Echo and the Bunnymen, oh my!

Oh, yea. (circa 1983) [Look for the guy in the totally rad shorts!]

The Very Best of Echo & the Bunnymen: More Songs to Learn and Sing


I just bought a $50 ticket from some dude to see Echo and the Bunnymen on Saturday at the Filmore. I can in no way afford this, my rent check will bounce if they cash it on time. They usually don't, but I don't care if they do. Right now, this matters more. This is most important.

I've been wishing Morrissey would go on tour again, knowing I need some relief. I'm aching for a break. I need to feel good for a few hours. But, the Bunnymen! Finally! I've never seen them, despite my 20 year love affair with the band. I've tried seeing them a few times, to no avail. It's all about the passion and poetry of Mac's vocals, the richness and layers of sound, the seething melancholy, oozing sexuality, and their utter timelessness, delivered by a huge catalog of awesome songs. It completely rings my bell.

So, On Wednesday, I got an email from one of my online groups announcing the concert as an event. The subject line pained me a little with desire. I ignored the email anyway, I figured the show was sold out as always, you can't get tickets in NYC. I didn't delete it though. And, today, I opened it just in case. The dude had a ticket to spare and he was selling! But. But, I could not afford it. Of course not. I would only have $30 after my rent was paid. Alas.

A little later, I got the unhappy email calling me an "administrative annoyance" (how long did it take him to come up with that pithy insult?), telling me to take a hike from my job of 7 years. It would have been nice if they had said something to me before it got this far... Anyway. It made me sob with shame. Then, I had to go teach 3 classes, pretending it was all okay. When I got home afterwards, still feeling miserable, I curled up on the couch for another cry. That's when I decided I had to do it, for me, for my tired heart. For that little piece of joy. I texted the ticket guy, did he still have it? . . . It was all mine.

I guess this means we're seeing the show together. I don't think anyone else is going. We've never met, but, whatever, it's not like I haven't done that before. If he's annoying, I'll get lost in the crowd. Had he given me the ticket for free I'd feel obliged to keep him company all night. Maybe I can charm him into 'forgetting' to charge me. He could've checked out my profile with my pic before aagreeing to sell it to me. Who knows, maybe he'll be alright. It doesn't matter.

I need, more than anything, to forget my life and lose myself in beautiful, incredible, live music. Music to make me blissfully happy, for a few moments. Music to fill me up, scour my body with thrumbing rhythms, and wrap my head in lush melodies seething with melancholy. Music so loud, so good it replaces all that is bad inside me. Refreshing my embattled soul. Yeah. And, I can drink in the ideal Brit-boy hotness that is Ian McCulloch. (Not like he used to be, time has tolled on his pretty face, but I would totally hit that. Well, if I did hit things, then I'd hit that.) This concert will release ALL my frustrations, physical and otherwise. It is exactly what I need. Perfect. An absolute god-send. The Lord is good to me. Hallelujah!


"Nocturnal Me" from the album "Ocean Rain", 1984ish.
Check out the Album: Ocean Rain


More E&B songs on YouTube:
All my Colours (Zimbo) ; Gods will be Gods ; Porcupine ;  Do It Clean ;  Bring on the Dancing Horses  All I Want;
The Very Best of Echo & the Bunnymen: More Songs to Learn and Sing

Demons Haunting

My completely unexpected termination letter (AKA letter of non-reappointment), that came in the mail from the Provost's Office, signed by the Provost, said that there were no classes for me because of the new hires and changing student patterns. (?)  I knew this had to be b.s. because I have seniority over most of the adjuncts.  My friend told me to ask what the deal was.  I didn't want to, but I thought maybe the chair didn't know about it, and maybe he could do something.

Last week I emailed him, asking if there were some other reason for it, such as my grades being late in the fall.  He didn't respond. Yesterday, I emailed again. Could he tell me whether I'll be considered for classes that open up or, no?  I got a reply today. I  wish I had left it alone.

The email was well-crafted.  It was a reply to my first email, not the second.  The letter had been intended to insult me, to express their disgust with me.  He included several paragraphs outlining my problems. He summed it up with the term, "administrative annoyance".  Basically, I caused headaches and wasted time because my grades were late last semester,"not for the first time", and because I didn't respond to some of their emails.   This demonstrated a clear indifference to the job.  I'm not really sure how they got 5 paragraphs out of that, but they did.

