You're 26 today, Jed! Happy New Year, Sir! Have fun in the Apple, but can't believe you're depriving the left coast of the opportunity to fete you. Sorry my blog got you in a spot of trouble - just tell them that simulations aren't the same as the real thing.
Kiss kiss!
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Spellbound
Yesterday afternoon on the way to work I had occasion to question the soundness of my mind. I had parked outside the Yoga studio, and the heat inside the car was sweltering, but NPR held onto me so tight I couldn't make myself get out into the fresh air. Why? Because they were reporting on the national spelling bee, in perticular, the part where a twelve-year-old boy spotted a mistake on the part of the judges, saving one child from wrongful elimination.
Anyway, my issue with all this is, simply, just how big of a dork am I? Pretty big I guess. This kind of shit thrills me. I don't know why, but I find it all very touching, particularly that completely entertaining documentary from a few years back. Maybe it's watching those well-meaning kids trying so hard, or maybe it's watching the tension they go through. Reminds me of the intensity of all those piano recitals and state competitions I had to endure in grade school. But this is better than that, because these kids seem to be having fun. It's the same jazz you get from watching sports, or some lucky bastard who just got told his granny's lamp is worth $35,000 on Antiques Roadshow (one of the only things I'll watch on tv, btw). In some circles I could be lambasted for comparing those two, but I'll take the risk.
It seems some grad students found the spelldown amusing enough to create a drinking game. This somewhat ameliorated my fears of complete nerditude, though I hadn't swilled anything, which probably placed me right back in the category of my fear. But then, they're grad students, so I guess we're in the same boat.
Anyway, my issue with all this is, simply, just how big of a dork am I? Pretty big I guess. This kind of shit thrills me. I don't know why, but I find it all very touching, particularly that completely entertaining documentary from a few years back. Maybe it's watching those well-meaning kids trying so hard, or maybe it's watching the tension they go through. Reminds me of the intensity of all those piano recitals and state competitions I had to endure in grade school. But this is better than that, because these kids seem to be having fun. It's the same jazz you get from watching sports, or some lucky bastard who just got told his granny's lamp is worth $35,000 on Antiques Roadshow (one of the only things I'll watch on tv, btw). In some circles I could be lambasted for comparing those two, but I'll take the risk.
It seems some grad students found the spelldown amusing enough to create a drinking game. This somewhat ameliorated my fears of complete nerditude, though I hadn't swilled anything, which probably placed me right back in the category of my fear. But then, they're grad students, so I guess we're in the same boat.
Friday, June 02, 2006
The Doublemint Twins
I was at a daytime party, and finally met the identical brother of someone with whom I was already acquainted. Had an interesting conversation with both, then we three decided to guide ourselves on a tour of our hostess' home. Upon discovering a rather spacious closet, we stepped inside, and the edgier of the boys closed the door, while wearing a cheeky grin.
I grew characteristically nervous and giddy. It was getting a little hot in there. So, to cut the tension, I blurted in a manner not unseen in Diane Keaton, "Now I know how the Fonz felt."
Don't worry, nothing happened.
I grew characteristically nervous and giddy. It was getting a little hot in there. So, to cut the tension, I blurted in a manner not unseen in Diane Keaton, "Now I know how the Fonz felt."
Don't worry, nothing happened.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Bulletin
Thanks to all those of you who voted some time back, but I have returned to the Land of Blonde-dum, and I couldn't be happier. I look about ten years younger, for one. I can return to wearing all those colors in my wardrobe that went obsolete while I was a brunette, for another.
In other news, Levi constantly smells like maple syrup these days. No idea why. Sometimes I walk into my room and can tell he's been in there, simply because I start thinking about downing a shortstack of pancakes.
In other news, Levi constantly smells like maple syrup these days. No idea why. Sometimes I walk into my room and can tell he's been in there, simply because I start thinking about downing a shortstack of pancakes.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Heart Like a Wheel, II
Someone out there seems to be rather amused by my romantic antics, so I thought I'd do a sequel to one of my very first postings.
More ex-bfs and other close encounters:
An acting teacher, cute in a goofy boyish way, but too Jerry Lewis to be sexy. Too rabbity. I had the murmurings of a crush, which were nearly stilled the day I saw his red Porsche in the parking lot outside the black box theater. I confess it, I'm a reverse car snob. If you positively must own an ostentatious automobile, you have to be able to wear it well. He was bright, funny, neurotic, affable, confident, a chain-smoker and very long-legged. I was completely shocked to feel the hairpiece sewn into his crown, and completely able to mask my surprise. Somehow I thought he was duty bound to prepare me for it - like if I were Heather Mills, but you didn't know who Heather Mills was, I would definitely tell you I had a detachable leg before any clothing hit the floor. I forgave his vanity because he was nice and and I'm long-suffering, until he started hurting me out of sheer clumsiness. He was cumbersome in bed, precisely the place where one should avoid avoidable pain. That was easy to say no to.
A skater-boy from Palos Verdes, who studied classics at Brown, smoked too much pot, and had his right arm in a cast nearly the entire time we dated. I was completely infatuated with him. He had a face like an angel. full red mouth, big almond shaped blue eyes with long lashes, and brown soft waves of hair over his tender face. Two years before, he had a fling with my former roommate, and was subsequently stalked by her in rather frightening, if artistic, ways. She and I were never very close, and had mostly fallen out of touch. I also had scant knowledge of their relationship until he and I were already together. Nonetheless, she caught the scent in the air - really he told her out of some misguided sense of honor - and started stirring up trouble right away. I don't know if that's the reason he dumped me, or if it really was that convoluted explanation about his drunken parents and the harm his unsettled emotional life could do me. Whatever the case, though we'd never made love, I was completely devastated and came inches from stalking him myself. The grief was huge, and whether it was augmented by the end of school or not, I often was awakened by my nocturnal dolor. I literally cried in my sleep for months.
