A brief description of me

"I also imagined that this truth-seeking might restore something vital in my core." -- Terri Jentz, Strange Piece of Paradise

Mental gymnastics

Rather than getting the restorative break that I needed up at the cabin, I returned home feeling exhausted and a wee bit ... broken.

Although I slept like the dead in that fresh air and the unusually comfortable bed, I stayed up too late each night. And during the days and evenings, I did not have the right environment to enter into the meditational space I normally access more easily when I'm up at the lake.

Some of this was related to my well-founded concerns about taking a child up there with me. As much as Rather Shy Classmate's young daughter may have taught me a thing or two, I prefer more solitude -- and considerably less effort at negotiation -- when it comes to my vacation time. So ... sorry, folks, no more kiddies at the cabin.

But the other problem is the mental gymnastics in which I seem to have become vigorously engaged in recent weeks. I've got intellectual pursuits in terms of the independent study about death and dying that I'm doing this coming fall. I've also been faced with questions of a spiritual nature in the past couple months. And it seems that some of the unresolved -- and, I think, perhaps unresolvable -- issues from my childhood and adolescence are making themselves felt lately.

The end result is that I am almost fully and completely EXHAUSTED. I feel like I need another week -- alone -- at the cabin. Or, at the very least, several serious spa treatments. A long, hot bath. Mud packed all over my body. Another long, hot bath. A two-hour massage, followed by being wrapped in hot towels. Then, a facial.

And then, sex. Yeah. Some goddamned physical intimacy! Someone to touch me lovingly and fearlessly, already full of the knowing of me. No explanations necessary.

Followed by ... food. Food that I have not cooked for myself. Food that has not come from the Thai place downstairs. Food about which I have made no decisions but with which I will have no qualms. Food that has been whipped up (or at least ordered for delivery) by someone else. Someone who knows my palate, my appetites, my delights.

In short, I just want to be taken care of for a little while instead of always taking care of myself (and sometimes others).

Is that too much to ask?

Apparently.

Because rather than getting any of that, I'm instead cleaning my home and preparing for a party. A party that someone else is technically hosting but is doing so in my home -- and for which I'll be cooking a couple things. This party is on Wednesday. It's a sad occasion, really. Marking two years since Hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf Coast and displaced my friend King Rex. He is the one having the party here.

Let me get something straight: I support the party. In fact, it seems to have been my idea. (Kinda, sorta. I suggested he do "something" to mark that dramatic experience, which forced him to flee New Orleans and land here in Portland.) But I also did not expect to come back from the lake feeling so TIRED. So getting ready for this party is feeling a lot more difficult than I anticipated.

That happened with the last party I threw, too. I let myself get talked into having a Mardi Gras party just a few weeks after my aunt, a New Orleans native, died. And I felt outrageously sluggish while preparing for it. The closer and closer it got to Mardi Gras, the more leaden I felt.

Now that I think of it, I suspect some of the problem I'm having right about now is related to my aunt's death. A year ago this week, I was visiting her in Hawaii, and I filmed about five hours of interviews with her. I knew she was dying, so I conducted a life story interview with her. It was a rich thing to do.

The visit was also marked by several important conversations between the two of us. Boiled down to simplicity, it was the stuff of life and death, the work of finding love and connection and of not being dogged by one's parents.

At the same time, I was freaking out a little. I kept calling home -- meaning I kept calling S2 because there is no "home" for me to call when I'm out of town (me being the only resident) -- and fretting about things. I described it to her as home sickness, but the truth is that I needed some sense of an anchor elsewhere.

My aunt had always represented an anchor for me, the one person in the world I knew would love me no matter what. And seeing how frail she had become since my last visit -- 16 months prior, before she was diagnosed with lymphoma -- was too clear a message about her impending departure. So I kept reaching out to S2, just to persuade myself that I had a life somewhere else and that it was populated by at least one other person who cared about me, even though neither she nor anyone else will ever be a person who "loves me no matter what."

This observation isn't meant to dis S2 or anyone else who cares about me. It's more about losing the person in whom I actually had that kind of faith. We don't get many people like that in our lives, and I feel lucky for having had even just one.

But I've lost that person -- and I haven't even got someone who will pretend to fill that role, as a partner might -- and that is feeling like another gigantic hole in my life. Joining the holes of no longer having XGF in my life, not having a family of my own, not having financial security of any sort, not having any sense of security whatsoever. On top of the spiritual questions and the unresolved trauma and the insecurity I'm feeling about my career change, it's all feeling like a bit too much.

I spent a while talking to S2 tonight about what's bothering me. She said it sounded like I was looking for an answer to a question I don't even know how to ask. She also said that maybe my intellect is poorly matched with my motivation. (Too smart, not enough drive to do anything with it.)

Both of those comments have the resonance of truth to me. But I can't even begin to articulate why.

I'll have to think about it. One more routine to add to my mental gymnastics performance.

But first, sleep. And maybe, if I can find a good deal at a reputable place, a little spa action.

Into the Woods...

I'm taking a few days this week to get out of the city, heading up to my favorite haunt in the Olympic Mountains.

If weather reports are accurate, I'll be getting to take a few days of sun, canoeing on a fabulously scenic lake by morning and kicking back in an Adirondak chair on the lawn, sipping kahlua and cream at sundown.

Every time I go up to this place, which I do often, I miss XGF a little bit. On our first real "vacation," -- not a weekend away to the coast -- we found some quaint lake-side cabins where time appears to have stopped back in the 1930s. It's not "retro," it's really just that way. The bathrooms have been modernized, but the rest of the cabins have just been maintained well since being built in the 1920s.

I'm not going to publish the name of the place because I don't want word getting out about it. It's already hard enough to get a reservation there in the summer and quite tricky the rest of the year, too. I had a honest-to-goodness nightmare last night that Martha Stewart was up there (staying in my cabin with me) and was so charmed by the place that she wanted to feature it on her show. I got pissed and told her she'd better not.

It's honestly not *all that* in a way that would impress Martha, but I love the place and look forward to my visit each time.

What do I tell my friends about it? That it's the most restorative place I know. The cabins are nestled, at a respectable distance from one another, in the forest of cedars, firs and hemlocks. A few of them are built a the line where the forest ends in a rocky promontory overlooking the lake, which is accessible by nearby stairs.

In the early morning, otters swim in the lake just below the cabins, looking for breakfast in the shallower water there. All day long, you can watch birds in the surrounding forest, including bald eagles. At night, when it's clear, you are treated to magnificent and open panoramas of the dark heavens, hundreds of miles away from any big cities.

I'll be going there for the first time ever with a child. This makes me a little anxious, because kids have a way of spoiling the peace and quiet just when a the weight of one's eyelids is calling for an afternoon nap. So I'll keep my fingers crossed that the 8-year-old who is joining us is subject to rational dialogue.

But just in case, I'm bringing Hershey's Kisses with peanut butter filling to BRIBE THE CHILD, if necessary. And I'm brining a few bottles of wine (and last-ditch pharmaceuticals) for me and/or her mother, Rather Shy Classmate, if my bribery goes awry and I end up creating a sugar-crazed monster.

So that's my story. I'm off for a few days. With any luck, I'll return feeling renewed and ready for whatever comes next.

What "The Muffin" told me & other memories

XGF set me straight earlier today when she commented on my previous post. Turns out The Muffin -- that whacky former neighbor of ours -- did in fact tell me what "The Answer" was.

She said only, "One."

How could I forget that?

Considering my elephantine ways with recalling conversations, it is unusual for me to need reminding about what someone told me. But it does occasionally happen.

Thankfully, there are a few people out in the world who remember some of the stuff I forget. XGF is one. My sister is another.

That brings me to my next topic, which is the matter of what we want people to remember about us. As S2 noted in a conversation last night -- and then, again this afternoon -- I've become a little "obsessed" lately with narrative. (It's not really "lately," per se. It's a long-running obsession.)

