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	December 7th, Two Thousand Five: It's been a handful of days of lists. A list for Scarleteen users about what we can and cannot do when they have pregnancy risks (including explaining that neither myself nor my volunteers are any sort of psychic pregnancy oracles who can tell anyone if they're pregnant or not based on if they had a stomach ache that day. Sadly, this does need to be pointed out). A list for everything I need to do in the next four months, for my photo business, my arts. for the websites, for Scarleteen as an organization, for the move. A list of things needed to get a leg up on the Scarleteen benefit in the works for the end of March (any local volunteers who want in, btw, I need about four more people for bi-monthly meetings from now until then, and yes, there will be wine). A list of issues to bring to the table when making up my mind on a good non-profit lawyer for Scarleteen (501C3 stuff, the issue of adult or ab-only sites using misspellings of Scarleteen in domain names because they're assholes, possible civil cases we might be able to file against our government to do EC and minor-abortion activism, etc.). A list of needs for the programmers I'm going to hire to upgrade parts of the sites; a list of needs for my hosting company so we can implement them. It's been Listapalooza over here. That given, and given one of the next upcoming entries will be in no way warm and fuzzy (and possibly make some readers really brassed off at me), I give you: 25 Super-Duper Fantastic, Random Things About My Boyfriend Which Please Me To No End and May Interest You In No Way Whatsoever (or, textual Ipecac for aspiring bulimics) 1. He is the walking spirit of adventure. 2. My little dog loves him. And she's the first dog he has ever loved. Watching them together gives me a cavity. Them rolling around together, unfortunately, appears to give him scales sometimes, but he's a trooper. 3. He deflects unnecessary conflict with people in perfect form, expertly, with a warm smile and a pat on the shoulder as if to say, "Aw, sweetie, you're being a giant asshat for the fuck of it, and isn't that just darling?" 4. He gets just as brassed off as me when they call me Mrs. Price at the markets where he lives (and the last time, the woman was even looking at MY debit card, as it was my turn to pay, with MY name on it: unfuckingreal). To boot, I have been promised a five-year-grace-period, before which I do not even have to entertain DISCUSSION about my objections to marriage (straight, gay or otherwise, thank you very much), with him or anyone else. 5. He's 100% willing to open the floodgates of his crushy, gooey feelings for me, voice them in brilliant turns of phrase, and let me roll around in them like a blissed-out pig in the mud. 6. He knows better than to call himself a feminist (I confess, men who call themselves feminist to me usually tend to piss me off, if only because usually the ones who call themselves that seem to be doing so in an attempt to make their sexist behaviour go unnoticed. I've watched feminist-identified men, for instance, use the big F-word for themselves then turn right the hell around and treat their their female partner as sex-status-ammunition to get even in their own battles with other men. Plus, how funny might we look at me if I said I was a masculinist?). And yet, the guy has and is developing some highly astute gender-politic observations. He knows full when when he has compartmentalized or does compartmentalize to push tough stuff out to exercise privilege or engage in intentional denial, and he appears to have little to no problem taking accountibility for that. Often, he's pretty keenly aware of when me, another woman or women as a class are being oppressed, taken for granted or used as a tool, in a very sincere, visceral way. When he isn't, and an issue comes up, we have some really fantastic discussions where he can be just amazing about considering new information with an open mind, then deciding if that changes how he thought about something before or not. The best part is he tends not to express feminist processing or ideas in a sniffly, cuckolded or paternalist way, but in a fantastically refreshing -- and far more cutting -- sardonic, slicing wit. 7. He bursts into song a lot. Dancing often follows on its heels. 8. He has this amazingly sculpted nose. It manages to be strong yet delicate all at once. This fascinates me. 9. This (video made without his full knowledge in three parts -- one, two and three -- the charm of which mystifies him, and I suspect may make him think I am made daft by love) is his general idea of after-dinner entertainment. As is easily audible in my failed attempts to keep from cracking up, I find it pretty entertaining myself. 10. In many fine respects, he has/gives sex like a dyke. He can process like one, but usually only does when asked. He does not host potlucks. I'm still the one to fix the leaky faucets, but I'd only micromanage him if he did that anyway. I find it difficult to micromanage when his fingers are working on other...erm, leaky items. 11. He is googoogaga over my love of facewashing. (To sum up: I love washing my face. It makes me happy in a ridiculously simple way for no good reason, other than I find it highly rejuventating.) He is googoogaga over this to the degree that when we soak in the tub together, as we often do, sometimes several times in a day, he is terribly disappointed if I say, when asked, that I wasn't going to wash my face, and gets spaztastic like a beagle when I reconsider. He can describe my fashwashing routine in eerily precise detail. 12. Also, he claims that when brushing my teeth, I turn my eyes in whatever direction the toothbrush is in. I had no idea I did such a ludicrous thing, and am fairly certain it's not ging to net me extra cool points or anything, but it's quite touching -- and okay, weird -- that he'd even notice. 13. All my closest friends adore him, and he says really wonderful, on-target things about them to them in the most earnest way. 14. Unlike nearly everyone else in my very long dating history, not only does he know what personal accountability means, he actually brings it to the table. And not just when a breakup is imminent. 15. He is cute as the dickens and divinely handsome, all at once. 16. He acknowledges the risks I take when I take them, and never puts me in the position to be the only one taking them. 17. He holds me to exactly no normative gender roles, even among people who hold those roles as standards. When he has preferences per normative gender roles or appearance issues, he completely recognizes and presents them as such and fully optional on my part. 18. Just the thought of him makes me smile. And smiling at the thought of him makes me think of him smiling at me, which then makes me smile even more. 19. He has this dizzying natural scent: it's very crisp and cedar-like. 20. Sometimes when we're out, even in a group, he'll just get kind of silent and look at me for a very long time in this completely overwhelmed, excited and amazed way. 21. He is one seriously zany, goofball puppy. Which, as we know, I SO am not. Never. Ever. Photography: 11.26 members • sign up 22. He prefers sex in the morning. I prefer everything in the morning. Our interests dovetail nicely. 23. His quirks, and their polar opposite of some of mine, amuse me. I cannot stand to have my feet covered when sleeping and prefer to be barefoot whenever possible, whereas he has got to have those tootsies blanketed, and puts shoes on at all times. He is totally wigged out by tofu and various soy products, but has discovered he could eat edamame 24/7. 24. He has the most amazing, breathtaking ass I have ever seen. Lord knows, I've seen a lot of asses (literally and figuratively), but....shudderfluttersigheep! And no, he won't let me take pictures of it. Which is why I was forced -- forced, I tell you, like a child stealing bread to feed his starving family! -- to sneak a snap at the cabin last visit when he was getting into the hot tub, just so that I could have SOME handy visual reference when he is far from me, as it is patently unfair he has every tidbit of me on film he could ever want, peruses them all incessantly, and alas, I can't even have one skimpy ass shot for my own personal use. Miser! 25. He loves me and accepts me as I am; in a way, and with a depth, I'm not sure anyone else ever has, both as friend and as lover, and it just totally blows my frickin' mind. Especially since I feel the exact same way. * * * In other news, I'm cross-posting this from the Scarleteen blog, because this shit makes me crazy. (So, of course, I must turn it over to you so it'll make you crazy as well. Sorry: I suppose this sort of thing is the equivalent of smelling something gawdawful, then shoving it in your friend's face saying "Jesus! Doesn't this smell HORRENDOUS?!" as if they really need to share in the ickiness.) Today, a Scarleteen user posted the following at the boards: What do you think about this? (Which I should add, is one of the most balanced articles I've seen on the matter -- that part was nice.) To which I replied: We don't have the long-term, solid data to have any idea if this is wise or damaging to women, and until we do, I'm not (and Scarleteen by association) going to endorse it, even as an option for women who do simply want to choose it as preference, not as doctrine or by pressure to do so. I think one can't dismiss that in a patriarchal culture it benefits...well, the patriarchy; all that's driven by it and benefits from the oppression it requires, for women's bodies to be more "manageable." More like male bodies. Even in that piece, that any woman "doesn't have time," for a normal body function says a whole lot about how very much this system doesn't work well for women sometimes. (Plus that gynecologist, changing her tampon every couple hours -- why the heck doesn't she know about something like the Divacup, which you can leave in all day? Is she a gynecologist practicing under a rock?) We also know -- and do have evidence -- that menstruation is NOT frivolous. For instance, it helps flush the vagina of bacteria, as mentioned in that article, which becomes very relevant in modern times. And comparing how many periods a woman has now compared to hundreds of years ago -- whe the lifespan was considerably smaller, when childbirth carried high threats of death, when things like STIs were not as prevalent, when we didn't know about reproductive cancers and couldn't investigate them, is fallacious, as is presuming that how the body acts when cessation of periods is due to pregnancy, and how it acts when that cessation is chemical, would be identical or even similar. Quotes like this? The upside, however, is potentially enormous, says Miller. "Imagine the freedom to go swimming anytime," she says, "You can wear a skirt with no underwear. You can have sex without thinking about blood on the sheets. You never get anything stained. Every day your hormones are the same. Your breasts aren't tender, you don't feel ovulatory pains. It's a modern problem to have 13 periods a year for 35 years. I think the continuous pill is a modern solution to a modern problem." Are just bloody (no pun intended) offensive to me. I can already go swimming anytime I want when I'm menstruating, with or without use of tampons, pads or cups. I can go without underwear whenever I choose, and being able to do so is hardly a huge issue in my life as a woman anyway. That's enormous? Going commando is supposed to be an ENORMOUS issue in my life? I don't WANT my hormone fluctuations to be controlled by drugs, anymore than a man would (do we have pills yet or lobbies to control THEIR cycles? Gee, I wonder why not? So happy to see someone mention that for a change at the end of this piece). And BCPs can't do that anyway: exercise alone causes hormone fluctuations, and I get that daily. Sex does. My own brain chemistry does. A million things do: and the pill, no matter how used, cannot make all the