Halcyon Days

(Don't) Tremble

Friday, 6:15ish and it took approximately an hour to drive the 12 miles from TheBigBank to Mac's in Stamford and I wasn't in very good shape to begin with. Texting while driving; not so good. Texting while sitting in a parked car; perfectly ok as far as I'm concerned:

Me at 5:33    Parkway is crawling. I'm so sorry. Please wait for me.

Him:            Of course.

Me:               Thank you.

Him:            I started drinking though.

Me:              :-)

Me at 5:45    Good. Then if I walk in there crying you'll be prepared :-)

Him:        Yes.

I walked in there crying. Seriously. I hate it when this happens. You know, your face gets all puffy and there's snot somewhere, probably still coming out your nose and no matter how good you look, or might have looked at some point in the day, you are now officially disheveled.

I am the strongest woman he knows outside of his family and then, given the cultural differences you probably have to put us on separate scales, I didn't start out on a farm in Italy. That's a whole other sort of strong. Or maybe not. Hard to say. In any case, he knows me well enough, or maybe long enough to have a pretty good handle on when I break and how I break or what that looks like. I sure as hell don't cry about it or not for very long as far as he's concerned.

Well, some things I cry about and for a good long time. But not too many and those things scare the shit out of him.

Therefore his response was, what the fuck happened to you?!

I fell off my bike, stop staring at me that way and give me your damn napkin or something.

If I give you my napkin, you're going to blow your nose in it, aren't you?

Yes, probably.

OK, here. I'll get another one.

Ever blow your nose into one of those slick poly fiber white napkins? Not a good idea. It doesn't stick to the fabric. It sticks to your face. Better to use your friend's sleeve. Unless he sees you're coming and ducks back behind the table and then you're stuck with your own sleeve or maybe just grab the waitress on the way by or something. Anyway, I sort of cleaned up or eventually dried up.

It was a shitty week.

This is my twin from The Factory. He's still there, he'll be there for as long as he needs to be there. It works for him. We don't see each other as much as we'd like because our schedules just don't align well. He's in the middle of some pretty uncomfortable family stuff and my life is just, well, full. I got a text at 3:30 yesterday which is absolutely unheard of, he's not a short notice, last minute kind of guy. *I* am spontaneous, *he* is controlled, measured out and organized. I never did get around to asking him what came up that he was suddenly available early on Friday evening. My answer was

GOD YES!

Usually we are talking about his state of affairs these days because they've been so damn awful, painful, unbearable, nearly unbelievable and, Twin, how on earth can you have been tolerating this for so long with your back so straight and your face so placid? And not a word out of you.

Oh, right. That's why we're friends.

He's actually doing better. Last time I saw him, not so much. I might be the only person he talks to where the shit actually comes out of his mouth and he slumps forward with his head in his hands, pain slapped across his face hard enough to leave a scar. Except when he sits back up he wipes it off and the scar recedes back under the skin just far enough you have to know what you're looking for.

Right. That's why we're friends.

Him:    I reiterate, Alecto, what the fuck's wrong with you?

Me:    There is absolutely nothing wrong with me! Why do you think there's something wrong with me? I had a bad day. Shit's broken. Shit's been broken for over a week and I don't know how to fix it and my boss actually yelled at me. He yelled at me. It was amazing.

Him:    You've been yelled at before. You just sit there until it's over.

Me:    Yeah, that's what I did this time too.

Him:    So what's the problem?

Me:    Stuff's broken.

Him:    Stuff is always broken. You fix it. That's what you do.

Me:    Twin. I want to come home.

Him:    You can't come home, you know that. Now what the hell is wrong with you?

Me:    I'm having some technical difficulties.

Him:    Spit it out.

Me:    No.

Him:    Are you being emotional again?

Me:    Does it LOOK like I'm being emotional again?

Him:    .....

Me:    Stop looking at me in that tone of voice.

So we talked for awhile about vulnerability and personal responsibility and this is hard because Twin is well, one of those guys who does and does not quite get it. Except maybe he does. He has simple black and white answers. If it hurts, stop doing it. If it feels good, then do it. That's why he's an accountant. It's why he's an assistant corporate controller and one day why he's going to be the controller of a VERY big corporation. But it doesn't explain the grey areas in his own life and that's where he listens from when I walk in the door looking like I've been rolled at a truck stop.

We sat there for a very long time. I didn't spit out details because I'm just not comfortable doing that. I spit out some of what I'd done personally and how I felt about it. We sat there in it and then eventually I went home. I waved at the girls, walked into my bedroom, kicked off my shoes and laid down on the bed. Disheveled in dress. I plugged in Billy Bragg & Wilco and shut my eyes. I'm just going to lay here and listen to this and cry for a little bit. Which turned into a long, long bit after which I sent a text to the wrong person and eventually got up and sat with Cletus who accused me of being antisocial.

And then I really did spit it out and I'm still disheveled.

Life is messy, though, yes? 

 

(Don't) Tremble

If your pilot light should die
Do not quake and do not bark
You will find the spark

If your tree should bare no fruit
Do not turn and do not spill
You are beautiful

If your clarinet should break
Do not cry a million lakes
Do not cry a million lakes

When the winds surround your house
Do not twist and do not shout
Wait it out

If your hand should lose it's grip
Do not tremble do not sweat
For where then would you get

You have got the looks my dear
To make a mountain shake
Imagine me

You have got the voice my love
To melt a lake of ice
Imagine me

If your heart is unemployed
Do not rush but do not stall
For I am waiting

Listen. This works for me and I'll tell you why. You'll have to look at those words very carefully. It's not soothing the same way lullabies are soothing in terms of everything will be alright, or it's not as bad as you think or I'll rescue you or whatever. This says, yes, something has happened, yes, the wind is blowing, yes, something is broken, yes, you are indeed slipping but you must not lose your grip. Yes. All of this. Yes. It is true.

But. Wait it out. I think that's probably the most important part for me; the waiting it out. All that wind blowing about my house and eventually I come up out of it, breaking the surface of a lake, elsewhere maybe which is not where I went in, but up and out anyway and I am OK.

I also love that (Don't) is a parenthetical. So yes, go ahead and tremble. Of course you are. For god's sake, cry it out. And speak your words truly. (I'm talking to myself)

and don't use the fact that you can't speak them perfectly to not speak them at all.

