Baby, It's Cold Inside

So, how about that weather? Isn't the new jet stream pattern so refreshing? Do you want to build a snowman or maybe sit around and continue to deny that climate change is not only real but physically impacting all of our lives?

Let's stop doing that second thing. Let's stop pretending that throwing our hands up in front of our faces and saying, "No, I don't like coming to terms with reality because reality is icky and uncomfortable and I have to make some changes in my life and I DON'T WANNA!" is going to change the fact that reality is hard and immutable, like a bus barreling down the road, headed right for us. It doesn't matter if we say "No, I don't WANNA" to the bus. It's not going to magically not crush us against the wall of its physical reality. It's coming straight at us. We have to move, and we have to move now, or we're going to have to clean up a lot of viscera in our near future.

And it isn't just the climate. This dangerous denial of reality and all of its consequences appears to have infected a great number of citizens here in the U.S. There is a cult (yes) of willful ignorance, hell bent on injecting fear and disorder into society and, frankly, they've done an extraordinary job thus far.

I had a conversation with some folks today about reality, perception, belief, and action. The core of it was how horrifying the enactment of poorly understood philosophical assumptions, specifically the one about beliefs being just as valid as reality because possible multiverses 'n' stuff, is affecting the social construct. The actual fabric of our society is straining because so many people are callously and selfishly doing whatever the fuck they want.

That's really bad. Let me explain why.

Doing whatever one wants, regardless of whether it hurts another, is anti-social behaviour. The reason it's called anti-social behaviour is that it negatively impacts society. You know, that agreement we have with each other as social animals, where we do our best to live peacefully and respectfully so that we all may benefit from things like clean water, fresh air, lives relatively free of oppression and violence, safety and food for our children and selves... yes. Society.

The alternative to society is anarchy, which might sound like a pretty romantic notion if you've never committed yourself to realizing how much terror, agony, cruelty, and inhumane action will happen if we manage to achieve actual anarchy. Some might find that scenario acceptable. God help their blind souls. But anarchy is like a vacuum. Nature and power-hungry leaders abhor a vacuum. If and when we are in complete disorder, there will be an entity of aggression who will come and put us in order. Their order. Do you think we'll be able to fight back effectively, even as individuals with personal arsenals, against a force that wields organized, funded armies, quite possibly with nuclear capability? Our best, individual hopes would then become dying in a blaze of "glory." This might work for some, but it does not work for most. We cannot ask others to suffer and or die for our causes. Not the glorious ones and certainly not the petty ones.

Let's talk about these petty ones. Firstly, I'm going to call any cause that does not directly promote life and existence as petty. It's about needs versus wants. Needs are glorious. Wants are petty. I need food to live. I want that food to be delicious and wonderful. I can live on food that isn't delicious and wonderful, so that want is a petty cause. Let me use a widely known current example of a passionately carried but petty cause:

There are folks who are screaming about some war on Christmas. They've gotten the notion that everyone needs to believe what they believe and in the way they believe it or they're being oppressed. That's silly. Oppression is when you are disallowed to practice your beliefs under threat of penalty or death. If displaying Christmas decorations caused the authorities to look away as you were being systematically harassed or if they were there to perpetrate the harassment, then you're being oppressed. Being legally afforded less rights without having committed any legal offense is being oppressed. Being asked to allow others to have their own beliefs with as much acceptance as you have yours is not oppression. It's called civility. It's how to be fair, and being fair is how we've managed to have this country that allows us to believe what we believe. This country is founded on Christian values, not on Christianity. If we take a look around, an honest look around, we'll find that Christian values are just good social sense. They're also Jewish values and Muslim values and Taoist values and decent people who have no interest in religion's values. Be kind. Be fair. Be honest. Think first. Reject anger, hatred, violence, and uninformed judgement. Have compassion. Cultivate patience and empathy. Do unto others as you would have done to you.

This so-called "war" is no war. There is no enemy unless one has decided that this *should* be a secular country, in which case I need you to look again at the Constitution and consider if you intend to participate in a religious war by fostering the hatred and othering that it takes to light a fire like that. Refresh your history knowledge about the viscera remaining after religious wars. Go look at the photos of refugee children, lost and bloody and empty. Picture your own children there. We don't want this. No amount of discomfort when faced with our own privilege is worth that horror.

Where we should be fighting is in the war against poverty. That's a war. That's a glorious cause, because the continuation or cessation of lives absolutely hangs in the balance. Poverty is not about being offended or socially uncomfortable as our privilege is pointed out. It's about starvation, desperation, untreated medical issues, death by dehydration or exposure or neglect or violence borne of the chronic trauma that is poverty. We need to improve this situation. We, the people, the mass of us who are supposed to create a social net for all of us. Why? Because it's the right thing to do. Need more self-justification? Because you need that social net, too. Running water. Safe food. A reasonable assurance that if you, yourself, fell on hard times, that the rest of us would be there for you, if only in our taxes.

Frankly, when I look at the folks who are celebrating the so-called "freedoms" we are about to experience under our new President/Cabinet/Congress, I have to wonder if we're going to be okay in the end. There's so much dangerous rhetoric that we, as a species, have seen before and have sworn again and again that we will not let happen. But we've become complacent. Perhaps glutted by our ability to tune out via social media (which, by the way, is mostly fantasy that is deceptively real looking), our vulgar consumerism, our collective lack of willpower to do the right things even though they aren't "fun", and our unkind actions that we seem to be justifying by our own comfort or dark glee. I wonder if there will be enough of us who can read the news and generally judge if it's journalism or propaganda. I wonder if the level headed, the concerned, the long-game players, will also be our hard-standing opposition to the selfishness and blind greed that now seems imminent. So far, I hear a lot of murmuring without focus. I'm here. Where are you? Why won't you speak loudly in the face of bigotry, sexism, wanton environmental destruction? You won't be alone. I'm here. I'll stand with you.

And, if it is to be that you're choosing the self-serving path that is peppered with unkindness... well, know that I'm standing before you, telling you that you've got it wrong. I won't stop doing that. I won't stop pointing out the privilege, I won't stop pushing back against inequality, I won't stop defending you and everyone else who needs it. Not wants it. Needs it.

Let's do this.

On Trauma and Forever Finding Triggers

Well, shit.


I'm particularly vulnerable right now. The ricochet changes in weather are aggravating the deep, sharp pain of arthritis, making my outlook decidedly more dim than I'd prefer. The pain makes me sad and jumpy, drives my depression, and causes more felt pain. Quite the cycle, that.

Yesterday was just another moment of what seems to be an endless stream of objectification, misogyny, and patriarchal horseshit. Some jackass, with whom I had previously had a friendly, professional "relationship" managed to say a single sentence that struck me so hard, I felt as stripped and dirty as if I had actually been standing there in only my work apron, as he so flippantly suggested.

I'm reeling today. I'm lost and in shock and in tears. I'm not sure, but I might be fresh out of indignation and standing only on shame. Half of me continues on, understanding that this bullshit is, entirely, bullshit. That people should not say such things to relative strangers. Hell, the only person who can tell me that I should work in my apron only while fondling me with his eyeballs is my partner. That's it. But the other half of me is trying desperately to figure out how to avoid this, how to modify my behaviour, how not to dress, that I am too friendly, that of course it's my fault, somehow.

It's moments like this that bring a wellspring of memory and agony and self-doubt and prolonged terror/shame. I'm sick to my stomach. My throat is tight and my head hurts so much. Mental flashes of all the times I've been stripped naked and injured come flooding in. In my mind's eye, I see the blanket I buried myself in as a little girl and can smell my own fear and panic, can feel the suffocation of breathing my own exhalations back in because it's better to suffocate than to give in and be raped. I can still hear the ticking of the clock downstairs, can feel the late-summer heat of the attic, the tickle of unknown spiders' cobwebs, the roar of my own blood in my own ears as I crush myself smaller and smaller, hoping to become invisible in the dark space of the rafters for when my attackers return. My five year old self is right here. My heart is pounding, I'm trying not to see the soft, promising glint of blade edges in an otherwise empty cabinet. I'm trying not to feel the hard but spongy reverberation of my head bouncing off a dormitory door while a shark-eyed man tells me he loves me and can't wait to introduce me to his mother. My barely twenty year old self is here. My back and my knees remember the bite of sandstone, the silent, scuffling struggle under the stars, the crackle of bonfire and wafting laughter of people not twenty feet away who don't know that I'm fighting a losing battle with a man in a sweatshirt that smells of body odor, vomit, and mortality.

