I was going to write about...something else...and then Robin Williams killed himself, and nothing else seemed to matter.
I missed the beginning of the man's career. Mork and Mindy ran from '78 to '82; I was born in '72. (Eva was born just three years earlier than I was, but we have a pop culture age difference of at least a decade: I didn't even really become aware of the world of entertainment until I was in my teens, while it seems as if she absorbed it with her mother's milk.) There's something ironic, though, in a man who first made his Mork as an alien battling and losing to a disease that alienates like no other.
Robin first imprinted on my consciousness in Good Morning, Vietnam (1987). Listening to that soundtrack, you can't help but be aware you're in the presence of a remarkably adept mind. (In all my life, I've known two people who can make improv funny. Robin Williams was one of them.) From then on, I made a point of watching Williams on screen and on stage. The older I got, the more I recognized the depth of the man. For one thing, his comedy was balls-to-the-wall flat-out: he had an astonishing, nonpareil facility to fully adopt personas and switch between them in the blink of an eye, and he seemed to invest all of himself into every single one of them, even if it lasted for ten seconds.
But it was his dramatic roles that really brought his profundity into focus. From The World According to Garp through to One Hour Photo and beyond, Williams never gave anything less than his all in every role he played. It's hard not to read his mental illness into his unparalleled career trajectory (has any other actor ever veered so wildly between fluff comedies and dark indie dramas, back and forth and back again?) It's as if he was endlessly searching. He covered the whole of the human condition over his acting life, never settling. Maybe he tried too hard.
For my money, he was at his absolute best in a movie that critically bombed. What Dreams May Come (1998) casts him as a loving husband and father who loses his sons, then loses his wife. He looks down on his surviving wife, who is understandably battling severe depression. He tries so hard to communicate with her, almost succeeding...but she kills herself and descends into a self-created hell, from which he eventually rescues her. According to Neale Donald Walsch's CONVERSATIONS WITH GOD series, it is one of the most realistic visions we've had as a species about what comes after death.
It was a ten-hankie kind of movie sixteen years ago: I bawled like a baby. I don't believe I could get through it now.
The role I would have most liked to see him tackle was Jack Torrance in THE SHINING (1980). Kubrick wanted him for the part; Stephen King vetoed him. At the time, Williams was comparatively small potatoes, yet Kubrick obviously grasped the man's depth of feeling. I personally believe Williams would have made a much more suitable Torrance than Jack Nicholson did. Nobody can out-crazy Jack Nicholson, but the real horror of THE SHINING lies in watching a loving (though flawed) husband and father go insane by slow degrees. Nicholson was batshit crazy from the first shot. I think Willams would have invested that role--the way he did every other role he played--with humanity.
Williams certainly knew how to lift other people's spirits. When his friend Christopher Reeve suffered that tragic accident that robbed him of his career and mobility, it was Williams who came to make him laugh. He did the same thing for Sharon Osbourne following her cancer diagnosis. While Steven Spielberg was filming Schindler's List, Williams took it upon himself to provide much-needed comic relief.
That was what Williams was, at heart, even in his dramatic roles: a comedian. He could don his hilarious Aspect and raise up his Attribute of Laughter at will. In that respect, he was a fully realized, outer-directed human being.Always there for his friends, to make them laugh, to remind them that life is worth living. Who was there for him? It would take a perceptive person indeed to peer behind the comedy and glimpse the tragedy that fuelled it. If only he could have found a way to apply some of that infinitude of life-force he so freely gave to his own obviously tormented inner life, the world would still be laughing with him instead of crying over him today.
Tributes are pouring in, from the famous and the not-so-famous alike. One of my friends noted that comedians like Williams see the world too clearly, and there's little doubt that for all their efforts, the world still sucks. He is not the first comic to end his own life and he won't be the last.
Robin, I'm so sorry, but you know, you're right...the world isn't worthy of you. We'll keep trying to redeem it, though, the ones you've left behind. In the meantime, I hope you've broken free of your self-created hell and created a heaven to your liking, full of life and laughter and love...what dreams may come.
ROBIN WILLIAMS 1951-2014 GONE WHERE LAUGHTER GOES
.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Monday, August 11, 2014
(Mind and) Body Stripped Bare
Personal blogette, to begin: I am truly healing. Yesterday I walked into two grocery stores, one I worked at until 2011 and another that belongs to the chain I just left...and didn't once think I belonged in either of them. That''s a first in almost fifteen years: I used to pay inordinate attention to everything in the dairy/frozen aisles out of professional interest that turned personal after a while. This time I walked through both, picked up a few things, and left. No thoughts of ha, look at those holes, my aisle looks better than that. Not the slightest desire to front and face anything (yeah, I got to be a bit anal about that, before). And most importantly, no numbness, no no-feeling that masks shame and hurt. I was simply a shopper.
Note: I am not writing this blog stark naked.
I wonder how he knows this. Do these ads get routed to his inbox, somehow? If not, you kind of have to figure he goes looking for them. Naughty, naughty.
Roszell doesn't say if he's seen any actual sexual activity. I rather doubt he has: naturism is not about sex and official clothing optional beaches have very strict rules against it. That said, Three Mile Beach is not an official nude beach. There are only two of those in Canada, one in Vancouver and one in Toronto...although naturists are accepted in many more places, as shown, and it looks as if only in the most exceptional circumstances will you face prosecution for bein' all nekkid and bare. It is possible some people had sex on the beach. They won't make that mistake again: as I believe I may have mentioned, sand is sandy.
In any event, I find it highly unlikely Roszell is having his eyes seared out by widespread (so to speak) fornication. And if he does see a flash of nudity, or heaven forfend, a beast with two backs cavorting around, the prudent prudish thing to do would be not to stare at it. If you don't like it, don't look at it. And if you're worried that it might corrupt your children...trust me, they've fooled around naked already. Sorry, I know you don't want to think about that, but that doesn't make it any less true.
I once attended a clothing-optional sunrise wedding.
It was, as you'd probably imagine, a smallish affair. It was also possibly the most moving wedding ceremony I've ever seen. (If you're wondering, guests could be naked if they chose; a few among the dozen or so of us did so choose.)
The bride and groom were fully clothed for the processional. The vows alternated between bride and groom, and as each was spoken, the speaker removed one item of the listener's clothing until both stood naked facing each other. It sounds like a burlesque striptease. It was anything but: I found it solemn and dignified and extremely meaningful. Most of those assembled were in tears by the end of the thing just from the sheer power of the words and actions. Pertinent to Mr. Roszell: there was nary a snicker or a snort, let alone an outraged scream or a stampede of people ducking and covering away from the "terrorists".
There is nothing wrong, let alone sinful, about people's bodies. My next post will be about how there's nothing wrong with yours.
I've had something of a mental breakdown over the past two months. Nothing requiring hospitalization, or anything, but...well, I'd find myself crying for no reason I could discern fairly often. I was hypersensitive to words and actions (at times it felt like thoughts) of people around me: any slight real or imagined caused me to descend into a funk that could last a day--whereas any positive interaction would send my mood soaring beyond the limits of the rational. Happy medium, indeed. I still have bad hours here and there, and yesterday was an awful day...but overall I seem to be levelling out.
Thank you readers, friends and loves, for sticking by me through what probably seemed rather distasteful. I appreciate it more than you can know. My boat may rock a while yet, but I sense the worst is over.
-------------------------
Note: I am not writing this blog stark naked.
Disclaimer: I am not a practicing nuturist. In my life, I have indeed spent some time outside sans clothing...well out of view of any Mrs. Grundies with an insatiable interest in my genitalia. I have skinny-dipped (well, more like chunky-dunked); I have sat nude on a deserted beach (not recommended: sand is sandy) and I have even done things outside that deserve a curtain of privacy. Nowadays, though? Given the UV ratings tend to top out around "nuclear meltdown" lately, you pretty much have to have actual brass balls to sunbathe naked. But hey! if you do not need a pocket and you wanna just defrock it, strip 'n' rip, I say.
Dennis Roszell doesn't say. Dennis Roszell says you're a terrorist. Because, you know, nudity kills. Those children in Gaza? It's a good thing for them the IDF hasn't decided to doff their clothes and bring out the heavy ammunition. And maybe the Palestinians ought to look at firing a different sort of rocket, the casualty rate might go up.
Incidentally, don't you think the world would be a better place if we could magic away all weapons and soldier uniforms? You wanna fight all together? You gotta do it in the altogether.
What could make someone so disgusted with the human body? Even the Christians say it was made in the image and likeness of God. For the love of whatever you consider sacred, it's just skin. We've all got it, every last one of us. Does it have to be out there where you can see it? No, it doesn't. But if you happen to see skin, it shouldn't provoke any kind of visceral reaction in you, either. Naked people, no big deal.
Except we get the oh-so-predictable real reason for the moral outrage buried deep in the cleavage of the of the story:
He said the beach has also become a meeting place for people seeking sexual encounters and there are ads posted online by people looking to hook up.
I wonder how he knows this. Do these ads get routed to his inbox, somehow? If not, you kind of have to figure he goes looking for them. Naughty, naughty.
Roszell doesn't say if he's seen any actual sexual activity. I rather doubt he has: naturism is not about sex and official clothing optional beaches have very strict rules against it. That said, Three Mile Beach is not an official nude beach. There are only two of those in Canada, one in Vancouver and one in Toronto...although naturists are accepted in many more places, as shown, and it looks as if only in the most exceptional circumstances will you face prosecution for bein' all nekkid and bare. It is possible some people had sex on the beach. They won't make that mistake again: as I believe I may have mentioned, sand is sandy.
In any event, I find it highly unlikely Roszell is having his eyes seared out by widespread (so to speak) fornication. And if he does see a flash of nudity, or heaven forfend, a beast with two backs cavorting around, the prudent prudish thing to do would be not to stare at it. If you don't like it, don't look at it. And if you're worried that it might corrupt your children...trust me, they've fooled around naked already. Sorry, I know you don't want to think about that, but that doesn't make it any less true.
I once attended a clothing-optional sunrise wedding.
It was, as you'd probably imagine, a smallish affair. It was also possibly the most moving wedding ceremony I've ever seen. (If you're wondering, guests could be naked if they chose; a few among the dozen or so of us did so choose.)
The bride and groom were fully clothed for the processional. The vows alternated between bride and groom, and as each was spoken, the speaker removed one item of the listener's clothing until both stood naked facing each other. It sounds like a burlesque striptease. It was anything but: I found it solemn and dignified and extremely meaningful. Most of those assembled were in tears by the end of the thing just from the sheer power of the words and actions. Pertinent to Mr. Roszell: there was nary a snicker or a snort, let alone an outraged scream or a stampede of people ducking and covering away from the "terrorists".
There is nothing wrong, let alone sinful, about people's bodies. My next post will be about how there's nothing wrong with yours.
Saturday, August 09, 2014
INTO THE STORM
Went last night with a dear friend and her husband to see INTO THE STORM, which Bill Paxton has termed "the spiritual sequel" to TWISTER.
That I'd see this in the theatre was a given: I'm partial to disaster movies, because even the most banal of them tend to show humanity at its best. Also: WEATHER!
I should have been a meteorologist, I think. Weather fascinates me: always has. My daily diary from 1988-90 included, first thing, a summary of the day's weather, with high and low temperatures and a complicated code to denote conditions. I don't do that anymore, now that anybody can read my "diary"...but it did follow me into adulthood, albeit only on special occasions, like my wedding day (pc 18/13) and in trip diaries.
And of course I've been through more than my share of bad weather. The earliest I can recall was the fringe of this monster. I lived in Bramalea, near Toronto, at the time; I was five years old. As Wikipedia notes, Toronto was not hit badly, certainly nowhere near what Niagara got...but it was bad enough. The winds gusted to somewhere near 80 km/hr and caused drifts taller than I was.
I've seen tornadoes, too. A weak one barrelled right down the opposite side of the street from my house in Bramalea--might have even been the same year, 1977. The worst weather I've lived through wasn't even officially a tornado. It struck the town of Ingersoll in July 1990.
It hit after dark. I was listening to the Blue Jays in bed, my headphones cranked: I remember I had to turn them up at least once to overcome the sound of the wind. Then I heard a twinnnnnnng!...a high-pitched thrumming kind of noise I couldn't place. It wasn't until morning that we discovered a tree had taken out our garage, with our car inside. The sound I'd heard came from the clothesline that ran from that tree to another being snapped. It was the only noise I heard, other than the roar of winds that were estimated to be gusting to 140 km/hr. That was a downburst, and let me tell you, they're not fun either. The power was out to some places in town for over a week.
Now Eva's seen worse than I have, and she actually had a weak tornado skip right over her while driving north of town here in 2005.
Tornadoes and hurricanes amaze me. Bad weather in general amazes me, because once it gets bad enough, the only thing you can do is try to survive it. It's a reminder that we are far from the all-powerful beings we make ourselves out to be, and anything that knocks humanity down a peg or two is a-ok in my books. Of course I don't want to see anyone hurt, let alone killed. With one exception, and I share that exception with Ron White:
And so disaster movies, specifically weather disaster movies, are about the only violent flicks I'll clamour to see. Somehow I'm able to shut my brain off at the door (which I can't do for most other movies) and not bother myself with thoughts like gee, that's an awful lot of tornadoes taking exactly the same path and that tornado that's about fifty feet away's going to pause now for just long enough to get this heartfelt scene out.
INTO THE STORM was pretty damn good, considering it was filmed on a budget roughly half of TWISTER's. Of course the script was hackneyed and trite, the characters were cardboard cutouts and the acting was average at best: nobody pays to see Oscar-worthy roles in these types of films. What really made me laugh in hindsight was how the unprecedented tornado outbreak was described..."once in a lifetime storms seem to happen every other year now", with name-drops of Sandy, Katrina and the Joplin monster tornado...but let's stop just short of saying "climate change", because that might be construed as political.
Reading through reviews, the biggest complaint after the ones I just noted was the 'found footage' aspect: there are people filming everything in this movie, even when -- especially when -- they shouldn't be. I didn't even notice this. I've watched people with their phone cameras in what used to be called "real life", you see. It isn't real anymore unless it's through a lens. The idea that somebody would film every second of a tornado outbreak that repeatedly put his life in the most extreme danger...completely ridiculous...but totally plausible.
The dialogue in TWISTER was better: full of witty repartee. Not that this movie wasn't without comic relief. Where INTO THE STORM surpassed its twisty progenitor, in my opinion, was in the actual tornado-on-the-ground scenes. The damage and devastation, as it happened, was nothing short of incredible.
That little bit of escapism was badly needed. It was especially nice to escape it...into a sunny, picture-perfect evening with nary a wall cloud or funnel in sight. Thanks for having me along, you two...it was a blast.
That I'd see this in the theatre was a given: I'm partial to disaster movies, because even the most banal of them tend to show humanity at its best. Also: WEATHER!
