Here it is, the fourth installment of The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys, which is the first chapter in The Movie Lovers. We’re at the halfway point. If you want to know more about The Movie Lovers, scroll back to Hello Dad? I’m in Jail!
A quick recap for those who just joined us. My storytelling style is a bit like abstract art. Each chapter is a whole story divided into visual chunks. You might imagine it as a group of postcards on a refrigerator door arranged by Picasso. The order is not chronological so much as a tumble of memories that collide and fall into patterns like shards of glass in a kaleidoscope. I hope it entertains you.
The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys
As a college undergrad I spent ten weeks in New York City on an arts and culture study where I was not completely ready for all the culture I would encounter. My first lesson came in the form of schooling in a new set of street rules. The most important rule I learned by returning the smile of a good-looking man; he followed me for three blocks. Now Manhattan blocks are easily four times the size of any city block from my neck of the woods, and unlike the men in a smaller city such as Portland, this one would not take my backside nor my determined walk as an answer. Finally, I gave up, whirled around, and half yelled half pleaded, “Why are you following me? Quit following me!”
“But you smiled at me.”
I blinked.
“I’m from the West Coast. We smile at everyone.”
Newly chastised about the devastating power of my feminine smile, I decided to explore the city to find a spot where I might feel at home, and I found it in the Village. I spent many hours writing in the coffee shops and parks there. Then one sunny afternoon as I sauntered down the street, a good-looking man walking toward me on the sidewalk smiled. I looked over my shoulder. No one behind me. Then another man smiled at me as he walked by. I did a quick mental inventory: no make-up, dressed in my favorite blue cotton blouson pants and one of Cliff's shirts, a pale blue plaid number from some ‘50s sitcom; braless, but that couldn’t be it since I was so thin my breasts didn’t bounce; new haircut, sheared short just the day before at a Village barbershop that specialized in haircuts for punks, but I hadn’t bothered to style it that day. In other words, I hadn't gotten any better looking than the day before when no man had smiled. I knew the rule. They knew the rule.
As I pondered this, another man smiled -- a beautiful man -- and this time I smiled back. He didn't follow me. After that, all the men seem to be smiling at me and I'm smiling back, feeling sassy, feeling like my old West Coast self again, thinking, Why are all these men suddenly giving me the eye, the once over, the look? After all, this is the Village and these guys are . . . . And then it hits me. They think I'm a boy.
I stayed in New York only a short time, less than three months, but I missed the arts and culture as soon as I returned home. So I got a night job ushering at the local performing arts center, where I was paired with an usher who was a schoolteacher by day -- closeted, naturally -- a mild man with salt and pepper hair and a quiet disposition. He not only showed me the ropes but, by way of example, an understated and impeccable standard of usher etiquette as well.
Between curtain time and intermission, ushers have very few duties and so most would sit in on the show or talk in the hallway. Patrons were one subject of conversation. For example, an opera regular in the second balcony was a middle-aged, not terribly attractive man who attended each show as a conservatively dressed matron. With her bland beige dresses, the braided belts that snaked around her apple middle, her low-heeled pumps, and the snapped-shut handbag that hung from her elbow, this matron was as badly dressed as anybody's auntie from the old country. But she was composed and courteous and we felt a kind of protective affection for her. Still, after seating our old-country auntie, the schoolteacher and I often found ourselves remarking ruefully on her sense of style, her choice of color -- does beige even count as a color? -- not to mention the grandma-style wig that lay matted and fuzzy around the edges. She was far too easy to spot as a cross-dresser, and we wanted nothing so badly as to take her out for a makeup session or to buy her a more flattering frock. Of course we couldn’t say this.
One night after seating our auntie, my trainer exited the auditorium door with a mime-white face, his eyes and mouth stretched as wide and long as the Minister of Morality in La Cage Aux Folles at the exact moment he realizes he has, with one feather-boa-wrapped gesture, sunk his entire political career.
He looked at me and said, "I called her sir.”
"You what?"
"She had trouble with her heels, you know, the carpeting and the narrow stairs, so I held her elbow to steady her, helped her to her seat, and when she said thank you I said” -- and at this point his face sunk like a punctured beach ball -- “You're welcome, sir.”
~ Dear readers. Tune in tomorrow to see me in my underwear. ~
******************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/
are copyrighted © and may not be used without permission from the creator.
13 March 2010
12 March 2010
Hello, Dad? I’m in jail!
I’ve got this book, The Movie Lovers, and what follows is the third installment of the first and most popular chapter, entitled The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys. The first two scenes of Low Spark were posted last night and the night before, and response being what it was, I’ve decided to serialize the full chapter.
My storytelling style is a bit like abstract art. Each chapter is a whole story divided into visual chunks. You might imagine it as a group of postcards on a refrigerator door arranged by Picasso. The order is not chronological so much as a tumble of memories that collide like shards of glass in a kaleidoscope, and that’s The Movie Lovers: a kaleidoscopic carnival ride; an adrenaline-driven, road-trip-in-heels kind of story that rearranges the happy family portraits, scribbles graffiti, and raises single-finger salutes to the standard ideas about sex, family, and intimacy. From the beautiful to the unbearable to the ballsy, all is laid bare in this story of love, death, and friendship.
I have no idea if this will work as a serial told scene by scene, more or less, rather than chapter by chapter. We shall see. I hope it entertains you.
PS - Tonight you’ll meet Rob, but really you’ve me him already. Low Spark opens with him and me and the first pair of boy’s underwear I fell in love with.
The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys
He was crying when he called from jail. When he talked the next day at school, he was back to his old self, running on like a tape-loop voiceover, the one from an animated short he took me to at Cinema 21, the one with the heavy back beat and the voice that yells, “Hello, Dad? I’m in jail. Hello, Dad? I’m in jail. I like it here.”
My first openly gay friend and I became best friends my last year in high school. It was Rob, we’ll call him Rob, who introduced me to classic black and white movies, the Animation Film Festival at Cinema 21, and Patti Smith, reigning Queen of Punk in the late ‘70s. We met when he sat next to me one afternoon on an airport-style ottoman in the student commons. I was an Oregon Scholar senior skipping chemistry. He was a scruffy-looking junior who clearly spent most of his time outside of class. Depressed and irritable, I was giving off the don’t-bother-me vibe, but he walked right over in his torn jeans and his uncombed wire-brush hair, hair that alternated between being matted down and sticking straight out, sat down right next to me and said,
“Some people are over the line.”
“They are,” I said, both a question and a statement.
“Yes,” he said, “on a different side.” And then he gave me one of those loopy grins I would come to think of as his trademark and drew a line in space. “Here’s where most people are,” he said. Then he pointed to another point in space somewhere off the continuum. “And some people are over here. That’s where I am, over the line.” It was the ‘70s, like I said, and it wasn’t the thing back then to come out of the closet in high school. It certainly wasn’t in vogue. Hell, it just wasn’t done. All the same, I knew what he meant, gay, which meant no come-on line; he just wanted a friend. Okay. I let him stay. We became inseparable. Now, I don’t know if I was the first best friend he ever had who was a girl, but for sure Rob was my first best friend who was a gay guy. I make this point because of an odd experience I had not long ago. In getting to know another woman at a party, I indicated that the man I’d arrived with was my best friend. The woman looked confused and then said, “But he’s gay.” Yes, I said, now confused as well. Her face cleared up when she said, “You mean he’s your best gay friend,” as if a person might have a wardrobe of best friends from differing categories. “No,” I said, “He’s my best friend. He’s also gay.” I’ve had a number of best friends over the years -- I’m a best friend kind of girl -- and these best friends have been male and female, gay and straight, intellectual snobs and partying fools, white people and brown; some have disappeared the way people do as circumstances change, some remain Christmas-card friends, some suddenly decided we were enemies, and some have died. The woman at the party made several other attempts at defining best friend categories for me, and then she sighed and told me she was from Utah. I laughed. I laughed because I liked her and hoped we would be friends, and I laughed because I have to laugh whenever others feel the need to edit or reduce the terms of my life to simple categories. It was a need for simple categories that had landed my high school friend in jail.
Rob’s favorite place was Mildred’s Ballroom, an underage gay disco housed in the old Knights of Pythian building downtown. Sometimes he took me with him. Sometimes I danced with a girl, if one asked me. And whenever Rob went to Mildred’s, he wore his favorite boots: thigh high, spike-heeled, shiny patent leather boots. Every once in awhile, he’d complain about how hard it was to walk in them, to which I would snort, “Tell me about it!” Like all teenage girls at the disco end of the ‘70s, I was a veteran of the strappy, spike-heeled, platform sandal made of solid wood. Like I said, my best friend and I shared just about everything. The night he got pulled over he was just outside the disco, and sitting next to him in his black Rambler sedan was a regular from Mildred’s, a crop-haired bleached blonde with dark roots. (Hello, Dad?)
It’s after midnight, so the cop snaps, Outta the car, which is when he sees those boots, those leather-sexual-fantasy boots, and he starts rapid-fire, first about my friend, Where you been? Where you headed? then about the girl, Is she really a girl? Has she always been a girl?
Hello, Dad? I’m in jail!
********************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/
are copyrighted © and may not be used without permission from the creator.
My storytelling style is a bit like abstract art. Each chapter is a whole story divided into visual chunks. You might imagine it as a group of postcards on a refrigerator door arranged by Picasso. The order is not chronological so much as a tumble of memories that collide like shards of glass in a kaleidoscope, and that’s The Movie Lovers: a kaleidoscopic carnival ride; an adrenaline-driven, road-trip-in-heels kind of story that rearranges the happy family portraits, scribbles graffiti, and raises single-finger salutes to the standard ideas about sex, family, and intimacy. From the beautiful to the unbearable to the ballsy, all is laid bare in this story of love, death, and friendship.
I have no idea if this will work as a serial told scene by scene, more or less, rather than chapter by chapter. We shall see. I hope it entertains you.
PS - Tonight you’ll meet Rob, but really you’ve me him already. Low Spark opens with him and me and the first pair of boy’s underwear I fell in love with.
The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys
He was crying when he called from jail. When he talked the next day at school, he was back to his old self, running on like a tape-loop voiceover, the one from an animated short he took me to at Cinema 21, the one with the heavy back beat and the voice that yells, “Hello, Dad? I’m in jail. Hello, Dad? I’m in jail. I like it here.”
My first openly gay friend and I became best friends my last year in high school. It was Rob, we’ll call him Rob, who introduced me to classic black and white movies, the Animation Film Festival at Cinema 21, and Patti Smith, reigning Queen of Punk in the late ‘70s. We met when he sat next to me one afternoon on an airport-style ottoman in the student commons. I was an Oregon Scholar senior skipping chemistry. He was a scruffy-looking junior who clearly spent most of his time outside of class. Depressed and irritable, I was giving off the don’t-bother-me vibe, but he walked right over in his torn jeans and his uncombed wire-brush hair, hair that alternated between being matted down and sticking straight out, sat down right next to me and said,
“Some people are over the line.”
“They are,” I said, both a question and a statement.
“Yes,” he said, “on a different side.” And then he gave me one of those loopy grins I would come to think of as his trademark and drew a line in space. “Here’s where most people are,” he said. Then he pointed to another point in space somewhere off the continuum. “And some people are over here. That’s where I am, over the line.” It was the ‘70s, like I said, and it wasn’t the thing back then to come out of the closet in high school. It certainly wasn’t in vogue. Hell, it just wasn’t done. All the same, I knew what he meant, gay, which meant no come-on line; he just wanted a friend. Okay. I let him stay. We became inseparable. Now, I don’t know if I was the first best friend he ever had who was a girl, but for sure Rob was my first best friend who was a gay guy. I make this point because of an odd experience I had not long ago. In getting to know another woman at a party, I indicated that the man I’d arrived with was my best friend. The woman looked confused and then said, “But he’s gay.” Yes, I said, now confused as well. Her face cleared up when she said, “You mean he’s your best gay friend,” as if a person might have a wardrobe of best friends from differing categories. “No,” I said, “He’s my best friend. He’s also gay.” I’ve had a number of best friends over the years -- I’m a best friend kind of girl -- and these best friends have been male and female, gay and straight, intellectual snobs and partying fools, white people and brown; some have disappeared the way people do as circumstances change, some remain Christmas-card friends, some suddenly decided we were enemies, and some have died. The woman at the party made several other attempts at defining best friend categories for me, and then she sighed and told me she was from Utah. I laughed. I laughed because I liked her and hoped we would be friends, and I laughed because I have to laugh whenever others feel the need to edit or reduce the terms of my life to simple categories. It was a need for simple categories that had landed my high school friend in jail.
Rob’s favorite place was Mildred’s Ballroom, an underage gay disco housed in the old Knights of Pythian building downtown. Sometimes he took me with him. Sometimes I danced with a girl, if one asked me. And whenever Rob went to Mildred’s, he wore his favorite boots: thigh high, spike-heeled, shiny patent leather boots. Every once in awhile, he’d complain about how hard it was to walk in them, to which I would snort, “Tell me about it!” Like all teenage girls at the disco end of the ‘70s, I was a veteran of the strappy, spike-heeled, platform sandal made of solid wood. Like I said, my best friend and I shared just about everything. The night he got pulled over he was just outside the disco, and sitting next to him in his black Rambler sedan was a regular from Mildred’s, a crop-haired bleached blonde with dark roots. (Hello, Dad?)
It’s after midnight, so the cop snaps, Outta the car, which is when he sees those boots, those leather-sexual-fantasy boots, and he starts rapid-fire, first about my friend, Where you been? Where you headed? then about the girl, Is she really a girl? Has she always been a girl?
Hello, Dad? I’m in jail!
********************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/
are copyrighted © and may not be used without permission from the creator.
Picture Postcard
Nothing, but No Thing, works tonight, at least not online. I can’t type on BLIP.fm or Twitter or FaceBook. Can’t send email. Cut and paste? Nope. Copy? Nope. Here is the very last thing I managed to type out online, banged out actually, in a thorough frustration: *5 minutes to get this typed. 6! ~glares~ Nothing fucking works. Send drugs. I am in (computer) writer hell. Chevelle - “The Red”* Wait, I also managed to post a second song, Jerry Cantrell’s “Anger Rising.” Perfect. “Anger rising up . . . have you got a plan?” No! I don’t. I thought I did, but now the universe is fucking with me, and all I can hear is two things.
ONE. My aunt - mom to me - laughing a little too hard and a little too often at the fact of the number that now precedes the zero in my age, like she has me over a barrel, like now I’ll never escape; I’ll be stuck here in the same place she’s stuck, in a life she never saw coming and did not prepare for. She’s always angry at something or someone. The neighbor. The trash-collector. The co-worker. The bank. The government. And she has taken to speaking to me in tones that say, now you’ll see, now life will turn sour for you, too. Thank God for my uncle, her brother, who set daffodils upon the lunch table today, my favorite flowers, in honor of my birthday.
TWO. We all have setbacks, but I’m a writer; I have no plan B. And I don’t. I never have. I remember choosing writing as my art. It wasn’t just that I loved words, though I did, nor was it because I was far better at writing than music or painting or dance, though I certainly was. No, I chose writing when I still hoped to be a dancer some day, still hoped I might learn how to draw, eventually, or even paint. I sat down and considered, rationally, what I might have to do to achieve my goal of self-expression, and I concluded that writing was the one art that allowed for life-long work, unlike dancing, and also allowed for poverty. At fourteen, I saw that writing needed only pen and paper and no matter how little I earned, I reasoned, I would always be able to afford writing supplies.
THREE. It’s really three things that rush, like the sound of the sea, in my ears. The third one is men, the lovely sound and feel of men. Don’t worry. I have nothing bad to say. I love men. And I love my family. But I will say that they both lack for imagination when they think that they are, or should be, my plan A for life. And it manages to hurt every time they do, too. So, it should come as no surprise to me, as I paced around this evening declaring, “I’m angry, I am so angry,” that nothing worked, except my typewriter, and by that I mean my off-line computer screen. It’s works just fine in Word. My saving grace.
And that’s all I have to say. I’m posting the next installment of The Movie Lovers below, the second scene in the first chapter, Low Spark. I’ll wait till tomorrow to explain just how this piece of creative nonfiction is put together and why. For now, consider this story to be the picture postcards of a life I once had.
The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys
The postcard on Frank’s refrigerator read, “He/She was the man/woman of his/her dreams.” Above that caption, a cartoon rendering of two tall dark and hairy-but-oddly-good-looking men in low-cut dresses, pearls, and lipstick. Next to the postcard was a printed invitation to “D-Day,” which proclaimed itself to be a food-provided, dress-as-you-are, BYOB affair: “bring your own booze, boy, bio-pic, or batting average.” Staged on the Labor Day weekend, Drag Day -- or D-Day -- was the last blow-out-all-the-stops party before school. School meant the end of travel, summer visitors, and long weekends with the gang. School meant thirty-five children to teach and keep in line. But most important of all for Frank, who is both a dedicated teacher and a big kid-at-heart, school meant back to the closet.
Each year, D-Day would find men in various stages of undress and gender bending vying for a view of themselves in the triptych mirror that hugged the length of Frank's bathroom wall, a bathroom transformed just for the occasion into a performers' dressing room. On this particular D-Day, just outside the door, a crop-haired woman in a man’s tuxedo could be seen squinting into a video camera and lobbing questions at the primping men. In front of the camera and at the exact center of the mirror, waist sucked in and chest pressed out, stood Garrett dressed in pantyhose, a half-slip, and a bra. He/She leaned deep into her own reflection, making the face women have made for centuries when applying their eye make-up: mouth rounded and stretched downward; Edvard Munch’s The Scream in drag. Garrett was always Dolly. This year Dolly Parton would be clothing her enormous rice bag titties in gold lame, but right now she was busy painting her forehead -- white from lashes to hairline -- and arching a pencil-thin Marlene Dietrich line much higher and wider than her own whited-out, unplucked brow. Dolly grinned big for the camera and declared in a Southern falsetto, "Get that thing outta here, or Ah'll flash ya one!" Then she laughed, a big pink-mouthed laugh that flashed teeth as big and yellow as hominy.