All these things. They come bubbling back up, slick and sticky and fetid.

This doesn't happen every time some asshole strips me bare with words, but it happens often enough that I can string these moments like vulgar pearls onto a necklace that I can't seem to remove. I claw at the clasp and all I manage to do is wound myself, stinging rake marks onto my own throat, bleeding shame and anger at my own shame.

I will never be able to convince myself that it's not my fault, somehow. I will never stop feeling like I should have done something different, every time.

I'm doing that now. The very best thing I can do is scream in rage, howling unholy into the dark, and pray to myself that maybe this time, I can tear this part of myself out and fling it into the wind.

On Wisdom and Character... Neither of Which Comes Naturally to Me

Patience is a virtue. ~Prudentius

Patience, n. A minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue. ~Bierce

Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet. ~Rousseau

Endurance is patience concentrated. ~Carlyle

Are we there yet? ~Me

You're traveling through another dimension (am i? is that why i feel so distant and strange?) -- a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind (especially of mind dear god and boy, do i mind). A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination (i certainly couldn't have imagined i'd be stretching my own boundaries so far). That's a signpost up ahead (shit. i hate the signs. i don't believe in signs... do i?). Your next stop: The Twilight Zone!

Please. That's not my next stop. I've been in this zone for quite some time now but it never becomes familiar. If and when it does, I'll know I've lost too much of myself to keep being who I think I am or I was.

I've been consciously waiting for things to change because the current situation is unacceptable as a status quo. I don't accept SNAFU as how it should be or how it will continue to be. What's keeping me going in this frozen state is that I'm sure (oh please oh please) it ends soon.

What's needing change, you ask? To be perfectly vague, I need my kid to be okay. His forced emotional state (damn you, justice, in the past) doesn't support that. In addition, I need to make this long distance epic (and I use that word in the old, non-commercially-abused sense) love into an in-our-face, right next to each other, stealing covers and putting the silverware in the wrong place in the tray, basking in each other's glow and glower and boredom and delight epic love. I need the courts to move forward. I need the government to move forward. I need my life to move forward.

Because this extended game intent on stalemate shit has got to go.

Every day and week and month and moment that passes in this swirly grey purgatory, this mundane but pregnant limbo, takes something out of me and replaces it with profound wisdom and, really, total shock at the way I'm handling these thumb screws. I'm losing my wonder but gaining strength. It's hard to think about because it hurts to accept the fact that I can't be both strong and bright (in my heart). As a little girl, even the smallest emotional slight tore my heart up. Now I feel like I'm staring at me from outside my body when broadsword blows to my emotional center barely rock me, let alone knock me off my feet. In the same way, music that moved me is now simply lovely but not profound. Clear, dark skies scattered with cold stars make me smile in a comfortable way but they don't take my breath or light me up with an electric glow anymore.

And that's okay, really. It's just sort of sad in a "yep, that's life" sort of way. It makes me think, though, about all the other people I know who have already done this growing up thing. All the roses with their bloom already off. I think I was a hold out. Maybe I was a late bloomer. Maybe I'm not a rose at all, but something slower and rarer like a night blooming desert flower. Or maybe I'm just getting older and the metaphors are naturally going towards the sun setting type.

So I'm in limbo and have been for a few years now. What am I learning from limbo? Well, I'm learning I can bend to a vulgar degree without breaking. I'm learning that fierce passion like mine can be concentrated and focused into slow burning fuel able to sustain my core through long winters of waiting.

I hate waiting. I'm also very good at it. I just didn't know that.

But now that I've had these revelations and revealed the center of my being, can we just get a move on?

No?

Okay. I'll be over here, reading all the magazines and having all the dreams and learning all the things until it's my turn to move forward. Just don't be surprised if I've rearranged the whole waiting room by the time you get to me. Because I'm here and I don't have a guide, I feel like I have a duty to future limbo dancers. I'll be leaving a map of waiting for the next poor, passionate soul. May they be as lucky as I am and have a stubborn fortitude and wells of patience and enough whimsy to make a life out of it as I have.

Either that or they can go quietly, artistically and positively mad. Which might be exactly what I'm doing. I think this is how eccentrics are made. I'll let you know when I get there.

Because I Can't Let it Go

Some weeks ago, I found myself engaged in a one-sided battle on my favourite social media site, Facebook. It was one-sided because all the pain the other person caused wasn't something I addressed. All I did was absorb it and hurt.

I did the unthinkable in public. I said I was tired and crabby. I said that about attending an event at my kid's school. Suddenly, I found myself wearing the frame of the portrait of the Not Good Enough Parent.

And it blew me away.

I wanted to stand in a room with the other person and download my whole experience as a mother, to have that person lay with me as I cried myself to sleep, to panic with me as I fell behind on bills, to sit with me as I scrabbled to keep my civility when my kid was being a (totally normal, totally within the average parameters and completely infuriating) jerk and I couldn't tell another soul to just "deal with it" while I hid in the other room with a good book. I had to stay Right There, mothering and Being Amazing and remembering all the Love & Logic training I had and not responding like any other human would... by ferociously barking.

You see, though I am in a serious (and amazing) relationship, I am functionally single. My mate, my partner, my other half is on the other side of the Atlantic ocean. We're four thousand, five hundred and two miles apart. Give or take a few yards. Or meters. Whatever. Somewhere out there, on the other side of a gigantic body of water filled with whales and sea cucumbers and darkness and rogue waves, is my support system. We don't exchange supportive looks across the room. He can't feel my temperature rising in ire, he can't take my kid for a man-to-man walk, he can't provide the third person perspective so agonizingly necessary in parenting.

Nor can my mate contribute to the household's finances. The money he budgets with barely covers his own basic needs. Thus, I'm on my own here. Not enough money for bills and groceries all in the same week? I weigh the priorities. I'm no longer growing. I can survive on my physical storage units (read that: my muscles because I'm already pretty skinny) in favour of supplying my offspring with the nourishment a kid needs during the adolescent growth spurt. I tell myself that I'm from pioneer stock. Before that, I'm from warriors. Between the bloodline of oxen crossed with Viking, I should be alright. Just don't ask me about my bone density. Or my teeth. Or my brain function when I'm faced with bouts of malnutrition. I get my nourishment from watching my son grow strong and healthy.

So, in being admonished for not being glitteringly grateful for every photographable, scrap book worthy and bragging rights firm event... I found myself utterly furious. I spent days examining the root cause of the fury and I came up with this: privilege. From a position of privilege, my exhaustion was being criticized.

And I realized it was bullshit.

Every night, I put my kid to bed with snuggles and assurances. I tell him to have sweet dreams and I tell him I love him and that I will do everything I can to make things be okay. Every morning, I wake him up with a silly story of "what is this chicken doing taking photographs" or "well, I'm sorry but I lost the car to a giraffe who wanted to drive to the Statue of Liberty. We're walking today." Every night, he snuggles down in his bed and tells me it is the safest, most wonderful place in the world. Every morning, he smiles himself awake and tells me I'm silly.

My son wakes up and goes to sleep feeling loved, secure and happy.

I can't make myself be grateful for every event. I can't see how other people with harder lives have more of a right to feel pain. I can't imagine telling another person that what is hard for them shouldn't be and that their struggle isn't valid. All I know is that I do the best I can and that my son feels safe. I see in his beautiful, content face that however I do this parenting thing, it's right. It's good. It's valid.

