I'm sorry I haven't called or written in so long.
I would say I've been busy... but you would know that's a lie. You've seen me start this letter three times this week before running off to play Farmville or Mario Kart or call someone I didn't even want to talk to or do the dishes or just stare at the ceiling.
I wonder if you find it as hard to talk to me as I do you. I imagine you must.
I still always try to honor the promise that I made myself 11 years ago before I was baptized. Whenever I do pray, I try to say thank you more than I say please.
Thank you for allowing me to live this long, and for helping me to survive more than I ever thought I would. Thank you for giving me my intelligence and a mind that sometimes feels so much it borders on madness.
If you really are omniscient, if you're able to think the thoughts and feel the feelings of every tiny little being in the universe... I'm sorry. I can't imagine shouldering that kind of burden. Sometimes I can't bear to live within my own mind. Six billion more like me... I shudder to think.
My humblest apologies, for us.
Thank you for all the wealth you've given me, and all of us. I have a good home and food, I have clean running water and unnecessary amenities by the millions. I am very rich, and I know this... even though it's easy to forget when I get an overdraft alert or collections calls by the dozen. On the world scale of riches... these things in themselves signal luxury.
Thank you for my health. A body that always gets up out of bed, never fails me, and has yet to ever break down.
I won't talk about my wishes. The things I need help with, guidance on... you already know them. You see me sitting with these hurts weighing heavy on my heart, day in and day out. You hear my whimpers and complaints, you watch me crying and feeling sorry for myself. You see me struggle, sometimes feeling like a trout flopping about the shore. On nights like tonight, you see me sit for hours looking for the motivation to get up make myself food. Again I wonder if I frustrate you as much as I do myself. This time I'm going to venture to guess... no. You are much more patient than I am. Thankfully.
Thankfully.
I cling to the mantra hung around my neck and I pray that I do not get lost in my pain.
Sometimes I feel very lost.
Maybe we should talk about that some time....
me
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
for the Bible tells them so
These evening I went with my ex-girlfriend to a screening of For the Bible Tells Me So that she put together with the LGBT group at her Church (a United Church of Christ in Lexington).
I don't know where to start.
Most of the viewers were the teenage members of the church. And it was truly amazing to see their incredulous reactions to the film. Having grown up in the self-described "bubble" of liberal Lexington, the kids had no real concept of the sort of blind hatred and discrimination from "Christians" chronicled in the film. Their naivety was beautiful and refreshing. I hope that for everyone younger than me from this point in history on, this sort of reaction is the norm.
Having grown up in Colorado with a family from backwoods Missouri, the scenes in the movie felt like a painful personal memory. My own coming out - to myself - culminated in the beginning of my junior year at the University of Northern Colorado. It became an unavoidable truth that I could no long deny. For more than six months I grieved furiously, crying myself to sleep. The pain was intense. It led to two hospitalizations and months of suicidality. I would have done anything to change myself. I hated that this was me. I hated my fragile self even more than I did before.
It was at this opportune moment that my University was visited by the Westboro Baptist Church, led by hatemonger Fred Phelps and his "God-hates-fags" sign-toting followers. He came in full-force, as he always did to Northern Colorado in the fall (to protest the annual Wyoming/Colorado State homecoming game, reminding students each year of how many days "Matthew Shepard has been burning in hell").
And there it was. A hard slap to the face. Violently reminding me of what I had learned many years earlier when my parents divorced and my father lost his mind: The Bible is a weapon. And no one hates like Christians.
At this time in college, I wore around my neck a star of David imposed over a Christan cross. I had made it myself, as no readily available jewelry felt authentic to me. With my upbringing I couldn't honestly wear a cross, nor a star. But after the Westboro Church made their entrance... I vividly remember ripping it from my neck. To look at it made me sick. To look at any cross, made me sick.
And I realized this evening that this is the case even still.
I'm an intelligent person. It pains me and makes me ashamed that I have such a negative, visceral reaction to religious iconography.
