I've lived a lot of my life "in my head."
Even when living with someone else, working a "creative" job and seeming to interact socially with a great many others, I am capable of spending large quantities of time zoning out, creating and visiting my own world, living several other lives than just the one in which I inhabit a corporeal state.
In the past several years, however, I've been making a move. I've been finding paths into the other parts of my experience: my body, my emotions, my "spirit" (such as it is).
No question, graduate school has helped me see -- from that beautiful "meta" perspective -- both the means to and the value in doing what I've naturally been inclined to do. But there's no debating this chicken-egg question: I was already on my path to "enlightenment," if you will, before I came across graduate school.
I want to say at this juncture that I don't like the word "enlightenment" because of it's connotation as being somehow "better" than what came before it. And yet, I am limited by vocabulary and unless you will indulge me in the creation of new words, it is the best I can do at this point. I feel a similar limitation in using the word "spirit," as I sense in its literary traditions an infusion of religiosity and inherent "meaning" to which I do not personally ascribe.
And yet, there is within me some indescribable connection to the concepts of "spirit" and "meaning" and "enlightenment" with which I have become acquainted. They mean something to *me* that they may not mean to others.
I wish I had at this moment the temerity and the gift of brevity through which I might adequately express my thoughts on these topics. But I don't.
So let me say this as I can (and please accept both my philosophical shortcomings and my cowardice, however temporary those states might be):
Whether consciousness is a "process" or not is irrelevant to my world view.
I was confronted with this issue last week, on the day of my aunt's memorial service. I had asked my uncle what he thought about the service after it was over, and he replied, in part, "Well, you're the avowed atheist, so I guess I don't understand why you think there's *anything* more to us than just our brain chemistry. I've always taken an evolutionary view myself, and I think we're nothing but chemicals. Would you actually tell me otherwise?"
Truth be told, I was intoxicated when I made my reply, but it does not change when I'm sober. And so, although intoxicants prevent an accurate quote, this is the heart and soul of what I told him:
The truth is: I don't know *why* we're here or what happens after we die, and I don't really care. I'm interested, of course, but it doesn't matter. I'll never know; we'll never know. Although I call myself an atheist, that's more a way of explaining a complex idea to simpletons than it is an accurate statement. 'Agnostic' gives too much credence to the possibility of something I don't accept, while atheist seems too blanket a statement for my openess to possibilities. In truth, I don't know what created the universe, I don't know what created "life," and I don't really care.
What I do think about the issue: If there is an intentional organizing force in the universe, I cannot accept the possibility that it cares enough about whether I believe in it or not to either punish or reward me when my life as I know it ends. Any "being" that does care, in my opinion, cannot by definition be "divine." It has to be flawed, to have a character defect -- or as we call it in psychology, a personality disorder -- to actually give a shit whether I believe in it and worship it or not, and therefore, any being demanding such a thing from me is not actually worth of my worship.
If there's a "God," as described in the Bible or other religious texts, I feel compelled to take my chances and say, "What*ever*, dude."
That said, I cannot help but regard our consciousness with curiosity. I think we are *more* than mere brain chemistry, if for no other reason than there is a universe that exists and leaves itself up for intepretation by said brain chemistry. The fact that we all have different perspectives, that we are capable of unique thoughts and actions, gives me pause. It has left me wondering what might be outside of our awareness, what our limited brain chemistry might prevent us from knowing in the way of our five senses but which might be experienced through ways of understanding that we have disowned or denied or simply do not register as directly as that of taste, sound, touch, sight and scent.
I regard that unknowing as a curiosity. It does not, however, impact my final belief about what we are *doing* here.
I see each of us as a work of art. For what reasons has our brain chemistry seduced us with desire, filled us with fear or allowed us the connection to others that imparts such joy or deep sorrow as can only be found in relationships? I cannot say. I can only tell you what I see.
And that is an ongoing creation -- each moment, each interaction, each broad arch of a relationship or of an attitude toward self and others, each personal philosophy -- that we call "a life." That composition created by the individual human -- and all the attending social and environmental forces on that human -- from beginning to end, from birth to death.
From birth to death. I'm talking about what happens in between. *That* is our art. That is our passion, our love, our jealousy, our revenge, our despair, sorrow, joy, hatred, striving, failing, our layers upon layers of all of those and more. It is what we create each day between Day One and The End and how each of those days adds up to something.
Isn't it fascinating, when you think about it, that among the billions of humans -- trillions of us, really -- who have walked (barefoot, sandaled, bound, loafered, high-heeled) on this earth throughout all of human history, no two lives have been identical? That no two people have thought the same exact patterns of thought, done the same exact jobs, loved the same exact others, had sex the same exact way, felt the same exact orgasms or eaten the same diet?
Our uniqueness is not just a fact of our existence, it is our highest form of art. (That some of us are "artists" on top of it -- creators of painting, sculpture, words, music, etc. -- does not preclude *all* of us from being artists of our own lives.)
Not only do we bring an urgency, a vibrancy and a potency to each moment -- no matter how "mundane" it appears, in the scheme of things, each is a culmination and thus no less or more important than any other -- we also bring our longings. We are all trying to get *somewhere.* Exactly where doesn't matter. Whether we are totally conscious of our goals doesn't even necessarily matter (although the best theories of my future profession suggest that people have "better" lives when they are more aware of their own motivations). Rather, it is in the act of our everyday creation of ourselves that we find the expression our personal artform.
There is no expression that is better or less than. Each is what it is. We are what we are. We do what we do.
Some critics -- and we are all critics -- would look at us and label our expressions as "weak" or "daring," "ugly" or "powerful," "scandalous" or "erotic," "pious" or "thorough." The world can hold within its scope the expressions that are Hitler, Martha Stewart, John F. Kennedy, Thurgood Marshall, Henry Lee Lucas, Pee Wee Herman, Molly Ringwald, George Bush, S2, The Asian and your dear UCM.
Although I am reluctant to equate any of us to Hitler, that is exactly my point. It is not a matter of one expression versus another. There's ultimately no good, no bad, no judgment. Each of us is just one among the infinite expressions that comprise "humanity."
Art has the power to provoke praise or revulsion; on different days, the same piece can evoke different feelings in the same person. In that way, each of us qualifies as a work of art.
So what is the point of questioning "what's next"? Perhaps there is something serious that happens after we die, that we all will wish we were somehow better prepared to handle. Or perhaps there is nothing.
What difference does it make?
To me, it makes none.
We can't know what, if anything, is beyond this life. But we can live what we have. We can accept that we are our own creators. We are not just the artist, we are also the canvas, the gesso, the paint, the framing (ornate? rustic? modern? hand-crafted? machine-made?). We are the wall on which we hang. The lighting by which we are illuminated. The gallery itself.
We are the ones who determine whether we are on display 24/7, if there's a cover charge to view us or if we want the broadest exposure possible. We are the background music, the wine served on opening night and whether we demand a specific price or are willing to throw our fortunes to the wind by submitting ourselves to auction.
Although we might have a message or intent, we are ultimately not responsible for how others perceive us -- whether they see in us intensity, subtley, ostentatiousness or irony. We simply create ourselves. Each moment, each day, something different.
And when we meet in relationship, we have both the creation of ourselves and the creation of what we make in relation to others. That too may be, as the critics call it, a thing of beauty or a script fit for Jerry Springer. How wonderful for us when it's a thing of beauty. But how equally expressive when we end up throwing chairs at each other in syndication in perpetuity.
It is what it is. We are what we are.
I call it all "art."
I don't know what my uncle thought of that. He stared at me, a bit slack-jawed, through my little lecture. He said nothing when I was done. It was late. We were emotionally spent and intoxicated. This is how I tidied up my thoughts for the day. But I still wonder what he thought.
Did he think I was pandering to him to lighten the dark mood that has settled on him in the wake of my aunt's death? Did he think I was trying to assuage some pain? Did he think I've been wasting my money on a "fancy" education that's doing nothing but priming me to "work with losers"? Did he agree? Did he see the openings, the acceptance and love inherent in my ideas?
Most of all, did he understand that *he* is one of the reasons I even have this perspective? And can he see my aunt in it?
If each moment and each relationship becomes the media with which we create our art, surely they both contributed to what I have made of my life. As have many of you.
I see it as a gift from one to another. My hope is that what I gave to my aunt, what I continue to give to my uncle and what I give to the rest of you seems like a fair exchange.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
Spring Break: The roundup
Yesterday, I returned from a week in Hawaii with a house full of people in various states of grief and mourning (which, as I learned in Joan Didion's newest book, are two different psychological states). It was one of the more intense intrapersonal experiences I've endured in many, many years.
I'd rank it up there with sitting around for hours -- and days -- on end in various and sundry rooms of the ICU after my youngest brother slipped into a coma from which he would never recover.
Only in Hawaii, the person who drew us together was already dead, and during the entire week, I ended up having perhaps just two hours in which I was alone. A lack of alone time was a significant stressor, but far more gut-wrenching was the experience of watching a very close family begin the process of undoing some of their very close ties.
There were moments in which I wanted to pull out my hair. And moments in which I wanted to pull out my heart.
The last day of my visit, I sat on the lawn with my oldest cousin and listened quietly as she unloaded some of the pain she felt around a series of events just prior to her mom's death. It has been a long time since I have seen a face so burdened with sorrow. The memory of that moment lasted through the afternoon, haunted me in the airport, revisited me this morning upon waking.
I do not know what to do with it.
As if there is something I can do.
Usually, I have a better ability to compartmentalize things. I learned a long time ago how to file away the difficulties of others. It's not that I lack empathy; it's just that I know where to put things.
But there was something in that moment that seems to have penetrated what is generally an impermeable boundary. I've been wondering why.
Is it simply that her anguish was so palpable?
Or that it got expressed there at the end of my visit, when just she and I and her 2-year-old son were at the house, and thus became the lingering capstone image of a week of incredible emotional intensity?
Is it that I have known her since she was a toddler, that somewhere along the line many years ago, I felt a sense of responsibility for her because of our 13-year difference in age, and that some element of that still exists?
Perhaps it's because I know how obscenely difficult it has been for *me* to lose her mom and because I, consequently, assume the contortions that sorrow brought to her face in my company are only the faintest representations of how this loss has affected her. (And how staggeringly awful must that be?)
I don't know.
Whatever the case, it was heartbreaking and hellish, all at once. I so wish I had an ounce of insight, a moment where my sometimes gilded tongue had a useful word or two at its tip.
But there were no words. And that, perhaps, was the best insight I had.
So I sat silently for most of it. Silently looking at her. Unaware of just how much that face was fixing itself in my memory, leaving an imprint, showing me in some new way what sorrow looks like, reminding me again (because I haven't learned it well enough) of life's "meaning."
(There is no intrinsic meaning, but our personal meanings are inescapable.)
In any case, I parted company with all of them on Wednesday night. I took my duffel and I took my leave, but part of me is still there, still standing and milling around (as this part of my family tends to do), still regarding the messiness of our collective sorrow and wondering what will come of the events now in motion (my youngest cousin returning to New Orleans; the prospect of my unanchored uncle sailing west and disappearing).
I came back to Portland, where I am feeling the weight of emotions I did not have the space to feel this past week. I have all day had on the edge of my eyes the tears I could not release at my aunt's memorial service. My body is sore from stress, despite a few good swims in the ocean. And I am battling a deep fatigue.
Hardly the way to conclude my Spring Break.
Although, to its credit, there was plenty of booze and otherwise altered states involved. There was sand, surf and sun. I did some volunteer work. I got a sunburn. I read two books that had nothing to do with school. I ate fresh-from-the-tree-in-the-yard avacados and papayas every day. I went snorkeling a few times and each time saw at least one type of fish I'd never seen. I saw my fair share of sunsets.
Looked at that way, you could say I had a swell time.
Except for the fact that I didn't.
I'd rank it up there with sitting around for hours -- and days -- on end in various and sundry rooms of the ICU after my youngest brother slipped into a coma from which he would never recover.
Only in Hawaii, the person who drew us together was already dead, and during the entire week, I ended up having perhaps just two hours in which I was alone. A lack of alone time was a significant stressor, but far more gut-wrenching was the experience of watching a very close family begin the process of undoing some of their very close ties.
There were moments in which I wanted to pull out my hair. And moments in which I wanted to pull out my heart.
The last day of my visit, I sat on the lawn with my oldest cousin and listened quietly as she unloaded some of the pain she felt around a series of events just prior to her mom's death. It has been a long time since I have seen a face so burdened with sorrow. The memory of that moment lasted through the afternoon, haunted me in the airport, revisited me this morning upon waking.
I do not know what to do with it.
As if there is something I can do.
Usually, I have a better ability to compartmentalize things. I learned a long time ago how to file away the difficulties of others. It's not that I lack empathy; it's just that I know where to put things.
But there was something in that moment that seems to have penetrated what is generally an impermeable boundary. I've been wondering why.
Is it simply that her anguish was so palpable?
Or that it got expressed there at the end of my visit, when just she and I and her 2-year-old son were at the house, and thus became the lingering capstone image of a week of incredible emotional intensity?
Is it that I have known her since she was a toddler, that somewhere along the line many years ago, I felt a sense of responsibility for her because of our 13-year difference in age, and that some element of that still exists?
Perhaps it's because I know how obscenely difficult it has been for *me* to lose her mom and because I, consequently, assume the contortions that sorrow brought to her face in my company are only the faintest representations of how this loss has affected her. (And how staggeringly awful must that be?)
I don't know.
Whatever the case, it was heartbreaking and hellish, all at once. I so wish I had an ounce of insight, a moment where my sometimes gilded tongue had a useful word or two at its tip.
But there were no words. And that, perhaps, was the best insight I had.
So I sat silently for most of it. Silently looking at her. Unaware of just how much that face was fixing itself in my memory, leaving an imprint, showing me in some new way what sorrow looks like, reminding me again (because I haven't learned it well enough) of life's "meaning."
(There is no intrinsic meaning, but our personal meanings are inescapable.)
In any case, I parted company with all of them on Wednesday night. I took my duffel and I took my leave, but part of me is still there, still standing and milling around (as this part of my family tends to do), still regarding the messiness of our collective sorrow and wondering what will come of the events now in motion (my youngest cousin returning to New Orleans; the prospect of my unanchored uncle sailing west and disappearing).
I came back to Portland, where I am feeling the weight of emotions I did not have the space to feel this past week. I have all day had on the edge of my eyes the tears I could not release at my aunt's memorial service. My body is sore from stress, despite a few good swims in the ocean. And I am battling a deep fatigue.
Hardly the way to conclude my Spring Break.
Although, to its credit, there was plenty of booze and otherwise altered states involved. There was sand, surf and sun. I did some volunteer work. I got a sunburn. I read two books that had nothing to do with school. I ate fresh-from-the-tree-in-the-yard avacados and papayas every day. I went snorkeling a few times and each time saw at least one type of fish I'd never seen. I saw my fair share of sunsets.
Looked at that way, you could say I had a swell time.
Except for the fact that I didn't.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
holy shit!
i have entered into an alternate universe. things in my little world have become curiouser and curiouser. and i haven't even gotten started. sunday, however, is poised to be the mad hatter's tea party.
well, my friends, if something goes wrong: it's been swell. if things go alright -- but trust me, they will not get any less weird than they are already -- i'll be back in a few days.
no telling what story i will tell, either.
good fucking christ....
well, my friends, if something goes wrong: it's been swell. if things go alright -- but trust me, they will not get any less weird than they are already -- i'll be back in a few days.
no telling what story i will tell, either.
good fucking christ....
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Spring Break
My Spring Break officially begins today.
After class tonight, S2 noted that it's a bit "queer" that we have one. (I think she wanted to say that it's "so gay" but decided to be politically correct about it.) I'm not sure why she thinks that -- except for the fact that lately she seems in want of a beer bong (full of tequila) and that she yelled, in a hoarse voice, "Padre!" in the parking lot when class was out.
That was a major-league flashback for me and the most unexpected thing I've ever heard come out of her mouth (except, perhaps, the word "biscuit"). "Padre!" was a reference to South Padre Island, the Spring Break haunt of many people from the heartland. Even though S2 went to college in Colorado, I rather expected she would be inclined toward Daytona or San Diego (for all that boozing you could do in Tijuana).
But she said, "Padre!" and I automatically thought of a pet fish that died on a Spring Break road trip to that destination. Not to mention a flash of a bad sunburn, very weak drinks, a large pyramid of Corona bottles and some girls I was digging. I can't remember it clearly, but think I slept (read: passed out) on a sand dune one night. It would explain the sand-flea bites.....
Ah. That all *was* so ... gay.
Things will be different this year.
Instead of being bitten by sand fleas, it's possible I'll awaken on a lanai with gekkos crawling all over me. And if the spirit of my aunt is at work, I'll get to watch them having wild gekko sex.
The drinks will not be weak. They're more likely to be too strong.
There will almost assuredly be a sunburn.