But I've been talking to her about it a lot because I've started narrowing the focus for an independent study I'm doing at school this fall. I'm specifically interested in exploring the intersection between the narrative we tell about our lives -- the meaning we give to our experiences, the way we conceptualize what our intent has been (often retrospectively), the things we want people to believe about us -- and the process of facing death, as when one is diagnosed with a terminal illness.

I'm not going to go into my developing theory or approach on this here blog. It's not well-formed yet, and when it finally does get well-formed, I intend to bottle and sell it rather than giving it away for free on the Internet.

But, because I always try to provide my readers with a little taste of the quirk that is my approach to life, I will tell you what I did last weekend, when I was working a LOOOOOOOONG day at the H4TCI.

I wrote S2's life story. Without her permission or even her knowledge. Personally, I think that may be a little ... rude, because it does technically belong to her. And the fact that I wrote it in first person ... well, some people might consider that a violation in some way.

But your UCM is nothing if not faithfully and earnestly disrespectful. So I went ahead and did it anyway.

Now, to be fair, just because I claim to have written her "life story" doesn't mean I wrote it accurately. It is, admittedly, a flawed version of events. It starts out with the flaw of being drawn only on the base of our conversations over the past two years, conversations that were never intended to transmit her life story.

Also, S2 is essentially a private person, so she keeps a lot of personal stuff to herself.

And, finally, I do so much of the talking in our relationship that she appeared to me last night in a dream and said she had found me hiding where I was (hiding from murderous space aliens) because, "I heard you talking. You were talking to yourself. Apparently, you are *always* talking!") So with all my talking, it's possible S2 has not found an open mic within our friendship through which she could actually transmit her life stories. (Truth: S2 has never in waking life complained to me that I talk to much. That's my own issue.)

Anyway, it turns out that I've collected more data than I realized. I wrote a little more than four pages, single spaced, and S2 said I "hit all the big ones." And in talking about it, I realized again how much more I actually knew -- particularly the ways in which she once used her parent's credit card -- that I was not able to tap into while I was doing this exercise.

Exactly what the *point* of my exercise was, however, is not quite clear. Some of it stemmed from a conversation last week in which I told S2 I think she knows a lot more about me than I know about her. (Perhaps if I would stop talking sometimes....) Some it stemmed from this "obsession" I have with life narrative. Some of it was just a matter of testing my memory, particularly when it hadn't been intentionally collecting information.

It was such an interesting thing to do that I considered trying my hand at more people in my life. Just to see what I think I know about them and what they're telling me about themselves. Or, at least, what I have managed to remember.

The only problem with that idea -- truth: there are actually *many* problems with it -- is that I don't have the time to do it. I can barely keep up on my own life story. My frame of reference seems to be shifting in ways I can't quite catch up to right now.

However, at some point, I imagine this might be part of the work I do with people. If that's so -- and if death begins to malinger on your horizon (or if you are just interested in giving form to your story) -- hunt me down, and we'll do some work around it.

In the meantime, I guess I can say to S2: I gotcha covered.*

(*indicates a margin of error +/- 3 percent)

Non-linear thoughts about muffins

I tried baking something for the the first time today: homemade muffins.

However, I was talking on the phone to True Tomato (admittedly, a *strange* psuedonym -- very sorry -- but now we're stuck with it) ... so I was talking on the phone with her while mixing this batter. I forgot to add the milk. I realized this while trying to mix the wet ingredients with the dry. So then I added the milk.

It was positively sloppy batter -- when it was supposed to be on the "barely wet" side -- so I added some more flour, corn meal and baking powder.

Seemed to save the consistency of the outcome from being too terrible. But I didn't quite get the baking soda as well mixed in as I should have, and the result is the occasional unexpected bitter spot. I'll call them "UCM's Bitter Surprise Blueberry Muffins." Whatcha think?

Gotta dozen of 'em here with your name on 'em. First come, first served!

Suffice it to say, I'll be paying closer attention to the recipe the next time I try to bake something. As they say, cooking is an art, and baking is a science. You can't usually go hibbity-jibbity on the ingredients like I did at the end and expect things to turn out alright.

I'll be trying something new next time.

I like muffins.

A little tangent here: XGF and I used to live next door to this whacky lady I inexplicably nicknamed "The Muffin" one day. (This was in days before I was eating muffins on a regular basis; now, I would not insult muffins in that way. I may not have much respect for humanity, but I sure respect muffins!)

Anyway, The Muffin ... why did I name her that? I think it had something to do with what she looked like when all bundled up in her winter clothes. She moved up here from California, and I think the damp chill here in winter and spring was not to her liking. She wore excessive amounts of material on her face, around her neck and atop her head until WAAAAAAY after I was out mowing the lawn in my shorts.

She was a soft-spoken woman of about 60 who struck me as a little feeble minded. Feeble minded just so that most people wouldn't recognize it. Least of all herself.

Conversations with her were always peculiar. A lot of them were about her endless searching searching searching for some kind of spiritual something-or-other that was going to liberate and exonerate her for being "the awful, terrible person I was."

It was also hard for me to imagine The Muffin used to be an awful, terrible person -- or that she "was" one, anyway, because there were days I thought she might still be one. Mainly, I just wondered what she meant by that. XGF and I used to speculate. We'd work ourselves into small convulsions of laughter, trying to imagine The Muffin as a "awful, terrible person."

The Muffin as mafia hit woman. The Muffin as a disease-spreading junkie seriel killer. The Muffin as a suburban housewife. The Muffin as ... as ... what? I mean: WHAT did that woman think was so bad?

Maybe she was just a person without religion. Maybe that's what she meant.

A person like me.

Except for the part where she's feeble minded and I'm not.

And I'm not searching searching searching -- because I don't believe there is "An Answer." But The Muffin most certainly did. Sometimes, when I was sweeping the sidewalk or pulling weeds, she'd start talking to me about all that searching and the answer she had found.

I once asked her what "the answer" was, and she wouldn't tell me.

She got all funky and pious and righteous in her posture and voice -- not too much different than normal, really -- and told me she couldn't just out and outright tell me. Seems I would have to find it for myself.

At least she had some sensibility. If there is an "answer," it makes sense we'd have to find it on our own.

Not like spirituality -- or whatever -- is as simple as a recipe, as scientific as baking.

I've had reason to think a lot lately about "spirit" and consciousness and "the unseen" world around us. But I don't know how safe it is for me to proceed in my thinking, so it's occuring in fits and starts (and getting derailed by devilish people with their own pathetic motives). All in all, I am fighting a massive undertow of resistance.

Here's my latest excuse:

I screwed up a simple recipe for blueberry muffins. There's no telling what I might do to, say, Buddhism.

What a scream...

I had the occasion today to emit a scream the likes of which I can't recall issuing forth from me.

It seems to have hit a new register for my voice or something. Whatever the cause, the scream itself caused one of my front teeth -- one I chipped a long time ago -- to vibrate. I noticed this vibration immediately. It was ticklish and uncomfortable, like biting into something really cold.

The sensation caused me to shut my mouth suddenly, bringing the scream to a screeching halt.

Very weird. All the way around.

My tooth is still tripping out on it.

The Spirit Catches Me & You Get Knocked Down

There's something I've been learning about myself over the past few years. I didn't have a name for whatever it is I seem to do to people just with the sheer force of my personhood, but I was certainly aware that there was something about me which prompts extreme and polarizing things in people.

I always felt like I wasn't doing much of anything one way or another, but thought I certainly must have *worked* at offending those people who hated me -- even if I had no recollection of doing so. It's always been a mystery to me why so many people in this world have spit-polished their guillotines while sizing up my fair neck.

By the same token, I've long been utterly and completely mystified by the people who have become my friends. There's no rhyme or reason to the assemblage, and I never understood what attracts people to me. Especially those who seemed a bit ... ardent (and there have been a few).

