Bird in flight

Dear Life:

Here I go again. My baby is only an hour and a half away, and she might as well be on the other side of the world. I can't hold her, I can't see her, and I can't tell her I love her. Tomorrow I get on a plane and leave her behind. I feel like I might just throw up from that. After all, I have what I fought for: a chance at a career, a relationship that is stable and loving, and a chance to start over. At moments like these, that all rings hollow compared to the sound of "I love you, Mommy" whispered just before my daughter falls asleep. ..

Truth

I am usually so very clever with words. I use them argue, tell people that I love them, display my ridiculous side, and order my Chalupa at Taco Bell. I've used them to win spelling bees, teach classes, help my daughter with her ABCs, and even tell someone I was leaving them forever. So why am I speechless now?

I think it has to do with truth. The people who love me know I try to speak truth. Even when it sucks and it makes people mad at me. I may soften the blow a bit, or I may not. But I am known for my honesty. This is where truth becomes painful. I cannot make up words, I cannot make up things that I think and feel. Sometimes I think things that other people don't dare. Sometimes I follow a thought to its bitter end, shattering the illusions that most people build to protect themselves from being hurt. And sometimes I say those things out loud, to the dismay of others. It is when I am silent, though, that I am probably thinking the hardest...

I feel as though I am pacing at the top of a ridge. I keep coming to the edge of it and turning back for fear of the slide I may take if I place my foot the wrong way. I have tried to speak out loud first...write a message, a letter, a poem, a SONNET EVEN...and yet I cannot put words together to say what it is I wish to say. Unfortunately, the dirty limerick in my head is not appropriate for the situation, so I keep hammering my brain until the right words come. I have walked around in odd places, looking for inspiration. I have listened to music and looked at artwork, and still...nothing.

What does one say when life is terribly unfair? What do you say to someone when you cannot comprehend how they get up in the morning and function? How do you tell someone you are proud of them without sounding overbearing and out-of-line? How do you tell someone that they make you a little ashamed of yourself when it comes to whining about life? How do you express amazement that this person can do something you failed at, and under the worst set of conditions? How do you relay to someone you barely know (and know through an often-awkward set of circumstances) that they make you look at your life a little differently, without sounding like you're saying "Hey--your life sucks worse than mine, at least..."?

The truth is, I have nothing to say that doesn't come across as either trite, condescending, or patronizing. My words sound hollow to me because she is living it, while I am merely watching. My interest is colored by involvement, and by the impact it indirectly has on my life. I have no right to say anything. All I can do is watch, wait, and quietly support the one I can reach and reach out to. That is my statement, I suppose. That I will be the one who watches, the one who says nothing but perhaps does things instead.

I feel I don't have the right to do anything else. Maybe these words are the right ones. They aren't pretty, they aren't refined...but at least they're true.

Dum vita est spes est

Two Letters, One Story

I sent a letter today; a letter that was a scratch on the surface of truth. In this font is the letter that was sent to my daughter, in this font is the letter that I wrote to file for a later date. It is all that I would say if I could. However, her age and her censor do not allow for it. Read on...

Dear Emma,

I am writing this letter to tell you that I love you and miss you.

Dear Emma,

I just wrote you a letter that says only an nth of what is in my heart. I cannot, however, say to you that we miss our little girl. I have the woman that I love here but not my daughter.

I cannot tell you this now, because your father would tear this letter up and you would never see it. You would not, perhaps, understand what I am trying to say, anyway. But know this: my life is incomplete in some way I cannot describe.

California is sunny and warm and there are lots of cars and tall, tall buildings. The ocean is here, which is a lot like the lake but it tastes salty. There are trees here that smell like medicine and there were lizards in my old house. I live near tall hills and a soccer field where little kids play and it reminds me of you.

I am sometimes only half-aware of my surroundings; my mind is full of 'what if' and memories. But I thank god for the memories, as they are finally becoming recollections of pleasant things. I am slowly, slowly disentangling memories of you from the memories of pain. I am remembering holding you feeding you, and laughing with you. I remember that I was a good mom to you at one point. I am learning to forgive myself for struggling, and for not being able to always be a good mom. For a woman with an astounding vocabulary, I find myself struggling now to tell you how I feel.

I fear what your father will tell you about me. I fear more your anger when you are older, and that uou might somehow think that you were lacking in any way. You are not. It is I that lacked the ability to be the best for you. You are amazing, little one. So smart, so deep. You were my buddy and my best friend, and my baby. I loved the smell of your hair and the feeling of your warm little self cuddled up in my arms, and the sight of those amazing blue eyes all crinkled up with laughter.

I am hoping to see you soon, Baby, and hear all about school and your new friends.

Everywhere I go there is something that reminds me of you. A song, a sight, or something that is said to or by me. You are my daughter, always, and always a part of me. I miss you...

Love,

Mommy

Let the rain set me free...

I suppose I should give myself a break, really. I tend to forget that coming out is a process filled with ups and downs, forward leaps and hesitations. I have read that it is a lifelong process that one encounters trouble with on a regular basis. Truth be told, I am much farther than many of my counterparts, those women who, for one reason or another, hid or walked oblivious to the truth.

One year is gone. One year since I left the hell I had called home and left behind the long nights filled with fear and self-revulsion. One year since I was chased through my own home, kept awake long nights by a tormentor who demanded what I could not give. One year since I felt the part of a whore, felt used, or felt like there was something broken inside of me that might never be fixed. I have come far in just over a year.

There are so many aspects to this journey that make no sense and cannot be related well to those that did not in some part accompany me on this road. There are some parts that even those involved either do not understand or refuse to accept. I have begun to learn how to live with that. There will be those who, even in their love for me, refuse to understand the steps that brought me to this place. They don’t understand to power of fear, the grip that feeling out of place can have on you, or the insidious things that can accompany the concept of “normal”. They do not understand what it is like to have aspects of your life come at you in a tone of discord. To be standing in a room full of married women and wonder if they all felt like something was missing, and to eternally feel out of place with them. To wonder if you should speak up and say what you really feel…after the first ten odd looks from strangers at your attitude toward the opposite sex, you tend to just stay quiet. To watch woman couples together with an air of fascination that bordered on the uncomfortable. To fall in love with your best friend, only to be used as some sort of stand-in until the right guy came along. To wonder if you are going crazy.

