I thus far regret that at any time I attempt to pour my mind out of paper, my desire for perfection and intellectualism takes over. Making it prettier, intellectual, "correct."
Tonight I am not feeling correct. I am only feeling everything else.
December 17, 2010
I awaken with a dog-head on mine. He rolls, flops, uncomfortable. Scratches, whines. I am unsure if my alarm went off or if I shut it off.
It's cold out, enough to see your breath, but not too cold. He is mesmerized by the frozen grass and cannot pay attention to his walk. He must be pulled away from smelling and licking.
I drive. I drive very, very fast to where I am going.
The meeting is about men in prison. Murdering men who want to be soft and succulent women in prison. It progresses as usual. Things to absorb:
Bondage pornography is not a sign of stability. I say it is not a preclusion of stability. Doctor says they have anal sex pretending their anus is a vagina. He tried to cut off his own penis at 15. We apparently think he may be lying about that. No one is going to check, though. She is a master make-up artist but can not put her hair in non-completely-fucked-up pigtails. Can he be a muslim and transgendered. Can he be a woman with a fist-length beard. Can he ever dream of being accepted by either. Should he just kill himself. Can she ever be in a single cell with her history of auto-erotic asphyxiation.
I am bored.
I am looking at my phone.
"Myspace has friended you on Myspace." Worse.
I drive again, this time even faster. I eat a gigantic burrito and fall asleep. I sweat so much under the down comforter I have to shower again.
I go into the cold and go to a movie. A tiny theater, old old old. Surrounded by old women, all intellectuals, and old men who mostly seem crazy.
The movie is beautiful terrifying gorgeous decadent horrible brilliant lovely sickening soft dark sad fucked perfect. Perfect perfect.
Immediately to the gym. Goal of a mile under 12:00 is approaching, down to 13:35 now. My heart rate reaches 200. I pour sweat, my legs feel weak and heavy. I lift, I pull, I flex, I sit up. I look in the mirror at the places that I hate. I try not to. I touch my chin and cheeks. I do not recognize myself. I breathe deep.
I sit for a minute and try to understand what I am doing. I do not remember if I am successful. I keep doing it.
I see my breath. I walk the dog.
I again wash the sweat off, now for the third time today.
I rest against the bed. I orgasm. Tears come now, streaming, leaking.
I sob and the catharsis, the letting go, the pain, the grief, the loathing, the fear, the joy, the beauty, the perfection, the confusion, the relief comes. My heart swells up.
I comfort myself as I would another. I touch the things near me that are soft and forgiving. I cry a small patch onto the bed. I hold myself as I would another.
I roll onto my back, I meditate. I place the soles of my feet together and feel warm.
I think about joy. I consider my love and it's ferocity, precocity, and I have insights and revelations. I rewind my week and apply my love to every moment.
Every walk I dread in the biting cold. Every moment seemed lost, looking into the eyes of someone defined "criminal." Every judgment of others, every needless frustration. Every leaf clinging to every gray and frozen tree. I apply my love. It envelopes my whole being.
I cannot meditate with a crazy puppy in the room.
I do not feel angry. I keep my eyes closed and smile.
I plug in the Christmas tree. It twinkles.
My heart is still swollen, hammering but now silently, my brain bounces through winding corridors past fun-house mirrors and running fast. So fast. Happy.
I consider all things created. I am buried deep in my stacks and stacks of art, film, music, the pieces of people contained within those cold paper and plastic things. Those inhuman things are very human. Very precious. They contain souls.
I feel for a book: a masterpiece containing the stories, thoughts and paintings of Salvador Dali. I consider the "rule" he made with Bunuel regarding their art: "that they would not accept any idea or image that was susceptible of rational, psychological or cultural explication." I consider how I search these pieces for just this meaning, finally settling to apply my own version of these constructs. I cannot turn off this search for meaning while even viewing... how would one turn it off while creating. Impossible, psychologists will say.
I consider my art, the love contained and grasped within my hands, the images in my head, the fucked-up-edness, the black ooze and this blinding light. This creation and being both dormant and awake within me, my hammering heart. I consider this.
I do not want to be correct or polite.
I do not care what people think of me or whether they will ever love me.
I does not matter.
I do not care how I am seen when I am bare-naked in front of them.
Tonight I am in love with everything.
I want to be in love with everything.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
remember, remember...
...the 11th of December...
In the winter of 1942 a handsome young soldier returned home to Missouri from training in California. He was preparing for deployment to Germany- but he had one last thing to do before he left. Ten months prior he had met a girl. He had his first and only date with the beautiful, fiery women's libber- who everyone said was "too good" for him. Having already been drafted, he was immediately shipped to California. But such an obstacle could not stop their communique. They each mailed a letter, every day without fail, for the next ten months. And when his next two days in Missouri came on December 11th, they married.
That same day, in a tiny town in central Missouri, a baby boy was born. He was the first born in a dysfunctional, angry family. He grew up to marry and have his own children, including a daughter who would often present him with a shiny new belt buckle on his birthday. A buckle that would adorn the belt he used to beat her, or was sometimes used as a weapon itself.
Eventually, long after their estrangement, the daughter would dread this day. Wondering far in advance about the yearly decision to wish or not-wish the old man a happy birthday. Eventually each year became determined by the old man's silence in September- when the daughter had not been wished a happy birthday.
The young soldier and his wife celebrated their love faithfully as decades and decades passed. On December 11, 2003, she sat by him in the mid-morning as he passed from this life. She noted feeling as though he had waiting for this day... their special day.
Less than two years later the now elderly woman married Ralph, an "Army buddy" of her late husband. Both in ailing health, they loved and comforted one another as they each so desperately needed in their octogenarian years.
And today, as my mother called to tell me that Ralph has passed away this mid-morning, she marveled at the significance of December 11th. She reminded me, as I had forgotten the date, of my having called her in 2004 to mourn the death of one of my favorite pets: a very loving rabbit named Notch. Though I didn't remember the date, I did remember coming home from work to find her limp and lifeless. Holding her close and crying, whispering apologies to her for not having taken her to a vet sooner, and the next day trudging through the snowlit, frozen woods with her small blanket-wrapped body in one arm and a shovel in the other. I remember the dirty difficulty of digging a grave in frozen, wooded ground.
On December 11, 2010, I celebrate the 30th birthday of new but close friend, and reflect on the immense joy and beauty that her birth... and the birth of my father... and the marriage of my grandparents... brought into the world. I reflect on how it's a day that holds creation for my family; beginnings, births, deaths. Happiness and grief.
Today is a day brimming with life.
In the winter of 1942 a handsome young soldier returned home to Missouri from training in California. He was preparing for deployment to Germany- but he had one last thing to do before he left. Ten months prior he had met a girl. He had his first and only date with the beautiful, fiery women's libber- who everyone said was "too good" for him. Having already been drafted, he was immediately shipped to California. But such an obstacle could not stop their communique. They each mailed a letter, every day without fail, for the next ten months. And when his next two days in Missouri came on December 11th, they married.
That same day, in a tiny town in central Missouri, a baby boy was born. He was the first born in a dysfunctional, angry family. He grew up to marry and have his own children, including a daughter who would often present him with a shiny new belt buckle on his birthday. A buckle that would adorn the belt he used to beat her, or was sometimes used as a weapon itself.
Eventually, long after their estrangement, the daughter would dread this day. Wondering far in advance about the yearly decision to wish or not-wish the old man a happy birthday. Eventually each year became determined by the old man's silence in September- when the daughter had not been wished a happy birthday.
The young soldier and his wife celebrated their love faithfully as decades and decades passed. On December 11, 2003, she sat by him in the mid-morning as he passed from this life. She noted feeling as though he had waiting for this day... their special day.
Less than two years later the now elderly woman married Ralph, an "Army buddy" of her late husband. Both in ailing health, they loved and comforted one another as they each so desperately needed in their octogenarian years.
And today, as my mother called to tell me that Ralph has passed away this mid-morning, she marveled at the significance of December 11th. She reminded me, as I had forgotten the date, of my having called her in 2004 to mourn the death of one of my favorite pets: a very loving rabbit named Notch. Though I didn't remember the date, I did remember coming home from work to find her limp and lifeless. Holding her close and crying, whispering apologies to her for not having taken her to a vet sooner, and the next day trudging through the snowlit, frozen woods with her small blanket-wrapped body in one arm and a shovel in the other. I remember the dirty difficulty of digging a grave in frozen, wooded ground.
On December 11, 2010, I celebrate the 30th birthday of new but close friend, and reflect on the immense joy and beauty that her birth... and the birth of my father... and the marriage of my grandparents... brought into the world. I reflect on how it's a day that holds creation for my family; beginnings, births, deaths. Happiness and grief.
Today is a day brimming with life.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
a toss up
On February 3, 1959, Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and The Big Bopper were killed in a plane crash.
Initially, Holly was set to fly, as usual, with his back-up band: Waylon Jennings and Tommy Allsup. The accompanying acts (Valens and the Bopper) were scheduled to take a bus on to the next stop in Minnesota. However, because Richardson (the Bopper) had been ill and was not up for a lengthy bus ride, Jennings relinquished his place on the three-seater plane. Valens and Allsup determined who would get the final doomed seat by flipping a coin.
In the mid-90’s Peter Boyle starred in a classic episode of the X-Files entitled “Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose,” in which he played a man obsessed with this tragic story. He commented, far more eloquently than I, on the truly infinite number of factors that had to align in order to produce such a moment: a moment in which Ritchie Valens life and death were reduced to merely two sides of a flipping coin.
We’ve all experienced it. We go back inside for our forgotten car keys and narrowly miss a fatal accident ten minutes later. It makes us wonder, if only for a minute (lest we lose our minds altogether), what sort of forces are at play in our lives. Is it all just luck and chance? Do we really have anything to do with it? Do the stars just simply align, pulling us into place like marionettes?
Having been forced (and choosing) to do a lot of self-reflection in recent months, I have reached a few conclusions. But most things have simply become more and more indefinite.
I often find myself overcome by emotions that seem to ambush me and leave just as quickly. I frequently find myself standing, utterly alone in the living room and feeling disheartened. Alone. Achingly sad. Lost.
As I always do when I feel this way, I begin looking for something more/different/better/away from here.
When Courtney and I separated, one of my first thoughts was “if I’m still single in the summer, I’m going into the Peace Corps.” Read: if I’m still feeling as unattached as I am now, I’m running.
Of course other options come into play. I miss school. I’d like to return for my doctorate. My therapist suggested Doctors without Borders. They employ therapists and require a 6-12 month commitment instead of a 24-month one… but also require prior out-of-country helping experience, which I don’t have. All things that I want to do.
I had a rash thought: I’ll flip a coin. Heads I go back to school, tails I leave the country. I considered this for a bit, wondering if I could actually commit to following through with whatever path the universe handed me. Or if I would just keep flipping until I got the answer I wanted.
If only Richie Valens had had that opportunity.
The truth is, either heads or tails would make me a bit sad.
On one side, I would be leaving.
And, with my life and the lives of my friends being what they are at this time and place, I realize that if I were to disappear and return in two years… everyone I know would likely be gone. Nearly all my friends are on the verge of some great transition- graduating from school, applying to school, getting married, etc. I think about the time and effort I’ve put into making Boston my home and I feel wistful. I feel homesick before I’ve ever even left.
And then I think about how utterly disconnected from humanity I still feel. How alone I feel, even after have done all this work. And I feel discouraged. And like starting over.
My therapist was not supportive of my Peace Corps idea. She agreed that the work would be great for me, but “I think you underestimate how lonely you would be.”
“I think you underestimate how lonely I’ve always been,” I said.
On paper I’m the ideal candidate, really. I want nothing more than to devote my life to learning about the world and helping others. I have no ties- family, relationship, pet, or other. And the Peace Corps agreed. I applied and they said, “can you leave in three months?” Admittedly, this startled me a bit. I ended up needing more time to sort out debts, and my relationship with Courtney was just beginning.
I’m well aware of how terrible it sounds to make “if I’m single” even a factor in this equation. It sounds like some sort of personal ultimatum, or… I don’t know what it sounds like, but it smacks of desperation.