Put Me The Fuck Down!

Based on the title of this post, I've got a mouth on me this morning. Either deal with it or leave quietly. :-)

When I was sixteen my friend Lori introduced me to her friend Timmy, who is a perfectly lovely guy and if I had to pick any high school guy really unlikely to do something like this it would be Timmy, but there you go, guys, hell, people, do shit because they do shit. We're a thoughtless bunch of mother fuckers. Timmy worked for his step-father at his step-father's service station and he worked on cars and pumped some gas and I think I only dated or hung out with guys who worked on their own cars right up until husband #2 but I'm getting off track.

We walked into the garage and I held out my hand and he wiped off his hands with that red cloth that ought to be hanging from the back of every mechanic's pocket and instead of holding his hand out he lifted me off the ground and gave he his best smile.

I said, "put me down." He said, "make me".

I pulled his ears as hard as I could. Outward. He promptly dropped me and came to his knees. There were tears in his eyes.

Then I said, "Hi!"

He got up and shook my hand. And then he apologized. Tim's a good guy, he really is, but guys (and girls) we pull this shit like it's OK and very few people actually know what to do with it. Actually, very few people know that we should or could or can or have the right to do anything with or about it, we just experience some degree of discomfort and wait for it to pass.

There's been a great deal of conversation in the Contra world about this sort of thing and I've been listening to the conversation about older men and younger women until I sort of exploded in the general direction of Southern Man yesterday (because I can and he's really good about that sort of venting) and went off about that really NOT being the only demographic that had to put up with this shit. I beat men off on a regular enough basis to count myself among the regularly harassed. It's part of life. I don't believe anyone has ever actually noticed either. Why? Nobody is actually looking. I'm OK with that. Whether or not I'm being groped is my problem to deal with and I'm fairly adept and a solid knee to the crotch and I've never had anyone actually grab my ass although I've had it slapped. A direct conversation generally solves that shit. Generally. I was talking to an older man I know fairly well who told me about a woman he was dancing with who, during the 12 to 15 minute dance just wouldn't let up. He finally had to come right out and tell her he was married and would be going home with his wife. He wears a ring. Turns out she was married too and so what. He was telling the story with some humor so his discomfort didn't land right away. Men are supposed to suck this up, meant to be flattered, right? He was neither. It was a confession of vulnerability and his feeling of being violated. Funny thing is he's one of the guys that deals with bad behavior at his own dance. He protects the girls.

She was flirting and continued despite the clear signals of, what part of no don't you understand? We should not have to go so far as to stop and say those words. When we come to that we lose the right to flirt at all and that sorta sucks. I ran up and kissed Northern Man on the cheek at the end of the Greenfield dance. On. The. Cheek. I considered it more or less harmless although there was some serious crush going on there. Apparently it shocked the shit out of him. Really? Well holy crap. When I was first learning to dance I was held very close by a friend of mine, I didn't know him at all then, so I wouldn't fly out of control during a swing, I didn't feel even remotely violated. He wasn't shoving his crotch into me and he was looking right into my eyes with the most beautiful smile. As it turns out, he is probably the one person Elizabeth will allow to lift her (even without warning) and the person she trusts the most. Can you see where I'm going here? It's a fine line and it's what we're putting out there.

This is life, we gotta deal with it, men, women and children regardless of gender orientation, age or race. It happens to everyone. Not just pretty young girls. Are we protecting pretty young girls because we're looking at them? Because we think they can't protect themselves? Because they haven't been taught to protect themselves? Because they are the only demographic that will come forward? Which is it? I've been told I'm a target because I fall into the 'attractive' category of 49 year old women (don't take this personally, SM, you are FAR from the only person who's said it).

BULLSHIT!

That's one of the most sexist statements I've heard in a long time. My beautiful smile coming down the line does not make me a target anymore than the skirt coming up over my thighs when I spin. The guy who chooses to do it is going to do it regardless. He might have a window or a type, but he's going to do it. Also, to focus on young women the way we focus on them is also sexist in it's own way. Don't worry, I'm going to get to that. Men, I know you *think* you're doing something great and wonderful but at some level you are dis-empowering. I promise. And I'm not saying you should not do something about people who truly behave badly. EVERYONE should do this. The entire community should take care of the problems. Not just the men. Men are not put on this planet to shelter and protect young women. It wreaks of possession.

Here is something. When I was fifteen or sixteen, I can't remember which because I can't remember if I was jumping yet, I was at the drop zone bar (this is where all the sky divers congregate to drink together at the end of the day) standing around in a crowd of mostly sky divers. I remember there were some civilians present which was/is (probably still) unusual. Generally civilians don't hang out in that sort of crowd and I felt vaguely uneasy. Someone came up behind me and started to put their arms around me. Before it got too far I swung around, my right arm pulled back, elbow slightly down (no way to judge height yet but the assumption was he'd be taller),fist at my shoulder ready to deliver a right hook to somebody's jaw and eyes on fire. And here's the thing. Nobody ever said directly that this was something I could or should do but somehow in the environment that I was raised, this was the right thing, or close enough to the right thing to do. And here I am in a room full of men who would surely have beat another man into a bloody pulp.

Turns out the guy was my mother. I was horrified. She backed up and apologized. That was absolutely the right thing to do. And then later I pulled Timmy's ears until he cried. This is me. I was raised believing I should and could defend myself. We don't raise women to do this and we continue to enforce the VERY sexist belief that they need protection. Later, if they choose, they take classes in self-defense. Really, those classes mostly teach us the belief that we should and can and must.

Later I was raped and I laid very still because I didn't want to die. That was the right thing to do. See the difference?

Last night something happened to my daughter. Something that went entirely unnoticed, although at another dance it might not have been unnoticed and hell, maybe someone did notice, I don't know. And maybe it didn't even go unremarked but it's very hard to say. There has been conversation about whether to lift or not to lift children at a dance. My 'child' does not like to be lifted without permission. If she doesn't know you, you'd damn well better not. My child does not, or has not until now had the wherewithall to speak up for herself because she's been raised with some level of manners that makes it hard to speak up differently to adults. My bad. I have failed to convey something... the adults in question, like Timmy are perfectly nice adults, they've simply failed to consider that children have boundaries. She and I started to have that conversation and she's been working on it, she really has. It's hard to take her to a new dance because she's scared now. Greenfield made her unhappy because she was invisible but also because she was lifted without permission. Last night we had another problem.