There are others like me, I know there are. There are also those who like to dabble, and those create their own problems. I am up against them in some way when it becomes apparent I am a lesbian with an ex-husband. There is an immediate wariness from those women who have never touched a man or have so rarely as to be more virginal than your average nineteen-year-old. It is ironic that the straight women who find this out also cast a suspicious eye upon me; they , too, have trouble reconciling the two facts together. And as I tend to relate certain stories only to those close to me, the mystery tends to remain. The blanket statement “I was never really into it” is an understatement; I was a trained monkey who did what I did very well (never had a relationship end for bad sex) but received nothing in return. Absolutely nothing. And in the morning, if I was lucky, the revulsion and self-recrimination would pass quickly, hopefully before I finished breakfast. When it became too much to bear, I would move on—searching in the wrong direction for what I might never have found had I not moved in just the right direction in the right time.

It’s funny how little we realize we impact other people. I had been around lesbians for years and never felt truly attracted to any of them—most that I knew were outcasts and weirdos or hippies. I was even in the Gay/Straight alliance o-campus at the tender age of twenty. I still didn’t realize what I was doing there. The fascination manifested itself in this way; a way to be close to what I didn’t know I needed. Apparently the subconscious wanted a safety net and I let it have one. And so I continued on…

I fell in love with a straight girl a year and a half later. She was my world for a moment, and again my subconscious refused to spit the truth out. I either went into such a denial as to not even recall a moment when I outed myself really, but I do recall a conversation that skated so close as to be so. When my halted, heart-racing conversation ended with a withdrawal of the person I was pining for, I too withdrew, back to safety and all things accepted as “normal”. I forgot her kiss, forgot all of the things I watched in fascination—her eyes, her hands, and the way her nose looked like a pixie’s. She was a bright light, and in her rejection, I went back to what was safe and easy…and utterly miserable.

This time my escape was blocked by pregnancy. I wished so desperately to leave that I shut down everything I was; by the time my condition was discovered I had already begun the separation process from my then-boyfriend. This event hooked a noose around my neck and pulled me back to the side of a person that would perhaps cause the most damage. He would, however, lead to my ultimate outing. I suppose I should thank him for the trauma that made me finally look at myself for what I was. He was helped by a very nice girl that sat down across from me one day at the lunch table and gave me silent acknowledgement that I was gay at the same time I recognized that while she didn’t broadcast it, she too was gay. At the time I was only suspicious about myself. Having really never consummated the act with a girl, I didn’t feel qualified to answer the question truthfully and with confidence. Instead, I merely tiptoed and kept my eyes open. And I began plans to sever the bond of matrimony once and for all.

Within a month of filing for divorce I was beginning to open the closet door to see what was on the other side. I knew on some level but feared that I was wrong. I had traveled through life with this constant question mark above my head, the threat of never knowing and the terror that I was really just crazy and needed meds. So I took my burden and left behind all that was familiar, determined to settle for nothing less than the truth. Anything else was to be avoided at all cost. I would be alone the rest of my life if necessary. I was prepared for that.

In doing so, I ended up in a set of ridiculously-coincidental circumstances that have forever changed my life. There are a few people, though, without whose help I would not be where I am today. Some of them I have thanked for their parts. Some I have not. I have thanked Angie posthumously for outing me in our first conversation. Nobody had ever been so bold as to ask my orientation…I felt that if I was straight I should be able to say so. I could not. So be default I admitted I was not. She became my first confidant I the lesbian world.

But I have not, for instance, thank Shannon and Sean for their acceptance. Thank god for my cousin’s sense of humor, which caused her to explode into hysterical laughter when I told her I thought I was gay. And her husband’s rather crude camaraderie in thinking I’d now watch girl porn with him. (Off-base but well intentioned). She was my doorway to the rest of my father’s family; in her humorous acceptance of me she opened a path and set the precedent for me to love myself for the first time in my life.

And then I made a mistake. Sort of. In hindsight I see the necessity of my actions; I doubt my girlfriend would agree. I feel I had to make my circle complete, however, and test my theory. I did not know what it was at the time that made me act recklessly and sleep with a man again. It was perhaps a combination of the growing awareness of the attraction I held for a close friend, the need for closure with an old ex…I am glad I did, though, as this means that I ended my straight life on a good note with a good person that I had few bad memories of, and most of them were external forces and not the two of us. And by doing so, I proved to myself (still without having a sexual encounter with a woman) that I was never to go back. It didn’t matter the man or the emotions involved, the good memories or the amount of booze. I could not be complete in a heterosexual relationship. It was all or nothing.

So I ended where I began and in doing so somehow washed away the stain of five years of hell that closed a path of self-destruction that had come to its end. It is a place I will never be again. No longer will I degrade myself to kill the pain that comes with uncertainty, lack of self-confidence, and the desire to somehow die emotionally.

And that is where she comes in. My she. In her I found all that I was looking for and more. The very first time she kissed me I was lost, feeling more aware of another human being’s movements than I ever have in my life. Her presence made my skin raise in goosebumps and made me bolder than I ever thought I could be. I somehow trusted her implicitly and suspended all of my inhibitions and awkwardness and just be. I count it among the best moments of my life—the moment I realized that all of my doubts were simply gone. The question mark that--now that I look back upon it—defined so much of my life was gone forever. I had truly thought myself a heartless monster, a cold-hearted bitch that destroyed people’s lives just by touching them. That doubt was thoroughly banished from my existence. I was free.

In that moment I somehow forgave myself of many heinous and grievous mistakes. I was able to—perhaps not justify, but understand—the process and pain that I went through. I realized also that there was no higher price to pay than to live a lie, be that lie subconscious, unintended and tragic. It is a lie that has no place in my life anymore.