The truth is, if I were to make a list of all of the things I want for my life, first and foremost would be finding “the one for me.” Yes, it’s cliché. It feels distastefully sugary to say sometimes, but I know that if I met someone who I thought there was even a slim chance of something real with, I wouldn’t give that up. No matter what.
It’s maddening because love is the one thing I can’t *make* happen. I can’t control whether I find her, or whether she even exists. I can control traveling the world and working the jobs I want, living the places I want to live and acquiring all the things I want to acquire. But I can’t control what’s #1 on my list.
But I suppose that’s also why I would never walk away from a chance to have love: because you can’t know when or if the next one will come. With the rest of my desires, I can and will make my own opportunities. With love, I’m at the whim of the universe.
On the other side of the coin, I can continue to better myself in the U.S. of A, furthering my education and making a better life for myself and family down the road. It's not like there aren't millions of opportunities for community service here. But then fear creeps in. Fear that, honestly, what I’m hanging around waiting for might not be out there. Yes I’m a hopeless romantic, but I must be realistic and acknowledge that there is a chance I may never meet her. It's possible.
And it would be twice the tragedy if in ten years, at age 38 I had neither found my partner nor done the things I dream of doing. I hadn’t traveled or humbled myself to others less fortunate than I. I hadn’t opened up my heart and pushed my boundaries and intellect to the brink, facing everything that feels uncomfortable and scary by assimilating into completely foreign worlds. Ideally, I do this with someone. I have a love, a partner there with me who is just as excited to explore these things as I am.
I have a home that I bring with me.
Sometimes it seems that both my heart and head agree that I can’t wait. Sitting and waiting for I-don’t-know-what has gotten me nothing but older. And these days, I’m not even sure I would know what I’m waiting for if I saw it. My brain tells me to live my life, go after what I want, and let everything else come when and if it comes. But it’s so hard to relinquish that control- even when it is a facade.
Whether I’m here or I’m far, far way, I’ve focused my life on trying to give as much as I can to others, and trying to bring as much good as I can into the world. That won’t change. One thing I have realized about myself in recent years is that it’s no longer critical for me to be famous or “important.” I just want to help.
When I boil down my job and all my training, my life’s work is startlingly simple: I sit with others while they hurt.
This is noble enough I suppose, and I am good enough at it. It certainly serves a purpose and is much-needed. There is so, so much pain in this world. But I think I’ll always be someone who expects more from myself. More accomplishment, more contribution, more purpose, more satisfaction. Do I flip a coin and take off running, driven full-speed in that way that I’ve been known to do? Or do I wait for the future to happen, trusting that the universe has the flipping coin?
Tonight I just sit with my uncomfortable expectations of “more,” looking at a long and unfulfilled bucket list, praying for more clarity.
Initially, Holly was set to fly, as usual, with his back-up band: Waylon Jennings and Tommy Allsup. The accompanying acts (Valens and the Bopper) were scheduled to take a bus on to the next stop in Minnesota. However, because Richardson (the Bopper) had been ill and was not up for a lengthy bus ride, Jennings relinquished his place on the three-seater plane. Valens and Allsup determined who would get the final doomed seat by flipping a coin.
In the mid-90’s Peter Boyle starred in a classic episode of the X-Files entitled “Clyde Bruckman’s Final Repose,” in which he played a man obsessed with this tragic story. He commented, far more eloquently than I, on the truly infinite number of factors that had to align in order to produce such a moment: a moment in which Ritchie Valens life and death were reduced to merely two sides of a flipping coin.
We’ve all experienced it. We go back inside for our forgotten car keys and narrowly miss a fatal accident ten minutes later. It makes us wonder, if only for a minute (lest we lose our minds altogether), what sort of forces are at play in our lives. Is it all just luck and chance? Do we really have anything to do with it? Do the stars just simply align, pulling us into place like marionettes?
Having been forced (and choosing) to do a lot of self-reflection in recent months, I have reached a few conclusions. But most things have simply become more and more indefinite.
I often find myself overcome by emotions that seem to ambush me and leave just as quickly. I frequently find myself standing, utterly alone in the living room and feeling disheartened. Alone. Achingly sad. Lost.
As I always do when I feel this way, I begin looking for something more/different/better/away from here.
When Courtney and I separated, one of my first thoughts was “if I’m still single in the summer, I’m going into the Peace Corps.” Read: if I’m still feeling as unattached as I am now, I’m running.
Of course other options come into play. I miss school. I’d like to return for my doctorate. My therapist suggested Doctors without Borders. They employ therapists and require a 6-12 month commitment instead of a 24-month one… but also require prior out-of-country helping experience, which I don’t have. All things that I want to do.
I had a rash thought: I’ll flip a coin. Heads I go back to school, tails I leave the country. I considered this for a bit, wondering if I could actually commit to following through with whatever path the universe handed me. Or if I would just keep flipping until I got the answer I wanted.
If only Richie Valens had had that opportunity.
The truth is, either heads or tails would make me a bit sad.
On one side, I would be leaving.
And, with my life and the lives of my friends being what they are at this time and place, I realize that if I were to disappear and return in two years… everyone I know would likely be gone. Nearly all my friends are on the verge of some great transition- graduating from school, applying to school, getting married, etc. I think about the time and effort I’ve put into making Boston my home and I feel wistful. I feel homesick before I’ve ever even left.
And then I think about how utterly disconnected from humanity I still feel. How alone I feel, even after have done all this work. And I feel discouraged. And like starting over.
My therapist was not supportive of my Peace Corps idea. She agreed that the work would be great for me, but “I think you underestimate how lonely you would be.”
“I think you underestimate how lonely I’ve always been,” I said.
On paper I’m the ideal candidate, really. I want nothing more than to devote my life to learning about the world and helping others. I have no ties- family, relationship, pet, or other. And the Peace Corps agreed. I applied and they said, “can you leave in three months?” Admittedly, this startled me a bit. I ended up needing more time to sort out debts, and my relationship with Courtney was just beginning.
I’m well aware of how terrible it sounds to make “if I’m single” even a factor in this equation. It sounds like some sort of personal ultimatum, or… I don’t know what it sounds like, but it smacks of desperation.
The truth is, if I were to make a list of all of the things I want for my life, first and foremost would be finding “the one for me.” Yes, it’s cliché. It feels distastefully sugary to say sometimes, but I know that if I met someone who I thought there was even a slim chance of something real with, I wouldn’t give that up. No matter what.
It’s maddening because love is the one thing I can’t *make* happen. I can’t control whether I find her, or whether she even exists. I can control traveling the world and working the jobs I want, living the places I want to live and acquiring all the things I want to acquire. But I can’t control what’s #1 on my list.
But I suppose that’s also why I would never walk away from a chance to have love: because you can’t know when or if the next one will come. With the rest of my desires, I can and will make my own opportunities. With love, I’m at the whim of the universe.
On the other side of the coin, I can continue to better myself in the U.S. of A, furthering my education and making a better life for myself and family down the road. It's not like there aren't millions of opportunities for community service here. But then fear creeps in. Fear that, honestly, what I’m hanging around waiting for might not be out there. Yes I’m a hopeless romantic, but I must be realistic and acknowledge that there is a chance I may never meet her. It's possible.
And it would be twice the tragedy if in ten years, at age 38 I had neither found my partner nor done the things I dream of doing. I hadn’t traveled or humbled myself to others less fortunate than I. I hadn’t opened up my heart and pushed my boundaries and intellect to the brink, facing everything that feels uncomfortable and scary by assimilating into completely foreign worlds. Ideally, I do this with someone. I have a love, a partner there with me who is just as excited to explore these things as I am.
I have a home that I bring with me.
Sometimes it seems that both my heart and head agree that I can’t wait. Sitting and waiting for I-don’t-know-what has gotten me nothing but older. And these days, I’m not even sure I would know what I’m waiting for if I saw it. My brain tells me to live my life, go after what I want, and let everything else come when and if it comes. But it’s so hard to relinquish that control- even when it is a facade.
Whether I’m here or I’m far, far way, I’ve focused my life on trying to give as much as I can to others, and trying to bring as much good as I can into the world. That won’t change. One thing I have realized about myself in recent years is that it’s no longer critical for me to be famous or “important.” I just want to help.
When I boil down my job and all my training, my life’s work is startlingly simple: I sit with others while they hurt.
This is noble enough I suppose, and I am good enough at it. It certainly serves a purpose and is much-needed. There is so, so much pain in this world. But I think I’ll always be someone who expects more from myself. More accomplishment, more contribution, more purpose, more satisfaction. Do I flip a coin and take off running, driven full-speed in that way that I’ve been known to do? Or do I wait for the future to happen, trusting that the universe has the flipping coin?
Tonight I just sit with my uncomfortable expectations of “more,” looking at a long and unfulfilled bucket list, praying for more clarity.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
held captive
This week at work we received some very disturbing news. Which has been, as a therapist friend of mine would say, "renting space in my head." As I just lay back to meditate, my thoughts continued to return to this. Which indicates that it deserves examination.
In February I was introduced to a new client of mine as he sat in the HSU (Health Services Unit) on suicide watch. As per usual, I did not read the details of his crimes or watch the news stories until after meeting with him... so I did not know that he was a serial rapist. Or that he had held a woman captive in her own home, torturing and raping her for hours while her child slept in the next room. Nor that he had forced her to drive him to the store for cigarettes, as he cut off his GPS bracelet. I met him with unconditional kindness.
All I knew was that he wanted to die. That he was "probably going to get life," and "wasn't going to do it." But he decided to live. For his mother, who still believe that he was a good boy and could not have done these horrendous things. He covered his face in court and made no apologies.
The next month, when his mother unexpectedly died and he returned to suicide watch, it took him surprisingly little time to say that he felt fine. That God had forgiven him, his "girlfriend" was standing by him, and that he would spend his life behind bars and still be able to get as many ladies as he wanted. He returned to segregation, where he had been housed from Day 1 because of the high-profile nature of his case (no place in population would be safe for an inmate like him), and we proceeded with our regular therapy sessions.
Initially respectful, he began to devolve into his predatory sociopathy. He chose to speak to me about how he would have "gotten with" me on the street, that he had no need to rape since he could get "all the pussy" he wanted any time, and made snide comments or kissing faces at me. I largely ignored his advances, or told him simply that he was being inappropriate. I chose to reflect this behavior back to him, and discuss why he felt so fixated on sex.
He behaved well in segregation. So well, in fact, that after six or seven months he was given a transfer to the Gardner facility. At Gardner, known generally as "a sex offender camp," he would be able to go to population while awaiting trial. Work, get treatment, go to programs, etc. He had caused no problems at Concord. He had earned it.
On Monday we were told that he raped an English teacher at Gardner. That he set a trap for her in a staff bathroom, and that she screamed for 30 minutes before being heard. We were told that it took three large men to remove him, one small man, from her.
Hearing this, I felt as though I might be ill. I thought about how "creepy" he had become with me during our last sessions, and realized just how lucky I was that he was in segregation at Concord. Because of this, he was always escorted to our meeting in waist chains and leg irons, cuffed behind his back and shackled into a metal chair, bolted to the floor. If he had not been, the rape victim most certainly would have been me. My memories of treating this predator, this "monster," with unconditional kindness seemed foolish and naive. I immediately wondered if I should have been more chastising with him. If I should have complained about his behavior and had disciplinary tickets written, perhaps preventing his move. But I know that all of this is futile thought and I am in no way responsible.
Still, continual exposure to this sort of brutality affects your soul. Your trust and your belief in God, in good. It is difficult/uncomfortable/frightening to sit with these horrors, twisting and turning them, examining them from every angle, looking without looking away.
In February I was introduced to a new client of mine as he sat in the HSU (Health Services Unit) on suicide watch. As per usual, I did not read the details of his crimes or watch the news stories until after meeting with him... so I did not know that he was a serial rapist. Or that he had held a woman captive in her own home, torturing and raping her for hours while her child slept in the next room. Nor that he had forced her to drive him to the store for cigarettes, as he cut off his GPS bracelet. I met him with unconditional kindness.
All I knew was that he wanted to die. That he was "probably going to get life," and "wasn't going to do it." But he decided to live. For his mother, who still believe that he was a good boy and could not have done these horrendous things. He covered his face in court and made no apologies.