Who knows if there will be any girls to dig or not. I'm betting not. (But you never know.)
I'll be taking my first sail on the ocean. (The In-Flight Martini Vomit Man will be so proud of me!) I'll be waking to the sound of tropical birds, eating more bacon than I ought to, pushing all sorts of "bad" things into my cells and taking some time to float in warm waters.
I'm also anticipating a rather emotionally intense experience, which is both a bit worrisome and totally necessary for my psychological well-being.
Hardly the Spring Break of old.
But then, we're all getting older. And as far as I can tell, we're getting *better* at having a good time, not worse.
I may be a while until I blog again. But I'll be back. In the meantime ... aloha and mahalo, my friends.
After class tonight, S2 noted that it's a bit "queer" that we have one. (I think she wanted to say that it's "so gay" but decided to be politically correct about it.) I'm not sure why she thinks that -- except for the fact that lately she seems in want of a beer bong (full of tequila) and that she yelled, in a hoarse voice, "Padre!" in the parking lot when class was out.
That was a major-league flashback for me and the most unexpected thing I've ever heard come out of her mouth (except, perhaps, the word "biscuit"). "Padre!" was a reference to South Padre Island, the Spring Break haunt of many people from the heartland. Even though S2 went to college in Colorado, I rather expected she would be inclined toward Daytona or San Diego (for all that boozing you could do in Tijuana).
But she said, "Padre!" and I automatically thought of a pet fish that died on a Spring Break road trip to that destination. Not to mention a flash of a bad sunburn, very weak drinks, a large pyramid of Corona bottles and some girls I was digging. I can't remember it clearly, but think I slept (read: passed out) on a sand dune one night. It would explain the sand-flea bites.....
Ah. That all *was* so ... gay.
Things will be different this year.
Instead of being bitten by sand fleas, it's possible I'll awaken on a lanai with gekkos crawling all over me. And if the spirit of my aunt is at work, I'll get to watch them having wild gekko sex.
The drinks will not be weak. They're more likely to be too strong.
There will almost assuredly be a sunburn.
Who knows if there will be any girls to dig or not. I'm betting not. (But you never know.)
I'll be taking my first sail on the ocean. (The In-Flight Martini Vomit Man will be so proud of me!) I'll be waking to the sound of tropical birds, eating more bacon than I ought to, pushing all sorts of "bad" things into my cells and taking some time to float in warm waters.
I'm also anticipating a rather emotionally intense experience, which is both a bit worrisome and totally necessary for my psychological well-being.
Hardly the Spring Break of old.
But then, we're all getting older. And as far as I can tell, we're getting *better* at having a good time, not worse.
I may be a while until I blog again. But I'll be back. In the meantime ... aloha and mahalo, my friends.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Word of the day
I just looked at a notepad I keep next to the chair in my bay window — where I do most of my reading, a whole lot of my random thinking and a fair amount of my at-home phone conversing — and I saw I had written the following. I am trying to remember the source.
Pronoid — adj. A mental state in which you think the world is out to help you.
I've never enjoyed that particular delusion. But it sure sounds swell, don't you think?
Except for the part where people would take advantage of me. But then, maybe I'm just being paranoid.
Pronoid — adj. A mental state in which you think the world is out to help you.
I've never enjoyed that particular delusion. But it sure sounds swell, don't you think?
Except for the part where people would take advantage of me. But then, maybe I'm just being paranoid.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Let's blame it on patriarchy
As far as I can tell, most of what's wrong with the world can be blamed on the patriarchy, which can basically be defined as the system of governance and social custom that has been created by ... men.
We can blame the war in Iraq on patriarchy. We can blame the lackadaisical progress toward alternative fuels since the OPEC oil crisis in the 1970s on the patriarchy. We can blame Corporate America, Islamic fundamentalism (ji-haaaad!), Christian fundamentalism (yee-haaaaw!) and the presence of Howie Mandell on television again on ... patriarchy.
It seems about the only thing wrong with the world that you might blame on women are the proliferation of home shopping networks.
And perhaps the creation of ... more men.
I'm on this kick not just because I attended a raucous and fun anti-war march downtown today, but because I have been reading yet another scintillating book for my Couple's Therapy class. This one -- "How Can I Get Through to You?" by Terrence Real -- blames the trouble in relationships between men and women on the patriarchy.
First, let me say: NO SHIT.
Second, let me address this a little more thoughfully: NO SHIT!
So we have a book here that gets something right: There is a fundamental inequity between men and women -- based on nothing but history and bullshit, the difference in their size and the greater tendency of men to be violent -- and it plays out in relationships just as poorly as it plays out on the world stage.
Women, taken on the whole, prefer men who are able to communicate their thoughts, display a full range of emotions in a respectful and non-violent way, have a sense of dedication to the relationship and do not lay claim to having, as SNL put it last night, "restless penis syndrome."
Men, on the other hand, apparently just want to be left alone, to come home to a well-cooked meal, watch television, interact with their children from a safe distance, have sex with their partners for the purposes of getting off, relieving tension and fulfilling the "intimacy" demands put upon them by said partners. What's more, they are rarely unhappy.
In fact, according to Real, the average heterosexual relationship doesn't contain an unhappy man, just an unhappy WOMAN who subsequently makes the man unhappy with her unhappiness.
For a couple weeks, I've been appreciating what Real has to say because there's a certain truth to this.
But today, it's sticking in my craw something fierce.
That's probably because I was thinking, as I peeled some sweet potatoes and shredded some kale for a soup I'm making, that as a modern woman -- admittedly a lesbian, a feminist and highly educated (in other words, three kisses of death when it comes to empathizing with how pathetic men can be) -- I was trying to imagine myself in this relational repair therapy with a fake spouse. Specifically, I was wondering how I might respond to the following comment by said fake husband:
"It's not that I don't love you, honey. It's just that the patriarchy did all this harm to me when I was a little boy. It taught me not to express myself. It taught me intimacy is a weak, feminine trait. It's going to take me a long time to get over that kind of childhood trauma. So you're just going to have to be patient with me."
I'm not sure, but I'm thinking that this is where I'd back up over the guy on my way out of the parking lot and make sure the last thing he saw was the mudflaps with the chrome nude silhouettes on my pickup.
Seriously!
It's just that I keep wondering while reading Real about the how and the why of the relationship repair being placed squarely on the shoulders of the women. See, according to Real, women are wise enough to know what the problem is in the relationship (because SHE is the one who's unhappy, right?!). All you have to do is empower her to speak her truth and somehow help the man learn how to listen to it and change his pathetic patriarchal, privileged ways.
Yeah. That's all.
You know, I am totally behind the notion that the woman usually knows what's wrong in the relationship. But I don't like the description of the what's wrong as being that "the woman is unhappy, and the man is unhappy because woman is unhappy."
To me, that just sounds like one more excuse for men.
Not only is the patriarchy responsible for the emotional ineptitude of men, the problem with relationships is caused because women have simply not accepted the playground rules established by them. And giving men that kind of "fact" to chew on in therapy only seems poised for other commentary, such as that issued by my fake husband while I was stirring this soup:
"It's not *my* fault that you're unhappy, honey. I'm just as much a victim of the patriarchy as you are, what with that childhood trauma I suffered! I am doing my best to shake off the paradigm, but it's not really made any easier by your unhappiness. You're not especially attractive when you're unhappy. You're aggressive. You're not giving me the space I need to heal my man-wounds. You expect me to change THOUSANDS OF YEARS of social convention just because you're unhappy with it? I'm trying, I tell ya! Cut me some slack, you tameless shrew!"
*sigh*
Last week, one of my straight friends and I had a conversation in which she uttered the following: "From my admittedly privileged heterosexist position...."
What she had to say following that introductory prepositional phrase was rather meaningful to me. I was expressing my reaction to an article I had read, and she explained her differing perspective in a way I could really hear what she had to say.
But this week, I'm thinking about that phrase she uttered and finding her position not so privileged. Not when it comes to this matter, anyway. Simply by virtue of being a woman in a relationship with a man, she has an uphill battle on her hand. *All* of my straight female friends share the same fate.
Gays and lesbians have their own difficulties. We are an embattled minority in many respects. But what we don't have is the struggle of crossing the gender divide and of being constantly thwarted in those efforts by the ground-in stubborness of too many millenia under male domination.
I don't know what the answer is. But from my admittedly less-than-privileged position, at least I don't have to deal with it in my home.
We can blame the war in Iraq on patriarchy. We can blame the lackadaisical progress toward alternative fuels since the OPEC oil crisis in the 1970s on the patriarchy. We can blame Corporate America, Islamic fundamentalism (ji-haaaad!), Christian fundamentalism (yee-haaaaw!) and the presence of Howie Mandell on television again on ... patriarchy.
It seems about the only thing wrong with the world that you might blame on women are the proliferation of home shopping networks.
And perhaps the creation of ... more men.
I'm on this kick not just because I attended a raucous and fun anti-war march downtown today, but because I have been reading yet another scintillating book for my Couple's Therapy class. This one -- "How Can I Get Through to You?" by Terrence Real -- blames the trouble in relationships between men and women on the patriarchy.
First, let me say: NO SHIT.
Second, let me address this a little more thoughfully: NO SHIT!
So we have a book here that gets something right: There is a fundamental inequity between men and women -- based on nothing but history and bullshit, the difference in their size and the greater tendency of men to be violent -- and it plays out in relationships just as poorly as it plays out on the world stage.
Women, taken on the whole, prefer men who are able to communicate their thoughts, display a full range of emotions in a respectful and non-violent way, have a sense of dedication to the relationship and do not lay claim to having, as SNL put it last night, "restless penis syndrome."
Men, on the other hand, apparently just want to be left alone, to come home to a well-cooked meal, watch television, interact with their children from a safe distance, have sex with their partners for the purposes of getting off, relieving tension and fulfilling the "intimacy" demands put upon them by said partners. What's more, they are rarely unhappy.
In fact, according to Real, the average heterosexual relationship doesn't contain an unhappy man, just an unhappy WOMAN who subsequently makes the man unhappy with her unhappiness.
For a couple weeks, I've been appreciating what Real has to say because there's a certain truth to this.
But today, it's sticking in my craw something fierce.
That's probably because I was thinking, as I peeled some sweet potatoes and shredded some kale for a soup I'm making, that as a modern woman -- admittedly a lesbian, a feminist and highly educated (in other words, three kisses of death when it comes to empathizing with how pathetic men can be) -- I was trying to imagine myself in this relational repair therapy with a fake spouse. Specifically, I was wondering how I might respond to the following comment by said fake husband:
"It's not that I don't love you, honey. It's just that the patriarchy did all this harm to me when I was a little boy. It taught me not to express myself. It taught me intimacy is a weak, feminine trait. It's going to take me a long time to get over that kind of childhood trauma. So you're just going to have to be patient with me."
I'm not sure, but I'm thinking that this is where I'd back up over the guy on my way out of the parking lot and make sure the last thing he saw was the mudflaps with the chrome nude silhouettes on my pickup.
Seriously!
It's just that I keep wondering while reading Real about the how and the why of the relationship repair being placed squarely on the shoulders of the women. See, according to Real, women are wise enough to know what the problem is in the relationship (because SHE is the one who's unhappy, right?!). All you have to do is empower her to speak her truth and somehow help the man learn how to listen to it and change his pathetic patriarchal, privileged ways.
Yeah. That's all.
You know, I am totally behind the notion that the woman usually knows what's wrong in the relationship. But I don't like the description of the what's wrong as being that "the woman is unhappy, and the man is unhappy because woman is unhappy."
To me, that just sounds like one more excuse for men.
Not only is the patriarchy responsible for the emotional ineptitude of men, the problem with relationships is caused because women have simply not accepted the playground rules established by them. And giving men that kind of "fact" to chew on in therapy only seems poised for other commentary, such as that issued by my fake husband while I was stirring this soup:
"It's not *my* fault that you're unhappy, honey. I'm just as much a victim of the patriarchy as you are, what with that childhood trauma I suffered! I am doing my best to shake off the paradigm, but it's not really made any easier by your unhappiness. You're not especially attractive when you're unhappy. You're aggressive. You're not giving me the space I need to heal my man-wounds. You expect me to change THOUSANDS OF YEARS of social convention just because you're unhappy with it? I'm trying, I tell ya! Cut me some slack, you tameless shrew!"
*sigh*
Last week, one of my straight friends and I had a conversation in which she uttered the following: "From my admittedly privileged heterosexist position...."
What she had to say following that introductory prepositional phrase was rather meaningful to me. I was expressing my reaction to an article I had read, and she explained her differing perspective in a way I could really hear what she had to say.
But this week, I'm thinking about that phrase she uttered and finding her position not so privileged. Not when it comes to this matter, anyway. Simply by virtue of being a woman in a relationship with a man, she has an uphill battle on her hand. *All* of my straight female friends share the same fate.
Gays and lesbians have their own difficulties. We are an embattled minority in many respects. But what we don't have is the struggle of crossing the gender divide and of being constantly thwarted in those efforts by the ground-in stubborness of too many millenia under male domination.
I don't know what the answer is. But from my admittedly less-than-privileged position, at least I don't have to deal with it in my home.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Get on the peace train
I'm going to the war protest downtown tomorrow.
On Tuesday, S2 and I found ourselves surrounded by fields of little white flags all over our college campus. Signs posted hither and yon said there were 112,000+ flags stuck in the ground on the campus. Each flag represented SIX Iraqis who have been killed since the United States invaded. That's more than 655,000 people.
SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIVE THOUSAND.
And that doesn't include the American soldiers (about 2,600 killed in combat so far), or those of other countries who either were bullied into joining us or foolishly followed us into this quagmire.
I will also note that the Pentagon has done a good job obscuring the number of American soldiers who've been wounded. The "official" count is over 24,000, but that number is suspect.
Standing in the middle of all those white flags on campus, I felt disgusted.
It's time to raise a little hell.
I believe the march leaves from the South Park Blocks at about 1:30. Why don't you all come out to play?
On Tuesday, S2 and I found ourselves surrounded by fields of little white flags all over our college campus. Signs posted hither and yon said there were 112,000+ flags stuck in the ground on the campus. Each flag represented SIX Iraqis who have been killed since the United States invaded. That's more than 655,000 people.
SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIVE THOUSAND.
And that doesn't include the American soldiers (about 2,600 killed in combat so far), or those of other countries who either were bullied into joining us or foolishly followed us into this quagmire.
I will also note that the Pentagon has done a good job obscuring the number of American soldiers who've been wounded. The "official" count is over 24,000, but that number is suspect.
Standing in the middle of all those white flags on campus, I felt disgusted.
It's time to raise a little hell.
I believe the march leaves from the South Park Blocks at about 1:30. Why don't you all come out to play?
Yes, but is it *art*?
I have no idea.
No fucking idea if it's art.
In fact, it's making me a little crazy, this Couples Therapy "project" which has taken over my dining table and beckons at my every free moment (and then some).
I am a bit out of me element. Waaaaay out of my element, actually.
I'm thinking of an Ani DiFranco line: "Art is why I get up in the morning. You know, it doesn't seem fair that I'm living my life for something I can't even describe."
T minus 24 days and counting....
No fucking idea if it's art.
In fact, it's making me a little crazy, this Couples Therapy "project" which has taken over my dining table and beckons at my every free moment (and then some).
I am a bit out of me element. Waaaaay out of my element, actually.
I'm thinking of an Ani DiFranco line: "Art is why I get up in the morning. You know, it doesn't seem fair that I'm living my life for something I can't even describe."
T minus 24 days and counting....
Friday, March 16, 2007
In appreciation of mystery
Planet Earth is an amazing place. I don't for a moment believe that it's the only place in the universe where life exists, but it is obviously an unusual celestial body 'round these parts. And I'll take it as it comes.
It comes in many flavors. More than enough to keep me busy sampling its buffet for the rest of my days. So many, in fact, that I shall never know them all. One reason I love travel so much is that I get to enjoy the first-hand experience of a place. In many respects, I come to know it -- by sight, taste, sound, smell, the weight or lightness of its air, the sponginess of its soil, the vibrating beat of its traffic or the soothing quietude of its bajareque.
But I've been giving a LOT of thought lately to those things which I *don't* know, can't explain and which still mystify me.
Consider the swifts that take a rest from their migration for a while every September at Chapman School here in Portland. Their coordination is stunning. A few years ago, when XGF took me out to see them for the first time, I was blown away. Against the backdrop of a fall sunset, these birds were dancing a ballet nature appears to have choreographed in a complex and seemingly random way.
I'm sure scietists have all sorts of explanations for what's going on there. Perhaps they have even discovered patterns in this wild, exuberant-appearing dance. But I don't really care what science has theorized about this behavior.
I like to stand there and enjoy the mystery of it. My personal mystery. My moment of awe.