Or how about J. Wellerstein - hyperactive and hilarious art crowd figure. Immensely talented, his graphic murals adorned the back stairwell of the List Art Center (it was permissible to graffiti there), and he was in a band, Slow Children, like the yellow street sign near school yards. He was about the most fun you could have on a Saturday night, and we raced around together in a manner that was more like two comically sparring dudes than boy meets girl. We remained friends even after our parting. One late balmy spring night, in my junior year, we lay on our backs under an immense old campus tree by the Sarah Doyle house and talked while he tripped his brains out on mushrooms. I was stone sober, but thoroughly entertained and participating in his musings. As he looked up at the sky obstructed by branches and trunk, he observed, "Now I know how my pet iguana feels when I lower a piece of broccoli into his cage."
A NYC upper-east side rich boy, and best friend of a Von Furstenberg, who in college pursued me for two and a half years. I was immediately attracted to this (previously unmentioned and not to be confused with the other) Adam. But almost as fast, I smelled a rat. He was gorgeous, dark, smokey, and stylish. Barney's was his highboy. Smooth skin, smooth clothes, smooth affect, there was no question he made me swoon, but I put up a resistance that would have made Henri Frenay proud. Fall of senior year we were in a class together. Each time he sat with me, walked me to the main green afterwards, and held me in conversation for at least an hour. Over the weeks, I learned of his father's death, the importance of his relationship to his brother, and the Canaanite origin of his last name. Once he got sick, so I took him Theraflu, ginger ale, and some silly dime store toy. After about a month he asked me to dinner, and I finally took the bait. He picked me up on his 60s BMW motorcycle, and we ate angel hair pasta at Adesso's. I guess you could say I was too easily seduced that night, but it had been an epic courtship, after all. I slipped out with a kiss early in the morning, mostly because something was triggering my allergies, and I feared facing him with rapidly swelling eyes. It should have been a sign; my body felt dread. Two days later, Adam's friend Stephan invited both of us to party deep in the locked-jaw of Greenwich, thrown by his father, H de K, aviation millionaire, owner of the Calumet Farm (polo ponies), and inspiration for Jeffery Archer's book and miniseries, Kane & Abel. Adam told me he was going to the Apple, but would meet me there. The Connecticut estate was immense, had several buildings (someone whispered that there was a separate guest house for each of the children), and the party was held in the massive ruin of an old stone barn. The windows were out and the roof had long since weathered away. Dining tables and a dance floor were set up inside the structure, which was lit with what seemed thousands of white candles nestled into and dripping over every nook and crevice in the stone walls. There were armloads of flowers, an incredible supper, Pimms Cup, an African percussive group and dancers, and Tatiana von F flitting about in a black velvet cape. The whole scene was pure magic. But where was Adam? He had seemed nervous and aloof earlier in the evening. Then he finally pulled me aside and quickly explained to me that while he was in New York, he had been invited to our classmate's mother's show at Carnegie Hall. While he was backstage, Diana Ross' daughter expressed her long-standing crush, and so you see, he was now going to be her boyfriend. So that was why I had seen Tracee dragging him across the lawn to the dance floor earlier. I was in shock, but mustered no argument. What could I do? Not only had I been completely outclassed, I had failed to listen to the continuous larum of my instinct. Who can compete with the child of a pop icon when the booty is a superficial social climbing cad? Still, it was astonishing to have been the object of such an enduring conquest, only to be dropped like last night's coat check chit. I had mistaken the lifespan of his affections and his unwillingness to accept my refusals, as an indication of sincerity. So, she got him, and dragged him all around campus for the rest of the year. It seemed like every time I saw them, she was leading him by the hand somewhere or another. Oddly, when I ran into him, he often engaged me with this earnest and wistful look on his face. Usually she was somewhere near by, and as soon as she spotted him talking to me, the hand would reach over like Stretch Armstrong, and drag him away. Even at a graduation dance, he pulled me aside to convey some remorse over... what? He had a lot of nerve. I can only assume he was sorry, but I really think part of him regretted his choice. When the hand showed up this time and pulled him thither, he actually grasped mine and held on. There we three were, Adam in the middle, pulled like Silly Putty, and not letting go of me. But I wasn't trying to drag him back to me, so he gave me his last 'meaningful' look, let go, and she pulled him until they were swallowed up in the dancing crowd. After college was over, I once saw him on last page of Vogue, seated with atleast one other alum. They'd had their picture taken for eating in the right Manhattan brasserie. Balthasar's, I think it was. A while later he married the daughter of one of the ten richest men in America. He almost immediately cheated on her with her best friend and that year's "It Girl," so designated by Page Six and the society mavens. They too married and now have at least one child.
Sophomore year there was a very cute former child actor and friend of J. Wellerstein, who had dated the aforementioned Tatiana, and who allegedly obsessed about me from afar. As usual, I had no idea of it until my roommates boyfriend, Josh, who was also Scott's "big brother," leaked the deep dark secret. Though to my knowledge, we'd never rubbed two words together, I'm told he got quite emotional about the whole ordeal, and a late drunken night vandalized the Sigma Chi hallway outside his room with my name and some avowal of his affections. Well, I'm just the kind of girl whose ego gets seized with adulation, so soon after a date was arranged. I mean, he really was darling. But that was about the extent of it. We had a date, kissed awhile, kept our clothes on and fell asleep, and never went out again. I guess I broke that spell pretty quickly. Within a month he was in a comitted relationship with a very sweet younger co-ed who looked like his sister. My favorite story about him includes Wellerstein and his sidekick (and one of my favorite people at school), Ed Diaz. Ed was this tall, lumbering, long-haired half-indian looking fellow who, though mostly silent, would occaisionally say the funniest things. He always seemed always to wear a half-smile on his face, and we got on very well. Anyway, one night the three of them were in Scott's room as the young actor described his conquest of the night before. Josh's room shared what were very thin walls, so he heard the entire description of Scott's belabored sexual explorations. Ed, who was growing tired of waiting for the punchline, finally blurted impatiently, "Why didn't you just fuck her, man?"
