The other night I left a concert because I needed space. I was sitting there in the audience, the first song was playing, and I felt so sad. I walked outside to get some air and I sat on the pavement next to the parking lot and I watched the sky get a little darker. I hugged my knees to my chest and I searched for what was wrong and I cried a little. I needed to leave.

I left.

I was walking across a darkened campus, shivering and feeling awful, when a thought emerged: I am so lonely. In that moment I felt so alone. Walking away from a concert filled with people, walking away carrying a hurt that seemed to defy sense but hurt nonetheless. It felt like I could never be understood, a sort of loneliness at its essence. I felt burdensome and loathsome and pariah-esque, and in that moment I considered walking to my car and smoking the rest of a pack of cigarettes I had earlier bought and fumingly smoked. I thought about getting in the car and driving away.

I felt like an embarrassment, some sort of twisted puzzle without a solution, a freakish girl who seems to refuse happiness, who subjects those she loves to the ridiculousness of her willful neuroses. I wanted to put myself in a long time out, and then I wanted to be chased after, to be reassured. I wanted to be told that my hurts were seen, that I was loved even with my hurts and my bruises and my sillinesses. I felt scared and prone to false dichotomy as images of angelic Boy and harpy Girl drifted by, carrying with them a particularly sharp suggestion that I didn't deserve the angel Boy with all my horridness. I should find a rock and disappear. If I kept quiet maybe I would slowly turn into sludge and enjoy the blissful ineptitude of thought enjoyed by slime the world over.

I hated these thoughts. They're the worst bits of myself, compounded and minced into a black chasm of grossness. I banished the worst of the thoughts, tried to put the rest of the terrible things on hold for a moment and headed to the room. Still, the thought of how lonely I felt hovered, almost luminous but for its weight. I could barely understand myself and I knew it was asking for a boon of a miracle, but I needed to be understood. I needed the me I was struggling with to be seen. I felt alone because I was hurting and I felt like I had to be convincing that the reason I was hurting was a valid reason, and if I couldn’t explain it well enough it would never be seen- I’d just be some crazy girl who makes everything harder than it has to be. Who cries over stupid little comments. Who so desperately wants to be peaceful and fun-loving and is terrified that all my little wounds will never be done wreaking havoc.

I had to be understood. I’m a skilled enough writer. . . why couldn’t I just sit down and explain it? The biggest and scariest question whittled itself down to “why is this such a big deal?” and I thought that if I could just explain it. . . If I could only show what I meant. . .

I can’t help that I hurt. I just do. I’m doing my best to take care of that hurt- to be open about it and learn more about what’s going on and not get lost in a sea of pain or hopelessness. I am already drafting contingency plans and small and large courses of action to change what about my life is making me unhappy. I’m trying to take care of my hurt, but I can’t control the fact that I hurt. I can’t control which circumstances set off this hurt, be they silly or socially valid. But I hurt.

When I got to the room I was firmly resolved to sit down and write the long sordid history of emily’s sexual orientation. I thought I’d just tell the story- how long it took to discover who I am, how many back and forths there have been, how many times I’ve been told that I was being ridiculous, how many times I’ve had to come out, how often being accepted by others has been contingent on so many things, how I subsisted for years on a sparse diet of external acceptance, how my orientation affected and affects that acceptance. . . It’s never been clear for me. It’s been a big struggle. A formative struggle.

I sat at my computer and wrote a few lame sentences. And by lame I really mean without the ability to move. I deleted them and began again, and the immensity of such a project overwhelmed me. The importance and the literal hugeness was too much in that moment.

I noticed my friend, K, online and I started chatting with her. Like me, K is a Queer lady in a straight relationship, but hers is a few years old. She’s out and a feminist and she was so empathetic. She struggles with the same thing that I’ve been bothered by, which though I haven’t been explicit yet, centers on making sense of myself as a non-straight woman in a monogamous heterosexual relationship.

One might ask why it’s such a big deal, to which I have no quick answer. Being out and Queer has been such a part of my life for the last 5 years, not to mention the prior closeted 3. Only one year ago I was fresh out of the first successful relationship I ever had, and it was with a woman. I moved across the country, leaving my beloved Bay Area for the decidedly less-Queer New York. I was sure that I had learned the biggest pieces of my orientation identity in the previous few months. I was sure (yet again) that I knew what I liked and would always like: women. I theoretically proposed that I might find some very rare male-bodied person who I would not dismiss if otherwise appealing, but I tended to say that with a strong sense of skepticism.

Then I was in Michigan, falling for a male, and the world turned around. But I was still Queer. A Dyke is allowed to fall for a man once in a while, especially if she still prefers women.