hormones in my body be the same every day, and why would I want it to? That's just a patently false statement that makes that doc sound either seriously uneducated as to basic human physiology, or like she assumes everyone else is. (Her whole schpeal sounds so schlocky and salesman-esque, really, I'm just waiting for her to tell us the continuous pill also comes with a free set of Ginsu knives or some shiny World Book Encyclopedias.) My sheets get stained from sex, from sweat, from my own ejaculate and that of partners even when no one is menstruating: that's some of why I WASH them. Without all of the typical mind-traps about menstruation doing the polka in my head, why would I give menses on the sheets any more or less thought or consideration than I would those things? Heck, my own ejaculate makes a way bigger wet spot. And I'm not so delicate a critter that the occasional ovulatory niggle or tender breast is painful: lordisa, I lost half a HAND as a kid, I box, I transport myself by bike, rather than car, I have stiffness or soreness sometimes just by having an active lifestyle. My breasts get tender with sexual arousal, for crying out loud; my uterus contracts with orgasm. Statements like this smack of a sort of Victorian, sanitized approach to women that sounds like a benefit to us, but is a pretty sneaky sell. My life has been so complex, so busy, so full of so many challenges and hardships: menstruation -- even during years for me where it was painful -- doesn't even make the list. In fact, I was put on the pill very young for menstrual pain (before we had things like Ibuprofen or a lot of easily-available natural remedies; before I could choose what I ate to make a huge dent in menstrual pain with simple dietary changes) and very gladly went off of it in college because I wanted my own body back, and found other gentler, simpler and less invasive approaches worked just as well without robbing me of it. Moreover, it is not a "modern problem" to have 13 periods a year, save that now, women have more freedom to CHOOSE not to get pregnant if they don't want to. This wasn't a "problem" before, both because women didn't have access to reliable birth control AND because many women couldn't even say no to sex when they didn't want it. That is laregly why women back in the day were menstruating less often. I'd say having more autonomy to choose when we do or don't become pregnant, based on our wants, and when we do and don't want to have sex, is nothing close to problematic. Our culture already tries to take so much of women's bodies-as-is away from us, and this just has always seemed like one more attempt to take more. Women's bodies have been blamed for a host of personal and cultural ills for forever and day, because it's always easier to "fix" women than to fix a culture which we threaten, which doesn't have room for us, or which we complicate by not being men. I'm missing the modern part of this blame game. (It's also interesting to note that this is being pushed because of women menstruating earlier, rather than people investigating and looking to fix WHY, like the likely-contibutors of pesticides and preservatives and hormones in food, the limitation of which would make a huge dent in profits from some of the richest lobbies and businesses around, like the beef and dairy industries. Like increasingly sedentary lifestyles, and so forth.) This has been an issue for some time now. I've read at least one lengthy book on the topic (from a for-it doctor, who oddly kept trying to prove his thesis by talking about ancient Greek medicine done at a time when the reproductive system wasn't even understood) and a lot of reports from all sides of the fence. Absolutely, we know doing this can help some women, namely, those with severe mesntural problems due to hormonal irregularities, and the help it gives those women -- women with PCOS, for instance, even without long-term data, is safe to assume to do more good than harm. But we also see and know plenty of women on the pill for menstrual issues who aren't helped much at all, most likely because hormones aren't the issue. Things like diet and nutrition, exercise, their psychological approach to menstruation, interpersonal and social attitudes about menstruation, and their lifestyles are more at the root of problems, but again, addressing those issues is a far more contorverisal, less profitable, and less easy "fix." For young women, we don't actually even have any good data on what taking the pill at ALL does to their long-term health. Studies are just starting to come out on BCPs and young women, and already, we're seeking that bone loss may be a very real issue, and that's no small thing. Living until you're 85 in you're virtually immobile and breakable as glass at 50 isn't any real boon. But this isn't about helping some women, many of these pro-cessation approaches: it's about suggesting, very dogmatically, that it is not natural or healthy for women's bodies to do what they natrually do; that women's bodies and lives would -- unilaterally -- be better if they didn't operate like... women's bodies. (And again, we don't have any broad or long-term data which supports that yet.) That's a pretty dangerous premise to put out there, especially without long-term data about things like this, and a hasty premise that has been at the toor of a LOT of approaches which have, in the past, proved hazardous to women (even very recently, with things like Depo-Provera, Norplant and some types of hormone therapy for menopausal women). The long and the short of it is: buyer beware. This isn't anything close to the first time that a group has suggested women would be better off with more homogenized bodies. We hear, see and experience some variation on this theme every day, and in many cultures, ours being at the top of this list, have for centuries and centuries. Who knows? Maybe in time the data will bear out that this IS safe, and maybe even that it is healhier for women, either for some groups of them, or even as a whole. But until then, it's wise to be cautious, especially with so familiar an approach, so anti-woman as some of the hard-sells for this are, when a profit is to be made, and when anyone is telling us that ANY one thing is better or necessary for all women. * * * It's especially crazymaking with young teen girls for whom -- as I mentioned in the post -- we don't even have substantial data per if the pill, as it is, is really all that okay-for long-term. Last study I saw -- one of the few -- was showing some pretty distressing possible bone-loss issues. I never even know what to say when I listen to some of them go on about how their periods are the worst thing ever to happen to them, how they express that their whole lives are grossly disrupted, how NOTHING is more terrible than their periods; how so many race to get the pill (or have their GPs flop them on it as if it were required) to "regulate" their periods (but then, of course, take it so sporadically it does little on that score, and on top of that, how many have little reduction in flow or crmaping, largely because they eat garbage and sit on their asses all day). Feminist issues as a whole are so new to most of them, and their context for them so limited, that it's pretty much impossible to explain, without sounding like a patronizing ass, that culture's approach to this, and their limited life experience, likely has a lot to do with their attitudes about menstruation, most of which are formed by aspects of culture which truly loathe and fear women and their bodies. Of course, you also battle the completely typical, and seemingly inescapable, notion most adolescents have had or do have that life beyond thirty won't even exist for them, so they often have zero concern about long-term health issues, sure they won't be around to have any apply to them. I sure the hell know that attitude was horrible for me: I started smoking at 11, after all. The amount of LSD that I dropped in my teens -- which, I confess, was enjoyable and something that, to a degree, gave me some valuable stuff, but lord knows someone more interested in their mortality would have done far less -- was staggering. (I am pleased to announce it's been nice to have a couple friends recently notice that I'm smoking a little less these days. Cold turkey anything never works for me: it took me years to drop dairy, for instance, on a very long and gradual plan. But I've been trying hard to very slowly cut back in hopes that I can within the year get down to a few smokes a day. I have no intent on tossing them entirely: I enjoy smoking, flatly, and I've yet to meet a doctor who had any concern about smoking a couple of fags a day, especially given all the other pollution we all live with, and how insanely healthy every other aspect of my life is.) * * * I appear to have the nasty throat virus everyone and their uncle has. I'm amazed and excited that it seems to be making only the slightest dent in my productivity. I feel like arse, but it sure wasn't going to stop me from seeing Over the Rhine last night, nor from talking to Mr. Price until 2AM. I've been chugging it out all day today, did the same most of yesterday and Monday, and am presently finishing this entry while also finishing a new Scarleteen article on painful vaginal entry or intercourse (if you knew how many girls had obligatory sex that is in no way pleasant for them you'd gag: I hear from them near-daily), with a beautiful, simmering Caulifower-Carrot-Cashew curry on the stove that's perfuming my pad, as well as a small pot of faux Palak Paneer so I get my greens. I heart curries so much in the winter and when I'm ill. For that matter, I've never stopped missing the smell of curry that invaded every inch of every single place I lived in all the years I was in West Rogers Park in Chicago. Thankfully, I even lived through my visit to the market a little bit ago to make my supper. Rather disconcertingly, moments after I'd finished typing a section explaining to girls that there is no reason for them to feel obligated to have heterocourse when they're not aroused, for their male partners sure aren't, I very nearly got mowed down crossing Hennepin by two teenage boys turning left like maniacs on my green light. Two boys who didn't even stop, and made only a vaguely shocked expression as they careened off, I literally leaping out of the way of their car to avoid becoming fender mash and nearly offing myself on the ice in the process. I couldn't help but wonder if maybe they'd read some of my work: lord knows I make something of a habit out of telling teenage girls things a lot of teenage boys would likely prefer they weren't appraised of. Dinner sounds a lot more appetizing, though, than half-baked conspiracy theories, menstrual cessation, endless listmaking or...well, okay, not as appetizing as many things about Señor Price, but it's late enough in the day and I'm hungry enough that I'd have to say they're a serious tie right now. And he's not here. Dinner is. Dinner wins. Hooray for dinner! (This entry has been brought to you by the letter S, and one seriously silly, slaphappy, starved, salubrious, salacious, sapphic, sleepy and simply stochastic sickie.)   