Short Story, Not Particularly Uplifting

His mother was in the next room, snoring away on the sofa. Every other moment a particularly potent gurgle would escape, wafting into his bedroom. He thought it sounded like a baboon lost in the throes of a powerful dream. He focused on the large bottle of beer at his feet. He had only just opened it, his third of the evening, and he was trying to decide if he should have left it in the fridge.

Another loud snarl from beyond the door to his room caused him to jump. He swore aloud with the usual, unimaginative words as he scrambled to pick up the bottle, trying to salvage as much of the remaining 20 or so ounces. He licked his fingers before grabbing an old towel. The beer wasn't tasty so much as it was chemically reactive. These days he needed every drop to make a proper escape.

He sopped up the mess as best he could, wiped his hands, and took another swig before sitting back on the edge of his bed. An unbelievably growl-like snore erupted next door, and he scowled at his door and its inability to block the sound, muffle the irritations of his mother's sleep, or protect the sanctity of his brooding. He turned his tv on in an effort to create his own soundtrack. Settling quickly on the mundane dregs of cable television, he dropped the remote and assumed the most comfortable position fo the contemplation of self-pity.

Knees wide apart, elbows propped firmly atop them, forehead cupped in both palms. . . he occasionally ran a single hand through his hair for good measure. He was absolutely serious about the bleakness of his situation. His phone sat a few feet away, near his pillow. He did not look at it.

He really had no choice in the matter. No choice other than which beer to swallow whole. What else was there? Perfectly on cue his phone lit up and buzzed. He lowered his head a bit more, as if attempting to smell his own neck. He swatted halfheartedly at a mystery fly buzzing between his head and his phone. The buzzing ended.

What choice did he have? Yes, it was true that he had agreed to call earlier. But, well, clearly that was impossible. He took a long draught off his bottle and paused. When he closed his eyes the feeling in his head was muted, a barely floating feeling. No, he would need more than beer tonight.

Come to think of it, he thought as he reached clumsily under his bed, he couldn't recall the last time beer had been enough. He pulled out a few empty bottles which he quickly discarded directly into a pile of old clothes. As his fingers grasped on of the bottles he sought, a couple of words whispered their way through his mind.

No, he unscrewed the cap of his rum, I don't have a drinking problem. He chuckled a bit. The only drinking problem I have is too many empty bottles and not enough full ones. He threw his head back and tossed down another dose of burning. It tasted slightly like old medicine.

Exactly what he needed: a little medicine for the soul. It must surely have been located near his pancreas, judging by his choice in cures. He chased with a sip of beer, which left a rather nasty taste in his mouth, almost like old vomit. The rum was quick, though, and he wouldn't be bothered by the taste in his mouth for long.

Why on earth did she want him to call? He knew they would talk about nothing. Some fanciful nothing that would degenerate into nerdy allusions, later into sexual overtones and lust in her voice. Why wouldn't he call her?

He simply couldn't. He was so tired of lying- of pretending to be good. Sooner or later she would see. He would falter, she would wake-up, but either way if he kept on, she would realize that he was. . .

Well, he knew that she was better. That she deserved better. And that she didn't want him, at least not the real him. He'd been careful to tuck that bit away. He felt full of agency, full of portent and power. He felt proud of his choice in the matter. It didn't occur to him that his powerful choice had been to do nothing, so he wasn't bothered by any silly notions of irony.

It did occur to him, however, that he hadn't heard a snore in a very long time. A dope-ish grin crept over his face, looking quite out of place amidst the general aura of brooding. He picked up his jacket and cigarettes and with the mistaken grace of a drunk he opened his door and attempted to creep outside. His mother didn't stir.

Thank God she's finally out, he thought as he filtered the air through his cigarette. He held his first drag in his lungs for a moment, felt the pressure as the smoke pushed against his chest and the nicotine smuggled itself into his blood stream. When he finally let go of the breath it was with a sense of relief- a cool release. Outside the cold air numbed his thoughts to a slow state- speed he could readily ignore. He looked at a tree instead, its branches, its few remaining leaves- lost, forlorn, but oddly right where they should be.

He smudged his cigarette out in the dirt, dropped the butt into an old coffee canister, and went back inside. His head was putting up a good fight against the swim of intoxication, and he smiled as he caught himself on the railing after missing the last step or two.

He looked at his mother, lying on the couch, mouth open. Still no more snores. He paused- no sounds at all. He picked up a blanket and went over to her, quietly as a drunken dog in a nursery. He piled the blanket atop his mother, pleased that she didn't stir after his gentle endeavor. He leaned in and kissed her forehead. She felt cold and he was glad to have been thoughtful enough to grab a blanket. With the further concern of a man on the verge of passing out, he stumbled back to his room and wedged his door shut.

The tv was still on. He lay down and rested his head. He reached behind his head to pull out his phone, which had been interrupting the smoothness of his pillow. His brow furrowed as he examined the phone with more directness than he had dared earlier. He briefly considered calling her, coming up with some excuse to explain the hour. . . ?

But he didn't want her to think him a drunk. His thoughts were becoming extremely muddled, and he opened the contacts directory on his phone. Seeking further intoxication, he scrolled to the N section, past 'Nadia', straight to an entry simply labeled 'No'. He pressed the glowing green button and listened as the phone rang in his ear.

The old voice answered, annoyance painted thickly. Even in his state, though, he could hear the underlying eagerness. She was terrible at hiding. He mumbled something indistinct, which she took for an invitation.

"I haven't heard from you in two months, and now you want me to come over?"

He mumbled something even less distinct.

"Well, give me 20 minutes."

And before he could reply she had hung up, which was just as well, as the only reply he was capable of anymore was a gentle snore.

Outlook

The other day I was talking with my boss while driving around Staten Island. As is our usual habit, we were deeply entrenched in the business of solving the problems of the world and the human heart (with lots of philosophizing thrown in for good measure) when a new-to-me way of thinking about the differences between people came up.

It seems to me that people fall into one of three groups. The first group is comprised of ungrounded dreamers. You know the sort- they go through life with the belief that everything is perfectly fine the way it is. It's not that they see the best in things so much as that they don't really see the things in front of them. They live in a dreamworld. This is really a rather small group, as it's pretty impractical to live everyday lost in thought, pondering what it would be like to fly south with the geese for winter.

The second group is full of people who live in today. Sure, today is a little miserable, it's kind of cold actually, but it's today. Tomorrow's not here, and hey- it's just going to be another version of this miserable day (which thus far is indistinguishable from yesterday), so why think about it too much? And when life throws rotten fruit at you, well, that's life. You keep doing what you've been doing. It's not as though things could be different. No one's ever truly happy, and besides, you didn't want to be happy anyways.

The third group is filled by those who dream of possibility. These people live in the world today, but they do not accept that this is the way life has to be. They imagine that their hopes could become realities, and then they make them happen. They interact pragmatically, but they are always considering that the life they think about while waiting for sleep could become their reality.

It's true that no one lives their entire life solely in one of these groups- we all dabble in all of these outlooks from time to time, but I think it's fair to say that most people spend the majority of their day-to-day lives in one of these modes of reality. I'm sure I've neglected some other group(s) in the process of creating three boxes for every individual to fit into, but my point is not to create a highly tuned system for filing people away. Rather, I think it's helpful to realize this particular difference in the ways that people approach their reality.

For example, I think I spend a lot of my time in the third group. I'm happy with my life for the most part (despite the volumes of complaints this blog is collecting) but I'm not content to sit back and passively live in the world. I want to affect change, both in my personal experience and in my community. I have dreams. I have hopes for what my life will be. And I find it incredibly frustrating to spend a lot of time with those content to live their life in the second group. To interact with people filled with potential, filled with dreams of far off happiness, but lacking the agency to begin any sort of journey towards those dreams. Content to be miserable. Wallowing in mediocrity.

Ok, perhaps that last bit was a bit harsh. I may have been thinking about individuals instead of pontificating about an entire group of people. . . (because one is so much better than the other. . . hmmm) but what I'm trying to get at is that it can be difficult to explain thoughts and actions to people who don't live in the same sort of reality. People who don't see the possibility of change, let alone believing in its possibility, have difficulty understanding why someone would spend hir energy trying to change things.