We don't necessarily benefit from having so much of the world "explained" to us by science. Part of the fun of being human is enjoying mystery and wonder. Of not acting like we "know" the "facts" of the situation. (If anything, history shows that all knowledge is emerging, rather than fixed. "Science" has many times lead us astray in our beliefs about the world. I keep an interest in the why and how of things, but I never consider the answer "known.")
And, as with the swallows, there are some things I simply prefer to remain mysterious, to preserve how I experience their beauty and wonder, as if a form of art (because they are).
So there are parts of my life, parts of my existence, which I will not offer up for dissection in the public sphere. And there are parts of my life which I will chew up and reguriate from time to time like cud, eventually spitting out for the rest of you to regard. And there are parts of my life which come at you off-the-cuff, an in vivo experience, as much as the Internet will allow.
The following is a reflection on something I will not offer up to the public sphere.
Hmmm. Thanks, S2, for telling me several weeks ago about a "daydream" you had about Hawi. It was a seed. Or perhaps fertilizer.
And the following is a reflection of some cud I've been chewing:
Yes, consciousness may in fact be a process. But that's likely only part of the story. There is something that exists outside of our physical bodies. It may be as "simple" as that which gives the swifts direction in their eratic aerial aerobatics. But whatever it is, we are too constrained by our presence *within* the human experience to be able to describe -- or to debunk -- that which exists and drives us from *outside* the reality we are primarily designed to observe.
In short, we are more than the sum of our parts.
I believe this to the point of feeling like I *know* it.
But I'm also willing to let it be a mystery. I don't need an explanation. Any explanation, including whatever I dream up, would be a guess. Even my "knowing" is no more than a guess. But that is also the case with the opinions and perspectives of everyone else. We're all just guessing.
Nevertheless, I know we are more -- somehow -- than just our bodies.
The following is an in vivo commentary, meaning a little stream of consciousness:
Look, I realize it might seem ridiculous to say I know what I don't know, that I can't know what I do know and that the rest of you don't know what you think you know. I suspect that might be upsetting to some of you.
Others probably take such comments in stride, with a simple: "Of course, UCM. You are so behind the times. Everything has *always* been relative. There are no facts. You've known this all along. Why are you mentioning it now?"
To the first, I would say: Lighten up. There's a party barge waiting for you in the afterlife if only you will lighten up. (Thanks, Tom Robbins.)
To the second, I would reply: Well, yes, I've known this intellectually all along. But sometimes, life affords us opportunities to take what we know *intellectually* and make it what we know *profoundly.* Such an opportunity seems to have come my way in the past several weeks. For whatever reason, I was poised with an open heart and an open mind at the same time.
I have all sorts of little theories about how this occurred. Some people want to give astrology the credit. Others tell me to give the credit to myself. Still others would tell me to refer to my own previous reflections on cud-chewing.
This world, this unusual little earth ball upon which we tread, has enough mysteries to keep us pondering for a multitude of millenia, as we already have. Why should we think at this point that we have any answers? That we have "solved" anything? That a single cotton-picking piece of of "knowledge" can truly be "empirically validated" to the point that it becomes "the answer"?
In the end, aren't we all just "believers" in something? We may be at odds. We may have more "evidence" from one paradigm or another. We may be really freaking meta on a collection of philosophies or be fervent adherents of one style of "knowledge" or another. We may feel very certain of ourselves and our professional journals. We may even say we like all 31 flavors.
But in the end, we're the same, you and I. Whether we believe in something specific or nothing at all, the "truth" will always elude us -- either because we are too limited in our comprehension or because there is no truth. There's no telling which is the case.
We are a speck in this vast universe.
It puts us on equal footing. With *everything* else. There's no one-up or one-down in a universal sense.
And yet we can still enjoy ourselves.
How wonderful is that?
It comes in many flavors. More than enough to keep me busy sampling its buffet for the rest of my days. So many, in fact, that I shall never know them all. One reason I love travel so much is that I get to enjoy the first-hand experience of a place. In many respects, I come to know it -- by sight, taste, sound, smell, the weight or lightness of its air, the sponginess of its soil, the vibrating beat of its traffic or the soothing quietude of its bajareque.
But I've been giving a LOT of thought lately to those things which I *don't* know, can't explain and which still mystify me.
Consider the swifts that take a rest from their migration for a while every September at Chapman School here in Portland. Their coordination is stunning. A few years ago, when XGF took me out to see them for the first time, I was blown away. Against the backdrop of a fall sunset, these birds were dancing a ballet nature appears to have choreographed in a complex and seemingly random way.
I'm sure scietists have all sorts of explanations for what's going on there. Perhaps they have even discovered patterns in this wild, exuberant-appearing dance. But I don't really care what science has theorized about this behavior.
I like to stand there and enjoy the mystery of it. My personal mystery. My moment of awe.
We don't necessarily benefit from having so much of the world "explained" to us by science. Part of the fun of being human is enjoying mystery and wonder. Of not acting like we "know" the "facts" of the situation. (If anything, history shows that all knowledge is emerging, rather than fixed. "Science" has many times lead us astray in our beliefs about the world. I keep an interest in the why and how of things, but I never consider the answer "known.")
And, as with the swallows, there are some things I simply prefer to remain mysterious, to preserve how I experience their beauty and wonder, as if a form of art (because they are).
So there are parts of my life, parts of my existence, which I will not offer up for dissection in the public sphere. And there are parts of my life which I will chew up and reguriate from time to time like cud, eventually spitting out for the rest of you to regard. And there are parts of my life which come at you off-the-cuff, an in vivo experience, as much as the Internet will allow.
The following is a reflection on something I will not offer up to the public sphere.
Hmmm. Thanks, S2, for telling me several weeks ago about a "daydream" you had about Hawi. It was a seed. Or perhaps fertilizer.
And the following is a reflection of some cud I've been chewing:
Yes, consciousness may in fact be a process. But that's likely only part of the story. There is something that exists outside of our physical bodies. It may be as "simple" as that which gives the swifts direction in their eratic aerial aerobatics. But whatever it is, we are too constrained by our presence *within* the human experience to be able to describe -- or to debunk -- that which exists and drives us from *outside* the reality we are primarily designed to observe.
In short, we are more than the sum of our parts.
I believe this to the point of feeling like I *know* it.
But I'm also willing to let it be a mystery. I don't need an explanation. Any explanation, including whatever I dream up, would be a guess. Even my "knowing" is no more than a guess. But that is also the case with the opinions and perspectives of everyone else. We're all just guessing.
Nevertheless, I know we are more -- somehow -- than just our bodies.
The following is an in vivo commentary, meaning a little stream of consciousness:
Look, I realize it might seem ridiculous to say I know what I don't know, that I can't know what I do know and that the rest of you don't know what you think you know. I suspect that might be upsetting to some of you.
Others probably take such comments in stride, with a simple: "Of course, UCM. You are so behind the times. Everything has *always* been relative. There are no facts. You've known this all along. Why are you mentioning it now?"
To the first, I would say: Lighten up. There's a party barge waiting for you in the afterlife if only you will lighten up. (Thanks, Tom Robbins.)
To the second, I would reply: Well, yes, I've known this intellectually all along. But sometimes, life affords us opportunities to take what we know *intellectually* and make it what we know *profoundly.* Such an opportunity seems to have come my way in the past several weeks. For whatever reason, I was poised with an open heart and an open mind at the same time.
I have all sorts of little theories about how this occurred. Some people want to give astrology the credit. Others tell me to give the credit to myself. Still others would tell me to refer to my own previous reflections on cud-chewing.
This world, this unusual little earth ball upon which we tread, has enough mysteries to keep us pondering for a multitude of millenia, as we already have. Why should we think at this point that we have any answers? That we have "solved" anything? That a single cotton-picking piece of of "knowledge" can truly be "empirically validated" to the point that it becomes "the answer"?
In the end, aren't we all just "believers" in something? We may be at odds. We may have more "evidence" from one paradigm or another. We may be really freaking meta on a collection of philosophies or be fervent adherents of one style of "knowledge" or another. We may feel very certain of ourselves and our professional journals. We may even say we like all 31 flavors.
But in the end, we're the same, you and I. Whether we believe in something specific or nothing at all, the "truth" will always elude us -- either because we are too limited in our comprehension or because there is no truth. There's no telling which is the case.
We are a speck in this vast universe.
It puts us on equal footing. With *everything* else. There's no one-up or one-down in a universal sense.
And yet we can still enjoy ourselves.
How wonderful is that?
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Men. What *are* they good for?
One of those old myths -- not terribly old, because I still hear this shit -- is that lesbians and feminists (and lesbian feminists, for sure!) *hate* men. I've denied this as fervently as I've insisted that any "divine creator of the universe" who gives a rats ass whether I believe in it or not actually suffers from serious character defects and therefore cannot be the being people insist it is.
But after watching writers George Saunders and Mary Gaitskill "sit in conversation" tonight as part of the Portland Arts & Lectures series, I found myself thinking, I hate men. I mean, WHY oh why do my sisters put up with that shit?
You must be addicted to the penis. Because on the whole, there are times when I have great difficulty finding anything especially redeeming about men, their absurd and unwarranted positions of power and their pathetically stunted way of relating to others and to the world. We women seem to be little more than part of their dominion.
Where's this coming from today?
I'll tell ya. Give a man the stage -- even if he's to share it with a woman -- and he'll throw his weight and "authority" around with very little regard for whether there's oxygen left for anyone else. (Yes, I'm aware I'm speaking in broad, and even disgusting, generalities. But it's mainly because I paid to get this experience and found that the woman ... was ever so much better. As usual.
I went to the lecture because of George Saunders. I had never heard of Mary Gaitskill. I have read nary a word of her prose.
But as I watched them talk, I knew first that I will want to pick up some of her work (and read it someday when this thing called graduate school is over). And I knew second that what I was witnessing there on stage was a classic case of a neurotic and less-talented man trying somehow to use his man-ness and hold court (and lord over) a considerably more erudite, thoughtful woman.
They are both professors in the writing program at Syracuse University. And yet, they apparently have not had an extended chat about writing. It took a certain alignment of the planets and a hefty wad of cash, but they came out here to Portland, sat down and did just that tonight.
It was a telling moment, early in their conversation, when he said to her, basically, "We've never really sat down and talked. I don't know why."
"Probably," she replied in essence, "because the one time we did, we almost came to blows."
Let's just say that, watching them systemically, I can imagine why that almost happened.
She spoke some of the most beautiful words I've ever heard about writing, about the purpose of fiction and literature. And he, in reply, did some kind of ain't-I-grand routine combined with a twitchy, Woody Allen-like presentation. Not the best combination. Rather grating.
Fortunately, there were times when he shut up and she spoke up.
Gaitskill shared some thoughts, saturated to the point of dripping, on how fiction illuminates realities that are on the edge of our consciousness and helps to slow down our experiencing of a moment or an object.
The woman made me want to "write" again.
He? Made me laugh a few times. And otherwise, gave me the urge to hate men.
But after watching writers George Saunders and Mary Gaitskill "sit in conversation" tonight as part of the Portland Arts & Lectures series, I found myself thinking, I hate men. I mean, WHY oh why do my sisters put up with that shit?
You must be addicted to the penis. Because on the whole, there are times when I have great difficulty finding anything especially redeeming about men, their absurd and unwarranted positions of power and their pathetically stunted way of relating to others and to the world. We women seem to be little more than part of their dominion.
Where's this coming from today?
I'll tell ya. Give a man the stage -- even if he's to share it with a woman -- and he'll throw his weight and "authority" around with very little regard for whether there's oxygen left for anyone else. (Yes, I'm aware I'm speaking in broad, and even disgusting, generalities. But it's mainly because I paid to get this experience and found that the woman ... was ever so much better. As usual.
I went to the lecture because of George Saunders. I had never heard of Mary Gaitskill. I have read nary a word of her prose.
But as I watched them talk, I knew first that I will want to pick up some of her work (and read it someday when this thing called graduate school is over). And I knew second that what I was witnessing there on stage was a classic case of a neurotic and less-talented man trying somehow to use his man-ness and hold court (and lord over) a considerably more erudite, thoughtful woman.
They are both professors in the writing program at Syracuse University. And yet, they apparently have not had an extended chat about writing. It took a certain alignment of the planets and a hefty wad of cash, but they came out here to Portland, sat down and did just that tonight.
It was a telling moment, early in their conversation, when he said to her, basically, "We've never really sat down and talked. I don't know why."
"Probably," she replied in essence, "because the one time we did, we almost came to blows."
Let's just say that, watching them systemically, I can imagine why that almost happened.
She spoke some of the most beautiful words I've ever heard about writing, about the purpose of fiction and literature. And he, in reply, did some kind of ain't-I-grand routine combined with a twitchy, Woody Allen-like presentation. Not the best combination. Rather grating.
Fortunately, there were times when he shut up and she spoke up.
Gaitskill shared some thoughts, saturated to the point of dripping, on how fiction illuminates realities that are on the edge of our consciousness and helps to slow down our experiencing of a moment or an object.
The woman made me want to "write" again.
He? Made me laugh a few times. And otherwise, gave me the urge to hate men.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Topics: Couples therapy; Mowing down an elderly woman; and XGF's public display of nudity
Sometimes, two days contain a little too much that's spectacular, weird, pathetic -- or spectacularly, weirdly pathetic -- to cover effectively in one blog entry. So I prefer to write often, rather than not. But I missed the window for last night, thinking: Well, I'll just get to that tomorrow. Only to have tomorrow dish up its own batch of blog-worthy notes.
So you'll just have to be patient with me as I relive a bit of Tuesday before moving on to Wednesday.
Tuesday
I witnessed -- in fact, I participated in -- one of the most courageous, compelling educational experiences I've thus far come across in graduate school.
You would think that in a counseling psychology program, we'd be innundated with role-playing and other ways of practicing our craft before we unleash our naughty selves onto unsuspecting clients. But this is not the case.
I've participated in a few role plays, which I've sometimes described here, and I've seen a few classmates attempt to demonstrate techniques or conduct an intake interview. But only a couple of times has this occurred in front of the class. Normally, we get paired up and scoot ourselves off into empty classrooms or conference spaces and start trying out whatever we've learned in class. And even that is rare.
In Couples Therapy on Tuesday night, however, I was anticipating some role-playing. As I've noted before S2, Buddha Boy and I are in a little triad, where we alternate playing therapist to a couple in distress. There are three scenarios, each created by the therapist. Buddha Boy and I have had our turns as therapists already, so shortly after I picked up S2 on the way to class, I teased her, This is gonna be your night!
She was a bit distracted by thoughts of Little Pea having a fever and just shrugged a little, saying, "I haven't even thought about that."
Class rolled along rather peacefully. There was a discussion about an interesting article, in which I uttered what has become my rallying cry in this class: Unnecessarily heterosexist. Totally unnecessary. Then we had a break. I heated up some soup for S2 and myself. After break, the professor gave a lecture on how to "really" do Emotionally Focused Couples Therapy, and it seemed to go on for a while.
As the clock approached 8, I leaned over to S2 and said, Looks like you might escape it after all.
Then, the professor uttered his challenge. "So now that you know 'how to do it,' is there anyone -- preferably one of the students who hasn't been the therapist yet -- willing to come up and conduct a session?"
I could hear all my classmates collectively sink back in their seats. This therapy is some seriously tough work, and two-thirds of the class has already experienced just what a flustering, confusing bit of puppetry it is to control an unruly, fighting couple. And we did so tucked away in a room where the only witnesses were the two classmates playing the couple.
I looked at S2 with a question mark on my face. She shook her head. "I'm not doing that."
The class sat silently. No volunteers.
The professor stared back at us. Silently.
I sensed an eternal ellipses dropping dot by dot in the emptiness of that silence. I looked over at Buddha Boy and noticed he was practically falling out of his seat, staring at S2. His eyebrows were up. I looked back at her. "Seriously?" she asked. And I shrugged.
"I'll do it," S2 said flatly, breaking the tension in the room and prompting sighs from those less willing to stomach it.
The three of us got into a circle -- in the middle of the large circle that the class sits in each night -- and Buddha Boy and I read up on our roles for a few long moments before beginning.
A fight commenced rather quickly. I played Autum, a controlling, tired-of-her-fuck-off-husband wife, and Buddha Boy played Bobby, a fuck-off who acts charmingly ignorant of the ways in which he dumps all the household responsibilities and parenting in my lap. The reason we came to therapy was because I heard him engaging his 11-year-old son in all sorts of adult conversations when the boy came to visit recently. Bobby and I have two kids of our own, ages 6 and 2, and I am growing increasingly worried of how he will handle the parenting as our kids get older. From the opening remarks, it was incendiary.
But S2 displayed a mastery of this scene unlike anything I expected. Some of it must come from being a mother of two, but silencing squabbling adults without sounding patronizing is an art form. She managed to shut me right up -- more or less -- and it wasn't because I was cutting her any slack. Bobby started going off about how he wanted to be "a man," and I got downright pissed. When he LIED and said he initiated the therapy, I went off at him.
