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June 2nd, Two Thousand Five: I just got up from a good half hour riff at the piano playing
Across the Universe.
And I just realized that while it's a tune I've loved strongly
all my life, and have sung and played regularly on a couple different
instruments for a good 20 years, I think I actually felt the whole
of the song for the first time just now.
I think for me, it's always been something of a song of longing,
where I felt the sorrow bits, the impermanence bits, very profoundly,
but not the equal joy of it. And as I slid into an improv between
verses that went on for a good fifteen minutes and literally danced
-- lightly, almost mischieiously, with all this almost weightless
hope in it -- I got it, and just absolutely blissed out in this
gorgeous wave of sound, of my fingers still having their effortlessly
nimble moments without my even realizing it, or recognizing I
was feeling that shift until it just crawled up from my belly
and out of my lungs and hands.
The only other thing I could have wished for at that moment was
that I had Mark sitting behind me to enjoy and experience it,
too.
(Oh give over, already, get the collective awwww -- or groan, your choice -- out of your system. Throw tomatoes if you must. Though as
I tend not to care for raw tomatoes, yet Sofia likes them very,
very much, I'd ask you toss low for her benefit.)
I've had some worries and stresses on my plate of late: the final
stretch of book revisions, not having all I need in that regard
and trying to deal with that, some health concerns, some family
conflict craning its wringy neck out towards me again, being overextended
and overtired overall and feeling like I can never get everything
done in a day, or a week, or a life, that I need and want to.
And some of the heaviness of those worries and stresses is the
sharp relief they stand in in the incredible lightness and beauty
of the good stuff. I've experienced even moments of intense anger
at anything else in my life raining on parade right now; even
trying to sully my enjoyment of a couple things I really didn't
think I'd ever have, one of which I had become quite convinced
just wasn't real or ever capable of truly manifesting, especially
not for me.
But you know, then last night my beau says such beautiful things
to me, nearly as dawn is breaking here, and I stay up extra to
watch the sun come up. And a good friend (thanks, Audra) is a
comforting ear for a couple hours without my even having to ask.
And as Dante and I were grabbing lunch after training today --
during which, challenges aside, I danced my kicks and punches
-- a barely-toddler boy sat across from us, so clearly alert and
inquisitive with everything and anything, wearing a curiously
knowing grin that knew way too much for someone so wee. And a
couple tricky explanations in the book I keep tripping over --
the trickiest are always the emotional, not the clinical -- made
themselves clearer in a flash while I was cooking myself dinner.
And I sat, working the ivories, my lungs, my hands and my heart,
lost in it. I played smiling and energetically meditative, feeling
the good stuff and the hopefulness not erase or diminish, but
buoy the troubles and the worries; letting them be what they are
while still letting my ferocious happiness be just what it is,
and as it is, too.
Nothing's gonna change my world.
(By the by, I almost forgot with that other birthday: happy 6th
birthday, oh strange, incessant public journal o'mine. And please
stop embarassing me by telling everyone so many of my secrets
and always making such a damn spectacle of yourself.) |
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May 30th, Two Thousand Five: So, it's your 33rd birthday, lover.
You get to walk into this year not only with one already-made
short film under your belt, a couple more produced, and a rather
fabulous published comic, AND an excellent screenplay (that IS,
you know, going to materialize, and when it does, it'll do so
fantastically), and some pretty phenomenal friends, a roof over
your head with a hot tub behind it, a cupboard full of barbecue
sauce, the sun on your face, AND -- and, and, AND -- this crazy
girl (that's me, by the way) who happens to think you're the cat's
pyjamas, feels the need to publicly announce this rather incessantly
and make quite an ass of herself doing so, and who also happens
to be one half of the exceptionally rare thing you didn't even
think existed, all of which you managed to manifest before today.
Not fucking bad, baby!
I'm so sorry I can't be there to celebrate it with you, but at
least this way you'll get the sleep you've been needing, which
we know would in no way happen were I present. I'm not entirely
sorry that your birthday is the day after we both had some truly
crummy times this past weekend, because said crummy times resulted
in us yet again turning some bad stuff into good stuff.
This morning, after reading the mail you left last night, and
grinning at you knowing me too well (already -- how do you DO
that?), I took said prescription, as the sun finally DID come
out here, and hopped on my bike for a spin, Rainy Day Music and
Smile in my headset. And I rode like the little demon I am, beaming
when I listened to this and did my level best not to sing out
loud and cause accidents:
The world never ends
It’s only the beginning
And we can’t pretend
To discover it’s meaning
We talked for hours at a time
Then I came to my senses
You’re more than a friend
You’re my perfect lover
I’ll never be all you want me to
But that’s all right
I’m gonna make you love me
I’m gonna dry your tears
And we’re gonna stay together
For a million years
It’s the least I can do
Just to make you my baby
No words could describe
Oh, pinch me I’m dreaming
I know we both had a hard time coming down from the last visit,
but you know, this morning, there you were, right with me again,
your smile on my back (even though you were probably looking at
my ass, but that's okay), and the lightness of you and I giving
me a bump up to carry me along.
You've got post coming to you, but until then, I bestow upon you
the following, and reserve the right to withhold all partridges
and pear trees.
One (thousand) kisses. But it's up to you to keep count.
Two pillow fights in which I will concede defeat without saying I
let you win.
Three Emergency Mail Woo Packages, which you may request for delivery
within a 72 hour window.
Four bastardized odes or appalachian folk ballads rewritten to be
all about you. I do not guarantee any kind of quality, and I reserve
the right to sing one tipsily over the phone.
Five fresh-from-biking, naked, smiley ball cap pictures (well, four,
really, plus one, sans cap... and the last vestiges of my feminist
street cred, for that matter). Very big versions are in your email,
because it's your birthday, dammit, not everyone else's and I
like you best of all.
Six sweaty games of Smear the Queer (to any appalled parties: since
it's entirely likely I'll be the one smeared, as I'm pretty sure
he runs faster than me, I don't feel that is in any way politically
incorrect, thank you very much), with ONE allowance for victory
tickling until I scream. These games may be played in or out of
bed: your preference.
Seven live performance happydances.
Eight batches of incredibly spicy homecooked yummies.
(Ninety) nine bottles of beer on the wall, one of which you may pour over the
loopy redheaded girlfriend of your choice before drinking. Just
keep it out of the eyes, please.
Ten more fantastic, perfect days together. And then ten more after
that. And ten more after that. And....
Oh, and two extra bonuses:
1. A special birthday sermon. Just because I have no doubt Robyn, too, wishes you a happy
birthday. Well, probably he wishes you a tomato-flavored-infested-with-tiny-yodeling-frogs
birthday, rather than a happy one, but that's beside the point.
2. And a sometimes-silly girlfriend who adores you. I know: AGAIN! It's like getting socks every Hanukah, I tell ya. But it's what
I've got to offer, kid.
(And I made lots of wishes for you today. And saw the whole world upside down. Oh, and some ducks mooned me. Go figure.
Have a happy, sugar. Here's to many, many more.) |
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May 27th, Two Thousand Five: The Seattle Cliff's Notes (with super-secret magic picture links):
Thursday: An airplane trip in which the claustrophobic who also hates flying
was placed in a window seat, in an exit aisle where the seats
in front of her could go back right into her face, but hers immovable,
leaving her wedged into one of the tiniest spots on the plane.
Being one of THREE claustrophobics on the flight, at least, results
in musical chairs comedy in which the flight attendants almost
lost their minds from the three of us finding any and every excuse
to stand up, move around, and swap seats for the latter half of
the flight.
Arrival. Incredible embrace, many, many kisses, quite a lot of
sex, much talking, hot tub, and a late screening of the latest
Star Wars (when you can see perhaps one of the worst films ever made and
still enjoy yourself, you know you're in love) with the other
two members of Mark's house collective, which they call Casa Zero,
but who in Heather vernacular shall be referred to herewith as
the Lost Boys. Sleep nestled firmly in the armpit that missed
my head.
Friday: Lark still on central time wakes up WAY too early. More sex.
More snuggle. More rapid-fire conversation. More hot water. Fucking
scary grocery store experience wherein we were referred to as
Mr. and Mrs. _____ (you know you're in lust when you can still
have more sex after this harrowing experience, given a little
time in between). Reprise of the Arabbiata sauce for Mark & the
Lost Boys. Drinks in Ballard with Jhames, a handful of Mark's
friends with a special guest appearance from Lauren and Emira, where we act goofy as hell, as we cannot seem to behave otherwise, even in public. We also practice our approaches to the paparazzi. More hot water. More sleep.
Saturday: More with the sex and the snuggle. Big, big rainbow arching perfectly
over the entire city as we drive in. Lunch on the sound. Much
walking and talking in the city. Inspired photos of the incredibly cute and dashing boyfriend, during which he clearly enjoys watching me get in
my work zone. Ball game! Ball game with a much-coveted BGB (Ball Game Boyfriend) and the ever-elusive and also much-coveted
BGG (Ball Game Girlfriend). Ball game during which incredibly
cute and dashing AND selfless boyfriend purchases girlfriend new cap for HER team, not his own. More rapid-fire conversation. Attempt at spontaneous
hotel stay, which results in decision to try the following day
instead, as this is a better plan altogether, and also results
in heading home to more hot water. Hot water results in incredible
conversation during which I confess more than one very not-admirable
moment in Heather history and am still accepted and cherished
all the same and sleep all the more soundly.