In Prague, I was pursued by a fairly well-known actor, who is sort-of a Paul Newman knock-off - not quite so arrestingly handsome, and a small fraction of the career. He was assuredly male in that way that makes my heart buckle, but I managed to stave off his advances for weeks. Until the night after the wrap party. I had left the late-night festivities in Matt D's suite and secured myself a solo ride on the elevator back to my hotel room. Unfortunately, in a 4:30 am blur, I hit the wrong floor, and had to ride the lift up once more to another wrong floor. I was at the mercy of the call button, pushed by none other than the russety actor who had draped himself over my shoulder for the last two hours. He smiled at me like he'd just found a well-padded wallet, an old friend, and a cask of good scotch, all at the same time. Following me back to my room, he insisted that all he wanted was to curl up beside me; there would be no sex. I had my doubts this would play out innocently, given the voluptuousness of his previous come-ons (he had a fixation on my hips, which he expressed with unnervingly winsome poetics), and his earlier insistence that we go break into the pool together. But he was about the most charming suitor I had met in ages, so I slipped the card in the lock and let him in. Once in bed, he wrapped his arms around me, but decided that he absolutely would not let me sleep unless he could hold me naked. There was quite a long and not unplayful argument surrounding the issue. I really did not want to have sex with him, even if he was impossibly handsome. I was in all sorts of emotional turmoil from the horrendous work situation I was in there, and the last thing I needed was to feel like some sort of star-fucking groupie loser. But he plied me and he reassured me that no further harm would befall me beyond the injury of his bare skin against mine, and that seemed like pure heaven to me. So the clothes came off, and he was as good as his word, "I just want to hold you." He nestled his face into the nape of my neck, stroked my limbs, and held me close. And then we slept, for maybe seven hours. In the morning he left, and I felt sad. But he came back, bringing me bottled water from his room and we stayed in bed for a while longer. He kissed my face and smoothed my hair, and was gone. I learned something about men that night, something I'd always felt, something most people don't want to admit: you aren't so different from us, sometimes you just want some tenderness. It was a perfect night.
More ex-bfs and other close encounters:
An acting teacher, cute in a goofy boyish way, but too Jerry Lewis to be sexy. Too rabbity. I had the murmurings of a crush, which were nearly stilled the day I saw his red Porsche in the parking lot outside the black box theater. I confess it, I'm a reverse car snob. If you positively must own an ostentatious automobile, you have to be able to wear it well. He was bright, funny, neurotic, affable, confident, a chain-smoker and very long-legged. I was completely shocked to feel the hairpiece sewn into his crown, and completely able to mask my surprise. Somehow I thought he was duty bound to prepare me for it - like if I were Heather Mills, but you didn't know who Heather Mills was, I would definitely tell you I had a detachable leg before any clothing hit the floor. I forgave his vanity because he was nice and and I'm long-suffering, until he started hurting me out of sheer clumsiness. He was cumbersome in bed, precisely the place where one should avoid avoidable pain. That was easy to say no to.
A skater-boy from Palos Verdes, who studied classics at Brown, smoked too much pot, and had his right arm in a cast nearly the entire time we dated. I was completely infatuated with him. He had a face like an angel. full red mouth, big almond shaped blue eyes with long lashes, and brown soft waves of hair over his tender face. Two years before, he had a fling with my former roommate, and was subsequently stalked by her in rather frightening, if artistic, ways. She and I were never very close, and had mostly fallen out of touch. I also had scant knowledge of their relationship until he and I were already together. Nonetheless, she caught the scent in the air - really he told her out of some misguided sense of honor - and started stirring up trouble right away. I don't know if that's the reason he dumped me, or if it really was that convoluted explanation about his drunken parents and the harm his unsettled emotional life could do me. Whatever the case, though we'd never made love, I was completely devastated and came inches from stalking him myself. The grief was huge, and whether it was augmented by the end of school or not, I often was awakened by my nocturnal dolor. I literally cried in my sleep for months.
Or how about J. Wellerstein - hyperactive and hilarious art crowd figure. Immensely talented, his graphic murals adorned the back stairwell of the List Art Center (it was permissible to graffiti there), and he was in a band, Slow Children, like the yellow street sign near school yards. He was about the most fun you could have on a Saturday night, and we raced around together in a manner that was more like two comically sparring dudes than boy meets girl. We remained friends even after our parting. One late balmy spring night, in my junior year, we lay on our backs under an immense old campus tree by the Sarah Doyle house and talked while he tripped his brains out on mushrooms. I was stone sober, but thoroughly entertained and participating in his musings. As he looked up at the sky obstructed by branches and trunk, he observed, "Now I know how my pet iguana feels when I lower a piece of broccoli into his cage."
