Life is not a dress rehearsal

Two to the Power of Fifty Thousand Against and Falling

2008-10-22T17:50:00.000-07:00

Someone has turned on the Infinite Improbability Drive. Eddie the Shipboard Computer has apparently taken over the management of my love life. I have no other explanation to offer for a whirlwind online romance which was put on hold 27 years ago and suddenly came blasting into my life. Any moment now I am expecting an infinite number of monkeys to appear at the door with their script for "Hamlet".

Some well-meaning friends have often, in response to my tedious bitching about the woes of online dating, assured me that just when I least expect it, I would meet the right man in the grocery store or some such. He would drop out of the sky (and, apparently, be picked up in open space by the Starship Heart of Gold). My response to this has generally been unprintable in polite society; but, since none of THOSE types are likely to be reading this blog, I'll share it with you lucky folks.

"The fuck he will," says Valerie, and goes back to industriously resigning herself to a life of solitude and battery-powered lovers.

One thing was quickly becoming clear--it ain't happening on Yahoo Personals, or any of the other sites where people attempt to find their perfect match in the same way they might order a custom sandwich at the deli. If it's delivered with more mustard than you wanted, you send it back--it must be ordered to spec. Most of the men I met seemed to be searching for that perfect replica of some past relationship, and I very definitely do NOT play that game. All the same, the continuous rejection got extremely disheartening, and all the more so because the most interest I could feel for any of these guys was based on a decent conversational rapport and the possibility of some companionship.

The real kicker came when I was rejected by some would-be poet because I am "not creative." He wanted a poet or filmmaker, not someone who is a mere performer. Hmmm. The only response, of course, was to immediately write him a poem. Its opening line refers to a book he gave me, "The Baron in the Trees," a fable-esque novel of a nobleman who eschews life on the ground and refuses to ever come down from his lofty perch. I thought the metaphor summed up this intellectually snobbish moron's attitude marvelously.

I Will Stay on the Earth

Stay in the trees, Baron
It was fun to swing from a reaching branch
But I drop to the ground
Snatch a purple plum on my way down
Sink my teeth in deep.
Vibrant juice uncontrolled
Trickles down my chin
Rivulets hidden
Sweet
Shiver.

I will stay on the Earth, thank you,
Dirty feet dancing.
This mere performer
Stomping up the seedlings from the frozen depths.
Earth is of running and sweat and drums and riotous wildflowers and pizza joints and making love and chocolate bars.
Recognizing Kali in a reinvented woman.
And I laugh aloud.

Well now, I've never heard of TREE-shattering ecstasy, have you?

I'd rather lay back my head in the tall sweet meadow grass
Rhythm pounding
Shriek-cry-moan
Oh, ohhh yes, I am alive.
Taking root.

Stay in the trees, Baron
Pygmalion mirage among the leaves
So difficult to grasp.
December's pretty pretty icicles--
Don't touch, they'll plunge
Down, down, pulled to the sun-warmed stone
Shards of lonely poetry
Shattered on marble, onyx
Creamy smooth under my hands.
Stone welcomes my touch.

As this poem took shape, in the way that poetry does (building little bits of itself while I'm merely looking sideways at it), it clearly became not only a proud rebuke of my lack of creativity but also an affirmation of real emotion, real passion, the need to leave my rational mind tucked safely away on a shelf and prowl across the dark forest floor, eyes closed, sniffing for the scent of my true mate.

Oh, uh...it worked. That plus that good ol' Infinite Improbability Drive. Zaphod Beeblebrox to the rescue.

No, no, I have not fallen in love with the Galactic President. Much more improbable than that. Through the miracle of Facebook I have reconnected with an adorably cute boy I'd had a wicked huge crush on in high school when we were drummers in the band. He, in turn, had been looking for me. Guess 27 years was long enough for him to decide to say yes after I asked him out (apparently on a Sunday night while he was listening to Jeff Beck's "Rough and Ready" album--I, on the other hand, have entirely blocked the whole teen-trauma-inducing incident and only remember finagling rides home from band practice in his screamingly bright orange '73 Chevy Vega).

In the short space of ten days there have followed an entire chain reaction of Improbability Events:
1. The realization that ANYONE actually LIKED me in high school or, at least, some years beyond it after recovering from the shock of my "wicked aggressiveness" (and here I'm stealing a direct quote) (AND let me remind the reader that this was Connecticut--EVERYTHING was "wicked").
2. The realization that the friendly flirtatious banter was actually serious.
3. A long-distance electronic blitz of courtship, the tempo of which would leave Speed Dating in the dust.
4. A return to high school giddiness and falling suddenly, mutually, thoroughly and of course quite irrationally in love and planning for our future together.

Holy shit, has it only been ten days?!? Half a lifetime has been compressed into this time frame.

I can't tell you whether I'm inspired or insane. Perhaps there never is a difference. This story will certainly continue; but first I must write a note, fold it up into a triangular football and flick it across the bandroom....

Meanwhile, Back at the Beltaine Festival...

2008-04-29T20:03:00.000-07:00

...there are any number of guys just waiting to pay me a bit of attention. It's time for me to have the party phase I never had as an ugly-duckling teen. Spending my life looking for love has led to a hell of a lot of lonely nights. I can't see myself loving anyone else--time to forget about the whole idea of love and have some amusement. And when one guy gets bored with me, there's half a dozen more waiting in the wings. Why did I have to wait til 44 to figure this out?

Rock 'n' roll!

Letting Go, Take Three Hundred and One

2008-04-27T18:07:00.000-07:00

And now, to clear my head of Brad. Actually my head can do rather a nice job of it; my head knows the red flags are waving high in the air. Alcoholism, generally addictive behavior, a seemingly thorough inability for real intimacy......the heart, well that's always a bit more difficult to clear out. And the lower chakras speak pretty loudly too. The physical chemistry has certainly been a factor, oh Lawdy yes. Even when I've told myself to back off, just be friends, spend time together, hang out, go slowly...those big brown eyes gaze into mine and he leans in and kisses me and then my head is NO match for those low chakras. And I have made the deliberate choice to follow my heart instead of keeping myself safely tucked away in plastic. But, this whole thing is a lost cause. He's, well, BROKEN. Another mess, like Whitney. Same as it ever was, same as it ever was....

[German-accented voice offstage] "So tell me, Ms Turner: vhy do you alvays choose addictive, emotionally unavailable men just like yourrr fazzer??? Vhat, zey all haf to be meshuggenah?! Oy."

Yes yes, I see the pattern. I'm not completely blind. But I like the guy. A lot. OK, foolish or no, I fell in love with him. Oy. Give me a little credit--I do see the tenderness, humanitarianism, spirituality, the sense of the divine absurdity of life, the elusive quality which I think of as the female side. The musician. The nice, delightfully silly guy who I've been friends with all these years. But, he's unable/unwilling to meet me even a quarter of the way, even to remain friends, do stuff together, keep in contact, take that baby step toward a possible future deepening of the relationship.

I let him come over (my head was told to go take a hike). He wanted to see my new house. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll buy that bridge in Brooklyn. He made love to me after promising, promising, not to run away again, not to freak out, not going to be like that anymore, and of course, those eyes, that hair brushing over my thighs, sweet hot sensual playful sexy oh yeah SURE I'm going to say no....how much for that bridge???

Then, of course, he promptly freaked out and shut me out completely. Will not call, will not answer the phone for three weeks. When a mutual friend gave him some serious shit about this he mumbled something defensive about having told me he's like this, told me he needs his space. Interesting. Especially when I also know he's doing jello shots and screwing around with Rebecca whom he repeatedly breaks it off with as he tells both of us he doesn't want ANY woman in his life. I have not asked him for monogamy; but what I DO require is honesty and communication. You promise me something, I expect to see an effort. A phone call telling me you're scared to death and need some more space. Fine. I'm more than willing to go very slowly but meet me halfway. A quarter of the way.