Something has happened. Elizabeth is no longer a child. Not even remotely a child. She's kind of short though and I suppose if you stretch it a bit you might get away with calling her a child but, sweetie, those are breasts and the way she dances and the grace with which she holds herself...

SHE IS NOT A FUCKING CHILD!!!!

(do you hear the mommy wrath? it is epic and it is testament to my ability to settle myself that I didn't march myself back into that building and tear someone's limbs off)

Elizabeth hit puberty, full on quite awhile ago. This is a very dangerous place, gentlemen.

If you lift this young woman you have crossed a very specific line. I don't think you even see it but you've crossed it. I expect you've lifted her because she weighs 70 pounds and she's light and she's graceful and it makes you look so freaking good because she doesn't come up off the floor like a kid, she comes up off the floor like a dancer. But you can tell yourself she's a kid and that makes it OK.

Well it wasn't OK in the first place.

I didn't go back into the building because of the rest of what she told me. I just let the story unfold.

She said, "don't lift me". Later he did it again in the same dance and she said it again and then he stopped. It is possible that he didn't hear her because this is the very first time she's managed to speak up for herself and the music is loud. Someone else did it later and this time she made sure he heard her.

She said the reason she was sitting out (she'd mentioned I was looking at her and wanted me to know she was sitting out by choice, we'd been talking about the fact that she was going to have to be proactive in asking for dances) was that what was happening was ruining the dance for her and it was taking awhile before she was willing to get back out there. She was embarrassed and hiding from the first guy. FUCK!

Here's the thing. I know him. I like him. I love dancing with him. He's a goofy fun guy to dance with. I told her this. I also said something had to be done to stop all of it but she, we were going to have to be the most responsible about it. Nowhere, in all the conversation about female or even male harassment have we talked about this. We've talked about kids, we have not talked about young people, very young people who are too old to be picked up because they are not children but you can tell yourself they are not adults either which means there is no sense of self or ownership of self. Or whatever you tell yourself when you don't recognize a boundary.

What came out of her mouth next was, "maybe I need to wear a button or a sticker that says NO LIFTING". Yup, maybe you do. And maybe you need to say it too.

That's what I'm talking about.

And then I told her the story about Timmy. And we talked about the society we live in and why people do this sort of thing and why we don't protect ourselves or why maybe we do. And then I told her about my mother and the bar and she said, "I had no idea you were so cool" and I said, "it's not about being cool", it's about owning yourself.

I haven't always owned myself. I gave my power away for nearly ten years in the not so distant past. Well that sorta sucked. I chose not to mention that part.

As her mother I am still not a happy camper this morning but I'm ever so much calmer. I don't feel the need to beat the crap out of the guy who picked her up and left her feeling helpless and violated. It's what they call a teachable moment (that sort of cracks me up, that horrible newish phrase).

She said another thing, coming to her own conclusion, finding the words, slowly, to wrap around what had really happened to her.

"I'm too big to be picked up anymore"

That is correct, Elizabeth, you are no longer a little kid, you are a young woman and it means something entirely different when you are lifted now. Protect yourself. She already knew she had to do that.

And I'll be damned if I'm going to dis-empower this young woman by rushing back into the building to disembowel someone. Doesn't mean I won't be watching though.

He got you.

"In every school there are the cool and popular kids, and then there are the not-so-cool kids. Candidly, we go after the cool kids. We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends. A lot of people don't belong (in our clothes), and they can't belong. Are we exclusionary? Absolutely." - Michael Jeffries - CEO Abercrombie & Fitch

He got in big trouble the other day (when that statement was unearthed), in defense of the fact that the store doesn't carry clothing over size 10. Northern Man mentioned this in the car the other day and when it failed to get a rise out of me I think it may have surprised him. Maybe not. Anyway, it didn't get a rise. Nothing. Didn't even blink. Yep. That's what A&F is for. So you feel cool. Their price point, if you do it right, is even lower than the Gap and a lot of the other preteen clothing stores in the mall. Seriously. Stuff holds up a hell of a lot better too. Don't get me wrong, Elizabeth is NOT wearing that shit modeled out front. Uh uh, I don't think so. She doesn't appear to think so either; but yes to the skinny jeans, t-shirts and some of the skirts and dresses. For a kid intent on wearing the Fairfield County uniform, I have to admit, she rocks it.

Let's talk about his statement though. Just for a minute. Kay?

We sure do like to get our collective panties in a bunch. Cool kids. There are lots of overweight cool kids. I promise. Where Elizabeth goes to school they come in all shapes and sizes. I promise. Their moms? Not so much. The moms are all size 000. Scary.

Size 10. Let us define size 10.

Truth. I am a size 6 according to A&F at the moment. Sounds supah skinny, yeah?

Last I checked I weighed in at 132 pounds and just now, with the tape measure used ACCURATELY, because I am an accurate sorta girl (that means don't suck it in and don't pull on the tape) I can tell you that I have a 31 inch waist and 39 inch hips.

For real.

What's a size 10?

If you are a size 12, an A&F size 12, let's say, in stretchy skinny jean land, maybe you should think twice about whether or not you really want to stuff yourself into that particular style of clothing? The muffin top is going to be amazing. I promise. And it won't be comfortable. At. All. I would rather slice lengthwise. Will you still be cool? Hell, I don't know. Cool is a frame of mind but I won't even go there right now, way too much angst in that ball of wax.

My point is he got you. Got us. Whatever.

MARKETING, PEOPLE!

We got our panties in a bunch and our kids went all crazy again...

For another pair of A&F skinny jeans. If only in their secret heart of hearts.

Michael Jeffries isn't the bad guy. He just said what the Gap wishes they had the guts to say.

Like Hooters who won't hire you if you aren't beautiful and don't have a perfect pair of, well, you know...

If you don't like it, don't look. Or don't go there. Or whatever.