A NYC upper-east side rich boy, and best friend of a Von Furstenberg, who in college pursued me for two and a half years. I was immediately attracted to this (previously unmentioned and not to be confused with the other) Adam. But almost as fast, I smelled a rat. He was gorgeous, dark, smokey, and stylish. Barney's was his highboy. Smooth skin, smooth clothes, smooth affect, there was no question he made me swoon, but I put up a resistance that would have made Henri Frenay proud. Fall of senior year we were in a class together. Each time he sat with me, walked me to the main green afterwards, and held me in conversation for at least an hour. Over the weeks, I learned of his father's death, the importance of his relationship to his brother, and the Canaanite origin of his last name. Once he got sick, so I took him Theraflu, ginger ale, and some silly dime store toy. After about a month he asked me to dinner, and I finally took the bait. He picked me up on his 60s BMW motorcycle, and we ate angel hair pasta at Adesso's. I guess you could say I was too easily seduced that night, but it had been an epic courtship, after all. I slipped out with a kiss early in the morning, mostly because something was triggering my allergies, and I feared facing him with rapidly swelling eyes. It should have been a sign; my body felt dread. Two days later, Adam's friend Stephan invited both of us to party deep in the locked-jaw of Greenwich, thrown by his father, H de K, aviation millionaire, owner of the Calumet Farm (polo ponies), and inspiration for Jeffery Archer's book and miniseries, Kane & Abel. Adam told me he was going to the Apple, but would meet me there. The Connecticut estate was immense, had several buildings (someone whispered that there was a separate guest house for each of the children), and the party was held in the massive ruin of an old stone barn. The windows were out and the roof had long since weathered away. Dining tables and a dance floor were set up inside the structure, which was lit with what seemed thousands of white candles nestled into and dripping over every nook and crevice in the stone walls. There were armloads of flowers, an incredible supper, Pimms Cup, an African percussive group and dancers, and Tatiana von F flitting about in a black velvet cape. The whole scene was pure magic. But where was Adam? He had seemed nervous and aloof earlier in the evening. Then he finally pulled me aside and quickly explained to me that while he was in New York, he had been invited to our classmate's mother's show at Carnegie Hall. While he was backstage, Diana Ross' daughter expressed her long-standing crush, and so you see, he was now going to be her boyfriend. So that was why I had seen Tracee dragging him across the lawn to the dance floor earlier. I was in shock, but mustered no argument. What could I do? Not only had I been completely outclassed, I had failed to listen to the continuous larum of my instinct. Who can compete with the child of a pop icon when the booty is a superficial social climbing cad? Still, it was astonishing to have been the object of such an enduring conquest, only to be dropped like last night's coat check chit. I had mistaken the lifespan of his affections and his unwillingness to accept my refusals, as an indication of sincerity. So, she got him, and dragged him all around campus for the rest of the year. It seemed like every time I saw them, she was leading him by the hand somewhere or another. Oddly, when I ran into him, he often engaged me with this earnest and wistful look on his face. Usually she was somewhere near by, and as soon as she spotted him talking to me, the hand would reach over like Stretch Armstrong, and drag him away. Even at a graduation dance, he pulled me aside to convey some remorse over... what? He had a lot of nerve. I can only assume he was sorry, but I really think part of him regretted his choice. When the hand showed up this time and pulled him thither, he actually grasped mine and held on. There we three were, Adam in the middle, pulled like Silly Putty, and not letting go of me. But I wasn't trying to drag him back to me, so he gave me his last 'meaningful' look, let go, and she pulled him until they were swallowed up in the dancing crowd. After college was over, I once saw him on last page of Vogue, seated with atleast one other alum. They'd had their picture taken for eating in the right Manhattan brasserie. Balthasar's, I think it was. A while later he married the daughter of one of the ten richest men in America. He almost immediately cheated on her with her best friend and that year's "It Girl," so designated by Page Six and the society mavens. They too married and now have at least one child.
Sophomore year there was a very cute former child actor and friend of J. Wellerstein, who had dated the aforementioned Tatiana, and who allegedly obsessed about me from afar. As usual, I had no idea of it until my roommates boyfriend, Josh, who was also Scott's "big brother," leaked the deep dark secret. Though to my knowledge, we'd never rubbed two words together, I'm told he got quite emotional about the whole ordeal, and a late drunken night vandalized the Sigma Chi hallway outside his room with my name and some avowal of his affections. Well, I'm just the kind of girl whose ego gets seized with adulation, so soon after a date was arranged. I mean, he really was darling. But that was about the extent of it. We had a date, kissed awhile, kept our clothes on and fell asleep, and never went out again. I guess I broke that spell pretty quickly. Within a month he was in a comitted relationship with a very sweet younger co-ed who looked like his sister. My favorite story about him includes Wellerstein and his sidekick (and one of my favorite people at school), Ed Diaz. Ed was this tall, lumbering, long-haired half-indian looking fellow who, though mostly silent, would occaisionally say the funniest things. He always seemed always to wear a half-smile on his face, and we got on very well. Anyway, one night the three of them were in Scott's room as the young actor described his conquest of the night before. Josh's room shared what were very thin walls, so he heard the entire description of Scott's belabored sexual explorations. Ed, who was growing tired of waiting for the punchline, finally blurted impatiently, "Why didn't you just fuck her, man?"