I'm not sure if I think this is fascinating or horrifying. It's pretty helpful when building new relationships to determine if the people involved share the same concept of reality. In my experience it's exhausting trying to convince someone else that ze not only has the right to dream or that hir dreams are possible, but that dreaming of the future is essential. Now that I think on it, I'm inclined to be more conscious of this when making new friends.

Just Desserts

Today I was going through a notebook from two months ago. I found the following:

I deserve to be more than a rebound. I deserve to be with someone who takes care of hirself. I deserve someone who wants to be sober for a good portion of hir life. I deserve someone who loves hirself. I deserve someone intelligent and optimistic. I deserve someone who generally thinks well of people. I deserve someone who wants me for me, not for my being hir not-ex. I deserve to be with someone who takes joy in the world. I deserve to be with someone who is a great dancer.

This sentiment seems particularly poignant lately. I have always settled on lovers who do not fit this description, and not just because of the dancing bit (which, by the way, refers to taking great joy in dancing and not actual skill). I have long felt as though I were starving for acceptance, such that I have attempted to sustain myself with partners who were neither compatible nor appropriate.

Trying to squeeze blood from a beet and all that.

The thing is, though, I haven't been starving for acceptance for a long time. I've had an amazing community for several years now- women and men who are there for me both when I need them and even when I don't. Almost a year ago I realized for the first time that not only do I like myself, but I think I'm pretty fantastic. Life is great, and I am terribly excited about the future.

So when I look back over this summer and fall, at choices I made and situations I encouraged, I find it difficult to understand my overtly self-destructive actions. If I like myself, if I'm not anemic from lack of love, then why would I allow such an unhealthy liaison to flourish? Why did I put myself in the midst of what I knew, even then, to be an ill-suited situation?

The reason is that I have never stopped to acknowledge that I'm not starving anymore. To continue with the food analogy: I remember once reading a dieting tip in a magazine suggesting that one eat more slowly, as it takes 20 minutes for your stomach to send the message to your brain indicating that you're full. There's a time delay and if you don't realize that you're full you'll continue to nom down on whatever's on your plate. . . maybe you'll even add more.

Which is not to say that I promote diets, but rather that there has been a serious time differential between walking about in the world with new-found self-esteem and self-respect and realizing this new state of being. I've been wandering about thinking I'm still empty when, in fact, I have all I need.

Which means I don't have to settle for shit.

. . .

I don't have to settle. I have the ability to think about what I deserve, not just what I need. I don't need a partner to make me feel special or loved or accepted. I deserve a partner who fits, and if a potential partner doesn't really fit, then I'm better off on my lonesome.

This is not marvelously easy to write, less easy to publish into the ether of the net, and far less easy to put into practice. However, I feel that it is true in the pit of my stomach, in that bit of viscera behind my belly button. I don't need a someone. I would like someone, but not just anyone will do. I deserve someone wonderful.

And I am willing to wait.

LackLuster Faith and Keeping On

I know it's been a while, but geez, what a month. Sometimes it feels like this horrid month will never be over (I mean, it only just passed the two week mark), but then I realize that after next week it's December, and I think:

Well, Fuck.

This month has been such a challenge thus far, which is a nice change from all the boring months I've been having lately. Really. I mean, life is beautiful and breath-taking and brilliant and all sorts of other fantastic b-words, but it is also just plain hard. It is so unbelievably hard sometimes that it makes my breath almost hurt, and let's face it, there aren't any nerves for sensing pain in breath- it's just air after all, so life must be REALLY hard to be giving my breath pain receptors.

I mean, whose idea was it for me to take an ice-pic to my heart and split it into bits for scattering across the country? It's as though I'm a bit of saint that's been distributed to different churches for safe-keeping. This whole tri-coastal thing (if we're counting West Michigan, "the Other West Coast", and how can this royal we not?) sucks. I don't think there's a better or more eloquent way of expressing how much I dislike being separated from people and places I love by this much space. It sucks.

Then there's the murkiness. I've had a residual sort of gross, murkity-murk clinging to the insides of my pockets and hanging about my scarf lately. I can't seem to shake it. I stop and I breathe and I think about all the things I'm grateful for (which, by the way, is a whole helluva lot, like apple cider. . . I'm really grateful for apple cider) and I try to hold on to the feeling of gratitude, but the feeling never really takes hold in the first place.

I'm not depressed, I'm not downtrodden, and I'm not stuck in ennui, but sometimes I feel a little hopeless. Now I know right now you may be thinking all sorts of encouraging bits of advice. You may even already be pre-composing your comment for the bottom of this blog. Yes, that is what that giant white box at the bottom of this entry is for, so use it. It lets me know that someone reads this. Y'know, someone besides me and my teddy bear, who doesn't exactly count as I read it to hir, so it's not as though ze is a separate reader. At any rate, what I meant to say is that I'm not exactly looking for hope, or rather not from my faithful readers. I'm not completely devoid of hope, I just have been feeling a murkiness lately. This is not an attempt to trawl for pity or hallmark cards. I will ask for those more directly when they are called for (though if you'd like to send me a card feel free to do so at any time).

An example of what I'm trying to express:

I was walking home from school the other day. As I walked past one of the dingier deli/coffee shops in town I overheard a very loud exchange between two men. This particular shop always seems to have a small group of men hanging out outside, either smoking with the aura of AA break-time or chewing the fat between beers (pending on the time of day). Though this shop advertises coffee for fifty cents cheaper than my deli one block away, I have never even entertained the idea of going in to buy their coffee. So I'm walking by and this man starts yelling at this other guy. What he's saying doesn't seem to make a whole lot of sense. It goes something like, "What the fuck is wrong with you? Why did you have to say so? I was gonna fix the wheels. I was gonna fix the God Damn Wheels. Why the fuck couldn't you wait?" Somehow it seemed like the second guy had asked about the wheels on his laundry cart.

But the particulars of the situation really are pointless, as it so often it seems they are. What matters is how the first man's voice sounded. He was So Angry. Anger tainted with deep shame. Like he was angry because something the other guy said touched deep down to some old sense of inadequacy or worthlessness. Like this guy complaining about his wheels being broken reminded the first guy of being a little kid and getting yelled at for not being enough or not finishing his chores on time. Getting yelled at and being terrified that forgetting to take the trash out meant he wasn't lovable anymore.

Maybe I'm reading too much into a passing conversation, and maybe I'm imagining things too much, but I almost started to cry as I continued down the street. Because, I thought, when will the hurt stop?

When will we have learned that we are enough? When will we believe it and teach our children that they, too, are enough? That they are lovable for being children. Sometimes I wish I could take every person in the world and hold them in my giant, grandmother lap and sing them a song and hold them so close and just love them. And they would know that they are enough. And they would quit yelling at their bus driver and their check-out clerk and their server. And they would hold their children close, too. Sometimes I fantasize about this, imagining what kind of room such things would take place in and how long a person would need to sit and be loved to actually believe it. I imagine it in depth, mostly because I want this so desperately for myself.

I want someone, some gigantic bunny-rabbit great-aunt or something (I think it's a bunny rabbit because of a childrens book I read once), to swoop in and lift me out of the murkiness, to pick me up and cuddle me until I fall asleep knowing that I'm ok. That I'm more than ok, and that it's not because of something witty I said or which music I listen to or what social beliefs I hold dear, but because I am a child of God. A child of the Universe. Another beautiful, splendid conduit of truth.

I believe about 10% of this on good days, and this pittance of belief is slowly killing me. I also absolutely think this is what's basically wrong with the world. I think the root of all war and poverty and greed and hatred and violence is some gaping wound deep within us that compels us to go forth in the world with fear and shame and an everlasting ache. In saying this I'm probably being overly simplistic and incredibly self-absorbed, but I don't care. I think it's the truth.

