One of my faithful Fair Readers informed me yesterday that the "silence" on my blog was a source of "concern."
Sorry about that.
The truth is that I -- your dear UCM, the individual -- am temporarily unavailable due to an unexpected construction project. Other than this brief foray onto the Internet today, I am currently not writing coherent thoughts fit for public consumption. (Some are chorent; some fit for public consumption; none, however, achieve the quality of being both.)
Except for the following:
I *finally* purchased a new can opener today. Back last spring -- or whenever it was that S2 and I made a foray into Target together -- I purchased a "Michael Graves" can opener. For my review: WHAT THE FUCK EVUH, MAN! It SUCKED.
Every time I tried to use it, I would think: If I don't replace this goddamned mutha-fucking piece of SHIT soon, I am going to be so fucking fucked the fuck over when the End Times come. All those fucking freak-ass Christians will be running around in the street freaking the fuck out about repentence and all that goddamned bullshit, and I will be sitting up here -- or hiding in the fucking woods -- and this goddamned good-for-nothing, whippped cream-topped piece of beetle-infested cow chip will NOT WORK on *anything* in my End Times Survivor's and Malingerer's User's Kit.
Or something like that. Sometimes, more fucks than that, even. Depending on how pressing my need to open a can. I opened four cans of stewed tomatoes tonight without a single expletive. Unless, of course, you count: It's about fucking TIME! Goddamned Michael Graves. Stick to your stupid ass architecture and stay outta my fucking kitchen! ... Unless you count *that,* there were no outbursts.
Alas, my Fair Readers, *that* is the most coherent and complete thought I can provide for your reading pleasure.
Please return at a later date. My bet would be on Wednesday.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
"It is what it is."
I have a friend who uses the above comment almost like a mantra. At some point in discussion -- perhaps when all the options have been explored or all the feelings have been expressed -- she'll utter these words. Sometimes, she says them in the face of things mundane: a broken heel, beef-n-chocolate stew that doesn't come out just right, a papercut. Other times, she says it in the face of things tragic: divorce, betrayal, a lackluster sex life (mine).
It's a good catch-all, and I have for many years had my own version of it: Life just is.
Either way, we're both getting to the same point. Shit happens, and there's not necessarily a reason for it. For better or worse, you deal with whatever happens. You accept and let go of stuff. You seek understanding of what's immutable, what's possible and what's feasible. But ultimately, you do what you can and you get on with your damn self.
This is what I'm aiming for, anyway.
I can't judge how successful my friend is in this venture, but I can tell you that I'm pretty poor at it.
I get caught up with expectations of fairness in the face of injustice, the belief that I deserve a life as full and rich as the fullest and richest lives known to history, the yearning for (and not really having) a family. They're all good and worthy causes, but the gap between my desires and my reality is often a source of great pain.
To complicate matters, I have a tendency to fight both the expectation and the pain. It is tiresome to fight with myself like this -- if for no other reason than that I am a formidable opponent. (I'm not just a gifted thinker, I'm gifted with hubris!)
The other night in Ethics class, we were asked to introduce ourselves by selecting two cards (one an image of an animal, the other a single word) from a table -- everyone trying to snatch their cards at the same time -- and by writing some kind of intention for ourselves, which we were asked to share with the class (if we wanted).
I think most of you Fair Readers can tell by now that I'm not shy. I will share my thoughts. Relentlessly so at times.
But the other night in class, I didn't feel like sharing.
Lurking around the table, watching attractive animals and words being snatched up, I surprised myself by picking up a picture of an otter. There was a word above the otter's head. It said, "Surrender." I also picked up a card printed only with the word "Confident."
I sat down in my seat and looked at the two cards. What intention might I write?
Eventually, I shared this with the class: Let go of the reigns; trust the horse.
This is what I will share with the rest of you: Looking at these two words -- "confidence" and "surrender" -- together, I was struck with just how much confidence and courage it takes to surrender, to relinquish control. I like to believe I'm in control, even when I know I'm not.
Recently, I had an experience that has started to unhinge my worldview, the powerful anchor by which I keep myself latched to a place of reason and the perspective from which I can gauge any adjustments I make in how I conceptualize the world and life itself. (I won't be sharing the details of this experience right now because it's too personal and too fresh for this blog.)
I have long been aware that there are multiple realities. I regard this not just as a statement of philosophy and perspective, but understand it to be a well-established scientific theory, as well. My personal reality has varied manifestations, based on illness, intoxication, exhaustion, sleep or waking state, dreams. But they remain the perspective and experience of a single individual.
I still hold that to be true. My experiences are unique; my combination of filters and physiology and my location on the space-time continuum can't be reproduced and are inherently unknowable by another. Thus, there is no "right," there is no "truth," there are no "facts." There are only ideas and opinions and theories.
And yet, even within that construct, I am being deeply challenged to consider just how much I did not know, do not understand and will never grasp. I have had one of my most cherished interpretations of the world pulled out from beneath my feet, and I am tumbling into unknown territory.
My initial reaction was to explain my experience away in terms of science and psychology and the susceptibility of a tired and grieving mind. But I couldn't manage it. Not only were other explanations insufficient, they seemed insulting. They demeaned the experience I had, as well as my very life -- to the reason I persist, to the meaning of my love for myself and others, to the honor and respect of those who have loved me.
And, most especially, explaining it away through scientific posturing -- and posturing is *all* it would be -- seemed a grotesque violation of the notion about this world that I cherish most dearly:
That of the unending unknowing.
Some nights lately, when I have been trying to sleep, I find my mind spinning in incomprehension. How do I rewrite my understanding? Just where is my worldview shifting?
I get impatient to lay down new ink; I want the newest edition drafted and on its way to the publisher.
It occurs to me in such moments that I need to hold on to my own sense of confidence while also allowing myself the permission to surrender to the mystery. I have also learned that my own mantra -- Life just is. -- doesn't quite work in this situation. It doesn't help me get to sleep.
However, needing sleep, especially lately, I have found my friend's mantra more helpful: "It is what it is."
And you know what? It *is.*
It's a good catch-all, and I have for many years had my own version of it: Life just is.
Either way, we're both getting to the same point. Shit happens, and there's not necessarily a reason for it. For better or worse, you deal with whatever happens. You accept and let go of stuff. You seek understanding of what's immutable, what's possible and what's feasible. But ultimately, you do what you can and you get on with your damn self.
This is what I'm aiming for, anyway.
I can't judge how successful my friend is in this venture, but I can tell you that I'm pretty poor at it.
I get caught up with expectations of fairness in the face of injustice, the belief that I deserve a life as full and rich as the fullest and richest lives known to history, the yearning for (and not really having) a family. They're all good and worthy causes, but the gap between my desires and my reality is often a source of great pain.
To complicate matters, I have a tendency to fight both the expectation and the pain. It is tiresome to fight with myself like this -- if for no other reason than that I am a formidable opponent. (I'm not just a gifted thinker, I'm gifted with hubris!)
The other night in Ethics class, we were asked to introduce ourselves by selecting two cards (one an image of an animal, the other a single word) from a table -- everyone trying to snatch their cards at the same time -- and by writing some kind of intention for ourselves, which we were asked to share with the class (if we wanted).
I think most of you Fair Readers can tell by now that I'm not shy. I will share my thoughts. Relentlessly so at times.
But the other night in class, I didn't feel like sharing.
Lurking around the table, watching attractive animals and words being snatched up, I surprised myself by picking up a picture of an otter. There was a word above the otter's head. It said, "Surrender." I also picked up a card printed only with the word "Confident."
I sat down in my seat and looked at the two cards. What intention might I write?
Eventually, I shared this with the class: Let go of the reigns; trust the horse.
This is what I will share with the rest of you: Looking at these two words -- "confidence" and "surrender" -- together, I was struck with just how much confidence and courage it takes to surrender, to relinquish control. I like to believe I'm in control, even when I know I'm not.
Recently, I had an experience that has started to unhinge my worldview, the powerful anchor by which I keep myself latched to a place of reason and the perspective from which I can gauge any adjustments I make in how I conceptualize the world and life itself. (I won't be sharing the details of this experience right now because it's too personal and too fresh for this blog.)
I have long been aware that there are multiple realities. I regard this not just as a statement of philosophy and perspective, but understand it to be a well-established scientific theory, as well. My personal reality has varied manifestations, based on illness, intoxication, exhaustion, sleep or waking state, dreams. But they remain the perspective and experience of a single individual.
I still hold that to be true. My experiences are unique; my combination of filters and physiology and my location on the space-time continuum can't be reproduced and are inherently unknowable by another. Thus, there is no "right," there is no "truth," there are no "facts." There are only ideas and opinions and theories.
And yet, even within that construct, I am being deeply challenged to consider just how much I did not know, do not understand and will never grasp. I have had one of my most cherished interpretations of the world pulled out from beneath my feet, and I am tumbling into unknown territory.
My initial reaction was to explain my experience away in terms of science and psychology and the susceptibility of a tired and grieving mind. But I couldn't manage it. Not only were other explanations insufficient, they seemed insulting. They demeaned the experience I had, as well as my very life -- to the reason I persist, to the meaning of my love for myself and others, to the honor and respect of those who have loved me.
And, most especially, explaining it away through scientific posturing -- and posturing is *all* it would be -- seemed a grotesque violation of the notion about this world that I cherish most dearly:
That of the unending unknowing.
Some nights lately, when I have been trying to sleep, I find my mind spinning in incomprehension. How do I rewrite my understanding? Just where is my worldview shifting?
I get impatient to lay down new ink; I want the newest edition drafted and on its way to the publisher.
It occurs to me in such moments that I need to hold on to my own sense of confidence while also allowing myself the permission to surrender to the mystery. I have also learned that my own mantra -- Life just is. -- doesn't quite work in this situation. It doesn't help me get to sleep.
However, needing sleep, especially lately, I have found my friend's mantra more helpful: "It is what it is."
And you know what? It *is.*
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday
Working a graveyard shift once a week is really fucking with me right now.
By all accounts -- and if I would follow S2's sound advice -- I should be asleep right now. It's 11:43 p.m. on Tuesday, and excepting three hours of light sleeping, I've been awake since 9:30 or so on Monday morning.
The upside to not sleeping is that you can get a lot of shit done, and the last two days have been highly productive ones. Because there are things even I keep to myself, the following report will not be a complete description of my "productivity," but perhaps it will be of some interest, especially to those who wonder just what it is I *do* on a graveyard shift in the Homes for the Criminally Insane.
So here's an abbreviated version of my waking hours:
Monday
I wake around 9:30, take my cotton-pickin' time getting up and all. The pup and I walk to the grocery store about 20 blocks away. I drop off some film for developing, buy a week's worth of groceries and lug it home in an overstuffed backpack. It rains on the return trip, and neither me nor the pup are wearing a jacket. We get home wet.
I poach the salmon -- my favorite way to prepare it -- and cook some greenbeans. I read some of my Ethics textbook and decide to leave early for school so I can get myself fingerprinted for yet another criminal background check. Turns out the fingerprinting place is closed, so I get up to school early and check at the campus safety office to see if a book I ordered had been delivered. Nope. (And, dammit! I forgot to check there tonight when I was at school again.)
At 5:30 p.m., I attend a three-hour lecture on Ethics in counseling.
9:15: I return home and begin getting ready for work. I call S2 and chat for a little bit about stuff, and then I watch a stupid new sitcom named "Rules of Engagement."
10:10 p.m.: The pup and I go for a 30 minute walk.
11 p.m.: I pull up at the Home for the Criminally Insane. For about 45 minutes, I catch up with the guy I'm relieving. He brings me up to speed on one of the resident's personal dramas. He rolls his eyes constantly while talking about it. Somewhere along the line, I realize that last week during my shift, I never checked the residents' rooms during the night. (I didn't know I was supposed to do so.) So we have a little conversation about whether to knock first or just open the door and peek on them. We also discuss whether it would be possible to kill someone with a pizza cutter (the round disc on a stick) because one is in the dishwasher, rather than locked up in the "sharps" drawer. I suggest the reason it's kept locked is not because it would make a good weapon but that it might be used in a suicide attempt.
Tuesday
Midnight: I go down to the basement to check that the exterior doors are locked. This creeps me out a little because the house is a GIGANTIC old Victorian. Conceptually, it's not really a problem for me to be alone in a house all nigh with four women who've been found guilty of crimes except for reason of insanity. But having to go into the basement of an old Victorian and check to see if the doors are locked is major-league creepy. Except for finding someone had left a wall heater on, all's safe and sound in the basement.
12:30 a.m.: I sit down in the living room and watch Craig Ferguson's monologue on the Late, Late Show. He spends a long time talking about Britney Spears and rehab and alcoholism, and he is intentionally *not* funny. He gives America a big lecture on what it's like to hit rock bottom.
1 a.m.: I do my first rounds of the night and peek in on the residents without knocking. They are all in their beds. Or so I assume, because what I see are just big lumps in beds. It occurs to me that even the craziest of people can stuff a bunch of pillows under their covers to make it look like someone's in the bed. Two of them are snoring.
1:30 a.m.: I head down to the basement again, this time to start a load of laundry. Graveyard shift involves a bunch of little chores, in part to help keep you awake. For the 8-hour shift, there is probably an hour-and-a-half's worth of work. Wipe the counters in the kitchen with a bleach solution; take out the trash; shred whatever is in the "needs to be shredded" bin.
One of the tasks is to launder the towels from the bathrooms and kitchen. Doing so involves unlocking the door to the furnace room, where the laundry detergent is kept. Everything in the house that poses the least bit of danger -- from the pizza cutter to nail clippers to detergent -- is under lock and key. I have a huge set of keys to rifle through to unlock each cabinet, drawer or closet that's secure. Down there in the basement, especially, I sometimes get an image in my head of the horror-movie heroine trying to find the key that unlocks the escape route or the car.
2:30 a.m.: I do another round of the residents' rooms. This time when I open one of the doors, a woman asks me what time it is. Another who sleeps with the lights on waves at me.
2:45 a.m.: I finish the textbook reading for my Couple's Therapy class. Realizing it is late enough that nothing else I read will be retained, I pop in a DVD. My first video is "Truly, Madly, Deeply," which is about a woman grieving the loss of her dead cello-playing boyfriend.
5 a.m.: I go back down to the basement to retrieve the towels from the dryer. On the way down the stairs, I notice through a window that the Starbucks across the street has just opened. I pause to regard this peculiar moment. I have never been awake to see a Starbucks open for the morning. Huh.
5:15 a.m.: I pop in a DVD of "Battlestar Galactica" and watch the first episodes I've seen of the modern version of one of my favorite childhood TV shows. (Imagine my amusement to find Starbuck is a girl! And so is the president. Nice.) I'm instantly caught up in the whole drama, but find myself pondering a funny comment about S2 being a Cylon.
6:20 a.m.: A resident comes downstairs and wants to watch the local Fox news broadcast, so I stop watching BSG in the middle of the second episode on this disc (which was *not* the beginning of the series as Netflix claimed).
6:45 a.m.: I write something in the logs about each resident, as is required by law. One of them says, simply, "Sleeping." While I'm doing this, one of the residents asks for her morning medications. She's supposed to self-medicate, but someone didn't pack her meds for her. The result is that I have to dig through a gigantic pile of her meds, which are kept in a different cabinet from all the other residents' meds. Of course, with that ridiculously large key chain of mine and a bunch of the keys not being clearly identified, I am squatting in front of the low cabinet for several minutes, sticking in one key after another, losing track of the keys, starting over, fumbling and fussing just like a horror-flick heroine.
7 a.m.: My relief arrives, and I finish writing in the logs.
7:30: I leave and go to Noah's to get a bagel. Normally, I would go straight home but...
8 a.m.: I go to the most boring presentation -- my attendance required by federal law -- about making false claims for Medicare reimbursement. I fall asleep during part of it, only to have a kind co-worker nudge me back to consciousness. Then, I watch a really bizarre "skit" about harrassment that ends up pissing off the Christians in the audience when they learn *they* aren't allowed to pressure co-workers into attending church. Heh!
10 a.m.: After realizing I am a danger to self and others when driving, I call S2 and ask her to drive the carpool to class tonight. She readily agrees. I walk the dog.
10:30 a.m.: I lay me down to sleep. My brain is frequently bothered by ear worms when I'm tired, and this mornings was a poem about kissing. Better than that chanting from last week.