Lost cause. I have to let him go.

I don't believe he's so thoroughly callous as to plan to fuck me and walk out. If he were going to do that, he'd fuck me a dozen more times first. In the heat of the moment, I think he's quite wrapped up in me and genuinely wants to keep me in his life. Something just disconnects, somewhere, and apparently he's always been like this, including in his marriage, although now it has intensified. (It's good to have a spy--er, mutual friend.) Get close and then run. Rinse, repeat. Erik the Informant commented that he just doesn't understand how Brad's brain is wired regarding women. It's not a pattern he's likely to ever change unless he commits himself to some intense therapy, which he desperately needs.

So I still--stubbornly, perhaps--believe I haven't been mistaken about the emotion between us, the love I saw in his eyes when he let his guard down on the beach under the magical full moon, the delight that's more than pure sexual pleasure. He's simply unable to integrate that emotion and give anything more than sporadic moments of intimacy. He's deep in his own nightmare of depression and the pain of two miscarriages and then the divorce, and my heart really goes out to him. I hope the bit of time we've shared together will leave some positive ripple of good in his psyche and that we'll reconnect as friends in time. Hell, it's not even impossible a more-healed Brad years from now will whack himself upside the head for tossing me aside and decide to PICK UP THE FREAKING PHONE and, oh, who knows. It's a marvelously serendipitous world, anything is possible. At this moment, it's time yet again to let go of someone I love. It is, indeed, getting a bit easier with so much practice, a bit more awareness and a great Buddhist book given by Adamus. I may be unpartnered but never unloved.

Watch that first step--it's a doozy

2008-02-08T18:10:00.001-08:00

And giggle over Chitty Chitty Bang Bang we did... when we paused enough to pay attention to it. My, what a bit of prophecy I wrote in that last post....childhood movies take on quite a new dimension when they become the backdrop for wild passionate sex, don’t they. Now, I really do have to re-ask myself that last question. And I believe I will choose Adam's answer--both. A bit out of my mind, and feeling that I really have found the great love of my life. Yeah, yeah, yeah, sounds overdramatic—but this is ME, remember??? Sue me. I live by my heart. And my heart tells me that there’s a connection between us that’s worth the risk of emotional pain. A sexual attraction, certainly—and by his own admission, it’s been there for a few years—but, and I know I’ve been wrong about these things before, it feels like more than just Your Average Run-of-the-Mill Lust.

Nothing against lust, mind you. It had been a long time, as usually happens in my life, since I’d been touched; and when Brad started snuggling up to me, and then kissing me, oh there was just no holding back. Floodgates open. I know myself—I suspect that even if I were told I’d never see him again I probably still would’ve done exactly what I did and lapped up every sweet erotic minute of it. I’ve jumped over that cliff and really have no idea what kind of a landing I’m about to have. But that first step of the journey—WOO-HOO!!!!!!! It was passionate, intense, at times delightfully silly, and an incredible electric flow of energy between us. No wonder it’s scaring the living shit out of him. Frightening horrible woman, with big sharp teeth (think Killer Rabbit. Everybody make the hand motion... Run away, run away!!!)

For all my post-orgasmic giddy high, I knew he’d pull back, whether immediately or later. And it happened to be immediately. I had expressed the concern, before events got too heavy, that this might just be one good time and then he’d disappear, and told him I really couldn’t stand that; he answered, “I’m not going anywhere.” Good enough for me, full steam ahead—yeah, like I would’ve been able to stop. I was already absolutely melting into kissing him. But his inevitable panic set in. When I next spoke to him he was vague about getting together again, and I fought back my own moment of panic, a lifelong pattern of shutting down defensively, so sure that I’m being used and hurt that I have to block it all out and even be the first one doing the hurting, in order to protect myself. Nope, not gonna do that anymore. The only way I can have love in my life is to remain open, which is both exhilarating and terrifying. I could be hurt again. But I’m alive and in love and every cell in my body is ON.

So I did what a younger me could not possibly have done. I directed the conversation on my own rational yet emotional terms. I asked him to give us a chance. I laid out my feelings, though I won’t use the Dreaded L Word this early on, and outlined what I want—awfully simple, really: I want to continue to see each other to explore where the relationship will go; and while I would prefer a monogamous relationship, if that’s not where he is right now I’ll accept that. So we keep using condoms. Or we can back off of the sex for a while. I do suspect he was expecting much more demandedness and drama. Surprise—I’m not much like most other women. I only have two demands:

1. Always be honest with me.
2. Pay me a bit of attention. [ie, call me sometimes! Tonight, for example, when we’d made loose plans to get together tomorrow…]

Ah, yes. Patience, Grasshopper.

Number 1A becomes valid once a commitment of exclusivity is made: never cheat on me. But, again departing from my younger self, I realize that I’d rather leave him free while he explores his emotions than make a demand that he is psychologically unready for and will drive him further away.

Of course he doesn’t know where his life is going, he only got divorced a year ago. That soon after my split with Whitney, I was also convinced I could never love or be loved again. I too have made the statement that I’ll never get married again. Maybe it was because I recognized these emotions in him instead of beating him into submission over it that there was a sudden turning point in the conversation. He stopped himself and admitted that RIGHT NOW he doesn’t think he’ll ever get married again, but who knows how he might feel in another year or more. My point exactly. And I don’t even want to think of marriage anywhere near this early! Let’s just see where this goes. How does he know that as time goes on he won’t find that I’m just the most wonderful fabulous woman and the great love of his life?

He giggled a little. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t know. But I’ll have to take baby steps.”

HUGE silent sigh of relief. That’s what I wanted. The door opened just a crack. Him not going anywhere. Baby steps are just wonderful.

He hasn’t called; those loose plans were suggested by him, a baby step, spending time together, but it could be that even that is too much for him right now.

I don’t believe he’s simply walking away from me. He’s as afraid as I have been. I have to accept and love him as he is, nurture this connection between us and not go to pieces over not seeing him. Tricky. But I have to follow my heart. May my courage and/or sheer bloody-mindedness hold out.

Birthday Eve

2008-01-06T19:33:00.000-08:00

Ah, Birthday Eve.

It's convenient being born right at the beginning of the year. Really makes me stop and take stock of my life and look at the year ahead. What do I want to do this year? Be Mom. Dance. Sing. Cook. Stop and smell the roses. Stay connected to friends. And this is the year I will bring love into my life.

It's been proven that I will not die without a man. The fish does not NEED a bicycle. And so far, I've had a history of choosing the most malfunctioning bicycles I could find. But no more bullshit for me. Now I want a best-friend-and-lover to walk the path with. To cook for, to smell the roses with, to dance with, to quote oddball movie lines and laugh with. It would be convenient if this guy dropped out of the sky, ready-made mate, just add water. But life rarely gives us convenience. Or perhaps I just don't want to do it the easy way!

"I'm going to Bombay, India to become a movie star."

So I've got my sights set on somebody who, as of this writing, I can't even get to return a phone call. I may or may not be crazy. But I am, at the very least, stubborn.

I've known him a number of years now, since the days when we all used to hang out as couples. My marriage was the first to self-destruct; he's only just emerging from his wreckage, licking his wounds. I didn't even know he'd gotten divorced til I heard an offhand comment, and I must admit it didn't take long to start having "hmmmm...." thoughts. The checklist adds up: someone I always hit it off with, a UU pagan, sweet, sensitive, liberal, humanitarian, same wacky Python/Mel Brooks/Johnny Dangerously sense of humor, a musician, and the added bonus of long hair and beautiful deep dark brown eyes doesn't hurt either. He even loves Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, for gods' sake! And oh yes, HE'S STRAIGHT! Brad was always one of those few guys I'd have in mind when I would comment that all the good ones were married or gay. Suddenly he's neither--so I let my thoughts wander but then filed him away at the back of my mind, interested but too afraid to attempt to actually do anything about the idea; until I ran into him unexpectedly and realized the pheromones were running rampant. When I'm remembering the scent of someone days or even weeks later, I'm in trouble.

