I learned how to play cribbage tonight, but it seems I might have learned it according to "prison rules." Only playing it with people who haven't been in the slammer will reveal to me what the difference might be. If any....
I played it at work. The experience was considerably better than playing more spider solitaire on the computer, which is what, aside from studying, I normally do on the job. (Except when working at this one site that doesn't have *any* games on its computer.)
Other than that, I have little to report.
Except that maybe I have agreed to go on a date (or something) with a young woman who's a friend of a friend. I say "or something" because I'm not sure what I've agreed to do. Which is typical with lesbians. I should have been more clear, but the whole conversation in which I agreed to something was a bit sly and on the fly. So....
Maybe she'll forget, and I won't have to do it.
Can you tell I how excited I am about this? Our mutual friend was all, "I don't want you to think I'm pressuring you," and whatnot, but I've got this personal requirement that I must, by force if necessary, meet people with whom friends are trying to set me up.
Alas, the whole set-up business seems to boil down to a friend saying, "Oh, I know TWO single lesbians. Gay plus gay equals something, right? I'll hook them up with each other." And there's often not a lot of thought involved in whether there's actually a match there, because the only thing that seems to need matching is that we're both gay.
Normally, I have considered this as a heterosexual thought process. But this time, the person responsible for this set-up is gay himself. (Maybe it's also a "himself" thought process; I have as yet to be hooked up by another lesbian, which could totally destroy all my narrow-minded thinking and just prove that people in general don't put in a moment's thought to whether they *really* ought (or ought not!) set up the two queers in question.)
In this case, the concerning factor for yours truly is that the other woman is ... 26. As I said to YogaGirl about this last week, 26-year-old flesh is one thing; 26-year-old mind is another. But then, as I noted to her at the time, The Debutante was 26 when we became friends, and I think of her as very mature. So ... yeah. Maybe I'm just being a narrow-minded ageist bitch.
When I asked our mutual friend why he set us up, he replied, "Her cut-off age is 40."
Nice....
Perhaps what we should do on our "date" is go to a bar where I can teach her to play cribbage according to "prison rules," and not explain why I know the games they play in prison. I think I'll give myself some temporary tattoos while I'm at it.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Friday, June 29, 2007
With friends like these...
In case you're wondering where you, too, can enjoy more criticism, I took this photo at the entrance to the part of campus that houses the graduate school where I study counseling psychology.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
I, Back-Cracked Naughty Mormom Joker
This day lived up to its promises in more ways than one.
All three meetings I had this morning did, indeed, result in curious interactions (and more than my share of pain and folly). And in between the first meeting and the second, I had a nice conversation with YogaGirl that created an interesting backdrop for all the other conversations.
The first appointment, with my killer chiropractor, included a lecture on my mousing activities (too much solitaire at work, apparently). I also got my back cracked in a truly wicked way, resulting in a headrush and the opportunity to see that little muscle-bound dynamo pace around the table like a highly engaged ... uh, lesbian collegiate volleyball coach. Or maybe a lesbian wrestling coach....
So wow. My shoulders feel heaps better, and I now have some good core training moves to do on my balance ball. Gotta get my core into some serious shape if I'm gonna have a job where I have to sit around on my butt all the time.
In between the chiropractor and my hair appointment, I had a thoughtful conversation with YogaGirl. One of the most phenomenal parts of graduate school is meeting such a diverse group of people interested in psychology and human relationships. I find that I have learned more from my colleagues -- particularly S2, YogaGirl, The Debutante and Rather Shy Classmate -- than from most of my class lecture and project experiences. What fabulous people I have had the pleasure of getting to study with and know personally....
Hung up with YogaGirl when the Hair Dresser with Chronic Low Self-Esteem summoned me to the chair. I count at least three or four times where she called me a "goober" or some other 1980s blue collar version of geek.
I told her to make me look pretty for the next appointment I had. The Hair Dresser lectured me on the "wrongness" of my plot toward long-term seduction, even though I did not reveal all that much about my intent. And when I told her what I felt my other option might be, she looked at me over my head, sheers stopped mid-cut and said, "Who are you? I don't know you anymore!"
My comments were probably a bit lesbionic for the shop today, especially because the only other people in the salon were an old woman getting her hair colored and the Hair Dresser's daughter, an underemployed Britney Spears wannabe who has in recent months become something of a fixture in the shop. She spent the duration of my cut digging in her make-up bag and applying additional layers of what-have-you to her pouty, early 20s face.
I think the Hair Dresser cut my hair a little short. She seemed to be a little displeased with me today. She gave me a brow wax and *really* ripped the wax off this time, to the point that I actually slapped her arm while she was doing it. My brows still feel a little traumatized, which is not normal. She said the problem today was the potency of this new wax she's using and the fact that I hadn't had a wax in a few months. (It's not like I haven't asked for a wax during the past couple months; she's just refused to give them to me.)
At one point today, having been called a "goober" while getting my eyebrows pulled out by their tenacious roots, I said, You do know that I come here to get abused, don't you? I live alone, and I don't get this kind of crap from anyone else. So you're it, honey! You just keep working it, OK?
After that appointment, I drove me and my slightly inflamed eyebrows to the next meeting, the one with the Woman Who Intrigues me. She was lying on her stomach on a raised platform when I arrived at her office, and the assistant who took me to her said, "Here she is ... doin' nothing, as usual."
The Woman Who Intrigues propped herself up on her left elbow and looked at me. "You've caught me in my natural state," she said.
Looks comfortable, I said. I suppose we could talk in repose.
She sat up and I sat down and we chatted for a few minutes. Then, I engaged in the great Premeditated Flirting I mentioned in yesterday's blog. You wanna know what I did? You wanna know how charming and powerful I can be?
I've got no shame, so I'll tell you: I cracked a joke about Mormon families. That's right. In an environment that theoretically should have been an epicenter of political correctness, I slyly made fun of Mormons. And then, to ensure I was offending equally, as I put it, I threw in a little punch line about Catholics.
Lucky for me, she laughed.
On my way home, I stopped at one of those urban jungles full of "big box" stores and bought a bunch of storage and office supplies. I really needed to work on a paper that's due on Friday, but I was reluctant to start it when my desk has been a hideous, out-of-control fire hazard (for a couple months). So instead of busting chops on the research, I cleaned my desk.
Now, I am looking at a pile of books and reading material from which I need to pull citations for my paper. It is beckoning me, demanding some attention before I go to sleep. So I bit you a good night,
All three meetings I had this morning did, indeed, result in curious interactions (and more than my share of pain and folly). And in between the first meeting and the second, I had a nice conversation with YogaGirl that created an interesting backdrop for all the other conversations.
The first appointment, with my killer chiropractor, included a lecture on my mousing activities (too much solitaire at work, apparently). I also got my back cracked in a truly wicked way, resulting in a headrush and the opportunity to see that little muscle-bound dynamo pace around the table like a highly engaged ... uh, lesbian collegiate volleyball coach. Or maybe a lesbian wrestling coach....
So wow. My shoulders feel heaps better, and I now have some good core training moves to do on my balance ball. Gotta get my core into some serious shape if I'm gonna have a job where I have to sit around on my butt all the time.
In between the chiropractor and my hair appointment, I had a thoughtful conversation with YogaGirl. One of the most phenomenal parts of graduate school is meeting such a diverse group of people interested in psychology and human relationships. I find that I have learned more from my colleagues -- particularly S2, YogaGirl, The Debutante and Rather Shy Classmate -- than from most of my class lecture and project experiences. What fabulous people I have had the pleasure of getting to study with and know personally....
Hung up with YogaGirl when the Hair Dresser with Chronic Low Self-Esteem summoned me to the chair. I count at least three or four times where she called me a "goober" or some other 1980s blue collar version of geek.
I told her to make me look pretty for the next appointment I had. The Hair Dresser lectured me on the "wrongness" of my plot toward long-term seduction, even though I did not reveal all that much about my intent. And when I told her what I felt my other option might be, she looked at me over my head, sheers stopped mid-cut and said, "Who are you? I don't know you anymore!"
My comments were probably a bit lesbionic for the shop today, especially because the only other people in the salon were an old woman getting her hair colored and the Hair Dresser's daughter, an underemployed Britney Spears wannabe who has in recent months become something of a fixture in the shop. She spent the duration of my cut digging in her make-up bag and applying additional layers of what-have-you to her pouty, early 20s face.
I think the Hair Dresser cut my hair a little short. She seemed to be a little displeased with me today. She gave me a brow wax and *really* ripped the wax off this time, to the point that I actually slapped her arm while she was doing it. My brows still feel a little traumatized, which is not normal. She said the problem today was the potency of this new wax she's using and the fact that I hadn't had a wax in a few months. (It's not like I haven't asked for a wax during the past couple months; she's just refused to give them to me.)
At one point today, having been called a "goober" while getting my eyebrows pulled out by their tenacious roots, I said, You do know that I come here to get abused, don't you? I live alone, and I don't get this kind of crap from anyone else. So you're it, honey! You just keep working it, OK?
After that appointment, I drove me and my slightly inflamed eyebrows to the next meeting, the one with the Woman Who Intrigues me. She was lying on her stomach on a raised platform when I arrived at her office, and the assistant who took me to her said, "Here she is ... doin' nothing, as usual."
The Woman Who Intrigues propped herself up on her left elbow and looked at me. "You've caught me in my natural state," she said.
Looks comfortable, I said. I suppose we could talk in repose.
She sat up and I sat down and we chatted for a few minutes. Then, I engaged in the great Premeditated Flirting I mentioned in yesterday's blog. You wanna know what I did? You wanna know how charming and powerful I can be?
I've got no shame, so I'll tell you: I cracked a joke about Mormon families. That's right. In an environment that theoretically should have been an epicenter of political correctness, I slyly made fun of Mormons. And then, to ensure I was offending equally, as I put it, I threw in a little punch line about Catholics.
Lucky for me, she laughed.
On my way home, I stopped at one of those urban jungles full of "big box" stores and bought a bunch of storage and office supplies. I really needed to work on a paper that's due on Friday, but I was reluctant to start it when my desk has been a hideous, out-of-control fire hazard (for a couple months). So instead of busting chops on the research, I cleaned my desk.
Now, I am looking at a pile of books and reading material from which I need to pull citations for my paper. It is beckoning me, demanding some attention before I go to sleep. So I bit you a good night,
Monday, June 25, 2007
I, Cracked-Back, Colored-Hair Scalawag
Today was a big fat yawner. Woke up at 9, but took 30 minutes to actually get out of bed. Went on my stairway walk. Came home, showered and put copious amounts of aloe on my burned breasts (the peeling has begun, and it's horrifying). Got a cup of coffe and went to work. Worked (meaning: started writing a paper that's due Friday, talked with residents and watched "Office Space"). Came home. Walk dog. Hit the blog.
See what I mean? Bo-ring.
Tomorrow will be a different matter, however. I've got three appointments in the morning and early afternoon that all promise some peculiar interpersonal experience or another.
First up is my 50-something-year-old lesbian chiropractor, a little muscle-bound dynamo who still gets excited when she hears a joint crack. Sitting in her waiting room, I always wonder why I don't hear her yelling, "Oh baby, yeah! I got you that time!" at her other clients like she does when she works on me. I assume there is some kind of sound-dampening device at play in her office. Because she *totally* gets into it sometimes.
I call her "Pavlov" (to her face) because the conditioned response is so fucking predictable. Rib pops: "Oooooh! I felt THAT!" Or neck cracks: "MMMMMMmmmm, that was AWESOME!" Always something of the sort.
One time, she spit on me, she was THAT excited.
But what can I say? She's a fabulous cracker, a very kind person and not especially expensive. So that's my 11 a.m.
Up at noon is my hair appointment with my stylist of many years, a woman who has Chronic Low Self-Esteem Disorder. She's a nice woman and all, and she gives me a decent haircut without me having to explain it to her. But she's had terrible problems with the IRS and countless finacial crises over the years -- several of which I've obviously heard about while getting my hair done -- but she REFUSES to put a markup on any of the products she sells in the salon.
You know, I like getting product at wholesale prices, I've told her, But you're just giving free shelf space and distribution to all these product manufacturers, and you're not getting anything out of it. Seems like you could at least give yourself a buck or two for the space it takes in your shop.
But she doesn't. "I can't do that to my customers," she says, "especially the old ladies. Keeps them from using some crap they'd buy on discount at the drug store."
I stopped mentioning it a while ago. What costs $22 on other shelves costs $12 on hers. Who am I to complain if she wants to do that? Especially since I buy stuff from her. But still... no self-esteem. Her haircuts and colorings and everything else are way underpriced, too. A demi-color, a haircut and a brow wax run me $35 plus tip.
Of course, one aspect of this low-cost gig is that it's a very blue collar place. This ain't no fancy salon in terms of decor, and the clientele is decidedly not delux. There are only two and a half stylists there, including mine who owns the place, and they have over the years become a dysfunctional family of sorts. The other one is a first-generation Finn who has a strong Minnesotan accent and one of the hardest edges I know in people. The conversation can get pretty salty.
I have been the witness to all sorts of drama over the years. No telling what tomorrow brings. Except, of course, my hair colored and curls shaped up a little.
After I'm done at the salon, I'm heading to a meeting with a woman who holds a fair amount of intrigue for me. This is where the scalawag part comes in. You see, I'm usually a very in-the-moment person. But when it comes to this woman, I realize that I am given to premeditated flirtation. Seems I'm also checking her out for the possibility of a long-term seduction process, because this simply cannot be a flash in the pan (not at this point, anyway).
Yes, this what I like to call Living with Intent.
So I'm out walking the dog tonight, and I realize I'm thinking about what I'm going to talk about with this woman tomorrow. Of what personal matters should I inquire to show her my interest and prolong the conversation enough for me to get a better sense of what's going on with her?
For starters, I don't even know if she's queer. When I've repeated parts of our conversations to my queer friends, they all believe she's lesbian-dropping. (FYI: "Lesbian-dropping" is when you say things that give clues either to your status as a lesbian or to your liberal credentials as a "friend of lesbians.") So I'm thinking she's got something going on there, but it's part of my agenda tomorrow to get a little more information, if I'm capable of doing so indirectly.
I might find more lesbian-drops in a discussion about summer holidays, for example. Or maybe some reference to Pride events. Or another reference to "The L Word." So I'll keep an ear open to it.
In the meantime, I became aware, as I was walking, that I'm actually contemplating just *how* I want to flirt with her tomorrow. So far, this has come up rather naturally on my part, but I've been realizing lately just how powerful and seductive I can be at times -- and how fucking goofy, too -- so I'm aware of the need to be a little more conscious about my approach and my intent.
Last time I saw her, I gave her a parting wave in which I brought the back of my hand up in front of my smiling mouth and wiggled my fingers at her while ... well, I was probably batting my lashes.
When I told S2 about this, I said, Man, that must have looked flirtatious.