12:30 p.m.: I wake up. I force myself back to bed.
1:15 p.m.: I wake again following a bizarre dream and realize I'm going to have to give up on sleeping more. I take my cotton-pickin' time getting up to shower and all.
3:50 p.m.: I take the pup to the coffee house. Cafe au lait to go.
4:40 p.m.: S2 swings by to pick me up for school. Interesting conversation ensues. I become aware of just how tired I am. I'm a bit giddy.
5:30 p.m.: In Couple's Therapy, we begin a role-playing process that's going to carry on for the next several weeks. S2, a guy I call Buddha Boy and I are in a triad. Each of us in turn will play therapist to the other as a couple. (Three different sets of couples.) We ended up in these groups by virtue of where we were sitting on the night the professor assigned us the task. The result is that S2 and I are now a couple of married immigrants from India who are in an arranged marriage. (This scenario was created by Buddha Boy.) I'm the husband, Ravi. S2 is playing the role of the wife, Dolly, who has been taking contraception without telling the husband.
7 p.m.: After 45 minutes of *intense* and emotional role-play -- and let me tell you, that S2 can ACT! -- the two of us are volunteered by Buddha Boy (and by the silent submission of the rest of the fucking class!) to carry on this role-play with the teacher in front of the class. The experience with the teacher was, thankfully, a little less intense than that with Buddha Boy, who had been actively engaged in heightening our emotions. Even so, it is still intense and fairly exhausting.
After it's over, I realize I had been so caught up in my character -- a real traditional, stubborn "head of household" Indian male who feels betrayed by his wife -- and so affected by S2's performance of polite, retiring, dignified sadness that I felt ... awful. I want to make up with her or something. I have never done any role-playing like this. Not even any drama except for that strange process drama class I took this summer (totally unrelated to real character play) and except for my role as one of the Apostles in a highly inappropriate version of the Last Supper in Catholic "summer camp." It is more of an emotional workout than I realized. (And I begin to get an inkling of understanding about something S2 said to me a few days ago about artistic expression.)
7:45 p.m.: Because we all haven't done enough fire walking for the evening, the professor puts on the fifth episode of "Scenes from a Marriage." Holy christ! Remember last week when I said it didn't seem like it could get any more desperate or emotionally saturated? Well, that's just what it did. Ingmar Bergman, I bow down before thee. What an intense film! I felt physically aroused -- agitation -- for a good 30 minutes or so after it was over. And even then, I was only beginning to take the edge off, despite engaging in some decompression dialogue with S2 about it. I gather next week we will see the last episode. I am *morbidly* fascinated with it. It also makes me feel like drinking hard liquor.
10 p.m.: I pour myself a few shots of dark rum (left here by a party-goer) and watch "Boston Legal."
Wednesday
Now: Wouldn't you know it? I'm tired. I thought disgorging this lengthy tale would help me close the book on the day. And so it has. I'm going to go finish watching that episode of "Battlestar Galactica" and fall asleep.
Tomorrow is another day.
By all accounts -- and if I would follow S2's sound advice -- I should be asleep right now. It's 11:43 p.m. on Tuesday, and excepting three hours of light sleeping, I've been awake since 9:30 or so on Monday morning.
The upside to not sleeping is that you can get a lot of shit done, and the last two days have been highly productive ones. Because there are things even I keep to myself, the following report will not be a complete description of my "productivity," but perhaps it will be of some interest, especially to those who wonder just what it is I *do* on a graveyard shift in the Homes for the Criminally Insane.
So here's an abbreviated version of my waking hours:
Monday
I wake around 9:30, take my cotton-pickin' time getting up and all. The pup and I walk to the grocery store about 20 blocks away. I drop off some film for developing, buy a week's worth of groceries and lug it home in an overstuffed backpack. It rains on the return trip, and neither me nor the pup are wearing a jacket. We get home wet.
I poach the salmon -- my favorite way to prepare it -- and cook some greenbeans. I read some of my Ethics textbook and decide to leave early for school so I can get myself fingerprinted for yet another criminal background check. Turns out the fingerprinting place is closed, so I get up to school early and check at the campus safety office to see if a book I ordered had been delivered. Nope. (And, dammit! I forgot to check there tonight when I was at school again.)
At 5:30 p.m., I attend a three-hour lecture on Ethics in counseling.
9:15: I return home and begin getting ready for work. I call S2 and chat for a little bit about stuff, and then I watch a stupid new sitcom named "Rules of Engagement."
10:10 p.m.: The pup and I go for a 30 minute walk.
11 p.m.: I pull up at the Home for the Criminally Insane. For about 45 minutes, I catch up with the guy I'm relieving. He brings me up to speed on one of the resident's personal dramas. He rolls his eyes constantly while talking about it. Somewhere along the line, I realize that last week during my shift, I never checked the residents' rooms during the night. (I didn't know I was supposed to do so.) So we have a little conversation about whether to knock first or just open the door and peek on them. We also discuss whether it would be possible to kill someone with a pizza cutter (the round disc on a stick) because one is in the dishwasher, rather than locked up in the "sharps" drawer. I suggest the reason it's kept locked is not because it would make a good weapon but that it might be used in a suicide attempt.
Tuesday
Midnight: I go down to the basement to check that the exterior doors are locked. This creeps me out a little because the house is a GIGANTIC old Victorian. Conceptually, it's not really a problem for me to be alone in a house all nigh with four women who've been found guilty of crimes except for reason of insanity. But having to go into the basement of an old Victorian and check to see if the doors are locked is major-league creepy. Except for finding someone had left a wall heater on, all's safe and sound in the basement.
12:30 a.m.: I sit down in the living room and watch Craig Ferguson's monologue on the Late, Late Show. He spends a long time talking about Britney Spears and rehab and alcoholism, and he is intentionally *not* funny. He gives America a big lecture on what it's like to hit rock bottom.
1 a.m.: I do my first rounds of the night and peek in on the residents without knocking. They are all in their beds. Or so I assume, because what I see are just big lumps in beds. It occurs to me that even the craziest of people can stuff a bunch of pillows under their covers to make it look like someone's in the bed. Two of them are snoring.
1:30 a.m.: I head down to the basement again, this time to start a load of laundry. Graveyard shift involves a bunch of little chores, in part to help keep you awake. For the 8-hour shift, there is probably an hour-and-a-half's worth of work. Wipe the counters in the kitchen with a bleach solution; take out the trash; shred whatever is in the "needs to be shredded" bin.
One of the tasks is to launder the towels from the bathrooms and kitchen. Doing so involves unlocking the door to the furnace room, where the laundry detergent is kept. Everything in the house that poses the least bit of danger -- from the pizza cutter to nail clippers to detergent -- is under lock and key. I have a huge set of keys to rifle through to unlock each cabinet, drawer or closet that's secure. Down there in the basement, especially, I sometimes get an image in my head of the horror-movie heroine trying to find the key that unlocks the escape route or the car.
2:30 a.m.: I do another round of the residents' rooms. This time when I open one of the doors, a woman asks me what time it is. Another who sleeps with the lights on waves at me.
2:45 a.m.: I finish the textbook reading for my Couple's Therapy class. Realizing it is late enough that nothing else I read will be retained, I pop in a DVD. My first video is "Truly, Madly, Deeply," which is about a woman grieving the loss of her dead cello-playing boyfriend.
5 a.m.: I go back down to the basement to retrieve the towels from the dryer. On the way down the stairs, I notice through a window that the Starbucks across the street has just opened. I pause to regard this peculiar moment. I have never been awake to see a Starbucks open for the morning. Huh.
5:15 a.m.: I pop in a DVD of "Battlestar Galactica" and watch the first episodes I've seen of the modern version of one of my favorite childhood TV shows. (Imagine my amusement to find Starbuck is a girl! And so is the president. Nice.) I'm instantly caught up in the whole drama, but find myself pondering a funny comment about S2 being a Cylon.
6:20 a.m.: A resident comes downstairs and wants to watch the local Fox news broadcast, so I stop watching BSG in the middle of the second episode on this disc (which was *not* the beginning of the series as Netflix claimed).
6:45 a.m.: I write something in the logs about each resident, as is required by law. One of them says, simply, "Sleeping." While I'm doing this, one of the residents asks for her morning medications. She's supposed to self-medicate, but someone didn't pack her meds for her. The result is that I have to dig through a gigantic pile of her meds, which are kept in a different cabinet from all the other residents' meds. Of course, with that ridiculously large key chain of mine and a bunch of the keys not being clearly identified, I am squatting in front of the low cabinet for several minutes, sticking in one key after another, losing track of the keys, starting over, fumbling and fussing just like a horror-flick heroine.
7 a.m.: My relief arrives, and I finish writing in the logs.
7:30: I leave and go to Noah's to get a bagel. Normally, I would go straight home but...
8 a.m.: I go to the most boring presentation -- my attendance required by federal law -- about making false claims for Medicare reimbursement. I fall asleep during part of it, only to have a kind co-worker nudge me back to consciousness. Then, I watch a really bizarre "skit" about harrassment that ends up pissing off the Christians in the audience when they learn *they* aren't allowed to pressure co-workers into attending church. Heh!
10 a.m.: After realizing I am a danger to self and others when driving, I call S2 and ask her to drive the carpool to class tonight. She readily agrees. I walk the dog.
10:30 a.m.: I lay me down to sleep. My brain is frequently bothered by ear worms when I'm tired, and this mornings was a poem about kissing. Better than that chanting from last week.
12:30 p.m.: I wake up. I force myself back to bed.
1:15 p.m.: I wake again following a bizarre dream and realize I'm going to have to give up on sleeping more. I take my cotton-pickin' time getting up to shower and all.
3:50 p.m.: I take the pup to the coffee house. Cafe au lait to go.
4:40 p.m.: S2 swings by to pick me up for school. Interesting conversation ensues. I become aware of just how tired I am. I'm a bit giddy.
5:30 p.m.: In Couple's Therapy, we begin a role-playing process that's going to carry on for the next several weeks. S2, a guy I call Buddha Boy and I are in a triad. Each of us in turn will play therapist to the other as a couple. (Three different sets of couples.) We ended up in these groups by virtue of where we were sitting on the night the professor assigned us the task. The result is that S2 and I are now a couple of married immigrants from India who are in an arranged marriage. (This scenario was created by Buddha Boy.) I'm the husband, Ravi. S2 is playing the role of the wife, Dolly, who has been taking contraception without telling the husband.
7 p.m.: After 45 minutes of *intense* and emotional role-play -- and let me tell you, that S2 can ACT! -- the two of us are volunteered by Buddha Boy (and by the silent submission of the rest of the fucking class!) to carry on this role-play with the teacher in front of the class. The experience with the teacher was, thankfully, a little less intense than that with Buddha Boy, who had been actively engaged in heightening our emotions. Even so, it is still intense and fairly exhausting.
After it's over, I realize I had been so caught up in my character -- a real traditional, stubborn "head of household" Indian male who feels betrayed by his wife -- and so affected by S2's performance of polite, retiring, dignified sadness that I felt ... awful. I want to make up with her or something. I have never done any role-playing like this. Not even any drama except for that strange process drama class I took this summer (totally unrelated to real character play) and except for my role as one of the Apostles in a highly inappropriate version of the Last Supper in Catholic "summer camp." It is more of an emotional workout than I realized. (And I begin to get an inkling of understanding about something S2 said to me a few days ago about artistic expression.)
7:45 p.m.: Because we all haven't done enough fire walking for the evening, the professor puts on the fifth episode of "Scenes from a Marriage." Holy christ! Remember last week when I said it didn't seem like it could get any more desperate or emotionally saturated? Well, that's just what it did. Ingmar Bergman, I bow down before thee. What an intense film! I felt physically aroused -- agitation -- for a good 30 minutes or so after it was over. And even then, I was only beginning to take the edge off, despite engaging in some decompression dialogue with S2 about it. I gather next week we will see the last episode. I am *morbidly* fascinated with it. It also makes me feel like drinking hard liquor.
10 p.m.: I pour myself a few shots of dark rum (left here by a party-goer) and watch "Boston Legal."
Wednesday
Now: Wouldn't you know it? I'm tired. I thought disgorging this lengthy tale would help me close the book on the day. And so it has. I'm going to go finish watching that episode of "Battlestar Galactica" and fall asleep.
Tomorrow is another day.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Random firings
My brain is all over the map today. It's suffering impaired functioning because I imbibed, in serious Mardi Gras fashion, during last night's Mardi Gras party. I wanted to forget what's been going on in my life lately -- or more specifically, what's gone from my life -- and how I've been feeling about it. So that worked pretty well for a night's respite.
Except for the part where I woke up this morning (more technically correct to say "this afternoon"). Alas, I was still intoxicated. Lying there in bed, wiped out, I got to thinking about that party last night.
As I recall, a few people wore great costumes and masks.
-- Bubba and her Lovely Lawyer Lady came as a pair of flappers. Decked to the nines, I tell you. With those long gloves and old-fashioned cigarette holders, even. And LLL had the most amazing little mask covered in petals. I wanted to steal it from her.
-- Dr. R came in something so fabulously vintage that S2 felt compelled to warned me that if Dr. R ended up drugged and naked at the party's end, it was because S2 coveted the dress and coat *that much.* Dr. R was accompanied by two men. Her BF looks a little like Bill Clinton and wore some fabulous clothes from the 1970s that belonged to his recently departed father. Both she and the BF also sported honest-to-goodness Mardi Gras masks of their own. The other man who came along wore a swishy little silver sash at his waist, making him the evenings official gay pirate. (I think he was gay, anyway. He gave me a googly look or two that left me wondering....)
-- S2 came in a wig and had a feather mask, as well as a necklace with a flashing light.
-- GameBoy showed up in a substantial cape and had painted his face, making him the only other person at the party (besides myself) who managed to wear a mask for the duration. So kudos to him.
-- Rather Shy Classmate wore my mask from last year but wasn't able to tolerate it for the entire evening because it was too warm.
-- At various times, other people wore masks I had at the door. A couple of them were these particularly disturbing paper masks I acquired in Vancouver, BC, over the holidays. Others were simple black Zoro-like masks. And there was some sequined Mardi Gras stuff. ... But what I've noticed in general is that people have very low tolerance for keeping masks on for very long.
Although I was smashed by night's end, I do recall keeping my mask on until the very end. At one point, I lifted it to say something where I thought facial expression important, and Dr. R kind of clucked at me for taking it off. So I put it back on, and that was that until the end.
Perhaps other people were wearing costumes or masks. I forget.
One thing I remember clearly, however, is a horrified look on S2's face as she was leaving my place. But I couldn't remember what I said to prompt it. (And you know, pretty much anytime I recall someone having a horried expression, it's because I said something.) So among my first thoughts today were, Oh, I'm *still* wasted, and Uh-oh. What did I say to cause *that* face?
So after waking up fully and properly, I hunted down S2 and asked her what I said. She told me. And then I made a horrified face of my own. The upside to all of it was that I actually said something rather complimentary of her parenting and rather kind-hearted about her Little Pea. But it was all cast in a macabre context expressive of the state of grief in which I've been recently. In other words: Looks of horror all around, but no harm done because I was saying something *nice.* Probably the first time I've managed that combination. It goes to show there really are infinite possibilities from infinite combinations.
Anyway, in short course, I then wondered, Was that a dream, or did I take a picture of someone licking the side of her husband's face? and also, Did someone take a picture of me kissing Dr. R in my bed? I recall it just being a peck on the cheek, but I also recall the circumstances being that there were six or so people in my bed at once, and we were slutting it up for some reason. Perhaps just for the cameras. If that really happened....
Oh, yeah. The *other* thing I remember quite well was getting a fistful of Handsome Gay Male's pectorals. I gestured to him about something, and touched my hand to his chest. I guess he was amusing both of us when he flexed that puppy. Holy mother of god! My hand shot back in shock.
But I was so compelled, I reached out and grabbed him again, and he flexed that baby again. For a few long seconds, I kept feeling it; he kept flexing it. Sweet mother of mary! Curious, I slid my hand to his stomach to see what else was lurking beneath those clothes of his. A hardbody is what. He smiled at me, winked and said, "That boy of yours doesn't know what he's missing," in reference to an ill-fated match I tried to make. No shit! I replied, laughing. *I* didn't know what I was missing!