Glad there's no Reality TV cameras in my house. I was a real riot getting up the chutzpah to call and ask him out. A regular scream. I cracked myself up. Why on earth would a 40-plus but fabulous, wicked hot (:-)) woman be afraid to make the first move? The hell with fear!

I am here to testify that I have survived the asking, the lack of return call, the asking again, the plans, the last-minute panicked cancellations and the subsequent sporadic-at-best conversations and his periodic disappearance off the face of the earth. Wow----rejection doesn't kill me! Perhaps I should amend that: lack of instant gratification doesn't kill me. Rejection is not the issue--fear is.

I'm not telling you no, he said--the chemistry is there. Just give me some time. Of course you KNOW my psyche wants to say OK--NOW? NOW are you ready? OK, how 'bout ten minutes from now??? [tick tick tick tick...] NOW???

Patience, Grasshopper.

Patience plus a good dose of Capricorn stubbornness. Or to use Douglas Adams' term, sheer bloody-mindedness. Pure and simple, I like Brad. I haven't met anyone else who can evoke anything more than sex-deprived curiosity in me. I haven't yet figured out if I'm in love with him--my past experience has been more obsessive. This time, I'm able to eat, sleep and carry on with the daily routine without going to pieces, though the thought of him is kind of a quiet undertone. I rarely burst into tears, not counting at movies. I'm generally feeling pretty good about my life, though moments such as New Year's and, now, my birthday spent alone have been rather sad. Maybe I've finally learned NORMAL love, the way I'm learning to eat one cookie.

Here, then, is my goal for my 44th year: The hell with fear, let go of it. Open my heart. Allow myself to love again even if I don't get my way. Take one step at a time without worrying about the results. (Tricky, said Deep Thought.) Make the moves. Pick up the phone without rehearsing a script. Just be me. Reach out to Brad because I feel the energy is there--first we're friends, let's see where it goes from here. It'll be an adventure. It'll be fun. By the end of the year, let's see if I'll be proven to be either out of my mind or blissfully content with the great love of my life as we giggle over Chitty Chitty Bang Bang together.

Let's see where it goes.

As We Drive in the Yellow Submarine

2007-10-23T19:38:00.000-07:00

Raising a child on classic rock and roll has its rewards. It's gratifying having a six-year-old ask to watch A Hard Day's Night, again, and sing along as she jumps madly around the room with a broom-guitar. She knows who all four Beatles are. She doesn't know Britney Spears from a hole in the ground. YESSSS!!!!!!

Yet there are those inevitable challenges, as well.

Why don't we do WHAT in the road, Mommy?

We Rock

2007-10-17T21:21:00.000-07:00

A good friend, with whom I go back a few hundred years to high school days, asked for my thoughts on why we older women rock. After a night of relieving my anticipating-the-first-date butterflies by dancing naked in my living room to some incredibly loud music from back in the day, inspiration hit me. Upside the head, as it usually does.

------------------------------------------------------------

Older women rock because we've learned how to separate the kernel from the chaff.

Younger, all you could see was the chaff. Chaff clogs your vision, it's everywhere you look, and oh, it comes in such pretty packages--tight jeans, brooding rock-star looks, five-star restaurants, delicious lies in your ear, needy lips at your breast, offers of intensity and attention and passion and devotion and forever and sweat. Often the kernel was rotten or just plain MIA by the time you managed to get down to it.

Older women take the passion without the narcissism.
We take the sweat without the tears.
We take the dialogue without the props.
We take the adulation but remain free to exit the pedestal.
We take the money, honey, and never mind the apologies.
We take the sacrament of homemade tiramisu without stepping on the scale.
We take the imperfection without the compulsion to fix it.
We take the kiss without the hollow promise.
We take the mirror without the self-loathing.
We take the change of heart without the despair.
We take the stage today without a script for tomorrow.
We take the satisfaction without the expectations.
We get the sweet melting anticipatory jitters all over again without the agonizing deconstruction of everything he did and did not say.
We take the softly burning gaze the touches the soul with no thought for the signs of wear and tear that disguise it.
We take the quietly offered heart without the bells and whistles.
We ask the question without betting our soul on the answer.
We give without leaving a hole.
We bide our time without hanging on.
We leap without a safety net.
We dive deep without drowning.
We laugh without ridicule.
We speak without editing.
We love without disappearing.
We walk away without leaving a trail of crumbs.
We've seen it all and still keep our eyes wide open.
We see the tree growing from the crack in the sidewalk.
We see within.

And we still crank up Van Halen, louder than ever, without needing anyone to offend.

Rock on, sisters.

Happy Birthday (well ok 2 weeks ago) Adam

2007-08-24T10:30:00.000-07:00

ANYBODY can give a card.

That said, here I present--for lack of any other writing activity--the birthday gift only my dear friend would understand.

The tune will be obvious unless any readers are too damn young.

When I get older, stopped dyeing my hair
MANY years from now,
Will you still recite me random cartoon lines
Share dark chocolate, blackberry wine
We can play kickball til quarter to three
Embarrass our kids once more

Will you still need me
Will you still feed me
When we're 64?

You'll be crazy too--
We'll blame senility,
Or drugs we did not do.

We can sing Fish Heads 99 ways
Polka, disco, punk
Kwanayulahanamas at SWIM all week
Salsa dancing til you just freak
Laughing like weasels with your other wife
Who could ask for more?

Singing 'bout fish heads
Laughing til we're dead
When we're 64.

Every summer we can hit the road and go to PSG
Write more musicals,
We shall dance and sing.
Wearing each other's clothes
We'll keep them wondering.

Sing outside gay bars, giggle in church
Skip the labyrinth
Shower you with panties when you're up to read
One Brain Band--wearing a thneed.
Dancing the hora to Blue Oyster Cult
Nuts forever more

You can bite through snails
I'll feed you shrimp tails
When we're 64.

My Dance Space

2007-07-28T13:37:00.000-07:00

I went to aerobics class this morning--nothing unusual, being what I do three to four times a week. I like the dance-y routines of these Jazzercise classes, which is why I'm silly enough to get on the highway and drive seven miles. When I walk in there at nine a.m., I'm a dancer ready to perform--dancing is the great love of my life, gives me one hell of an endorphin high, and is something I do damn well and am not reticent to brag about it. Therefore, of course, other women can't stand me.

Oh, not every last one, but there's often some bitchy little comment or simply general avoidance from most of the thirty or so who gather to work out. "Looks like someone's in my spot." "Oh, I know, someone's in my spot too." OK, is this where Goldilocks makes her entrance? Sorry, but I didn't see any names engraved on the floor. I got here first, and this spot is JUST RIGHT. The class takes place in a skating rink. It's huge. A hundred and fifty people could exercise here. But I'm standing in not one, but two women's spots. Isn't life rough. I don't budge from this patch of floor, and the class starts; I'm dancing, working my cardiovascular system, burning fat and having some fun. Oh, and doing it very well, thank you.