It's not just because of a single instance. It's not because of Reverend Phelps or Jerry Falwell or Rush Limbaugh or any other right-wing nut-jobs. It's because of years and years of denigration. Hatred both brazen and covert. It's because of being told over, and over, and over again that I was an abomination. Told that, in the name of Christ, I am an abomination...
It pains me to admit that when I see a cross - whether atop a church or around someone's neck - I see a symbol of hate. Whenever I hear that someone is "a good Christian," what I really hear is "ignorant and hateful." To me, all of Christianity had become a hate group.
Intellectually I *know* the error of this. I know that the hateful, ignorant people splayed across the news represent only a fraction of a percentage of Christians. I know that hate is not a hallmark of Christianity. Certainly not of true Christianity. But the hatred that I have seen scares me. And it scares me even more how drawn people seem to be to it, and how they buy in so whole-heartedly. How they flock so hungrily to Pat Robertson and James Dobson and so many others like them. Their power scares me. Their influence scares me. Their ignorance and hatred scares me.
I can only keep in mind the reactions of the youth. The shock and incredulity they showed in response to this hatred. It was blissfully foreign to them.
I can only pray, to whatever God, that the naive, loving bubble protecting the youth of Hancock Church can expand enough to engulf us all.
I don't know where to start.
Most of the viewers were the teenage members of the church. And it was truly amazing to see their incredulous reactions to the film. Having grown up in the self-described "bubble" of liberal Lexington, the kids had no real concept of the sort of blind hatred and discrimination from "Christians" chronicled in the film. Their naivety was beautiful and refreshing. I hope that for everyone younger than me from this point in history on, this sort of reaction is the norm.
Having grown up in Colorado with a family from backwoods Missouri, the scenes in the movie felt like a painful personal memory. My own coming out - to myself - culminated in the beginning of my junior year at the University of Northern Colorado. It became an unavoidable truth that I could no long deny. For more than six months I grieved furiously, crying myself to sleep. The pain was intense. It led to two hospitalizations and months of suicidality. I would have done anything to change myself. I hated that this was me. I hated my fragile self even more than I did before.
It was at this opportune moment that my University was visited by the Westboro Baptist Church, led by hatemonger Fred Phelps and his "God-hates-fags" sign-toting followers. He came in full-force, as he always did to Northern Colorado in the fall (to protest the annual Wyoming/Colorado State homecoming game, reminding students each year of how many days "Matthew Shepard has been burning in hell").
And there it was. A hard slap to the face. Violently reminding me of what I had learned many years earlier when my parents divorced and my father lost his mind: The Bible is a weapon. And no one hates like Christians.
At this time in college, I wore around my neck a star of David imposed over a Christan cross. I had made it myself, as no readily available jewelry felt authentic to me. With my upbringing I couldn't honestly wear a cross, nor a star. But after the Westboro Church made their entrance... I vividly remember ripping it from my neck. To look at it made me sick. To look at any cross, made me sick.
And I realized this evening that this is the case even still.
I'm an intelligent person. It pains me and makes me ashamed that I have such a negative, visceral reaction to religious iconography.
It's not just because of a single instance. It's not because of Reverend Phelps or Jerry Falwell or Rush Limbaugh or any other right-wing nut-jobs. It's because of years and years of denigration. Hatred both brazen and covert. It's because of being told over, and over, and over again that I was an abomination. Told that, in the name of Christ, I am an abomination...
It pains me to admit that when I see a cross - whether atop a church or around someone's neck - I see a symbol of hate. Whenever I hear that someone is "a good Christian," what I really hear is "ignorant and hateful." To me, all of Christianity had become a hate group.
Intellectually I *know* the error of this. I know that the hateful, ignorant people splayed across the news represent only a fraction of a percentage of Christians. I know that hate is not a hallmark of Christianity. Certainly not of true Christianity. But the hatred that I have seen scares me. And it scares me even more how drawn people seem to be to it, and how they buy in so whole-heartedly. How they flock so hungrily to Pat Robertson and James Dobson and so many others like them. Their power scares me. Their influence scares me. Their ignorance and hatred scares me.
I can only keep in mind the reactions of the youth. The shock and incredulity they showed in response to this hatred. It was blissfully foreign to them.