December 1st, Two Thousand Five: Yep, still avoiding editing and posting the ten-page thesis on gender issues that's been open and closed on my desktop for two weeks now. I'll get there eventually. The truth of the matter is that I'm just not in the mood for the likely backlash right now. Plus, I see my sweetheart in less than thirty-six hours, and the anticipation of that makes these issues -- personally and more broadly -- feel a lot less immediate. I found this wonderfully sardonic greeting card company the other day, whose anniversary card reads: "it's our anniversary and i'm so happy i'm not bored or tired of you. i thought for sure by now i would be." Here at the Minneapolis branch of Price/Corinna Enterprises, we appreciate this sort of sentiment. It's far more our speed than most. And we're so there. I find myself still sitting here bewildered by the fact that my twitterpate has yet to abate in any way some nine months later. Usually with me, the NRE wears off in about a month, two at an absolute maximum. I've gotten (mostly) better at containing myself in public, sure, but it continues to only grow. Yesterday, walking home from the market, after realizing how many hours were left until our upcoming visit, I heard myself giggle like a complete moron, quite loudly, in the middle of the street... which then made me giggle and grin even more, causing the other people crossing to take a few steps away from me. (This is not unusual, as I often have crazy-person hair or am donning pajamas out of doors -- people on the street seem to generally go out of their way to either move away or interact with me a bit too much -- but at least this time I had something solid to pin it on.) I've had some serious motivational problems over the last two weeks or so. Mind you, Saturday after boxing I got whacked with either a bug or with a serious food sensitivity, which had me blecky through Tuesday. But sparing that, the encroaching dark of winter, and the fact that the cold means I can't bike everyday and get my ya-yas out as much as I like, I've got no excuse. It's awesome when an insomniac can clock nine hours of sleep a night, but it doesn't allow me to do all the work in a day that needs doing. Neither does sitting on my ass watching Angel episodes until the cows come home, reading for five hours on end or staring at the wall. This is what it's been like over here, which is seriously crazymaking for a driven workaholic activist from hell. Yesterday, thank the powers that be (I really need to cut back on the Angel, man), I got my mojo back. In a mere eight hours, I accomplished what your average human does in at least twice that time, which is about my normal. I was bitching about this lack of motivation to Brandon the other night when he was over and he mentioned that I don't actually need a solid week of work every week, that my work pattern and energy is generally such that with just two good days in a week, I usually do more than a lot of people do with five or six. Which is about right, and he'd know, having worked with and for me plenty. Save the fact that the joint household Mark lives in is less than ideal for me to work in, both due to location and a lack of all the things that are part of my daily and weekly routines (including other women, for the love of gawd), I love working there, and I'll tell you why. Domestic as fuck-all it is, I adore the daily anticipation of knowing that at the end of both our workday, I get to see him. Normally, I start to wind up my workday here by getting a start on cooking a meal, dancing back and forth between office and kitchen as everything simmers. I love that already, just as it is: cooking is a profound meditation for me. Most times, I'd far rather cook for myself than eat out, and not just because of my food allergies and dietary restrictions, nor just because it saves some cash. I usually like what I cook better than what most places make, and I love the ritual of cooking, the methodical bits as well as the creative alchemy. When we're in the same space, it ups the high of that even more: I seriously adore having an end-of-day drink together as mark comes home, asks how he can help, and we both start dancing round the kitchen in our respective duties. I love that we usually have an evening soak in some form of hot water at some point. I love starting the day together, too. Point is, I've started to adjust my routines and patterns to incorporate these things -- including making my workday far more concentrated so as to harmonize our hours a bit more -- so when I get back here, each time it becomes a bit harder to re-adjust and continue to be motivated. I want my end-of-day rewards, dammit. * * * Now seems as good a time as any to announce what keen observers probably already clued into, which is that when I move out of the wonderful apartment developers have yet again forced me out of, I'll be moving to Seattle. (And yes, we've had this plan for a little while now, but it's weird, you know, to have thousands of people invested in your plans and choices to some degree, so sometimes I prefer to keep big stuff like this to myself and my immediate friends and family for a bit. I also really, really wanted to play this as the best April Fool's Day gag ever, since it looks as if that's the date we'll be moving in together. I figured I could milk it for weeks, saying first I was moving cross country to go live with a boy, then start posting domicile pictures, while all y'all were begging me to stop, saying it wasn't funny anymore, and why do I always have to stretch jokes further than they want to go, blah blah blah. But I have networking there I need to start doing well before I move anyway, so it was a fish I had to let get away, as it were. Ah, well.) It's become pretty obvious to both of us that if there is such a thing as That Big Thing, that this is... well, it. It's strange as hell, and remains seriously unexpected, but I haven't been in anything that felt this right... well, ever. I have no bloody idea how it happened or why, but I've found myself loving this person, wanting to be with them, wanting to integrate my life with theirs with no worry about losing any part of myself, in a way I have never loved anyone in... well, my whole life. Leaving here won't be easy: planning to has had some serious moments of sadness with me. I love Becca so much it's not even funny, I've never had a closer friend, and not being able to see her at least every week sucketh egg: it literally puts a pain in my chest. Becca may well be the other great love of my life, though I can't really say that to her in that way because she's all Minnesotan, and that sort of approach tends to make the Nordic-types itchy. (I also cannot, as Elise has patiently informed me again and again, expect to communicate Chicago-style with Minnesotans. "I fucking love you, you big asshole," has limited mileage here, and the spirit of the thing is completely misunderstood.) There are a few other people here I'll also miss a lot. Plus, especially in this apartment over the last three yearsish, my time spent here over the last six years has been seriously formative for me. I've always been very independent and very much my own person, but I really came into my own here, really claimed myself, the work I am driven to do, went through some seriously tough changes, had some huge creative expansion. But I always had a niggling feeling this was a transition place for me rather than a permanent home. I hate the cold. Never liked it in Chicago or anywhere else, don't like it here, and it grates on me more and more every year. The social dynamics here also have always been incredibly foreign and difficult for me. Trying to network here with the work I do has been like trying to bash my head through a wall: even organizations I've helped with PR, with benefits and fundraising, with brainstorming and other support, just couldn't be sussed to reciprocate. Plus, the neighborhood I'm in is the only one I really like all that much here, and it's gentrifying so fast it is positively dizzying. Literally every week some black is being razed to make room for more oofy-floofy condos. Not only is it becoming unaffordable to stay here, the vibe is changing in ways I really don't like. Leaving the Midwest in general is likely to be even tougher than leaving this particular place. While my sensibilities and politics are far more west coast, I am a dyed-in-the-wool Midwesterner. This land here is home to me: the Midwest is in my bones. But then, Mark's a native son himself, and he does alright, so. I also have very mixed feelings about going even further away from my family than I am now. Not so much with my Mom, the only way we've ever had any semblance of a healthy relationship is when we're far apart. And my sister and I have always been estranged. But going even further from my father is scary to me. Not that it makes that big a difference: I can only track him down once every couple years at this point anyway, usually by going to Chicago and actively looking, and I remain in no financial position to help him very much anyhow. Even if something (even more) horrible (than usual) did happen, and I somehow was notified, I'd have to fly to Chicago whether I'm here or in Washington. I have a lot of friends in Seattle and the surrounding areas, people I adore, people who have been friends for a long time: just as many friends as I have here. And it's pretty as hell over there, and work-wise, it's a better place for me to be. But let's be frank. I am moving to be with Mark. I wouldn't likely be moving there otherwise. Don't know if I'd be staying here either, but that is the primary driver. I don't want to be shy about that because there's no sense in it, and moreover, we are psyched as hell about this move. Originally, I'd suggested I get my own place, but we've tossed that notion into the rubbish bin since, knowing it'd likely make us crazy. Of course, we also know that at times cohabitating will make us crazy, especially me, who has never had any complaints about living alone. My extended plan and hope is that in time, I can find some land in the mountains and organize it as retreat land for artists, including myself and Mark. That way, not only do I get the combo of urban and rural I love, a great space to work in when I need solitude, but "Gee, the weather is amazing right now, I think I'll go out to the land for a week," sounds a lot more pleasant than, "If I don't get some space to myself immediately, I think I might kill you or commit some truly bloody form of ritual suicide." We know full well we have some really serious scrabbles in our future: in many ways we're eerily alike, but in others, we can be radically different. Yet, we've already weathered some tricky challenges well thus far, and we communicate like nobody's business (read: neither of us ever shuts up). Hey: I was, am and will always remain a hippie kid. I don't think love is all one needs, but I think it can get you pretty damn far. And that we also have in embarrassingly gooey spades. And we are seriously, bounce-in-our-seats-like-hyperactive-beagles stoked. I've never been this excited to be with someone else in my life, and I've lived long enough and full enough (and am suitably jaded enough) that that remains unfathomable to me. I feel bizarrely 100% ready to share my life with this person, no holds barred. I am always excited to see him, talk to him, have a smooch with him, whether it's time for a visit or at the end of a day, and the feeling is completely mutual. (I keep bugging him for a guest entry, for the record, since everyone probably thinks I'm making him up at this point, but the boy's a busy procrastinator. he does, however, fall sway rather easily to mass audience encouragement, so feel free to badger him relentlessly in the comments.) Once upon a time, almost 20 years ago exactly, I had something remotely like this, and I learned far too early, and in far too grisly a fashion, that there are no guarantees with this stuff. So, hell if I'm not going to take calculated risks for it and grab it by the tail when I've gotten lucky enough to have this come my way. I analyze things so to-the-death that I'm unconcerned about thinking this through: on the bell curve, I've little doubt I've thought it through far more than nearly anyone else ever does something like this. My heart and my mind are in complete agreement with one another. That'd be why you've seen all those flying pigs, for the record, in case you were curious. I realized in hindsight a year or two ago, that when B. and I got together in '98, a big part of the reason why I was drawn to that -- and I feel like a total asshole about it, though given I suspect similar was true in B's case, slightly less so -- was because I had gotten to the point where I was sure I'd never find anything like this. That isn't to say there wasn't love there, we'd been