The past couple weeks, however, have provided an opportunity to take a closer look at my polarizing capabilities.

I took on that slanderous evaluation with one of the instructors who wrote it and made clear my displeasure with it. She kept telling me there was a "bigger picture" and that it was a shame I was not "getting it."

In the process, she tried to saddle me with the idea that my colleagues were not being honest with me. HGM was right when he said my instructor engaged in "psychological malfeasance" when she tried to undermine my trust in my colleagues. Really, it was a wretched experience to come face-to-face with another one of those guillotine people and have to listen to squishy feedback that amounts to little more than, "We just don't like you (and neither do your peers). Neener neener neener...!"

I gave that woman a talking to the likes of which you people have never seen me dish up to anyone. I turned on my Bigger, Bad-Ass Revolutionary Lawyer Self and let 'er rip! I didn't cuss; I didn't use invective; and I didn't pull any punches. I let her know she had offended my deepest sense of morality and that my peers disagreed with her assessment that I had made the classroom environment "unsafe."

Watching her stubborn refusal -- even at the beginning, when I was questioning her quietly and openly -- to give one inch of consideration to the idea that *she* may also not be seeing "the bigger picture," I had to ask myself what I had done to evoke such replusion in this woman.

Here is an interesting part of the story:

In the opening round of questioning, I said, It appears you have no qualms with my clinical work, but it seems you do have objections to something that was happening at the conference table. (The conference table was in the classroom, where we discussed theory and practice with one another.) She nodded in agreement, as I continued, Tell me what your concern is.

She turned to a page in the back of the evaluation and read aloud, "Your eagerness to share an idea or an opinion can have a powerful effect on your clients, so awareness of that tendancy will be helpful." Then she looked at me. "If you substitute the word 'clients' with the word 'peer,' it's the same situation, the same concern."

Hmmm.

I know I'm not supposed to rattle clients with a bunch of ideas and opinions, so I do hold back quite a lot. I try to keep my ideas to myself, and help the client to find their own ideas. (I say "try to," because I recognize that even the questions we ask can be seen by clients as "suggestions.") Communication has many, many layers, and I imagine it's a good therapist's lifelong art process to have increasing awareness of those layers and to work within them.

One of the things our instructors imparted to us in practicum class is the notion that a client will tell you the thing they really want to tell you right up at the beginning of the session. It might be hidden in a lot of subtext, but these seasoned professionals say it's usually there.

So when I look back on the conversation-turned-revolutionary-lawyerspeak of the other day, I think about that first thing the instructor told me. The first thing she mentioned is a concern that my ideas and opinions "can have a powerful effect" on my colleagues.

Let's stop and think about that for a moment.

What the hell is so wrong with that? Are my ideas bad ones? Are my opinions outrageous?

It's important to note that I do NOT criticize the personhood of my peers. I do not question their role as the stand-in expert on their client (the client being the only real expert). I talk very little about the approach they used with a client, but will discuss client conceptualization freely.

So if under the circumstances, what I'm saying is neither bad nor outrageous nor illegal nor personally disrespectful, why and how am I to be held responsible for the "powerful effects" of my ideas and opinions? And what's wrong with an idea having a "powerful effect" anyway? Since when is that a crime?

Suddenly, looking at these questions, I feel an absurd (but logical and worrisome) kinship with Gallileo and anyone else who ever questioned the Church or the establishment.

Looked through this lens, the first thing my instructor chose to tell me about my evaluation is: "Your ideas are dangerous, madam!"

If the first thing said is the most important, does that mean the thing which frightens my professors so is that my peers might be listening to me?

Can that be for real?

Here's the other part of the story:

She was right. There was a bigger picture that I wasn't getting.

The exploration I've undertaken -- via the input of school colleagues and friends -- around why these instructors find me disrespectful and think I make the class "unsafe" has brought a new image of myself into focus.

We all have blindspots, and it can take something like this to point one out to us.

(I wish my teacher could read that sentence I just wrote and sense her righteousness for a moment. Because it would please me to crush her smugness with the following:)

Some people love me for the same exact reason that others hate or fear me. S2 said this to me the other night when I implored her to give me the straightest feedback she could manage.

"To be honest, I don't understand this feedback you're getting, and I really don't understand what they want you to do with it," she said. "But what I can tell you is that you have powerful energy that can fill up a room -- or just as easily bring it all down if your energy is pointed that direction."

I know this, but I also know I hadn't "brought it all down" this term. I enjoyed class for the most part. It was captivating to watch my peers do their work, and I loved discussing it.

But S2 was onto something. Her comments echoed ideas I have heard time and again. One colleague said her first impression of me was that I was "a force to be reckoned with," and that I "put myself forward with force." By this, she clarified, she did not mean that I was intentionally dominating a room or being rude. Rather, it was the density of my ideas, the succinct and powerful language with which I can express them in class and then some ineffable personality traits that people often summarize with the term "character."

"You're so obviously not from Portland," True Tomato (formerly the Classmate with No Nickname) told me. "You're a woman from the South." (She initiated our friendship by telling me that it was only when she learned I was from Texas that I started to "make sense" to her.)

I think she's got a point. My friend King Rex, native of New Orleans, doesn't seem to find me the least bit peculiar.

So there's something "cultural" in my presentation that makes me look a bit more colorful in character here than I might be if I were living where I grew up.

Whatever the hell is is about me -- call it energy, force, intensity, character, charisma -- that seems to stand out from the crowd is also what, as S2 notes, drives some people to love me and others to hate me.

Interestingly, many of my friends and colleagues reported feeling provoked by me before they got to know me. "Even though you didn't seem to notice me, I thought you might be not noticing me on purpose," one said. "I had a lot of projection around you. I was actually a bit fixated on you in the beginning because the way you were affecting me was so strong that I was fascinated by it. I wanted to know why, but I still can't explain it."

When I repeated this to S2, she told me she imagined that was a common experience for people to have around me, even if they can't describe it so clearly. "I don't think it's anything you can control or change," S2 said. "I think it's just the way you are. People react to you."

She also noted that I don't usually put my "best" part forward when it comes to intellectual discussions in class. I agree with this insight, but I also know that my "best" part is, in its tenderness and openness, a little too intimate for a lot of people. It's also a little too soft and exposed for me to share it willy-nilly. However, I think those two selves are fluid and cross into each other's space regularly, so that people who are paying attention and aren't overwhelmed by their projectsions about me end up seeing a more complex picture.

But even if you divide me into private ("best) and public personas, both still retain that "character." My public persona is not rude, disrespectful or mean-spirited. But it is outspoken. As is my private self. Both still speak directly, and both still regard the world with a probing intellectualism. And I think *that* is what provokes people.

(Should I attempt to change my personality just to make sure everyone around me feels comfortable? I don't think so. Variety makes life interesting. I should not have to become, in the words of one friend, "wall-to-wall beige" just so those who fit that description themselves can approve of me.)

My exploration further revealed that the key to whether people end up liking me or hating me seems to be whether they get to know me. Even if just on the middle ground between my private and public personas.

And this is the part of the lesson that would make my teacher's head spin. What I learned is that even though I seem to provoke emotional reactions in people, those who get to know me even just a little bit tend to use some rather glowing words to describe me:

Warm. Genuine. Open-hearted. Generous. Compassionate. Intelligent. Respectful. Caring. Tender. Big-hearted. Funny. Spirited. Colorful. Kind.

Repeatedly, my friends have told me that these instructors (who defamed my character by suggesting my respect for humanity is only "emerging") have obviously and clearly misunderstood me. "It's the only logical explanation," said one.

(S2 offered a sage piece of advice: "It will have to be your lifelong goal to always ensure that anyone doing an evaluation on you, anyone who supervises you, actually gets to know you." I'll have to do that.)

But in this feedback from my friends, I also note a word commonly used to describe me: "powerful."