I should have been a meteorologist, I think. Weather fascinates me: always has. My daily diary from 1988-90 included, first thing, a summary of the day's weather, with high and low temperatures and a complicated code to denote conditions. I don't do that anymore, now that anybody can read my "diary"...but it did follow me into adulthood, albeit only on special occasions, like my wedding day (pc 18/13) and in trip diaries.
And of course I've been through more than my share of bad weather. The earliest I can recall was the fringe of this monster. I lived in Bramalea, near Toronto, at the time; I was five years old. As Wikipedia notes, Toronto was not hit badly, certainly nowhere near what Niagara got...but it was bad enough. The winds gusted to somewhere near 80 km/hr and caused drifts taller than I was.
I've seen tornadoes, too. A weak one barrelled right down the opposite side of the street from my house in Bramalea--might have even been the same year, 1977. The worst weather I've lived through wasn't even officially a tornado. It struck the town of Ingersoll in July 1990.
It hit after dark. I was listening to the Blue Jays in bed, my headphones cranked: I remember I had to turn them up at least once to overcome the sound of the wind. Then I heard a twinnnnnnng!...a high-pitched thrumming kind of noise I couldn't place. It wasn't until morning that we discovered a tree had taken out our garage, with our car inside. The sound I'd heard came from the clothesline that ran from that tree to another being snapped. It was the only noise I heard, other than the roar of winds that were estimated to be gusting to 140 km/hr. That was a downburst, and let me tell you, they're not fun either. The power was out to some places in town for over a week.
Now Eva's seen worse than I have, and she actually had a weak tornado skip right over her while driving north of town here in 2005.
Tornadoes and hurricanes amaze me. Bad weather in general amazes me, because once it gets bad enough, the only thing you can do is try to survive it. It's a reminder that we are far from the all-powerful beings we make ourselves out to be, and anything that knocks humanity down a peg or two is a-ok in my books. Of course I don't want to see anyone hurt, let alone killed. With one exception, and I share that exception with Ron White:
And so disaster movies, specifically weather disaster movies, are about the only violent flicks I'll clamour to see. Somehow I'm able to shut my brain off at the door (which I can't do for most other movies) and not bother myself with thoughts like gee, that's an awful lot of tornadoes taking exactly the same path and that tornado that's about fifty feet away's going to pause now for just long enough to get this heartfelt scene out.
INTO THE STORM was pretty damn good, considering it was filmed on a budget roughly half of TWISTER's. Of course the script was hackneyed and trite, the characters were cardboard cutouts and the acting was average at best: nobody pays to see Oscar-worthy roles in these types of films. What really made me laugh in hindsight was how the unprecedented tornado outbreak was described..."once in a lifetime storms seem to happen every other year now", with name-drops of Sandy, Katrina and the Joplin monster tornado...but let's stop just short of saying "climate change", because that might be construed as political.
Reading through reviews, the biggest complaint after the ones I just noted was the 'found footage' aspect: there are people filming everything in this movie, even when -- especially when -- they shouldn't be. I didn't even notice this. I've watched people with their phone cameras in what used to be called "real life", you see. It isn't real anymore unless it's through a lens. The idea that somebody would film every second of a tornado outbreak that repeatedly put his life in the most extreme danger...completely ridiculous...but totally plausible.
The dialogue in TWISTER was better: full of witty repartee. Not that this movie wasn't without comic relief. Where INTO THE STORM surpassed its twisty progenitor, in my opinion, was in the actual tornado-on-the-ground scenes. The damage and devastation, as it happened, was nothing short of incredible.
That little bit of escapism was badly needed. It was especially nice to escape it...into a sunny, picture-perfect evening with nary a wall cloud or funnel in sight. Thanks for having me along, you two...it was a blast.
Happy Medium...where are you?
Never make a promise or plan
Take a little love when you can
Nobody's on nobody's side
Never stay too long in your bed
Never lose your heart, use your head
Nobody's on nobody's side
Never take a stranger's advice
Never let a friend fool you twice
Nobody's on nobody's side
Everybody's playing the game
But nobody's rules are the same
Nobody's on nobody's side
Never leave a moment too soon
Never waste a hot afternoon
Nobody's on nobody's side
Never stay a minute too long
Don't forget the best will go wrong
Nobody's on nobody'side
Never be the first to believe
Never be the last to deceive
Nobody's on nobody's side
Never make a promise or plan
Take a little love when you can
Nobody's on nobody's side
--Chorus and fadeout, NOBODY'S ON NOBODY'S SIDE, from CHESS: THE MUSICAL
I call them the dark years. The nineties were my lost decade: a time when I had no idea who I was or what I was supposed to be doing. I steamrolled through thousands of dollars in an attempt to fill the hole in my soul with...stuff. That failed miserably, of course. Worse, I treated the people in my life horribly. I live with that shame every day even now. There are people I wish I could apologize to. One of them is a friend of a friend: I suppose I could contact her, but why? At this late date, I'm sure she'd rather not see my name, much less any words of mine. Another one...I'm not sure, but I think she might be dead now, and if she is it was by her own hand. She was mentally ill when I was with her, attempted suicide more than once, and I couldn't deal with it. (The monstrous arrogance of that statement! SHE attempted suicide, and it was ME who couldn't deal with it. Nice guy I was, eh?)
I tell myself there's nothing I could have done if she is, in fact, gone now. I remind myself that she seemed to be bursting with new energy and confidence the last time I spoke to her, that for all the research I've done over the years trying in vain to find an online presence, she might be hiding in plain sight. But I don't think so. In my heart, I know she's gone, and I blame myself for that. Maybe there's nothing I could have done to prevent it...but I sure could have done a hell of a lot better a job trying.
NOBODY'S ON NOBODY'S SIDE was my personal anthem for at least half of those dark years. I'd sing it to myself as I walked away, uncaring or even oblivious to the emotional wreckage I'd caused. I'd tell you, straight-faced, that as a philosophy of life, it had pretty much all the bases covered. I trusted no one, least of all myself.
Eva rescued me from those years, of course: shone a light in and started sweeping cobwebs out. She brought me back to myself, and ever since has allowed me to be the next greatest version of the grandest vision I ever had about who I am.
I thoroughly repudiated that song, turning all of it on its head. I announced to the world: You have a side, and if it's the side of good, I'm right there with you. I'll make the promises and plans, and keep them if I can, and I won't notice or care when others' promises were forgotten. And never mind taking love: I'll give it instead. This I called "progress".
----------------------
Long before that lost decade....back when I was a child...I lived life in black and white. There was a right way to do things and about ten thousand wrong ways. There was no room for points of view or different sides to a story. I would stubbornly cling to my belief like it was a life raft in a sea of doubt: waves of contrary evidence would wash over me and I'd just cling harder. Try to change my mind and I'd nod and agree in all the right places and simply wait for your lips to stop flapping. And as for happy mediums...they required compromise, and that word wasn't in my vocabulary.
I've since flipped that on its head as well. Now there's very little I don;t believe comes in nearly endless shades of grey...and I firmly believe that every act, no matter how morally reprehensible it may be, is considered right and just in a perpetrator's mind. This I called "progress".
But happy mediums still sometimes elude me.
I think I may have "progressed" just a wee bit too far, because I'm feeling utterly emotionally drained lately. At the same time, I'm terrified to even think that, because...
People have always come to me with problems. Even back in high school, I was known as the perfect shoulder to cry on, so long as, you know, you didn't actually *touch* the shoulder. (I lost count of the number of women who came to me in tears over boyfriend issues...I'd sigh, turn off my emotions, and clinically go about helping, or at times just listening. I found that work emotionally draining but also very rewarding. It was just me taking a little love where I could, you know?
I still am that shoulder to cry on, and I'm grateful for that. People trust me with their deepest secrets and they come to me with intractable problems as if they really believe I can tract them. It's immensely gratifying....and still really hard. Because if I care about you (and if you're reading this, I probably do), your pain becomes my pain. Emotional pain, whether it's mine or someone else's, lodges in my gut, and my guts have been awful for about a week now.
How do I turn this off? No, don't answer that, it's the wrong question. How do I turn this down?
I feel bad even admitting to it, because a little gut rot is nothing to what some of you are going through out there. At the same time, I'm experiencing actual despair because it seems like the more I try, the harder it gets. Worst of all is the little dark age voice whispering "what's in this for you. huh?"
I know I can't heal all the pain. I know there's no point even trying. But it's so deeply rooted in me to try anyway, because to NOT try is to regress into the person I was, once, the awful man who couldn't deal. I don't want that. Nobody wants that. I need to find a way to harden my heart just a little bit. And I don't know where to look.
Take a little love when you can
Nobody's on nobody's side
Never stay too long in your bed
Never lose your heart, use your head
Nobody's on nobody's side
Never take a stranger's advice
Never let a friend fool you twice
Nobody's on nobody's side
Everybody's playing the game
But nobody's rules are the same
Nobody's on nobody's side
Never leave a moment too soon
Never waste a hot afternoon
Nobody's on nobody's side
Never stay a minute too long
Don't forget the best will go wrong
Nobody's on nobody'side
Never be the first to believe
Never be the last to deceive
Nobody's on nobody's side
Never make a promise or plan
Take a little love when you can
Nobody's on nobody's side
--Chorus and fadeout, NOBODY'S ON NOBODY'S SIDE, from CHESS: THE MUSICAL
I call them the dark years. The nineties were my lost decade: a time when I had no idea who I was or what I was supposed to be doing. I steamrolled through thousands of dollars in an attempt to fill the hole in my soul with...stuff. That failed miserably, of course. Worse, I treated the people in my life horribly. I live with that shame every day even now. There are people I wish I could apologize to. One of them is a friend of a friend: I suppose I could contact her, but why? At this late date, I'm sure she'd rather not see my name, much less any words of mine. Another one...I'm not sure, but I think she might be dead now, and if she is it was by her own hand. She was mentally ill when I was with her, attempted suicide more than once, and I couldn't deal with it. (The monstrous arrogance of that statement! SHE attempted suicide, and it was ME who couldn't deal with it. Nice guy I was, eh?)
I tell myself there's nothing I could have done if she is, in fact, gone now. I remind myself that she seemed to be bursting with new energy and confidence the last time I spoke to her, that for all the research I've done over the years trying in vain to find an online presence, she might be hiding in plain sight. But I don't think so. In my heart, I know she's gone, and I blame myself for that. Maybe there's nothing I could have done to prevent it...but I sure could have done a hell of a lot better a job trying.
NOBODY'S ON NOBODY'S SIDE was my personal anthem for at least half of those dark years. I'd sing it to myself as I walked away, uncaring or even oblivious to the emotional wreckage I'd caused. I'd tell you, straight-faced, that as a philosophy of life, it had pretty much all the bases covered. I trusted no one, least of all myself.
Eva rescued me from those years, of course: shone a light in and started sweeping cobwebs out. She brought me back to myself, and ever since has allowed me to be the next greatest version of the grandest vision I ever had about who I am.
I thoroughly repudiated that song, turning all of it on its head. I announced to the world: You have a side, and if it's the side of good, I'm right there with you. I'll make the promises and plans, and keep them if I can, and I won't notice or care when others' promises were forgotten. And never mind taking love: I'll give it instead. This I called "progress".
----------------------
Long before that lost decade....back when I was a child...I lived life in black and white. There was a right way to do things and about ten thousand wrong ways. There was no room for points of view or different sides to a story. I would stubbornly cling to my belief like it was a life raft in a sea of doubt: waves of contrary evidence would wash over me and I'd just cling harder. Try to change my mind and I'd nod and agree in all the right places and simply wait for your lips to stop flapping. And as for happy mediums...they required compromise, and that word wasn't in my vocabulary.
I've since flipped that on its head as well. Now there's very little I don;t believe comes in nearly endless shades of grey...and I firmly believe that every act, no matter how morally reprehensible it may be, is considered right and just in a perpetrator's mind. This I called "progress".
But happy mediums still sometimes elude me.
I think I may have "progressed" just a wee bit too far, because I'm feeling utterly emotionally drained lately. At the same time, I'm terrified to even think that, because...
People have always come to me with problems. Even back in high school, I was known as the perfect shoulder to cry on, so long as, you know, you didn't actually *touch* the shoulder. (I lost count of the number of women who came to me in tears over boyfriend issues...I'd sigh, turn off my emotions, and clinically go about helping, or at times just listening. I found that work emotionally draining but also very rewarding. It was just me taking a little love where I could, you know?
I still am that shoulder to cry on, and I'm grateful for that. People trust me with their deepest secrets and they come to me with intractable problems as if they really believe I can tract them. It's immensely gratifying....and still really hard. Because if I care about you (and if you're reading this, I probably do), your pain becomes my pain. Emotional pain, whether it's mine or someone else's, lodges in my gut, and my guts have been awful for about a week now.
How do I turn this off? No, don't answer that, it's the wrong question. How do I turn this down?
I feel bad even admitting to it, because a little gut rot is nothing to what some of you are going through out there. At the same time, I'm experiencing actual despair because it seems like the more I try, the harder it gets. Worst of all is the little dark age voice whispering "what's in this for you. huh?"
I know I can't heal all the pain. I know there's no point even trying. But it's so deeply rooted in me to try anyway, because to NOT try is to regress into the person I was, once, the awful man who couldn't deal. I don't want that. Nobody wants that. I need to find a way to harden my heart just a little bit. And I don't know where to look.
Wednesday, August 06, 2014
Polyblog: August
I have limited myself to one of these blogs a month and no more. This is for two, related reasons. One is that reading about the same thing over and over must grow tiresome, as I'm sure people would remind me just lately if they were only a little less polite. The other is that I absolutely, unequivocally DO NOT wish to be seen as proselytizing for a lifestyle choice that I very much recognize is not for everyone.
--------------------------------------
POLYAMORY: the practice, desire, or acceptance of having more than one intimate relationship at a time with the knowledge and consent of everyone involved. (Wikipedia, as usual, has an excellent primer)
It's probably Baader-Meinhof playing tricks on me, but it really does seem like polyamory is everywhere lately. It's as if the media, having accepted that same-sex marriage is a fait accompli, has gone in search of the next group of people to make acceptable. It just so happens that I'm a member of the group in question, this time around.
The media attention is a double-edged sword.
On the one hand I'm grateful that attempts are being made to understand a community that is looked on with skepticism and sometimes outright disgust. It has been a struggle for me not to produce a long string of polyamory blog entries. Not because I want everybody to abandon monogamy and adopt polyamory...far from it! No, I just want to clear up some very fundamental and remarkably persistent misunderstandings about "poly", what it is, how it works, and why some people choose to practice it.
On the other...there's a lot even the most poly-friendly exposés are getting wrong. (Note: I do not endorse any particular article of the seven I linked above.) And even the poly community itself is sometimes guilty of sabotaging its cause.
There are some few parallels to be drawn with being gay. Both groups are stigmatized and misunderstood, both exist outside the norm, and both enclose a wide range of attitudes and behaviours.
I've come to believe that polyamory, like gayness, exists on a spectrum. Let's call it the Parrot Scale...get it? Polly the parrot?