I can only pray, to whatever God, that the naive, loving bubble protecting the youth of Hancock Church can expand enough to engulf us all.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
I kidney you
One good/bad thing about training for the 60-mile is the ample time for thinking. It's less so on the treadmill, as most of my focus is on music or how much I hate treadmills, but today was nice enough to walk outside for a bit. Walking outside can be extremely therapeutic. When Francine Shapiro allegedly "invented" EMDR therapy, she did so after realizing how unburdened she felt after taking a walk and watching birds flitter by. I'm looking forward to spring, and warmer weather for the next 20 weeks of my training.
I digress as usual. While walking I began thinking about organ donation. Specifically, live donation and why more people don't do it. Why aren't there movements encouraging live donation? Commercials encouraging that like there are for everything else. Come to think of it, there aren't even campaigns encouraging post-mortem donation, or encouraging people to think about making provisions in the case of brain-death. Organ donation upon death can save up to eight lives. I understand there is a touchy religious component to all this. Is this the problem with live donation?
Obviously some tissues/organs can't be given from a live donor- heart, pancreas, etc.
But if I were asked, or the opportunity presented itself, I would donate an organ without hesitation. I admit, in my lower, most desperate, poverty-striken moments I definitely wished I could auction off any of my desired parts for cold hard cash. And had I found a market, I probably would have- but that black market is disappointingly difficult to locate.
I did try to sell my eggs a couple times, but apparently no one wants to have my babies. I'm going to try not to take this personally and instead chalk it up to a heredity riddled with cancer.
But this isn't what I'm talking about- I'm referring to altruistic donation without compensation- but I found these passages on Wikipedia interesting:
"Two books, Kidney for Sale By Owner by Mark Cherry (Georgetown University Press, 2005); and Stakes and Kidneys: Why markets in human body parts are morally imperative by James Stacey Taylor: (Ashgate Press, 2005); advocate using markets to increase the supply of organs available for transplantation. In a 2004 journal article Economist Alex Tabarrok argues that allowing organ sales, and elimination of organ donor lists will increase supply, lower costs and diminish social anxiety towards organ markets.
Iran has had a legal market for kidneys since 1988, and the market price is of the order of US $1,200 for the recipient. The Economist and the Ayn Rand Institute approve and advocate a legal market elsewhere. They argued that if 0.06% of Americans between 19 and 65 were to sell one kidney, the national waiting list would disappear (which, the Economist wrote, happened in Iran). The Economist argued that donating kidneys is no more risky than surrogate motherhood, which can be done legally for pay in most countries."
In the United States, 110,460 people are awaiting organ donation. Nearly 90,000 of those are awaiting a kidney transplant- a donation which is completely feasible for a living donor (in fact, kidneys from living donors last an average of 3 years longer than those from deceased donors). Another 16,000 of those are awaiting liver donation- also available via living donor.
18 of those awaiting donation will die each day.
Numbers are even larger in some other countries. More than 2 million people need organ transplants in China, 50,000 waiting in Latin America (90% for kidneys), as well as thousands more in Africa.
I'm just saying... perhaps it's the communist approach to organ donation, but I think we have enough for everyone.
As of today, there are approximately 307,006,550 people in the United States.
There shouldn't be an organ donor waiting list.
Maybe I should put my money where my mouth is.
I digress as usual. While walking I began thinking about organ donation. Specifically, live donation and why more people don't do it. Why aren't there movements encouraging live donation? Commercials encouraging that like there are for everything else. Come to think of it, there aren't even campaigns encouraging post-mortem donation, or encouraging people to think about making provisions in the case of brain-death. Organ donation upon death can save up to eight lives. I understand there is a touchy religious component to all this. Is this the problem with live donation?
Obviously some tissues/organs can't be given from a live donor- heart, pancreas, etc.
But if I were asked, or the opportunity presented itself, I would donate an organ without hesitation. I admit, in my lower, most desperate, poverty-striken moments I definitely wished I could auction off any of my desired parts for cold hard cash. And had I found a market, I probably would have- but that black market is disappointingly difficult to locate.