Same word my teachers used in stating their concern about the influence of my ideas and opinions upon my peers. First reason they gave for what they think is wrong with me. Justification for why they have "reservations" about my ability to proceed in this line of work.

What message *should* I be "getting" here? What *is* the "bigger picture"?

Taking on the Ivory Tower

I'm going in to have a discussion with one of my instructors tomorrow about an evaluation of my work as a therapist. As noted in the previous entry, the marks for my clinical work put me a bit beyond "where I'm supposed to be" right now in my training -- which is a compliment to my skill -- but the evaluation contains a few ratings and a few words that cross the very fat line between valuable feedback and character defamation.

The instructors -- there are two of them who alternated coverage for the term -- called me "challenging" to the point of being "disrespectful." They also suggested my "behavior" had been "a detriment to the atmosphere and perception of safety in our class."

Further, they have "concerns" about certain character traits of mine. The most offensive to me is that they actually seem to question whether I "respect the fundamental rights, worth and dignity of all people." This is such a profoundly held part of my world view that I feel like an earnest but privately pious person who is having her faith in god questioned. It's really inappropriate.

I'm not claiming turf that belongs to the Dali Lama or anything, but I do know what I know about myself, and that is something I know. People, animals, insects, rocks, paper, scissors -- all of us and all other things are fundamental and essential to Life As We Know It. Every person has a role in this tremendous play, this drama, this comedy, this ongoing saga called "life," and that means -- friend or foe -- that we each have fundamental worth.

But my instructors don't think I get that. Instead, they seem to see me as a little scary or dangerous or something.

Of course, they never mentioned this to me during the term. They once said my "challenging" could be seen as "judgmental and dismissive," but they never told me my colleagues were feeling unsafe.

That is probably in part because my classmates never complained about any such thing. If there was a perception that the class wasn't "safe," it seems to have been experienced mainly by the instructors.

I guess I can understand that in some ways. Because at the bottom of all of this, I sense that one of these two professors -- if not both of them -- were intimidated by the pointed manner in which I questioned theory and practice. My learning process can include vigorous questioning. If I'm trying to understand something and I've got questions, I'll ask them. I pay $645 a credit hour for the privilege of doing so. I want my money's worth.

Which is why my Research Methods class was persistantly peppered with my requests of the instructor: Please explain that again, one more time. In English.

If I'm satisfied with your response, I'll sit back and let it sink in. If I still don't understand or if I want to solicit the input of others, I'll keep asking questions. This is especially the case when there is no concrete, right-or-wrong answer to the questions at hand.

Education for counselors is full of caveats and maybes. The work is fundamentally relational, and no one ever really knows what's going on in a relationship -- not even the people involved. No matter how much we may think we know, the true experiences and thoughts of others are a mystery to us. This is why humans invented the concept known as "trust."

So in exploring how we conceptualize what's going on with clients and how we choose the interventions we'll use, we're always relegated to making a guess. We hope it's a good, educated guess, but in the end, we are profoundly limited by an abiding Not Knowing.

Given that, any conversation about clients is no more than an exchange of ideas, a collection of possibilities. Our ideas should be challenged, not just for the sake of the clients but for our own self-awareness as therapists. Where we tell medical doctors, "Physician, heal thyself," a similar caution applies to therapists: "Counselor, know thyself."

That is a mighty and worthy challenge all unto its own, as anyone who has ever undertaken serious self-examination will tell you. And this class -- this live practicum -- was a ripe opportunity to explore our theory, our projections and our issues of counter-transference in a real way. Because several other people were able to observe the sessions, more opinions -- more ideas, more insights -- were theoretically accessible.

Of course, yours truly had PLENTY to say.

But what I unrolled in this particular class was what most of my friends and many of my colleagues would recognize as "UCM Lite." I was simply attempting to engage in the experience we were offered. In terms of counselor education, it is the rarest of opportunities -- likely the only we will ever have -- to sit and watch LIVE therapy going on or to be able to review a tape of an entire session. Patient confidentiality, especially in these days of HIPPA, makes that an extremely uncommon practice. But for our first foray into the work, we were under intense supervision and, as a result, got to watch each other practice.

I was not interested in squandering this opportunity, so I paid attention to my colleagues in session, and I talked in meaningful ways about what I saw in their work. I also solicited feedback about what they saw in mine. Sometimes, I complimented my colleagues on how they handled a particularly touchy situation or question from the client. Sometimes, I engaged in light-hearted (but never disrespectful) banter with them about the nature of the work. Sometimes, I remarked on their body language. And sometimes, I asked frank questions about how their understanding of things like the ethnicity or sexual orientation of a client was influencing their approach to therapy.

If that's "challenging," then I accept the mantle proudly. I will wear that. I will also bottle and sell it.

But I don't accept that I was disrespectful or created an unsafe environment.

In fact, four of my five classmates (the fifth never responded to my inquiry) said that they did NOT feel unsafe and, moreover, actually appreciated my participation in class. In various ways, they felt like I was "keeping it real," "making us really think," and "moving us toward growth." They said they LIKED being challenged and wished they had gotten more of it from the instructors, as well. (And one classmate told me tonight that the fifth person never expressed a single thought about me outside of class. "There was some tension between you two once or twice, but I don't think he was bothered by you," I was told.)

If we should be satisfied that four out of five dentists say flossing is good for our teeth, I think it's respectable that four out of five classmates surveyed said your UCM was actually GOOD for the class and not -- "absolutely not in any way," in the words of one colleague -- an impediment to its safety.

And yet, my evaluation says the complete opposite.

So I'm going to have to go in there and dispute that.

Unfortunately, one of the other criticisms about me is that I don't accept feedback very well (also really and truly *not true* for the most part). So the existence of that nonsense there in writing puts me in something of a pickle. Think about it: Someone tells you that you can't take feedback, and when you want to dispute *any* of the feedback, the act of doing so (no matter how gently or diplomatically) can be easily twisted into an affirmation of their suspicion.

"A-HA!," I can imagine them saying, "we said she couldn't take feedback, and she disagrees with us about it. See! She can't take feedback!"

*sigh*

But I am going to fight the good fight anyway, because that is one of the things I'm all about. I don't like injustice in any form, but it stings the most when it's personal. And even though I am learning not to take things personally, there are some things that simply ARE personal.

Like being told you don't have respect for the fundamental rights, dignity and worth of people. I can't manage to see that in any light where such a statement about me is not offensive. It is fundamentally offensive.

On that note, I'll sign off with a little repeat of a blog entry I wrote back on March 12, long before this class ever began. This rather succintly summarizes my feelings on the "fundamental worthiness of people":

I have found religion, my Fair Readers.

It is me. It is you. It is us. And all that flows between us.

It is eyes at half mast, stoned and full of pleasure. It is the cringe of fear.

It is a child speaking to the echo of two phones calling each other. It is my dog's erect ears.

The softness of my pillow. Massage. And a bad night's sleep.

The night sky over Wiamea. A dream of Balinese architecture in Hawi.

It is storytelling. And those who aren't ready to hear the story just yet.

Sweet corn tamales. Sushi. Guinness stout.

A gridlock of cars using alternative fuels. Hummers with fake biodiesel bumperstickers.

A trusted friend. A friend who trusts you. The friend who trusts no one.

It is entitlement without the expense and suffering of others.

Joy. Laughter. Love. And letting go of the rest.

It is the absence of ugliness in the light of our undeniable worth.

The weekend

I had a packed weekend, and am officially too tired now to write about it in detail.

But.

There was burger and beer with XGF on Friday (more about that later). There was wine and Italian food, followed by a visit to watch some belly-dancing, with HGM on Saturday. There were smoothies and burritos and cupcakes with Rather Shy Classmate and King Rex, followed by a sunset -- which quickly turned into a night ride -- bike excursion along the Columbia River on Sunday.