I found myself changing. I walked differently. I felt differently about myself. I was sexually bold, satisfied, and confident. I was trusting, curious, and utterly lacking in what I call the “Whore Syndrome”—that insidious feeling that sex is merely a vehicle to power, a way for someone else to use you or you to use them, accompanying the morning after an encounter. It was dead. I had nowhere to hide from my partner; she watched me in a way that I had never seen before. There was no faking, no checking out, and absolutely no way to conceal my emotions or the evasions that had allowed me to survive in the past. The beauty of it is that I didn’t need any of these things anymore.

I love her, this girl that I met a year ago and didn't immediately like. She has washed me clean in some way I can never relate. I feel like I have come full circle, and in doing so have started anew. There are old patterns that call to me, but I largely ignore them. I am far more patient in this relationship than I ever have been. I am aware of her in a way I have never been aware of another save my own child. I trust her beyond anyone else in the world save D, and I would run a marathon if she asked it of me. She is the first person in the world I can see myself growing old with. I have always evaded that question been unable to see this situation. I now see it and feel it and desire it like I desire nothing else. She excites me, frustrates me, challenges me, brings peace to my life, and gives me the kind of joy that leaves me breathless and feeling like I could fly. She has taught me much in the short time I have known her.

I have come a long way in a little over a year. I should give myself a break when I hesitate over the word "girlfriend" amongst strangers. I do not, though. I, as one used to fitting the mold, know that I did not usually hesitate over the word "boyfriend". I did not feel it necessary to guage my audience before talking about someone. And since I have never felt this way about another person before, that distinction rubs. I would shout it from the rooftops if I could. I feel joy over it--why should someone be offended by it? More offensive is the sham marriage, the tragedy of a child born to an already-doomed household, and the loss of one of my good friends. So I am hard on myself for buying into the institution of fear that is associated with being gay amongst uncertain audiences. I have no wish to hide one of the most important people in my life. I am proud of her, proud to be with her, and utterly unconcerned as to who knows that.

Most of the time. I just pray that someday I am completely without fear. I hope someday everyone else is, too. For the most part, the simple mantra of "I have paid too much" works. I have paid a price; the price was in my daughter's blood, and I must make the most of the coin. Anything less is an insult to her and an unforgivable offense to an already tragic situation.

I am looking forward to what this life has to offer me; I am looking forward to domesticity with the woman I love, a small corner of peace, and the ability to grow. I am, I think, mostly happy. There is only one thing missing, and she will be here very, very soon....

One year. In one year I have found what lacked, what I want, and who I am. That's no mean accomplishment. I must learn to be forgiving of my small relapses and stumbles along the way...

Angel's Fall

I tried to sit on the bus today, but my wings got in the way. Wings don’t qualify you for priority seating, though I fail to see how they aren’t a handicap when you must use the municipal bus system to get around.

So an angel stood on the 43, getting jostled and unbalanced and sweating because she could not fan herself without her wings spread wide. There are no thermal currents on Market Street, though when the wind is right you can smell flowers over the stench of exhaust. When it’s hot you can smell the sewers, boiling up and over your nose like a vent straight out of some Stygian pit. Angels have noses like harriers, designed to find the worthy, the dying, and those in dire need; they are not meant to process the scents of a million people’s waste and decay. Ironically, though, we revel in the smell of fear and desperation, rolling in it like dogs while walking away smelling like cookies.

We angels are icons full of holes like old Swiss; people see our ability to fly away as a sign of strength rather than a burden of too few ties and too much of a taste for chaos. After all, I know chaos tastes like chocolate in my mouth…still; I would think this journey would have earned me some respite from the burdens of mortality…

But God has no sympathy for an angel who falls, having found comfort in the arms of a green-eyed devil. He lets her sweat and ride the N, bound for The Embarcadero, holding onto the poles like any other mortal, three hundred dollars stuffed in her bra and an appointment to see a hellhole in the Mission on her agenda. After all, heaven is forever barred to those like me, right? Yeah, well, fuck you. He lets her wonder where her life is going, wandering amidst people who refuse to see her. He lets her see a dream coated in diamonds that cut and make her bleed on the cracked sidewalks in the Financial District. I have decided that God is definitively a dyke-hating, bitter old man…the taste of resentment fills my mouth and I feel disgust, like vomit, rise in my throat at the injustice of walking twelve blocks in the pouring rain when I should be flying, yet I am stepping over transients and crack-heads, praying to that selfsame god that the last bus is two minutes late. Standing soaking in my wool coat and dripping feathers, I don’t even smell good to me.

When I lay down to sleep at night, exhausted, the memories of a life 2,337 miles away fill me, and I am damned once more…

Because the green–eyed devil has me by the throat in my memory, holding me up while exploring every inch of me with hands that were intended for that purpose. She calls for me softly, chuckling darkly and I come, wings wrapped around her as she fucks me. She is everything a devil should be; dangerous and dark, tattooed and pierced, with eyes that turn yellow when she is angry and reflect soft shades of the sea when she looks at me. I feel her nightmares and she sees what I cannot say out loud. She is my sister dark, and now her face is buried in my neck, tracing soft, sweet patterns across my throat as I scratch long trails in the skin of her back. Our hands can heal one another or rip each other open with impunity. We are fire and ice, love and hate, violence and tenderness, the fear of being alone and the terror of letting someone get too close. We fill each other’s spaces, defying convention and logic and all things that make up the American Dream.

I ran to another coast and still those eyes haunt me…I will never find their like in another face. After all, heaven is forever barred to those like me, right? Yeah, well, fuck you...

Canopy

So I am sitting here listening to the soft sound of breathing and wondering when it was that the sound became foreign to me. This weekend has been an intersection of pain and joy, a little bit of guilt, and a smidge of frustration. In all, it has caused those around me to ask more than once if I was okay. I feel as though I am being watched and perhaps judged. Can't help it...