The next month, when his mother unexpectedly died and he returned to suicide watch, it took him surprisingly little time to say that he felt fine. That God had forgiven him, his "girlfriend" was standing by him, and that he would spend his life behind bars and still be able to get as many ladies as he wanted. He returned to segregation, where he had been housed from Day 1 because of the high-profile nature of his case (no place in population would be safe for an inmate like him), and we proceeded with our regular therapy sessions.
Initially respectful, he began to devolve into his predatory sociopathy. He chose to speak to me about how he would have "gotten with" me on the street, that he had no need to rape since he could get "all the pussy" he wanted any time, and made snide comments or kissing faces at me. I largely ignored his advances, or told him simply that he was being inappropriate. I chose to reflect this behavior back to him, and discuss why he felt so fixated on sex.
He behaved well in segregation. So well, in fact, that after six or seven months he was given a transfer to the Gardner facility. At Gardner, known generally as "a sex offender camp," he would be able to go to population while awaiting trial. Work, get treatment, go to programs, etc. He had caused no problems at Concord. He had earned it.
On Monday we were told that he raped an English teacher at Gardner. That he set a trap for her in a staff bathroom, and that she screamed for 30 minutes before being heard. We were told that it took three large men to remove him, one small man, from her.
Hearing this, I felt as though I might be ill. I thought about how "creepy" he had become with me during our last sessions, and realized just how lucky I was that he was in segregation at Concord. Because of this, he was always escorted to our meeting in waist chains and leg irons, cuffed behind his back and shackled into a metal chair, bolted to the floor. If he had not been, the rape victim most certainly would have been me. My memories of treating this predator, this "monster," with unconditional kindness seemed foolish and naive. I immediately wondered if I should have been more chastising with him. If I should have complained about his behavior and had disciplinary tickets written, perhaps preventing his move. But I know that all of this is futile thought and I am in no way responsible.
Still, continual exposure to this sort of brutality affects your soul. Your trust and your belief in God, in good. It is difficult/uncomfortable/frightening to sit with these horrors, twisting and turning them, examining them from every angle, looking without looking away.
maitri
Lately I've been focusing my spare time and energy on self-examination. Meditation, reading, writing, art. On Monday I mistakenly opted to go into work for the morning administration meeting, forgetting that I was actually scheduled for the evening shift. I complained to a friend that would have to work over 12 hours, not knowing that this was exactly what I needed.
On a busy night, from 5-9 there are constant new lock-ups, transfers in, crisis calls. But Monday there was not one. No one called "751 on" all evening- and I was left quietly at my desk upstairs, alone in the unit above the hospital. I sat at my desk in silence with an 8x14 legal pad and wrote. For four solid hours, I wrote.
I began feeling positive, goal-oriented, having an epiphany in every paragraph. By page four this crumbled away into self-doubt and confusion... all of my sentences contradicting the ones prior. And by page eight I was accepting my confusion, my "not knowing," and was being kinder and gentler with myself. Much of what I wrote was my self-care plan.
I have a tendency to buy wonderful books and never read them. As I sat in my office writing, I looked up and saw "How to See Yourself as you Really Are" by the Dalai Lama. A book I had always intended to read but had not. I put it in my pocket to take home, and laid with it in a bubble bath once I arrived. The book has proven, unfortunately, quite dense and difficult to grasp (which I blame on the translator, as his books are not typically like this)... but it led me to my bookshelf at home, and all the unread books I had bought during previous heartbreaks and difficult times. Which led me to Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart.
It has been profoundly what I need to hear.
I wanted to write down some of my thoughts, and some of the more affective passages, lest I get swept away by living again and busy myself with utterly unimportant pursuits.
An old Buddhist teaching says "Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us."
I've found this to be quite true. Through heartbreak and pain we find that within us which simply will not yield. We find whether or not our belief in humanity, or our belief in love, or our valuing of empathy can be broken. When I think back over all that has proven to be indestructible in me... there are only a few stones left in this vast quarry, with all the rest crushed to sand.
But those few stones encapsulate me. The parts of me that have never broken are few. Frighteningly few. But the biggest is my "hopeless" romanticism. As I consider it now, for the first time I consider hopeless to be a compliment. It cannot be reasoned with or beaten into submission. It pays no mind to failures or evidence. It is a staunch belief- a stubborn, radical belief- that true love exists and is waiting for anyone who devotes their self to the search.
This belief I know is indestructible. Others, such as my belief in some sort of creationary force, my exaltation of empathy, my belief that all people have good within them and all people can change and recover... these beliefs are so strong within me now. But they have cracked in the past. I have doubted them, I've even lapsed- if only momentarily. These stones have been grated and worn. Life has chipped away at them, but they haven't broken. I suppose if I view my life from where I stand now- which really is the only way to view it- these are the other indestructible parts of me.
I am so grateful for all the pain I have experienced. I am so grateful for the trials, the ghosts, the scars, even the still-bleeding wounds. I am so grateful to have been pushed to my limit so very many times. I am so grateful for the parts of me that are indestructible. I am so grateful to know what these parts are.
In Sanskrit, maitri means "unconditional friendliness." Chodron talks at length about how to meet ourselves with maitri; how to relax into the stillness of non-thought and gently redirect and comfort out wild, bouncing internal monologue. My task lately has been to sit with my own thoughts, and meet them "with honesty, a light touch, humor, and kindness." The same approach that I wish to show others. I have a feeling that if I get better at showing it to myself, I will be better at showing it to others as well.
Chodron says, "What makes maitri such a different approach is that we are not striving to solve a problem, We are not striving to make pain go away or to become a better person. In fact, we are giving up cntrol altogether and letting concepts and ideals fall apart."
How hard is that! Seriously. All we strive to do, day in and day out, is to not let things fall apart! What would happen if it did?
In the book she speaks about running towards fear, facing it. She recalls to story of a young boy who every day walked past a snarling, gnashing guard dog with red eyes and dripping teeth. One day, as the onlooking villagers gasped, the guard dog broke from his leash and began running after the boy. The boy turned, running full-speed towards the dog... who was so startled he tucked his tail between his legs and sped off.
We hope that the terror will run from us... but even if we collide in a smoldering ball of gnashing teeth and flying blood... we have found that which is indestructible in us.
In a chapter entitled "Not causing harm" (which makes me want my primum non nocere tattoo sooo bad... there I go desiring again!), she says "It is a transformative experience to simply pause instead of immediately filling up the space. By waiting, we begin to connect with fundamental restlessness as well as fundamental spaciousness."
Much like running towards the snarling dog, intentionally invoking silence and space can be terrifying for some of us. My roommate, for example, only recently learned how to sit without the television, or music, or talking. She always complained that her thoughts became too loud, and were too scary to sit alone with. It has taken her much work to sit alone with silence.
But this passage for me, at this moment anyway, speaks more to my perpetual need to fill my sadness or loneliness with someone/something. Along with feelings of sadness comes temptation. Desire to escape from loneliness, to disprove my feelings of abandonment and unworthiness, to ignore my fears of being alone. The temptation is to buy something fun and shiny that turns off my noisy brain, to run away, far, far away... or to lose myself in a clearly-wrong-for-me relationship simply because it's distracting and provides two arms for refuge.
This time I sit. In my hot bath, meditating. In the woods with my books and sheets of drawing paper. I feel a tinge of excitement when I think about looking at my fears... and running towards them. I wish to sit with the silence of being alone... waiting for the water around me to quiet it's crashing waves and wind-blown ripples so that I might peer down to the bottom. To look at the things near me, the people that I love and am grateful for. To let those things grow and change with me as they will and have no plans or expectations for them.
To meet myself
my chaos
with maitri.
And rest assured that the waves will soon be still.
On a busy night, from 5-9 there are constant new lock-ups, transfers in, crisis calls. But Monday there was not one. No one called "751 on" all evening- and I was left quietly at my desk upstairs, alone in the unit above the hospital. I sat at my desk in silence with an 8x14 legal pad and wrote. For four solid hours, I wrote.
I began feeling positive, goal-oriented, having an epiphany in every paragraph. By page four this crumbled away into self-doubt and confusion... all of my sentences contradicting the ones prior. And by page eight I was accepting my confusion, my "not knowing," and was being kinder and gentler with myself. Much of what I wrote was my self-care plan.
I have a tendency to buy wonderful books and never read them. As I sat in my office writing, I looked up and saw "How to See Yourself as you Really Are" by the Dalai Lama. A book I had always intended to read but had not. I put it in my pocket to take home, and laid with it in a bubble bath once I arrived. The book has proven, unfortunately, quite dense and difficult to grasp (which I blame on the translator, as his books are not typically like this)... but it led me to my bookshelf at home, and all the unread books I had bought during previous heartbreaks and difficult times. Which led me to Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart.
It has been profoundly what I need to hear.
I wanted to write down some of my thoughts, and some of the more affective passages, lest I get swept away by living again and busy myself with utterly unimportant pursuits.
An old Buddhist teaching says "Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us."
I've found this to be quite true. Through heartbreak and pain we find that within us which simply will not yield. We find whether or not our belief in humanity, or our belief in love, or our valuing of empathy can be broken. When I think back over all that has proven to be indestructible in me... there are only a few stones left in this vast quarry, with all the rest crushed to sand.
But those few stones encapsulate me. The parts of me that have never broken are few. Frighteningly few. But the biggest is my "hopeless" romanticism. As I consider it now, for the first time I consider hopeless to be a compliment. It cannot be reasoned with or beaten into submission. It pays no mind to failures or evidence. It is a staunch belief- a stubborn, radical belief- that true love exists and is waiting for anyone who devotes their self to the search.
This belief I know is indestructible. Others, such as my belief in some sort of creationary force, my exaltation of empathy, my belief that all people have good within them and all people can change and recover... these beliefs are so strong within me now. But they have cracked in the past. I have doubted them, I've even lapsed- if only momentarily. These stones have been grated and worn. Life has chipped away at them, but they haven't broken. I suppose if I view my life from where I stand now- which really is the only way to view it- these are the other indestructible parts of me.
I am so grateful for all the pain I have experienced. I am so grateful for the trials, the ghosts, the scars, even the still-bleeding wounds. I am so grateful to have been pushed to my limit so very many times. I am so grateful for the parts of me that are indestructible. I am so grateful to know what these parts are.
In Sanskrit, maitri means "unconditional friendliness." Chodron talks at length about how to meet ourselves with maitri; how to relax into the stillness of non-thought and gently redirect and comfort out wild, bouncing internal monologue. My task lately has been to sit with my own thoughts, and meet them "with honesty, a light touch, humor, and kindness." The same approach that I wish to show others. I have a feeling that if I get better at showing it to myself, I will be better at showing it to others as well.
Chodron says, "What makes maitri such a different approach is that we are not striving to solve a problem, We are not striving to make pain go away or to become a better person. In fact, we are giving up cntrol altogether and letting concepts and ideals fall apart."
How hard is that! Seriously. All we strive to do, day in and day out, is to not let things fall apart! What would happen if it did?
In the book she speaks about running towards fear, facing it. She recalls to story of a young boy who every day walked past a snarling, gnashing guard dog with red eyes and dripping teeth. One day, as the onlooking villagers gasped, the guard dog broke from his leash and began running after the boy. The boy turned, running full-speed towards the dog... who was so startled he tucked his tail between his legs and sped off.
We hope that the terror will run from us... but even if we collide in a smoldering ball of gnashing teeth and flying blood... we have found that which is indestructible in us.
In a chapter entitled "Not causing harm" (which makes me want my primum non nocere tattoo sooo bad... there I go desiring again!), she says "It is a transformative experience to simply pause instead of immediately filling up the space. By waiting, we begin to connect with fundamental restlessness as well as fundamental spaciousness."
Much like running towards the snarling dog, intentionally invoking silence and space can be terrifying for some of us. My roommate, for example, only recently learned how to sit without the television, or music, or talking. She always complained that her thoughts became too loud, and were too scary to sit alone with. It has taken her much work to sit alone with silence.
But this passage for me, at this moment anyway, speaks more to my perpetual need to fill my sadness or loneliness with someone/something. Along with feelings of sadness comes temptation. Desire to escape from loneliness, to disprove my feelings of abandonment and unworthiness, to ignore my fears of being alone. The temptation is to buy something fun and shiny that turns off my noisy brain, to run away, far, far away... or to lose myself in a clearly-wrong-for-me relationship simply because it's distracting and provides two arms for refuge.
