerous for her to eat, and of course now I've got the Beedies pissing on all my Halloween fun.
But we throw ourselves into Halloween just the same. I suspect that it has to do with the fact that for that one day, she's not a kid with a monster, strange and alone with her Martian language and her computerized voice. On Halloween, she's supposed to be a weird kid, but not THE weird kid just this once. It's a day when she can lose herself in being a witch and not have to be whatever it is that the world sees her as the rest of the time. Sweet and punky yet weird and broken, whatever. She gets to toss that aside for the day and be a witch. "Give me some candy or I'll turn you into a fly."
Halloween is her day to just be a kid.
As for me, now that we've strayed from the pirate idea, I'm at a loss for a matching costume. I'd love to go as her flying monkey, but I don't think I'm ambitious enough to make that happen.
But I really don't want to go on about that, mostly because "it hurts" is about the most illuminating thing I have to share. It may be an understatement on the same scale as "Hitler was mean", but really, it hurts. Not much more to say about it.
We just finished the annual ritual of deciding what Schuyler is going to be for Halloween, and as you can see, she settled on being a witch again. Unlike last year's punky, sassy and yeah, kind of slutty Spider Witch, however, this year she has opted for the more traditional, Wizard of Oz-ish Old Skool Witch.
I suppose her costume might be even more borderline offensive than last year, both to Religious Conservatives (ie. kooks) who don't dig the supernatural ("Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live"; thanks for nothing, silly Bible) and would prefer Barbie or a little miniature Ann Coulter to come to their door, and also to Wiccans (ie. you know, actual witches) who probably don't love the idea of the traditional negative cackling witch with the broom, eating up Hansel ünd Gretel, etc.
But the costume was Schuyler's choice, and it didn't involve a character from a television show or a corporate product endorsement. Besides, we're not going to turn her green or give her a wart. She's actually a very cute little witch, albeit perhaps a slightly wicked one. She looks more Amish than evil.
The route to this costume was, like last year, a circuitous one. For months she's been saying that she wanted to be a mermaid for Halloween, but when we started looking for costumes, the ones we found looked ridiculously crappy or Jon Benet-whoreish. Leave it to the Disney store to have the only halfway decent-looking mermaid costume, and they wanted... (wait for it, wait for it...) EIGHTY ACTUAL AMERICAN REAL DOLLARS for it, for no other apparent reason than they just released The Little Mermaid on DVD and can jack up the price as a result of all the little girls with Ariel on the brain. I hate you, Disney. I hate you more than ever before, and I hated you pretty hardcore before this.
We then found an awesome pirate costume and were both set to go as matching pirates. (Julie is insisting on going as a soldier, for reasons that escape me but have something to do with already having the costume, and I think I'm going to take a "don't ask, don't tell" approach to that particular acquisition of hers.) Something happened inside the mysterious head of Schuyler, however, and suddenly she didn't want to be a pirate anymore. With only minutes to spare before exhausting our last molecules of patience, she suddenly saw this costume and decided that she wanted to be a witch, of the "Wicked Witch of the Pick a Direction" variety, and that was that. Being Schuyler, she opted to bypass the traditional twiggy broom for the stylish purple model and the purple striped tights, and of course the addition of her traditional pink Chuck Taylors finished the look.
Finished, of course, except for the hair. We did that tonight, with a color that she picked out months ago and which was just patiently waiting in the bathroom cupboard for the right moment. Tonight was the night of the Great Purpling, both for Schuyler's hair and, for a while, her skin, my fingernails and most of the tile in our bathroom. Everything's back to its preferred color now except for my fingernails, which are now zombie-purple. (Say, there's an idea for a costume. It would fit well with the effects of the Vicodin I'm taking.)
You'll be especially amused to know that in order to appease Schuyler even further, I finally gave in to the request that she has made every time we color her hair. I tried a little on myself, purpling up a big strand in the front. Sadly, my hair is so dark that it is almost invisible. You can be the judge of whether or not that's really bad news; I do have a job, after all, although it is in academia where that sort of thing is probably expected from time to time.
Halloween is a strange day for Schuyler, and one that she and I both dig more than I can explain. Neither of us can really eat very much of the candy, after all. Her dysphagia makes hard candy dangerous for her to eat, and of course now I've got the Beedies pissing on all my Halloween fun.
But we throw ourselves into Halloween just the same. I suspect that it has to do with the fact that for that one day, she's not a kid with a monster, strange and alone with her Martian language and her computerized voice. On Halloween, she's supposed to be a weird kid, but not THE weird kid just this once. It's a day when she can lose herself in being a witch and not have to be whatever it is that the world sees her as the rest of the time. Sweet and punky yet weird and broken, whatever. She gets to toss that aside for the day and be a witch. "Give me some candy or I'll turn you into a fly."
Halloween is her day to just be a kid.
As for me, now that we've strayed from the pirate idea, I'm at a loss for a matching costume. I'd love to go as her flying monkey, but I don't think I'm ambitious enough to make that happen.
October 28, 2006
Audience participation
Come on, everyone, chant it with me.
Pee! Pee! Pee that pebble!
Pee! Pee! Pee that pebble!
Pee! Pee! Pee that boulder!
I have to say, I'm just about all funned out with the kidney thing.
Pee! Pee! Pee that pebble!
Pee! Pee! Pee that pebble!
Pee! Pee! Pee that boulder!
I have to say, I'm just about all funned out with the kidney thing.
October 26, 2006
Rock star
So last night I got this massive pain in my left kidney, like I had been kicked hard, and just this once, I was smart enough not to ignore it. I had Julie take me to the hospital, and sure enough, it was a kidney stone.
In addition, however, I apparently have gall stones and a stone in my appendix, something I'd never heard of before. I am full of rocks!
A few hours before, I'd hooked up with my friend Jill to give her a copy of Part One of Schuyler's Monster, which she is going to read for me. We met for Japanese bubble tea, or "boba", which, if you've never had it, can be a little weird. There's no appetizing way to put this, but it is basically tea with balls of tapioca in it. Sarah Vowell refers to it as "tea and dumplings", and while it sounds revolting, it's actually quite tasty. Meeting for boba has become something of a ritual for Jill and me.
When the doctor got a look at my CT scan, he saw, in addition to my belly full of pebbles, the undigested pudding balls in my stomach. He came into the room with a puzzled look on his face.
"Um, did you eat a necklace?"
Before the night was up, all the nurses and doctors in the ER were talking about my CT scan. I was the Freak of the Night. I rather enjoyed the attention.
So I'm home now. They elected not to do any surgery just yet, and sent me home with a script for Vicodin, which I have been taking all day like a good little stoner. As of about 11:00 tonight, my kidney has still not relinquished its prize. I have to say that even with the drugs (and don't let me sell Vicodin short as a drug that will fuck you up and good), this sucks.
The doctor at the ER said that for a man, this is about as close to labor pains as I'm ever going to feel. This made Julie snicker.
"Yeah, at least you got a prize at the end," I said.
As for that prize, Schuyler had to go with us, and we were concerned that she would be traumatized by the hospital. Keep in mind that the last time she was there, she was getting blood drawn for genetic testing, and before that she was being operated on for a bad staph infection, and before THAT was the MRI that was such an awful experience. Schuyler had gotten to the point where she would panic any time we went to a doctor's office of any kind, and I can't say I could really blame her.
Well, I'm happy to report that not only did she not freak out at all, but she seemed to have the time of her life. My nurse was a good-looking guy who flirted with her and gave her stickers and cookies, and she liked looking at photos of boba balls in my belly, along with the rest of the hospital staff.
Well, I'm glad someone had fun.
In addition, however, I apparently have gall stones and a stone in my appendix, something I'd never heard of before. I am full of rocks!
A few hours before, I'd hooked up with my friend Jill to give her a copy of Part One of Schuyler's Monster, which she is going to read for me. We met for Japanese bubble tea, or "boba", which, if you've never had it, can be a little weird. There's no appetizing way to put this, but it is basically tea with balls of tapioca in it. Sarah Vowell refers to it as "tea and dumplings", and while it sounds revolting, it's actually quite tasty. Meeting for boba has become something of a ritual for Jill and me.
When the doctor got a look at my CT scan, he saw, in addition to my belly full of pebbles, the undigested pudding balls in my stomach. He came into the room with a puzzled look on his face.
"Um, did you eat a necklace?"
Before the night was up, all the nurses and doctors in the ER were talking about my CT scan. I was the Freak of the Night. I rather enjoyed the attention.
So I'm home now. They elected not to do any surgery just yet, and sent me home with a script for Vicodin, which I have been taking all day like a good little stoner. As of about 11:00 tonight, my kidney has still not relinquished its prize. I have to say that even with the drugs (and don't let me sell Vicodin short as a drug that will fuck you up and good), this sucks.
The doctor at the ER said that for a man, this is about as close to labor pains as I'm ever going to feel. This made Julie snicker.
"Yeah, at least you got a prize at the end," I said.
As for that prize, Schuyler had to go with us, and we were concerned that she would be traumatized by the hospital. Keep in mind that the last time she was there, she was getting blood drawn for genetic testing, and before that she was being operated on for a bad staph infection, and before THAT was the MRI that was such an awful experience. Schuyler had gotten to the point where she would panic any time we went to a doctor's office of any kind, and I can't say I could really blame her.