Frank, who stood on Garrett, er, Dolly’s right, had had a thing for Peter, Paul, and Mary since high school -- well, Mary actually. “I didn't want to screw her,” he used to say, “-- well, who did? -- I wanted to be her.” Tonight Mary stood in a bath, er, dressing room with two other men, thrusting her head forward like a box turtle, swaying it side to side as she vied for a piece of the mirror. Mary’s ruler-straight blond wig hung just past her man's shoulders but not to her full Playtex bra. Her eyes blink-blink-blinked beneath the long blunt-cut bangs and her hands flicked at the acetate tresses in the same way teenage girls say, “You know?” Frank’s Mary voice, high-twanged and school-girl-giddy, said "I don't want no one to see my panties!" Then he/she raised his/her hemline to tug on said panties and moon the camera. She and Dolly crack up. Big, deep belly guffaws. So unladylike.
The camera turned toward Jose, who sat quietly in a kitchen chair against the wall. Although Garrett and Frank had done the dress-up, lip-synch, drag thing dozens of times, always as Dolly and Mary, this was Jose’s first. He was doing it for Frank, he said. Jose, unlike Dolly and Mary, wore no wig. Falling nearly to his shoulders in waves of natural curl -- somehow more masculine for its length and beauty -- Jose’s dark hair framed a clean-shaven face bare of make-up. No bra hugged his lightly haired chest, although it would have to for him to transform into a torch song chanteuse. For now, though, Jose sat in his chair, nude, legs crossed at the hip, right over left, toes flexed and calf extended. Slowly he drew the razor toward himself, shaving the lower half of his right leg, and as he did his soft tenor voice narrated for the camera. "I am preparing for my North American debut as a singer-dancer,” he said quietly. “This is my first time in front of an audience." With a final stroke of the razor, Jose raised and then lowered his lashes. So demure. He pointed to the small triangle of fuzz at the juncture of his crossed thighs. Deadpan, one note higher: "This is my pussy.” Dolly and Mary bust up again, the big laughter of boys playing dress up.
*********************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/
are copyrighted © and may not be used without permission from the creator.
ONE. My aunt - mom to me - laughing a little too hard and a little too often at the fact of the number that now precedes the zero in my age, like she has me over a barrel, like now I’ll never escape; I’ll be stuck here in the same place she’s stuck, in a life she never saw coming and did not prepare for. She’s always angry at something or someone. The neighbor. The trash-collector. The co-worker. The bank. The government. And she has taken to speaking to me in tones that say, now you’ll see, now life will turn sour for you, too. Thank God for my uncle, her brother, who set daffodils upon the lunch table today, my favorite flowers, in honor of my birthday.
TWO. We all have setbacks, but I’m a writer; I have no plan B. And I don’t. I never have. I remember choosing writing as my art. It wasn’t just that I loved words, though I did, nor was it because I was far better at writing than music or painting or dance, though I certainly was. No, I chose writing when I still hoped to be a dancer some day, still hoped I might learn how to draw, eventually, or even paint. I sat down and considered, rationally, what I might have to do to achieve my goal of self-expression, and I concluded that writing was the one art that allowed for life-long work, unlike dancing, and also allowed for poverty. At fourteen, I saw that writing needed only pen and paper and no matter how little I earned, I reasoned, I would always be able to afford writing supplies.
THREE. It’s really three things that rush, like the sound of the sea, in my ears. The third one is men, the lovely sound and feel of men. Don’t worry. I have nothing bad to say. I love men. And I love my family. But I will say that they both lack for imagination when they think that they are, or should be, my plan A for life. And it manages to hurt every time they do, too. So, it should come as no surprise to me, as I paced around this evening declaring, “I’m angry, I am so angry,” that nothing worked, except my typewriter, and by that I mean my off-line computer screen. It’s works just fine in Word. My saving grace.
And that’s all I have to say. I’m posting the next installment of The Movie Lovers below, the second scene in the first chapter, Low Spark. I’ll wait till tomorrow to explain just how this piece of creative nonfiction is put together and why. For now, consider this story to be the picture postcards of a life I once had.
The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys
The postcard on Frank’s refrigerator read, “He/She was the man/woman of his/her dreams.” Above that caption, a cartoon rendering of two tall dark and hairy-but-oddly-good-looking men in low-cut dresses, pearls, and lipstick. Next to the postcard was a printed invitation to “D-Day,” which proclaimed itself to be a food-provided, dress-as-you-are, BYOB affair: “bring your own booze, boy, bio-pic, or batting average.” Staged on the Labor Day weekend, Drag Day -- or D-Day -- was the last blow-out-all-the-stops party before school. School meant the end of travel, summer visitors, and long weekends with the gang. School meant thirty-five children to teach and keep in line. But most important of all for Frank, who is both a dedicated teacher and a big kid-at-heart, school meant back to the closet.
Each year, D-Day would find men in various stages of undress and gender bending vying for a view of themselves in the triptych mirror that hugged the length of Frank's bathroom wall, a bathroom transformed just for the occasion into a performers' dressing room. On this particular D-Day, just outside the door, a crop-haired woman in a man’s tuxedo could be seen squinting into a video camera and lobbing questions at the primping men. In front of the camera and at the exact center of the mirror, waist sucked in and chest pressed out, stood Garrett dressed in pantyhose, a half-slip, and a bra. He/She leaned deep into her own reflection, making the face women have made for centuries when applying their eye make-up: mouth rounded and stretched downward; Edvard Munch’s The Scream in drag. Garrett was always Dolly. This year Dolly Parton would be clothing her enormous rice bag titties in gold lame, but right now she was busy painting her forehead -- white from lashes to hairline -- and arching a pencil-thin Marlene Dietrich line much higher and wider than her own whited-out, unplucked brow. Dolly grinned big for the camera and declared in a Southern falsetto, "Get that thing outta here, or Ah'll flash ya one!" Then she laughed, a big pink-mouthed laugh that flashed teeth as big and yellow as hominy.
Frank, who stood on Garrett, er, Dolly’s right, had had a thing for Peter, Paul, and Mary since high school -- well, Mary actually. “I didn't want to screw her,” he used to say, “-- well, who did? -- I wanted to be her.” Tonight Mary stood in a bath, er, dressing room with two other men, thrusting her head forward like a box turtle, swaying it side to side as she vied for a piece of the mirror. Mary’s ruler-straight blond wig hung just past her man's shoulders but not to her full Playtex bra. Her eyes blink-blink-blinked beneath the long blunt-cut bangs and her hands flicked at the acetate tresses in the same way teenage girls say, “You know?” Frank’s Mary voice, high-twanged and school-girl-giddy, said "I don't want no one to see my panties!" Then he/she raised his/her hemline to tug on said panties and moon the camera. She and Dolly crack up. Big, deep belly guffaws. So unladylike.
The camera turned toward Jose, who sat quietly in a kitchen chair against the wall. Although Garrett and Frank had done the dress-up, lip-synch, drag thing dozens of times, always as Dolly and Mary, this was Jose’s first. He was doing it for Frank, he said. Jose, unlike Dolly and Mary, wore no wig. Falling nearly to his shoulders in waves of natural curl -- somehow more masculine for its length and beauty -- Jose’s dark hair framed a clean-shaven face bare of make-up. No bra hugged his lightly haired chest, although it would have to for him to transform into a torch song chanteuse. For now, though, Jose sat in his chair, nude, legs crossed at the hip, right over left, toes flexed and calf extended. Slowly he drew the razor toward himself, shaving the lower half of his right leg, and as he did his soft tenor voice narrated for the camera. "I am preparing for my North American debut as a singer-dancer,” he said quietly. “This is my first time in front of an audience." With a final stroke of the razor, Jose raised and then lowered his lashes. So demure. He pointed to the small triangle of fuzz at the juncture of his crossed thighs. Deadpan, one note higher: "This is my pussy.” Dolly and Mary bust up again, the big laughter of boys playing dress up.
*********************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/
are copyrighted © and may not be used without permission from the creator.
10 March 2010
The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys
Today's blog is the opening section to the most popular chapter of The Movie Lovers, The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys. If you like it and want more, let me know. I could post the full chapter as a serial.
Where will I be instead of writing tonight? Just an hour ago, my body announced that we would be hosting a sudden a cold in need of shelter. I shall be nursing my toddy and cookies. No, cookies don't help a cold, but they improve this slap-dash tequila toddy. Go with what you got, I always say.
The first pair of boy’s underwear I ever wore was after nearly drowning on the Oregon coast. I was eighteen, and I’d driven to Seal Rock in my ‘64 Bel Air station wagon with my new best friend, my first best friend who was gay. We made this trip to the coast specifically so that he might help me redefine my life in terms I could understand. It was like this. From the day we met, my best friend and I did everything together. We went to the underage dance clubs, drooled over the same guys, swapped clothes, we even slept together (it was the wall next to his bed, not mine, that had to be cleaned the morning after I got sick on sloe gin), we did everything but . . . you know. So one day I just came out with it. “This is great, what we have,” I said, “but . . . I need sex.” Next thing there we were, me, my best friend, and his friend, all sleek with teenage hormones, all strolling along the sand in the sun at Seal Rock on the first day of our weekend together at the beach.
It feels strange, this arrangement, but the boy is tall, taller than me, and I like the sound of his voice, soft and deep, and the look of his fingers, strong, smooth. So, at some inevitable point, my potential boyfriend and I link hands and wade out into the shallow surf. My jeans are rolled thigh-high, the thrill of the surf rising up my legs, and I like the feel of his fingers interlaced with mine, so I let the boy continue holding my hand as we walk out further, further, and I’m starting to think the situation looks pretty good when the bottom falls out -- literally. It’s water water water and when I surface the boy has swum ashore and is yelling toward the ocean, "Swim! Swim!" Now, I suppose I should have known that the boy getting quickly to shore meant we weren’t that far out, but from my sea level vantage point it seems a very long way, bobbing as I am in small waves much bigger and taller than my tiny head, and the instruction to swim struck me, in that moment, much the same way that a psychiatrist’s later admonition would strike me -- “You need to learn adult skills, he said” -- like this could help me while I’m in over my head.
I can’t swim, not anchored as I am by the weight of water-soaked denim and flannel, and I can’t get my arm high enough to signal for help. So, I begin paddling -- like a dog -- paddling and panting, I-believe-in-God-I-believe-in-God-I-believe-in-God. I didn't. At least I hadn’t up to that point. The shore is impossibly distant. God isn’t helping. I do the next best thing: strip. I’ve unzipped my jeans and I’m struggling to yank them off when my toes touch sand. I drag out of the sea like some half-dressed, half-drowned Venus on the half shell, the red letters of my T-shirt still announcing my game before I arrive: “flirt!” Years later I would see the sign warning of sinkholes, right there for any idiot to read, which pretty much describes how my life went in the two decades following high school. So captured was I by the vision of what I wanted, what I needed, what could be, that I missed the obvious warning signs, such as the fact that I was dragging myself out of the surf without any offers of assistance. I noticed, of course, but this awareness did not keep me from getting involved with the boy -- or from having sex -- for then, as now, I plunged ahead like a teenager in love (or lust, anyway) certain that the surface of things reflected what they actually were. One way or another, that’s a lesson we all get to learn.
We three teenagers drove to the tiny trailer where we were to stay. It had no shower and no hot running water, but it was dry and when I was dry, too, my best friend gave me some of his clothes: a red and blue striped pullover that made me look like a ten-year-old boy, Levis that were two inches too short but rode just right around the hips, and white, size 28 shorts. Jockey shorts. The kind with the wide elastic waistband and the double flap in the front, the flap that fascinates girls until they grow into women and begin washing their live-in boyfriend's laundry. I liked them instantly. With my skinny thighs and teenage hips, these undershorts fit me good good good.
*********************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/
are copyrighted © and may not be used without permission from the creator.
Where will I be instead of writing tonight? Just an hour ago, my body announced that we would be hosting a sudden a cold in need of shelter. I shall be nursing my toddy and cookies. No, cookies don't help a cold, but they improve this slap-dash tequila toddy. Go with what you got, I always say.
And the man in the suit has just bought a new car
On the profit he’s made on your dreams. . . . . .
But spirit is something that no one destroys
And the sound that I’m hearing is only the sound
Of the low spark of high heeled boys. . . .
The first pair of boy’s underwear I ever wore was after nearly drowning on the Oregon coast. I was eighteen, and I’d driven to Seal Rock in my ‘64 Bel Air station wagon with my new best friend, my first best friend who was gay. We made this trip to the coast specifically so that he might help me redefine my life in terms I could understand. It was like this. From the day we met, my best friend and I did everything together. We went to the underage dance clubs, drooled over the same guys, swapped clothes, we even slept together (it was the wall next to his bed, not mine, that had to be cleaned the morning after I got sick on sloe gin), we did everything but . . . you know. So one day I just came out with it. “This is great, what we have,” I said, “but . . . I need sex.” Next thing there we were, me, my best friend, and his friend, all sleek with teenage hormones, all strolling along the sand in the sun at Seal Rock on the first day of our weekend together at the beach.
It feels strange, this arrangement, but the boy is tall, taller than me, and I like the sound of his voice, soft and deep, and the look of his fingers, strong, smooth. So, at some inevitable point, my potential boyfriend and I link hands and wade out into the shallow surf. My jeans are rolled thigh-high, the thrill of the surf rising up my legs, and I like the feel of his fingers interlaced with mine, so I let the boy continue holding my hand as we walk out further, further, and I’m starting to think the situation looks pretty good when the bottom falls out -- literally. It’s water water water and when I surface the boy has swum ashore and is yelling toward the ocean, "Swim! Swim!" Now, I suppose I should have known that the boy getting quickly to shore meant we weren’t that far out, but from my sea level vantage point it seems a very long way, bobbing as I am in small waves much bigger and taller than my tiny head, and the instruction to swim struck me, in that moment, much the same way that a psychiatrist’s later admonition would strike me -- “You need to learn adult skills, he said” -- like this could help me while I’m in over my head.
I can’t swim, not anchored as I am by the weight of water-soaked denim and flannel, and I can’t get my arm high enough to signal for help. So, I begin paddling -- like a dog -- paddling and panting, I-believe-in-God-I-believe-in-God-I-believe-in-God. I didn't. At least I hadn’t up to that point. The shore is impossibly distant. God isn’t helping. I do the next best thing: strip. I’ve unzipped my jeans and I’m struggling to yank them off when my toes touch sand. I drag out of the sea like some half-dressed, half-drowned Venus on the half shell, the red letters of my T-shirt still announcing my game before I arrive: “flirt!” Years later I would see the sign warning of sinkholes, right there for any idiot to read, which pretty much describes how my life went in the two decades following high school. So captured was I by the vision of what I wanted, what I needed, what could be, that I missed the obvious warning signs, such as the fact that I was dragging myself out of the surf without any offers of assistance. I noticed, of course, but this awareness did not keep me from getting involved with the boy -- or from having sex -- for then, as now, I plunged ahead like a teenager in love (or lust, anyway) certain that the surface of things reflected what they actually were. One way or another, that’s a lesson we all get to learn.
We three teenagers drove to the tiny trailer where we were to stay. It had no shower and no hot running water, but it was dry and when I was dry, too, my best friend gave me some of his clothes: a red and blue striped pullover that made me look like a ten-year-old boy, Levis that were two inches too short but rode just right around the hips, and white, size 28 shorts. Jockey shorts. The kind with the wide elastic waistband and the double flap in the front, the flap that fascinates girls until they grow into women and begin washing their live-in boyfriend's laundry. I liked them instantly. With my skinny thighs and teenage hips, these undershorts fit me good good good.
* * * * * * * *
*********************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/
are copyrighted © and may not be used without permission from the creator.
Crazy Train
As I sit down to write, I’m listening to Crazy Train, always appropriate for me, as is Red Ryder’s Lunatic Fringe. If you can’t fix it, I say, feature it. For example, I’m just an inch shy of six foot, but I’m only that tall in my apartment. In the world I add heels, preferably three or four-inch heels. I’m also honest, which is not to say that I lack tact, but I definitely feel there are situations where tact is overrated. Blame it on my upbringing if you like, raised as I was by women whose opinions were never in question. But tonight, I don’t have much to say. Since I can’t fix that, it’s tonight’s feature: Me unpacking my brain.
I have found myself musing about what the last three blogs have brought me, namely a door to previously hidden worlds. I am, I swear to God, a woman who by nature does not talk about her sex life. You don’t believe me, okay, but I assure you it has always struck me as unseemly to share those private details. I can and do talk about absolutely anything, but when it comes to sex, I’m a doer. No need to talk. And technically speaking, I still haven’t talked; I wrote. After the last three blogs, however, I found myself in a conversation about SMB. Yeah, I could only figure out two of the letters, too: Sadomasochism Bondage. Okay. More interesting to me was discovering that these forms of sexual expression are rather intellectual in nature: the talking, the planning, and for all I know, blocking out the scene the way actors do in preparation for what is to take place. It’s quite intricate, this kind of sex. And mostly hidden.
But here’s what really fascinated me. My new SMB friend says, “I was surprised to see that Thomas is a sub.” QUE? A submissive. Okay. So I asked him how he knows this. Eight little words: I like to be told what to do. And then it hits me. So this is what the shaman has been trying to tell me!
You didn’t see that one coming, did you?
I’ve been working with a shaman for five months now, give or take, and among other things, his work entails helping me to deconstruct my energetic being so that we may rebuilt it on a more solid and self-aware foundation. No, I am not making this up. For five months now, the shaman has been telling me that I am submissive in all aspects of my life, far more than I realize. Okay. I’m there to learn. And unlearn, apparently. But last night it became crystal clear. I am so very good at assimilating, at taking on the color, tone, and texture of those around me, at making things work, that I have made a life out of being of, from, and for others; they are the ground of my being.
As you might imagine, those of you who know me through this blog or any of my other SM accounts, this comes as something of a surprise to me. (Gotcha! SM is social media this time.) I have a strong personality, strong opinions, and pretty much a commanding attitude in all things. No one can dress down a dismissive doctor like I can. I’m good at it. But truth be told, I got good at it because the people I love needed me, and I would rather die than fail them.