This time I sit. In my hot bath, meditating. In the woods with my books and sheets of drawing paper. I feel a tinge of excitement when I think about looking at my fears... and running towards them. I wish to sit with the silence of being alone... waiting for the water around me to quiet it's crashing waves and wind-blown ripples so that I might peer down to the bottom. To look at the things near me, the people that I love and am grateful for. To let those things grow and change with me as they will and have no plans or expectations for them.
To meet myself
my chaos
with maitri.
And rest assured that the waves will soon be still.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
having while being
I've been desperate to write.
To sit down and put into words my fear/plans/hopes/desires/shortcomings. I need to write down all of the things that I intend to do and need to do, lest I somehow forget them. It seems insane to think that I would, but I clearly have before.
The following are the things I want from myself:
I want to not feel insecure when I look in the mirror. Or angry. Or confused at the person I see. If I look down and see a beer belly or stretch marks or pooch where there "shouldn't be" a pooch... I won't grit my teeth in disgust. I won't feel insecure and wonder if the weight I've gained will hinder me in finding a partner. I will hush my emotions and listen to my rational mind.
I will be grateful for this faithful and healthy vessel. This body that feels pleasure and heals quickly from pain and injury. These loving arms that are strong and painted and faithful. I will love what I have- all that I have- and not work on making it less. Only better.
I want to be aware of my finances, and able to responsibly manage my money. I want to be aware of every cent - with a healthy awareness and not a panicked obsession. I want to steadily improve upon my debt and therefore upon my future. I want to be more free from the shackles of money, and more detached from it emotionally.
I want to maintain my friends and hobbies and personal loves while in a relationship. I want to let myself be reminded why I love Boston, and experience something new and beautiful on a regular basis. I want to go out just to go out. I want to search out new friends and be the kind of friend that I love being. I value my sincerity, intensity, reliability, my giving nature. I want to hold my friends to the standards I hold for myself, and vice versa.
Most importantly, when I do find a love, I want to treat her like what she is: the most important thing in my life. No matter how stressed out or depressed or overwhelmed I am, I should be mindful of her role in my life and deeply appreciative. I should never treat the love of my life with less courtesy than I would give a common stranger. It doesn't matter if I've had a bad day or am feeling hurt. Yes, she is a safe place to take these feelings. But that should be honored. The fact that I have ever allowed my partner feel disrespected by me is one of the greatest regrets of my life. And it's the biggest thing I want to change about my life.
As a child I was forced to doubt every thing about myself. I was told on a daily basis that I was worthless, ugly, stupid. Most of all stupid. But I vividly remember, even as young as 12 or 13, feeling very self-assured that someday I would make a great partner. I never questioned that. I knew that I wanted it so much that I would never give it less than 100%. And I never wavered in that assuredness, even throughout all my (failed) relationships to date.
But lately I have questioned it.
I've questioned everything. Particularly my ability to be a worthy partner to another. One that is up to my own standards. I also find myself questioning the very meaning of partnership and what it means to me to be in a committed relationship. I always thought I was doing it right. That I had a "normal" concept of what a relationship should be. But I need to challenge that. I need to somehow discern what level of connectedness is healthy for two people, what is likely, and what is necessary for myself. This will require far more writing.
I've always pictured a partnership as a safe home base. As a particularly strong and intimate friendship. The friend that you can tell anything to and feel truly understood. The one you go to with any hurt or fear. Someone who sometimes reads your thoughts and loves you because of/in spite of it.
But that key friendship piece seems nearly impossible to accomplish after-the-fact. It's hard to partner and then go back to form a friendship. And, as we've already discussed, it's hard for two women to slow down the partnering process.
But I have to be able to do it. I have to be a friend before anything else. I have to relax all of those automatic behaviors. And let someone know me unapologetically as a genuine, flawed human being... instead of as someone trying to create a particular impression or force some type of connection. Someone on a job interview. Someone trying too hard.
I don't have the energy to try so hard any more. It takes all the energy I have to just be.
I just have to hope that this "being" somehow leads me to all the various things I need. There is a certain logic to it.
Lately I'm just me. Pretty anxious on the bad days and sometimes a little spastic. Someone who uses biting sarcasm when annoyed by others. Someone who looks for ways to go above and beyond at work. Clumsy and foul-mouthed (I forget not everyone works in a prison) with a big heart and a sensitive artist-type soul. Someone who has great moments of inspiration and drive but gets overwhelmed by clutter and (sometimes) change. Someone who withdraws when feeling slighted but truly believes that love will save us all. Someone who does her best to feel focused despite sometimes feeling quite lost and ineffectual. Someone who can be very funny and who tries too hard to be funny when nervous. And someone who may sometimes feel scared to look, but still wants to know everything about herself.
Someone who is struggling to find everything she needs, while pretending to know what she needs, while struggling to just be.
To sit down and put into words my fear/plans/hopes/desires/shortcomings. I need to write down all of the things that I intend to do and need to do, lest I somehow forget them. It seems insane to think that I would, but I clearly have before.
The following are the things I want from myself:
I want to not feel insecure when I look in the mirror. Or angry. Or confused at the person I see. If I look down and see a beer belly or stretch marks or pooch where there "shouldn't be" a pooch... I won't grit my teeth in disgust. I won't feel insecure and wonder if the weight I've gained will hinder me in finding a partner. I will hush my emotions and listen to my rational mind.
I will be grateful for this faithful and healthy vessel. This body that feels pleasure and heals quickly from pain and injury. These loving arms that are strong and painted and faithful. I will love what I have- all that I have- and not work on making it less. Only better.
I want to be aware of my finances, and able to responsibly manage my money. I want to be aware of every cent - with a healthy awareness and not a panicked obsession. I want to steadily improve upon my debt and therefore upon my future. I want to be more free from the shackles of money, and more detached from it emotionally.
I want to maintain my friends and hobbies and personal loves while in a relationship. I want to let myself be reminded why I love Boston, and experience something new and beautiful on a regular basis. I want to go out just to go out. I want to search out new friends and be the kind of friend that I love being. I value my sincerity, intensity, reliability, my giving nature. I want to hold my friends to the standards I hold for myself, and vice versa.
Most importantly, when I do find a love, I want to treat her like what she is: the most important thing in my life. No matter how stressed out or depressed or overwhelmed I am, I should be mindful of her role in my life and deeply appreciative. I should never treat the love of my life with less courtesy than I would give a common stranger. It doesn't matter if I've had a bad day or am feeling hurt. Yes, she is a safe place to take these feelings. But that should be honored. The fact that I have ever allowed my partner feel disrespected by me is one of the greatest regrets of my life. And it's the biggest thing I want to change about my life.
As a child I was forced to doubt every thing about myself. I was told on a daily basis that I was worthless, ugly, stupid. Most of all stupid. But I vividly remember, even as young as 12 or 13, feeling very self-assured that someday I would make a great partner. I never questioned that. I knew that I wanted it so much that I would never give it less than 100%. And I never wavered in that assuredness, even throughout all my (failed) relationships to date.
But lately I have questioned it.
I've questioned everything. Particularly my ability to be a worthy partner to another. One that is up to my own standards. I also find myself questioning the very meaning of partnership and what it means to me to be in a committed relationship. I always thought I was doing it right. That I had a "normal" concept of what a relationship should be. But I need to challenge that. I need to somehow discern what level of connectedness is healthy for two people, what is likely, and what is necessary for myself. This will require far more writing.
I've always pictured a partnership as a safe home base. As a particularly strong and intimate friendship. The friend that you can tell anything to and feel truly understood. The one you go to with any hurt or fear. Someone who sometimes reads your thoughts and loves you because of/in spite of it.
But that key friendship piece seems nearly impossible to accomplish after-the-fact. It's hard to partner and then go back to form a friendship. And, as we've already discussed, it's hard for two women to slow down the partnering process.
But I have to be able to do it. I have to be a friend before anything else. I have to relax all of those automatic behaviors. And let someone know me unapologetically as a genuine, flawed human being... instead of as someone trying to create a particular impression or force some type of connection. Someone on a job interview. Someone trying too hard.
I don't have the energy to try so hard any more. It takes all the energy I have to just be.
I just have to hope that this "being" somehow leads me to all the various things I need. There is a certain logic to it.
Lately I'm just me. Pretty anxious on the bad days and sometimes a little spastic. Someone who uses biting sarcasm when annoyed by others. Someone who looks for ways to go above and beyond at work. Clumsy and foul-mouthed (I forget not everyone works in a prison) with a big heart and a sensitive artist-type soul. Someone who has great moments of inspiration and drive but gets overwhelmed by clutter and (sometimes) change. Someone who withdraws when feeling slighted but truly believes that love will save us all. Someone who does her best to feel focused despite sometimes feeling quite lost and ineffectual. Someone who can be very funny and who tries too hard to be funny when nervous. And someone who may sometimes feel scared to look, but still wants to know everything about herself.
Someone who is struggling to find everything she needs, while pretending to know what she needs, while struggling to just be.
Monday, November 8, 2010
when Harriet met Sally
As is always the case when I'm single, I've been thinking a lot about lesbians. Actually, lesbians and their relationship/sexual/nesting/prey drives. I've found my thoughts alarmingly difficult to put into words... even harder to make sense of all the complexities of girl-girl relationships.
Lately I've been thinking about the famous exchange in When Harry Met Sally: the assertion that men and women cannot be friends without having sex. Can two gay women be friends without succumbing to their desire to couple and nest? I polled my friends, and got various answers:
Only if they've had sex already and don't want to do it again.
Depends on the level of desperation/age/degree of loneliness.
Only if they don't find each other attractive.
Only if they don't find each other attractive and meet in some sort of non-relationship-geared setting (school, work, etc.).
or Yes. They can.
I consider gay men, and the stereotypes that they face. They have a reputation for being sexually promiscuous, and having frivolous relationships based on seedy sexual impulse. Of course, all the gay men I know would acknowledge that there is a bit of truth to this... but it's certainly not the rule! I know plenty of gay men with discerning standards, and several male couples who are in long-term, loving, committed partnerships.
I definitely think it's true that homosexual men and women are thought of more in terms of their sexual proclivities than straight men and women are. I've heard many people comment that when hearing the world "homosexual," the emphasis is on the sex. The mental images are of sex. It doesn't conjure images of happy same-sex couples at home with their children. Normal, loving pairs who do all the mundane things that straight couples do- washing dishes and grocery shopping, having pizza night or bickering over the bills, or picking out a good school for the kids.
When we hear the words we don't even picture normal looking people. We picture unattractive women with crew cuts and flamboyant, annoying alcoholic men in pink shirts. Our these our images of ourselves?
You know, I'm ashamed to say that I buy into it too. When I hear the word "gay" or "lesbian" and I don't think about partnering the way I do when I hear the term "straight couple." I admit, I think about sexual interest. *Sexual* orientation... not relationship orientation.
Am I different, or do other gay people feel this too? Do we have the same gut reactions about ourselves that society does? Do we also buy into this idea that our relationships are somehow less serious? Less substantive? Sleazier? Do we also believe that our orientation isn't based on the same need for love and acceptance, companionship and devotion... but rather trite sexual trysts meant to buck the establishment and make a mockery of "proper" marriages?
No... no. Of course not. Obviously, I don't believe that any of those things are true.
I LOVE love. I believe in it with all my heart. And I believe that two women can connect in a way so unique and so profound, in a way unlike any other gender-coupling. Women are deep and sensitive- so much more emotional and driven to connect than men are. When two women connect it's a force of nature.
But I've gotten far from my point.
The point is that two women together, or two men together, function very differently than a man and a woman together. A man and a woman together can temper each other in way that two men/two women cannot. As with everything, there are pros and cons. The bottom line is, we're not the same. As badly as we want our relationships to be as "normal" as everyone else's- they may never be. We're inherently different. And that's fine!
But we haven't quite figured out what the appropriate, non-offensive, non-stereotypic images are that these differences should conjure...
Long, long ago I asked if gay women- two single, attractive gay women- can be friends without coupling. Sure we can. We can resist our drives, just like all people can. Hey, even straight men, some of the horniest creatures on the planet, can be pals without fucking each other.