Indifferent? If they only knew. I gave blood, sweat and tears, literally, to that damn college.  But I wasted all my time on teaching, my mistake.  I'm so indifferent that I get observation reports saying, "this is the most successful class I have ever seen at this college."  One semester, I got a thank you card from an entire class in a required freshman course!  My indifference must be the reason why 1/3 of the students in my current 300-level class are kids who've taken me before.  This was the one thing in my life I could still care about without feeling pain or regret.  Until now.  Thank you department chair and co-chair! I suspect this was mostly the woman's doing, she probably composed the letter, it had the stink of angry woman all over it.   Though she didn't have the balls to sign it, pun intended.  I don't think most men presume to know you're emotional state, such as indifference, based on your actions.  That seems like a female thing to do.

This is so bad for my 'waste of space' complex, I've been trying to dig myself out of it for weeks.  This one email has pushed me all the way back down to the bottom.  It hurts my  stomach.  The Cocoa Puffs and left-over Peeps may not have helped with that either.

I honestly did not think the late grades mattered much, I had no idea it caused  problems. No one ever replies to those emails, or is that just me? I  guess it was just me.  Maybe they could've said something before now to clue me in?  They had 7 years to let me know.  No one has ever said one word to me about anything.  If they had said something, I would have tried harder to be better.  But, no matter how hard I try, I'm a terrible employee. I'm late for everything, I can't do administrative anything to save my life, I get lost in deadlines, and when my anxiety is on I can't talk to anyone, or email or deal, forget about details and directions, they're impossible.

I'm not making excuses, I'd never hire myself, and it's unacceptable, but this is the result of my problems, the ADD and the mood disorder combined.  Despite my best efforts, I keep failing. (Although, if my doc hadn't been so stingy with the ritalin, I could have done better.)

I wish this was just one firing, but it's not.  It's a lifetime of firings. I am unemployable. I've been fired from every job I've ever had.  I was really proud of this one because I lasted 7 years!  I am very good at teaching.  I'm trying not to let despair eat me alive.  I'm working my mind as hard as I can to keep self-hatred from ballooning out of control.

I don't know where to go from here, what to do. What's going to happen to me. Except for this weeked. . . .

The Future, BlogPoll Results!

First, I would like to assure my readers that they should fear no more bad poetry on this blog. It seemed like a good idea at 3 a.m. Besides, you know you have bad poetry hidden in the back of a drawer somewhere. Uh-huh, exactly.



Poll Results are coming in...

The tribe has spoken, we have an overwhelming winner of the Future of CitC blogpoll. Results below, including JL's interview with herself for her reactions to the votes.
And the winner is . . .

Keep the blog as is, write on sister! with 14 votes. --

I hear you. I do have a backlog of some of my best worst dates from back in my player days.It's going to be awhile until I get back to those. I would like to keep this a forum for singles to commiserate, vent and advocate for ourselves. I will not, however, be blogging the story of my last relationship, it meant too much to me. And the last thing I need is to think about him. But I will blog about how I'm getting over it, and maybe some issues raised by the relationship. Like: Is wanting no kids a dealbreaker? When do you bring up the celibacy thing? When should you make it exclusive? How long before a divorcee is dateable?

Runners up:
3 votes: Reformat CitC into a non-dating blog. --

CitC hasn't been much of a dating blog in the last few years anyway, or, much of a blog at all, for that matter, but, stick around and see what happens. I'll still be blogging about my madness. And my career. And being single in the church. And The adventures of living life on the edge of poverty with ADD. And the city. The problem with that now is, I've been here so long I don't notice New York as much. Also, I live across the Hudson, albeit less than a mile from Manhattan. But it makes a difference. (I want to go back! I miss you, NYC!)

1 vote: Never blog again! No one cares!--

Well, isn't someONE a sour-puss. No one is forcing you to read this blog. If you don't like it, click along elsewhere.

Thank you for participating, my 18 loyal readers! Thank you for returning for the resuscitation of CitC.

Once Goodbye

We are on the phone
You say those words
I think I hear them
Again! and again!
You say it. Goodbye.

From you reasons roll
Fall on my ears
Escape my hold
None will still
To explain them. Goodbye.