And this just about breaks my heart some days. This is when the hopelessness subtly creeps in and sets up shop in the interior lining of my jacket. And I feel very tired and walking home seems like an endless endeavor.

But times like these, too, are times of faith. It's funny, because even when I am crying from lonesomeness or old wounds that seem never to dissipate, even when I feel hopeless, I feel certain that things are getting better. I walk down my street at 2 am and though I can't see the stars I can feel a stillness in the sky. I trust the chill on my nose as I breathe in and I know, I just know deep down that it's going to get better. Even though I don't see how. Even though I can't feel it. Even the the murkiness is enough to just about choke a girl.

The thing is, it doesn't choke me. I am still breathing, it is another day, and it is different today than it was yesterday. Somehow, it's all moving right along. It makes so little sense to cling to the belief that it won't always hurt this much or be this bad, but I cling anyways. It is a gift. And trust me, I'm grateful.

Currently Reading: (recently finished, finally) A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius now reading Operating Instructions

Lonesome Quotations

I needed, need, to be loved. To be loved for me. I am so scared of this. Scared that I will never allow it. Scared that if it comes it will disappear. That I will learn it wasn’t love. Or it wasn’t for me. Or that it was only for me if I wasn’t really me. Because when I let people see me, the real me that is- when I let people see the unkempt, un-brushed, teary-eyed, scared, desiring of love and support me, they realize that I am unlovable. Not even unlovable, perhaps, but that they do not love me. That I am loved only for the false impression people have of me and if I ever dare to let a little bit of the inside out I will become as unappealing as I was first attractive.

(quoted anonymously with permission)

While reading this tonight I was struck by how personally it comes off. Sentiments like the above always seem so individual and intimate, yet I am amazed by their universal nature. It's odd to think about how prevalent these feeling are amongst large populations. By prevalent I don't mean that large groups of people feel utterly lonely and unloved for most of the time, but that in a large group of people, odds are that a vast majority of them have felt as isolated and lonely as the above narrative indicates.

In other words, when one realizes such feelings one feels alone in the world (at least this is true in my experience). One looks about and sees others in the world carrying on as though nothing has happened, which of course only amplifies those feelings of lonesomeness. In those moments one feels as though no one could ever comprehend the depth of one's isolation.

This is the amazing part: for rather than finding such isolation as incomprehensible, one discovers that the experience of longing for real love is entirely universal. We all of us desire to be loved for who we are. And so many of us have had times of great distress wherein we could not find such love or comfort. These feelings are not so rare- in truth, I think most people experience feelings such as these from time to time.

I am reminded of a passage from one of my favorite stories, The Velveteen Rabbit:

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When A child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

Other than the bit about not minding being hurt once you are Real, I adore this passage. It's comforting to read. Especially tonight, a time I will admit to feeling lonesome. Loneliness is inherently an individual experience, but there is something magical about the discovery of loneliness as a common thread.

I'm not sure that there's anything more for me to say at this point, so instead of dragging this narrative out I bid thee adieu.

Another Letter to the Universe

I don't even know what to do with these feelings. It's so terrifying to feel loose amid the waves. I really do believe that you've got it all taken care of- that I'll wind up floating about and landing wherever I need most to land, but. But. BUT. It's scary. It's exhilarating. This feeling of possibility. Of attraction. Of excitement.

These feelings come from everywhere. From everything that I'm doing. I feel urged toward vulnerability and movement in everything. in music. in friendship. in thought. in love. I am so excited about the possibilities but I can't let go of the fears.

The residual muck from every past encounter. The disappointment (mine) (others'). I am scared because I know that in the past what I have longed for has not been granted. I am scared that I will not be happy with what I get.

I know that I will be happier than I imagine. I know that things will be more challenging than I plan on. I believe you when you tell me, somewhere deep, to be quiet for a minute and just be here. now.



What else is there?



I need some help with the fears. coping. I don't need them to disappear- somehow a bit of fear seems appropriate and almost invigorating from where I'm sitting. I just need my fears to stand back when it's time to live. Which is all the time. I need your help, dear Universe. I can not do it on my own.


You know.

Struggling to Communicate

It is absolutely urgent that people become aware of the degree to which this disrespect of children is persistently transmitted from one generation to the next, perpetuating destructive behavior. Someone who slaps or hits another adult or knowingly insults her is aware of hurting her. Even if he doesn't know why he is doing this, he has some sense of what he is doing. But how often were our parents, and we ourselves toward our own children, unconscious of how painfully, deeply, and abidingly they and we injured a child's tender, budding self?

I have mentioned Alice Miller's book 'The Drama of the Gifted Child' a few times already, but this paragraph made me pause, re-read, and nod my head vehemently. I felt compelled to photocopy this bit and thrust it into the hands of every person possible. Instead, I have typed it out for you, dear audience.

With these words Ms. Miller has succinctly clinched my great esteem. This is a book filled to the brim with the most clear of observations, the most profound insights, and the most personal of lessons. This excerpt, though, is in my opinion the supreme point of it all.

This book is all about healing the deep wounds we carry as adults. In great depth and shocking simplicity Ms. Miller explains how poignant our childhood experiences are, how they continue to shape our most intimate and seemingly removed experiences for the rest of our lives. She shows how a person living with such wounds can function without ever examining why they are so hurt. And she spends a lot of time talking about the cyclical nature of woundedness.

I've seen this truth in my own life. A person with the greatest of intentions will wound their child horribly if they do not stop to examine their own wounds before having children. Not because ze is a bad person, nor because ze is a bad parent, but because the wounds inflicted on small children are so intense and long-lasting and formative that adults who have never stopped to examine their own wounds are bound to pass their own pain right on down to their children. It is often so ingrained that it goes un-noticed.

I truly believe that so much of the pain and frustration in the world exists not because humans are basically antagonistic or selfish or evil or even flawed, but because humanity is overwhelmingly wounded. So many people wander around the world with deep abiding wounds, searching for some way to feel loved simply for being. This is a powerful need. A human need. A fundamental human need.

So many people do not realize the extent to which their own woundedness continues to shape their life. Many have learned to cope with their reality so well that they cannot even acknowledge their own wounds. Wounds left unattended fester and spread and beget more pain.

THIS is why I wish more people waited to have children.

Old and New Words

Last night I found a manila folder filled with old writings. I of course paused in my attempts to organize the moving leftovers so that I could flip through my old thoughts. This excerpt in particular caught my attention:

Part of me still longs, just a little, for the sordid comfort of expected unhappiness. At least it is expected and fulfilled. Even if I am unhappy, I know that I am going to be unhappy, and there is a sick sort of satisfaction in the completion of such endeavors.

Today. Today it was that I walked up a hill and struggled for breath. Another day in which the things I did made no waves in the pond, during which the most I did was philosophize and drink coffee. There's something supremely beautiful about surrendering to my path, not that that's what I've entirely done. I still fight the journey, stupidly, kicking and screaming at times. When I can walk through the cloudiness and wander wherever it is that I find myself, those days I am beautiful. I don't stop to think about what is beautiful or ugly or what I'm going to do in an hour. I sip at my latte and read a childrens book and think about words that sound nice. Why would anyone long for an existence other than the only one they could have? Why do I?

Words elude me. When I have something profound to write, words never appear. When I have an agenda for my thoughts or writings, the words are scattered, uninspired. No matter what I do, how I orchestrate those thoughts, how I phrase the chosen descriptions, I am unable to be original. Everything I want to say has either been said before or never needs to be said. This is what I feel when I finish a new bit of prose. Poems say so little concretely, and this is perhaps my attraction to them.

Why do I want to write so badly? I could write anything if I were interested enough in any one concept, if I could sustain an interest. As it is, I continue to write because something within me cries to have a voice. I will write until it finds the words it seeks.

Something about this entry fascinates me. It was the phrase "Today. Today it was that I walked up a hill and struggled for breath" that caught my eye in the first place. Still it resonates in my mind with more fervor than it has any right to inspire. I don't think I meant these words to say what I am now reading them as.

Today. Today [again] I struggled for breath as I walked uphill. I wrote these words maybe two years ago, and I still need to express them today.