Sunday: Lark who is still waking up early utilizes time when boyfriend
is snoozing away to be very crafty and acquire Most Amazing Hotel
Room Ever for us that evening, thanks to Very, Very Helpful Woman
on Phone who understands that a fantastic bathtub is more important
than world peace at the time. More sex. More snuggle. Some frantic
errand running so we can get to the hotel as early as is humanly
possible and take full advantage of our good fortune (but apparently,
not someone else's, as it was a last-minute canceled Honeymoon
Suite: oy). A rather comical acknowledgment that the woman who
checks us in at the hotel -- a bit flustered about it, no less,
gods bless her for stroking my ego - is perhaps a perfect bridge
between both of our taste in women. An equally comical acknowledgment
that it's a bit early in our relationship to consider pursuing
anything pervy in that regard as we're both still too greedy about
one another to share yet. (But makes for rather nice, naughty
daydream.)
MUCH jointly flabbergasted laughter at how completely amazing,
ostentatious and huge hotel room is, especially hotel bathroom
-- larger than apartments we both have lived in -- and bathtub
-- larger than inside of Mark's car. Immediate bathing ensues
following silly picture taking and tossing of water. Dinner with much of the Heather Seattle Posse at Julia's, which is incredibly enjoyable. I make a note to myself to produce a book called "Heather Corinna's Guide to Living in Seattle Though She has Never
Lived There," since at this point, the Seattle friends -- who were ALREADY,
pre-Mark, over the years trying to coerce me into moving -- have
now stepped up by opening umpteen conversations with "What you'd REALLY love about Seattle is...." to the point that I may know more about Seattle perks than most
residents do. Much amusement at watching Heather's friends flip joyfully at seeing Heather
head over heels in love and being given same back. Much eating up of everyone's immediate adoration of the aforementioned
cute, dashing and brilliant boyfriend. Much racing back to incredible
hotel room after dinner to take advantage (after a few shots of
gifted tequila from Jhames) of the tub, the bed, and best of all, the floor, where I undoubtedly make overuse
of all those years of voice lessons where I learned all too well
how to project.
Not quite enough exhausted sleep. But on very nice pillows.
Monday (see bonus material): Very nice waking up in very amazing hotel room. Very nice spying
on cute boyfriend's wet, perfect bottom in shower. Very sweet
morning goodbye as Mark heads off to work. Very nice bath alone
before heading out myself. Absolutely gorgeous walk and ferry
ride. AMAZING day spent with Cheryl on her land, which I covet
and makes me feel unbelievably envious (oh, oh how I want a spread
of land like that), as well as incredibly honored to be invited.
Lots of excitable talking, both personal and political, grooving
on the green and the animals and the wonderful company of this
incredible woman I have so much respect for. Shiny! Baby chickens! Kittens! Irises! Foxglove! Green! More green, with sheep! SHEEP! Who come when you call, allowing you to impress your cute and very un-country boyfriend!
Very lovely moment late in the evening where Mark arrives without
my seeing him walk in the door, which turns into lovely evening.
This is also incredibly amusing, as while acreage full of intense
earth-mama-energized, many animaled, many-childrened, much wet
grass and muddy goodness is the kind of space I feel in many ways
most at home in, the same cannot exactly be said for my sweetheart,
who fares very well, quite in spite of himself. Long drive home.
More with the sex and the hot water.
Tuesday: My claim that rain all week would NOT do and that I COULD, in
fact, bring subtropical sunshine to Seattle is confirmed (and
yes, you're welcome, Washingtonians). Day spent mostly alone at
Casa Zero doing some work, with a break for lunch with Mark. Evening
of dinner with Jane and her hubby, a second time to see Ross and
Caroline, as well as Mark's two housemates and girlfriend, which
results in rather hilarious rapid-fire Q&A to Heather on various
explicit sex topics and radical feminism. And yes: more with the
sex and the hot water, including what will easily go down as one
of the top five orgasms ever, which -- of course -- results in
me getting my weepy/hyperemotional on, which I at least get out
of my system early so I don't do it the night I leave. Yet, very
sweet culmination of evening and last night spent sleeping all
wrapped up in one another ensues.
Wednesday: Lark bucks her own system and manages somehow to sleep until 12:30 PST. Is so disbelieving of this feat, she checks eight different
clocks. Has lovely afternoon chilling out in the sunshine, talking
to one of the Lost Boys, brief trip to the market, then cooking
beautifully involved meal for the household while sipping red
wine and doing little sambas in the kitchen. Eating. One last
spin in the hot tub. One last spin in the bedroom with more-than-a-little-incredible
grand-finale-sex and hurried snuggle that culminates exactly ten
minutes before I have to leave. Delayed flight when I arrive results
in hurried call to boyfriend who turns right around and spends
one more hour with me, romantically informs me he will always
comes back for me, informs me cutely but rather unromantically
that I am radiant with something that shall go without mention
here, gets in more snuggle. This also results in quick, silly
snapshots and a few last kisses before I go fly way too late at
night and get no sleep, but read charming, silly anecdotes left
for me in our shared book and bask in the glow of the week.
And in the fact that I know this, my dears, is only the beginning,
and we've a million more days like this ahead of us.
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It was hard not to be a little down yesterday. Given, I was completely
exhausted from the delayed redeye flight, jet lag, a time zone
difference, a parting, and the phone wouldn't stop ringing all
day, people wouldn't stop showing up at the door.
It's still hard not to feel a little down today. It's strange
to be back here. I live here, and I like it here: I like my apartment
a lot, I like this city (especially when it isn't winter), I love
my best friend deeply, and I like the vestiges of my community
which remain (suffice it to say, the past few months have created
more than one rift, sadly, both on the queer frontier and because
seriously-taken-Heather-in-love apparently is less appealing than
available-Heather-party-girl: it's been more than a little upsetting
to keep discovering how many friends I have here who've become
less of my friend since getting into my pants has become an unlikely
prospect).
But.
My whole life, you know, I've been wondering what and where Home
is. I never had one growing up, both by virtue of being somewhat
nomadic, poor and in a family-that-wasn't, and when we came close,
what went on in that place was so terrible at times that it could
never, ever feel like home. Chicago, even though I did most of
my growing up and some of my adult life there, never really felt
like home, and certainly doesn't now. I feel at home when I'm
pretty much out of doors in the wild anywhere on the planet, but
it's a general feeling. I feel at home in myself, but that's not
the same thing. There are a couple relationships I thought might
be home, but that was always a question, not a knowing.
Nestled in the crook of Mark's arm, one of us leaning into the
other, holding hands, having his face in my hands, my body completely
linked with his, even just sitting next to one another wrapped
up in conversation: I finally feel it. HOME. I sink in, and I
sink into home. We both had such atrocious weeks before I arrived
that when I got there, before the silly and the passion, we both
basically just fell into one another in this wash of relief; into
the comfort and absolute solace of what we've got here. Even just
seeing him on the street, tangible, where I can run up and smooch
him makes all my insides spin in leapy, dorktastic somersaults
(I'll even confess to doing a cartwheel in the hotel room), but
at the same time, I feel this unreal, perfect peace. So, I can't
help but feel a little homeless and out of place now that I'm
back here.
In some ways, feeling that way makes me feel ungrateful and greedy.
After all, even when we're not in the same place, what we've got
is such a rare thing that so far surpasses...well, everything,
that wanting what's already perfect to be more perfect seems like
asking for more for Christmas when you already got everything
on your list and then some. But then, it's something I don't have
to explain to people who have been around us in person. One of
the nicest parts about these visits is having plenty of our people
be able to viscerally experience what we are, because it seems
to instantly make sense to anyone it didn't make sense to before.
There is so much I can't explain with this; that I can't find
words for. (Which as a writer and a poet, suffice it to say, is
terribly frustrating: this is supposed to be what I do, no experience
is supposed to throw me so much I become either speechless, or,
as is more often the case since I can never shut up, spastic and
incomprehensible.) The words I can find, which do ring most true,
tend to be fairly Neanderthal. Yes. Mine. Yours. Ours. Us. This. Come inside. Done. Now. Here. More, please. Fuck! Aie! Yipee-kay-ay-yay! Sigh. That is perfectly in line with the way Mark and I communicate
about The Big Stuff, mind you. Our way is instant, simultaneous
moments of near-wordless knowing; of glances, nods and smiles.
Our joint decision-making from the onset through now is generally
either wordless -- I look at him, he looks at me, we know if it's
a yes or a know -- or incredibly succinct. As in, "You know you're
stuck with me, right?" "Yep." "Cool. So, what do we want for dinner?"
And then resumes whatever else was going on, with something as
seemingly big as acknowledging the desire to both stay always
having passed with a smile, a kiss and a shrug.
I'll settle back into my groove here just fine, likely sooner
than I feel like I will today. As big and as amazing as this thing
is, it doesn't make all of the other parts of my life irrelevant
or unimportant: in many ways, it makes all of those things even
more important and relevant. I want to do all I do not only just
as much as I always have, but all of it has the extra benefit,
now, of making this beautiful person who believes in me and cares
for me even more proud than he already is. The mojo I have going
from this seems to give me even more drive and creative energy
than I had before, and that's really saying something.
There's something truly amazing -- though I suppose that's the
way it's supposed to be -- about being with someone else feeling
as if it makes you even more of who you already are and can be.
* * *
Those Cliff's Notes really don't do the visit justice. Perhaps
I need some sort of anecdote-a-day plan to even try and do that,
but given that we tend to make absolutely every minute count,
I've already got anecdotes coming out of my ears which would take
more time to share than I've got, as well as plenty which simply
aren't a'gonna get shared here, so there.
The long and the short of it, both, is that last week was absolutely
fanfuckingtastic, landing us both in daydreamyville post-visit,
a place I know I'll be keeping with me as long as I can and pull
out of my pocket as needed in the next month or so. We've both
got pockets overflowing with the stuff for while we edit gargantuan
and challenging books, visualize the world in images moving and
still, craft plans for worldwide domination and peace alike, dream
the big dreams and plan to realize all of them, separate and joint,
go to battle, enjoy the sunshine, slog through the daily muck
and mire, as well as the daily joys, and continue to court one
another from afar until the next visit.