Then I was in New York, over-worked, typically under-slept, ill, detached, alone. I was too busy to find a new queer community. Too tired to do all the work involved, which is not to say that I made no effort, as I absolutely went on dates and tried to meet new people, but rather that it is terribly difficult work to nurture a new community. It takes consistency and attention and energy, which were running low after my summer and fall. Then came the winter and the whispers of spring.

Then I met the Boy.

Somehow I’ve settled into a magical arrangement: I love him, he loves me, and we laugh a lot. Simple, no?

What happens to your identity as a queer woman when you begin to contemplate a life-long heterosexual relationship? How do you define yourself? When you meet other queer people and you are standing next to your partner, how do you introduce yourself without bluntly inserting somewhere into the introduction, “Hello, I’m m and though I’m deeply in love with my boyfriend I’m not straight,”? What do you do when you suddenly discover that it’s Pride Sunday and you don’t even have a clue what kinds of festivities are going on in New York, nor do you have anyone to ask??? Or when yet again a lovely gay man assumes that you’re just another straight chick?

What happens, if you are me, is that you become filled with an overwhelming sadness. You begin to grieve for the part of you that you’ve lost, that you’ve let go missing. A part you fear may have disappeared forever. You begin to wonder what you can do to gain back those pieces, and ultimately, you realize that it’s very difficult to explain to non-Queers why it means so much to be Queer.

Being Queer is not like having been raised Catholic. It’s not like having been a Girl Scout. It’s neither a random bit of my history nor is it a part of my detached cultural background. Coming out as Queer- or rather, as Bisexual, then Lesbian, then Queer, was one of the first big ways that I gained self-acceptance. Furthermore, when I joined the Queer community, like it or not, I joined a dynamic that very much felt like Us vs. Them. You’re either family or you’re not. There are aspects of coming out as GLBTQ, of growing up, of discovering and searching, that cannot be explained the way they can be empathized. When I meet someone and I find out ze is Queer, I immediately feel a little closer to hir, even if we’re as different as can be in almost every other way. It’s a bond.

I know that I haven’t caught my thoughts about this yet. They’re still amorphous and drifting, and maybe they will never settle. Maybe that’s ok. I’m left with a directive from within to go out and forge a new community. I must discover again where I fit and how to go about in the world as a person with an irregular orientation identity.

Running

Is there anything so delicious, dear reader, as a shower after a sweaty run?

Ah- I see your querulous eyebrow, my loyal or imagined reader. I see your question. To answer, you are absolutely right. It is even more delicious to pour yourself a glass of golden, dewy, belgian triple ale to take into the shower.

Oh?

That wasn't your question??

Oh. . . I see. You're confused by the subjects of running and your erratic writer in the same trajectory?

Well, I have a confession to make. Another Absolute to withdraw. I have, yet again, found myself on the brink of hypocrisy. Thank Goddess we all change with time. I, the sometimes-hater of all things running (oh, who am I kidding? The every-before-now-times-hater) have succumbed to the sweaty grave of throwing oneself about in the july heat of central park.

How did this happen? Huh.

I have a lot of memories of running. Rather, I have a lot of memories of wheezing, and burning, and being last in class to finish a mile. I'm clumsy and awkward and large. And I like things like hiking. And walking. And occasionally lifting weights or karate. Running has only rarely come across my radar as a possibility, and honestly, it has existed mostly as a punishment.

As in, 'I'm feeling fat and ugly and that means I'm bad, so I should feel bad. I know! I'll go running through Easttown at 5AM.' *Cough* Yeah, at the time I think I actually believed I was going to stick with my flagellistic plan and run and run and lose weight and not feel so terrible. It was a poorly crafted plan.

Or there was the time before that when my mother and I were members of a gym and would use the running machines. God were those awful.

I have many times explained to people that 'I am just not a runner'. I would accept that maybe, possibly, for some people running might bring a speck of enjoyment (or at least not be complete and utter torture), but I was just not one of those crazies. From time to time a person might respond that maybe I just didn't have the right information before trying to run- maybe I hadn't warmed up enough, or stretched enough (uh- warming up? STRETCHING?!? HAH!! I uh, I mean, of course I, uh. . . well, no- it's just that I just hate running. Period.).

And then. Enter a period of time filled with bad body thoughts. It seems to me that we all have these periods from time to time, but it has been a long time since I felt this badly for this lengthy a time. So I thought about what to do.