There was also a fair amount of stress and frustration over a non-sensical evaluation from my practicum. It gave high marks to my clinical skills, my empathy, my respect for clients, etc. But at the same time, it gave me low marks for my character, my personhood and my most deeply held sense of "morality." (I think one of the instructors has a bruised ego and is taking it out on me.)

I finished reading a book about an attempted murder, and I started one about cultural rituals following death.

Now, I'm going to go eat a hard-boiled egg and watch an episode of "The L Word" before heading off to bed. Gotta work in the morning.

The departed

I've been out of touch for a few days while I entertained my delightful loft guests, The Asian and her husband. We've been up to the wee hours of the morning evey night for the last three nights, eaten too much, exercised just right (if you count my swims) and slept too little.

They are on the road to Seattle now, followed by who knows where. They literally seem to be traveling by the seat of their pants -- not knowing exactly where they are going or when until they depart. The Asian kept knocking herself for procrastinating, but I personally admire this kind of travel. I think it is the best kind of trip you can have, so long as you see things you want see and do things you like to do along the way.

While here, I made sure they got good views of Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens by taking them right after their arrival to watch the sunset from atop Council Crest. We drank lemonade cooled by a load of frozen raspberries (picked myself last season) and spiked with a touch of rum.

This is an interesting thing I learned from spending time with my aunt and uncle in Kona. When I visited them there, they always ensured I saw the sunset on my first evening's arrival. They'd take me to the beach -- even if I'd just stepped off the plane -- and we'd sit in the sand, drink a beer or a glass of wine, and watch the sun drop below the horizon.

This was a way of saying, "There's always a moment for aloha." ... Please know you are welcome. You are our guest. Relax. This is the sunset. Isn't it nice?

It's a form of hospitality I learned from my aunt long ago. I had some interesting talks this weekend with The Asian, particularly around culture and hospitality, and I think I'll write about them at length later.

In the meantime, I'm tired. It's not that we did so much. In the end, it's good I ensured they saw Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens, because those were two of the places I thought I might take them during our visit. But as it turned out, they needed to do laundry. And having stayed up so late each night, I wanted to chill out and visit with them more than I wanted to drive to look at the volcano. (Perhaps they will hit it on their way back through.)

One day, we went to look at my college and then visited Powell's City of Books instead. The other, I took them to the lake, where we all went for a good swim, then D went fishing for a few hours -- while I read a book, chatted with The Asian and then swam by myself for a while again near sunset. The Asian and I saw a bald eagle take his perch above the lake. We had endless conversations, which were stimulating to me.

When they left this afternoon, it was like the power had been turned off to my place. I missed them instantly. But I was also fine with seeing them on their way, as the late nights (despite sleeping late into the mornings) have left me a bit tired. I need a full and normal night's sleep so I will be in good shape for tomorrow night. I have my final sessions with clients this week, and I really need not to be mentally tired. My brain needs a night to recover from the stimulation.

Where they head from Seattle is anyone's guess. They asked me about the Olympic Peninsula and about taking a ferry to Canada. They don't have to be home for another few weeks, and they seem prepared to arrive home at the last possible moment. I imagine they'll see a lot on their journey. I wish them safe traveling and good health.

...

Another type of departure altogether

Ingmar Bergman died on Monday.

Watching his Scenes from a Marriage in Couples Therapy was one of the best film highlights for me in a long, long time. It was intense, psychologically challenging and austerely filmed to artfully strip the relationship down to its unambiguous ambiguity. Really powerful.

Not his only work to admire, either. Think of Fanny and Alexander.

The man was a master filmmaker who cast a fearless lens on the human psyche. Hurt to watch sometimes, but isn't it just like life to be that way?

Preparation (and play)

I've got houseguests -- or rather, loft guests -- coming to stay for a couple of nights. That has required an additional level of overhaul to my regular housekeeping.

I had to clean off my dining table. It has been substituting as a work table where I have been working on some art projects. It had been completely taken over by the art stuff about two months ago, and I have been living with it like that. I've been eating dinner at school or in one of my arm chairs. Or out.

It took a while to organize all the different things I've been cutting for a collage I'm playing around with. I've been afraid to put it away because of how I fear that the unpacking of it will make me reluctant to finish it. So I spent the extra time of breaking it down and putting it away in a manner that wouldn't dissuade me. I've come to realize that I need some kind of functional storage, probably tucked under the bar that separates my kitchen from the rest of the space.

Now that it's essentially cleared, I realize how much I've missed my table as the thing of beauty it is. Seeing the light reflecting off its warm cherry surface at night feels like a sight for sore eyes. It has been so covered with crap that I'm enjoying the return of visual order to my space.

I'll deck it with some flowers, and call it good.

Got a few other small things to touch up tomorrow. I'll wait for the light of day to put the cover back on my duvet. For whatever reason, it took the dry-cleaners almost two weeks to launder the cover and two pillow shams. I was bitching to a friend today about how much it cost me to have them drycleaned. But I have to remember that I got this lovely, embroidered silk duvet cover for $9.99, thanks to a bit of lagniappe from the Big Box Store. One of my best deals EVER.

Then, except for my messy desk -- whatever -- and an errant pile of library books or two, my place is looking pretty darn nice. I like my digs. I think it's important to live in a space that feels good to you. I would prefer a bigger space for some greater distance between my dining table and my bed, but I feel like this loft is just the right thing. For one person.

It'll be interesting to see how it is to have two more people in here again. Spitfire and her boyfriend stayed for a night or two when they passed through Portland on the way back to New Orleans. But my schedule and their other responsibilities in the area kept us from crossing paths until the evening. My friends are coming for a visit, which is different.

I'm really looking forward to seeing them. The Asian, who lives in the Bay Area, is an good long-time friend. We can go for years without seeing each other and months of not talking very much, but whenever we connect, our energy is just as engaged as it always has been. We've had our share of difficulties and faux pas, of course. But I sometimes suspect that our friendship was forged like one in battle. We met in the newsroom of a daily newspaper, which is more of an intense and politically insane subculture than a workplace. We came to know each other first as colleagues. Then came a friendship that has endured and developed its own integrity.

The Asian is also a wonderful philosopher, a poet and writer who brings a considerably different cultural lens to my life. As the only daughter of two Chinese immigrants who was raised in L.A., The Asian has on many occasions shared with me her experience of being treated as a walking stereotype. This goes all the way back to a pair of taupe pants she wore to work several times back when she was in her early 20s. The pants were not age-appropriate. She was trying to make herself look more serious or more "adult" because everyone took her gracious cultural posture and thoughtful manner as an indicator that she was a submissive push-over.

The Asian is anything but. Early on, I learned what a shrewd mind and a tenacious will she had. Very much like XGF when I think of it. Except that The Asian has a manner of speaking her mind that can turn everything on its head. For example, when I was talked to her about starting this blog and asked her what she wanted to be called, she told me, "Oh, why don't you just call me 'The Asian,' since that's all people seem to see when they look at me lately. Not even 'Chinese.' Just 'Asian.' We are not even bothering to distinguish these populous and influential countries and cultures from one another. We're just all one big lump. So just call me 'The Asian.' "

So it was spoken, so I made it. Even though I think it makes me look like I'm an ethnic idiot.

Anyway. She's coming to town, and I'm excited. If I may invoke another bit of ethnic referencing, when I sit and talk with The Asian, I sometimes imagine the experience is similar to how it might be talking with a young Maxine Hong Kingston. So I anticipate having my mind stimulated in some different ways than it has been of late.

Not that there's anything wrong with how I've been stimulated of late.

In fact, my mind has been quite stimulated, both by conversations with friends here and by ... some weird shit I still don't feel like writing about.

Despite the preparation I was doing earlier today (including three loads of laundry, which I must fold before sleeping), I still took off the late afternoon and early evening for a swim in the lake. I had not been up to the lake this late in the day before, and it was simply marvelous. The warmest part of the day in this region is usually around 5 o'clock, which is just when we laid out our blankets and towels on the grass.

