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.