To which S2 replied, "You do flirt. I see you flirt all the time."
HUH?!
"Oh yeah. Oh please. You flirt with lots of people, men and women both."
Let me tell you, fair readers. Perhaps S2 was joking about this, but I get the feeling not. However you slice it, though, I have taken a little "outside" look at some of my body language and facial expressions, and I'm afraid she's right. I've probably been flirting for years and didn't know it. I do so wish I had a UCM-cam so I could see what I'm doing to some of the women in my life.
So, among other aspects of my personality that need to harnessed for the Powers of Good, we can now add "flirting." You see, I may not be a traditionally beautiful woman, I may not have a sweetly shaped body, and I may not have any more fashion sense than a turnip, but one thing I've got on my side is a gregarious, fast and witty personality that can come off as charming under the right conditions.
And around certain people, I get a twinkle in my eye that seems to make up for a lot of my other physical shortcomings. I'm quite certain I get that twinkle around this woman.
The question is: How can I put the twinkle and my more charming self to good use tomorrow?
I want to leave a lasting impression that does not include me: a) walking into any people; b) saying "fuck" more times than she does; c) exposing too much of my breasts because my shirt's not buttoned up enough; or d) talking to her while I'm essentially still asleep.
So far, I have managed to overcome most of those ... difficulties. (Personally, I think incident "C" was unconsciously purposeful; I was wearing a sexy bra.) But what I would like to do is spin a positive bit of yarn this time around and see what happens.
Mind you, the pay-off of these efforts will probably be invisible for some time to come -- if anything ever comes of them at all -- but it seems that I need plenty of practice in the fine art of sexual vibes anyway. Nothing to do but keep working on it.
If nothing else, I find I get a little juiced just sitting and talking with her. Makes me blush a little just thinking of it.
See what I mean? Bo-ring.
Tomorrow will be a different matter, however. I've got three appointments in the morning and early afternoon that all promise some peculiar interpersonal experience or another.
First up is my 50-something-year-old lesbian chiropractor, a little muscle-bound dynamo who still gets excited when she hears a joint crack. Sitting in her waiting room, I always wonder why I don't hear her yelling, "Oh baby, yeah! I got you that time!" at her other clients like she does when she works on me. I assume there is some kind of sound-dampening device at play in her office. Because she *totally* gets into it sometimes.
I call her "Pavlov" (to her face) because the conditioned response is so fucking predictable. Rib pops: "Oooooh! I felt THAT!" Or neck cracks: "MMMMMMmmmm, that was AWESOME!" Always something of the sort.
One time, she spit on me, she was THAT excited.
But what can I say? She's a fabulous cracker, a very kind person and not especially expensive. So that's my 11 a.m.
Up at noon is my hair appointment with my stylist of many years, a woman who has Chronic Low Self-Esteem Disorder. She's a nice woman and all, and she gives me a decent haircut without me having to explain it to her. But she's had terrible problems with the IRS and countless finacial crises over the years -- several of which I've obviously heard about while getting my hair done -- but she REFUSES to put a markup on any of the products she sells in the salon.
You know, I like getting product at wholesale prices, I've told her, But you're just giving free shelf space and distribution to all these product manufacturers, and you're not getting anything out of it. Seems like you could at least give yourself a buck or two for the space it takes in your shop.
But she doesn't. "I can't do that to my customers," she says, "especially the old ladies. Keeps them from using some crap they'd buy on discount at the drug store."
I stopped mentioning it a while ago. What costs $22 on other shelves costs $12 on hers. Who am I to complain if she wants to do that? Especially since I buy stuff from her. But still... no self-esteem. Her haircuts and colorings and everything else are way underpriced, too. A demi-color, a haircut and a brow wax run me $35 plus tip.
Of course, one aspect of this low-cost gig is that it's a very blue collar place. This ain't no fancy salon in terms of decor, and the clientele is decidedly not delux. There are only two and a half stylists there, including mine who owns the place, and they have over the years become a dysfunctional family of sorts. The other one is a first-generation Finn who has a strong Minnesotan accent and one of the hardest edges I know in people. The conversation can get pretty salty.
I have been the witness to all sorts of drama over the years. No telling what tomorrow brings. Except, of course, my hair colored and curls shaped up a little.
After I'm done at the salon, I'm heading to a meeting with a woman who holds a fair amount of intrigue for me. This is where the scalawag part comes in. You see, I'm usually a very in-the-moment person. But when it comes to this woman, I realize that I am given to premeditated flirtation. Seems I'm also checking her out for the possibility of a long-term seduction process, because this simply cannot be a flash in the pan (not at this point, anyway).
Yes, this what I like to call Living with Intent.
So I'm out walking the dog tonight, and I realize I'm thinking about what I'm going to talk about with this woman tomorrow. Of what personal matters should I inquire to show her my interest and prolong the conversation enough for me to get a better sense of what's going on with her?
For starters, I don't even know if she's queer. When I've repeated parts of our conversations to my queer friends, they all believe she's lesbian-dropping. (FYI: "Lesbian-dropping" is when you say things that give clues either to your status as a lesbian or to your liberal credentials as a "friend of lesbians.") So I'm thinking she's got something going on there, but it's part of my agenda tomorrow to get a little more information, if I'm capable of doing so indirectly.
I might find more lesbian-drops in a discussion about summer holidays, for example. Or maybe some reference to Pride events. Or another reference to "The L Word." So I'll keep an ear open to it.
In the meantime, I became aware, as I was walking, that I'm actually contemplating just *how* I want to flirt with her tomorrow. So far, this has come up rather naturally on my part, but I've been realizing lately just how powerful and seductive I can be at times -- and how fucking goofy, too -- so I'm aware of the need to be a little more conscious about my approach and my intent.
Last time I saw her, I gave her a parting wave in which I brought the back of my hand up in front of my smiling mouth and wiggled my fingers at her while ... well, I was probably batting my lashes.
When I told S2 about this, I said, Man, that must have looked flirtatious.
To which S2 replied, "You do flirt. I see you flirt all the time."
HUH?!
"Oh yeah. Oh please. You flirt with lots of people, men and women both."
Let me tell you, fair readers. Perhaps S2 was joking about this, but I get the feeling not. However you slice it, though, I have taken a little "outside" look at some of my body language and facial expressions, and I'm afraid she's right. I've probably been flirting for years and didn't know it. I do so wish I had a UCM-cam so I could see what I'm doing to some of the women in my life.
So, among other aspects of my personality that need to harnessed for the Powers of Good, we can now add "flirting." You see, I may not be a traditionally beautiful woman, I may not have a sweetly shaped body, and I may not have any more fashion sense than a turnip, but one thing I've got on my side is a gregarious, fast and witty personality that can come off as charming under the right conditions.
And around certain people, I get a twinkle in my eye that seems to make up for a lot of my other physical shortcomings. I'm quite certain I get that twinkle around this woman.
The question is: How can I put the twinkle and my more charming self to good use tomorrow?
I want to leave a lasting impression that does not include me: a) walking into any people; b) saying "fuck" more times than she does; c) exposing too much of my breasts because my shirt's not buttoned up enough; or d) talking to her while I'm essentially still asleep.
So far, I have managed to overcome most of those ... difficulties. (Personally, I think incident "C" was unconsciously purposeful; I was wearing a sexy bra.) But what I would like to do is spin a positive bit of yarn this time around and see what happens.
Mind you, the pay-off of these efforts will probably be invisible for some time to come -- if anything ever comes of them at all -- but it seems that I need plenty of practice in the fine art of sexual vibes anyway. Nothing to do but keep working on it.
If nothing else, I find I get a little juiced just sitting and talking with her. Makes me blush a little just thinking of it.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Notes on my openness
You know, I open my mouth sometimes and all sorts of interesting things come out. Things that surprise me. Things I can't imagine I would say if I weren't intoxicated -- and yet, I am *not* intoxicated.
All I can say is that, in the end, I think I prefer to err on the side of sharing too much versus sharing too little.
Sharing too little is generally considered "safe."
But sharing too much? It keeps things interesting.
Truth is, I generally prefer interesting to safe.
All I can say is that, in the end, I think I prefer to err on the side of sharing too much versus sharing too little.
Sharing too little is generally considered "safe."
But sharing too much? It keeps things interesting.
Truth is, I generally prefer interesting to safe.
Friday, June 22, 2007
An act of liberation
Today was a loaded day. It is the sixth anniversary of my baby brother Jason's death. But today also marks the first time I have been able to be completely honest about a very difficult and specific subject with a very close friend (with any friend at all, actually).
I started the morning by sharing a cup of coffee with S2 and engaging with her in a conversation that was, for me, a bold venture. I told her something that has been my darkest secret, a facet of my experience that has dogged me for more than 20 years.
There are likely dirtier secrets to be told, but this was a significant source of inner conflict, guilt and shame. As it is, it remains a subject too complex and touchy for me to blog about right now. But I won't be surprised to find myself writing about it in some depth one day.
For now, what's affecting me so profoundly is the healing process of disclosure itself. In telling my (perhaps silly) secret to S2, I risked a form of rejection that touches the most sensitive parts of my being. When this did not happen -- when, instead, she accepted my experience in its context and pulled no punches in reply -- I recalled on an almost cellular level what it was like to come out of the closet to the first important friend who didn't reject me.
I remembered the relief of feeling accepted despite this "terrible flaw" I had of being gay. I recalled the almost giddy feeling that came from realizing that there were some people who were going to remain steadfast in their relationship with me even though I had announced a significant revision to the identity of the person they thought me to be. I felt again the release from the trap known as a sin of omission.
What I was able to talk about today with S2 was so complex and deeply rooted in me that I can scarcely describe it, much less make others understand it. But somehow, S2 seemed to get it. And more to the point, she accepted what I was telling her with an openness that eased whatever anxiety I brought to the discussion (which wasn't all that much because I hadn't actually planned on telling her anything).
In fact, the conversation itself and the "secret" I revealed to her about myself seemed fairly matter-of-fact. If S2 had any idea in the moment how stirring the whole thing was for me -- if *I* had known how it would feel to reveal what I did -- one of us might have had the sense to be nervous.
But instead, it felt like two friends keeping it real.
In the end, what S2 did was normalize my experience for me. She voiced her own understanding of the issue and shared a context in which my situation was not just OK but perhaps also so predictable as to be expected -- and even noted how some might find compliments for themselves in the issue with which I have been struggling.
Sorry to sound so oblique and secretive, but it really is too complicated and personal for me to explain in writing right now. Nevertheless, I'm trying to say something here. Which is:
I had a big day. It is the anniversary of Jason's death. He was the person I loved most in the world. It wasn't intentional, but I chose to honor his memory by allowing myself to experience the love I have for others. I opened my heart and showed a troubled, easy-to-reject part of it to my best friend.
She responded by loving me *still,* rather than loving me "anyway."
There is a universe between those two words -- "still" and "anyway." A universe.
(Note to readers: S2 used neither of those words. The *still* is my own interpretation.)
There was so much more to this day, including a significant dinner conversation with Bubba and her Lovely Lady Lawyer. But I am too tired to write any further. I didn't get to sleep until 3 yesterday, so I've got some making up to do.
I started the morning by sharing a cup of coffee with S2 and engaging with her in a conversation that was, for me, a bold venture. I told her something that has been my darkest secret, a facet of my experience that has dogged me for more than 20 years.
There are likely dirtier secrets to be told, but this was a significant source of inner conflict, guilt and shame. As it is, it remains a subject too complex and touchy for me to blog about right now. But I won't be surprised to find myself writing about it in some depth one day.
For now, what's affecting me so profoundly is the healing process of disclosure itself. In telling my (perhaps silly) secret to S2, I risked a form of rejection that touches the most sensitive parts of my being. When this did not happen -- when, instead, she accepted my experience in its context and pulled no punches in reply -- I recalled on an almost cellular level what it was like to come out of the closet to the first important friend who didn't reject me.
I remembered the relief of feeling accepted despite this "terrible flaw" I had of being gay. I recalled the almost giddy feeling that came from realizing that there were some people who were going to remain steadfast in their relationship with me even though I had announced a significant revision to the identity of the person they thought me to be. I felt again the release from the trap known as a sin of omission.
What I was able to talk about today with S2 was so complex and deeply rooted in me that I can scarcely describe it, much less make others understand it. But somehow, S2 seemed to get it. And more to the point, she accepted what I was telling her with an openness that eased whatever anxiety I brought to the discussion (which wasn't all that much because I hadn't actually planned on telling her anything).
In fact, the conversation itself and the "secret" I revealed to her about myself seemed fairly matter-of-fact. If S2 had any idea in the moment how stirring the whole thing was for me -- if *I* had known how it would feel to reveal what I did -- one of us might have had the sense to be nervous.
But instead, it felt like two friends keeping it real.
In the end, what S2 did was normalize my experience for me. She voiced her own understanding of the issue and shared a context in which my situation was not just OK but perhaps also so predictable as to be expected -- and even noted how some might find compliments for themselves in the issue with which I have been struggling.
Sorry to sound so oblique and secretive, but it really is too complicated and personal for me to explain in writing right now. Nevertheless, I'm trying to say something here. Which is:
I had a big day. It is the anniversary of Jason's death. He was the person I loved most in the world. It wasn't intentional, but I chose to honor his memory by allowing myself to experience the love I have for others. I opened my heart and showed a troubled, easy-to-reject part of it to my best friend.
She responded by loving me *still,* rather than loving me "anyway."
There is a universe between those two words -- "still" and "anyway." A universe.
(Note to readers: S2 used neither of those words. The *still* is my own interpretation.)
There was so much more to this day, including a significant dinner conversation with Bubba and her Lovely Lady Lawyer. But I am too tired to write any further. I didn't get to sleep until 3 yesterday, so I've got some making up to do.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Fresh fried boobs...
YogaGirl and I spent the afternoon up at the lake yesterday, and fried ourselves up in the process.
Normally, I'm not too bothered by a burn. I pretty much get one per year, and that seems like how it's always been. This may be a crime against my skin, because I should be responsible enough to put on sunscreen. But the dark truth of the matter is that I like a tan, and the only way I ever get a good tan up here at this northern latitude is with the "base" of an intense sun exposure.
Such as a burn.
And so yesterday, I was reluctant to put on sunscreen before I got into the water. I wanted to give myself not a "burn," per se, but at least a good start at a tan.
In the end, because I did apply sunscreen after I got out from the first swim, I ended up with a burn that's more of a nuisance than it is a pain.
Except for this one thing.
I wear a one-piece suit and am ... let's say "well endowed" in the breast department.
Even though they are a rather prominent feature of my body, I neglected to put sufficient sunscreen on the parts of my breasts that were exposed. Unfortunately, I also neglected to "adjust" my cha-chis, if you will, when I donned my suit. The result is a remarkably lopsided burn pattern that also oddly accentuates the effect of gravity on these mams of mine.
It's really sad.
And because it burned, it will be visible all summer.
Yea for me.