S2 handled us like the ringmaster at a circus, but with none of the bluster and bravado. She appeared calm, spoke evenly, softly. At one point, she had to tell us (me, really) not to call each other "names." (I had said, I *wish* he was a man!) Rather quickly, she asked Bobby and me not to talk to each other, just her. And then piece by piece, she got into our story. Only once did she stop to ask for assistance -- when the emotion was suddenly heightened, and there was a dead-end in sight. With a prompt from a classmate, she corrected the course and brought the tenor of the session down to something a bit more polite.
It was compelling work. After about 20 minutes of this scene, S2 called it to an end. The class erupted into applause. Following a deconstruction of the experience and some demonstration by the professor of ways one might work further with this couple, class came to an end. On our way out, the professor said to S2, "You are my new hero. As far as I'm concerned, you do not have to do any more coursework in this program. That was excellent work."
To that I'll add: NO SHIT!
I was in the middle of it, so I can't say what it looked like from the outside, but the quality of the triad experience was considerably better than when Buddha Boy or I tried our hand at it. In fact, had I walked into an office and sat down across from S2 in a real counseling situation, I wouldn't guess she was a novice. The only thing that gave hint to me of how ridiculously nervous she must have been came after the session was over, when I noticed she was not breathing evenly while the professor deconstructed the deal.
And by the reaction of our classmates, I'd say I'm not alone in being blown away by how she managed the scene.
Really impressive, S2. Really.
In my opinion, we should be doing a HELL OF A LOT MORE of this stuff in class. Put some shit on the line. Give our classmates demonstrations of how different people have different styles. It shouldn't be so rare that the professor's request for volunteers comes as a surprise and ellicits such silence. It should be happening all the freaking time. What an amazing learning experience. I would have liked to be on the outside looking in....
Wednesday
What can I say about today?
I had an interview at an internship site, and within 30 seconds of meeting the clinical supervisor who was to interview me, I nearly plowed down someone in the hallway. I was walking and looking at the supervisor, when I suddenly felt something under my foot and heard a woman issue a breath-forced "ugh!" just as my right shoulder clocked her in the FACE. Instinctively reaching out, I found myself trying to steady an ELDERLY WOMAN. I quickly apologized. She mumbled, "It's alright" and scurried away.
We continued walking, with supervisor giving me a sympathetic but humored look. I said, laughing, Oh my god. I'm glad I didn't hurt her; I could've totally taken her *out*.
"That would have made a really great first impression," the supervisor said. And laughed.
She seems like a pretty likeable character. I also liked the clinic's population and its mission. And I especially appreciated the fact they they're not part of the CBT gestapo. "We're a democracy here," she told me at one point. And I instantly felt at home.
It was an engaging conversation. I'm going to pursue it further and see what happens.
Not long after I finished telling S2 how I nearly mowed down an elderly woman 30 seconds into the interview, I was surprised to see my Uncle Rick's name flash on my cell phone. He said he was "just calling to see what my favorite niece is up to."
I told him about the elderly woman, and he laughed. "Think they'll hire you?"
You mean take me on as their slave?
"What kind of racket have you got yourself involved in where you don't get paid to work?" he asked.
I wonder the same thing.
After a little chatting, the real purpose of his call came to light. He has set the dates for two memorial services for my aunt -- one in Hawaii and one in New Orleans. I'll head down to the Big Island next week to participate in a scattering of her ashes at sea. Sounds like a lovely thing. Just what she wanted.
Alas, I went off and made those plans and got my tickets before I looked down at my feet and saw my dog. I realized I need to find him shelter for the week I'll be gone. The first call I made was to XGF. We have an agreement -- one she's never cashed in on me -- to take care of each other's dogs while out of town. This is part of the doggie custody agreement.
XGF called me back several hours later and told me she *might* be able to do it but that I should attempt to find another caretaker. She is going to Rutgers toward the end of my trip and might not be able to take care of him more than a day or two. That's all and well. I'll look around. (Anyone want the company of a fine Cairn Terrier for a week?)
But as part of this conversation, XGF asked, "Will you come to my play this weekend?"
I took the bait.
And in short order, XGF shared with me that she had been asked to simulate fellatio on stage in the nude. At her CATHOLIC college. Which had also asked her to sign a contract saying she would not engage in any activity that was not in keeping with the Catholic traditions of the school.
Hmmm.
And then she tells me that she refused to be naked and simulate fellatio on stage but agreed, in lieu of doing so, to pose with her real-life boyfriend in all these nude photos simulating sex. They did this at a "hippie house where everyone was smoking pot," she said, laughing. "I spent two hours standing around in my panties while they posed us in all these sexual positions. I looked at a couple of the pictures and said, 'You can't use that! My ass is huge!' "
A selection of these photos were blown up to "30-foot" proportions -- in XGF's estimation -- and used to create the backdrop of the set. "It really looks like we're having sex," she said. "You should come see it the play. It will be the most horrendous thing you have ever witnessed. I feel sure of it."
Somehow, I believe her.
So you'll just have to be patient with me as I relive a bit of Tuesday before moving on to Wednesday.
Tuesday
I witnessed -- in fact, I participated in -- one of the most courageous, compelling educational experiences I've thus far come across in graduate school.
You would think that in a counseling psychology program, we'd be innundated with role-playing and other ways of practicing our craft before we unleash our naughty selves onto unsuspecting clients. But this is not the case.
I've participated in a few role plays, which I've sometimes described here, and I've seen a few classmates attempt to demonstrate techniques or conduct an intake interview. But only a couple of times has this occurred in front of the class. Normally, we get paired up and scoot ourselves off into empty classrooms or conference spaces and start trying out whatever we've learned in class. And even that is rare.
In Couples Therapy on Tuesday night, however, I was anticipating some role-playing. As I've noted before S2, Buddha Boy and I are in a little triad, where we alternate playing therapist to a couple in distress. There are three scenarios, each created by the therapist. Buddha Boy and I have had our turns as therapists already, so shortly after I picked up S2 on the way to class, I teased her, This is gonna be your night!
She was a bit distracted by thoughts of Little Pea having a fever and just shrugged a little, saying, "I haven't even thought about that."
Class rolled along rather peacefully. There was a discussion about an interesting article, in which I uttered what has become my rallying cry in this class: Unnecessarily heterosexist. Totally unnecessary. Then we had a break. I heated up some soup for S2 and myself. After break, the professor gave a lecture on how to "really" do Emotionally Focused Couples Therapy, and it seemed to go on for a while.
As the clock approached 8, I leaned over to S2 and said, Looks like you might escape it after all.
Then, the professor uttered his challenge. "So now that you know 'how to do it,' is there anyone -- preferably one of the students who hasn't been the therapist yet -- willing to come up and conduct a session?"
I could hear all my classmates collectively sink back in their seats. This therapy is some seriously tough work, and two-thirds of the class has already experienced just what a flustering, confusing bit of puppetry it is to control an unruly, fighting couple. And we did so tucked away in a room where the only witnesses were the two classmates playing the couple.
I looked at S2 with a question mark on my face. She shook her head. "I'm not doing that."
The class sat silently. No volunteers.
The professor stared back at us. Silently.
I sensed an eternal ellipses dropping dot by dot in the emptiness of that silence. I looked over at Buddha Boy and noticed he was practically falling out of his seat, staring at S2. His eyebrows were up. I looked back at her. "Seriously?" she asked. And I shrugged.
"I'll do it," S2 said flatly, breaking the tension in the room and prompting sighs from those less willing to stomach it.
The three of us got into a circle -- in the middle of the large circle that the class sits in each night -- and Buddha Boy and I read up on our roles for a few long moments before beginning.
A fight commenced rather quickly. I played Autum, a controlling, tired-of-her-fuck-off-husband wife, and Buddha Boy played Bobby, a fuck-off who acts charmingly ignorant of the ways in which he dumps all the household responsibilities and parenting in my lap. The reason we came to therapy was because I heard him engaging his 11-year-old son in all sorts of adult conversations when the boy came to visit recently. Bobby and I have two kids of our own, ages 6 and 2, and I am growing increasingly worried of how he will handle the parenting as our kids get older. From the opening remarks, it was incendiary.
But S2 displayed a mastery of this scene unlike anything I expected. Some of it must come from being a mother of two, but silencing squabbling adults without sounding patronizing is an art form. She managed to shut me right up -- more or less -- and it wasn't because I was cutting her any slack. Bobby started going off about how he wanted to be "a man," and I got downright pissed. When he LIED and said he initiated the therapy, I went off at him.
S2 handled us like the ringmaster at a circus, but with none of the bluster and bravado. She appeared calm, spoke evenly, softly. At one point, she had to tell us (me, really) not to call each other "names." (I had said, I *wish* he was a man!) Rather quickly, she asked Bobby and me not to talk to each other, just her. And then piece by piece, she got into our story. Only once did she stop to ask for assistance -- when the emotion was suddenly heightened, and there was a dead-end in sight. With a prompt from a classmate, she corrected the course and brought the tenor of the session down to something a bit more polite.
It was compelling work. After about 20 minutes of this scene, S2 called it to an end. The class erupted into applause. Following a deconstruction of the experience and some demonstration by the professor of ways one might work further with this couple, class came to an end. On our way out, the professor said to S2, "You are my new hero. As far as I'm concerned, you do not have to do any more coursework in this program. That was excellent work."
To that I'll add: NO SHIT!
I was in the middle of it, so I can't say what it looked like from the outside, but the quality of the triad experience was considerably better than when Buddha Boy or I tried our hand at it. In fact, had I walked into an office and sat down across from S2 in a real counseling situation, I wouldn't guess she was a novice. The only thing that gave hint to me of how ridiculously nervous she must have been came after the session was over, when I noticed she was not breathing evenly while the professor deconstructed the deal.
And by the reaction of our classmates, I'd say I'm not alone in being blown away by how she managed the scene.
Really impressive, S2. Really.
In my opinion, we should be doing a HELL OF A LOT MORE of this stuff in class. Put some shit on the line. Give our classmates demonstrations of how different people have different styles. It shouldn't be so rare that the professor's request for volunteers comes as a surprise and ellicits such silence. It should be happening all the freaking time. What an amazing learning experience. I would have liked to be on the outside looking in....
Wednesday
What can I say about today?
I had an interview at an internship site, and within 30 seconds of meeting the clinical supervisor who was to interview me, I nearly plowed down someone in the hallway. I was walking and looking at the supervisor, when I suddenly felt something under my foot and heard a woman issue a breath-forced "ugh!" just as my right shoulder clocked her in the FACE. Instinctively reaching out, I found myself trying to steady an ELDERLY WOMAN. I quickly apologized. She mumbled, "It's alright" and scurried away.
We continued walking, with supervisor giving me a sympathetic but humored look. I said, laughing, Oh my god. I'm glad I didn't hurt her; I could've totally taken her *out*.
"That would have made a really great first impression," the supervisor said. And laughed.
She seems like a pretty likeable character. I also liked the clinic's population and its mission. And I especially appreciated the fact they they're not part of the CBT gestapo. "We're a democracy here," she told me at one point. And I instantly felt at home.
It was an engaging conversation. I'm going to pursue it further and see what happens.
Not long after I finished telling S2 how I nearly mowed down an elderly woman 30 seconds into the interview, I was surprised to see my Uncle Rick's name flash on my cell phone. He said he was "just calling to see what my favorite niece is up to."
I told him about the elderly woman, and he laughed. "Think they'll hire you?"
You mean take me on as their slave?
"What kind of racket have you got yourself involved in where you don't get paid to work?" he asked.
I wonder the same thing.
After a little chatting, the real purpose of his call came to light. He has set the dates for two memorial services for my aunt -- one in Hawaii and one in New Orleans. I'll head down to the Big Island next week to participate in a scattering of her ashes at sea. Sounds like a lovely thing. Just what she wanted.
Alas, I went off and made those plans and got my tickets before I looked down at my feet and saw my dog. I realized I need to find him shelter for the week I'll be gone. The first call I made was to XGF. We have an agreement -- one she's never cashed in on me -- to take care of each other's dogs while out of town. This is part of the doggie custody agreement.
XGF called me back several hours later and told me she *might* be able to do it but that I should attempt to find another caretaker. She is going to Rutgers toward the end of my trip and might not be able to take care of him more than a day or two. That's all and well. I'll look around. (Anyone want the company of a fine Cairn Terrier for a week?)
But as part of this conversation, XGF asked, "Will you come to my play this weekend?"
I took the bait.
And in short order, XGF shared with me that she had been asked to simulate fellatio on stage in the nude. At her CATHOLIC college. Which had also asked her to sign a contract saying she would not engage in any activity that was not in keeping with the Catholic traditions of the school.
Hmmm.
And then she tells me that she refused to be naked and simulate fellatio on stage but agreed, in lieu of doing so, to pose with her real-life boyfriend in all these nude photos simulating sex. They did this at a "hippie house where everyone was smoking pot," she said, laughing. "I spent two hours standing around in my panties while they posed us in all these sexual positions. I looked at a couple of the pictures and said, 'You can't use that! My ass is huge!' "
A selection of these photos were blown up to "30-foot" proportions -- in XGF's estimation -- and used to create the backdrop of the set. "It really looks like we're having sex," she said. "You should come see it the play. It will be the most horrendous thing you have ever witnessed. I feel sure of it."
Somehow, I believe her.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
CBT: Crappy Bunkass Therapy
I went to the bar again after class tonight, partly to see some school chums who are "regulars" there and partly to celebrate the birthday of a classmate. I had one beer and one burger. So I am stone-cold sober and was for the entire evening.
It seems that, even sober, I have a tendency toward these "bold statements" one of my classmates pointed out last week. This time around, I said: I hate Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy. And then I added, One of my classmates said CBT is likely to insult intelligent people, and I totally agree with that. I certainly find it insulting.
I especially love how I got to imply my own intelligence. Truth is, I *am* especially intelligent. But so are some of my classmates, and that doesn't seem to stop them from liking this shit.
At the end of the table toward which I directed my comments (starting with, You seriously want to be a CBT-ologist? I have lost all respect for you.), I drew a crowd of disbelieving looks. One of my classmates asked, "Are you serious?"
Damn straight, I am. I'm not saying CBT doesn't have some worthwhile *techniques,* because it does. But as a treatment modality, as the core of therapy, I don't like it at all. I love being a rebel, and there's no question that I was in a teeny tiny minority at the table.
However, a thoughtful man with whom I engaged in a lengthy conversation about this topic, said to me, "I imagine you're right about CBT not working with people who are intelligent. Intelligent people spend a lot of time in their heads, so it makes sense that for any significant shift to occur, you'd have to move them into their body and their emotions."
Very well said.
Just down the way, however, my classmate who was celebrating her birthday was saying, "But I *love* evidence-based practices. I'm totally for empirically validated therapy."
I was reminded of something I read last week in an article on infidelity, where in response to someone saying they were "for fidelity," the author wrote, "I am for honest politics and immortality, too."
In other words, there is no such thing. Or, as we from The South would say, That's nice.
It is with a small note of irony that I announce I will be giving a presentation on "advanced skills" to my Practical Skills class later this week. Guess what those "advanced skills" include? CBT.
Let me tell you something. If you want to seee ADVANCED skills, check out Emotionally Focused Couples Therapy. That is some hardcore shit, my friends. Makes CBT look like ... well, what it is: a collection of boring techniques designed to fix the glitches in your robotic dog's behavior.
I'm just saying.
Other than that, I would like to add: People of Earth, I come in peace.
It seems that, even sober, I have a tendency toward these "bold statements" one of my classmates pointed out last week. This time around, I said: I hate Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy. And then I added, One of my classmates said CBT is likely to insult intelligent people, and I totally agree with that. I certainly find it insulting.
I especially love how I got to imply my own intelligence. Truth is, I *am* especially intelligent. But so are some of my classmates, and that doesn't seem to stop them from liking this shit.
At the end of the table toward which I directed my comments (starting with, You seriously want to be a CBT-ologist? I have lost all respect for you.), I drew a crowd of disbelieving looks. One of my classmates asked, "Are you serious?"
Damn straight, I am. I'm not saying CBT doesn't have some worthwhile *techniques,* because it does. But as a treatment modality, as the core of therapy, I don't like it at all. I love being a rebel, and there's no question that I was in a teeny tiny minority at the table.
However, a thoughtful man with whom I engaged in a lengthy conversation about this topic, said to me, "I imagine you're right about CBT not working with people who are intelligent. Intelligent people spend a lot of time in their heads, so it makes sense that for any significant shift to occur, you'd have to move them into their body and their emotions."
Very well said.
Just down the way, however, my classmate who was celebrating her birthday was saying, "But I *love* evidence-based practices. I'm totally for empirically validated therapy."
I was reminded of something I read last week in an article on infidelity, where in response to someone saying they were "for fidelity," the author wrote, "I am for honest politics and immortality, too."