And, apparently, I've really hit the jackpot this morning: three, three insecure women's spots, mua-ha-ha-ha!!! Someone's trying to run me off the road. At least this is the image that came to mind, as the woman in question can only be described as "built like a Mack truck." When she first came to class, Hermine, one of my few friends here (she's also a dancer, if you're wondering why I have a friend here) was quite certain this was a transgendered man. I can't honestly say one way or another, nor does that sort of thing matter to me; dance, cardio, fat-burning, endorphins, remember? But now He-She is trying to run me off the road. This is primarily attempted by moving left when the instructor goes right, standing still when the rest of us are traveling, and a generally random swinging of the arms. Hey, we can't all dance, and that's OK. There are a hell of a lot of activities I'm not good at. But, sweetheart, I won't take over your calculator while you're doing your taxes; I won't give you marital advice; I won't grab your power tools while you're fixing your car engine--DON'T get in my dance space.

I got here first. I hold my ground.

We're getting into the maximum-heart-rate zone. I'm jamming. Chasse-ball-change, some hip-shaking, some funky leg moves. He-She is right there off my left shoulder. There's an open space of floor a good five feet deep behind us. I travel with the moves but always return to today's chosen spot. Sorry, dearie, but right now my name is engraved in this concrete. I'm holding my ground.

Maybe I should tell this individual about the last time someone got in my dance space.

I was in a jazz dance class, a mixed group of both adults and teens. The combination we were doing consisted of a couple of jazz runs, right leg kick and a drop to the floor on the left knee (yes this can be done without pain and injury; sounds rougher than it is). After the drop, a straddle roll--in other words, you roll onto your butt as your legs open and fan straight across the open space where just a moment ago your head was, ending by rolling back to your feet in a crouched position. A very cool-looking move.

Note that phrase "open space." Also note that, although I am a mom, I do lack eyes in the back of my head.

Some little teen chickie was in my dance space. And, I might add, a beat or two behind. She was still dropping as my legs were swinging around into the air. BAM!!!!!!!!! (Oh, it really was a perfect action-comic moment. Spiderman would-a been proud.)

I didn't intend to bash the side of her head, really I didn't. No rear-mounted eyes, remember? Oh, she lived. She was simply added to that long list of females who can't stand me. Maybe she shouldn't-a-oughtta been in my dance space, huh?

It's tempting to chasse-ball-WHACK. But no. I'll be civilized in aerobics class. But I'm holding my ground, dammit.

This would be the time to note that I don't have many female friends.

I have no patience for the back-stabbing, the petty whining, the mind-numbing triviality, the compulsion to bring all and sundry of our gender down to a level of conformist mediocrity that I observe in so many women. Aren't we long, long past middle school? But it seems like I can still hear those adolescent bitchy voices--just look at how she walks. I can't believe she's, like, wearing those shoes! What is WRONG with her, she got an A, she's so uncool. Like she's, like, so much BETTER than us, who does she think she is.

Oh, I'm so sorry. I forgot to leave my brain at home, do massive amounts of drugs, smoke my way into lung cancer, give it up in the backseat to any football player with no neck and the IQ of a fencepost, wonder who my baby-daddy is, and grind my own self-esteem into the dirt with a designer shoe. What is WRONG with me.

All of my friends, male and female, are oddballs. I gravitate toward those who, to speak plainly, don't give a rat's ass. Many are dancers, singers, actors, writers. Others are simply following their own path no matter how unusual, unprofitable or just plain uncool it is; a Doctorate in anthropology, a test-tube pregnancy with her transgendered partner, training for the police force while still occasionally belting out a few good karaoke tunes. Not one of us has the need to bring another down for fear that that individual will surpass us somehow. Sure, a lot of my friends make more money than I do, or are thinner, or measure higher on any number of conceivable yardsticks; wicked cool how we're all different.

I know one thing, though. None of them would dare get in my dance space.

The class is done. He-She had even put her mat inches from mine for the strength training. That five feet of floor space was still wide open behind us. By this time it's hard to keep from laughing out loud. He-She leaves, no doubt plotting how best to capture the coveted spot in tomorrow's campaign.

Jim, the only regular male attendee at this class, comes up to me. "Hi, gorgeous--you've always got the best moves in this room!" I have taken dance classes from Jim. He can move. He's an oddball. He doesn't give a rat's ass. We get along great.

Don't get in his dance space.

The End of this Ballad

2007-03-25T20:56:00.000-07:00

When I last wrote about the misadventures which pass for my love life, I left you loyal readers--all two of you--wondering what on earth ever happened next with my dear confused friend/lover Francesco. Hmm, I have found myself wondering the very same thing. It’s been five months since I’ve seen him, since the night he cried while we made love. Now he’s lying in intensive care in some unknown hospital. Is it just me, or is there a surreal edge to this whole story? I don’t go SEEKING the drama, really I don’t.

We had a few wonderful, juicy weeks, though always tempered with his moments of self-questioning, backing off (what male doesn't???), running to any man he could find in a desperate attempt to regain his self-image as Gay Man, paranoia that I would tell our mutual friends about our tryst and general freak-out-edness about being bisexual. No matter how lovey and passionate he was in the bedroom, the insistence on keeping me a secret, secondary lover put rather a damper on the mood. Call me quirky but I like to have a man be proud to be with me; for that matter, I like ’em to come begging, at least a tad.

And so, prompted by a bizarre text-message exchange in which he blasted me for supposedly telling the world about us, came the inevitable conversation, the one whose prototype must have been laid down as some ancestor watched her man walk out of the cave to go be fruitful and multiply—the commitment question. Oh, I wasn’t looking for a marriage proposal, but it was time for some exclusive attention paid to me, or to put on the brakes before getting in way over my head. I can’t say I was terribly surprised at his answer, though I was taken aback by his curt statement that he couldn’t possibly see me exclusively, though he was equally shocked that I wouldn’t be spending any more nights with him.

Ah yes, we always do want to believe what they say in bed, but it’s just in my nature to dig out honest answers no matter how much they sting. Tell me, show me, prove it. Go on, knock this delusional image of true love off my shoulder, I dare you. My crackpot theory is that someday, someday, after enough of my bullheaded pushing for a true declaration of emotion, someone really will hand me his proverbial heart in his open hands, without his fingers crossed behind his back.

So now, after five months of refusal to see me or, until a month and a half ago, even speak to me on the phone, came the call from my friend—his ex—Michael, with the news that Francesco’s in critical condition. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to conclude it’s drug-related. I'd learned of his addiction problem back around the time he was telling me we shouldn't label ourselves "gay," "straight" or whatever, but just experience being people attracted to each other. Hmm, that sounds familiar; oh yes, I repeated the same ideas back to him as he ran away from me. And now he has suffered a massive brain injury and a stroke, and is unable to speak, from what sketchy information I have via email from the Boy Wonder he attached himself to while experimenting with me. The guy who's probably been supplying him with the crack, and who has written both Michael and I a vicious message, not worth the dignity of reiterating, the gist of which is get out of Francesco’s life and let him “move on”.

Moving on is, indeed, an excellent idea. Took me a little while after that conversation in October to let go of the emotions and do just that, but I must say it’s getting easier as I get older. The hardest thing to let go of was the friendship I’d thought we had. I very much missed celebrating Yule with him. Every full moon I’d grow wistful remembering our spontaneous rituals at ocean’s edge. It wasn’t so surprising that the physical relationship came to an end, but we had agreed before events got farther than some good ol’-fashioned making out that we would keep the friendship, no matter what. Once again, wanting to believe what was said in (or on the way to) bed. Foolish wench, I. I wish him a return to health, but even if he wanted to see me, I don’t think I could handle witnessing this self-destruction. He’s gone from my life; another chapter closed.

Still, I can’t regret a thing. I’m a big girl. Nothing wrong with a little nooky. I got my quota of orgasms that I’d been missing out on for a damn long time. More importantly, I let myself open to someone again—-something I’ve suspected I’d be unable to do. It’s unfortunate that all the intense emotion he professed (with his fingers crossed) was either a complete line of bullshit in order to satisfy his hetero-curiosity or simply beyond the capacity of his stunted psyche to cope with. He was damaged long before his addiction landed him in brain surgery.