But I think it's important for us to think about why our sexual activities are the first thing people consider when our orientation is mentioned. Is it because it seems so foreign and icky to "straight people?" Are we actually hyper sexual? And if so is this because the community is so small (it just SEEMS like we've slept with everyone, because we're all so incestuously entangled)? Are we more desperate for connection?
Or maybe it's just not true, and people don't have these subconscious notions... maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the weird one.
Even if it is true... I may still be the weird one.
Lately I've been thinking about the famous exchange in When Harry Met Sally: the assertion that men and women cannot be friends without having sex. Can two gay women be friends without succumbing to their desire to couple and nest? I polled my friends, and got various answers:
Only if they've had sex already and don't want to do it again.
Depends on the level of desperation/age/degree of loneliness.
Only if they don't find each other attractive.
Only if they don't find each other attractive and meet in some sort of non-relationship-geared setting (school, work, etc.).
or Yes. They can.
I consider gay men, and the stereotypes that they face. They have a reputation for being sexually promiscuous, and having frivolous relationships based on seedy sexual impulse. Of course, all the gay men I know would acknowledge that there is a bit of truth to this... but it's certainly not the rule! I know plenty of gay men with discerning standards, and several male couples who are in long-term, loving, committed partnerships.
I definitely think it's true that homosexual men and women are thought of more in terms of their sexual proclivities than straight men and women are. I've heard many people comment that when hearing the world "homosexual," the emphasis is on the sex. The mental images are of sex. It doesn't conjure images of happy same-sex couples at home with their children. Normal, loving pairs who do all the mundane things that straight couples do- washing dishes and grocery shopping, having pizza night or bickering over the bills, or picking out a good school for the kids.
When we hear the words we don't even picture normal looking people. We picture unattractive women with crew cuts and flamboyant, annoying alcoholic men in pink shirts. Our these our images of ourselves?
You know, I'm ashamed to say that I buy into it too. When I hear the word "gay" or "lesbian" and I don't think about partnering the way I do when I hear the term "straight couple." I admit, I think about sexual interest. *Sexual* orientation... not relationship orientation.
Am I different, or do other gay people feel this too? Do we have the same gut reactions about ourselves that society does? Do we also buy into this idea that our relationships are somehow less serious? Less substantive? Sleazier? Do we also believe that our orientation isn't based on the same need for love and acceptance, companionship and devotion... but rather trite sexual trysts meant to buck the establishment and make a mockery of "proper" marriages?
No... no. Of course not. Obviously, I don't believe that any of those things are true.
I LOVE love. I believe in it with all my heart. And I believe that two women can connect in a way so unique and so profound, in a way unlike any other gender-coupling. Women are deep and sensitive- so much more emotional and driven to connect than men are. When two women connect it's a force of nature.
But I've gotten far from my point.
The point is that two women together, or two men together, function very differently than a man and a woman together. A man and a woman together can temper each other in way that two men/two women cannot. As with everything, there are pros and cons. The bottom line is, we're not the same. As badly as we want our relationships to be as "normal" as everyone else's- they may never be. We're inherently different. And that's fine!
But we haven't quite figured out what the appropriate, non-offensive, non-stereotypic images are that these differences should conjure...
Long, long ago I asked if gay women- two single, attractive gay women- can be friends without coupling. Sure we can. We can resist our drives, just like all people can. Hey, even straight men, some of the horniest creatures on the planet, can be pals without fucking each other.
But I think it's important for us to think about why our sexual activities are the first thing people consider when our orientation is mentioned. Is it because it seems so foreign and icky to "straight people?" Are we actually hyper sexual? And if so is this because the community is so small (it just SEEMS like we've slept with everyone, because we're all so incestuously entangled)? Are we more desperate for connection?
Or maybe it's just not true, and people don't have these subconscious notions... maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the weird one.
Even if it is true... I may still be the weird one.
having vs. being
While watching a recent episode of CSI, I was reminded of the work of Eric Fromm. German socialist, philosopher, escapee of the Holocaust, and a father of modern psychology, Fromm theorized that humans have two basic orientations:
Having. And Being.
A person of the a "having" orientation seeks to acquire and possess. They seek to possess things- toys, cars, houses, property, money, even people. To possess is to exist. And to possess more... well, is to exist just a little bit better.
Someone in the "being" state derives intrinsic fulfillment from simply experiencing life. From sharing emotions, exchanging ideas, thoughts, experiences. From connecting with others and being fully engaged with the world around them. Life is about the journey, the love, the learning. Not the having.
And, it would seem, these two orientations are mutually exclusive. Much like having, it's all or nothing! One or the other. It's virtually impossible to both "have" and "be" at the same time.
Fromm made a sort of apocalyptic prediction of his own: a cultural spiral into total havingness. Defined as both progession and regression, our culture is possessed by it's possessions. Fromm felt that a culture so driven by commercialism, such as the one we live in today, is "doomed to the having orientation."
On CSI, Ray Langston (Laurence Fishburne) noted that in "1960 there was no such thing are public storage. Today there are over 2 billion square feet dedicated to it."
Doesn't seem to bode well for us, does it?
But the more we have, the deeper in we get. With the "things" come the bills, which obligate us to the jobs, the overtime, the credit cards, the mortgages, the promotions, the raises, the improvements we can now make to all the things. These things that we hold dear.
I'm reminded of yet another piece of cinematic gold, in which Harry Connick, Jr. mused "You’re talking about the American dream. You find something that you love and then you twist and you torture it, try to find a way to make money at it. You spend a lifetime doing that... and at the end you can’t find a trace of what you started out loving."
I spend a lot of time thinking about my possessions. Actually, how "the things you own, end up owning you" (props, Fight Club). I've dreamed quite wistfully of ridding myself of all my worldly possessions. Packing up the boxes that are so hard to thin down, so hard to let go of... and just... letting them go. Dropping them off, giving them away, tossing them in dumpsters. Lightening myself one box at a time.
Last night I stopped to consider how much space my truly personal, "irreplaceable" possessions would take up. Things like photos (which digital storage has made considerably more compact), letters, jewelry, other small tokens... it would fill but a small box. The rest, all that is not irreplaceable... is replaceable. The clothing, the games and CDs and movies, the computer, the phone, the truck, the books, the furniture, the technology and the entertainment. It's all replaceable. And therefore meaningless, really.
So why is it so hard to let go of? And why is it so easy to love?
What about my dream of shedding it all and leaving for the Peace Corps to live a beautiful life digging ditches in some impoverished country? What about my fantasy- the one where I hike around Europe with nothing but a backpack containing a couple sets of clothing, some maps, general survival gear, a lightweight tent and bedroll, camera, and as many notebooks as I can carry.
My fantasy of "being."
Currently impeded by my "having."
Having. And Being.
A person of the a "having" orientation seeks to acquire and possess. They seek to possess things- toys, cars, houses, property, money, even people. To possess is to exist. And to possess more... well, is to exist just a little bit better.
Someone in the "being" state derives intrinsic fulfillment from simply experiencing life. From sharing emotions, exchanging ideas, thoughts, experiences. From connecting with others and being fully engaged with the world around them. Life is about the journey, the love, the learning. Not the having.
And, it would seem, these two orientations are mutually exclusive. Much like having, it's all or nothing! One or the other. It's virtually impossible to both "have" and "be" at the same time.
Fromm made a sort of apocalyptic prediction of his own: a cultural spiral into total havingness. Defined as both progession and regression, our culture is possessed by it's possessions. Fromm felt that a culture so driven by commercialism, such as the one we live in today, is "doomed to the having orientation."
On CSI, Ray Langston (Laurence Fishburne) noted that in "1960 there was no such thing are public storage. Today there are over 2 billion square feet dedicated to it."
Doesn't seem to bode well for us, does it?
But the more we have, the deeper in we get. With the "things" come the bills, which obligate us to the jobs, the overtime, the credit cards, the mortgages, the promotions, the raises, the improvements we can now make to all the things. These things that we hold dear.
I'm reminded of yet another piece of cinematic gold, in which Harry Connick, Jr. mused "You’re talking about the American dream. You find something that you love and then you twist and you torture it, try to find a way to make money at it. You spend a lifetime doing that... and at the end you can’t find a trace of what you started out loving."
I spend a lot of time thinking about my possessions. Actually, how "the things you own, end up owning you" (props, Fight Club). I've dreamed quite wistfully of ridding myself of all my worldly possessions. Packing up the boxes that are so hard to thin down, so hard to let go of... and just... letting them go. Dropping them off, giving them away, tossing them in dumpsters. Lightening myself one box at a time.
Last night I stopped to consider how much space my truly personal, "irreplaceable" possessions would take up. Things like photos (which digital storage has made considerably more compact), letters, jewelry, other small tokens... it would fill but a small box. The rest, all that is not irreplaceable... is replaceable. The clothing, the games and CDs and movies, the computer, the phone, the truck, the books, the furniture, the technology and the entertainment. It's all replaceable. And therefore meaningless, really.
So why is it so hard to let go of? And why is it so easy to love?
What about my dream of shedding it all and leaving for the Peace Corps to live a beautiful life digging ditches in some impoverished country? What about my fantasy- the one where I hike around Europe with nothing but a backpack containing a couple sets of clothing, some maps, general survival gear, a lightweight tent and bedroll, camera, and as many notebooks as I can carry.
My fantasy of "being."
Currently impeded by my "having."
Monday, October 4, 2010
the things I feel
in the course of a day, hour, or sometimes minute.
I feel at peace. I feel confident in y/our decisions, and assured that my so-often-spouted cliche wisdom of "everything happens for a reason" is true. I feel that I will grow into a better place- though not without work. Not without much, much work.
This is all so easily scratched away- a thin silver coat that peels off in delicate sheets if disturbed or nudged just so. Beneath lies a smarting layer of pink anger. Like skin assaulted, glowing red and hot. This layer is sometimes rational and justified, empowered and cathartic. But far more often it is the anger of an animal- leg caught in trap. The rage of a small creature overwrought with fear and blinding pain. This rage gnashes it's teeth blindly at anyone encountered, even those coming to assist.
Not far beyond this, enmeshed and interwoven, lies the fear. Fear of the new, fear that I am now too old, too fat, too unlovable. Fear that I am somehow damaged beyond repair, and that I have been afforded a glimpse of my future: a groundhog-day existence of falling, loving, trying, pushing, ignoring, failing, weeping. Each day coming full circle- beginning and ending with self-blame, self-flagellation.
It's a fear older than my first memory. It is my greatest fear. My fear of being alone.
Not being alone in an everyday sense. I actually enjoy "alone time." I am generally an independent and solitary person. No, I mean alone forever. Dying alone. Being alone in the way that my father is alone.
Pushing aside the calm, the pride, the anger, the fear, lies the sadness. Sadness and loneliness feel the same, but they are not. The sadness is grief. Mourning for what's been lost, for what might have been but will now never be, mourning for my hopes and expectations of us and of myself.
The loneliness is my foundation. I feel as though without it I would not know how or where to stand, how to breathe, how to exist in this time or place. It is older than I am. Uncomfortably comforting. Familiar. So familiar. It is the melancholy grey of a rainy fall day. A sun-less dreary week, cloud-cover impenetrable. It is a vicious place, though I fear it can be described no better than: Alone.
I feel as though it is the root of my existence. I would not know who to be, or how to be, without it. It is me. It has always been me. It has been there long before, and will remain long after, me.
And then you enter the room. I look at you and I feel a spark of light. I feel a tinge of happiness and hope. I feel all the cells of my body awaken, my skin exclaims with joy the way a child does when hearing the Ice Cream Man's jingle. My skin feels your phantom touch. My hands feel the gentleness, the exquisite softness of your fingers. My body pulls yours close and is nourished by the warmth and the your comfort. I look at you and my only thought, my only feeling, is the desire to be near you. I see you... and for just a moment I feel so much less hopeless.
Our reality brings me crashing back- falling down through the layers of silver and pink, of blue, grey and black.
But for a moment... for a moment I just see you.
I feel at peace. I feel confident in y/our decisions, and assured that my so-often-spouted cliche wisdom of "everything happens for a reason" is true. I feel that I will grow into a better place- though not without work. Not without much, much work.