I did try to sell my eggs a couple times, but apparently no one wants to have my babies. I'm going to try not to take this personally and instead chalk it up to a heredity riddled with cancer.
But this isn't what I'm talking about- I'm referring to altruistic donation without compensation- but I found these passages on Wikipedia interesting:
"Two books, Kidney for Sale By Owner by Mark Cherry (Georgetown University Press, 2005); and Stakes and Kidneys: Why markets in human body parts are morally imperative by James Stacey Taylor: (Ashgate Press, 2005); advocate using markets to increase the supply of organs available for transplantation. In a 2004 journal article Economist Alex Tabarrok argues that allowing organ sales, and elimination of organ donor lists will increase supply, lower costs and diminish social anxiety towards organ markets.
Iran has had a legal market for kidneys since 1988, and the market price is of the order of US $1,200 for the recipient. The Economist and the Ayn Rand Institute approve and advocate a legal market elsewhere. They argued that if 0.06% of Americans between 19 and 65 were to sell one kidney, the national waiting list would disappear (which, the Economist wrote, happened in Iran). The Economist argued that donating kidneys is no more risky than surrogate motherhood, which can be done legally for pay in most countries."
In the United States, 110,460 people are awaiting organ donation. Nearly 90,000 of those are awaiting a kidney transplant- a donation which is completely feasible for a living donor (in fact, kidneys from living donors last an average of 3 years longer than those from deceased donors). Another 16,000 of those are awaiting liver donation- also available via living donor.
18 of those awaiting donation will die each day.
Numbers are even larger in some other countries. More than 2 million people need organ transplants in China, 50,000 waiting in Latin America (90% for kidneys), as well as thousands more in Africa.
I'm just saying... perhaps it's the communist approach to organ donation, but I think we have enough for everyone.
As of today, there are approximately 307,006,550 people in the United States.
There shouldn't be an organ donor waiting list.
Maybe I should put my money where my mouth is.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
gratitude
As I lay under the covers on the futon in my robe at 5 in the afternoon, sobbing into the pool of snot that was my pillow, Courtney came to comfort me. She asked if I had ever kept a gratitude journal, to which I shook my head. She explained how, though it was trite when she was younger, it helped her to feel happy. She suggested, as usual, that I get my sorry, soggy ass out of bed and do something.
The phrase "self-fulfilling prophecy" keeps skirting through my mind. The critical and utterly un-helpful part of my mind tells me that I always fuck things up. That I sabotage the best parts of my life.
Of course, that's a debate. Not that knowing whether or not it's true would be helpful either.
Being inside my brain is exhausting. Yesterday I went from calm and content to motivated and joyful... to irritated and finally disillusioned and achy. Every day seems to run the gamut from one end to the other, back again, up down and around. It's exhausting feeling everything so intensely. Every little thought and emotion... completely taking over, billowing into a nuclear cloud of feeling and reeking total havoc in my mind, body, heart.
The only time it stops is when I'm listening to others. I can be there for someone else so completely. I can shut out my own world.
"Don't you get tired of hearing other people's problems when you have your own?" No. Quite the opposite. It refreshes me. Give me the space I need to breathe, makes me able to look at myself with less emotion and more perspective. Put myself in the shoes of others, give sound advice that forces me to take some myself. I'm grateful for the problems and feelings of others. I can be in their heart for a moment and be out of my own.
I frequently find myself unable to tell the difference between having too much to say and having nothing at all to say. I just keep drawing, spilling out incredibly sad pictures. Pictures that actually feel much sadder than I do, but it is an invaluable catharsis.
When the waves of pain come... it's so much. It's so deep. It's been there for so long. I remember first feeling it with this intensity around age 10, when I began locking myself in my room and never coming out. My heart literally aching in my chest, I would lay in bed at night and writhe with pain.
The word writhe fits perfectly. When I hear it I see my father in my mind. I see him stepping out of the truck onto a gravel road, grabbing a large rock and bashing in the head of a crossing rattlesnake. When he did that, they writhed.
The neglect was so much worse than the abuse. 12 years old, 13. I remember the tears, just wanting more than anything to be touched. But there was no place for that.