friends and occasional lovers for many years when we entered into our quasi-marriage. I loved B. dearly, and do still, despite the fact that we're estranged and our split went incredibly badly. But in many ways our getting together was the sort of follow-through on that deal some friends make, the "If we're not with anyone by X date, then we'll say fuck it and try us." Mind you, I don't regret doing that, and it's a big part of what got me up here specifically in Minneapolis, which ended up being a great place for me, all by myself, during my tenure here. But I do regret not fully seeing my own motives in it. While I'm being painfully honest, I may as well also confess that since my teens, I've been fairly stingy with my heart interpersonally. Again, not on the bell curve, but I've got a very big heart, and when it comes to the one-on-one stuff, I've probably spent far more energy protecting it than earnestly sharing it. Since I've known Mr. price, I've told him more about me and my life than I have ever told anyone, including stuff that is very unflattering to me and even a thing or two I've done that is completely indefensible and, in my mind, utterly appalling. For whatever reason, I have felt completely safe in doing that, which is something I never anticipated feeling with another person ever. For whatever reason, our collective energy, our relationship, and just the way the boy is, opens me up to a level of intimacy I thought possible for other people, but not for myself. The fact that it's been relatively easy to open my heart like this is a wonder. The fact that I have nearly always felt that most love relationships I have been in have in some way sliced-and-diced me, made me somehow less than I am rather than more, and yet this makes me feel bigger than I am, magnified, like one of those just-add-water little sponge animals? Outrageous stuff, that. Sheesh, I went on there. It's so obvious when I'm anticipating public argument, conflict, over-involvement or a 76-trombone parade of devil's advocates. I need a better poker face, kids. Well, plus I just got to pop the cork I've been barely managing to keep on the bottle of bubblies, so there's that. In any event, that's part of my motivation troubles, too. When I get my mind completely on board with something, I'm generally terribly impatient, I want to gogoGO. Transition always feels like purgatory to me. I choose to blame the Aries sun and the Leo rising. Today, anyway. Tomorrow I'll likely have some shiny new rationale. Actually, I won't. Tomorrow I'll instead be bouncing around like a lunatic because I get to see the unlikely person who feels like the other half of my heart; because even just a couple weeks apart feels like a far greater amount of time than it actually is anymore. Because we both have spent plenty of our lives being incredibly cynical about love relationships, we'll make fun of ourselves a lot for exactly how ludicrous an amount of time we have likely clocked at this point just starting at each other like moony teenagers. Sometimes, when we're doing that, one of us will simply feel explody with the breadth of this thing and go, "Holy FUCK! We actually FOUND each other," because it's just so weird, so intense and so goddamn fantastic. And because, cynics that we often are, both of us did really think we'd be bored or tired of the other by now. Boy oh boy, is the joke on us. * * * Before I shove off to go train a private client and then get a round of training in for myself, Kyth just sent me a reminder about World AIDS Day. Suffice it to say, I hate that we have a national holiday of sorts to a syndrome that kills people, and so ruthlessly. But as is the case with Kyth, I don't remember much of life without AIDS and HIV, either. In fact, my mother was doing work in the hospital with it, with children, no less, before most people even knew it existed, at the very beginning of my sexual life. When I have teenagers at Scarleteen talk about how hard it is sometimes to convince partners to use condoms, now and then I want to smack them upside the head with the clue stick. I want to ask them to imagine having these conversations in their early teens with partners when there wasn't any safer sex advocacy, when no one even knew what HIV was, when the talk you were having with a partner was guaranteed to be the first talk about HIV or STIs -- even in general conversation -- anyone ever had. And hell, even then, it was generally as simple as pulling a condom out and saying, "Put this on, eh?" Especially when the unspoken but clear message was "Sex with this or no sex, bub." Working with teens, HIV is usually less of a concern than other STIs more prevalent in that age group, especially in the States, Canada and the UK. But it still remains the most dangerous (advanced syphilis gives it a run for its money, of course), and it's all the more dangerous for young people because they so rarely DO practice safer sex consistently and fully, and because so few of then get annual STI screenings, especially the boys who don't have other reasons to get any sexual healthcare; fear of pregnancy generally scares the girls into the gynecologists office (though many still don't ask for STI screenings when they're there, assuming they're getting them when they aren't). Plenty of young adults walk around with some genital infection or another, often for unfathomable lengths of time (you'd plotz if you saw some of this stuff, seriously, you have no idea how hard it is sometimes for me, immersed in this, to remember that I adore having sex: we should probably look into sexual counseling as a sound birth control method) before getting treated, which also makes their risks of HIV even higher. So, as Kyth suggested, I'd encourage you to consider giving to an organization which either fights HIV/AIDS directly, supports those with either or both, or one which advocates for sexual healthcare and educates. Better still, if you have the opportunity, help a teen of your own or one in your life to get sexual healthcare and practice safer sex. Cool aunts and uncles, surrogate or actual, are far more likely by most young adults to be looked to for sexuality advice, information and support. So, why not take the teen in your life with you to get a screening next time you get yours? Or even ask, respectfully, if they've started annual screenings yet, or have what they need to practice safer sex? Hell, if you keep a public journal or other website, just shout it out. Just don't forget it's out there. Sadly, recent data shows us that a lot of people have: some groups are practicing safer sex less than ever because the general panic has subsided enough to allow denial in the door. At this time, HIV and AIDS haven't slowed much, and both are equal opportunity: as many women as men have AIDS right now, about 40 million, many of them in areas or of a class that doesn't allow them anything close to adequate care (Africa alone accounts for more than half of all those cases, and worldwide, barely a million people of that total have any real treatment available to them for AIDS), and our country alone has acted AGAINST support of sound prevention worldwide.   November 21st, Two Thousand Five: Bad journaler! Bad, BAD! This is just a pageholder to let everyone know that: a) I'm alive and kicking and still very embarrassingly ooshy-gooshy in love (as evidenced here and here and here and here and here and...), despite some bumps on the road of boy culture. More on that when my brain cells arrive in the mail. See below. b) I'm doing just fine, thank you. I truly have my moments, and lordy, have the last few weeks had some fresh hell in store, but overall, things are pretty damn good. c) I can't get my shit together to finish a journal entry for the life of me lately. © 2005 Molly Bennett I have so many things I want to write about, and too little time and concentration to do so. I get started, and my brain is so scattered and overextended that I go out in fifty gazillion directions, making sense of absolutely nothing, and compiling little more than some very long lists of highly disjointed thoughts. Some of it is just that I'm very busy, and getting to the point where I'm nearly living between two cities has done quite the number on my body and mind. Plus, every time I get back home from one of these long spells away, even though I still work out west, I have to race to play catch-up with everything else: training, household shite, friends, office crapola, photo clients, the whole enchilada. Oh, and sleep. I always seem to come home feeling ungodly tired, and then compound it with at least one solid week of horrendous insomnia. (And my dog: she's always very demanding and requiring of much groveling for her resumed loyalty when I get back home, as is her right.) Some of it is that, save Scarleteen work and some feminist community stuff, my mind is just more visual than textual of late, and to boot, coding anything just exhausts me these days. I go in cycles like this, straddling all the work and arts I have my fingers in. Through my life, I've long ago simply come to the conclusion that this is how it goes when you're multidisciplinary. Parts of my brain just seem to take turns shutting on and off at will, quite arbitrarily. Right now, if I could do nothing but photography and play music, I'd be a very happy gal. Alas, there are sex questions and bookselling headaches and dishes and money-crap and long-term ST benefit plans and essays and clients and getting-a-leg-up-on-packing (anyone who has been to my apartment will agree that four months in advance of moving may even be late in the game) which also need to be done. Such is life. Plus, winter has begun, and once I'm out some sun and warmth, it's way harder for me to function. I'm not built for this frosty stuff: I know the days are actually shorter, but I seem to only be able to get half as much done in a day this time of year as usual, and it's pissing me off. All that said, I expect to be very sporadic with the journaling for a while, until I figure out how to do it in bits and pieces coherently and get everything else done. I expect to be very prolific with the photos, on the other hand (I already have a backup of four or five sets sitting here), so patrons can keep up in the members area, and everyone can keep up with more general and work-safe stuff at my portfolio site and Flickr page (for it requires no coding and this pleases me greatly). And some of it -- observe my scatterbrain in action! -- is plain old transition and growing pains. I'll break out of this shell eventually. Bear with me.   