The friend who went with me is one of my classmates from practicum who I'll call ... uh... Another Aires, on accounts I seem to be finding friendships with these willful, independent-minded women in my life (my old friend Mountain Girl and S2 among who knows how many others). So Another Aries -- AA for short -- and I passed the afternoon with mainly lightweight conversation. I was in story-telling mode, entertaining her with the reason I don't date on-line (aka "The Woman with the Brown Finger Tip") and how I got hypnotized to bust my snake phobia.

Turns out we're both good at creeping each other out and getting creeped out, so I have a feeling the story about how the deepest parts of the lake (an extinct caldera) have never been measured and how a plane that crashed into the lake and was never found (even though it's a small lake) may have creeped us enough to shorten the first swim. Then, when I went into the lake for a second swim on my own, AA said as I walked away, "You'll get creeped. The water moccasins will find you."

I *know* there are no water moccasins in the lake. But I'm *not* so certain there isn't a monster in it. Or some strange outflowing river down in its blackness that might suddenly suck me under water and carry me away. Yeah, AA, the bitch, got me to creep myself out. I swam perhaps 150 yards before I going back in, the monster at my heels.

We hung out for a while. Laid in the sun. Talked. Then we had a relly stunning drive home through the country. Came back across the Columbia River into Oregon just as the sun was setting over the river: Mt. Hood picking up the first of alpine glow, a nearly full moon rising, the clear rolling hills, the greenery and the city surrounded by it spread out in a vista before us as we drove across the river. Just lovely.

I dropped AA off at her place and cruised on back home to walk the pup and get a burrito.

There are a few more chores to finish before I get to sleep. But I'm glad I took the time to play in the middle of doing all that. AA is a wicked gem of a young woman, and the lake water was so lovely and warm (by PNW standards) that I was able to forget everything for a couple hours and enjoy myself. Good work, and good play makes your UCM sleep good, too.

Once I make the bed...

Not such a good idea

When XGF returned my call this afternoon -- I had called demanding to know if she had given her life to Jesus -- she read me the riot act on two counts.

First, she wondered how I could ever take seriously the concept that she had started dating men "because it's the right thing to do, according to God." Well, I *did* think it was a joke, but the person who repeated it to me wasn't so sure. So I got concerned. There are plenty of weird things that have been going down with XGF this past year or so -- fainting spells, "heart attacks," getting lost on Mt. St. Helen's and needing to be rescued by professionals, etc. -- so I worry at times that just about *anything* is possible with her.

Anyway, she thought I was stupid for taking that comment seriously.

Second, she wondered what on earth ever possessed me to agree (truth be told: I SUGGESTED IT) to go camping on Mt. St. Helen's with The Asian and her husband.

"I do believe," XGF said, "that I swore I would *never* go camping with you again. You are *horrible* when you camp. Absolutely HORRIBLE. If you go camping with them, you have to be prepared that you may never speak to them again."

You mean they may never speak to *me* again? I asked.

"That's what I mean. The chances are they would hate you," she said. "If you want to keep them as friends, it's far better for everyone if they just go camping by themselves. I don't even know *why* you would agree to that."

Do the rest of you wonder just WHAT I could have done when XGF and I went camping together?

I guess that one time we went... I started.

"Twice. We went twice."

Twice? There was that time we went to Swift Reservoir. What was the other?

"We went with Karin," she reminded me.

Oooooh. The MacKenzie River. A repressed memory came to the surface. I grimmaced.

"Yeah, *that.* And I don't know WHAT I was thinking the second time I did that with you," she said. "You are simply AWFUL when it comes to camping."

If I went into the dark corners of my mind in search of those moments -- the things I said and did that got me such a bum rap with XGF -- I could probably recount some of them. They are moments of shame, I'm sure. One harrowing scene at a guard shack comes to mind. And then, there's the matter of setting up the tent. But let's not talk about that.

Personally, I think I've probably figured out some better ways to deal with the grizzly hostility that seems to be called forth in me by the experience of car camping in a large campground. I'd like to say that the jolly nature with which I pulled myself out of a nasty, brackish pond and sustained an attack by a porcupine tree in the Amazon is proof I've come a LONG way, baby. But the truth is: I had a shower (of sorts) and a bug-proofed, open-air cabana and a pleasantly cozy bed to which I would return that night. In other words, I wasn't "camping."

When it comes to that form of so-called fun, I've never gotten over some of the minor infractions I experience at the hands of mother nature, including an aching back from "sleeping" on the ground. (Quotation marks used to enhance the dubious meaning of the word under these circumstances.) I don't like getting dirty. Or, rather, dirty when I can't shower. Also, there is the matter of the unhappy odor I called "camp hooch" when talking to S2 about it this afternoon (before XGF's call).

XGF, however, sees these problems as the least of my concerns. In no uncertain terms, she suggested I call The Asian and her husband immediately and tell them I won't go camping with them.

"If you want," she offered, "I'll call them myself. I'll tell them what a mistake would be."

Apparently, it's a matter of public safety that I never go camping again. ... It sounds creepy when it's put that way. But I kind of like having that excuse.

I called The Asian and her husband and left a message. You know, I started, maybe camping isn't such a good idea after all. I've hurt my tailbone recently, and ...

My missing blog

I feel bad when I see that I haven't written anything four or five days, especially because I know I have these readers who check on me regularly. I sometimes feel disappointed when a site I like stops updating, and I don't want to be one of them. Not yet, anyway.

This reminds me of a recurrent theme in the writing group to which I belonged for a few years after I first moved to Portland. Periodically, someone would suggest a writing exercise about "Why We're Not Writing." Yes, we had a writing group where most of the people -- all of them good writers (except one I'll call "Boston" for XGF's amusement) -- weren't writing. Except for the writing exercises we'd do in the group.

At the time, I had lost touch with my writing almost completely, save for what I did during our monthly meetings. For a couple years, I was creatively numb, having very little else move me to write so much as the topic of my brother in coma. And I didn't want to write about that for fear of what I might unleash. (Still don't, really.)

My travel journals were the beginning of my thaw. Then, I started this blog. And I have been faithfully writing on a daily or near-daily basis for a year and a half. Better than any private journal I've ever managed to keep. Apparently, having a bit of an audience moves me to write more frequently.

But what's going on with me now? If I took up the challenge of "Writing About Why I'm Not Writing," what would I find?

You know what's sad? I'm not even all that interested in finding out right this minute. I've had a long day at the Home for the Criminally Insane, and have been sitting at a desk for 9 hours reading textbooks and writing a paper. I do not feel like sitting here any longer.

In fact, a general adversion to my desk chair, thanks to an ailing tailbone, may be all that's wrong with me.

I feel like visiting with friends. I feel like watching an episode of "Man Versus Wild." I feel like doing yoga. I feel like just about *anything* than sitting at a fucking computer, staring at a fucking monitor.

I'm just saying.

(But a quick update: I played darts with YogaGirl and her BF on Saturday night and was trounced. The bristle dartboard I have here at home is apparently too nice a setup to practice on when it's plastic darts we end up playing with at the pub. ... The Asian's coming to town with her husband. We may go camping up on Mt. St. Helen's. ... I've got another swing shift at the Home for the Criminally Insane tomorrow, during which I hope to complete my paper on Clinical Considerations for GLB clients. Unfortunately, I'm a little afraid of the residents seeing the words "gay and lesbian" on the textbooks I'm referencing as I work on the paper. Several residents have, at times, expressed their anti-gay feelings toward me. Even though I am in the closet at work (remember the Criminally Insane part?), I don't want any flaring tempers. So I've removed the paper covers from the hardback, so the books look very plain. This is just one of those small things gay people have to worry about. ... And finally, I learned tonight that my sister has Multiple Sclerosis. I feel badly for her, but I don't know what to say to her or how to feel about this. I've suspected it for a while, but it is a disturbing thing to have concerned, mainly for my own self-absorbed reasons (fear of heritability). Either way, it sucks. That's all the news that's fit to print.)