I'll show you the situation if you ask, but it'll cost you a dollar.
Normally, I'm not too bothered by a burn. I pretty much get one per year, and that seems like how it's always been. This may be a crime against my skin, because I should be responsible enough to put on sunscreen. But the dark truth of the matter is that I like a tan, and the only way I ever get a good tan up here at this northern latitude is with the "base" of an intense sun exposure.
Such as a burn.
And so yesterday, I was reluctant to put on sunscreen before I got into the water. I wanted to give myself not a "burn," per se, but at least a good start at a tan.
In the end, because I did apply sunscreen after I got out from the first swim, I ended up with a burn that's more of a nuisance than it is a pain.
Except for this one thing.
I wear a one-piece suit and am ... let's say "well endowed" in the breast department.
Even though they are a rather prominent feature of my body, I neglected to put sufficient sunscreen on the parts of my breasts that were exposed. Unfortunately, I also neglected to "adjust" my cha-chis, if you will, when I donned my suit. The result is a remarkably lopsided burn pattern that also oddly accentuates the effect of gravity on these mams of mine.
It's really sad.
And because it burned, it will be visible all summer.
Yea for me.
I'll show you the situation if you ask, but it'll cost you a dollar.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Mirror, mirror
I'm thinking I engaged in a bit of "overshare" with my Human Sexuality class yesterday. Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't.
Something I got out of the whole show, however, was just how absurdly difficult it is to get a good handle on how other people see you.
I keep thinking this is a skill I will somehow miraculously develop. I've also been thinking it's a skill that other people have and which I lack through some constitutional shortcoming. I've thought for some time that I was just born without a good mirror. Or that some kind of childhood trauma is responsible for my inability to see myself.
It has also been my assumption that I have been "developing" this skill in school.
Yesterday, however, I found out that I have not, in fact, developed that capability in the least. Furthermore, I'm beginning to believe it is not really a "skill" that anyone has.
Rather, every single goddamned way in which we believe we are perceived by others is nothing but a projection of our own. Our intuition might tell us a thing or two. But when it boils down to it, everything we believe others think about us is no more than a guess, an assumption, a wild stab into the wilderness of mind-reading.
I have spent the better part of the past two months thinking that just about everyone I encounter in school thinks I'm a grumpy, loud-mouthed, obnoxious bitch with a chip on her shoulder. Most of this sense seems to be generated by my experiences in Play Therapy and Thursday nights in my practicum. But I have generalized it to all other classrooms and all other group environments.
And as I admitted to S2 and HGM yesterday at lunch, I also projected a whole heapin' bunch of hoo-haw onto specific classmates I don't know very well at all.
And yet, yesterday, a few of these people made comments to me following the presentations of our boxes that completely contradicted the ways in which I believed I was being perceived by them. I could have decided that they were just being nice -- or even lying to me -- to cover the negative feelings they actually have. Except for that they sounded genuine when they spoke to me. And one of them even left a nice note on my car after she left class early.
So. Hmmm....
What does this mean?
That I should give up the whole game of trying to know how I'm perceived by others? That it's a useless undertaking, a waste of time and energy? That no one can know how others see them?
Or does it mean that I'm just really, really bad at it?
Either way, I guess one useful approach -- in as much as my experience of the world goes -- is simply to decide that other people see me in a very positive light. That I'm an intelligent woman with tremendous courage and a marvelous sense of humor. That I'm wonderfully complex and have not just the capacity to be, but hold the promise of, being a skilled clinician. That the warmth in my heart ... shows.
And with a little effort, I'll soon be convinced that everyone thinks I'm very, VERY sexy. And that every time a lovely woman thinks or says, "Someone just dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians," I'll be the honey-licking lesbian who comes to mind. (I mean: Why not?)
Something I got out of the whole show, however, was just how absurdly difficult it is to get a good handle on how other people see you.
I keep thinking this is a skill I will somehow miraculously develop. I've also been thinking it's a skill that other people have and which I lack through some constitutional shortcoming. I've thought for some time that I was just born without a good mirror. Or that some kind of childhood trauma is responsible for my inability to see myself.
It has also been my assumption that I have been "developing" this skill in school.
Yesterday, however, I found out that I have not, in fact, developed that capability in the least. Furthermore, I'm beginning to believe it is not really a "skill" that anyone has.
Rather, every single goddamned way in which we believe we are perceived by others is nothing but a projection of our own. Our intuition might tell us a thing or two. But when it boils down to it, everything we believe others think about us is no more than a guess, an assumption, a wild stab into the wilderness of mind-reading.
I have spent the better part of the past two months thinking that just about everyone I encounter in school thinks I'm a grumpy, loud-mouthed, obnoxious bitch with a chip on her shoulder. Most of this sense seems to be generated by my experiences in Play Therapy and Thursday nights in my practicum. But I have generalized it to all other classrooms and all other group environments.
And as I admitted to S2 and HGM yesterday at lunch, I also projected a whole heapin' bunch of hoo-haw onto specific classmates I don't know very well at all.
And yet, yesterday, a few of these people made comments to me following the presentations of our boxes that completely contradicted the ways in which I believed I was being perceived by them. I could have decided that they were just being nice -- or even lying to me -- to cover the negative feelings they actually have. Except for that they sounded genuine when they spoke to me. And one of them even left a nice note on my car after she left class early.
So. Hmmm....
What does this mean?
That I should give up the whole game of trying to know how I'm perceived by others? That it's a useless undertaking, a waste of time and energy? That no one can know how others see them?
Or does it mean that I'm just really, really bad at it?
Either way, I guess one useful approach -- in as much as my experience of the world goes -- is simply to decide that other people see me in a very positive light. That I'm an intelligent woman with tremendous courage and a marvelous sense of humor. That I'm wonderfully complex and have not just the capacity to be, but hold the promise of, being a skilled clinician. That the warmth in my heart ... shows.
And with a little effort, I'll soon be convinced that everyone thinks I'm very, VERY sexy. And that every time a lovely woman thinks or says, "Someone just dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians," I'll be the honey-licking lesbian who comes to mind. (I mean: Why not?)
Sunday, June 17, 2007
That should be enough.
I engaged today in what I anticipate will be my last impassioned bit of speaking in class about the subject of LGBT issues. If there was ever going to be a useful point in saying the things I said to my colleagues on this subject, today was the time and the place to do it.
And so I did it.
There is a complicated story here. One which I am not prepared to write. It's still sinking in, and once it does, I'm going to need to marinate on it for a while.
But it was a good experience. It really was. ... Just maybe a bit more powerfully influential in how I experience myself than I anticipated or intended it to be.
The one observation I will make: I have in this graduate school experience been given some incredible gifts. Today, I am thinking both of getting to study in the company of some very compassionate souls, and also in making friends with a few of them who are, in my eyes, really special people. I'm thinking specifically of S2 and Handsome Gay Male today.
I love passionate, fiery, kind-hearted people. They are the best sort. (Or at least I like to believe that, being one of them myself.)
And so I did it.
There is a complicated story here. One which I am not prepared to write. It's still sinking in, and once it does, I'm going to need to marinate on it for a while.
But it was a good experience. It really was. ... Just maybe a bit more powerfully influential in how I experience myself than I anticipated or intended it to be.
The one observation I will make: I have in this graduate school experience been given some incredible gifts. Today, I am thinking both of getting to study in the company of some very compassionate souls, and also in making friends with a few of them who are, in my eyes, really special people. I'm thinking specifically of S2 and Handsome Gay Male today.
I love passionate, fiery, kind-hearted people. They are the best sort. (Or at least I like to believe that, being one of them myself.)
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Sex Class
I am in the middle of the final weekend of Human Sexuality in Counseling, a slog of Powerpoint slides interspersed with intense discussions about our respective sexual cultures, subcultures and disorders.
I have been doing my damndest to be persistent in making sure lesbian, gay and bisexual issues are addressed in this class. Rather than snarking behind the teacher's back or complaining to faculty, I've just turned myself into an obnoxious *educator* on gay issues, making considerably more noise on the subject than I ever have in my life.
That Couples Therapy class obviously pissed me off something fierce, and now the Human Sexuality class is seeing the ripple effects of that. I have made myself a tireless advocate by pointing out every fucking nuance of queer hoo-haw related to counseling that comes up on my radar during class discussions. I'm afraid I'm sounding like a nag, but I really don't like any other option.
Now having passed through essentially all of the graduate school's required courses, I am highly aware of the education my classmates are *not* getting on the matter of working with LGB issues. Although queer people are a distinct minority -- estimates are no more than 10 percent of the population -- they access mental health providers at a higher rate than the general population. Lesbians, specifically, are the demographic most likely to see a therapist.
There are two ideas I have about why this is: First, queer people are at greater risk for depression and anxiety than their counterparts, regardless of race, probably due to the social stigma we experience. Second, women are more likely to access mental health services than men are, perhaps because our gender carries less stigma amongst ourselves about the work of therapy. Whatever the reasons, queer women like therapy.
So as I have for the past two years watched my colleagues proceed through this program with so preciously little education about queer issues and relationships, I feel this tremendous sense of dismay. I feel like my classmates are not being adequately prepared to work with a group of clients with whom they will very likely work with, especially in a "gay haven" like this fair Stumptown of ours.
When I take a second look, I am all the more appalled to realize that, at least in the classes I have had, the vast majority of the education on gay issues has come from *ME.* I have had two other gay classmates -- both of them men -- who have been regular voices on the topic of queer issues in our classes. But otherwise, just about every presentation that was given on gay issues in my classes has passed through my hands in collaborative work with a few other classmates.
In my diversity class, we have an hour of gay discussion, if I recall, but the biggest presentation of information and education was done by me, The Debutante and Tigrrr Woods. I was also involved in presentations on gay issues for Research Methods, Counseling Women at Midlife and ... something else. The Couples Therapy presentation was more a frustrated striking out against heterosexism than it was an educational piece on queer issues.
Other than that, The Gays haven't been visible in my classes. Not in development, not in theory, not in ethics or career or group therapy (except for an intense moment on a video). If I had chosen to do my projects in those other classes on the topic of grief and dying, would similar projects be done by my classmates? Perhaps sometimes. But I feel certain the issues would have received less an airing. ... My only hope is that, in other classes I do not attend, there is someone like me sounding off about queer issues with some regularity.
Otherwise, we're still producing less-informed therapists than for which the circumstances call. If straight men were the demogaphic most likely to seek counseling, we'd all be doing just grand (especially given the origins of our dominant theoretical orientations). But when the demographic with the highest per-capita access to therapy gets services rendered, it's pretty sad to think they could get them from someone who hasn't heard of "lesbian bed death" or hasn't had specific education about the sources of oppression and marginalization for queers.
Thankfully, the 20 or so students in this class are getting some of that. And not just from me. The teacher gave a more detailed lecture today than any I have seen thus far. (Sadly, this is not a required course.) But I was sounding off anyway, mainly for the act of being engaged and fleshing out the discussion any way I could. I had some company in the form of Handsom Gay Male and Dr. R, but I was still the one farthest out on a limb.
Oh well.
Tomorrow will be my grand finale. As far as classes go, I have only Assessment and Internship required of me, and the rest may very well be spent in independent study. So if there are parting words I want to say to my classmates on the matter of queer issues and counseling, it will be then. I have no plans to say anything specific, but I apparently will be required to "present" this decorated sexuality box to the class tomorrow.
Mine is queer, Queer, QUEER.
So if asked to speak about my box (or better yet, to speak "as if" my box), there will no doubt be plenty of gay things to say. (I do love, by the way, the double-entendre of talking about my "box." Hee....)
The box itself is something about which I believe I can be proud. Good thing, too, because I'll be presenting it on Pride Day, probably right about the time that the parade kicks off downtown. I believe this box is both graphically pleasing and also does a fair job in representing my attitudes toward sexuality and the biases and influences that shape them.
For the inside of my box, I have acquired a rather spectacular orchid that is truly one of the most graphic depictions of female genitalia I have ever seen in the flower world. It's really STUNNING. The woman running the flower shop almost didn't want to part with it. She only had a single bloom of it and had been "gawking at it all day long." She thought I might "get in trouble" for putting such a salacious flower in my presentation. But given the graphic depiction of manhood on HGM's box, anything I do will be mild in comparison.
So this seductive orchid, beckoning and teasing me as it is even this moment while I write, is going to be in my box and, later, on my table in class. Where, when I am bored, I will enjoy "gawking" at it myself.
I have been doing my damndest to be persistent in making sure lesbian, gay and bisexual issues are addressed in this class. Rather than snarking behind the teacher's back or complaining to faculty, I've just turned myself into an obnoxious *educator* on gay issues, making considerably more noise on the subject than I ever have in my life.
That Couples Therapy class obviously pissed me off something fierce, and now the Human Sexuality class is seeing the ripple effects of that. I have made myself a tireless advocate by pointing out every fucking nuance of queer hoo-haw related to counseling that comes up on my radar during class discussions. I'm afraid I'm sounding like a nag, but I really don't like any other option.
Now having passed through essentially all of the graduate school's required courses, I am highly aware of the education my classmates are *not* getting on the matter of working with LGB issues. Although queer people are a distinct minority -- estimates are no more than 10 percent of the population -- they access mental health providers at a higher rate than the general population. Lesbians, specifically, are the demographic most likely to see a therapist.
There are two ideas I have about why this is: First, queer people are at greater risk for depression and anxiety than their counterparts, regardless of race, probably due to the social stigma we experience. Second, women are more likely to access mental health services than men are, perhaps because our gender carries less stigma amongst ourselves about the work of therapy. Whatever the reasons, queer women like therapy.
So as I have for the past two years watched my colleagues proceed through this program with so preciously little education about queer issues and relationships, I feel this tremendous sense of dismay. I feel like my classmates are not being adequately prepared to work with a group of clients with whom they will very likely work with, especially in a "gay haven" like this fair Stumptown of ours.
When I take a second look, I am all the more appalled to realize that, at least in the classes I have had, the vast majority of the education on gay issues has come from *ME.* I have had two other gay classmates -- both of them men -- who have been regular voices on the topic of queer issues in our classes. But otherwise, just about every presentation that was given on gay issues in my classes has passed through my hands in collaborative work with a few other classmates.
In my diversity class, we have an hour of gay discussion, if I recall, but the biggest presentation of information and education was done by me, The Debutante and Tigrrr Woods. I was also involved in presentations on gay issues for Research Methods, Counseling Women at Midlife and ... something else. The Couples Therapy presentation was more a frustrated striking out against heterosexism than it was an educational piece on queer issues.
Other than that, The Gays haven't been visible in my classes. Not in development, not in theory, not in ethics or career or group therapy (except for an intense moment on a video). If I had chosen to do my projects in those other classes on the topic of grief and dying, would similar projects be done by my classmates? Perhaps sometimes. But I feel certain the issues would have received less an airing. ... My only hope is that, in other classes I do not attend, there is someone like me sounding off about queer issues with some regularity.