Well, I'm happy to report that not only did she not freak out at all, but she seemed to have the time of her life. My nurse was a good-looking guy who flirted with her and gave her stickers and cookies, and she liked looking at photos of boba balls in my belly, along with the rest of the hospital staff.
Well, I'm glad someone had fun.
October 21, 2006
Stalking for Dummies
Just wanted to take a moment to let everyone know that I will be crawling out of my little writing cave for two public events in the coming month or two.
On November 2, I will be present for the opening of an art exhibit in Austin called Celebrated Skin. The topic of the exhibit is tattoo art, and my contribution will be my right arm, which I presume will be up on the wall. (A photo of my arm, rather; I love art, but I'm not game for an amputation just yet.) Stop by and watch me pretend to know what the hell I'm talking about.
On December 11 (and a day or two after, I imagine), I will be in New York City for a Media Bistro panel. I don't have any details right now, although I don't think it's going to be an "open to the public" thing, but I'll let you know when I have more information. If nothing else, it might be fun to put together some kind of small gathering while I'm in town.
Stalkers, sharpen your knives and make your plans.
On November 2, I will be present for the opening of an art exhibit in Austin called Celebrated Skin. The topic of the exhibit is tattoo art, and my contribution will be my right arm, which I presume will be up on the wall. (A photo of my arm, rather; I love art, but I'm not game for an amputation just yet.) Stop by and watch me pretend to know what the hell I'm talking about.
On December 11 (and a day or two after, I imagine), I will be in New York City for a Media Bistro panel. I don't have any details right now, although I don't think it's going to be an "open to the public" thing, but I'll let you know when I have more information. If nothing else, it might be fun to put together some kind of small gathering while I'm in town.
Stalkers, sharpen your knives and make your plans.
October 16, 2006
Getting schooled, and good
I just finished the chapter describing Schuyler's condition (the beginning paragraphs of which inspired my last entry), and in the process, I learned a few things. Part of that came from research I did, both online and with the help of Dana, who remains one of my best friends even from Connecticut. I also wrote to the two top experts on Schuyler's disorder: Dr. William Dobyns, who saw Schuyler in Chicago back in January 2005, and the Christopher Walsh Laboratory at Harvard. They both wrote me back with a ton of information, much of which appears to be in English but is clearly written for someone smarter than myself.
I have to admit that it had been a while since I'd done any serious reading on the subject, so in just the past week I've learned some interesting things about CBPS, the most obvious being that it is apparently no longer called CBPS. I'm not sure why the name has changed, although I suspect it is to bring it inline with the naming scheme for all the other forms of polymicrogyria. So goodbye, Congenital Bilateral Perisylvian Syndrome, and not so nice to meet you, Bilateral Perisylvian Polymicrogyria.
When Schuyler was first diagnosed, CBPS (BPP, I have to make myself use that now) was believed to be genetic in cause, which was the reason we made the sad decision not to have any more kids. Now it is believed to have a number of causes, including poor blood supply during early pregnancy and also the mis-development of blood vessels. Interestingly, one of the polymicrogyria genes appears to be a dyslexia gene as well.
I'm sure there's more that I haven't gotten to yet; the hefty texts that Dr. Dobyns and Dr. Walsh's lab sent would be daunting enough on size alone, even if they weren't written in Martian. I'll share anything else that jumps out.
This past Saturday, while having what was eventually to become one of the very worst days I have ever had, I very accidentally stumbled across something that sounded interesting and of possible interest to Schuyler: a therapy process called Interactive Metronome. And when I say I found it accidentally, I'm not kidding. The company was having a conference in the room next door to a wedding reception I was shooting, and I walked into it by mistake.
Which just goes to show you that 1) possibilities are everywhere if you just open your eyes to them, and 2) you can learn important things on even the worst days of your life. Which I suppose was pretty fucking true anyway.
I have to admit that it had been a while since I'd done any serious reading on the subject, so in just the past week I've learned some interesting things about CBPS, the most obvious being that it is apparently no longer called CBPS. I'm not sure why the name has changed, although I suspect it is to bring it inline with the naming scheme for all the other forms of polymicrogyria. So goodbye, Congenital Bilateral Perisylvian Syndrome, and not so nice to meet you, Bilateral Perisylvian Polymicrogyria.
When Schuyler was first diagnosed, CBPS (BPP, I have to make myself use that now) was believed to be genetic in cause, which was the reason we made the sad decision not to have any more kids. Now it is believed to have a number of causes, including poor blood supply during early pregnancy and also the mis-development of blood vessels. Interestingly, one of the polymicrogyria genes appears to be a dyslexia gene as well.
I'm sure there's more that I haven't gotten to yet; the hefty texts that Dr. Dobyns and Dr. Walsh's lab sent would be daunting enough on size alone, even if they weren't written in Martian. I'll share anything else that jumps out.
This past Saturday, while having what was eventually to become one of the very worst days I have ever had, I very accidentally stumbled across something that sounded interesting and of possible interest to Schuyler: a therapy process called Interactive Metronome. And when I say I found it accidentally, I'm not kidding. The company was having a conference in the room next door to a wedding reception I was shooting, and I walked into it by mistake.
Which just goes to show you that 1) possibilities are everywhere if you just open your eyes to them, and 2) you can learn important things on even the worst days of your life. Which I suppose was pretty fucking true anyway.
October 9, 2006
Found Wisdom
Schuyler
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.
I ran across this while researching something for my book, and it resonated so strongly with me that I wanted to share it.
I don't always think people understand why Schuyler's situation makes me so sad sometimes. I'm not always sure I understand it myself.
-----
Parents attach to children through core-level dreams, fantasies, illusions, and projections into the future. Disability dashes these cherished dreams. The impairment, not the child, irreversibly spoils a parent's fundamental, heart-felt yearning. Disability shatters the dreams, fantasies, illusions, and projections into the future that parents generate as part of their struggle to accomplish basic life missions. Parents of impaired children grieve for the loss of dreams that are key to the meaning of their existence, to their sense of being. Recovering from such a loss depends on one's ability to separate from the lost dream, and to generate new, more attainable, dreams.
As disability bluntly shatters the dreams, parents face a complicated, draining, challenging, frightening, and consuming task. They must raise the child they have, while letting go of the child they dreamed of. They must go on with their lives, cope with their child as he or she is now, let go of the lost dreams, and generate new dreams. To do all this, the parent must experience the process of grieving.
-- The Impact of Childhood Disability: The Parent's Struggle, by Ken Moses, Ph.D.
October 6, 2006
Where she lives
Ballerina artist
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.
Typically, when I write a blog entry, I start with the topic and go from there. When I'm done writing, I'll go find a photo that will go with it, or I'll take one if I need one. Or perhaps I'll steal one from someone else's page, maybe yours! The point is, usually the photo comes last, as an accompaniment to the writing.
This morning as I was leaving for work, Schuyler was drawing with her big markers, wearing her little ballerina outfit that she inexplicably puts on when she's playing around the apartment. I have no idea what the appeal might be, particularly since she doesn't really dance around much when she wears it. Anyway, she was drawing quietly with her markers, and I thought it was cute so I took a few photos on my way out the door.
It wasn't until later, after I loaded the photos into my computer, that I saw what I had captured, and knew that I wanted to write about it.
Anyone who has ever met Schuyler and spent any time with her knows how sociable she is. She is outgoing and friendly and not one bit shy. It's almost scary sometimes, how warm and happy and turned-up-to-eleven she can be.
But Schuyler lives most of her life inside her head. It's not so pervasive as it was when she was younger. She can make herself more clearly understood now, she has options she didn't have before. But she only makes those connections when it suits her, and much of the time, it doesn't.
Strangely, this is a side of Schuyler that I understand completely. When she disappears inside her own head like she's doing in that photo, I get it. It's not because of her monster, not entirely. I think she retreats there because it's a place where she makes sense. Schuyler is a social creature, but she is also a very internal one, a person who can be totally alone in a crowded room. I watch her withdraw, not out of sadness or anger or stress, but simply because that's where she lives, inside herself. And I get it, because it's where I live, too.
Tomorrow, she and I will spend the day at home together, and I know that like on most days we have, we'll spend part of it just sitting together. She'll draw or play with her dolls, making them speak to each other in her strange moonman language (she never uses her device to make them talk; she tried that early on, making her dinosaurs say "I love you" to each other, but that didn't last) while I write. We'll do that for hours, and we'll never say a word, and it'll be perfect.
I guess I like that shot because I take a lot of photos of Schuyler that show the vibrant part of her personality, but I feel like a real photographer when I take one that shows her where she lives, inside that strange and broken and beautiful head.
October 4, 2006
The end of days are nigh. Maybe. Nighish.
For those of you who might be religious in nature, I have two things to report that may nor may not signal the coming Apocalypse.
Julie is thinking of getting a PC laptop. And I think we're getting cell phones today.
Before you start frog-proofing your rain gutters, there are good reasons for both. The phone was a long time coming, but getting stuck on the interstate behind a traffic accident for three hours with Schuyler in the car and being unable to call anyone to tell them that we were running late sort of sealed the deal.
I wrote about this more over at my book blog, but the other reason for getting a phone is that it looks like Julie is going to help with publicity for my book, at the very least augmenting whatever publicist I might get assigned by St. Martin's Press. SMP publishes and promotes about 700 titles a year; I'll be trying to sell just one book.
Julie's got experience; it's what she does for a living, after all. Also, she's got a vested interest in the success of my book. And I assume her rates are affordable. Aside from the laptop.