I ask again, is it surreal here or is it just me?

Night of a Thousand Fish Heads; or, A Less Brief Ode to SWIM

2007-01-31T18:49:00.000-08:00

A week at a Unitarian Universalist retreat with my younger daughter Caterina and my cherished friend and fellow Toontown weasel escapee, Adam, (hey, it was too good a phrase, I had to steal it) was a delight. Midnight kickball games (with the added bonus of mortifying his teenage son), qi gong, massage lessons, Indo-European language, salsa dance lessons, the shock of Adam actually attending the salsa lessons with me, contra dance, a dance party every night, further shock of Adam dancing AND ENJOYING IT (I have witnesses, my friend), doing the hora to Don't Fear the Reaper, headbanging with every teen except Adam's son (still traumatized by our kickball incident), panty-flinging poetry readings, Broadway trivia and its spontaneous group sing, singing up and down every path, singing at evening gatherings, singing at coffeehouse night, singing whenever we weren't laughing....Oh, hell, Adam has already artfully crafted the highlights of this time-out-of-time, so read his damn blog!!! http://adamusatlarge.blogspot.com/

Now, did I mention that we did a bit of singing?

As usual when we get together for some music, it was Folk Meets Broadway (three guesses which one is me) with a little blues and a good dash of Dr. Demento to spice it up. We harmonized beautifully a capella on some tunes I'd never heard before. Mama Morton belted out some Chicago and a bit of Guys 'n' Dolls. Mr. Cellophane gave it a good shot, and made up with expressive pathos what was lacking in preparation. Meeting a guitarist on the site's fire-circle island melded into some spontaneous Tracy Chapman and Hotel California. And of course, at any given opportunity--usually when we were supposed to be paying attention to someone else--came the fish heads.

Did you know there are at least a thousand ways to sing Fish Heads? For any of you poor deprived souls who may never even have heard the original 80s masterpiece (what on earth were you doing as a teenager, getting dates or something?? Geez!!) I present it here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LzpN9ce_qF0&mode=related&search=

But why stop here when there are so many musical genres to explore? We discovered swing fish heads, punk fish heads, rap fish heads, marching band fish heads, klezmer gefilte-fish heads, the fish head blues, Broadway, British Invasion, waltz, Gregorian chant, acid rock, polka...a plethora of fish heads as expressed by the human voice.

And why, you ask? Or rather, why the %&@# do you lunatics keep singing about fish heads, and more importantly, don't you ever shut up??! To answer in reverse order: Hell no; and, It's funny. Freakin' funny. Absolutely freakin' hilarious, especially when one of us catches the other off guard, preferably with food in mouth, or at least at a quiet reflective moment during some gathering, with a sudden outburst of German Oompah fish heads. We become kids again. We like to crack each other up. Gonna die laughin' one a' dese days. We like to point our fingers and stare at the incongruities and absurdities of the world around us. We like to make sure we're not taking ourselves too seriously while, paradoxically enough, maybe discovering more of our true authentic selves in the process of giving the raspberry to much of our cultural conditioning. We do our best to grab hold of life and revel in its simple joys even if the job sucks and the ten pounds isn't coming off and the bills are waiting to be paid and the empty bed is lonely at night and the children are starving in Africa and the to-do list never gets finished. Suddenly, Bob Dylan sings fish heads. My eyes are tearing, I'm choking on food and my stomach hurts. My precious crazy friend and I love each other dearly. Life is delectable.

For next year's SWIM fundraiser, we're considering auctioning off the opportunity to make us shut up.

A Brief Ode to SWIM

2007-01-02T20:28:00.000-08:00

Tuition for two to week-long UU retreat: $500
Mugbook: $5
Adam headbanging: priceless

Or alternately, 201 ways to sing "Fish Heads": priceless

SWIM rocks.

First holiday season in a damn long time that I'm not wallowing in depression, loneliness and dramatic self-pity. Cool, huh? "Thank you, Adam" doesn't even BEGIN to cover it.

More to follow.

Meanwhile, we overlooked marching band genre: 76 fish heads in the big parade....

Thanksgiving

2006-11-24T04:19:00.000-08:00

My friend Julie sent a lovely email to friends and family yesterday. Plagiarism is the highest form of flattery, isn't it? Therefore I'm shamelessly ripping off her format as I reflect on my own good fortune at this time when we tend to get caught up in the commercial trappings of the holiday season as filtered through corporate marketing departments. I have much for which to be thankful, and blessings do indeed come in all forms, so here goes my own list--thanks for the writing prompt, Julie! I am grateful--