Sigh. Okay. There are people who are completely and unmistakably monogamous. Never cheated (for whatever definition of 'cheating' their spouse holds).
Momentary digression: not to get all Clintonian on you, but that parenthetical is a legitimate question. I was just reading a survey which found seven percent of married people consider just thinking about someone outside the relationship to be cheating. By that definition the few faithful people that exist out there are called either asexual or saints. The same survey found that 73% of married people felt that falling in love with another person constituted cheating even if there was no sexual contact. That number, quite frankly, seems very low to me. And 31% considered staying up all night talking to someone else to be cheating (really? seriously? Never would have occurred to me.)
Anyway, let's assign these devout monogamists a zero on the Parrot Scale.
There are others who seem to be hard-wired for polyamory. Some of them try monogamy and fail miserably, but because they are unaware of other options, they keep bashing their heads against what is, to them, a brick wall. Others, sadly--I just wrote about some of them this morning--are never satisfied with what they have, and may claim polyamory to legitimize their greed. (That usually doesn't take: poly by definition requires multiple committed relationships of one kind or another, and these types don't generally handle commitment well.) A third subset places a high value on emotional intimacy, juggling multiple very close friendships, and can thus "pass" for monogamous even if by many measures they are not. Given that my poly impulses are exceptionally strong and go back as far as I can remember, I'd have to call myself a Parrot Six.
I know many people, including gay people, who would not be caught dead anywhere near a gay pride parade. The straight ones aren't necessarily bigots: they just have no urge to watch penises blowing in the breeze. Likewise the gay people aren't necessarily closeted: it's that they do not feel a need to draw attention to something about themselves they consider no more noteworthy than having green eyes or red hair. Yet the parades continue, with their flagrant, you might say flaming abuse of social norms...can you think of anywhere else a naked man wouldn't be promptly arrested?
Gay rights have come a long, long way. There are only a few rancid bigots left who equate homosexuality with pedophilia and bestiality and rant against "the gay agenda". but most of us sane people have long understand that gays are no different than anyone else.
It is telling that one of the chief arguments the Right used to muster against gay marriage was that it would soon lead to group marriage, and oh dear God the horror of that. This disregards one of the fundamental tenets of polyamory, right there in the definition: ...with the knowledge and consent of everyone involved. Coercion has no place in a polyamorous world: your standard polygamist cult, with its leader "married" to several brainwashed teens, simply does not qualify. Many people seem incapable of imagining a triad or a quad relationship. Trust me, they're out there in numbers that might surprise you, and they consist of every conceivable assortment of genders and sexualities. Other than that, though, they mirror traditional marriage in all but number. Provided informed consent exists among all members, I see no reason why such relationships shouldn't be legally enshrined.
One way I think being gay is different from being poly is that polyamory, no matter how hard-wired the impulse may be, is usually a choice. I think some study is required here: there is an argument to be made that, just as gay people have no choice over whom they are sexually attracted to, poly people may be incapable of limiting love (by whatever definition you choose for that slippery word) to one person alone.But I would hesitate to call polyamory an orientation in case my gay friends feel belittled by the appellation.
At any rate, there are polyamorists who come off as sanctimonious (the gay equivalent would probably be referring to straights with the epithet "breeders") and who look down on all those "poor, unenlightened mono people" (even that word, "mono", sounds inferior--isn't life in stereo better? There are others who seem addicted to the thrill of the chase (they call it NRE, for 'new relationship energy') and who seem as if they're choosing polyamory as a way of acting out as many dramas as possible. This is counterproductive. It makes it all too easy to forget the number of happily poly people living in the background.
There is one other widespread bind spot that monogamous people tend to have regarding polyamory. One of the articles above is replete with it. You can tell people that poly involves multiple committed relationships with the knowledge and consent of everyone involved and they'll nod their heads and then ask how either party can possibly justify the cheating.
There is no cheating. Or rather, "cheating" in polyamory involves knowingly violating an agreed-upon boundary, the same as in monogamy. It's just that the boundaries in poly are different. They might involve certain activities (again, not always sexual) with certain people in certain places. If someone doesn't practice safer sex, that can be and usually is seen as cheating. Or it may involve allocation of time: say if one person spends considerably more time with another than previously agreed upon.
It's good to see polyamory getting some attention. I just wish people would make an effort to understand it, even if they can't accept it.
--------------------------------------
POLYAMORY: the practice, desire, or acceptance of having more than one intimate relationship at a time with the knowledge and consent of everyone involved. (Wikipedia, as usual, has an excellent primer)
It's probably Baader-Meinhof playing tricks on me, but it really does seem like polyamory is everywhere lately. It's as if the media, having accepted that same-sex marriage is a fait accompli, has gone in search of the next group of people to make acceptable. It just so happens that I'm a member of the group in question, this time around.
The media attention is a double-edged sword.
On the one hand I'm grateful that attempts are being made to understand a community that is looked on with skepticism and sometimes outright disgust. It has been a struggle for me not to produce a long string of polyamory blog entries. Not because I want everybody to abandon monogamy and adopt polyamory...far from it! No, I just want to clear up some very fundamental and remarkably persistent misunderstandings about "poly", what it is, how it works, and why some people choose to practice it.
On the other...there's a lot even the most poly-friendly exposés are getting wrong. (Note: I do not endorse any particular article of the seven I linked above.) And even the poly community itself is sometimes guilty of sabotaging its cause.
There are some few parallels to be drawn with being gay. Both groups are stigmatized and misunderstood, both exist outside the norm, and both enclose a wide range of attitudes and behaviours.
I've come to believe that polyamory, like gayness, exists on a spectrum. Let's call it the Parrot Scale...get it? Polly the parrot?
Sigh. Okay. There are people who are completely and unmistakably monogamous. Never cheated (for whatever definition of 'cheating' their spouse holds).
Momentary digression: not to get all Clintonian on you, but that parenthetical is a legitimate question. I was just reading a survey which found seven percent of married people consider just thinking about someone outside the relationship to be cheating. By that definition the few faithful people that exist out there are called either asexual or saints. The same survey found that 73% of married people felt that falling in love with another person constituted cheating even if there was no sexual contact. That number, quite frankly, seems very low to me. And 31% considered staying up all night talking to someone else to be cheating (really? seriously? Never would have occurred to me.)
Anyway, let's assign these devout monogamists a zero on the Parrot Scale.
There are others who seem to be hard-wired for polyamory. Some of them try monogamy and fail miserably, but because they are unaware of other options, they keep bashing their heads against what is, to them, a brick wall. Others, sadly--I just wrote about some of them this morning--are never satisfied with what they have, and may claim polyamory to legitimize their greed. (That usually doesn't take: poly by definition requires multiple committed relationships of one kind or another, and these types don't generally handle commitment well.) A third subset places a high value on emotional intimacy, juggling multiple very close friendships, and can thus "pass" for monogamous even if by many measures they are not. Given that my poly impulses are exceptionally strong and go back as far as I can remember, I'd have to call myself a Parrot Six.
I know many people, including gay people, who would not be caught dead anywhere near a gay pride parade. The straight ones aren't necessarily bigots: they just have no urge to watch penises blowing in the breeze. Likewise the gay people aren't necessarily closeted: it's that they do not feel a need to draw attention to something about themselves they consider no more noteworthy than having green eyes or red hair. Yet the parades continue, with their flagrant, you might say flaming abuse of social norms...can you think of anywhere else a naked man wouldn't be promptly arrested?
Gay rights have come a long, long way. There are only a few rancid bigots left who equate homosexuality with pedophilia and bestiality and rant against "the gay agenda". but most of us sane people have long understand that gays are no different than anyone else.
It is telling that one of the chief arguments the Right used to muster against gay marriage was that it would soon lead to group marriage, and oh dear God the horror of that. This disregards one of the fundamental tenets of polyamory, right there in the definition: ...with the knowledge and consent of everyone involved. Coercion has no place in a polyamorous world: your standard polygamist cult, with its leader "married" to several brainwashed teens, simply does not qualify. Many people seem incapable of imagining a triad or a quad relationship. Trust me, they're out there in numbers that might surprise you, and they consist of every conceivable assortment of genders and sexualities. Other than that, though, they mirror traditional marriage in all but number. Provided informed consent exists among all members, I see no reason why such relationships shouldn't be legally enshrined.
One way I think being gay is different from being poly is that polyamory, no matter how hard-wired the impulse may be, is usually a choice. I think some study is required here: there is an argument to be made that, just as gay people have no choice over whom they are sexually attracted to, poly people may be incapable of limiting love (by whatever definition you choose for that slippery word) to one person alone.But I would hesitate to call polyamory an orientation in case my gay friends feel belittled by the appellation.
At any rate, there are polyamorists who come off as sanctimonious (the gay equivalent would probably be referring to straights with the epithet "breeders") and who look down on all those "poor, unenlightened mono people" (even that word, "mono", sounds inferior--isn't life in stereo better? There are others who seem addicted to the thrill of the chase (they call it NRE, for 'new relationship energy') and who seem as if they're choosing polyamory as a way of acting out as many dramas as possible. This is counterproductive. It makes it all too easy to forget the number of happily poly people living in the background.
There is one other widespread bind spot that monogamous people tend to have regarding polyamory. One of the articles above is replete with it. You can tell people that poly involves multiple committed relationships with the knowledge and consent of everyone involved and they'll nod their heads and then ask how either party can possibly justify the cheating.
There is no cheating. Or rather, "cheating" in polyamory involves knowingly violating an agreed-upon boundary, the same as in monogamy. It's just that the boundaries in poly are different. They might involve certain activities (again, not always sexual) with certain people in certain places. If someone doesn't practice safer sex, that can be and usually is seen as cheating. Or it may involve allocation of time: say if one person spends considerably more time with another than previously agreed upon.
It's good to see polyamory getting some attention. I just wish people would make an effort to understand it, even if they can't accept it.
Another Piece Of The Puzzle
I had an online exchange yesterday that, I think it's fair to say, blew my brain.
There is a dark corner of Reddit called "The Red Pill". Its denizens are self-proclaimed "pick-up artists" whose misogyny would be comical if it weren't so frightening. Their guiding philosophy is that, contrary to, well, pretty much everything you've seen and heard in society, men, not women, are an oppressed group. How can this be? Simple. Women have the power to withhold sex, which they view as a fundamental right they're too often denied.
They've dressed this up and made it look less self-serving by citing (cherry-picking, really) all sorts of statistics and situations they say prove a societal bias towards women. For instance, a woman can fabricate a rape out of whole cloth and ruin a man's life; seventy percent of divorces are initiated by women (obviously and for no other reason to deprive a man of his hard-won wealth!); and then, of course, there's this:
The goal of Red-Pillers is to assert their fundamental masculinity, which can only be done by dominating females. This is called "being an alpha". As a man who has had "beta" spat at him several times online over the years, I figure I'll wear that label proudly if it lets me maintain my humanity...
Interestingly, the man who actually fleshed out 'alpha' philosophy says this:
My definition of an alpha is someone who wants to become the best version of themselves so that they can best serve the world.
--Mike Romaniello, author of MAN 2.0: BECOMING THE ALPHA
I like that definition. A lot. It fits with one of my core beliefs: not power over, but power with; becoming better is always good, but not better than others, better than I was before.
In short, Red Pillers are dedicated to improving their self-confidence, a worthy goal and one I share for myself But rather than building it up, they focus on tearing everyone else's down. Trust me, I've considerably sanitized their belief system. The actual forum is frightening. Indeed, Elliott Rodger, the man who murdered six people and spawned #YesAllWomen....was a Red Pill community member.
Anyway, all that was necessary background to the conversation I had elsewhere on Reddit yesterday The discussion started with someone's much-less-than-pleasant experience in The Red Pill forum, and it quickly got around to self-confidence and its relation to being rejected. A forum member with the handle TheIcelander said this:
That prompted me to condense ten years of Breadbin personal posts into sixteen lines:
I've always told people you have to be loveable before you can be loved. And I really, truly believe that. BUT...
I fall in love with people from the inside out. If you are kind, intelligent and above all empathic, I'm going to be attracted to you. By the time I get to know you, provided you have those qualities, I will find you beautiful...regardless of what you actually look like, within standard humanoid parameters. (My loves have run the gamut from willowy to pixie to morbidly obese and everything in between.) Think of the best Christmas present you ever got. Now, what was it wrapped in? That's how I feel about bodies.
That's not normal. Most people do not think like this.
So while I know I have lots of qualities to overcome my euphemistically "plain" appearance, it is bloody hard to forget the insults hurled by the hundreds through school and later, the seemingly endless parade of people who viewed me as a shoulder to cry on (so long as they didn't have to, you know, actually touch the shoulder). Having experienced plenty of both, I can tell you that "I love you, but not in that way" stings far worse than "I hate you". You get to the point where any person who can look past your outer layer, (even though she's a treasure beyond price for so doing)...has got to be crazy on some level.
Which in turn gave me this...and caused my mind to melt.
I sat and stared at that for an unknowable length of time, trying to make the words make sense. Here was a 'tall, dark, and handsome' man claiming earnestly to have heard "I love you, but not in that way". That wasn't possible...was it?
(Ken, was it not just three blog entries ago you copypasted Richard Cory? Do you not remember having the ever-loving fuck scared out of you when your best friend--the very handsome man who leads a seemingly charmed existence--mentioned to you in passing that he thought of himself as Richard Cory? Do you actually pay attention to the shit you write?)
Apparently not.
I still have trouble feeling good about myself without that positive outside feedback. Sometimes even with it. Drives Eva batshit crazy. I've been wrestling with that for a couple of months now, because I really need to conquer my social anxiety if I'm going to take the next step, personally and professionally. But shaking a lifetime of self- and other-inflicted social conditioning is hard mental work. The bad feelings are wickedly persistent, like those weeds you can't kill with anything short of fire.
I feel like that conversation yesterday gave me another piece of the puzzle: that handsome men struggle with self-confidence issues too. I'm trying to figure out where that fits into this new awareness I'm cultivating. I'd like to think it means that confidence actually is completely independent of appearance. If that's true, then I can let go of this weight that's been crushing me for so many years...just put it down and walk away from it with my head held high. And I could go...anywhere.
But if that is true, then where does that sense of self-worth that "alphas" have come from? For Red Pillers it's easy: they steal it from other people. For those of us with a conscience and a soul...not so much. I've been trying for many many years to raise confidence in others, on the principle that the only way to experience something is to give it away. And I feel fantastic doing it. But the payback is not self-sustaining. It's like an engine turning over and over, trying to catch, never quite managing. If I could get this damned thing started, I could drive it somewhere, and never you mind my driving phobia.
I'm missing one critical piece of information. Does anyone know what it is?
There is a dark corner of Reddit called "The Red Pill". Its denizens are self-proclaimed "pick-up artists" whose misogyny would be comical if it weren't so frightening. Their guiding philosophy is that, contrary to, well, pretty much everything you've seen and heard in society, men, not women, are an oppressed group. How can this be? Simple. Women have the power to withhold sex, which they view as a fundamental right they're too often denied.