I think I'm going to start groping gay men more often.
Well, any good Mardi Gras party has its Bacchanalian moments, so that must have been one. Suffice it to say, I was involved in a few of them. That said, I do note that two guests decided to have a bit of fun with the rumor that this party would be an orgy, and they steamed up my bay windows a bit.
I still am really enthralled by the idea of having a dinner party that *is* a Bacchanalian orgy. But that's going to have to wait until I have an appropriate date of my own. No telling when that will happen.
On that note, I passed in the street today a woman I went out with twice last fall. Our last conversation was the night Bubba had decided she'd broken up with her Lovely Lawyer Lady "for real this time," and so I blew off the woman's invitation to a poker party to have dinner -- and later when I was supposed to be at the party, to have dessert -- with Bubba, who was in quite a state of questioning herself and distress.
Anyway, this woman happened to be rather cute and interesting and, unlike ANYONE else I know, a single lesbian. But when we crossed paths while I was walking the dog this afternoon, it appeared she is rather *not* single anymore, so we just said hello to each other, smiled politely, and I kept on my way without stopping.
Well, even though I am still single, the story doesn't have a bad ending: Bubba is back with her Lovely Lawyer Lady, and they seem quite happy together.
And, finally, on the matter of school, school, school:
This afternoon, I was reading "Passionate Marriage" by David Schnarch, and got to imagining what it might be like to have a Siamese twin and to get into a big fight with her. That would be fucked up. But how could you be with someone 24/7 *without* a serious fight being inevitable? (As a side note, my imagination got the better of me, and this fight was carried out in public, turned into a bitch slap and ended up being captured on video for a "Girls Gone Wild: Siamese Twins" DVD. Let it never be said that I don't amuse myself.)
On the matter of Scharch, however, I have conflicting feelings about this book.
Part of me is digging it like gangbusters, even as I'm fighting with its panacea-like promises, appreciating its blunt sexual commetary and left wondering by its intangible categorization of the "outer boundaries of our sexual potential." It's like reading the work of a love child born of Dr. Ruth and Depak Chopra.
Another part of me is busy trying to assess my own level of differentiation in relationships, which seems a particularly difficult task without a significant other around as fodder for my examination. Generally, I've been thinking of myself in past relationships and taking into consideration the way I relate to people with whom I have regular interactions. I'm learning some interesting stuff about myself.
And then, there's that part of me that's just a wee bit bummed not to have a sweetheart with whom to do some ... er, "homework."
But I digress.
In truth, this term seems to be generating some significant perspective shifts for me, even though I'm currently just in two classes (a third starts tomorrow). I've become rather more meta-oriented, which is at times just a little dizzying. I'm feeling too lazy, as a writer, to try explaining that comment right now. But I gather a few of you know what I mean anyway.
Speaking of which, one of my professors called me "extremely bright," the other day and mentioned that it was necessary in class to "work really hard to stay ahead" of me because I get so far out "in front of the conversation." I'm not sure what to make of this comment. It sounded like a compliment, but perhaps it was also a bit of a complaint.
Well ... by the time it's all said and done, it's going to be an interesting term. I guess they all are.
Fortunately, I heard one of my teachers normalize some of my experience in a conversation with another student. "Graduate school puts you through hell," the prof said. "If you're paying attention to yourself and doing the work, almost everything will get turned upside down."
How comforting.
Except for the part where I woke up this morning (more technically correct to say "this afternoon"). Alas, I was still intoxicated. Lying there in bed, wiped out, I got to thinking about that party last night.
As I recall, a few people wore great costumes and masks.
-- Bubba and her Lovely Lawyer Lady came as a pair of flappers. Decked to the nines, I tell you. With those long gloves and old-fashioned cigarette holders, even. And LLL had the most amazing little mask covered in petals. I wanted to steal it from her.
-- Dr. R came in something so fabulously vintage that S2 felt compelled to warned me that if Dr. R ended up drugged and naked at the party's end, it was because S2 coveted the dress and coat *that much.* Dr. R was accompanied by two men. Her BF looks a little like Bill Clinton and wore some fabulous clothes from the 1970s that belonged to his recently departed father. Both she and the BF also sported honest-to-goodness Mardi Gras masks of their own. The other man who came along wore a swishy little silver sash at his waist, making him the evenings official gay pirate. (I think he was gay, anyway. He gave me a googly look or two that left me wondering....)
-- S2 came in a wig and had a feather mask, as well as a necklace with a flashing light.
-- GameBoy showed up in a substantial cape and had painted his face, making him the only other person at the party (besides myself) who managed to wear a mask for the duration. So kudos to him.
-- Rather Shy Classmate wore my mask from last year but wasn't able to tolerate it for the entire evening because it was too warm.
-- At various times, other people wore masks I had at the door. A couple of them were these particularly disturbing paper masks I acquired in Vancouver, BC, over the holidays. Others were simple black Zoro-like masks. And there was some sequined Mardi Gras stuff. ... But what I've noticed in general is that people have very low tolerance for keeping masks on for very long.
Although I was smashed by night's end, I do recall keeping my mask on until the very end. At one point, I lifted it to say something where I thought facial expression important, and Dr. R kind of clucked at me for taking it off. So I put it back on, and that was that until the end.
Perhaps other people were wearing costumes or masks. I forget.
One thing I remember clearly, however, is a horrified look on S2's face as she was leaving my place. But I couldn't remember what I said to prompt it. (And you know, pretty much anytime I recall someone having a horried expression, it's because I said something.) So among my first thoughts today were, Oh, I'm *still* wasted, and Uh-oh. What did I say to cause *that* face?
So after waking up fully and properly, I hunted down S2 and asked her what I said. She told me. And then I made a horrified face of my own. The upside to all of it was that I actually said something rather complimentary of her parenting and rather kind-hearted about her Little Pea. But it was all cast in a macabre context expressive of the state of grief in which I've been recently. In other words: Looks of horror all around, but no harm done because I was saying something *nice.* Probably the first time I've managed that combination. It goes to show there really are infinite possibilities from infinite combinations.
Anyway, in short course, I then wondered, Was that a dream, or did I take a picture of someone licking the side of her husband's face? and also, Did someone take a picture of me kissing Dr. R in my bed? I recall it just being a peck on the cheek, but I also recall the circumstances being that there were six or so people in my bed at once, and we were slutting it up for some reason. Perhaps just for the cameras. If that really happened....
Oh, yeah. The *other* thing I remember quite well was getting a fistful of Handsome Gay Male's pectorals. I gestured to him about something, and touched my hand to his chest. I guess he was amusing both of us when he flexed that puppy. Holy mother of god! My hand shot back in shock.
But I was so compelled, I reached out and grabbed him again, and he flexed that baby again. For a few long seconds, I kept feeling it; he kept flexing it. Sweet mother of mary! Curious, I slid my hand to his stomach to see what else was lurking beneath those clothes of his. A hardbody is what. He smiled at me, winked and said, "That boy of yours doesn't know what he's missing," in reference to an ill-fated match I tried to make. No shit! I replied, laughing. *I* didn't know what I was missing!
I think I'm going to start groping gay men more often.
Well, any good Mardi Gras party has its Bacchanalian moments, so that must have been one. Suffice it to say, I was involved in a few of them. That said, I do note that two guests decided to have a bit of fun with the rumor that this party would be an orgy, and they steamed up my bay windows a bit.
I still am really enthralled by the idea of having a dinner party that *is* a Bacchanalian orgy. But that's going to have to wait until I have an appropriate date of my own. No telling when that will happen.
On that note, I passed in the street today a woman I went out with twice last fall. Our last conversation was the night Bubba had decided she'd broken up with her Lovely Lawyer Lady "for real this time," and so I blew off the woman's invitation to a poker party to have dinner -- and later when I was supposed to be at the party, to have dessert -- with Bubba, who was in quite a state of questioning herself and distress.
Anyway, this woman happened to be rather cute and interesting and, unlike ANYONE else I know, a single lesbian. But when we crossed paths while I was walking the dog this afternoon, it appeared she is rather *not* single anymore, so we just said hello to each other, smiled politely, and I kept on my way without stopping.
Well, even though I am still single, the story doesn't have a bad ending: Bubba is back with her Lovely Lawyer Lady, and they seem quite happy together.
And, finally, on the matter of school, school, school:
This afternoon, I was reading "Passionate Marriage" by David Schnarch, and got to imagining what it might be like to have a Siamese twin and to get into a big fight with her. That would be fucked up. But how could you be with someone 24/7 *without* a serious fight being inevitable? (As a side note, my imagination got the better of me, and this fight was carried out in public, turned into a bitch slap and ended up being captured on video for a "Girls Gone Wild: Siamese Twins" DVD. Let it never be said that I don't amuse myself.)
On the matter of Scharch, however, I have conflicting feelings about this book.
Part of me is digging it like gangbusters, even as I'm fighting with its panacea-like promises, appreciating its blunt sexual commetary and left wondering by its intangible categorization of the "outer boundaries of our sexual potential." It's like reading the work of a love child born of Dr. Ruth and Depak Chopra.
Another part of me is busy trying to assess my own level of differentiation in relationships, which seems a particularly difficult task without a significant other around as fodder for my examination. Generally, I've been thinking of myself in past relationships and taking into consideration the way I relate to people with whom I have regular interactions. I'm learning some interesting stuff about myself.
And then, there's that part of me that's just a wee bit bummed not to have a sweetheart with whom to do some ... er, "homework."
But I digress.
In truth, this term seems to be generating some significant perspective shifts for me, even though I'm currently just in two classes (a third starts tomorrow). I've become rather more meta-oriented, which is at times just a little dizzying. I'm feeling too lazy, as a writer, to try explaining that comment right now. But I gather a few of you know what I mean anyway.
Speaking of which, one of my professors called me "extremely bright," the other day and mentioned that it was necessary in class to "work really hard to stay ahead" of me because I get so far out "in front of the conversation." I'm not sure what to make of this comment. It sounded like a compliment, but perhaps it was also a bit of a complaint.
Well ... by the time it's all said and done, it's going to be an interesting term. I guess they all are.
Fortunately, I heard one of my teachers normalize some of my experience in a conversation with another student. "Graduate school puts you through hell," the prof said. "If you're paying attention to yourself and doing the work, almost everything will get turned upside down."
How comforting.
Friday, February 16, 2007
The shortest trip between two points
It's official: I am going bat-shit crazy.
Fortunately, not many people have actually had to witness this decline. Of course, it's a pretty short walk from bat-crazy to bat-shit crazy, so maybe the change isn't as noteworthy as I think it is.
Either way, there hasn't been the time or opportunity to sell front-row tickets for the show. My audience has been composed primarily of those friends and acquaintances who are caught, unsuspecting, in the spotlight beside me.
But I don't want to spoil the show for those of you who may yet enjoy a private performance, so I'll spare the details.
Except to note that I turned in a paper to a teacher today with the words, "Nun/Whore" written at the top, accompanied by terse little sentences such as, "I felt like a dirty whore," and "I didn't want Jesus' eyes to see me," scrawled in my hand-writing.
And that was from the part of the day where I was behaving rather well and looked, for all intents and purposes, to be sane. Imagine the part where I appeared to be anything but.
"So," you ask tentatively, "what do you call this act?"
I call it 'The Aristocrats.'
Fortunately, not many people have actually had to witness this decline. Of course, it's a pretty short walk from bat-crazy to bat-shit crazy, so maybe the change isn't as noteworthy as I think it is.
Either way, there hasn't been the time or opportunity to sell front-row tickets for the show. My audience has been composed primarily of those friends and acquaintances who are caught, unsuspecting, in the spotlight beside me.
But I don't want to spoil the show for those of you who may yet enjoy a private performance, so I'll spare the details.
Except to note that I turned in a paper to a teacher today with the words, "Nun/Whore" written at the top, accompanied by terse little sentences such as, "I felt like a dirty whore," and "I didn't want Jesus' eyes to see me," scrawled in my hand-writing.
And that was from the part of the day where I was behaving rather well and looked, for all intents and purposes, to be sane. Imagine the part where I appeared to be anything but.
"So," you ask tentatively, "what do you call this act?"
I call it 'The Aristocrats.'
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Things I learned today
First: The pup Brogan is "turning orange."
That's the prognosis laid out by the groomer today unless I start having his coat hand-stripped. So I have a choice: Blonde-black brindle? Or orange?
In my opinion its more of an auburn color, but I believe the groomer intentionally used "orange" to indicate her displeasure with that outcome. She wants to hand-strip him. And she's going to get her wish....
She also gave me a reminded me how frequently I'm supposed to bring him in for grooming, but she did it in a way that I found very cunning. S2 and I were talking yesterday about how Couples Therapy was creating a "meta-meta" perspective on interactional dynamics, and the groomer's attempt to chastize me without sounding like it reminded me of that conversation.
But I digress.
While I was waiting for the groomer to come out and turn me into a "better" dog owner, I watched four women in their mid-20s -- beautiful little socialites with too much money and time on their hands -- giggle and gossip at the counter. One of them was trying to put what looked like minature Air Jordan high tops on her twitching, nervous dog. It appeared to be a Chihuahua, but its particularly bulging eyes reminded me of a mini Boston Terrier.
A funky, trembling little meth dog with Bette Davis eyes is it was.
And it did *not* like those shoes the woman was putting on it.
"Well, when we were up on the mountain last week," the owner said to her friends, "we took him out in the snow, and you could just tell he didn't like it. He had his coat and hat on, but we didn't have *anything* for his feet!"
You know, the truth is: These days of breeding to miniature has simply created some dogs which should not go outside. You should just train them to use a litter box and leave it at that. This dog was one of those. S2 has a new kitten, and delicate as it is, that kitty has more zest, gumption and strength than did that freaky little dog.
Second: Speaking of S2, another lesson today involved just how awful it feels to hurt a child. And how it is additionally unsettling to hurt the child of one of your friends. Ugh!
Little Pea and I were playing hide-and-go seek. First, she hid under the couch. She wouldn't come out until I pulled her and let her slide on the hardwood floors. Second time, she hid under the bed. I reached to her leg to do the same thing, but this time when I pulled her out, she got whacked in the head by one of the braces on the bed frame. I felt the bed move and heard the dull thunk on her head, and my stomach turned inside out even before she started crying. She hit that thing pretty hard.
Kids are pliable, and she recovered. But I wouldn't be surprised if the poor thing had a bump on her head from that.
S2, by the way, told me not to worry about it. But in my little fantasy life -- completely unrelated to reality whatsoever -- my guilt induced a scenario in which she pointed at me and said with an Australian accent: "That dingo whacked my baby!"
Taught me something about myself in the process, though. Growing up in my home, I had an example of parenting that included beating the tar out of the children. At some point, I started defending myself, so I've thrown quite a few gnarly punches in my time.
As a teen and young adult, I read so frequently that children treated violently by their parents grow up to be violent with their own children that I came to believe it was inevitable I would do so. I didn't want to be that kind of person, so I decided a long time ago that I should never have children. Even if I wanted them.
Over the years, I've come to know it's not inevitable. There may be statistical significance about multi-generational violence, but I'm a unique individual capable of making my own choices. There are many ways in which I will not repeat the lives of my parents.
Fortunately, my adult life has not been full of the kinds of tragedies in which I've hurt anyone, much less children. Generally, the only time I make children cry is when I look at them. So the accident with Little Pea this afternoon was a shock to my system. It reinforced for me that I'm not the kind of person who hurts children. I would be a safe parent. (Physically, anyway. My neuroses would cause their own special types of damage....)
Third: On the matter of parenting, a trip I made to Freddy's today with S2 and Little Pea reminded me of another good reason not to be a parent. I'm afraid of Big Box stores, and I think motherhood would force me to go into them more frequently than I could bear.
It's always something.
Fourth: Some people are total sticks in the mud. I'm throwing a Mardi Gras party on Saturday, and the Rather Shy Classmate for whom we are also celebrating a birthday on that night told me that several of our colleages at school were "concerned" about the Bacchanalian nature of said party.
"They are disturbed," Rather Shy Classmate said. "I tried to explain to them that it wasn't an orgy or what have you, but one of them told me, 'Look, we're going to be *counselors.* Should we really be doing stuff like this?' "
I groaned and said, I hope you told her *not* to come. There is no room for moralizing at Mardi Gras. None.