Otherwise, we're still producing less-informed therapists than for which the circumstances call. If straight men were the demogaphic most likely to seek counseling, we'd all be doing just grand (especially given the origins of our dominant theoretical orientations). But when the demographic with the highest per-capita access to therapy gets services rendered, it's pretty sad to think they could get them from someone who hasn't heard of "lesbian bed death" or hasn't had specific education about the sources of oppression and marginalization for queers.
Thankfully, the 20 or so students in this class are getting some of that. And not just from me. The teacher gave a more detailed lecture today than any I have seen thus far. (Sadly, this is not a required course.) But I was sounding off anyway, mainly for the act of being engaged and fleshing out the discussion any way I could. I had some company in the form of Handsom Gay Male and Dr. R, but I was still the one farthest out on a limb.
Oh well.
Tomorrow will be my grand finale. As far as classes go, I have only Assessment and Internship required of me, and the rest may very well be spent in independent study. So if there are parting words I want to say to my classmates on the matter of queer issues and counseling, it will be then. I have no plans to say anything specific, but I apparently will be required to "present" this decorated sexuality box to the class tomorrow.
Mine is queer, Queer, QUEER.
So if asked to speak about my box (or better yet, to speak "as if" my box), there will no doubt be plenty of gay things to say. (I do love, by the way, the double-entendre of talking about my "box." Hee....)
The box itself is something about which I believe I can be proud. Good thing, too, because I'll be presenting it on Pride Day, probably right about the time that the parade kicks off downtown. I believe this box is both graphically pleasing and also does a fair job in representing my attitudes toward sexuality and the biases and influences that shape them.
For the inside of my box, I have acquired a rather spectacular orchid that is truly one of the most graphic depictions of female genitalia I have ever seen in the flower world. It's really STUNNING. The woman running the flower shop almost didn't want to part with it. She only had a single bloom of it and had been "gawking at it all day long." She thought I might "get in trouble" for putting such a salacious flower in my presentation. But given the graphic depiction of manhood on HGM's box, anything I do will be mild in comparison.
So this seductive orchid, beckoning and teasing me as it is even this moment while I write, is going to be in my box and, later, on my table in class. Where, when I am bored, I will enjoy "gawking" at it myself.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
I, Sex Therapist
When I walked into the conference room where my colleagues and I process the sessions we have with clients, one who had been watching me conduct a session just moments before greeted me by saying, "Well, hello, Dr. Ruth."
I did not find tonight's conversation as "explicit" as my colleagues, but that may have something to do with two things:
First, I seem to be much less distressed by the content of sessions than my colleagues in general. Perhaps my work as a journalist prepared me to do this work in ways so profound that even my understanding of that influence is too limited to comprehend. Or perhaps I am just so inept that I don't realize when I'm treading into territory where I should be more cautious.
(Naturally, I like the first option better. But I keep the second in mind because caution is critical in this area.)
Second, there's no doubt my Human Sexuality in Counseling course came in very handy tonight. The professor's reiteration, many times, last weekend of the importance of being direct and matter-of-fact, as well as using more formal terminology, in discussions about sex with clients was apparently well-received by me.
Sex was essentially the topic for 50 minutes of a 55-minute discussion. I hung in there like a ... well, like a professsional. It seems I frightened the instructor who was watching the session on a monitor in the conference room, but in the end, he said it was "really good work."
I have nothing to compare it to, but it sure was interesting for me. It would seem I'm not so off-target in thinking of doing sex therapy after all. Even though, as I put it when the teacher asked me about my internal process, I don't *do* heterosexual sex.
Of course, that might be another reason I don't find it as distressing. I don't have a lot of counter-transferrence. Perhaps it would be a totally different story if a lesbian walked in the door and started going down the path I went down with the client tonight. But perhaps not. Perhaps I just know how to maintain good boundaries in this type of work with people.
And maybe -- just maybe -- this profession is something I will learn to do well. The Classmate with No Nickname told me a few weeks ago, "You were *made* to do this work. People need you to do this work." I thought she was just flattering me at the time, but there are moments here where I think she might actually be on to something.
As Anais Nin once noted, there comes a point when it takes less work and risk to blossom than it does to remain tight in the bud.
I did not find tonight's conversation as "explicit" as my colleagues, but that may have something to do with two things:
First, I seem to be much less distressed by the content of sessions than my colleagues in general. Perhaps my work as a journalist prepared me to do this work in ways so profound that even my understanding of that influence is too limited to comprehend. Or perhaps I am just so inept that I don't realize when I'm treading into territory where I should be more cautious.
(Naturally, I like the first option better. But I keep the second in mind because caution is critical in this area.)
Second, there's no doubt my Human Sexuality in Counseling course came in very handy tonight. The professor's reiteration, many times, last weekend of the importance of being direct and matter-of-fact, as well as using more formal terminology, in discussions about sex with clients was apparently well-received by me.
Sex was essentially the topic for 50 minutes of a 55-minute discussion. I hung in there like a ... well, like a professsional. It seems I frightened the instructor who was watching the session on a monitor in the conference room, but in the end, he said it was "really good work."
I have nothing to compare it to, but it sure was interesting for me. It would seem I'm not so off-target in thinking of doing sex therapy after all. Even though, as I put it when the teacher asked me about my internal process, I don't *do* heterosexual sex.
Of course, that might be another reason I don't find it as distressing. I don't have a lot of counter-transferrence. Perhaps it would be a totally different story if a lesbian walked in the door and started going down the path I went down with the client tonight. But perhaps not. Perhaps I just know how to maintain good boundaries in this type of work with people.
And maybe -- just maybe -- this profession is something I will learn to do well. The Classmate with No Nickname told me a few weeks ago, "You were *made* to do this work. People need you to do this work." I thought she was just flattering me at the time, but there are moments here where I think she might actually be on to something.
As Anais Nin once noted, there comes a point when it takes less work and risk to blossom than it does to remain tight in the bud.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
What some people will do to get a little pussy
Last week, The Clairvoyant gave me a gallon-sized ziplock full of fresh butter crunch lettuce and spinach from her garden. It got overlooked in my refrigerator for several days, but tonight I ate some of it.
Oh, the humanity!
I can only imagine what this lettuce must have been like a week ago. It was, tonight, still the freshest, most flavorful and gorgeously leafed lettuce that I have had in years. As lettuce goes, it blew my tastebuds into orbit around the space chunk formerly known as Planet Pluto.
It's possible that these are no mere leafy greens, but rather may be the Platonic Ideal of "lettuce" itself.
I am almost in love with it too much to eat it. But in a world where you can't have your cake and eat it to, I'm one of those people who usually says, Well fine, then. I'll eat it.
I've got to plan what to do with it for tomorrow. There is a bounty of it, as this gallon-sized bag is stuffed to the brim with pre-washed greens, cut to eating size and still amazingly crisp thanks to her packing it with a damp paper towel.
This is one of those moments where I wish I could turn back time and eat some of that lettuce the day she gave it to me, having just harvested it from her organic veggie garden the day before. TC is a diligent caretaker of all things produce, and enthusiastically offers me interesting ideas with what to do with them. She suggested rolling a buffalo dog in one of the pieces of lettuce and eating it for breakfast.
Pity I forgot to get some frozen buffalo dogs when I was at the store. I think the smoked and honey turkey I have will need to suffice. It will be a glorious breakfast.
...
In other news, I've started another art project, but this one is an assignment for my Human Sexuality in Counseling class, and I've got to bust it out this week. I know I should be making this simple, but I seem reluctant to do that. I like engaging with learning material in this way. It prompts me to think in new and unusual ways about what I will be bringing to my work as a counselor -- namely, myself.
Graduate school is such a navel-gazing time. The more I think about our course materials, the more I realize just how much of this process is the act of really examining and defining oneself in many ways that we're not often asked to do in this society.
My one recurring client in practicum has asked for help with a sexuality issue. Even as I've been contemplating her issues while taking this course, I've also been asked to even further challenge and define the notions I hold about sex and my comfort in talking to others about it.
So this art project requires me to speak about myself and my sexuality from two angles. The task is to decorate a shoebox in a way that the exterior represents that which is known and the interior represents that which I don't often reveal about myself.
It's a great way to make me engage with the material and engage with myself at the same time. Without necessarily having to put words to it. Of course, I am putting words to it anyway. But I'll try to keep them minimal and let some imagery do the talking for me.
I'm interested to see where it's going to go. Because the truth is that I haven't a clue. All I have right now is the word "Queer." For obvious reasons. The rest? I'm vacillating. Everytime I think I have a good idea, I start wondering what else I might do. I take that as a sign that I'm working to get closer to the heart of the matter.
Whatever I do, I've got to get chopping.
....
Last little tidbit.
If you were reading along wondering just what the hell lettuce and art projects had to do with the headline, you were right to wonder. I saved the pussy part for last.
I went over to YogaGirl's place for the first time today. She moved there a year ago and has suggested I come over several times, but this is the first time it actually came to pass. What sweet digs she's got! She rents the entire downstairs of an old Victorian near downtown. High ceilings, lots of interesting little built-ins and very large rooms. Real sense of "home."
There's even a basement.
Which is at the heart of this story.
First, a little mmm-mmm-mmm. I must admit that I suffer from a little objectification of women. Just a touch. And YogaGirl? Well, I suppose she does, too.
We're walking down the stairs to her basement when she points out a window and says, "Look at the neighbor woman."
I remember YogaGirl once telling me a story about a neighbor she could see out her window, so I had a little expectation of something special. And there she was: a beautiful brown-skinned woman with long, curly black hair falling over her bare shoulders; wearing a string bikini top, her little breasts perfectly visible from the window on accounts of its elevation above where she sat.
"What did I tell ya?" YogaGirl asks.
One thing I love about YogaGirl is, among all the bisexuals I know (all of whom are dating members of the opposite sex), she retains a lusty, outspoken interest in women. I feel like I can talk to her about certain special charms of women more easily than with most of my non-lesbian friends. And she does things like point out the neighbor.
Sitting there in the noontime sun in that little bikini.
We paused at the window and savored it for a moment.
Then YogaGirl turned her attention to the basement.
"I just can't fucking believe this," she says. "This is so fucking ridiculous."
She opens a large wooden door that is separating the landing at the bottom of the stairs from the rest of the basement. On the other side is a large, open room filled with storage containers, musical instruments, camping equipment, athletic gear, etc. Stacks and stacks of boxes. It is densely packed with aisles winding through different groups of items.
Somewhere in here is a cat.
This is how YogaGirl described her problem to me in an e-mail she sent this morning: "This cat sitch is so f'ing unreal- I'm so pissed! ... I just set the god damn trap and I'm hoping it goes off and catches that damn cat really soon so I can get it out of here. What a bunch of shit."
This is a little story about how not-so-good ideas carried out on impulse can so easily go to hell in a handbasket.
YogaGirl was, a couple weeks ago, really teetering between moving back to the Midwest or staying here in Stumptown. It seems that, as I conceptualize this situation anyway, she chose to attempt a little deeper "nesting" here to see if it might stick. She adopted a second cat.
This cat did not take well to YogaGirl or her boyfriend or their existing cat, which has a tendancy to hiss at passers-by. One day, the new cat vanished into the basement. YogaGirl searched for it, but could not find it to bring it upstairs. It stayed overnight. And then the next night. And the night after that.
To make a long story short, attempts to flush the cat out of hiding in the basement have failed, and YogaGirl has sunk to renting a trap in hopes of capturing it. Once secured, she'll either give the cat to a friend or take it to the Humane Society. She checked the trap a few times while I was visiting her, but as of this afternoon, her quarry had not taken the bait.
So that's the whole story. It includes a sighting of beautiful breasts and a trip down into a creepy basement. It's what I mean when I say that people will go to great lengths to snag a little pussy. Even -- or perhaps, especially -- YogaGirl.
Oh, the humanity!
I can only imagine what this lettuce must have been like a week ago. It was, tonight, still the freshest, most flavorful and gorgeously leafed lettuce that I have had in years. As lettuce goes, it blew my tastebuds into orbit around the space chunk formerly known as Planet Pluto.
It's possible that these are no mere leafy greens, but rather may be the Platonic Ideal of "lettuce" itself.
I am almost in love with it too much to eat it. But in a world where you can't have your cake and eat it to, I'm one of those people who usually says, Well fine, then. I'll eat it.
I've got to plan what to do with it for tomorrow. There is a bounty of it, as this gallon-sized bag is stuffed to the brim with pre-washed greens, cut to eating size and still amazingly crisp thanks to her packing it with a damp paper towel.
This is one of those moments where I wish I could turn back time and eat some of that lettuce the day she gave it to me, having just harvested it from her organic veggie garden the day before. TC is a diligent caretaker of all things produce, and enthusiastically offers me interesting ideas with what to do with them. She suggested rolling a buffalo dog in one of the pieces of lettuce and eating it for breakfast.
Pity I forgot to get some frozen buffalo dogs when I was at the store. I think the smoked and honey turkey I have will need to suffice. It will be a glorious breakfast.
...
In other news, I've started another art project, but this one is an assignment for my Human Sexuality in Counseling class, and I've got to bust it out this week. I know I should be making this simple, but I seem reluctant to do that. I like engaging with learning material in this way. It prompts me to think in new and unusual ways about what I will be bringing to my work as a counselor -- namely, myself.
Graduate school is such a navel-gazing time. The more I think about our course materials, the more I realize just how much of this process is the act of really examining and defining oneself in many ways that we're not often asked to do in this society.
My one recurring client in practicum has asked for help with a sexuality issue. Even as I've been contemplating her issues while taking this course, I've also been asked to even further challenge and define the notions I hold about sex and my comfort in talking to others about it.
So this art project requires me to speak about myself and my sexuality from two angles. The task is to decorate a shoebox in a way that the exterior represents that which is known and the interior represents that which I don't often reveal about myself.
It's a great way to make me engage with the material and engage with myself at the same time. Without necessarily having to put words to it. Of course, I am putting words to it anyway. But I'll try to keep them minimal and let some imagery do the talking for me.
I'm interested to see where it's going to go. Because the truth is that I haven't a clue. All I have right now is the word "Queer." For obvious reasons. The rest? I'm vacillating. Everytime I think I have a good idea, I start wondering what else I might do. I take that as a sign that I'm working to get closer to the heart of the matter.
Whatever I do, I've got to get chopping.
....
Last little tidbit.
If you were reading along wondering just what the hell lettuce and art projects had to do with the headline, you were right to wonder. I saved the pussy part for last.
I went over to YogaGirl's place for the first time today. She moved there a year ago and has suggested I come over several times, but this is the first time it actually came to pass. What sweet digs she's got! She rents the entire downstairs of an old Victorian near downtown. High ceilings, lots of interesting little built-ins and very large rooms. Real sense of "home."
There's even a basement.
Which is at the heart of this story.