So unless Cingular comes to their financial senses before they deliver our phones, it looks like I'll be joining the rest of you in this Twenty-first century, already in progress.
Schuyler has been on what they call "Fall Break", a free week that I never had when I was in school. She had something of a rough weekend, including a three and a half hour drive that turned into almost eight hours thanks to Dallas traffic and Austin road work and a bout with food poisoning. The fewer details shared about that experience, the better.
But through it all, she stayed mostly happy. Even after getting horribly sick, she would simply wash her face, brush her teeth and be back to her normal self. Her resilience never fails to amaze me. I wish I had her ability to spring back from disappointment. In the words of the Eels song, "I'm tired of the old shit. Let the new shit begin."
Julie is thinking of getting a PC laptop. And I think we're getting cell phones today.
Before you start frog-proofing your rain gutters, there are good reasons for both. The phone was a long time coming, but getting stuck on the interstate behind a traffic accident for three hours with Schuyler in the car and being unable to call anyone to tell them that we were running late sort of sealed the deal.
I wrote about this more over at my book blog, but the other reason for getting a phone is that it looks like Julie is going to help with publicity for my book, at the very least augmenting whatever publicist I might get assigned by St. Martin's Press. SMP publishes and promotes about 700 titles a year; I'll be trying to sell just one book.
Julie's got experience; it's what she does for a living, after all. Also, she's got a vested interest in the success of my book. And I assume her rates are affordable. Aside from the laptop.
So unless Cingular comes to their financial senses before they deliver our phones, it looks like I'll be joining the rest of you in this Twenty-first century, already in progress.
Schuyler has been on what they call "Fall Break", a free week that I never had when I was in school. She had something of a rough weekend, including a three and a half hour drive that turned into almost eight hours thanks to Dallas traffic and Austin road work and a bout with food poisoning. The fewer details shared about that experience, the better.
But through it all, she stayed mostly happy. Even after getting horribly sick, she would simply wash her face, brush her teeth and be back to her normal self. Her resilience never fails to amaze me. I wish I had her ability to spring back from disappointment. In the words of the Eels song, "I'm tired of the old shit. Let the new shit begin."
September 26, 2006
Best line: "A monkey posing as a newscaster..."
I've been staying away from politics for a while, mostly out of depression over the failure of the Democratic Party and the mainstream media to hold the Bush Administration accountable for its actions both before and since 9/11. But after watching Bill Clinton's spirited interview with Fox "News" talking head Chris Wallace, I felt something I hadn't felt in a while. I felt proud of a Democrat. Figures it would be one who's been out of office for five very long years.
I guess I'm not the only one who felt that way:
Keith Olbermann:
Finally tonight, a special comment about President Clinton's interview. The headlines about it are, of course, entirely wrong. It is not essential that a past President, bullied and sandbagged by a monkey posing as a newscaster, finally lashed back.
It is not important that the current President's portable public chorus has described his predecessor's tone as "crazed."
Our tone should be crazed. The nation's freedoms are under assault by an administration whose policies can do us as much damage as Al-Qaeda; the nation's marketplace of ideas is being poisoned, by a propaganda company so blatant that Tokyo Rose would've quit.
Nonetheless, the headline is this: Bill Clinton did what almost none of us have done, in five years. He has spoken the truth about 9/11, and the current presidential administration.
I guess I'm not the only one who felt that way:
Keith Olbermann:
Finally tonight, a special comment about President Clinton's interview. The headlines about it are, of course, entirely wrong. It is not essential that a past President, bullied and sandbagged by a monkey posing as a newscaster, finally lashed back.
It is not important that the current President's portable public chorus has described his predecessor's tone as "crazed."
Our tone should be crazed. The nation's freedoms are under assault by an administration whose policies can do us as much damage as Al-Qaeda; the nation's marketplace of ideas is being poisoned, by a propaganda company so blatant that Tokyo Rose would've quit.
Nonetheless, the headline is this: Bill Clinton did what almost none of us have done, in five years. He has spoken the truth about 9/11, and the current presidential administration.
September 25, 2006
Happy birthday, dead guy.
I would be a bad bad Prophet of Dmitri if I didn't take note of the 100th Anniversary of the birth of my favorite composer, Dmitri Shostakovich.
There's not another artistic figure who has had as great an impact on my musical life as Shostakovich, but that's not the whole story. He is also a personal hero of mine, someone who lived in the most oppressive society in human history and managed to not only survive but also to create a body of work that expresses the reality of life in Stalinist Russia with an emotional honesty and clarity that would have been impossible in any other artistic genre.
When Schuyler was a baby, I promised her I'd take her to Russia in the summer of 2006 to celebrate this anniversary with her. Obviously, it ultimately turned out to be undoable. I would feel uncomfortable traveling in Russia with a non-verbal child, and I'd feel uncomfortable traveling anywhere in the world thanks to our non-sentient president. But I'll be listening to Shostakovich's music today, and reflecting on his life.
So there you go. Some artsy fartsy music jabber for you.
There's not another artistic figure who has had as great an impact on my musical life as Shostakovich, but that's not the whole story. He is also a personal hero of mine, someone who lived in the most oppressive society in human history and managed to not only survive but also to create a body of work that expresses the reality of life in Stalinist Russia with an emotional honesty and clarity that would have been impossible in any other artistic genre.
When Schuyler was a baby, I promised her I'd take her to Russia in the summer of 2006 to celebrate this anniversary with her. Obviously, it ultimately turned out to be undoable. I would feel uncomfortable traveling in Russia with a non-verbal child, and I'd feel uncomfortable traveling anywhere in the world thanks to our non-sentient president. But I'll be listening to Shostakovich's music today, and reflecting on his life.
So there you go. Some artsy fartsy music jabber for you.
I didn't see THAT coming.
Thanks to the very nice people at Publishers Weekly, I now have several copies of the September 11, 2006 edition, for free even. I called them a few days ago to confirm that I was actually in it before buying a few copies from their archive department, and she said, "Oh, give me your address and I'll just send you a couple of copies." She ended up sending five.
This was super cool since I was pretty sure the notice was there, but I hadn't actually seen it yet. It's always nice to be able to hold something like this in hand and be able to actually see the other articles so I can feel all legitimate and flip the pages until I get to the Deals section and see HOLY CRAP, THAT'S MY PHOTO.
Well. That'll wake you up in the morning.
This was super cool since I was pretty sure the notice was there, but I hadn't actually seen it yet. It's always nice to be able to hold something like this in hand and be able to actually see the other articles so I can feel all legitimate and flip the pages until I get to the Deals section and see HOLY CRAP, THAT'S MY PHOTO.
Well. That'll wake you up in the morning.
September 20, 2006
Boring McWriterson
I know it's been a week since I've updated, and honestly, this isn't going to be much of an entry, not compared to the one I'd like to write. The hour is late, and I'm working on the book pretty much most of the time now anyway, including like ten minutes ago and about five minutes from now. But there are two things I wanted to tell you.
1) A comment was left on my last entry letting me know that there was a blurb about me (apparently generated by the Publishers Weekly article) in the Sunday Free Press in Winnipeg, a city that, for those of you who are a product of the American public schools like me, is in Canada. How cool is that? I'm NEWS, baby. Canadian news, no less.
2) In order to keep from cluttering up this fine fine blog with news and jabber about the book, I've created a book site over at SchuylersMonster.com. I keep reading how authors are expected to take up more and more of the promotional duties for their work, and I'm getting an early jump on it. I've been looking at different author sites, and I think this is pretty well in line with what's out there.
Just so you know, it's not all sassy and chaotic like this blog. I do not believe I shall be dropping the F-bomb over there with such Lebowskiesque abandon, for example. It's a professional endeavor, after all, with the single purpose of promoting the book. St. Martin's Press is taking a risk on a new writer like me, and I'm certainly going to do everything I can to make sure their investment pays off.
Am I a sell-out? Well, I don't know. It's my book, after all. It would be pretty stupid of me not to start doing everything I can to make it a success starting now. Besides, you know the reason I never sold out before? No one was buying.
Anyway, if you're interested in following the progress of the book, I'll be doing most of that talk over there. There's even a blog. I'm fancy!
1) A comment was left on my last entry letting me know that there was a blurb about me (apparently generated by the Publishers Weekly article) in the Sunday Free Press in Winnipeg, a city that, for those of you who are a product of the American public schools like me, is in Canada. How cool is that? I'm NEWS, baby. Canadian news, no less.
2) In order to keep from cluttering up this fine fine blog with news and jabber about the book, I've created a book site over at SchuylersMonster.com. I keep reading how authors are expected to take up more and more of the promotional duties for their work, and I'm getting an early jump on it. I've been looking at different author sites, and I think this is pretty well in line with what's out there.
Just so you know, it's not all sassy and chaotic like this blog. I do not believe I shall be dropping the F-bomb over there with such Lebowskiesque abandon, for example. It's a professional endeavor, after all, with the single purpose of promoting the book. St. Martin's Press is taking a risk on a new writer like me, and I'm certainly going to do everything I can to make sure their investment pays off.
Am I a sell-out? Well, I don't know. It's my book, after all. It would be pretty stupid of me not to start doing everything I can to make it a success starting now. Besides, you know the reason I never sold out before? No one was buying.
Anyway, if you're interested in following the progress of the book, I'll be doing most of that talk over there. There's even a blog. I'm fancy!
September 13, 2006
Howl
Schuyler's upset tonight, as she has been all day, and we're not entirely sure why.