RSC said that another classmate, a New Orleanean who evacuated and joined our graduate program as a result, started teasing the two or three sticks in the mud who were expressing their "concerns" one day after class. "He started making Mardi Gras sound even *more* mysterious and dangerous," RSC said. "He really got them a little whipped up. It was funny."
I groaned again, and so RSC added, "No matter what happens at the party, we should spread all sorts of dark rumors about what happened."
Just what my reputation needs.
So the party is looming. No telling who will come or what they'll be wearing when they get here.
I, however, will be wearing a fabulous new Carnival mask made by the same woman who created the one I wore last year. Like last year's, this one has some significant plumage. I love big feathers. I'm beginning to think I was a Vegas show girl in a previous life. (I don't have the body, but I've still got the knockers!)
Fifth: Speaking of things which I am not, let's add prairie school marm to the list. That look just did not work for me. When S2 saw a photo of me from 1988, the first words out her mouth were, "Every teenage lesbian should have assistance when they're shopping for dresses."
Seriously.
I was wearing a long, blue "prairie" dress, tapered at the waist, with large white lace doily flaps on the shoulders. Tremendously hideous. Seeing that photo made me laugh my ass off.
That's the prognosis laid out by the groomer today unless I start having his coat hand-stripped. So I have a choice: Blonde-black brindle? Or orange?
In my opinion its more of an auburn color, but I believe the groomer intentionally used "orange" to indicate her displeasure with that outcome. She wants to hand-strip him. And she's going to get her wish....
She also gave me a reminded me how frequently I'm supposed to bring him in for grooming, but she did it in a way that I found very cunning. S2 and I were talking yesterday about how Couples Therapy was creating a "meta-meta" perspective on interactional dynamics, and the groomer's attempt to chastize me without sounding like it reminded me of that conversation.
But I digress.
While I was waiting for the groomer to come out and turn me into a "better" dog owner, I watched four women in their mid-20s -- beautiful little socialites with too much money and time on their hands -- giggle and gossip at the counter. One of them was trying to put what looked like minature Air Jordan high tops on her twitching, nervous dog. It appeared to be a Chihuahua, but its particularly bulging eyes reminded me of a mini Boston Terrier.
A funky, trembling little meth dog with Bette Davis eyes is it was.
And it did *not* like those shoes the woman was putting on it.
"Well, when we were up on the mountain last week," the owner said to her friends, "we took him out in the snow, and you could just tell he didn't like it. He had his coat and hat on, but we didn't have *anything* for his feet!"
You know, the truth is: These days of breeding to miniature has simply created some dogs which should not go outside. You should just train them to use a litter box and leave it at that. This dog was one of those. S2 has a new kitten, and delicate as it is, that kitty has more zest, gumption and strength than did that freaky little dog.
Second: Speaking of S2, another lesson today involved just how awful it feels to hurt a child. And how it is additionally unsettling to hurt the child of one of your friends. Ugh!
Little Pea and I were playing hide-and-go seek. First, she hid under the couch. She wouldn't come out until I pulled her and let her slide on the hardwood floors. Second time, she hid under the bed. I reached to her leg to do the same thing, but this time when I pulled her out, she got whacked in the head by one of the braces on the bed frame. I felt the bed move and heard the dull thunk on her head, and my stomach turned inside out even before she started crying. She hit that thing pretty hard.
Kids are pliable, and she recovered. But I wouldn't be surprised if the poor thing had a bump on her head from that.
S2, by the way, told me not to worry about it. But in my little fantasy life -- completely unrelated to reality whatsoever -- my guilt induced a scenario in which she pointed at me and said with an Australian accent: "That dingo whacked my baby!"
Taught me something about myself in the process, though. Growing up in my home, I had an example of parenting that included beating the tar out of the children. At some point, I started defending myself, so I've thrown quite a few gnarly punches in my time.
As a teen and young adult, I read so frequently that children treated violently by their parents grow up to be violent with their own children that I came to believe it was inevitable I would do so. I didn't want to be that kind of person, so I decided a long time ago that I should never have children. Even if I wanted them.
Over the years, I've come to know it's not inevitable. There may be statistical significance about multi-generational violence, but I'm a unique individual capable of making my own choices. There are many ways in which I will not repeat the lives of my parents.
Fortunately, my adult life has not been full of the kinds of tragedies in which I've hurt anyone, much less children. Generally, the only time I make children cry is when I look at them. So the accident with Little Pea this afternoon was a shock to my system. It reinforced for me that I'm not the kind of person who hurts children. I would be a safe parent. (Physically, anyway. My neuroses would cause their own special types of damage....)
Third: On the matter of parenting, a trip I made to Freddy's today with S2 and Little Pea reminded me of another good reason not to be a parent. I'm afraid of Big Box stores, and I think motherhood would force me to go into them more frequently than I could bear.
It's always something.
Fourth: Some people are total sticks in the mud. I'm throwing a Mardi Gras party on Saturday, and the Rather Shy Classmate for whom we are also celebrating a birthday on that night told me that several of our colleages at school were "concerned" about the Bacchanalian nature of said party.
"They are disturbed," Rather Shy Classmate said. "I tried to explain to them that it wasn't an orgy or what have you, but one of them told me, 'Look, we're going to be *counselors.* Should we really be doing stuff like this?' "
I groaned and said, I hope you told her *not* to come. There is no room for moralizing at Mardi Gras. None.
RSC said that another classmate, a New Orleanean who evacuated and joined our graduate program as a result, started teasing the two or three sticks in the mud who were expressing their "concerns" one day after class. "He started making Mardi Gras sound even *more* mysterious and dangerous," RSC said. "He really got them a little whipped up. It was funny."
I groaned again, and so RSC added, "No matter what happens at the party, we should spread all sorts of dark rumors about what happened."
Just what my reputation needs.
So the party is looming. No telling who will come or what they'll be wearing when they get here.
I, however, will be wearing a fabulous new Carnival mask made by the same woman who created the one I wore last year. Like last year's, this one has some significant plumage. I love big feathers. I'm beginning to think I was a Vegas show girl in a previous life. (I don't have the body, but I've still got the knockers!)
Fifth: Speaking of things which I am not, let's add prairie school marm to the list. That look just did not work for me. When S2 saw a photo of me from 1988, the first words out her mouth were, "Every teenage lesbian should have assistance when they're shopping for dresses."
Seriously.
I was wearing a long, blue "prairie" dress, tapered at the waist, with large white lace doily flaps on the shoulders. Tremendously hideous. Seeing that photo made me laugh my ass off.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
What's love got to do with it?
We watched the fourth episode of Ingmar Bergman's classic 1974 TV miniseries, "Scenes from a Marriage," in Couples Therapy tonight.
Let me tell you something about this massive, wrenching film if you've never seen it: Just when you think you've hit a point of emotional saturation so thick that it can't possibly get any thicker, any more tense, any more gripping, Bergman goes off and proves there's one more layer of desperation to reveal and an even more honest appraisal of a marriage to be found.
I mean: Whoa.
The first night we watched it, I rather smugly said to S2 and Dr. R that I had "nothing to be concerned about" by the film because I am single. (A comment for which I received withering looks.)
Episode Two went by on shakier ground. But Three and Four are cutting to the quick of my previous relationships and those of probably every one else who's been in a long-term relationship and faced feelings of ambivalence about it. What's more, both characters in the film represent obvious sides of myself. And while I grant that the profound inner conflict I experience between my fundamental existentialism and my desire for attachment are not universal, I suspect the way I relate to these characters is not uncommon among those of us willing to look inward through as unvarnished a lens as we can manage.
What made Bergman a master filmmaker was his ability to elicit in viewers the recognition of some truths about our common humanity. In his own words (in John Simon's "Ingmar Berman Directs," published in 1972), Bergman addressed what he was trying to do:
"I want very much to tell, to talk about, the wholeness inside every human being. It's a strange thing that every human being has a sort of dignity or wholeness in him, and out of that develops relationships to other human beings, tensions, misunderstandings, tenderness, coming in contact, touching and being touched, the cutting off of a contact and what happens then."
"Scenes from a Marriage," which aired two years later on Swedish television, is just such a story. Very probing. Thoughout tonight's episode, I heard many of my classmates groaning and hissing over the behavior of the couple in question -- characters named Marianne and Johan -- as they vacillate one evening over dinner between divorce, separation and reunion following Johan's six-month departure to live abroad with his mistress. People were clucking their tongues.
Here in 2007, there's no questioning why. As I said following the screening, There was a feeling here in the class where you're wanting to yell, 'Don't open that door! Don't answer that phone!' like you do in horror movies. But this is so honest in its portrayal of the muddled, muddled feelings of a muddled relationship.
And the fear of loneliness, the isolation, the drive for companionship, the belief in one's responsibility as a caretaker for another... all of that SHIT that makes relationships -- or lack thereof -- so incredibly poignant and gives them such power in our lives? All of that was on display in Episode Four.
When the screening was done, it was pretty obvious many of my classmates were feeling as if some part of them -- from the past? in their present? worries about the future? -- had been raked over the coals. And I imagine that more than a few of us were silently regarding the burned, raw and exposed flesh left behind and perhaps, like me, were wondering: Is that really mine?
It is hard enough for me -- here in this strange empty pit of grief where I am for the time-being mired -- to consider any feelings whatsoever. A part of me shut off when Liz died, and I don't seem to be able to access it. As a consequence, it feels like much of my emotional experience is being acted out in half light. Think of my inner being like the face of the Phantom of the Opera, and you will have an accurate picture.
So I can't really describe with any accuracy the depth of feeling I might otherwise have with regards to this amazing film. I do, however, note the reaction of my classmates, and it seems to be hitting most of us on fundamental levels. S2 said tonight that each episode has given her a headache, if only in reaction to the sheer intensity of the subject and the emotional reactions she has to the behavior of the characters.
There is a long silence that persists in the class after the lights come up. For a bunch of therapists-in-training, most of whom are willing to spout off a quick opinion on relationships, this is an odd experience.
Personally, I think it stands as a testament to the emotional honesty of Bergman's filmmaking and to the power of the two actors in the starring roles. (As a point of note, they are pretty much all there is. Very few other characters have made appearances. This is about the heart and soul of a relationship between two people, and there's little need for others in what's essentially a six-hour-long film.)
In any case, I realized just what a fog this film (combined with essentially unprocessed grief over Liz) left me in when, this evening, I went to pick up some dinner at the Thai place downstairs.
How's it going? I asked the owner, Chin.
"Slow night," he replied.
I touched the belly of a jade green Buddha on the bar. Well, at least you've got a happy Buddha, I said absent mindedly.
"No," he said. "Everyone saving their money for tomorrow."
What's special about tomorrow? I asked.
He gave me a funny look. "Tomorrow ..." and said something with an accent so thick that I felt compelled to take a wild guess. Which ended up not being anchored in time whatsoever...
Tomorrow's the last Thursday of the month? (I was thinking: Well, why would people be spending money on dinner tomorrow? It must be the gallery openings or something. Because I live in an "arts district." Nevermind that tomorrow is *Wednesday.*)
Chin looked at me with a brow that was furrowed with ... pity. He spoke again, enunciating more clearly, "Tomorrow Val-in-tine Day," he said.
Oh! Valentine's...
Then he added, "Your life is like *that,* huh? Don't even know it Valentine?"
Yeah, my life is like *that,* I said. I had no clue. (This despite one of my classmates having shown a bunch of homemade Valentine's on the overhead this evening and my professor passing out heart-shaped chocolates to the class. Not to mention the box of candy "sweethearts" I had in my coat pocket.)
In any case, one of the Valentine's shown on the overhead said something like, "There are many reasons I hate Valentine's Day. But not having a Valentine has never been one of them." That's pretty much where I stand on the matter.
Especially after having my gut turned inside out by Ingmar Bergman for the third week in a row. Nothing quite like "Scenes from a Marriage" to help you appreciate the lulls in your romantic life. There are two more episodes. Hard to say what's coming next, but I'm looking forward to finding out what happens.
And, on a related topic: The impending arrival of Valentine's Day reminds me of two notable "anniversaries" which have come and gone while I've been lost in this intrapsychic void of mine:
First, it's been more than a year since I've had sex. Dr. M tells me this means I can reclaim my "virginity." I don't buy that notion, but it is noteworthy nevertheless. The next person who comes into this sphere with me will be lucky. There's enough sexual energy being stored up to send a few astronauts into orbit.
Second, it's been more than a year since I started penning this little blaaaahg o' mine. For nearly every day for the past year, I have written *something.* Much of it has been deeply neurotic but some of it has waxed philosophic. Some has been mundane, some meaningful.
However you characterize it, you have been witness to a Year in the Life of UCM. It has been a HELL ON WHEELS. But I wouldn't trade it. I wouldn't trade *any* of my life, to tell you the truth. It's what makes me me -- for all the glory, shame and tribulation and, in the words of my dear aunt Liz, all the "joy and laughter and love" that being me entails.
So here's wishing a belated Happy Birthday to extended psychosis. And Happy Valentine's Day to the rest of you.
Let me tell you something about this massive, wrenching film if you've never seen it: Just when you think you've hit a point of emotional saturation so thick that it can't possibly get any thicker, any more tense, any more gripping, Bergman goes off and proves there's one more layer of desperation to reveal and an even more honest appraisal of a marriage to be found.
I mean: Whoa.
The first night we watched it, I rather smugly said to S2 and Dr. R that I had "nothing to be concerned about" by the film because I am single. (A comment for which I received withering looks.)
Episode Two went by on shakier ground. But Three and Four are cutting to the quick of my previous relationships and those of probably every one else who's been in a long-term relationship and faced feelings of ambivalence about it. What's more, both characters in the film represent obvious sides of myself. And while I grant that the profound inner conflict I experience between my fundamental existentialism and my desire for attachment are not universal, I suspect the way I relate to these characters is not uncommon among those of us willing to look inward through as unvarnished a lens as we can manage.
What made Bergman a master filmmaker was his ability to elicit in viewers the recognition of some truths about our common humanity. In his own words (in John Simon's "Ingmar Berman Directs," published in 1972), Bergman addressed what he was trying to do:
"I want very much to tell, to talk about, the wholeness inside every human being. It's a strange thing that every human being has a sort of dignity or wholeness in him, and out of that develops relationships to other human beings, tensions, misunderstandings, tenderness, coming in contact, touching and being touched, the cutting off of a contact and what happens then."
"Scenes from a Marriage," which aired two years later on Swedish television, is just such a story. Very probing. Thoughout tonight's episode, I heard many of my classmates groaning and hissing over the behavior of the couple in question -- characters named Marianne and Johan -- as they vacillate one evening over dinner between divorce, separation and reunion following Johan's six-month departure to live abroad with his mistress. People were clucking their tongues.
Here in 2007, there's no questioning why. As I said following the screening, There was a feeling here in the class where you're wanting to yell, 'Don't open that door! Don't answer that phone!' like you do in horror movies. But this is so honest in its portrayal of the muddled, muddled feelings of a muddled relationship.
And the fear of loneliness, the isolation, the drive for companionship, the belief in one's responsibility as a caretaker for another... all of that SHIT that makes relationships -- or lack thereof -- so incredibly poignant and gives them such power in our lives? All of that was on display in Episode Four.
When the screening was done, it was pretty obvious many of my classmates were feeling as if some part of them -- from the past? in their present? worries about the future? -- had been raked over the coals. And I imagine that more than a few of us were silently regarding the burned, raw and exposed flesh left behind and perhaps, like me, were wondering: Is that really mine?
It is hard enough for me -- here in this strange empty pit of grief where I am for the time-being mired -- to consider any feelings whatsoever. A part of me shut off when Liz died, and I don't seem to be able to access it. As a consequence, it feels like much of my emotional experience is being acted out in half light. Think of my inner being like the face of the Phantom of the Opera, and you will have an accurate picture.
So I can't really describe with any accuracy the depth of feeling I might otherwise have with regards to this amazing film. I do, however, note the reaction of my classmates, and it seems to be hitting most of us on fundamental levels. S2 said tonight that each episode has given her a headache, if only in reaction to the sheer intensity of the subject and the emotional reactions she has to the behavior of the characters.
There is a long silence that persists in the class after the lights come up. For a bunch of therapists-in-training, most of whom are willing to spout off a quick opinion on relationships, this is an odd experience.