And I do judge the people who discount and belittle that. I do judge the privileged who dare to judge me. I swear on the contented, sleepy sighs of my kid that I will not do that to anyone else. I am a single mother of an amazing child. No matter how I do it, that my kid is doing alright is the only confirmation I need.

On Pacifism, Compassion and Empathy

I was chatting with a friend yesterday who often doubts the things he is saying are valid. He never says, "I doubt the things I say are valid" in those words. He says it by apology, he says it in hesitance, he says it in ways that approach the fear from the side. By my observations, it's very, very common for people to apologize for their thoughts, to belittle themselves and to assume that they are somehow flawed or freakish for thinking as they do. But... if most people feel that way, then how can they be freakish? And how can I express to people that they're okay?

Thinking about this, I realized, in talking to him, what my whole purpose in life is. That's a pretty sizable revelation to have while sitting on your living room floor with a cat at your side and a cup of not very good coffee at hand. That's a pretty sizable revelation no matter what the circumstances. I was struck by the notion that here, in the midst of the mundane, I was being presented with one of those moments of clear vision.

My vision? Compassion. I'm here, on this planet and in this space, to be a vessel of compassion and to study the art of empathy. What I'm finding out about myself is stunning and I'm struck repeatedly by how difficult it is to maintain this kindness. Am I the first person to think this way? Not by a long shot. Will I be the last? Not hardly.

Let's take a moment to explore empathy and it's outward expression: pacifism. Pacifism isn't easy. It means I have to stop the up-rush of adrenaline that flows when someone says or does something hurtful. It means I have to bite my tongue. That hurts, both physically and emotionally, but the real kicker is that it doesn't injure. There's pain involved with turning the other cheek, taking a step back and a deep breath in, but there's no actual harm being done. To the contrary, the sharp sting of holding myself back results in non-injury.

I'm not talking about taking a physical swing at someone who's being a dick. I'm talking about reserving the sharp blades of my tongue and not taking a vicious bite out of the offending person's soul (soul? self-awareness? ego? whatever). Here, in my head and in my heart, I have this extraordinary ability to harm with words. My predilection for empathy means I have the ability to see and feel the very core fear of someone else and, if I choose, to use that fear and vulnerability as a point of attack.

I choose not to do that. I choose it all the time. I have the opportunity to strike out at that core in every person around me and I consciously choose not to do that. In my youth, I wielded that power a couple of times. I watched the people I turned my emotional violence on melt into fear and hurt. There were tears and there was begging and there was, born of my cruelty, a real hate lit up in them. I think I caused lifetime scars. I know I scarred myself.

I look back on those times and I find my only true regrets. I am ashamed of the pain I inflicted, but there isn't a thing I can do about it now but remember and (try!!) never do it again. Not even when it seems like the smart option. Not even when it seems like the only option. Seems like. Appears to be.

It isn't. There's always another way to deal with someone else's bad behaviour.

That's pacifism. As much as I want to berate, belittle and browbeat folks from time to time, I don't do it. Why? Because every single person out there feels like my friend. Strange. Apologetic. Wrong. Vulnerable. I don't need to add to that. I don't need to carve the foundation out from someone because they are, quite likely, already doing that to themselves.

Does that mean I'm going to smile and nod and agree with everything other people have to say? Oh my, no. Does it mean that I won't stand my ground, discuss uncomfortable things, point out flaws and dickish behaviour? No. It means that when I do stand my ground, I do so from a position of realizing that every person comes to conclusions based on the information they have and experiences they've lived through. Including me. It means I have to remember (I choose to remember) to accept that everyone has the same motivation: doing the right thing. It doesn't matter if they're doing the right thing for themselves, doing the right thing for all beings, doing the right thing for their church, doing the right thing for a reward or doing the right thing because their heart tells them so. They are all acting on the premise that what they are doing is the right thing.

Because of that, and because I seek to be a better person than I am right now, I'm choosing to use my empathy in a loving way. I'm going to love even when I'm so pissed off I can hardly see straight. I'm going to love enough to think through my anger and respond to dickish behaviour with strength and compassion. I'm going to love each person enough not to go for the emotional jugular, even when they go for mine. Pacifism, to me, is about strength and balance, mercy and mindfulness. Pacifism is about having the courage to weather my own anger long enough to come out the other side and recognize that the other person in front of me is worthy of love.

I can't fix fear with fear. I can't fight hate with hate. I can only apply more love.

I'm willing to do that. For everyone.

1. 
   

So Passes the Time

It has been a year since I spoke here.

For a full year, I've been wary of words written in electronic space. For a year, I've been occupied elsewhere, still full of thoughts but hesitant to express them. The reasons why are a different story altogether, and not one I'm willing to share just now.

It is the end of easy. Summer has gone and the winds are coming out of the north, stiffening flags and tearing leaves from trees. As the seasons change, so do the concerns. My birthday is fast approaching and I'm forced to consider my mortality and my obligation to the world. I think, therefore I am. I am, therefore I must think.

What do I think about? Life choices. I realized not so long ago that by default, I've made food service my career. This isn't to say that I can't up and choose a new path but in the current atmosphere, that seems unwise.

So, given that I've chosen food service (whether by accident or by design I don't know), I've been thinking that I might share what I know in the context of servings and service, behaviour and appetite, expectation and nuance.

First of all, I know that most people have no idea what they're doing if it involves more than the daily grind. No one seems to know which fork to use. They know they need to be up at 7 and back from lunch at one. They don't know if they're allowed to use teeth when they smile or what words to use in asking where the bathroom is. They don't know that, aside from the rare unincorporated (socially) individual, they all make the same faces that imply the same questions. People who walk in the door expecting to meet other people have a look. People looking for that bathroom have a look. People who come to pick up take-out orders have a look.

In those looks, they look the same.

Bathroom people. You have a faraway, distracted and urgent look. Take-away people, you have a near-sighted and purposeful look. Those meeting others, you don't see what's right in front of you. You're looking into a vague want.

It's amazing.

It makes me think. If we're that predictable about something as simple as enjoying the privilege of eating outside our home (and, if you'll grant me this assumption, there's not a whole lot of survivalist pressure there), what common looks do we have for the bigger things in life? People who have survived war. People whose parents did, inasmuch, torture them. People who can't stand themselves. People who can't see anyone but themselves. You all, in your struggle, have the same tenseness of mouth, you share a focal point, you hold your bodies at the same angle.

Because of my years and years of service to the public, I can see you coming from quite a distance. All of you.

And that's the crux, isn't it? We're all hiding our fears, our weaknesses, our trepidation about what others think. The last thing we want is for someone to see us. To really see us and judge us unworthy.

What makes me sad is that each and every one of us seems to expect that these so-called flaws are going to make others think we are weak or not as valuable or suspect in some way. But, when you consider that every single person you meet or interact with or pass by on the street is afraid and vulnerable in some way... you've got to realize that it is our individual struggle that makes us so able to attach to each other.

So you picked up the wrong fork. I've done that. So you stumbled right to pass someone instead of left. I've done that. So you were embarrassed to ask where the bathroom is because I might know you need to use the bathroom. I've done that. We have all done that. We are all vulnerable. We are all flawed. We are all afraid.

The reservations you make with me for parties of five are actually reservations of asking to be allowed to be who you are. And I'm going to honour them. I will save you a place in this construct. I will help you find your way. I will ease your confusion with grace.

All I ask is that you accept this grace and sometimes return my kindness with some of your own. I need it as much as you do; as much as every one of us does. I thank you in advance for your mercy and I tell you that you are always welcome to mine.

Damn you, Mr. Akin.

On gender and inequality: theoretical causality and consequence.

Translation? Why the hell are women still considered the weaker/lesser sex and what the hell does this mean to me as a woman. I don't know why we are, but I'll tell you what it means to me.

It means that no matter how much personal and physical power I have, no matter my training or available weaponry, I am (at best) skittish about going to a restroom in a public place by myself.