November 11th, Two Thousand Five: I am an unabashed morning person. I love mornings, even when they start at 3 or 4 AM, I always have. The first moments of any day are flavoured with infinite possibility; morning smells fresh, it looks dewy and ripe. Morning is exuberant and electric, and yet in its great excitement somehow keeps a quiet reserve. Morning has a grace to it which other parts of the day do not: it does not smile broadly, rather, it wears the sly grin of someone who knows the most magnificent secret. Already being so enamored with dawn, having it begin by opening my eyes to see my sweetheart before anything else, slipping out of bed as first to wake is brilliance. Having the hush and the slowly brightening sky to myself to make a steaming pot of coffee, splash some water on my face; to step out into the morning air and have a fag and some big, deep breaths, to take in the colors of the sky and the grass, is a simple, private treat every day. I slide into bed afterwards, warming myself on the deliciously toasty skin of this sleepy paramour. I get a grin and a gaze before a fine first thing of a day fuck, followed by a second thing of a day snuggle and our prototypical rapid-fire one-liner-fest; we infuse the new day with our collective and unique energy. I can think of nothing better. It's a home run for the very first batter in the very first inning. This morning, by virtue of the hot tub cover being left off the night before, I got to up the ante and slide into the steaming hot water afterwards with a cuppa and a book while Mark showered for work. It began raining, which is an absolute delight in this context. I cannot stand being cold, so often myself and the rain don't bode well, but when I can sit in hot water and only feel the chilly rain on my head, face and shoulders, cooling me gently while I'm steaming throughout, we get along marvelously. I sat with my face to the sky, seeing if I could keep track of what parts of my cheeks and forehead and nose had and had not been touched by raindrops. I gathered small pools of rainwater in my open palms. I looked at the water's rippling surface and watched the rain hit it, leaping up so energetically when it met the pool that it became difficult to tell if the drops were falling or rising. As each drop hit the surface, I sat mesmerized as every single one would create and intertwine with looping, concentric circles, just as any of us do when dropped into this world. We join the pool and immediately those who birthed us, parents circle us, then their parents from the circle besides, extended family, community, the friends we make as we grow, the teachers we find and their friends, their teachers, their families, until we're all interconnected to a myriad of each others circles, to all the circles, always moving and changing, but always connecting. And yet, if I held a hand so as to block drops from falling, the change made to the patterns by the absence of one was imperceptible: even if twenty or thirty drops hadn't fallen, while the pattern would be completely different, very few of us would be able to perceive our differences. Photography: 11.03 - 11.15 (self-portraits) members • sign up Each of us matters; each of us part of a wide, arching pattern of connection and community. Without us, the pattern is not the same, and yet, even without any one of us, it keeps moving, keeps growing, keeps branching out all the same. What we do always sends out ripples. What we do not do is not without impact, either: without action, the pattern is different than it would be otherwise. We and all we do are all essential and inessential all at once, in perfect, beautiful and bittersweet paradox. Saying "Good morning," may well be the most genuine thing I say in a day, but on mornings like these, it's merely stating the obvious.   November 3rd, Two Thousand Five: Once upon a time, I had a journal entry. And then I discovered after my system froze up and I had to reboot, that I'd been doing so many things at once, I had somehow forgotten to save ANY of it. I was really quite eloquent, discussing Rosa Parks and unacknowledged activists, a new photo anthology I'm part of, labial chafing due to biking incessantly, crazy new streaks in my hair I'm not so certain about, a ridiculous issue about vulvas and providing their owners with basic information about them, the world's giantest zit, a big shout-out thank you to a few people for lovely letters and efforts in the last week (abbreviated: Hyacinth, Stephen, Madeline, Lauren, Charlie and Al, cheers) and everyone's favorite inspirational prose: Where the Fuck Did the Top of My Bathing Suit Get Off To. Oh, and schmoopy-poo gushiness about really being glad I'm back to Seattle for a bit tomorrow because I need a good hug, a great shag, a long soak, the company of my partner and many, many kisses. But alas, it is gone. And I am far too tired and brain dead to even attempt to recreate it at this late hour when there is still packing to be done. So, I leave you purty photo updates. And Flickr joy. And a fond fare-thee-well for now, because I have GOT to get my ass the hell outta dodge. October 27th to 29th, Two Thousand Five 10.27: My sweetheart is often a miracle worker. I've been in a slump lately, having exceptional trouble being anything close to my usual level of motivation. There have been bright notes, for sure, but truth be told, the last couple of months have been hard as hell on me in many respects. I'm not even flirting with my normal level of productivity. The last few weeks, I've felt taken for granted, and I've felt like everything that comes across my desk is twice as heavy as usual. The weight of the world has sat heavier on me than usual, and more of it keeps landing in my lap. Sometimes having one exceptional joy actually results in those things which are in no way joyful feeling even more heavy. Lately, it has felt like I truly can do very few things right, not the big things, not even little tiny things. I have vacillated between feeling like Ms. Almost-But-Not-Quite and feeling like a complete fuckup. I have wondered if being a jill-of-all-trades isn't because I am good at so many things, but because I'm not good enough at any one thing. When I found out late Wednesday night that I narrowly missed a reservation for one of two days of a cabin in WA I really wanted to be able to have in a couple weeks, it almost brought me to tears. Every little cotton-picking thing that goes wrong or not-quite-right lately has been driving me up a tree. Mark called a couple hours afterwards, with a good report on a screening he'd done for the last film he produced. He sounded buoyant, which was awesome. I bottle. Mind you, not to the degree that a lot of people do, but I do it. I am so devoted to my independence -- or am I dependent on it, isn't that an oxymoron? -- that I often try very, very hard to keep my upsets to myself, especially the really big ones and the really small ones. The latter just seem silly and the former seem too daunting to share. Plus, half Irish: I've got just as much stoicism in this mix as I do Mediterranean expressiveness (that's the nice word for it, anyway). But there's something about my relationship with Mr. Price that opens the bottle a little more easily; the sound of his voice, or him asking if I'm okay tend to jostle my contents and pop the cork, even when I'm trying very hard to keep my stuff to myself. Even on a night when I can tell he's had a good day and I really want for him to be able to have that. Wednesday night, that's what happened. As I poured out various details of my ongoing sob stories, great and small, it became clear to me that the last couple of weeks, I've been depressed. Before mark's last visit, I had a horrendous week or two: one of those which happens now and then where the stuff at Scarleteen was just more awful than usual in terms of dealing with real tragedies and being able to have any sort of viable emotional distance from them. I'd had a couple of really hard counseling bits, on the boards and in email, one dealing with a rape scenario that was just much, much too close to my own experience for any comfort. I had email from a woman wanting to hack up her own genitalia to make her boyfriend happy, and wanting to know the cheapest means to do so. I had some kid with a history of sanctimonious posts about how kids his age are idiots taking multiple partners because of elevated STI risks...who doesn't practice safer sex with his girlfriend, who now has two different infections which are likely chronic. This kid kept posting again and again to ask if HE could contract the infections back if he continued to have sex with her, with zero concern about her reporting burning and itching during sex. I had two heart-heavy conversations in email with women who wanted abortions, but were scared or conflicted and had no one to talk to but a stranger like me. That's the icing. I've also had to face up to the fact that what happened with the book really crushed me hard. Really hard, to a degree I didn't really express to anyone, even to myself. (This next bit is password-protected: you want one and are a close friend, ask. Otherwise, it's patrons-only. If you're not a close friend, get a membership -- that sounds coarse, but my experience is that when readers or acquaintances ask for a pass to read one entry, they end up spending time and bandwidth reading tons of older protected entries and looking at galleries as well, and given the whole of this week, it's terribly clear I'm in no position to be doling out any more charity than I do already.) Again, this is... * * * Until this last week or two, I hadn't really been able to voice any of this. I hadn't really even let myself grieve over it. This is one of the things I refer to when I say that my paramour is a miracle worker, because this is exactly the sort of thing I'd generally do everything I could to keep to myself. That I talked to him about it is miraculous enough: that those talks have gotten me to where I can talk in public about it is really astounding. It's very easy, when you feel like the whole world is watching, to keep your failures to yourself. In my case, while I do alright chronicling the best and the worst of my personal life, I tend to stay a lot more mum about my professional life. save obvious reasons -- like that I can only detail that stuff so much publicly without biting myself in the ass -- I am not sure why that is. For whatever reason, the work-related losses, flubs and failures feel more humiliating. I suspect that some of why that is is that during most of my life, my creative work, my work-ethic, my activism and teaching, doing well at work, have been lone things that redeemed me in everyone's eyes. Growing up, my good grades, teachers saying I was good to have around or the fact that I was talented seemed to be what kept me of any worth to most people in my life: of any worth to myself. What I do, and how much I do, far more often than who I am, seems to garner me respect. What burdens I carry and how heavy they are appear to carry more clout than those things which I do, have or are which are not burdensome. And lordisa, how I tire of recovery and the value put on how one recovers: I do not wish to be remembered when I am gone as the world's most resilient rubber ball. Especially since... well, I'm not. This business with the book was one of the hardest hits I've had in my life when it comes to work, perhaps the hardest hit. Having the close the school I ran back in the day, primarily because there was no way to keep it affordable for parents without my being on my feet working 14 hour days every day, came close. That I allowed myself to grieve over. I have been scared to grieve about this because mourning it seems to imply that it really may just be lost, and I'm not ready to face that yet. Mark not only let me grieve last night, he helped me do it. He acknowledged pain of mine out loud I couldn't. He even tolerated my stream-of-consciousness processing, which included a short stop on the 2005 Freakout World Tour to my nervousness about signing up for intimate boy-girl dynamics and heteronormative male standards, and a sniffly whine about my just wanting to have a weekend where I could look at a river and leaves, gawdammit, and how bloody much was that to ask, anyway. I do feel better today than I have. A weight on my shoulders is less so, mostly because of my sweetie, and in spite of the fact that growing to need him scares the holy piss out of me. As I was telling him last night, I'd love to say needing him feels great, but it doesn't. I don't actually care for how it feels at all. (He tells me my discomfort with dependence is something which inclines him to love me, and I incline myself to believe him.) Mark made a beautifully perfect analogy last night. It may sound cheesy here in the retelling, but so it goes. He recounted how, in airplanes, they make clear that should the plane start to go down, you're instructed to grab your oxygen mask first, before helping the guy next to you with his, and how that is something I could stand to remember a lot more often. Boy's got himself a point. I'm hoping today I can get back some of my momentum. This depression has been sapping some of the life out of me, putting me more behind with things I was already behind on, and making the constant clamor of people asking for things from me -- especially when it's work or things that carry no compensation nor reward -- harder to bear than usual. It's been making me forget