And as for YOU: I cherish and adore you like no one else in the world. You know
it. All of me you want, sweet thing, is yours, yours, all yours.
You know it. All of you you want to give to me, I'm ever-willing
game. You know it. Don't you ever forget any of it, not even for
a fraction of a second, not even if someone threatens to make
you see the last Star Wars again, get mud in your ears or be kept
up too late and awakened too early in the morning too often by
crazy redheads if you don't. |
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May 19th, Two Thousand Five: Alrighty, kids. I am OUTTA HERE. Save always being sniffly about
leaving my dog, the cats and some of the comforts of home, let
me tell you: given the last week or two, I cannot get out of here
bloody fast enough.
I'd leave a note for Mark here, too, except...
... that he won't see it. Because in a mere six hours --
6 HOURS!
-- he will see me first.
Bliss.
Viva Sea-Tac, indeed.
Have a week, y'all. And Jhames, Lauren, Emira, Peter, Becka, Jane,
Cheryl, Ross, Caroline and Co.? See you soon!
(Any one in Seattle, FYI, who pokes even one bit of fun at me
for walking funny or being a goofy lovebird? You'll get stuck
with the tab for my drinks. So, do consider the cost of your folly
before you engage upon it. Especially considering the way I can
drink when I know the bill ain't mine.)
May 17th, Two Thousand Five: Short, but sweet
... which, incidentally, does describe Miz Becca well (though
she is taller than me, but then, most people who aren't Asian
women, or under the age of 8, are).
I just have to say this briefly this morning: I love my best friend
so, so incredibly much. There really is just nobody else in the
world like her.
Because who else, I ask you, would schlep over to my apartment
bearing two dusty bottles of wine, chinese dumplings AND vegan
treats, knowing in advance I would spend most of the night burnt
out, horribly neurotic, and intellectually and emotionally bankrupt
from sheer exhaustion?
Who else -- and mind you, Becca works a "normal" job -- would
listen to extensive tirades about the hardest parts of the activist
work that I do, aspects, mind you, which really are not pretty
nor the stuff of pleasant social conversation and thus, which
I seldom try and share with anyone AND still feel totally comfortable
bitching about her own job? Who else would automatically leash
my dog up and take her out on a walk with me without even thinking
of handing the leash to me or asking (and who else, for that matter,
would even know how to find the leash in all my mess)?
Who else would pick up the worn copy of The Portable Dorothy Parker which has been my Bible since I got it from the library book
sale at 12, open a page, start reading aloud, and then pass it
back and forth so we both could read aloud from random or dog-eared
pages, do same with the water-warped copy of Plath's Ariel (that has traveled with Dorothy for nearly as long, though I
expect they make poor traveling companions at times), and THEN
allow me some full-on Blake geeking and explore dear William with
wonder and excitement? Who else following this spontaneous literary
journey could also then veer sharply into an enthusiastic conversation
about baseball?
Who else would offer to both prepare me for and escort me to D.C.
should I at any point have to give public testimony for an ACLU
case on which I am one of the plaintiffs on the group list, knowing
that that level of public speaking would most likely turn me into
a total basket case? Who else would listen to the music of my
childhood wistfully with me? And clearly have the secret agenda
of forcing me to take downtime from working that I very direly
needed, but would not have taken for myself otherwise?
Who else would take half the day off work Thursday to drive me
to the airport just because? And vigilantly guard the Princess
Sofia for a week? And leave me, late at night, in a far improved
emotional space than she found me in upon her arrival?
Who else would email me quotes of Mr. Rogers every few days? And
never make me feel weak when I'm flailing?
The past few days have pretty much stunk. I have hit my head against
my keyboard more than once, I have ended up a puddle of frustrated
tears more than once, I have yelled "FUCK!" way more than once, and quite loudly. There have been endless,
horribly-timed brushfires of all sorts, way too many people putting
their stresses on me that I am both neither the cause of nor the
solution for, murky emotional waters (and I, having brought no
oar for my rowboat), money stress, not enough sleep and all of
this and more in the midst of 40some solid hours of editing within
the last 72. Brandon worked some editorial brilliance and provided
some needed support while working with me yesterday, and more
than one friend has called or emailed and been an utter dear.
But, without discounting any of those other valiant efforts: my
best friend is the BOMB. I would set aside pacifist ethics and
beat up anyone who messed with her; I would defend her to the
death if need be. I would immediately un-friend anyone who had
a bad word to say about her, spit on the ground (ptooey!) and
wish a pox upon them. I would put her in charge of running at
least some of the world if I could, because she really should
be. And I love her the mostest. That is all. |
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May 16th, Two Thousand Five: Just a few things:
• Editing is bloody boring to EVERYONE. Seriously. I’m way in
the home stretch here, which rocks, but unless I toss around things
like page counts into conversation, EVERYONE’S eyes glaze over
when I talk about work right now. I don’t blame them, mind you:
I would, too. Editing and revising is seriously solitary, internal,
grunt work, especially on the days when Brandon (the assistant
editor I hired) isn’t here.
I can’t wait for this part to be over: I’m seriously bored with
being such a big bore. I also am seriously running out of brain
cells. I have done some unbelievably spacy things today. It took
me THREE tries to go outside and remember to bring my keys with
me. Every time I’d get back in the apartment, I’d think, “Why am I here? I need to take the dog out, for crying out loud” and leave AGAIN without the keys. I didn't try and walk the keys:
I suppose that's something I can say for myself.
• On that note? When you’re used to working alone, it can be really,
fucking weird to turn around and see another person sitting behind
you. I’ve almost had a heart attack more than once now.
• Kelly, who now no longer lives in the building (WAH!) was over the other day, and we got into talking about the Cubs,
and I began to deliver the lecture series on WHY Chicagoans are
Cubs fans, even though the Cubs blow chunks. In fact, I know my
understanding of baseball growing up was considerably skewed by
the fact that I earnestly thought the goal was to lose as creatively
and consistently as possible, not to win. It’s also a testament
to my love of baseball that I love it despite the fact that not
only did I once miss catching a ball by a mere inch, it DID clock
me in the head. As I laid on the bench, dazed and confused, a
bunch of crappy grownups fought over it, with one guy keeping
it for himself despite my father’s loud protestations that not
only was I a little kid, but that I should have the ball that
caused a lump on my head the same size just to have something
to fucking show for it. Additionally, anytime the Phillies came
to play the Cubs, as they were my father’s home team, he insisted
we cheered for THEM, and usually while sitting in the Chicago
bleachers no less. We wore more than one beer home on those days.
Anyway, yes, Chicago has TWO teams. But you will notice that most
people who are White Sox fans do not live in the city of Chicago.
They are from Indiana, or the south or west suburbs. That is because
only city residents who are STINKY, AWFUL TRAITORS choose the Sox over the Cubs. Sure, they suck. But they’re OUR
sucky team (and yes, even though I’ve now been in Minneapolis
for six years, they’re still my team), and we must love them.
We must embrace -- lo, celebrate -- our perpetual suckitude and
cheer loudly from the bleachers. We must recognize that the Cubs
have taught us valuable lessons about not just accepting failure,
but wearing it as a badge of honor. Chicago is a town steeped
in a great history of great disasters, giant louseups and underdogs,
after all: the Cubs are simply representing.
At this point, there aren’t that many things I miss about Chicago,
but lordy, I miss my team. And how brilliantly, fantastically
and downright legendarily they suck. If Mark and I do manage to
swing the late-summer meet-the-midwest-fam (he’s a native Ohioan)
road trip we’ve been batting about (ba-dum-dum), it’s going to
be critical we catch both a Reds and a Cubs game, and pay our
mutual respects to our respective teams, and perhaps even feign
a heated argument about them for kicks.
• I am so very happy Elise is back. We had the loveliest visit yesterday,
complete with tasty peanut sauce.
• How the hell did it get to be Monday already? Fuck me.
• And yes, yes, I do know that all the sites went down for 20
minutes or so today (they had need for an emergency server swap
at the hosting company, which I only found out after I’d had 367
kinds of aneurism and emailed them about in a horrific panic,
watching all my domains start to vanish out of nowhere). It’s
all good now.
• But since it IS Monday, I CAN say that in a mere 70 hours I will be passionately kissing my Seattle Sweetie, to the great
embarrassment of fellow airport denizens. That it is only 70 hours
from now is seriously fucking wonderful -- because....whoohoo!
Being with my baby! Goofily giggling! Happily hugging! Spontaneously
snuggling! Having adventures! Having SEX, for the love of gawd!
But it’s also a little stressful -- because, SHIT! I have so much fucking work to do, a house to clean, laundry
to wash, crap to pack, appointments to keep, things to organize,
sleep I direly need and pugs to stock up on snuggles with. And
I am so tired and burnt out right now. Ugh.
• Said Seattle Sweetie (The S.S., as it were, or... oooh: the S.S. Price -- this may stick) is, for the record, having
pretty much the to-date most important night of his creative career
tonight. So, since I have the power and the energy of thousands
of you (for the record, I did laugh like The Count from Sesame Street
when I typed that just now), I humbly request... oh, screw that. I DEMAND that all of you
think wonderful, fantastic, supportive thoughts for him, because
if you really loved me, you would, you know.
• I have received three different emails from three totally unrelated
people on three totally unrelated topics, with the identical subject
line “Yes, yes, yes!” I choose to interpret this as great portent for my visit this
week.
Back to editing with me (do ignore that annoying sound of chain
and shackle as I exit, it’s nothing. Really).