Why? Because if you match my skeletal frame exactly with a male of my species, by evolution and physics alone and by (dis)virtue of my reproductive system being the receiving vessel, I am vulnerable to rape. I don't need an erection to have sex. I only need to be there. My muscles and my tendons and my bone density are lighter than my male counterpart. I. Am. Vulnerable. And when you look at the statistics of 1 in 5 women having been sexually assaulted, it should be clear that my fear (and my entire gender's fear) of attack are not only well founded but wise.

That sucks. It's horrible but I live with it and in it and I hope I never again have to process an incident of sexual assault in my life. Still, I live. I live cautiously and carefully and nearly always on guard. 

Times like these, when elected or elect-hopeful people start messing with the nuances and wording of legal rape and the means by which the survivors deal with the consequences (pregnancy), I get frightened. Not only do I have to consider how to survive a possible future attack, I also have to consider how to deal with the aftermath. 

Tell you what: the week following an attack is hell. The months following are horrific no matter whether you are single or involved in a relationship. In a relationship, the one you love cannot touch you without triggering a body memory and reams of guilt and emotional anguish come pouring out of you and spill all over everything. Ruby Red Squirt (a soda pop that i don't even know if still exists) makes me dizzy and start to gag. So does a certain kind of curtain. A certain posture or body type of a man. Specific types of blades. Scents. Seasonal light in the evening. Architectural design of hallways. Triggers exist all over, but at least I know they are specific and rooted in the past.

However, every time some bastard in Congress or on his/her way there starts to mess with my ability to feel safe (relatively speaking) and I see the masses of support for this sort of thinking, I am drawn inevitably back to frightened for myself and for every other potential victim out there. These are broad stroke triggers. Because every dig at my freedom and pursuit of happiness shakes the foundations that suffragette sisters over human history have fought (and been brutalized) for. Every thoughtless action being leveraged into law sends a clear and awful message to the constituents. Somehow, somewhere, it's okay to belittle and objectify women. The more we become objects, the less hesitance people have to feel about marginalizing us.

Women's wages tell us we can be marginalized. Our frequency (or lack thereof) in positions of power, our still accepted traditional roles as workhorses and doormats, the multiple states that have made medical rape both acceptable and required, and this old but new again rhetoric that we, as women, cannot be trusted or allowed to make decisions about the only thing we have that will ever really be ours... our bodies... tells me loud and clear and threatening: You Are Not Worthy of all the human rights; therefore, you are not fully human. You're not as human as some other humans.  Two legs, good. Two legs and a dick, better.

Are they honestly trying to tell me that muscle power and a penis are the qualifiers of a worthy person? 

Wow.

How some folks wonder why I would take such offense to that notion both baffles and infuriates me. Do I think all men believe this? Not by a long shot. Do I think it's only men who think this? Not hardly. Do I intend to sit all quiet and nice while someone else attacks my freedom? No.

No, I do not.

And, as ever, NO MEANS NO.

I'm Not Jesus.

The premise of this blog is the general state of opinion as offered on and witnessed by social network (read: facebook) and the feelings and reactions I've encountered because I have finally decided that I will never again sit down and shut up to make someone else comfortable about controversial subjects that are worth considering because they are important.

I've said it before and I'm going to say it over and over until I am heard: It is okay to be uncomfortable.

I'm also going to say that I do not need to offer any proof or justification of my "rightness" because all these things are my feelings and my opinions. There is no empirical data for opinion. There is no scale of relative perfection of judgement because I am not divine, I am not a beacon of understanding and love, I am not omniscient. I am perfectly human.

I'm not Jesus. I don't unconditionally love everyone. I don't forgive everyone. I will hold people accountable for their actions and choices because I don't believe in original sin or underworld influences. I do believe in right and wrong, without need from demonic or divine direction.

I believe we all have the power and the ability to be accountable and should be held thus for our choices. I'm not Jesus and nor am I waiting for a divine father to hand out all our punishment.

I believe in peer pressure, in society, in pack behaviour and in shunning.

Why?

Because it is here and now that the impact of our behaviour makes all the difference. Every drop of water in the ocean has an effect on its immediate neighbours. The ripple effect of social conscious will change the tides.

I am an agitator. It is not my human duty to pacify the masses, as it is quite clear to me that this runaway train of needing to feel comfortable and undisturbed has lead quite directly to a very uncomfortable and very disturbed global consciousness. I am here to wake the people up and if I need to do it with sharp elbows as well as kind words and deeds, then that is what I will do. I don't do this for a reward at the end of my human life. I do this because this is my human life. It is now, and I will not sit back and allow the belief that I should play nice and not hurt any feelings stop me from doing what my heart says is right.

In all our names, Amen.

Zen Monkey

Perhaps it was dangerous of me to study both philosophy and debate while supplementing it with an examination of the world's religions.

There were times in history when a woman like me had two choices: shut up or escape. Lately, I've been half tempted to do both. Being me, however, prevents me from doing either and instead I have to find my footing again.

I hadn't realized until today that I wasn't totally grounded until someone I cared about made an easy (and calloused, thoughtless, and cowardly) choice of disconnecting from me on the big ol' playground called facebook. I spent a good half an hour wrestling with whether I would be hurt or dismissive. For most of my life, I would have chosen to be hurt.

Today, I choose to dismiss. It's incredibly significant that it only took me half an hour to reach this decision. I thank my previous marriage for teaching me expediency in matters of the heart.

Here's the rub: I'm worried about my soft heart and how hard parts of it have become. I should spend some time focusing on positive thoughts directed toward them. Instead, I find myself standing back and considering how every bridge burned puts them closer to a terrifying loneliness and I just don't care.

Dear god, I don't care. That's really weird in the course of my life. I have yet to see a road killed animal that doesn't hurt my feelings or a spontaneous act of kindness that doesn't make me cry a little with exhausted joy. Here, now, I'm contemplating this dismissal with surgical precision and in a framework of logic based on abnormal psychology. That is, I'm thinking about this disconnection in a scientific way and without judgement. The Nice Girl part of me thinks I should be sorry or gentle or try and *fix* whatever this is.

But I am done fixing situations that I did not cause. These little social blunders, the wicked sharp ones that only family seems capable of, no longer concern me. Sure, we're related. There are a million words and proverbs and rules that say I should keep caring, keep trying, keep suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous blood relatives. I say no.

No more. You will no longer bully me, whoever you are. It doesn't matter if I "should" forgive you because we "should" care for each other. It doesn't matter if you are a stranger, an acquaintance, a friend, or family. Because I was kind and gentle and acquiescent, I have been shoved down and I have been emotionally disregarded (if not abused).

The world has broken me of my entirely soft heart, but I have come to understand that putting up walls and crafting my own armor is not the terrible sad thing of many philosophies. It is, simply, the only way I know how to survive.

With that, my demons, you are dismissed. Go play elsewhere. I'm busy loving cherry blossoms and salamanders.

Working Class

There's something kind of horrible about going back into food service. I'm part waitress, part catering floor staff, part cook and part barista in a huge museum after a merciful ten year hiatus from anything restaurant-y. For your foot pain, you get quick and wry and strong or you get out, which I think are good things, but you also get beat up and, in my case, feel like you've just slipped down a notch in the classes.

Yes, I'm sure there are classes.

Now, I don't really know if this is my perception of how we are treated, collectively, or if there's an unfortunate wealth of truth in how I feel. Not the part where I'm of a lower class, but the part where I'm treated like that several times a day. I'd love to say that no customer has ever said the words "your class" with an unmistakable sneer down the nose, but that happened last week.

The opportunities for my mind to expand and my future job application to be padded nicely are huge. I'm making friends with the museum librarian and the biology lab curator, get to take my kid there for free as many times as we want, and am making sweet coffee music on a gorgeous roadster of a cappucino machine. If there is some way in my life to own a coffeeshop with books and freedom to have my family with me, I want that.

Meanwhile, I'm slinging hash in an environment full of fascinating things and learning loads about people who think they're pretty darned important and impactual despite their utter greyness. Grey is a lovely colour, but the grey mixed with a touch of mean is just plain unpleasant to deal with... and I'm supposed to wait on these people.