First, a little mmm-mmm-mmm. I must admit that I suffer from a little objectification of women. Just a touch. And YogaGirl? Well, I suppose she does, too.
We're walking down the stairs to her basement when she points out a window and says, "Look at the neighbor woman."
I remember YogaGirl once telling me a story about a neighbor she could see out her window, so I had a little expectation of something special. And there she was: a beautiful brown-skinned woman with long, curly black hair falling over her bare shoulders; wearing a string bikini top, her little breasts perfectly visible from the window on accounts of its elevation above where she sat.
"What did I tell ya?" YogaGirl asks.
One thing I love about YogaGirl is, among all the bisexuals I know (all of whom are dating members of the opposite sex), she retains a lusty, outspoken interest in women. I feel like I can talk to her about certain special charms of women more easily than with most of my non-lesbian friends. And she does things like point out the neighbor.
Sitting there in the noontime sun in that little bikini.
We paused at the window and savored it for a moment.
Then YogaGirl turned her attention to the basement.
"I just can't fucking believe this," she says. "This is so fucking ridiculous."
She opens a large wooden door that is separating the landing at the bottom of the stairs from the rest of the basement. On the other side is a large, open room filled with storage containers, musical instruments, camping equipment, athletic gear, etc. Stacks and stacks of boxes. It is densely packed with aisles winding through different groups of items.
Somewhere in here is a cat.
This is how YogaGirl described her problem to me in an e-mail she sent this morning: "This cat sitch is so f'ing unreal- I'm so pissed! ... I just set the god damn trap and I'm hoping it goes off and catches that damn cat really soon so I can get it out of here. What a bunch of shit."
This is a little story about how not-so-good ideas carried out on impulse can so easily go to hell in a handbasket.
YogaGirl was, a couple weeks ago, really teetering between moving back to the Midwest or staying here in Stumptown. It seems that, as I conceptualize this situation anyway, she chose to attempt a little deeper "nesting" here to see if it might stick. She adopted a second cat.
This cat did not take well to YogaGirl or her boyfriend or their existing cat, which has a tendancy to hiss at passers-by. One day, the new cat vanished into the basement. YogaGirl searched for it, but could not find it to bring it upstairs. It stayed overnight. And then the next night. And the night after that.
To make a long story short, attempts to flush the cat out of hiding in the basement have failed, and YogaGirl has sunk to renting a trap in hopes of capturing it. Once secured, she'll either give the cat to a friend or take it to the Humane Society. She checked the trap a few times while I was visiting her, but as of this afternoon, her quarry had not taken the bait.
So that's the whole story. It includes a sighting of beautiful breasts and a trip down into a creepy basement. It's what I mean when I say that people will go to great lengths to snag a little pussy. Even -- or perhaps, especially -- YogaGirl.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
On second thought
Not like this means anything, but I saw my sister today, and I didn't recognize her.
I mean: seriously. did. not. recognize. her.
As in: who. the. hell. is. that?
I feel concerned and disturbed. I'm not sure what's wrong with her, but she doesn't look like herself. I don't need people I've known my whole life to start looking like someone else. It's more than I want to deal with right now.
The best thing that happened today was exploring a strange little hiking trail on campus with S2. There was dappled sunlight for a few moments, a feast of shades of green and a splendid smelling yellow rose.
But the day ended badly (as my previous entry might suggest):
I ended up in a bar by myself.
My DVD of "The L Word" was scratched.
My shoulder won't stop hurting.
And, it seems, neither will my heart.
So I am going to bed now. I'll put my faith in tomorrow.
Or perhaps the day after that.
I mean: seriously. did. not. recognize. her.
As in: who. the. hell. is. that?
I feel concerned and disturbed. I'm not sure what's wrong with her, but she doesn't look like herself. I don't need people I've known my whole life to start looking like someone else. It's more than I want to deal with right now.
The best thing that happened today was exploring a strange little hiking trail on campus with S2. There was dappled sunlight for a few moments, a feast of shades of green and a splendid smelling yellow rose.
But the day ended badly (as my previous entry might suggest):
I ended up in a bar by myself.
My DVD of "The L Word" was scratched.
My shoulder won't stop hurting.
And, it seems, neither will my heart.
So I am going to bed now. I'll put my faith in tomorrow.
Or perhaps the day after that.
Back in a few
Nothing in my life that's of real importance to me right now means very much to anyone else. Or, rather, there's no way I can write something that will make it mean anything. That's what I mean. Not that you wouldn't be interested. Just that I'm ... limited.
So I'll take a pass here for a little bit.
So I'll take a pass here for a little bit.
Friday, June 08, 2007
A little advising
I saw my academic advisor today to get back my graduate portfolio and to take the first step toward developing an independent study for some education that my program doesn't offer. At the same time, I had a brief personal conversation with her. The outcome of all three things was immensely helpful.
On the matter of my portfolio, no problems to report. Rather, I was touched by a sweet comment my advisor wrote on a post note: "It is always an honor and joy to read anything you write about your experiences. Thanks for your thought and reflection on these topics." She's a kind woman.
She also told me she found my writing entertaining and funny. Now, before you go thinking I'm getting all high-and-mighty on myself and my writing capabilities, allow me to share with you an *example* of what she found funny about my portfolio.
In a section in which I was asked to describe the my intended format for maintaining files of professional activities, I wrote: Because I do not like to keep any more paper files than I need to, I will maintain whatever non-critical evidence of the above professional activites....
It goes on from there, but apparently, that was the funny part. My adviser told me, sweetly, "I just really like the way you put things." I was touched and bemused at the same time.
My first meeting with this woman was not a pleasant one for me, but in *every* subsequent encounter with her (and she was my professor in a class for a term), she has won me over again and again and again. There is a curious peacefulness to her nature, some way in which she embodies both a deep thoughtfulness and an ageless enthusiam.
For the first time with anyone, I spelled out for her a fairly explicit independent study on the use of narrative in the dying process. I also talked to her about my interest in synthesizing some of my learning on Queer issues in counseling. The result of this discussion was the decision that I could do two independent studies, one on each topic.
This pleases me to no end. It's my way of doing the "research" I'm really interested in doing without having to go through the scientific rigor of a thesis. I can write a philosophical paper without bothering with math, and my adviser thought I might end up with publishable piece on the first topic. Twiddle-dee me!
(I keep forgetting that there's the option of supplementing my income as a bargain-basement therapist by writing for professional journals, expecially the more "readable" ones.)
Anyway, our conversation about this opened the door asking my adviser if she had ever gone through a big "identity shift." To that question, she responded with one of her own: "You mean besides coming out?"
Sometimes the most compelling things we say are the least intentional. This question she asked in reply reminds me how powerful metaphor is. It also serves me as a beutiful example of how *everything* we hear someone else say is run through a complex web of filters, the meaning of the speaker and the understanding of the hearer often having NOTHING to do with each other.
Although I spoke briefly to my adviser about what I *did* mean, the most useful part of the conversation was that first question she asked.
"Coming out" means so many different things to people, but I understood her question in light of what a monumental personal drama it can be.
And a few hours later, when I thought of it again, I suddenly took an added meaning from the question. Whether she meant to say it or not, I took from her question -- "You mean besides coming out?" -- a reminder that I have already made it through a massive identity shift before. Made it through successfully, at that.
Something which was once novel and disturbing to me -- a source of deep self-hatred, actually -- is now a well-integrated part of my identity. I get upset about things related to my sexuality sometimes, but it's usually about being discriminated against (and, to a lesser degree, the dearth of single lesbians in my age group, mine being the lesbian nesting age that is increasingly involving a gayby). Far from hating this aspect of my identity, I would not give it up. I am pleased to be woman-loving identified. *heh*
This other change I'm experiencing in the most maddening fits and starts is far less threatening. In fact, my personal opinion about it right now is that it's a very, very good thing. But I'm lost in it. I don't know what this change is supposed to look like. I have no idea how I will turn out in the end.
Back when I was coming out, I had an idea. It was a *miserable* idea, but at least it was an idea. Bad as I thought it would be when I arrived, having a destination seemed helpful. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that my expectations fell far short. Things have turned out much better than I thought they would. (Even if this personal situation of mine leaves a little to be desired right now.)
This time around, the destination is totally unknown. I am aware of being on a sigificant journey, but I don't know where I'm going. (Perhaps I should have asked my adviser for some advice on this...)
I'm at a point where intentionality seems to matter more than it ever has before in my life, but I don't know what I want. So I am, in the meantime, churning water as the troublesome character described in the previous blog entry.
What an amazing, weird and difficult place to be.
On the matter of my portfolio, no problems to report. Rather, I was touched by a sweet comment my advisor wrote on a post note: "It is always an honor and joy to read anything you write about your experiences. Thanks for your thought and reflection on these topics." She's a kind woman.
She also told me she found my writing entertaining and funny. Now, before you go thinking I'm getting all high-and-mighty on myself and my writing capabilities, allow me to share with you an *example* of what she found funny about my portfolio.
In a section in which I was asked to describe the my intended format for maintaining files of professional activities, I wrote: Because I do not like to keep any more paper files than I need to, I will maintain whatever non-critical evidence of the above professional activites....
It goes on from there, but apparently, that was the funny part. My adviser told me, sweetly, "I just really like the way you put things." I was touched and bemused at the same time.
My first meeting with this woman was not a pleasant one for me, but in *every* subsequent encounter with her (and she was my professor in a class for a term), she has won me over again and again and again. There is a curious peacefulness to her nature, some way in which she embodies both a deep thoughtfulness and an ageless enthusiam.
For the first time with anyone, I spelled out for her a fairly explicit independent study on the use of narrative in the dying process. I also talked to her about my interest in synthesizing some of my learning on Queer issues in counseling. The result of this discussion was the decision that I could do two independent studies, one on each topic.
This pleases me to no end. It's my way of doing the "research" I'm really interested in doing without having to go through the scientific rigor of a thesis. I can write a philosophical paper without bothering with math, and my adviser thought I might end up with publishable piece on the first topic. Twiddle-dee me!
(I keep forgetting that there's the option of supplementing my income as a bargain-basement therapist by writing for professional journals, expecially the more "readable" ones.)
Anyway, our conversation about this opened the door asking my adviser if she had ever gone through a big "identity shift." To that question, she responded with one of her own: "You mean besides coming out?"
Sometimes the most compelling things we say are the least intentional. This question she asked in reply reminds me how powerful metaphor is. It also serves me as a beutiful example of how *everything* we hear someone else say is run through a complex web of filters, the meaning of the speaker and the understanding of the hearer often having NOTHING to do with each other.
Although I spoke briefly to my adviser about what I *did* mean, the most useful part of the conversation was that first question she asked.
"Coming out" means so many different things to people, but I understood her question in light of what a monumental personal drama it can be.
And a few hours later, when I thought of it again, I suddenly took an added meaning from the question. Whether she meant to say it or not, I took from her question -- "You mean besides coming out?" -- a reminder that I have already made it through a massive identity shift before. Made it through successfully, at that.
Something which was once novel and disturbing to me -- a source of deep self-hatred, actually -- is now a well-integrated part of my identity. I get upset about things related to my sexuality sometimes, but it's usually about being discriminated against (and, to a lesser degree, the dearth of single lesbians in my age group, mine being the lesbian nesting age that is increasingly involving a gayby). Far from hating this aspect of my identity, I would not give it up. I am pleased to be woman-loving identified. *heh*
This other change I'm experiencing in the most maddening fits and starts is far less threatening. In fact, my personal opinion about it right now is that it's a very, very good thing. But I'm lost in it. I don't know what this change is supposed to look like. I have no idea how I will turn out in the end.
Back when I was coming out, I had an idea. It was a *miserable* idea, but at least it was an idea. Bad as I thought it would be when I arrived, having a destination seemed helpful. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that my expectations fell far short. Things have turned out much better than I thought they would. (Even if this personal situation of mine leaves a little to be desired right now.)
This time around, the destination is totally unknown. I am aware of being on a sigificant journey, but I don't know where I'm going. (Perhaps I should have asked my adviser for some advice on this...)
I'm at a point where intentionality seems to matter more than it ever has before in my life, but I don't know what I want. So I am, in the meantime, churning water as the troublesome character described in the previous blog entry.
What an amazing, weird and difficult place to be.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Annie's got her gun...
For the past few weeks, I've really been struggling with myself. Struggling in a way that is unusual for me.
Normally, when I struggle with myself, it's a battle against anxiety or self-defeating thoughts. Or it's the recurring problem of trying to create a life worthy of an Eternal Return and being disappointed in myself when I don't do so.
But this most recent bit of struggling is odd. I seem to have less control over my mouth than I normally do. It would be so much better for everyone else, including myself, if I was just jabbering, suffering a fit of logorrhea or singing songs from the musical Hair!. But the things that are coming out of it are not pleasant. In fact, I might as well be quoting Bible scriptures, it is *that* ugly.
Yesterday, for example, I started pestering XGF about why she would make a commitment to some guy she's only known for 6 months when she wouldn't make one to me in the six years we were together. She said something about finding her soulmate. Instead of telling her I was happy for her, I started reading her the riot act about whatever is going on with her rather significant identity shift. You're not coming out, I told her. You're *going in.*
All nice and snarky like in tone, at that.
A few days ago, I said some hurtful things to S2, not the least of which was saying she didn't have the heart of a compulsive helper. I was talking in the context of behavior on the level of a disorder, but it was nevertheless a bad light to cast upon a woman who has blessed my life with an abundance of help over the past year and a half. (Such as when she came to care for me and walk my dog when I was ill. Or how she has comforted me in some moments of intense despair.)
And it wasn't just a matter of saying such a thing. I'm sure the head-shaking flatness of my delivery, not even bothering to dispense false humor in the process, was among the rudest things I've done in some time.
I think I might have talked about lesbian sex in front of Bubba's mom.
There was that whole cussing streak in my Play Therapy class.
And there's the persistent trouble I'm having in tolerating the sheer weenie affect of a socially feeble classmate who reminds me of JAWS I as a young adolescent. (And if you're wondeing if that description of the person in question isn't a bit harsh, suffice to to say I'm editing myself.)
Interestingly, when I play the role of counselor, I don't suffer from this problem. I can bite my tongue throughout a long discussion with a narcissistic client at work, and I can be kind and empathetic with my practicum client.
But when I step out of that role, it seems lately to have become a wild and unpredictable ride.
In the vein of Psychodynamic, I'm recognizing it as an old part of me that's outlived its usefulness. And in the vein of Narrative Therapy, I'm also externalizing this old part as a little demon that's trying to wrest control of me. I see her as an "unpleasant" intermingling of the late journalist Molly Ivans, the late and former governor of Texas Ann Richards and Wild West sharpshooter Annie Oakley. (They're all women I admire, but think how dangerous their collective Love Child could be. That's how I feel lately.)