Tilting the room
Graying our world
Stealing my breath
These dozens confuse
Such nonsense. Goodbye.

Except for this
One soft whimper
Your voice stops to weep:
I am hurting
Loving you hurts me. Goodbye.

I hear you my love
How it breaks you
So I say those words
Returned this once
My last time. Goodbye.

A Baker's Dozen in Diapers

12 babies, I counted 12 babies in sacrament meeting at church today. And those were just the ones I could see from the back row. There had to be more that I couldn't see. We also have 6 openly pregnant woman, all of whom currently have babies. Church is beginning to feel like Gymboree.


I know there are distinctions between toddlers and infants, etc. But if it wears diapers, I'm calling it a baby. "Baby"= a non-verbal, non-house trained mini human being. One man told me today that he was lodging a formal complaint against the noise in sacrament, that he was fed up with the parents who chat and coo over each other, and let their babies loose. It was too noisy and he was going to change wards if something wasn't done. He was serious.


It doesn't bother me enough change wards, babies are ubiquitous in Mormonland. Still, I wish someone would tell these people that everyone does not think it's cute when their spawn goes hobbling down the aisle sputtering goldfish crumbs (because Cheerios are passe')? They let their babies wander, climb, cry... And the babies gather to pick each other's noses and throw goldfish while making primitive sounds. The only thing their parents do is look at each other over the mass of babies, and smile, as if to say, 'that's so cute, they're friends'. Yeah, except for that big one who is hitting the little one on the head with a toy.


Today, while I was trying to ponder the mysteries of the divine, a woman who has 3 babies, didn't notice one of them was crying for five minutes. Five minutes is a long time in church. She just let it wail. Maybe she thought it was one of the other dozen babies. There's so many babied young couples, that they have their own clique. They take up half our ward. I think it's made them too permissive, like they've forgotten they aren't the only people at church so it's okay to let the babies run around.

***
On a similar note, I recently had a little run-in with a mommy in the church lobby. She gave me a baby fashion lecture when I commited the faux pas of referring to a boy as 'she'. It wasn't even hers. But I apologized and said that I couldn't tell. I was very smugly told, "He's wearing blue, isn't he? Blue, usually, means that he's a boy. So if you see a baby wearing blue, you can be pretty sure he's a boy. And when you see a baby in pink, then you know that she's a girl. That's how you can tell the difference." So I said, "But there's no baby fashion police to enforce the rules, so maybe some people don't follow them? And what about the other colors, like green, yellow, brown? What do you do then, call the baby "it"? She was not amused.

Oh, well. I'm going to start sitting in the front row, where there are zero babies.

I wonder if this might bother me more because I am single and childless, as is the complaining man. Does the church gymboree bother everyone else as much?

Angels and Applications -- Part I

[ATTN: END OF POST UPDATED on 4/24]

Last spring, in the midst of a torrid long distance love affair with a boy in Scotland, I had an idea. What if I went to the UK....? He couldn't come to the States and we had to be together. (Despite never having met in person. Anyway,) Could I transfer to a university over there? It's the easiest way to get a visa. And, . . . And! I wouldn't have to take more classes, I'd be a research student. Write my dissertation and I'm done! No more Incompletes. Goodbye to that 5 year old burden! Also, I'd be on the same landmass as the boy (a boy he truly turned out to be). It was so clearly a great idea.

I realized this might actually be a way out. A way to escape the unfinished work that taunted me day and night. I had a plan. An exciting plan. I became absolutely elated: flying, my chest warm with joy, my shoulders weightless. Free. This was right. It was divine. I could feel the Spirit rejoicing with me. Maybe this was the miracle I had prayed for. The angels might be on my side afterall.

But. Days later. The doubt rolled in. How could I possibly get in to such a prestigious school? I'm a grad school drop out. I had published nothing, done nothing scholarly. I was out of my mind for considering it. The process terrified me anyway: Ask old professors for recommendations? Track down records and transcripts. Deadlines I'd miss and forms I'd lose. Read through my sad papers to send some for review as proof of my scholarly value? --Only to fail again? No. No way. No. I couldn't bear it. I already suffered daily anxiety attacks. Applying would break me for good. Besides, even if I did get in, I had no money. I wouldn't qualify for fellowships, not enough anyway. It was ridiculous. The whole idea, impossible. It was time for me to behave like a practical, responsible adult, this silliness did not qualify. I should forget it.