Museum castes. Now I've seen them in two museums and they both frustrate and amuse me. From a sociological standpoint, it would be handy for me to move up from this museum to something truly spectacular... maybe the Smithsonian. Studying the human to human behaviour there would be incredible, particularly among the staffers. I can barely imagine the bullshit that flies inside their hallowed halls and perfect exhibit spaces.

All I can do to combat the classism is to surprise my guests with stellar manners, excellent service, and a warm smile. If that fails, the walk-in cooler is really great for swearing mightily without witnesses.

It's Not Business, It's Just Personal

I have a story for you. It's about single motherhood and court systems and poverty and helpless, useless anger.

Once upon a time in a Red State with wide open spaces, opportunistic plants and animals that were either fleet or able to burrow, a woman married a man in one of those really cozy and creative ceremonies that stood for their individuality.

She was tentatively diagnosed as bipolar. He was concretely diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic, albeit of the High Functioning kind.

What's a high functioning schizophrenic? First of all, that's the kind who often knows their hallucinations are not real. Secondly, they have a good idea of what delusional thinking looks and feels like so they are able to fight against the maligned thoughts. Thirdly, they know what steps they have to take and what nuances they have to portray in order to be treated more normally and to feel more normal. They spend less time hospitalized and can maintain a fringe-normal existence most of the time.

For this woman, the odd but workable functioning of the man was acceptable. She was a free thinker, after all, and loathe to allow conscious beings to be boxed and labeled for all time.

At his heart, the man was kind and thoughtful and fought hard to maintain his sanity. He put in a colossal effort, bordering on heroic, to live freely and double-check his thinking. Still, he was the victim of a psychotic illness and was at the mercy of how well medication worked and if the very insidious delusion of medication being harmful was actively tearing him down.

Tentatively bipolar? What does that mean?

That means there were plenty of outside factors acting on the woman that caused her deep grief and a tendency to disassociate. The factors were as follows; PTSD from sexual assault incidents, a dying thyroid, and a tendency towards major depression. The dying thyroid wasn't figured out until a few years after its actual death. Put all these together and you can have a pretty passable version of bipolar disorder. What the woman lacked was manic episodes, destructive manic behaviour, and psychotic features. No hallucinations. No delusions. No way to put all together into a solution, either, so the diagnosis stood for nearly a decade with a big question mark after it in all the paperwork.

About three years into their marriage, with the woman truly understanding that she would be the rock, the provider, the hausfrau and the witching rod for reality, the man decided that his then-current medication was killing him.

After much fuss and wringing of hands on the woman's part, the man and his doctors went ahead with a medication change that ended up being a mortal wound to their relationship. Yes, it made the man more energetic and peaceful in his center, but it also made him more aggressive, less emotionally sensitive, and gave him a sense of entitlement with a twist of inability to see outside himself. The fundamental personality change that the woman feared (because of years of research and personal observation) became the new reality.

The woman lost her gentle bear, but refused to give up on her marriage and her husband. She was a good woman with a ramrod moral conscience and she determined that she would Make This Marriage Work. It would simply (hahahahaha!!) be a matter of strength of will and ability to adapt on her part. She was sure she could do it. She was sure she had no choice.

Years later, with the scars and resentment binding her heart into stone silence, it took a triple-punch of incidents to finally obliterate her tenacity and self-damaging loyalty. Their relationship ended with all the typical drama plus a little police intervention and a David Lynchesque scene of blue and red lights, mumbling and prophetical man in the driveway, weeping child under the dining room table,and granite-faced woman gathering her things in a pillowcase and lying to her child that everything was okay.

Walking into the courtroom for the temporary custody hearing, the woman was devas tated but confident in the outcome. The man had been hospitalized time and again while they were married, the boys in blue had been involved multiple times, his diagnosis was the biggest, baddest one you could get short of Insane, and he had no ability to work to support his child. Meanwhile, the woman's diagnosis had been morphed into bipolar II. Tendency towards depression, no psychotic features or incidents, no manic features. She ran hot and hard at times in order to plow through the chaos around her and at times cried for days (nights, really, when no one could see). She worked, she provided, she kept house and she kept her house stumbling along.

She wished desperately that her soon-to-be ex-husband would never again become psychotic. She had prayed for years for him to be spared his awful burden to no avail. All she knew going into the courts was that the danger of a slip in reality for the man was a direct danger to their child. The slips were fast, he was secretive about them, and it often took days for him to finally seek help if he did so at all.  She also knew exactly what the agony of those days was to anyone within range of the man. She had been the feather wall between her husband in illness and their child. It was inconceivable that he would be granted custody. She figured he'd get weekends and some hours after school with their child. After all, the child adored his father and it was good. She had faith that the Justice System would do actual justice because this case concerned a child.

The Judge handed down this decision: Week on, week off custody. Legally, the man and the woman were equally capable of caring for the child according to his decision. What had never been a 50/50 split in caregiving (or providing or housekeeping or feeding or sanity) was suddenly, coldly, the way it would be.

The woman fought it. She fought it for about fifteen thousand dollars. She fought it all the way to the devastation of her savings and way past her ability to get any more loans from her family or the bank. It took that much money for her to realize that his backers had no intention of stopping his funds. He was in it for twice what she was and had no signs of slowing the spending.

Finally, out of desperation and extreme poverty, she came to see a way through.

Custody agreements. They will separate your liver from your body and you will learn to live with a great big, bloody hole in the center of your self.

And now? What does the woman do now? She tried running away. That didn't work and she will now learn that patience is a virtue. So, she waits. She waits for the inevitable with the man and she will be always vigilant, always injured, always compassionate for his burdens, and never forgiving for his arrogance. She will wait for the day when she has to pick up her child who has just seen far too much from someone he adores.

What then?

I can't tell you that. I really don't know. I'm living in fear, anticipation, sadness, and hope. Every other week I am calm and unafraid. Those are the weeks I have my son. In the meantime, I watch. In the meantime, my child is doing just fine and I guide my compass by that.

Of Enlightenment and Office Supplies

I've been trying to blend together the two main directions of my life; the inner one where I spend whole lifetimes in contemplation of quantum everything, and the outer one where I seek employment, buy groceries, and generally suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

The more I contemplate it, the less I am able to mix the two. Still, I am living and breathing, thinking and acting, and it's quite apparent I don't need to understand how they bleed together in order for them to do so. It's kind of like looking in the mirror. The person I see looking back at me doesn't look like I feel. If I feel my way through it, I'm a pretty amorphous ball (blob?) of energy with a core of impenetrable, swirling (!!!). There's no word for that (!!!) in my language. That's part of the mystery, I guess? No matter what it is, I like knowing its there and recognizing that I'd know it if I saw it but can't tell you what it is.

Another thing about my duality. I find so much of what surrounds me to be beautiful and awesome and worthy of a quiet, steady, grateful glow... but also very funny. Wickedly funny. Painfully funny. Sometimes, what I see is just plain vulgar and horrific and I think I don't know how I keep living, but I'm still laughing at some tiny bit of irony amidst the viscera.

When I was twenty, the whole of my awareness came crashing down around me in a cloud of defiant terror and I had a very hard time reassembling my self. All these constructs of thought that I had about the world being basically good and right splattered everywhere around me.

I'll give you the brief version because the long form is useless to me now. I look at it like you might see the history of war on microfiche. It's done, it's gone, it's recorded and its impact no longer makes me gasp for breath. It's just left a sort of gossamer web of understanding and cynicism on me.

I went to the door of a man (boy) I hardly knew to give him a message from a friend. His demeanor, his presence, even his scent set off alarm bells in my marrow. I ignored my fear, confident that nothing could happen to me in the middle of a small town dormitory. I was wrong. I spent the night there, cold and frightened so deep down that I never shook. I did what he asked. I agreed with his raving delusions. I went so far as to wrap him in a blanket when he complained of being cold.

I got out of there with bruises, internal scratches that took weeks to heal, a mild concussion and an utter loss of self. But I got out of there alive. You cannot heal what is dead. I knew that much. I didn't know how to put all those raw and betrayed pieces together.