This is all so easily scratched away- a thin silver coat that peels off in delicate sheets if disturbed or nudged just so. Beneath lies a smarting layer of pink anger. Like skin assaulted, glowing red and hot. This layer is sometimes rational and justified, empowered and cathartic. But far more often it is the anger of an animal- leg caught in trap. The rage of a small creature overwrought with fear and blinding pain. This rage gnashes it's teeth blindly at anyone encountered, even those coming to assist.
Not far beyond this, enmeshed and interwoven, lies the fear. Fear of the new, fear that I am now too old, too fat, too unlovable. Fear that I am somehow damaged beyond repair, and that I have been afforded a glimpse of my future: a groundhog-day existence of falling, loving, trying, pushing, ignoring, failing, weeping. Each day coming full circle- beginning and ending with self-blame, self-flagellation.
It's a fear older than my first memory. It is my greatest fear. My fear of being alone.
Not being alone in an everyday sense. I actually enjoy "alone time." I am generally an independent and solitary person. No, I mean alone forever. Dying alone. Being alone in the way that my father is alone.
Pushing aside the calm, the pride, the anger, the fear, lies the sadness. Sadness and loneliness feel the same, but they are not. The sadness is grief. Mourning for what's been lost, for what might have been but will now never be, mourning for my hopes and expectations of us and of myself.
The loneliness is my foundation. I feel as though without it I would not know how or where to stand, how to breathe, how to exist in this time or place. It is older than I am. Uncomfortably comforting. Familiar. So familiar. It is the melancholy grey of a rainy fall day. A sun-less dreary week, cloud-cover impenetrable. It is a vicious place, though I fear it can be described no better than: Alone.
I feel as though it is the root of my existence. I would not know who to be, or how to be, without it. It is me. It has always been me. It has been there long before, and will remain long after, me.
And then you enter the room. I look at you and I feel a spark of light. I feel a tinge of happiness and hope. I feel all the cells of my body awaken, my skin exclaims with joy the way a child does when hearing the Ice Cream Man's jingle. My skin feels your phantom touch. My hands feel the gentleness, the exquisite softness of your fingers. My body pulls yours close and is nourished by the warmth and the your comfort. I look at you and my only thought, my only feeling, is the desire to be near you. I see you... and for just a moment I feel so much less hopeless.
Our reality brings me crashing back- falling down through the layers of silver and pink, of blue, grey and black.
But for a moment... for a moment I just see you.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
birds of a feather
It was nearly a month ago now that I intended to write this blog. And I think about writing it every day as I drive to and from work. Why I push aside the thoughts that are important to me, and make room for ones that are not, I will never know.
A month ago I was driving to work when I noticed a Canadian goose in the median between the on-ramp of Route 2 and Interstate 95. Of course this is not unusual, as these gentle aves are plentiful in New England all year-round. But this goose was unusual in that it was alone.
My heart immediately sank in my chest. I knew why the bird was alone. I had seen this before.
I must have been close to 7 or 8 when a goose-driven drama unfolded across the road from my childhood home. We lived across from the "town ponds," a grouping of five small ponds that served at the town's water supply and home to many small creatures including muskrats a variety of water birds. A mated pair of geese had made a nest here, but summer had turned into fall before their eggs were laid, and they were the only ones of their kind remaining in Southern Colorado. We watched them care for each other, and work together to keep the eggs safe. They took turns hunting for food, sitting on the eggs. The male usually took charge when chasing away a predator, or leading it off with a dramatic honking calamity.
As human nature is truly a mystery to me, I will never understand why someone stopped by the side of road and gunned down this male goose. But the gravity of this situation became clear to us as snowflakes began to fall and soon only the female's head was visible. She was unable to search for food, leaving their eggs unattended, and my father took on a bit of a protective role for her- at least in the sense that he shot the neighbor's dog when the black lab set his sights on the feathered mother-to-be.
By some small miracle the mother made it through the winter with at least some of her young. And she returned, year after year. Alone.
As I looked at this bird in the median I remembered this poor goose I had watched 20 years earlier, and I remembered the unfortunate flurry of crushed feathers I had seen on the highway the day before- this birds mate, I was sure. The other geese had flown on to another feeding spot, but this one remained.
Day after day I drove to work and looked around as I drove the overpass. Each day I spotted the goose in a different place, sitting in a different median near this interchange, staring at the cars. And each day I felt saddened, wishing that he or she would go to join their own kind in a pleasant field or tranquil lake somewhere. I wondered if the bird understood death, and knew that it's partner was dead. I wondered if the bird was sitting there in grief, wondering what to do next. Or if the bird was simply confused by it's partner's sudden disappearance and was waiting for the mate to return to this spot where they had been separated.
Sadly, realistically, I knew that this bird wouldn't be able to keep up this vigilance for long. And on the fourth or fifth day of looking for this bird each morning, I looked and saw her lying just inside the outbound guard rail, lifeless. My heart fell again, but I profess I felt some relief for this poor bird.
The concept of "mating for life" is one that humans flirt with, but often don't seem to grasp. I've often debated with intellectual friends about the topic, expressing my opinion that every species either definitely "is" or "isn't" a species that mates for life. More than 90% of birds, for example, are monogamous. Black vultures, in fact, discourage infidelity so handily that birds who are caught philandering are attacked by the rest of the flock. Red-backed salamanders also punish those with a wandering eye. French anglefish are monogamous, and wolves are another species that often spends their entire lives with one mate, maintaining a nuclear family... but they are one of the rare mammals who do so.
Only 3% of mammals are monogamous. Gibbons, beavers (sure, insert joke here), most otters, the tiny dik-dik antelope, prairie voles (males stay with the female that takes their virginity), coyotes and even California mice (a breed, not mice living in California) make the cut- but humans are not a part of this small group.
I theorize that our alleged "superior intelligence" has created within us a great moral dilemma... which we have responded to by professing monogamy and exalting fidelity. Monogamy is a cultural and/or religious construct for us. It is a theory that we have mixed opinions and beliefs about. And it is also a conscious choice. It is not a biological drive or a behavior that "just is," as it is with all other animals. I think our ability for abstract thought counteracts any deeply buried primitive predilection we may have towards monogamy. Is all this "superior intelligence" really so great?
Cynicism aside, I do believe that some humans are naturally more suited for fidelity than others. I have always considered myself a monogamous creature, despite the pitfalls of my human-ness. I simply feel that I am not built for infidelity... but this too comes from my complex thought processes and notions about love and devotion and God and so forth.
Though I would hope that I would not be spending the rest of my days sitting forlornly in interstate traffic, I must say I admire this type of devotion I have witnessed in geese. I imagine that I would feel much the same way should my mate disappear one day.
When I was young, there was a cemetery just outside of Monte Vista that we used to pass regularly. For many years we drove by and saw a young man sitting by one particular grave. Any time you passed, there was a good chance you would see him and his silver car... and see the well-worn path from his car to the grave. In winter, his footprints in the snow. He sat by the grave on what seemed like a near-daily basis. In rain, snow, heat. We said, "that poor man." It was years before he stopped. Why he stopped, I don't know; perhaps he found a new mate, or he flew to find the rest of his flock. Perhaps he finally succumbed to the traffic- I don't know. But we didn't see him by the grave any more. The well-worn path in the grass grew over and time moved on.
But as sure as I am about anything in this world, I'm sure that a love like that made it's mark on this planet. In some way it made a mark on every person who drove by him day after day. It affected the world, it made it better. It affected more than just that one soul he was attempting to commune with in the grass. That love, and that grief, is too pure, too good, too right.
That type of love is too great to let all this thinking get in the way.
A month ago I was driving to work when I noticed a Canadian goose in the median between the on-ramp of Route 2 and Interstate 95. Of course this is not unusual, as these gentle aves are plentiful in New England all year-round. But this goose was unusual in that it was alone.
My heart immediately sank in my chest. I knew why the bird was alone. I had seen this before.
I must have been close to 7 or 8 when a goose-driven drama unfolded across the road from my childhood home. We lived across from the "town ponds," a grouping of five small ponds that served at the town's water supply and home to many small creatures including muskrats a variety of water birds. A mated pair of geese had made a nest here, but summer had turned into fall before their eggs were laid, and they were the only ones of their kind remaining in Southern Colorado. We watched them care for each other, and work together to keep the eggs safe. They took turns hunting for food, sitting on the eggs. The male usually took charge when chasing away a predator, or leading it off with a dramatic honking calamity.
As human nature is truly a mystery to me, I will never understand why someone stopped by the side of road and gunned down this male goose. But the gravity of this situation became clear to us as snowflakes began to fall and soon only the female's head was visible. She was unable to search for food, leaving their eggs unattended, and my father took on a bit of a protective role for her- at least in the sense that he shot the neighbor's dog when the black lab set his sights on the feathered mother-to-be.
By some small miracle the mother made it through the winter with at least some of her young. And she returned, year after year. Alone.
As I looked at this bird in the median I remembered this poor goose I had watched 20 years earlier, and I remembered the unfortunate flurry of crushed feathers I had seen on the highway the day before- this birds mate, I was sure. The other geese had flown on to another feeding spot, but this one remained.
Day after day I drove to work and looked around as I drove the overpass. Each day I spotted the goose in a different place, sitting in a different median near this interchange, staring at the cars. And each day I felt saddened, wishing that he or she would go to join their own kind in a pleasant field or tranquil lake somewhere. I wondered if the bird understood death, and knew that it's partner was dead. I wondered if the bird was sitting there in grief, wondering what to do next. Or if the bird was simply confused by it's partner's sudden disappearance and was waiting for the mate to return to this spot where they had been separated.
Sadly, realistically, I knew that this bird wouldn't be able to keep up this vigilance for long. And on the fourth or fifth day of looking for this bird each morning, I looked and saw her lying just inside the outbound guard rail, lifeless. My heart fell again, but I profess I felt some relief for this poor bird.
The concept of "mating for life" is one that humans flirt with, but often don't seem to grasp. I've often debated with intellectual friends about the topic, expressing my opinion that every species either definitely "is" or "isn't" a species that mates for life. More than 90% of birds, for example, are monogamous. Black vultures, in fact, discourage infidelity so handily that birds who are caught philandering are attacked by the rest of the flock. Red-backed salamanders also punish those with a wandering eye. French anglefish are monogamous, and wolves are another species that often spends their entire lives with one mate, maintaining a nuclear family... but they are one of the rare mammals who do so.
Only 3% of mammals are monogamous. Gibbons, beavers (sure, insert joke here), most otters, the tiny dik-dik antelope, prairie voles (males stay with the female that takes their virginity), coyotes and even California mice (a breed, not mice living in California) make the cut- but humans are not a part of this small group.
I theorize that our alleged "superior intelligence" has created within us a great moral dilemma... which we have responded to by professing monogamy and exalting fidelity. Monogamy is a cultural and/or religious construct for us. It is a theory that we have mixed opinions and beliefs about. And it is also a conscious choice. It is not a biological drive or a behavior that "just is," as it is with all other animals. I think our ability for abstract thought counteracts any deeply buried primitive predilection we may have towards monogamy. Is all this "superior intelligence" really so great?
Cynicism aside, I do believe that some humans are naturally more suited for fidelity than others. I have always considered myself a monogamous creature, despite the pitfalls of my human-ness. I simply feel that I am not built for infidelity... but this too comes from my complex thought processes and notions about love and devotion and God and so forth.
Though I would hope that I would not be spending the rest of my days sitting forlornly in interstate traffic, I must say I admire this type of devotion I have witnessed in geese. I imagine that I would feel much the same way should my mate disappear one day.
When I was young, there was a cemetery just outside of Monte Vista that we used to pass regularly. For many years we drove by and saw a young man sitting by one particular grave. Any time you passed, there was a good chance you would see him and his silver car... and see the well-worn path from his car to the grave. In winter, his footprints in the snow. He sat by the grave on what seemed like a near-daily basis. In rain, snow, heat. We said, "that poor man." It was years before he stopped. Why he stopped, I don't know; perhaps he found a new mate, or he flew to find the rest of his flock. Perhaps he finally succumbed to the traffic- I don't know. But we didn't see him by the grave any more. The well-worn path in the grass grew over and time moved on.