I didn't forget it. It stayed there. It nagged me for attention, 'apply, apply, apply'. Two months passed this way, with me not forgetting it. Meanwhile, my Scottish romance fell apart. And I still couldn't let it go, it wasn't about him anyway. Then, my life began to close in around me, each disaster forcing me to the point of despair. I had no other way out, only this one long-shot. I needed to transfer. But I didn't have enough faith to bother.

No matter how much I wanted to deny what I felt that one exuberant night, I couldn't. I knew. The Lord wanted me to do this. So, finally, in April, I had a hopeful thought. There is a back door; if I had a sponsor, a professor who wanted to work with me. When a big deal professor wants you in, you get in. That, I could work on. I would have to know someone. Someone with my same specialization. I searched all the faculty lists in Britain. . . What?. . . No! It can't be. . .

Oh, yes, it was. I knew someone. Probably the best person in the whole world to be there. He's a leading specialist, we work on exactly the same subjects, and he would be an awesome supervisor. I couldn't do any better. We'd met at a conference many years ago. We were both in a group that went out afterward, and he talked to me. We had fun, and quite a bit of flirting. Though it was unlikely he'd remember that, or me. Really,though, what were the chances? I know very few people and have flirted with maybe 3 professors in the last decade. I took it as a sign to move forward. It seemed the angels werewith me.

Besides, I have done the impossible before. I already learned that lesson, this truth: That in order to triumph, you have to step off the cliff into the darkness, the abyss of the unknown, heart in mouth, eyes closed. That's how you reach the glorious heights. You take the leap, and be willing to fall down.

Look out below.

to be continued. . . .

Mail Box Dreams: Postal Zen

The applications for a new start are in. Now, I wait.

The end of March is when the schools make their decisions. But postal mail between the US and UK is very slow. So, nothing yet. I've been watching the mail since mid-March. The first few weeks, I dreaded it, fearing a rejection letter. Now it's April; I'm being sued, well, I already lost by default, and I got fired, and I caused a second break-up with my ex-boyfriend, and then, later, I forced the man to tell me he wants no contact with me of any kind ever again. I don't dread the mail anymore. It's become the highlight of my life. I take my pleasures where I find them.

My friend told me to call or email the schools and find out already. I explained why I didn't want to.

Because, everyday I wait for the mail. It's a ritual. Going to get the key from it's drawer, walking out to the vestibule. Each act very deliberate, conscious. With my chest full of hope and anxiety. In that one or two minutes, I allow myself to dream. I hope that I can go somewhere else, and finish what I started. I turn the key and lift up the old brass flap. I look at the envelopes in the box. I scan their shapes, the color of the paper, and the addresses. I search for signs of British mail, or, preferably, a big fat acceptance packet. I pull out the stack and go through the bills and bad news. Nothing so far. I get a little disappointed, but it's okay, I know the mail comes again tomorrow. For as long as there's no rejection letter, I can still hope. I have one thing to look forward to. Right now, it's the only thing.

Quietly, my friend said she understood.

Going Off the Market (but not offline)

No more men. No more dates. No more wasted energy and time. As my friend Angela said, "you can't get orange juice from apples, no matter how hard you squeeze." I've been squeezing apples with no oranges in sight.

I have things to do. I have to get my career on track. Dig myself out of this financial hole. Create the life I always wanted; that I was on track to achieve until I got hit with the bi-polar. I'm going to marry my life. Woe to the man who gets in my way.

It's not that I have spent years wasting time on men, I haven't. I had a relationship in 2005, two relationships in 2009. In between, I had occasional dates and online flirtations; but I mostly concentrated on mending my broken soul. Last year, I finally felt okay enough to really get out there, to actively pursue a love life. But I found sour apples.

I do not need a man. I do not need to get married. I need to take better care of myself. I need to become useful and productive. I'm 34 now. I won't find a Mormon man my age. There are some out there, but they aren't interested in me, because I'm too independent or educated, or whatever it is. And now, I'm probably too old. Why pursue a 34 year old when there's a gaggle of girls in their 20s available? I have tried having relationships with non-Mormons, but that seems nigh impossible. Thank you, sexual revolution.

Onward and upward, by myself.

CitC Future?