Here is today's article. And the quote is from 2006 and I don't think it's true anymore about the size 10. I'll check tomorrow because I have to go in there (the perfume and the music is traumatic). I figured I should at least provide my source if I was going to vent about it. :-)

Abercrombie & Fitch CEO's 'cool kids' comment draws fire - May 11, 2013

One small footnote. The article mentions H&M and American Eagle Outfitters being A&F competitors. Uh uh. I don't think so. Not really. The top half of those cool kids? They aren't really shopping there except maybe for staples. Start with Vinyard Vines and work your way down Main Street. Again, wrong demographic. The bottom half of those cool kids? My daughter. Uh... let's just say she has a financially limited palette. I don't sweat it much.

May 8, 2013

It's going to rain for the next 7 years. Days. I meant days, truly.

I have a weekend to collect myself, dig some holes, check the almanac and think about one or maybe two egregious errors in judgement on my part in the relatively recent past. Not too recent but recent enough to burn still. The sort where you crawl under a rock until you catch your breath and then figure out, cat like, how you'd like to come out with your dignity intact.

Also there's the issue of breaking the ground late and now I'm going to do I in the mud which is ok because sometimes it's easier to harvest the bigger rocks in the rain.

The big bad migraines are back. The sort that co-pilot from the left temple for a day or two; OTC does nothing but you take them anyway because you're doing *something*, and then you discover the co-pilot's brought forth a flight attendant or six when you weren't looking; probably one of those times you might have forgotten to breathe...

And you've bolted out the door in the middle of the day because you canNOT take the hard stuff and keep your eyes open and you hate like hell when it gets bad enough you break down and cry over it.

As if the residual wasn't bad enough.

Two things. First, I hate self-inflicted humiliation and second, this migraine shit stops now. At least inasmuch as I have control over the external contribution to the cause.

The rain. Can't do much about the rain except make sure I don't get myself locked in a closet the day the sun finally comes out :-)

Blink

Blink.

I downloaded Jack Johnson's On and On a few days ago. The CD is floating around here somewhere but it's probably beat to hell because I abused the shit out of it twice in a five year period. And then I let it go.

I plugged in late last night and stayed there for awhile. I let it run in the docking station on repeat and woke up enough now and then to be aware on the periphery and it's playing off to my left just now. I'm singing quietly. Sometimes. Sometimes not so much. I'll probably cycle through a couple times on the way North this afternoon before I switch over to something else. Or I'll just stick here for awhile.

I listened to the CD when I came out of lockup. I listened to it for weeks until I didn't need to anymore, I suppose. That was back when I started crying as soon as I turned left out of the parking garage and drove home with tears running down my face like it was perfectly natural. I think it was. To be clear, it wasn't active crying, just a steady river of tears all the reasons in the world or maybe nothing. I couldn't have told you to save my life. Good thing nobody was asking.

I found the CD about 18 months ago and of course listened differently and not for quite so long but maybe with the same sort of comfort and grounding. It works for me. And then that damn thing just up and vanished right out of the car. Which suggests I was done with it...

I plug in a lot these days. I lay back on my bed with those earbuds secured firmly, volume up maybe a little too loud, bedroom door shut and then to make it just little worse... my hands go up over my ears and that sound goes nowhere but in...

Sometimes it puts me to sleep. Sometimes I come unhinged and cry for an hour or two or maybe only a few minutes. Sometimes, a lot of times, I just settle down. And then I plug into Jack Johnson and sing it out.

Did I say too much? Did I clean that up? Am I too at risk? What do I do with that? Is that my stuff? Do I really want to deal with that? How exposed...? Damn damn damn...vul ner able...

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Maybe I just fell on my ass. Maybe I just ran face first into a wall. Can I still get myself out of this thing in one piece if I have to? No. You do NOT understand. Stop. I can't speak. Back up. Did you just vanish into thin air? Did I? I'm too confused to speak I'm going to turn around and be by myself now not 3 minutes after I said I was absolutely done doing that in this relationship. Seems like the only thing to do right about now....

Plugged into Jack Johnson's On and On, putting my feet, MY feet back under my legs and my legs back under my body until the ground stops feeling like wet clay and some of the questions I ask myself stop having any relevance. Learning to be emotionally honest again not for you or him, or them but for me and if it's too much, that's not on me, as it turns out. What comes out of it, on the other hand, *is* on me. In terms of what I choose to do with it. Vague enough for you? :-) I'm having a vagueish sort of morning. I'm still struggling.

Here's what I know after 4 years of being alone and one brief but very illuminating text conversation yesterday. Turns out I don't need to be protected. From anything. You've got to stop and really consider what those words mean. And sometimes you don't know these things until you say the words.

It means I am an open space. A space to receive shelter, comfort, love and a whole lot of other things without the attachment that colors those things with the fear of survival loss. How will my heart ever stand this? It will. It did. I am not attached. At least not *that* sort of attached.

Sometimes I want to say, don't be so damn sure of me.

And KNOW it's me I've been speaking to. Just to be clear.

The close is almost over. One more week. Damn. I'm tired.

  

Can you see me now?

I drove from Purchase to Amherst on a Wednesday night, danced, slept a few hours and drove back to Purchase the next morning. Total Mileage was something like 285; a lot of it in really nasty traffic. Total drive time was under 6 hours but I don't recall just how much under 6 hours. I wasn't just crunchy on Thursday, I was sort of useless. OK, that's not entirely true. I can slip into savant mode which is sort of near coma and do some pretty amazing things but please don't ask me difficult questions that require critical thinking on my part. Or at least instant critical thinking and a coherent answer that comes out of my mouth in nice pretty words and all that. Not gonna happen. Damn damn damn. It was OK. I can do a lot of other sorts of dancing and it was TOTALLY worth it.

I do suffer though; not that suffering is necessarily a bad thing. I go back to all that work I did around breakdown and break through and remember how much I struggled with intimacy and vulnerability. I don't mean personal intimacy, although you can go there too, but intimacy in general. We don't think of it that way but intimacy is an overall way of being in the world. In other words, am I willing to let the world SEE me? That's being vulnerable and it shows up in all of our relationships. We hear the word intimacy and we instantly boil it right down to sex because, well, that's intimate, right? Not necessarily. How many of us are really intimate in our love making? Really? You think so? Are you/we really connected when you're/we're really doing that? Probably not so much as we'd like to think. Anyway, that's not really where I meant to go with this. I was talking about my struggle with being intimate and ultimately vulnerable.