And hey: if you're as bored listening to me as I am with hearing
the rattling in my own head, I give you, instead, Robyn. On eggs. |
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May 13th, Two Thousand Five: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
The Good: Teaching the first parent/kids mixed martial arts class last
Saturday. I haven't been able to teach younger kids, in person,
since 1999, when I left classroom teaching to do everything I
do now. (And as a bonus, since Audra and I were sharing old pictures
this morning, I give you this from 1993ish at the school I used to have.) In all honesty, when
the kids started to arrive at the dojo and I started to immediately
connect with them in the way I always have, I had to keep from
crying. I've never forgotten how much I love teaching -- I've
missed it deeply often -- but I had forgotten how easily it always
comes to me. Watching kids doing a martial art for the first time,
helping them get a good form and watching their faces light up
when they knew they had it, or when I gave them a "Yeah!" for getting something right was just beyond brilliant. Having
a five-year-old girl in class (with my pug's name, no less) kick
the hell out of a bag WHILE totally garbed in powder-puff pink and a glitter
headband was charming as hell.
The Good: In that same class, being able to walk up to two sisters, both
barely teenagers and of the size and shape often called "husky,"
and point out to them that I KNEW they could strike harder and
faster than they were because -- and being able to say this exactly
-- "Your size makes you powerful," and watch them not only WHALE on the bag after that, but gleam
at being told that, totally made my whole day. It's one of those
things, where you're really privileged to get the opportunity
to be the person who for the first time, told someone that their
size was 100% an asset, in a fantastic context, with no lookism
affixed.
The Good: And in the class I substitute taught two hours before that, having
a brand new student say, firmly, several times during her first
session "This is FUN," while tossing spinning backhands, and then, after class, taking
my hand in hers with a big smile to tell me what a great time
she had.
The Ugly: If you're in a bad space today or do not want to feel angry,
you'll want to not read this. As you may well know, my pal Audra
kicks ass very righteously. One of the many laudable things she
does is this. So, it's not uncommon for her to get emails inviting her to
join various pro-choice groups. She got one last week, an invite
for a yahoo pro-choice group, and once the emails started coming,
she discovered that no, it was not a pro-choice group, it was
a yahoo group for male abortion fetishists. Complete with abortion photos (and a request, in the list, for
photos of black women having abortions, just to specialize the
lovely whackoff factor further), and seeking out women to talk
about their abortions to provide fodder for this purpose. In other
words, men who get off sexually on the idea of women having abortions,
and appear to have this funny idea that women are getting off
on them, too. The snippet of an email that brought me from merely
feeling totally ill to be ready to throw something was this one
from a man named Dan, oh-so-wonderfully entitled "because I'm the mommy. That's why":
"I am an abortion fetishist, and think it can be very sexy under
the right circumstances. Why shouldn't it be? specifically addresing
the issue of female orgasm at abortion, I can understand this
happening because of physical pressures in the uterus and vagina,
and also, as another member pointed out, because it is taboo."
Why shouldn't it be SEXY? Oh fuck, I don't know: maybe because it's NOT, you delusional, self-absorbed misogynist bastard?!? Maybe because
orgasm isn't about having pressure on one's uterus or vaginal
canal, and an abortion isn't even close to comfortable, let alone
arousing? Because there's nothing fucking sexy or enjoyable about
D&Cs or vacuum aspirations and there's nothing fucking sexy about
being in pain, turmoil or emotional distress?
I'll admit, I have some fairly radical feminist notions about
reproductive choice. It is my opinion, for instance, that men
ideally should not be involved in abortion, period -- not in legislation,
law or policy making, not in performing abortions, not in deciding
when and if abortion occurs. I recognize that is radical (and
am not interested in debating it today, so just don't go there),
and I also recognize that there are plenty of men who are not
barfy fuckwits about abortion, and in fact, plenty who are/have
been as compassionate as a person can be about a procedure they
cannot experience themselves. Yet, things like this only solidify
my opinions in this regard, and let me tell you, I'd really, really
rather not have them validated in this way, ever again.
Suffice it to say, this is also one of the many reasons why I
have a big problem with the school of thought that says any kink
is okay in idea, and that someone not being okay with anyone's
given kink is unenlightened and likely just because it isn't theirs.
Bollocks.
The Ugly: Audra also passed this on the same day, which I somehow hadn't seen, and just made me
sad as hell, for umpteen reasons. On the more benign side, I have
a big pet peeve with the phrase "designed/approved by/with gynecologists"
as any sort of statement implying something is therefore automatically
safe or good for women. After all, cesarean sections, epistiotomies,
GYN tables and portions of pelvic exams and the like which truly
are not necessary or beneficial, and are often needlessly humiliating
or uncomfortable, were designed by gynecologists. The vast history
of gynecological practices were created by men, not women, and
thus, by a group of people who just can't know what a given practice
feels like. That aside, the vaginal canal is CURVED: therefore
a woman injuring herself with a device like this would be incredibly
likely. A woman would also expose herself to the BLOOD of her
rapist, which she would likely not have genital exposure to otherwise.
Moreover, imagine, if you will, what a rapist might do to a woman
who clearly has someone stabbed his dick. The idea that he would
run, rather than beat her senseless, is really far-fetched. I
cannot possibly see how something like this would not endanger
a woman even more, or how I'd feel safer on the street with a
knife in my cunt. To top all that off, the idea that putting violence
INSIDE my body prevents violence strikes me as sadly absurd: if
I walk around with a dangerous weapon inside me all day, how am
I safe? How am I more at peace? Ugh.
The Good: Getting an unexpected call from Mark last Friday afternoon, who
had some time when not on set, and had read the last entry, to
give me a completely sincere and wonderful reaffirmation talk,
and to remind me that he's as proud to be with me as I am with
him (as well as to determine that he may need to come up with
a better analogy for the musculature of my backside than to say
one could bounce a Buick off of it, though I still say the Buick-bouncing
suffices just fine: I overshare like this, for the record, to
provide all y'all some levity for the hearts and flowers. You
can thank me later).
The Good: Before said phonecall, spending all afternoon biking, including
a majority of time spent riding with Becca, with a brief shopping
stop and a pause for a sandwich and a glass of wine. And boy,
am I glad I took advantage of that sunny day, since it has rained
nonstop nearly every day since then. |
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Transforming the Ugly into the Good: Here's a question I'm tossing out to all of you. It has struck
me that I have quite a few opportunities with this book to change
the nomenclature used when it comes to sex. If the book gets big,
I can coin phrases and bring them into common use fairly easily:
I have this power. (Of course, I've had this power before, with
words like "femmerotic," but that was unintentional, and thus
less satisfying.) One phrase that bugs the holy hell out of me
is "vaginal penetration." The phrase doesn't just bug me for the
likely obvious reason of the prefix "pene" being penis, even when
there's no penises involved. The big reason it bugs me is that
it is simply inaccurate. Anyone who has entered a willing, aroused
and hungry vagina, be it with a penis, with a dildo, with hands
and fingers, with a mouth, what have you, knows that the vagina
is not a passive thing; that when one enters it with glad permission,
it pulls, it envelops, it embraces, it holds what enters it. SO
many women, especially young women, approach sex passively, and
it's so terribly destructive -- not to mention simply unenjoyable
-- that it seems to me that changing that nomenclature might do
us all a big service. Plus, who the heck says, "Penetrate me?"
So: what's a good alternative? "Entry" strikes me as workable,
but it's lacking a certain something, and still does not sound
as active as I'd like. It can't be anything too cornball or floaty,
or it won't catch. It will have to be able to be used without
sounding terribly salacious, and in contexts like "During vaginal _________, it is important that a woman be well-lubricated," blah blah blah. But it'll also, to work, need to be able to be
used informally, and preferably, between partners, as in, "Give me those hands, baby, and let's ________ ."
Ideas?
The Good: Checking out a new sangha with my friend Heather Tuesday night,
one far closer than my last one. I'm also feeling a lot better
about the issues of championing, and thanks so much to those of
you which such lovely, supportive words for me. They were sincerely
appreciated.
The Bad: There just need to be more hours in a day, because I really feel
I should be able to do all of the things I need to do in a week,
even though I recognize at this point that that is asking a lot.
It is looking at some point like something may have to give, but
in the same vein, in just a couple of weeks, the book revisions
will be off my desk again for a good month and a half or more,
so that should help. However, I had this silly idea that I could
take a break after that. That's silly, because the idea that there
is time for a break when I need to fit in photo clients, my own
photo work and artwork, training at least two to three times a
week, teaching boxing at least once a week, running Scarleteen
full-time, keeping the sites updated, doing extra activist work,
seeing my friends, having the romance of my lifetime AND doing
funny stuff like laundry, eating and getting adequate sleep is
a little half-baked. Thus, the only solution seems to be to lobby
for more hours, as I'm having a hard time finding anything nonessential
in that list I could let go of without being a Very Unhappy Heather.
The Bad: It really needs to stop raining. if I have to ride my bike to
errands one more time and get wet and frozen, I'm going to get
crabby. yesterday, I swore my hands were going to fall off and
my ass was going to start melting away from being so wet so incessantly
for so many days running. Yesterday, a car also almost hit me
on the way back from a hair appointment and a quick glass of wine
with Sy afterwords, which was scary as hell. I comforted myself
on the way home by stating that at least I'd have died with really
good hair. of course, with y luck, it'll finally stop raining
when I go to Seattle next week.
The Good:...which is in six days. Six. Days. And if seeing the love of
my life wasn't good enough, I also get to see Jane. And Jhames.
And Lauren and Emira. And Molly. And Jonothon. And Becka. And
Peter. And Ross and Carolyn. And spend a day out in rural heaven
talking feminism with Cheryl, with whom there is no need for me
to tone myself down in any way. And there's a hot tub at Mark's.
With Mark in it. And an airport for smooching wildly in before
that. In six days. Six. Days.
SIX. DAYS.