His behaviour didn't shock me. Every college girl knows the scary man stories. I knew the statistics, I knew the proper responses to prevent rape, I even knew from my own experience how forced sexual contact is something I didn't want. What I didn't know was what happens if you don't get a chance to fight back. I didn't know what to do if screaming and kicking wasn't an option. I learned that I will not die fighting. I will survive however I have to.

My response shocked me. I tried to be proud of myself for knowing that I wasn't going to survive if I fought this former military man tooth and claw, but I was horrified that it didn't kill me to acquiesce. I was angry at myself for my heart continuing to beat despite the crushing weight of what had happened. I wasn't sure that I'd made the right choice in surviving because as time went on, the agony of the entire situation brought me to my knees, soundlessly screaming, too many times to count. I wasn't sure I wanted to live.

That's when I learned that I am a ball of energy. I learned it because the light went out. In the middle, I was utterly dark. From the dark grew a void, tiny but impossibly endlessly powerful. I was going to spend the next ten years dancing with that darkness. All my choices would be either in accordance to or in direct defiance of that empty place.

I used to be a rather disorganized animal. Ask my Mom. My room, my projects, my movement through time caused ripples and a wake of "Amber was here" head shaking.

After that, I had to learn to knit all sorts of incongruous pieces together by means of strict logic and ruthless compartmentalization. Keep the angry away from the hopeless. File that scent under "black hole." Copy and paste little bits of happy, string together silver linings, and move forward.

Fast forward fifteen years. I'm organized. I'm stitched back together on the inside and glowing white hot in the energy department. All the little things you find in offices in the drawers make me feel better because they are all about holding things together, separating other things, and knowing where it all fits.

I've got some wild scars and I think they look great.

Just a Small Town Girl

My fridge thrusts this note at me daily.

I tell it, "I know, I know," and carry on, yanking the door open and fetching out whatever tidbit has brought me back to the rather judgemental appliance.

Every time I take something out, this little reminder points out that whatever resources I do have, whether they be in the icebox or in my bank, are dwindling. Giving the fridge a stern look doesn't change its face or minimize the thought, but I keep trying.

Stern looks rarely change anything, but I'm good at them. Usually, the look is directed at myself. Unfortunately, I can't see it so I just feel it creep inward, scorning and shaming as it goes. Fortunately, I'm also very good at shrugging my own accusations off as the overly harsh and non-helpful things that they are. There's balance in that somewhere.

It's funny, really, having grown up in this town that seems to pride itself in harsh judgement, that I would feel the need to further belittle myself. Believe me, the town does plenty of weighing by factors I don't believe are all that useful. I really don't need to add to that.

The last couple of years has been a lesson in discomfort. I learned that my little town's hierarchy classifies Divorced Woman as lower than Just Plain Mean Person and Falsely Proud Guy. That seems completely backwards to me. I've also learned that by becoming Divorced Woman (with no partner in sight, I might add), I have automatically fallen into the category that gets cold shoulders, arched eyebrows and chilly smiles from a good portion of women around me. I am now suspect. Unclean, maybe? I'm not sure. I haven't helped my situation as I refuse to discuss my private circumstances, thereby feeding the machine that produces sympathy. Minus a select few folks, the people who "know" about my divorce have come to their conclusions fully without my input. I've heard enough now to know that the other party involved in this had a pretty good run with the sympathy machine. I learned that I'm a whore and a slut and our kid might not even be his.

I am? He might not? Seriously? Wow. Glad someone told me all this. Glad multiple people over the course of a couple of years have done me a favour by telling me what they've heard. "You know, it's what I heard." Must be true, then. Good to know. I tell you what; it's really difficult to be a slut when you are faithfully married... which I was. It's also difficult to conceive a child that doesn't belong to your husband when he's the only man you've been with in years. Daaaaamn, I'm talented AND wicked! Also magical. I wonder if there's employment opportunities in this?

I try and tell that note on the fridge that in my insistence on remaining honourable (to myself) by keeping my private life (past and present) private has helped to burn bridges I never even knew were there. I have enemies in people I've never met. I try and explain that it is really difficult to get a job when places you apply to are owned by friends of friends of the wronged person. The fridge doesn't care. It just wants to know how I'm going to provide for it.

I wish I knew.

Meanwhile, I am getting really familiar with Job Service. And one of these days, I'll be able to take that note off my fridge... even if it is to cover it up with a Burger King uniform.

Do you want fries with that?

Angry Birds

I admit that I am not posting this from the kitchen. I also admit to thinking, sometimes plotting, and acting without the direction of anyone else.

In light of the most recent broken wave of gender oppression in America, I guess I have to finally stand up and yell... or blog, as it were, how this feels to me.

The rash of bills being passed by individual states regulating abortion doesn't surprise me. This is, after all, quite a passion-filled subject. We're talking about right and wrong as defined by those who follow various teachings in the Bible. Spiritual good and spiritual evil. This will always be a very loaded, very touchy subject for a whole lot of folks. Why? Because it is about the intangible, faith, and we were taught our ways from day one of our lives. Faith, or lack thereof, is a part of each person's very framework.

What does surprise me, also offends me, is the resurgence of Inquisition type belief in needing to either convert or cleanse the surrounding population. To this, I say you (you being anyone who decides that it is alright to legislate against my  values in a hurtful way) are not welcome and it is now my duty to make this as difficult and uncomfortable for you as I can because I do not believe in you and you are hurting me.

Who are these people of both genders (but whom are currently predominantly white men) who sit with an obligation in hallowed spaces to represent the people fairly and equitably and decide to turn that obligation into an opportunity to force and oppress? And what the hell is the end product supposed to be? Am I understanding correctly that there are people out there who would see me crucified for my different beliefs? Yes. I see the words "This is a Christian Nation; if you don't like it, get out" paired violently with "kill the atheists and let God sort 'em out." Seriously? No, really. Do you really mean to tell me that you would, indeed, stand in a circle around the sinner and pick up those stones and hurl them with rage and hatred until that person died of internal hemorrhaging? In a fervor, I see those people saying that Yes, they would do that. In the name of God.

I am appalled at those people who would dare say they are good Christian folk while picking up those stones and preparing to hurl them. You are not of Christ. You are misguided in the worst of ways. I've gotten in trouble so many times for "taking the Lord's name in vain" simply by speaking a name in a frustrated or angry sort of way. Has it occurred to these people that acting in intolerance while saying they are acting in the name of God is the true meaning of using His name in vain?

Another thing... quoting Old Testament scripture extolling the virtues of a wrathful God and acting on those edicts while claiming a Christian faith is beyond hypocrisy. That's just plain bullshit, as Jesus himself said (with far less vulgarity, I'm sure). You are Christian? Did Christ Himself not tell you that you needed to know only two things in life? Let me remind you what those two things were: Honour Thy Father (God) and honour everyone as the children of thy father, As Thy Father Himself. You do harm to others, you're doing harm to God. Simple as that. Even in Old Testament terms, doing harm towards God is the biggest no-no.

How does this all relate to the "war on women" in America right now? It relates as an undercurrent, a glowing angry thread through a very complex tapestry of society. It takes all kinds of thinking to reveal how to live with one another. If you must make it all black and white, then you must be willing to leave the group entirely. Only in solitude will any individual find complete agreement with their beliefs and values. Think about it. We can't even agree how to arrange living room furniture; something that makes little impact on daily survival, let alone the word of God or whether there is a God. That thread, that insistence on a single set of beliefs come hell or high water, is setting up a resonance of agitation. And, as we're people, agitation causes that fight or flight feeling... which in turn means identifying an enemy. Then you know what you're supposed to be either running from or battling.

So, who is the enemy? Apparently, whomever disagrees with your point of view if I am to believe what our so very sensational media would tell us. It just depends on which channel you subscribe to.   Unfortunately, no matter who this anger is directed at, the consequences are falling heavily on my gender (for the moment) in the form of dismissal and control.