I struggle. It's ok, we all do. As the Fairfield high school therapist I was forced to see told me (because I chose to spend my afternoons on the library couch working my way through Vonnegut instead of sitting through class - IT WAS FUCKING BORRRRRING - plus I failed to acclimate on that last move and people were just plain mean to me - and the therapist told my parents that I was avoiding class because I was afraid of failure because my parents were over achievers - huh? let's not over complicate things), you aren't really all that different from anybody else around here (uh, I hadn't gone there, dude? I hate it here, I like it in the library. It's that simple). 

I struggle. Breakdown is a GOOD thing. God knows I've been having enough of them lately. There's just nothing like sobbing your head off in traffic the next morning, snot and tears running down your face and the guy in the car stopped next to you is staring open mouthed and you realize you have absolutely nothing to wipe your face on so yesterday's dress, which happens to be sitting on the seat next to you will do just fine. So you stare back at him; really stare. right. back. at. him. Look him dead in the eye with everything you've got. No anger, none of that stop looking at me before I make your eyes bleed business; just here's where I'm at, buddy, you wanted to see, ok, take a look. And then pick up the dress on the seat and wipe your face.

You want to see uncomfortable? Show yourself. The world is generally not prepared.

But that's OK. It really is actually. Eventually he gave me a sad, soft sort of smile. People will do that.

I struggle.

I don't have words. I am angry. I don't like to be angry and I don't give myself permission to be angry. I don't mean I'm angry all the time or even necessarily very often. I mean I experience anger and I won't allow myself to have it. Anger is one of those things I gave up a few years ago.

Really, Alecto? REALLY?!!! Sure about that?

OK, anger is something I gave up in relationship a few years ago. Ah, crap. I've turned into my ex-husband. OK, not really but I can see that repressed business and it shocked the shit out of me. He talked about how much he cried after he left and I remember I was sinking to the bottom of Lake Placid off Pulpit Rock and I managed to ask him, Nomans, why the hell couldn't you have done that with me? It would have made all the difference in the world.

I know, he said.

Is that cowardice or the inability or unwillingness to face breakdown? Nobody to judge but myself. I'm just noticing where I'm at.

I struggle.

That's a great smile up there, no? Yes. There are suddenly a plethora of dance photos of me and I am smiling that big open smile everywhere. I know I do that, I can feel it and people talk to me up and down the line because it hits them like a wave if they're open. You can tell who is open and who is not so open by how they respond; if they respond. Most people do at least to some degree. My favorite is not what you'd think maybe. Not meeting the men in a swing; all that physical contact, face to face, eye to eye if they aren't looking at the floor or the corner of the room or my forehead. My favorite is meeting the women. It shocks the shit out of them. I reach out my hand to pull across and there is almost always eye contact. Actually I can't think of a time when a woman hasn't met my eye. Eye contact and the way I reach out. Not like this is just something I have to do to pull across, but this is something I want to do. It's not just a bridge to get me to the other side; it's an intricate part of the dance and I get to do it with you and it really matters to me and I'm going to meet you right here in the middle and I'm going to reach out to you and take your hand maybe in a way no woman in this room has reached out to you. We are going to dance, you and I, just for a second, but it's really going to count. A lot of the time I get surprised smiles. The younger girls are already right there with me.

I didn't always have that smile. Well, yes I did. But then I lost it. I got it back later. I got it back when I did a lot of work with a lot of people, broke down all over the place with a great deal of support and broke through all over the place. Somebody mentioned on facebook, when that photograph was posted and then changed to my profile pic that this was how she remembered me. She knew me when that smile first came back.

She knew me when I first got it about intimacy and vulnerability as an adult.

And then what happened....?

Life lifed.

I struggle.

Thank God. Because it would REALLY SUCK IF I WASN'T STRUGGLING.

Do you know what I'm talking about?

Surrender doesn't just happen like turning on and off a light switch (unless it does). To turn away and not struggle is to be in complete denial. To stand there with your face up against it is real. I see it.

Here is something I know. OK, here is something that happened and then I'll get to the what I know part.

Northern Man refers to conflict as missing each other. He says, we keep missing each other but we keep coming back here. Yes we do. Stuff can get really uncomfortable. We keep showing up anyway. Wednesday night was hard. We kept missing each other and then finally I just didn't have any words and I really needed to go to sleep. Desperately and I needed that conversation to stop. Just stop now. It's not going to do anything but escalate and maybe go until dawn.

I rolled over on my side and here is what I did. I backed up against him and pulled his arm around me and he was asking something about whether I wanted him to not be near me and I was saying, NO! I don't want you to not be near me, I want you to be RIGHT HERE. And I said something else that would have helped but my tone was wrong because I had some words but I didn't have tone yet. Northern Man has no real history with me. Not much anyway. We did get there, I did manage to get something right or he met me in the middle or something.

Here's where I used to be. I'd roll over on my side. All the way to the edge of the bed and freaking SHUT DOWN. I'd shut down so hard and so completely that I'd just go to sleep. It was amazing. Truly. Ask Either of my first two husbands. The two who really tried when I hit some level of upset where I lost my words. They each stared at me in disbelief and then later asked me how the hell I could just do that. How could I put myself into a damn near coma. It was easy. I needed to leave, to go as far away as possible. Later, with Nomans I couldn't do that for some reason. I wish I could have. I might have been a different sort of OK if I had been able to but I wasn't. And I'll tell you, what happened to me when I couldn't take myself out became an inferno.

I rolled over on my side and backed up against him and pulled his arms around me without hesitation. I just didn't have any words and I hurt so badly and nothing I did seemed to make any difference at all and I knew I'd hurt him and I couldn't seem to get through to fix that. I had no reason to do anything except stop. It was all I had left.