The Good: You -- YOU - are a marvel. An unflappable, resilient, magic-making, problem-solving,
roll-with-the-punches-smiling marvel. That the challenges that
have cropped up in your work which would have made lesser beings
fall to their knees, fists flailing in the air helplessly, are
things you have not only taken in stride and miraculously resolved,
but which hardly seem to faze you, is incredible. That you can
weather all of that and still end each day telling me the sweetest
things imaginable, in all sincerity, is miraculous. That you can
juggle all you do and still have the want and the energy to pep
talk me on my own windmill tilting, how supportive you are in
all that I do, unconditionally, is a fantastically new experience
for me. That on top of all THAT you also happen to be creative,
whipsmart, funny, sweet as sugar, sexy as hell, damn good with
your hands, AND the best kisser in the whole world (well, besides
me, that is) and call yourself mineminemine is a mighty fine deal, I gotta say. I miss you much, sugar,
even though I feel you with me much of the time. And I am chomping
at the bloody it to see you. I'd suggest you wear protective padding
at the airport this time round, especially since I have a longer
running start than I did the last time. Sono il vostro, mio, per
ora e per sempre. Or, in plain English: I got you, babe, and vice-versa.
But please, don't start singing, or I might have to think of something
-- gee, whatever could I do? -- to shut you up.
The Good amidst The Ugly: You, my dear, are also a marvel. That you're surrounded by all of
the awful crap you've had to be to do the book and are more devoted
than ever to difficult, if not impossible, cultural change --
even when the stuff is so awful to face and look at in depth that
it'd be understandable to be wordless and weeping -- is amazing.
I'm so, so proud to call you my friend, Hanne. (And on that note,
happy seven years of friendship, lady: can you believe it? It's
been an excellent adventure, and my life and work would not have
been the same without you in it.)
The Bad: I gotta shove off now, because it'll be a sodding miracle if
I can get finished all I need to before I leave town next week.
The editing and revisions are coming along decently, especially
now that I have hired a part-time editorial assistant, but I still
have six chapters of thirteen which I am bound and determined
to finish revising before I leave. I also still am in dire need
of quotes for the book, the surveys are barely trickling in, despite having an announcement
up in many places at Scarleteen, which is viewed by over 10,000
damned people a day. (I also need readers for this round of edits,
so anyone interested this time should give me a holler.) So, if
any of you care to distribute the call, please, please feel free.
Today I'm hoping to take advantage of a rare solid nine hours
of sleep and finish revising at least two more, preferably three.
I'd much rather wax poetic about my sweetie or make pretty pictures
than grapple with how to present gender and body image issues
and explain HPV transmission clearly, if you must know, but so
it goes. |
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May 6th, Two Thousand Five: Lest you get the mistaken idea I've lost my big heart-on as you
read on, I assure you, I have done no such thing. The veritable
fount of somewhat incoherent insecurity that follows isn't because
anything is wrong in my love life: that, m'dears, has never, ever
been better. (But I confess, I find it sweet as hell that when
friends have called or messaged this week and caught me feeling
downtrodden, that their first concern is that there is suddenly
trouble in paradise, and how relieved everyone has been to discover
that isn't at all so.)
In fact, during our last four hour phone conversation, the primary
topic was how we're clearly the greatest couple of all time. The
last email he asked me to send was The Story of Us I tell people
who ask me for it, because it makes him happy. So, big no with
any troubles there.
Now that Mark has an original proof of this in his hands, and
I got a better scan of it, albeit with some trimming (and the
annoying fact that the multi-layer photography pieces simply do
not scan or photograph with the depth or detail they have in person),
I can flop this small version up here for you as evidence:
Yeah, still just a bit awed, overwhelmed and giddy. It's all good.
But per work? Sometimes, I feel I am a very poor choice of champion.
Especially lately.
Every now and then I'm reminded that a big part of what I do --
namely with the young adult sex education -- is act as advocate,
as protector, as champion, sometimes even as a warrior, for an
insanely large and underrepresented group of people. This group
has to some degree assigned me the roles, simply by virtue of
coming to me or my sites in the volume they do daily, looking
to me for answers or information or defense before looking to
anyone else. In part, both by answering those calls, as it were,
and by choosing to start and continue to the work I have, I have
set myself here.
In a word, editing and revising this book is not a fun task for
me. I am having a helluva time with it, and am flying very much
solo in the process. It's not just the usual gripes about editing
-- it being difficult to see what to change when something feels
finished, having to part with things you've written have value,
but just don't belong in a given place, and the fact that as a
writer, not an editor (though yes, I have assumed the position,
as it were, many times in several venues), the initial writing
is the fun part, not this slash and burn, spit and polish stuff.
It's not just that some days, I can look up at the clock and read
3:00, then look up again and have it say 9:00 and not only know
where those hours went (editing a whole five paragraphs), but
feel like I didn't accomplish nearly enough, and bow howdy, do
I feel the clock ticking.
In this case, it's the matter of editing knowing I am going to
need to defend so damn much of it: to my editor and publisher,
to adults and the media, to certain groups, to bookstores, the
whole lot. One of the tricky things with this book is that I'm
basing what is in it primarily on being perhaps the one person
in the world who has heard/read from more young adults on this
topic than anyone else ever has. For starters, hell if I know
how that happened. I look at my count just for replies on the
message boards alone, and I can see that I have answered almost
17,000 individual questions since 2000. That doesn't factor in
how many posts and letters I have read but have not personally
answered. That doesn't factor in the insane number of young adults
over the years who have read ME, which is in the millions at this
point. I know, all too well, what questions a pretty large segment
of young adults want answered about sex. I have an incredibly
good handle on what they, as a group, do and don't know, do and
don't prioritize, do and do not experience. I think at this point
I'm a bit of a pro in terms of knowing what approaches do and
don't often work, what tone and timbre works best in communicating
these things with them, and what is required of me to earn their
respect and their trust.
Thing is, most adults don't know these things. Even those who
are in-classroom teachers, for instance, are often limited in
experience by things like their usual age group, their country
or town, and limited numbers of students experienced. I think
it's fair to say that the vast majority of adults, even those
who think otherwise, even those we'd think would get it, have
very, very little idea of the realities of experience and needs
when it comes to young adult sexuality. An a great lot of the
time, what is known is very much seen through a completely subjective
lens, and tainted -- for lack of a better term -- with their own
sexual experiences, with their own desires, with their own memories
of being a teenager, and with their own agendas and politics.
(Which is not to say I am somehow miraculously free of these things
that shackle everyone else: not at all, the difference is simply
that to do what I do to the degree I do it, I have to appraise
myself of them constantly and put them away a whole lot. I have
a lot of practice with this.)
You know, there are actual, cogent reasons as to why the whole
Buffy/Angel series sucked me in when I both am not a TV owner
and have never been a TV watcher. (There are many reasons for
this actually, this is but one, and possibly the most easily defensible.)
Both series dealt a whole honkin' lot with being a "chosen one,"
with being a champion. Both very nicely dealt, on many occasions,
with questioning one's qualification or ability to wield that
role or status, and that power, and feeling unprepared or unworthy
of it at times. Both dealt a good deal with feeling totally burnt
out by it.
(Non-Buffy geeks may want to glaze over and tune out.)
Season six, where Buffy gets turned invisible and actually quite
enjoys it? Oh yeah. The whole last season of Angel? Tell me about
it. Prophecy Girl? You betcha. Buffy's massive frustration at
the end of season seven with both being in charge when SO many
of the folks looking to her could handle things on their own AND
her realizations about her enabling some of that helplessness
by not delegating? They're playing my song. Season Five of Buffy,
where her big conflict is recognizing that, in Glory, there is
a Big Bad who simply has more power than she can combat on her
own, even though that Big Bad is a really stupid, vapid idiot?
Oh, honey.
(Non-Buffy geeks, you may tune back in now.)
And I have to confess, I am not fully comfortable as a role model,
especially for young adults. I'm a gadfly, all too often, and
I don't know that it's something I'd wish on them, because it's
lonely aand risky as hell. I've hardly lived my life by the most
generic sort of judeo-christian, middle-american standards. My
own adolescence would make not only a lot of parents cringe, but
even a whole lot of teens now, especially since I'm unapologetic
about it and feel, in fact, that however unorthodox, when I was
actually living outside the awfulness of those years, I had quite
a good time and wouldn't likely redo a thing given the chance.
I swear like a sailor, I likes me my tequila, and calling me a
libertine would not be entirely out of order, however mindful
and compassionate a libertine I might be. I clean up nice, sure,
but. But.
I know full well that everything I do and am is NOT considered
harmonious with the work I do with young adults, that there are
plenty of people for whom, for instance, the fact that I've written
and published erotica, that I have created pornography, that I
do work in photography with the nude body, with sexuality, and
worse still, my OWN nude body and sexuality is a Big Problem.
I know these things aren't problems for me, but then, I know my
own agenda, I don't have to wonder, for instance, if I'm doing
teen sex education work to lure them into a snare net so that
they'll be comfy enough with themselves to make me rich by buying
a $25 print someday or a book I don't get royalties from or a
$7.95 site subscription. I know this is not my aim because I can
get inside my own head: no one else can, so I have to accept that
for some people, no matter what I say, no matter the value of
my word and my credibility, I do not have the power to instill
in them the absolute knowledge of my good intentions. I've run
into this on many occasions over the years, and most of the time,
there really is just no convincing those people (meeting me in
person does seem to make a bit of a difference, though I suspect
that's only because of my being a small, freckly person who smiles
a lot, uses polysyllabic words and isn't coated in a vat of makeup
or juggling giant breast implants.)
As well, I certainly don't feel that my life choices have been
or are the best life choices for plenty of people: I'm fairly
unusual in many respects, and I feel pretty confident saying that
some of the things -- sexually, professionally, interpersonally
-- that are good fits for me, that are things I am interested
in pursuing or have pursued probably SHOULD not be mimicked by
a good many people, because likely they wouldn't work out so well,
or even be particularly healthy.
I think the truth is: I'm scared.