that I have plenty of good things on my plate: that even if I excel at nothing else at all in my life from here on out, I've done a lot already. I asked Mark last night if he'd still love and respect me if someday, I just said to fuck with all of what I do and decided what I'd really like to do is work in a little flower shop or in a small garden, and be good at us, cooking dinner, taking the occasional lovely photo or writing poems or pieces that no one would ever see. Of course, he said it was fine. That I even asked such a thing, or felt I needed to, is a testament to how deranged I can be sometimes in presuming that anyone holds me to the ludicrous standards I hold myself to, standards I'm pretty certain weren't even mine at the start. I got told an awful lot, in too many avenues growing up, that I needed to prove myself deserving of basic love, fair treatment and respect, and work harder for it, sacrifice more of myself for it, than was required of everyone else. I'm beginning to realize that somewhere along the line I just absorbed that, without ever questioning it, to the degree I accepted it as not only valid, but natural. There's so much more going on in my head than I can even begin to recount here, and lots that has been going on in my head in the last year or so I haven't even touched on. Per usual, I've a backlog of emotional processing, a backlog of work, and a backlog of things I'd like to find a way to talk about, write about, work with in hopes that they help someone else and help me at the same time. Your guess is as god as mine as to whether or not and when I catch up with any or all of it. But I'm going to go box with Dante in a little bit. I'm going to swing by the market on the way home and get some fresh coffee beans, a bouquet of flowers for myself, and some fresh fruit and veggies to eat. When I get home, I'm going to take a long, hot shower, tidy up my office and kitchen, and do my level best to do what I can today per work, and make clear to interested parties what I may simply be unable to do, as I am just one person and I need to grab that oxygen mask for myself first. Tonight, I'm going to have a nice dinner, then try and write about the two years in my late childhood/early adolescence I always try to remember the least, but which are possibly the two years I need to examine, deal with and reconcile myself with the most. I also want to share that with Mark. I've gotten started on a little of it, and I have to take frequent breaks, as it's very trying and painful, but there is something transformative about even just writing it out and seeing it on the page. Later tonight, I'm going to set everything aside and talk to my sweetheart, and continue to do whatever it is I can to be sure that not a single day passes where he doesn't clearly know his incredible value to me, on good days as well as bad ones: that I know I'm good at, and it's no sort of burden to carry or bear. I'm going to do my best to remind myself that, for me, things like allowing myself to really need someone, to feel comfortable leaning on someone else, unburdening myself; to let one person all the way in rather than half the world most of the way in are all major accomplishments no lesser than getting that damn book published, keeping people healthy and well, getting this award, that invitation or this recognition. * * * 10.29: I really didn't expect this week to end on a high note. But it did. Friday morning, I was in the final rush to get documents pulled together for the ACLU COPA case. The last bit of this involved creating a file of all Scarleteen donations from the last five years. Generally, I only look at a year's cumulative donations at years' end, when I'm doing taxes. I have some sense of what we are and aren't getting, but I have no much in my head most days I only pay it so much mind. I already knew this year wasn't anything close to a decent year for donations, and that last year wasn't very good either. In fact, the last really good fundraising year we had was in 2002, despite our traffic being higher than ever now, at a dizzying level. But I didn't realize how bad it was. Once I started to see the picture, I felt my heart drop out. It isn't just a matter of making ends meet: donations we do or don't get have an emotional effect on me. When we get them, even minimal ones, it gives me some validation of the understood worth of what myself and the volunteers do over there, of what the need for what we do is, of what incredible impact it can have and does have every day. So, even if I can set aside the scary of doing poorly with donations financially -- which is padded greatly by the private grant this year, so, for a change I CAN not get too freaked out about those finances -- I can't always do so emotionally. Seeing that with a site which serves 12,000 daily and has for an age now, where we all work so hard, where I bust my chops and often go to bed heartbroken with the day's posts and how little distance I give myself from them, that we had 21 people total donate this year? Fuck all, that smarts. Big time. Done with what the ACLU needed, I started analyzing the data I had gathered compulsively. How many people gave? How many were friends? Users? What months did best, and which worse? What was the average donation? What was our best year, and why? Covering my desk with printouts, I kept waiting for me to just flop my head on my desk and sob, the final nail in the coffin of a hopeless feeling week, but you know: it didn't happen. It ended up turning into the most productive day I have had in a long time, one which I finished feeling totally empowered. See, there ain't much I can do per what happens with the book at this point. It's truly out of my hands right now. And I already do all I can for the really troubled, scared, conflicted or wounded who post or email every day. Most of what makes me heavy-hearted lately is stuff I just can't do much about, or can't do more than is done already. But something like this? I actually CAN fix this, at least to some degree. I already have now identified a problem which was worse than I knew, but now it's out of hiding. And I have kept an indie, nonprofit and philanthropic enterprise which has served millions afloat for years now, primarily on my own steam, all started on my own steam from absolutely nada. I can ask creative friends and colleagues for help with ideas, which I did. I can send thank-you-notes to people who have a long history of donating I hadn't noticed, because while that doesn't solve the problem, they deserve the thanks and expressing my gratitude is a comfort to me. I can brainstorm: I'm an idea girl and I always have been. By days end, I had a full page of excellent ideas, some mine, some that of others. Today, I've spent more time with that, and feel completely capable of tackling this. I haven't felt very capable in months: what seemed like an additional stress and strain ended up being a giant boost. Including -- as if this should surprise me at all at this point -- a fantastic fundraising idea from Mr. Saves the Day Miracle Worker Price, who I was also able to finish the day with, with a long, wonderful gab on the phone. (Okay, there was a period of monosyllables, moans and grunts, but mostly it was gabbing. I swear.) I'm back to Washington at week's end. I have plenty of work which is portable I can bring there. While I'm visiting, we've got a joint meeting with a potential investor for Mark's next film (which I will be doing stills for), so we get to jointly bring our collective and formidable game and work on his dreams. We can sit down and make plans to pull of his fabulous idea to work on mine. I'll have the weekdays mostly to myself to do my work, creative and practical, and a few meetings, creative and practical, for excellent networking. We also have a very nice, remote mini-break the weekend after next which we both desperately need, if you ask me. And best of all, I get to hop off a plane Friday afternoon and hop straight into the set of arms which I love best, which are just as strong as my own. I get to be with the person who somehow manages to excite the holy hell out of me and provide me more comfort than anyone. If I feel like a failure, if my losses or conflicts weigh too heavy on me, I get to look, at the start and the end of the day at the face of someone looking at me with this crazy, all-encompassing love, respect, admiration and joy: at someone who is proud of me, no matter what. I've decided I'm allowed to let things like that buoy me through the tough times. I can be scared of that sometimes, it's cool, but I have to also let myself feel the fearless in that just as much. I'm also allowed to number this among my strengths and gifts: if I couldn't have cried my eyes out without withholding on Wednesday night, if I hadn't felt the comfort and the spark of us, I'm fairly certain I might not have been able to make the same mental switch I got to by Friday night. Certainly, I have plenty else that got me there: my own, independent and stubborn spirit, a couple boxing sessions, the tiny comforts I know to provide for myself, supportive friends. But my sweetheart: the boy's a miracle worker. Which is absolutely fantastic, because I think we both have that capacity, and we both need that of someone else. The better we get at putting that together, at combining our respective, productively combustible elements... well, shit. The way I see it, it's looking a lot like I have to look forward to carrying at least a little less weight, and having it feel so heavy for progressively shorter amounts of time. It galvanizes me a lot, to the degree that when I can get it in perspective, I not only feel capable of carrying what I already do, but of dealing with some things which might be even heavier and harder to bear. Mark and I both have had possibly the hardest hit to our work-related dreams and plans this year either of us ever has, and yet, we're both bouncing back, we both have had the comfort, care and fire of the other to help us through and to celebrate and enjoy even in the midst of all the crap. Talking like a "we" weirds my shit out, make no mistake. <insert heebie-jeebie-Heather-noise here> But being a we, being THIS we? I LIKE this, its actuality and its infinite possibility. I like the way it reminds me not just of who I am, but of who I can aspire to be, on my own terms, not anyone else's. Since it's been a while: Dear You, See above. You're my one. And I'm so, so lucky my one turned out to be you. I'm all yours. I fucking love you, Price. Now, let's go kick some ass. So soon, me   October 21st, Two Thousand Five: Recently overheard in the home of some random woman who works and lives alone, perhaps for far too much of the time. (fishing through refrigerator) "Where are you...where aaaaaaare you, basil o'mine-- AHA! There you are, you leafy little green goddesses!" (insert dog barking) "Aie, Sofia! Hush! Nothing to worry about: that was just me talking to the groceries." Nothing to worry about, my fanny.   