In Prague, I was pursued by a fairly well-known actor, who is sort-of a Paul Newman knock-off - not quite so arrestingly handsome, and a small fraction of the career. He was assuredly male in that way that makes my heart buckle, but I managed to stave off his advances for weeks. Until the night after the wrap party. I had left the late-night festivities in Matt D's suite and secured myself a solo ride on the elevator back to my hotel room. Unfortunately, in a 4:30 am blur, I hit the wrong floor, and had to ride the lift up once more to another wrong floor. I was at the mercy of the call button, pushed by none other than the russety actor who had draped himself over my shoulder for the last two hours. He smiled at me like he'd just found a well-padded wallet, an old friend, and a cask of good scotch, all at the same time. Following me back to my room, he insisted that all he wanted was to curl up beside me; there would be no sex. I had my doubts this would play out innocently, given the voluptuousness of his previous come-ons (he had a fixation on my hips, which he expressed with unnervingly winsome poetics), and his earlier insistence that we go break into the pool together. But he was about the most charming suitor I had met in ages, so I slipped the card in the lock and let him in. Once in bed, he wrapped his arms around me, but decided that he absolutely would not let me sleep unless he could hold me naked. There was quite a long and not unplayful argument surrounding the issue. I really did not want to have sex with him, even if he was impossibly handsome. I was in all sorts of emotional turmoil from the horrendous work situation I was in there, and the last thing I needed was to feel like some sort of star-fucking groupie loser. But he plied me and he reassured me that no further harm would befall me beyond the injury of his bare skin against mine, and that seemed like pure heaven to me. So the clothes came off, and he was as good as his word, "I just want to hold you." He nestled his face into the nape of my neck, stroked my limbs, and held me close. And then we slept, for maybe seven hours. In the morning he left, and I felt sad. But he came back, bringing me bottled water from his room and we stayed in bed for a while longer. He kissed my face and smoothed my hair, and was gone. I learned something about men that night, something I'd always felt, something most people don't want to admit: you aren't so different from us, sometimes you just want some tenderness. It was a perfect night.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
(untitled)
I was reminded Sunday night of the reasons I fell for Henry. For quite some time there has been no attraction, even of that kind which naturally draws you in to a friend. Just a sort of dull but respectful neutrality. I have no wish to resume anything physically intimate; it's clear to me now why it would never work between us - those things were apparent too. But seeing again in him what was warming is a very lovely feeling.
Monday, May 29, 2006
What Got Tested in Me Tonight Most Seriously
If you cannot see
the God in all,
you cannot see
God at all.
-Yogi Bhajan
It's funny I should have posted what I posted yesterday, about being careful with people and making amends. Tonight I was confronted with the wrath of someone in my social circle who thought I was mistreating him. He thought I was talking smack about him, and I was not. Ironically, of all the times we've been in conflict (and he's a person about whom it is very difficult to remain neutral), of all the times I've fest annoyed, tonight was not one of them. In fact, the last several times I've seen him, I have not felt any animosity toward him.
Nonetheless, because he had this misunderstanding, he waged a kind of abuse against me I have rarely seen. It was amazing. There was sheer hatred in his face.
I moved myself away from this person (who was never more than a friend), quite awhile ago because I thought it was the healthiest thing for both of us. I can't take his negativity. I wish I had some magic key, or the excellence of disposition to be the source of healing he so desperately needs. This is a very intelligent and physically beautiful and spirited human. But he claws at most everyone he gets close to. I don't know how to be continuously loving and open to someone who is repeatedly and intentionally hurtful. I wish the best for him. I hope he learns to love himself enough to be trusting and trustworthy. I hope he develops the confidence to know that he can be loved for what he truly is on the inside - a very hurt little boy. He has managed to pull to him a lot of nice people. He should stop fighting them, and then he might start to feel what he really wants and needs in his life - love and affection.
the God in all,
you cannot see
God at all.
-Yogi Bhajan
It's funny I should have posted what I posted yesterday, about being careful with people and making amends. Tonight I was confronted with the wrath of someone in my social circle who thought I was mistreating him. He thought I was talking smack about him, and I was not. Ironically, of all the times we've been in conflict (and he's a person about whom it is very difficult to remain neutral), of all the times I've fest annoyed, tonight was not one of them. In fact, the last several times I've seen him, I have not felt any animosity toward him.
Nonetheless, because he had this misunderstanding, he waged a kind of abuse against me I have rarely seen. It was amazing. There was sheer hatred in his face.
I moved myself away from this person (who was never more than a friend), quite awhile ago because I thought it was the healthiest thing for both of us. I can't take his negativity. I wish I had some magic key, or the excellence of disposition to be the source of healing he so desperately needs. This is a very intelligent and physically beautiful and spirited human. But he claws at most everyone he gets close to. I don't know how to be continuously loving and open to someone who is repeatedly and intentionally hurtful. I wish the best for him. I hope he learns to love himself enough to be trusting and trustworthy. I hope he develops the confidence to know that he can be loved for what he truly is on the inside - a very hurt little boy. He has managed to pull to him a lot of nice people. He should stop fighting them, and then he might start to feel what he really wants and needs in his life - love and affection.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Drown 'Em Like Unwanted Puppies
Recently I worried I had offended someone for whom I have great fondness and high esteem. I had made some lameass joke, she looked quizzical, then slightly distressed, then she frowned. What I said, when stretched, could have taken the grotesque form of condescension or derision. So I wrote her a quick email, apologizing for a possibility, and she, of course, wrote,
"I can't for the life of me remember what you could have said to have offended me. All i remember is thinking that you looked
lovely and was excited that you had a painting studio and were writing."
When I refreshed her memory, illustrating the moment when she had worn that pained look, she replied,
"Yes, i think i was trying to figure out if you were joking or not, probably started down the road of "uh-oh, am i stupid for
not getting this?" that's probably what you were reacting to--isn't it interesting that it's almost always about the other guy's
issues and not about us? i get slammed by that all the time. IT'S THE CURSE OF THOSE OF US WHO ARE INCREDIBLY
SENSITIVE!! But then again, we make good art."
You see how pathetically self-censuring I am? Ridiculous. Much ado about nothing. In this vein I replied:
"those of us who are incredibly sensitive" should probably be taken out and shot. maybe we're the source of the world's confusion and woe. dispense of us, and who's left to complain?"
and whine and worry. Of course, I think it's better to be careful with people and apologize for any wrong. Mitigate any harms. But I should probably have more confidence in myself and know that I am good to people to begin with.