It's hard for her, I know. She doesn't express frustration with her situation very often, but sometimes she just can't say what needs to be said, even when she goes to the BBoW, and that's when she gets angry at her monster.
When she got off the bus at school, her teacher said, she was in a bad mood already. Something was wrong, that much was clear, but she wasn't able to tell them exactly what. She was able to tell them that she didn't feel well, but she was struggling to tell them exactly why.
Finally, they figured out that she had a headache. They figured it out because she told the school nurse, in her own way.
She had the nurse put a band-aid on her head.
Well, there you go. Communication.
I've seen it so many times, I've watched her work her way around communications obstacles in different ways, sometimes imaginative and sometimes crude but always effective. It's a wonder to watch, fascinating to see how her brain works.
The last story in my book takes place a couple of months ago, when we were escaping the heat at one of those little play areas at the mall. Schuyler was confronted by a mean little girl who insisted on bullying her and the other kids by constantly occupying the same space that they were trying to play in. Julie and I very intentionally stayed back to let her figure it out by herself.
The mean girl had two sisters in on the fun with her, but she did most of the bullying, calling other kids names and pushing them around. Schuyler refused to budge, however. At first she tried to just ignore the mean girls, but that only enraged them.
Two things happened that convinced us that even if it wasn't how we'd choose for her confrontations to go down, we nevertheless could see that Schuyler was going to be okay.
The first thing was the worst, and happened before we could intervene. The mean girl hit Schuyler hard, on the shoulder. Before we could stand up and go over to them or even say a word, in no more time than it took for the windup, in fact, Schuyler quite simply hit the girl right in the middle of her face. And that was it. She dispensed what she saw as justice, and that was that.
The mean girl was so surprised that for a moment she didn't say anything. Then she started yelling in Schuyler's face.
"You can't talk! You're crazy! You're STUPID!"
Schuyler looked at her for just a moment, weighed her options (which were few, particularly without her BBoW), then leaned into the girl's face, her fists balled at her side, opened her mouth and howled like an animal. The girl was so shocked that she just walked away.
I'd like it to be different. I'd love for things to be any way other than this. But I suppose Schuyler doesn't have time for sentimentality or best practices or whatever. She's a sweet kid and the most loving human being I have ever known, in a world where frankly, love is almost always suspect.
But when she has to be, she's also the best pragmatist I know. Sometimes, all you get is a howl. I see that and I rage against the injustice. Schuyler sees it, and she howls, without hesitation. I'm proud of her for that.
-----
One quick note, while I'm jabbering away.
Because I am generally agreeable to being thought of as swell, I thought I'd share something an old friend of mine wrote about me. It's actually been a few years since I've spoken to Sari. She disappeared for a long time and so I assumed she'd joined some radical lesbian terrorist group. (I'm not sure whether I'm glad or sorry that she didn't.) She's one of those friends with whom the bonds are there and just waiting to be picked back up like no time at all has passed. I'm glad she's back.
Anyway, thank you, Sari. I like that she calls me "the last of the true gentlemen on earth". It almost makes up for that photo. Look how fat I was back then. Man.
It's hard for her, I know. She doesn't express frustration with her situation very often, but sometimes she just can't say what needs to be said, even when she goes to the BBoW, and that's when she gets angry at her monster.
When she got off the bus at school, her teacher said, she was in a bad mood already. Something was wrong, that much was clear, but she wasn't able to tell them exactly what. She was able to tell them that she didn't feel well, but she was struggling to tell them exactly why.
Finally, they figured out that she had a headache. They figured it out because she told the school nurse, in her own way.
She had the nurse put a band-aid on her head.
Well, there you go. Communication.
I've seen it so many times, I've watched her work her way around communications obstacles in different ways, sometimes imaginative and sometimes crude but always effective. It's a wonder to watch, fascinating to see how her brain works.
The last story in my book takes place a couple of months ago, when we were escaping the heat at one of those little play areas at the mall. Schuyler was confronted by a mean little girl who insisted on bullying her and the other kids by constantly occupying the same space that they were trying to play in. Julie and I very intentionally stayed back to let her figure it out by herself.
The mean girl had two sisters in on the fun with her, but she did most of the bullying, calling other kids names and pushing them around. Schuyler refused to budge, however. At first she tried to just ignore the mean girls, but that only enraged them.
Two things happened that convinced us that even if it wasn't how we'd choose for her confrontations to go down, we nevertheless could see that Schuyler was going to be okay.
The first thing was the worst, and happened before we could intervene. The mean girl hit Schuyler hard, on the shoulder. Before we could stand up and go over to them or even say a word, in no more time than it took for the windup, in fact, Schuyler quite simply hit the girl right in the middle of her face. And that was it. She dispensed what she saw as justice, and that was that.
The mean girl was so surprised that for a moment she didn't say anything. Then she started yelling in Schuyler's face.
"You can't talk! You're crazy! You're STUPID!"
Schuyler looked at her for just a moment, weighed her options (which were few, particularly without her BBoW), then leaned into the girl's face, her fists balled at her side, opened her mouth and howled like an animal. The girl was so shocked that she just walked away.
I'd like it to be different. I'd love for things to be any way other than this. But I suppose Schuyler doesn't have time for sentimentality or best practices or whatever. She's a sweet kid and the most loving human being I have ever known, in a world where frankly, love is almost always suspect.
But when she has to be, she's also the best pragmatist I know. Sometimes, all you get is a howl. I see that and I rage against the injustice. Schuyler sees it, and she howls, without hesitation. I'm proud of her for that.
-----
One quick note, while I'm jabbering away.
Because I am generally agreeable to being thought of as swell, I thought I'd share something an old friend of mine wrote about me. It's actually been a few years since I've spoken to Sari. She disappeared for a long time and so I assumed she'd joined some radical lesbian terrorist group. (I'm not sure whether I'm glad or sorry that she didn't.) She's one of those friends with whom the bonds are there and just waiting to be picked back up like no time at all has passed. I'm glad she's back.
Anyway, thank you, Sari. I like that she calls me "the last of the true gentlemen on earth". It almost makes up for that photo. Look how fat I was back then. Man.
September 12, 2006
Am I serious? No one knows, not even me.
(Taking a writing break, and a non-alcoholic one at that.)
The very first thing I plan to do when I get my advance for the book is buy Klops for Schuyler.
Well, come on. Go look at their other creations and tell me they aren't MADE for Schuyler. Look at Klong, and the Yeti. Her little mind might actually explode.
I just wrote to them to ask if they do commissions. I was thinking just one, for Schuyler, but who knows? I could have the industry's first special needs parenting book with a plush doll tie-in. The possibilities boggle the mind.
Schuyler's monster, indeed.
(Okay, back to work...)
The very first thing I plan to do when I get my advance for the book is buy Klops for Schuyler.
Well, come on. Go look at their other creations and tell me they aren't MADE for Schuyler. Look at Klong, and the Yeti. Her little mind might actually explode.
I just wrote to them to ask if they do commissions. I was thinking just one, for Schuyler, but who knows? I could have the industry's first special needs parenting book with a plush doll tie-in. The possibilities boggle the mind.
Schuyler's monster, indeed.
(Okay, back to work...)
September 11, 2006
Someone tell my mom, please.
"Schuyler's Monster"
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.
Well, okay. I guess I can go public now.
(from Publishers Weekly, 9/11/2006 - Deals)Blog to Book
Blogger Robert Rummel-Hudson's life was transformed when his daughter, Schuyler, was diagnosed with an extremely rare neurological disorder called Congenital Bilateral Perisylvian Syndrome (only several hundred cases have been identified worldwide). He began writing about his experiences in an online journal (belovedmonsterandme.blogspot.com) and will now publish his memoir, Schuyler's Monster, with St. Martin's Press; Sheila Curry Oakes acquired world rights from agent Sarah Jane Freymann. Schuyler, now seven, is nonverbal but communicates with the assistance of an electronic device. Rummel-Hudson will ruminate on the struggle with a child's disability while touching on larger issues of family, love and fatherhood. St. Martin's plans a winter 2008 publication.
September 4, 2006
Spelling for Monsters
Schuyler had a spelling test on Friday, like she does every Friday. (I'd like to point out that the idea of little Baby Schuyler taking a first grade spelling test makes me feel like the oldest old fart in Oldfartopia.) This might seem like the most boring thing in the world to share with you, but I want you to stop for just a moment and ponder the metaphorical canyon that one is required to leap across in order to learn to spell when you are incapable of speech.
Imagine learning your letters. Imagine having to learn the sounds that they make, sounds they make for everyone but you. Imagine then having to take those sounds, alien to you in any real, meaningful way, and put them together into words. THEN imagine having to take those words and deconstruct them in your head into the sounds that you can only hear and never make, and use the letters that you have learned to construct those words. Imagine having a teacher say a word to you, sounding it out, and you sitting in a class surrounded by other, neurotypical kids your age who can then put all these pieces together in such a way that it makes perfect sense to them, but will never be able to make sense in a tangible way to you.
Spelling has been challenging for Schuyler. We work with her on it every night, taking the list of words for that week's test and drilling it. We sound it out for her and she types it out, not on her device but on a computer keyboard, because that's what they use in her mainstream first grade class. It's hard for her to write; in addition to stealing her consonants and rendering her non-verbal, her monster fumbles her clumsy little hands, too. So she uses a computer keyboard, and I think that's fine. She's getting quick on her device, but she needs to be able to use the tools of the speaking world, too.