For my parents in their imperfection, who taught me to stand on my own two feet and not sink comfortably back into some protected state of extended childhood...
For my mother for reading to me every night, cooking Italian peasant food, not sending me to the Catholic church, encouraging me to sing even if it was that horrible rock and roll and, in her neediness, inadvertently propel me toward independence...
For my Italian grandfather for making my beginning spiritual journey interesting when I played the drums in the Pentecostal church he suddenly switched to...
For the trees, rocks, the different scents in the air varying with season, the hills in the distance, the terroir of my early home in New Jersey...
To the ability of those hills to make me cry when I drove through them 35 years later...
For the Rhode Island summer house where we lived the winter I turned 8, where I could walk alone to the misty, rocky shore...
For Mrs. McCray's middle school orchestra class where I discovered the joys of the perfect placement of a finger on a violin string, the practicing of the proper bow technique, the translation of a new language from a printed staff to the music of my instrument, the competitive thrill of earning First Chair, the love of performing...
For discovering the gift of a musical ear and an innate sense of rhythm...
For Bob Collonna's teen theater class in Westerly, and my first role as The Woman With the Knife, as well as my first taste of Shakespeare in real understandable terms...
For Stonington High School band and reveling in being the only female drummer (and a damn good one) even though I was stuck with the cymbals my first year of marching band...
For walking to and from nighttime band rehearsals with Donna...
For the beginning of a habit of drawing marvellously quirky people into my life...
For the high school misfit crowd (Donna, Terry, Terrie, Lloyd, Linda, Ken & Kevin)...
For "You're paddling your river down a canoe and the wheels fall off. How many pancakes does it take to shingle a doghouse? NONE!! Ice cream cones don't have bones, and bananas are this color!"...
For Kiss concerts and the camping out in front of arenas to procure front row tickets...
For my mother in a manic phase moving us to Los Angeles...
For moving out into a jacuzzi-equipped shoebox with Donna, and evenings of splitting cartons of ice cream and dementing the calender...
For my first extreme crush/love???, Sam/Sarkis/aka Circus aka Joe Destructo, for the first lessons in keeping my heart on guard and not letting assumptions run away with me, but for being a hell of a lot of fun and a sensual kisser...
For the voice teacher who taught me to sing out strong...
For late-night Suzy-Q-and-cherry-fruit-pie wanderings...
For stalking rock stars behind a recording studio...
For my first jobs as an "exotic dancer," for showing me that indeed I am attractive and what's more, I can walk away with money in my hand for once in my life...
For spontaneous decisions like moving to Baltimore to walk away from a broken heart...
For the Greyhound ride across country through every Hee Haw town we hadn't thought really existed...
For the "SALT talks"...
For the unplanned pregnancy which pulled me from the brink of probable alcoholism and complete irresponsibility...
For the life-long trip of motherhood...
For Harmony for being enough like me to be a thorn in my side and a measure of success...
For Caterina for being whoever she will spontaneously go shooting off to become...
For the balls to walk away from an abusive relationship and raise my baby alone...
For the balls to stand up to my increasingly more mentally ill mother, take my own money and move out yet again...
For restaurant jobs for teaching me to multitask, move my ass quickly and laugh hard at the ludicrousness of those who let a bit of money rule their lives...
For drinking at the "Embarrassador"...
For party buddies who served their purpse and then moved on...
For Saucy and the introduction to the Rzezsotarski clan (or should I say mob??)...
For Carla's Christmas Eve party which is still a tradition...
For the bachelorette party which never happened...
For Harmony-n-Bobby buddies...
For finally taking dance classes, a secret desire since watching Fame as a teenager, and falling absolutely in love with it...
For dancing away my depression, lethargy, loneliness and flabby ass...
For Mary for pushing me towards those higher jetes and encouraging me to give the teens a run for their money...
For dancing Thriller in full zombie costume at a Halloween street party at eight months' pregnant...
For the team at Dance Dimensions for technique and community too rich to enumerate...
For great fun being an MT Pocket Rockette, even if I could barely make a living; showtime in 3...
For Pickles for one drink...
For Bill and road trips to Pleasure Island; you ripped the knee out of your pants but didn't spill your drink...
For the college scholarship that dropped out of the sky and broke the cycle of running in the hamster wheel of meaningless work...
For Dr. Shelby Lee and Prof. Trish Joyce for showing me that, duh-huh, I can WRITE...
For winning my first writing award for what began as an in-class prompted essay on the Marx Brothers...
For running off from my child and new husband to do student exchange in Keene, NH...
For Ginger and a walk-on role on radio theatre at Keene...
For earning my BA with high honors, Magna Cum Laude (aka "Mama Come Loudly"); doesn't matter if I'm not using the damn degree commercially, I've GOT it...
For KP Productions in all its bumbling glory for the opportunity to get on stage more than once a year at recital time, and for my little Prosciutto's start in theatre...
For KP Productions for bringing a whole new world of misfit friends into my life...
For putting my first tap choreography on stage...
For "Ohmigod, where's my white pants??!!!"...
For the backstage drama that always rivals the actual show...
For the chance to reinvent "Cell Block Tango"; "MY push-up bra!!!"...
For dancing with the Showoffs...
For the fabulous infusion of Gayness into my life, something missing since Lloyd in high school...
For being dubbed an honorary drag queen when I had a dollar tucked into my cleavage while singing "Santa Baby" in Smartypants gay bar...
For walking to Peter Pan Diner at god-knows-when-in-the-morning, cold and oh-so-silly...
For the January Birthday Party and Sex on the Beach out of the pitcher...
For Michael and Paradise by the Dashboard Light 152 times...
For Christie and drinking Mama Mortons while embarrassing the offspring...
For Julie and advance warning about Whitney's personality which I didn't listen to, and for the Time Warp, and for any number of earth-sign-to-earth-sign bitching sessions, and the leading of strangely parallel lives in regard to romantic partners; I'll take the effeminate ones...
For pulling youse guys into real dance classes...
For Robert and the last-minute heads-ups about auditions...
For UUCFL, my "unchurch," and its community which has been there for me, however inadvertently, through some of the most difficulttransitions of my life so far...
For the spirit guides making a guy walk up behind me in rehearsal for a peace performance and tell me I look like Batty Man...
For Adam who I first met as we evolved in the same tree; and for wrecking each other with hysterics in unchurch, for random cartoon or Hitchhiker's quotes, for a cappella showtunes on Las Olas, for evil rubber duckies, for ancient Hebrew chanting and calling forth powerful energies, for the Flaming Fairy songs and Viking Blues, for dying laughing like weasels, for petting manatees, for any number of further adventures...
For Lee for letting me get Adam out of her hair and be his "other wife"...
For Adam for being the one man in my life who sees me as I am and loves me for it or despite it...
For these few but wonderful close friends who bring joy, love, laughter and support to my life; romantic partners will come and go, mostly go, but you freaks will always be there and I love you for it...
To others I have not named who have touched my life in one way or another...
For my pagan spiritual path and digging my roots deep into the loam of Mother Earth...
For the study of astrology and Tarot, and the knowledge, whether I want it or not, that it's the realm of one-on-one relationships where most of my karma is stored up...
For the romantic partners who bring all this karma to my table, and what I might actually be learning from each heartbreak...
For the few teen-to-early-20s virginal "relationships" that taught me to be on guard and not give it up for no good reason in the back of some schmo's car...
For Koy, the Trapped in Israeli Patriarchy, for lessons in kissing and petting and groping, oh my, in the woods of L.A.'s Griffith Park (I really didn't intend to blow you off whe nI went stalking rock stars)...
For Sam, Joe Destructo, the only really gorgeous rock-star-wannabe kinda guy I ever got the chance to make out with, for teaching me that some men will not know how to take the step from friendship to partnership...
For Gene, the Obnoxious;--no more overly-testosteroned men for me!--for teaching me that I don't have to codependently submit to be a good person; for giving me the impetus to walk away and do it on my own...
For Walter, the Dull; for teaching me there must be so many more out there who can at least be interesting and do more than work and have sex...
For Mark, the Mama's Boy; for getting me out of my insane family's house, for showing me sex can be physically fulfilling, and teaching me to make definite decisions about my emotional life, and to stick to them...
For an aquaintance who I won't even dignify by name, for teaching me that I'll never again attempt to have casual sex as it leaves me completely empty...
For Raymond, the Non-committal; later aka by some as the Albino Troll; for courting me stageside at MT Pockets, for his beautiful hair (I do like hair), for wild sensual beyond-the-routine sex...
For Brad, the Brooding Intellectual; a mistake, yes, but I was ridiculously attracted to him at the time...
For Whitney--how to subtitle Whitney??? The Slick? The Fascinating? The Karmically Tricky???--for teaching me about reaching the depths and summits of love and sensuality, for seeing me as beautiful as I really am, for the Existential Blues, for bringing my second child into this world, for chanting with me during labor, for tearing open my heart and psyche for repairs, for the ongoing challenge of crafting a working parenting relationship, for giving me the chance to break free of meaningless wage-slavery in order to pursue my creative craft, for still being around to kill palmetto bugs, for pushing all the buttons that need to be disconnected, for capturing a beautiful me on camera, for reminding me that I still know how to ride a bike, for the sometimes uneasy friendship that's being cobbled together...
For another who does not want the world to know we have had a relationship, for teaching me that there's still love to be touched in my soul, for bringing back soul-memory of past lives together, for recognizing our connection even as he chooses to walk away from it, for Cellophane Flowers, for dancing at Mango's and making out like I never did as a teenager because I was a misfit, for bringing out tears and great fiery pain which is forging me into an even stronger goddess, for the clamshells, for incredibly erotic lovemaking that touched far deeper than flesh level, for reminding me that we all must be who we are even if it shakes up our preconceived notions of who we're supposed to be, for reminding me that when Goddess throws a curve ball I should play the game with gusto instead of shriveling in left field with my hands over my eyes, for bringing yet again the hard lesson that romantic love will not last...
For someone who may subsequently come into my life, and the hope that I will have learned these lessons well enough to experience something joyful no matter how temporary it may be...
For the chance to be a young grandma and help raise an evolved male...
For dancing around a glorious pagan bonfire...
For the endorphin high of working my body fast and hard to music that makes my pulse race...
For real organic vital earthy food in all its sensuous variety, and the ability to thoroughly enjoy it despite my desire to trim off a few more pounds...
For a good unhealthy fat-laden bit of chocolate every now and then...
For Life. L'Chaim!!!

Blessed be.