Another intriguing (if I may be so bold) excerpt:

The art of falseness predates my memory, and it has been both my salvation and crucifixion. Though I'm not so good at it anymore after the years of therapy and my new-found repugnance to all things plastic, I wield my only social defense shamelessly whenever I feel threatened by the prospect of [a former lover's] presence. Falseness and pretension are my only methods to compensate for the bile that rises [in hir presence] like so many dogs salivating for bells.

After spending so much time avoiding my shell-like tendencies, I renounced the façade and embraced the real. I- the sad, sorry, velveteen girl made really real- have cultivated my personality, my capacity to love, and the integration of the two with my outward appearances. I've done so much for myself. ME Me me mememe. I am amazing. I am a wonder. It's a wonder they haven't created an international holiday to celebrate me and my genuineness yet.

I really love this bit. I love the venom I save only for myself. And just revel in that writing! I mean, crucifixion? Really?? Insert a thinly veiled Pavlovian reference- was I serious? And did I just throw 'façade' into prose that is pretending to be unassuming? I tried *so hard* to be clever, but all it turned out to be was contrived. Uckghe. Despite the crassness of the allusions, though, I think the underlying sentiments are fairly accessible. I was (and am) so unforgiving of my own humanity.

To give a bit more context, the lover mentioned was such an odd person. I had been in the midst of such chaos and had been seeking companionship, and had found myself lightly involved with someone who made me feel sick to my stomach once I had the ability to look at hir without the blinding intoxication of chaos. I was so embarrassed to have even thought about liking hir.

And I was utterly unable to forgive myself for being human, for needing companionship, for feeling lonely. In many ways I wish I could visit that self and give her a hug- tell her that everyone has a need to be loved. I was so completely starved of attention, affection, and love during that time, and I sought fulfillment of the need for such things any way I could. I'm sad that I was ashamed of my needs.

It's amazing to read such words after such a period of time. To be confronted with tangible records of how much I have changed and what issues remain with slightly different wording is a sobering experience.

I know that I am growing, it is just sometimes a bit slower than I thought it would be. I have faith in the general arc of progress that I am on. And now I have a folder of amusing anecdotal writings with which to bolster my appreciation of the improvement in my writing. Though that has a long way to go as well. . .

Sometimes I have to re-visit old truths

The main thing is this:

Transition is Tough.

I know I've said this approximately 72 million times in the last 2 months (oh who am I kidding. . . since May), but it's once again eminently apparent. This time it's after a conversation with M, a fantastic woman who fits somewhere between the category of former boss and older sister. M is in New York this week with my friend J (M's 6-year old) on vacation from sunny San Francisco.

Over a glass of wine I quickly recounted the shorthand version of the last few months- medical mishaps, romantic entanglements and their eventual (sordid) dis-entanglements, new beginnings, therapy. . . just the good stuff, really. I stayed in and played grown-up for a few hours with J (and G) so M could go out with her long time friend, L, and when they came home later M and I played catch-up a bit more.

Part of my mood for the evening has been a lonely, melancholy reflectiveness. Which is a really silly way of saying that I've been lonely. [which is incredibly understandable] My body has been unwell for some time now, and though it's on its way back to good health, there are still tons of hormones running a muck and dictating far more of my life than I'd like to admit. I also tangibly miss my dearly beloved people, who seem to be perpetually scattered across the country in a most inconvenient fashion. Not to mention I'm still nursing a bit of a bruised heart. It's completely natural to feel a bit lonely at times like this.

Especially when one's friend comes to town and one realizes that she's lost two major front teeth, grown several inches, and learned to respectfully speak her voice when someone hurts her feelings.

During my conversation with M at the end of the night I spent quite a bit of time talking about New York. We talked back and forth about how difficult it is to start over in a new place, about how the East Coast is particularly difficult for social freaks, about how amazing the cultural and artistic opportunities in New York are (especially when compared with San Francisco), and how it was still so early in my move. As I walked out of the biggest apartment I have ever seen and hailed a cab to take me across town and to my bed, I thought again that this is such a tenuous time for me.

It is understandable that I have been feeling melancholy, but it is unfortunate that I have been coloring my impression of New York as a new home with only the grays of my current emotions. I have been understanding of the fickleness of my opinions (having only just lived here two months) but I have not been particularly forgiving of New York for not being San Francisco. Or Michigan.

Tonight I (yet again) realized that transition is difficult. That I will feel completely differently about New York once I have established even a short history here. That though I love San Francisco, what I have really been longing for is the familiar.

Because transition is fucking difficult.

But the difficulty of this particular transition will wane, regardless of my acquiescence or lack thereof. San Francisco will probably always hold the same lure but New York will not always feel so emotionally bleak. The universe will bring more and more people of my sort to my life. I will be part of a beautiful community here, I know it. If I am patient (and diligent in my pursuit of diversion and challenge) I will someday in the not particularly distant future find myself fully entrenched in an active love affair with this town of apples and insomnia.

It's just tough for now.

Sympathy is under-rated

you know, at times like these the urge to shave my head again is almost overwhelming. Of late, the exterior of my life has been a continuous strain of change, transformation, and ordered chaos. Such intensity begs a change- a chosen change- to mirror the extremity of the internal demolition.

It's funny how suddenly the urge to chop off my hair comes. It seems to come almost out of nowhere- a voice clear but comforting- a calm suggestion that seems to emanate from a deeper soul. Release your hair. Let go. Feel the weight move on.

I have no idea if I will give in and remove my hair. Practically speaking, I love having hair. Having long hair enhances my feelings of beauty, of elegance, of distinction. I am proud of my hair.

But the release that letting go of hair brings sounds so attractive. I feel like I need something to latch on to after so much transition. Something tangible to refer people to when they ask how I am doing. Something for people in ongoing interactions with me to see, so they know that something has changed, that I am not the same as I was yesterday. They don't need to know everything, but I need them to know that things are different.

My writing is suffering as a result of sentimentality, emotionalism, intensity of feelings- and I don't have the energy to go back through what I've written and hyper-edit, as I usually do. Maybe I will tomorrow, but for tonight it seems essential to simply document the oddness of my breadth of feelings. Document and publicize.

This has been a grueling week. I know that I have experienced some pretty hallmark weeks in the past, but I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that this week has been the most trying week I've ever experienced. I think I will be reeling from it, reaping the rewards of its emotionally transformative potency, for quite some time.

I ask that during this time, if you are able, that you send me your love. Send me your hope. Your understanding. Your empathy. I am doing my best to make sense of a set of realities that seem to me beyond comprehension. I exist as I do now only because I have a little faith in the supreme direction of the universe. I do not understand how a person could survive such loss and desperation without any semblance of faith or trust in the ultimate good of existence.

Faithful readers. Unfaithful readers. I entreat you to share your pity with me. Share your love not just with me, but with yourself. Share it with the assholes with whom I am unable at this moment to share my love.

If I am learning anything, which I hope I am, I am perhaps learning more of the simple frailty of life. I know it is cliché to speak of the fragility of life, but I think it is idiomatic because it is true. In one minute I had so many little ducks lined up, all ready for a specific path. In the next minute there was no order, no agenda, and no hope for such. And now, in the aftermath, I find that it is not possible to simply return the little duckies to their plot and continue as planned.

I don't know what will happen, and it's ever more true that the more I experience, the less I know.

a creation of catharsis

I Realize that sometimes I forget,
But this is a reminder,
I Fucking Deserve Better.

I'm not asking for perfection or absolution.
I'm not expecting permanence,
But I Fucking Deserve Better.



I know it's hard.
Fear is potent.
The unknown abounds.
But I am here. Here is my hand.



don't mistake my empathy
for low self-esteem.



I know that I am a thing of beauty.
I feel it in my belly-
in the roundness, punctuated and imperfect,
I feel it in my hands-
raised fist and open palmed plea,
I feel it in my lungs when I sing,
in my teeth when I bite,
in my pride glazed cheeks after another day.