Personally, I think it stands as a testament to the emotional honesty of Bergman's filmmaking and to the power of the two actors in the starring roles. (As a point of note, they are pretty much all there is. Very few other characters have made appearances. This is about the heart and soul of a relationship between two people, and there's little need for others in what's essentially a six-hour-long film.)
In any case, I realized just what a fog this film (combined with essentially unprocessed grief over Liz) left me in when, this evening, I went to pick up some dinner at the Thai place downstairs.
How's it going? I asked the owner, Chin.
"Slow night," he replied.
I touched the belly of a jade green Buddha on the bar. Well, at least you've got a happy Buddha, I said absent mindedly.
"No," he said. "Everyone saving their money for tomorrow."
What's special about tomorrow? I asked.
He gave me a funny look. "Tomorrow ..." and said something with an accent so thick that I felt compelled to take a wild guess. Which ended up not being anchored in time whatsoever...
Tomorrow's the last Thursday of the month? (I was thinking: Well, why would people be spending money on dinner tomorrow? It must be the gallery openings or something. Because I live in an "arts district." Nevermind that tomorrow is *Wednesday.*)
Chin looked at me with a brow that was furrowed with ... pity. He spoke again, enunciating more clearly, "Tomorrow Val-in-tine Day," he said.
Oh! Valentine's...
Then he added, "Your life is like *that,* huh? Don't even know it Valentine?"
Yeah, my life is like *that,* I said. I had no clue. (This despite one of my classmates having shown a bunch of homemade Valentine's on the overhead this evening and my professor passing out heart-shaped chocolates to the class. Not to mention the box of candy "sweethearts" I had in my coat pocket.)
In any case, one of the Valentine's shown on the overhead said something like, "There are many reasons I hate Valentine's Day. But not having a Valentine has never been one of them." That's pretty much where I stand on the matter.
Especially after having my gut turned inside out by Ingmar Bergman for the third week in a row. Nothing quite like "Scenes from a Marriage" to help you appreciate the lulls in your romantic life. There are two more episodes. Hard to say what's coming next, but I'm looking forward to finding out what happens.
And, on a related topic: The impending arrival of Valentine's Day reminds me of two notable "anniversaries" which have come and gone while I've been lost in this intrapsychic void of mine:
First, it's been more than a year since I've had sex. Dr. M tells me this means I can reclaim my "virginity." I don't buy that notion, but it is noteworthy nevertheless. The next person who comes into this sphere with me will be lucky. There's enough sexual energy being stored up to send a few astronauts into orbit.
Second, it's been more than a year since I started penning this little blaaaahg o' mine. For nearly every day for the past year, I have written *something.* Much of it has been deeply neurotic but some of it has waxed philosophic. Some has been mundane, some meaningful.
However you characterize it, you have been witness to a Year in the Life of UCM. It has been a HELL ON WHEELS. But I wouldn't trade it. I wouldn't trade *any* of my life, to tell you the truth. It's what makes me me -- for all the glory, shame and tribulation and, in the words of my dear aunt Liz, all the "joy and laughter and love" that being me entails.
So here's wishing a belated Happy Birthday to extended psychosis. And Happy Valentine's Day to the rest of you.
Effin' Buddhists!
Look, I realize that's profane.
But I am feeling rather profane at this moment.
The other day, I finally responded to one of Bubba's persistent invitations to attend a meeting of her Buddhist sect. I'm not a religious person in the least. Because of my upbringing, spirituality is something I stuggle with on a large scale. ... But I was feeling rather open-minded the other day, so I agreed to go.
It was a pleasant enough experience. And there was food when it was over. And a little bit later, beer.
But right now, I am REGRETTING that move.
See, I want to sleep because I've been up all night working a graveyard shift. (Very quiet. Only one interpersonal problem among the residents to remedy at 5:30 this a.m. Otherwise, I did some chores around the place, got caught up in a text book and watched the movie "Thumbsucker.")
So my brain is tired. The old grey matter is not functioning very well. And under these conditions, it has a particularly nasty habit. I get "ear worms," those repetitions of one line from a song or a few strange words ("Robinson Caruso" and "Lee Iacoca" come to mind).
I was taking the pup on a stroll and got to thinking about that Buddhist meeting and Bubba asking me later what I thought of it. I'm not to keen on devotion to slogans, I had replied, in reference to their chanting and to the profuse discussion about the four words they chant repeatedly.
Walking down the street, I thought, What were those words, anyway?
And as I recalled them -- GODDAMNIT! -- they got stuck in my head. Now, all I want to do is go to sleep, and I've got this funky chant repeating itself endlessly. (I won't repeat those words here because I don't want to reinforce anything.)
Point of irony: It seems this particular chant is pretty much the essence of this Buddhist practice. You're supposed to say these four words a whole bunch in the morning and in the evening, and that is supposed to bring you enlightenment.
Well, you know what? This is not especially enlightening.
What I wouldn't do for a little bit of the theme song to "Rocky" right now.
But I am feeling rather profane at this moment.
The other day, I finally responded to one of Bubba's persistent invitations to attend a meeting of her Buddhist sect. I'm not a religious person in the least. Because of my upbringing, spirituality is something I stuggle with on a large scale. ... But I was feeling rather open-minded the other day, so I agreed to go.
It was a pleasant enough experience. And there was food when it was over. And a little bit later, beer.
But right now, I am REGRETTING that move.
See, I want to sleep because I've been up all night working a graveyard shift. (Very quiet. Only one interpersonal problem among the residents to remedy at 5:30 this a.m. Otherwise, I did some chores around the place, got caught up in a text book and watched the movie "Thumbsucker.")
So my brain is tired. The old grey matter is not functioning very well. And under these conditions, it has a particularly nasty habit. I get "ear worms," those repetitions of one line from a song or a few strange words ("Robinson Caruso" and "Lee Iacoca" come to mind).
I was taking the pup on a stroll and got to thinking about that Buddhist meeting and Bubba asking me later what I thought of it. I'm not to keen on devotion to slogans, I had replied, in reference to their chanting and to the profuse discussion about the four words they chant repeatedly.
Walking down the street, I thought, What were those words, anyway?
And as I recalled them -- GODDAMNIT! -- they got stuck in my head. Now, all I want to do is go to sleep, and I've got this funky chant repeating itself endlessly. (I won't repeat those words here because I don't want to reinforce anything.)
Point of irony: It seems this particular chant is pretty much the essence of this Buddhist practice. You're supposed to say these four words a whole bunch in the morning and in the evening, and that is supposed to bring you enlightenment.
Well, you know what? This is not especially enlightening.
What I wouldn't do for a little bit of the theme song to "Rocky" right now.
Monday, February 12, 2007
On into the night
Goldspincter's Daughter gave me *that look* I seem to get from a lot of people these days when, today as she was polishing the grit off my teeth, she asked if I was working.
I told her tonight would be my first solo graveyard shift with the Criminally Insane.
Which is when I got that look.
It's a curious mix of horror, skepticism, concern and what can best be summed up as, "I could never do that...."
"Aren't you scared?" she asked.
No. I mainly just don't want to fall asleep on the job, I replied. Then added for humor and effect: At least, not until after I've counted all the knives to make sure none are missing.
But seriously. Although I'm a helluva night owl, staying up until 7:30 in the morming -- and then driving home (and then walking the dog, so I can sleep uninterrupted for a while!) -- is not part of my madness.
I guess it's gonna be now, though.
Taking school books and Netflix videos to keep me awake. Thankfully, "The Passionate Marriage" has some page-turning qualities to it that will keep me interested in the wee hours.
Nighty-night folks. ... I'm off to join the underworld.
I told her tonight would be my first solo graveyard shift with the Criminally Insane.
Which is when I got that look.
It's a curious mix of horror, skepticism, concern and what can best be summed up as, "I could never do that...."
"Aren't you scared?" she asked.
No. I mainly just don't want to fall asleep on the job, I replied. Then added for humor and effect: At least, not until after I've counted all the knives to make sure none are missing.
But seriously. Although I'm a helluva night owl, staying up until 7:30 in the morming -- and then driving home (and then walking the dog, so I can sleep uninterrupted for a while!) -- is not part of my madness.
I guess it's gonna be now, though.
Taking school books and Netflix videos to keep me awake. Thankfully, "The Passionate Marriage" has some page-turning qualities to it that will keep me interested in the wee hours.
Nighty-night folks. ... I'm off to join the underworld.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Reflection deflection
Well, this sucks!
Last week in the class in which I learn how to behave like a counselor -- how to sit, how to talk, how to reflect content, feeling and meaning -- I did a taping with a fellow student. The point of the exercise was to reflect feeling.
Did I do that?
The transcribed dialogue says: Uh, no, not really.
What a fucking pisser!
(Yes, UCM, you feel frustrated.)
I did a lot of other therapeutic things in the exchange. But with the exception of a few oblique comments such as:
It sounds a little unsettling for you to make those kinds of choices. (Which is a reflection for sure.)
...and...
So credibility seems important to you. (A reflection of *something,* but I can't say it's a "feeling," per se.)
... and...
And you're seeing int really come to fruition. (I could not tell you *what* that kind of comment is. A reflection of "meaning" perhaps? But it came a bit early in the exchange for that.)
... with the exception of those, it seems I was happy to be doing Solution Focused Brief Therapy -- or something of that nature.
(S2 will giggle with delight when she reads that, I suspect.)
Other than that, I was really into the following comments:
Mmmmm.
Ah.
Uh-huh.
And really beautiful, fluid, provocative comments such as:
Mmm, hmm. What, um, what kind of rewards do you anticipate-- ... You say you want to do counseling, right? I mean, this was earlier in the conversation I think you said that.
Oh, the fluidity and precision of my words! My beautiful, thoughtful, intentional words!
What the fuck.
And now, I will have the pleasure of dissecting this dialogue for the instructor, telling her just what I intended when I said all these potent, saturated, therapeutic comments.
All I can say is:
Mmmm, hmmm.
Last week in the class in which I learn how to behave like a counselor -- how to sit, how to talk, how to reflect content, feeling and meaning -- I did a taping with a fellow student. The point of the exercise was to reflect feeling.
Did I do that?
The transcribed dialogue says: Uh, no, not really.
What a fucking pisser!
(Yes, UCM, you feel frustrated.)
I did a lot of other therapeutic things in the exchange. But with the exception of a few oblique comments such as:
It sounds a little unsettling for you to make those kinds of choices. (Which is a reflection for sure.)
...and...
So credibility seems important to you. (A reflection of *something,* but I can't say it's a "feeling," per se.)
... and...
And you're seeing int really come to fruition. (I could not tell you *what* that kind of comment is. A reflection of "meaning" perhaps? But it came a bit early in the exchange for that.)
... with the exception of those, it seems I was happy to be doing Solution Focused Brief Therapy -- or something of that nature.
(S2 will giggle with delight when she reads that, I suspect.)
Other than that, I was really into the following comments:
Mmmmm.
Ah.
Uh-huh.
And really beautiful, fluid, provocative comments such as:
Mmm, hmm. What, um, what kind of rewards do you anticipate-- ... You say you want to do counseling, right? I mean, this was earlier in the conversation I think you said that.
Oh, the fluidity and precision of my words! My beautiful, thoughtful, intentional words!
What the fuck.
And now, I will have the pleasure of dissecting this dialogue for the instructor, telling her just what I intended when I said all these potent, saturated, therapeutic comments.
All I can say is:
Mmmm, hmmm.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
UCM's Finishing School for Men: Lesson One
Last night, I taught a man to cook something.
Considering the preponderance of men in professional kitchens, this is nothing special. It's just that this particular man has for several months been vowing his ignorance in the ways of cooking and paying inappropriate homage to the notion of eating cereal for every meal and gulping down green beans straight from a can without heating them.
I've been there, right? My own culinary skills are just now blooming themselves after two decades of pasta and sauce from a jar as my staple (when I finally became tired of the cereal).
I saw his persistant disavowing of knowledge and skill as a cry for help.
So for that -- and a few other reasons -- I invited him to dinner. Whereupon I sprung my trap.
Shortly after his arrival, I believe he asked what was on the menu. Or perhaps he said, "What are you cooking?" Or maybe he just stood there quietly, hoping to be welcomed with a glass of wine, and I pounced on him instead. Hard to say.
But I recall telling him, You're cooking salmon.
And despite the alcohol that followed, I have clear recollection of the cringe of fear and horror that flashed on his face, the way his shoulders jerked back like he'd just seen a snake or heard a car wreck. Drama? The boy has talent.
"Well, I guess if you're prepared for me to ruin dinner...."
It's not possible. This is idiot-proof. (Not that this guy is an idiot; I don't have anything to do with boys like that.) You're going to poach it, and I'm going to tell you how to do it. Trust me, you can't screw it up.
To make a long story short, the salmon turned out beautifully. It was fragrant (all that dill and lemon that is XGF's trademark) and moist and delicious. I made a creamy citrus sauce (greek yogurt, lime zest, lime juice, orange zest, orange juice, olive oil, water and honey, if I recall correctly), roasted some potatoes and sauteed some baby bok choy for the side.
While we were eating this nice little dinner, the guy compliments *me* on the salmon.
*You* made it, I told him. Compliment yourself. You're on the verge of becoming a modern man.
"There are women out there who don't mind doing all the cooking," he replied.
Well, any woman from the latter part of the 20th or early 21st centuries is going to appreciate a guy who can cook, I said. There's nothing wrong with giving yourself a competitive advantage.
He laughed. Then asked, "But don't you think it would be pretty cool if you thought the guy you were with didn't know how to cook and let you do all the cooking and then one day, he whips out a really amazing meal for you?"
No. That would just make him a lazy liar.
"How long do you think it's fair to keep that talent hidden?"
No more than four months into the relationship, I replied. After that, I'm just gonna be disgusted that he left all the cooking up to me without saying something.
"But what if he went out and learned how to cook after the relationship started?"
In that case, (I motion as if pulling the arm on a slot machine) cha-ching! *That* would be very pleasing.
Then, the guy says, "Well, don't I get points for the fact that I'm a modern guy in other areas of my life? You know, my bathroom is clean. I have nice furniture. And stuff like that...."
Well, sure, he gets "points." Especially for his taste in furniture. And rather a whole lot more of them for the way, after the look of horror receded from his face, he took to poaching the salmon. The problem is, there's no system is in place to reward him.
Perhaps a sense of accomplishment is its own reward. And perhaps next time, he'll also make the sauce.
Considering the preponderance of men in professional kitchens, this is nothing special. It's just that this particular man has for several months been vowing his ignorance in the ways of cooking and paying inappropriate homage to the notion of eating cereal for every meal and gulping down green beans straight from a can without heating them.
I've been there, right? My own culinary skills are just now blooming themselves after two decades of pasta and sauce from a jar as my staple (when I finally became tired of the cereal).
I saw his persistant disavowing of knowledge and skill as a cry for help.
So for that -- and a few other reasons -- I invited him to dinner. Whereupon I sprung my trap.
Shortly after his arrival, I believe he asked what was on the menu. Or perhaps he said, "What are you cooking?" Or maybe he just stood there quietly, hoping to be welcomed with a glass of wine, and I pounced on him instead. Hard to say.
But I recall telling him, You're cooking salmon.
And despite the alcohol that followed, I have clear recollection of the cringe of fear and horror that flashed on his face, the way his shoulders jerked back like he'd just seen a snake or heard a car wreck. Drama? The boy has talent.
"Well, I guess if you're prepared for me to ruin dinner...."
It's not possible. This is idiot-proof. (Not that this guy is an idiot; I don't have anything to do with boys like that.) You're going to poach it, and I'm going to tell you how to do it. Trust me, you can't screw it up.
To make a long story short, the salmon turned out beautifully. It was fragrant (all that dill and lemon that is XGF's trademark) and moist and delicious. I made a creamy citrus sauce (greek yogurt, lime zest, lime juice, orange zest, orange juice, olive oil, water and honey, if I recall correctly), roasted some potatoes and sauteed some baby bok choy for the side.
While we were eating this nice little dinner, the guy compliments *me* on the salmon.
*You* made it, I told him. Compliment yourself. You're on the verge of becoming a modern man.
"There are women out there who don't mind doing all the cooking," he replied.