In other words, there is no such thing. Or, as we from The South would say, That's nice.
It is with a small note of irony that I announce I will be giving a presentation on "advanced skills" to my Practical Skills class later this week. Guess what those "advanced skills" include? CBT.
Let me tell you something. If you want to seee ADVANCED skills, check out Emotionally Focused Couples Therapy. That is some hardcore shit, my friends. Makes CBT look like ... well, what it is: a collection of boring techniques designed to fix the glitches in your robotic dog's behavior.
I'm just saying.
Other than that, I would like to add: People of Earth, I come in peace.
Monday, March 12, 2007
This is just the beginning
I have found religion, my Fair Readers.
It is me. It is you. It is us. And all that flows between us.
It is eyes at half mast, stoned and full of pleasure. It is the cringe of fear.
It is a child speaking to the echo of two phones calling each other. It is my dog's erect ears.
The softness of my pillow. Massage. And a bad night's sleep.
The night sky over Wiamea. A dream of Balinese architecture in Hawi.
It is storytelling. And those who aren't ready to hear the story just yet.
Sweet corn tamales. Sushi. Guinness stout.
A gridlock of cars using alternative fuels. Hummers with fake biodiesel bumperstickers.
A trusted friend. A friend who trusts you. The friend who trusts no one.
It is entitlement without the expense and suffering of others.
Joy. Laughter. Love. And letting go of the rest.
It is the absence of ugliness in the light of our undeniable worth.
It is me. It is you. It is us. And all that flows between us.
It is eyes at half mast, stoned and full of pleasure. It is the cringe of fear.
It is a child speaking to the echo of two phones calling each other. It is my dog's erect ears.
The softness of my pillow. Massage. And a bad night's sleep.
The night sky over Wiamea. A dream of Balinese architecture in Hawi.
It is storytelling. And those who aren't ready to hear the story just yet.
Sweet corn tamales. Sushi. Guinness stout.
A gridlock of cars using alternative fuels. Hummers with fake biodiesel bumperstickers.
A trusted friend. A friend who trusts you. The friend who trusts no one.
It is entitlement without the expense and suffering of others.
Joy. Laughter. Love. And letting go of the rest.
It is the absence of ugliness in the light of our undeniable worth.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Lots to think about, little to say
The World According to UCM is undergoing another revision. A complete rewrite actually.
It seems, furthermore, that the deep process such an effort requires leaves me with very few words to share with the rest of you.
However, for your reading enjoyment (such as it is) I can relate the following:
I finally discovered today the reason there's been an annoying plastic creaking sound in my car's dashboard area for the past few months. It appears that when my car was burglarized last summer, the thieves broke part of my glove compartment door. I just never noticed it until today. That explains a lot.
That about sums it up.
It seems, furthermore, that the deep process such an effort requires leaves me with very few words to share with the rest of you.
However, for your reading enjoyment (such as it is) I can relate the following:
I finally discovered today the reason there's been an annoying plastic creaking sound in my car's dashboard area for the past few months. It appears that when my car was burglarized last summer, the thieves broke part of my glove compartment door. I just never noticed it until today. That explains a lot.
That about sums it up.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Dispatch: Academia & the Criminally Insane
I'm not suggesting the topics in the headline are related -- although they easily could be under many circumstances. More a highlight of what's to come.
First, a quickie from the Home for the Criminally Insane. I was working last night, and around 2 a.m. found a magazine on the dining table: Today's Christian Woman. On first glance, I cringed. Then I read all the teasers on the cover and cringed a little more. "Getting God into Your Workout" is what made me start thumbing through it.
My review: Curve is much better. I mean, from one niche genre to another, I'd rather see women represented by dynamic, unconventional lesbians than Bible-thumping gals with hopelessly dated big hair. But also, I prefer the relationship advice columns in the lesbian magazine. And not just because it's sex-positive; it's that even in a world where big gnarly fisted bull dykes and BDSM are all a happy part of the scene, the advice doesn't have a creepy tilt toward paying appropriate homage to the man.
To cleanse my psyche, I popped in a DVD of "Kill Bill, Vol. 1," which I watched for the first time despite concerns about my autonomic nervous system being rather aroused lately. Turned out to be a good choice. The scene where one of the assassins dresses up as a nurse -- a nurse with a white patch over her eye that's embossed with a small red cross -- made me start laughing harder than I have laughed in a month.
I realized just how little I've been laughing lately. But ... grief will do that to you. C'est la vie.
Now on to the bit about academia.
I've gotten a few e-mails from XGF over the past couple weeks talking about the progress she's made toward entering a PhD program. As some of my Fair Readers may recall, XGF's desire to move to the East Coast -- most likely -- in pursuit of a doctorate in medical sociology was a factor in our decision to split.
After we broke up, she decided to accelerate her application process and try joining a program this coming fall, versus next year, when I would have completed my own graduate program. She had to take a heavy load of undergrad courses to polish off the degree she's been chipping away at for the past seven years while working full time in a professional job with significant responsibilities and a lot of international travel.
I've been amazed at the progress. I was further surprised when she managed to get all her applications out the door on time.
Although many friends and family members have expressed skepticism in the past couple of years, particularly with XGF's desire to be accepted into a few elite schools in the field, I never doubted she would make a top-notch candidate and an excellent academic.
So I'm feeling a touch vindicated here. XGF has already been officially accepted into three PhD programs, and she awaits word on several others. So far, she's in a pretty sweet spot. One of her top schools, Rutgers, has offered her a five-year fellowship, paying for tuition and insurance, as well as giving her $18K a year for a living stipend. Another is offering tuition waivers and other lures.
She's got choices. And she may yet have more options.
When she told me about this tonight, I congratulated her.
But in truth, part of me is sad.
At the outset, I should say that I don't regret our decision to split. New Jersey is among the last places I'd want to live. And even without the whole relocation issue, there were more significant factors that contributed to the end of our relationship.
Nevertheless, XGF and I have remained friendly and interested in each other's well-being. No matter where she picks up and moves to, I'm going to feel sad about her departure. We have known each other going on eight years, have traveled to some strange little corners of the world together, had our lives and our dreams intertwined.
It's not easy to say good-bye to all that.
Theoretically, I did that a year ago when I moved out. But as I've observed in my experience, loss often occurs in stages.
There are moments of significant change. In a breakup, there are the discussions that lead to dissolving the relationship, there's the sorting of belongings, the moving out.
And then there are those changes that seem to happen on the sly: adjusting to an empty bed, learning to cook for one again (forced by the proliferation of tired leftovers in the fridge), learning the ex is dating, passing significant dates on the calendar without the shared traditions of years previous.
Somehow, I see XGF's impending move -- including the sale of the house we owned together and the final distribution of all the crap that's still inside it -- as the final, final stage of the loss of that relationship.
So while I applaud XGF for her unsurprising success, it feels bittersweet. What she embraces requires of me the final letting go.
First, a quickie from the Home for the Criminally Insane. I was working last night, and around 2 a.m. found a magazine on the dining table: Today's Christian Woman. On first glance, I cringed. Then I read all the teasers on the cover and cringed a little more. "Getting God into Your Workout" is what made me start thumbing through it.
My review: Curve is much better. I mean, from one niche genre to another, I'd rather see women represented by dynamic, unconventional lesbians than Bible-thumping gals with hopelessly dated big hair. But also, I prefer the relationship advice columns in the lesbian magazine. And not just because it's sex-positive; it's that even in a world where big gnarly fisted bull dykes and BDSM are all a happy part of the scene, the advice doesn't have a creepy tilt toward paying appropriate homage to the man.
To cleanse my psyche, I popped in a DVD of "Kill Bill, Vol. 1," which I watched for the first time despite concerns about my autonomic nervous system being rather aroused lately. Turned out to be a good choice. The scene where one of the assassins dresses up as a nurse -- a nurse with a white patch over her eye that's embossed with a small red cross -- made me start laughing harder than I have laughed in a month.
I realized just how little I've been laughing lately. But ... grief will do that to you. C'est la vie.
Now on to the bit about academia.
I've gotten a few e-mails from XGF over the past couple weeks talking about the progress she's made toward entering a PhD program. As some of my Fair Readers may recall, XGF's desire to move to the East Coast -- most likely -- in pursuit of a doctorate in medical sociology was a factor in our decision to split.
After we broke up, she decided to accelerate her application process and try joining a program this coming fall, versus next year, when I would have completed my own graduate program. She had to take a heavy load of undergrad courses to polish off the degree she's been chipping away at for the past seven years while working full time in a professional job with significant responsibilities and a lot of international travel.
I've been amazed at the progress. I was further surprised when she managed to get all her applications out the door on time.
Although many friends and family members have expressed skepticism in the past couple of years, particularly with XGF's desire to be accepted into a few elite schools in the field, I never doubted she would make a top-notch candidate and an excellent academic.
So I'm feeling a touch vindicated here. XGF has already been officially accepted into three PhD programs, and she awaits word on several others. So far, she's in a pretty sweet spot. One of her top schools, Rutgers, has offered her a five-year fellowship, paying for tuition and insurance, as well as giving her $18K a year for a living stipend. Another is offering tuition waivers and other lures.
She's got choices. And she may yet have more options.
When she told me about this tonight, I congratulated her.
But in truth, part of me is sad.
At the outset, I should say that I don't regret our decision to split. New Jersey is among the last places I'd want to live. And even without the whole relocation issue, there were more significant factors that contributed to the end of our relationship.
Nevertheless, XGF and I have remained friendly and interested in each other's well-being. No matter where she picks up and moves to, I'm going to feel sad about her departure. We have known each other going on eight years, have traveled to some strange little corners of the world together, had our lives and our dreams intertwined.
It's not easy to say good-bye to all that.
Theoretically, I did that a year ago when I moved out. But as I've observed in my experience, loss often occurs in stages.
There are moments of significant change. In a breakup, there are the discussions that lead to dissolving the relationship, there's the sorting of belongings, the moving out.
And then there are those changes that seem to happen on the sly: adjusting to an empty bed, learning to cook for one again (forced by the proliferation of tired leftovers in the fridge), learning the ex is dating, passing significant dates on the calendar without the shared traditions of years previous.
Somehow, I see XGF's impending move -- including the sale of the house we owned together and the final distribution of all the crap that's still inside it -- as the final, final stage of the loss of that relationship.
So while I applaud XGF for her unsurprising success, it feels bittersweet. What she embraces requires of me the final letting go.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
My vagina's by Burberry....
There are dark things on the Internet. Some of them, I love. Some of them horrify me. Some of them attract hidden little parts of me that never otherwise see the light of day. But then, there's just plain old disturbing.
I'm thinking, in part, of the proliferation of sites dedicated to plastic surgery that will resculpt your vagina. In other worse, vaginoplasty.
It seems all sorts of notions about how sex *ought* to be and what a woman's labia *should* look like have generated the need for designer vaginas, which includes surgery to tighten the vaginal walls by sewing them closer together. At the same time a procedure called labioplasty allows you to have excess parts of your labia removed -- or conversely, have your labia enlarged -- if you don't like its size and shape.
And if you're a woman in need of a like-new hymen, you can get your Humpty Dumpty sewn back together again.
These procedures are being touted on the Internet as a way to improve your sex life, especially for women who've given birth and are now regarded by their partners to be a bit loose. It creates more sensation, doctors claim. Mainly for the guy.
One of the OB/GYN surgeons who does a lot of these procedures can be found on an Internet video talking about how a patient's husband called him -- after surgery for a urninary tract problem happened to result in a tighter vagina -- and told the doctor, "It's like having the same wife but a new woman."
And that, this doctor happily reports, is how vaginoplasty was born. He realized that the stitch-up job he did on the urinary tract patient could be applied cosmetically. Thus thought, now done.
Online videos include testimonials from women saying stuff that makes my jaw drop:
"I don't have to have extra stimulation, so to speak, with sex. Just actual sex. I'm able to have a lot more orgasms. There's a lot more sensation. It doesn't take as long."
When I hear women say things like that, I feel sad. In fact, there is so much "wrong" with that statement above, that my heart aches a little for the woman who said it.
What stimulation in sex must be considered "extra stimulation"? Why not simply be able to give and receive pleasure, regardless of what part of the body or what area of the genitalia is touched?
"Just actual sex." Now, I know my sex life has been exclusively with other women for the past 15 years or so, but I still wonder, even for heterosexuals, *what on Earth* constitutes "just actual sex." And if you have to put the word "just" in front of it, is it something that you actually want? Sounds a little lackluster to me.
"It doesn't take as long." Most of us enjoy a quickie now and then, but a really heart-stopping sexual encounter should, in my book, take a little while. And if it's really *that* awesome, you should want it to last. Why "get it over with" if you're enjoying yourself? Why not stay and linger a while?
And then there's that whole business about orgasm. As a lesbian, I am accustomed to the orgasm. Just in the nature of women-loving sex, there is plenty of room and attention given to pleasuring your partner. Not to say all girls do this for one another. Some intentionally don't. But in my experience, it's pretty common, and I have enjoyed an orgasm nearly every time I've had sex for the past 10 years or so.
Nevertheless, I have given considerably more thought lately to what one of my friends calls, with dismay, "our orgasm-centered society." She has questioned repeatedly the value of the orgasm as the goal of sex. At first, I thought she might be saying this because orgasms aren't a common occurrence in her world. (I never asked.)
But then, the more I considered what I understood her to be saying and later coupled her comments with my reading of "Passionate Marriage" by David Schnarch, I started to contemplate more deeply the intimacy in sex that has nothing whatsoever to do with the spasms and contractions of my inner sanctum.
I had a lot of mixed feelings about Schnarch's work. But one place I'm in agreement with him is that fabulous sexual encounters -- and I've had a few -- have at their core some real connection between partners. Both parties take the time to be present, to be truly involved with and focused on the other.
I once had a lover who was especially present -- rarely taking her eyes off of me -- and always seemed tuned into the cadence of my body and my sexual process in a way that was highly unusual in my experience. It was incredible sex. And had there been a deeper emotional connection between us, I shudder to think what the sex might have been like.
Well, I'm still young -- and according to Schnarch, the best sex one has is often in the 50s and 60s -- so there is time yet to see what new experiences may blossom in the new relationships awaiting me in this life.
But I don't need a new vagina to find out just how awesome sex can be in my middle age. In fact, I daresay that most women -- including those who've had babies, as a few of my lovers have -- do *not* need vaginoplasty to have good sex. Nor do their male partners.
We have so many strange body issues as it is already, my sisters. Let's please not start agonizing over whether our vaginas measure up to the "Playboy" ideal. Let's love our pussys just as they are. And fuck the men. Yes, fuck 'em. Or fuck the women. It's your choice. But you don't need a designer vagina to do it.
I'm thinking, in part, of the proliferation of sites dedicated to plastic surgery that will resculpt your vagina. In other worse, vaginoplasty.
It seems all sorts of notions about how sex *ought* to be and what a woman's labia *should* look like have generated the need for designer vaginas, which includes surgery to tighten the vaginal walls by sewing them closer together. At the same time a procedure called labioplasty allows you to have excess parts of your labia removed -- or conversely, have your labia enlarged -- if you don't like its size and shape.
And if you're a woman in need of a like-new hymen, you can get your Humpty Dumpty sewn back together again.
These procedures are being touted on the Internet as a way to improve your sex life, especially for women who've given birth and are now regarded by their partners to be a bit loose. It creates more sensation, doctors claim. Mainly for the guy.
One of the OB/GYN surgeons who does a lot of these procedures can be found on an Internet video talking about how a patient's husband called him -- after surgery for a urninary tract problem happened to result in a tighter vagina -- and told the doctor, "It's like having the same wife but a new woman."
And that, this doctor happily reports, is how vaginoplasty was born. He realized that the stitch-up job he did on the urinary tract patient could be applied cosmetically. Thus thought, now done.
Online videos include testimonials from women saying stuff that makes my jaw drop:
"I don't have to have extra stimulation, so to speak, with sex. Just actual sex. I'm able to have a lot more orgasms. There's a lot more sensation. It doesn't take as long."
When I hear women say things like that, I feel sad. In fact, there is so much "wrong" with that statement above, that my heart aches a little for the woman who said it.
What stimulation in sex must be considered "extra stimulation"? Why not simply be able to give and receive pleasure, regardless of what part of the body or what area of the genitalia is touched?
"Just actual sex." Now, I know my sex life has been exclusively with other women for the past 15 years or so, but I still wonder, even for heterosexuals, *what on Earth* constitutes "just actual sex." And if you have to put the word "just" in front of it, is it something that you actually want? Sounds a little lackluster to me.
"It doesn't take as long." Most of us enjoy a quickie now and then, but a really heart-stopping sexual encounter should, in my book, take a little while. And if it's really *that* awesome, you should want it to last. Why "get it over with" if you're enjoying yourself? Why not stay and linger a while?