I feel my beauty in the depth of my soul
as the fears of this world yet again rip apart old beliefs to build new hopes,
as the thoughts I once revered come yet again under scrutiny,
as I watch myself transformed time and again
by the trials of this universe.


I am a thing of Beauty.
I see it, I feel it,
I hear it in the leaves as we mingle in the park.


I am proud of who I am
of my battle scars-
(not wounds)
I know my wounds will heal.
And even as I fear their lasting presence,
I know they are not a thing of forever.



I am Proud of my words. of my thoughts. of my loves.
I am a child of this universe.
No more than you.

No less.

I deserve to love. To love freely.
And I deserve love.



I deserve better than what I have fleetingly accepted.
I have (perhaps) misled you into thinking that I am just another
cynical,
self-deprecating,
misanthropic masochist.
And that is my fault.



but i am not.



and I fucking deserve better.



_

Heroes: Jessye Norman

"To live artfully is, to me, the whole purpose of life's journey. For you all know that creativity, artful living, equal[s] self knowledge. This knowledge can lead to wisdom, and wisdom to the understanding of others, and this understanding undoubtedly leads to tolerance. Tolerance and compassion for those around us, and those oceans away, who after all possess the same depth of spirit as we. And in this modern society Art may be the only source that invites this model for living. 'Movers and shakers of the world' indeed. Let's all try it. Art brings us together as a family because it is an individual expression of universal human experience. We have so much more in common than we acknowledge. Expressions through Art come from that part of us that is without fear, prejudice, malice, or any of the other things that we create in order to separate ourselves one from the other. Art makes us whole by existing, by insisting that we use all of our senses- our heads and our hearts. That we express with our voices, our hands, our bodies, as well as with our minds. We are all the better for Art being a part of our lives."

These words are an excerpt from a speech that Jessye Norman gave at the 2009 Mayor's Awards for Art and Culture this past Tuesday evening. I was lucky enough to have been in the audience, and these words in particular caught my heartstrings and plucked away.

Ms. Norman so artfully composes in this paragraph what I have felt to be absolutely true in an utterly abstract way for so long. This, so succinctly, is why I pursue the arts as a profession. Music is neither superfluous nor simple- it exists beyond the realm of ornamentation and background myewzik. Music can be transformative, there is no doubt in my mind.

Music can change the world.

Ms. Norman has long held my admiration, but I have to confess a sudden burst of ardor in my esteem after Tuesday night. In explanation, for those of you who aren't singers, musicians, or aficionados of classical vocal music, Jessye Norman is a musical goddess. Really, a Goddess. I fell in love with her first because she has recorded just about all of Brahms' lieder. As I have an ongoing love affair with Brahms' lieder, it was only a matter of time before Jessye's recordings and I became involved as well. Isn't it lovely that in the world of music polyamory is such an easy thing to maintain?

I have long understood that Ms. Norman was to be put on a pillar of musical status, but I only this week became aware of the breadth of her artistry. She is a complete artist- philosopher, philanthropist, creative mogul, innovator, sociologist- it goes on. What really gets me about her- what makes me feel starry-eyed, fuzzy hearted, and tipsy in the pit of my stomach, is that she uses her gift to do something wonderful in the world. Yes, she was the recipient of the lottery's best gifts with regards to singing: voice quality, neck structure, facial structure- in other words, the physical traits that enable her art to be technically amazing. However, she goes beyond making nice music. She is more than a diva. She is committed to education, to the proliferation and accessibility of the arts, and to the creation of a better world.

Damn.

I'm of the mind to begin writing an uncommitted series of blogs about my heroes, and this is my first. Jessye Norman- you make my heart go pitter-patter.

One personal anecdote:

I almost got to meet Ms. Norman the other night, but I was too nervous? polite? embarrassed? After the awards program there was a swinging cocktail party- complete with hors d'oeuvres and wine. Most of the other recipients eventually walked around to schmooze with guests. I kept looking about nervously between popping back fried mushroom risotto balls. Would Jessye Norman come out to interact with the plebeians? Would *I* get to meet her???

After a time, I began wandering in search of her under the guise of scoping out more treats or the library (the event was held in a swanky performing arts high school). Still I could not find her. Just when I thought all hope was surely lost, I thought to check back in the theater. . . et voila! C'est elle! C'est magnifique! Mais- quel domage! She was chatting with a group of friends- taking many a photo and reminiscing. She was not schmoozing- she was basking in the joy of having received an award, sharing a quiet moment with friends.

I stood by, maybe 5 feet away, for a few moments. I waited patiently, perhaps mouse-ily, for a moment when she might be available to say hello, to shake her hand, to tell her that her words had warmed a heart thickly entrenched in an abhorred ennui. I waited. And there was a moment when I could have interrupted- I could have jumped over her friends- I could have thrown myself forward and shouted "I am a singer- I love you- please, please, take a photo with me- let's pretend this is "All About Eve" but I promise we don't have to have the nasty ending-" but I let the moment pass. She was enjoying a moment with friends, and I could not bring myself to mar her joy with a used-junk-salesperson interruption. I'm sure she would have been gracious, but what would I have been?

I watched as she left. My heart did a little dive, and a thought came to me, from somewhere unknown, that perhaps this would not be the only opportunity in my life to meet such a woman.

Just read: Babette's Feast
Currently Reading: (still) The Drama of the Gifted Child and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

Not a Real Post

I do not have the energy to compose an actual post today. Know that I am well, if exceedingly busy. I even have a subject I'm dying to write about, but it's just not time to get it out yet. Someday soon, though.

In other news-

• Going to see Jessye Norman tonight at an awards ceremony
• Going to DC this Sunday for the National Equality March
• Took 3 exams yesterday (so far results back on two, and yay! I'm not going to flunk out of skool!)
• I have new furniture! A couch, stools, bookshelves, AND a french press are among my Ikea bounty. Ok, technically a french press is not furniture, but it's important enough to be.
• I am considering a weekend trip to Boston thanks to cheap bus tickets (as in, $1)
  

My brain sort of feels like it's turning to mush. I need to get more sleep.

Blegh.

Suffism and Giving Up

I've been having a time of it.

Walking back from school this morning, after having been locked out of my first history exam by an obtuse 5 minutes (my own damn fault), I decided to give up.

I have been attempting to give up for at least a month now, and I sincerely hope that this is NOT just another attempt, but in fairness the genuineness of this give-up is not really my responsibility. I was walking down Broadway, stuck in my own head full of self-recrimination and anger, when I suddenly realized that I can't do this. Any of it. I am not able to deal with life as such- lonely, confusing, impossible, standard-driven, ridiculous. I can not cope; the best I can do is spiral downward into a self-shaming puddle of embarrassing goo.

I walked a little farther before realizing- with an almost maniacal laugh- that I don't have to do any of it. Why do I have to make everything such a struggle? What am I so worried about?? I can just GIVE UP!!! If the universe wants stuff done, then the universe will have to do it, because I'm sick of blaming myself for not doing the impossible.

(ahem, by 'give up' I am in no way intimating an immediate withdrawal from classes or a reticence to fulfill regular duties. I am giving up on worthless struggling)

Last night I was reading a book my boss/friend recommended, The Drama of the Gifted Child, when I started to cry. I was so surprised by this. After all, I've had a lot of experiences in my life, but I've been through therapy, and I've talked through my stuff til my eyes were dry. I think I thought that I could get it over with once and be done, but life has added new layers to old hurts. And new actions have greater meanings. I realized that my neurotic episodes of late have been symptomatic not just of the transition inherent in moving cross-country alone, but of a greater underlying problem. Or problems.

Recent experiences and growth and change are allowing for a greater understanding and examination of myself. And I can't do it alone. Goddess knows I spend all my time on public transit in self-'discovery' or other such nonsense, and it always devolves into the stern voice in my head upbraiding the weakness within. Those silly human bits, you know- the ones that continuously have feelings. When I realized that an old habit, a perverse habit from my dark ages, is still hanging out in fully fledged form, I felt truly frightened.