They've dressed this up and made it look less self-serving by citing (cherry-picking, really) all sorts of statistics and situations they say prove a societal bias towards women. For instance, a woman can fabricate a rape out of whole cloth and ruin a man's life; seventy percent of divorces are initiated by women (obviously and for no other reason to deprive a man of his hard-won wealth!); and then, of course, there's this:
The goal of Red-Pillers is to assert their fundamental masculinity, which can only be done by dominating females. This is called "being an alpha". As a man who has had "beta" spat at him several times online over the years, I figure I'll wear that label proudly if it lets me maintain my humanity...
Interestingly, the man who actually fleshed out 'alpha' philosophy says this:
My definition of an alpha is someone who wants to become the best version of themselves so that they can best serve the world.
--Mike Romaniello, author of MAN 2.0: BECOMING THE ALPHA
I like that definition. A lot. It fits with one of my core beliefs: not power over, but power with; becoming better is always good, but not better than others, better than I was before.
In short, Red Pillers are dedicated to improving their self-confidence, a worthy goal and one I share for myself But rather than building it up, they focus on tearing everyone else's down. Trust me, I've considerably sanitized their belief system. The actual forum is frightening. Indeed, Elliott Rodger, the man who murdered six people and spawned #YesAllWomen....was a Red Pill community member.
Anyway, all that was necessary background to the conversation I had elsewhere on Reddit yesterday The discussion started with someone's much-less-than-pleasant experience in The Red Pill forum, and it quickly got around to self-confidence and its relation to being rejected. A forum member with the handle TheIcelander said this:
"Hey, maybe she just wasn't into me. And that's okay because I'm able to feel good about myself and be confident without positive outside feedback."
That second part is where a lot of people really need work. For me I needed to feel safe opening up and being accepted by people. It's all well and good to like yourself, but if nobody else likes you you're going to be pretty lonely
I've always told people you have to be loveable before you can be loved. And I really, truly believe that. BUT...
I fall in love with people from the inside out. If you are kind, intelligent and above all empathic, I'm going to be attracted to you. By the time I get to know you, provided you have those qualities, I will find you beautiful...regardless of what you actually look like, within standard humanoid parameters. (My loves have run the gamut from willowy to pixie to morbidly obese and everything in between.) Think of the best Christmas present you ever got. Now, what was it wrapped in? That's how I feel about bodies.
That's not normal. Most people do not think like this.
So while I know I have lots of qualities to overcome my euphemistically "plain" appearance, it is bloody hard to forget the insults hurled by the hundreds through school and later, the seemingly endless parade of people who viewed me as a shoulder to cry on (so long as they didn't have to, you know, actually touch the shoulder). Having experienced plenty of both, I can tell you that "I love you, but not in that way" stings far worse than "I hate you". You get to the point where any person who can look past your outer layer, (even though she's a treasure beyond price for so doing)...has got to be crazy on some level.
Which in turn gave me this...and caused my mind to melt.
My problem is that I'm a traditionally attractive person. I've got the tall, dark, and handsome thing down to a science. I don't have to really work to get people to be into me. Until they start talking to me. Then I don't really have much to say unless we get on the topic of space exploration or economics or the analysis of old TV shows. I'm terrible with emotions. I'm learning empathy and romance but I'm still, frankly, terrible at it.
My biggest problem has been that people project onto me what they wish me to be. Which is usually empathic and romantic. So they get disappointed when I don't text them because I don't have anything to say and don't want to bother them.
So, like a crappy Christmas present, I get tossed in the corner and ignored once my wrapping paper is off. And it still results in the "I love you, but not in that way" reaction.
(Ken, was it not just three blog entries ago you copypasted Richard Cory? Do you not remember having the ever-loving fuck scared out of you when your best friend--the very handsome man who leads a seemingly charmed existence--mentioned to you in passing that he thought of himself as Richard Cory? Do you actually pay attention to the shit you write?)
Apparently not.
I still have trouble feeling good about myself without that positive outside feedback. Sometimes even with it. Drives Eva batshit crazy. I've been wrestling with that for a couple of months now, because I really need to conquer my social anxiety if I'm going to take the next step, personally and professionally. But shaking a lifetime of self- and other-inflicted social conditioning is hard mental work. The bad feelings are wickedly persistent, like those weeds you can't kill with anything short of fire.
I feel like that conversation yesterday gave me another piece of the puzzle: that handsome men struggle with self-confidence issues too. I'm trying to figure out where that fits into this new awareness I'm cultivating. I'd like to think it means that confidence actually is completely independent of appearance. If that's true, then I can let go of this weight that's been crushing me for so many years...just put it down and walk away from it with my head held high. And I could go...anywhere.
But if that is true, then where does that sense of self-worth that "alphas" have come from? For Red Pillers it's easy: they steal it from other people. For those of us with a conscience and a soul...not so much. I've been trying for many many years to raise confidence in others, on the principle that the only way to experience something is to give it away. And I feel fantastic doing it. But the payback is not self-sustaining. It's like an engine turning over and over, trying to catch, never quite managing. If I could get this damned thing started, I could drive it somewhere, and never you mind my driving phobia.
I'm missing one critical piece of information. Does anyone know what it is?
Saturday, August 02, 2014
"My Girlfriend Was A Prostitute!"
No, not my girlfriend. But now that I have your attention...
That was essentially the headline I just ran across on Reddit. Details:
--girl, 23, dating man, 26 for eight months
--he loves her, she's smart, happy, compassionate
--he's been deliriously happy with her, in and out of the bedroom: excellent chemistry all around, "best sex he's ever had"
--girl has graduated from New York University...one of the more expensive non-Ivy-League schools in the U.S, and paid off her student loans
--when he, very early in the relationship, expressed incredulity at how she'd managed to do that, she shrugged it off: scholarships, part time jobs. He accepted that explanation
--eight months in, in the middle of a cuddle session wherein they'd been discussing their pasts, she told him she'd hooked her way through school. He was the first person she'd had sex with that wasn't paid for. Her customer count was "in the triple digits".
--------------------
He reacted with fury and revulsion, and I think it's safe to say that relationship's over. Most of the community is completely with him on this. The main points seem to be
1) She hid her past from him;
2) Ewwwwwwwww!
3) What's she up to now?
As usual, I was utterly lost reading all this--I believe the term is "slut-shaming"--and just plain wrong assumptions. I get that my attitudes are not standard. But wow, people are vicious whenever sexual pasts come up. Especially those of women.
1) She hid her past from him.
She told him she paid off school with a combination of scholarships and part time jobs. Unless she lied about the scholarships, she told the truth...as much truth as she was willing to tell on short notice. (If you were this lady, would you announce your unconventional income stream on every first or second date?)
Some people are saying she was obligated to tell him this before they had sex. Provided she tested clean--and there was no mention of any STDs over the length of the relationship...uh, no, she wasn't. Why not? Because of this:
2) Ewwwwwww!
Look at the reaction she got after eight months of what even her boyfriend admits was pretty great sex in a pretty great relationship. It speaks for itself. It's mindless disgust...completely irrational, over the top, and, it seems, incredibly common. Let's take a minute and break that reaction down.
Your girlfriend tells you she's had sex with over a hundred men, for money...enough money to pay off what must have been a substantial debt. You are, in fact, her first "freebie".
You think
a) My penis will now rot off, oh God I can feel every last one of those strange penises that have defiled her inner sanctity, Jesus, she's diseased and I'm diseased and it's all diseased
b) This just confirms what I knew all along: she's so good people were willing to pay handsomely for the privilege of being with her and wow, I'm honoured she chose me to be her first boyfriend who wasn't also a client
Which reaction seems more logical to you?
Some men insist their women be virgins before they meet, because apparently adultery is retroactive or something. Look, unless you're in high school, people don't come bubble-wrapped when they come to you. That's a good thing. They've either picked up some good experiences they can pass along...or they've had some bad experiences you can heal. No matter which, your partner has had other partners. She chose you. Or is it the sheer number that's off-putting?
Served a need, didn't it? Also made your girlfriend (by your own admission!) pretty damned good at sex.
Maybe this is proof she enjoys sex. Can't have that, only men are supposed to enjoy sex, (or maybe you're "enlightened" enough to think she can only have ever enjoyed sex with one man -- you). And if she enjoys sex so much then
3) What's she up to now?
I bet she's out having sex for money every day, Probably right in the bed we sleep in together. Even if not, what's going to happen the first time she thinks she needs a little extra money? She'll go have sex with some stranger, that's what! And she won't tell me!
Grow up, will you? She told you as soon as she felt comfortable doing so. It shouldn't have taken as much bravery as it did, but it took a lot of bravery, and she obviously felt secure enough in the relationship to trust you wouldn't....do what you just did. Sad, really. Makes me think of a poster I saw recently:
Are you under the impression she misses that life, and wants to go back to it? TALK TO HER. Don't assume it, because as much as she may have (shudder) enjoyed it, she's always been happy with you, and you with her.
What really bothers me is that in other contexts, men clamour to have sex with a high-priced call girl. It's a pretty common male fantasy. This guy's been living in the middle of a common male fantasy for months, without even knowing it (and for free, no less!) But everything changes as soon as that call girl either stops hiring herself out or gets a boyfriend. Then she's treated as if she's been contaminated.
I don't get it.
It's even weirder if you reverse the genders. You might have to wrap your head around the idea of gigolos--they've been around throughout history, but aren't studied much even today--but the reaction to them is so very different. Most men think where do I sign up and most women aren't near as bothered by the idea that their male partner has been with others before: they base their trust on how he acts towards them, now. Which makes a whole lot more sense to me. Regardless, men aren't contaminated by exposure to multiple women. They're virile, they're strong, they're studs. Women with lots of men? They're easy, they're whores, they're sluts. Let's pick one characterization or the other here and apply it to both genders.
Preferably the one that acknowledges sex as a good thing.
That was essentially the headline I just ran across on Reddit. Details:
--girl, 23, dating man, 26 for eight months
--he loves her, she's smart, happy, compassionate
--he's been deliriously happy with her, in and out of the bedroom: excellent chemistry all around, "best sex he's ever had"
--girl has graduated from New York University...one of the more expensive non-Ivy-League schools in the U.S, and paid off her student loans
--when he, very early in the relationship, expressed incredulity at how she'd managed to do that, she shrugged it off: scholarships, part time jobs. He accepted that explanation
--eight months in, in the middle of a cuddle session wherein they'd been discussing their pasts, she told him she'd hooked her way through school. He was the first person she'd had sex with that wasn't paid for. Her customer count was "in the triple digits".
--------------------
He reacted with fury and revulsion, and I think it's safe to say that relationship's over. Most of the community is completely with him on this. The main points seem to be
1) She hid her past from him;
2) Ewwwwwwwww!
3) What's she up to now?
As usual, I was utterly lost reading all this--I believe the term is "slut-shaming"--and just plain wrong assumptions. I get that my attitudes are not standard. But wow, people are vicious whenever sexual pasts come up. Especially those of women.
1) She hid her past from him.
She told him she paid off school with a combination of scholarships and part time jobs. Unless she lied about the scholarships, she told the truth...as much truth as she was willing to tell on short notice. (If you were this lady, would you announce your unconventional income stream on every first or second date?)
Some people are saying she was obligated to tell him this before they had sex. Provided she tested clean--and there was no mention of any STDs over the length of the relationship...uh, no, she wasn't. Why not? Because of this:
2) Ewwwwwww!
Look at the reaction she got after eight months of what even her boyfriend admits was pretty great sex in a pretty great relationship. It speaks for itself. It's mindless disgust...completely irrational, over the top, and, it seems, incredibly common. Let's take a minute and break that reaction down.
Your girlfriend tells you she's had sex with over a hundred men, for money...enough money to pay off what must have been a substantial debt. You are, in fact, her first "freebie".
You think
a) My penis will now rot off, oh God I can feel every last one of those strange penises that have defiled her inner sanctity, Jesus, she's diseased and I'm diseased and it's all diseased
b) This just confirms what I knew all along: she's so good people were willing to pay handsomely for the privilege of being with her and wow, I'm honoured she chose me to be her first boyfriend who wasn't also a client
Which reaction seems more logical to you?
Some men insist their women be virgins before they meet, because apparently adultery is retroactive or something. Look, unless you're in high school, people don't come bubble-wrapped when they come to you. That's a good thing. They've either picked up some good experiences they can pass along...or they've had some bad experiences you can heal. No matter which, your partner has had other partners. She chose you. Or is it the sheer number that's off-putting?
Served a need, didn't it? Also made your girlfriend (by your own admission!) pretty damned good at sex.
Maybe this is proof she enjoys sex. Can't have that, only men are supposed to enjoy sex, (or maybe you're "enlightened" enough to think she can only have ever enjoyed sex with one man -- you). And if she enjoys sex so much then
3) What's she up to now?
I bet she's out having sex for money every day, Probably right in the bed we sleep in together. Even if not, what's going to happen the first time she thinks she needs a little extra money? She'll go have sex with some stranger, that's what! And she won't tell me!
Grow up, will you? She told you as soon as she felt comfortable doing so. It shouldn't have taken as much bravery as it did, but it took a lot of bravery, and she obviously felt secure enough in the relationship to trust you wouldn't....do what you just did. Sad, really. Makes me think of a poster I saw recently:
Are you under the impression she misses that life, and wants to go back to it? TALK TO HER. Don't assume it, because as much as she may have (shudder) enjoyed it, she's always been happy with you, and you with her.
What really bothers me is that in other contexts, men clamour to have sex with a high-priced call girl. It's a pretty common male fantasy. This guy's been living in the middle of a common male fantasy for months, without even knowing it (and for free, no less!) But everything changes as soon as that call girl either stops hiring herself out or gets a boyfriend. Then she's treated as if she's been contaminated.
I don't get it.
It's even weirder if you reverse the genders. You might have to wrap your head around the idea of gigolos--they've been around throughout history, but aren't studied much even today--but the reaction to them is so very different. Most men think where do I sign up and most women aren't near as bothered by the idea that their male partner has been with others before: they base their trust on how he acts towards them, now. Which makes a whole lot more sense to me. Regardless, men aren't contaminated by exposure to multiple women. They're virile, they're strong, they're studs. Women with lots of men? They're easy, they're whores, they're sluts. Let's pick one characterization or the other here and apply it to both genders.
Preferably the one that acknowledges sex as a good thing.
Round Is Not A Shape
Wow, am I out of shape.
You don't realize how much exercise you get in the course of working retail until you're not working retail any more.
Yesterday, we helped Eva's brother and his family move. Well, "helped" is probably overstating things a tad. There were lots of people, all the possessions were already in a pod in the driveway of the new house, and it seemed like at least seventy percent of that pod went into the garage. I carried maybe twenty things, only a few of them anything that could reasonably be called "heavy"...and I had to stop halfway through for a drink and a break. I was disgusted with myself.