The closer this book gets to finish, the more scared I get. Mind
you, it's not like a big reach is anything new to me: it's entirely
possible the book will be read by LESS people than have or do
read my work online. But it'll be out there to different people,
different groups, than it has been online, and it will likely
put me more in the limelight than I have been, a place I really
don't like to be. Certainly, I'm scared of more harassment, or
more direct harassment, than I've dealt with before, and of course,
being human and possessing an ego, I'm scared it'll flop and be
called total garbage and all this work will be for naught. I'm
scared of losing more of my privacy or being called out into the
world as a wanton charlatan, and falling apart and weeping in
front of the whole world when or if it happens. I'm scared of
falling on my face, of feeling differently in a while about certain
things than I do now: heck, even in the past five years, my feelings
about plenty of things have changed, and by virtue of working
with them publicly, how I once felt is documented and cemented
in places, and answering to those things can be tricky. For instance,
my stance on BDSM has changed quite a lot over the years, as has
my stance on certain types of pornography and the industry as
a whole: and one of the hardest parts with things like that is
when once-allies would not be again, simply because I do not agree
with them, or, more aptly, am not validating or championing their
personal choices. I know full well that right now, my politics
and my approaches are such that while the religious right sure
the hell wouldn't want me on board, that plenty of sex-poz folks
have found and likely will continue to find that they don't want
to claim me either, because I'm not of the "everything sexually
is okay so long as everyone says it is," school, nor of the frame
of reference that the biggest trouble with women being orgasmic
or sexually satisfied is because they aren't touching their clits
the right way, getting enough recepetive oral sex or watching
the right kind of porn: I'm more inclined to think it has way
more to do with power dynamics, with economics, with gender politics,
with physical and emotional health and with simply carrying too
much of an unrecognized load in daily life. But that's a bigger
topic for another day.
All those fears are seriously secondary to the fear that I will
simply be, or am, a crap champion. That I will have somehow erred
in representing young adults, in providing for them as best I
can, that I am steering them in the wrong direction without realizing
it, or that I will inadvertently put them in harm's way when I'm
over here thinking I'm keeping them from it. I'm scared to death
that between now and when the book lands on the shelves I will
lose in battles to have certain information I know in my heart
and mind is essential and important kept in it. I'm scared of
my best intentions, my skills as a warrior, as an advocate, as
an educator, as someone who simply cares a whole, awful lot not
being good enough.
I know I can go to the mat for one person -- I'd even be comfortable
saying any one person, so long as my heart is in it -- and "win." I know
I'm good enough, driven enough, stubborn enough and strong enough
to do that. For one person at a time. Doing it for so many people
at once is not only often overwhelming, it is sometimes downright
terrifying, and makes me want to crawl under the nearest rock
and hide out for a couple decades, or toss aside everything I
do to go start a small farm in a small town in a country where
I don't speak the language, and I'm only known as the lady who
grows the tasty roma tomatoes and has a cute dog.
It's tricky for me, because people I respect immensely do have
a helluva lot of faith in me, and DO think I'm not only up to
the task, but the rightest person for it. Sometimes, I agree with
them. Sometimes I think they're on crack (and I sure wish they'd
stop being so damn stingy with it), or that I've somehow managed
to really pull the wool over their eyes.
I can work through this: I can. I can even keep on working having
these doubts and fears in my head. And deep down, I know that
my insecurities are unfounded, and that I AM capable of the things
people think me capable of, likely even more so. But I do have
to acknowledge the fears, they are real, they do keep me awake
at night sometimes, and speaking them out loud makes me feel less
alone in all of this, because it is a very lonely journey much
of the time, and one I find very few people can relate to.
Gah.
* * *
In other news, the next two weeks look to be exceptionally full,
even by my standards. I went ahead and hired and assistant for
at least the next month, to help me with the book and other Scarleteen
stuff. Since it's a friend I've worked for myself, we already
have a good work reppor, and in just two days last week, a helluva
lot was accomplished. If I keep to schedule, with Brandon's help,
I anticipate that by the time I leave for Seattle (in less than two weeks, woot!) I'll have a solid rough revised version completed, per the existing
chapters. That'll lave me with frontmatter and summaries, the
addition of YA quotes and some administrative shit for the days
I have some hours to work in Seattle and when I get back.
I need to finish editing a set I shot Wednesday today and tomorrow,
and need to finish a big pile of photo work for two clients in
the next week.
Saturday, I have to substitute teach kickboxing early, then an
hour after that, we do a beta version of the kids class that is
finally getting started. After that, my friend Becka is in from
Olympia and we need to do some photos for her then have hangout
time.
Plus, I am still short a housesitter for the cats while I'm out
of town, something that is stressing me out and annoying the hell
out of me, because I find I'm feeling grossly resentful of a lot
of people I've asked to do it, as most of the folks I have asked
are folks I have done plenty of favors for myself, and throwing
food at my cats and water at my plants just seems like a really
miniscule task.
My ulcer, unfortunately, has been reminding me that 20 years later,
it's still here for me, a clear indicator of my high stress levels.
Some of the trouble with me is that when I get stressed out and
start to get ill, I'm never quite sure what to do that I don't
do already. I already eat more healthily than nearly anyone else
I know, I already train incessantly -- punching and kicking things,
no less, though I could probably stand to get punched in the face
less often than I have in the last two weeks -- I get outside
to walk, bike and just enjoy the air plenty. I don't drive, and
I don't wallow. I meditate regularly. When I get this busy, stressed
and overtaxed, I have gotten a lot better at saying "Nonono" to
friends and friends of friends asking for help or favors or counseling
or time (though I really wish people would stop asking quite so
much so I didn't even have to decline so often, truth be told).
In the last year, I've even, however painfully, cut some people
out of the inner circle of my life who clearly were just bad for
me. I have play time, but how much of that I can get is limited
by how much work needs be done. I engage in the simple, little
things that please me: I take long baths, tend to the plants,
commune with the piano and my voice daily, play with the pets,
read, do artwork for no one but me, roll in the grass, whack off
a lot, have nice meals, and so forth. Sleep is always a bit of
an issue: I am inclined to insomnia and not getting enough of
it.
Did get a solid nine hours last night: Mark is off on set for
a film he's producing for the next few days and they're remote
night shoots, so our late-night phone talks are out. My heart
and my mind will miss them, and it was weird not talking last
night, but my body appears to need a break, so perhaps the next
few days will show some improvement in the way I feel. Now and
then, I do need reminding that I'm nothing close to 21 anymore.
I think I see my friends often enough. Becca and I went and saw
Hitchhiker's last night, which was great fun, following my ex-girlfriend's
birthday party and a dinner down the block. (Okay, so parts of
the party weren't all that fun, especially the bit where I was
asked to answer, more than once, on "not being a lesbian anymore,"
which is infuriating on several accounts. One, I have never identified
as lesbian in the first place: I've ID'd as a dyke, which I still
do for that matter, I've stated at given times that I am only
dating women (and at other times in my life, before I started
publishing online, that I was only dating men) and two, I'm just
bored with the adjustments everyone seems to need to make every
time I date someone of a given gender, even though I have been
dating people of all genders my whole life. It's tiresome, silly
and usually not even about issues of any import, but about lame,
surfacey stuff. Bleh.)
Anyway, other than all of the above stress-reducers, I've no idea
what to do. I'm off to the dentist shortly -- finally for just
a sodding cleaning, not for more goddamn surgery -- and I'll nab
my bike so I can take a long spin afterwards in the sun (scratch that: see, stress makes me spaced-out and stupid: thankfully
they just called to remind me the app't was MONDAY, not today). I'm having an early supper with a friend I haven't seen in a
couple weeks later on. Plus, in a mere 13 days I will have nearly
a full week in Seattle with the keeper of my heart, including
a day or two where we just climb in the car, start driving and
explore the landscape with no plans of where to land or what to
do whatsoever. So, to say the least, I expect that to be helpful.
I'll also have the chance to see Jhames and other friends, and
a day out on farmland with a feminist role model and friend of
mine. I just need to get there and stay well in the interim.
(Have I mentioned yet today, by the by, how extraordinary my boyfriend
is? How talented and capable and driven and energetic and brilliant
and funny and clever and demonstrative AND sweet AND sexy AND
how much he adores me AND how fuckin' lucky I am? Lalalalalalalala.
I guess I have, now.)
And with that, the nearly seventy-degree weather, the sun, my
trusty too-big and falling-apart cargo shorts, my bike and the
open road are calling. I think it's high time for something other
than my brain to be muddy. |
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April 29th, Two Thousand Five: Okay, I've been good for two whole entries per the gushing. I've
even had conversations with friends about Other Topics. More than
once, even. Like, several times, and everything.
I could write today about how much it sucks when you're a space
cadet and forget to block during a fast, powerful bout of elbow
strikes from your training partner who is twice your size, and
how, with a fat lip when your lips are fat already, you end up
looking like Melanie Griffith after a bar fight. I could write
today about how chuffed I am that I just hired some help for the
next month with book revising, data organization for it, and rereading
my edits, and how awesome it is that my grant enables me to do
this. I could write about how bloody brilliant and moving Hanne's
speech for the U of Delaware this week was. I could write about
how much I love my best friend, even when she's having a hard
day, and how she really is family to me. I could write about the
fact that for the first time since 1987, I got through the last
two weeks of April without awful flashbacks, terrible bouts of
weeping, profound sorrow and an endless litany of "what-ifs."
I could write about how depressing it is to me when I get email
from women who want to have me take their photo asking if I could
"make them sexy" or "work miracles and make them beautiful," or
about how additionally depressing it is when I see search strings
in my site logs like "how women are supposed to look."