It's frustrating. She tries so hard, and when she can't grasp it because the sounds are hard for her to distinguish, it's easy to lose hope. This has been one of the few times that her condition has caused her real anxiety, and it's heartbreaking. She tries, and when she fails, she loses her focus. I have been telling her that she has to try harder than everyone else in her class. I don't tell her why, because how do you tell a six year-old that she's broken?
Besides, she already knows. She may not care very often, and she's certainly more positive about it than anyone around her, but she knows. Better than anyone, I suspect.
After a couple of weeks with dismal test scores, and after a week of hard drills with her that didn't seem to go anywhere but frustration, we were happily surprised to learn on Friday that she had scored seven out of ten correctly on her test, including the harder words.
I think she simply got tired of the frustration. In her head, I believe she said "Oh, screw this," knocked her monster out of the way and figured it out. It's too early to say whether or not she's really got this down or if she just had a good day, but I think it would be hard for her to "accidentally" spell words correctly. I'm hopeful.
Schuyler clearly has a learning disorder, that's a no shitter. Put a strip of duct tape over your own mouth and leave it there until the day you die, and see how well you grasp the mechanics of language. One unknown issue was always whether or not CBPS was going to take the same bite out of her that it does other CBPS kids.
Schuyler's monster has two ugly stepsisters that loom over our thoughts and fears: seizures and intellectual disability. Seizures we won't know about until (and if) they arrive. I think it is becoming clear, however, that although Schuyler may never be one of the world's great thinkers, she is not hugely mentally impaired. She's clever, she's determined, and most of all she's tenacious. She doesn't like to be told what to do, a trait that I encourage in her every chance I get, so she has to decide she wants to do something first. And then? She just fucking DOES it.
That's Schuyler's nature, and she comes by it honestly. I have no idea how smart she really is, not yet, but I also don't think it matters. I'm not all that smart, either, and I'm doing okay. She's going to do okay, too.
Imagine learning your letters. Imagine having to learn the sounds that they make, sounds they make for everyone but you. Imagine then having to take those sounds, alien to you in any real, meaningful way, and put them together into words. THEN imagine having to take those words and deconstruct them in your head into the sounds that you can only hear and never make, and use the letters that you have learned to construct those words. Imagine having a teacher say a word to you, sounding it out, and you sitting in a class surrounded by other, neurotypical kids your age who can then put all these pieces together in such a way that it makes perfect sense to them, but will never be able to make sense in a tangible way to you.
Spelling has been challenging for Schuyler. We work with her on it every night, taking the list of words for that week's test and drilling it. We sound it out for her and she types it out, not on her device but on a computer keyboard, because that's what they use in her mainstream first grade class. It's hard for her to write; in addition to stealing her consonants and rendering her non-verbal, her monster fumbles her clumsy little hands, too. So she uses a computer keyboard, and I think that's fine. She's getting quick on her device, but she needs to be able to use the tools of the speaking world, too.
It's frustrating. She tries so hard, and when she can't grasp it because the sounds are hard for her to distinguish, it's easy to lose hope. This has been one of the few times that her condition has caused her real anxiety, and it's heartbreaking. She tries, and when she fails, she loses her focus. I have been telling her that she has to try harder than everyone else in her class. I don't tell her why, because how do you tell a six year-old that she's broken?
Besides, she already knows. She may not care very often, and she's certainly more positive about it than anyone around her, but she knows. Better than anyone, I suspect.
After a couple of weeks with dismal test scores, and after a week of hard drills with her that didn't seem to go anywhere but frustration, we were happily surprised to learn on Friday that she had scored seven out of ten correctly on her test, including the harder words.
I think she simply got tired of the frustration. In her head, I believe she said "Oh, screw this," knocked her monster out of the way and figured it out. It's too early to say whether or not she's really got this down or if she just had a good day, but I think it would be hard for her to "accidentally" spell words correctly. I'm hopeful.
Schuyler clearly has a learning disorder, that's a no shitter. Put a strip of duct tape over your own mouth and leave it there until the day you die, and see how well you grasp the mechanics of language. One unknown issue was always whether or not CBPS was going to take the same bite out of her that it does other CBPS kids.
Schuyler's monster has two ugly stepsisters that loom over our thoughts and fears: seizures and intellectual disability. Seizures we won't know about until (and if) they arrive. I think it is becoming clear, however, that although Schuyler may never be one of the world's great thinkers, she is not hugely mentally impaired. She's clever, she's determined, and most of all she's tenacious. She doesn't like to be told what to do, a trait that I encourage in her every chance I get, so she has to decide she wants to do something first. And then? She just fucking DOES it.
That's Schuyler's nature, and she comes by it honestly. I have no idea how smart she really is, not yet, but I also don't think it matters. I'm not all that smart, either, and I'm doing okay. She's going to do okay, too.
August 31, 2006
Potholes in Memory Lane
As I dig into the writing of this book, I'm finding that the hard part isn't necessarily revisiting the hard times. I'm doing a major re-write of the earliest chapters, so I'm back in New Haven of 2000, with a weird job in a mental hospital and a new baby. I'm revisiting those days in my old journal, and the fact that I had no idea what the future held for us all is surprisingly poignant to me.
It's funny the things I was afraid of as a new parent. None of them came to pass, and yet the monster was there, already in place and fully formed. It would be July of 20001 before Schuyler's pediatrician would ask about Schuyler's speech for the first time, and another two years after that before we ever heard the words "Congenital Bilateral Perisylvian Syndrome".
In 2000, I thought our parenting future was just like everyone else's. I thought things were going to be okay.
Between now and the end of the year, I'm going to be revisiting the slow descent into the very worst of those days, all the uncertainty and the wondering if Schuyler was deaf and hearing the idiotic term "Pervasive Developmental Disorder - Not Otherwise Specified" for the first time. I'll get to hit rock bottom in the summer of 2003 when we finally met the monster, and a few weeks later, I'll get to plummet back down to a year and a half later when we went to Chicago to look for hope and instead found out that as bad as we thought it was, Schuyler's monster was even uglier than we'd been told.
If I progress on schedule, sometime in November I'll be back in Austin circa spring of 2004 learning about the Big Box of Words and fundraising for Schuyler's shot at having a voice. December will bring the fight, and the hope, and by the end of the year, I should be done.
Where Schuyler is concerned, I sometimes get so caught up in trying to prepare for the future that I sometimes forget that the past was no picnic, either. If I could go back in time and talk to the me of 2000, I'm not exactly sure what I'd tell him.
"Brace yourself, man."
It's funny the things I was afraid of as a new parent. None of them came to pass, and yet the monster was there, already in place and fully formed. It would be July of 20001 before Schuyler's pediatrician would ask about Schuyler's speech for the first time, and another two years after that before we ever heard the words "Congenital Bilateral Perisylvian Syndrome".
In 2000, I thought our parenting future was just like everyone else's. I thought things were going to be okay.
Between now and the end of the year, I'm going to be revisiting the slow descent into the very worst of those days, all the uncertainty and the wondering if Schuyler was deaf and hearing the idiotic term "Pervasive Developmental Disorder - Not Otherwise Specified" for the first time. I'll get to hit rock bottom in the summer of 2003 when we finally met the monster, and a few weeks later, I'll get to plummet back down to a year and a half later when we went to Chicago to look for hope and instead found out that as bad as we thought it was, Schuyler's monster was even uglier than we'd been told.
If I progress on schedule, sometime in November I'll be back in Austin circa spring of 2004 learning about the Big Box of Words and fundraising for Schuyler's shot at having a voice. December will bring the fight, and the hope, and by the end of the year, I should be done.
Where Schuyler is concerned, I sometimes get so caught up in trying to prepare for the future that I sometimes forget that the past was no picnic, either. If I could go back in time and talk to the me of 2000, I'm not exactly sure what I'd tell him.
"Brace yourself, man."
August 28, 2006
I know smart people.
There are some people that, when they get published, you secretly wonder down in your (my?) cold, jealous heart how they got the Golden Ticket while you're still stuck writing for your company newsletter and accumulating the "thanks but no thanks" letters.
And then there are the ones for whom there is no doubt whatsoever why they are meeting with success.
Congratulations, Campbell Award-winner John Scalzi! Keep on keepin' on.
And then there are the ones for whom there is no doubt whatsoever why they are meeting with success.
Congratulations, Campbell Award-winner John Scalzi! Keep on keepin' on.
August 26, 2006
Monkey Paw
First of all, an announcement. The Last Samurai is on tv right now, and it's on the scene where the samurai are attacked by assassin ninjas. Schuyler has just informed us that she is a ninja. She is showing us her ninja moves right now.
Just so you know. She really is my pretty ninja. She'll mess you up, bitches.
As you can imagine, it's been a crazy week. I never really thought the whole hypothetical experience through, what it would be like to get a book deal. I guess if I imagined it at all, my fantasy scene would have been similar to winning the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes, like I'd get a knock on the door and guys in suits and giant toothy smiles would say, "Robert Rummel-Hudson! We're buying your book! Sign here and you can have this big fancy check and a spot on Jon Stewart and all the hot undergrad English majors you can handle!"
The reality is that after a week of emails and phone calls and questions about deadlines and percentages and marketing and publishing terms that I had to look up online (before answering the same thing every time: "Sounds great!"), the process is still, well, in process. (Yeah, that was an eloquent turn of phrase from the fancy pants writer.) I suspect the next few days will bring some closure, and with it perhaps the giant check and the hot young chickies.