Look at that. I haven’t asked, but I’ll bet that’s a textbook definition of submissive.
So, I’m sitting at my computer a little dumbfounded right now. It’s looking like the only thing that was ever truly mine is writing, for that is the only part of my life in which I’ve always followed my own lead no matter what I was told. What’s my confirmation of that? The moment my parents realized that I wasn’t just a kid scribbling stories but could in fact write things that challenged even them, my mother said the obvious: So you want to be a writer, then. You could make good money writing . . . . . and that’s when I quit listening. I hid my ability until I was long away from home. I studied. I practiced. My husband and professors were the only readers I allowed, and eventually I had to stop showing them as well. I had a clear vision, but they couldn’t see it. What they saw was a thing needing to be fixed, needing to be torn apart and put into correct form, a form they recognized.
They needed me to submit.
So now I just call myself crazy. It’s as good a cover as any. I mean think about it. I don’t drive a truck or work in an office or own a small business or defend my country, all jobs my loved ones understand. And I’m letting a shaman rewire me. So please don’t tell them that I’m standing right here, just a door to worlds hidden from everyday view.
*********************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/
are copyrighted © and may not be used without permission from the creator.
I have found myself musing about what the last three blogs have brought me, namely a door to previously hidden worlds. I am, I swear to God, a woman who by nature does not talk about her sex life. You don’t believe me, okay, but I assure you it has always struck me as unseemly to share those private details. I can and do talk about absolutely anything, but when it comes to sex, I’m a doer. No need to talk. And technically speaking, I still haven’t talked; I wrote. After the last three blogs, however, I found myself in a conversation about SMB. Yeah, I could only figure out two of the letters, too: Sadomasochism Bondage. Okay. More interesting to me was discovering that these forms of sexual expression are rather intellectual in nature: the talking, the planning, and for all I know, blocking out the scene the way actors do in preparation for what is to take place. It’s quite intricate, this kind of sex. And mostly hidden.
But here’s what really fascinated me. My new SMB friend says, “I was surprised to see that Thomas is a sub.” QUE? A submissive. Okay. So I asked him how he knows this. Eight little words: I like to be told what to do. And then it hits me. So this is what the shaman has been trying to tell me!
You didn’t see that one coming, did you?
I’ve been working with a shaman for five months now, give or take, and among other things, his work entails helping me to deconstruct my energetic being so that we may rebuilt it on a more solid and self-aware foundation. No, I am not making this up. For five months now, the shaman has been telling me that I am submissive in all aspects of my life, far more than I realize. Okay. I’m there to learn. And unlearn, apparently. But last night it became crystal clear. I am so very good at assimilating, at taking on the color, tone, and texture of those around me, at making things work, that I have made a life out of being of, from, and for others; they are the ground of my being.
As you might imagine, those of you who know me through this blog or any of my other SM accounts, this comes as something of a surprise to me. (Gotcha! SM is social media this time.) I have a strong personality, strong opinions, and pretty much a commanding attitude in all things. No one can dress down a dismissive doctor like I can. I’m good at it. But truth be told, I got good at it because the people I love needed me, and I would rather die than fail them.
Look at that. I haven’t asked, but I’ll bet that’s a textbook definition of submissive.
So, I’m sitting at my computer a little dumbfounded right now. It’s looking like the only thing that was ever truly mine is writing, for that is the only part of my life in which I’ve always followed my own lead no matter what I was told. What’s my confirmation of that? The moment my parents realized that I wasn’t just a kid scribbling stories but could in fact write things that challenged even them, my mother said the obvious: So you want to be a writer, then. You could make good money writing . . . . . and that’s when I quit listening. I hid my ability until I was long away from home. I studied. I practiced. My husband and professors were the only readers I allowed, and eventually I had to stop showing them as well. I had a clear vision, but they couldn’t see it. What they saw was a thing needing to be fixed, needing to be torn apart and put into correct form, a form they recognized.
They needed me to submit.
So now I just call myself crazy. It’s as good a cover as any. I mean think about it. I don’t drive a truck or work in an office or own a small business or defend my country, all jobs my loved ones understand. And I’m letting a shaman rewire me. So please don’t tell them that I’m standing right here, just a door to worlds hidden from everyday view.
*********************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/
are copyrighted © and may not be used without permission from the creator.
08 March 2010
Are you a freaky girl? Part III ...Tonight I am
Dear sweet freaked-out readers. (Or turned on. Your choice.) Today brings this odyssey to a conclusion and because, like Thomas, you have hung in there this long, there will be a small reward. Toys. For those who missed the first two installments: this is adult material dealt with in an adult manner: direct, explicit; feel free to sit this one out.
To recap, Thomas and I are talking about fantasies. Thomas is frustrated by a particular fact of life, and I’m giving him a picture of the inside of my head, one woman as representative for my sex. At this point, Thomas is pretty sure I’m never going to get to the point: Why do women say they don’t have fantasies, and if they do, they don’t want to share?
To recap:
ME: So my man's fucking me and I'm fucking my uncle. [*It wasn’t my uncle, but no one needs to know which family member it was.] Even if my partner wouldn't think this is a sick thing, I can't take the risk that he will. Understand, ABOVE ALL, I need control in this scenario. Sound twisted? It gets more interesting.
THOMAS: OK
ME: My fantasy is me being aroused by my uncle. It’s painful but it’s my choice now, not an accident of fate. I’m choosing every fucked up detail, at least that’s what I tell myself, and I let it play out any way it needs to, including fucking through my own self-disgust for having this fantasy, but this is what’s getting me off and so I’m going with it. For some time, I screamed whenever I came and apparently I scared the crap out of a few of new partners ~laughs~ but hey, it’s my orgasm and I’ll scream if I want to. LMAO. I had me some shit to let out.
THOMAS: Atta girl!
ME: Anyway, every time I had this fantasy and came, I got another piece of the puzzle that is me, and I got a little more control. And that experience owned me less. Eventually, I got to a place where I understood what I was doing and why, and then.... Still with me?
THOMAS: Yes.
ME: Then I got to have a REAL fantasy **************
PART III
ME: Then I get to have a REAL fantasy. This is very different from what's been happening so far. Up till now, what I’ve been experiencing (and what my BF insists on calling a fantasy) is really an invasion of my sexual head space that I’m trying to pretend I choose; a head space version of abuse or rape. I'm sure you can grasp the creepiness and fear factor here. But now I’ve reached a point where my fantasy really IS all about my uncle. I am in control of how aroused he gets, when he gets aroused and whether or not he gets to climax. I can make him cum against his will. I can arouse him to the point of pain and refuse to let him cum. I can insist he do me in whatever way I want and not cum till I do. I can rain down hellfire and sexual brimstone if I want and get off on that. The point is, in my head I do whatever scary sexy sick thing makes me feel more in control and I get to cum while doing it. I own his ass.
ME: Believe me when I say:
There is no greater control than this
there is no greater revenge than this
there is no greater turn on than this
there is no better way to heal than this.
ME: And if I thought my man wanted to be in the middle of it, yeah, you think I’d be doing what I needed to do? It would never fucking happen.
ME: You feeling me?
THOMAS: I understand what you’re saying.
THOMAS: OK now Honey, Most Darling Girl, just for the sake of this conversation, I think we are talking about two different things here. I am talking about conversation over a couple of cocktails. Now that being said, I am so totally getting what you’re saying.
ME: I've had those conversations and talking about one thing does not insure that the other thing isn’t going on. Saying yes to simple furry costume fuck does not insure the fucked up past doesn’t intrude.
ME: One in three, baby, one in three.
THOMAS: See now after all you said, I am an asshole if I argue with you. But I am not convinced that this is why women don't share a fantasy.
ME: ~laughs~ okay, okay. So just let me say this:
ME: After I let myself do this for awhile, keeping it to myself and using HIS fantasies to get mine going, once I did this till I was clean, I could name and play any fantasy. It was easy. It was fun. I couldn't believe I'd missed out on such awesome sex.
ME: Respect for our headspace allows us women to do many things we might otherwise resist.
THOMAS: You have no idea how I am totally feeling for you and your pain, My Love, and I really mean My Love because right now that is all I have to offer you is Love, Darling Girl. You have had a lot of pain in your life and I wish I could fix that.
ME: No, babe, I’m clean, clear of it. That’s what I’m trying to say. There’s no pain; it’s just a story now.
THOMAS: I have more respect for women then you can begin to imagine. I’ve been around and not to beat a dead horse, but I still think we are talking about two different things or perhaps I never thought so much detail went into a fantasy. Because all I want is a start, a simple one, one that is not so complicated and all that meaningful. Baby steps, I haven't even gotten that from women.
ME: Yeah. I'm with you, okay? Simple fantasy: black leather and a riding crop. Sexy maid outfit with a garter belt. Schoolgirl in plaid skirt and come-fuck-me pumps. Doctor taking advantage of poor helpless me. I'm with you.
THOMAS: That’s it Honey now you are talking. The boy toy is a lucky guy.
ME: =) Well, he would be if we had more time. Not sure how to make that happen. Anyway to finish up, the fantasy sharing? Yeah, not truly possible till the old crap got cleared. Now it’s all good.
THOMAS: I get it. Honey thank you for the story and insight. It went a long way with me.
ME: Really? Because I can pull out the furry costume.... jk.
THOMAS: Yes it really did. Honest.
ME: Cool, cuz I really need some advice. How-to training.
THOMAS: I have done some training in my day. What kind did you have in mind? I mean, really, like leaving the toilet seat down or were you thinking something more sexual? lol
ME: :) Giving instruction so that it sounds sexy and fun, not like a map. I trained the last BF/boy toy to go down on me. Man is he good! But that was... a challenge. Instructions are not my thing, I’m even bad at maps, and besides we’d been together for quite awhile before I ventured there.
THOMAS: I learned from a lesbian.
ME: Lucky man!
THOMAS: I know and I’m good too.
ME: Wanna train my guy? lol.
THOMAS: Hmmm... I think nipple clamps with a chain might help. You can stop him from doing things with a pull.
ME: Can't say I've got nipple clamps, what's the attraction? And a pull?
THOMAS: Or a collar with a leash.
ME: Collar. Nice.
ME: Maybe we just need to make a trip to the toy box. Maybe he's never been to a sex shop. I hadn't till a few years ago. I know. I’m vanilla. Whatever.
THOMAS: I love to be told what to do and with the training devices you won't really have to talk as much.
ME: Okay, that’s hot. I had no idea.
THOMAS: Don't let him use his hands if he’s not doing you well. This will make him just use his mouth to get you off. He will have to work harder.
ME: Hmmm, could handcuff him behind his back. I don’t have those either. lol.
THOMAS: OK, going back to the I can't believe we are having this conversation! lol So can you let him know with moans and so on when he is doing well?
ME: I'm good at moaning. You can't shut me up. But that's not really helping.
THOMAS: Hmmm so he’s not getting when he’s hitting the spot.
ME: Nope. I'm glad we can have this conversation. I totally need a man's POV.
THOMAS: Ok, then definitely no hands allowed. He has to learn how to get you off with his mouth. Just his mouth.
ME: Houston, we have a first step!
That’s it, boys and girls. Tomorrow we’re back to... I don’t know what, but I’m pretty sure it won’t be my sex life. The conversation between Thomas and me was just a happy accident. I didn’t venture out with the intent to have it, and goodness knows I never imagined I’d be sharing it with you. Perhaps the sex workers who follow me on Twitter, fabulous women every one of them, are having a positive effect on me. I can only hope.
Oh and by the way, if any of you have recommendations for handcuffs, by all means, don’t keep it to yourselves. ^_~
********************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/
are copyrighted © and may not be used without permission from the creator.
To recap, Thomas and I are talking about fantasies. Thomas is frustrated by a particular fact of life, and I’m giving him a picture of the inside of my head, one woman as representative for my sex. At this point, Thomas is pretty sure I’m never going to get to the point: Why do women say they don’t have fantasies, and if they do, they don’t want to share?
To recap:
ME: So my man's fucking me and I'm fucking my uncle. [*It wasn’t my uncle, but no one needs to know which family member it was.] Even if my partner wouldn't think this is a sick thing, I can't take the risk that he will. Understand, ABOVE ALL, I need control in this scenario. Sound twisted? It gets more interesting.
THOMAS: OK
ME: My fantasy is me being aroused by my uncle. It’s painful but it’s my choice now, not an accident of fate. I’m choosing every fucked up detail, at least that’s what I tell myself, and I let it play out any way it needs to, including fucking through my own self-disgust for having this fantasy, but this is what’s getting me off and so I’m going with it. For some time, I screamed whenever I came and apparently I scared the crap out of a few of new partners ~laughs~ but hey, it’s my orgasm and I’ll scream if I want to. LMAO. I had me some shit to let out.
THOMAS: Atta girl!
ME: Anyway, every time I had this fantasy and came, I got another piece of the puzzle that is me, and I got a little more control. And that experience owned me less. Eventually, I got to a place where I understood what I was doing and why, and then.... Still with me?
THOMAS: Yes.
ME: Then I got to have a REAL fantasy **************
PART III
ME: Then I get to have a REAL fantasy. This is very different from what's been happening so far. Up till now, what I’ve been experiencing (and what my BF insists on calling a fantasy) is really an invasion of my sexual head space that I’m trying to pretend I choose; a head space version of abuse or rape. I'm sure you can grasp the creepiness and fear factor here. But now I’ve reached a point where my fantasy really IS all about my uncle. I am in control of how aroused he gets, when he gets aroused and whether or not he gets to climax. I can make him cum against his will. I can arouse him to the point of pain and refuse to let him cum. I can insist he do me in whatever way I want and not cum till I do. I can rain down hellfire and sexual brimstone if I want and get off on that. The point is, in my head I do whatever scary sexy sick thing makes me feel more in control and I get to cum while doing it. I own his ass.
ME: Believe me when I say:
There is no greater control than this
there is no greater revenge than this
there is no greater turn on than this
there is no better way to heal than this.
ME: And if I thought my man wanted to be in the middle of it, yeah, you think I’d be doing what I needed to do? It would never fucking happen.
ME: You feeling me?
THOMAS: I understand what you’re saying.
THOMAS: OK now Honey, Most Darling Girl, just for the sake of this conversation, I think we are talking about two different things here. I am talking about conversation over a couple of cocktails. Now that being said, I am so totally getting what you’re saying.
ME: I've had those conversations and talking about one thing does not insure that the other thing isn’t going on. Saying yes to simple furry costume fuck does not insure the fucked up past doesn’t intrude.
ME: One in three, baby, one in three.
THOMAS: See now after all you said, I am an asshole if I argue with you. But I am not convinced that this is why women don't share a fantasy.
ME: ~laughs~ okay, okay. So just let me say this:
ME: After I let myself do this for awhile, keeping it to myself and using HIS fantasies to get mine going, once I did this till I was clean, I could name and play any fantasy. It was easy. It was fun. I couldn't believe I'd missed out on such awesome sex.
ME: Respect for our headspace allows us women to do many things we might otherwise resist.
THOMAS: You have no idea how I am totally feeling for you and your pain, My Love, and I really mean My Love because right now that is all I have to offer you is Love, Darling Girl. You have had a lot of pain in your life and I wish I could fix that.
ME: No, babe, I’m clean, clear of it. That’s what I’m trying to say. There’s no pain; it’s just a story now.
THOMAS: I have more respect for women then you can begin to imagine. I’ve been around and not to beat a dead horse, but I still think we are talking about two different things or perhaps I never thought so much detail went into a fantasy. Because all I want is a start, a simple one, one that is not so complicated and all that meaningful. Baby steps, I haven't even gotten that from women.
ME: Yeah. I'm with you, okay? Simple fantasy: black leather and a riding crop. Sexy maid outfit with a garter belt. Schoolgirl in plaid skirt and come-fuck-me pumps. Doctor taking advantage of poor helpless me. I'm with you.
THOMAS: That’s it Honey now you are talking. The boy toy is a lucky guy.
ME: =) Well, he would be if we had more time. Not sure how to make that happen. Anyway to finish up, the fantasy sharing? Yeah, not truly possible till the old crap got cleared. Now it’s all good.
THOMAS: I get it. Honey thank you for the story and insight. It went a long way with me.
ME: Really? Because I can pull out the furry costume.... jk.
THOMAS: Yes it really did. Honest.
ME: Cool, cuz I really need some advice. How-to training.
THOMAS: I have done some training in my day. What kind did you have in mind? I mean, really, like leaving the toilet seat down or were you thinking something more sexual? lol
ME: :) Giving instruction so that it sounds sexy and fun, not like a map. I trained the last BF/boy toy to go down on me. Man is he good! But that was... a challenge. Instructions are not my thing, I’m even bad at maps, and besides we’d been together for quite awhile before I ventured there.
THOMAS: I learned from a lesbian.
ME: Lucky man!
THOMAS: I know and I’m good too.
ME: Wanna train my guy? lol.
THOMAS: Hmmm... I think nipple clamps with a chain might help. You can stop him from doing things with a pull.
ME: Can't say I've got nipple clamps, what's the attraction? And a pull?
THOMAS: Or a collar with a leash.
ME: Collar. Nice.
ME: Maybe we just need to make a trip to the toy box. Maybe he's never been to a sex shop. I hadn't till a few years ago. I know. I’m vanilla. Whatever.
THOMAS: I love to be told what to do and with the training devices you won't really have to talk as much.
ME: Okay, that’s hot. I had no idea.
THOMAS: Don't let him use his hands if he’s not doing you well. This will make him just use his mouth to get you off. He will have to work harder.
ME: Hmmm, could handcuff him behind his back. I don’t have those either. lol.
THOMAS: OK, going back to the I can't believe we are having this conversation! lol So can you let him know with moans and so on when he is doing well?
ME: I'm good at moaning. You can't shut me up. But that's not really helping.
THOMAS: Hmmm so he’s not getting when he’s hitting the spot.
ME: Nope. I'm glad we can have this conversation. I totally need a man's POV.
THOMAS: Ok, then definitely no hands allowed. He has to learn how to get you off with his mouth. Just his mouth.