And then there's that whole business about orgasm. As a lesbian, I am accustomed to the orgasm. Just in the nature of women-loving sex, there is plenty of room and attention given to pleasuring your partner. Not to say all girls do this for one another. Some intentionally don't. But in my experience, it's pretty common, and I have enjoyed an orgasm nearly every time I've had sex for the past 10 years or so.
Nevertheless, I have given considerably more thought lately to what one of my friends calls, with dismay, "our orgasm-centered society." She has questioned repeatedly the value of the orgasm as the goal of sex. At first, I thought she might be saying this because orgasms aren't a common occurrence in her world. (I never asked.)
But then, the more I considered what I understood her to be saying and later coupled her comments with my reading of "Passionate Marriage" by David Schnarch, I started to contemplate more deeply the intimacy in sex that has nothing whatsoever to do with the spasms and contractions of my inner sanctum.
I had a lot of mixed feelings about Schnarch's work. But one place I'm in agreement with him is that fabulous sexual encounters -- and I've had a few -- have at their core some real connection between partners. Both parties take the time to be present, to be truly involved with and focused on the other.
I once had a lover who was especially present -- rarely taking her eyes off of me -- and always seemed tuned into the cadence of my body and my sexual process in a way that was highly unusual in my experience. It was incredible sex. And had there been a deeper emotional connection between us, I shudder to think what the sex might have been like.
Well, I'm still young -- and according to Schnarch, the best sex one has is often in the 50s and 60s -- so there is time yet to see what new experiences may blossom in the new relationships awaiting me in this life.
But I don't need a new vagina to find out just how awesome sex can be in my middle age. In fact, I daresay that most women -- including those who've had babies, as a few of my lovers have -- do *not* need vaginoplasty to have good sex. Nor do their male partners.
We have so many strange body issues as it is already, my sisters. Let's please not start agonizing over whether our vaginas measure up to the "Playboy" ideal. Let's love our pussys just as they are. And fuck the men. Yes, fuck 'em. Or fuck the women. It's your choice. But you don't need a designer vagina to do it.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
I, Couples Therapist (or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Just Pop a Pill When I Bomb)
There are times in life when I think it's appropriate to make a suicide pact. Or at least to draw that line in the sand where, once crossed, you start considering whether you'd qualify for assisted suicide under Oregon's Death With Dignity law. Typically, this is reserved for terminal illnesses or the problem of excruciating and unrelievable pain.
Working as a counselor is not a terminal illness -- at least, not as I've yet been made aware of -- but the quandary of excruciating and unrelievable pain may be the little caveat by which my work today as a would-be couples therapist qualifies me for a really large bottle of morphine and a fifth of gin.
I'm just saying.
But perhaps it wasn't *that* bad.
You'd have to ask S2 and Buddha Boy how it went from their perspective, as they are role-playing my couple and were consequently subjected to my therapeutic "attempts." (In light of my previous blog entry, I'm considering the possibility that one ought not be a couples therapist if one has not survived an experience with couples therapy.)
In any case, a little about my couple:
S2 is "Shannon," and Buddha Boy is "Eric." They are having a rather significant dispute over the prospect of having children. Eric wants them; Shannon is "ambivalent," and raises the following concerns:
-- She is very successful in her career and is the primary breadwinner, bringing in at least 75 percent of the income. She is essentially supporting their family of two while Eric tries to get his consulting business onto good financial footing.
-- She doesn't like her job and would consider having kids for the trade-off of not working. But she doesn't see how that's possible given the financial situation.
-- If she has to continue working, even part-time, she doesn't trust that Eric will kick in his fair share of the parenting, so she has significant resistance on that matter.
-- And then there's the part where maybe she doesn't really like the idea of having kids. Maybe she'd just prefer to be a good auntie to someone else's children, so she can go off and get into a line of work that she would actually enjoy.
Eric, for his part, is confused why Shannon has all these feelings. He says he's "changed" from the past, back when they used to "communicate basically by saying, 'What the fuck?!' to each other all the time."
This is the wilely twosome I have for my couple. To make matters worse, they are my own private Frankenstein. I created them. S2 and Buddha Boy are simply playing the roles I gave them.
No sooner had we opened the "session" with a "What brings you in today?" than the teacher walked in and started quietly observing us. I hadn't even started to find my groove (and truthfully, I never did), so that may have thrown me off a bit.
But it was really Shannon and Eric and their stunted communication, their desire to keep the session at a surface level by talking about their financial issues, and their dug-in positions that presented the challenge.
At one point, I said something like, I can understand why the finances are a concern, but I am not your financial counselor. I'd rather we focus on what's going on between the two of you. Something nice and inelegant like that. Something designed to build a calm and trusted therapeutic alliance.
At another point, early on, I had covered my face momentarily, tried to pretend these people weren't in role and said, Oh my god, I have *no clue* what I'm doing! To which S2 had replied, "Press on! Just keep going!"
And so I did. But my god.
It is one thing to work with an individual, particularly in role-play where you've got a very limited time to attempt making a connection with the client and start getting a sense of what's going on with them. But TWO people? Who are a tad hostile toward one another or who may be frightened of revealing their truest sense of "the problem" in front of their partner? And who can fall into fits of talking to and about each other, slipping from third to second person and back again in a single sentence because *you* -- the therapist -- are suddenly struggling against triangulation and trying to build an alliance with both of them?
That, my friends, is some seriously squirrely stuff.
It reminded me of trying to pull a watermelon covered in Crisco out of a swimming pool.
Fortunately, I realized at some point that *of course* it was going to be hard, that it was completely novel and that I was just going to fuck it up until the cows came home. But maybe someday way out in the future, faced with some real couples and armed with more training and experience, my work might not end in catastrophe.
In fact, it did not have catastrophic consequences today. It was just ... banal. Maybe it started going somewhere. But it was HARD getting there, I can assure you.
The upside to the experience is that, unlike with the last role-playing in Couples Therapy, I found it quite easy to let the couple have their problem and keep it when the session was over. As I said last time, I was having a hard time playing the role of your basic traditional Indian male head-of-household (in "asshole" fashion, as S2 observed), and I felt bad about fighting with my "wife" (S2), who'd started taking birth control without telling me.
But tonight, I guess, I was not having very much empathy with this couple I was trying to counsel. Even though I created this couple, I couldn't quite figure out what they wanted from each other. I have *no idea* how I will be able to help them bridge their emotional distance and have an "honest" conversation about what the "kid issue" means to each of them.
The upside is that I officially have a whole new level of awe and respect for couples therapists who actually do good work.
I'll be taking a pill now and going to bed. It may not be the whole bottle of morphine washed down with gin, but it's the least I can do.
Working as a counselor is not a terminal illness -- at least, not as I've yet been made aware of -- but the quandary of excruciating and unrelievable pain may be the little caveat by which my work today as a would-be couples therapist qualifies me for a really large bottle of morphine and a fifth of gin.
I'm just saying.
But perhaps it wasn't *that* bad.
You'd have to ask S2 and Buddha Boy how it went from their perspective, as they are role-playing my couple and were consequently subjected to my therapeutic "attempts." (In light of my previous blog entry, I'm considering the possibility that one ought not be a couples therapist if one has not survived an experience with couples therapy.)
In any case, a little about my couple:
S2 is "Shannon," and Buddha Boy is "Eric." They are having a rather significant dispute over the prospect of having children. Eric wants them; Shannon is "ambivalent," and raises the following concerns:
-- She is very successful in her career and is the primary breadwinner, bringing in at least 75 percent of the income. She is essentially supporting their family of two while Eric tries to get his consulting business onto good financial footing.
-- She doesn't like her job and would consider having kids for the trade-off of not working. But she doesn't see how that's possible given the financial situation.
-- If she has to continue working, even part-time, she doesn't trust that Eric will kick in his fair share of the parenting, so she has significant resistance on that matter.
-- And then there's the part where maybe she doesn't really like the idea of having kids. Maybe she'd just prefer to be a good auntie to someone else's children, so she can go off and get into a line of work that she would actually enjoy.
Eric, for his part, is confused why Shannon has all these feelings. He says he's "changed" from the past, back when they used to "communicate basically by saying, 'What the fuck?!' to each other all the time."
This is the wilely twosome I have for my couple. To make matters worse, they are my own private Frankenstein. I created them. S2 and Buddha Boy are simply playing the roles I gave them.
No sooner had we opened the "session" with a "What brings you in today?" than the teacher walked in and started quietly observing us. I hadn't even started to find my groove (and truthfully, I never did), so that may have thrown me off a bit.
But it was really Shannon and Eric and their stunted communication, their desire to keep the session at a surface level by talking about their financial issues, and their dug-in positions that presented the challenge.
At one point, I said something like, I can understand why the finances are a concern, but I am not your financial counselor. I'd rather we focus on what's going on between the two of you. Something nice and inelegant like that. Something designed to build a calm and trusted therapeutic alliance.
At another point, early on, I had covered my face momentarily, tried to pretend these people weren't in role and said, Oh my god, I have *no clue* what I'm doing! To which S2 had replied, "Press on! Just keep going!"
And so I did. But my god.
It is one thing to work with an individual, particularly in role-play where you've got a very limited time to attempt making a connection with the client and start getting a sense of what's going on with them. But TWO people? Who are a tad hostile toward one another or who may be frightened of revealing their truest sense of "the problem" in front of their partner? And who can fall into fits of talking to and about each other, slipping from third to second person and back again in a single sentence because *you* -- the therapist -- are suddenly struggling against triangulation and trying to build an alliance with both of them?
That, my friends, is some seriously squirrely stuff.
It reminded me of trying to pull a watermelon covered in Crisco out of a swimming pool.
Fortunately, I realized at some point that *of course* it was going to be hard, that it was completely novel and that I was just going to fuck it up until the cows came home. But maybe someday way out in the future, faced with some real couples and armed with more training and experience, my work might not end in catastrophe.
In fact, it did not have catastrophic consequences today. It was just ... banal. Maybe it started going somewhere. But it was HARD getting there, I can assure you.
The upside to the experience is that, unlike with the last role-playing in Couples Therapy, I found it quite easy to let the couple have their problem and keep it when the session was over. As I said last time, I was having a hard time playing the role of your basic traditional Indian male head-of-household (in "asshole" fashion, as S2 observed), and I felt bad about fighting with my "wife" (S2), who'd started taking birth control without telling me.
But tonight, I guess, I was not having very much empathy with this couple I was trying to counsel. Even though I created this couple, I couldn't quite figure out what they wanted from each other. I have *no idea* how I will be able to help them bridge their emotional distance and have an "honest" conversation about what the "kid issue" means to each of them.
The upside is that I officially have a whole new level of awe and respect for couples therapists who actually do good work.
I'll be taking a pill now and going to bed. It may not be the whole bottle of morphine washed down with gin, but it's the least I can do.
"Bold statements" & etc.
Warning: The following blog entry is chock full o' self-righteousness and smug commentary. More than usual, that is.
Today, I gave a rather lackluster presentation in my Ethics class. It wasn't my fault that it was lackluster; it was the material. "Chapter 4: Client Rights and Counselor Responsibilities" was basically an introduction to the rest of the ethics textbook. A bit of a yawner.
Even so, my presentation was better than that of the student who came next and distilled -- a word I use loosely -- the contents of a chapter about domestic violence from the ethics textbook used by the Marriage & Family Therapy students in my class. (It's a funky situation to have half of the class using one text and half using another.)
I can't imagine she "distilled" all that much. More like she may have reguritated the entire chapter into a PowerPoint. Each slide was CRAMMED with words, and she read us most of them. We were assigned to do a 10- to 15-minute presentation, and hers went on in excess of 35 minutes. I learned a lot, but still....
Sometimes, the less you say, the better.
And it's that note upon which I make the following statements:
First, S2 unwittingly reminded me this afternoon of why I trust her so much. She did so mainly by not reporting to me what some third party said a while back until today when it was both meaningful and meaningless to do so. S2 possesses both wisdom and integrity, and I don't think there are traits for which I hold greater admiration, particularly in combination. She's also a rather loving spirit, but that is more of a side note when it comes to today's matter.
What she shared with me this afternoon would've have answered a question I had a week or two ago, but it was today that I had the ability to hear it without feeling provoked.
So it's not just a matter of saying less being better; timing is everything.
Second, after class tonight, I went to a bar with some friends and classmates from school. I had a burger and three Guiness stouts. For whatever reason, beer does not get me intoxicated, but all forms of alcohol loosen my tongue a little. Which can make me a) bold, b) brazen, c) funny and/or d) obnoxious. More so than usual, that is.
Tonight, one of my colleagues said several times, "UCM, that is a BOLD statement." Plus, "When you sprinkle it with 'fuck,' it's even *more* bold."
(He only thinks this in part because he missed the conversation Rather Shy Classmate and I were having about what services are typically provided by a professional dominatrix -- not to mention, what the plural for dominatrix is. I suggested the simple: "dommes".)
But I digress. As usual.
Here is my bold statement: You've got no business being a therapist if you haven't been to therapy yourself.
I fail to see how that is Earth-shattering in any way. In my reality, that is a simple statement of fact. I equate it to the notion of expecting to drive a car when you've never even been a passenger and haven't had the chance to see someone else do it.
Nevertheless, my "bold statement" took over the table, and a vigorous discussion ensued. Two of the five sitting there remained silent, and I kept wondering why. The other two were carrying on: one arguing in accordance with me, the other in opposition. Periodically, we all shifted place and took the middle road. That would be our tendency -- as many counselor types are wont to do -- to build consensus.
I will say this, and I will say it frankly: I find it hard to comprehend why anyone would even *think* of being a therapist if they had not, at least at some point, had an experience with it. Even if that counseling came from a priest or school counselor or youth pastor. Even if it was a very brief thing.
I'm not talking about years on the couch here. I'm not insisting *anyone* requires the kind of psychotherapy to which I have subjected myself over the years (sometimes in a rather self-indulgent manner, I should add). I'm not saying you need the guy with the cigar or pipe who wears a cardigan in summer or, worse, a bow tie all the year-round. I'm not saying you need a hundred hours of "mmm-hmmm" and "Tell me more about your mother."
But I *am* saying: If you haven't been "on the couch," if you haven't looked at yourself and perhaps found a few dark corners you didn't realize you had, if you haven't taken the risk to divulge something previously unspoken or at least had a real discussion with a therapist about your various and sundry imperfections, then what the fuck do you know about therapy?
How can you empathize with the client's experience of what it's like to sit in that chair and start telling a total stranger something highly personal?
Granted, we do not need to have every experience our clients have had to feel empathy with them. I will conceed that.
But to those who disagree that a therapist *ought* to have had personal experience as a therapy client or who have only deigned to undergo therapy as a requirement of our graduate program, I want to ask this: How do you figure it's OK to ask other people to subject themselves to something you wouldn't voluntarily do yourself?
Do you think therapy is only for "defective" people? Do you think your clients will be coming to you to get "fixed"? (It's one thing for the client to think that's the purpose; it's a wholly different thing for the therapist to have that attitude.)
I mean: Seriously. What gives?
In a small-group discussion in my Ethics class tonight, I listened to two of my classmates talk about how they needed to fulfill the requirement my graduate program has that we receive at least 10 hours of personal counseling. One said he was meeting the requirement by going to couples therapy with his partner. Fair enough. But my jaw about dropped when the other replied that she should do the same because "that's the only way I'm going to get something out of it. Individual therapy wouldn't do *anything* for me." (And she's planning to counsel individuals!)
I have to say, however, that this woman strikes me as so *hard* and seems so aggressively dismissive in her persona that I'm not surprised to hear she's never been to therapy. But I still am floored by the attitude.
After all, why go to graduate school, pay all the tuition, buy all the books, go through the internship and set your ship to sailing in the low-wage non-profit ghetto that is community counseling if you don't believe in the fundamental worthiness of the work? And if you would argue that you *do* believe in it, WHY NOT FOR YOU? What makes you above it?
And lord have mercy, WHY can't you see that if you think you're all that far above it, that it wouldn't help *you,* that *you* don't have anything to learn from it ... oh man, talk about a BLIND SPOT! It means you *need* it, honey.
I suggested to my friends at the bar: By having our own experience with therapy, we have the opportunity both to learn more about ourselves *and* to learn, if nothing else, what it feels like to be the client. Clients deserve to have a counselor who has done his or her own personal work, tried to narrow his or her own blind spots and who knows from personal experience that it's not easy to walk in and spill your problems to a stranger. (Just because it may be easier to talk to a stranger than to someone important to you doesn't make it fundamentally "easy.")
If we lack self-awareness and we lack an understanding of the client's experience, I fail to see how we can provide adequate services. Rather, I think we would be providing a disservice. Important to note: Clients deserve more than "adequate." They deserve "good." They are incredibly fortunate when they get "great."
My professor recounted tonight the story of her first client, and I found myself wondering how that experience would be for me.