Perhaps I am not that bad. It's not like people are complaining left and right. S2 stands up for herself. But many other people are less inclined to do so and feel more comfortable with giving me disapproving looks or ratting me out to the teacher. Or like XGF, they simply look at me with hurt in their eyes. Still others may not even notice anything.
I do not care for this situation.
It's my responsibility to change it, I know. But as someone who is *very* aware of her cognitive processing, I cannot help but note that some of this behavior is being generated from an unconscious source.
For example, I am not aware of any thoughts of jealousy around XGF's new relationship. I feel concerned about her for reasons I stated, but it has not been a part of my conscious thought process -- in other words, nothing I've been brooding over or even feeling concerned about -- to question her sense of commitment to me retroactively. I mean, seriously, *WHAT-ever.* I know that relationship we had was real. It's still there, just different. But having recognized the problems we had, we each moved on. When it comes to her life and her choices, I truly am not jealous.
Not in my conscious realm, anyway. Apparently, some part of my unconscious feels differently, and it managed to surface at lunch yesterday.
So yeah, there's shit like that, flowing from some hidden places inside of me and flying outward toward the world.
Meanwhile, another more rational part of me is observing all of this and asking the Whole of Me: What the fuck, dude?
There was an article I read back in my Couples Therapy class in which the author spoke of the multiplicity of selves we have within us and how they rear their heads at predictable and unpredictable times. What's more, they interact with any countless multiplicity of selves that exist within the person to whom we're relating.
So what you are seeing, when you see me suddenly go off, is ... well, what is she?
Let me think about that for a minute.
She's ... the angry teen-ager, strangely hormonal and utterly lacking in awareness of or concern for the people around her. This is a girl who was really tired of getting beaten up. She was 16 and still being strapped with a leather belt on a regular basis, still getting punched and kicked and hair-pulled by her parents. Or 13 and spitting blood from her punched up mouth onto the white terrazo floor and hoping that dramatic color difference would freeze the next blow before it landed.
She was frustrated and angry. I mean, really fucking angry. And as defensive as can be. She's a tough character. Brazen and bold and wanting to yell at everyone -- and sometimes doing so -- THIS IS THE AMITYVILLE HORROR HOUSE! GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! I AM SO *SICK* OF THIS SHIT! YOU CANNOT TREAT ME LIKE THIS! YOU CAN'T!
To which her dad would throw the phone at her head and yell, "Go on and call someone! They'll tell you what the law says. They law says a parent can do *whatever* he wants to his kids!"
She didn't know any better. She believed him because he was always right. (And also because she believed she would be killed if she actually did make the call.)
And then, faced with the choice between running away and staying, she ... stayed. And just kept taking that shit. Kept taking all of it for everyone else, and just biding her time until college would help her get away.
In the midst of this, she didn't have the sense to see that she was also very sad. That beneath all this anger was profound sadness and disappointment of being handed over, by life itself, to this particular collection of crazy parents and their crazy children. She often felt like she and her youngest brother were the only real "humans" in the family. And the two of them probably only "barely human" at that, because you don't grow up in this environment without being made a mutant by all the poison in the environment.
The Notorious M.O.M. once asked her marriage counselor why my father beat me up so much, and the counselor, who knew me during these years, replied, Because she was the strongest one.
Although the curious thing about the unconscious is that we never really know *what* therein is driving our behavior, I'd put money on the idea that *that girl* is the one crawling out of my woodwork.
All the defenses I (rightfully) erected in my early life still exist within me in one form or another today -- some muted, some exaggerated, some dormant. Now the angry, tough-talking, brazen FUCK-YOU-ALL teen-ager has become exaggerated at a time when she is not actually needed.
There is, within me, a deeply loving heart that is trying to emerge from its chrysalis, and my guess is that this teen-ager is frightened by that change. She's striking out capriciously. The fact of her hurting people for whom I care deeply -- and both XGF and S2 fit that bill -- is in my opinion a sign of her desperation. If she can get those people who have done such a remarkable job at seeing my true loving nature beneath all the bluster of my daily presentation... -- if she can get THEM to question and fear and not trust me, she wins.
She wins the security of always being beaten. (Even if she herself is doing it now instead of those who once did.)
She wins the privilege of always getting to be broken. (Such as it is. Something of an excuse, anyway.)
She wins the honor of always pushing away the people closest to her. (That way, they can't actually do any damage.)
She wins the distinction of being "strong." (Good for her...)
I, the more fully developed self, am not interested in seeing that outcome.
Perhaps it's not to my advantage to see that she loses, however. Certainly, she protected me once. Her angry spirit is what kept this body getting up and fighting back, the better to protect it than just lying there and taking that pummel. She might have been beaten less if she'd shut her mouth, but the truth is that no one deserves such violence. Under the circumstances, I think her spirit was remarkable, even if it was a bit ... one-dimensional.
My physical body is three-dimensional, but these days, the totality of my "self" exists in considerably more dimensions than that. I'm complex and nuanced and capable of uttering golden words from a silver tongue. I'm loving and powerful and fairly self-aware. I'm intelligent and, heaven help me, I even seem to be getting wiser.
And yet, I find myself lately being sideswiped by this angry teen, my mouth running amok.
She's a tenacious fighter who is fighting for her life. Truth is, she deserves to keep it. I cannot extinguish that which once saved me from being choked or beaten to death. I may actually need her again someday.
But how do I put her to bed in the meantime? How do I acknowledge and honor what she has done for me while also letting her know her services are currently not needed? How do I kindly ask her to step aside and stop blocking all the light that would come from my heart if she weren't casting such a strong shadow?
This is my struggle.
Normally, when I struggle with myself, it's a battle against anxiety or self-defeating thoughts. Or it's the recurring problem of trying to create a life worthy of an Eternal Return and being disappointed in myself when I don't do so.
But this most recent bit of struggling is odd. I seem to have less control over my mouth than I normally do. It would be so much better for everyone else, including myself, if I was just jabbering, suffering a fit of logorrhea or singing songs from the musical Hair!. But the things that are coming out of it are not pleasant. In fact, I might as well be quoting Bible scriptures, it is *that* ugly.
Yesterday, for example, I started pestering XGF about why she would make a commitment to some guy she's only known for 6 months when she wouldn't make one to me in the six years we were together. She said something about finding her soulmate. Instead of telling her I was happy for her, I started reading her the riot act about whatever is going on with her rather significant identity shift. You're not coming out, I told her. You're *going in.*
All nice and snarky like in tone, at that.
A few days ago, I said some hurtful things to S2, not the least of which was saying she didn't have the heart of a compulsive helper. I was talking in the context of behavior on the level of a disorder, but it was nevertheless a bad light to cast upon a woman who has blessed my life with an abundance of help over the past year and a half. (Such as when she came to care for me and walk my dog when I was ill. Or how she has comforted me in some moments of intense despair.)
And it wasn't just a matter of saying such a thing. I'm sure the head-shaking flatness of my delivery, not even bothering to dispense false humor in the process, was among the rudest things I've done in some time.
I think I might have talked about lesbian sex in front of Bubba's mom.
There was that whole cussing streak in my Play Therapy class.
And there's the persistent trouble I'm having in tolerating the sheer weenie affect of a socially feeble classmate who reminds me of JAWS I as a young adolescent. (And if you're wondeing if that description of the person in question isn't a bit harsh, suffice to to say I'm editing myself.)
Interestingly, when I play the role of counselor, I don't suffer from this problem. I can bite my tongue throughout a long discussion with a narcissistic client at work, and I can be kind and empathetic with my practicum client.
But when I step out of that role, it seems lately to have become a wild and unpredictable ride.
In the vein of Psychodynamic, I'm recognizing it as an old part of me that's outlived its usefulness. And in the vein of Narrative Therapy, I'm also externalizing this old part as a little demon that's trying to wrest control of me. I see her as an "unpleasant" intermingling of the late journalist Molly Ivans, the late and former governor of Texas Ann Richards and Wild West sharpshooter Annie Oakley. (They're all women I admire, but think how dangerous their collective Love Child could be. That's how I feel lately.)
Perhaps I am not that bad. It's not like people are complaining left and right. S2 stands up for herself. But many other people are less inclined to do so and feel more comfortable with giving me disapproving looks or ratting me out to the teacher. Or like XGF, they simply look at me with hurt in their eyes. Still others may not even notice anything.
I do not care for this situation.
It's my responsibility to change it, I know. But as someone who is *very* aware of her cognitive processing, I cannot help but note that some of this behavior is being generated from an unconscious source.
For example, I am not aware of any thoughts of jealousy around XGF's new relationship. I feel concerned about her for reasons I stated, but it has not been a part of my conscious thought process -- in other words, nothing I've been brooding over or even feeling concerned about -- to question her sense of commitment to me retroactively. I mean, seriously, *WHAT-ever.* I know that relationship we had was real. It's still there, just different. But having recognized the problems we had, we each moved on. When it comes to her life and her choices, I truly am not jealous.
Not in my conscious realm, anyway. Apparently, some part of my unconscious feels differently, and it managed to surface at lunch yesterday.
So yeah, there's shit like that, flowing from some hidden places inside of me and flying outward toward the world.
Meanwhile, another more rational part of me is observing all of this and asking the Whole of Me: What the fuck, dude?
There was an article I read back in my Couples Therapy class in which the author spoke of the multiplicity of selves we have within us and how they rear their heads at predictable and unpredictable times. What's more, they interact with any countless multiplicity of selves that exist within the person to whom we're relating.
So what you are seeing, when you see me suddenly go off, is ... well, what is she?
Let me think about that for a minute.
She's ... the angry teen-ager, strangely hormonal and utterly lacking in awareness of or concern for the people around her. This is a girl who was really tired of getting beaten up. She was 16 and still being strapped with a leather belt on a regular basis, still getting punched and kicked and hair-pulled by her parents. Or 13 and spitting blood from her punched up mouth onto the white terrazo floor and hoping that dramatic color difference would freeze the next blow before it landed.
She was frustrated and angry. I mean, really fucking angry. And as defensive as can be. She's a tough character. Brazen and bold and wanting to yell at everyone -- and sometimes doing so -- THIS IS THE AMITYVILLE HORROR HOUSE! GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! I AM SO *SICK* OF THIS SHIT! YOU CANNOT TREAT ME LIKE THIS! YOU CAN'T!
To which her dad would throw the phone at her head and yell, "Go on and call someone! They'll tell you what the law says. They law says a parent can do *whatever* he wants to his kids!"
She didn't know any better. She believed him because he was always right. (And also because she believed she would be killed if she actually did make the call.)
And then, faced with the choice between running away and staying, she ... stayed. And just kept taking that shit. Kept taking all of it for everyone else, and just biding her time until college would help her get away.
In the midst of this, she didn't have the sense to see that she was also very sad. That beneath all this anger was profound sadness and disappointment of being handed over, by life itself, to this particular collection of crazy parents and their crazy children. She often felt like she and her youngest brother were the only real "humans" in the family. And the two of them probably only "barely human" at that, because you don't grow up in this environment without being made a mutant by all the poison in the environment.
The Notorious M.O.M. once asked her marriage counselor why my father beat me up so much, and the counselor, who knew me during these years, replied, Because she was the strongest one.
Although the curious thing about the unconscious is that we never really know *what* therein is driving our behavior, I'd put money on the idea that *that girl* is the one crawling out of my woodwork.
All the defenses I (rightfully) erected in my early life still exist within me in one form or another today -- some muted, some exaggerated, some dormant. Now the angry, tough-talking, brazen FUCK-YOU-ALL teen-ager has become exaggerated at a time when she is not actually needed.
There is, within me, a deeply loving heart that is trying to emerge from its chrysalis, and my guess is that this teen-ager is frightened by that change. She's striking out capriciously. The fact of her hurting people for whom I care deeply -- and both XGF and S2 fit that bill -- is in my opinion a sign of her desperation. If she can get those people who have done such a remarkable job at seeing my true loving nature beneath all the bluster of my daily presentation... -- if she can get THEM to question and fear and not trust me, she wins.
She wins the security of always being beaten. (Even if she herself is doing it now instead of those who once did.)
She wins the privilege of always getting to be broken. (Such as it is. Something of an excuse, anyway.)
She wins the honor of always pushing away the people closest to her. (That way, they can't actually do any damage.)
She wins the distinction of being "strong." (Good for her...)
I, the more fully developed self, am not interested in seeing that outcome.
Perhaps it's not to my advantage to see that she loses, however. Certainly, she protected me once. Her angry spirit is what kept this body getting up and fighting back, the better to protect it than just lying there and taking that pummel. She might have been beaten less if she'd shut her mouth, but the truth is that no one deserves such violence. Under the circumstances, I think her spirit was remarkable, even if it was a bit ... one-dimensional.
My physical body is three-dimensional, but these days, the totality of my "self" exists in considerably more dimensions than that. I'm complex and nuanced and capable of uttering golden words from a silver tongue. I'm loving and powerful and fairly self-aware. I'm intelligent and, heaven help me, I even seem to be getting wiser.
And yet, I find myself lately being sideswiped by this angry teen, my mouth running amok.
She's a tenacious fighter who is fighting for her life. Truth is, she deserves to keep it. I cannot extinguish that which once saved me from being choked or beaten to death. I may actually need her again someday.
But how do I put her to bed in the meantime? How do I acknowledge and honor what she has done for me while also letting her know her services are currently not needed? How do I kindly ask her to step aside and stop blocking all the light that would come from my heart if she weren't casting such a strong shadow?
This is my struggle.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Blahhhging potpourri
No. 1: Someone tagged my building last night. I am ambivalent about taggers; less so about property owners who don't clean off or paint over the shit pronto. Tags that live to see the light of many days seem to beget more tags.
I know it's a pain in the ass to paint over and that it would be better if the taggers stuck to railway cars, but consistently removing the graffiti is the only way to deal with the stuff that shows up. Recently, an old gallery across the street got tagged, and the owner has not cleaned it up. Whether that actually resulted in my building being tagged last night or not is anyone's guess.
But what I noticed tonight is an unusual approach to the graffiti on my building. Someone has created a large, hand-written sign and posted it immediately beneath the grafitti. The sign tells the taggers to "stand behind" their art if they "believe it has meaning." It suggests the possibility, to me, that the taggers are being invited to participate in a gallery showing. There is a name and a phone number.
I have half a mind to call it and ask what's up.
No. 2: I've worked a long swing shift yesterday, followed by a morning shift today at two different H4TCIs. One home had a narcisist who was pissed off and "shared" his feelings with me at length. The second had a woman who is still sucking on an oxygen tank two weeks after coming down with a brutal chest virus and one week after finally seeing the doctor for it. I had to check her on the hour, every hour, to make sure she was still breathing.
You might want to steer clear of me for a few days. I very well could be like that TB guy who hopped all those fllights. I could be carrying serious germs. But I am feeling pretty good right now, so I'll try to hold onto that feeling and ward off any ailments. I don't have the time to get sick.