I put a canopy up around her bed, a soft sea of netting to keep her safe. I made sure she had her buddies, combed her hair, and asked her if she was hungry. A model mommy, by all standards--so why does it feel like a charade? Why do I feel as though that bed is somewhere in another dimension? And how do I fill this empty shell that has become my heart?

No one has the answers for me. There is no handbook, no guide, and no way of knowing which direction you are going, really, until you're there. And only then do we know if we made the right choices. I just have to put my money where my mouth has been, and stop being afraid. The terror of getting off this fence has me paralyzed, stressed, and lacking in patience with things that normally don't even enter my radar. It has affected my confidence and even inspired a painful (of rather beautiful) spot of poetry. It has hurt people I care about. It has hurt me more than I care to admit.

It has inspired me to get some new ink and write my daughter a long letter...LOL
The truth always rises to the surface; it's just processing all of the truths that have come to light in the past few months that has me a little off-balance. I found myself somewhere I didn't expect, looking around me and realizing that I had completely lost my way. I'll state these questions (or their spirit) from my deceased profile's blog:

When did I start think this was my destination? What made me think that?

When did I forget what it cost me to get here? When did I decided that I could grow complacent? This journey had nothing to do with complacency...

About Me:

About me:
1. My girlfriend says my shoes are gay. I say they are an extension of my eclectic personality, and go great with my business-casual attire, having nothing to do with my sexual orientation. I will ignore the fact that a fifty-year-old retired male autoworker and colleague of mine has a very similar pair of footwear. I will be posting pictures soon and hope to get feedback...

2. I tend to wax poetic in the written word, then come at the real world like a Rubik's cube. Some would say this little switcheroo is contradictory; I prefer the term "well-rounded".

3. I have been told that I can be very guarded and closed off at times. I beg to differ--those guys with machine guns are there for your protection, not mine! ::wink::

4. I once thought of myself as the domestic type; I realize now that unless all of my belongings fit in the trunk of my car, I am not happy. I can however cook, make a bed, and close a cabinet door without being asked (most of the time...) Does this make me a wandering domestic, or a marginally-domesticated gypsy..?

5. I also always thought of myself as a pet person. Then I went five years without one and in the meantime acquired a wool trenchcoat. I am now convinced I am a plant person. (When I don't kill the little buggers...)

6. I have discovered that I do not require alcohol to offer to have sex in an elevator and be more than halfway serious. Huh.

7. I give great advice; I teach well, and I speak confidently to others. Then I go home and completely disregard what I said and mess it all up anyway.

8. I don't like being sick. I get clingy and whiny, and would like nothing better than to lay in bed with my significant (or even not-so-significant) other and cuddle. The flip-side is, I'll do the same for someone else...

9. I have absolutely no sense of interior decorating. I like white walls. I also like color. Would I know what color to put on a wall? Nope. I would, however, prefer to leave gold, green, and burgundy where they belong--on argyle socks...

10. I have very few things that others could accuse me of being OCD about. They are the following:
~wearing a watch, bracelet, or armband in bed. Don't ask me why. Also, add necklaces to that, as they often get in the way of my teeth, and that's just bad form...
~baths. I must scrub the tub before I get in it; this generally turns me off to baths because it makes the process extremely long, drawn-out, and tedious...
~lotion on my hands. I prefer to have someone else apply it, thanks. Bonus for them...add to this strong smells of any sort. Especially on my hands. Weird, I know..
~leftovers. There are many levels of dislike for leftovers. I hate when an open pot is simply transferred from the stove to the fridge. UGH!! Bacteria count, anyone? I hate leftover meat. It tastes like leftover meat. I will, however, eat a leftover burrito made by one Nikoli. I believe that is a rare exception to more than one rule, actually...
~people who play "adopt-a-word". This is when someone picks out a word to use, overuse, and even misuse throughout the day. I believe the last one I experienced was "forte". Please do not confuse "adopt-a-word" with my favorite game, "word of the day". There is a significant difference between the two. Trust me.

The Power of One

So I haven't written a philosphical blog in a while. I think I will today, since I was thinking about the power of acceptance, and how children seem to have it down to a science. If you tell them that something is normal, it is. If you say something is wrong, they will believe that too. Those lessons stay with them for life, which makes us all incredibly powerful in their lives. And incredibly responsible for shaping them.

All of our lives, we are told that it is bad to be different. It's everywhere: in magazines, books, the internet (see yahoo personals tagline regarding whether or not someone's profile is 'cute') and in the media. Girls are expected to have long hair, and if not, a pixie-cut is acceptable if you weigh less than 125 lbs. They aren't expected to have well-developed arms, buzz-cuts or tattoos, watch UFC, be able to bench-press 200 lbs, or burp loudly. Girls just don't DO that...right?

Wrong. And if we say they do, they do...

I have been watching my four-year old for the past 8 months or so. I have introduced her to girls that did not fir the 'norm'. She has met girls that do not fit that traditional role; girls that were girly but burped like champs, girls that were tomboyish/butch that painted their toenails, and girls that looked like teenaged boys but had girlfriends. She has never once confused their pronouns. They are all 'she', all girls, and completely accepted for who they were. Never once does my daughter look at the people around her and think they aren't anything but 'normal'. We go places, we do things, and we do it without a trace of self-conciousness. She watches Shannon burp like a sailor, Nik (see "Crash") giggle and wave her hands like a girly-girl (for lack of a better term) and me walk around in camouflaged pants. Men's camo pants...the day after I wore dress pants and a camisole...