I was feeling fat and shameful, and like my body was a useless sort of sack. The curves that I'm usually so pleased with- the softness that I mostly love, because it is me and I am it- began to be loathsome. I'm a big girl. I'm tall and I'm curvy, and rounded in some places and though most people are terribly surprised to learn it, I weigh more than 200 lbs.

Most of the time, at the very least, I like me. I like my belly and my breasts and my feet and my thighs (ok, well, my thighs are maybe something I feel neutral about more than positive, per se, but I'm imperfect, so. . . ) you get the point. My tummy is a part of me, so why would I actively engage in hating it?

Lately, though, it's been a struggle. I added a few more pounds to my frame. Happily added -eating ice cream and drinking beer with the Boy- but pounds nonetheless. And I've gotten a little squishy about the edges. Usually when I look in a mirror I can see the imperfections with a reasonable head and still appreciate what is nice, but of late all I've been able to look at is my profile, and how un-flat my stomach is. And how squiffy I'm becoming. And how if I continue this way I'm not only going to be unlovable, but I will have to smash my mirrors and eat bran for the rest of my days.

I hate bran.

I was unhappy, so I did my usual. I examined my life to see if there was something to change to create a greater sense of peace. I just wanted to be able to look in the mirror and be proud. The thing is, I don't think I'm actually eating that much bad food. Yes, I do drink beer, AND I enjoy ice cream from time to time, but this isn't really new. It's just more of the same. I haven't added much weight, so that's not really a concern either, but I felt a need to feel good in my body.

And a funny thought occurred to me: Maybe I should start running.

At this point, I have gone running the past six days in a row, which I learned today may be a bit over-doing it. It's been so fun, though, that I haven't wanted to skip. I feel strong and accomplished. There's no burning, no coughing, no essence of self-punishment at the edges. There's me, and there's my competition with myself, and there's my renewed respect for what my body can do all mixing together and busting out through the seams of a glowing smile on my face.

I feel elated. I feel strong and capable. I love the feeling of growth. And I know, I know, I should take some recouperation time to let my body adjust. I will, I will. That's tomorrow and maybe even Friday.

It's amazing to become older and watch the shades of gray mince amongst the world. I have made so many absolute statements- I will never date men again, I will never speak to ___ again, I could never be a runner, I could never date a meat-eater, or eat meat myself (ok, I'm still a veggie for now and the foreseeable future)- I love living through those times into this one, where I am given the opportunities to discover who I am in different situations, with all their complexities and chaos and wonder. It's beautiful to be able to flow with change. Which is not to say that it's easy, but when it happens I am pleased.

Who knows what obscenity I'll be up to next. . .

A Poem

To love you is such a simple thing
I open my eyes, I breathe, and there it is
smiling into my eyes,
with its lovely fingers twining about mine

Some moments it is so big there is a swelling
in the space behind my navel,
and my belly feels full of warmth and knowing

and a poignant not-knowing

I look at our love
and I know I cannot know its birth

I don’t remember if it lay in the shallows, waiting,
between my toes,
while I looked for you without knowing your face

I don’t remember if it sat, curled and sleeping,
somewhere within me,
or if it tagged along one midwinter morning,
when I was too busy to notice a small shift in the wind

Sometimes I am curious,
as it stares at me and I smile at it,
and I wonder if I am allowed to ask our love
a few polite questions-

I wonder if emily post would argue,
or if our love could speak what it would say,
and how

I wonder if it would speak with the voice of divinity,
a rumbling vibration of velvet or stars

would it be lighter than wisps of candy cotton,
soaring through the space between us-

I wonder if it would say anything at all,
or if it would just take my hand in the gray morning
and hold it

gently.

Ho-Hum

At this particular moment in time, I feel exhausted.

My uterus has been stuck in a perpetual ache for the last seven days. My right flip-flop, previously purchased for the rare price of $2 at a local Target, has worn through in a patch at the heel, subjecting my tender skin to the harsh realities of New York pavement- glass, rubble, refuse. My plans to attend Shakespeare in the Park tonight have been flouted by the idiosyncrasies of the virtual ticketing process. And perhaps most tiresome of all is the absence of my most favorite person.

The sky has been particularly beautiful today- a sort of creamy landscape above the building tops, accented by wispy clouds and bright sunshine. There is nothing actually wrong in the world today, and there is even quite a bit right with it, but I feel wistful despite myself. I feel like curling up and sleeping for a few days, which is so unlike me. I crave comfort- a delicious bath, a rich chocolate delicacy, a gentle touch to the center of my back.