"I can't for the life of me remember what you could have said to have offended me. All i remember is thinking that you looked
lovely and was excited that you had a painting studio and were writing."
When I refreshed her memory, illustrating the moment when she had worn that pained look, she replied,
"Yes, i think i was trying to figure out if you were joking or not, probably started down the road of "uh-oh, am i stupid for
not getting this?" that's probably what you were reacting to--isn't it interesting that it's almost always about the other guy's
issues and not about us? i get slammed by that all the time. IT'S THE CURSE OF THOSE OF US WHO ARE INCREDIBLY
SENSITIVE!! But then again, we make good art."
You see how pathetically self-censuring I am? Ridiculous. Much ado about nothing. In this vein I replied:
"those of us who are incredibly sensitive" should probably be taken out and shot. maybe we're the source of the world's confusion and woe. dispense of us, and who's left to complain?"
and whine and worry. Of course, I think it's better to be careful with people and apologize for any wrong. Mitigate any harms. But I should probably have more confidence in myself and know that I am good to people to begin with.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Friday, May 26, 2006
Thursday, May 25, 2006
In His Chosen Field
Someone asked a neighbor friend of mine to give their resume a once over. Notice anything funny?
Find it yet? I can see the interview going something like this: "It says here most recently you were some sort of superhero..?"
It always helps to know your abbreviations. But the funniest part was watching my friend dissolve in hysterical laughter after he showed it to me. He was crying as he tried to get out the question, "Should I tell him?"
Find it yet? I can see the interview going something like this: "It says here most recently you were some sort of superhero..?"
It always helps to know your abbreviations. But the funniest part was watching my friend dissolve in hysterical laughter after he showed it to me. He was crying as he tried to get out the question, "Should I tell him?"
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
(who seems a bit like someone slipping away...)
To a Friend
I ask but one thing of you, only one,
That always you will be my dream of you;
That never shall I wake to find untrue
All this I have believed and rested on,
Forever vanished, like a vision gone
Out into the night. Alas, how few
There are who strike in us a chord we knew
Existed, but so seldom heard its tone
We tremble at the half-forgotten sound.
The world is full of rude awakenings
And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground,
Yet still our human longing vainly clings
To a belief in beauty through all wrongs.
O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs!
- Amy Lowell (1912)
I ask but one thing of you, only one,
That always you will be my dream of you;
That never shall I wake to find untrue
All this I have believed and rested on,
Forever vanished, like a vision gone
Out into the night. Alas, how few
There are who strike in us a chord we knew
Existed, but so seldom heard its tone
We tremble at the half-forgotten sound.
The world is full of rude awakenings
And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground,
Yet still our human longing vainly clings
To a belief in beauty through all wrongs.
O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs!
- Amy Lowell (1912)
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
From the City of New Orleans
This first letter from RPP in NO:
"I love traveling to places I don’t know anyone.
Somehow I become the listener as opposed to my regular
role, the talker. Oh boy did I hear stories. The tall,
short, black, white, fat, skinny, old, and young were
all out tonight. Those that look jazz, blues, soul,
rock, punk, and reggae were all out tonight. White
boys with long hair pulled back in pony’s, dressed in
stone wash jeans and t-shirts, and black men in
overalls using canes for assistance were all out
tonight. The most eclectic mix of people under one
roof I have ever seen (and I have been under a lot of
roofs) were all out tonight. I was offered a ride
home, a drink, drugs, friendship for life, and a night
out on the town. I said yes to all of the above. I was
told where the best burrito is despite being from
Cali. The bartender hugged me, my ride home hugged me,
and the guy sitting next to me hugged me. I became
friendly with Janessa and Hot Boy. Hot Boy is her
friend, landlord, and lawyer. Janessa says he is a get
out of jail free card if I ever get in trouble. His
dogs have permission to smell her crotch (it’s part of
the lease). The other day they sniffed her booty and
she remarked that it is not on the lease and she is
withholding 100 dollars this month. I will get a bike
tomorrow head to orientation and work, and most likely
get a hug. I love New Orleans. The people here got
soul."
"I love traveling to places I don’t know anyone.
Somehow I become the listener as opposed to my regular
role, the talker. Oh boy did I hear stories. The tall,
short, black, white, fat, skinny, old, and young were
all out tonight. Those that look jazz, blues, soul,
rock, punk, and reggae were all out tonight. White
boys with long hair pulled back in pony’s, dressed in
stone wash jeans and t-shirts, and black men in
overalls using canes for assistance were all out
tonight. The most eclectic mix of people under one
roof I have ever seen (and I have been under a lot of
roofs) were all out tonight. I was offered a ride
home, a drink, drugs, friendship for life, and a night
out on the town. I said yes to all of the above. I was
told where the best burrito is despite being from
Cali. The bartender hugged me, my ride home hugged me,
and the guy sitting next to me hugged me. I became
friendly with Janessa and Hot Boy. Hot Boy is her
friend, landlord, and lawyer. Janessa says he is a get
out of jail free card if I ever get in trouble. His
dogs have permission to smell her crotch (it’s part of
the lease). The other day they sniffed her booty and
she remarked that it is not on the lease and she is
withholding 100 dollars this month. I will get a bike
tomorrow head to orientation and work, and most likely
get a hug. I love New Orleans. The people here got
soul."
A Sendoff to New Orleans
Friday night we threw a benefit party to help RPP with the costs of going to New Orleans to volunteer nurse on her week long break from school (she is an RN, but studying to become a Nurse Practioner). The surplus money is being donated to the grass roots clinic in the 9th ward where she is working this week, Common Ground.