I'm sorry I couldn't do my crying there. I'm sorry I'm not a perfect human being. I'm sorry I struggle (how stupid is that?). I'm sorry I can't always find my words. I'm sorry for so many damn things. I'm sorry I'm not good enough. I'm sorry for being bad. I'm sorry I let people down. I'm sorry I hurt people. I'm sorry I want what you or anyone else cannot give me. I'm sorry I need anything from anyone. I'm sorry to cause disturbance or even ripples. I'm sorry to cause upset. I'm sorry I can't do everything. I'm sorry I can't take everything that comes flying at me and just keep standing like it's OK. I'm sorry I'm afraid of anything. I should not be. I'm sorry I'm not a better mother. I'm sorry I fucked up three marriages (single handedly - you bet I believe that). I'm sorry I get angry at all, with anyone. Ever (and you better believe I believe I don't have a right to be angry). I'm sorry I'm not who you (that you is collective, all of the you's in this paragraph are collective) want me to be. I'm sorry I'm not behaving the way you think I ought to behave; at a lot of levels I really do believe you're right. I'm sorry if I've stopped speaking to you because I've fallen to my knees. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Whew. Glad I got that out. That's a lot of shit, isn't it? I seem to have my face up against that so hard these days I'm having trouble breathing.

That's all I got.

It's a DAMN good thing I dance, no? Yes.

So. What's your face up against?

Something, I hope. :-)

Be conscious. Be alive. There isn't going to be any real joy without coming right up against the hard stuff, by the way. Just sayin'.

Walkabout

I went on walkabout two years ago, back in May, 2011 when I went to visit CG's clan up on the mountain and never wanted to leave again. That walkabout started at the bottom of the Skyline drive and ended wherever I got off the Blue Ridge Parkway and turned right, heading toward Damascus and eventually the right part of Tennessee. Mapless. Garmin off. Without a rudder? Only in the beginning; a few days back.

The only thing I hurt on that trip were my knees and they got over it, but I unleashed a world of hurt every night I sat by myself and wrote furiously into a damp journal and on that four mile hike (that did my knees in for a bit) where I found myself about to hang over a 2,200 foot drop just to get a decent shot and realized I was truly and completely by myself and if I happened to roll or slip off that boulder, wasn't anyone going to have a clue I was up there. Not really. Maybe somebody'd find that red pack one day on the trail and think to look over the boulder... doesn't really matter though. Two years later there is sporadic cell service, then, not so much.

Grief thundered all the way up and wept silently on the way back down.

I wanted to climb Peaks of Otter again but I'm getting ahead of myself.

The serendipitous scheduling of the Glen Echo dance on April 12 happened sort of like this:

Southern Man:    When are you coming to a Glen Echo dance?

Me:    What have you got coming up in April?

Southern Man:    (really? is she fucking with me? I've been asking her to come forever and she just ignores me)...  (list instantly provided)

Me:    My birthday is on a Friday. I could take a long weekend and do that.

Southern Man:    I could find you a place to stay.

Me:    That would be very nice.

Southern Man:    There are a lot of other dances you could go to in the area (sends nine million links).

Me:    That all looks great (click click click)

And that's how it started. The relevant part is the why, the how and what came out of that. In 2011 I had the birthday crisis. I don't know why 2011 was the year I went to pieces but it was. I'm one of those people who seem to need acknowledgement on my birthday. On the 12th. Not the 11th. Not the 13th. On the 12th. Please don't ask me to explain that, it just is. There's some history behind this but it's only relevant in that I found out the hard way how much it matters, or did matter to me (I was turning 40, in Rome and it truly, truly sucked in ways I can't even begin to explain. We drove South and I cried for two hours in Pompeii). These days I can be the only person in the world acknowledging the fact and I'll be OK. But I have to do it. That's what came out of 2012 and that's why 2013 looked the way it did. As an aside, this might come out of the fact (at least partially) that we don't acknowledge, much less notice birthdays in my family very well. I'm very guilty of this therefore I have raised children who may or may not remember. What you sow...

So, in 2011 I spoke up and received an incredible outpouring of support from my friends and family and while I spent the day alone, I was not alone. I got through it. In 2012 I was silent, by myself and I was OK. And this year I decided to get the hell out of the house. The timing just got a little funny. The conversation happened at the very beginning of a new relationship. I don't recall exactly when Southern Man and I had this conversation about Glen Echo but I know it was early. But not too early. Early enough for me to be unsure of a number of things (hell, I'm still unsure of a number of things) and I had to make a decision.

Do I hang out in wait and see mode because of a man over something this important? To me. To me it was that important. Or do I just draw the line in the sand for myself and go? I drew the line in the sand and then I stepped over it and walked forward.

In the end the weekend was built out of two desires; the first to dance at Glen Echo and the second to dance at a smaller regional dance in Virginia because I didn't get to go Staunton in November when Girls Gone Wild weekend got cancelled. Staunton didn't have a dance that weekend but a town called Floyd did and so that was stop 2. Floyd was close enough for Cielo to come up and close enough for CG but it wasn't working for CG so there were just the two of us plus an extra day and then a drive back up the Parkway (I'm getting to that).

As the date got closer and Northern Man was still around I was sad to go two weeks without seeing him but walkabout is walkabout and he'd said something about coming down on Thursday night but that was awhile back and he's been known to tell me plans get 'penciled' in and so it wasn't until he actually pulled into the driveway (we'd both been pretty sick) that I really believed it. And so there he was. On the 11th. And on the 12th.

And then I drove South and he drove North and I went into walkabout mode which means I've more or less turned off the world behind me because, well, that's walkabout. I wasn't really ready for that, by the way, but I did it anyway. It was scheduled :-) I just should have made the phone call a lot sooner.

I know, you expected to hear about dancing, didn't you?

OK, fine. I'll tell you about dancing. The Spanish ballroom at Glen Echo is absolutely beautiful. The floor is amazing. I hurt my knees anyway. That is indicative of me having a really good time. The Southern Man and his friend had dinner waiting for me when I got there. I swear he did this on purpose (even though I know he did not). I was late enough because I got out of the house late and it was raining) that by the time we finished eating the first dance was about to start and everyone was lined up. There's been a great and passionate online argument about how hard it is or is not to find a partner at Glen Echo if you don't know anyone. I looked at Southern Man and said he should dance with his friend because I think he meant to anyway. He looked at me and said Go!

I ran into the room and HOLY SHIT! There is NOBODY standing around. This can't happen. I have to find a partner. Seriously. I can't let this happen. I ran around the perimeter of the room and asked several people who all seemed to have other things to do. I found a man coming in the room who looked slightly dubious because he was one of those people I would normally never ask because he was looking OVER my head (for someone else). I skidded up to him (yes, you read that right: skidded), tugged his t-shirt and said,

hey! do you want to dance?  {Big Grin}

Him:    OK.