I'm stronger than I look. (Yeah, well, smell ain't everything, bud.) No, seriously, I can summon more strength than you'd think. My problem is more co-ordination and depth perception than anything else--give me something awkward to move, that need to be placed just so if it's going to get into a house without denting a wall...and somebody else better take that thing in.
But yesterday, now? That was a wake-up call. My next job is going to be sedentary, and I'm sedentary as a very sedentary thing indeed right now. Time to fix that.
What I do have in abundance for the moment is time. I'm leery of biting off more than I can chew, especially with so many life changes I'm going through right now: something will inevitably get lost in the shuffle. I am notorious for starting things on a high and never carrying through, especially when those things involve pain.
I have friends who do this. Actually, they had the first Spartan wedding ever held in Canada a couple of months ago...right at the finish line. I admire the hell out of them for their dedication to the sport...but at the same time I look at the scrapes and bruises they cheerfully post pics of and I think of how awful that feeling of not being able to breathe properly after running is, and I just wilt. I mean, sure, it must get better. But the whole idea of working out in general is, if it's not hurting you're not doing it enough. My target heart rate is 125 bpm. At that intensity I think it would just jitterbug its way right out of my chest and skip off down the street.
So: let's start off small. I was going to do five pushups and five sit-ups this morning, thinking that (a) it takes next to no time and (b) it's modest enough that I shouldn't have a problem with it. I can add one of each every day, or do ten and ten next week, or...however it works out. The key, I think, is to commit to a few minutes every day. I can do that.
The push-ups were a cinch, so much so I did ten instead. The sit-ups were excruciating.
Somebody watching would have laughed, They wouldn't have been able to help themselves. I did two sit-ups and then let the room stop spinning. Probably laid there for a minute, feeling dejected: this is pathetic. Then I got angry and whipped off three more, bangbangbang whew.
I think back to those Canada
Fitness Awards
we used to be subjected to in school. I did it when the 'endurance run' was part of it, and I managed the Award of Excellence for that particular event. I think I got a bronze for push-ups one year, but otherwise all my 'awards' were purple participation badges. Sit-ups have always been my biggest challenge, for some reason.
Eva's got a rower downstairs I'm going to start using, a little at a time: I'm going to enlist her in making sure I follow through with that. And we'll just keep adding as it gets easier over time.
It does get easier over time...right?
You don't realize how much exercise you get in the course of working retail until you're not working retail any more.
Yesterday, we helped Eva's brother and his family move. Well, "helped" is probably overstating things a tad. There were lots of people, all the possessions were already in a pod in the driveway of the new house, and it seemed like at least seventy percent of that pod went into the garage. I carried maybe twenty things, only a few of them anything that could reasonably be called "heavy"...and I had to stop halfway through for a drink and a break. I was disgusted with myself.
I'm stronger than I look. (Yeah, well, smell ain't everything, bud.) No, seriously, I can summon more strength than you'd think. My problem is more co-ordination and depth perception than anything else--give me something awkward to move, that need to be placed just so if it's going to get into a house without denting a wall...and somebody else better take that thing in.
But yesterday, now? That was a wake-up call. My next job is going to be sedentary, and I'm sedentary as a very sedentary thing indeed right now. Time to fix that.
What I do have in abundance for the moment is time. I'm leery of biting off more than I can chew, especially with so many life changes I'm going through right now: something will inevitably get lost in the shuffle. I am notorious for starting things on a high and never carrying through, especially when those things involve pain.
I have friends who do this. Actually, they had the first Spartan wedding ever held in Canada a couple of months ago...right at the finish line. I admire the hell out of them for their dedication to the sport...but at the same time I look at the scrapes and bruises they cheerfully post pics of and I think of how awful that feeling of not being able to breathe properly after running is, and I just wilt. I mean, sure, it must get better. But the whole idea of working out in general is, if it's not hurting you're not doing it enough. My target heart rate is 125 bpm. At that intensity I think it would just jitterbug its way right out of my chest and skip off down the street.
So: let's start off small. I was going to do five pushups and five sit-ups this morning, thinking that (a) it takes next to no time and (b) it's modest enough that I shouldn't have a problem with it. I can add one of each every day, or do ten and ten next week, or...however it works out. The key, I think, is to commit to a few minutes every day. I can do that.
The push-ups were a cinch, so much so I did ten instead. The sit-ups were excruciating.
Somebody watching would have laughed, They wouldn't have been able to help themselves. I did two sit-ups and then let the room stop spinning. Probably laid there for a minute, feeling dejected: this is pathetic. Then I got angry and whipped off three more, bangbangbang whew.
I think back to those Canada
Fitness Awards
we used to be subjected to in school. I did it when the 'endurance run' was part of it, and I managed the Award of Excellence for that particular event. I think I got a bronze for push-ups one year, but otherwise all my 'awards' were purple participation badges. Sit-ups have always been my biggest challenge, for some reason.
Eva's got a rower downstairs I'm going to start using, a little at a time: I'm going to enlist her in making sure I follow through with that. And we'll just keep adding as it gets easier over time.
It does get easier over time...right?
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Some Ways I'm Making My Life Harder Than it Has To Be
A former colleague shared this article on Facebook today and a bell went off: this'll be my final blog entry for the month.
These are very common errors in perception, often misdiagnosed as character flaws.. Some of them I'm immune to, and always have been. Some of them are things I've overcome in my life. Some of them are very much still with me, and I'm trying to fight them.
Behold, TEN WAYS YOU ARE (or might be...) MAKING LIFE MORE DIFFICULT THAN IT HAS TO BE
1) YOU ASCRIBE INTENT...."Happy people do not do this. They don't ascribe intent to the unintentional actions of others."
This one plagued me through my teenage years. I was absolutely certain that every little slight (and I was very good at manufacturing slights) was not just intentional but pointedly aimed and fired at me. I don't do this anymore. It's exhausting, and I realized long ago that most people are just intent on living their own lives. It's also emotionally liberating to shrug bad things off, intentional or otherwise. Pain is real; suffering is optional.
2) YOU ARE THE STAR OF YOUR OWN MOVIE.
Uh, no I'm not. I kind of like to fade into the background. I can do stuff right up front if it's required, and I'm trying hard to summon the self-confidence to be a leader, even if only in my own life...but I've never been vain enough to think the world revolves around me.
3) YOU FAST FORWARD TO APOCALYPSE.
Guilty. I'm terrible for this. I'll start worrying and worrying and things will go wronger and wronger and wronger in my head until everything's gone completely to shit...and then I'll feel sheepish when my fevered imaginings prove to be so much chaff in the wind. And yet for some reason it doesn't stop me from doing it again next time. Every slight medical symptom in anyone *except me* is a sign of imminent death. A strange sound from the car is a sign it's going to blow up in less than three minutes.
If repeated apocalypses amount to less than a hill of beans, why do I keep doing this?
4) YOU HAVE UNREALISTIC/UNMET EXPECTATIONS.
Nope.. I don't have any. Not one. How many times have I said...if I say I love you, you don't have to say it back? If I write you, you don't have to write back, let alone immediately. That's not to say I don't care if I'm ignored: of course I do. But as I wrote in that blog, "a relationship based on needs will always fail."
5) YOU ARE WAITING FOR A SIGN.
It probably looks for all the world like that's what I've been doing, as stagnant as I was for a couple of years, there. But no: I don't believe in signs. Or rather, I believe we make our own signs. I do think that we create our own experiences, so if I tell the universe that I want something, that's exactly the experience that'll get thrown at me...wanting something. For a long time my contentness at the stability in my life was at war with my desire to change and grow. I'm learning those two things aren't mutually exclusive, and I'm overcoming my fear of rejection, and that's a sign.
6) YOU DON'T TAKE RISKS.
No, I don't, because they're risky, and according to #3 they'll blow up in my face spectacularly. Oh, wait a second, I'm supposed to take risks...oh, yeah. *slap*
7) YOU CONSTANTLY COMPARE YOUR LIFE TO OTHERS'.
As much as I'd like to say, pshaw, I don't do this...I do. It's mostly outward appearance. It drives Eva nuts that I have such a hangup on my own outward appearance, and that in turn bothers me because...
...well, look. I'm just not telegenic. Not physically attractive. Please don't think I'm fishing for you to say of course you are, because I don't need you to lie to make me feel better about myself. I AM NOT PUTTING MYSELF DOWN. I know I have more than enough qualities to compensate for my physical issues But people have to look below the skin to see them, and, and many, perhaps most people don't. I'm not talking (just) about love. Physically handsome/beautiful people do better in professional life, too.
Now, I've fixed the most glaring issue, my teeth, and getting these tattoos will help me walk a little taller. But Hugh Jackman I ain't, Nor am I Johnny Depp, or whoever your paragon of male attractiveness is. Not even close.
As far as comparing life paths, though, one poem I read in my OAC (grade 13) put that to rest permanently.
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
--EDWARD ARLINGTON ROBINSON
(Interesting, I've always focused on the rich, admirably schooled part of that and ignored most of two stanzas about his appearance. Maybe beautiful people have problems of their own. Maybe I have one more big insecurity to root out.)
8. YOU LET OTHER PEOPLE STEAL (TIME) FROM YOU.
Not any more, I don't..
9. YOU CAN'T/WON'T LET GO.
I think this is related to #4. I don't have expectations in my life, but that doesn't mean there aren't consequences for emotional abuse or neglect. I probably cut more slack than I should, at times, but I can let go with the best of them. Friends can be in your life for any amount of time and serve their purpose. Some I would choose to keep indefinitely, but if that isn't their choice as well, in the name of love the best thing to do is to let them go.
10) YOU DON'T GIVE BACK.
Not enough. I try, on a personal level, with as many people as I can reach. But (confession) I have never volunteered my time anywhere. Until fairly recently I haven't felt bad about that: I always told myself that work and sleep and life in general took up all the time I had--but that's clearly bullshit, since people much busier than I was still found time to give time. No, it's even uglier than that. Volunteering is a job...a job that doesn't pay anything. They make companies pay people money to do jobs, but now there's an expectation that people do other jobs for free?
Ugly, ugly mindset. I need to work on this...
These are very common errors in perception, often misdiagnosed as character flaws.. Some of them I'm immune to, and always have been. Some of them are things I've overcome in my life. Some of them are very much still with me, and I'm trying to fight them.
Behold, TEN WAYS YOU ARE (or might be...) MAKING LIFE MORE DIFFICULT THAN IT HAS TO BE
1) YOU ASCRIBE INTENT...."Happy people do not do this. They don't ascribe intent to the unintentional actions of others."
This one plagued me through my teenage years. I was absolutely certain that every little slight (and I was very good at manufacturing slights) was not just intentional but pointedly aimed and fired at me. I don't do this anymore. It's exhausting, and I realized long ago that most people are just intent on living their own lives. It's also emotionally liberating to shrug bad things off, intentional or otherwise. Pain is real; suffering is optional.
2) YOU ARE THE STAR OF YOUR OWN MOVIE.
Uh, no I'm not. I kind of like to fade into the background. I can do stuff right up front if it's required, and I'm trying hard to summon the self-confidence to be a leader, even if only in my own life...but I've never been vain enough to think the world revolves around me.
3) YOU FAST FORWARD TO APOCALYPSE.
Guilty. I'm terrible for this. I'll start worrying and worrying and things will go wronger and wronger and wronger in my head until everything's gone completely to shit...and then I'll feel sheepish when my fevered imaginings prove to be so much chaff in the wind. And yet for some reason it doesn't stop me from doing it again next time. Every slight medical symptom in anyone *except me* is a sign of imminent death. A strange sound from the car is a sign it's going to blow up in less than three minutes.
If repeated apocalypses amount to less than a hill of beans, why do I keep doing this?
4) YOU HAVE UNREALISTIC/UNMET EXPECTATIONS.
Nope.. I don't have any. Not one. How many times have I said...if I say I love you, you don't have to say it back? If I write you, you don't have to write back, let alone immediately. That's not to say I don't care if I'm ignored: of course I do. But as I wrote in that blog, "a relationship based on needs will always fail."
5) YOU ARE WAITING FOR A SIGN.
It probably looks for all the world like that's what I've been doing, as stagnant as I was for a couple of years, there. But no: I don't believe in signs. Or rather, I believe we make our own signs. I do think that we create our own experiences, so if I tell the universe that I want something, that's exactly the experience that'll get thrown at me...wanting something. For a long time my contentness at the stability in my life was at war with my desire to change and grow. I'm learning those two things aren't mutually exclusive, and I'm overcoming my fear of rejection, and that's a sign.
6) YOU DON'T TAKE RISKS.
No, I don't, because they're risky, and according to #3 they'll blow up in my face spectacularly. Oh, wait a second, I'm supposed to take risks...oh, yeah. *slap*
7) YOU CONSTANTLY COMPARE YOUR LIFE TO OTHERS'.
As much as I'd like to say, pshaw, I don't do this...I do. It's mostly outward appearance. It drives Eva nuts that I have such a hangup on my own outward appearance, and that in turn bothers me because...
...well, look. I'm just not telegenic. Not physically attractive. Please don't think I'm fishing for you to say of course you are, because I don't need you to lie to make me feel better about myself. I AM NOT PUTTING MYSELF DOWN. I know I have more than enough qualities to compensate for my physical issues But people have to look below the skin to see them, and, and many, perhaps most people don't. I'm not talking (just) about love. Physically handsome/beautiful people do better in professional life, too.
Now, I've fixed the most glaring issue, my teeth, and getting these tattoos will help me walk a little taller. But Hugh Jackman I ain't, Nor am I Johnny Depp, or whoever your paragon of male attractiveness is. Not even close.
As far as comparing life paths, though, one poem I read in my OAC (grade 13) put that to rest permanently.
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
--EDWARD ARLINGTON ROBINSON
(Interesting, I've always focused on the rich, admirably schooled part of that and ignored most of two stanzas about his appearance. Maybe beautiful people have problems of their own. Maybe I have one more big insecurity to root out.)
8. YOU LET OTHER PEOPLE STEAL (TIME) FROM YOU.
Not any more, I don't..
9. YOU CAN'T/WON'T LET GO.
I think this is related to #4. I don't have expectations in my life, but that doesn't mean there aren't consequences for emotional abuse or neglect. I probably cut more slack than I should, at times, but I can let go with the best of them. Friends can be in your life for any amount of time and serve their purpose. Some I would choose to keep indefinitely, but if that isn't their choice as well, in the name of love the best thing to do is to let them go.
10) YOU DON'T GIVE BACK.
Not enough. I try, on a personal level, with as many people as I can reach. But (confession) I have never volunteered my time anywhere. Until fairly recently I haven't felt bad about that: I always told myself that work and sleep and life in general took up all the time I had--but that's clearly bullshit, since people much busier than I was still found time to give time. No, it's even uglier than that. Volunteering is a job...a job that doesn't pay anything. They make companies pay people money to do jobs, but now there's an expectation that people do other jobs for free?
Ugly, ugly mindset. I need to work on this...