I shuddered to think of the client asking, "Do you have much experience?" and me replying cheerfully, You're my first! I cannot imagine also adding: And you know, I've only spent 10 hours on the couch myself. So this is new for both of us! Care for a cup of tea?
Gag! Just fucking gag me.
I have said more than enough.
Today, I gave a rather lackluster presentation in my Ethics class. It wasn't my fault that it was lackluster; it was the material. "Chapter 4: Client Rights and Counselor Responsibilities" was basically an introduction to the rest of the ethics textbook. A bit of a yawner.
Even so, my presentation was better than that of the student who came next and distilled -- a word I use loosely -- the contents of a chapter about domestic violence from the ethics textbook used by the Marriage & Family Therapy students in my class. (It's a funky situation to have half of the class using one text and half using another.)
I can't imagine she "distilled" all that much. More like she may have reguritated the entire chapter into a PowerPoint. Each slide was CRAMMED with words, and she read us most of them. We were assigned to do a 10- to 15-minute presentation, and hers went on in excess of 35 minutes. I learned a lot, but still....
Sometimes, the less you say, the better.
And it's that note upon which I make the following statements:
First, S2 unwittingly reminded me this afternoon of why I trust her so much. She did so mainly by not reporting to me what some third party said a while back until today when it was both meaningful and meaningless to do so. S2 possesses both wisdom and integrity, and I don't think there are traits for which I hold greater admiration, particularly in combination. She's also a rather loving spirit, but that is more of a side note when it comes to today's matter.
What she shared with me this afternoon would've have answered a question I had a week or two ago, but it was today that I had the ability to hear it without feeling provoked.
So it's not just a matter of saying less being better; timing is everything.
Second, after class tonight, I went to a bar with some friends and classmates from school. I had a burger and three Guiness stouts. For whatever reason, beer does not get me intoxicated, but all forms of alcohol loosen my tongue a little. Which can make me a) bold, b) brazen, c) funny and/or d) obnoxious. More so than usual, that is.
Tonight, one of my colleagues said several times, "UCM, that is a BOLD statement." Plus, "When you sprinkle it with 'fuck,' it's even *more* bold."
(He only thinks this in part because he missed the conversation Rather Shy Classmate and I were having about what services are typically provided by a professional dominatrix -- not to mention, what the plural for dominatrix is. I suggested the simple: "dommes".)
But I digress. As usual.
Here is my bold statement: You've got no business being a therapist if you haven't been to therapy yourself.
I fail to see how that is Earth-shattering in any way. In my reality, that is a simple statement of fact. I equate it to the notion of expecting to drive a car when you've never even been a passenger and haven't had the chance to see someone else do it.
Nevertheless, my "bold statement" took over the table, and a vigorous discussion ensued. Two of the five sitting there remained silent, and I kept wondering why. The other two were carrying on: one arguing in accordance with me, the other in opposition. Periodically, we all shifted place and took the middle road. That would be our tendency -- as many counselor types are wont to do -- to build consensus.
I will say this, and I will say it frankly: I find it hard to comprehend why anyone would even *think* of being a therapist if they had not, at least at some point, had an experience with it. Even if that counseling came from a priest or school counselor or youth pastor. Even if it was a very brief thing.
I'm not talking about years on the couch here. I'm not insisting *anyone* requires the kind of psychotherapy to which I have subjected myself over the years (sometimes in a rather self-indulgent manner, I should add). I'm not saying you need the guy with the cigar or pipe who wears a cardigan in summer or, worse, a bow tie all the year-round. I'm not saying you need a hundred hours of "mmm-hmmm" and "Tell me more about your mother."
But I *am* saying: If you haven't been "on the couch," if you haven't looked at yourself and perhaps found a few dark corners you didn't realize you had, if you haven't taken the risk to divulge something previously unspoken or at least had a real discussion with a therapist about your various and sundry imperfections, then what the fuck do you know about therapy?
How can you empathize with the client's experience of what it's like to sit in that chair and start telling a total stranger something highly personal?
Granted, we do not need to have every experience our clients have had to feel empathy with them. I will conceed that.
But to those who disagree that a therapist *ought* to have had personal experience as a therapy client or who have only deigned to undergo therapy as a requirement of our graduate program, I want to ask this: How do you figure it's OK to ask other people to subject themselves to something you wouldn't voluntarily do yourself?
Do you think therapy is only for "defective" people? Do you think your clients will be coming to you to get "fixed"? (It's one thing for the client to think that's the purpose; it's a wholly different thing for the therapist to have that attitude.)
I mean: Seriously. What gives?
In a small-group discussion in my Ethics class tonight, I listened to two of my classmates talk about how they needed to fulfill the requirement my graduate program has that we receive at least 10 hours of personal counseling. One said he was meeting the requirement by going to couples therapy with his partner. Fair enough. But my jaw about dropped when the other replied that she should do the same because "that's the only way I'm going to get something out of it. Individual therapy wouldn't do *anything* for me." (And she's planning to counsel individuals!)
I have to say, however, that this woman strikes me as so *hard* and seems so aggressively dismissive in her persona that I'm not surprised to hear she's never been to therapy. But I still am floored by the attitude.
After all, why go to graduate school, pay all the tuition, buy all the books, go through the internship and set your ship to sailing in the low-wage non-profit ghetto that is community counseling if you don't believe in the fundamental worthiness of the work? And if you would argue that you *do* believe in it, WHY NOT FOR YOU? What makes you above it?
And lord have mercy, WHY can't you see that if you think you're all that far above it, that it wouldn't help *you,* that *you* don't have anything to learn from it ... oh man, talk about a BLIND SPOT! It means you *need* it, honey.
I suggested to my friends at the bar: By having our own experience with therapy, we have the opportunity both to learn more about ourselves *and* to learn, if nothing else, what it feels like to be the client. Clients deserve to have a counselor who has done his or her own personal work, tried to narrow his or her own blind spots and who knows from personal experience that it's not easy to walk in and spill your problems to a stranger. (Just because it may be easier to talk to a stranger than to someone important to you doesn't make it fundamentally "easy.")
If we lack self-awareness and we lack an understanding of the client's experience, I fail to see how we can provide adequate services. Rather, I think we would be providing a disservice. Important to note: Clients deserve more than "adequate." They deserve "good." They are incredibly fortunate when they get "great."
My professor recounted tonight the story of her first client, and I found myself wondering how that experience would be for me.
I shuddered to think of the client asking, "Do you have much experience?" and me replying cheerfully, You're my first! I cannot imagine also adding: And you know, I've only spent 10 hours on the couch myself. So this is new for both of us! Care for a cup of tea?
Gag! Just fucking gag me.
I have said more than enough.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
The Prince of Tides & a Surprise from Kona
This afternoon, I drove to Arcadia Beach, a few miles south of Canon Beach, with a friend I'll call King Rex. We left Portland a little after 3 and pulled into the parking lot for the beach around 4:30. (Roads lined with snow -- much to Rex's surprise -- but totally clear and free of traffic. Zoom, zoom!)
Anyway, as we were leaving Portland, I made an off-handed comment to King Rex: Every time I go to the beach, I remind myself to accept the possibility that this may be the day The Pup Brogan meets his maker.
"Why do you say that?" he asked.
The Pup chases seagulls into the surf, I replied. A long time ago, I had a premonition that he would someday be swept out to sea. So every time I take him to the beach, part of me acknowledges that possibility.
And every time, I also think that perhaps it would be more "responsible" of me as The Pup's caretaker to keep him on the leash. But if that's how life is to be approached, then I wouldn't allow myself to whitewater raft, wouldn't try to bodysurf, wouldn't swim in the Amazon, wouldn't hire a combi to cross the Maranon Canyon.
The Pup has his thrills; I have mine. The difference is that I'm aware of the danger. He's just ... kinda ... stupid.
After rushing some gulls near a headland and vigorously chasing another dog up and down the beach, The Pup -- a 17-pound Cairn Terrier -- fell in step with us and mainly stayed at my heels.
King Rex and I walked down the beach and at one point talked about the surf. I told him how I had taken my first full-body dip into that icy water last summer when visiting with S2 and her kids at Neskowin. And then I commented, The water is so cold, and there are such strong currents out there that I decided a long time ago that I would not wade out very far in an attempt to save The Pup if he got caught in the tide. I'd even have grave second thoughts about going out after a human. Even a child.
"Why?" King Rex asked.
Because the water is *that* cold and the surf can be that dangerous. I'm a strong swimmer. I've trained lifeguards. I've hauled out my share of drowning people from pools and lakes in Texas, I replied. But that water? It scares me. Too many people who've gone out trying to rescue someone else end up dying themselves. I'd be reluctant to go in over my head.
Is that enough foreshadowing, my Fair Readers?
It should be.
Not soon after those words left my mouth, The Pup eyed a gull near some tidepools and took off full-speed ahead. King Rex and I took a moment to appreciate his speed as The Pup bounded across the hard-packed, wet sand at the surf's edge. We shook our heads as he entered the tide water.
Suddenly, The Pup found a spot where the edge of the beach dropped away without warning. We saw him drop into a watery hole. And for a moment, we laughed.
Then, a wave came in, and as the foamy whitness broke over my little dude's head, every bit of that premonition I had so long ago came to weigh on me.
SHIT! I yelled, and broke into a run through the edge of the tidewater, knowing I would ignore my rational prohibition against entering the surf to rescue my dog. (Obviously, a human can count of me to try.)
I heard King Rex behind me, splashing through the surf. We were both heading toward the spot where The Pup mysteriously dropped. As we closed in, The Pup's head was visible above the edge of the water, swimming without progress as the waves changed place. Before we got there, another wave pushed the pup onto the beach, and he ran from the water.
I issued a sigh of relief, called The Pup to me and touched his sopping-wet ratty little body. He's so much smaller when he's all wet. I bent down and scratched him behind the ear, I hope *that* taught you, I said, because that is as close as you can get without being swept out to sea or crushed in that surf, you silly dog.
Then I looked up at King Rex. His jeans were wet halfway to his knees. "These shoes aren't as waterproof as they're supposed to be," he said. I was glad for his presence. At the very least, someone would need to call the cops after I drowned trying to save my dog....
We continued to walk on the beach until sunset, sitting for the last 20 minutes or so on a blanket and admiring the greys and grey-blues of the Oregon Coast at sundown. Only once after his foray into the surf did The Pup tear after a gull toward the ocean. And that time, he turned around long before he got to the tide's edge. Perhaps he's learned something.
I can only hope. Because I'm not going to leash him up, and I'm not going to leave him home. We all have to die someday. Might as well happen doing something we love.
....
It's on that note that I transition to the other thing that happened today. After returning to Portland, I went to the 9:30 showing of "Pan's Labyrinth" with The Clairvoyant and The One at the Hollywood Theater.
I entered the lobby and, not seeing either one of them, I got into line at the concession stand. While waiting, my phone rang. I answered it. The Clairvoyant asked, "How far from the theater are you?"
I'm *in* the theater, I replied, assuming she and The One were running a little late.
"You're *in* the theater?" she asked, sounding incredulous.
Yes.
There was a long pause. Then, "Uh. Turn around."
In what was a rather empty and small lobby, TC stood about 10 feet behind me, shaking her head. I had waited in line to buy a ticket right in front of her, then walked past her to stand at the small concession stand. "How did I not see you?" she asked, laughing.
I wondered the same thing. It's not like either one of us lacks a certain distinction to our appearance.
She stood next to me in line and handed me a small red paper bag. "This is for you," she said. "I brought it back for you from Kona. Open it before the movie starts."
In the theatre, I took my seat and opened the bag. The first thing I pulled out was a small flashlight with a keychain on the end of it. It was from a bar on Ali'i drive, the main drag in Kailua-Kona, the town where my aunt and uncle live. TC and The One vacationed there a couple weeks ago.
On Valentine's Day, I talked to her briefly. She had told me the sun was setting -- the most beautiful sunset she'd ever seen, she reported -- and that she called out to the setting sun, "Aloha, Liz!" (There is a story I have as yet to tell TC that will give her the shivers when she learns of the coincidence at play in that moment.)
But I digress.
Inside the bag was something rolled up in paper. Given its size and shape, I assumed it was a can of Mauna Loa macadamia nuts, a typical tourist treat from the Big Island. "There's a card," TC said. "Maybe I want you to read the card first."
OK. In the dim light of the theatre, I opened the card. Within seconds, I was blinking away tears.
In her note, TC explained the gift, a candle-holder, is intended to be a reminder of "love shared." A wooden cylindar sized for a tea-light, it was carved on both sides with a Hawaiin motif that looks to me like the sun setting over the ocean. My breath was taken away by the end of TC's note: "We are both so sorry that you lost a such a wonderful mother."
You have no idea what this means to me, I said to TC.
"I think maybe a little, I do," she replied. She reached her arm around me and pulled herself close, putting her face next to mine. "I'm really, really sorry."
TC's card is the only bit of written acknowledgement of Liz's death that I have received. Few of my friends know how important Liz was to me and how deeply I have been affected by her death. To others, perhaps she is "just" my aunt. And then there is one friend who seems oddly incapable of even mentioning the matter to me.
There is something about acknowledgement, especially for the death of a loved one, that feels important to me. Perhaps it is because certain other aspects of my life -- mainly my little gay relationships -- have suffered a lack of social validation. Perhaps it has something to do with how I felt when my friends couldn't stop talking about Michelle Kwan's stress fracture while at the same time avoiding any discussion of my brother having recently entered a vegatative coma. Or perhaps it's just because I think it's basic social convention to let those you care about know that you share a part of their grief, even if you didn't know the deceased, simply because *they* -- the living -- mean something to you.
A week after Liz died, I received some hydroponic tulips from The Good Witch and Cartman, and I was so grateful to have those. For more than two weeks, they persisted in blooming, and each time I saw them in the window, I was reminded not only of one of the most beloved people I had in my life -- a source of joy, a wise woman, someone I truly admired, trusted and loved for 30 years -- but I was also reminded of two friends who shared with me a love of their own.
Last week, I talked for a while with my uncle. At one point, I asked him how he was getting on, what he did to deal with the grief. He told me many things before he added, "Sometimes, when I get feeling lonely and wondering about her cutting out of here so early, I sit down and read the cards people have sent. Somehow, it makes it real, but it also reminds me how much people loved her and love me. That really helps. You know?"
I imagine it helps a lot, I said.
I reflected again, as I had in weeks prior, on how anchoring the written word can be. Unlike the ephemeral nature of speech -- did you remember exactly what was said? can you return to it again and again? can you fold it up and tuck it in your journal? -- the written word lingers and stays just as vivid and tangible as the moment it was written.
I had also noted along the way the absence of any written words that said to me in some fasion: Liz died; she really did die; and you -- yes, you, UCM -- must face that when you read this; and yes, there are people who understand the depth of that loss; and yes, life goes on; and no, she wasn't the last person on the planet who loved you, as can be evidenced by this note, written (as it was) by someone who loves you still. Whether that is what my uncle meant, whether or not that is what he gets from reading those cards to which he referred, it was something I really wanted and needed in my experience. Something to linger with, tuck into my journal and return to at some point when those words might again be helpful.
That is what The Clairvoyant handed me in the theater tonight. Without knowing it, she filled a void in my experience. Like The Good Witch and Cartman, she created an external reality for something I am still having difficulty acknowledging to myself. It is not exactly the kind of thing I want people to "make real" for me. But TC's words were exactly the kind of thing I needed to help push me toward acceptance.
TC wrote, among other things, that she gave me a candle holder so every time I lit it, I would be reminded of Liz and the love we shared. "Then you can remember who gave it to you," she wrote, "and remember two more people love you, too." She added that she hoped the light would prompt me to reflect on *all* the people who love me.
....
I came home from the movie and lit the candle TC had placed in the candle holder. After a moment, I noticed The Pup was standing at my feet, looking at me, his tail slowly wagging. I picked him up and hugged him. His hair held the scent of the ocean, and smelling it prompted me to hug him a little longer.
There is great pain in losing a beloved.
There is also within me immense gratitude for those who go on living.
Anyway, as we were leaving Portland, I made an off-handed comment to King Rex: Every time I go to the beach, I remind myself to accept the possibility that this may be the day The Pup Brogan meets his maker.
"Why do you say that?" he asked.
The Pup chases seagulls into the surf, I replied. A long time ago, I had a premonition that he would someday be swept out to sea. So every time I take him to the beach, part of me acknowledges that possibility.
And every time, I also think that perhaps it would be more "responsible" of me as The Pup's caretaker to keep him on the leash. But if that's how life is to be approached, then I wouldn't allow myself to whitewater raft, wouldn't try to bodysurf, wouldn't swim in the Amazon, wouldn't hire a combi to cross the Maranon Canyon.
The Pup has his thrills; I have mine. The difference is that I'm aware of the danger. He's just ... kinda ... stupid.
After rushing some gulls near a headland and vigorously chasing another dog up and down the beach, The Pup -- a 17-pound Cairn Terrier -- fell in step with us and mainly stayed at my heels.