So I will move to my next example: Alex. I honestly don't know if that's the way she was raised or just her personality. She is old enough to be aware of the impact of looks, prejudices, and 'differences' upon the general public. And she doesn't care. I am floored when she introduces her Aunt Nik ("Nik the Chick") to her friends at school. Nik has very short hair, shoulders like a football player, and looks like Matt Damon circa 2003. Alex states firmly that she is a girl and is the coolest person in the world. Her friends hear all about the funny stories and how much she means to Alex. Alex accepts that Nik is a girl who likes other girls, and she doesn't bat an eye.
And then there's me. Somehow, I ended up in the cool category. I am a nerd by nature, and have finally accepted it. Alex's friend quantified it best when she said I liked to party but bring your dictionary so we can talk. What she didn't realize was that for a large portion of my life, I was UNCOOL. I was the bottom rung on the teenaged social ladder. I stopped caring long ago whether I was considered popular or not--I have no fashion sense--don't care--and wear glasses. But to Alex, I am cool--if nerdy...LOL

When we (as a group) get stared at in public (happens often), Alex has watched us for qeues as to what she should do. Our answer? Ignore the stares, or walk proud and have fun with it. We have a lot of fun in public, from Wal-Mart, bars, police stations or rest stops. It doesn't matter what other people think. It matters that you are with people that care about you, have your back no matter what, and love you no matter how other people might see you. And if they want to stare? Skip, have a ridiculous mock-argument about chair pads with buttons, indicate that the nerd is the one in charge, sneeze exotically, or sing loudly....unless you're Shannon--then you just stare back or ask them point-blank what the fuck they're looking at... (Gotta love it)
I just hope that these two kids can hang onto that sense of acceptance. It will be challenged--in my daughter's case, all the more because of her father's beliefs--it may land them in trouble, but overall, it's a beautiful, precious gift....

Climbing the social ladder...an observation

So I woke up this morning with a blog in my head about agendas and self-confidence. Here it starts. (As I may finish it in town this morning waiting for Steve...)
I have found that most people in California have an agenda. Not only do they have an agenda, but they feel they must feed it to you within the first five minutes, sort of like a screening process. Then if you pass this initial screening, (whatever it is they are looking for/at), you may proceed to another conversation and perhaps a drink.

I found this to be odd. I completely disagree with the idea that you must be a clone of the person you are speaking to in order to be worthy of their attention. Okay, clone is perhaps too strong a word, but let me juxtapose this to the way we Midwesterners are raised...

When you come to Michigan and you walk up to a blue-collar person, the initial conversation is light. Yes, someone might ask what you do, but they do not carry a portable soapbox and a speechwriter. They will not ask you what you thought of Newt Gingrich agreeing (however briefly) with John Kerry on environmental policies and then subsequently retracting everything he said. A Midwestern blue-collar instead will ask, "Would you like a drink?" They may ask you where you work, or what city you are from. If you say you are from out-of-state, they are respectful and interested. They may tease you but they will not cut you. If you ae local, they will not ask which local non-profit organization you subscribe to. They do not care how much money you make or where you bought your clothes, for themost part. (There are exceptions, but this is not the general rule, I think.) Instead, they will probably welcome you and introduce you to everyone they know. Proudly.

To a Californian, this is tantamout to watching either toddlers in action or an undiscovered, uncivilized tribe welcome the white man. There is a mix of amusement, condescension, and "pinch-your-cheeks" sort of affection for these activities. Let me highlight the condescension for a momnet, since it is what sparked this blog...

I caught my sister pouncing on me in front of her friends. I made one innocuous comment, and she turned to me and said, and I quote: "That's because people havent been EDUCATED about it..." I cocked an eyebrow, looked her dead in the face and laughed. My response was, "Oh, no you did NOT just categorize me as a backwoods Midwesterner." The smile on my face diverted the rest.

Everyone laughed. Even her. Had she known me, she would have heard that my initial laugh was the one that my friends call "edgy". This means that this conversation could go very, very badly. You have stepped in my bubble, irritated me, or completely insulted me to the core. And this is your only warning shot. In short, I WAS categorized as some unlettered country oaf. How amusing...and offensive.

So I started thinking that perhaps there is something missing in the California lifestyle: acceptance. They preach it, they market it, and then they absolutely lie through their teeth about it. They are just as bad as they say we are. Midwesterners may have a rep for ostracizing those who are different (which to us, entails sexual orientation, eclecticism, and sometimes ethnicities); tell me how I am not different from a Californian--what have they been trying to do since I got here? Everyone wants me to be someone else. I understand personal growth, but why am I the wierd one versus the dude dressed as an Easter Basket? Since when did egocentrism become a regional phenomenon?

When I brought up this issue (the agenda issue) I was greeted with the statement that there are too many people in California and the city for you to talk to to waste your time conversing with someone you are not going to have a connection with. What connection? Your political beliefs? Your views on the use of greywater in horticulture? Your profession? What ever happened to the value of human experience and diversity? Why should you agree with me on all those things? Yes, I recognize that there are critical points unpon which a couple may have to agree. But I have generally subscribed to the belief that there must be balance. A blue-collar worker CAN be coupled with a professional. An intellectual CAN marry a person who works with their hands. A dreamer needs a practical base, and a straight-eyed realist needs inspiration. What is so crazy about that idea, that we as humans are more than a sum of our political stances and personal networks?

Apparently, it is absurd. And idealistic. Well fuck me for being an idealist, then. I find that some of the most fascinating observations on the human condition have come from custodial engineers, shipping and receiving technicians, hi-lo drivers, gang members, paralegals, ex-convicts, and starving artists moonlighting as office bitches. I value the role of the intellectual in society. But without the balance of realism and struggle from what they label the "common man", our views are skewed and without base in the real world. To me, the intellectual serves humanity, and that includes the lowest human in the social structure as well as the money people. There's my agenda...want a drink?

Aquainted With the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain - and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain...
...I have been one acquainted with the night
-Robert Frost

Tonight I became a transient person for a while. I walked out in rain, and back in rain. I traveled the city streets as forgotten as one of them, clinging to doorways and awnings for shelter, eating food from a street vendor, and throwing the litter under a parked car. I made friends with two other transients; Kenny, who wanted to be my boyfriend and was afraid he'd blown it, and Carlos, whom I gave half of my bacon-wrapped hotdog to. He told me he'd pray for me.

Someone was praying for me tonight...