We had a live band comprised of neighbors, including a twelve year old drummer, which would have made it fabulous even if they hadn't been good. But they were good, and they kept the music relevant to RPP's destination. I made a chandelier out of a hulahoop and christmas lights and hung it outside where the music played. We had a raffle with prizes of cd packs, dvd packs, gift certificates, a massive bottle of beer, artwork by friends, and we had a kissing booth. Rima and I prostituted ourselves for charity, which someone later pointed out should really be called "non-profitution." We had great food and drinks. Fresh citrus lemon drops with citrus from my friend's sisters organic ranch, screwdrivers with the juice from our tangerine tree (amazing), sangria with papaya and mango, and some crazy person brought absinthe. Totally lethal. The people who drank that particular anisette were out of their fool minds - apparently it can turn a gay man straight, I saw it happen.
The dogs were perfect, wandering about, amusing the guests, not biting anyone. Duff stood at the edge of the driveway at times and surveyed the scene. At other moments he took his usual stance - passed out on the dance floor.
We had over a hundred people here and raised a little more than seven hundred dollars. So that felt good.
And we had a cake I made for that crazy girl I call my roommate -
The last guest left at 4:30, a bane to the neighbors I suppose, but all were invited and most of them came. I love my neighborhood.
We had a live band comprised of neighbors, including a twelve year old drummer, which would have made it fabulous even if they hadn't been good. But they were good, and they kept the music relevant to RPP's destination. I made a chandelier out of a hulahoop and christmas lights and hung it outside where the music played. We had a raffle with prizes of cd packs, dvd packs, gift certificates, a massive bottle of beer, artwork by friends, and we had a kissing booth. Rima and I prostituted ourselves for charity, which someone later pointed out should really be called "non-profitution." We had great food and drinks. Fresh citrus lemon drops with citrus from my friend's sisters organic ranch, screwdrivers with the juice from our tangerine tree (amazing), sangria with papaya and mango, and some crazy person brought absinthe. Totally lethal. The people who drank that particular anisette were out of their fool minds - apparently it can turn a gay man straight, I saw it happen.
The dogs were perfect, wandering about, amusing the guests, not biting anyone. Duff stood at the edge of the driveway at times and surveyed the scene. At other moments he took his usual stance - passed out on the dance floor.
We had over a hundred people here and raised a little more than seven hundred dollars. So that felt good.
And we had a cake I made for that crazy girl I call my roommate -
The last guest left at 4:30, a bane to the neighbors I suppose, but all were invited and most of them came. I love my neighborhood.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
My Letter of Apology
It starts in a service station bathroom beside the comfort of a Kansas cornfield. The sizable room is wild with wet summer evening heat and impatience. I am nine and dizzy with fear and the walls are rolling. I'm not even sure I can hear what she's screaming anymore and though the room is crowded, I don't feel the other women are there. Like the moment right before the moment when the book finally closes your eyes to sleep, my vision is alternately blurry and sharply focused and who knows how it draws in and out. When I can see, I see her eyes and how she isn't really all there, the one I know, and I wonder who this is in the room with me after all. And I wonder how I could spin the tape backwards, since spinning is the way things are moving, and if I could just get back in time fifteen minutes when I left the car without my tennis shoes, I would. Because it really wasn't worth all this trouble, just to have the pure joy of running through a Kansas cornfield barefooted and being held with the warm and open hand of a midsummer Kansas night's sky, even though she said not to. Even though no one had ever been able to keep shoes on me my whole long life, not even for my aunt's wedding, when I was three and a stubborn flower girl who wanted her feet touching the ground. Where is my aunt right now but in the station wagon with the cousins and not helping me at all right now. What must all these strange ladies be thinking right now, here in this madhouse room with the walls gone wavy and smelling of wet concrete and the unstable floor and the rattle and hum of the hand-dryer that sounds like my new headache. And me crying so hard I'm hiccupping and unable to stop the convulsions even though she keeps yelling at me to stop, and shaking me to stop. What are they thinking, these strange ladies grooming their hair and daubing the sweat under their arms and applying coral lipsticks and frosted pink lipsticks and the strangest one of all is the one in front of me and maybe if she'd just keep her hands off me I could breathe and then my eyes would clear like that perfect evening sky outside and then I could see a thing or two and tell you if the woman standing in front of me is actually my mother.
Friday, May 19, 2006
A Boy Falling Out of the Sky
From the poem inspired by this painting came the name of Ken Dornstein's book, which I finally finished last night. His brother, David, really seemed unconsciously to know how he was going to die. Ken doesn't state this as fact, but if you read the story the notion's difficult to ignore.
In some spiritual traditions, it seems stranger not to know the how, why and when of our death. If we live in a state of connection to our spirit, we will just "know." This is not a reality in my personal awareness, but I do feel pretty certain I will live to a ripe old age, like it or not.
(Pieter Brueghel, The Fall of Icarus, c. 1558)
Musée des Beaux Arts
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
-W.H. Auden, 1938
In some spiritual traditions, it seems stranger not to know the how, why and when of our death. If we live in a state of connection to our spirit, we will just "know." This is not a reality in my personal awareness, but I do feel pretty certain I will live to a ripe old age, like it or not.
(Pieter Brueghel, The Fall of Icarus, c. 1558)
Musée des Beaux Arts
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
-W.H. Auden, 1938
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Putting an End to It
Scott, who swears he wants to die being eaten by sharks, but only to amuse his friends, writes this to me:
"That's it. I am moving to Florida!"
Here's why.
I replied:
"they aren't sharks dum-dum. don't go revising the dream. next you'll want to swap the heroin in our drug pact for twilight sleep. our joint suicide will become bungee jumping. where does the mediocrity end? accept no substitutes. eat no artificial sweetners."