ME: Houston, we have a first step!
That’s it, boys and girls. Tomorrow we’re back to... I don’t know what, but I’m pretty sure it won’t be my sex life. The conversation between Thomas and me was just a happy accident. I didn’t venture out with the intent to have it, and goodness knows I never imagined I’d be sharing it with you. Perhaps the sex workers who follow me on Twitter, fabulous women every one of them, are having a positive effect on me. I can only hope.
Oh and by the way, if any of you have recommendations for handcuffs, by all means, don’t keep it to yourselves. ^_~
********************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/
are copyrighted © and may not be used without permission from the creator.
07 March 2010
Are you a freaky girl? Part II
Let me start by acknowledging the readers who left comments and those who tweeted or blipped me to say they enjoyed the post. Nothing could make me happier. Thanks.
Tonight the conversation gets more interesting, so I’ll say it again: this is adult material dealt with in an adult manner: direct, explicit, no holds barred. Here’s the caveat. If you’re uncomfortable with sexual exploration or not far enough into your own recovery work to feel balanced, then feel free to sit this one out. Same goes for family members. I don’t wish anyone to be unnecessarily upset.
To recap, what follows is a dialog between a man and a woman about fantasies and what frustrates each sex about the other. Men are frustrated and feel put off: locked out of where they most want to go. Women are frustrated and feel put upon: even though they closed the door, there’s no privacy. That’s the dance. There are many reasons for it and some of the reader comments are eloquent in naming them. I’m here to name one that most women don’t talk about.
The friend I’m conversing with hails from Peking Illinois, or so he says ^_~ so I’ll be calling him Peeking Thomas because I allow him to peek into my life and he allows me to peek into his. Nothing is off limits. Our friendship is that amazing. So here we go, down the rabbit hole, into the dark woods, off the cliff without a parachute; pick your own scary, exhilarating metaphor. I find that being in free fall is always an illuminating experience. When there is nothing resisting us and nothing holding us up that, my friend, is when we find out who we really are.
Here’s where we left off.
ME: If a man asked me to share a fantasy with him, I think I could ask him to do certain things while I did my own imagining, have a great time, and AFTER we're both exhausted and he has thoroughly enjoyed me enjoying myself, THEN I might tell him.
THOMAS: You’re putting all the responsibility on the man to keep sex interesting. It’s really unfair and frustrating, and this happens all the time. No matter who the woman is, I get the same response: “If I tell you, it won't be a fantasy any more.”
ME: So, you’re tired of holding the fantasy world on your shoulders? Poor thing.... ^_~
THOMAS: Yeah.
PART II
ME: Well, what if it IS true, what women say? Then what does a couple do? Because if the man is simply going to get pissed off, then that's a total turn off. I'm not telling shit to a man who gives me crap about my fantasy world. On the other hand........
THOMAS: Yeah?
ME: I don't know what the other hand is, lol, only that for me it involves trust. Hence my disinterest in group sex. Too many people to vet for my trust issues. LMAO.
THOMAS: The point is, you’re not holding up your end of the deal, and by you, I mean women. I don't understand why a woman can't share, help out, let me be a part of her fantasy because MY fantasy includes HER.
ME: Hmmmm. In order.
1 - Who said I made a deal and that am now reneging on it? I don't ever remember telling a man I'd make that bargain.
THOMAS: Forget it, hon. You don't get it and that’s okay because this is how the world works and it sucks.
ME: 2 - I think a lot of us would like a little help, a hand to hold while getting out of the it's-just-for-me car, so to speak. An angry man cannot hold me hand. Now a man who talks to me outside of bedroom and is gentle with my embarrassment in bed (when fantasy enters into it, we women are often embarrassed) THAT man I could share fantasies with.
THOMAS: You could?
ME: Yeah. It's just a test. You know? To make sure he's worth the risk.
THOMAS: OK well that’s what I do, but I still don't have a woman telling me about a fantasy of hers. She’s still telling me no matter how much of a gentleman I am, they are her fantasies and she can't tell me. Like I said, go ahead and have the fantasies you keep to yourself, but for god’s sake please share one with me so we can keep things interesting and fun. Do not leave it all up to me. Cuz then what I think is that you don't - I mean, that women - don’t think about me in a fantasy type of way. And they don’t want me to know that.
ME: That's dress up for. Easy street into fantasyland. They don't have to be MY fantasies to be fun. I can suggest generic fantasies for fun and profit. ^_~ I like those.
THOMAS: I’m not talking about a man you just met, and I am not angry. This is just something I have dealt with my whole life. Any relationship I’ve been in long term, I get the same answer: I don't have fantasies. Think. If they aren’t your fantasies and there are only two people in the room, whose fantasy is it going to be?
ME: Ours. Whatever turns us on.
THOMAS: Well, no, it’s not ours because you don't want to share, remember?
ME: Ah! ~holding back laughter~ I see you have missed the most salient point, Grasshopper. Do you wish to hear it a different way?
THOMAS: I am all ears.
ME: Okay then. Let me use myself as the example. I'll be blunt and direct so as not to lose you. I am NOT this direct with a man without a lot of preamble... you'll see why.
ME: The crap I need to work out [in order to share a fantasy] is about sexual abuse. It's my issue and I want to be left alone to work it out in my way without having to explain or defend or... anything. It's mine; leave it alone. So many women (1 out of 3, and that’s just the childhood crap) have some version of personal pain associated with sex, and so when we -'scuse me, I- hear “Share one of your fantasies with me,” this is what I think the man’s asking for: my deepest darkest secret. Hence the unequivocal, No, I don’t have fantasies. However, when it comes to creating (instead of sharing) fantasies, I'm happy to play along. Role-playing fantasies are awesome. Love ‘em.
ME: Just remember that while, as a man, you are saying "entertain me,” I may be hearing "strip and share your scariest secrets."
THOMAS: So you are saying that fantasies have to do more with a bad experience, such as sexual abuse from your past. I’m not understanding why that would be a part of something fun. I get dealing with sexual issues because of things that have happened in the past, but I’m having a hard time putting sexual fantasy and something hurtful together.
THOMAS: Why does that happen? I don't get it
ME: Do you want to know how a woman (me, in this case) ends up with those two together? God knows, it doesn’t start out as something I did on purpose.
THOMAS: Yes.
ME: Okay, this is gonna a little sound strange, so stay with me here.
First you need to know that all "bad" behavior (think serial killer) is, at its foundation, behavior that allows the wounded party (think serial killer's childhood) to have some measure of control. The need to have control is just a grown up version of the need not to have had the soul-wrenching wound in the first place. So....
When a person (keep thinking serial killer) goes out a does horrific things, things we cannot imagine as being human, know that in his own mind (read: fantasy), he is simply trying to put things right. If he puts things right enough times then he will have, retroactively, NOT BEEN HURT IN THE FIRST PLACE.
ME: I'll pause here, but there’s more. You following so far?
THOMAS: I guess so, but the problem is you’re taking something that is purely for fun and turning it into some kind of psych dissertation. I just want to know if you want to put on a furry costume and fuck. I never thought of a fantasy as having anything to do with such dark feelings.
ME: I know, I know ~laughs~ and I'll get to that point -you’ll get your furry costume fuck- but first the slough of despond. Trust me, whether she tells you or not, somewhere in nearly every woman's mind is scary, fucked up place that pops up just when she’s ready to let go. It sucks. Want me to continue?
THOMAS: Sure. I can't wait.
ME: ~laughs~ Okay, this is me and my life as one example of what goes on in a woman's head. So here I am. I’ve done my recovery work, I’m as clear as anyone can be with sexual abuse issues, I'm at peace with the whole thing, and then WHAM! it fucking comes up during sex. I can't come. I can't think. I can’t rearrange my thoughts no matter how I try. And he wants to know what I'm fantasizing about? Mother fuck!!! get away! That’s my first reaction, but I am smarter than that. I let him do what he wants, and all the while I’m letting my mind go where it needs to go. I do not tell my partner because then he’ll want to be part of my fantasy and right now it needs to be mine.
ME: This is long because it’s a blow by blow - for the sake of clarity.
ME: Dude...? You still with me, or did you go off somewhere more interesting?
THOMAS: Nope, just reading. I’m with you
ME: So my man's fucking me and I'm fucking my uncle. [*It wasn’t my uncle, but you don’t need to know which family member it was.] Even if my partner wouldn't think this is a sick thing, I can't take the risk that he will. Understand that ABOVE ALL I need control in this scenario. Sound twisted? It gets more interesting.
THOMAS: OK
ME: In my mind it’s me in control. Being aroused by my uncle is my choice, not an accident of fate. I’m choosing every single fucked up detail, and I allow it all to play out any way I want it to, including fucking through my own self-disgust for having this fantasy. But this is what’s getting me off and so I’m going with it. For a long time, I screamed when I came, and apparently I scared the crap out of a couple of new partners ~laughs~ but hey, it’s my orgasm and I’ll scream if I want to. LMAO. I had me some shit to let out.
THOMAS: Atta girl!
ME: Anyway, every time I have this fantasy and cum, I get another piece of the puzzle that is me, and I get a little more control. And that experience owns me less. Eventually, I get to this place where I understand what I'm doing and why, and then.... Still with me?
THOMAS: Yes.
ME: Then I get to have a REAL fantasy. . . .
Dear sweet freaked-out readers. This is where I’ll stop for the night. Tomorrow brings this odyssey to a conclusion, and because like Thomas, you have hung in this long, there will also be a small reward.
****************************************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/ are copyrighted ©
and may not be used without permission from the creator.
Tonight the conversation gets more interesting, so I’ll say it again: this is adult material dealt with in an adult manner: direct, explicit, no holds barred. Here’s the caveat. If you’re uncomfortable with sexual exploration or not far enough into your own recovery work to feel balanced, then feel free to sit this one out. Same goes for family members. I don’t wish anyone to be unnecessarily upset.
To recap, what follows is a dialog between a man and a woman about fantasies and what frustrates each sex about the other. Men are frustrated and feel put off: locked out of where they most want to go. Women are frustrated and feel put upon: even though they closed the door, there’s no privacy. That’s the dance. There are many reasons for it and some of the reader comments are eloquent in naming them. I’m here to name one that most women don’t talk about.
The friend I’m conversing with hails from Peking Illinois, or so he says ^_~ so I’ll be calling him Peeking Thomas because I allow him to peek into my life and he allows me to peek into his. Nothing is off limits. Our friendship is that amazing. So here we go, down the rabbit hole, into the dark woods, off the cliff without a parachute; pick your own scary, exhilarating metaphor. I find that being in free fall is always an illuminating experience. When there is nothing resisting us and nothing holding us up that, my friend, is when we find out who we really are.
Here’s where we left off.
ME: If a man asked me to share a fantasy with him, I think I could ask him to do certain things while I did my own imagining, have a great time, and AFTER we're both exhausted and he has thoroughly enjoyed me enjoying myself, THEN I might tell him.
THOMAS: You’re putting all the responsibility on the man to keep sex interesting. It’s really unfair and frustrating, and this happens all the time. No matter who the woman is, I get the same response: “If I tell you, it won't be a fantasy any more.”
ME: So, you’re tired of holding the fantasy world on your shoulders? Poor thing.... ^_~
THOMAS: Yeah.
PART II
ME: Well, what if it IS true, what women say? Then what does a couple do? Because if the man is simply going to get pissed off, then that's a total turn off. I'm not telling shit to a man who gives me crap about my fantasy world. On the other hand........
THOMAS: Yeah?
ME: I don't know what the other hand is, lol, only that for me it involves trust. Hence my disinterest in group sex. Too many people to vet for my trust issues. LMAO.
THOMAS: The point is, you’re not holding up your end of the deal, and by you, I mean women. I don't understand why a woman can't share, help out, let me be a part of her fantasy because MY fantasy includes HER.
ME: Hmmmm. In order.
1 - Who said I made a deal and that am now reneging on it? I don't ever remember telling a man I'd make that bargain.
THOMAS: Forget it, hon. You don't get it and that’s okay because this is how the world works and it sucks.
ME: 2 - I think a lot of us would like a little help, a hand to hold while getting out of the it's-just-for-me car, so to speak. An angry man cannot hold me hand. Now a man who talks to me outside of bedroom and is gentle with my embarrassment in bed (when fantasy enters into it, we women are often embarrassed) THAT man I could share fantasies with.
THOMAS: You could?
ME: Yeah. It's just a test. You know? To make sure he's worth the risk.
THOMAS: OK well that’s what I do, but I still don't have a woman telling me about a fantasy of hers. She’s still telling me no matter how much of a gentleman I am, they are her fantasies and she can't tell me. Like I said, go ahead and have the fantasies you keep to yourself, but for god’s sake please share one with me so we can keep things interesting and fun. Do not leave it all up to me. Cuz then what I think is that you don't - I mean, that women - don’t think about me in a fantasy type of way. And they don’t want me to know that.
ME: That's dress up for. Easy street into fantasyland. They don't have to be MY fantasies to be fun. I can suggest generic fantasies for fun and profit. ^_~ I like those.
THOMAS: I’m not talking about a man you just met, and I am not angry. This is just something I have dealt with my whole life. Any relationship I’ve been in long term, I get the same answer: I don't have fantasies. Think. If they aren’t your fantasies and there are only two people in the room, whose fantasy is it going to be?
ME: Ours. Whatever turns us on.
THOMAS: Well, no, it’s not ours because you don't want to share, remember?
ME: Ah! ~holding back laughter~ I see you have missed the most salient point, Grasshopper. Do you wish to hear it a different way?
THOMAS: I am all ears.
ME: Okay then. Let me use myself as the example. I'll be blunt and direct so as not to lose you. I am NOT this direct with a man without a lot of preamble... you'll see why.
ME: The crap I need to work out [in order to share a fantasy] is about sexual abuse. It's my issue and I want to be left alone to work it out in my way without having to explain or defend or... anything. It's mine; leave it alone. So many women (1 out of 3, and that’s just the childhood crap) have some version of personal pain associated with sex, and so when we -'scuse me, I- hear “Share one of your fantasies with me,” this is what I think the man’s asking for: my deepest darkest secret. Hence the unequivocal, No, I don’t have fantasies. However, when it comes to creating (instead of sharing) fantasies, I'm happy to play along. Role-playing fantasies are awesome. Love ‘em.
ME: Just remember that while, as a man, you are saying "entertain me,” I may be hearing "strip and share your scariest secrets."
THOMAS: So you are saying that fantasies have to do more with a bad experience, such as sexual abuse from your past. I’m not understanding why that would be a part of something fun. I get dealing with sexual issues because of things that have happened in the past, but I’m having a hard time putting sexual fantasy and something hurtful together.
THOMAS: Why does that happen? I don't get it
ME: Do you want to know how a woman (me, in this case) ends up with those two together? God knows, it doesn’t start out as something I did on purpose.
THOMAS: Yes.
ME: Okay, this is gonna a little sound strange, so stay with me here.
First you need to know that all "bad" behavior (think serial killer) is, at its foundation, behavior that allows the wounded party (think serial killer's childhood) to have some measure of control. The need to have control is just a grown up version of the need not to have had the soul-wrenching wound in the first place. So....
When a person (keep thinking serial killer) goes out a does horrific things, things we cannot imagine as being human, know that in his own mind (read: fantasy), he is simply trying to put things right. If he puts things right enough times then he will have, retroactively, NOT BEEN HURT IN THE FIRST PLACE.
ME: I'll pause here, but there’s more. You following so far?
THOMAS: I guess so, but the problem is you’re taking something that is purely for fun and turning it into some kind of psych dissertation. I just want to know if you want to put on a furry costume and fuck. I never thought of a fantasy as having anything to do with such dark feelings.
ME: I know, I know ~laughs~ and I'll get to that point -you’ll get your furry costume fuck- but first the slough of despond. Trust me, whether she tells you or not, somewhere in nearly every woman's mind is scary, fucked up place that pops up just when she’s ready to let go. It sucks. Want me to continue?
THOMAS: Sure. I can't wait.
ME: ~laughs~ Okay, this is me and my life as one example of what goes on in a woman's head. So here I am. I’ve done my recovery work, I’m as clear as anyone can be with sexual abuse issues, I'm at peace with the whole thing, and then WHAM! it fucking comes up during sex. I can't come. I can't think. I can’t rearrange my thoughts no matter how I try. And he wants to know what I'm fantasizing about? Mother fuck!!! get away! That’s my first reaction, but I am smarter than that. I let him do what he wants, and all the while I’m letting my mind go where it needs to go. I do not tell my partner because then he’ll want to be part of my fantasy and right now it needs to be mine.
ME: This is long because it’s a blow by blow - for the sake of clarity.
ME: Dude...? You still with me, or did you go off somewhere more interesting?
THOMAS: Nope, just reading. I’m with you
ME: So my man's fucking me and I'm fucking my uncle. [*It wasn’t my uncle, but you don’t need to know which family member it was.] Even if my partner wouldn't think this is a sick thing, I can't take the risk that he will. Understand that ABOVE ALL I need control in this scenario. Sound twisted? It gets more interesting.
THOMAS: OK
ME: In my mind it’s me in control. Being aroused by my uncle is my choice, not an accident of fate. I’m choosing every single fucked up detail, and I allow it all to play out any way I want it to, including fucking through my own self-disgust for having this fantasy. But this is what’s getting me off and so I’m going with it. For a long time, I screamed when I came, and apparently I scared the crap out of a couple of new partners ~laughs~ but hey, it’s my orgasm and I’ll scream if I want to. LMAO. I had me some shit to let out.
THOMAS: Atta girl!
ME: Anyway, every time I have this fantasy and cum, I get another piece of the puzzle that is me, and I get a little more control. And that experience owns me less. Eventually, I get to this place where I understand what I'm doing and why, and then.... Still with me?
THOMAS: Yes.
ME: Then I get to have a REAL fantasy. . . .
Dear sweet freaked-out readers. This is where I’ll stop for the night. Tomorrow brings this odyssey to a conclusion, and because like Thomas, you have hung in this long, there will also be a small reward.
****************************************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/ are copyrighted ©
and may not be used without permission from the creator.