And then I have to finish this thing. I have until the end of January to turn in a finished manuscript, and I've mapped out the amount of time I need to complete it before the end of the year, giving me a few weeks to pretty up the mess when I'm done. It works out to about a chapter a week. As a fun little online component of the process, I'll list the name of the chapter I'm currently working on over in the sidebar. If you don't see it change once a week or so, you have my permission to send me an email that says "What the fuck, Chuck?"
Through it all, life continues. Schuyler continues.
I have to admit, this has been a slightly bittersweet experience. For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be a published writer. It's been a consistent dream of mine, but now that it's coming true, it feels a little bit like a monkey paw story. (For those of you with a clicking allergy, the reference is to a 1902 story by W. W. Jacobs, in which a dead monkey paw grants wishes but with an ugly price.) I've been in such a celebratory mood all week, but when I sit down to work on the book, the reality of this story blows through my mood like smoke.
I'm thrilled that this book is going to be published. Well, of course I am. Part of that thrill is the weird rush of a life's dream coming to pass, like the first drop of a roller coaster. Part of it feels like a small measure of justice for Schuyler, as if God can do this to her and I'm powerless to stop him, but at the very least I'm going to let the world know what a bully he is. And part of it has the whiff of evangelism, bringing her story to people who might have some kind of monster in their own lives. Schuyler's an inspiring kid, she never loses her spirit even when we do. And make no mistake, we do, a lot.
In the end, as much as I'd like to play the part of Talented Author Type, the reality is that this book is getting published because of Schuyler. She's writing her own story, she's going to make her own way and knock down whomever she has to in order to do so.
Me? I'm just writing it down.
Just so you know. She really is my pretty ninja. She'll mess you up, bitches.
As you can imagine, it's been a crazy week. I never really thought the whole hypothetical experience through, what it would be like to get a book deal. I guess if I imagined it at all, my fantasy scene would have been similar to winning the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes, like I'd get a knock on the door and guys in suits and giant toothy smiles would say, "Robert Rummel-Hudson! We're buying your book! Sign here and you can have this big fancy check and a spot on Jon Stewart and all the hot undergrad English majors you can handle!"
The reality is that after a week of emails and phone calls and questions about deadlines and percentages and marketing and publishing terms that I had to look up online (before answering the same thing every time: "Sounds great!"), the process is still, well, in process. (Yeah, that was an eloquent turn of phrase from the fancy pants writer.) I suspect the next few days will bring some closure, and with it perhaps the giant check and the hot young chickies.
And then I have to finish this thing. I have until the end of January to turn in a finished manuscript, and I've mapped out the amount of time I need to complete it before the end of the year, giving me a few weeks to pretty up the mess when I'm done. It works out to about a chapter a week. As a fun little online component of the process, I'll list the name of the chapter I'm currently working on over in the sidebar. If you don't see it change once a week or so, you have my permission to send me an email that says "What the fuck, Chuck?"
Through it all, life continues. Schuyler continues.
I have to admit, this has been a slightly bittersweet experience. For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be a published writer. It's been a consistent dream of mine, but now that it's coming true, it feels a little bit like a monkey paw story. (For those of you with a clicking allergy, the reference is to a 1902 story by W. W. Jacobs, in which a dead monkey paw grants wishes but with an ugly price.) I've been in such a celebratory mood all week, but when I sit down to work on the book, the reality of this story blows through my mood like smoke.
I'm thrilled that this book is going to be published. Well, of course I am. Part of that thrill is the weird rush of a life's dream coming to pass, like the first drop of a roller coaster. Part of it feels like a small measure of justice for Schuyler, as if God can do this to her and I'm powerless to stop him, but at the very least I'm going to let the world know what a bully he is. And part of it has the whiff of evangelism, bringing her story to people who might have some kind of monster in their own lives. Schuyler's an inspiring kid, she never loses her spirit even when we do. And make no mistake, we do, a lot.
In the end, as much as I'd like to play the part of Talented Author Type, the reality is that this book is getting published because of Schuyler. She's writing her own story, she's going to make her own way and knock down whomever she has to in order to do so.
Me? I'm just writing it down.
August 25, 2006
Technical Note
Quickly, if you are sending email to me at rhudson@digitalism.com, you are sending them into a black hole. It appears to be dead, and dead for good. Delete that address from your address books and coldly banish it from your hearts forever.
On the other hand, rob@darn-tootin.com and rhudsonphoto@gmail.com work splendidly.
Okay, back to what you were doing. More from me soon, after this adrenaline-fueled frenzy of book prep runs its course...
On the other hand, rob@darn-tootin.com and rhudsonphoto@gmail.com work splendidly.
Okay, back to what you were doing. More from me soon, after this adrenaline-fueled frenzy of book prep runs its course...
August 23, 2006
Announcement
Okay, so let's make this official. In a slightly vague sort of way.
Look for Schuyler's Monster with a target publication of Spring 2008 (with an eye towards Father's Day), most likely in hardcover, possibly with photographs.
And uh, that's it, actually. I've been getting schooled all day on the finer points of publishing contract speak, having to make decisions on things like First Serial Rights (for things like publishing excerpts in magazines, etc.), World Rights, and lord help us all, the audio edition. (Personally, I think James Earl Jones would sound very distinguished saying the word "assmonkey".)
I'll obviously be rattling on about this more as things become settled, but there it is. A lot of things I'd been planning, such as the podcast, might be on hold for a bit until I get this thing finished (with a likely deadline of the end of January), but I'll no doubt have lots to share here during the process, for those who are interested.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a "So, how do you like me NOW?" email to compose for ex-girlfriends, my high school guidance counselor, and at least one former employer.
That was a joke, by the way.
Look for Schuyler's Monster with a target publication of Spring 2008 (with an eye towards Father's Day), most likely in hardcover, possibly with photographs.
And uh, that's it, actually. I've been getting schooled all day on the finer points of publishing contract speak, having to make decisions on things like First Serial Rights (for things like publishing excerpts in magazines, etc.), World Rights, and lord help us all, the audio edition. (Personally, I think James Earl Jones would sound very distinguished saying the word "assmonkey".)
I'll obviously be rattling on about this more as things become settled, but there it is. A lot of things I'd been planning, such as the podcast, might be on hold for a bit until I get this thing finished (with a likely deadline of the end of January), but I'll no doubt have lots to share here during the process, for those who are interested.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a "So, how do you like me NOW?" email to compose for ex-girlfriends, my high school guidance counselor, and at least one former employer.
That was a joke, by the way.
August 21, 2006
Waiting is a special hell.
So yeah. Waiting for the phone call.
Waiting.
I keep looking at the phone, trying to coax a ring out of it. Nothing. Maybe if I wiggle my eyebrows. No? How about if I bug my eyes out? Nothing? I could try a Samuel Jackson on it.
"I want this motherfucking phone to motherfucking RING!"
No? Too last week?
Maybe it's not working. What if my phone is broken and they try to call?
"Wow, his phone doesn't work. How rude! Screw this guy."
What if I pick it up to check, and that's the moment they call? What if they get my voice mail and say, "Wow, he's busy. He's not going to have the time to devote to us. Let's call Dan Brown and see if he's got lunch plans."
Okay, I checked. Dial tone.
I wonder if they tried to call just now when I did that?
Yeah. I'm a little nervous.
Waiting.
I keep looking at the phone, trying to coax a ring out of it. Nothing. Maybe if I wiggle my eyebrows. No? How about if I bug my eyes out? Nothing? I could try a Samuel Jackson on it.
"I want this motherfucking phone to motherfucking RING!"
No? Too last week?
Maybe it's not working. What if my phone is broken and they try to call?
"Wow, his phone doesn't work. How rude! Screw this guy."
What if I pick it up to check, and that's the moment they call? What if they get my voice mail and say, "Wow, he's busy. He's not going to have the time to devote to us. Let's call Dan Brown and see if he's got lunch plans."
Okay, I checked. Dial tone.
I wonder if they tried to call just now when I did that?
Yeah. I'm a little nervous.
August 18, 2006
So far, this weekend's looking a hell of a lot better than last weekend.
So let me ask you something. What is the most annoying kind of blog entry that I could subject you to? Besides diabetes or the goopy toe? How about the one where I say I have big news, but I can't tell you what it is? That one's a pain in the ass, isn't it?
I have big news, but I can't tell you what it is. Not just yet.
Call me superstitious. When everything's signed and legally binding, you'll be the first to know.
(Like you can't figure it out on your own.)
I have big news, but I can't tell you what it is. Not just yet.
Call me superstitious. When everything's signed and legally binding, you'll be the first to know.
(Like you can't figure it out on your own.)
August 16, 2006
"Space Boy, Fly Girl, living in the Underworld..."
I'm sort of a bad person, because when I have to attend meetings for parents at Schuyler's school, I last about ten minutes before I start twitching and spazzing and fucking off. I'm that one person who can't sit still and who sighs dramatically when other parents ask questions like, "So on the days when it gets up past 100 degrees, do you take the kids outside at recess?"
I wish I were making that up.
So when we went to the big First Grade Parent/Teacher End-All Hootenanny of Hootenannies, Julie paid attention and actually learned some stuff while Schuyler and I mocked the principal's presentation by making the little "blah blah blah" talking hands at each other. (Imagine David Byrne in his big suit in the "Once in a Lifetime" video; "You may ask yourself...")