The prospect of socializing sounds positively dreadful. So does the prospect of traveling across and up town to my bed. My bed which is covered in the various leftovers and paraphernalia from the last few months of sleeping away from home- stopping by only for deposits and withdrawals from my wardrobe or bookshelf. I am as yet unwilling to put the things away, for though they constantly irritate me with their disorder, I loathe the idea of occupying a bed solo, with only the help of two teddy bears.

Perhaps I ought to just buy a beer or two, bring 'em home, and watch a few movies. Maybe I’ll finish Doctor Who.

Resurfacing Poetry

I was looking through some of my old writings today in search of something in particular, when I came upon this old piece. I wrote it sometime in the fall/winter of 2006/7. I think I like it again.

It's amazing the different opinions one can have about one's earlier work. Usually re-reading my stuff makes me cringe a bit. My writing is so often time/place-specific that re-reading a piece brings me back to where I was when I wrote it, which is often not a pleasant experience. But This poem is speaking to me in a different way today.

So here it is-

Feelings of weight and poise, simultaneously pulling and pressing the skin on my arms toward a place unknown; reaching for a glass that moves mid-blink and knowing I must reach all the same. Without cause or purpose, agenda off missing in action, sending its notes back anonymously. Following their backward prods with one eye on the door and one finger on the trigger. Maybe I could squeeze if I wanted to, but I'll never know because the sound of opportunity is always beyond the next door. Working and running through a world colored only in a heightened shade of gray, distinguishing a base immorality on the surface of every smile, never judging why. Waiting for the order to push through another window, to break another fist, always blaming the pain on that faceless voice, mind paralyzed by the thought that it might come from within. Name-dropping and show-stopping for all I'm worth, which, after the run, isn't much. The ruin and the rain and the sleet, all beating my head and my back.

But the word is yes, and I will try, and that is, in a word, all.

Reading List, 2010 Thus Far

So. One of my goals this year has been to read as much as possible. A few years ago, after I dropped out of Calvin the last time, I set myself a goal of reading 10,000 pages in that year. I surpassed that goal, but then felt like it had been an arbitrary goal post, as reading middle school literature adds pages more quickly than more difficult tomes. So this year I have not been judging by counting chapters or pages or words, but I have been trying to keep a list of the titles. And I've gotten a bit lax of late.

Therefore, as the year is almost half over (sheesh!) and I'm almost 25 (Huzzah!!) I thought I'd post a list of the year in books thus far, so that when the year is finished I can more readily evaluate my progress. And I am admittedly curious, so I'm going to list page numbers here as well.

Maybe I'll rate them, too. . .

Water for Elephants, Sara Gruen (331)

Naked, David Sedaris (224)

Bird By Bird, Anne Lamott (239)

The Somnambulist, Jonathon Barnes (384)

One Big Happy Family, Rebecca Walker (288)

Searching for Mary Poppins, Susan Davis and Gina Hyans (320)

The Wordy Shipmates, Sarah Vowell (248)

The Polysyllabic Spree, Nick Hornby (140)

Hamlet, Shakespeare (171) Admittedly for Humanities

Candide, Voltaire (144) Also for Humanities

Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley, and me, Elizabeth, by e.l. Konigsburg (117)

The Prydain Chronicles (The Book of Three, The Black Cauldron, The Castle of Llyr, Taran Wanderer, The High King), Lloyd Alexander (701)

Litttle Bee, Chris Cleave (266)

Push, Sapphire (177)

The Prisoner's Wife, asha bandele (219)

Crooked Little Heart, Anne Lamott (324)

Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters, J.D. Salinger (92)

The Varieties of Scientific Experience: A Personal View of the Search for God, Carl Sagan (304)

Atonement, Ian McEwan (368)


Whew!! Which makes a grand total of 5,057 pages read since Jan 1st. Crazy how it's almost exactly half the 10,000 mark. . .

Recent Excerpt

I don’t know if stars can be jealous or sympathetic. I don’t think that stars have feelings, but it’s amazing to me how much power I have given them in my life.

It’s amazing how much power they have given me.

When it comes down to it, it doesn’t matter at all to me if stars are benevolent beings or personified lights or epically distant clusters of reacting chemicals- what matters is the feeling I get whenever I look at them. I really do mean whenever, as even in passing an upwards glance met by stars is ultimately an invitation for time to stop. Or maybe just to slow. But a warmth touches my heart (or some viscera at least near my lungs) and again something catches. I lose all interest in watching where I step, so long as that light is flowing directly into my retinas. So long as that feeling of profound connectedness, of ancient wisdom or guidance, or perhaps even the simple but unprecedented feeling of being nurtured is there, then I can feel like there is still beauty in life- like my life is worth living. And that is all that matters to me.