I remember laying in the hospital, age 20. Feeling as though I might die, if not from the infection in my body then from the splitting pain in my chest. Without my glasses I couldn't see beyond the oxygen mask. But my best friend, the spiky-haired blur above me, stroked my forehead and sang to me. Tears streamed down to my ears. Love was killing me.
I felt it when I left JP in the driving snow, howling softly in my truck, having just lost the love of my life for the second but not the last time.
It's a feeling that feels like my oldest friend.
If I were to write a gratitude journal, I could write volumes about how things have improved since then. There's no end to how things have improved. Truly.
But, in the words of Alanis...
Oh, these little rejections, how they add up quickly
One small sideways look and I feel so un-good, and
Somewhere along the way I think I gave you the power to make
Me feel the way I thought only my father could.
Oh, these little rejections, how they seem so real to me
One forgotten birthday, I'm all but cooked, and
And how these little abandonments seem to sting so easily
I'm thirteen again, am I thirteen for good?
I'm not 13 anymore. Thank god I never, ever have to be again. I'm not subject to abuse or neglect. I'm not trapped, I'm not without options or people who love me... no matter how it feels sometimes. But god it's so easy to revert. It's so easy to forget. It's so easy to feel like a little, wounded child again.
So. Gratuity. Graciousness. Grace.
I am grateful that I have lived longer than I ever dreamed I would. And because of this, I have healed from more than I ever thought I could survive. How old I feel and how old I am is becoming more and more congruent. I am finally interested in women who are my peers and not years beyond me.
I am grateful for my intelligence and my sense of humor. I am grateful for my passionate heart, even though it gets just as passionately broken as it feels passionately joyous. I am grateful for my talents, which keep me sane.
I am grateful for my job, even though it sometimes drives me crazy. It lets me keep up on my financial obligations and keep a roof over my head. I have a safe place to sleep at night and I always have food. I am grateful that I was born in this country, where absolutely anything can be accomplished.
I always have someone to call when it's an emergency. Or I just need an emergency hug. I am extremely grateful to have met some of the most wonderful people in the world, and to have them as friends. I'm grateful for every friend I have, even if that friendship was forged through a failed relationship. Sometimes those are the very best friends: someone you can't hide from.
I am grateful for the endless opportunities that life presents me with each and every day.
I am grateful for the opportunity to right my wrongs. I am grateful for the strength to keep going, keep learning, keep loving.
I'm so excited to see what this year will hold. Can you imagine all that might happen in the span of these 365 days?
I rest assured that as many moments as I spend in an aching puddle of tears, I will spend just as many swelling with joy and tearing up at the sight of something beautiful.
This year I will spend time reading things things for fun and learning to meditate. This year I will complet a 60-mile marathon, and go on a silent vipassana retreat. I will listen to music I've never heard and spend more time looking at the ocean. I will laugh more and watch more movies. I will take more mini-vacations. I will take more bubble baths and use the outside grill more. I will enjoy the little things. I will create something beautiful as often as possible, and I will take every opportunity to extend respect and friendliness to those in need. I will spend more time looking at the moon and stars. I will nurture my friendships. I will nurture myself.
The phrase "self-fulfilling prophecy" keeps skirting through my mind. The critical and utterly un-helpful part of my mind tells me that I always fuck things up. That I sabotage the best parts of my life.
Of course, that's a debate. Not that knowing whether or not it's true would be helpful either.
Being inside my brain is exhausting. Yesterday I went from calm and content to motivated and joyful... to irritated and finally disillusioned and achy. Every day seems to run the gamut from one end to the other, back again, up down and around. It's exhausting feeling everything so intensely. Every little thought and emotion... completely taking over, billowing into a nuclear cloud of feeling and reeking total havoc in my mind, body, heart.
The only time it stops is when I'm listening to others. I can be there for someone else so completely. I can shut out my own world.
"Don't you get tired of hearing other people's problems when you have your own?" No. Quite the opposite. It refreshes me. Give me the space I need to breathe, makes me able to look at myself with less emotion and more perspective. Put myself in the shoes of others, give sound advice that forces me to take some myself. I'm grateful for the problems and feelings of others. I can be in their heart for a moment and be out of my own.