06 March 2010
Are you a freaky girl?
Well, crap. When I started out, I described tonight’s blog as “adult material dealt with in an adult manner: direct, explicit, no holds barred and no punches pulled.” Sounds juicy, no? Well, no, as it turns out. The original piece is 4000 words, give or take. My usual posts run 700 to 800 words with occasional forays into the thousand-word range. That’s a lot for a blog. I don’t want to lose you, oh dear readers of mine, so I tried dividing this piece and... let’s just say it loses momentum.
What I have right now is 1100 words of dialog and a headache. And quite possibly a freak show. I have no idea why I thought you’d find this conversation interesting; titillating, yes, but that wasn’t supposed to be the point.
What follows is a transcript of a conversation I had this afternoon. Ultimately, it becomes a dialog between a man and a woman about fantasies and what frustrates each sex about the other, but that’s a ways down the line. So consider tonight’s chapter of MyZeroBDayBlog the back-story to something surprising. My friend hails from Peking Illinois, or so he says ^_~ so I’ll be calling him Peeking Thomas because I allow him to peek into my life and he allows me to peek into his. Nothing is off limits. Our friendship is that amazing. And no, he is not a sexual partner. ~sigh~ Again with porn thoughts. People, I am a trained literary essayist.
PEEKING THOMAS - We ended up back at my place sucking and fucking. I had my friend O with us and M fucked her well.
ME - ~listening ~
PEEKING THOMAS - Then Friday I got to live out my fantasy of serving at a party of all women. Well lucky me, all the women that came to my party are bi. I invited O and M to the party. Oh my, lots of naked chubby girls fucking each other. I had to quiet them down a couple of times. You know its really very hot seeing 6 naked women kissing and fucking each other.
ME - lol. You just died and went to heaven, didn't you?
PEEKING THOMAS - I am fortunate to have such wonderful friends
ME - Yes you are, my boy.
PEEKING THOMAS - Have you ever played that way Honey?
ME - It’s never been my thing. It’s amusing to me that I find the whole swinger thing so interesting to HEAR about but not at all interesting to do.
PEEKING THOMAS - Well, we have an interesting relationship.
ME - Yes we do. And it's my nature to want to know things. So do tell more.
PEEKING THOMAS - ~smiles~ Are you a freaky girl?
ME - I am, just not with more than one person at a time. LOL. Did I tell you I have sex workers following me on Twitter?
PEEKING THOMAS - You do, why?
ME - The name, Sins of the Eldest, is how they get there, I imagine. I think they stay because of my POV. I fully support sex workers and the right for everyone to have a good time sexually.
PEEKING THOMAS - I agree. I think it should be legal.
ME - If they’re not hurting me and they’re not hurting anybody else, then I’ve no right to judge.
PEEKING THOMAS - Absolutely.
ME - And there is the whole idea of “sin.” It's a much broader and more interesting topic than just sex. Or morality, for that matter.
THOMAS - So you haven't told me. Are you a freaky girl?
ME - ~laughs~ Well, define freak.
THOMAS - Ya know what I like about things like I had last night? It was real people doing things you would never think they would do. These were chubby professional women, two nurses, an HR person, a teacher, a marketing person, and a business woman, all clean, all in relationships, getting naked making out and fucking because it’s what they want to do.
ME - Cool. Seriously, I like that take on things.
THOMAS - I know, right? I don't want to see some one with fake tits or air brushed. You get these perfect looking women that are lame in the sack.
ME - I like the idea of sexual fun that doesn't require a woman to look perfect. I like that these women went at it like rabbits without worrying about how they looked. Now THAT I'd like to see more of in the world.
THOMAS - Some were worried about how they looked. They wanted the lights turned down.
ME - Low lights: Mother Nature's airbrushing. lol
THOMAS - Alright, I shared. Now you have to tell me something about your sex life or what you want to try some day.
ME - I have no goals, sexually speaking. I have no fantasies I need fulfilled. I am more of a going-along-with-my-man sort of girl.
THOMAS - Why do women always say that?
ME - ~shrugs~ cuz it's true?
THOMAS - Women never have sexual fantasies to share. They just say they never think about it. Come on.
ME - I have fantasies, but they’re just for me. I don't need to see them acted out. In fact, to see that diminishes the experience for me.
THOMAS - Another typical answer. I’m surprised. I did not expect that from you.
ME - I had a swinger once, we fucked for the better part of a year, and I got a lot of ya-ya's out that way.
THOMAS - what are ya-ya’s?
ME - I had some shit to work thru, and sex is a processing tool for me. Given the stuff this swinger wanted to do, I was able (in the privacy of my own little head) fuck out some of the crap I needed to let go of. It was awesome. He didn't need to know.
THOMAS - I’m lost.
ME - The fantasies were just for me. The problem with externalizing fantasies is that once they’re out, they no longer serve their purpose, at least not for me.
THOMAS - Why do women never admit to having a fantasy, but if they do they don't want to share? I find it frustrating and disappointing.
ME - Sorry. Different strokes for different body parts.
THOMAS - Why can't women have a fantasy to live out and a fantasy to keep to them selves?
ME - It's my brain that wants things. And my brain likes privacy.
THOMAS - Honestly, I think it’s a cop out.
ME - You know I love you, but who died and made you God? I mean, what if what women say IS the truth & not a cop out? It's not all about you, this fantasy business.
THOMAS - How is it that men are the only ones who are supposed to come up with fantasies and scenarios and so on. I mean, so women are off the hook because they have to keep everything in their minds?
ME - If a man asked me to share a fantasy with him, I think I could ask him to do certain things while I did my own imagining, have a great time, and AFTER we're both exhausted and he has thoroughly enjoyed me enjoying myself, THEN I might tell him.
THOMAS - You’re putting all the responsibility on the man to keep sex interesting. It’s really unfair and frustrating, and this happens all the time. No matter who the woman is, you get the same response: “If I tell you, it won't be a fantasy any more.”
ME - So, you’re tired of holding up the fantasy world on your little shoulders? Poor thing! ^_~ No, no, I’m serious. Are you?
THOMAS - Yeah.
Dear sweet titillated readers. This is where I’ll stop for the night. Tomorrow brings an exchange between Thomas and me on fantasies, a frank he-said-she-said discussion. It veers into some unexpected territory. Some of you will find it frightening and some will find it fascinating. It begins with this:
ME - Well . . . again, what if it IS true, what women say? Then what does a couple do?
****************************************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/ are copyrighted ©
and may not be used without permission from the creator.
What I have right now is 1100 words of dialog and a headache. And quite possibly a freak show. I have no idea why I thought you’d find this conversation interesting; titillating, yes, but that wasn’t supposed to be the point.
What follows is a transcript of a conversation I had this afternoon. Ultimately, it becomes a dialog between a man and a woman about fantasies and what frustrates each sex about the other, but that’s a ways down the line. So consider tonight’s chapter of MyZeroBDayBlog the back-story to something surprising. My friend hails from Peking Illinois, or so he says ^_~ so I’ll be calling him Peeking Thomas because I allow him to peek into my life and he allows me to peek into his. Nothing is off limits. Our friendship is that amazing. And no, he is not a sexual partner. ~sigh~ Again with porn thoughts. People, I am a trained literary essayist.
PEEKING THOMAS - We ended up back at my place sucking and fucking. I had my friend O with us and M fucked her well.
ME - ~listening ~
PEEKING THOMAS - Then Friday I got to live out my fantasy of serving at a party of all women. Well lucky me, all the women that came to my party are bi. I invited O and M to the party. Oh my, lots of naked chubby girls fucking each other. I had to quiet them down a couple of times. You know its really very hot seeing 6 naked women kissing and fucking each other.
ME - lol. You just died and went to heaven, didn't you?
PEEKING THOMAS - I am fortunate to have such wonderful friends
ME - Yes you are, my boy.
PEEKING THOMAS - Have you ever played that way Honey?
ME - It’s never been my thing. It’s amusing to me that I find the whole swinger thing so interesting to HEAR about but not at all interesting to do.
PEEKING THOMAS - Well, we have an interesting relationship.
ME - Yes we do. And it's my nature to want to know things. So do tell more.
PEEKING THOMAS - ~smiles~ Are you a freaky girl?
ME - I am, just not with more than one person at a time. LOL. Did I tell you I have sex workers following me on Twitter?
PEEKING THOMAS - You do, why?
ME - The name, Sins of the Eldest, is how they get there, I imagine. I think they stay because of my POV. I fully support sex workers and the right for everyone to have a good time sexually.
PEEKING THOMAS - I agree. I think it should be legal.
ME - If they’re not hurting me and they’re not hurting anybody else, then I’ve no right to judge.
PEEKING THOMAS - Absolutely.
ME - And there is the whole idea of “sin.” It's a much broader and more interesting topic than just sex. Or morality, for that matter.
THOMAS - So you haven't told me. Are you a freaky girl?
ME - ~laughs~ Well, define freak.
THOMAS - Ya know what I like about things like I had last night? It was real people doing things you would never think they would do. These were chubby professional women, two nurses, an HR person, a teacher, a marketing person, and a business woman, all clean, all in relationships, getting naked making out and fucking because it’s what they want to do.
ME - Cool. Seriously, I like that take on things.
THOMAS - I know, right? I don't want to see some one with fake tits or air brushed. You get these perfect looking women that are lame in the sack.
ME - I like the idea of sexual fun that doesn't require a woman to look perfect. I like that these women went at it like rabbits without worrying about how they looked. Now THAT I'd like to see more of in the world.
THOMAS - Some were worried about how they looked. They wanted the lights turned down.
ME - Low lights: Mother Nature's airbrushing. lol
THOMAS - Alright, I shared. Now you have to tell me something about your sex life or what you want to try some day.
ME - I have no goals, sexually speaking. I have no fantasies I need fulfilled. I am more of a going-along-with-my-man sort of girl.
THOMAS - Why do women always say that?
ME - ~shrugs~ cuz it's true?
THOMAS - Women never have sexual fantasies to share. They just say they never think about it. Come on.
ME - I have fantasies, but they’re just for me. I don't need to see them acted out. In fact, to see that diminishes the experience for me.
THOMAS - Another typical answer. I’m surprised. I did not expect that from you.
ME - I had a swinger once, we fucked for the better part of a year, and I got a lot of ya-ya's out that way.
THOMAS - what are ya-ya’s?
ME - I had some shit to work thru, and sex is a processing tool for me. Given the stuff this swinger wanted to do, I was able (in the privacy of my own little head) fuck out some of the crap I needed to let go of. It was awesome. He didn't need to know.
THOMAS - I’m lost.
ME - The fantasies were just for me. The problem with externalizing fantasies is that once they’re out, they no longer serve their purpose, at least not for me.
THOMAS - Why do women never admit to having a fantasy, but if they do they don't want to share? I find it frustrating and disappointing.
ME - Sorry. Different strokes for different body parts.
THOMAS - Why can't women have a fantasy to live out and a fantasy to keep to them selves?
ME - It's my brain that wants things. And my brain likes privacy.
THOMAS - Honestly, I think it’s a cop out.
ME - You know I love you, but who died and made you God? I mean, what if what women say IS the truth & not a cop out? It's not all about you, this fantasy business.
THOMAS - How is it that men are the only ones who are supposed to come up with fantasies and scenarios and so on. I mean, so women are off the hook because they have to keep everything in their minds?
ME - If a man asked me to share a fantasy with him, I think I could ask him to do certain things while I did my own imagining, have a great time, and AFTER we're both exhausted and he has thoroughly enjoyed me enjoying myself, THEN I might tell him.
THOMAS - You’re putting all the responsibility on the man to keep sex interesting. It’s really unfair and frustrating, and this happens all the time. No matter who the woman is, you get the same response: “If I tell you, it won't be a fantasy any more.”
ME - So, you’re tired of holding up the fantasy world on your little shoulders? Poor thing! ^_~ No, no, I’m serious. Are you?
THOMAS - Yeah.
Dear sweet titillated readers. This is where I’ll stop for the night. Tomorrow brings an exchange between Thomas and me on fantasies, a frank he-said-she-said discussion. It veers into some unexpected territory. Some of you will find it frightening and some will find it fascinating. It begins with this:
ME - Well . . . again, what if it IS true, what women say? Then what does a couple do?
****************************************************************************************************
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/ are copyrighted ©
and may not be used without permission from the creator.
Poke me! My goose is cooked.
Hello Dear Readers,
I have had an awesome time celebrating my birthday this week and an equally awesome time writing MyZeroBDayBlog this past two weeks. And now I find myself sleepless. It's 3AM. Night after night, I am now up till three or four in the morning (last night it was six), which is fun for me - I'm a night owl - but does make for a late start to the day, assuming I can sleep in. And so without further ado, I give you the week from hell that preceded my first official episode of hypomania. God only knows how people with full blown manic episodes manage to remain sane.
This entry, written as a letter to a friend, is scarce on the actual details of what I did to cope, but I will tell you that during my one-hour, 16-year-old-style temper tantrum, I turned my speakers up full blast and set them face down on the floor. I also turned on every machine I had, from bathroom fan to dishwasher, washer, dryer; I had no coffee grinder or I might have used that as well. It WAS fun, in a totally out of control way.
So off I go, paperback and sleepy-time meds in hand. Hope you enjoy tonight's entry. ~yawns~
Goodnight!
=========================================================
9 December — scratch that — 10 December 2008
Subject: Poke me! My goose is cooked.
Hey, Geoff, got your poke the other day on Face Book. I woulda poked back, but with the mood I’ve been in, it might have felt more like an elbow to the ribs. Dude, I officially lost it today.
My 30-something downstairs neighbor has been making noise like a sixteen year old. You know, nonstop movies sex movies sex . . . . sex; pizza. Good for him, I say, have a nice time. That was day one. Day three had me imagining they’d come up for air soon, or at least back to consciousness regarding the presence of other people in the world, and okay, I can deal with that. Today was day 6 or 7. I think. I’ve lost count. Not sleeping will do that. The last time I knocked (AND rang the doorbell) — at 1 am — they hid like children while I stood there thinking, “Do not freakin' make me act like a mom, cuz I can do it.” Still no answer, but the music stopped. Think they heard me? If only.
All the up, up, up late nights and early mornings has me so wired that there is no down. I’m an insomniac, and now I have new triggers for that insomnia. Normally I could rearrange the furniture or organize the cupboards until I’m sleepy, but I live in an apartment. I miss having a house. I miss being where I can indulge my needs without a thought for anyone but myself; acting sixteen rocks. I love cranking my music. I love movies so loud that it feels like the theater. I love sex — morning time, nighttime, loud time, what’s not to love? I don’t even mind having to listen to it now; good for him I say at 7 am, we should all be so lucky. I don’t mind, that is, until I haven’t gotten sleep for days because of the music movies music movies, talking talking talking (my neighbor has a lovely deep voice; bummer for me) that goes into the night before the morning sex. Jesus, Geoff, I do not want to tell someone to shut the hell up when he’s having a good time. None of us get enough of those times. So here I am. Sleepless.
I figured it would pass, the noise, my sleeplessness. I figured this guy was an adult and we’d get to chat soon and I could say, “Dude, you are so on my shit list!” Then we’d laugh, perhaps nervously, and both make a few concessions. After all, he works at home, too. I figured we’d be all the better for it. Shit, I even figured that I’d get to call in the marker when “my sailor” got back to town (what’s good for the goose and all that), but that happy fantasy failed to materialize. Anyway, I figured that I would see my neighbor soon enough and then I’d ask about the car appearing in my parking spot the same time his company appeared. (I mean just ask, right?) No point in a pissing contest over parking, or noise, or . . . so I waited. I did not figure the wait would be a week and so now, today, I’m too pissed to process let alone talk.
Ever take the Dark Side quiz on Face Book? My result was “Quiet,” meaning that I handle my shit on my own; no one knows I have a dark side because I don’t expect them to deal with it for the most part. Fast forward to today when I let out my own version of a-week-in-the-life-of-a-sixteen-year-old — condensed down to an hour. The cacophony was truly impressive. It expressed all I had to say.
Friends have told me I need to quit expecting that others will necessarily behave, you know, “like an adult.” Apparently I quit expecting that today. Afterward, my neighbor left a letter on my doorstep, the upshot of which meant he’d be contacting his lawyer. (!) It shook me for a minute — Jesus, Joseph, Mary and the mule! — but I decided not to go there. I sealed the letter, unread, in an envelope and began writing to you. (Here’s where I skip the laundry list running through my head of all the things I do to ensure I make as little unnecessary noise as possible. But just let me say that if I stopped, I’m pretty damn sure he’d notice.)
I know. We all create our own reality. Good thing because I am sooo ready to be done with this one. I am out of patience, out of money, and out of good health, none of which has anything to do with my downstairs neighbor, per se; so even though his behavior adversely impacts me, I’ve been taking it like a good little soldier. It’s what I do. Ask anyone who has been spayed/neutered, fed, clothed, housed, counseled, chauffeured, tutored, doctored, or generally adopted and cared for by me. Yesterday, when I said to my auntie (who is in need of doctoring again) that my career doesn’t even make the list anymore, she said with surprise, “What career?”
Exactly. So the universe conspires to bring me people and events that reflect how I show respect and responsiveness to others more than I do to myself; more importantly, that this gets me nowhere.
The universe has also recently conspired to bring me things that could advance my career as a writer, but I’ve no time to respond to these opportunities; I am busy caring for and/or coping with those who assume that, because I do this, I have nothing better to do. Is my downstairs neighbor one of these people? Feels like it today. Without a doubt, I need to sleep if I am to recover my health, and I need to work if I am ever to be published. To do these things, I need to live in an environment that is responsive to my needs. This includes being forgiven when my music is loud and I’ve failed to notice that I’m no longer alone in the building, and being pardoned when I finally give the new housemate –and his anger management issues — the boot. It happens. I have silently offered forgiveness for these same omissions of consideration. At least I did until today.
Well, Scarlet, tomorrow is another day, though of course for me it’s already here; it’s after one. I wonder if my neighbor can hear my old chair creaking, as I sit here at my computer, as well as I can hear his television, which rests quietly for now, below me.