Limiting the discussion to the opposition of abortion (for the sake of a blog entry as opposed to a book), I'm forced to look at this from my gender's point of view instead of my individual point of view. Putting legal limitations on procreation (or the choice not to) and the like, you are naturally excluding men from the direct physical consequences of these laws. Why? Because men do not have babies.

Now we're in the territory of making legislation for only one sex. It affects only a portion of the population, it binds only a portion of the population... sure looks like discrimination to me. When the laws of the land get all tangled up in the laws of religions, things get dangerously close to allowing glaring instances of discrimination. This is happening now. And the ones paying for it? Women.

I certainly do not know how to reconcile the abortion debate entirely. My only recommendation is to understand that all people will not agree and thus we must compromise in some way. Here's the fun part: in a solid compromise, everyone loses a little in order to gain a lot. And oh boy do people hate to lose and give up! But when one part of this discussion, that is an entire gender, is losing far more rights and dignity than the other, the compromise is a failure.

I guess it has to come down to this: the selfish, self-serving behaviour that allows for intolerance with harmful action has got to stop. True, we cannot make everyone realize that, but if we can recognize selfish behaviours, we can minimize them as a society. If someone is pulling selfish behaviour on you, call 'em on it! They might be so accustomed to looking only within their circle that they don't even realize they're doing it. It's likely they're going to throw a small tantrum. That's when you get to walk away and let them come to the realization on their own. Conversely, look at your actions. Find the overly selfish bits and get over them. Worry about your own troubles. Decide not to have an abortion for yourself, decide that some people may just be going to Hell and understand that it is not your place to make that happen or create some of it for them right here on Earth.

Also, know that if you keep being a secular control freak, you're going to keep running into people like me and it's only going to get less pleasant from here on out. After all, we're Godless monsters. You never know what wicked, underhanded thing we'll do next.

Not Entirely Heroic

I've been thinking about super powers in real life. I call mine compassion, but I'm sure that like all powers, super powers cannot be reduced to a single cause or use. Within compassion is the ability to protect one's self by withstanding the pressure of experience on the emotional heart. Depending upon how well you know me, you'll figure out that I don't fall down too easy.

For such a long time, people could hurt me deeply with words. I don't know why I didn't fit in, I don't know what made me feel like a flamingo in a crowd of penguins, it just was that way for me. Fortunately, I didn't realize I was such an odd bird until right before I realized I was thrilled not to be the same. I had the usual couple of years in my teens where shit was just wrong and awful most of the time inside my little body. Every day was another day that another friend might decide that I was just too (weird odd pale poor smart ugly skinny uncool) whatever and would announce that we were not friends. It's pretty cute in retrospect. It was another wave of darkness back in the day full of rampant darkness. Ohhhh, the drama. Yes, sounds about like every other teen in North America.

Around the same time I realized I liked to be so different, I learned a little bit about my powers of compassion. They came with a nifty set of intuitive skills, body language reader included. Let me show you how it worked...

I took classes pretty seriously in school. Class was the place I dominated without competing. There were people with better grades and better test scores than me. Cool and kudos! I was amused by the occasional individual who really wanted to make it a "You and Me. On the playground by the swing after school. I'm gonna kick your ass." sort of battle of the numbers. A typical exchange could go like this:

"I got a bazillion on my blah-blah test," says Whoever J. Hoover.
"Awesome. That's a perfect score, right," says Me.
"Yeah."

This is when Whoever J will show me everything a person doesn't want anyone to know.  As I have learned since, this is the typical stance of the Professional Academian* as well. For all you learning and learned folks out there, I am about to show you how to never be ashamed of your intellect and how obvious it is when you bullshit with intent to create a submissive of another person.

Whoever  J. Hoover starts on the slow, self-satisfied smile.

Even if  people actually communicated with word bubbles floating in air above them, they couldn't be more readable than Whoever J.

Whoever then does the Pause and Gloat. It's simply a "let me give you a moment to feel the pain of not being me" look.

Here's what I was/am supposed to do: either return a look of bitter grief, one of seething envy, or just a show of my subordinate stature. It's so expected that I will do one of these things that Whoever J waits just a bit longer than is theatrically appropriate. It becomes an awkward pause with the weight on them for the wait on me. I do nothing but maintain a neutral gaze. (that neutral bit is important... it makes Whoever have to assume things)

Pause and Gloat becomes pause, gloat, pause. You can't follow gloat with pause, it takes the authority and pomp right out of it. In fact, it transforms it into what looks exactly like lack of confidence. It looks exactly like it because that's exactly what it is. The reason Whoever needs to lord whatever over non-competitive Me is they really must be feeling small and afraid. Whoever has just showed how desperately in need of approval they are; I just got a naked look at Whoever's biggest fear.

For my part, I choose to not follow the script. I keep pissing people off with this attitude, it seems. Not only do I realize that everyone deep down is afraid, therefore none of us have to feel small, I take it a step further and let Whoever see that I know. This seems to be incredibly uncomfortable for Whoever. Best part of it all? If Whoever hadn't come over to make Me feel small, they wouldn't be walking away feeling even smaller.

It worked when I was the smallest, most frightened, most in need of gentleness... So I know you can bluff it until your real confidence (the kind you get from experience) kicks in.

The world doesn't need any more arrogance, but it surely would be a good thing if people had more confidence. Whoever, wherever you are, when you stop trying to make people feel smaller than you feel, things are going to be okay. For those of you who are tired of feeling small, look for  those awkward pauses and see if they aren't a good place to see Whoever's soft spot. Try not to exploit it in anything but self defense, please. If you do use it improperly, it's not a super power any more. It's just assholishness.

Don't make me show you your weak points. That's my least favourite part of the super powers gig. The cape? The cape is my favourite.




*Professional Academians as defined by Me: Those jerks that somehow scraped by in school despite having a serious lack of heart and managed to get a professorship in a dusty corner somewhere... wherein they make you buy all their books (six per damned semester) at god-awful prices and can ruin your life by misdirecting your advisor, sleeping with your boyfriend/girlfriend, endlessly quoting Neitzsche or Kant or friggin' Charles Dickens, and generally being sleazy. Pickup truck covered in cow horns (mirrored!) included. This definition may or may not be one hell of an amalgamation of people I once knew.

Of Chaos and Empathy

Sometimes, I get the feeling that the whole cosmic scheme is more of a game than anything borne of fractals and chaos. I suppose that is simply my limited perception, my view of existence through perpetually anthropomorphic thoughts. Still, this comedy of errors we all play in is quite poignant in its convolutions.

Today is one of those days where the weight of existence sits directly at the back of my heart, dragging it down in gorgeous but messy streaks of watercolour emotion. One pigmented feeling seeps into another; sadness bleeds into anger, anger flows over resignation, resignation courses through hope.

Still, I do not stop. I guess I've taken it quite to heart that I am from pioneer stock. Keep moving, keep going, keep watching the horizon. When the storm is too big and the horizon blurs, watch your feet and take solace in the repetition of one foot in front of the other. When things get painful, I think of the bison in a blizzard. To stop moving is to die. Keep going, keep going, keep trudging, keep moving, keep going until the storm quits. I have yet to encounter the situation where I cannot keep going. Of course, times when the energy to move just isn't there, I've at least had the energy to scream into the wind and, by mercy or by chaos, someone has heard me each time.

I'm not at that point. I'm not in a blizzard, which is why I have the insight to actually write about the storm and what happens to the creatures in it. Today's struggle wholly involves my empathy for others.

First, know that my empathy is pissing me off. I'm looking at this quality of mine in a suspicious light, considering what it has done for and to me over my short history. Because I was compassionate, because I dared walk a mile in someone else's shoes, because I was kind... I am now badly burned and toothsome enough to make me an alien to myself. Diplomacy is now a carefully measured response to be examined and weighed and meted out with pinpoint accuracy. This, too, is foreign to me! Since when is a humane reaction something I have to labour at? How did its ease slip away from me and how did I let myself become so jaded?