Twenty-two Years and a Day

2006-11-17T19:31:00.000-08:00

The last day of September. This is the first time in several weeks that I've gone over to Francesco's house. I've had a few warm-fuzzy nights there being held and cherished, strengthening a bond that stopped just short of sexual expression but which has already touched my heart much more deeply than most sexual escapades ever have. Now I need more. I need to get my bearings in this odd gay/friendship/love relationship. His words contradict themselves by the minute. He can only be happy in a relationship with a man; he's miserable when I tell him I don't want to see him. He's Gay, Gay, Gay, Gay, but can't keep his hands off me and he loves me so much and maybe we should just take the plunge and get married. I try to quiet the chatter of all these things he's said by playing "Let It Be" for the hundred and fifty-eighth time as I drive. My musical mantra. Breathe, accept whatever's going to happen.

To state the blatantly obvious, I'm REALLY nervous as I head out to Pembroke Pines.

It occurs to me that it was twenty-two years and a day ago that I lost my virginity in a Baltimore rowhouse. I wasn't in love. I convinced myself that I was, because one must love a guy who's been chasing (today we'd say stalking) you, giving you gifts, pledging undying love, suffering dramatically if you didn't love him in return and lifting your self-esteem a few inches out of the gutter. Besides, there was something drastically wrong with me to still be a virgin at 20, wasn't there? So I gave it up. I didn't even think the guy was cute; way too macho for my taste. I like 'em gay, remember? Maybe I should have waited til someone who would treat me with more respect came along. On the other hand, maybe I put too much importance on the virginity, some Victorian throwback to sacred purity and all that crap. Maybe I could have simply said to myself that I want to have sex and jettison all the baggage about love and commitment that I hung on it.

Hmm, what hindsight does for us. OK, self, I'm a big girl now; I want to have sex with Francesco and I don't give a rat's ass how gay he says he is, nor will I let myself get wrapped up in the need for the commitment and the happily-ever-after. So I tell myself. Maybe, if it happens at all, it will just be once. If nothing else, he's gotta finish what he started. This has been like a piece of music ending on a seventh chord; body and soul straining toward the completion expressed by the return to the tonic note. In simpler terms, "That will bring us back to Do, Do, Do, Do." On the other hand, I know I love this guy and I want to be more than a pretty toy. I need to know what he's feeling.

I question my sanity a number of times before arriving, schlepping food and pots and pans to create some kitchen witchery. He misses my cooking too. He's not home when I get there, probably ran out to the store. He has already given me a key. I go in and take over the kitchen. I start pouring my love into the food I will serve tonight; this is the kind of spellwork that comes naturally to me. I recall how we loved watching "Like Water for Chocolate." There are subtle ways to make love.

He returns, bearing Cellophane Flowers; a running gag. No they're not really cellophane, just another of my Beatles' references, for hideously dyed daisies that lurk near the National Enquirer at the supermarket checkout. What a marketing strategy; they're so unbelievably ugly you just have to buy them. They will always be good for a laugh for us. They instantly relieve a bit of the tension.

As we get into the wine and my risotto, the conversation begins to flow, and I get into the tough questions. He's fond of saying that our relationship has no definition, but tonight I'm asking for one from his perspective. I lay my own emotions out on the table, and I find myself asking for a commitment, when I wasn't even sure about going that route. But I don't like to share, even if it's with a man and not nearly as ego-shredding as another woman would be. (I KNOW there's no other woman!) Yes indeed I'm asking him to at least try deviating from the ideal he's held for thirty years of finding a male soul mate. I happen to believe the Goddess is often fond of throwing us curve balls, and tell him maybe his soul mate is standing in his kitchen, wrapped in unexpected packaging. He can't give me any answer beyond the expression of confusion.

Then I get my own curve ball. Now that he's turned fifty, he wants to have a baby. With me. WHAT???!! I gently remind him that I've already got a grandson; I'm done birthin' babies. And I do get assurance that this is not the basis for whether or not we will have a relationship. Yet somehow this stirs something primal in me.

Certainly never a dull moment with this man.

We reach a compromise. Let's date, he says. My first reaction is, "Aren't we past all that?" but a short while later I realize we do have to take baby steps. I then decided to take a few giant baby steps in a row and grabbed him and kissed him. Yes, let's date. I know this means he'll still be seeing men too, but maybe I can get over that need to be the center of someone's world. So, POOF, we're dating. Suddenly he's trying out the word girlfriend and usually giggling when he says it. Let me admit it, his boyishness and those big brown eyes are part of the appeal.

It gets to be about 2 a.m. He never seems to sleep but I know that I have to although we never did get to the ritual work we had planned to do at this waxing moon. And I've been anticipating cuddling up and being held, not expecting anything more than that. Baby steps. I get undressed and settle into the nest. He snuggles in beside me and says, "Your boyfriend's going to rub your back and help you get to sleep, and then go do ritual." So sweet; his gentle hands always did have a calming effect on me. I start to drift off right away. Then, out of nowhere, he's kissing me and those hands aren't so calming anymore. The passion is there again, even more insistent than that night when we played.

Now I have a decision, and I am oh so well-equipped at this moment to think rationally. I could tell him no because I need to have him to myself, need to know he'll still be there when the passion is spent, need all his love. Or I can ride this wave that's been building for a couple of months now and let it wash me onto whatever shore it will. I know I need that completion; and for Goddess' sakes, I haven't had sex in more than two years!

You might guess it didn't take long to make the decision.

Reason be damned, the lower chakras win this round. I threw myself into making love to this crazy confused man and let myself be sensually worshipped. He more than made up for my two years of deprivation. No regrets, I vowed to myself, no matter where our paths lead us after this.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some delectable memories to revel in shamelessly. Tune in next time.

59 days

2006-11-13T19:05:00.000-08:00

Two months ago, er, 59 days ago, it looked like my friend and sort-of lover was just lost to me. And, as has always been my unfortunate M.O., I shut down, crawled into my cave. Don't call me, don't talk to me, let me lick my wounds and now you can't hurt me anymore.

The cave is a good place to recover but I wouldn't want to live there. Not anymore.

So I finally answered Francesco's messages. I can't not see you, he says. Yes, come over, we've got to be able to keep some kind of friendship even though I'm feeling rubbed raw by his rejection after the several hours of foreplay he initiated. Come over for an Autumn Equinox dinner. We're Italian, all things must be redeemed by food, and wine. Ooh, and a bottle of Frangelico, nice gift to bring. But I've invited my ex to stop over for food too, a built-in buffer so that I don't get out of control with emotions and/or just plain horniness. Shit, it's been two years for me, for the love of Pan!!! But there was wine, and Frangelico, and we watched some movie, can't even remember what it was; and this somehow progressed naturally into us Italians salsa dancing in the middle of my street long 'bout 1 a.m. Nothing short of a perfect theatrical moment. But wait--there's more. Before the curtain falls on this act, the two leads are suddenly kissing passionately, in between him telling her how much he's missed her, how miserable he's been when she won't speak to him, how he loves her, and maybe he really is bisexual. "What do we do???" he kept asking. I have a simple answer for this, but it rips that protective Gay label to shreds all around him, challenges his desperately clung-to ideal of a true love who must be a man, and leaves him naked to whatever gay prejudices against women may be rampant in his subconscious. There's that standard not-quite-a-joke about vaginas having teeth. It's a bit like that pound of lead versus pound of feathers thing; no logic to it, yet you know that pound of lead is just a little heavier.....

So what DO I do? The brain says run! He's a confused alcoholic mess. He'll get close but then hurt me again. Haven't I cried enough? Won't it be worse if we take this even farther? I could listen to the brain--BUT, NOOOO!!! Because the heart says play it out, to the hilt. Even if you crash you'll have had one hell of a ride. And the body echoes this sentiment, with an even more literal interpretation. My lowest chakras are screaming for the recall of this default vow of celibacy imposed by the breakup of my marriage. To the hilt. Of course I won't listen to my brain. Only enough to take a half step back and say, "Damn, girlfriend, you're in love again, like you said you never would be!" ("I told you so!" says Adam. "I told you so!" says Whitney.)