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Cats and Dogs
"Georgia, quit humping the cat."
This is a sentence we find ourselves saying all too often around here, and quite frankly it's a sentence I never thought I'd find myself thinking, let alone expressing. Georgia is (was) a female dog. Mooch is (was) a male cat. But Mooch presents, and Georgia obligingly tries to mount him. Shake, rattle and roll, baby.
I don't get this. I'm not sure if Georgia think she's a he-cat or Mooch thinks he's a she-dog, but it's endlessly entertaining.
Our cats in general are endlessly entertaining. Life is all fun and games to them. Let's see, there's
"Rolly-Cat" (this always brings the Tux running to restore order because he's afraid they're fighting)
"King of the Cat Tree" (almost always Bubbles)
"What's That That Dropped" (played by both cats to great effect; Bubbles, again, usually wins)
"Lick Daddy's Eyeball" (Daddy does not like this game because the tool used to score goals is a piece of extremely coarse sandpaper that somehow got surgically implanted in the middle of Mooch's mouth, and he goes for the touchdown by waiting until Daddy's almost sleeping)
"Dog Taunting" with its sub-games "Get That Tail", "Head Butt From Nowhere" and "Flying Gang Tackle Of Creature Five Times My Size".
"Mommy-Daddy Tree" (this one is a Mooch speciality: he runs up to you full tilt, extends his paws as far as he can upwards, and wraps himself firmly around your leg; extra points if he can shimmy his way up, since he doesn't have front claws"
"Bubble Bounce" I watched the inaugural game of this yesterday. I was chatting on the phone (yeah, I still do that, I love to hear people's voices) when what should appear out of the corner of my eye but a Bubble-cat, pogo-ing up and down in front of our patio door, trying to get the bug that's trundling along nearly two meters off the ground. Boing...boing...boing... The height was incredible. So was the hang time. I don't think he got the bug, though.
The dogs, now, they have their own games. Tux's game-playing days are drawing down, although he still enjoys a good rousing round of Silly Buggers (yes, he does still grunt like a mushroom). He also goes to say hi to the squirrel, checking dutifully each morning at the squirrel's house (our shed), though he doesn't run as fast as he once did to "get the squirrel".
Tux's favourite game, and he'll be playing it until he levels up, is "How Close Can I Get To The Mommy". Mommy won't let him win this game.
Georgia, when she's not humping the cat or licking the couch, has a--God, I hesitate to even think it, let alone type it. You know those flat disc-shaped things you float through the air--they're called 'flying discs' because the word I'm trying to avoid is trademarked and also because if Georgia figures out what I'm wri
FRISBEE! FRISBEE! FRISBEE! FRISBEE! FRISBEE!
*sigh*
Okay, I'm back now. I found one made out of the same almost indestructible material as the previous center of the Peachworld, Georgia-Ball. It was being discontinued and I got it for half price. Eva figured due to the thinness of the frisbee, Georgia would om nom nom her way through it in no time. Hasn't happened. But she adores Frisbee to the point she'll take it to bed with her, and she'll only play Georgia-Ball if Daddy insists that's what he wants to play. I would have never imagined anything could possibly supplant Georgia-Ball in our Peach's wee little head. But Frisbee has. She's gotten pretty adept at catching it, too. (She used to catch Georgia-Ball or Red-Ball on occasion--she chipped a tooth that way without even noticing.
The nice thing, the thing we weren't really sure about, was that the dogs have accepted the cats as part of the pack. There were a few instances where Georgia went after Mooch, which had us really worried, but that hasn't happened in quite a while now. They all try to eat each other's food (no territorial problems there, either); everybody drinks out of the same water dish, and just like B.B. and Streak before them, Mooch and Bubbles line up for the Cheese in the morning right next to the Tux.
We live in a happy home, and our cats and dogs are undoubtedly part of why it is that way.
This is a sentence we find ourselves saying all too often around here, and quite frankly it's a sentence I never thought I'd find myself thinking, let alone expressing. Georgia is (was) a female dog. Mooch is (was) a male cat. But Mooch presents, and Georgia obligingly tries to mount him. Shake, rattle and roll, baby.
I don't get this. I'm not sure if Georgia think she's a he-cat or Mooch thinks he's a she-dog, but it's endlessly entertaining.
Our cats in general are endlessly entertaining. Life is all fun and games to them. Let's see, there's
"Rolly-Cat" (this always brings the Tux running to restore order because he's afraid they're fighting)
"King of the Cat Tree" (almost always Bubbles)
"What's That That Dropped" (played by both cats to great effect; Bubbles, again, usually wins)
"Lick Daddy's Eyeball" (Daddy does not like this game because the tool used to score goals is a piece of extremely coarse sandpaper that somehow got surgically implanted in the middle of Mooch's mouth, and he goes for the touchdown by waiting until Daddy's almost sleeping)
"Dog Taunting" with its sub-games "Get That Tail", "Head Butt From Nowhere" and "Flying Gang Tackle Of Creature Five Times My Size".
"Mommy-Daddy Tree" (this one is a Mooch speciality: he runs up to you full tilt, extends his paws as far as he can upwards, and wraps himself firmly around your leg; extra points if he can shimmy his way up, since he doesn't have front claws"
"Bubble Bounce" I watched the inaugural game of this yesterday. I was chatting on the phone (yeah, I still do that, I love to hear people's voices) when what should appear out of the corner of my eye but a Bubble-cat, pogo-ing up and down in front of our patio door, trying to get the bug that's trundling along nearly two meters off the ground. Boing...boing...boing... The height was incredible. So was the hang time. I don't think he got the bug, though.
The dogs, now, they have their own games. Tux's game-playing days are drawing down, although he still enjoys a good rousing round of Silly Buggers (yes, he does still grunt like a mushroom). He also goes to say hi to the squirrel, checking dutifully each morning at the squirrel's house (our shed), though he doesn't run as fast as he once did to "get the squirrel".
Tux's favourite game, and he'll be playing it until he levels up, is "How Close Can I Get To The Mommy". Mommy won't let him win this game.
Georgia, when she's not humping the cat or licking the couch, has a--God, I hesitate to even think it, let alone type it. You know those flat disc-shaped things you float through the air--they're called 'flying discs' because the word I'm trying to avoid is trademarked and also because if Georgia figures out what I'm wri
FRISBEE! FRISBEE! FRISBEE! FRISBEE! FRISBEE!
*sigh*
Okay, I'm back now. I found one made out of the same almost indestructible material as the previous center of the Peachworld, Georgia-Ball. It was being discontinued and I got it for half price. Eva figured due to the thinness of the frisbee, Georgia would om nom nom her way through it in no time. Hasn't happened. But she adores Frisbee to the point she'll take it to bed with her, and she'll only play Georgia-Ball if Daddy insists that's what he wants to play. I would have never imagined anything could possibly supplant Georgia-Ball in our Peach's wee little head. But Frisbee has. She's gotten pretty adept at catching it, too. (She used to catch Georgia-Ball or Red-Ball on occasion--she chipped a tooth that way without even noticing.
The nice thing, the thing we weren't really sure about, was that the dogs have accepted the cats as part of the pack. There were a few instances where Georgia went after Mooch, which had us really worried, but that hasn't happened in quite a while now. They all try to eat each other's food (no territorial problems there, either); everybody drinks out of the same water dish, and just like B.B. and Streak before them, Mooch and Bubbles line up for the Cheese in the morning right next to the Tux.
We live in a happy home, and our cats and dogs are undoubtedly part of why it is that way.
I Could Teach The World...
Think of the best present you ever got in your life. Something so nice it almost made you cry. Got a picture of that thing in your head? Good. Now...
What was it wrapped in?
Don't care, do you? Don't even remember?
That's how I feel about bodies.
I'll just pin that there so everyone can stare at it. Because that's what people do. I've been repeating that, in person and online, for twenty years or longer now, and the reactions (still) speak volumes,
Strangers, particularly male strangers, think it's bullshit. In the manner of online strangers everywhere, they're not afraid to tell me so, using words that you'd never say to a stranger face-to-face. I've been told I "must be a turd-burglar" (funny how they can't just say I must be gay, they have to go for the insult). Last month I got "that is soooooo beta". And just last night I managed the highest number of "downvotes" I've ever received on a single Reddit post in six years of Redditing, just for putting that up there. Many people really seem to hate that concept. I have no idea why. I don't think I come off as holier than thou for saying it. I certainly don't mean to.
A small class of charitable strangers says, "well, that's nice, but you don't really believe that". I suspect that reaction holds true for many of my acquaintances and friends as well. I'm not sure how to prove I do. I could maybe post pictures of all the people I love, from the morbidly obese to the willowy to the pixie to everything in between--but besides violating their privacy, I'd run out of space to post photos and run smack dab into the other huge misunderstanding about me, which has to do with the number of people I love...
If you're really close to me, you might tell me that I might believe I really feel that way. Hell, it isn't really all that long ago I finally stopped having this exchange with my beloved wife of fifteen years:
Me--"You know I love you, right?"
Eva-"I know you believe you love me..."
...as if loving someone, let alone someone as loveable as her, is impossible and I've been deluded all these years. (That's gone, at long last: Eva finally believes she's loveable, which happifies me in so many ways...)
And in all my life, smaller still is the class of person who reads those words, grasps their meaning and sincerity right off, and agrees with them.
I asked my Facebook friends last night, in the middle of my Reddit downvote barrage, to tell me what's so controversial about thinking that maybe, just maybe, it'd be a good idea to love people from the inside out. A few people hastened to advise me not to listen to the madding crowd. Rest assured, neither derision nor downvotes will get me to change my mind on this. I know I've got a hell of a lot wrong, still, but on this point I'm convinced I've got it right.
One friend asked:
Could this possibly be related to people have a hard time with keeping their own company? Not bodies, but they don't like how, or where, their thoughts go when they are not entertained or distracted by something outside of themselves?
I had a flash of that makes a lot of sense and than promptly lost the strings of thought that connected the two ideas. Jason, permit me to flail about here.
It's certainly a true insight into people nowadays. I just read about a study in which people from various ages and backgrounds were asked to spend fifteen minutes alone with their thoughts. Their only external stimulation was a button that delivered a painful shock. Two thirds of the male participants showed they'd rather hurt themselves than quietly think to themselves. The women did better: only one quarter of them pressed the button. Still, I was amazed at those findings. I'd have thought only a few people would have trouble being in their own company for fifteen minutes.
(Fifteen minutes? Pshaw. I've meditated for an hour or two without noticing time passing, and I regularly zone out--in private--and retreat into myself to recharge.)
I find it telling that men, in particular, have so much more trouble without something to keep their eyes occupied. All my life I've heard people tell me how men are more dependant on visual stimulation...another one of the encyclopedia of things that made me question my manhood from an early age. If I've got to look at anything, I'd rather look at words than pictures. I can't even decipher pictures half the time if they're complicated, which leads to some very odd interpretations of movies, TV shows and commercials. (I considered whether this might have something to do with my (very) poor vision...but that vision has been corrected to at least a semi-acceptable standard for nearly 35 years.)
It's common knowledge that this is why men watch porn while women read erotic literature. (Like most common knowledge, this is wrong: at any given time, one in three porn consumers is female.) But it does seem as if men prefer visual stimulation.
Which brings us around to the context in which my philosophy was most recently mocked. The question was "does everyone else constantly assess members of the opposite sex to determine if you'd have sex with them?" Top voted reply was "this is the most normal thing I can think of".
Which makes me pretty abnormal.
I tried to explain that without knowing the person, I had insufficient data to make a proper assessment. You sure can't tell the answer to a question like that from looks alone, even if you're not me. Ever heard of 'don't judge a book by its cover?' Or how about 'don't stick your dick in crazy'? The craziest woman I've ever met is a stunning blonde that regularly trails a string of dejected, rejected men behind her like a contrail.
This was all brushed aside and further downvoted, and I couldn't think why. Surely people aren't that shallow? Do they not notice how many gorgeous men are complete and utter pricks? Or how many beautiful women are nasty as soon as you get to know them?
By all means, there are people of both genders who are all around beautiful, and there are ugly people who are ugly inside, too. I'm just saying that you can't tell much about the actual person from a quick survey of their outermost layer.
A parade of naked women could sashay past me and...well, yeah, I'd notice them...but not beyond the fact they're naked. It's just skin, we all have it--and that's yet another of my oft-repeated sayings that cause people to look at me askance. How does the saying go? If God had intended us to walk around naked, we would have been born that way"?
It seems to me that many people are very concerned with what they can see and touch, something "outside of themselves". I just don't care about that, myself. I try as hard as I can to touch people inside. That's how and why I love the way I do; also why I don't believe love should, or even can, be restricted to one person alone. There are too many people with dark insides, waiting for someone to flick a switch and show them how loveable they are, and there's no reason I can see why I shouldn't be the one to at least try to flick that switch, when and where I can. The third piece of Ken that seems perfectly natural to me, but which is an enigma to most people I know:
Could this possibly be related to people have a hard time with keeping their own company? Not bodies, but they don't like how, or where, their thoughts go when they are not entertained or distracted by something outside of themselves?
I had a flash of that makes a lot of sense and than promptly lost the strings of thought that connected the two ideas. Jason, permit me to flail about here.
It's certainly a true insight into people nowadays. I just read about a study in which people from various ages and backgrounds were asked to spend fifteen minutes alone with their thoughts. Their only external stimulation was a button that delivered a painful shock. Two thirds of the male participants showed they'd rather hurt themselves than quietly think to themselves. The women did better: only one quarter of them pressed the button. Still, I was amazed at those findings. I'd have thought only a few people would have trouble being in their own company for fifteen minutes.
(Fifteen minutes? Pshaw. I've meditated for an hour or two without noticing time passing, and I regularly zone out--in private--and retreat into myself to recharge.)
I find it telling that men, in particular, have so much more trouble without something to keep their eyes occupied. All my life I've heard people tell me how men are more dependant on visual stimulation...another one of the encyclopedia of things that made me question my manhood from an early age. If I've got to look at anything, I'd rather look at words than pictures. I can't even decipher pictures half the time if they're complicated, which leads to some very odd interpretations of movies, TV shows and commercials. (I considered whether this might have something to do with my (very) poor vision...but that vision has been corrected to at least a semi-acceptable standard for nearly 35 years.)
It's common knowledge that this is why men watch porn while women read erotic literature. (Like most common knowledge, this is wrong: at any given time, one in three porn consumers is female.) But it does seem as if men prefer visual stimulation.
Which brings us around to the context in which my philosophy was most recently mocked. The question was "does everyone else constantly assess members of the opposite sex to determine if you'd have sex with them?" Top voted reply was "this is the most normal thing I can think of".
Which makes me pretty abnormal.
I tried to explain that without knowing the person, I had insufficient data to make a proper assessment. You sure can't tell the answer to a question like that from looks alone, even if you're not me. Ever heard of 'don't judge a book by its cover?' Or how about 'don't stick your dick in crazy'? The craziest woman I've ever met is a stunning blonde that regularly trails a string of dejected, rejected men behind her like a contrail.