After that all I had to do was reach my hands out and I think, short of small regional dances this was as easy as it's ever been.

My three favorite dances reverse order:

3. I was set up just once. If I post his name I'll get too many hits I think and I don't really want this. He said, do you dip? I said, I've been dipped, there's a difference. Last time I learned I should tuck my legs under and I don't really understand the concept of giving weight just yet, can you handle that? Yes, oh yes, oh yes. For fifteen straight minutes, up and down the line he did. OMG. Please, Mister, can we do that again?

2. I was standing in front of the fan by the stage drying off with probably a shit eating grin looking like an absolute delinquent when a nice man with a long brown ponytail swept me into his arms and waltzed me out onto the floor, AS he was sweeping he was saying, let's dance! It was the caller. He was awesome.

1. I was dancing with a boy (ok, late 20s early 30s, he's still a boy) from West VA who'd been my corner in a previous dance and in that dance I swear I'd heard somebody flat footing and I was PRETTY sure it was him but I asked him to dance because as my corner any time I got turned around (because I do) he was right there with the BEST smile telling me, I got you. It's so much easier to dance that way. Anyway, at the very beginning of the dance he didn't seem to know about a petronella turn but caught on right away so I asked where he was from and when he said I asked if it was him I heard flat footing through the last dance and I don't know I've ever seen a face light up quite like that because suddenly he had PERMISSION. And that boy went to town. I could have cried. That one dance was worth 300 miles in the rain. We talk a lot about fusion in the dance but I've yet to talk to anyone who lights up when I mention the terms flat footing and contra together. I believe it will come. He'd integrated way too much to have been doing that by himself.

In the morning I had breakfast with my friends and then put another 300 miles on the car. I pulled into Floyd at 4, leaving me and Cielo three and a half hours to check in and do nothing. I'm sure we did something. I know we walked around until we found Dogtown because it would have sucked to have been too late to sit around and look at this before the lesson:

I don't know who said it to me but somebody did sometime in the very recent past. Somebody had the audacity to tell me that Contra is Contra and it's pretty much the same everywhere. Whoever said that really needs to get out of their own backyard, or leave their own dance or something. Hell, there are differences between the three CT dances I've attended. People get funny about it too. Do we touch each other here or do we just pass through? Flourishes have entirely other flavors. Anyway, I'm totally digressing. But regional dances, I'm pretty sure, are where you're going to find those big, big differences. So that's why I like them so much. Floyd, VA is 610 miles from my home (ok, it's a little closer if you don't do 100 of those miles on the Parkway, but still). It was very different. And yet, very much the same.

So you can dance anywhere in the world. I think you can speak any language and work it out one way or another. Count to 8 and everything will be OK. Look at that floor. It's an old floor. Makes me think of Nancy Griffith's Red Brick Floor. Yeah, I would go there. I was dubious at first; so uneven, maybe a little scary no matter how pretty it looks until the caller's husband stood up and asked me, didn't I think this wasn't the BEST floor?! and proceeded to do tight little turns all the way across that damn floor...

And as it turns out, yes, that was just the BEST damn floor.

I don't even know this man's name but I know he works very hard to keep this dance going. We talked about it for a bit. Quite honestly I couldn't decide if it was better to dance with him or to watch him dance. Who am I kidding?

On Sunday we went to visit Cielo's daddy and leave a bit glass she made.

And then later wandered into The Floyd Country Store where I was reduced to tears and nearly took out a t-shirt rack trying to hold the phone still enough to get decent video (you're not getting the video now).

We went back to Dogtown for pizza and beer and the music was entirely different. Somebody had a high end turn table and some VERY well cared for vinyl. We fell well outside the expected demographic but I expect the uber pierced boys with the possibly regretable sized gauges behind the bar that night eventually got over it. At least I drew the line at spitballs. If I'd had a straw with my beer... :-) Would you throw your momma out of a bar for blowing spitballs at you? Maybe.

And then I went back to Peaks of Otter. I'm running out of time so I'm going to make this short. You don't really need the whole story about driving through the cloud bank although it's reminiscent of getting to Peter Lake's Lake of the Coheeries. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to climb because you really should NOT do that in a cloud bank because you're likely to find yourself stepping OFF the side of a mountain. Or the edge of a cliff. Or something.

But eventually, of course, it did clear just before Peaks of Otter. And like two years ago, except just about one month earlier, the place was deserted. More so though because the visitor center wasn't even open. No way to even check in. The trails had been cleared. A lot of work was done this year. Must have been some serious wash out this winter. Up I went. I'd give the view, maybe the beautiful shots, the balancing rocks, the outcrops, the bowers, but this is really what it's all about.

Being in the trees. By myself.

I turned back before the summit. Not because my knees were screaming but because my clock turned on and my head screamed - 13 HOUR DRIVE AT THIS RATE! My knees were OK. I went up a lot slower this year then I did in 2011 and Grief did not shriek or wail. Grief, I don't believe, was even on the mountain. Sadness sat quietly in the car instead and waited for me. I turned around and went home.

I got off the Parkway somewhere near Natural Bridge and looked for Foamhenge but only caught a glimpse of a few grimy oversized dinosaurs. I would have had to look harder than I had time for I think.

I drove slower home than I might have but still got back by 9:30 and that was just fine. I sat with it for a long time.

I am at 4:19 and 6:52. You don't really get to see me dancing with my partner from West Virginia until the very end when we're near the top of the set and unfortunately no one knew to look at his feet. After all, who does that?

 

 

Hands Four

I have a lot to say. Probably several posts worth.

However... If I had to (and I really don't but I am for right now) sum up four days in one picture, this would be it.

That's exactly right

I got up meaning to write but I don't remember the exact parts of what was floating around loose in there while I was laying so perfectly still. Sometimes it works that way.

Today there is wind and rain and it won't come up much above 45. I was in the driveway anyway, barefoot at 6:30 this morning pulling out the trash and recycling, and like yesterday, didn't seem to notice. Something has shifted somewhere. My body says it's spring.