Wise up, Buddy.
"That's it. I am moving to Florida!"
Here's why.
I replied:
"they aren't sharks dum-dum. don't go revising the dream. next you'll want to swap the heroin in our drug pact for twilight sleep. our joint suicide will become bungee jumping. where does the mediocrity end? accept no substitutes. eat no artificial sweetners."
Wise up, Buddy.
99 Problems
Did I say I wouldn't write about the dogs anymore..?
This is Levi, who never liked toys for anything but for the shredding, until he moved in with that big P to the Y, D to the Y. That's right, he's copying Duffy.
RPP and I were talking about Levi the other day, because lately he has been acting a little strange. Well, he's always a little odd, but frequently he just stares at the wall, or gets confused about which room to enter when you call him. Yesterday I found him in that Sphinx posture dogs assume, face in and under the white chair we have in the bathroom. He doesn't hang out in there.
Levi has Cushing's Syndrome (which makes him nervous), poor hips, probably failing eyesight, tarter, occasional temper flares, Phattynomas, yo, and a strange growth and the back of his head. RPP suggested that maybe Levi's developing Alzheimers.
"Levi's got enough problems," I said.
"But a Bitch ain't one," she said.
Levi would like to point out that while Duff got organic grass fed free-range (well, not anymore), Bison bones for his birthday (which he shared, btw), Levi got a lap dance and a beer:
Thank you, Rima.
This is Levi, who never liked toys for anything but for the shredding, until he moved in with that big P to the Y, D to the Y. That's right, he's copying Duffy.
RPP and I were talking about Levi the other day, because lately he has been acting a little strange. Well, he's always a little odd, but frequently he just stares at the wall, or gets confused about which room to enter when you call him. Yesterday I found him in that Sphinx posture dogs assume, face in and under the white chair we have in the bathroom. He doesn't hang out in there.
Levi has Cushing's Syndrome (which makes him nervous), poor hips, probably failing eyesight, tarter, occasional temper flares, Phattynomas, yo, and a strange growth and the back of his head. RPP suggested that maybe Levi's developing Alzheimers.
"Levi's got enough problems," I said.
"But a Bitch ain't one," she said.
Levi would like to point out that while Duff got organic grass fed free-range (well, not anymore), Bison bones for his birthday (which he shared, btw), Levi got a lap dance and a beer:
Thank you, Rima.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Flashback
In response to my mother's day post, my brother wrote:
"I loved the picture of Dad and (your mother). I had forgotten about Dad's channeling-Tim-Leary phase (a neat trick considering Leary was alive at that point)
Of course, he ended up looking more like Dan Rowan. I remember when hippies first started appearing around Portland how interested Dad was in them (of course the free love aspect probably drew him as much as anything). He took us once to the Duck Soup Cinema, which was the alternative hippie film theater, to see "You Are What You Eat," a film starring Tiny Tim
which was typical sixties melange of druggie clips and non sequiturs. I went to the theater in my Cub Scout outfit and felt tremendously out of place.
The amazing thing in the picture is how normally everyone else is dressed. I am trying to recollect who any of the people are - has your mom ever told you? To continue the Holly Golightly references, that was one of Dad's nicknames for my Mom, and I don't think it was supposed to be meant in a nice way."
I'll have to ask him how that could be an insult (most ladies wouldn't balk at the glamor, I imagine) - either he meant she was seemingly superficial, or he was calling her a prostitute.
An response to the "Frank Mills" lyrics, he wrote:
"This song has interesting connection for me. They were filming location shots for the Milos Forman version of Hair in Central Park one Saturday (in 1978, I thnk) and put out a call for people to put on their 60s gear (which at that point still fit) and come on out. I did just that, wandered around a bit, and found myself in the filming of the "Frank Mills" sequence. The singer was walking through a meadow and I actually brought up some rocks to her as a present. Sadly, the song did not make the final cut of the movie, so my only chance at screen time was lost forever. Hmmm...I wonder if the DVD version has missing sequences?"
It's a good thing my brother's sending me good blog fodder, because clearly I've hit a dry spell!
"I loved the picture of Dad and (your mother). I had forgotten about Dad's channeling-Tim-Leary phase (a neat trick considering Leary was alive at that point)
Of course, he ended up looking more like Dan Rowan. I remember when hippies first started appearing around Portland how interested Dad was in them (of course the free love aspect probably drew him as much as anything). He took us once to the Duck Soup Cinema, which was the alternative hippie film theater, to see "You Are What You Eat," a film starring Tiny Tim
which was typical sixties melange of druggie clips and non sequiturs. I went to the theater in my Cub Scout outfit and felt tremendously out of place.
The amazing thing in the picture is how normally everyone else is dressed. I am trying to recollect who any of the people are - has your mom ever told you? To continue the Holly Golightly references, that was one of Dad's nicknames for my Mom, and I don't think it was supposed to be meant in a nice way."
I'll have to ask him how that could be an insult (most ladies wouldn't balk at the glamor, I imagine) - either he meant she was seemingly superficial, or he was calling her a prostitute.
An response to the "Frank Mills" lyrics, he wrote:
"This song has interesting connection for me. They were filming location shots for the Milos Forman version of Hair in Central Park one Saturday (in 1978, I thnk) and put out a call for people to put on their 60s gear (which at that point still fit) and come on out. I did just that, wandered around a bit, and found myself in the filming of the "Frank Mills" sequence. The singer was walking through a meadow and I actually brought up some rocks to her as a present. Sadly, the song did not make the final cut of the movie, so my only chance at screen time was lost forever. Hmmm...I wonder if the DVD version has missing sequences?"
It's a good thing my brother's sending me good blog fodder, because clearly I've hit a dry spell!
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