And I also listen enough to tell me that whatever might happen, it's not going to be tonight in the middle of my street.

Odin's Prelude

2006-11-13T18:30:00.000-08:00

My dear friend Adam was sent here by Odin--ya know, immortal guy, hangin' out upside down on the World Tree, gaining wisdom and all that?--in order to annoy us poor slobs into doing the right thing. The runes said so. It must be true.

Adam calls to tell me he's been doing a lot of writing, in between, of course, teaching middle school, recovering from teaching middle school, attending redundant workshops 30 miles away to teach him how to teach middle school, attending acting class in order to keep a sense of the absurd to be able to cope with middle school, building theatre sets, planting native greenery in his yard, parenting a teenager, shamanic journeying, playing the bass, protesting the war, eliminating world hunger, curing all disease....OK, I think the idea is getting across that he's a rather busy guy. And he tells me he's been writing. Great, cool, I say, but I know what's coming.

"And what about YOUR writing?"
"Uhh...I think I still remember how to use the English language..."
"You haven't posted on your blog in 59 days. Not that I've been counting."
"That's because there's laundry piled too high on my bed for me to see my computer screen. Hey, at least it's clean laundry."
"What, your writing's not as important as laundry...??"
"All right, all right, for the love of Odin!!!"

I made a tunnel through the laundry.

(OK, this may not be exactly as our conversation went but, to quote Adam himself, never let the facts stand in the way of a good story.)

And here we are. Look, Ma, I'm writing. No, no, I take that back--the last person who needs to read about me cavorting with a gay man or even considering running naked into a thunderstorm is my mother.

My real excuse for not writing all this time? I've been on a field research assignment. It's called Living Life. Now it's time to fill in these 59 days. Thank you for the annoyance, my friend!!! No, no sarcasm intended, for once!

Tune in later for our next episode.......

Take this label and....

2006-09-15T19:41:00.000-07:00

That storm which washed me raw and clean has opened my core being to experience both the sublime and the painful. I can't help thinking that maybe I should have stayed in the safe dry closet instead of allowing my spirit to run full-force into that rain. Now I'm shivering, freezing, dripping and looking like a fool. When I let my defenses down I let desire in--my own and his. Found out that I wasn't traveling into those dark and disreputable corners by myself, even for all my friend's determined waving of the gay flag. We do label ourselves with such grim determination. And once labeled, we are betrayers of our tribe if we deviate from what that label defines. I am an Eater of Organic Food--what would the neighbors say if I bought my child a popsicle from the ice cream truck??? I am a feminist--I dare not question the gray area surrounding the ethics of abortion. I am a Catholic--well, there's any number of can'ts-won'ts-and-shouldn'ts there. You get the picture. We human critters seem compelled to create an "I am..." fill-in-the-blank, instead of just breathing "I am".

OK, so what of those especially touchy labels, Gay and Straight? Makes you think of Liberace on the one hand, and some sphincter-sealed-shut Dan Ackroyd character on the other. No, worse; Dick Cheney. Each saying "You're either with us or you're against us." (Liberace says it with a hell of a lot more style though.) Dare not deviate from the straight and narrow, or, the gay and narrow, lest thou be cast into the pit of defilement: Bisexual! Yes, bisexual, that elusive label that reads "Ya know what? I'm attracted to PEOPLE." What a radical concept.

Now, I'm guilty of cruising along under that Straight label. I have never yet, at least, found myself physically attracted to a woman. Could happen; who knows. But so far my deviance manifests as a penchant for rather androgynous men, at least from the first time I hung up a Paul Stanley poster in my high school locker. Hey, it's what I like, what can I say. A Straight-but-NOT-Dick-Cheney friend once told me gay men flock to me like pigeons to peanut butter. They do. Maybe I've got that Liza/Bette/Mae West flamboyance thing going on, and they adore me. And I love them, a little too much sometimes. But I'm certainly not the first person to get over-attached to a friend. So what if the friend wears the Gay label? The real question--what if he's feeling the same way? What if a gay man commits the unforgiveable sin of being attracted to a woman? Unfortunately, the answer has been thoughtless experimentation, identity crisis and such a violent rift in the relationship that I don't know if it can be saved.

And now I sit shocked, sleepless once again, and crying for my loving friend who broke my trust. I'm crying for what was so beautifully beginning one night but is now deemed nothing but a mistake. I'm crying for my inability to push away his hands and his lips when they began to explore beyond the defined boundaries, not knowing he'd run for the hills, run to hide behind the rainbow flag. Can't explore this emotion, I'm Gay! And my little straight heart is crying to recover the love that was or to discover the love that might have been. Both broken.

thunderstorm

2006-09-02T17:52:00.000-07:00

Thunderstorm. I'm in my Timeless Place. OK, let's stay in the mundane world--it's only Pembroke Pines--but at Francesco's house time does strange things not usually observed in my universe. It flows quietly; it doesn't tick away with anxiety-inducing finality,as if each second that a To-Do item doesn't get accomplished has added up on some karmic blackboard and I'm headed for detention. Time ceases to exist for the purpose of filling up with Important Things. It stops being a taskmaster for awhile, though I still catch myself ready for some reprimand when I wake up and it's 12 noon. But I was also up at 4 am, and 6 something, and 9 something, with fragments of sleep; yet somehow emerge out of the bed-nest feeling calm, energized, healed, cherished; and, today, cleansed by the downpour and the crashes of thunder that shake me out of my protective shell.

I'm not quite crazy enough to actually run out and stand in the middle of it, but I visualize doing just that, the force of the storm lashing the tears out, the tears that come from somewhere deep down in my chest, the primal howls that just hours ago came with this flood under the heat of Francesco's magickal healing hands. I'm standing in the full force of that storm, beaten to the ground by the water, into the mud, releasing all of my own muck while the fire threatens to split me in half, maybe allowing me to step out of the shell of myself. But the mud washes away, I get to my feet again, still whole, and I honor the Goddess who has brought me this healing. My vision suddenly brings me indoors, to a warm blanket, a bowl of hot broth that starts to bring the warmth back to my feet (or is that just the dog, Buster, snuggling against my cold toes?) And it is done.

Healing has taken place in this bed-nest where I can thumb my nose at the alarm clock; my inner storm, the rhythms of the actual rain, the loving bodywork that wrenched the petrified knots out of my shoulders and pried open my heart chakra until I howled, I bawled, I made all the most unladylike noises I've ever made outside of childbirth or orgasm (gee, what a coincidence, two other traditionally bed-based transformational events)--and it all came out in these minutes? hours? days? of letting my defenses down under the most loving touch of a trusted soul mate. No sex necessary. Yep, really. Well OK, not like the desire's not there; it just NEEDS to not be there, as I make peace within myself of the paradox of being soul-and-gut loved by a man who caresses me lovingly yet does not desire me. My mind travels down weird paths with this and gets stuck in some dark and disreputable corners. I hope that all got washed out into the mud, too.

C'mon, everybody else is doing it

2006-09-02T17:31:00.000-07:00

Just like cel phones, which I also resisted for a while, everybody else seems to be blogging. So why not? I can keep my BA in English from getting rusty. And it's a stage, of sorts, and I never can resist a chance to perform. And I can post here instead of sending 10,000 word emails to my dear writer friend Adam. Not that I won't email him, I can just cut it down to a mere 5000 words.

So I decided spontaneously to start this up today, during a thunderstorm, at another dear friend's house, my gay boyfriend's to be precise, where I often escape. I had a sudden compulsion to search out pen and paper and write, a thing I unfortunately have not done in a form other than a personal journal since graduating college seven years ago. Adam must be inspiring me from afar. So, here come da blog, here come da blog.......