I frequently find myself unable to tell the difference between having too much to say and having nothing at all to say. I just keep drawing, spilling out incredibly sad pictures. Pictures that actually feel much sadder than I do, but it is an invaluable catharsis.
When the waves of pain come... it's so much. It's so deep. It's been there for so long. I remember first feeling it with this intensity around age 10, when I began locking myself in my room and never coming out. My heart literally aching in my chest, I would lay in bed at night and writhe with pain.
The word writhe fits perfectly. When I hear it I see my father in my mind. I see him stepping out of the truck onto a gravel road, grabbing a large rock and bashing in the head of a crossing rattlesnake. When he did that, they writhed.
The neglect was so much worse than the abuse. 12 years old, 13. I remember the tears, just wanting more than anything to be touched. But there was no place for that.
I remember laying in the hospital, age 20. Feeling as though I might die, if not from the infection in my body then from the splitting pain in my chest. Without my glasses I couldn't see beyond the oxygen mask. But my best friend, the spiky-haired blur above me, stroked my forehead and sang to me. Tears streamed down to my ears. Love was killing me.
I felt it when I left JP in the driving snow, howling softly in my truck, having just lost the love of my life for the second but not the last time.
It's a feeling that feels like my oldest friend.
If I were to write a gratitude journal, I could write volumes about how things have improved since then. There's no end to how things have improved. Truly.
But, in the words of Alanis...
Oh, these little rejections, how they add up quickly
One small sideways look and I feel so un-good, and
Somewhere along the way I think I gave you the power to make
Me feel the way I thought only my father could.
Oh, these little rejections, how they seem so real to me
One forgotten birthday, I'm all but cooked, and
And how these little abandonments seem to sting so easily
I'm thirteen again, am I thirteen for good?
I'm not 13 anymore. Thank god I never, ever have to be again. I'm not subject to abuse or neglect. I'm not trapped, I'm not without options or people who love me... no matter how it feels sometimes. But god it's so easy to revert. It's so easy to forget. It's so easy to feel like a little, wounded child again.
So. Gratuity. Graciousness. Grace.
I am grateful that I have lived longer than I ever dreamed I would. And because of this, I have healed from more than I ever thought I could survive. How old I feel and how old I am is becoming more and more congruent. I am finally interested in women who are my peers and not years beyond me.
I am grateful for my intelligence and my sense of humor. I am grateful for my passionate heart, even though it gets just as passionately broken as it feels passionately joyous. I am grateful for my talents, which keep me sane.
I am grateful for my job, even though it sometimes drives me crazy. It lets me keep up on my financial obligations and keep a roof over my head. I have a safe place to sleep at night and I always have food. I am grateful that I was born in this country, where absolutely anything can be accomplished.
I always have someone to call when it's an emergency. Or I just need an emergency hug. I am extremely grateful to have met some of the most wonderful people in the world, and to have them as friends. I'm grateful for every friend I have, even if that friendship was forged through a failed relationship. Sometimes those are the very best friends: someone you can't hide from.
I am grateful for the endless opportunities that life presents me with each and every day.
I am grateful for the opportunity to right my wrongs. I am grateful for the strength to keep going, keep learning, keep loving.
I'm so excited to see what this year will hold. Can you imagine all that might happen in the span of these 365 days?
I rest assured that as many moments as I spend in an aching puddle of tears, I will spend just as many swelling with joy and tearing up at the sight of something beautiful.
This year I will spend time reading things things for fun and learning to meditate. This year I will complet a 60-mile marathon, and go on a silent vipassana retreat. I will listen to music I've never heard and spend more time looking at the ocean. I will laugh more and watch more movies. I will take more mini-vacations. I will take more bubble baths and use the outside grill more. I will enjoy the little things. I will create something beautiful as often as possible, and I will take every opportunity to extend respect and friendliness to those in need. I will spend more time looking at the moon and stars. I will nurture my friendships. I will nurture myself.
Friday, December 17, 2010
the madman
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.
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.
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.
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