Telling Relic

Found this whilst digging through old Word documents, in an effort to organize my growing number of saved applications, cover letters, and resumes.  The following document, titled "What I Want", is dated 11/11/05. Two years into marriage, I had already been through a severe depression (for which I was medically treated for one year), had done service in Chicago, became homeless and then gained residence, completed a year's worth of service for AmeriCorps, and was working for Barnes & Noble.  My children, my back injury, and my community theatre life had not come into existence.  I was hungry for something, but I didn't know what it tasted like.  I remember being content enough, but not particularly happy or joyful in my life. Not depressed, not exultant, just sort of abiding in a comfortable middle ground that was neither life-giving nor depleting.  It was only a few months later that I became pregnant with my son.

Interestingly, it wasn't until my children were born that I started to find and do the things that I wanted to do. I learned how to run, I got back into yoga, took some tap classes, learned to play the ukulele, made some paintings, got an ipod (it was '05, and I was still using a Discman, for goodness sake), returned to performance, and eventually saw all of the Harry Potter films.  During this time of constant change and upheaval in my personal life, it's nice to know that I got what I wanted, eventually, when I made the decision, for myself, to do the things I wanted to do. I'd be lying if I didn't say that I'm a bit excited about what the future might bring. (I'm also excited to find a bra that fits.)

 

What I Want: Long Term

1. Get some sort of grad/diploma degree for theatre/interdisciplinary arts.
2. Get a trade: yoga, carpentry, cooking, computer tech, esthestician, mechanics
3. Kid(s)?
4. Live in a bigger city
5. Travel—esp. eastern & western Europe
6. iPod
7. Get a promotion at B&N

What I Want: Short Term

1. Go to movie by myself.
2. Make a painting.
3. Finish a story.
4. Take a yoga class.
5. Take a dance class.
6. Take guitar lessons.
7. Get a bra that fits.
8. Get shoes that fit and are comfy.
9. Buy frames for pictures.
10. Go to work.
11. See the new Harry Potter.
12.  

Airing of the Grievances, or: In Honor of Festivus, Before the Feats of Strength

 
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For very long I’ve kept very quiet about very much. While I’m not prone to rampant acts of disclosure, and while I recognize that the internet seems to be the repository of every fleeting feeling every half-wit (and half that) may feel, I do believe it’s time to shake out a few rugs and clear a few cobwebs. And, because I’m fond of lists, I’ll bullet point this fine fancying of mine.

1. I’m working 30+ hours/week during this holiday season; a change from the last 6 years of my life, which were solely devoted to raising my babes and keeping a home and garden (amongst many other things). I enjoy my co-workers and I like my department and I’m grateful to have the chance to re-establish myself in the working world again, but retail is draining and demanding and has left me raw and withdrawn. Many have supported me during this return to work, and I am so incredibly grateful to them for their love and good cheer and offers of babysitting.

2. I’m exhausted. Mentally, physically, and spiritually I am spent. I have found that the rigors of maintaining the perception of normality while living with my former partner has left me feeling used and fraudulent, like the fifty dollar bills Data finds in the Fratelli’s basement. More on this to follow, once there is finality.

3. An exercise in careful contemplation, as a random glimpse of an evening’s emotions that I might maintain: Imagine that someone you would assume would work in the best interest of others has decided to transport ill children (pinkeye, upper respiratory infections, fever) to his mother’s house in the middle of a snowy state under the threat of a snowstorm, in that he may have a 48-hour date in a far-flung major city with his current girlfriend. Ponder your response. I imagine it would leave me distraught, unnerved, and enormously sad.

4. Dating is awkward and relevant and irrelevant and surprising and fun, at times. I imagine that if someone was actually interested in me, they would be interested in me. See the Momus video, referenced in my previous entry, “We’re Here One Minute, the Next One We’re Dead.” If I am what you think I am, or if you want to know what you think I am, then let your curiosity guide you. I will not do the work for you.

5. I love my friends. Again, you know who you are. Thank you for understanding me when I say I want to hang out with you and then I change my mind, because I can, because I can’t, because I can, because of my eye of the storm. None of you are getting Christmas gifts this year, and every one of you doesn’t care. I love you even more for this. For those of you that gave me something during this season—either your time or something in/tangible (a job, a cd, a crocheted coffee cozy, skype time, felt foxes for my babes, a card, a story of your failed/successful relationship, a call, a hug—so, so many hugs, an hour of babysitting/swapping, a drink, a lunch, a kiss/et al, a smile), you are the vitality that helps me breathe easier and cry comfortably; the balm that has helped my sore soul stay (mostly) in shape, the glue that keeps me from losing bits of myself along the path. I am so lucky to have you in my life, all of you.

6. It's been six months (the summer solstice, to be exact) that this union was officially dissolved. The divorce papers will be submitted in January. Celebration will come with the housewarming, at a later date, and I look forward to a better night’s sleep that only one’s own nest can bring.