This was all brushed aside and further downvoted, and I couldn't think why. Surely people aren't that shallow? Do they not notice how many gorgeous men are complete and utter pricks? Or how many beautiful women are nasty as soon as you get to know them?
By all means, there are people of both genders who are all around beautiful, and there are ugly people who are ugly inside, too. I'm just saying that you can't tell much about the actual person from a quick survey of their outermost layer.
A parade of naked women could sashay past me and...well, yeah, I'd notice them...but not beyond the fact they're naked. It's just skin, we all have it--and that's yet another of my oft-repeated sayings that cause people to look at me askance. How does the saying go? If God had intended us to walk around naked, we would have been born that way"?
It seems to me that many people are very concerned with what they can see and touch, something "outside of themselves". I just don't care about that, myself. I try as hard as I can to touch people inside. That's how and why I love the way I do; also why I don't believe love should, or even can, be restricted to one person alone. There are too many people with dark insides, waiting for someone to flick a switch and show them how loveable they are, and there's no reason I can see why I shouldn't be the one to at least try to flick that switch, when and where I can. The third piece of Ken that seems perfectly natural to me, but which is an enigma to most people I know:
What I would do (and I could, too!)
is teach the world to love.
Because few know (there’s less who show)
abundancy thereof.
The planet teems with those (it seems)
who know not love but hate;
That can be healed, with love repealed,
I know it’s not too late.
That’s a good start. I should impart
There’s so much more to do.
For there is more to love, ‘tis sure
Than what we ever knew.
Love has no end. Kindred, foe, friend,
or stranger, I don’t care.
To love them all, that is the call
I feel compelled to share.
That means to me that love, you see
Can’t be contained or caught.
To love just one, all the rest shun
Is how to love for naught.
If I hold her (even bolder:
if you hold him too),
if three or four or five or more
I love you just as true.
“That isn’t right!” you say in fright,
“That’s not how love should feel!
For if I split love bit by bit
And dole it out piecemeal--”
--you’ll find, and soon, that love’s immune
from being cut that way...
The more you take, the more you make,
is what I mean to say.
I love you truer, to be sure
When I don’t seek to cage
Your heart, your soul, your love, your whole
And keep in on one page.
So be the light, take your delight
In all that love can reach
I’ll do the same, and so exclaim
The lesson I must teach.
Monday, July 28, 2014
Moving Forward
Before I met Eva, and I mean the week before, I wrote up a questionnaire to present to a potential partner. On the surface, there's no reason I should have even considered doing such a thing. I'd been celibate for over two years at the time. There were no sexual/romantic prospects anywhere on my horizon.
But for the first time ever, that didn't bother me in the slightest. I felt truly comfortable being by myself. That doesn't mean I had grown up...far from it...the previous blog should make that clear. But I knew, for the first time, that I had all the ingredients necessary to do it. I wasn't looking for someone to complete me. I was looking for someone to help me 'complete' myself. And along came Eva. Almost as if she had been summoned.
That questionnaire is a little embarrassing to look at. (Of course it's in here...the blog entry that contains that is worth reading at if anyone needs a reminder of just why we married: it all holds true today).
A couple of questions I'd still say were pretty perceptive, though. I particularly like "name three things you admire(d) about your mother"--with the intent that her answer would age her thirty years. Eva's mom is, of course, a wonderful person, a woman who balances enormous strength, intelligence and compassion. All three qualities she passed on to her daughter. Of course.
I did a lot of writing that winter. A lot of soul searching, over a period of a couple of months. I had time to do it because that was--not coincidentally--the last time I was unemployed. After that spate of introspection, money running out. feeling the strangest mix of damnit I need a job and serenity that whatever will be, will be, I walked into a job interview and met my wife.
That job lasted just long enough to cement Eva and I together. She was, in fact, both reasons I quit. (Reason 1: I couldn't date the boss. Reason 2: I couldn't do the job). I went directly from that market research company into a variety store job, which led to another, which led to Price Chopper in an inexorable procession that, looking back, seems preordained. Price Chopper was a long stint, over a decade, that netted me one very important friend and a wealth of experience.
There came a point when it was no longer good enough for me. I needed benefits, which were three times denied me, and I was beginning to be treated like a doormat. But because of my time there, I was able to do two things I'd never done. First, I was able to network for a new job. When I learned of an opportunity, I was able to summon the professional self-confidence to walk into an interview and essentially demand to be hired...and it worked.
Now I'm unemployed again. That's the least of the changes that this year has thrown at me. Actually, chuck that construction. I have created the conditions for change, both personal and professional, and they have profound implications for my life moving forward.
You won't believe this, but it's true (ask Eva): the day before I was laid off, I had one of those days we all get from time to time, the kind of work day that makes you wish you could just quit. (I won't give specifics because (a) they're not important and (b) I'm technically still on payroll there and thus bound by extremely strict disclosure rules.) Suffice it to say I came home and asked Eva if she could look into whether I might be able to work with her. (Her company is awesome: just the kind of family culture that makes you feel like you belong). "I have an odd feeling something's coming down", I said.
It came down, all right. The next day.
I have spent the last couple of months coming to terms with myself again, taking a huge personal leap forward, assessing and addressing. That's ongoing, There have been little steps (baking things for the first time ever, all of which have turned out wonderfully) and big steps (fixing my smile, getting tattoos and a piercing), The last two months have demanded a stem-to-stern emotional inventory and a totally honest life review I'm most of the way through. These two most recent blog entries are just another step in that process.
Basically, what I've determined probably should have been obvious, considering how similar it is to what I determined fifteen years ago. I'm a complete person. I have all the skills I need to move on, to leave the "accidental career" in retail behind. That's not to say I won't learn new skills, or refine the skills I have: of course I will, that's what life is. But I'm more than a retail drone.
Working retail has a way of convincing you otherwise. It's a career in which your essential worthlessness is drilled into you on a daily basis, by customers and management alike. It's the kind of job in which nothing is ever done, nothing can ever be done to a high enough standard, and you are ultimately completely interchangeable and unnecessary no matter how long you've been doing the job or how well you do it. The purpose of retail--customer service--is something I excel at, because my life's philosophy is to leave every person who meets me a little better off for having met me. But that's a life purpose, applicable in any career and everywhere else in life as well, and I've had that philosophy roughly forever. In other words, while retail has taught me a lot, and will help in untold ways in my next career, it is also part of what has been holding me back, psychologically, in ways that are impossible to fully articulate or understand unless you've worked it. It's soul-crushing. Factory work is probably preferable: at least in a factory you have something tangible at the end of a shift, something you create that goes out into the world with the purpose you give it.
I could get a job relatively easily with the competition. Their warehouse is hiring, night shifts--granted it's in south Cambridge, but I'm sure I could get in there if I wanted to. The Walton empire is always hiring. There are doubtless other jobs out there.
I'm done with retail. I'm on to bigger and better things.
What things? Not sure yet. But before I met Eva, I wasn't sure either.
I'll say this: I've been taking French for reasons that have nothing to do with the job I just lost. There are two very intensive courses left for a certificate of fluency, plus a Business French course I'd like to take. But even after the next course I should be able to pass a basic fluency test.
I have heard from many of my readers that I should consider a career in writing. This is very flattering and I thank each and every one of you who say that. I have exactly one friend who may have inside information on how to turn this love of mine into money: otherwise I'm clueless, and worse, have no idea where to find reliable clues. You should know that the number of people making a living off their own words is a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percentage of the number of people who consider themselves writers. I'm not among that elite. That's not me putting myself down. It's just a fact. Confidence will only get you so far.
However...I have no intention of shutting this Breadbin down any time soon, and I have other writing on the side, intensely personal, that might coalesce into something. I'm not going to put demands on myself because I've tried that before, and it doesn't work. The personal stuff seems to draw the most interest, but I can't figure out if that's just because my readers are my friends, or I'm just that weird. (Good weird, good weird...) I'm working on it, okay?
What I really deserve is a job where I feel like I'm making a difference. Eva has a job like that now for maybe the first time in her life and it has energized her and lightened her heart. I don't mind so-called drudgery if it accomplishes something, if it improves lives in some measurable way.
Does my writing do that? I'd love to think so, but I don't think I've accumulated enough wisdom yet to make such a claim.
At any rate, I sensed very strongly at the beginning of this year that it would be a pivot point for me. So it has proven to be. I'm looking to come out of the pivot on my feet and moving in a brand new direction. I want to thank my amazing support network, headed of course by my amazing wife, for being there to help me through this upheaval, more often that not with a smile on my face (especially now that I'm not ashamed of my smile.) Speaking of which, there will be a new picture heading this Breadbin by the end of the week.)
But for the first time ever, that didn't bother me in the slightest. I felt truly comfortable being by myself. That doesn't mean I had grown up...far from it...the previous blog should make that clear. But I knew, for the first time, that I had all the ingredients necessary to do it. I wasn't looking for someone to complete me. I was looking for someone to help me 'complete' myself. And along came Eva. Almost as if she had been summoned.
That questionnaire is a little embarrassing to look at. (Of course it's in here...the blog entry that contains that is worth reading at if anyone needs a reminder of just why we married: it all holds true today).
A couple of questions I'd still say were pretty perceptive, though. I particularly like "name three things you admire(d) about your mother"--with the intent that her answer would age her thirty years. Eva's mom is, of course, a wonderful person, a woman who balances enormous strength, intelligence and compassion. All three qualities she passed on to her daughter. Of course.
I did a lot of writing that winter. A lot of soul searching, over a period of a couple of months. I had time to do it because that was--not coincidentally--the last time I was unemployed. After that spate of introspection, money running out. feeling the strangest mix of damnit I need a job and serenity that whatever will be, will be, I walked into a job interview and met my wife.
That job lasted just long enough to cement Eva and I together. She was, in fact, both reasons I quit. (Reason 1: I couldn't date the boss. Reason 2: I couldn't do the job). I went directly from that market research company into a variety store job, which led to another, which led to Price Chopper in an inexorable procession that, looking back, seems preordained. Price Chopper was a long stint, over a decade, that netted me one very important friend and a wealth of experience.
There came a point when it was no longer good enough for me. I needed benefits, which were three times denied me, and I was beginning to be treated like a doormat. But because of my time there, I was able to do two things I'd never done. First, I was able to network for a new job. When I learned of an opportunity, I was able to summon the professional self-confidence to walk into an interview and essentially demand to be hired...and it worked.
Now I'm unemployed again. That's the least of the changes that this year has thrown at me. Actually, chuck that construction. I have created the conditions for change, both personal and professional, and they have profound implications for my life moving forward.
You won't believe this, but it's true (ask Eva): the day before I was laid off, I had one of those days we all get from time to time, the kind of work day that makes you wish you could just quit. (I won't give specifics because (a) they're not important and (b) I'm technically still on payroll there and thus bound by extremely strict disclosure rules.) Suffice it to say I came home and asked Eva if she could look into whether I might be able to work with her. (Her company is awesome: just the kind of family culture that makes you feel like you belong). "I have an odd feeling something's coming down", I said.
It came down, all right. The next day.
I have spent the last couple of months coming to terms with myself again, taking a huge personal leap forward, assessing and addressing. That's ongoing, There have been little steps (baking things for the first time ever, all of which have turned out wonderfully) and big steps (fixing my smile, getting tattoos and a piercing), The last two months have demanded a stem-to-stern emotional inventory and a totally honest life review I'm most of the way through. These two most recent blog entries are just another step in that process.
Basically, what I've determined probably should have been obvious, considering how similar it is to what I determined fifteen years ago. I'm a complete person. I have all the skills I need to move on, to leave the "accidental career" in retail behind. That's not to say I won't learn new skills, or refine the skills I have: of course I will, that's what life is. But I'm more than a retail drone.
Working retail has a way of convincing you otherwise. It's a career in which your essential worthlessness is drilled into you on a daily basis, by customers and management alike. It's the kind of job in which nothing is ever done, nothing can ever be done to a high enough standard, and you are ultimately completely interchangeable and unnecessary no matter how long you've been doing the job or how well you do it. The purpose of retail--customer service--is something I excel at, because my life's philosophy is to leave every person who meets me a little better off for having met me. But that's a life purpose, applicable in any career and everywhere else in life as well, and I've had that philosophy roughly forever. In other words, while retail has taught me a lot, and will help in untold ways in my next career, it is also part of what has been holding me back, psychologically, in ways that are impossible to fully articulate or understand unless you've worked it. It's soul-crushing. Factory work is probably preferable: at least in a factory you have something tangible at the end of a shift, something you create that goes out into the world with the purpose you give it.
I could get a job relatively easily with the competition. Their warehouse is hiring, night shifts--granted it's in south Cambridge, but I'm sure I could get in there if I wanted to. The Walton empire is always hiring. There are doubtless other jobs out there.
I'm done with retail. I'm on to bigger and better things.
What things? Not sure yet. But before I met Eva, I wasn't sure either.
I'll say this: I've been taking French for reasons that have nothing to do with the job I just lost. There are two very intensive courses left for a certificate of fluency, plus a Business French course I'd like to take. But even after the next course I should be able to pass a basic fluency test.
I have heard from many of my readers that I should consider a career in writing. This is very flattering and I thank each and every one of you who say that. I have exactly one friend who may have inside information on how to turn this love of mine into money: otherwise I'm clueless, and worse, have no idea where to find reliable clues. You should know that the number of people making a living off their own words is a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percentage of the number of people who consider themselves writers. I'm not among that elite. That's not me putting myself down. It's just a fact. Confidence will only get you so far.
However...I have no intention of shutting this Breadbin down any time soon, and I have other writing on the side, intensely personal, that might coalesce into something. I'm not going to put demands on myself because I've tried that before, and it doesn't work. The personal stuff seems to draw the most interest, but I can't figure out if that's just because my readers are my friends, or I'm just that weird. (Good weird, good weird...) I'm working on it, okay?
What I really deserve is a job where I feel like I'm making a difference. Eva has a job like that now for maybe the first time in her life and it has energized her and lightened her heart. I don't mind so-called drudgery if it accomplishes something, if it improves lives in some measurable way.
Does my writing do that? I'd love to think so, but I don't think I've accumulated enough wisdom yet to make such a claim.
At any rate, I sensed very strongly at the beginning of this year that it would be a pivot point for me. So it has proven to be. I'm looking to come out of the pivot on my feet and moving in a brand new direction. I want to thank my amazing support network, headed of course by my amazing wife, for being there to help me through this upheaval, more often that not with a smile on my face (especially now that I'm not ashamed of my smile.) Speaking of which, there will be a new picture heading this Breadbin by the end of the week.)
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Rejecting Rejection
"You teach what you most need to learn"--Richard Bach
I like to think I'm pretty good at helping people.
That's mostly empathy--I've got a tonne of it. I hate to see people in pain and I will do whatever I can to alleviate it, even if only a little.