(Maybe I need a form letter for the "make me beautiful" requests,
answering that yes, I do have this amazing power, with a list
of instructions like "Go outside, take a deep breath and loudly
shout, "Ha!" Spend an afternoon with an 80-year-old woman and
listen to her stories, then spend the next afternoon with a five-year-old
and ask them to explain something mysterious to you, like the
moon or love or why monkeys like bananas so much. Eat a piece
of ripe fruit with infinite slowness. Roll down a green hill again
and again until you're dizzy. Tell a bad joke. Hug a friend fiercely.
Take a chance. Help someone out. Sprint down the block, just because
you can. Throw away your TV. Smile.")
I could even write about The Great Orientation Shift, Version
3.0 (and how funny it was a couple months ago, to watch a friend
and ex-lover keel over laughing, nearly unable to breathe, when
some silly sod suggested I might be becoming heterosexual, after
almost 25 years of being more bent than a bendy straw).
See, there are plenty of Other Topics, and then some. And yet.
I finished what I feel is an incredible piece of art early this
week, which I'd love to show you, but will have to wait until
Mark sees the original because it's utterly inspired by our stuff,
and until I can get a better photograph of it, because the ones
I took stink -- it's hard to photograph the multi-layer pieces
right. I can, however, show you (and him, indirectly) the text
that illuminated the art:
- inside our uncharted hothouse,
i bloom, indelicate.
astonished and full i open, without question or doubt
(when a mystery is too overpowering, one dare not disobey)
within your hands,
beneath your eyes,
i unfold a crimson, ecstatic display
& all the pink tongues
of my body, mouths of my heart and mind
are humid and hungry
to seek you out at sunrise to enthrall and dazzle;
on stubborn slumber at day's end
drifts a heady, nascent want
to tightly twine and tangle.
(I do find it not at all surprising that the more my work develops,
the more all of my Blake influence and study rears its whimsical
head, per the pairing or visual art and text. It's fascinating
to me how organic these pairings are, and how much for those pieces,
one without the other is truly incomplete. No matter what work
I'm doing, I have to say that I never regret my years of Blake
study, and I always find a thousand ways it has influenced everything.)
It is entirely new to me, and completely mysterious, to find my
heart in something without a speck of fear, apprehension or doubt.
It is bizarre as hell not to find myself analyzing this to death,
as if pretty much always my wont in everything (damn brain, always
on), especially romantic relationships. That either of us looks
at a photo of the other, hears the other's voice, or just thinks
about the other being out there and real, and an instant peace
is provided; this amazes and mystifies me. On the one hand, sometimes
all of this stuff doesn't seem real, or like it could be, and
yet it actually feels realer than... well, pretty much anything
ever has.
Last week, Jane rang me up from outside a club where she, Mark
and a friend of his were standing outside, waiting to see Over
the Rhine. Jane had somehow misplaced her ticket or some such,
and she was calling to ask me to help her convince Mark to just
let her leave, as she felt bad, and go in himself so he didn't
miss the show. Instead, he was waiting on someone else to try
and choreograph a fix for the situation. I had told her that not
only would I dream of trying to convince him to do otherwise,
because there was no way he'd not try and fix it (and he's as
stubborn as another freckleface we know), but that I'd actually
suggest instead she DID wait, with a modicum of faith in his amazing
day-saving powers, because the boy's got them in spades and I
know this to be true. He is a magic-maker. And lo, he DID save
the day. I got to be all "Aha! See? That's my guy."
It's new to me -- and really enjoyable -- to feel this strong
pride; to be proud not just of someone, but so proud to be with
someone. That likely sounds as if I haven't had respect for other
people I've been with, or didn't have pride in them, but that's
not the case. This is just differently flavored, perhaps because
the pride is so mutual, or perhaps just because it's bigger, I
don't know. It's amusing to me that I can sit here, waking up,
drinking my coffee (and yes, out of the Seattle mug, you big silly),
wearing his shirt and feel him all around me, feel at home in
him, in all of this, even though he's miles and miles away. Sometimes
that feeling is so pervasive, that I feel like I'll turn around
and he'll be right there, while I'm out on the streets here somewhere,
even though I know that's not the case. It's odd to be involved
with someone who is so far away, and to miss them, absolutely,
but for that missing not to be especially painful: being in each
other's presence would certainly be ideal, but most of the time,
just knowing this exists, that he's out there and adores me is
also enough; is in and of itself more than I ever anticipated
or expected and just bloody brilliant. I feel LUCKY. It is WACKY. I never feel lucky in this regard. I rarely feel
lucky, period.
(In fact, Jane and I were discussing lifespans on the phone yesterday,
and I was remarking that when doctors have asked for life and
health history in my family, I could only give them information
for one side, because for at least a good four generations of
my father's family, exactly NO ONE has gotten the chance to die
a natural, or even a nonviolent, death. So, when asked if anything
runs in that side of the family in that regard, the only answer
I can ever give is "Yeah: really, really bad luck.")
On a fairly regular basis, I think about this, and I experience
the same sensation I have when I've been in the presence of some
amazing natural beauty. For instance, it's like how I felt at
the start of a big night storm at the most southern end of England
fifteen years ago, standing on the very edge of a high cliff,
staring at the most beautiful full moon, feeling the wind actually
hold me up from falling over: my eyes widen and water, I gasp
a little, I feel my breath catch, my heart race and experience
what I figure to be pure awe and unadulterated wonder.
So, you perhaps understand why it's just a little bit difficult
to talk about other things when I do take some time off working
to write here or hang with friends. And why right now, the Other
Topics are simply quite lacking.
Dear You,
See above. And 20 days, lover. And I adore you, as you know, but
perhaps more than you know. |
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April 26th, Two Thousand Five: Some days, I truly cannot help but be convinced that someone,
somewhere -- who thinks himself or herself very funny -- has a
video camera set on me and choreographs the most ludicrous, clumsy,
frustrating things to fall upon me just because I'm so well cast
for them.
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Without an entire litany of events, let's just say that yesterday
was a big bowl of nonstop kee-razy.
There were frantic events and more than one call here for some
form of rescue, a workday which started at 8 and ended just after
midnight, and I was nearly set on fire by the gargantuan boiler
downstairs in trying to reset it. I was convinced, as huge gusts
of flames shot out around my feet, I was being sent to the firey
hell I'm destined for slightly before schedule. The day's finale
had me on the headset phone with Mark very late, trying to get
undressed around the cords while talking, and only realizing,
once naked as a jaybird (hey: aren't ALL birds naked?), that I'd
forgotten to close the curtains between the bedroom and the sunroom
and all the bedroom lights were on.
This was brought to my attention by the man in a lit window across
the street who gave me a thumbs-up. Bugger all.
No big news to pass on from Chez Corinna: I'm still goofy, twitterpatted,
amazed and spaztastic. I have a mountain of work still before
me (despite making a huge dent in it yesterday among the assorted
mania) the rest of the week that leaves even me overwhelmed. I'm
having to eschew a social life almost entirely for the next couple
weeks. Prezzies for my secret agent loverboi masquerading as site
updates finished, as seen at right. Book revisions with a book
this size and this loaded blow chunks, and having hit a wall today,
with uncooperative weather per allowing me a head-clearing bike
ride, I've decided it's best to visit a welcome alternative. |
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I will simply turn from the desk here to the studio table there
and make some tangible art for a few hours, listening to old jazz,
order a vegan pizza obese with garlic thereafter and see if all
that doesn't give me the spark I need to re-explain pregnancy
as if it were Cliff's Notes, reduce the body image chap further
than I already have (suffice it to say having to put the body
image chapter on a forced diet is something of a pained irony),
and find other things I can cut without feeling like I've served
a limb or basic social responsibility entire.
Yep, pizza, paper under my hands, naked bodies, pretty flowers,
the ringer turned OFF -- and the curtains closed, thanks much
-- maybe even a nice bath later (Kara, btw: thanks for the bath
goodies!) sounds just about right. |
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April 24th, Two Thousand Five: I was thinking of someone in my life today who very much wants
to do certain things with her life, and asks for help to take
steps a lot, but when given those steps, never takes them: whatever
is suggested, or even clearly mapped out never has appeal. Instead,
she'll look to the loftiest stretch to take (while never taking
that either), and never even get started with the baby steps required
to get to where she wants to be.
I'm calling it quits on helping with this: networking for her,
getting more information for her at this point. I ultimately end
up taking more time doing this stuff for her than she takes using
it, which is just silly. Suffice it to say, I have plenty of lectures
and pep talks about taking all of those steps, persevering, slogging
through endlessly to try and get to where one wants to be. I've
long since stopped delivering them: they fall on deaf ears, and
my realism only seems to make her LESS prone to strive rather
than daydream.
But it struck me, when I almost said as much a few nights back,
that if, for instance, per Scarleteen and the teen sex ed work,
someone had said to me something like, "Well, are you willing to work for little to nothing, sometimes
even for free and SOMETIMES even pay out of your own pocket to
DO the work for at least seven years before you can actually have
a living wage doing it and sustain it?," that I do not know what I would have said. I can assure you I
would not have shouted out a "Hell, yeah!" no matter how dedicated I was to it at the get-go, and even though
I knew with that work, like most of what I do, making something
of it was going to be a serious challenge that required a fuck
of a lot of elbow grease and a minimum of several years for even
small successes or results. I probably would have still said yes,
but the truth is that when any of us get to a place where the
hardest sacrifices and such are largely over, and we ARE where
we want to be, or well en route, things look a little bit different.
When we have had the experiences of really slogging through the
muck and the mire for serious lengths of time, everything looks
so different in hindsight.
Mind you, growing up with it being very clear I was going to be
in some form of the arts, and being around enough people in the
arts from a young age, the message that I could do this my whole
life without a single sale, without ever being solvent, without
any recognition or success was a very real possibility was sent
loud and clear, and I believed it. I was never one of those kids
in art school who thought with any certainty that I simply knew
I'd beat the odds; I didn't. Growing up poor, you know you're
even more handicapped from the onset, and I was well aware of
those issues, too. Socio-economically speaking, Cinderella was
an incredibly unrealistic fable: her getting to go live in the
palace when her upper-class stepsisters did not is basically a
statistical impossibility. Here in the real world, they'd get
the move up, and Cinderella, if she got way lucky, might have
gotten a one-bedroom rambler in a marginal neighborhood and an
upgrade from indentured servitude to a minimum wage gig with a
cleaning service.