No. 3: I made roasted potatoes a new way tonight, and I have to give this one the thumbs up. Used red potatoes, a lemon, couple cloves of garlic, some flat-leaf parsley, olive oil, salt & pepper. Roasted that, turning regularly, at 425 for about an hour, until the sliced lemon was getting carmelized. Threw on some olives and a little parmesean cheese and baked another five minutes.
YUMMY. Especially wonderful kick from the lemon, the carmelized rind of which is delicious.
No. 4: Merciful me, The Clairvoyant has bailed me out for later this week. She found a slot in this already-cranned week between a trip to Moab last week and London next to get me in for a massage. May the universe bless her.
My body has so much tension in it sometimes, seems like my hair ought to play musical notes. Seems like my fingertips, as with Daphne's leafy fingers in that stunning Bernini sculpture, ought to ring like crystals each time they tap this keyboard. (Oh, could you imagine if they really did?!) ... Anyway, there is that much tension in this body at times that only metaphor will do in describing it.
I took my balance ball to work with me yesterday -- there are many strange perks to my job; being able to study while stretching on a balance ball is one of them. I've also been doing some peaceful yoga, as well as listening to TC's hypnosis CD designed to stop me from clenching my jaw. But I'm wound tight as a slingshot.
Not good.
But perhaps on Thursday, I will experience some relief.
No.5: I added to my tension tonight by watching a little too much of a "Frontline" piece on the war the Bush Administration is conducting on journalism, particularly with regards to persistant threats of using the Espionage Act against the journalists who publish classified information leaked by government officials and employees. The specific target is The New York Times. That shit made me pissed off just listening to it. Wound me up all that much tighter.
Had to stop paying attention to it because the Times often seems like the last respectable major media outlet -- the "newspaper of record" for the entire country -- that still reports aggressively about the federal government and the so-called War on Terror (aka, the War on Civil Liberties). The Times is also the same newspaper that published the questionable work of Judith Miller, who was quite the tool for Bush's march to war, using "sources" who leaked LIES disguised as classified information. So it's not like the Bush Administration hasn't seen tremendous benefits from that particular approach.
Anyway, it disgusts me.
I dedicated five years of undergraduate study and 10 years of work in the profession of journalism, and I can barely stomach what it's become, particularly since Sept. 11. Yuck, man.
There's no telling where this world is heading. And if the Bush Administration and other similarly minded politicians in the future have their way, there will be no real reporting on where this world is heading, either.
The apocalypse is going to catch us all by surprise some day.
And on that uplifting note...
...No. 6:Long day, not enough sleep. Logging off and heading to Dream Land.
I know it's a pain in the ass to paint over and that it would be better if the taggers stuck to railway cars, but consistently removing the graffiti is the only way to deal with the stuff that shows up. Recently, an old gallery across the street got tagged, and the owner has not cleaned it up. Whether that actually resulted in my building being tagged last night or not is anyone's guess.
But what I noticed tonight is an unusual approach to the graffiti on my building. Someone has created a large, hand-written sign and posted it immediately beneath the grafitti. The sign tells the taggers to "stand behind" their art if they "believe it has meaning." It suggests the possibility, to me, that the taggers are being invited to participate in a gallery showing. There is a name and a phone number.
I have half a mind to call it and ask what's up.
No. 2: I've worked a long swing shift yesterday, followed by a morning shift today at two different H4TCIs. One home had a narcisist who was pissed off and "shared" his feelings with me at length. The second had a woman who is still sucking on an oxygen tank two weeks after coming down with a brutal chest virus and one week after finally seeing the doctor for it. I had to check her on the hour, every hour, to make sure she was still breathing.
You might want to steer clear of me for a few days. I very well could be like that TB guy who hopped all those fllights. I could be carrying serious germs. But I am feeling pretty good right now, so I'll try to hold onto that feeling and ward off any ailments. I don't have the time to get sick.
No. 3: I made roasted potatoes a new way tonight, and I have to give this one the thumbs up. Used red potatoes, a lemon, couple cloves of garlic, some flat-leaf parsley, olive oil, salt & pepper. Roasted that, turning regularly, at 425 for about an hour, until the sliced lemon was getting carmelized. Threw on some olives and a little parmesean cheese and baked another five minutes.
YUMMY. Especially wonderful kick from the lemon, the carmelized rind of which is delicious.
No. 4: Merciful me, The Clairvoyant has bailed me out for later this week. She found a slot in this already-cranned week between a trip to Moab last week and London next to get me in for a massage. May the universe bless her.
My body has so much tension in it sometimes, seems like my hair ought to play musical notes. Seems like my fingertips, as with Daphne's leafy fingers in that stunning Bernini sculpture, ought to ring like crystals each time they tap this keyboard. (Oh, could you imagine if they really did?!) ... Anyway, there is that much tension in this body at times that only metaphor will do in describing it.
I took my balance ball to work with me yesterday -- there are many strange perks to my job; being able to study while stretching on a balance ball is one of them. I've also been doing some peaceful yoga, as well as listening to TC's hypnosis CD designed to stop me from clenching my jaw. But I'm wound tight as a slingshot.
Not good.
But perhaps on Thursday, I will experience some relief.
No.5: I added to my tension tonight by watching a little too much of a "Frontline" piece on the war the Bush Administration is conducting on journalism, particularly with regards to persistant threats of using the Espionage Act against the journalists who publish classified information leaked by government officials and employees. The specific target is The New York Times. That shit made me pissed off just listening to it. Wound me up all that much tighter.
Had to stop paying attention to it because the Times often seems like the last respectable major media outlet -- the "newspaper of record" for the entire country -- that still reports aggressively about the federal government and the so-called War on Terror (aka, the War on Civil Liberties). The Times is also the same newspaper that published the questionable work of Judith Miller, who was quite the tool for Bush's march to war, using "sources" who leaked LIES disguised as classified information. So it's not like the Bush Administration hasn't seen tremendous benefits from that particular approach.
Anyway, it disgusts me.
I dedicated five years of undergraduate study and 10 years of work in the profession of journalism, and I can barely stomach what it's become, particularly since Sept. 11. Yuck, man.
There's no telling where this world is heading. And if the Bush Administration and other similarly minded politicians in the future have their way, there will be no real reporting on where this world is heading, either.
The apocalypse is going to catch us all by surprise some day.
And on that uplifting note...
...No. 6:Long day, not enough sleep. Logging off and heading to Dream Land.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Graduation
Despite the fact that my past is, as I remember it, not full of things for which I would expect to be sentimental, I am deeply prone to feelings of nostalgia. I have a sense that, rather than being sentimental for the past, my particular variant of nostalgia is one in which I become sentimental for the way I wish things had been.
I become wistful over what could be, rather than what was.
A curious thing about nostalgia is that I never know when it is going to strike. If you had been living with me, as XGF did, during the years in which my youngest brother was dying, you would have witnessed me becoming sentimental, nostalgic and/or wistful over TV commercials. They always depict something blissful, and even a smart consumer like me -- one who knows the acquisition of the item advertised will *not* bring more love into my life -- can easily fall prey to those idyllic images that are illuminated through the use of the right lightbulb. (The worst were the advertisements for "cotton, the fabric of our lives.")
Perhaps the most enduring cultural images that provoke my sentimentality, however, are the collective works of Norman Rockwell. Growing up, those pictures showed me what life somewhere else -- among people who loved each other, for example -- might be like. They evoked deep nostalgia in me as a kid. I wanted to believe in love and happiness so desperately, despite not having much in my real life that would give me reason to believe such things exist and that actual humans experience them.
What does this have to do with the graduation I attended today?
That's a question I've been asking myself this evening.
I am feeling deeply moved. My sense of nostalgia has been provoked so profoundly that I'm actually pained by it.
Watching several of my friends graduate with their master's degree today was a thing of beauty and a thing of pain all wrapped up in one. It's not just that they are done with school and I am not, although that certainly has its own way of adding to the complexity of my feelings.
Rather, it was something in the ritual itself, this moment where we all pause to observe the completion of a particular phase of life and the accomplishment of completing a monumental task. Many of my classmates dedicated themselves to an intense process, a personal exploration of self and relationships, an academic examination of human nature. These are no small tasks, and so acknowledging them with ritual hoodings, soaring speeches and the occasional Rumi poem seems not just appropriate but necessary.
Anytime you open a door, it will eventually close behind you. Sometimes, it's important to pause for a moment and watch it happen.
And so my heart sings and laments for the work and progress of my friends and classmates.
But there is something more from today that is eating at me, and I am not sure exactly what. That nostalgia really started coming home to roost during the keynote speech, given by a woman of great accomplishment whose name I have already forgotten.
She kept talking about home and about place, about finding your place in the world and making it your home, no matter where it is. She talked about exploration and destination. About connection to your community and its history. She talked about how literature captures and preserves the life of our culture. She talked about how experience is not just a matter of us seeing the mountain, but of the mountain seeing us.
Whoever she was, she was poetic. Soft but powerful in her presentation. Genuine. Someone who seemed filled with both love and ambition, which is a curious and remarkable combination in my view of things.
I had to shut her out a bit, to tell the truth. I busied myself writing cards to a couple classmates because taking in the fullness of this woman's beautiful oratory would have made me weep. And I really didn't want to weep. At least not then and there.
After all the talking was done -- including an amusing little speech by Dr. M, who successfully nominated herself as student commencement speaker -- the graduates received their hoods, the diplomas were conferred, and we (S2, myself and a classmate for whom I have not found a sufficient nickname) applauded and cheered for our various school chums as they walked on stage. (The one with no nickname kept telling me I should be next year's student commencement speaker, the prospect of which is not just unlikely but ... potentially dangerous.)
Then, the ceremony done, we went outside to greet them on the sunny, pastoral campus that has always felt to me like a place apart, with its beautiful manor houses and ivy-covered walls. We stood out there on a hill above the crowd and waited as our graduating classmates made their way uphill to a reception.
Here comes YogaGirl, with her parents, her boyfriend and a sibling in tow, a little teary-eyed as I would expect her to be. Here comes The Debutant, who (true to form) told her significant other the wrong date for graduation, thus creating a situation where he missed the ceremony because he had to work. Here comes little Jeffy, and JP. Up on the hill, I found Bubba and Dr. R and Dr. M.
There were hugs and photographs and kind words all the way around. I am reluctant to tell people I am "proud" of them because it always feels, to me, like a sense of ownership (or some other elevation of myself above them) is implied in doing so. But that is what I felt for a few of them anyway.
After the reception, S2 drove me home and, dropping me off at my place, she made a comment that surprised me. She said she hoped my "melancholy" was not too bad. I started crying right then, unable to restrain the complex stew of feelings I was having, which ranged all the way from anticipating the loss of some of these relationships ... to recognizing my lack of skill and grace even in my close friendships ... to that demon of mine that persistantly raises its head at such moments and asks obnoxious questions like: And who is going to celebrate *you* when you finally finish this stuff? You who has no people to call your own? You who wouldn't know the "home" that speaker talked about if it bit you on the ass...?
I saw my classmates with their people -- their family and friends -- and I felt lonely. I felt lonely a year in advance of actually having to contend with this event myself. By which I mean the separation from school and my identity as a student and of having to experience, again, this casting of myself out into the world, a solo sailor.
I went home, changed into some shorts, and met Bubba, her Lovely Lawyer Lady and her mom at an Italian eatery in the Pearl. I had some pasta and a few glasses of wine in the warm afternoon sun. I toasted my friend and her accomplishment. We ate gelato for dessert.
For whatever reason, when I hugged her, I kissed her neck and licked it. The lawyer looked at me with a false jealousy and asked, "What was that?" And so, I walked over and kissed her neck the same queer way. It was the first time my tongue has touched the flesh of another person in nearly a year and a half. Neither of them was particularly tasty (meaning: not bad, just bland), but the texture was refreshing.
I returned home and crawled into bed and napped for two hours. Woke up and still felt the weighty presence of the nostalgia and sentimentality, the wistful wanting and the fear of seeing my fragile social network disintegrate.
I am nostalgic for what I never had. And wistful for what I can only wish for myself.
But I am so pleased for my friends.
I become wistful over what could be, rather than what was.
A curious thing about nostalgia is that I never know when it is going to strike. If you had been living with me, as XGF did, during the years in which my youngest brother was dying, you would have witnessed me becoming sentimental, nostalgic and/or wistful over TV commercials. They always depict something blissful, and even a smart consumer like me -- one who knows the acquisition of the item advertised will *not* bring more love into my life -- can easily fall prey to those idyllic images that are illuminated through the use of the right lightbulb. (The worst were the advertisements for "cotton, the fabric of our lives.")
Perhaps the most enduring cultural images that provoke my sentimentality, however, are the collective works of Norman Rockwell. Growing up, those pictures showed me what life somewhere else -- among people who loved each other, for example -- might be like. They evoked deep nostalgia in me as a kid. I wanted to believe in love and happiness so desperately, despite not having much in my real life that would give me reason to believe such things exist and that actual humans experience them.
What does this have to do with the graduation I attended today?
That's a question I've been asking myself this evening.
I am feeling deeply moved. My sense of nostalgia has been provoked so profoundly that I'm actually pained by it.
Watching several of my friends graduate with their master's degree today was a thing of beauty and a thing of pain all wrapped up in one. It's not just that they are done with school and I am not, although that certainly has its own way of adding to the complexity of my feelings.
Rather, it was something in the ritual itself, this moment where we all pause to observe the completion of a particular phase of life and the accomplishment of completing a monumental task. Many of my classmates dedicated themselves to an intense process, a personal exploration of self and relationships, an academic examination of human nature. These are no small tasks, and so acknowledging them with ritual hoodings, soaring speeches and the occasional Rumi poem seems not just appropriate but necessary.
Anytime you open a door, it will eventually close behind you. Sometimes, it's important to pause for a moment and watch it happen.
And so my heart sings and laments for the work and progress of my friends and classmates.
But there is something more from today that is eating at me, and I am not sure exactly what. That nostalgia really started coming home to roost during the keynote speech, given by a woman of great accomplishment whose name I have already forgotten.
She kept talking about home and about place, about finding your place in the world and making it your home, no matter where it is. She talked about exploration and destination. About connection to your community and its history. She talked about how literature captures and preserves the life of our culture. She talked about how experience is not just a matter of us seeing the mountain, but of the mountain seeing us.
Whoever she was, she was poetic. Soft but powerful in her presentation. Genuine. Someone who seemed filled with both love and ambition, which is a curious and remarkable combination in my view of things.
I had to shut her out a bit, to tell the truth. I busied myself writing cards to a couple classmates because taking in the fullness of this woman's beautiful oratory would have made me weep. And I really didn't want to weep. At least not then and there.
After all the talking was done -- including an amusing little speech by Dr. M, who successfully nominated herself as student commencement speaker -- the graduates received their hoods, the diplomas were conferred, and we (S2, myself and a classmate for whom I have not found a sufficient nickname) applauded and cheered for our various school chums as they walked on stage. (The one with no nickname kept telling me I should be next year's student commencement speaker, the prospect of which is not just unlikely but ... potentially dangerous.)