I passed my own reflection in a window; bedraggled, tired, and soaked to the bone. I stopped and stared for a moment. And for the first time, I saw what others might see; a pretty girl. A pretty girl who needed to do situps; but a pretty girl none the less. I was being repeatedly propositioned not just because the creeps were creeps. It was because some people like pretty girls who need to do situps. And somewhere out there, there were people who might even love them...Ironic that I should discover this at such a low moment, stripped of dignity, stripped of warmth, and bereft of hope, I found something I hadn't seen before.

Someone told me to be safe tonight...

I traveled on after resting by a sign for Jack Daniels and a velvet rope that led to a club called Eight. I ducked into a loading bay for a place that reminded me of Cobo Hall. I jumped a river that ran through a corsswalk, and felt my breath become harder to catch. And I wondered how it was that my stubbornness had led me to this moment. I looked down and caught sight of the word "love" stamped across my tattooed wrist and snorted at the irony. That's exactly what that tattoo means to me.

Seven blocks back was a club full of strangers I cared nothing about, abandoned for a city that cared nothing for me. I felt then that I understood what it was like to be truly alone. I was in the definition of alone, hoping the devil didn't notice that I was walking his threshold.

Someone once told me there is a cost to being free...

There was noone in the world that might come looking for me until morning should I disappear. There are no do-overs or takebacks when there is one bus standing between you and a night in an open doorway. If the devil doesn't find you.

I channeled someone else with all my might, giving off a vibe of "don't fuck with me" and pretending I had eighteen-inch arms and stood five-foot eight. Pretty girls who need situps aren't bouncer material. They are prey, and I was determined to show this fucking city I was not prey at all. I walked through its heart in the pouring rain, and reminded it that Detroit girls are not to be messed with. I dodged three intent suitors, two crack addicts, and a homeless dude that just wanted to be my boyfriend.

There is no-one waiting for me to come home...

I found the ultimate freedom I craved. I owed nothing to anyone and they owed me nothing in return. I got what I wanted--I just never counted on the cold breath of the city. I walked its heart in the middle of the night, in the pouring rain--a pretty girl alone and without fear. I have walked out in rain, and back in rain.

I once asked someone if their feeling of freedom was worth the price they were about to pay. I believe they might now retract their answer. I wonder if I am beginning to regret mine...

Blood Harvest

There comes a time when loyalties divided can become percieved as sides chosen. When survival can be mistaken for a deceptive assault on a friend, and when a moment of weakness can be taken as an attempt to sway the opinion of others. There is an instance when the smile of a friend can hide the shadows of your own doubts, and when what was routine and safe now seems to bode ill for all.

There is a weakness in giving trust to others; when that weakness is exposed, be it through circumstance or abuse, it is human nature to attempt to dam the flow of vulnerability to the best of our abilities. When it seems as though it is you or them, the concern over collateral damage becomes minute in the face of adrenaline-fueled action. The weapons of battle have been spotted, and any losses incurred must be rationalized to become acceptable.

Until you stand on a battlefield, your banner torn and broken, and the field empty of all life except your own. Then you begin to see that what you took for a seige-engine was actually a pony cart, the wicked blades of war but scythes used to harvest wheat. There is no resurrecting the dead or regenerating of lost limbs and hopes. There is only starting again in another way, perhaps wiser and more careful than you were. Whether you are sadder and more bitter is truly up to you--and is not contingent on anyone else's actions.

Think on it...

Made For Walkin'

Well, my fellow hostellers came home drunk tonight and woke me up at 2:15ish. Not that I mind; they were hilarious, and it turned into an international slam-fest as the Belgian took giggling shots at the Dutch, the Canadian at the Belgian, and the American made fun of everyone--including herself. We've agreed to meet on Facebook, and I'll include my MySpace address. The Belgian, Karen, and the Dutch, Fammke (not sure on this one) are headed to LA tomorrow and then onto Vegas. I told them to ring me (their term) if they're ever back in SF--they're welcome to stay wherever I am. They're a riot...I even introduced Twitch's favorite term, Walla Walla Gorky, to the rest of the world. I thought Winnipeg (her name is Brenda, but we were picking on everyone's home country and therefore identifying them by it somehow) was going to fall out her bunk when I said it. She said it was more fitting than her favorite, "Woolly Bully"...

So I am awake because I was hungry. I hate that. But I had started this blog hours ago and broke off to talk to Mouse (Hi, Mouse!) and kinda gave up on it. So here it is again:
I was in a parade today, in These Boot Weren't Meant For Walking. I think I have mentioned this footwear before to some of you; they're cute lil boots but they can't handle the amount of mileage I am putting on shoes these days. I figured, however, that I would never live it down with Twitch, Diesel, and Mouse if I was caught in the Dyke March wearing white Skechers with my black sleeveless and grey cargos. Not only that, but I thought that might fall into the category of a jacket (soft Spanish J) tied around the waist. Apparently this last is capital offense, as I am told by Twitch that every time I tie my jacket around my waist, a fairy dies. Since there were a a slew of fairies around me tonight, I thought I would spare them an untimely demise by adhering to the wishes of my fashionista bitches. (That almost rhymed.)

I was surrounded by women tonight--THOUSANDS of women of all ages, races, 'types' and abilities. There were people wearing leather, people wearing nothing on top, butches, femmes, no few trannies (the f-to-m types), two mommy families, andros, leathers, BDSM's, and everyone in-between. I somehow ended up in the middle of them, marching a really long way before I broke off and headed for home. The best part was listening to the Dykes on Bikes rev their engines; there were enough bikes to sit side-by-side and fill two sides of a full block. Hundreds of bikes went by; it was cool to see women acting badass and getting away with it. I honestly think they were short one Twitch, though...I told her yesterday that she needs to come out here and show them how its done. LOL

That was the funny thing. I missed my girls. I was literally alone in this massive crowd. I didn't know ANYONE there. It sucked for that part, though I have to admit that I had fun waving at people and cheering. People took our pictures and videotaped us. It was RIDICULOUS! (Those who know me know the inflection I just gave that word...) There were people throwing beads, people on top of buildings and in windows, screaming and cheering like crazy. I heard a girl remark that it was the first time she felt like she belonged to something. I take it she aint from around here, either, as it it so casual here as to be a non-issue in most places. There were people from all over the US and the world here this weekend for this thing. And the big parade isn't until tomorrow (this morning) at ten am. This was just the girls tonight...
I'll try to post some of my pics from my camera...