October 20th, Two Thousand Five: I have moments in which I am supremely tired of the fiascoes the universe seems compelled to arrange for me in some lame attempt at balance. Tuesday, thanks to the grant payment coming in this weekend, I could finally bike over to get new glasses, as my current pair are three years old, scratched, and leaving me with constant headaches. Yay! I found a fun and lovely new pair for a not-ungodly price (the place I go makes one-of-a-kinds I dig at insanely reasonable cost: these are my usual cat-eye shape, but rather than last time's black with yellow, in a rich iridescent copper with deep olive inside the rims), and was told they'd be in early next week. A tattooed - no lie -- 12-year-old and I provided consultation for one another in our choices. She left with pink and purple Buddy Holly frames. Yesterday, I had The Super-Amazing Day O'Freedom-Feeling. Those two days, I did some work, and certainly some writing of my own, but I let myself have those two days at a fairly mellow pace. Today, I had loads of work and errands on the agenda, including a jaunt to drop a check off to a friend, then to the post office branch where I can ship internationally to send another cheque and some socks to Audra, and two prints from the last show to Seska, both of which are woefully overdue. I also nabbed my camera in hopes of getting some outdoor shots, as it's brisk out today, but the light is lovely. The plan when I got back home from those errands and a co-op stop was to finish writing an ST piece and then edit a set of photos for the site OR get a new self-port shoot in. The one cheque delivery was all I managed. It will likely BE all I manage today. The universe somehow seemed to think that to balance my getting new glasses, it had to destroy my old pair. It also seemed to think that I needed some reminding that feeling free and light is all well and good until someone almost loses an eye. Instead of things going according to MY plan, while biking through town on said errands, I took a quick left turn on a route I haven't taken in a little bit. It's a busy one-way street, so I ride the sidewalk for a block until I take another turn. The curb on that sidewalk used to be one of those that fell flush to the street. It's not anymore. It has since become the kind six inches or so above the street, a change I only noticed when it was far too late and I was going too fast. I can't recall having a spill on my bike since elementary school, so I can only complain so much, mind you, especially given how much I bike. The bike flew, I flew from it, and skidded down the sidewalk on my arm and unto my face. My face hurt, but only when there was blood running into my eye did I notice that my old glasses were on the sidewalk broken, and in breaking, the split earpiece had gouged itself into my face above my eyebrow. Joy. Ow. Getting home on your bike when you have no glasses with which to see and have a cut bleeding into one eye? Not fun. And I so needed another scar on my face, because I just don't have enough already. I'm fine, albeit a little out of it, squinty, looking stupidly bandaged and feeling a little perturbed. Universe, leave me off your instant karma list for a bit, will ya? You've got to have bigger fish to fry, and I feel we've been spending too much time together. In the immortal words of everyone's half-assed high school boyfriend, I need some space... and glasses. Go pick on the entire current US administration for a while and put THEIR shit in karmic balance, eh? Or people who drive SUVs. Or those who change sidewalks and curbs without, you know, calling me at home and informing me personally. By the time you've even gotten a toehold on all that, I'll be long gone, and you can have as many pairs of my glasses as you want.   October 19th, Two Thousand Five: There's something about today that felt strangely important from the start. I'm fairly certain there's nothing personally relevant for me about this date in my own history. Certainly, we've had enough history for there to be some relevance: a quick search tells me that today in 1849, Elizabeth Blackwell was the first woman to receive a medical degree in the United States. A British general who was the ancestor of my crazy (but lovable) lesbian college housemate surrendered in Yorktown on this date, finding struggle hopeless. (It may well be that on this same date, my housemate took a tip from her ancestor and gave up on being dicked around by one of the shittiest bored-straight-girl-players I have ever had the misfortune to meet, too.) Annie Peck was born one year later, a woman who turned out to be one of history's greatest mountain climbers, and who, at 61, climbed a 21,000 foot peak in Peru and posted a banner there which read "Votes for Women." In an oddly related note, Patricia Ireland was also born on October 19th, as was once-Waterboys cofounder Karl Wallinger, on a totally unrelated note. I've got nothing quite so notable or interesting to report, save that today, I realized that in many ways, I am more than a little afraid of allowing myself to be happy, and to fully enjoy being happy. Which, as it turns out, is notable. * * * Saturday evening, I met Mark's parents. They drove in 15 hours from Cincinnati just to meet me in my own city to make things more comfortable for me, and because they didn't want to wait to meet me. Apparently, the way he spoke of me, and how often, made this meeting imperative. To say I was nervous was the same sort of understatement it might be to say that a couple people in this country maybe didn't make the most informed or sage decision voting during the last Presidential election. Before this happened, I was scrolling back previous parent meetings in my head. It wasn't pretty. Mid-eighties: a slightly younger lover of mine, with whom I'd have consensual boy-girl intercourse for the first time after years of everything else under the sun with everyone else under the sun, regretted to inform me on our first time creeping in through a window after sweatily rolling in the proverbial hay in a cemetery all night that his stepparent just HAPPENED to be our science teacher. I only discovered this when Mr. Whatzajammerhisnamewasiforget (aha! DAVIDSON!) greeted me as I tried to sneak out in the morning in some barely-there jammie pants and red and white checked apron offering me herbal tea. (On the other hand, the kid's grandfather LOVED me: to the point that on one occasion HE was the one sneaking to MY ghetto window at the crack of dawn....to take me fishing and sit rolling lots of cigarettes together while sneaking whiskey into my coffee from a flask. Go figure.) Mid-nineties: tough call there for the worst parent one at that time: was it having my 16-years-elder partner (who was wonderful, and remains one of my favourite people in the universe, lest it sound otherwise) skittishly present me to the fam trying harder than I can describe to seemingly a make our relationship seem as chaste as was-totally-impossible? Or was it the Southern mama of a man who had literally run up hundreds of dollars on my phone bill, abandoned me with half a lease I couldn't pay (which left me without utilities for a Chicago winter and this close to homeless mere months before organs literally exploded in my body), nabbed some of my only valuable possessions in the interim AND managed a fine social security swindle for himself telling me I was STALKING them by trying to track his ass down to try and save my own and give the lawyers hounding me per the lease and his swindle directions to go nail the bastard? The millennium-ish: in meeting B's mother we spend days literally praying she does not remember that we did, indeed, meet once before, many years earlier when, in a cross-country shag excursion, we ended up at his childhood homestead in what we thought would have been early enough in the morning to avoid any contact... which might have happened if his current girlfriend had not been calling his mother every hour, on the hour, all night through dawn to find out where he was and with whom. Then there are, of course, the more than a few accidental meetings with parents in which, at best, I got glared at, and at worst, I got told I had "heartbreaker" written all over my face (I think they were looking at my ass, actually, where heartbreaker may well be writ, but I suppose that's beside the point). Most of the meetings occurred by discovering me in very strange places at very odd hours with the progeny in question. Suffice it to say, there were, by the time I had gotten into my twenties, very few windows, closets and lobby stairwells in Chicago with which I was unfamiliar. Word to the wise? Parents prefer not meeting you in those places. Especially when your shirt is on inside out or nowhere to be seen. The long and the short of it is that I have never exactly been the girl anyone sane wanted to bring home to mama, and if they did, no one ever had any expectation of greatness. Or niceness. Or me leaving the experience without considering just changing my name to Jezebel to make it all less confusing for everyone concerned. The other thing going on with this is that I deeply, sincerely gave a big shit about how this went. Previously, when I'd had parent meetings or run-ins in my life, my attitude was basically that they could take me or leave me, and that was just the way the cookie crumbled. That wasn't the case with this, for a few reasons. For one, Mark isn't take-it-or-leave-it with his family. He loves them, they love him, everyone has always been wonderful to each other. He assured me that even if they hated me, we'd still keep doing our thing, but nobody was under any illusion that if they DID hate me, it'd prove pretty seriously problematic. Know what else? I cannot express how grateful I am to these people just for making him. I've no doubt that sounds terribly cheeseball, especially coming from this smudged-lipgloss kisser, but it's the truth. I fully intend -- however much it sometimes gives me the willies -- to ride this ride until they close the park and kick me out. So, anyone who really loves this guy who really didn't like me, who thought I wasn't any good for him? I know I couldn't help but question if maybe they were right, and that was scary, since it'd mean I'd have to really reconsider my endless tilt-a-whirl plans. For these reasons and more, some of which I can't even explain, I really, really, REALLY wanted them to like me. I knew our politics were in many ways in serious opposition. I knew many aspects of my life would freak the holy bejeezus out of them. I knew if I said "fuck," all was likely lost (which is why, for two weeks, my friends had to deal with me practicing alternatives every single time I started to say fuck, creating a constant invective stream of phooey, fussbudget, fiddlesticks, filibuster, fuss and fishsticks). I completely forget during events like this -- lord knows how -- that my whole life has been an object lesson in grace-under-pressure, and that I am actually rather good at it. I was just a little bit of a wreck beforehand, this given. Me, getting dressed in a tizzy, to Mark: "Skirt or trousers?" Mark: "Trousers. I like you best in trousers." Me, already eye-rolling: "How about these trousers?" Mark: "What about the ones that are my favourite?" Me: "The ASS-PANTS!? No way. Too tight. These." Me again, now moving on to shirts (since I did learn that slice o-wisdom about greeting the folks with a shirt on back when): "This one?" Mark: "What about that jellyfish one? I like that because your--" Me, knowing the sentiment which follows that is "...breasts look so great in it": "OY GAVALT! No. Too boob-y. I don't even want your parents to know I HAVE breasts. I am trying to look WHOLESOME, you loon." Mark, grinning like a cat: "Me too." Me: "You suck at it even more than me, buddy. And that's saying something." * * * Guess what? They were LOVELY. Lovely in general, and completely lovely to me. I was greeted with giant hugs, joshed in the friendliest way possible almost immediately by his Dad, provided an immediate ally by his Mom. I had chosen for us to have dinner at the Italian place I literally hold court at constantly down the block, because they know me well enough that I knew I could impart the seriousness of this going flawlessly. Even though they looked at me like I was deranged for asking several times if they could be SURE to have steak on the specials -- This place is always exceptional about adapting foods for me. So, they're used to me being the no dairy/no dead mammals in my food girl. Me asking for steak was a bit unexpected. It took a few tries to explain it, including me saying, with a sigh, "Yes, I am asking for you to KILL A COW for me saturday night. I wish I were not, but I am, for dead cow is the sacred meal of this incoming tribe and I must honor them by participating in their strange, ritual slaughter." -- they got it. Of course, the only staffer who was unaware of what this dinner was and who these people were was my most common waiter, with whom I am very friendly, and who is a very nice