And I'm not broken or damaged or too far gone to put myself back together. I'm not even sure I'm in all that many pieces. In my backyard, never mind the unnaturalness of the daffodils in the front, the perennials that survive winter after winter, often through complete neglect or abuse are pushing up through the layers of ground cover and the Monkshood, against all oddsgiven its nearly full sun location has clearly taken on more ground. The Digitalis will be somewhere new and interesting or not at all this year and you never know about the Eccinacia. The Jerusalem Artichoke brought back, two small tubers from CG in May, 2011 and never yet harvested in any way competes with the Coneflower and that insipid beloved Morning Glory has finally given up and stopped volunteering itself all over the yard. Time to plant again. And the roses. Have I mentioned the ridiculous roses? I keep depositing them in obscure locations and forgetting and then I'll rescue one, nearly dead, drop it in the ground with some compost, speak nicely and four weeks later I have two feet of new growth and flowers everywhere. Funny how living things don't hold a grudge. They'd far rather be alive than right.

If you keep walking past the perennial and vaguely medicinal beds (There are other things making their way out of the earth) and move back into the original beds which haven't been worked seriously in two years you will find what has become a field of Cilantro, Dill, Tansy and Lemon balm. There are other survivors as well but those are the dominants and there will still be oregano if you know where to look for it and the Alpine Strawberries will probably always be there at the border and there is Calendula that may eventually give the big four a run for their money. Three blueberry bushes that went in mid 2008 do well if kept free of brush and I still find the occasional volunteer nightshade from the great potato or tomato or pepper years. I think the wild lettuce may be done though. Last year what I thought might have been, turned out to be Calendula. Good thing I didn't poison myself.

It doesn't look like much. Oh hell, it looks like a pile of weeds and when the contractors the blip paid to bush cut the backyard came out and bushcut what they weren't supposed to I sat out there and cried my head off; snot running down my face, trying to choke out the words, you don't understand!

That was food out there!

The man looked at me like I was nuts.

It was a freaking jungle, lady and it needed help.

Don't judge me, Monkey! says Cletus. Too late, says most of the world. It's not neat and clean and it isn't the shiny bins at Whole Foods or the neat orderly backyard gardens in the magazines or (I don't actually know who grows those things but take a picture at the end of the year or see if anything comes back on it's own later), and broccoli, I have news for you, doesn't really grow like that. It will scratch you up if you go in there with bare legs and don't watch where you're walking. You will step on something important if you aren't conscious and maybe that's OK but if it says ouch at you, don't be so damn bothered about it. There's nothing wrong here. Tomato plants and butternut squash grow out of the compost and wander halfway across the yard until somebody makes a mistake and cuts a vine but that doesn't seem to make much of a difference.

Things grow wild anyway.

Don't judge me, Monkey.

Here is spring. Looks like grass?

Here is summer. Coming soon if I don't mow it down by mistake. I wouldn't do that.

Rising blue

I woke up at 5:30 this morning. Of course I did. I slept on and off a good part of yesterday and passed out at a reasonable hour last night, earbuds stuffed into my ears, music up way louder than realistically necessary meaning to listen, just for a little while to Low Anthem lullabies. I woke up eventually, plugged the thing into its docking station (because it's the ALARM CLOCK) and fell face first back into the pillow. And you know I restarted another playlist, which, by the way, I never make halfway through the first song so I'm not sure why I really bother except some nights I do. Or I like to think I do.

I ran barefoot in shorts outside at 6 hoping to find a reasonable sunrise because if I'm up at 6 and coherent that's a nice sort of thing to find and the cold front or whatever's going to happen hasn't hit us yet (or it has and I haven't noticed yet).

Instead I got rising blue. I was halfway back up the walk when I realized I'd turned around having abandoned what was there because I didn't get what I was looking for, already predefined, cut out and packaged, something I've seen before and expect or desire to see again only maybe this time morebetterdifferent.

I turned around and went back to the driveway, which is the best place to point the phone up to the sky because it's the only place that's kinda sorta treeless. It only took one shot.

I love the color blue. I can hear that frequency more clearly than all the rest.

*************************************************************************************************************************

When my brother lived in the desert, out at Eloy I visited as often as possible which was frequent enough because I worked in Scottsdale. Commuted to Scottsdale from Connecticut (that's a whole other story) and I went home some weekends but not all because of the cost of travel. 65 miles on Rt 10, fastest time 40 minutes. Do the math.

I'd show up at the drop zone around 3:30 on a Friday afternoon straight from the office if I'd managed to finish class early (it's Friday, you always get them out early) in what insurance agency software trainers wore in the early 90s. Think Ann Taylor takes T&A and legs up to your chin and slams it into what passes for professional gear. You can still bend over because there was always a four inch above the knee rule. I said T&A and legs up to your chin, I did not say trash. I absolutely LOVED that shit. Ishtar is a powerful goddess.

However, by the time I showed up at the DZ in my mind I'd have morphed into shorts and a t-shirt and I'd sort of wonder about the looks I was getting until one of my brother's friends or team mates laughed at me hard enough I worked it out. Ann Taylor T&A and legs up to your chin is NOT hot at the DZ. Really, it's not. It's just ridiculous. At least I'd have kicked my ridiculous shoes off before I got out of the car.

I am going somewhere with this, by the way.

Because of the geographic arrangement of mountains and the pollution that blows in from Phoenix you can pretty much count on one stunning sunset after another except during the rainy season. This happens in Phoenix too but it's not quite the same; maybe it's the buildings in the way. I'm not entirely sure.

So we'd all be outside still because there's that last jump run and my brother's team would be standing around and you'd invariably hear... ah, there you go, another fucking perfect sunset...

But I was always looking for it and never anything else. What happened after was lost on me entirely until the very end, just before I stopped going out there and the sad part was I didn't really have any warning because one day I was teaching a class in Manhattan and I called just before 10 for tech support and spoke to one of the regulars and when I called again around 2 PM my call was routed to Walnut Creek. Sometime between 10 and 2, the corporate office marched in and shut the building down and that was that.

I'm sort of amazed I can't find anything on the interwebs when I google Eloy sunsets but then again, maybe I shouldn't be.

I'm looking at the blue up in the corner and wishing I'd had more time to look in the shadows before dark dropped like a rock. Dark comes fast and cold out there and there's something just between I'm pretty sure I missed...