"Sport culture" and pink things

I did some serious "retail therapy" this week, first by picking up a few kitchen items and then by enhancing my "sport culture" look by taking what I expect will be my final visit to the Nike Employee Store.

XGF, who has worked for that fair athletic manufacturer for more than a few years, will be leaving her post there to attend graduate school at Rutgers, where she got a full five-year fellowship in pursuit of a doctorate. Sweet deal. But it means giving up her sweet-paying corporate gig and taking on the life of a graduate student. Swoosh, bang, boom! Massive change.

She took a few minutes of her day this morning to meet me at the store and let me in, slapping $160 in cash in my hand as I walked in the door. She commented that the last time she was in the store, she dropped more than $500 there.

Everything at the store is 50 percent off (and sometimes more when the store has "clearance," but it's not basement stuff you find in outlets. It's all Nike's collest stuff, cutting edge, style or performance shit, as well as being a source of Cole Haan and Converse.

XGF slapping that money in my hand was almost like giving me a gift certificate, except for that owes me the money. Nevertheless, I decided to make the best of the situation and went in on some clothes and equipment I've been wanting. I got a few tops that I won't be wearing until fall, but my cool deals were on the sunglasses. I fucking LOVE the style of Nike's sunglasses. There are easily a dozen there I could have bought. But I restrained myself to two, which even at 50 percent off represents something of a slpurge on sunglasses.

When I was showing them off to S2 this afternoon, I actually heard myself say, These bitches normally cost $150. These *bitches*? About sunglasses? Here's a photo. You decide. My frames are pink.

S2 crinckled her nose at them and said, "I bet they don't weigh a thing, do they?"

I handed them to her. She put them on, and I instantly regretted that she could not have been sunglass shopping with me. She would have loved it. Coulda built her forthcoming triathalon uniform from the eyeglasses down.... (Yes, S2, I meant "forthcoming triathlon.")

But let me tell you something about "performance:" I wore those glasses on my bike ride this evening, and I did not even remember they were on my face. Without a bottom frame, my vision was completely unobstructed, nothing was touching my cheekbones. It's style and technology that I'm sure *someone* out there is masturbating over. Not *me,* but someone. They are indeed "bitches," in all the best meanings of the word.

I also got some glasses that would no doubt fall under what seems to be Nike's coinage for a new niche market: "sports culture." There are fascinating new styles of shoes and shirts that are designed for people who are more interested in looking fashionable in their sport than having technical gear. An example would be people women who like to walk around in *cute* athletic shoes, even when they're not doing athletics. So the other sunglasses are sweet, highly versatile, athletic hybrid that happen to look really fucking hot on me, if I do say so myself. S2 agreed that they looked good (although she might debate "really fucking hot").

Anyway.

I also got some hand weights, which I have been thinking about getting for a few months. In the women's section, the hand weights were 3 pounds each, which is basically like lifting "air" in my book. Over on the men's side of the store, I found some 8-pound weights. Better.

When I was checking out, I commented about the light weights for women, wondering how a 3-pound weight could actually sculpt a mussle, and the girl at the stand said, "Yeah, they're really light." Then she eyed me and asked, "How much do you curl?"

I don't know, I told her. I lifted the box, which contained two 8-pound weights, and curled it. Obviously more than this. But I guess these will do for light toning.

"I curl 15 pounds at the gym," she said. "I'm sure you do more than that." She smiled at me and batted her eyes a little.

Aw, shucks! I think I blushed.

The other thing I took delight in buying was a recreational soccer ball that Nike seems to have made to go with my sunglasses, my pink cell phone and this darling little brown and pink Adidas tennis outfit S2 was wearing when she showed up. Here's my cute little prize, no doubt a soccer ball for the "sports culture" rather than a real soccer player.

I'm just saying. But it's cute. And the other day when I kicked Getting To Yes's soccer ball up a hill, I realized I wanted one of my own. So I got one that's pink.

S2 looks at the thing, turns to me with a twinkle in her eye and says, giggling, "You are *such* a girl!"

Did I mention that she was wearing a pink and brown tennis dress when she said that? (Over blue jeans, but still....) Who's calling *who* a girl?

That comment made me laugh, but it got me to thinking. Why *did* I buy a pink one? Is it because I thought it was feminine? Is it because I want to be thought of as girlish? Or is it because I thought it was gay? I think a pink soccer ball is rather queer, to tell you the truth. But it is also feminine.

To me, somehow, pink is the new lesbian chic. So I declare, anyway.

Well, I got the soccer ball with the idea that I would kick it around and not let it get eaten by my dog, the way the last one did. All I gotta do is find someone who wants to kick it with me. Seeing as how I don't have a good wall for kicking against. So anytime any of you here in town want to kick a ball around, call me and I'll bring my pink, lesbian chic soccer ball over to play.

Friday, I'll see XGF again -- this time for a meal that seems destined to be our "farewell" hanging out before she takes off for New Jersey. Meeting at a little diner we used to like to go to in the Pearl. A retro flashback seems the perfect place for a restrospective conversation. Should be interesting....

When Worlds Collide

Some weeks ago, I was literally overwhelmed by a moment which was, at its core, probably the most poetic of my life. I shared it with no one; as experiences go, it was mine alone, unwitnessed by others. Had someone indeed been watching, it would have appeared to be no more than a silent pose, some still-life of a mundane act.

But within me, alone in my home on the Fourth of July, as I prepared to bathe after a sun-filled day at the lake, proverbial worlds were colliding. Without warning -- or as we might say in The South, I was just sitting there, minding my own business, when all of the sudden... -- I became an object of philosophical transmorgrification.

It's funny how these things happen. And if I described it for you straight-up, I'm afraid I wouldn't do it justice. So please forgive my decision to speak about it in analogy and metaphor.

I guess you could say I was awestruck by a thought. To boil it down as simply as possible, an idea entered my consciousness that forced me to consider how nihilistic my view of life had become.

I'm not sure where this all started. But what I do know is that one week before, a classmate with whom I'm developing a friendship said to me, "So, you don't believe there's a soul?"

No, I had replied. And after she left, I wrote this note to myself: Ascribing meaning and intent to the existace of 'energy' in the universe strikes me as the human compulsion to anthropomorphize everything.

A week later, I was asked to consider whether I really stood behind those words. It prompted some (pardon the euphamism) soul-searching of a magnitude to which I have never exposed myself.

This afternoon, I engaged in a lengthy conversation with S2 -- dragged out by my constant questioning and my stubborn resistance -- in which I admitted two consequences of this philosophical transmorgrification.

First, I described in apparently rather poignant terms the way I have come to view the world in terms of the fundamental isolation of the Self from all Others. I say "apparently rather poignant" not because S2 was moved, but because I was. Sitting there with my words, I felt the crushing sadness and solitude of that way of seeing the world. While describing my personal philosophy, I had the curious experience of observing it with sadness and also taking the first real steps toward releasing it.

Second, I spoke some words, wrenched out of me by myself at the bidding of S2's direct question: "What does your intuition tell you happened in that moment?" The answer to that question remains far too personal for me to discuss on this blog right now. Except to say that, for me, after I uttered them, I heard the distinct creaking of yet another closet door opening up, desperately in need of some WD-40.

Words are funny things. Between the mouth of the speaker and the ears of the listener, even without a second-language in the mix, so much can get lost in translation.

I let some of the rattiest, most unnerving words I've ever said come out of my mouth, and S2 looked unfazed. In fact, she said my turn of phrase was "beautiful." There was not so much as an eye-brow raised.

Still, though, I thought my world might crack open when I uttered the words. When I crossed a threshold I have been relucant to cross. When I came out (at least to my best friend, if not the rest of you just yet).

Yet there was no calamity.