So yeah, we were a bad little scene, but I'm not sure what to tell you. Schuyler and I are the same in so many of our personality quirks, and our impatience with time wasting is one of them. I can't speak for Mister "Stupid Hot Day Question" Dad, but I don't actually require, when handed a handbook for parents, to then have all the teachers take turns showing it, page by page, in a PowerPoint presentation while READING it aloud to me. I thought we did pretty well, considering I'll one day be lying in bed, old-man-stinky and dying, and one of the last things I'll wheeze out in a raspy voice will be, "Goddamn it, I wish I had that hour back right now..."
I think Schuyler's going to fare pretty well this year. As always, she wasn't the slightest bit apprehensive about going back to school. Schuyler feeds on the new, and she loves meeting new people. Some kids don't handle change very well, but Schuyler is almost the opposite, like me. She gets bored with routine, and when she senses me getting bored, too, well, it's time to break out the David Byrne hands. The nice part is that when the other parents stare at her, which a surprising number of them were doing, the chances are at least even that it's not just her enthusiastic but non-sensical Schuylerese they are reacting to. It could be her pink punkass hair or her father-induced squirrelly behavior. Not everyone knows what to do with a beautiful freak.
Finally, after sitting through the meeting for about seven hours (internal measurement; one actual hour), we left the school and went our separate ways, Julie to go to the store and Schuyler and I to go home. In the car, Schuyler and I sung and danced around to our current favorite "Father/daughter funk track", which coincidentally, is a song by David Byrne, "U.B. Jesus". If you're not a David Byrne fan, I don't know what to tell you. You might just be dead to me now.
We always save our most enthusiastic jumping around (and get the most stares from the No-longer-quite-so-young Republicans and MILF-wannabes in the cars around us) for the part where the song kicks into overdrive.
Jump Back, Jump Back
Givin' me a heart attack
Fall down, Fall down
Sweeter than a cherry bomb
Sweet Thing, Sweet Thing
Steppin' on your violin
Space Boy, Fly Girl
Living in the underworld
When I sang that last part to her, she clapped and laughed her little head off.
"Who's Space Boy?" I asked her. She pointed at me.
"And who's Fly Girl?" She pointed to herself in triumph and started dancing some more.
So there you go. Same as it ever was.
I wish I were making that up.
So when we went to the big First Grade Parent/Teacher End-All Hootenanny of Hootenannies, Julie paid attention and actually learned some stuff while Schuyler and I mocked the principal's presentation by making the little "blah blah blah" talking hands at each other. (Imagine David Byrne in his big suit in the "Once in a Lifetime" video; "You may ask yourself...")
So yeah, we were a bad little scene, but I'm not sure what to tell you. Schuyler and I are the same in so many of our personality quirks, and our impatience with time wasting is one of them. I can't speak for Mister "Stupid Hot Day Question" Dad, but I don't actually require, when handed a handbook for parents, to then have all the teachers take turns showing it, page by page, in a PowerPoint presentation while READING it aloud to me. I thought we did pretty well, considering I'll one day be lying in bed, old-man-stinky and dying, and one of the last things I'll wheeze out in a raspy voice will be, "Goddamn it, I wish I had that hour back right now..."
I think Schuyler's going to fare pretty well this year. As always, she wasn't the slightest bit apprehensive about going back to school. Schuyler feeds on the new, and she loves meeting new people. Some kids don't handle change very well, but Schuyler is almost the opposite, like me. She gets bored with routine, and when she senses me getting bored, too, well, it's time to break out the David Byrne hands. The nice part is that when the other parents stare at her, which a surprising number of them were doing, the chances are at least even that it's not just her enthusiastic but non-sensical Schuylerese they are reacting to. It could be her pink punkass hair or her father-induced squirrelly behavior. Not everyone knows what to do with a beautiful freak.
Finally, after sitting through the meeting for about seven hours (internal measurement; one actual hour), we left the school and went our separate ways, Julie to go to the store and Schuyler and I to go home. In the car, Schuyler and I sung and danced around to our current favorite "Father/daughter funk track", which coincidentally, is a song by David Byrne, "U.B. Jesus". If you're not a David Byrne fan, I don't know what to tell you. You might just be dead to me now.
We always save our most enthusiastic jumping around (and get the most stares from the No-longer-quite-so-young Republicans and MILF-wannabes in the cars around us) for the part where the song kicks into overdrive.
Jump Back, Jump Back
Givin' me a heart attack
Fall down, Fall down
Sweeter than a cherry bomb
Sweet Thing, Sweet Thing
Steppin' on your violin
Space Boy, Fly Girl
Living in the underworld
When I sang that last part to her, she clapped and laughed her little head off.
"Who's Space Boy?" I asked her. She pointed at me.
"And who's Fly Girl?" She pointed to herself in triumph and started dancing some more.
So there you go. Same as it ever was.
August 10, 2006
Queen of Butterflies
Sometimes cool stuff happens because I have a blog.
Such as this very cool art created for Schuyler by my friend Beth at DarnLucky.com. She was inspired by my recent entry about taking Schuyler to Mexico to see the butterfly sanctuaries (a trip that I am now more determined than ever to take her on one day).
I already ordered a print of it and am going to have it framed when it gets here. Then I am going to give it to Schuyler and watch her tiny head explode with joy.
Celebrating Schuyler is something I will never do half-heartedly. She is the reason I do anything in this world, she is the person who never disappoints me and never looks at me with disdain or anything less than total love. At the end of my days, she's the one who'll be standing beside me, and when I am gone, she's the one who'll remember that I was here and that I loved, too much and imperfectly sometimes, but never with anything less than my whole heart.
Anyway, thank you, Beth. Very very cool.
Such as this very cool art created for Schuyler by my friend Beth at DarnLucky.com. She was inspired by my recent entry about taking Schuyler to Mexico to see the butterfly sanctuaries (a trip that I am now more determined than ever to take her on one day).
I already ordered a print of it and am going to have it framed when it gets here. Then I am going to give it to Schuyler and watch her tiny head explode with joy.
Celebrating Schuyler is something I will never do half-heartedly. She is the reason I do anything in this world, she is the person who never disappoints me and never looks at me with disdain or anything less than total love. At the end of my days, she's the one who'll be standing beside me, and when I am gone, she's the one who'll remember that I was here and that I loved, too much and imperfectly sometimes, but never with anything less than my whole heart.
Anyway, thank you, Beth. Very very cool.
I feel like the oldest old man in Old Man Town.
Yesterday was Schuyler's first day back in school. For those of you who have been reading for a while and would like to feel the tread of Father Time's birkenstocks as he walks over your face, she is entering the first grade.
My first thought was, "That's weird. When did they start accepting babies into the first grade?"
So yeah, I'm clearly in denial.
It was a strange day for Schuyler. This was her first day in the new school uniform, which looks sharp on her if I do say so myself, and I do. It was also mostly an orientation day, and not the only one. Her box class wont actually begin until next week, so she's spending these first few days as a mainstream student. I'm both nervous and curious to see how that works out.
A boring story, I know, but it has a dramatic conclusion. The bus that was supposed to bring her home after school was running late, so Julie called me to tell me and then called the transportation office.
And that's how she discovered that Schuyler had been dropped off at THE WROOOONG FUH-KING LOCAAAATION.
The drama was short-lived. Julie quickly discovered that Schuyler had been taken to the YMCA (her after school provider last year) by mistake, thanks (I think, although it's not clear at this point) to her school using a list from last year. Schuyler got intercepted by some staff who remembered her, and she was wearing her gimp tag, so it wasn't like she was standing at the side of the road somewhere, silently thumbing a ride.
Still, she was at a location where no one was legally responsible for her safety and where, since she wasn't on the YMCA's list, she could theoretically have been taken away by child molesters or cannibals or the Jane Book Club and no one would have necessarily stopped them. So it was a big deal. Julie and I were still twitchy hours later.
Perhaps not coincidentally, I think I have two spots at my temples that appear to be going grey. I noticed them this morning.
My first thought was, "That's weird. When did they start accepting babies into the first grade?"
So yeah, I'm clearly in denial.
It was a strange day for Schuyler. This was her first day in the new school uniform, which looks sharp on her if I do say so myself, and I do. It was also mostly an orientation day, and not the only one. Her box class wont actually begin until next week, so she's spending these first few days as a mainstream student. I'm both nervous and curious to see how that works out.
A boring story, I know, but it has a dramatic conclusion. The bus that was supposed to bring her home after school was running late, so Julie called me to tell me and then called the transportation office.
And that's how she discovered that Schuyler had been dropped off at THE WROOOONG FUH-KING LOCAAAATION.
The drama was short-lived. Julie quickly discovered that Schuyler had been taken to the YMCA (her after school provider last year) by mistake, thanks (I think, although it's not clear at this point) to her school using a list from last year. Schuyler got intercepted by some staff who remembered her, and she was wearing her gimp tag, so it wasn't like she was standing at the side of the road somewhere, silently thumbing a ride.
Still, she was at a location where no one was legally responsible for her safety and where, since she wasn't on the YMCA's list, she could theoretically have been taken away by child molesters or cannibals or the Jane Book Club and no one would have necessarily stopped them. So it was a big deal. Julie and I were still twitchy hours later.
Perhaps not coincidentally, I think I have two spots at my temples that appear to be going grey. I noticed them this morning.