But as sure as I am about anything in this world, I'm sure that a love like that made it's mark on this planet. In some way it made a mark on every person who drove by him day after day. It affected the world, it made it better. It affected more than just that one soul he was attempting to commune with in the grass. That love, and that grief, is too pure, too good, too right.
That type of love is too great to let all this thinking get in the way.
light years
Perhaps my memory fails me, but I feel as though I used to engage in some sort of mental processes when taking a walk or seeking a moment of silence. Perhaps that all wishful thinking, but I feel as though epiphanies and clarity used to spring up from my footfalls and float down to me as I stared into the sky. But these days it seems I could stare into the night for hours without so much as one profound thought. During these times I think about the Buddha, who refused to move from beneath the bodhi tree until he reached enlightenment. I'm unsure if even 49 days would bring me enlightenment today.
On days like this one, when at work it feels as though I'm struggling to treat a political juggernaut of an institution all alone, and I feel as though I'm disengaged from my own perfectly fulfilling personal existence, my mind is blank. It's thick, tired... waterlogged with a milky substance that keeps me stuck somewhere between ambivalence and apathy. Continually catching glimpses of my definitive thoughts, directions, beliefs through the fog... but never quite capturing them. On days like today it feels a bit like the dreadful 2007 version of The Mist. Without the disturbingly tragic ending (hopefully). Visually it's quite apt: I'm forever unsure of what is lurking in the impenetrable white fog ready to snatch me off the earth and tear me to a bloody mist... or of whether or not it is going to abruptly clear just beyond my sight into a green utopian haven. Birds chirping, dogs playing. It causes apprehension on most days- dumb courage on the best, blind panic on the worst.
I find myself sitting in the rocks, comfortably sinking into a crevice, staring quizzically into the stars and searching for even one definitive thought to hold on to. But the harder I run after them, the quicker they flee. So I sit and stare into the White.
I left Del Norte in 2000. Ten years ago. I left at a run, middle finger in the air, never looked back, and never for a moment regretted leaving.
Greeley was a place of growth and learning, the best years of my life perhaps. It was the first time I was ever told this and found it quasi-believable, anyway. But by the time I was done there my heart was positively shattered and I was a wounded, needy, sexually confused and on the fast-track to alcoholism. I felt the same urge I had felt so many times before: to run.
So I ran. I ran far across the country, this time to the big city. Without a one thin dime, without an acquaintance to dine, I sat on the floor in the corner of my empty bedroom and asked myself aloud, "Oh God. What have I done? I've made a terrible mistake." I felt homesick but had no specific home to miss.
And I hadn't made a mistake. It was the best move, second to the aforementioned, of my life. It was the place that I would be able to call home- more so than any place had ever been before. But I recall the black leather couches in the corner of the Greeley Borders cafe, and the words I wrote in my journal there. "Will I ever stop running? Will it ever be enough? Where will I run next? And after that? And where is left after that?"
I suppose I should consider it surprising that I have felt so content for so long, and avoided the uproarious voice in my head that has repeated the same words to me over and over since I was twelve years old. "It's not enough. You're not doing enough. You are supposed to be doing something greater."
Recently in passing I have expressed to my partner my urge to go, to help. "I wish that I had the money to just go whenever there is a crisis. Whenever there is a Haiti, or a Katrina or a Gulf spill. To just go. Show up and say, I'm here to help." I say, "I signed up to volunteer with the Audobon Society and the Coalition to Restore Coastal Louisiana. I will go if they call me." And I fully intend to. Why I feel that this servitude will be any less frustrating to me than my current daily employment, I don't know. The novelty of it, perhaps. Mostly I feel the urge to give everything of myself, day after day, in order to be personally fulfilled. It's not altruism, by no means. There's no such thing. I want to dedicate my life to the servitude of others for my own reasons. Whatever the point of this existence, that must be as close as we can get to getting it right. Right?
I think often about the Peace Corps. But I would be content (I have no reason to think this, really), by being able to go and help the needy when needed.
My rational brain, the angel-bird on my shoulder, tells me that doing good works is going and doing them every day, not when a disaster strikes and there is an outpouring of assistance. Truly doing good is to help the homeless and needy on our own street corners that we drive past daily and constantly choose to turn away from. Those who are just as needy but have become invisible to us, blending into the landscape of Central Square or City Hall Plaza.
I feel heart broken and enraged by the Gulf disaster, and the lack of importance we give it. The lack of thought, the lack of media coverage... the lack of understanding. Do we not understand what we have done? Do we not care? Do we feel it's just another abominable trespass in our litany of offenses, none worse than any other? Or do we just not want to know? We have snuffed out creatures undoubtedly far nobler than ourselves, forever.
I fear for the world. I fear for any children I may have. God I fear for them. They may grow up in a world without clean water, without sea life. A world where America is a police state and "give us your poor, your tired, your huddled masses wishing to be free" is replaced with "all trespassers will be shot." A world where history is rewritten to cover the sins of the Aryan people, denying the very existence of any others. I fear for my children, I do.
I acknowledge the chaos around me daily numbs me at times. And makes me quite raw at others. The lack of human empathy, the lack of humane treatment. The cutting and the bleeding and the threatening and the jangle of chains and clicking of metal cuffs. The noose-tightening and the frustrated tears and the blind unchecked rage.
Yes, there are those living in the midst of this who state that they are "blessed." They do. They find joy within the confines of these walls and they work harder than I ever could every day. They battle to fight off this fog around them and maintain their sanity, to better their minds and amend their sins. How they are not lost in this place I surely do not know. But if they can stay afloat, I surely have no excuse. They are marvelous to me.
Still, my question of "when will it be enough?" rings in my ears. I suspect it would become an addiction- whether struggling to move rubble after an earthquake, scrubbing oil off of rocks with a toothbrush, or digging a ditch in a remote third-world village, I suspect that I would never have enough of it. And that would be fine. Good, even. As long as it fills this void inside of me. As long as this thirst, this pulling sensation in my chest subsides. As long as it helps me to see through this fog even a little better. As long as it quells this feeling of "not enough," and makes me feel as though I am fulfilling my destiny and obligation to the earth and whatever creator looks over it. Whatever Creator looks over it. Perhaps therein lies the true issue.
Another blog... for a day with less fog.
On days like this one, when at work it feels as though I'm struggling to treat a political juggernaut of an institution all alone, and I feel as though I'm disengaged from my own perfectly fulfilling personal existence, my mind is blank. It's thick, tired... waterlogged with a milky substance that keeps me stuck somewhere between ambivalence and apathy. Continually catching glimpses of my definitive thoughts, directions, beliefs through the fog... but never quite capturing them. On days like today it feels a bit like the dreadful 2007 version of The Mist. Without the disturbingly tragic ending (hopefully). Visually it's quite apt: I'm forever unsure of what is lurking in the impenetrable white fog ready to snatch me off the earth and tear me to a bloody mist... or of whether or not it is going to abruptly clear just beyond my sight into a green utopian haven. Birds chirping, dogs playing. It causes apprehension on most days- dumb courage on the best, blind panic on the worst.
I find myself sitting in the rocks, comfortably sinking into a crevice, staring quizzically into the stars and searching for even one definitive thought to hold on to. But the harder I run after them, the quicker they flee. So I sit and stare into the White.
I left Del Norte in 2000. Ten years ago. I left at a run, middle finger in the air, never looked back, and never for a moment regretted leaving.
Greeley was a place of growth and learning, the best years of my life perhaps. It was the first time I was ever told this and found it quasi-believable, anyway. But by the time I was done there my heart was positively shattered and I was a wounded, needy, sexually confused and on the fast-track to alcoholism. I felt the same urge I had felt so many times before: to run.
So I ran. I ran far across the country, this time to the big city. Without a one thin dime, without an acquaintance to dine, I sat on the floor in the corner of my empty bedroom and asked myself aloud, "Oh God. What have I done? I've made a terrible mistake." I felt homesick but had no specific home to miss.
And I hadn't made a mistake. It was the best move, second to the aforementioned, of my life. It was the place that I would be able to call home- more so than any place had ever been before. But I recall the black leather couches in the corner of the Greeley Borders cafe, and the words I wrote in my journal there. "Will I ever stop running? Will it ever be enough? Where will I run next? And after that? And where is left after that?"
I suppose I should consider it surprising that I have felt so content for so long, and avoided the uproarious voice in my head that has repeated the same words to me over and over since I was twelve years old. "It's not enough. You're not doing enough. You are supposed to be doing something greater."
Recently in passing I have expressed to my partner my urge to go, to help. "I wish that I had the money to just go whenever there is a crisis. Whenever there is a Haiti, or a Katrina or a Gulf spill. To just go. Show up and say, I'm here to help." I say, "I signed up to volunteer with the Audobon Society and the Coalition to Restore Coastal Louisiana. I will go if they call me." And I fully intend to. Why I feel that this servitude will be any less frustrating to me than my current daily employment, I don't know. The novelty of it, perhaps. Mostly I feel the urge to give everything of myself, day after day, in order to be personally fulfilled. It's not altruism, by no means. There's no such thing. I want to dedicate my life to the servitude of others for my own reasons. Whatever the point of this existence, that must be as close as we can get to getting it right. Right?
I think often about the Peace Corps. But I would be content (I have no reason to think this, really), by being able to go and help the needy when needed.
My rational brain, the angel-bird on my shoulder, tells me that doing good works is going and doing them every day, not when a disaster strikes and there is an outpouring of assistance. Truly doing good is to help the homeless and needy on our own street corners that we drive past daily and constantly choose to turn away from. Those who are just as needy but have become invisible to us, blending into the landscape of Central Square or City Hall Plaza.
I feel heart broken and enraged by the Gulf disaster, and the lack of importance we give it. The lack of thought, the lack of media coverage... the lack of understanding. Do we not understand what we have done? Do we not care? Do we feel it's just another abominable trespass in our litany of offenses, none worse than any other? Or do we just not want to know? We have snuffed out creatures undoubtedly far nobler than ourselves, forever.
I fear for the world. I fear for any children I may have. God I fear for them. They may grow up in a world without clean water, without sea life. A world where America is a police state and "give us your poor, your tired, your huddled masses wishing to be free" is replaced with "all trespassers will be shot." A world where history is rewritten to cover the sins of the Aryan people, denying the very existence of any others. I fear for my children, I do.
I acknowledge the chaos around me daily numbs me at times. And makes me quite raw at others. The lack of human empathy, the lack of humane treatment. The cutting and the bleeding and the threatening and the jangle of chains and clicking of metal cuffs. The noose-tightening and the frustrated tears and the blind unchecked rage.
Yes, there are those living in the midst of this who state that they are "blessed." They do. They find joy within the confines of these walls and they work harder than I ever could every day. They battle to fight off this fog around them and maintain their sanity, to better their minds and amend their sins. How they are not lost in this place I surely do not know. But if they can stay afloat, I surely have no excuse. They are marvelous to me.
Still, my question of "when will it be enough?" rings in my ears. I suspect it would become an addiction- whether struggling to move rubble after an earthquake, scrubbing oil off of rocks with a toothbrush, or digging a ditch in a remote third-world village, I suspect that I would never have enough of it. And that would be fine. Good, even. As long as it fills this void inside of me. As long as this thirst, this pulling sensation in my chest subsides. As long as it helps me to see through this fog even a little better. As long as it quells this feeling of "not enough," and makes me feel as though I am fulfilling my destiny and obligation to the earth and whatever creator looks over it. Whatever Creator looks over it. Perhaps therein lies the true issue.
Another blog... for a day with less fog.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
inauguration
I've decided to create a new blog primarily because I've fell victim to a nearly year-long writer's block. And having a good rant now and again gets the creative juices flowing.
Which sounds very dirty. And unfortunately isn't.
But speaking of rants, Tuesday's Senate election gave me ample fodder for one.
First off, it frightens me.
No, not the Republicans. Not the affront to Teddy Kennedy's memory or even appalling number of apparent red voters in this allegedly blue state... yes those things are very frightening to me. But what really frightens me is my own rage.
I remember walking around for months just seething with a sort of blind rage during the 2004 Presidential election. The issues made me so angry that I really wasn't even able to watch TV, or read about it, or educate myself at all. I wasn't well informed, because every time I heard a phrase like "weapons of mass destruction" or "don't ask don't tell" or "axis of evil" or "sanctity of marriage," I could only turn red, grind my teeth and feel my blood pressure go up. The commercials, the bumper stickers, the sight of our former president all brought out a rage in me that is almost never awakened. It was... it is... visceral. Primal. Primitive. It's my id.