Instead, there was S2, yawning every so often (thanks, I imagine, to my wearisome analysis), and saying upon our parting, "You have a busy life, UCM. A very, very busy innner life. Which is both a blessing and a curse."

I can see my way to the curse very easily. But the blessing? That is rarely so clear.

And when ideas, thoughts and experiences cause the delicate constellation of my inner heavens to shift, rushing worlds toward collision, my mind is inclined to shift into disaster mode. I assume everything is going to hell, and I want to dig into the rubble immediately and sort the living from the dead.

It's a noble instinct when lives are at stake. But when it's philosophy that has been thrown into tumult, even when the blast zone is wide enough to included the most fundamental and strongly held principles of one's world view, it would be wise to act from the outset as if the cleanup will be a long-term excavation. Like the delicate uncovering of remains at Pompeii.

This has been my struggle for the past week and a half. I wanted to do something to resolve my dilemma. I exhausted myself with a mental exercise, debating how much I believed my own experience. For now, I've decided to take my hands off he wheels a litle bit. Having "outed" myself to S2, perhaps I can now relax and employ a more useful approach in how I process this mysterious experience.

Step One: Let the dust settle.

Why I haven't been writing (the brief version)

I don't really feel like writing lately. My brain is a bit too occupied trying to allow something to come into it to find the ability at the same time to generate clear, cogent or otherwise meaningful commentary.

However, I can provide you with a brief rundown, a history of recent events:

Three Dog Attacks: Yes, three. First two on the pup Brogan; third on me. The first of Brogan's dog attacks came on the heels a few days prior of a cat attack. So the pup is giving wide berth to a lot of animals we encounter on our walks. First dog attack came outside the coffee house, which seems to be the place Brogan has the most difficulty (and may explain why he's always crying when I tie him up out there; "C'mon! I'm a sitting duck here already!" is probably what he's been telling me in dog whimpering.) Anyway, some dog pounced on him while we walked past, and ended up hurting him (bruising) in the jowl.

Then, a few days ago, one of my friends invited me and Brogan over for evening cocktails and perhaps a run in the sprinkler for the pup, on accounts it was very hot. Her dog didn't take well to something Brogan did -- no telling what -- and a snarling tussle ensued, at the end of which Brogan was pinned down and bleeding from his mouth. He had a front incisor partially pulled out, which required surgery to extract completely. (My friend kindly paid for the vet bills. Thank you.)


This is a photo of the snaggle tooth left behind after the tussle with my friend's Blue Heeler. When my friend picked the pup up at the vet, she made sure the tooth came home, too.

While he was in surgery on Friday, I was taking a walk without him, doing my "stairmaster" routine up and down the Alameda ridge. As I finished (and was, of all things, approaching the coffeehouse), I encountered a dog I've seen (and been followed by) before a few times. It's a Weimaraner, about a year old and thus not full grown. It tends to be very playful and goofy, but this day, it was tied up in the front yard (not normal) and was barking at me (also not normal). I stopped in front of the fence and looked at it, made a peaceful shushing sound. It came up to the fence, right near the end of its rope, and sniffed at me. I was about two feet away from the fence and did not feel any sense of danger from this dog. Then, suddenly, it lunged its head over the fence and bit my arm. I was stunned, pulled my arm from its mouth and scurried away. In front of the house next door, I looked at where I had been bitten and was shocked to see blood bubbling forth from a hole in my flesh. I went back and stood in front of the house -- a good three or four feet from the fence -- and waited to see if the owner was home and would respond to the dog's continued barking. She eventually did come out, and we had words, none of which were satisfying to me. I think she was wasted or hungover, here at 11 in the morning. Later that day, I called animal control and made a bite report and attempted to find out if the dog does indeed have all its vaccines, as the woman claimed. I'll check back in a couple days. Animal control said they would be enforcing a quarantine on the dog and demanding paperwork from the owners, especially as they apparently have not licensed their dog. (This woman needs to take a lesson or two from my friend and at least should have showed a modicum of interest in my bleeding arm, rather than the weak, "Oh, sorry..." she managed. But, as I said, she was fucked up in some way.)

Seems I'm not in any immediate danger of going rabid, on accounts it typically takes 30 to 60 days for rabies symptoms to appear (10 days to a couple years on the extreme ends). General likelihood of rabies is very low. Despite the high population of racoons in my neighborhood, most racoons up here don't carry rabies. The greater danger is posed by bats. Of which there are also plenty of those around these parts. So ... hmmmm. Let's just hope the Weimy didn't have an encounter with any bats recently.

Right now, the main problem for me is the pain from the bruise, particularly where the bottom canines gripped but did not puncture my forearm. The location of the bite makes it a little painful for me to rest my hand in a normal position, including the one assumed in typing.

Inner Conflict about the Nature of Consciousness: This has possessed me lately. It is too complicated and too unweildy for me to write about right now. It is not really blog material. It deserves some *real* writing. Which is to say: Every time people ask me, "When are you going to write something?" and I get disgusted because I think my blog, my journals and the literally thousands of newspaper articles I've written do, in fact, count as "something," I must admit that at this point, I think I have never written anything that matters. And perhaps I should. But later, later.... And not in blog format.

Reading Something: I'm supposed to be writing a paper for Human Sexuality, but I have been sidetracked by a really magnificent and highly disturbing book loaned to me by the friend who has the dog that didn't like Brogan. It is an autobiographical piece about a really disturbing crime that happened in Oregon back in 1977, when two women sleeping in a tent at a park were run over by a truck, the driver of which subsequently got out and began hacking at them with an axe. The book -- Strange Piece of Paradise -- is both gripping in story and in its literary nature. I am impressed not just with how the author, Terri Jentz, has woven the narrative but with how vividly she brings it to life with beautifully saturated language. I read stuff like this, and I recognize the terrible shallowness that mars my own efforts with words.

The Lake, The Lake: I have spent a couple blissful days avoiding the heat and enjoying the Fourth of July up at a nearby lake that has made its home in an extinct caldera a bit south of Mt. St. Helen's. It is spring-fed, clear and cool with the occasional warm spot caused by thermal springs that issue forth from the hot underbelly of this volcanic region. Very nice. I am getting the tan I haven't had in 15 years or so. I am also enjoying floating. It is one of my favorite things to do, seeing as it is probably as close as I will ever come to being weightless in space.

The Travails of my Tailbone: Walking down a steep (and "unofficial") path at the lake on the Fourth of July, some loose soil and rocks gave way under my downhill foot, and I fell squarely on my tailbone. For those familiar with the ongoing Travails of my Tailbone -- which I broke more than 10 years ago and from which I have never enjoyed a *full* recovery because I keep falling on my ass or taking 22-hour rough and bumpy rides in the Andes -- this is not good news. I'm back with the ass donut. As I was inflating it in class the other night, one of my classmates asked, "Is that for stress?" Stress to *what*? I asked. Another classmate offered, "When I see those, I think they're for hemorrhoids." I sighed: Well, this one is all about the tailbone. ... I should be sitting on it right now, but I'm not.

To Summarize: In fact, this is basically a long-winded excuse for why I'm not writing much on the blog: It hurts my tailbone to sit at the computer; it hurts my dog-bitten arm to write at the computer; I've been totally captivated by a book; and even if these things were not in the way, my brain is not organized enough to generate many words. I need a little time for things to settle down (and stop hurting). So don't give up on me yet, Fair Readers. Check out the archives if you're bored.

This concludes my long-winded excuse.

Now, please get off your computer and go forth into the world. It's more "real" out there than it is here.

I'll be back.

Haven't updated in a week because it has been a PACKED week and I when I've felt like writing, I haven't had the time (and vice versa).

Including right now. I have the time, but I don't feel like writing. This is mainly because I am recovering from having been out on the town last night with Handsome Gay Male.

I have a lot to say, but not right now.

Love,
UCM

Games they play in prison

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.

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.

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,