Well, any woman from the latter part of the 20th or early 21st centuries is going to appreciate a guy who can cook, I said. There's nothing wrong with giving yourself a competitive advantage.
He laughed. Then asked, "But don't you think it would be pretty cool if you thought the guy you were with didn't know how to cook and let you do all the cooking and then one day, he whips out a really amazing meal for you?"
No. That would just make him a lazy liar.
"How long do you think it's fair to keep that talent hidden?"
No more than four months into the relationship, I replied. After that, I'm just gonna be disgusted that he left all the cooking up to me without saying something.
"But what if he went out and learned how to cook after the relationship started?"
In that case, (I motion as if pulling the arm on a slot machine) cha-ching! *That* would be very pleasing.
Then, the guy says, "Well, don't I get points for the fact that I'm a modern guy in other areas of my life? You know, my bathroom is clean. I have nice furniture. And stuff like that...."
Well, sure, he gets "points." Especially for his taste in furniture. And rather a whole lot more of them for the way, after the look of horror receded from his face, he took to poaching the salmon. The problem is, there's no system is in place to reward him.
Perhaps a sense of accomplishment is its own reward. And perhaps next time, he'll also make the sauce.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Lost & found
Having walked the dog for nearly an hour, I was totally lost in my thoughts when I opened my mailbox on the way back up to my place.
There was a package inside, small, beaten and from a curious sender. "CPC Undeliverable Mail Office, 100 King St., North Sydney NS B2A 3Y6."
Australia? But there was French on the label. What was it? ... I was on such a different plane of thought -- there was a large-scale conceptualization of what happens to our energy after we die going on in the background -- that it took me until I got up into my kitchen to realize what I was holding.
I opened it hesitantly. And there it was: My trusted, supple, black leather French purse. The one I lost in Canada on New Year's Eve. Inside was a note saying it had been "found in the mailstream." My driver's license was stuck to outside of the wallet with a rubber band.
I opened the wallet. It appeared empty. I was appalled at the thought of all my personal information being in someone else's hands for certain when I realized there was something in the large snapped compartment I use as a change purse. Inside was every last credit card, gift card, identity card, insurance card, business card and coffee house punch card that had been in it. Only the cash was missing.
Interestingly, I notice that my fair French purse has not been exposed to the elements (and it was raining that day) and clearly not been knocked about in the street by cars (as I thought it may have fell out of my lap when I got out of the taxi). This leads me to conclude I lost it in one of the two places I believed I took it out of my purse: The store where I purchased something or the taxi I hailed just a few minutes later.
Whatever the case, someone put it into the mail, and Canada Post apparently sent it to Nova Scotia, from where it was mailed back to me. It made its way through Los Angeles International Airport on its way up here. So my wallet has taken quite the journey in the past six weeks.
But it's arrival comes after it was already replaced with a completely different style of wallet. So it begs the question. Which wallet will I use?
There was a package inside, small, beaten and from a curious sender. "CPC Undeliverable Mail Office, 100 King St., North Sydney NS B2A 3Y6."
Australia? But there was French on the label. What was it? ... I was on such a different plane of thought -- there was a large-scale conceptualization of what happens to our energy after we die going on in the background -- that it took me until I got up into my kitchen to realize what I was holding.
I opened it hesitantly. And there it was: My trusted, supple, black leather French purse. The one I lost in Canada on New Year's Eve. Inside was a note saying it had been "found in the mailstream." My driver's license was stuck to outside of the wallet with a rubber band.
I opened the wallet. It appeared empty. I was appalled at the thought of all my personal information being in someone else's hands for certain when I realized there was something in the large snapped compartment I use as a change purse. Inside was every last credit card, gift card, identity card, insurance card, business card and coffee house punch card that had been in it. Only the cash was missing.
Interestingly, I notice that my fair French purse has not been exposed to the elements (and it was raining that day) and clearly not been knocked about in the street by cars (as I thought it may have fell out of my lap when I got out of the taxi). This leads me to conclude I lost it in one of the two places I believed I took it out of my purse: The store where I purchased something or the taxi I hailed just a few minutes later.
Whatever the case, someone put it into the mail, and Canada Post apparently sent it to Nova Scotia, from where it was mailed back to me. It made its way through Los Angeles International Airport on its way up here. So my wallet has taken quite the journey in the past six weeks.
But it's arrival comes after it was already replaced with a completely different style of wallet. So it begs the question. Which wallet will I use?
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Crisis prevention
I learned today how to escape a variety of grabs and choke holds, as well as a way to get people to let go when they're pulling your hair.
Unfortunately, the information is trademarked. And given the fact that any one of you might succumb someday to the urge to choke me or pull my hair, I'm not going to make this information available.
I did, however, show a couple moves to S2 this evening. She very quickly learned how to get out of being choked. She was duly impressed by the ease and effectiveness of the release.
And let me tell you something, the move works very well. I know because I got choked rather good in class today and still managed to get out of it. It seems I was paired up with the only other woman in the room inclined to box. She was a lithe, African-American woman in her 30s and is, let's say, someone with a lot of street cred. (I mean that as a compliment.)
She was prone to hopping and bobbing and weaving during our exercises. We used a few tight grabs to simulate the experience of someone a little freaked out, and were happy to see the releases all worked well under pressure. Of course, it was rather silly of me to say, It's OK. You can go ahead and choke me, to a woman who had been bobbing and weaving and throwing some fairly wound-up punches.
To say the least, it is a respectable release move. Same goes for dealing with someone who's grabbing you by your hair. If you want me to show it to you, I will. But only after I've seen your criminal background check and decided whether Dirty Harry would trust you or not.
Unfortunately, the information is trademarked. And given the fact that any one of you might succumb someday to the urge to choke me or pull my hair, I'm not going to make this information available.
I did, however, show a couple moves to S2 this evening. She very quickly learned how to get out of being choked. She was duly impressed by the ease and effectiveness of the release.
And let me tell you something, the move works very well. I know because I got choked rather good in class today and still managed to get out of it. It seems I was paired up with the only other woman in the room inclined to box. She was a lithe, African-American woman in her 30s and is, let's say, someone with a lot of street cred. (I mean that as a compliment.)
She was prone to hopping and bobbing and weaving during our exercises. We used a few tight grabs to simulate the experience of someone a little freaked out, and were happy to see the releases all worked well under pressure. Of course, it was rather silly of me to say, It's OK. You can go ahead and choke me, to a woman who had been bobbing and weaving and throwing some fairly wound-up punches.
To say the least, it is a respectable release move. Same goes for dealing with someone who's grabbing you by your hair. If you want me to show it to you, I will. But only after I've seen your criminal background check and decided whether Dirty Harry would trust you or not.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Learning & training
First, the learning.
I am reading Susan Johnson's text on Emotion Focused Couples Therapy. And something I keep wondering is: Where the fuck is this stuff in the *rest* of my academic curriculum? I'm not talking about her particular therapeutic approach but about the theoretical orientation she takes toward the meaning and use of emotion and its role in healing the psyche.
The field of mental health has tilted too far toward the cognitive side. Stupid fucking insurance companies have gotten us off the track. Fortunately, EFT is an "empirically validated" therapy, so perhaps this will start getting some play in other parts of the curriculum as an individual approach.
It's a shame that many of my classmates will not cross paths with this stuff during their formal education. But then, if we are responsible counselors, we'll never stop educating ourselves. So perhaps they'll come across this on their own.
Now, the training.
Tomorrow, I attend a training program in crisis prevention and intervention. It's required for my work with the criminally insane. I'll have to report back on what I learn. That way, you readers will have some nascent, half-baked knowledge based on second-hand information (in other words, you'll be like Rush Limbaugh) to deal with crises that need intervention in your future. Kinda like how you're practically certifiable after talking to me about CPR and the Conscious Choking Procedure or whatever the hell it is Red Cross is calling the Heimlich to avoid royalties.
In other words, don't put it on your resume as a skill. And accept the fact that this entire blog comes with a Hold-Harmless Clause.
I am reading Susan Johnson's text on Emotion Focused Couples Therapy. And something I keep wondering is: Where the fuck is this stuff in the *rest* of my academic curriculum? I'm not talking about her particular therapeutic approach but about the theoretical orientation she takes toward the meaning and use of emotion and its role in healing the psyche.
The field of mental health has tilted too far toward the cognitive side. Stupid fucking insurance companies have gotten us off the track. Fortunately, EFT is an "empirically validated" therapy, so perhaps this will start getting some play in other parts of the curriculum as an individual approach.
It's a shame that many of my classmates will not cross paths with this stuff during their formal education. But then, if we are responsible counselors, we'll never stop educating ourselves. So perhaps they'll come across this on their own.
Now, the training.
Tomorrow, I attend a training program in crisis prevention and intervention. It's required for my work with the criminally insane. I'll have to report back on what I learn. That way, you readers will have some nascent, half-baked knowledge based on second-hand information (in other words, you'll be like Rush Limbaugh) to deal with crises that need intervention in your future. Kinda like how you're practically certifiable after talking to me about CPR and the Conscious Choking Procedure or whatever the hell it is Red Cross is calling the Heimlich to avoid royalties.
In other words, don't put it on your resume as a skill. And accept the fact that this entire blog comes with a Hold-Harmless Clause.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
About Liz
There is a part of me that remains in deep disbelief that my aunt Liz has ended her stay on the planet. I have never had such a reaction of disbelief -- to the point that Tuesday and Wednesday I was without question functioning but feeling very disconnected from reality. The information was sluggishly and reluctantly accepted. How can this be?
It's not that I can't believe death itself. Nor that Liz would die. I've been expecting this for months, but this was a phenomenal woman. If there's an ability to will oneself a longer life, I can tell you she had it and employed it until a gasket somewhere simply blew out where the pressure of her will to live met the body's limitations. I just don't want to believe it's so.
A week ago, the day before she died, I had a conversation with Liz about many things. Some of them medical, some of them mundane, some of them family things. All of them very real and vibrant, because she was saturated with an alert life force so powerful and present that there was *NO WAY* she was dying that night. Of course, it's true. She did.
I struggle with that disbelief still. But the evidence that was missing in my environment is beginning to find me. My friends are looking at me with the faces (and showing me the patience) that you employ with someone who has experienced an immense loss. Someone gives me flowers. The Buddhists offer their chants. The best friend says the things someone should say. The mentor tells me to express my grief in an artistic work (and adds that I should incorporate art in my therapy practice).
Gradually, it is sinking in.
And yet the sadness evades me. It surfaces in the most delicate and fleeting way. It comes more as a brief knock on the door than in a wave. It lingers for 10 or 15 seconds, as if to say, "Yes, I am here, and you will have to deal with me soon enough."
But there is something altogether different playing out against the skies of my interior.
There is the most magnificent sunset within me. My mental sky is filled with the warmest sunset, an endless gradation from pink to orange streaking across the ocean, striations of advancing clouds deepening the horizon. There in the west lies the most brilliant sun, nine-tenths of it already beneath the ocean's edge. I am at sea in a boat, and it is an endless and unobstructed sunset. Surely the most beautiful I have ever seen.
And yet there is also the approaching storm, which concerns me a little. I know I will survive it, but I am not looking forward to riding it out. The water is already a bit choppy.
I see this visually in my mind's eye, but it's also a description of my mood: Rather than feeling sadness, I am at this point feeling the most conflicting emotions I think I know. It's deep, immense love vs. deep, surprising anger. The warm sunset, the choppy water. Alas, my feelings of anger are a little more visible -- surprising and brief, but still obvious -- than is the competing sense of love.
Liz was an especially cherished and engaging person in my life for the better part of my youth, from age 8 through the end of my five years in college. I have always loved her and my uncle Rick with a special sense of delight. They are my favorite role models of what decent, fun-loving, welcoming, adventurous, caring, kind-hearted, funny people we humans can be. No one's perfect, but in my book, these people are FABULOUS.
There are many places I can go in tribute of my aunt Liz. But I would like to tell this little story:
The day before she died, I talked to her on the phone. I had called her cell and my aunt, who has always enjoyed flauting the rules, answered it even though it was forbidden in the ICU. Part of our conversation included her description of the view of Oahu from the lanais at the end of each hospital hallway and how she was missing the opportunity to visit the lanai. She mentioned that she liked to look for the older buildings with Spanish tile amidst the towering hotels.
There was a certain tone to her voice when she told that story -- one of immense pleasure -- that stuck out to me. It is so simple a pleasure, and yet she had a sense of excitement in her voice.
Earlier this week, in an attempt to get in touch with my feelings, I listened to Isreal Kamakawiwo'ole's version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," that beautiful Hawaiian version with the ukelele. It came to my mind the night my uncle told me she was dead -- he asked me about doing a ritual for her, and I said, "What about this song?" On Thursday, I had a conversation with one of my professors about my aunt's death, and later she approached me in the hallway and told me that after I'd left the room, she suddenly heard Kamakawiwo'ole's version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" in her head.
(As a side note: Almost every day for the past two weeks, my home has been filled with small rainbows. Liz made me a suncatcher with a large, multifaceted crystal pendant, and when the sunlight hits it, dozens of rainbows pepper the walls and ceilings, casting color into the darkest depths of my loft. After she mentioned the song, I told my professor about the suncatcher. She liked the coincidence.)
I went home and listened to the song (this one the version combined with "What a Wonderful World") for the first time in a while. When the line "... high above the chimney tops, that's where you'll find me ..." played, I suddenly saw the view of Oahu that my aunt described from the hospital's lanai, specifically a home with a red tile roof. The first twinges of grief knocked softly on my heart. And then, like that, they were gone. There was a feeling of warmth in their wake, a soothing sense of love.
Yesterday, I talked to my uncle. For whatever reason, I told him that Liz had mentioned missing her visits to the lanai. His reply captured my attention:
"Oh yeah, she loved the lanai. It had a great view. But there was this one old Spanish-style house that -- I don't know -- for whatever reason Liz was captivated by it. The light always seemed to be catching it just so. It had a special light. A couple times, it looked like rainbows were touching it or passing over it. When she was stuck in the oncology ward for all those weeks before they put her in the ICU, she would go out onto the lanai three or four times a day, do her exercises out there and look at that house. She seemed to meditate on it. It became a real beacon to her. She had decided that when she got out the hospital this time, she was going to go visit that house. It became her little prize for getting out of the hospital."
I don't have the words yet to describe what this story means to me, but it means a great deal. I keep thinking about Liz's outlook, her love of life, her appreciation of beauty, her ability to find something special to cherish in everything (not the least of which, me).
Even before Rick told me that story, I have felt as if Liz's particular brand of love is present in me, as if she is here in spirit sometimes. Our relationship covered a 30-year span and countless memories -- all of them good; some of them among the best -- and there is clearly something of her that lives within me.
I'm not sure what the anger is about, but I can see the storm coming. That waning sun, though, looks to me like Liz's tenacious, lingering spirit extinguishing itself beautifully in the Pacific. I'll deal with the storm when it gets here. Right now, however, I am overwhelmed by the beauty of the sunset.
It's not that I can't believe death itself. Nor that Liz would die. I've been expecting this for months, but this was a phenomenal woman. If there's an ability to will oneself a longer life, I can tell you she had it and employed it until a gasket somewhere simply blew out where the pressure of her will to live met the body's limitations. I just don't want to believe it's so.
A week ago, the day before she died, I had a conversation with Liz about many things. Some of them medical, some of them mundane, some of them family things. All of them very real and vibrant, because she was saturated with an alert life force so powerful and present that there was *NO WAY* she was dying that night. Of course, it's true. She did.
I struggle with that disbelief still. But the evidence that was missing in my environment is beginning to find me. My friends are looking at me with the faces (and showing me the patience) that you employ with someone who has experienced an immense loss. Someone gives me flowers. The Buddhists offer their chants. The best friend says the things someone should say. The mentor tells me to express my grief in an artistic work (and adds that I should incorporate art in my therapy practice).
Gradually, it is sinking in.
And yet the sadness evades me. It surfaces in the most delicate and fleeting way. It comes more as a brief knock on the door than in a wave. It lingers for 10 or 15 seconds, as if to say, "Yes, I am here, and you will have to deal with me soon enough."
But there is something altogether different playing out against the skies of my interior.