This is when I thought that maybe I ought to think about starting therapy again. It would be so helpful to get out of my head during these times. I need to. I immediately thought about how much therapy would cost in New York, and how impossible an option that was until-

Wait-

I have health insurance! How bizarre. I am arbitrarily allowed affordable help for my mind because my dad works for an insurance company. I'll take it. I need it.

When I got back home after missing my exam, only newly resolved to give up, I sat down to read a little Rumi. I certainly needed a little enlightenment. I flipped the book open to a random page, as I usually do when looking for a little help, and I'll be damned if the following wasn't exactly what I turned to:

Cry Out in Your Weakness

A dragon was pulling a bear into its terrible mouth.

A courageous man went and rescued the bear.
There are such helpers in the world, who rush to save
anyone who cries out. Like Mercy itself,
they run toward the screaming.

And they can't be bought off.
If you were to ask one of those, "Why did you come
so quickly?" he or she would say, "Because I heard
your helplessness."
Where lowland is,
that's where the water goes. All medicine wants
is pain to cure.
And don't just ask for one mercy.
Let them flood in. Let the sky open under your feet.
Take the cotton out of your ears, the cotton
of consolations, so you can hear the sphere-music.

Push the hair out of your eyes.
Blow the phlegm from your nose,
and from your brain.

Let the wind breeze through.
Leave no residue in yourself from that bilious fever.
Take the cure for impotence,
that your manhood may shoot forth,
and a hundred new beings come of your coming.

Tear the binding from around the foot
of your soul, and let it race around the track
in front of the crowd. Loosen the knot of greed
so tight on your neck. Accept your new good luck.

Give your weakness
to one who helps.

Crying out loud and weeping are great resources.
A nursing mother, all she does
is wait to hear her child.

Just a little beginning-whimper,
and she's there.

God created the child, that is, your wanting,
so that it might cry out, so that milk might come.

Cry out! Don't be stolid and silent
with your pain. Lament! And let the milk
of loving flow into you.

The hard rain and wind
are ways the cloud has
to take care of us.

Be patient.
Respond to every call
that excites your spirit.

Ignore those that make you fearful
and sad, that degrade you
back toward disease and death.

This made me laugh and cry almost at the same time. "Give your weakness to one who helps". As though my needing help is a gift and not a burden. What a message to, ahem, ruminate on.

I must at this time go to work. I'm not sure how this will all turn out, but it's kind of nice to give oneself a break after all of the intensity.


Currently Reading: (actually just finished) Ruby Fruit Jungle

Apologies and Such

I've been neglecting my blog lately.  What can I say?  Life has kept me quite busy.  Though I've had several thoughts and quite a few rants come to mind, I couldn't quite find both the time AND energy to commit anything to the electronic page.

A couple of housekeeping notices, first:

(1). Congratulations to my brother and his wife, who were married last week in Michigan (this lady got to be in the wedding party!!)

(2). Congratulations also to A & G, whose wedding I am currently in the process of attending.  A and I have been friends for more than ten years- ever since I pretended to shoot up with my mechanical pencil during choir.  (this lady ALSO got to be in their wedding party!!)

Down to business, now!  I need to clear the air after my last post.  It was brought to my attention (by one of the ladies I referred to, hereafter known as the assigned name, Veronica) that some of my language was a bit unclear.  This lack of clarity was easily misconstrued, and was thus rather hurtful.  This was not at all my intention.

I sometimes forget that by posting things on this blog I display them to the possibility of the entire world indiscriminately.  This is not to say that I post things I don't want people to read, but rather that I often assume much about my audience.  I assume, for example, that the only people reading my blog are people who already know me quite well.  This has proven itself to be absolutely untrue.  As I found out this week, I cannot assume that my blog audience knows me at all, or that they understand what I mean between the lines.  

So, to clarify, when I said:

These are the popular, chic, pretty students. . . At least that's how they carry themselves.  I'm not in awe of them or disgusted by them- mostly I'm intrigued by them.  They must spend so much time in the morning putting all that makeup on.  And by *all that* I simply mean that they always look very coiffed, with makeup and outfits and shoes and hair. . . and they invited me to sit with them?

I did not mean this description in a derogatory way at all.  I was trying to establish the fact that I felt out of my element.  I did not mean "pretty" and therefore "stupid" or "pretty" and therefore "snobby".  I meant that I have spent a lot of time with quasi-hippies over much of my adult life, and the situation I found myself in was different from the very start.

I had the excellent fortune of being able to talk about "Cattiness" with Veronica.  She had seen a link to my blog on my facebook page and followed it out of curiosity.  Imagine her surprise (and hurt) when she found that there was a post about her at the top of the page.  To Veronica's immense credit, she responded by contacting me to talk about the entry and her feelings about it.  

I am so grateful that she did so.  It would have been so easy to absorb such hurt and let it play out passively over time.  And I might always have carried a little reservation about her, too.

Instead, we talked.

Thankfully, due to the communication age, we processed all of this over chat.  Though that might sound like a passive way to resolve conflict, I rather think it allowed both of us to be more direct and honest than a face to face conversation would have.  

I will admit that it was a difficult conversation for me to have, even so.  My first inclination was to make everything ok- do whatever I had to to make Veronica happy with me.  Instead, sweaty palms and all, I stuck my ground.  I listened to what she had to say with my listening ears.  I re-read the entry, and I saw how I had been hurtful.

This was such a growing experience for me.  I was able to take ownership for my words and feelings.  I explained the context of my words, and apologized for hurting her feelings, all while maintaining my original point: the conversation I had been drawn into had been uncomfortable and inappropriate.  

A magical thing happened: just as I had listened to Veronica, she listened to me!  She explained that her comments had come out of continued frustration with a fellow student's work ethic.  It hadn't occurred to Veronica that a table in the cafeteria filled with future colleagues (at least one of whom only just arrived from San Francisco) might not be the best place to vent such frustrations.  Veronica apologized.  I apologized.  I felt such relief.  In a funny way, my faith in humanity rose quite a bit. 

People like to rant about how inhuman the internet makes interactions, and often enough they have a valid point.  But after exchanges like this, I feel the need to extoll the possible virtues of the interweb.  Sure, it allows dis-empowering porn to multiply faster than bacteria on stinky tofu, AND it allows trolls to air the most disgusting fruit of their overactive ids to the entire internet-world, but it's not ALL bad- 

sometimes it can be downright revolutionary.  

Cattiness

Cattiness makes me feel awkward.

This morning my Phonetics class was canceled.  This left me with an unexpected coffee break, which I proceeded to take without delay in the school cafeteria.  I thought I'd sit and do some reading, maybe write a little bit, sip my caffeine, and then head on up to the library to do some printing of pages.  However, on my way to an uninhabited, sunlit table I was stopped and invited to join a different table. 

Me?  Invited??  To sit with other students???  Why, of course!

So, I picked up my coffee and parked at a table with other sophomore voice students, several of whom I'd met in an assortment of classes.  These are the popular, chic, pretty students (I hate to revert to high school terminology, but in many ways, that is where I am).  

At least that's how they carry themselves.  I'm not in awe of them or disgusted by them- mostly I'm intrigued by them.  They must spend so much time in the morning putting all that makeup on.  And by *all that* I simply mean that they always look very coiffed, with makeup and outfits and shoes and hair. . . and they invited me to sit with them?

At any rate, I sat down and tried to engage in conversation.  The general questions that everyone asks came up- 

Where did you transfer from?  

. . .

Ooooh- so you're like, way older than us?

To which I smile (hopefully demurely) and try to explain in as polite a tone of voice as I can muster that yes, I AM quite a bit older.  I usually hope that this does not come off as calling them infants, though sometimes I hope it does.  Today my intentions straddled both hopes.  Soon, though, I was fairly forgotten in lieu of more salacious topics.  

Maybe I felt more aware of this behavior because I was not part of the active conversation.  Or maybe it's because I don't really know the people that were talked about (well, I could point them out, but I've never had a conversation with them).  Or maybe I am growing up a little bit at a time.