King Rex and I walked down the beach and at one point talked about the surf. I told him how I had taken my first full-body dip into that icy water last summer when visiting with S2 and her kids at Neskowin. And then I commented, The water is so cold, and there are such strong currents out there that I decided a long time ago that I would not wade out very far in an attempt to save The Pup if he got caught in the tide. I'd even have grave second thoughts about going out after a human. Even a child.
"Why?" King Rex asked.
Because the water is *that* cold and the surf can be that dangerous. I'm a strong swimmer. I've trained lifeguards. I've hauled out my share of drowning people from pools and lakes in Texas, I replied. But that water? It scares me. Too many people who've gone out trying to rescue someone else end up dying themselves. I'd be reluctant to go in over my head.
Is that enough foreshadowing, my Fair Readers?
It should be.
Not soon after those words left my mouth, The Pup eyed a gull near some tidepools and took off full-speed ahead. King Rex and I took a moment to appreciate his speed as The Pup bounded across the hard-packed, wet sand at the surf's edge. We shook our heads as he entered the tide water.
Suddenly, The Pup found a spot where the edge of the beach dropped away without warning. We saw him drop into a watery hole. And for a moment, we laughed.
Then, a wave came in, and as the foamy whitness broke over my little dude's head, every bit of that premonition I had so long ago came to weigh on me.
SHIT! I yelled, and broke into a run through the edge of the tidewater, knowing I would ignore my rational prohibition against entering the surf to rescue my dog. (Obviously, a human can count of me to try.)
I heard King Rex behind me, splashing through the surf. We were both heading toward the spot where The Pup mysteriously dropped. As we closed in, The Pup's head was visible above the edge of the water, swimming without progress as the waves changed place. Before we got there, another wave pushed the pup onto the beach, and he ran from the water.
I issued a sigh of relief, called The Pup to me and touched his sopping-wet ratty little body. He's so much smaller when he's all wet. I bent down and scratched him behind the ear, I hope *that* taught you, I said, because that is as close as you can get without being swept out to sea or crushed in that surf, you silly dog.
Then I looked up at King Rex. His jeans were wet halfway to his knees. "These shoes aren't as waterproof as they're supposed to be," he said. I was glad for his presence. At the very least, someone would need to call the cops after I drowned trying to save my dog....
We continued to walk on the beach until sunset, sitting for the last 20 minutes or so on a blanket and admiring the greys and grey-blues of the Oregon Coast at sundown. Only once after his foray into the surf did The Pup tear after a gull toward the ocean. And that time, he turned around long before he got to the tide's edge. Perhaps he's learned something.
I can only hope. Because I'm not going to leash him up, and I'm not going to leave him home. We all have to die someday. Might as well happen doing something we love.
....
It's on that note that I transition to the other thing that happened today. After returning to Portland, I went to the 9:30 showing of "Pan's Labyrinth" with The Clairvoyant and The One at the Hollywood Theater.
I entered the lobby and, not seeing either one of them, I got into line at the concession stand. While waiting, my phone rang. I answered it. The Clairvoyant asked, "How far from the theater are you?"
I'm *in* the theater, I replied, assuming she and The One were running a little late.
"You're *in* the theater?" she asked, sounding incredulous.
Yes.
There was a long pause. Then, "Uh. Turn around."
In what was a rather empty and small lobby, TC stood about 10 feet behind me, shaking her head. I had waited in line to buy a ticket right in front of her, then walked past her to stand at the small concession stand. "How did I not see you?" she asked, laughing.
I wondered the same thing. It's not like either one of us lacks a certain distinction to our appearance.
She stood next to me in line and handed me a small red paper bag. "This is for you," she said. "I brought it back for you from Kona. Open it before the movie starts."
In the theatre, I took my seat and opened the bag. The first thing I pulled out was a small flashlight with a keychain on the end of it. It was from a bar on Ali'i drive, the main drag in Kailua-Kona, the town where my aunt and uncle live. TC and The One vacationed there a couple weeks ago.
On Valentine's Day, I talked to her briefly. She had told me the sun was setting -- the most beautiful sunset she'd ever seen, she reported -- and that she called out to the setting sun, "Aloha, Liz!" (There is a story I have as yet to tell TC that will give her the shivers when she learns of the coincidence at play in that moment.)
But I digress.
Inside the bag was something rolled up in paper. Given its size and shape, I assumed it was a can of Mauna Loa macadamia nuts, a typical tourist treat from the Big Island. "There's a card," TC said. "Maybe I want you to read the card first."
OK. In the dim light of the theatre, I opened the card. Within seconds, I was blinking away tears.
In her note, TC explained the gift, a candle-holder, is intended to be a reminder of "love shared." A wooden cylindar sized for a tea-light, it was carved on both sides with a Hawaiin motif that looks to me like the sun setting over the ocean. My breath was taken away by the end of TC's note: "We are both so sorry that you lost a such a wonderful mother."
You have no idea what this means to me, I said to TC.
"I think maybe a little, I do," she replied. She reached her arm around me and pulled herself close, putting her face next to mine. "I'm really, really sorry."
TC's card is the only bit of written acknowledgement of Liz's death that I have received. Few of my friends know how important Liz was to me and how deeply I have been affected by her death. To others, perhaps she is "just" my aunt. And then there is one friend who seems oddly incapable of even mentioning the matter to me.
There is something about acknowledgement, especially for the death of a loved one, that feels important to me. Perhaps it is because certain other aspects of my life -- mainly my little gay relationships -- have suffered a lack of social validation. Perhaps it has something to do with how I felt when my friends couldn't stop talking about Michelle Kwan's stress fracture while at the same time avoiding any discussion of my brother having recently entered a vegatative coma. Or perhaps it's just because I think it's basic social convention to let those you care about know that you share a part of their grief, even if you didn't know the deceased, simply because *they* -- the living -- mean something to you.
A week after Liz died, I received some hydroponic tulips from The Good Witch and Cartman, and I was so grateful to have those. For more than two weeks, they persisted in blooming, and each time I saw them in the window, I was reminded not only of one of the most beloved people I had in my life -- a source of joy, a wise woman, someone I truly admired, trusted and loved for 30 years -- but I was also reminded of two friends who shared with me a love of their own.
Last week, I talked for a while with my uncle. At one point, I asked him how he was getting on, what he did to deal with the grief. He told me many things before he added, "Sometimes, when I get feeling lonely and wondering about her cutting out of here so early, I sit down and read the cards people have sent. Somehow, it makes it real, but it also reminds me how much people loved her and love me. That really helps. You know?"
I imagine it helps a lot, I said.
I reflected again, as I had in weeks prior, on how anchoring the written word can be. Unlike the ephemeral nature of speech -- did you remember exactly what was said? can you return to it again and again? can you fold it up and tuck it in your journal? -- the written word lingers and stays just as vivid and tangible as the moment it was written.
I had also noted along the way the absence of any written words that said to me in some fasion: Liz died; she really did die; and you -- yes, you, UCM -- must face that when you read this; and yes, there are people who understand the depth of that loss; and yes, life goes on; and no, she wasn't the last person on the planet who loved you, as can be evidenced by this note, written (as it was) by someone who loves you still. Whether that is what my uncle meant, whether or not that is what he gets from reading those cards to which he referred, it was something I really wanted and needed in my experience. Something to linger with, tuck into my journal and return to at some point when those words might again be helpful.
That is what The Clairvoyant handed me in the theater tonight. Without knowing it, she filled a void in my experience. Like The Good Witch and Cartman, she created an external reality for something I am still having difficulty acknowledging to myself. It is not exactly the kind of thing I want people to "make real" for me. But TC's words were exactly the kind of thing I needed to help push me toward acceptance.
TC wrote, among other things, that she gave me a candle holder so every time I lit it, I would be reminded of Liz and the love we shared. "Then you can remember who gave it to you," she wrote, "and remember two more people love you, too." She added that she hoped the light would prompt me to reflect on *all* the people who love me.
....
I came home from the movie and lit the candle TC had placed in the candle holder. After a moment, I noticed The Pup was standing at my feet, looking at me, his tail slowly wagging. I picked him up and hugged him. His hair held the scent of the ocean, and smelling it prompted me to hug him a little longer.
There is great pain in losing a beloved.
There is also within me immense gratitude for those who go on living.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Dispatch: From The Kaiser's office
Planet Earth has some really loooooooonnnnnnng hallways.
The longest I've ever walked was in the Vatican Museum in Rome. There's a straight-away there that I'd wager is the world's longest straight hallway. You can't see the end of it -- in fact, when you're in the middle of the hallway (however you might judge that without a ruler), my recollection is that you can't see either end. In the distance, it dips below the horizon.
I've walked the hallway twice, and both times, I've been fascinated by the sheer distortion of time and space caused by walking what seems to be an endless hallway.
It seems my little fascination extends to really long hallways in general, not just ones in the Vatican. Perhaps, in addition to taking a dip in all the world's significant bodies of water, I should collect long hallways in my travels, too.
I bagged another one today when I went to the doctor. Having lost the cushy fee-for-service health insurance of my old employer (and later, of XGF's employer), I haven't sought medical care for anything in at least a year and a half. Last summer, I switched over to coverage with Kaiser Permanente, and I've been afraid to use it. Not only does it cost me out the butt in premiums, there are deductibles to pay and whatnot.
But a nagging problem finally sent me in for a medical consulation today. I would say "see the doctor," but The Kaiser doesn't seem to employ many of those.
So first thing I do is walk down a really long hallway. Not Vatican City kind-of-long, but long enough to make me feel the sheer absence of intimacy to which I have become accustomed when seeing my (former) doctor, who I will retain as a "prescribing physician" so SOMEONE will be willing to refill my Nasonex during allergy season.
Anyway, long hallway, long walk, long wait in line only to be directed to some long stairs dropping down to another long hallway filled with waiting spaces, where I sat down and had a long wait for some kind of medical specialist. Prior to seeing this woman, who turned out to be a physician's assistant, I was weighed in a HALLWAY and had my pulse taken while standing at a counter. That is some weird shit there. No privacy. My pulse, strangely, was 101 (ONE HUNDRED AND ONE!), which probably explains the sensation I've had recently of a racing heart.
Anyway, the P.A. read me the riot act for not taking my blood pressure medication. (Seems to me she could've been a little more concerned that my resting pulse was off the freaking charts -- it's normally in the 70s.) I've been feeling a fair amount of stress lately, so I was actually rather pleased with my blood pressure which was, while not perfect, NOT HIGH.
Nevertheless, the fact that I walked in with about half a dozen blood pressure pills in a bottle whose date indicated they were a stocking stuffer from the Ghost of Christmas Past was all this woman needed to unroll the big old "You're-38-which-is-*not*-young-and-you're-gonna-stroke-out" lecture. (Is there some reason she had to emphasize the part where 38 is *not* young?)
Because this was my first introduction to Kaiser, I was given a big, soft-cover healthcare book, the title of which should be something like, "How to Care for Yourself When The Kaiser (aka: Your HMO) Won't See You."
I was also asked a lot of questions about family medical history. And then, putting aside cost factors, the *real* reason I've been avoiding a "medical consultation" came to light. The physician's assistant looked me in the eye and asked, "Are you pregnant?"
No.
"Ever been pregnant?"
No.
"Are you on birth control?"
(Laughter)
"Are you sexually active?"
I wish.
"I'll take that as a no," she replied. And there, on her computer screen, I saw her check-mark a box that said, "Sexually frustrated."
*sigh*
"So what can I do for you today?"
I walked out of there with a host of "addictive" drugs. She kept warning me: "That's addictive, you know. It's addictive...." And I almost felt compelled to say, Well, if you're so concerned about addiction, why the hell are you giving them to me? I mean, put up or SHUT UP! But instead I just smiled politely and said, Oh really? Well, it's a good thing I don't need to take them very often.
I was a touch pissed, however, when she wouldn't give me some Ambien and insisted on prescribing something called "oxazepam," which she indicated would not work as fast nor as well. She gave me 10 of them -- good for about two months, unless I need to take twice the dosage (which she indicated I might).
I wasn't quite so pissed, however, when all my drugs -- illicit and otherwise -- cost me $36 total at checkout. And that's the price of them, not a co-pay.
So the old Kaiser is good for something: He's got cheap drugs.
And one amazingly long hallway.
The longest I've ever walked was in the Vatican Museum in Rome. There's a straight-away there that I'd wager is the world's longest straight hallway. You can't see the end of it -- in fact, when you're in the middle of the hallway (however you might judge that without a ruler), my recollection is that you can't see either end. In the distance, it dips below the horizon.
I've walked the hallway twice, and both times, I've been fascinated by the sheer distortion of time and space caused by walking what seems to be an endless hallway.
It seems my little fascination extends to really long hallways in general, not just ones in the Vatican. Perhaps, in addition to taking a dip in all the world's significant bodies of water, I should collect long hallways in my travels, too.
I bagged another one today when I went to the doctor. Having lost the cushy fee-for-service health insurance of my old employer (and later, of XGF's employer), I haven't sought medical care for anything in at least a year and a half. Last summer, I switched over to coverage with Kaiser Permanente, and I've been afraid to use it. Not only does it cost me out the butt in premiums, there are deductibles to pay and whatnot.
But a nagging problem finally sent me in for a medical consulation today. I would say "see the doctor," but The Kaiser doesn't seem to employ many of those.
So first thing I do is walk down a really long hallway. Not Vatican City kind-of-long, but long enough to make me feel the sheer absence of intimacy to which I have become accustomed when seeing my (former) doctor, who I will retain as a "prescribing physician" so SOMEONE will be willing to refill my Nasonex during allergy season.
Anyway, long hallway, long walk, long wait in line only to be directed to some long stairs dropping down to another long hallway filled with waiting spaces, where I sat down and had a long wait for some kind of medical specialist. Prior to seeing this woman, who turned out to be a physician's assistant, I was weighed in a HALLWAY and had my pulse taken while standing at a counter. That is some weird shit there. No privacy. My pulse, strangely, was 101 (ONE HUNDRED AND ONE!), which probably explains the sensation I've had recently of a racing heart.
Anyway, the P.A. read me the riot act for not taking my blood pressure medication. (Seems to me she could've been a little more concerned that my resting pulse was off the freaking charts -- it's normally in the 70s.) I've been feeling a fair amount of stress lately, so I was actually rather pleased with my blood pressure which was, while not perfect, NOT HIGH.
Nevertheless, the fact that I walked in with about half a dozen blood pressure pills in a bottle whose date indicated they were a stocking stuffer from the Ghost of Christmas Past was all this woman needed to unroll the big old "You're-38-which-is-*not*-young-and-you're-gonna-stroke-out" lecture. (Is there some reason she had to emphasize the part where 38 is *not* young?)
Because this was my first introduction to Kaiser, I was given a big, soft-cover healthcare book, the title of which should be something like, "How to Care for Yourself When The Kaiser (aka: Your HMO) Won't See You."
I was also asked a lot of questions about family medical history. And then, putting aside cost factors, the *real* reason I've been avoiding a "medical consultation" came to light. The physician's assistant looked me in the eye and asked, "Are you pregnant?"
No.
"Ever been pregnant?"
No.
"Are you on birth control?"
(Laughter)
"Are you sexually active?"
I wish.
"I'll take that as a no," she replied. And there, on her computer screen, I saw her check-mark a box that said, "Sexually frustrated."
*sigh*
"So what can I do for you today?"
I walked out of there with a host of "addictive" drugs. She kept warning me: "That's addictive, you know. It's addictive...." And I almost felt compelled to say, Well, if you're so concerned about addiction, why the hell are you giving them to me? I mean, put up or SHUT UP! But instead I just smiled politely and said, Oh really? Well, it's a good thing I don't need to take them very often.
I was a touch pissed, however, when she wouldn't give me some Ambien and insisted on prescribing something called "oxazepam," which she indicated would not work as fast nor as well. She gave me 10 of them -- good for about two months, unless I need to take twice the dosage (which she indicated I might).
I wasn't quite so pissed, however, when all my drugs -- illicit and otherwise -- cost me $36 total at checkout. And that's the price of them, not a co-pay.
So the old Kaiser is good for something: He's got cheap drugs.
And one amazingly long hallway.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Travels with UCM
I'm on a road trip.
Seems I've driven off the map, left behind the Known World, and am progressing on a journey longer and stranger than any of the metaphorical trips I've yet taken.
Duration: Undetermined. Destination: Unknown.
The saving grace in this aimlessness is my plan to use an alternative fuel source.
When I get somewhere, I'll send a postcard.
Seems I've driven off the map, left behind the Known World, and am progressing on a journey longer and stranger than any of the metaphorical trips I've yet taken.
Duration: Undetermined. Destination: Unknown.
The saving grace in this aimlessness is my plan to use an alternative fuel source.
When I get somewhere, I'll send a postcard.
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