In addition to this whole thing, I am still riding high on the thought that I may have actually done it. I arrived at this hostel with two dollars in my pocket Sunday night. I now have my job, my first paycheck, and a place to live in under a week. It hasn't been easy this week--shared bathroom, shared kitchen, shared bedroom and a bunk mate and a laundry list of mistakes that I have learned from, but I think I may have done it. I think I have opened the door on my new life. And I did it by myself. I negotiated coming back out here with my boss. I found the hostel, booked the flight, rode the subway from the airport, caught the cab that rbought me here, rode the subway to work, walked an honest mile (EVERY DAY) back to the subway station, found housing listings, negotiated with my new roommate, found my way to the dyke march, and took the taxi home when my feet got too tired.

Me. Nobody else. Never once has it occurred to me as I was it doing that I couldn't. I have found in my life that that philosophy works best; put your head down and keep moving. Like the sheer side of a hill, it's only when you pause to look around you and question whether you can make it that you lose your forward momentum and start to slide. If I had worried about this week last week in any more than a cursory way, I never would have gotten on that plane. I would have panicked and frozen. And I would have been lost, I think.

Anyway, enough deep thinking for now. Just think of it this way: look back at your life and ask yourself if you would have known what it was going to take to get through this and that thing, if you would have thought you could do it. ANd now that you have, don't you shake your head in wonder at what you are capable of? You can live in your car, leave behind everything you thought you needed, have a child out of wedlock, break the cycle of abuse and not be like your parent(s), get divorced, survive an overdose, run nine miles before breakfast, keep your sanity when your kids are driving you crazy, move away from everyone you know for the one you love, survive the death of your best friend and sibling, be proud to be the black sheep, follow your favorite rock bands for a living, make your art your focus, overcome your fear of heights so you don't miss out on something really cool, survive prison with your sense of humor intact, come out of the closet really, really, late in the game, believe in love again after being burned one too many times, stay clean and sober, become a manager at 23, survive the pain that comes from being the one left behind when someone else commits suicide, tell your abusive partner to fuck off, and most of all, love yourself when all the reasons you have to do so seem gone.

We can do all of these things--every single one of us. It's in all of us, just waiting to be exercised. You're all proof of it...because I just named all of us back there...

Love you all,
Squirrel

Incendiaries...

This blog is not really meant in recrimination of anyone, but if you see yourself in this and wish to react, feel free--but no wars on my page anymore, people...

I think that there is a distinct difference between being a monster and doing something monstrous. I think we have all done monsterous things in our lives. There are few true monsters in this world. There is generally a backstory to the place where anyone might be right at this moment; there is a story about being done wrong and about doing another wrong. Thee are moments we wish we could erase on those dark nights when we feel that there is no reason in the world why anyone should love us.

There are those stories we flinch from--the ones where we took what power someone else gave us and ran with it, creating chaos in their lives and acting like the nastiest demon hell could spit out. There are those moments where we danced with madness, some small voice in our heads whispering softly that this was not who we thought we were as we set fire to everything that we loved, dancing with gleeful insanity as the flames climbed higher and higher and the one we once loved cried out in anguish at the pain we were inflicting. In the charred aftermath we wandered, tears of loneliness running softly down our faces as we sifted through the remains, realizing that in our haste to protect ourselves from harm we had killed something beautiful and precious to us.

There were moments we locked chains on another, watching the chafing sores of bondage crack and bleed on the wrists of our beloved captive. We padded their cells with soft words and promises of freedom while making sure those shackles were never forgotten. We cursed when they saw their pretty cage, begun as gossamer strands of love for what it was--their prison. Their growing wings flexed and broke free in a shattering of iron, or their dwindling form slipped silently and stealthily between the bars. We paced the cell alone, raging at our foolishness in thinking that we could possibly be worthy of holding another. It might have been then that the despair overtook us, sinking us to our knees in misery and self-recrimination.

We might have lied or stolen, abandoned or smothered; we may have been fools or fallen angels. We may have broken promises or failed another. We have made choices that no-one else could understand, been rejected, been accused of things we never did. We've wished for death maybe, just for a moment--or maybe told ourselves we just wanted to sleep forever. We've done horrible things. Some of us have found our way past it, some are working on it, and some have yet to realize that they are locked into the dance that will take them to destruction. But there is one thing common to all of this:

We.

This is the cost of being free...

Today I officially became a resident of the state of California. I also officially wetn back to my maiden name. We'll skip what it is cause it really isn't the BEST last name, but it belongs to me and that makes it worth it.

The last few months have been an interesting lesson in freedom and its cost. I started thinking about some of the ironies in my life at this point. One of them has to do with that last name...
Five years ago I got married for all of the wrong reasons.I was young, scared, and I thought it was the smartest thing to do to protect myself and the father of my child. My wedding was a farce; it contained elements that bordered on the ridiculous. Anyone who knew me was taken aback by the speed of it, the lack of personal touch, and the dull sound of my voice when speaking of it. I was married in Las Vegas, a place that suits my personality about as well as a beauty product seminar. It was my start down the road of emotional suicide.

Recently, another aspect of it has come to light. My first marraige was a sham. A complete and utter lie, wrapped in the word 'duty', rolled in a sweet bed of lies, and stuffed down the throats of everyone I knew. But it was a legal and binding sham.