Eva had a saying posted over her cubicle at work, once, and that saying has seeped into my consciousness: "no shame, no blame, FIX THE PROBLEM." In today's vernacular, "it is what it is, now let's make it better". That lesson has served me well professionally, especially coupled with immediate ownership of my mistakes. "Yes, I screwed up. HOW DO I MAKE THIS RIGHT? Can I make it better than right?" Or if it's somebody else's screw-up, I ignore that entirely: this is the situation, let's resolve it." It's amazing and a little depressing to see people so caught up in who did what and how badly. Never mind. FIX THE PROBLEM.
Many things can't be fixed, directly: that's a lesson that, as a man, I sometimes still struggle with. I try to listen three times as much as I talk, now, because often it seems like what people really need is a sounding board to bounce their problems off of. Articulate the problem--say it wrong if you have to, then you have something to edit--and sometimes just knowing you're not alone with that problem makes it easier to bear. And if you have a decision to make, just a few well placed questions sometimes brings to light that you've already made it.
After too many years of fears and tears, I'm finally starting to make inroads on helping myself. Because I'm a people too.
I'm not sure what my biggest flaw is, I got a million of 'em. But certainly one of the bigger ones is an almost total lack of self-confidence. That has a deep, deep root that is also pretty wide.
I was actually a pretty confident kid up until the end of third grade. I had reason to be. Kids don't turn on you that young for academic success. I had no problem doing anything in front of a class: piano, singing, storytelling...and not to blow my own horn, toot-toot, but I'm not half bad at any of that. Everything I touched in that third grade seemed to turn to gold. I made a pile of money (for values of "pile" suitably impressive to an eight-year-old in 1980) by designing and selling books of mazes. Most of my fellow students seemed to like me, and those that didn't (mostly) kept themselves to themselves.
I always tell people that moving and getting glasses between grades three and four derailed my life. Either one of them I could have overcome. Both together were impossible. The culture shock that hit me when I got to London was just...overwhelming--it took years to recover from, and in some ways I haven't quite recovered yet.
But the truth is that I could have seen it coming, and even when it was running me over, I did nothing to get out of the way and in many cases just made it worse.
First, of course, it was my attitude towards getting glasses that hurt me, not the glasses themselves. Granted, my attitude -- "glasses equals nerd" was extremely common in the early eighties, reinforced everywhere I looked, and when you're eight years old you're not quite ready to tell the world to take their attitude and shove it. But I took it way too far..."if glasses make me a nerd, well, then, I'm going to be the nerdiest nerd in Nerddom." It became a vicious cycle: I just retreated deeper into my books with every passing insult, wedgie, swirlie, or occasional kick to the groin.
Also, the bullying showed up before the glasses did. That's something I'd like to forget. It's not convenient to the way I tell my life's story. But as popular as I was at Georges Vanier school, towards the tail end of grade three I was occasionally targeted, usually by people in higher grades but sometimes by people who just wished they were. Once it was a kid who I'd thought was a friend, or at least friendly. He came up behind me on the playground one day, reached between my legs, and squeezed my balls. If Ian had had an adult's grip strength they'd have popped like balloons. As it was they just sent pure bolts of agony throughout my lower body and left me writhing on the ground, unable to even form the victim's eternal plaintive wail, "WHY?"
Because I felt like it, asshole! Numbnuts! (Well, that one was at least accurate.) Shit-for-brains! Four-eyes! Nerd, dork, spazz, quad, homo faggot dickbrain turdface fairy crybabymoronretardmongoidiotweenie! Wait, they're all accurate. Every last one of them. I didn't know how to block this out. They don't teach you that.
I had one real friend in all those years, starting in fifth grade, and I have no idea how that happened. Nor can I tell you exactly why the bullying petered out, by slow degrees; by grade eleven it was gone entirely, but I still had the social skills of that confident third grader. Didn't serve me well, especially among the ladyfolk. That side of rejection took a few more years to fade, and it left its own scars that throb and ache to this day. Being told how unbelievably ugly and repulsive you are, repeatedly--that takes a toll on a person. On some level you can't help but believe they must be right: I mean, it's not one girl saying things like that, it's pretty much all of them. There comes a point when one girl dares to care about you and you think "she's crazy, obviously".
-
It really wasn't until Eva came into my life that I really began to feel understood, let alone loved. Even then, it was (and is, sometimes) a struggle. I really have to give mad props to my wife: over all the time I've known her, she's never once nagged me or tried to change me. Instead, she merely worked tirelessly to create an environment for me in which I wouldn't be afraid to change myself.
For all I'm about to say, I've come a long way. When I first met and married Eva, she was almost the only person alive I felt truly comfortable being around--and even then, only at home, where nobody else could see me. Out socially, I'd babble inanely until a criticism real or imagined, at which point I'd shut myself into a silent shell, albeit one riddled with nervous tics. And for gawd's sake, don't take a picture of me, that image will burn out your camera.
Most of that is mostly gone now. It sometimes recurs, but not often. What I find frustrating (and no doubt Eva does, too) is that the underlying feelings that spawned all that crap didn't go away, they simply went underground.
It's all still there: the fear that at any moment, I'm going to be rejected. I can pretend it's gone. Weeks go by without me feeling that old self-loathing and I can even convince myself it's gone. And then I'll say "I'm going to try thus-and-such, remodel my life in this way, write that, make friends with her, take that next step. And worthless Ken will pop out and say "you'll fail, you can't remodel shit, people tell you they like your writing to your face but they mostly like laughing at you, she'll hate you because you're unbelievably ugly and repulsive, and hahahahaha, you can't take the next step because you're paralyzed. But that's okay, right? Paralyzed is safe! Isn't that what you've always wanted? To be safe?"
FUCK OFF.
Sorry for the vulgarity...well, actually, no, I'm not. It's not strong enough to express just how much that voice can go to hell. I'm letting an imaginary voice hold me back in so many ways. I'm never going to be cocky, for the simple reason that I believe nobody is any more special than anyone else...but I'm going to claim my own share of special, damnit.
I got half my mouth remodelled yesterday. Seven composite fillings that evened out the teeth on that side; the other side is happening Monday. Eva told me last night, with admiration and a touch of pride, that it had changed my entire face. Just having this done is making it so I don't feel self-conscious smiling at people. That's huge, for me. All by itself, it puts a little spring in my step, makes me feel a little bit better about myself and my prospects.
You want to know why I'm getting tattoos and an earring? I'll tell you. The tattoos are, as tattoos should be, extremely personal and deeply meaningful. One of them symbolizes love without limits, the other denotes fears conquered. I want both those things permanently etched on my body, so that I can look at whichever one needs to be looked at in a given moment and remember: THIS IS WHO I AM.
The earring? It's because then I'll be a man with an earring. It doesn't mean anything...and that's kind of the point. Make of it what you will, I don't care. It's going to get me a little attention...which I am not afraid of. Picked carefully and appropriately, it's going to give my profile just a little bit of interest...because I am an interesting person.
Like I say, I have no intention or desire to turn into some kind of vain prick. I don't think I could if I wanted to, anyway. But I'm sick and tired of feeling paralyzed, of letting myself feel paralyzed, and so screw it: I'm doing several things to show I won't be paralyzed any more.
And I'll still get rejected. Of course I will, we all do from time to time. The difference is that now I'm finally taking to heart what I have so often told others: rejection only puts you where you are, it doesn't knock you on your ass. The answer to EVERY question is no...until you ask the question. Rejection doesn't hurt! It just means you have to try harder. Or take another path.
You teach what you most need to learn.
I like to think I'm pretty good at helping people.
That's mostly empathy--I've got a tonne of it. I hate to see people in pain and I will do whatever I can to alleviate it, even if only a little.
Eva had a saying posted over her cubicle at work, once, and that saying has seeped into my consciousness: "no shame, no blame, FIX THE PROBLEM." In today's vernacular, "it is what it is, now let's make it better". That lesson has served me well professionally, especially coupled with immediate ownership of my mistakes. "Yes, I screwed up. HOW DO I MAKE THIS RIGHT? Can I make it better than right?" Or if it's somebody else's screw-up, I ignore that entirely: this is the situation, let's resolve it." It's amazing and a little depressing to see people so caught up in who did what and how badly. Never mind. FIX THE PROBLEM.
Many things can't be fixed, directly: that's a lesson that, as a man, I sometimes still struggle with. I try to listen three times as much as I talk, now, because often it seems like what people really need is a sounding board to bounce their problems off of. Articulate the problem--say it wrong if you have to, then you have something to edit--and sometimes just knowing you're not alone with that problem makes it easier to bear. And if you have a decision to make, just a few well placed questions sometimes brings to light that you've already made it.
After too many years of fears and tears, I'm finally starting to make inroads on helping myself. Because I'm a people too.
I'm not sure what my biggest flaw is, I got a million of 'em. But certainly one of the bigger ones is an almost total lack of self-confidence. That has a deep, deep root that is also pretty wide.
I was actually a pretty confident kid up until the end of third grade. I had reason to be. Kids don't turn on you that young for academic success. I had no problem doing anything in front of a class: piano, singing, storytelling...and not to blow my own horn, toot-toot, but I'm not half bad at any of that. Everything I touched in that third grade seemed to turn to gold. I made a pile of money (for values of "pile" suitably impressive to an eight-year-old in 1980) by designing and selling books of mazes. Most of my fellow students seemed to like me, and those that didn't (mostly) kept themselves to themselves.
I always tell people that moving and getting glasses between grades three and four derailed my life. Either one of them I could have overcome. Both together were impossible. The culture shock that hit me when I got to London was just...overwhelming--it took years to recover from, and in some ways I haven't quite recovered yet.
But the truth is that I could have seen it coming, and even when it was running me over, I did nothing to get out of the way and in many cases just made it worse.
First, of course, it was my attitude towards getting glasses that hurt me, not the glasses themselves. Granted, my attitude -- "glasses equals nerd" was extremely common in the early eighties, reinforced everywhere I looked, and when you're eight years old you're not quite ready to tell the world to take their attitude and shove it. But I took it way too far..."if glasses make me a nerd, well, then, I'm going to be the nerdiest nerd in Nerddom." It became a vicious cycle: I just retreated deeper into my books with every passing insult, wedgie, swirlie, or occasional kick to the groin.
Also, the bullying showed up before the glasses did. That's something I'd like to forget. It's not convenient to the way I tell my life's story. But as popular as I was at Georges Vanier school, towards the tail end of grade three I was occasionally targeted, usually by people in higher grades but sometimes by people who just wished they were. Once it was a kid who I'd thought was a friend, or at least friendly. He came up behind me on the playground one day, reached between my legs, and squeezed my balls. If Ian had had an adult's grip strength they'd have popped like balloons. As it was they just sent pure bolts of agony throughout my lower body and left me writhing on the ground, unable to even form the victim's eternal plaintive wail, "WHY?"
Because I felt like it, asshole! Numbnuts! (Well, that one was at least accurate.) Shit-for-brains! Four-eyes! Nerd, dork, spazz, quad, homo faggot dickbrain turdface fairy crybabymoronretardmongoidiotweenie! Wait, they're all accurate. Every last one of them. I didn't know how to block this out. They don't teach you that.
I had one real friend in all those years, starting in fifth grade, and I have no idea how that happened. Nor can I tell you exactly why the bullying petered out, by slow degrees; by grade eleven it was gone entirely, but I still had the social skills of that confident third grader. Didn't serve me well, especially among the ladyfolk. That side of rejection took a few more years to fade, and it left its own scars that throb and ache to this day. Being told how unbelievably ugly and repulsive you are, repeatedly--that takes a toll on a person. On some level you can't help but believe they must be right: I mean, it's not one girl saying things like that, it's pretty much all of them. There comes a point when one girl dares to care about you and you think "she's crazy, obviously".
-
It really wasn't until Eva came into my life that I really began to feel understood, let alone loved. Even then, it was (and is, sometimes) a struggle. I really have to give mad props to my wife: over all the time I've known her, she's never once nagged me or tried to change me. Instead, she merely worked tirelessly to create an environment for me in which I wouldn't be afraid to change myself.
For all I'm about to say, I've come a long way. When I first met and married Eva, she was almost the only person alive I felt truly comfortable being around--and even then, only at home, where nobody else could see me. Out socially, I'd babble inanely until a criticism real or imagined, at which point I'd shut myself into a silent shell, albeit one riddled with nervous tics. And for gawd's sake, don't take a picture of me, that image will burn out your camera.
Most of that is mostly gone now. It sometimes recurs, but not often. What I find frustrating (and no doubt Eva does, too) is that the underlying feelings that spawned all that crap didn't go away, they simply went underground.
It's all still there: the fear that at any moment, I'm going to be rejected. I can pretend it's gone. Weeks go by without me feeling that old self-loathing and I can even convince myself it's gone. And then I'll say "I'm going to try thus-and-such, remodel my life in this way, write that, make friends with her, take that next step. And worthless Ken will pop out and say "you'll fail, you can't remodel shit, people tell you they like your writing to your face but they mostly like laughing at you, she'll hate you because you're unbelievably ugly and repulsive, and hahahahaha, you can't take the next step because you're paralyzed. But that's okay, right? Paralyzed is safe! Isn't that what you've always wanted? To be safe?"
FUCK OFF.
Sorry for the vulgarity...well, actually, no, I'm not. It's not strong enough to express just how much that voice can go to hell. I'm letting an imaginary voice hold me back in so many ways. I'm never going to be cocky, for the simple reason that I believe nobody is any more special than anyone else...but I'm going to claim my own share of special, damnit.
I got half my mouth remodelled yesterday. Seven composite fillings that evened out the teeth on that side; the other side is happening Monday. Eva told me last night, with admiration and a touch of pride, that it had changed my entire face. Just having this done is making it so I don't feel self-conscious smiling at people. That's huge, for me. All by itself, it puts a little spring in my step, makes me feel a little bit better about myself and my prospects.
You want to know why I'm getting tattoos and an earring? I'll tell you. The tattoos are, as tattoos should be, extremely personal and deeply meaningful. One of them symbolizes love without limits, the other denotes fears conquered. I want both those things permanently etched on my body, so that I can look at whichever one needs to be looked at in a given moment and remember: THIS IS WHO I AM.
The earring? It's because then I'll be a man with an earring. It doesn't mean anything...and that's kind of the point. Make of it what you will, I don't care. It's going to get me a little attention...which I am not afraid of. Picked carefully and appropriately, it's going to give my profile just a little bit of interest...because I am an interesting person.
Like I say, I have no intention or desire to turn into some kind of vain prick. I don't think I could if I wanted to, anyway. But I'm sick and tired of feeling paralyzed, of letting myself feel paralyzed, and so screw it: I'm doing several things to show I won't be paralyzed any more.
And I'll still get rejected. Of course I will, we all do from time to time. The difference is that now I'm finally taking to heart what I have so often told others: rejection only puts you where you are, it doesn't knock you on your ass. The answer to EVERY question is no...until you ask the question. Rejection doesn't hurt! It just means you have to try harder. Or take another path.
You teach what you most need to learn.
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