VOTE in my POLL!
(on sidebar)------------------->

I'm looking for suggestions. I'm back online because I need a hobby, suddenly having more time on my hands. Now, what to do with CitC? Originally, I had planned to get a book deal from the blog. That was way back in 2004. Since 2006 I have essentially been a useless human being who has produced nothing. No Phd. No Celibate book. Instead, 2 other women beat me to it. That's my own fault for being useless.

Dating bores me to tears. I don't want to do it, I don't want to read about it, and I don't want to write about it. And there's more to me than my sad dating history. So, now what?

Suggestions? Please comment below. Thank you!

JL, blogging again. Stop the Madness!

I couldn't write for a long time. I got lost. Now I have a lot to say.
The past year has been unbelievably eventful. Here's the short version of the last 12 months of my life.

It started with the shock and insult received from the director of my graduate program, telling me to give up and go teach community college. In February, I had a crazy love affair with someone in Scotland. The passion blazed hot and short. We were done by April. Then came my spring madness, in the form of hours-long anxiety attacks. In May, I broke my wrist, had surgery on it and was laid up for 3 months. The anxiety attacks got worse throughout the summer, almost daily for 6 hours and incapacitatingly intense. It wasted me. By August, my doc finally found something to help, an epilepsy drug. It made the attacks go away, but also made me stupid. I couldn't put a sentence together for weeks. That wore off by September, just in time to teach. I could function. I could live again. I picked up my life and ran.

It was all good. I started dating, dates every week. I joined some clubs to meet new people. Most of the men weren't Mormon, and very geeky (I have a thing for them). That's when the blog went offline. No doubt they'd google 'mormon dating' and they'd find it. I also got to work. I hired a coach to help me finish my Incompletes. It didn't work, but he did get me back to yoga and learning the cello, that made a huge difference in my well-being. Life was great! I hadn't felt so good in 6 years! Hadn't been so productive nor had such an active social life. Then the eve before Halloween, I met someone. Quite someone. And life got a little bit fabulous.

Until February. It started unraveling, along with my mental health. The curse of the bi-polar. It started with the $300 a month pay cut for the semester. Ouch! No more coach. I can't afford to go out. The spring madness is full on. So I couldn't handle the fake-relationship with my Someone. Two days ago, he absolutely ended things between us forever, again. I'm devastated. Meanwhile, Capital One Bank is suing me. I missed the deadline to answer so now I automatically lose. And it gets even better....

I've been praying for months for a way out of this hole. (I've said it before, and it is worth repeating, be very careful what you pray for...) Yesterday, I got fired. Well, they aren't re-appointing me for the fall which amounts to the same thing. They sent me a letter. I was in the car with my visiting teaching companion when I opened it, I thought it was something insignificant. Complete shock! I had no idea this was coming. I've been there since 2003. I started blubbering in the car. But I had to dry my tears and go visit. 

When I got home, I opened a letter from the courts. That couldn't be good news. It wasn't. It was a tenancy summons. I was ordered to vacate my apartment. Eviction??!!!!! Are you kidding me??? I couldn't even cry. I just started shaking. That's not a message to move on, it's a literal kick on the rear out onto the streets. Thankfully, it was a msitake. No eviction. Still. A sign is a sign. Fired and evicted on the same day is a flashing grotesque neon sign a la Times Square.

Yet, this is a beginning. I am on the verge of a massive life change. I've felt it for awhile. After my 34th birthday, I mandated it. I took a look at my life. I've accomplished nothing in the last 4 years, they may as well never have happened. And, I am no better off than I was 8 years ago when I moved to NYC. How did I let so much time pass so wastefully? It really horrified me. I had a total 'how-can-I-be-this-age-with-this-kind-of-life?' birthday crisis. Wasn't I just 30 years old? Now it's 2010. !!!!! I have to do something. Now.

Escape Plan A: Go to the UK. Write my dissertation and get a D.Phil in 2 years. [You can't do that in the US, they make you start over. It would take 5 more years.]

Plan B: I don't know, but I'm planning. I need to physically get out of this place. Go elsewhere. Serve. Do something to make other people's lives better, rather than living to satisfy my own selfish desires. But how, and where? There's always a way.

It really never stops, my life. But I'm stronger now, I can handle this. I can eat this for breakfast.