There is the most magnificent sunset within me. My mental sky is filled with the warmest sunset, an endless gradation from pink to orange streaking across the ocean, striations of advancing clouds deepening the horizon. There in the west lies the most brilliant sun, nine-tenths of it already beneath the ocean's edge. I am at sea in a boat, and it is an endless and unobstructed sunset. Surely the most beautiful I have ever seen.
And yet there is also the approaching storm, which concerns me a little. I know I will survive it, but I am not looking forward to riding it out. The water is already a bit choppy.
I see this visually in my mind's eye, but it's also a description of my mood: Rather than feeling sadness, I am at this point feeling the most conflicting emotions I think I know. It's deep, immense love vs. deep, surprising anger. The warm sunset, the choppy water. Alas, my feelings of anger are a little more visible -- surprising and brief, but still obvious -- than is the competing sense of love.
Liz was an especially cherished and engaging person in my life for the better part of my youth, from age 8 through the end of my five years in college. I have always loved her and my uncle Rick with a special sense of delight. They are my favorite role models of what decent, fun-loving, welcoming, adventurous, caring, kind-hearted, funny people we humans can be. No one's perfect, but in my book, these people are FABULOUS.
There are many places I can go in tribute of my aunt Liz. But I would like to tell this little story:
The day before she died, I talked to her on the phone. I had called her cell and my aunt, who has always enjoyed flauting the rules, answered it even though it was forbidden in the ICU. Part of our conversation included her description of the view of Oahu from the lanais at the end of each hospital hallway and how she was missing the opportunity to visit the lanai. She mentioned that she liked to look for the older buildings with Spanish tile amidst the towering hotels.
There was a certain tone to her voice when she told that story -- one of immense pleasure -- that stuck out to me. It is so simple a pleasure, and yet she had a sense of excitement in her voice.
Earlier this week, in an attempt to get in touch with my feelings, I listened to Isreal Kamakawiwo'ole's version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," that beautiful Hawaiian version with the ukelele. It came to my mind the night my uncle told me she was dead -- he asked me about doing a ritual for her, and I said, "What about this song?" On Thursday, I had a conversation with one of my professors about my aunt's death, and later she approached me in the hallway and told me that after I'd left the room, she suddenly heard Kamakawiwo'ole's version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" in her head.
(As a side note: Almost every day for the past two weeks, my home has been filled with small rainbows. Liz made me a suncatcher with a large, multifaceted crystal pendant, and when the sunlight hits it, dozens of rainbows pepper the walls and ceilings, casting color into the darkest depths of my loft. After she mentioned the song, I told my professor about the suncatcher. She liked the coincidence.)
I went home and listened to the song (this one the version combined with "What a Wonderful World") for the first time in a while. When the line "... high above the chimney tops, that's where you'll find me ..." played, I suddenly saw the view of Oahu that my aunt described from the hospital's lanai, specifically a home with a red tile roof. The first twinges of grief knocked softly on my heart. And then, like that, they were gone. There was a feeling of warmth in their wake, a soothing sense of love.
Yesterday, I talked to my uncle. For whatever reason, I told him that Liz had mentioned missing her visits to the lanai. His reply captured my attention:
"Oh yeah, she loved the lanai. It had a great view. But there was this one old Spanish-style house that -- I don't know -- for whatever reason Liz was captivated by it. The light always seemed to be catching it just so. It had a special light. A couple times, it looked like rainbows were touching it or passing over it. When she was stuck in the oncology ward for all those weeks before they put her in the ICU, she would go out onto the lanai three or four times a day, do her exercises out there and look at that house. She seemed to meditate on it. It became a real beacon to her. She had decided that when she got out the hospital this time, she was going to go visit that house. It became her little prize for getting out of the hospital."
I don't have the words yet to describe what this story means to me, but it means a great deal. I keep thinking about Liz's outlook, her love of life, her appreciation of beauty, her ability to find something special to cherish in everything (not the least of which, me).
Even before Rick told me that story, I have felt as if Liz's particular brand of love is present in me, as if she is here in spirit sometimes. Our relationship covered a 30-year span and countless memories -- all of them good; some of them among the best -- and there is clearly something of her that lives within me.
I'm not sure what the anger is about, but I can see the storm coming. That waning sun, though, looks to me like Liz's tenacious, lingering spirit extinguishing itself beautifully in the Pacific. I'll deal with the storm when it gets here. Right now, however, I am overwhelmed by the beauty of the sunset.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Tidbits
This was a day full of its own little oddities:
-- My day started lovingly, with a long conversation with my uncle. Lots of good stuff there. Helped me find a little of what's been missing internally.
-- A woman chastized me in the coffee house this morning for tying my dog to a tree outside while I waited for someone to grill me up a bagel with egg and a schmear. She told me I should bring him inside, that it wasn't right to leave him out in the rain. She was clearly sucked in by his pathetic whimpering. I said, He's fine. He would do that even if it was sunny outside. And anyway, he's a terrier; this is his weather. Not to mention, he had on a PARKA! She was pretty insistant. I remained polite and resisted the urge to tell her to shut the fuck up.
-- I watched a video of my aunt Liz talking about how she ran their brand new 45' sailboat into a sandbar in St. Petersburg while navigating the bay in the middle of the night. She went ashore in the dingy for a bit, and described how upsetting it was to look at her boat from a distance. "Seeing your boat on its side like that gives you a sinking feeling, no pun intended," she said. "It took a lot of work with the anchor and winches to right it again." For various and sundry reasons, it seemed like a metaphor for my life. No more need be said at this point.
-- I went kitten shopping with S2, who is plotting a super-sweet Valentine's gift for her girls. It turns out there is a "kitten season," but it's in the summer. So kitties are in short supply. No telling what S2 will end up getting, but it was amusing to look at the "cat rooms" in the Humane Society. One was set up as a living room with tiny chairs, a fake fireplace with mantle and lots of shelves on the walls, each of which was designed to be a cat roost. Cats were sprawled all over the place. It was the funniest thing I've seen in a while.
-- I got cut off by the bar at McMenamin's when S2 and I stopped in for cocktails and appetizers. I had purchased this funny margarita and decided there wasn't much tequila in it. It was disgustingly sweet and lacked the taste and smell of liquor. So I ordered a double shot of tequila and poured it into the pint-sized drink. Still didn't taste quite right, so I ordered another. And they wouldn't bring it to me! Turns out there's a three-shot maximum. Whether that's imposed by the business or by the state liquor commission is a bit fuzzy. I finished the drink, and I ordered a G&T with a double-shot of gin. Apparently, all you need to do to skirt this little restriction is change the *type* of liquor you're drinking. Wine and beer are clearly exempt from this rule. Personally, that seems stupid to me because I get a hell of a lot more fucked up on wine.
-- While waiting for my liquor, I had a great conversation with S2. There are times when we take each other down difficult paths, but there's enough authenticity and good intentions in the process that it makes it seem "easy." There are many elements of grace in my life, and my friendship with S2 is one of them.
-- I went to see "Notes on a Scandal" with The Good Witch and her partner, Cartman. Two elements to this tidbit: First, "Notes on a Scandal" is probably *not* what I needed to see at this point, but it was FABULOUS. Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett both are fearless actresses. Dench plays one of the most desperate, bitter, lonely, sinister, predatory lesbians (not to mention women) I have ever seen portrayed in film. I recoiled so strongly from her character that I literally was pushing myself back in the seat, trying to get as far away from the screen as possible. Amazing. But perhaps a bit much to ask me to digest right now. ... Second, after the show, as The Good Witch and Cartman dissected just how *evil* "old-school English dykes" can be, they asked me to walk with them to their car. When we got there, they pulled out a large glass container with a bunch of hydroponic tulips -- not yet blooming -- and gave them to me. "We wanted you to have something to remind you of your aunt," Cartman said. "These will stay in bloom for a long time." I was so very touched. What a lovely gesture, even though it helps to drive home the point that she's really gone.
-- On the way home, I had a conversation with a classmate who has promised to help throw a Mardis Gras party in a couple weeks. I wanted to make sure she was really on board before I sent out the invitation. During our conversation, she admitted that she watches the British comedy, "As Time Goes By," which stars Judi Dench. She said she doesn't like to admit this to people because it's an "old people" show. It was a rare moment of communion for me -- because I watch it, too, and also am a little embarrassed to admit it. But what the hell. It's nothing to be ashamed about. If nothing else, Judi Dench is in it -- even if I'm *never* going to look at her the same way again.
-- My day started lovingly, with a long conversation with my uncle. Lots of good stuff there. Helped me find a little of what's been missing internally.
-- A woman chastized me in the coffee house this morning for tying my dog to a tree outside while I waited for someone to grill me up a bagel with egg and a schmear. She told me I should bring him inside, that it wasn't right to leave him out in the rain. She was clearly sucked in by his pathetic whimpering. I said, He's fine. He would do that even if it was sunny outside. And anyway, he's a terrier; this is his weather. Not to mention, he had on a PARKA! She was pretty insistant. I remained polite and resisted the urge to tell her to shut the fuck up.
-- I watched a video of my aunt Liz talking about how she ran their brand new 45' sailboat into a sandbar in St. Petersburg while navigating the bay in the middle of the night. She went ashore in the dingy for a bit, and described how upsetting it was to look at her boat from a distance. "Seeing your boat on its side like that gives you a sinking feeling, no pun intended," she said. "It took a lot of work with the anchor and winches to right it again." For various and sundry reasons, it seemed like a metaphor for my life. No more need be said at this point.
-- I went kitten shopping with S2, who is plotting a super-sweet Valentine's gift for her girls. It turns out there is a "kitten season," but it's in the summer. So kitties are in short supply. No telling what S2 will end up getting, but it was amusing to look at the "cat rooms" in the Humane Society. One was set up as a living room with tiny chairs, a fake fireplace with mantle and lots of shelves on the walls, each of which was designed to be a cat roost. Cats were sprawled all over the place. It was the funniest thing I've seen in a while.
-- I got cut off by the bar at McMenamin's when S2 and I stopped in for cocktails and appetizers. I had purchased this funny margarita and decided there wasn't much tequila in it. It was disgustingly sweet and lacked the taste and smell of liquor. So I ordered a double shot of tequila and poured it into the pint-sized drink. Still didn't taste quite right, so I ordered another. And they wouldn't bring it to me! Turns out there's a three-shot maximum. Whether that's imposed by the business or by the state liquor commission is a bit fuzzy. I finished the drink, and I ordered a G&T with a double-shot of gin. Apparently, all you need to do to skirt this little restriction is change the *type* of liquor you're drinking. Wine and beer are clearly exempt from this rule. Personally, that seems stupid to me because I get a hell of a lot more fucked up on wine.
-- While waiting for my liquor, I had a great conversation with S2. There are times when we take each other down difficult paths, but there's enough authenticity and good intentions in the process that it makes it seem "easy." There are many elements of grace in my life, and my friendship with S2 is one of them.
-- I went to see "Notes on a Scandal" with The Good Witch and her partner, Cartman. Two elements to this tidbit: First, "Notes on a Scandal" is probably *not* what I needed to see at this point, but it was FABULOUS. Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett both are fearless actresses. Dench plays one of the most desperate, bitter, lonely, sinister, predatory lesbians (not to mention women) I have ever seen portrayed in film. I recoiled so strongly from her character that I literally was pushing myself back in the seat, trying to get as far away from the screen as possible. Amazing. But perhaps a bit much to ask me to digest right now. ... Second, after the show, as The Good Witch and Cartman dissected just how *evil* "old-school English dykes" can be, they asked me to walk with them to their car. When we got there, they pulled out a large glass container with a bunch of hydroponic tulips -- not yet blooming -- and gave them to me. "We wanted you to have something to remind you of your aunt," Cartman said. "These will stay in bloom for a long time." I was so very touched. What a lovely gesture, even though it helps to drive home the point that she's really gone.
-- On the way home, I had a conversation with a classmate who has promised to help throw a Mardis Gras party in a couple weeks. I wanted to make sure she was really on board before I sent out the invitation. During our conversation, she admitted that she watches the British comedy, "As Time Goes By," which stars Judi Dench. She said she doesn't like to admit this to people because it's an "old people" show. It was a rare moment of communion for me -- because I watch it, too, and also am a little embarrassed to admit it. But what the hell. It's nothing to be ashamed about. If nothing else, Judi Dench is in it -- even if I'm *never* going to look at her the same way again.
Friday, February 02, 2007
From long ago & far away
Sometimes I wonder just what I've inherited from my family.
I've discussed before my dad's belief that a "fierce independence" is trasmitted genetically through his side of the family. Although I believe genetics may play a part, I see his belief as considerably more likely to be transmitted through "message" than anything else.
Just as I started writing this, my sister called me. I told her what I was beginning to write, and she said, "Isn't it funny how most of the positive traits we have are sourced in people other than our parents? That 'fierce independence' isn't something I think of as an inheritence so much as something I have had to work really hard to get over."
So true.
But here's where I was going -- not about my dad and his silliness. Nor about the legacy of Catholic guilt that runs in my mother's side of the family.
No, I was thinking about my wanderlust, my curiosity, my embracing of the passionate and sensual.
I was digging through a bag of stuff XGF sent me from the house a couple months ago, and at the bottom of the bag turned up about 20 "vintage" stir sticks that I got from my grandmother's large collection when she died. Some are from TWA flights to Africa and India. Others are from The Stardust hotel in Las Vegas or the Runaway Bay Club in Hialeah, Florida. They're primarily from the 1960s and 1970s, and I know it's likely they came with a gin & tonic.
But they were also acquired because my grandmother was an avid traveler. So was my aunt Connie, who was a flight attendant up until her death a few years ago. So, too, was my Uncle Rick, who joined forces with my adventurous Aunt Liz and turned their life into a "never-ending" adventure.
All the time I was growing up, I was captivated and inspired by the travel stories of that cast of characters.
I discovered the stir sticks just a few hours after I had been watching a videotape of Liz regaling me this past August with stories from the years she and Rick were in the Peace Corps, followed by a three-month voyage home. They went to Kenya and Ethiopia, on to India and Nepal, then dropping down Thailand and Singapore before landing in Indonesia for a long stay in Bali.
The adventures they had were good enough on their own, but the fact that they did all this travel with my 1-year-old cousin (MiniMimi) in tow, carting around the pots necessary to sterilize water and give her formula, as well as washing out the diapers every night, makes for some fascinating travel tales.
It was only the first of many adventures Rick and Liz engaged in over the years. Sometimes, as when we went swimming with aligators in the clear spring rivers of the Florida panhandle, I was with them. Others simply came to life in my imagination as they or my grandmother told me where they had been and what they'd been doing. (As a side note, they also enjoyed and threw great parties. I learned from them that a good hostess makes sure every guest who wants "a little buzz" gets one -- and that the food should be homey, flavorful and plentiful.)
Liz's life was too short -- she didn't make it to 60 -- but it was a life fully lived.
Graduate school and a career change are currently preventing me from traveling as I would like, but there's no question that this legacy -- this wanderlust -- that I got from those family members lives on within me.
Earlier this year, my uncle was taking me to the Kona airport when we got into a discussion about whether he lived an "alternative lifestyle." He said his version of "alternative" was growing pot and living in a tent in Pahoa (and added he wouldn't object to the occupation or the location, but no longer cared for the idea of living in a tent). I told him that the way he lives his life is outside the mainstream of corporate hacks and anyone else who holds an 8-5 job.
My uncle replied, "I've never gotten the exchange rate there. People work their asses off five days out of the week and try to cram their pleasure into two. They work 50 weeks a year so they can have two weeks to themselves for fun. Five for two or 50 for two, that just doesn't seem like a fair trade to me."
I couldn't agree more. But then, I learned it from him and Liz.
As far as I can figure, that's an attitude and a legacy worth inhereting.
I've discussed before my dad's belief that a "fierce independence" is trasmitted genetically through his side of the family. Although I believe genetics may play a part, I see his belief as considerably more likely to be transmitted through "message" than anything else.
Just as I started writing this, my sister called me. I told her what I was beginning to write, and she said, "Isn't it funny how most of the positive traits we have are sourced in people other than our parents? That 'fierce independence' isn't something I think of as an inheritence so much as something I have had to work really hard to get over."
So true.
But here's where I was going -- not about my dad and his silliness. Nor about the legacy of Catholic guilt that runs in my mother's side of the family.