=========================================================
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/ are copyrighted ©
and may not be used without permission from the creator.
I have had an awesome time celebrating my birthday this week and an equally awesome time writing MyZeroBDayBlog this past two weeks. And now I find myself sleepless. It's 3AM. Night after night, I am now up till three or four in the morning (last night it was six), which is fun for me - I'm a night owl - but does make for a late start to the day, assuming I can sleep in. And so without further ado, I give you the week from hell that preceded my first official episode of hypomania. God only knows how people with full blown manic episodes manage to remain sane.
This entry, written as a letter to a friend, is scarce on the actual details of what I did to cope, but I will tell you that during my one-hour, 16-year-old-style temper tantrum, I turned my speakers up full blast and set them face down on the floor. I also turned on every machine I had, from bathroom fan to dishwasher, washer, dryer; I had no coffee grinder or I might have used that as well. It WAS fun, in a totally out of control way.
So off I go, paperback and sleepy-time meds in hand. Hope you enjoy tonight's entry. ~yawns~
Goodnight!
=========================================================
9 December — scratch that — 10 December 2008
Subject: Poke me! My goose is cooked.
Hey, Geoff, got your poke the other day on Face Book. I woulda poked back, but with the mood I’ve been in, it might have felt more like an elbow to the ribs. Dude, I officially lost it today.
My 30-something downstairs neighbor has been making noise like a sixteen year old. You know, nonstop movies sex movies sex . . . . sex; pizza. Good for him, I say, have a nice time. That was day one. Day three had me imagining they’d come up for air soon, or at least back to consciousness regarding the presence of other people in the world, and okay, I can deal with that. Today was day 6 or 7. I think. I’ve lost count. Not sleeping will do that. The last time I knocked (AND rang the doorbell) — at 1 am — they hid like children while I stood there thinking, “Do not freakin' make me act like a mom, cuz I can do it.” Still no answer, but the music stopped. Think they heard me? If only.
All the up, up, up late nights and early mornings has me so wired that there is no down. I’m an insomniac, and now I have new triggers for that insomnia. Normally I could rearrange the furniture or organize the cupboards until I’m sleepy, but I live in an apartment. I miss having a house. I miss being where I can indulge my needs without a thought for anyone but myself; acting sixteen rocks. I love cranking my music. I love movies so loud that it feels like the theater. I love sex — morning time, nighttime, loud time, what’s not to love? I don’t even mind having to listen to it now; good for him I say at 7 am, we should all be so lucky. I don’t mind, that is, until I haven’t gotten sleep for days because of the music movies music movies, talking talking talking (my neighbor has a lovely deep voice; bummer for me) that goes into the night before the morning sex. Jesus, Geoff, I do not want to tell someone to shut the hell up when he’s having a good time. None of us get enough of those times. So here I am. Sleepless.
I figured it would pass, the noise, my sleeplessness. I figured this guy was an adult and we’d get to chat soon and I could say, “Dude, you are so on my shit list!” Then we’d laugh, perhaps nervously, and both make a few concessions. After all, he works at home, too. I figured we’d be all the better for it. Shit, I even figured that I’d get to call in the marker when “my sailor” got back to town (what’s good for the goose and all that), but that happy fantasy failed to materialize. Anyway, I figured that I would see my neighbor soon enough and then I’d ask about the car appearing in my parking spot the same time his company appeared. (I mean just ask, right?) No point in a pissing contest over parking, or noise, or . . . so I waited. I did not figure the wait would be a week and so now, today, I’m too pissed to process let alone talk.
Ever take the Dark Side quiz on Face Book? My result was “Quiet,” meaning that I handle my shit on my own; no one knows I have a dark side because I don’t expect them to deal with it for the most part. Fast forward to today when I let out my own version of a-week-in-the-life-of-a-sixteen-year-old — condensed down to an hour. The cacophony was truly impressive. It expressed all I had to say.
Friends have told me I need to quit expecting that others will necessarily behave, you know, “like an adult.” Apparently I quit expecting that today. Afterward, my neighbor left a letter on my doorstep, the upshot of which meant he’d be contacting his lawyer. (!) It shook me for a minute — Jesus, Joseph, Mary and the mule! — but I decided not to go there. I sealed the letter, unread, in an envelope and began writing to you. (Here’s where I skip the laundry list running through my head of all the things I do to ensure I make as little unnecessary noise as possible. But just let me say that if I stopped, I’m pretty damn sure he’d notice.)
I know. We all create our own reality. Good thing because I am sooo ready to be done with this one. I am out of patience, out of money, and out of good health, none of which has anything to do with my downstairs neighbor, per se; so even though his behavior adversely impacts me, I’ve been taking it like a good little soldier. It’s what I do. Ask anyone who has been spayed/neutered, fed, clothed, housed, counseled, chauffeured, tutored, doctored, or generally adopted and cared for by me. Yesterday, when I said to my auntie (who is in need of doctoring again) that my career doesn’t even make the list anymore, she said with surprise, “What career?”
Exactly. So the universe conspires to bring me people and events that reflect how I show respect and responsiveness to others more than I do to myself; more importantly, that this gets me nowhere.
The universe has also recently conspired to bring me things that could advance my career as a writer, but I’ve no time to respond to these opportunities; I am busy caring for and/or coping with those who assume that, because I do this, I have nothing better to do. Is my downstairs neighbor one of these people? Feels like it today. Without a doubt, I need to sleep if I am to recover my health, and I need to work if I am ever to be published. To do these things, I need to live in an environment that is responsive to my needs. This includes being forgiven when my music is loud and I’ve failed to notice that I’m no longer alone in the building, and being pardoned when I finally give the new housemate –and his anger management issues — the boot. It happens. I have silently offered forgiveness for these same omissions of consideration. At least I did until today.
Well, Scarlet, tomorrow is another day, though of course for me it’s already here; it’s after one. I wonder if my neighbor can hear my old chair creaking, as I sit here at my computer, as well as I can hear his television, which rests quietly for now, below me.
=========================================================
All contents of Sins of the Eldest Daughter / dinarozellebarnett.blogspot.com/ are copyrighted ©
and may not be used without permission from the creator.
05 March 2010
The Monster in the Mirror
It’s late, late enough that I would be wise to sleep and leave this blog till a saner hour. But do mothers sleep when their child lies awake crying? They wish to, but whether lying willfully alone in bed or snuggled up with their child, they are wakeful when those they love cannot sleep.
Tonight I am wakeful to a period in my life two years ago, early February 2008, just before the man I loved broke me. It doesn’t matter what he said; my friends and family were scraping me off the floor for months. They weren’t surprised at the outcome, all having been certain that things would be fine if I’d just heed advice and walk away from the snake. Eve was taken to task for listening to the snake and eating the apple. Had I been in her skin, however, I would have forgone the fruit to pick up and examine the marvelous snake. The snake is a being I can be in relationship to. No matter what work I am engaged in, no matter what the writing, I am always focused upon relationship.
Amid many relationship struggles that Z and I had before we split, was this one: WHAT DO YOU DO ALL DAY? and why I wouldn’t tell him?
Z had accused me of not trusting him, and truly that is a different story than the one at hand, but it did get me to thinking about how I shared my writing, if I shared it, and why. So one night I asked him, “If I were trusting you, what would that look like?” He didn’t have a picture so much as a list of what I wouldn’t be doing, but no matter because here was my little monster staring right back at me, saying, “Are you ever going to let me out and into the light, or are conditions going to have to be perfectly perfect?”
Here little monster, chew on this. It’s called paper. What do you think.... you like it? You want some more? How about ink.... want to draw? paint? dance? sing? Have at it, honey. This piece is all yours.
Goodnight, kind readers, see you all tomorrow when you are encouraged to bring little monsters of your own.
Tonight I am wakeful to a period in my life two years ago, early February 2008, just before the man I loved broke me. It doesn’t matter what he said; my friends and family were scraping me off the floor for months. They weren’t surprised at the outcome, all having been certain that things would be fine if I’d just heed advice and walk away from the snake. Eve was taken to task for listening to the snake and eating the apple. Had I been in her skin, however, I would have forgone the fruit to pick up and examine the marvelous snake. The snake is a being I can be in relationship to. No matter what work I am engaged in, no matter what the writing, I am always focused upon relationship.
Amid many relationship struggles that Z and I had before we split, was this one: WHAT DO YOU DO ALL DAY? and why I wouldn’t tell him?
THURSDAY 7 FEB. 2008 WHAT DO I DO?
All day, every day, I am sorting out relationships and myself in relation to them. I was imprinted in a relationally poisonous environment, a dangerous environment, one that required I conceal its essential nature. So, given that all parts of my being are focused on relationship and how it functions - for good or for ill - it is only natural that I hide what I do, for I am investigating the one thing I was forbidden to see into as a child. To see and to speak the truth are my sins, the sins of the eldest daughter. Each and every day, so that I might better understand it, I am holding in my hands and in my heart the one dangerous thing that sane human beings would, will, HAVE told me to release. In short: the snake in the garden.
How can I admit to this? Why would I? What good could come of it? Judgment will surely be my only payment for such confession of purpose.
Even so, dear curious ones, here it is. If I am to hold this dangerous thing, if I am to investigate the forbidden room; then my man, as my mother, must be emotionally unavailable, unwilling, and unkind, yes; but also adrift in denial, buying me with gifts and loving words; and most of all, the piece de resistance, judgmental of my “wasting” time pursuing knowledge of the one thing he (like my mother) would keep hidden at all costs: SELF in relation to OTHER. That’s where the pain is. That’s where life shows you the work to be done.
What do I do all day? I look at the monster within myself by carefully examining the monster reflected to me by others, those others I love and feel unseen by. We cannot with the naked eye see the monster within ourselves, but we feel it. We fear it. We flee from it. We might as well try and flee from our own internal organs.
Interestingly, the more and more I apply the hand mirror of relationship, the more and more and more those “sane” human beings around me deny existence of the monster in me and point to Z as The Monster in Our Midst. They say:
• He needs to grow up.
• He needs to take responsibility for himself.
• He’ll never make it in the world if he cannot sort things out in a relationship; this is the blueprint.
• He needs to learn to control his temper, get a grip.
• “I’ve never felt such anger” / “I’ve never seen anyone turn so cold” except [fill in name of ex-bitch, ex-asshole, etc....]
• His emotional development is arrested at the point where he started doing drugs.
• He needs to be with someone at his own level (read: age and/or immaturity).
There’s more, but the point is this: there isn’t anything said about Z that couldn’t also be said about me (or most of his detractors, for that matter). His monster is my monster is his monster is mine.
Only our most intimate others - husbands, wives, lovers, pets, children - ever truly feel the teeth of the monster we hide in our bellies, behind the smile and the good deeds and the overeating and over-helping and over-shopping; only our most intimate others experience the pain of our denial of the darker self, the shadow, the retched sinner; and we are blessed if one day we wake up and see, reflected in their unenlightened eyes, our own monster looking back at us.
(Hey little monster, want a cookie?)
Z had accused me of not trusting him, and truly that is a different story than the one at hand, but it did get me to thinking about how I shared my writing, if I shared it, and why. So one night I asked him, “If I were trusting you, what would that look like?” He didn’t have a picture so much as a list of what I wouldn’t be doing, but no matter because here was my little monster staring right back at me, saying, “Are you ever going to let me out and into the light, or are conditions going to have to be perfectly perfect?”
Here little monster, chew on this. It’s called paper. What do you think.... you like it? You want some more? How about ink.... want to draw? paint? dance? sing? Have at it, honey. This piece is all yours.
Goodnight, kind readers, see you all tomorrow when you are encouraged to bring little monsters of your own.
03 March 2010
Lullaby
Tonight I am writing early. Tonight I plan to sleep. This is something of a radical concept for me, the plan to sleep. I do not indulge in sleep as recreation; naps seem pure extravagance. And I do not court sleep. Instead, I wait till it takes me by force, like a lover who won’t be denied. I sleep only because I can no longer remain awake, a perpetual child trying to stay up for the celebration at midnight.
But tonight, my glass holds the last of a good pinot noir, my cup holds pomegranate seeds covered in dark chocolate, my bookcase holds three cards and a fresh new journal, and in my fridge sit three kinds of scrumptious leftovers, all birthday gifts. Tonight The Eels are singing End Times and I am courting sleep.
Tonight I am pausing to contemplate the amazing people who have wandered into my life; strong women, sensitive men, old friends who have loved me through unimaginable hardship, and new friends who can only imagine me as the confident woman I have become. I don’t know that I’ve done anything extraordinary to merit the appearance of such exceptional people in my life. Even my sweet tempered cat made the decision to adopt me, not the other way around. And as I sit here listening to guitar strummed in a minor key, I feel treasured in a way that only the celebration of my birthday can make me feel.
People ask me how I came to love my birthday so much, why I celebrate it for far longer than just the one day or the one party, and I can tell them the history, how this began with a mother who made every birthday special, how my husband made every year a different celebration to make me happy, how being single taught me the value of reaching out to share this joy with others, but that’s just a story. The fact is that I have, without conscious intent, learned to nurture myself by way of my birthday. The idea of nurturing myself has always sounded, quite frankly, like a lot of work learning new habits and doing things I can’t afford. Like I said, I don’t even indulge in sleep.
But my birthday, that is an indulgence I love, and over the years my birthday has loved me back by way of the people who join me to celebrate it. This year I received the most beautiful carving of a Hindu goddess, a statue not a figurine, of the goddess who nurtures growth and abundance. The man brought this to me purchased it for my last birthday but was unable to send it. For a year he has carried it with him on aircraft carriers and missions to North Korea; three times to Afghanistan, he carried it; and with him it has remained until he could land here, on my birthday, to give it to me.
Large or small, every gift is from the heart of someone I care about and so every gift brings to me another heart song of appreciation, and all year long these songs weave for me a lullaby of love. Tonight I will court sleep by listening to the lullaby that sings from all corners of my home. The treasure of sleep cannot be far.
But tonight, my glass holds the last of a good pinot noir, my cup holds pomegranate seeds covered in dark chocolate, my bookcase holds three cards and a fresh new journal, and in my fridge sit three kinds of scrumptious leftovers, all birthday gifts. Tonight The Eels are singing End Times and I am courting sleep.
Tonight I am pausing to contemplate the amazing people who have wandered into my life; strong women, sensitive men, old friends who have loved me through unimaginable hardship, and new friends who can only imagine me as the confident woman I have become. I don’t know that I’ve done anything extraordinary to merit the appearance of such exceptional people in my life. Even my sweet tempered cat made the decision to adopt me, not the other way around. And as I sit here listening to guitar strummed in a minor key, I feel treasured in a way that only the celebration of my birthday can make me feel.
People ask me how I came to love my birthday so much, why I celebrate it for far longer than just the one day or the one party, and I can tell them the history, how this began with a mother who made every birthday special, how my husband made every year a different celebration to make me happy, how being single taught me the value of reaching out to share this joy with others, but that’s just a story. The fact is that I have, without conscious intent, learned to nurture myself by way of my birthday. The idea of nurturing myself has always sounded, quite frankly, like a lot of work learning new habits and doing things I can’t afford. Like I said, I don’t even indulge in sleep.
But my birthday, that is an indulgence I love, and over the years my birthday has loved me back by way of the people who join me to celebrate it. This year I received the most beautiful carving of a Hindu goddess, a statue not a figurine, of the goddess who nurtures growth and abundance. The man brought this to me purchased it for my last birthday but was unable to send it. For a year he has carried it with him on aircraft carriers and missions to North Korea; three times to Afghanistan, he carried it; and with him it has remained until he could land here, on my birthday, to give it to me.
Large or small, every gift is from the heart of someone I care about and so every gift brings to me another heart song of appreciation, and all year long these songs weave for me a lullaby of love. Tonight I will court sleep by listening to the lullaby that sings from all corners of my home. The treasure of sleep cannot be far.
My Zero Birthday. Take 2
I had an awesome birthday today, spectacular. And I get to finish here, doing what I love best. It doesn’t get any better. I’ve just returned from dinner with my best friend who is a marvelous presence in my life once more. Until a year ago, maybe less, this man was known to others as “my former best friend.” I didn’t use this as a pejorative or because I desired to push him from my life, quite the opposite. It simply reflected the true nature of our relationship at the time: in question.
And that, boys and girls is the conclusion I reached today as the odometer turned over a whole new set of numbers. Everything I am in relationship to my life is in question.
It’s not so much that I dislike the number that precedes this zero or that I feel old, quite the contrary; that’s just the number talking. But people also talk: “Well, you’re over the hill, now!” Such enthusiasm for quitting. Does a football team quit at half time because “it’s all down hill from here”? Halfway, two-thirds of the way, first-quarter, who’s to say? I’m just getting warmed up. And that very feeling is also why I stalled out, swamped in a morass of questions, questions that dive bombed me like hungry mosquitoes on the ball field. I hated them, but not because they stung. I hated these questions because I thought their presence meant I was afraid; not of death, my realization of my own mortality came and went ages ago; no, that I was afraid of aging, a death far more fearsome than leaving my body behind. Aging means becoming invisible; you’re no longer hot enough to be flirted with, cruised, picked up, bragged about. Fear of aging, I said to myself, has you frozen like a cougar in the headlights.
But that’s not it. I am not frozen. I have paused. I am redefining who I am, perhaps defining who I am for the first time, and that is a profound place to be. And . . . it feels a lot like fear.
This morning, my birthday started with a potent mixture of desire and fear, fear of . . . so many things; the mind boggles. See, I got a surprise visit last night from “my sailor,” a man half my age - that’s right people, I said half - who was just in from Afghanistan, a stopover. I picked him up after midnight and took him back before noon. I know what you’re thinking. It’s what everyone thinks. And for them, that’s the end of it; same as hitting a certain age is the end of it. I was kvetching about this over dinner, telling my friend I never get the chance to say what it is, exactly, between my sailor and me; box gets closed before I open my mouth. That’s when I realized that I’d allowed myself to be boxed up not just by the judgment of others but also by my own.