I forget, sometimes, to actually step back and see where I am.
It generally is only when I'm around someone directly, who I have
respect for, who is impressed with what I've done and what I continue
to do, who points out that I have actually done pretty well, and
moreover, on entirely my own terms. Certainly, I'm still living
below an income level a great many people enjoy. I don't have
a car, I don't have insurance, I don't own a house. But anymore,
I generally have the things I truly need. I eat well. My apartment
is lovely (even if some asshole did steal my bike seat and post
from the front of it this week: an affront I discovered when I
was half-awake, so it resulted in my shaking my fist at the sky
and shouting, "Oh YEAH?!? Well, I probably found TRUE LOVE, buster, and all
you got was MY LOUSY BIKE SEAT!"). I have to work way less hours than I did just a few years ago:
I can even take a bunch of days off in a row -- ALL the way off,
with no babysitting of any of the work -- when I want to without
a problem. When some aspect of the work just is not happening,
I often can let it be, without forcing it, and just wait it out
knowing the world won't end. I have some decent pairs of boots.
I can afford to train a couple times a week. I can afford my basic
healthcare: it is unreal to me that in the past three years I've
been to the dentist routinely, and while I have to budget for
it, it's doable. I can afford to live in a neighborhood that is
the best neighborhood I have lived in since I was thirteen years
old. At this point, I feel safe saying I will likely never have
to sleep on a park bench again, or be able to eat only a few times
a week, or panhandle for train fare to get to school or work again.
This year, for the first time since 1993, I can actually entertain
the idea of taking a real vacation at some point on entirely my
own steam. I can go ahead and take a trip to Seattle next month
to see my sweetie without going crazy to try and swing it. And
I didn't have to sell out in any way to do any of this. I just
had to keep on doing my thing patiently until things started falling
in place, I kept on enough, and some right place-right time-right
people stuff finally happened. Even if I'm not exactly where I'd
like to be, I can't forget that that's still pretty incredible.
I worry about taking things for granted, so it's always a shocker
to me when I realize that I have, even for a moment. Some of that
probably is that a rare few of us really want to dwell on how
down and out we have been at other times, at how hard certain
things or times of our lives have been. When we're out of the
Big Yuck, we obviously want to enjoy the good things we have,
not compare them to the bad places we once were. Of course, realizing
that even with hard work, we've been blessed with doing well,
with good luck, with being better off than we once were also means
we have to realize it might not always be so good, and just as
rare a few of us want to dwell on that.
* * *
I have similar concerns right now on the love life front. Oddly,
I have little to no concerns about this whole works whatsoever,
which is entirely new terrain for me. For whatever reason, all
my usual anxieties about romantic relationships, that pretty much
always come into play from the get-go, just aren't present. I
have been staving off a little of my typical worry about something
terrible happening to Mark, but given my life history, I'm not
sure that that one is ever going to go away when I have real feelings
and cares for someone. I know too well that the worst-case paranoid
scenarios not only do happen, but that sometimes, things worse
than you happen. But it's manageable.
I do, though, worry about taking this for granted, even for a
minute. It feels so different from anything before in so many
ways -- all very good ways -- and the energy we have going on,
the way we communicate, even wordlessly, and the feeling of connection
I experience, even half a country apart is unexpected, profound
and dizzying. Having aspects of myself both accepted and celebrated
that have often in the past been ignored, resented or battled
is amazing, and feeling the same easy acceptance and celebration
of someone else's many facets is equally stellar. But I'm not
sure I ever want to get used to it, or find myself not fully appreciating
every moment, because I don't want to ever forget, no matter what
happens, how incredibly rare it is. There are still moments --
cheeseball as it sounds -- where I'm not entirely certain I'm
not dreaming, because thus far, it's so completely surpassed my
expectations of what might have been out there for me with another
person. This is an absolute treasure.
* * *
I have been facing a little weirdness in my life interpersonally,
this given. Suffice it to say, it's a bit hard for me to talk
about much else. Not only is my head and heart all wrapped up
in this, right now, the only other things I really have to talk
about are book editing and revisions -- which are exciting for
no one, including me, and the struggles I have been having in
the process actually need to be fairly confidential -- client
photo shoots -- also less than thrilling -- boxing and the weather.
I have some art projects in my mind, but they're embryonic right
now, and too half-formed to discuss.
That given, and my glow and exuberance about this given, there's
been some jealousy. Not so much that I have this: anyone who knows
me even marginally well has some idea of my relationship history
and the fact that if one does have to earn the good stuff with
crap, I've done so a thousand times over. It's more a matter of
people who are ex-lovers or ex-partners, or who have had or do
have some romantic interest in me being clearly -- some to the
degree of voicing such -- sad that I feel the way I do now with
someone else when I did not/do not feel this way with them. Statements
I might say to provide comfort like, "But I've never felt this
way about anyone else, ever," really aren't all that comforting,
so I'm mostly left mute and shrugging. For a couple of those in
this camp who directly experienced how we are together last weekend,
it's been additionally difficult. I don't like to think in being
happy I'm also in any way being hurtful to anyone else, and I
don't like to see people I care for or have cared for feeling
shafted or robbed in any way, but I also want to fully experience
my joy right now, so it's been a precarious juggle.
The gender weirdness, at least, seems to be largely over in my
immediate community: I started dealing with that when I came back
from the UK in December, and some of it was incredibly heavy duty
and awful, which is a big part of why I felt not at all comfortable
discussing it publicly. When lots of people close to me, or just
who know me in person, were....well, not handling it at all gracefully,
weathering the potential weirdness of thousands of people on top
of that -- and my own struggles with it -- was just WAY too much
to set myself up for. I must have a pile of about fifteen different,
insanely lengthy journal entries trying to address all that stuff,
each one given up on or restarted when I got whacked upside the
head with someone's new dysfunction about it, crappy approach
to it, or bizarre investment in the gender or genitals of who
I choose to be with. At some point, it's something I'll pontificate
about here in detail, no doubt, but since I'm still putting it
all together myself and since I'm just still not up to more weirdness
in that regard, especially en masse, for now it's on the shelf.
* * *
It's a funny thing when one wants to shout the great stuff from
the rooftops in terms of a personal relationship. What the rooftop
is for most people is a vastly different landscape than it is
when you've got as many ears as I do on an average day. Most folks'
rooftop is my skyscraper. In some regard, I have to worry less
about privacy issues now than I have before, because the person
I'm with has pride, rather than shame, in what I do and who I
am, so anyone knowing they're with me is a good thing, not a scary
one (which is so amazing, I can't begin to tell you). But I also
feel protective of it: I want many of our moments to remain only
ours, and I don't want to sully any of it in any way. This is
such new terrain for me that I'm feeling out what to do as I go,
feeling oddly like I could in no way screw this up so long as
I'm just being myself, like no rules or precedents from before
apply, but not convinced there aren't ways to screw it up I just
don't know yet because it's so different.
But I -- we, boy it's weird to be a we -- want to share some of it, too. That said, we did agree on
a photograph for public consumption we're comfy with, feel sums
matters up quite nicely and which makes us both sigh gladly.
So, there you are, kids. A collective "Awwwwww," is required.
I -- again, we -- do ask that in comments and emails and such
folks refrain from bringing up things like moving and marriage
and kids and all that mishegoss. Not only is that ungodly premature,
but it just isn't something in the nature of our relationship
now, and who knows if it will ever be: any of those things certainly
aren't norms for my character (I live alone by preference and
choice, remember?). We're both intensely eccentric, independent, driven,
freewheeling, in-the-moment people, and we've really been enjoying
those commonalties, as well as the heady, weightless rush of a
still-very-young courtship. No buzzkill, please. |
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Folks bringing THAT stuff up tends to make us both really uncomfortable
(and hey: we DO want to have sex again, okay? Jesus, keep yer baby-talk
far, FAR away from my bedroom: even I feel that cockblock, and
mine are both detachable AND infertile), and personally, for me, that sort of thing is not acceptable
public discussion, because it involves very private, and often
untold, parts of my life and history -- and a certain level of
heterosexism and some poopy gender assumptions, to boot -- I'm
not down with discussing here, or having be discussed about me.
So, boundaries.
And I'm off to get a shoot in today. While creating yet another
installment of our back-and-forth post wooing last week, it struck
me as a big bummer that there was plenty of sex work out there,
but very little love work. In other words, my silly little self
was thinking that really, I should be able to make a living courting
my boyfriend (and you can guess how hard my inner feminist slapped
me for that one).
But it struck me, then, that on a lot of levels, that's exactly
what a great majority of the work that I've done creatively over
the years HAS been, especially the work I've felt I really did
well. I'm the big talker about sex not living well in a vacuum,
about unionizing sex, and love and personal history and identity
and all the aspects of our being into a harmonious whole. Ultimately,
when my work feels most right to me, that's exactly what I have
been doing, it's just usually not to anyone specific, but a communal
call out to the world, courting the energy I've felt in many different
ways, big ones and small ones, specific and nonspecific, and what
I think CAN be out there.
What I know now can be. And damn if knowing that -- rather than
suspecting -- isn't wacky as hell and pretty much the coolest
thing ever.
So, off I go to make some work where I'm really just courting
my boyfriend, but alas, I can totally get away with that. Life
is good, eh?
(Off topic, those Wainwright kids are just so bloody talented,
not surprising given the McGarrigle/Wainwright gene pool they
drew from. Martha Wainwright's self-titled album is incredible.) |
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April 19th, Two
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