man. Unfortunately, that evening, our opening conversation went like this: Me: "Hey Tim. How are you? How's your wife's dissertation going?" Him: <insert small talk here> I order a wine for myself and Mark. Tim comes out with it, pours a taste, and says, thinking himself a great comedian: "Now, just don't throw your glass in my face like you did the LAST time you didn't like a wine." Hyuk hyuk. Me, glaring and dryly (and so not a person who has thrown a glass of wine at this man, ever, I swear): "Wow, you're funny. And I'm sure that the PARENTS of the LOVE OF MY LIFE who drove 15 HOURS to meet me really loved that little story." Him, gulping and speaking softly: "I'm probably not your favorite waiter anymore, am I." Me: "Not so much." I have no idea if they took the tale to heart or not. If they did, they're even cooler than I thought. At some point, Mark went to the restroom. I knew this was likely to be my only moment alone with them. I knew I needed, I wanted, to grow some extra balls, because I have never felt inclined to say what I was about to to anyone's parents in my life, and that I'd be an asshole not to say it when I felt it, because who knew if I would ever feel it again, or they'd ever hear it again. And so I said something to this effect: "Thank you SO MUCH for bringing Mark into this world. I seriously love your work. I really love your son. He may well be the best thing that has happened to me so far in my life, and I cannot figure where to start to even try and express my gratitude. I think he is exceptional and I feel incredibly lucky to have him in my life. Thank you so much for coming all the way up here, too. I can't tell you how much it means to me." And as I said that, punctuated with some verbal diarrhea on my part, no doubt, it was insanely hard not to cry because his father was looking at me like I'd just sprouted wings and a halo and his mother had tears in her eyes. Then they both thanked ME. And told me they had never seen or heard him so happy before. "Bloody heck," I said. (Okay, I didn't, but it sure would have been cute and funny if I had.) A little later, after keeping myself from smoking for a good five hours, I broke, and excused myself to step outside, deciding on a whim to take his Dad along for the ride. I figured if High Cholesterol Guy could eat dead cow with gorgonzola, I could have a fag in his presence and be excused. He held my hand as I walked. He and I shared a bonding moment about our own upbringings, at his initiative, and he told me I had them as family now, and that he and MarkMom loved me loads. He let on that he'd been observing Mark and I at the museum where we took them when I thought we were having private moments and that the way we looked at each other was truly amazing. (I suddenly raced through my brain in a panic trying to assure myself that during none of those moments had I grabbed Mark's bottom.) We shared some other information which I shall keep to myself. We rued the fact that the bakery next door was closed. They left shortly thereafter, and when we walked them to the car, I got huge hugs from both, and his mother holding my arms, looking me in the eyes and saying, "Thank you. You are so good for him. We love you." Then Mark and I went back inside. We sat down just kind of starting wordlessly at each other (mind you, it's a regular habit and the number of hours we've clocked doing that is grotesque, but this was a heavier wordless than usual). And I said, "Whoah." Then "Wow." Then "Day-um." Then a much-needed "FUCK." And he said something about knowing it was going to go that well, and knowing everything was going to be okay and wonderful and fun, and wasn't that just fine and not at all uncomfortable and... "Shit. You're totally freaked out, aren't you," he finished, looking at my gaping mouth and the likely whiteness of my face. I really, really was. To the degree that I even asked for a next-day extension on a particularly scrumptious sexual offer made to me before the meeting as an enticement to get though the day without having an aneurysm. I didn't even know exactly why I was so freaked out. Maybe it was because it made things feel more cemented, maybe it's because I just didn't anticipate it going THAT well, maybe it was just because the adrenaline was finally subsiding. We processed a bit that night, and a bit more the next day, and on the phone the next couple, as the mood struck me. (Hey: as I'm often wont to say, you can take the girl out of the dyke, but you can't take the dyke out of the girl. Mind you, I'm not usually referring to processing when I say that, but the same rules do apply.) * * * Here's the scoop: I am not, as Mark is neither, one of these folks whose biggest dream in life was to have one person who loved me only forever and ever. There are no white picket fences, white dresses, or much of anything in that pallid hue in my fertile imagination, nor has there ever really been. As I was expressing to Mark earlier today, certainly, I've entertained visions of not being a total hermit when I'm old. I've entertained notions of a sort of lifelong community. I've even entertained ideas of a solid partnership that lasts, gladly, for at least a few years. Now, who knows why that is. Some of why is because I think and feel that a lot of typical love ideals are not only bullshit, but just plain lame in my book. I've always craved something a bit more interesting. Plus, any setting of normal has generally been my abnormal, and vice-versa. It's been a weird life. I have no doubt that some of why is that my very first lesson in big love turned out to also be a very big lesson in mortality and impermanence; in the indisputable fact that amplifying the amount of happiness you can experience has the equal and opposing result of amplifying the possible depths of your sorrow. Some of why may be that the person I have had the deepest, longest and earliest bond with in my life has always been something of a nomad, and for the last fifteen years or some, save some time in my care and another brief respite in one apartment, has been homeless; who often I don't even know is dead or alive, well or in serious danger. There's also my history, my politics, my nature. The beat goes on. I'm not about to give the world and some of the people in it who have crossed my path a get-out-of-jail-free card when it comes to their accountability in giving me plenty of very hard issues to grapple with. That said, a lot of my road blocks to lasting joy are admittedly my own. I came to the conclusion today that above all else, the biggest reason I feel completely freaked out by the end of Saturday evening was that I not only LIKED feeling the way I have been for the last six months or so and was feeling that night, liked the way things were going, the places things are heading, liked that for pretty much the first time in my life, someone vital told me I was earnestly good for a partner, but I also very much wanted to feel 100% free to LET myself enjoy liking them. To not question whether or not they were fleeting, whether or not I deserved any of it, whether or not I was out of my mind batshit for thinking all this crazy joy of late was real. Newsflash: people with genius IQs can be as daft as anyone sometimes. Possibly more so, because we think we're so damn smart all the effing time. Because it was really only today this really seeped into my consciousness: that I have often cut myself off from really allowing myself to have some serious happiness when the shit finally shows the hell up already. Some part of me, for years and years has been deathly afraid of being completely happy, especially if it lasts for more than just a fleeting moment. I believe I have remained comfortable with fleeting moments of happiness for they illustrate my pervasive belief and experience that everything good truly is very fleeting, so it works. It doesn't fuck with my worldview or my approach to life. But the idea of a sustained happy, especially with another person? Romantically? Puh-lease. Delusion. Idiocy. Recipe for disaster, heartbreak, a kick-me sign on my back and a bigger bar tab than I, my liver or the tequila export industry in Mexico could ever possibly afford. But today, I was walking through the market, picking up some food for the week, and the opening strains of Al Green's "Let's Stay Together" were playing. The corny sincerity of the thing gave me a grin and a fine flashback to more than a few very non-parental moments of this last visit, and for whatever reason, something suddenly struck me, as I was deciding what to eat this week. It's entirely possible, probable even, that at this point, nearly any choice I make for myself, right down to what I eat (though given how I eat, it's hardly dire), may very well impact Mark in some way, and vice-versa. Normally, this sort of idea would make my feet itch and cause me to break out in a cold sweat, but today, it felt oddly... light. Matter-of-fact. Simple. Easy to digest, even for the lactose-intolerant. I do not know why for the life of me, but it wasn't at all scary. It felt GOOD. I then had a moment of feeling very grateful that I never was one of those people with some longstanding idea of some preprescribed and idealized life with Somebody -- whoever showed up and stuck around, basically. Mark and I's stuff, our organic creation of a relationship, our plans, our own ideas of what could be ideal or a good fit for us come nothing close to following any sort of usual guidebook or map for what the Love O'the Life is usually painted as, and that can make things a bit terrifying at times just because of the lack of certain precedents (and frustrating when others expect them). But on the other hand, it actually makes things a lot less scary -- especially when I reflect on the fact that nearly all of my life I've had to make my own maps, often with less tools and warning than many -- because I know this is made-to-order, not off the rack. Some of my Big Happy comes from the fact that this, Mark, aren't fitting a bill I already had waiting to collect on: rather, the fact that I wasn't expecting this nor had I imagined it, that all of it is surprise after surprise and I'm having to make room and adjustments for it, that it forces me have to grow in the best ways, makes me appreciate it all the more. It gives me room to be all the more happy. What I felt today? Was free. And full and light all at once. For a whole day. Believe it or not, my verbosity and seven (shit, is that right?) years of public journaling notwithstanding, this isn't the place for my whole life history, and it's never been. So, save to those people very close to me (and some perceptive readers, of which I have more than a few), the gravity of my realization with my happiness-blockade and a sustained day feeling free in all of this, and not scared at all can't be expressed or understood very adequately. Actually, I'm not sure anyone but me can actually completely get it, and that's okay. I got it. I may not even feel the same way tomorrow. Also okay. I didn't accomplish a whole lot else today, but I think that's alright. I gave a date relevance today. October 19th shall ever be the day during which, inexplicably, and all by myself, without anything either devastating or delirious happening, I, Heather Corinna, felt earnestly, inexplicably, strangely-but-beautifully free, and may now be able henceforth to let myself enjoy being at least a little more happy than I've ever let myself be before. Better still? I had that happen at a junction in my life when there couldn't be a better time for me to make room for some extra joy, when I'd be a total idiot not to let myself be happy about finding and having something exceptionally rare. Elizabeth Blackwell got her degree. Annie Peck got her mountains. I got this; all fine accomplishments worthy of note if not in everyone's history, certainly in mine. Well, fuss ME. P.S. There are scads of photos up in the Flickr stream, should you require a respite from my onslaught of verbage.
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