A right I took for granted, squandered even--is no longer mine to exercise. I at this moment have no legal and binding right to marry whomever I choose. My choice will be inevitably female and therefore out of my reach. It is sad that I may come to the conclusion that marriage is my wish with someone I truly love, only to be denied the right that I exercised in deceit once before. I vowed to love ( I didn't), I vowed to honesty (I lied), and I vowed til death do us part (I'm still kicking and so is he.)

If I do it again, I will mean it. The irony is that while it may mean the world to me and those who care about me, it won't mean a damned thing legally. A right I once abused is now barred when I would exercise it in full honesty...

Flashburn

I am not really sure how to start this story, as the brain does not remember things in chronological order. Bear with me...

So my brain starts with a van turned upside down, and the sound of someone calling for help. It then flashes to glass on the road and seeing the incongruous form of a CD shining in the sun, laying brilliantly on pavement and the random thought that I wonder if I should pick it up...
I see a man in a black and white shirt covered in palm trees, saying that he didn't hit anyone. And I see a young black girl, aged maybe 16-19 years old, sitting on a curb while a stranger sacrifices something white to try and stop the bleeding. I hear the sound of metal and glass as a metallic-colored minivan rolls more than twice, beginning to the right and in front of me and ending on the right and behind me while I stand helplessly on a street corner not fifteen feet away. I remember what it feels like to fear what you will see inside that van, and whether or not you can do anything about the voice that screams for help.

I remember that there was no sound for a moment, and then suddenly there was music from the upturned vehicle. And a young man in a mechanic's jumpsuit slid into the cab to shut the van off. It had been running, and I couldn't even hear it. I was struck deaf for a moment by the sound of a voice calling for help.

I remember looking at the vehicle, now upside down and facing back the way it had come, and thinking about centrifugal force, the feeling draining from my fingerstips as I remembered the odd tendency of cylindrical objects to roll in a circle, upon which I wondered if I would have made it inside that circle, or if I would have been in its path...

This map leads to nowhere you've ever been...

So I had this profound thought today about maps and expectations. I'm getting older over here, and while it has its downsides, it can also have its upside. One of the upsides to being practically geriatric is the idea of the long view. I always had the ability to do so under duress; what was once a emotional crisis-aversion technique has become an ingrained part of my personality. It just isn't in my nature anymore to react. I seem to be forced to swallow the logic and or feasability of a situation before my brain saddles up and responds. I don't know how I feel about that just yet. Stay tuned...

It is human nature to seek out patterns to follow and recognize; we seek answers from our experiences and ways to avoid problems, heartache, dangers, etc. All of this is very logical, very understandable--and also very dangerous at times. The danger can especially manifest itself in our relationships. There is a part of our brain that wil instinctively react to these patterns when we see them, much like turning automatically toward work when you get to the end of your street when you aren't even paying attention. But what happens if you do that on a Sunday?
In that situation, you might curse under your breath and turn around at the next street to go back toward the grocery store. But what if someone tried to tell you it was Sunday and you had no way of confirming that, and instead plowed on toward work, determined that this was the destination you MUST go to?

So what happens to those of us that have been down this road before with other people? When we see someone who appears to be doing something that reminds us of someone else? What happens when someone who has been serially cheated on meets up with a faithful but free spirit? What happens when someone who has dated hotheads meets up with a strong-willed but even-tempered individual? What happens when a person with abandonment issues meets a person who is adventurous but steadfast? The serial cheated-on fears the free-spirit's rambling ways might lead them to infidelity...the free-spirit fears the reaction of the cheated-upon might herald shackles in the future. The enabler of the past-tense hothead ducks whenever there is a conflict, and the strong-willed one is baffled by the almost-palpable apprehension of the other when there is a disagreement. The abandoned looks for signs of the other shoe and the steadfast one thinks this smacks of a lack of trust. They're all looking at each other and thinking, "I've read this script before..."

But have they?

You can see where I am going with this, I think. We're really allowing a few ridiculous and unfair things rule our lives. First of all, we are allowing the people who did us wrong to rule our lives once more. And think about it--they're out there fucking with somebody else (they've probably gotten over or even flat-out forgotten YOU) and here you are letting them dictate a relationship that could possibly be the best thing ever to happen to you. Are you serious? You're really going to go down like that? Where IS your competitive spirit, if nothing else..?

Second of all, we ARE being unfair to our current interest--um, by the way...they didn't do anything to you yet, did they? They just maybe sneezed in such a way that it reminded you of Joe from Florida, who treated you like crap and now you refuse to date anyone who sneezes that way...I know, I know, I am oversimplifying a little, but can you see my point? It COULD get that ridiculous...

The beauty of it is this: you have a choice between a traffic circle and a switchback. A switchback might appear to be going back the way it came but instead keeps progressing onward. A traffic circle sends you nowhere if you don't get off of it. We have the choice to react to what we think we see, or see what happens with a little nudge. Communication is key. Maybe you should just shelve your expectations, check your baggage at the door, and when the speedbumps loom, let the other person know they're there and then just let go of control for moment. Have a little faith--you're not a fool for it. They're the fool if they betray you. Because no matter who you are or where you've come from, you are worth it. You are worth the time you are worth the effort, and you are worthy of someone's fidelity and care.

I have a feeling that we spend a lot of our lives trying to re-write history. The problem is, if we always react the same way, if we always expect the same things--we will usually find them. Prophecies are generally self-fulfilling; if we say people always leave us we will for damned sure make certain that we give them a reason. If people cheat, we'll accuse them of it until they say "screw it" and do...(NO I AM NOT EXCUSING CHEATING HERE--lay down your guns!!) If we think someone will be a hothead, we will irritate them with our evasiveness until they fly off the handle and prove us right. Right?

The fascinating things is, should we find the right pattern, at the right moment, in the right mindset--we can heal this. If the cheated-on recognizes the beauty of a faithful freespirit, if the abandoned realizes that distance does not mean seperation of the heart, and if the over-defensive realizes that a disagreement will not end in a firefight...they have just broken a pattern of relationship crises.

This is not to say that success is guaranteed between them. But it's a hell of a start, wouldn't you say..?

:)
Sq