Then, the ceremony done, we went outside to greet them on the sunny, pastoral campus that has always felt to me like a place apart, with its beautiful manor houses and ivy-covered walls. We stood out there on a hill above the crowd and waited as our graduating classmates made their way uphill to a reception.
Here comes YogaGirl, with her parents, her boyfriend and a sibling in tow, a little teary-eyed as I would expect her to be. Here comes The Debutant, who (true to form) told her significant other the wrong date for graduation, thus creating a situation where he missed the ceremony because he had to work. Here comes little Jeffy, and JP. Up on the hill, I found Bubba and Dr. R and Dr. M.
There were hugs and photographs and kind words all the way around. I am reluctant to tell people I am "proud" of them because it always feels, to me, like a sense of ownership (or some other elevation of myself above them) is implied in doing so. But that is what I felt for a few of them anyway.
After the reception, S2 drove me home and, dropping me off at my place, she made a comment that surprised me. She said she hoped my "melancholy" was not too bad. I started crying right then, unable to restrain the complex stew of feelings I was having, which ranged all the way from anticipating the loss of some of these relationships ... to recognizing my lack of skill and grace even in my close friendships ... to that demon of mine that persistantly raises its head at such moments and asks obnoxious questions like: And who is going to celebrate *you* when you finally finish this stuff? You who has no people to call your own? You who wouldn't know the "home" that speaker talked about if it bit you on the ass...?
I saw my classmates with their people -- their family and friends -- and I felt lonely. I felt lonely a year in advance of actually having to contend with this event myself. By which I mean the separation from school and my identity as a student and of having to experience, again, this casting of myself out into the world, a solo sailor.
I went home, changed into some shorts, and met Bubba, her Lovely Lawyer Lady and her mom at an Italian eatery in the Pearl. I had some pasta and a few glasses of wine in the warm afternoon sun. I toasted my friend and her accomplishment. We ate gelato for dessert.
For whatever reason, when I hugged her, I kissed her neck and licked it. The lawyer looked at me with a false jealousy and asked, "What was that?" And so, I walked over and kissed her neck the same queer way. It was the first time my tongue has touched the flesh of another person in nearly a year and a half. Neither of them was particularly tasty (meaning: not bad, just bland), but the texture was refreshing.
I returned home and crawled into bed and napped for two hours. Woke up and still felt the weighty presence of the nostalgia and sentimentality, the wistful wanting and the fear of seeing my fragile social network disintegrate.
I am nostalgic for what I never had. And wistful for what I can only wish for myself.
But I am so pleased for my friends.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Has my style changed?
I had a conversation with a friendly classmate this morning about attachment, adoption, the power of narrative and some spiritual hoo-haw that I don't like to write about very much. The conversation, over coffee and breakfast, sparked a great deal of reflection in me today.
At one point, she asked how Attachment Theory "resonated" for me, wanting to know what it was that sparked my interest in her so-called Fucked Up Attachment Style, a category she believes is missing from the styles of attachment described in the theory.
I can't remember what I answered at that point. Could be when the conversation turned to whether The Notorious M.O.M. is as messed up as she is because she was adopted. My classmate's anectodal research on that subject gave me a perspective I haven't often considered: the notion adoptees may have of not being wanted enough for the mother to fight to keep them.
Hmmmm. I had always thought more about how my mother may have felt "displaced" by the arrival of her younger brother and sister, both of whom were my grandmother's biological children. My mother had been adopted after a series of miscarriages had my grandmother believing she could not conceive. But I hadn't considered the possibility that my mother felt unwanted by her biological mother, even though it is common enough and a logical conclusion for an adolescent.
In terms of psychodynamic and narrative theories, either one of those beliefs — displaced by the biological children or unwanted by the birth mother — would be powerful and damaging influences on ones attachment style.
Not sure how I managed to overlook that. But I'll add it to the thought stream, as it might explain a lot about The Nortorious M.O.M.
Later in the day, I found myself thinking about my own attachment style (or styles, as the case may be). I have many thoughts on intimacy and its presence — or lack thereof — in my life, but I got to wondering today if my history might not be one of being just as adverse to intimacy as those whom I have *accused* of such shortcomings themselves.
I am not adverse to it today, but perhaps the change is more recent than I realized. And, in truth, I'm not sure how penetrating that change has been.
The only place I have had to work out this process for myself in the past 16 months or so has been in the context of friendships and extended familial relationships. Lacking a romantic partner (or even so much as a single date) in that time, whatever changes have gone on within me are evident only in how I handled my grief and my grieving family in light of Liz's death and/or only within the sometimes dramatic landscape of a particular friendship or two.
I have learned a great deal about trust and not trying to protect myself in relationships in the same ways I once did. But I have not had an opportunity to step across the breach with a intimate, significant other — a completely different challenge in terms of holding on to myself while letting the other be fully herself, as well.
I started wondering today for the first time how I might *really* be in such a relationship. Over the past year or so, I have a sense of change within, but there are significant ways in which that change has not been tested. I have no clue how I'm going to be. No clue.
So I started thinking less about how I might be (only time will tell) and more about what I want.
Here is one answer: A relationship in which I must risk its loss, if only because there is no other way of being in it. In other words, one in which I am more fully myself than I have been in previous relationships.
Also, passion for a single, queer, emotionally attuned woman would be good, rather than the usual fair of non-practicing bisexuals, straight girls who already have mates or girls who are emotionally distant. (The one woman I find myself thinking of lately remains a mystery to me in those regards, specifically. My fear is that she's all of the above (and more): an emotionally aloof non-practicing bisexual with a mate who's contemplating a career change to become a Lutheran minister or a Catholic nun. And me, even given all of this, unable to stop thinking, Well, there's a *chance* she'll change, right? ... Sigh.)
One other qualification: someone who will appreciate and enjoy me as I am, fat arms and all.
Ultimately, though, someone who wants to know me and wants me to know her.
A mutual invitation.
A real connection.
One that comes with sex. (Luscious lesbian sex, to be specific.)
I told someone earlier this week that I was thinking it might be nice, in the meantime, to have a fuck buddy for the summer. Even if only to have someone give me a massage for free now and then. (Especially lately.) But the truth, as she pointed out, is that I don't do things that way. I like real connection, and my aim is to get something that sticks for a while without feeling *stuck.*
I can't imagine that's too much to ask. So, hey there, Universe: How about it?
On that note, I must admit I have been awake for far too many hours this week (20 hours yesterday alone), and I want to put my Friday night to bed early. It's a form of self-care designed to ensure I'll have the energy to live a more vivacious life tomorrow.
Should I encounter the right woman, I want to be ready for her.
At one point, she asked how Attachment Theory "resonated" for me, wanting to know what it was that sparked my interest in her so-called Fucked Up Attachment Style, a category she believes is missing from the styles of attachment described in the theory.
I can't remember what I answered at that point. Could be when the conversation turned to whether The Notorious M.O.M. is as messed up as she is because she was adopted. My classmate's anectodal research on that subject gave me a perspective I haven't often considered: the notion adoptees may have of not being wanted enough for the mother to fight to keep them.
Hmmmm. I had always thought more about how my mother may have felt "displaced" by the arrival of her younger brother and sister, both of whom were my grandmother's biological children. My mother had been adopted after a series of miscarriages had my grandmother believing she could not conceive. But I hadn't considered the possibility that my mother felt unwanted by her biological mother, even though it is common enough and a logical conclusion for an adolescent.
In terms of psychodynamic and narrative theories, either one of those beliefs — displaced by the biological children or unwanted by the birth mother — would be powerful and damaging influences on ones attachment style.
Not sure how I managed to overlook that. But I'll add it to the thought stream, as it might explain a lot about The Nortorious M.O.M.
Later in the day, I found myself thinking about my own attachment style (or styles, as the case may be). I have many thoughts on intimacy and its presence — or lack thereof — in my life, but I got to wondering today if my history might not be one of being just as adverse to intimacy as those whom I have *accused* of such shortcomings themselves.
I am not adverse to it today, but perhaps the change is more recent than I realized. And, in truth, I'm not sure how penetrating that change has been.
The only place I have had to work out this process for myself in the past 16 months or so has been in the context of friendships and extended familial relationships. Lacking a romantic partner (or even so much as a single date) in that time, whatever changes have gone on within me are evident only in how I handled my grief and my grieving family in light of Liz's death and/or only within the sometimes dramatic landscape of a particular friendship or two.
I have learned a great deal about trust and not trying to protect myself in relationships in the same ways I once did. But I have not had an opportunity to step across the breach with a intimate, significant other — a completely different challenge in terms of holding on to myself while letting the other be fully herself, as well.
I started wondering today for the first time how I might *really* be in such a relationship. Over the past year or so, I have a sense of change within, but there are significant ways in which that change has not been tested. I have no clue how I'm going to be. No clue.
So I started thinking less about how I might be (only time will tell) and more about what I want.
Here is one answer: A relationship in which I must risk its loss, if only because there is no other way of being in it. In other words, one in which I am more fully myself than I have been in previous relationships.
Also, passion for a single, queer, emotionally attuned woman would be good, rather than the usual fair of non-practicing bisexuals, straight girls who already have mates or girls who are emotionally distant. (The one woman I find myself thinking of lately remains a mystery to me in those regards, specifically. My fear is that she's all of the above (and more): an emotionally aloof non-practicing bisexual with a mate who's contemplating a career change to become a Lutheran minister or a Catholic nun. And me, even given all of this, unable to stop thinking, Well, there's a *chance* she'll change, right? ... Sigh.)
One other qualification: someone who will appreciate and enjoy me as I am, fat arms and all.
Ultimately, though, someone who wants to know me and wants me to know her.
A mutual invitation.
A real connection.
One that comes with sex. (Luscious lesbian sex, to be specific.)
I told someone earlier this week that I was thinking it might be nice, in the meantime, to have a fuck buddy for the summer. Even if only to have someone give me a massage for free now and then. (Especially lately.) But the truth, as she pointed out, is that I don't do things that way. I like real connection, and my aim is to get something that sticks for a while without feeling *stuck.*
I can't imagine that's too much to ask. So, hey there, Universe: How about it?
On that note, I must admit I have been awake for far too many hours this week (20 hours yesterday alone), and I want to put my Friday night to bed early. It's a form of self-care designed to ensure I'll have the energy to live a more vivacious life tomorrow.
Should I encounter the right woman, I want to be ready for her.
Full moon on a Last Thursday
Man, this is some crazy shit down here in my neighborhood sometimes. But it doesn't get any crazier than the Last Thursday of the month, when there's a bunch of gallery openings and the fire dancers and clowns come out to play.
Last month featured a "dance riot," in which a bunch of street dancers who'd been blocking traffic with their go-with-the-flow trance action, got into an altercation with police responding to a fist fight at a bar nearby. There was hooligan energy in the air that night, but nothing serious came of it. Just a bunch of neighborhood gossip and a report on the nightly news.
Tonight was a full moon, however. Also one of the hotest nights we've had all year. Sun setting so much later and all, it was bound to be a bustling night.
I came home from class at 9:15 and the streets were swarming with people, but I was shocked when, at about 10, I ventured out to meet a classmate at a pub down the street, and found the sidewalks still jammed.
EVERYONE was out. Suburban housewifes and pot-bellied tourists with cameras mingled with granola artists hawking home-made soaps and anarchist clowns selling vegan, gluten-free dog treats. The fire dancers found a fantastic new venue, where they can practice their art without blocking traffic, and the local artisans have finally started lighting their booths with lanterns to continue selling later into the evening.
The result was a vibrant, urban atmosphere that rekindled memories of San Francisco or New Orleans. Average folk mixing in with a stew of queers, clowns, avant-garde artists, crafties and people selling their illustrated children's books or handmade silk purses.
I walked through this roiling mess to meet a classmate who had left my practicum and gone to the hood to meet up with friends of hers. But the journey was worth it. It was a funny conversation, and I got to talk about Panama with some guy who was dying to know about it. I love Panama.
Anyway, I hung out with them for a while, came home and prepared tomorrow's breakfast -- that mouth-watering french toast casserole, which has to soak overnight. Afterward, I walked the dog briefly. That is when I caught the moon, for the second time tonight, in its luscious and luminous fullness. (First time was on my bike ride home from class, when it was so huge and low and pasted like parchment paper on the sky that I wanted to call S2 and tell her to look at it.)
Seeing that full moon, especially the second showing, when its bright full face illuminated the street where I walked my dog, I felt like I understood, momentarily, the reason for the energy on the street tonight. It was thick and fast, but it was good. People were enjoying themselves, and there wasn't any thug energy n the air.
For whatever reason, I'm feeling inclined to see the full moon tonight as an omen. It heralds a Summer of Love.
Last month featured a "dance riot," in which a bunch of street dancers who'd been blocking traffic with their go-with-the-flow trance action, got into an altercation with police responding to a fist fight at a bar nearby. There was hooligan energy in the air that night, but nothing serious came of it. Just a bunch of neighborhood gossip and a report on the nightly news.
Tonight was a full moon, however. Also one of the hotest nights we've had all year. Sun setting so much later and all, it was bound to be a bustling night.
I came home from class at 9:15 and the streets were swarming with people, but I was shocked when, at about 10, I ventured out to meet a classmate at a pub down the street, and found the sidewalks still jammed.
EVERYONE was out. Suburban housewifes and pot-bellied tourists with cameras mingled with granola artists hawking home-made soaps and anarchist clowns selling vegan, gluten-free dog treats. The fire dancers found a fantastic new venue, where they can practice their art without blocking traffic, and the local artisans have finally started lighting their booths with lanterns to continue selling later into the evening.
The result was a vibrant, urban atmosphere that rekindled memories of San Francisco or New Orleans. Average folk mixing in with a stew of queers, clowns, avant-garde artists, crafties and people selling their illustrated children's books or handmade silk purses.
I walked through this roiling mess to meet a classmate who had left my practicum and gone to the hood to meet up with friends of hers. But the journey was worth it. It was a funny conversation, and I got to talk about Panama with some guy who was dying to know about it. I love Panama.
Anyway, I hung out with them for a while, came home and prepared tomorrow's breakfast -- that mouth-watering french toast casserole, which has to soak overnight. Afterward, I walked the dog briefly. That is when I caught the moon, for the second time tonight, in its luscious and luminous fullness. (First time was on my bike ride home from class, when it was so huge and low and pasted like parchment paper on the sky that I wanted to call S2 and tell her to look at it.)
Seeing that full moon, especially the second showing, when its bright full face illuminated the street where I walked my dog, I felt like I understood, momentarily, the reason for the energy on the street tonight. It was thick and fast, but it was good. People were enjoying themselves, and there wasn't any thug energy n the air.
For whatever reason, I'm feeling inclined to see the full moon tonight as an omen. It heralds a Summer of Love.
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