In 2004 I was enraged because I was afraid. Because I was vulnerable. Because a constitutional ban on gay marriage was on the table, and I was facing the very real loss of my human and civil rights. That was terrifying. And I was furious, FURIOUS, that someone else, someone who's not even marginally affected by these issues, was going to decide the value of my life and my happiness! Someone who doesn't even know any gay people, wouldn't be affected by it at all, and doesn't know what the fuck they're talking about! Perhaps someone who's been divorced twice and cheated on his or her spouse... this person was eager to uphold the "sanctity of marriage."
Clearly, these are old but open wounds. I don't feel that gay marriage is in danger in Massachusetts- conservatives have already attempted to overturn it many times, and it's stood firm. Yes, Scott Brown is anti-gay, pro-life, and anti-health care reform... but, as President Obama said, "the voter's have spoken" right?
I'm actually more maddened by a few experiences that I am my friends have had this week. It all leads me to feel that the political climate in America will soon be too volatile to allow peaceful government function.
One of my bosses, the assistant director at my workplace, had a disturbing but quintessential experience Tuesday. Though I live in a generally very liberal state, I work in a state prison. Here, the very liberal and Democratic mental health team is surrounded by extremely conservative, Republican, gun-toting, well... redneck, correctional officers. As my boss was leaving Tuesday night, one of the officers at inner control "jokingly" said "I'm not opening the door until you promise to vote for Scott Brown."
My boss of course said, yeah right. The officer asked why and my boss stated that Brown's ideals differ with hers in three fundamental ways: "he's against gay marriage, he wants to tell me what I can and can't do with my own body, and he's against health care reform." His response?
"Well number one, you're not gay so what do you care? Two, you're married now so you should have a family, and 3, you work here, so you see the injustices of government [referring to the government paying for the medical care of inmates], so why would you want them in charge of health care?"
My bosses response? You'd better open this fucking door right now.
His thinking is exactly what drives me insane. The "it's not about me- so who cares?" approach. Don't they realize they aren't the only person on earth??
While watching a very eloquent and well-educated undergrad friend of mine debate with another far less-educated, more redneck friend of mine on Facebook of all places, I was appalled. The redneck friend's inital status post was "I agree, what occurred in Haiti is horrible. A Natural Disaster. Yet, in the United States, millions go hungry and without food daily. Why weren't these "emergency supplies" available for our own people on a day to day basis?" As my friend attempted to explain the difference between the United States and one of the poorest third-world countries (a concept that most all Americans, including myself, can never truly grasp without witnessing it first hand), and the fact that over 98% of our nonprofit resources go towards helping Americans, the redneck facebooker stated .... take a deep breath for this...
"As for Haiti, I have no problem with helping, I have a HUGE problem with the Mrs. President coming into my home, via the television, and asking me and everyone else to help Haiti. Those ads aren't free, quit wasting my money. There are hundreds of companies out there that specialize in assistance. The American Red Cross has it perfected. Let the experts do their thing. Haiti has no GNP - their total survival is based on people "giving them hand outs".
Naturally, after my amazing, well-educated and somehow still very calm friend explained that those commercials ARE soliciting aide for the Red Cross, and are actually paid for by the Ad Council (a non-profit agency), the redneck had more thoughtless non-sensical rebuttals.
I can't even re-read this without feeling a bit nauseous. Is this America? Are we now SO selfish and have our heads SO far up our own asses that during a cataclysmic disaster where potentially 200,000 - Two Hundred THOUSAND - people are left dead in the rubble... we choose this time to ask "why is no one helping us???" WHAT THE FUCK!
Help us with what?! With jobs? Oh wait we have those. With clean, potable water in excess? Ohhh yeah we have that too. With food? Shit, we throw away tons of that every day. With resources upon resources upon resources? We have that. Everywhere. Help us with what, exactly? Help us cure all the comparitively minor sins and strifes of a population that will never be made perfect, but has been pretty damn close for nearly a hundred years now?
"Quit waisting my money" on the dead and dying and starving in Haiti.
You're not in Haiti, so what the fuck do you care.
Right?
Not right. It's not right.
Do you remember what happened after 9/11? Not only did we blow up several other countries in blind retaliation (or planned retaliation, whichever you wish), multiplying our own death toll by hundreds for these other countries hoping to feel some sort of vindication... not only did we speak solely of that for not weeks but years, wailing in grief... not only did every other viable support in the world lend their assistance... but we are still able to cite it as the greatest disaster our country has ever known.
Consider Haiti for just a moment.
70,000 people have already been buried in mass, unmarked graves. If each one of those people knew just two others, that's 140,000 people who will never know what became of their friend, their mother, brother, sister, father, son, daughter... who will never see them again or even be able to appropriately grieve or bring flowers to a grave.
Outside of hospitals and in the street there are stacks of decaying bodies hundreds tall, being managed by bulldozers. Imagine it. Imagine looking out your window and watching it.
If just one small or mid-sized city in the United States gave everything they had to a country this poor... they would be okay. Just one! If they gave their money, resources, houses, businesses, hospitals, schools, land, water... the contents of one town would provide more wealth than a country like Haiti may ever have. And all of the people in that U.S. town? They would all be fine. They would get another job, buy another house. Insurance would replace everything, there would be a big fat charitable tax write-off waiting for them at the end of the year, and life would continue as planned.
If just one Wal-Mart Supercenter gave everything they had... these would be clothed and fed. People don't understand our excess. And I'm certainly no better. I'm as wasteful as any American. But the least I can do is to use my vote... and defend humanity, perhaps to no avail, to Americans as ignorant as this.
But to even do that, I'll have to learn to quell the rage that ignorance such as this provokes within me.
Which sounds very dirty. And unfortunately isn't.
But speaking of rants, Tuesday's Senate election gave me ample fodder for one.
First off, it frightens me.
No, not the Republicans. Not the affront to Teddy Kennedy's memory or even appalling number of apparent red voters in this allegedly blue state... yes those things are very frightening to me. But what really frightens me is my own rage.
I remember walking around for months just seething with a sort of blind rage during the 2004 Presidential election. The issues made me so angry that I really wasn't even able to watch TV, or read about it, or educate myself at all. I wasn't well informed, because every time I heard a phrase like "weapons of mass destruction" or "don't ask don't tell" or "axis of evil" or "sanctity of marriage," I could only turn red, grind my teeth and feel my blood pressure go up. The commercials, the bumper stickers, the sight of our former president all brought out a rage in me that is almost never awakened. It was... it is... visceral. Primal. Primitive. It's my id.
In 2004 I was enraged because I was afraid. Because I was vulnerable. Because a constitutional ban on gay marriage was on the table, and I was facing the very real loss of my human and civil rights. That was terrifying. And I was furious, FURIOUS, that someone else, someone who's not even marginally affected by these issues, was going to decide the value of my life and my happiness! Someone who doesn't even know any gay people, wouldn't be affected by it at all, and doesn't know what the fuck they're talking about! Perhaps someone who's been divorced twice and cheated on his or her spouse... this person was eager to uphold the "sanctity of marriage."
Clearly, these are old but open wounds. I don't feel that gay marriage is in danger in Massachusetts- conservatives have already attempted to overturn it many times, and it's stood firm. Yes, Scott Brown is anti-gay, pro-life, and anti-health care reform... but, as President Obama said, "the voter's have spoken" right?
I'm actually more maddened by a few experiences that I am my friends have had this week. It all leads me to feel that the political climate in America will soon be too volatile to allow peaceful government function.
One of my bosses, the assistant director at my workplace, had a disturbing but quintessential experience Tuesday. Though I live in a generally very liberal state, I work in a state prison. Here, the very liberal and Democratic mental health team is surrounded by extremely conservative, Republican, gun-toting, well... redneck, correctional officers. As my boss was leaving Tuesday night, one of the officers at inner control "jokingly" said "I'm not opening the door until you promise to vote for Scott Brown."
My boss of course said, yeah right. The officer asked why and my boss stated that Brown's ideals differ with hers in three fundamental ways: "he's against gay marriage, he wants to tell me what I can and can't do with my own body, and he's against health care reform." His response?
"Well number one, you're not gay so what do you care? Two, you're married now so you should have a family, and 3, you work here, so you see the injustices of government [referring to the government paying for the medical care of inmates], so why would you want them in charge of health care?"
My bosses response? You'd better open this fucking door right now.
His thinking is exactly what drives me insane. The "it's not about me- so who cares?" approach. Don't they realize they aren't the only person on earth??
While watching a very eloquent and well-educated undergrad friend of mine debate with another far less-educated, more redneck friend of mine on Facebook of all places, I was appalled. The redneck friend's inital status post was "I agree, what occurred in Haiti is horrible. A Natural Disaster. Yet, in the United States, millions go hungry and without food daily. Why weren't these "emergency supplies" available for our own people on a day to day basis?" As my friend attempted to explain the difference between the United States and one of the poorest third-world countries (a concept that most all Americans, including myself, can never truly grasp without witnessing it first hand), and the fact that over 98% of our nonprofit resources go towards helping Americans, the redneck facebooker stated .... take a deep breath for this...
"As for Haiti, I have no problem with helping, I have a HUGE problem with the Mrs. President coming into my home, via the television, and asking me and everyone else to help Haiti. Those ads aren't free, quit wasting my money. There are hundreds of companies out there that specialize in assistance. The American Red Cross has it perfected. Let the experts do their thing. Haiti has no GNP - their total survival is based on people "giving them hand outs".
Naturally, after my amazing, well-educated and somehow still very calm friend explained that those commercials ARE soliciting aide for the Red Cross, and are actually paid for by the Ad Council (a non-profit agency), the redneck had more thoughtless non-sensical rebuttals.
I can't even re-read this without feeling a bit nauseous. Is this America? Are we now SO selfish and have our heads SO far up our own asses that during a cataclysmic disaster where potentially 200,000 - Two Hundred THOUSAND - people are left dead in the rubble... we choose this time to ask "why is no one helping us???" WHAT THE FUCK!
Help us with what?! With jobs? Oh wait we have those. With clean, potable water in excess? Ohhh yeah we have that too. With food? Shit, we throw away tons of that every day. With resources upon resources upon resources? We have that. Everywhere. Help us with what, exactly? Help us cure all the comparitively minor sins and strifes of a population that will never be made perfect, but has been pretty damn close for nearly a hundred years now?
"Quit waisting my money" on the dead and dying and starving in Haiti.
You're not in Haiti, so what the fuck do you care.
Right?
Not right. It's not right.
Do you remember what happened after 9/11? Not only did we blow up several other countries in blind retaliation (or planned retaliation, whichever you wish), multiplying our own death toll by hundreds for these other countries hoping to feel some sort of vindication... not only did we speak solely of that for not weeks but years, wailing in grief... not only did every other viable support in the world lend their assistance... but we are still able to cite it as the greatest disaster our country has ever known.
Consider Haiti for just a moment.
70,000 people have already been buried in mass, unmarked graves. If each one of those people knew just two others, that's 140,000 people who will never know what became of their friend, their mother, brother, sister, father, son, daughter... who will never see them again or even be able to appropriately grieve or bring flowers to a grave.
Outside of hospitals and in the street there are stacks of decaying bodies hundreds tall, being managed by bulldozers. Imagine it. Imagine looking out your window and watching it.
If just one small or mid-sized city in the United States gave everything they had to a country this poor... they would be okay. Just one! If they gave their money, resources, houses, businesses, hospitals, schools, land, water... the contents of one town would provide more wealth than a country like Haiti may ever have. And all of the people in that U.S. town? They would all be fine. They would get another job, buy another house. Insurance would replace everything, there would be a big fat charitable tax write-off waiting for them at the end of the year, and life would continue as planned.
If just one Wal-Mart Supercenter gave everything they had... these would be clothed and fed. People don't understand our excess. And I'm certainly no better. I'm as wasteful as any American. But the least I can do is to use my vote... and defend humanity, perhaps to no avail, to Americans as ignorant as this.
But to even do that, I'll have to learn to quell the rage that ignorance such as this provokes within me.
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