That’s when I paused. My fear wasn’t about age. I mean, my sailor doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the difference, so why do I need to? I cared about being stuffed into a box where there’s no room for who I am, who this man is, or what we bring to each other’s lives. One of the things this man brings to me is a chance to be in relationship outside the box. When I’m with him, I am where nothing is known, nothing is certain, everything is in question. I am where anything is possible.
And that, boys and girls is the conclusion I reached today as the odometer turned over a whole new set of numbers. Everything I am in relationship to my life is in question.
It’s not so much that I dislike the number that precedes this zero or that I feel old, quite the contrary; that’s just the number talking. But people also talk: “Well, you’re over the hill, now!” Such enthusiasm for quitting. Does a football team quit at half time because “it’s all down hill from here”? Halfway, two-thirds of the way, first-quarter, who’s to say? I’m just getting warmed up. And that very feeling is also why I stalled out, swamped in a morass of questions, questions that dive bombed me like hungry mosquitoes on the ball field. I hated them, but not because they stung. I hated these questions because I thought their presence meant I was afraid; not of death, my realization of my own mortality came and went ages ago; no, that I was afraid of aging, a death far more fearsome than leaving my body behind. Aging means becoming invisible; you’re no longer hot enough to be flirted with, cruised, picked up, bragged about. Fear of aging, I said to myself, has you frozen like a cougar in the headlights.
But that’s not it. I am not frozen. I have paused. I am redefining who I am, perhaps defining who I am for the first time, and that is a profound place to be. And . . . it feels a lot like fear.
This morning, my birthday started with a potent mixture of desire and fear, fear of . . . so many things; the mind boggles. See, I got a surprise visit last night from “my sailor,” a man half my age - that’s right people, I said half - who was just in from Afghanistan, a stopover. I picked him up after midnight and took him back before noon. I know what you’re thinking. It’s what everyone thinks. And for them, that’s the end of it; same as hitting a certain age is the end of it. I was kvetching about this over dinner, telling my friend I never get the chance to say what it is, exactly, between my sailor and me; box gets closed before I open my mouth. That’s when I realized that I’d allowed myself to be boxed up not just by the judgment of others but also by my own.
That’s when I paused. My fear wasn’t about age. I mean, my sailor doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the difference, so why do I need to? I cared about being stuffed into a box where there’s no room for who I am, who this man is, or what we bring to each other’s lives. One of the things this man brings to me is a chance to be in relationship outside the box. When I’m with him, I am where nothing is known, nothing is certain, everything is in question. I am where anything is possible.
02 March 2010
My Zero Birthday!
Today I called my mother - mothers, plural. The second mother, my aunt, is the one who put me through finishing school; because of her I was able to finish becoming a full-fledged human being. Without her I would never have learned I have wings, let alone that I can fly. The first mother is the woman who bore me and raised me to the best of her ability -until two weeks after my seventeenth birthday. She did not notice the effects of my downing the entire contents of the medicine cabinet, and when I was well enough to tell her what I had done, she told me of the day she took two friends down to the river with her, intent on ending her life. She changed her mind, and the three returned to school. The greatest impression left upon my mother that day was the fact that her two friends came back muddy from the journey while she remained unmarred and pristine in her white clothing. Then she asked me to promise not to do it again, she got up from my bed, and left the room.
I moved out the next day.
Now don’t fret. This is not sad story. But every tale has something called a back-story and this is mine. Today, decades into the future, I know that I’m the woman I am today because of my mother. Struggle has made me strong and forgiveness has made me flexible. And I know that there is nothing another human being can see, feel, think, witness, or do that will cause me to see them as anything less than what they are: a human being struggling just like me, just like all of us.
It’s true that I limped away from a childhood so painful I almost didn’t survive it, and I didn’t truly begin recovery until I was deep into adulthood. The key: one day my therapist said to me I have another client very like you; she can’t forgive her mother for the childhood she endured, and she refuses to be happy until her mother apologizes to her. She is still waiting for that apology, my therapist said, and her mother has been dead ten years. That’s all it took for me to make a promise to myself.
Do I tell the rest of this, the most interesting and impossible part of the story? I suppose will. Here’s what I know. My mother, drunk or sober, sees herself as caring and charming. And she is. She is also, and without warning, drunk or “sober,” as mean as a tangle of rattlesnakes doused in gasoline. We all know it. But that’s not the interesting part. I know things. It’s not just a finding out about a surprise birthday party kind of knowing. I know when a house is haunted. I know when a departed loved needs to send a message of hope or apology. And I know the past life karma of my current life relationships, not all of them, just the important ones. I knew what it was with my mother, but I didn’t know how to fix it.
I went to a reader of past lives and she made very clear to me just how many lifetimes this soul I know as my mother and I have traded blows. Let’s just say that Tom and Jerry got nothing on us. Once I learned this, I promised myself that if it was the very last thing I did in this life, I would clear the energy between us; karma clean from this point forward. I was willing and happy to take it on, all of it; my mother needed to do nothing. After all, if she could have been a better person, she would have, because nothing, but NOTHING, stops my mother once she’s made up her mind.
Fast forward to May 2008. My mother was hospitalized with a host of emergent problems, including a tape loop of seizures triggered by a body that could no longer handle the ravages of alcohol. I was the one who went to her straight away, just got in the car and drove. I know how be with doctors and in hospitals. I know how to face disease and death and not be knocked over. I had already negotiated a workable and loving relationship with her, but I did not want to miss my mother’s passing. All things become possible at the end. When there is no reason to hold on, all things are forgivable. But who knew what I could expect.
My mother was given strong drugs to detox, for if she had any chance of surviving it would be as alcohol-free zone, and for the second time in my life, she was clear and cogent. More. She was a delight. Everyone felt it. This was a woman I had never known, the girl my aunt grew up with, and my uncles. For 27 whole hours, I had for the very first time a mother who saw me, heard me, understood me, appreciated me, and enjoyed me. I had a mother who lovingly told me every good thing about myself. I drank it in without thirst, without longing, without loss, and without time; for 27 hours, it was as if this woman had been my mother always.
To this day, I believe there is a planet full of people who underestimate the truly awesome power of a parent’s love.
Her body began to lose the battle and, stewed in the toxic juices of the dying, the mother who raised me reappeared. The end is always unpredictable. She came within hours of her death. By all accounts, the doctors, the nurses, the hospice staff, by all accounts my mother’s recovery was miraculous. One in a million. She went right back to the old life, of course, or as one of my sisters said, “You think she would have learned something from almost dying, but Noooo!”
No matter. The past died for me, even though my mother didn’t. Maybe that was all that was supposed to happen. Tomorrow - it’s today, now - is my birthday. It’s already started. And I am set to welcome in the next decade of life. Who knows what I will learn there.
I moved out the next day.
Now don’t fret. This is not sad story. But every tale has something called a back-story and this is mine. Today, decades into the future, I know that I’m the woman I am today because of my mother. Struggle has made me strong and forgiveness has made me flexible. And I know that there is nothing another human being can see, feel, think, witness, or do that will cause me to see them as anything less than what they are: a human being struggling just like me, just like all of us.
It’s true that I limped away from a childhood so painful I almost didn’t survive it, and I didn’t truly begin recovery until I was deep into adulthood. The key: one day my therapist said to me I have another client very like you; she can’t forgive her mother for the childhood she endured, and she refuses to be happy until her mother apologizes to her. She is still waiting for that apology, my therapist said, and her mother has been dead ten years. That’s all it took for me to make a promise to myself.
Do I tell the rest of this, the most interesting and impossible part of the story? I suppose will. Here’s what I know. My mother, drunk or sober, sees herself as caring and charming. And she is. She is also, and without warning, drunk or “sober,” as mean as a tangle of rattlesnakes doused in gasoline. We all know it. But that’s not the interesting part. I know things. It’s not just a finding out about a surprise birthday party kind of knowing. I know when a house is haunted. I know when a departed loved needs to send a message of hope or apology. And I know the past life karma of my current life relationships, not all of them, just the important ones. I knew what it was with my mother, but I didn’t know how to fix it.
I went to a reader of past lives and she made very clear to me just how many lifetimes this soul I know as my mother and I have traded blows. Let’s just say that Tom and Jerry got nothing on us. Once I learned this, I promised myself that if it was the very last thing I did in this life, I would clear the energy between us; karma clean from this point forward. I was willing and happy to take it on, all of it; my mother needed to do nothing. After all, if she could have been a better person, she would have, because nothing, but NOTHING, stops my mother once she’s made up her mind.
Fast forward to May 2008. My mother was hospitalized with a host of emergent problems, including a tape loop of seizures triggered by a body that could no longer handle the ravages of alcohol. I was the one who went to her straight away, just got in the car and drove. I know how be with doctors and in hospitals. I know how to face disease and death and not be knocked over. I had already negotiated a workable and loving relationship with her, but I did not want to miss my mother’s passing. All things become possible at the end. When there is no reason to hold on, all things are forgivable. But who knew what I could expect.
My mother was given strong drugs to detox, for if she had any chance of surviving it would be as alcohol-free zone, and for the second time in my life, she was clear and cogent. More. She was a delight. Everyone felt it. This was a woman I had never known, the girl my aunt grew up with, and my uncles. For 27 whole hours, I had for the very first time a mother who saw me, heard me, understood me, appreciated me, and enjoyed me. I had a mother who lovingly told me every good thing about myself. I drank it in without thirst, without longing, without loss, and without time; for 27 hours, it was as if this woman had been my mother always.
To this day, I believe there is a planet full of people who underestimate the truly awesome power of a parent’s love.
Her body began to lose the battle and, stewed in the toxic juices of the dying, the mother who raised me reappeared. The end is always unpredictable. She came within hours of her death. By all accounts, the doctors, the nurses, the hospice staff, by all accounts my mother’s recovery was miraculous. One in a million. She went right back to the old life, of course, or as one of my sisters said, “You think she would have learned something from almost dying, but Noooo!”
No matter. The past died for me, even though my mother didn’t. Maybe that was all that was supposed to happen. Tomorrow - it’s today, now - is my birthday. It’s already started. And I am set to welcome in the next decade of life. Who knows what I will learn there.
01 March 2010
“The sun and moon and stars are you.”
Today is the full moon, Tuesday will be my zero birthday, and this week we Pisceans are encouraged to “carry out some ritual of transition to intensify your commitment to your life's vital dreams.” As I sit here at the keyboard, I am high centered between the words transition and dreams. One is painful and I resist it hourly. The other I court like my lover’s smile. I don’t get one without the other. And damn it all, I don’t even have a lover to distract me from that fact.
See, I just had an amazing day that was also awful and confusing while being interesting and insightful and filled with the procrastination of necessary tasks. I got things done even though nothing concrete was accomplished. Now I’m asking myself, Which day do I write about? What’s worth spending time and words on? What will offer the most to those who read those words? Is it this?
Fire, Flood & Plague
That’s the tweet that directly followed my talking about my writing dreams on Twitter; death metal, near as I can tell. No, I could not pick out the words, but I’m pretty sure they included pestilence. Here’s the next tweet:
21 tips on getting out of the slush pile ‘essential checklist of tweaks to consider when reviving a rejected story’
I mean, really, what’s a writer to think? For twenty minutes the Twitter waves are silent, except for my waxing poetic about my writing style, then death metal, followed by rejection. Then, as luck would have it ~raises hands and glares heavenward ~ comes: “She wore her heart on her sleeve cuz she found it there.” That’s my tweet. It’s the quote from a song I posted on BLIP.fm, which also posts to my Twitter page. And then. . . . silence. Again. There is never silence on Twitter.
Is it a sign? The tweep who posted Fire, Flood & Plague says: “If this song follows your writing dreams they will come out. It’s such an awesome song!” To which I say, Awesome! The stars have fixed their sites on me, of this I am certain, I can feel it just the way I can feel a man; whether from across the room or across the Internet, I know when he has set his intent on me. But as for what comes after that, well who the hell knows. I have a Twitter friend who says she adores the “bravery and vulnerability of writers,” and I must laugh at this even as I enjoy the compliment, for we would have to strangle ourselves to be anything else. We nearly strangle anyway.
That’s what it means to be a writer and reader of the stars, for that is all writers do. We look at the die cast, like the stars at our birth, and read them as any soothsayer reads a palm or tealeaves. And when we can make no sense of what we see, we make a story up out of whole cloth. It is impossible for us not to interpret each event, to narrate, state, relate.... It’s who we came into this world to be. Even as I write these words, I can hear Radiohead singing, “The sun and moon and stars are you. And I could never run away....” It seems Miss Fire, Flood, and Plague has sent me a song, the very song I posted when I sat down to write, reminding me, “Off you go to do it,” and bringing me to tears, as well, because suddenly it’s as if the stars themselves are singing to me. Another hazard of being a writer. We hear the song of every person, place, and thing. They are recorded on our very souls.
What kind of ritual can carry me through this transition from who I am to who I dream of being? What ritual will serve me best? I don’t know. I know that I am led to where I need to be. I know that my weekly appointment with the shaman falls on my birthday next week and he asked if I would like to do a rebirthing. That sounds about right. If what comes after is as awesome as I imagine it to be, then the ritual is going to be painful. But birth is just a transition. When it’s over, everybody’s smiling.
See, I just had an amazing day that was also awful and confusing while being interesting and insightful and filled with the procrastination of necessary tasks. I got things done even though nothing concrete was accomplished. Now I’m asking myself, Which day do I write about? What’s worth spending time and words on? What will offer the most to those who read those words? Is it this?
Fire, Flood & Plague
That’s the tweet that directly followed my talking about my writing dreams on Twitter; death metal, near as I can tell. No, I could not pick out the words, but I’m pretty sure they included pestilence. Here’s the next tweet:
21 tips on getting out of the slush pile ‘essential checklist of tweaks to consider when reviving a rejected story’
I mean, really, what’s a writer to think? For twenty minutes the Twitter waves are silent, except for my waxing poetic about my writing style, then death metal, followed by rejection. Then, as luck would have it ~raises hands and glares heavenward ~ comes: “She wore her heart on her sleeve cuz she found it there.” That’s my tweet. It’s the quote from a song I posted on BLIP.fm, which also posts to my Twitter page. And then. . . . silence. Again. There is never silence on Twitter.
Is it a sign? The tweep who posted Fire, Flood & Plague says: “If this song follows your writing dreams they will come out. It’s such an awesome song!” To which I say, Awesome! The stars have fixed their sites on me, of this I am certain, I can feel it just the way I can feel a man; whether from across the room or across the Internet, I know when he has set his intent on me. But as for what comes after that, well who the hell knows. I have a Twitter friend who says she adores the “bravery and vulnerability of writers,” and I must laugh at this even as I enjoy the compliment, for we would have to strangle ourselves to be anything else. We nearly strangle anyway.
That’s what it means to be a writer and reader of the stars, for that is all writers do. We look at the die cast, like the stars at our birth, and read them as any soothsayer reads a palm or tealeaves. And when we can make no sense of what we see, we make a story up out of whole cloth. It is impossible for us not to interpret each event, to narrate, state, relate.... It’s who we came into this world to be. Even as I write these words, I can hear Radiohead singing, “The sun and moon and stars are you. And I could never run away....” It seems Miss Fire, Flood, and Plague has sent me a song, the very song I posted when I sat down to write, reminding me, “Off you go to do it,” and bringing me to tears, as well, because suddenly it’s as if the stars themselves are singing to me. Another hazard of being a writer. We hear the song of every person, place, and thing. They are recorded on our very souls.
What kind of ritual can carry me through this transition from who I am to who I dream of being? What ritual will serve me best? I don’t know. I know that I am led to where I need to be. I know that my weekly appointment with the shaman falls on my birthday next week and he asked if I would like to do a rebirthing. That sounds about right. If what comes after is as awesome as I imagine it to be, then the ritual is going to be painful. But birth is just a transition. When it’s over, everybody’s smiling.
28 February 2010
Been Crazy, Bought the T-shirt, Making Copies to Sell
Tonight I’m taking it easy. Short version: I’m doing heavy duty healing work and it takes a LOT of energy just to walk around. I can pretty much forget about getting anything done. No problem. I’ve lived here before. It passes.
So tonight I am dedicating this blog, which is a retread, to everyone out there who feels they must hide who and/or what they are. There are lots of reasons, and I won’t presume to tell anyone what they need to do to make their life work. But as for myself, I’m with Glenn Close: Certain words have power over us, until we learn to speak them without fear.
Here are some of the words I have learned to speak without fear:
Clinical depression.
Dysthymia.
Suicidal ideation.
Borderline Personality Disorder.
Epilepsy.
Hypomanic episode.
Bipolar Spectrum Disorder.
Cyclothymia.
Disability.
Those are some big words. And they have even bigger weights attached to them. I had to live with more than half of these words for many years before it became clear that I was misdiagnosed. Or under-diagnosed. Or just plain judged. About a year ago, an entire lifetime of seemingly insurmountable difficulties reached fever pitch and the fever broke: I got what I needed. Now I just refer to it as “Better living through chemistry,” and it is just that simple. Take the drugs away, and I stop functioning well enough to do anything in the world but simply survive.
This is my “coming out” letter to my family.
19 December 2008
Dear Nik, Pam, Auntie Jan, Jim, Hal, Cliff, and all the rest -- dear friends and family,
Well, crap. Some of you deserve apologies. Others . . . well, I can’t figure out how to say some things face to face - lots of things, actually - so I write them.
I’m not dying, I’m not hormonal (at least that wasn’t the diagnosis - ha ha), and I’m not just being dramatic; a stretch to imagine, I know, especially if you’d seen the first draft of this e-mail: long, heartfelt, and depending on the hour, weepy, witty, wounded, happy, hopeful, hilarious, helpless and very, very, VERY chatty. Pick an emotion; I’m having it. Hourly.
I’m pretty damn sure that if I were going through this AND had children to care for, I’d eat my young. Or turn to drink. Most likely both. I certainly understand my mother in whole new way. Unbelievable. Bipolar Disorder is not for wimps. And I say this knowing that I have only the wimpy variety. It’s got a scientific name, cyclothymia, but I’m calling it Bipolar Lite. I’m on new meds and should be nearing normal in a week or month or . . . Well, there’s no clear time line, but soon enough. I think. I hope.