At any rate, I felt very weird sitting at the table while a great number of other students were picked apart for all sorts of things.  It really seemed to me that their greatest offense was not being there for this conversation, and that if they had been sitting at the table then they would have been treated quite civilly and without the slightest hint of meanness.  

It made me sad to see how much energy these students were wasting on lambasting others- energy they could have spent in self-direction or musical pursuits or in finding the shared humanity in these other students.  Instead, they let their insecurities feed on the insecurities of others, which is just a painful (and pitiful?) sight to behold.  

I wasn't exactly sure how to extricate myself from this situation.  I felt suddenly as though I were in high school again, having received an invitation by the popular girls to sit with them only to find that sitting with the popular girls is both glamorous and abysmal.  I kept thinking about leaving the table, but I didn't want to miss out on new friendships.

And that's when it hit me- I don't want friends like this.  

I'm sure that each of the people at that table has the potential to be a lovely person, and I'm not saying that I reject them wholly because of today, but there's no reason on earth why I should put myself in the middle of such silliness just to meet new people.  People I don't want to be surrounded by anyways!  

As soon as I realized this I excused myself to go to the library, which is where I am at this very moment- constructing this love note to you, my generous internet audience.  

Wait, are you generous??

Currently Reading: Full Frontal Feminism

An Internal Conversation

*Warning* This entry is long, but I believe it is worthwhile. Read when you have more than 2 minutes (but hopefully less than 10!)

Last night I suddenly hit a wall with regards to patience. I have spent so much time in self-analysis that I think I've gotten sick on it. I'm terribly frustrated and full of self-judgment.

And why, you may ask, am I judging myself?

I am relentlessly flinging mean thoughts at myself because I keep catching myself flinging mean thoughts at others. I'm judging myself for judging the world. Well, not exactly the world, that's perhaps a bit too much hyperbole, but only just.

This tragicomedy began in earnest on Tuesday night, in my humanities class. We are currently studying Thomas More's 'Utopia', a work that has vast discussion/debate possibilities, in my debate-thirsty-opinion. Private Property, Corporate Greed, The Prison System, Communal Accountability, Shared Humanity, Class, Privilege- these are all discussion topics that could be gleaned from Book I of 'Utopia'. And with an initial gratitude (and a retrospective one as well) I watched as the professor led our circle of students into discussion, only to be horrified by the results.

I found myself deeply entrenched in a debate that flitted between the practical and the philosophical from sentence to sentence (which is in itself annoying when you are trying to make a clear argument). This was not horrifying, only tedious- navigating a discussion of humanity's potential intermingled with a discussion of humanity's present state. The horrifying part came in when we started talking about the concept of greed. I believe that More contends that Greed is one of the most destructive forces at work in 'modern' society, and I agree with him. My fellow students (not all of them I'm sure, but a vocal majority), however, could not seem to get beyond the idea that what they had in their life they had earned completely on their own merit.

Now, admittedly, this doesn't sound too horrid, but when one carries this statement to its logical reverse it sounds much worse. If a person has exactly what they deserve- the fruit of their own labors- then a person who lacks fruit does so because of their own laziness. The poor people of the world, and especially in the proximate United States culture, are poor because they aren't smart enough, haven't worked hard enough, or they just don't want it enough. This is the way the system works. You work hard, you get rewarded. You slack off, you starve. Or you just don't get the big mansion, because as everyone knows, people who own mansions have done proportionately more work in their life than people living in public housing. Definitively. This system works and is fair, damn it! After all, as one student said, he's 'not jealous of the guy who has a BMW, because [the student] didn't work for that'. Not only was there no acknowledgment of privilege or classism, there wasn't even the faintest comprehension that such things could possibly exist.

My fairly educated guess is that I'm the eldest student in the room by a solid 4 years, a span of time that can admittedly change much for a person's perspective and place in the world. Here's where the judgment demons (and their reactive judgment-of-judgment demons) entered the picture, for I immediately found myself battling internal conflict.

Can you believe those kids?

They're not kids, they're adults.

No they're not, they're 19!

Hey, when you were 19 you thought of yourself very much as an adult an-

I know, but-

-d got quite pissed off when people dismissed your voice because they thought of you as a kid.

YES, but these kids-

People-

OK, these people are ignorant and obtuse!

Well, maybe.

Maybe?

Ok, they are, but that's no excuse to get all Ageist on them.

Wait- was I being ageist???

Um, yes. Extremely. You were judging them because of their age.

But. No. Um. I mean. . .

Grrrrrrrr

Ok, so I may at some times play the hated 'age card', and I'll admit that that's wrong-

Good. That will be 50 lashes and 2 Hail Marys.

Wai- What?

You heard me. (Oh I do love a good flagellation!)

But- that's not helpful! OR productive!

Maybe not, but it sure does feel good to feel bad!

Wait- I have more to say!

*sighs* What?

It's just that, well, ageism acknowledged, these people are still being selfish!

That may be true, but you can't blame it on their age without negating your arguments from when you were 19. So let's just skip it and move back to the whipping!

But why?

Why the whipping?? Because it's so deliciously human! Don't you love loathing yourself???

Ugh, I don't know. This obsession with whipping and soul-mutilation is disgusting. At any rate, that's not what I meant. Why would blaming my classmate's ignorance on their being young negate my younger arguments?

Because if you decide to disregard their self-centered opinions just because they're younger than you, then you're doing the exact thing you used to rant about so vehemently.

Really?

Yes. And didn't you just scold an elder for this two days ago?

*ashamed panda* yes.

A-HA!!! More hypocrisy to be shamed for!!!! (it's going to be an absolute party later!!!!!) Though if you must discuss it, what can you blame their lack of awareness on? It's not as though they're 8 years old and have seen none of the world.

Well, no. That's true. But. . . but. . . they probably haven't experienced any of the world!

But they're 19! They've been on this planet for 19 years!! How is that possible???

Uh, they're conservatory musicians-?- They've probably spent at least half their life in a practice room. Alone. With a dead white man's scrawling and a lonely piano.

But that would mean they've spent almost no time actually experiencing the world-?-

Exactly.

But. . . that's preposterous. How can their musical endeavors impact a world about which they know nothing??

EXACTLY.

And why would they even CARE to impact it?

You See?? They probably don't. They might want to perform in it. Show off. Be on center stage.

Surely not ALL of them.

No, of course not ALL of them. But a damnable majority of them. Especially in class.

And you WANT to be a part of this world???????? You're CHOOSING it????????

This is the point at which my head began to go a bit fuzzy. Surprising though it may be that this fuzziness didn't take precedent sooner, it came lurking in with a heady vengeance at this point.

Why AM I going into this world? I have always refused to spend my life in a practice room. Though I've been blessed with the aptitude to not have to spend years of my life repeating scales (ugh, bo-ring), I have also always rebelled against the very concept of forfeiting my life for a technique that might someday be imbued with genius. I've just never thought of it that way.

Why DO I sing? I am a musician going into the world of opera. I am an activist with goals and philosophies that hopefully lead toward the continued evolution of some sort of justice in this world. Opera and Social Justice- judging from the culture of my class the other night this seems like a complete non sequitur.

And yet I believe strongly that it is not. Or at least that it doesn't have to be. Music at its most empowered can be such a redemptive force. It can be an art form rife with thought and change and the ability to challenge the status quo. It can enable people. Music can make a person think and feel and speak. It gives a language to grief and anger and joy in a way that words alone can not. Music can, and does, change the world.

Opera is a conduit for the exploration of feelings; the inner motivations of humanity are the very soul of the art form. It is not simply a glorious show for which one should dress up and spend exorbitant amounts of money. It is a shame that this is often how it is viewed. It is even more shameful that this viewpoint has shaped opera into the flaccid art of the aristocracy that it is in many communities, but opera is not beyond redemption. There are strong, active movements to make opera an accessible art form, and this is the creative world I hope to enter.

I want to be a part of opera for the hope that I can make a difference in the world through a craft that encourages self-exploration. Unexamined feelings at work in the world are dangerous indeed. I think that an art form that encourages emotional honesty and growth is inherently a positive force.