No, I was thinking about my wanderlust, my curiosity, my embracing of the passionate and sensual.
I was digging through a bag of stuff XGF sent me from the house a couple months ago, and at the bottom of the bag turned up about 20 "vintage" stir sticks that I got from my grandmother's large collection when she died. Some are from TWA flights to Africa and India. Others are from The Stardust hotel in Las Vegas or the Runaway Bay Club in Hialeah, Florida. They're primarily from the 1960s and 1970s, and I know it's likely they came with a gin & tonic.
But they were also acquired because my grandmother was an avid traveler. So was my aunt Connie, who was a flight attendant up until her death a few years ago. So, too, was my Uncle Rick, who joined forces with my adventurous Aunt Liz and turned their life into a "never-ending" adventure.
All the time I was growing up, I was captivated and inspired by the travel stories of that cast of characters.
I discovered the stir sticks just a few hours after I had been watching a videotape of Liz regaling me this past August with stories from the years she and Rick were in the Peace Corps, followed by a three-month voyage home. They went to Kenya and Ethiopia, on to India and Nepal, then dropping down Thailand and Singapore before landing in Indonesia for a long stay in Bali.
The adventures they had were good enough on their own, but the fact that they did all this travel with my 1-year-old cousin (MiniMimi) in tow, carting around the pots necessary to sterilize water and give her formula, as well as washing out the diapers every night, makes for some fascinating travel tales.
It was only the first of many adventures Rick and Liz engaged in over the years. Sometimes, as when we went swimming with aligators in the clear spring rivers of the Florida panhandle, I was with them. Others simply came to life in my imagination as they or my grandmother told me where they had been and what they'd been doing. (As a side note, they also enjoyed and threw great parties. I learned from them that a good hostess makes sure every guest who wants "a little buzz" gets one -- and that the food should be homey, flavorful and plentiful.)
Liz's life was too short -- she didn't make it to 60 -- but it was a life fully lived.
Graduate school and a career change are currently preventing me from traveling as I would like, but there's no question that this legacy -- this wanderlust -- that I got from those family members lives on within me.
Earlier this year, my uncle was taking me to the Kona airport when we got into a discussion about whether he lived an "alternative lifestyle." He said his version of "alternative" was growing pot and living in a tent in Pahoa (and added he wouldn't object to the occupation or the location, but no longer cared for the idea of living in a tent). I told him that the way he lives his life is outside the mainstream of corporate hacks and anyone else who holds an 8-5 job.
My uncle replied, "I've never gotten the exchange rate there. People work their asses off five days out of the week and try to cram their pleasure into two. They work 50 weeks a year so they can have two weeks to themselves for fun. Five for two or 50 for two, that just doesn't seem like a fair trade to me."
I couldn't agree more. But then, I learned it from him and Liz.
As far as I can figure, that's an attitude and a legacy worth inhereting.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Grief: 'A portrait of randomness'
I talked to my cousin MiniMimi today. She is the oldest daughter of my aunt and uncle, and she's about 12 or 13 years younger than me. I have known her since she was an infant.
When I was in college, we played ring-around-the-rosie. I let her do an 8-year-old's job on my nails. I tickled her and tackled her and let her tell me wild stories. Just like my cousin Spitfire, I found her amazingly precocious, delightful and charming.
As with my Aunt Liz, 14 years slipped by between when I last saw her and the spring of 2005. So when I laid eyes on MiniMimi as an adult, I smiled. She looked a lot like our grandmother did at her age (hence the psuedonym), but there was a scar there under one of her eyes. It seems a dog attacked her at a Rainbow Family gathering.
I have felt sometimes like a bit of an imposter in this part of the family. So much time passed between the summer of 1991 and when we finally reconnected. There was never any bad water under the bridge; there was just time and space. I had moved to California; they had sold their B&B in New Orleans and sailed off to South America and the Carribbean for three years. (My aunt has referred to that time as "ruining our daughters' lives.")
It was weird for me to return to the fold, so to speak. While my aunt and uncle understood our relationship of more than 30 years, my cousins seemed to regard me with a wary eye. They are both very protective of their parents, and I thought they did not remember enough of me to understand my intentions.
There has never been anything but love there. Unless, of course, you consider the way my spirit reveled in the freedom and sense of adventure I found in their presence.
So today, I called MiniMimi to offer my condolences. This is an odd thing for me, generally, because *I* am so personally devastated by LIz's death, yet I know there is a pain far greater in the hearts of my uncle and cousins. I cannot imagine how intense that must be. So while I stew in this loss myself, I want somehow to comfort them.
As the phone call unrolled, I realized I really do have some skill in this arena. I suspect it comes from the fact that I'm not uncomfortable with expressions of grief in others, no matter how random it might seem. When I first talked to my cousin, she was giddy. The word she used to describe herself was "manic."
Somewhere along the line, I reflected on a comment she made and told her what I *knew* Liz had to say on the matter because she had told me so. For whatever reason, my response seems to have cut through her "mania" and allowed her to release some of the emotion which I, myself, am still having difficulty accessing.
I sat silently and listened to her cry for a while. I envisioned the breaking white caps of waves in those thousands of miles between us, all that salt water mixing with her tears, and simply let her cry.
Someone very dear to me had, earlier this afternoon, let me vent an abundance of emotion without many words -- just the question of whether I was safe because I was driving my car and talking on the phone when it happened. And I knew from that, and from a few other cricial experiences in my life, that sometimes the best thing you can do is allow someone to be with their emotions. Without words. Without judgment. Without sighs or tongue clucking. And, most importantly, without unwarranted FEAR.
Especially in grief, we don't need other people trying to protect us from our emotions. Each experience of grief is unique not just to the individual but to the circumstances. It won't be the same every time. It has no roadmap. It has no "stages." It also has no ability to defy the moment-to-moment reality of what the heart feels. (Technically, it can "defy" that, but not without damage to the psyche.) It simply needs to be experienced and released before it will take its leave of us.
But it seems to me from this most recent loss -- of someone who was, without question, one of the most beloved figures in my life -- and from past ones (and there have been quite a few around these parts), that many people are very uncomfortable with the ways grief can present.
When I mentioned last week that I would be considering an internship with a hospice program, one of my classmates asked if the topic wasn't a little too close to home (on accounts of my brother's death five years ago, I gather). I'm not sure what she was implying at the time, but what I think right now is that it would be grossly inappropriate to be a counselor of grieving people if you yourself have not experienced profound grief. No two experiences are alike, but if you haven't had any significant experience with it yourself, I think you've got no business sitting with people (or their family members) who are facing the end of the lives.
If nothing else, you learn from experience that there are special forms of hell that exist only within the human heart that is facing or has experienced a significant loss. Then, you have to be prepared to sit and be present with someone as they explore that slice of hell within themselves. And rather than trying to distract them from it, you might be in the position to help them look at it a little more closely, to regard the depth of their pain and see its correlation to the power of their love or their life force. (Or, perhaps, to regard the absence of pain as a correlation to the power of their love, considering it in the light of things which are simply unbearable.)
For nearly three days, I was rendered emotionally numb by Liz's death. I lost my internal compass, and it was incredibly disorienting. My emotions finally returned in some ways today. Unfortunately, they did so with very poor timing, and one of my professors had an eagle's eye view to me "being in and out" of my body, as she put it. When I explained my situation, she shared with me one of her recent experiences with death but, mercifully, did so without drawing comparisons between her experience and mine.
Each experience is unique. So it's especially annoying to listen to people try to compare their experiences with grief with the aim of saying "how it goes." (And this happens a LOT, I can assure you.) But it's also maddening -- and terribly INSULTING -- to be questioned about how you are handling your grief. (Not to say we should ignore it when people are harming themselves, as in drinking too much or engaging in reckless behavior.)
MiniMimi commented several times on her "mania" with small shades of embarrassment, as if perhaps she was not acting properly in light of her mother's death. Don't let anyone dictate to you how it should go, I told her. Be how you need to be, but be safe about it. Grief doesn't follow a map.
"No kidding," she replied. "I keep thinking that if some tried to chart their grief on a grid -- this type of experience here, that type there; this timeline; that intensity -- and that if you connected all the dots, you would get a senseless scribble. You'd find Jackson Pollack in the details. It would be a portrait of randomness."
I suppose we will all be hoeing a long and tough row. No telling when or how it will get done. Perhaps, in some ways, it never will. But in the meantime, as one of my classmates said, allowing ourselves the grace to be OK with what's happening is the greatest gift we can give ourselves.
Gift No. 2, I think, would be a good massage.
When I was in college, we played ring-around-the-rosie. I let her do an 8-year-old's job on my nails. I tickled her and tackled her and let her tell me wild stories. Just like my cousin Spitfire, I found her amazingly precocious, delightful and charming.
As with my Aunt Liz, 14 years slipped by between when I last saw her and the spring of 2005. So when I laid eyes on MiniMimi as an adult, I smiled. She looked a lot like our grandmother did at her age (hence the psuedonym), but there was a scar there under one of her eyes. It seems a dog attacked her at a Rainbow Family gathering.
I have felt sometimes like a bit of an imposter in this part of the family. So much time passed between the summer of 1991 and when we finally reconnected. There was never any bad water under the bridge; there was just time and space. I had moved to California; they had sold their B&B in New Orleans and sailed off to South America and the Carribbean for three years. (My aunt has referred to that time as "ruining our daughters' lives.")
It was weird for me to return to the fold, so to speak. While my aunt and uncle understood our relationship of more than 30 years, my cousins seemed to regard me with a wary eye. They are both very protective of their parents, and I thought they did not remember enough of me to understand my intentions.
There has never been anything but love there. Unless, of course, you consider the way my spirit reveled in the freedom and sense of adventure I found in their presence.
So today, I called MiniMimi to offer my condolences. This is an odd thing for me, generally, because *I* am so personally devastated by LIz's death, yet I know there is a pain far greater in the hearts of my uncle and cousins. I cannot imagine how intense that must be. So while I stew in this loss myself, I want somehow to comfort them.
As the phone call unrolled, I realized I really do have some skill in this arena. I suspect it comes from the fact that I'm not uncomfortable with expressions of grief in others, no matter how random it might seem. When I first talked to my cousin, she was giddy. The word she used to describe herself was "manic."
Somewhere along the line, I reflected on a comment she made and told her what I *knew* Liz had to say on the matter because she had told me so. For whatever reason, my response seems to have cut through her "mania" and allowed her to release some of the emotion which I, myself, am still having difficulty accessing.
I sat silently and listened to her cry for a while. I envisioned the breaking white caps of waves in those thousands of miles between us, all that salt water mixing with her tears, and simply let her cry.
Someone very dear to me had, earlier this afternoon, let me vent an abundance of emotion without many words -- just the question of whether I was safe because I was driving my car and talking on the phone when it happened. And I knew from that, and from a few other cricial experiences in my life, that sometimes the best thing you can do is allow someone to be with their emotions. Without words. Without judgment. Without sighs or tongue clucking. And, most importantly, without unwarranted FEAR.
Especially in grief, we don't need other people trying to protect us from our emotions. Each experience of grief is unique not just to the individual but to the circumstances. It won't be the same every time. It has no roadmap. It has no "stages." It also has no ability to defy the moment-to-moment reality of what the heart feels. (Technically, it can "defy" that, but not without damage to the psyche.) It simply needs to be experienced and released before it will take its leave of us.
But it seems to me from this most recent loss -- of someone who was, without question, one of the most beloved figures in my life -- and from past ones (and there have been quite a few around these parts), that many people are very uncomfortable with the ways grief can present.
When I mentioned last week that I would be considering an internship with a hospice program, one of my classmates asked if the topic wasn't a little too close to home (on accounts of my brother's death five years ago, I gather). I'm not sure what she was implying at the time, but what I think right now is that it would be grossly inappropriate to be a counselor of grieving people if you yourself have not experienced profound grief. No two experiences are alike, but if you haven't had any significant experience with it yourself, I think you've got no business sitting with people (or their family members) who are facing the end of the lives.
If nothing else, you learn from experience that there are special forms of hell that exist only within the human heart that is facing or has experienced a significant loss. Then, you have to be prepared to sit and be present with someone as they explore that slice of hell within themselves. And rather than trying to distract them from it, you might be in the position to help them look at it a little more closely, to regard the depth of their pain and see its correlation to the power of their love or their life force. (Or, perhaps, to regard the absence of pain as a correlation to the power of their love, considering it in the light of things which are simply unbearable.)
For nearly three days, I was rendered emotionally numb by Liz's death. I lost my internal compass, and it was incredibly disorienting. My emotions finally returned in some ways today. Unfortunately, they did so with very poor timing, and one of my professors had an eagle's eye view to me "being in and out" of my body, as she put it. When I explained my situation, she shared with me one of her recent experiences with death but, mercifully, did so without drawing comparisons between her experience and mine.
Each experience is unique. So it's especially annoying to listen to people try to compare their experiences with grief with the aim of saying "how it goes." (And this happens a LOT, I can assure you.) But it's also maddening -- and terribly INSULTING -- to be questioned about how you are handling your grief. (Not to say we should ignore it when people are harming themselves, as in drinking too much or engaging in reckless behavior.)
MiniMimi commented several times on her "mania" with small shades of embarrassment, as if perhaps she was not acting properly in light of her mother's death. Don't let anyone dictate to you how it should go, I told her. Be how you need to be, but be safe about it. Grief doesn't follow a map.
"No kidding," she replied. "I keep thinking that if some tried to chart their grief on a grid -- this type of experience here, that type there; this timeline; that intensity -- and that if you connected all the dots, you would get a senseless scribble. You'd find Jackson Pollack in the details. It would be a portrait of randomness."
I suppose we will all be hoeing a long and tough row. No telling when or how it will get done. Perhaps, in some ways, it never will. But in the meantime, as one of my classmates said, allowing ourselves the grace to be OK with what's happening is the greatest gift we can give ourselves.
Gift No. 2, I think, would be a good massage.
What are words for?
Expression, mainly, and for organizing our thoughts. And for committing experiences to memory.
There is something I'll want to say about my Aunt Liz, but I can't access it right now. In fact, I can't access much of anything within myself at all. A stomach pain. A stiff neck. A very sore jaw. And just, for a few seconds this evening after I hung up from talking to my cousin Spitfire, the faintest whiff of sadness that I know to be lurking beneath my otherwise wholly numb and empty inner being.
At some point, I'll stop this business where I keep telling myself that it didn't happen, that her death -- and the gut-wrenching conversation about it with my beloved Uncle Rick -- was just a bad dream, a fabrication of random neural firings from which I will presently awaken. But my rational side doesn't seem to making much headway in that regard.
In the meantime, here is a dispatch from another bit of random neural firings that I found highly symbolic. No. 8 Dream:
I am trying to eat a bunch of nails. They're about four inches long, and they're the kind that don't have a flared, round head on them. I'm having a lot of difficulty with this task, but for whatever reason, it is "essential." So I'm tilting my head back and stretching my neck like a sword swallower, and I'm doing my best to get them down. Sometimes, I gag and cough them back up, only to force myself to swallow them again.
Eventually, I swallow them all.
And then I find myself wondering: How will these come out without hurting me? Will I die in the process?
There is something I'll want to say about my Aunt Liz, but I can't access it right now. In fact, I can't access much of anything within myself at all. A stomach pain. A stiff neck. A very sore jaw. And just, for a few seconds this evening after I hung up from talking to my cousin Spitfire, the faintest whiff of sadness that I know to be lurking beneath my otherwise wholly numb and empty inner being.
At some point, I'll stop this business where I keep telling myself that it didn't happen, that her death -- and the gut-wrenching conversation about it with my beloved Uncle Rick -- was just a bad dream, a fabrication of random neural firings from which I will presently awaken. But my rational side doesn't seem to making much headway in that regard.
In the meantime, here is a dispatch from another bit of random neural firings that I found highly symbolic. No. 8 Dream:
I am trying to eat a bunch of nails. They're about four inches long, and they're the kind that don't have a flared, round head on them. I'm having a lot of difficulty with this task, but for whatever reason, it is "essential." So I'm tilting my head back and stretching my neck like a sword swallower, and I'm doing my best to get them down. Sometimes, I gag and cough them back up, only to force myself to swallow them again.
Eventually, I swallow them all.
And then I find myself wondering: How will these come out without hurting me? Will I die in the process?
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