Many of you deserve the Purple Heart for putting up with me these last weeks and months. Truly. To Nichole I also grant the Medal of Valor. Auntie Jan, I bestow upon you the Star of Patience. (Bet you never thought you’d get an award for that, huh?) Hal, Jim, Cliff, in my defense I had, until yesterday, absolutely no idea what a ranting pain in the ass I’ve been since, I dunno, spring? I’m sorry. I will say this. With that word, bipolar, all manner of difficulties in my life are made clear. And Pam, with any luck, you just thought I was having an off day.
In a way, Bipolar Lite is just my usual dramatic, erratic, emotional “artistic” temperament -- squared. Make that cubed. So, if I’m talking very fast without taking a breath or you hear me obsessing with great irritation over some slight, just smile and nod sweetly while calculating your taxes in your head. I’m not dangerous. I’m just wacked out and embarrassed -- or elated or scared or hyper -- over being here. Again. I mean same train, different trip right?
Please forgive me. It’s so much easier than trying to cure me or get rid of me. And you all know I take rejection hard. Every writer does.
By the way, I know some of you are scratching your heads: What the hell is she talking about? I hide things, but it’s tiring. Besides, it’s dark and overcrowded here in the closet, what with sixteen different emotions every hour. Consider this my coming out announcement. I know, I know, most of you already knew I was crazy. Isn’t that always the way?
Love you all,
If any of you readers feel a kinship with this state of being, let me know. I'm happy to talk about any and all of it. Being bipolar, living with chronic clinical depression, being suicidal, and more, these things are no different for me than my size 11 & 1/2, extra narrow feet, my dark green eyes, my nonstandard neurology. They’re all features of the being that I am, and I can’t change or undo any of them. Except maybe my feet. I know all the places to get beautiful shoes that fit as if they were made for me.
Sometimes, all you have to do to get what you need is to say it out loud.
So tonight I am dedicating this blog, which is a retread, to everyone out there who feels they must hide who and/or what they are. There are lots of reasons, and I won’t presume to tell anyone what they need to do to make their life work. But as for myself, I’m with Glenn Close: Certain words have power over us, until we learn to speak them without fear.
Here are some of the words I have learned to speak without fear:
Clinical depression.
Dysthymia.
Suicidal ideation.
Borderline Personality Disorder.
Epilepsy.
Hypomanic episode.
Bipolar Spectrum Disorder.
Cyclothymia.
Disability.
Those are some big words. And they have even bigger weights attached to them. I had to live with more than half of these words for many years before it became clear that I was misdiagnosed. Or under-diagnosed. Or just plain judged. About a year ago, an entire lifetime of seemingly insurmountable difficulties reached fever pitch and the fever broke: I got what I needed. Now I just refer to it as “Better living through chemistry,” and it is just that simple. Take the drugs away, and I stop functioning well enough to do anything in the world but simply survive.
This is my “coming out” letter to my family.
19 December 2008
Dear Nik, Pam, Auntie Jan, Jim, Hal, Cliff, and all the rest -- dear friends and family,
Well, crap. Some of you deserve apologies. Others . . . well, I can’t figure out how to say some things face to face - lots of things, actually - so I write them.
I’m not dying, I’m not hormonal (at least that wasn’t the diagnosis - ha ha), and I’m not just being dramatic; a stretch to imagine, I know, especially if you’d seen the first draft of this e-mail: long, heartfelt, and depending on the hour, weepy, witty, wounded, happy, hopeful, hilarious, helpless and very, very, VERY chatty. Pick an emotion; I’m having it. Hourly.
I’m pretty damn sure that if I were going through this AND had children to care for, I’d eat my young. Or turn to drink. Most likely both. I certainly understand my mother in whole new way. Unbelievable. Bipolar Disorder is not for wimps. And I say this knowing that I have only the wimpy variety. It’s got a scientific name, cyclothymia, but I’m calling it Bipolar Lite. I’m on new meds and should be nearing normal in a week or month or . . . Well, there’s no clear time line, but soon enough. I think. I hope.
Many of you deserve the Purple Heart for putting up with me these last weeks and months. Truly. To Nichole I also grant the Medal of Valor. Auntie Jan, I bestow upon you the Star of Patience. (Bet you never thought you’d get an award for that, huh?) Hal, Jim, Cliff, in my defense I had, until yesterday, absolutely no idea what a ranting pain in the ass I’ve been since, I dunno, spring? I’m sorry. I will say this. With that word, bipolar, all manner of difficulties in my life are made clear. And Pam, with any luck, you just thought I was having an off day.
In a way, Bipolar Lite is just my usual dramatic, erratic, emotional “artistic” temperament -- squared. Make that cubed. So, if I’m talking very fast without taking a breath or you hear me obsessing with great irritation over some slight, just smile and nod sweetly while calculating your taxes in your head. I’m not dangerous. I’m just wacked out and embarrassed -- or elated or scared or hyper -- over being here. Again. I mean same train, different trip right?
Please forgive me. It’s so much easier than trying to cure me or get rid of me. And you all know I take rejection hard. Every writer does.
By the way, I know some of you are scratching your heads: What the hell is she talking about? I hide things, but it’s tiring. Besides, it’s dark and overcrowded here in the closet, what with sixteen different emotions every hour. Consider this my coming out announcement. I know, I know, most of you already knew I was crazy. Isn’t that always the way?
Love you all,
If any of you readers feel a kinship with this state of being, let me know. I'm happy to talk about any and all of it. Being bipolar, living with chronic clinical depression, being suicidal, and more, these things are no different for me than my size 11 & 1/2, extra narrow feet, my dark green eyes, my nonstandard neurology. They’re all features of the being that I am, and I can’t change or undo any of them. Except maybe my feet. I know all the places to get beautiful shoes that fit as if they were made for me.
Sometimes, all you have to do to get what you need is to say it out loud.
27 February 2010
Grace
Is this where I say I’m tired? Or that I want to skip tonight’s blog? Should. I need sleep. Can’t. Won’t. I feel the same way about writing that parents feel about their children. There is no day off just because you’re tired.
Tomorrow is my niece’s birthday, my little Pisces girl, Kameillia Grace, and for once I have her gift wrapped and ready to go. Why? Because I’m skipping the birthday party, which is always a crush of family and friends and pink wrapping paper, yards of bright ribbon, piles of store-bought gifts..... My gifts are, by comparison, the ugly, redheaded stepchild, but that’s not why I’m skipping the party.
When Kameillia was three, four, five years old - somewhere in there - I co-parented with my sister. That’s what she called it, but I was only a pinch hitter. My sister, a single parent, worked on call around the clock, and therefore, so did I. Believe me, I didn’t want to. I am not built to be a parent. I knew this when I was fourteen and I knew this when I said yes to caring for my very young, whip-smart, head-strong niece. But I am fierce when it comes to the well being of those I love. I was needed; I went; I was humbled. Just as I knew I would be.
The first time I stayed over night with Kameillia, I woke the next morning with her upside down in the bed and one footy-pajama’d toe up my nose. I’m skipping the stories of how I was challenged, even though they’re funny, and I’m not going to assess what I learned as a pinch-hit parent, because it was all patience, lots and lots of patience. It wasn’t my niece I had to learn to be patient with; it was myself, my desire to NOT deal with whatever was in front of me: bath, dinner, bedtime; oh yeah, and fun, children like to have fun and they want you to join them. There was not a single one of these things that I wanted to do. I wanted to write, and this child stood between me and that desire. I knew this is how it would be; I knew at fourteen. What I didn’t know was that my niece and I would develop a bond like no other.
My sister asked me to be on the lookout for something when Kameillia was in my care. What did she call it? It’s what children say when they’re still young enough to be trailing the glory of where they come from, before they fully inhabit this world. I told her I hadn’t heard Kameillia say any of those things, and I thought I hadn’t, but I was mistaken. I didn’t know that what Kameillia said was special because..... well, call it a Pisces thing. We experience no boundaries between this world and the next, and though it is often disconcerting for others, at any moment we may live and speak from the soul.
At night, once I’d gotten my niece to put on her pajamas and get into bed, after I had read her a story or two or three and fetched water and was finally leaving the room, she would say,
“Auntie, we love each other, don’t we?” And I would say, Yes.
“We will always love each other, won’t we?” And I would say, Yes.
“And we will always find each other.” I said, Yes.
“Even after we die, our souls will call out to each other.” Yes. Always.
My niece has grown up. She has forgotten our conversations. She goes by Grace now, and is very much her own person. Tomorrow afternoon, at the same time as Grace’s birthday party, I have a chance to get free training on a Mac program, training that might take me one step closer to creating a webpage. So, instead of doing what’s expected of me, I asked to see my niece before her party. That’s when I realized that’s what I really wanted. We still have our own language, Kameillia Grace and I, but we can’t speak it in a room full of people who live in this world only.
Tomorrow is my niece’s birthday, my little Pisces girl, Kameillia Grace, and for once I have her gift wrapped and ready to go. Why? Because I’m skipping the birthday party, which is always a crush of family and friends and pink wrapping paper, yards of bright ribbon, piles of store-bought gifts..... My gifts are, by comparison, the ugly, redheaded stepchild, but that’s not why I’m skipping the party.
When Kameillia was three, four, five years old - somewhere in there - I co-parented with my sister. That’s what she called it, but I was only a pinch hitter. My sister, a single parent, worked on call around the clock, and therefore, so did I. Believe me, I didn’t want to. I am not built to be a parent. I knew this when I was fourteen and I knew this when I said yes to caring for my very young, whip-smart, head-strong niece. But I am fierce when it comes to the well being of those I love. I was needed; I went; I was humbled. Just as I knew I would be.
The first time I stayed over night with Kameillia, I woke the next morning with her upside down in the bed and one footy-pajama’d toe up my nose. I’m skipping the stories of how I was challenged, even though they’re funny, and I’m not going to assess what I learned as a pinch-hit parent, because it was all patience, lots and lots of patience. It wasn’t my niece I had to learn to be patient with; it was myself, my desire to NOT deal with whatever was in front of me: bath, dinner, bedtime; oh yeah, and fun, children like to have fun and they want you to join them. There was not a single one of these things that I wanted to do. I wanted to write, and this child stood between me and that desire. I knew this is how it would be; I knew at fourteen. What I didn’t know was that my niece and I would develop a bond like no other.
My sister asked me to be on the lookout for something when Kameillia was in my care. What did she call it? It’s what children say when they’re still young enough to be trailing the glory of where they come from, before they fully inhabit this world. I told her I hadn’t heard Kameillia say any of those things, and I thought I hadn’t, but I was mistaken. I didn’t know that what Kameillia said was special because..... well, call it a Pisces thing. We experience no boundaries between this world and the next, and though it is often disconcerting for others, at any moment we may live and speak from the soul.
At night, once I’d gotten my niece to put on her pajamas and get into bed, after I had read her a story or two or three and fetched water and was finally leaving the room, she would say,
“Auntie, we love each other, don’t we?” And I would say, Yes.
“We will always love each other, won’t we?” And I would say, Yes.
“And we will always find each other.” I said, Yes.
“Even after we die, our souls will call out to each other.” Yes. Always.
My niece has grown up. She has forgotten our conversations. She goes by Grace now, and is very much her own person. Tomorrow afternoon, at the same time as Grace’s birthday party, I have a chance to get free training on a Mac program, training that might take me one step closer to creating a webpage. So, instead of doing what’s expected of me, I asked to see my niece before her party. That’s when I realized that’s what I really wanted. We still have our own language, Kameillia Grace and I, but we can’t speak it in a room full of people who live in this world only.
26 February 2010
Dina Bertocchini
I was born the first great grandchild of an Italian immigrant family, the Bertocchinis, and I was named for my mother’s mother, Dina, who was the first child of my great grandparents, the first generation born on American soil. I come from orphans and dirt farmers, but I had a silver spoon and fork and a silver-plated cup with my name engraved upon it: Dina Renee. My middle name, Renee, means reborn.
I was raised in my grandmother’s household, my single mother more absent than present. Growing up, I never heard my grandmother called by any name but Dee, and I was nicknamed Dee Dee. I went by that nickname until I was twelve. At fourteen, my grandfather died, my mother fell deep into the bottle, and I was adrift in a world I didn’t understand: grief and the advent of adolescence. The summer after Grandpa died, Grandma took me with her to visit her siblings in the Midwest and on the East Coast, foreign countries to a small town girl from the Northwest. Of course I was excited, but between being fourteen and having no mother stable enough to rebel against, I was looking at Grandma like she really wasn’t all that. But that was about to change. For weeks, everywhere we went I heard “Auntie Dina!” ring out like a bell, and Grandma took on a whole new shine for me.
My grandmother remarried. It took us all by surprise, and none more me, for her new husband called her by her given name. For years, I had been the only Dina in the family, and now when I heard my name, a name absolutely no one in Oregon had, it wasn’t meant for me. Not long after my friend Jose’s death, Grandma also became gravely ill and we feared she might not make it. I was jobless and grieving, but I was still married and had a credit card, so when Grandma was well enough to travel, I accompanied her on a reprise trip to the Chicago neighborhood where she grew up. Twice I was the only child of my generation to meet all the cousins - and I had bunches of them! - twice I was given the gift of connection to the full depth of my roots.
In many ways, I was the only child of my generation to grow up fully aware of the particular joys of the immigrant experience. Jose and his family fled Nicaragua, and when I met Jose’s mother I was flooded with the familiar feeling of family: the Latin culture, the smells of food lovingly prepared by hand from recipes handed down through the generations.
Tonight I’m posting one my favorite poems, a poem I wrote for my grandmother at the request of my uncle. A poem I wrote after she died to be read at her funeral.
For Grandmother; For the Living
“Everyone can get together for a funeral, but not for the living.” Dina Winger, 1990
The last family reunion embraced brothers
and sisters seated at your mother’s September grave. Your
spring wedding would join only friends
and children, surprised
grandchildren. Who is this man calls you by your name?
I turn my head in your place, frustrated by an unfamiliar
who does not see you are someone else’s
mother, grandmother; he does not know you
taught me to tie my shoelaces, to sew doll’s clothing, to wash
my hands, be polite. He calls but cannot hear
I am your echo: Dee--
Dee Dee. Seated
at the old upright, I am still a child singing
hymns about the sparrow as it flies,
falls; learning to name robin, finch, meadow
lark, chickadee, cardinal.
From the car window we’re calling out
foxglove! lupine! Indian paintbrush! flying
past the landscape of my childhood
past days you were more mother
than grandmother, past the milepost of my
fourteenth year, my
mother’s scotch whiskey drift. Now
when I sit quietly, the names of the earth still ring
in my ears and it’s your voice I hear: scotch
broom, hollyhock, bluebell, buttercup. Each
autumn your voice grows softer. At seventy, the age
of your own mother when I breached the world, my gift
when you turned that silver leaf was a poem
about her, the grandmother before you. Easy
to canonize the dead.
Far simpler to cry to heaven
than to life. Listen,
I think I hear my
name, turn, the voice is calling
you, Dina.
Dina.
I was raised in my grandmother’s household, my single mother more absent than present. Growing up, I never heard my grandmother called by any name but Dee, and I was nicknamed Dee Dee. I went by that nickname until I was twelve. At fourteen, my grandfather died, my mother fell deep into the bottle, and I was adrift in a world I didn’t understand: grief and the advent of adolescence. The summer after Grandpa died, Grandma took me with her to visit her siblings in the Midwest and on the East Coast, foreign countries to a small town girl from the Northwest. Of course I was excited, but between being fourteen and having no mother stable enough to rebel against, I was looking at Grandma like she really wasn’t all that. But that was about to change. For weeks, everywhere we went I heard “Auntie Dina!” ring out like a bell, and Grandma took on a whole new shine for me.
My grandmother remarried. It took us all by surprise, and none more me, for her new husband called her by her given name. For years, I had been the only Dina in the family, and now when I heard my name, a name absolutely no one in Oregon had, it wasn’t meant for me. Not long after my friend Jose’s death, Grandma also became gravely ill and we feared she might not make it. I was jobless and grieving, but I was still married and had a credit card, so when Grandma was well enough to travel, I accompanied her on a reprise trip to the Chicago neighborhood where she grew up. Twice I was the only child of my generation to meet all the cousins - and I had bunches of them! - twice I was given the gift of connection to the full depth of my roots.
In many ways, I was the only child of my generation to grow up fully aware of the particular joys of the immigrant experience. Jose and his family fled Nicaragua, and when I met Jose’s mother I was flooded with the familiar feeling of family: the Latin culture, the smells of food lovingly prepared by hand from recipes handed down through the generations.
Tonight I’m posting one my favorite poems, a poem I wrote for my grandmother at the request of my uncle. A poem I wrote after she died to be read at her funeral.
For Grandmother; For the Living
“Everyone can get together for a funeral, but not for the living.” Dina Winger, 1990
The last family reunion embraced brothers
and sisters seated at your mother’s September grave. Your
spring wedding would join only friends
and children, surprised
grandchildren. Who is this man calls you by your name?
I turn my head in your place, frustrated by an unfamiliar
who does not see you are someone else’s
mother, grandmother; he does not know you
taught me to tie my shoelaces, to sew doll’s clothing, to wash
my hands, be polite. He calls but cannot hear
I am your echo: Dee--
Dee Dee. Seated
at the old upright, I am still a child singing
hymns about the sparrow as it flies,
falls; learning to name robin, finch, meadow
lark, chickadee, cardinal.
From the car window we’re calling out
foxglove! lupine! Indian paintbrush! flying
past the landscape of my childhood
past days you were more mother
than grandmother, past the milepost of my
fourteenth year, my
mother’s scotch whiskey drift. Now
when I sit quietly, the names of the earth still ring
in my ears and it’s your voice I hear: scotch
broom, hollyhock, bluebell, buttercup. Each
autumn your voice grows softer. At seventy, the age
of your own mother when I breached the world, my gift
when you turned that silver leaf was a poem
about her, the grandmother before you. Easy
to canonize the dead.
Far simpler to cry to heaven
than to life. Listen,
I think I hear my
name, turn, the voice is calling
you, Dina.
Dina.
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