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Ron sometimes does this "That's bad --> That's good --> That's bad --> That's good" story thingie at the beginning of his teachings.  (e.g. He fell off the roof; that's bad.  There was a haystack below; that's good.  There was a spike in the haystack; that's bad.  He missed it; that's good.)

That's how my birthday was last week.

I've been feeling really low lately.  I'm lonely, and I'm sad.  I've been spending most of my non-working time at home in my room with the door closed, mostly sleeping.  It's not a great way to deepen the relationships I've started since coming here.  I didn't have anyone to do anything with, not anyone that wouldn't, though I may really like them, make me feel exhausted.  I had a deep, loud cry that morning.

In the afternoon, I went on a gorgeous, hope restoring hike.  As I started it, I got a promising email about a job I've applied for.

When I got home, some of the crappiness had settled back in, and I had to take a nap.

I got up and made an appointment to quick go over to the shiatsu place and get a massage.  After that, I met Neil and Jarlath for a drink and a burger.  I wore my favorite baggy-ass ripped jeans and a new shirt I found at Goodwill that's an exact copy of a shirt my old principal had that I was jealous of.

When I got home, the sad was back.

the axe-murderer

One of the pastors held a creative writing group at church this morning that was so cool.  Pitched, he told us, as something akin to a drop-in yoga class -- an hour of exercising (maybe exorcising).  Writing as a practice.

You've got Marvin to thank for this vomiting of posts this evening (and by "you," I mean, you, Mom, my only reader).  I've been noting things I've wanted to write about over the last couple of weeks, but I have not been making time for my practice.

In the group, I got to writing about Conor.  Marvin asked us to think about sensory details, to include colors, smells, and tastes.  Nothing like that struck me at the time, but as I laid (lie?) down for a nap this afternoon, it suddenly occurred to me to try to write what's below.

---

It had to have been a summer day because I remember light streaming in, and I remember feeling like I richly deserved this Nachos Bell Grande I was about to eat, having survived another day of unending boredom at her office.  I used to make so many things -- stories, crafts, games, role-playing games -- out of that office paper they had with the tear off edges with the little holes.  I'd sit on the floor behind her desk bopping my head to the music of the dot matrix printer.  Florescent lighting.

So it had to be summer, because I remember that the natural lighting was such a relief. I could not wait to squeeze a few packets of that Mild Border Sauce onto those nachos.

Mom went up to order and sent me, Neil, and Conor to sit and wait at the table.  I'm remembering now that there was always the unspoken expectation to try to keep Conor relatively quiet.

I held his hands down, gently, with great disgust at their drooly-sliminess, resigned to tolerating it until I could wash my hands.  Let him rub all his cold, wet fingers all up and down my wrists and forearms as I tried to keep him from slamming his hand down on the formica table.

There wasn't anything special about the shouting he did in Taco Bell that day.  I mean, it was loud.  Puberty had started to deepen his voice.  So so loud.  Make you wince a little loud.  And, (presumably) pissed about the (as I said, gentle) restraining I was doing, he'd finish his few seconds of screaming by slamming himself backward in his shoulder and forcefully pulling his hand back up into his mouth for a little gnawing (and to recoat it with that good stuff).

Put that on repeat, cycled through every thirty seconds or so.  Nothing out of the ordinary.

Mom came over with the tray, and we all shared our amusement that he was doing the axe-murderer, as we called it (as we still call it).  A soft taco and some Coke exorcised him of that demon for the time being.

I remember noticing that other people were looking, and I remember genuinely not giving much of a shit.  

four brothers

Could I BE having a better Sunday morning?

1. Ani DiFranco Pandora station (forgot how much I love her)
2. productivity on grad school application and district funding application
3. fresh pot of coffee since I cleaned the mold out of the machine yesterday afternoon
4. windows open and air cool enough to be able to wear a sweatshirt and pants
5. good lesson plans written for the week
6. grocery shopping done
7. up early enough to do all of this and still be able to get over to church for the first time in a long time
8. little brother coming to visit esta noche
9. Alex and Jessica coming back today, too

The answer is definitively no. This morning could not be any better.
Man, I used to hate Sundays in college.

Now, correcting my little brother's grammar: THAT'S funny.

Haha. "sweet ellen." I'm reading a lot of sarcasm in that line. Why do I take such sick pleasure in annoying him? I really do.

try to guess mine and my little brother's ages by reading the following exchange:

Hey Bugsy, if you're reading this: Technically, it should be, "so technically I did pretty well." Surprised you didn't know that.

My favorite brother

turns 25 today! And to celebrate, since I can't be at home, I've uploaded some vintage shots of The Guck-meister.

Here's Condor sitting on the kitchen counter at our house in Burbank (Mom, check out this link! I can't believe how cool Google Maps has gotten!) with a bunch of dirt in all of his orifices. He used to eat the houseplant in the fronch room. It was there, so he ate it. It happens:

Ha. I can't look at that picture without laughing. Look at how it's all matted into his shirt, and he's like, "What."

Here's Con and I showing some love in his old room. (It looks like I have no less than 4 bows in my hair. Thanks, Mom.):


Here he is circa 2007, sharing his shit with our niece Finola:


A rare (because no one cares) Dahlke kid photo that's pre-Ellen and Neil:

"Next year I meet the world."

The last time I was home, I had a good laugh with my brothers about a timeline that Neil, the youngest of us, made for a school project. Here are pictures of some of the best parts:

(a little blurry, sorry)

1990: Next year I will MEET THE WORLD!
1991: I start shooting rubber bands.
1993: I ran a race with my dad. [Dad's wearing a t-shirt that says 1994]
2000: 9th birthday, New millenium, went to Boston, started school at Redeemer [... you know, the usual]

Neil put this timeline together when he was ten years old, so what he'd put on his timeline now might make it look radically different. What's important to the Story of Neil might now be different; although you'd probably still mark the first rubber band you shot, right Neil?

I wonder how interesting it might be to look at timelines and play with them as a medium for demonstrating progression. By definition, they're formally linear, so does that mean that the stories they tell must also be linear? Or might the form antagonize the content in interesting ways? It would be kinda cool, I think, to look at timelines in K-12 history textbooks. What's important enough to be included? What must get left out in order to clarify the progression? Maybe I could create a lesson plan that asks my students to timeline out some odd, seemingly unrelated stuff, and then see if by cementing events in a line we can make silly connections across them to tell a story.

Here's a t-chart of my weekend:

Is it achy or achey?

nicknames

If anyone but my brothers called me "Nellie" or "sweetie" or "princess," I would not be okay with that. I'm just not the princess type, you know? Ew. But when they do it, I don't just tolerate it, I like it. Weird.

really really ridiculously good-looking

Dad, Conor, Finola, Eoin, Johnny, Neil, Mom, Michael, and me

My whole family was home this weekend for the first time that I can remember in a loooong time, not including the odd Christmas here and there. Pretty big deal. All day Saturday we mutted around in the yard and in the pool blasting Wilco albums. Is this heaven? No, it's Evergreen Park.