August 8, 2006
Wings
Note: I'm posting limited comments for this entry.
-----
"We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it's forever." -- Carl Sagan
If you are an old friend of mine, you've heard about this before, so sorry. But it occurred to me recently that I don't think I've written about this in any recent version of my online jabber. It's an important Rob Fact.
About twenty years ago, I was sitting around watching television sort of aimlessly (some behaviors are eternal, I suppose) when a program came on about Monarch butterflies. By the time it was over, something had changed in me.
It told how every fourth or fifth generation or so, Monarchs cross North America by the millions, flying south from as far north as Canada at a rate of about 80 miles a day, braving birds and weather and the destructive human stain on the world, until they reach a cool mountain pass in the volcanic highlands of Mexico. Scientists have no idea how they manage it. The butterflies that actually make the journey have never done it before; they are the great, great grandchildren of the previous travellers.
When they get there, the Monarchs congregate in groups so huge that the branches of the trees bend and touch the ground from the weight of them. They meet and they have sex and lay their eggs, and then they die. Their children fly north and start the whole thing over again.
I knew then, even as a stupid teenager, that I wanted to go to Mexicao and experience it one day. For twenty years, it has remained the only dream of mine that has never wavered.
It's funny how many times I've shared this dream, with wives and ex-wives and lovers and friends. And despite the fact that a number of people over the years have expressed an interest in going with me, I think I always felt deep down that when I do eventually go, it would be one of two ways.
Alone, or carried by someone who loves me, in an urn.
I have no idea how it'll happen. I'm in better shape than I've been since high school; I'm actually closing in on weighing the same as I did when I first learned about the Monarchs. I'm healthier now than ever in some ways, and sicker than ever in others. It's a weird sensation, being thinner and fitter and yet waking up some days feeling old and worn down.
But if I stay healthy enough for a bit longer, there may come a day when I limp into the cool shade of a quiet Mexican mountain pass and hear the unimaginable sound of millions of tiny flapping wings. And if I'm lucky, I'll have company, perhaps the company I was destined to have all along and never even knew it. She won't be much of a conversationalist, but she'll sign "butterfly" because she loves them, too. She'll share the experience that I've dreamed of since I was young and the future stretched in front of me, a future full of promise and still empty of monsters.
If not, I hope that one day she'll go there for me, my ashes in her backpack next to her Big Box of Words, and be the last person to say goodbye to me.
-----
"We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it's forever." -- Carl Sagan
If you are an old friend of mine, you've heard about this before, so sorry. But it occurred to me recently that I don't think I've written about this in any recent version of my online jabber. It's an important Rob Fact.
About twenty years ago, I was sitting around watching television sort of aimlessly (some behaviors are eternal, I suppose) when a program came on about Monarch butterflies. By the time it was over, something had changed in me.
It told how every fourth or fifth generation or so, Monarchs cross North America by the millions, flying south from as far north as Canada at a rate of about 80 miles a day, braving birds and weather and the destructive human stain on the world, until they reach a cool mountain pass in the volcanic highlands of Mexico. Scientists have no idea how they manage it. The butterflies that actually make the journey have never done it before; they are the great, great grandchildren of the previous travellers.
When they get there, the Monarchs congregate in groups so huge that the branches of the trees bend and touch the ground from the weight of them. They meet and they have sex and lay their eggs, and then they die. Their children fly north and start the whole thing over again.
I knew then, even as a stupid teenager, that I wanted to go to Mexicao and experience it one day. For twenty years, it has remained the only dream of mine that has never wavered.
It's funny how many times I've shared this dream, with wives and ex-wives and lovers and friends. And despite the fact that a number of people over the years have expressed an interest in going with me, I think I always felt deep down that when I do eventually go, it would be one of two ways.
Alone, or carried by someone who loves me, in an urn.
I have no idea how it'll happen. I'm in better shape than I've been since high school; I'm actually closing in on weighing the same as I did when I first learned about the Monarchs. I'm healthier now than ever in some ways, and sicker than ever in others. It's a weird sensation, being thinner and fitter and yet waking up some days feeling old and worn down.
But if I stay healthy enough for a bit longer, there may come a day when I limp into the cool shade of a quiet Mexican mountain pass and hear the unimaginable sound of millions of tiny flapping wings. And if I'm lucky, I'll have company, perhaps the company I was destined to have all along and never even knew it. She won't be much of a conversationalist, but she'll sign "butterfly" because she loves them, too. She'll share the experience that I've dreamed of since I was young and the future stretched in front of me, a future full of promise and still empty of monsters.
If not, I hope that one day she'll go there for me, my ashes in her backpack next to her Big Box of Words, and be the last person to say goodbye to me.
August 6, 2006
Beautiful freak
Hiding from the sun.
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.
You're such a beautiful freak
I wish there were more just like you
Youre not like all of the others
And that is why I love you
Beautiful freak, beautiful freak
That is why I love you
Beautiful freak, beautiful freak
Some people think you have a problem
But that problem lies only with them
Just cause you are not like the others
But that is why I love you
Beautiful freak, beautiful freak
Yeah that is why I love you
Beautiful freak, beautiful freak
Too good for this world
But I hope you will stay
And Ill be here to see that you dont fade away
Youre such a beautiful freak
I bet you are flying inside
Dart down and then go for cover
And know that I
I love you
Beautiful freak,
You know that I
I love you
Beautiful freak, beautiful freak
-- Eels, "Beautiful Freak"
August 4, 2006
A blast from the past
I found a disk full of archived material from like five years ago, and while going though some old emails, I just found a message I sent to my old notify list. And while I could try to put it in some sort of context for you, I actually think it reads better without it. Enjoy...
---
To: Book of Rob Notify List
From: Rob Rummel-Hudson
Subject: Apology of sorts, and an explanation of sorts
Date: Fri, 27 Apr 2001
Hi, all.
Okay, so if you read my new entry before noon today, you probably saw a link to an interview with me. You might have even seen it soon enough to actually read the interview.
But chances are pretty good that at some point, the people who clicked on that link stopped going to an interview with me and were instead getting a page with a big penis on it.
And while there are many of you out there who no doubt find that both appropriate and just that a supposed interview with me would actually contain instead a big penis photo, there are doubtless many more of you who did not in fact expect or desire to see a big penis on your screen when you trusted me and clicked that link. And I suspect some of you were at work at the time. "Can you step into my office? We need to discuss the big penis on your PC..."
I just wanted to apologize to anyone who was offended by that big penis. I had no idea that between the time I posted that link and today, the site would, out of nowhere, disappear and be replaced with a big penis. I was not informed that the interview to which I had linked would in fact be replaced by a big penis.
I was only informed of the presence of the big penis at the other end of the link -- a link that my in-laws would follow (confession: that idea cracked me up a little), a link that my MOTHER would eventually click and say "Why, that is not an interview with my son, that is in fact a big hairy cock!" -- I was only told of it when my friend Joe (who, remember, likes to watch) wrote to tell me about the big penis.
I am annoyed. It was embarrassing and a little humiliating, fodder for jokes from all the chattering little assmonkeys who watch me and wait for me to stumble so they can go back to their unreadable little sites and write with stuttering glee about Rob and the Giant Penis. (That's a Dahl story, I believe.)
So my apologies to anyone who got an unexpected big penis on your screen. I'm not any happier about it than you.
It was not an attractive big penis, either.
-- rob
---
To: Book of Rob Notify List
From: Rob Rummel-Hudson
Subject: Apology of sorts, and an explanation of sorts
Date: Fri, 27 Apr 2001
Hi, all.
Okay, so if you read my new entry before noon today, you probably saw a link to an interview with me. You might have even seen it soon enough to actually read the interview.
But chances are pretty good that at some point, the people who clicked on that link stopped going to an interview with me and were instead getting a page with a big penis on it.
And while there are many of you out there who no doubt find that both appropriate and just that a supposed interview with me would actually contain instead a big penis photo, there are doubtless many more of you who did not in fact expect or desire to see a big penis on your screen when you trusted me and clicked that link. And I suspect some of you were at work at the time. "Can you step into my office? We need to discuss the big penis on your PC..."
I just wanted to apologize to anyone who was offended by that big penis. I had no idea that between the time I posted that link and today, the site would, out of nowhere, disappear and be replaced with a big penis. I was not informed that the interview to which I had linked would in fact be replaced by a big penis.
I was only informed of the presence of the big penis at the other end of the link -- a link that my in-laws would follow (confession: that idea cracked me up a little), a link that my MOTHER would eventually click and say "Why, that is not an interview with my son, that is in fact a big hairy cock!" -- I was only told of it when my friend Joe (who, remember, likes to watch) wrote to tell me about the big penis.
I am annoyed. It was embarrassing and a little humiliating, fodder for jokes from all the chattering little assmonkeys who watch me and wait for me to stumble so they can go back to their unreadable little sites and write with stuttering glee about Rob and the Giant Penis. (That's a Dahl story, I believe.)
So my apologies to anyone who got an unexpected big penis on your screen. I'm not any happier about it than you.
It was not an attractive big penis, either.
-- rob
August 2, 2006
Holy Crap, Revisited
To everyone out there who is shocked, SHOCKED, at the revelation that Mel Gibson...
...might just be a gigantic anti-Semite after all, I really don't have a lot to say to you, other than this.
Told you so.
"Fucking Jews... The Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world."
...might just be a gigantic anti-Semite after all, I really don't have a lot to say to you, other than this.
Told you so.
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