Back to the empathy. Even in my scarred state, I'm still feeling an acute physical sense of *noise* in my heart when confronted by other people suffering. So now I'm feeling it, it is affecting me in the physical world, and I'm mentally rejecting it. Empathy without sympathy. Shit. That cannot be good.

See my difficulty?

I want to heal this rift. I'm sure it has everything to do with removing obstacles, properly examining motivations, learning new ways to deal with the information I have. Maybe this means therapy? Better yet, a vision quest. Tell you what, though... you cannot have vision quests when you're a parent. That shit has got to wait.

Huh. Guess I'm at another point where one of my tremendously energetic and bewildering enlightenments could come in handy.

Then again, maybe I can just get through this by moving ever forward. And with lots of coffee.

Bush Baby

This'll tell you a bit about me out here in the American Outback.

I was raised by a rebel turned Viet Nam vet turned Taoist dad and a proud Canadian mom. Tunes in my childhood house included (heavily) Frank Zappa, Bob Dylan, Mozart and Captain Beefheart. Dad fell in love with Nirvana before the rest of the world. We had a television, a black and white little thing, but we only watched PBS but even that was not often.

Mostly, I couldn't be kept inside. I disappeared into the Russian olive trees and acres of cattails, sandstone fast being carved by excess irrigation runoff from the alfalfa fields on the lane above. I followed deer trails and dog paths through the cool shadows of the property. From the highway to the river was once my grandfather's farm. He sold all but the 46-acre chunk of Wild that rubs its back against the water. He sold it in one piece, with a promise from the man who purchased it that he would not subdivide. My grandfather came from Utah, a faithful and decent Mormon in a promising new area, and he still believed in promises.

The property was immediately subdivided. This was never forgotten -- that hurt and new mistrust regarding ownership of land versus stewardship of land became strongly embedded in the framework of both my own and my father's growing up. We were the guardians of an unintentional, artificial wetlands that occupied about 70 percent of "our" land. The remainder of the property was short, hardy tufts of grass, massively old, dwarfed sagebrush, dusty rises and prickly pear cactus. My home turf, where I spent a huge amount of time, was a land divided in all sorts of visually and metaphorically poetic ways (all of which I'm saving for that book I have written and am editing).

I spent as much time as I could alone. So many reasons; most at the time were too big to be comprehended but certainly had meteoric impact on me as a girl. For one, I was extremely sun sensitive. I didn't have the luxury ability of getting sunburns. All I got was nauseated, blistering rashes, and a light head. Once this happened in a new summer, I spent the rest of the season covering up because each minute in the sun after that was an exercise in exponential growth of allergic reactions. I was a pale little girl with long sleeves in the scorching heat, sometimes gloves (try that in grade school... it's not pretty), a so-often sunburned scalp that I wouldn't let my hair be brushed every day... Yeah. I call that my defining handicap as a kid.

Religion. We didn't have one, except for a near-spiritual reverence for the natural world. That wasn't an inclusive way-to-be in our circle. That's all I will say about that.

My parents didn't let me go out to play with friends much. I bet I didn't ask much, either, but I don't recall. I felt like an odd one out whenever I did attend a birthday party, but I mostly managed to fade into walls and hurt privately. I learned the hurting part early. Common story, but not something I share freely. I'm sure it's true of most people, but I learned and earned my ability to not talk.

My parents taught me to be thoughtful, polite, field expedient, kind and compassionate. I'm sure I'm biologically wired that way, and they did me a great service by encouraging those traits and giving me directions along the path. Because of my parents' experiences with things outside our little town, I knew of other places and other ways of surviving, thinking, behaving.

Mom brought the Canadian  influence, basically a British culture but nicely mellowed by facing brutally harsh winters that forced people to live with less privacy. I asked her for a million memories and stories and feelings about that place I always thought of as home. We left there when I was three and a half and I remember the scent, the feel of the air, the influence of water, the trees (ohgod, the beautiful trees). I've wondered why such a short time of my life has such a dominant influence on me. All I can come up with is that we were isolated politically, culturally and physically out there on our land and that I was the kid who learned to read at 4 years old in two weeks. Unique kid, unique situation, unique placement.

Dad gave me anthropology, sociology, philosophy. Because of his happiness in teaching me all he knew of the world, I'd build Aztec temples in the dirt outside our house. These tiny worlds had sacrificial pits and ceremonial tables, things I came to understand from an academic perspective before I ever knew what it was to suffer and bleed mortally.

But really, who wants to play with that little girl? I would. When I meet kids that remind me of myself in vulnerability, I go out of my way to give them a little joy about being themselves. I look forward to being an age where no one is frightened that I might be a threat. I'll be a great little old lady (with cats) who hands apples over the fence to the kids and their parents won't be afraid. For now, though, we're in a time where women are frightened again (still), where people see too many instances of harm and become hyper-vigilant, where anyone who loves kids and hasn't got a similarly aged one at their side might be a monster.

I grew up to be liberal and apologetic. Life had dealt me some serious blows in my kiddohood, so I knew empathy and sympathy equally. I was trained in diplomacy. The only dirty word in our house was "kill."

I finally figured out, much later and only for the most part, that the apologetic aspect had to go in order for my gentle heart to survive. That part took an actual heart breaking, a physical heart attack to accompany tremendous, long term grief, for me to figure out that I had to become harder in order to survive. I hate that sometimes.

So, (meanwhile, back on the homestead) while the rest of the American Outback thought about and acted on a pretty conservative set of values, I was happily listening to folk, funk, freak and punk music, learning what I now know is called The Liberal Agenda (insert wicked smirk and amused eyebrow facial expression here), and understanding that my little town is just one little town on a very big planet. Not much room for narrow thinking when I knew about Ethiopia, the Viet Nam War and the half-dead men who still live, two functioning types of government, parts of multiple languages, everything PBS played in the 80's, farm life, Mayans and mushrooms (only in theory. no, my parents did not feed us 'shrooms or any other drugs). Too independent to live as hippies in a commune, too academic to merge into the early biker scene, my family maintained a separate state of peace and progressive thinking. I have great parents.

Those are some of the bigger building blocks. I'm from pioneer stock and washerwoman blood with a few gypsy-hearted, whimsical poets. It was bound to be an interesting life with that sort of combination. And all that... was just in my backyard.

Learning Alone

This is a week without my kiddo. This week, he's with his dad and I'm finding myself fairly lousy at self-directing.

Of course I have things I could be doing and I'd likely feel better about the world in general if I immersed myself in a project... but I find myself standing at the kitchen sink developing one hell of a thousand yard stare.

I leave his music on at night, the CD he has listened to for the last 5 (?) years as a constant lullaby set on repeat. The album is Norah Jones' "Feels Like Home." It doesn't make me feel better, but it does make me feel less non-existent. There's focus in his not being here, even if it is the gravitational pull of the void surrounding a singularity.

The Riot Grrl in me is backstage angry. In fact, she is furious that I let myself be snagged into housewife/mom role in the first place. I really wish that part of me would cease to exist for a few more years. She's the one, more than any other outside person, who tells me, "I told you so!! I told you never to get married, never to have offspring! You stupid GIRL!"

Yeah, she pisses me off. She's perpetually 19 in her thinking. So passionate, so damned ignorant, so unwise and so cruel at eight p.m. as I'm brushing my teeth alone.

I push the little button on my son's toothbrush. It times for one minute, flashing and red like a heartbeat. I don't brush for one minute. I stand there, holding the toothbrush with the super soft bristles and cool grip, staring far into it with what must appear to be bewilderment. I stand there, chilly in the bathroom because I leave the heat on low when he's not here (save money somehow some way always save), for more than the pulsing minute.  It shuts off, still and silent and garishly inanimate and I hold it until I return to myself. I might brush my teeth. I might not. Some days are better than others.

Tomorrow, I might thrive in my alone. Tonight, I just feel dumb and numb. I wonder if it ever gets any less disturbing.

Phoenix

... and out of the ashes, she rose as a phoenix.



I feel more like a burn victim than a mythical bird, but there's potential in that.


So it begins (again).