And with this renewed sense of self, of trajectory, I find myself less desiring of that flagellatory appointment. It's amazing to me that I can sink so quickly to shaming myself, which always turns into a complete waste of time, both in that it takes time and energy to feel bad about myself, and it takes even more time and energy to then pull myself back out of that funk. What if I could bypass the 40 lashes stage and just move onto changing what I don't like about myself? Wouldn't that be revolutionary. Ha.

At least for today, I feel redeemed. I feel a renewed sense of patience for myself, for my ever-present faults, and for the fact that it takes time to grow and learn. It's funny how that happens.


Currently Reading: Skinny Legs and All

Recently Finished: Mozart in the Jungle: Sex, Drugs, and Classical Music by Blair Tindall

**I am unable to link to the above book from school, as the page has been blocked by the censor. . . This book is about a former student at MSM, and it is full of lascivious information about the music industry. It's autobiographical, and I am a bit disturbed that I am unable to look up any information about the author or the book from school. DAMN CENSORSHIP!!!!!**

The Brooklyn Museum of Art

I had an unexpectedly intense day.

I went with my friend, B, to the Brooklyn Museum of Art this afternoon as part of our New York Museum Tour. A friend of hers had tipped her off to the fantastic and provocative exhibition of Yinka Shonibare MBE's work (an amazing exhibit, that you should make a trip to see), and so we trudged all the way (phew!) to Brooklyn, a rare venture for Manhattanites.

Upon paying our preferred donation of $1 (BMA is a suggested donation venue, Goddess love them, as we are quite poor), we attempted to get our bearings by perusing the pictorial directory. At this point B became very excited by something in a picture- 'The Dinner Party' by Judy Chicago. I looked at B with my customary blend of curiosity and ignorance. B has an excellent background in Art History and Museum Studies, so I am quite accustomed to her vast knowledge surpassing my own, especially in the art world. However, there was shock on B's face when she realized that I did not know of Ms. Chicago.

'The Dinner Party' is the single biggest piece of feminist art ever acknowledged, B informed me with a look tinged with disbelief and, perhaps, a bit of horror. We then skipped over the Shonibare exhibit, heading directly to the Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art.

Let me coo for a moment- How AMAZING is it that an art museum has a permanent gallery dedicated to feminist art? I've never heard of this before, and in the wake of such an experience I'm a bit saddened by this. Ideally feminist art would have a role in art of all types and in many galleries and there would be no need for a specially designated 'feminist section', but this is not yet an ideal world. I wish I had had the opportunity to visit a Center for Feminist Art before I was 24 years old, but I am grateful for today, however hurtful it may have been.

I was utterly unprepared for this installation. How could I have expected it? The catalog itself reports it as consisting of:

39 dinner place settings of porcelain flatware (fork, knife and spoon), porcelain chalice, and decorated porcelain plate. Each setting is laid out on a separate embroidered textile runner. Thirteen place settings are on each side (48 feet long) of a triangular table draped with a white felt cloth, with a triangular millennium runner at each of three corners. Each of the settings represents one of thirty-nine historically significant women. The table sits on a floor of 2304 porcelain triangular tiles (in 129 units) inscribed with the names of 999 significant women.

Ok, so it's a big table set for dinner and there are lots of women's names. Cool. This will be interesting. Right. How can I tell you what it was like walking into that room? Rather, walking into the room was just what I expected. Each setting is quite particular, and placed in a mostly chronological order. First? 'Primordial Goddess'

Ok. That makes sense.

Next? 'Fertile Goddess'

Sure.

Of note, the plates at each setting are decorated in personalized floral/butterfly/vulva patterns. I add floral and butterfly to the description mostly because the plaque at the exhibit did so. My impression of the plates was overwhelmingly linked to feminine power, to clitoral and sexual potency, power, depth, mystery, and strength. There were cunts all over this table, each beautiful and different. Each cunt-plate brought its own sacred history to the table.

Next? 'Ishtar', 'Kali', 'Snake Goddess', 'Sophia', 'Amazon', 'Hatshepsut', 'Judith', 'Sappho', 'Boadaceia', 'Hypatia', 'Marcella', 'Saint Bridget'. . .

By this point, I had finished one third of the table, and I was starting to get worried. The women who earned a place at the table were assumedly at the top of the list, a list that involves more than a thousand names. Only 39 received special settings, and I guess I assumed that of those 39 I would know a vast majority. I was discovering how naïve that assumption had been.

'Theodora', 'Hrosvitha', 'Trotula', 'Eleanor of Aquitaine', 'Hildegarde of Bingen', 'Petronilla de Meath', 'Christine de Pisan', 'Isabella d'Este', 'Elizabeth R.', 'Artemisia Gentileschi'. . .

I recognized two of these names, and I could tell you about one of them. The names continued almost in defiance of my ignorance. A grief I had never experienced began to overwhelm me, and I felt tears begin to well up. I have never before cried because of a piece of art. Art has moved me toward thought, toward debate, toward laughter, toward anger, toward many things- but never tears. Of the more than thousand names celebrated in 'The Dinner Party", I would recognize a perhaps generous figure of 100.

Less than 10%.

'Anna van Schurman', 'Anne Hutchinson', 'Sacajawea', 'Caroline Herschel', 'Mary Wollstonecraft', 'Sojourner Truth', 'Susan B. Anthony', 'Elizabeth Blackwell', 'Emily Dickinson', 'Ethel Smyth'. . .

I realized even more so, that at least 50% of the names I recognized belonged to women about which I knew nothing. For example, I could not have told you yesterday (I am very sorry to admit) who Mary Wollstonecraft was or what contributions she had made. A horrifying thought occurred to me: should a similar celebration of man's historical contributions be constructed in such a manner, I would easily recognize at least 50% of the names. I would probably also be able to explain in depth the contributions of at least 15% of them. Of course, that's just a guess.

I don't remember at what point I began to cry, but I know it was after I had left the table settings and had moved to the Herstory Board section- a chronology/brief description of the contributions of every name on exhibit. I felt as though I'd been punched in the gut. Somewhere, deep within, something had been stolen from me. My education had failed me. My culture had failed me. I had failed myself. How could I know so little about the power of the feminine? How had I missed my own history so succinctly? Who was Margaret Sanger? Natalie Barney? Virginia Woolf and Georgia O'Keefe were names familiar to me, but they provided little comfort after the onslaught of the unfamiliar.

I cried. I cried for myself. For my culture. For the education that I and my sisters and brothers were missing. It was a quiet cry, privately witnessed by an almost unending row of names.

I sat down on a bench and tried to center myself, attempting to pull myself back from the brink of destructive self-pity, searching for the redemptive righteous anger that I knew must be on the other side of such a deep wound. While I waited a man came over to the lady sitting next to me on the bench and commented on the 'fascinating' board of names.





. . .





Fascinating.





Even now I am filled with an anger and a hurt that is beyond my ability to capture.





Fascinating.





I understand how a board filled with the history of influential women one has never heard of could be a fascinating concept. I understand and respect this man's ability to recognize a resource he had not previously encountered. I understand to a certain extent.

But it goes so much deeper than the cognitive whimsy of a 'fascinating' history display. This is personal. It is my mother, my great-grandmother, my as-yet-undreamt-of-daughter. It is me. It is the mantle I inherited by being born into this body, or rather more so by living in it. It is the lie that has been perpetuated by silence. It is the gaping holes in my history. In me. It is the lack of acknowledgment of those holes- my previous inability to even conceptualize how many holes there might be.

I knew, of course, that there was much of the history and contributions of women that I didn't know, but I had never before been confronted so tangibly by the vastness of the unknown of feminine beauty, strength, thought, and power.

I am enraged.

I am crying.

I am crying, and I am enraged by the bleeding hole where my knowledge of my grandmothers should be. I have been robbed. So have you.

We, all of us, have been robbed by patriarchal thieves bent on silencing the brilliance of half our forebears. This cannot stand, but who will stand with me?

Why do we allow such silence? What do we do about it? How can I turn this wounded-ness, this anger, into a vehicle for change?

How can we?