Try a Little Tenderness

I'm working this Thanksgiving (Wed., Thurs, Fri., Sat., & Sun). Many in retail/food-service/healthcare are doing the same. If you happen to be in a position where you're interacting with any of us, please:

1. Be kind. We're here to help you, as we're in a position of service.
2. Because we're in a position of service, we'll treat you well. You do the same.
3. If we can't help you the moment you need us, don't take it personally. We'll do our best for you as soon as you can. Your patience is appreciated.
4. Don't tell me "it sucks to work on Thanksgiving." I don't share the thought, and I'm not interested in spending time thinking about something that doesn't apply to me.
5. Don't take retail/food-service so seriously--lots of folks are wanting the same thing of us as you are, so please understand that when it's your turn, we'll give you our full attention. Until then, see number 3. A sense of humor is most welcome, especially if it's a good joke about 4th-string quarterbacks, icy winds, or Hobbits. All of these are good conversation starters. Which brings me to the final bit:
6. I'm a human; I'm not a service-bot--some sort of android designed for just you. I can only do a few things at once, and I do have flaws, as I'm a thinking, feeling, emoting sack of bones.

Treat me and all my brothers and sisters in service with kindness and patience this holiday season, and I guarantee you will get the best service I can possibly give.

Talk Dirty to Me: Or, Mansplain Me to Save Me From Myself

"I've been everywhere, man..."
--Johnny Cash (song written by Geoff Mack, 1959)

New people have found their way into my life, and for all that it is or all that it may become, I choose to look at these new people as new friends. Some might become lovers, some might become acquaintances, and some may become...Well, weird.

As of late, after I disclosed a recent bout of mansplaining that came from one of the new people who found his way across my path, a very good friend pointed out to me that the activity of "mansplaining" is rampant lately, and in fact, she directed me to "Crap Email From a Dude", a regular blog column on Jezebel.com ("Celebrity, Sex, Fashion for Women. Without Airbrushing.").

Before we read the latest pertinent article, let's note that urbandictionary.com defines mansplaining as:
"To explain in a patronizing manner, assuming total ignorance on the part of those listening. The mansplainer is often shocked and hurt when their mansplanation is not taken as absolute fact, criticized or even rejected altogether."
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Mansplain

My mansplainer was a hit-and-run; the message was sent without so much as a moment's thought to his own actions; I don't doubt that he gave a giggle after he sent his missive, which informed me of so much that I didn't know about myself.

Now, I'm a lover and a fighter, but I know when to be safe and walk away; that's why I'm re-printing a very similar mansplained piece of writing that was published in jezebel.com, by Hortense Smith.  I wish my mansplainer well, and I honestly hope he finds true happiness with the submissive sweetheart he has always longed for (she just didn't know how lucky she was!), and I thank him from saving me another lifetime of telling me what is wrong with me (but I just didn't know it).

http://jezebel.com/5595558/crap-email-from-a-dude-i-hope-you-will-find-this-outsiders-perspective-to-be-useful

Thankyouthankyouthankyou

Gratitude: Or, 5 things that give more meaning to my life, as of 11/11/13, as appreciated by yours truly.
 
1. good hugs
2. toasted pumpkin seeds
3. a really good, strong work-out
4. people who notice when your work-out schedule has changed.
5. The staff at the Y. And again: The staff at the Y. They have been my community, solidly, for over 4 years, and time and again they've come through for me; everything I've put in to my time there, the staff have given back 10-fold, regarding everything from encouragement, financial assistance, temporary child care, classes, community, outreach, and friendly engagement. When I asked for clearer communication about Y-sponsored surround care at Hamilton, I not only had a great sit-down w/Nate Torres, the director for after-school care, but found that he was able to take action and really support me and represent my concerns; this resulted in direct assistance and enrollment into afternoon care for both kids. This goes beyond gratitude--this is a domino finally put in place that assures movement towards a job; by knowing that my little ones are being safely cared for after school, in their school, I can move forward with my job search, eliminating one more blockade that was stalling my progress. I actually had to hug the guy, and I nearly cried. It's good to know when someone's on your team; it's AMAZING to find out an entire organization feels the same way.

We're here one minute, the next one we're dead...

This little piece of work has been sitting around since August, mulling, stewing, lurking in the dark corners between the houses of Too Much Information and Full Disclosure.  For the love of Eve Ensler, Amanda Palmer, bell hooks, Anaìs Nin, and Virginia Woolf, however, I've come to the conclusion that these thoughts and ideas and things are not only considerably valid, but inherently human and sexual and not at all profane.  These glowing thoughts and ideas and things presumably come from a little glowing spot, somewhere in the region of the second chakra; it's a region that has lain dormant longer than I should have allowed, and I do believe it has been awakened.

Corpus Manifesto, 

With Love to Eve Ensler, Anaîs Nin, bell hooks, Amanda Palmer, and Virginia Woolf, 

as of 11.07.13

Please know this:

I will not shave my legs for you. Ever. If I feel like having smooth legs, I will make it so. I will apply a straight razor to my tender flesh—that which has suffered the open-sore wrath of antibiotic-resistant strain MRSA—and I will do so because I want to do so. My hair is my own and it will never be cut or styled or removed for you or your desires, unless I want it to be so. 

My underarms smell. A lot. I like my smell, but it is incredibly strong. Something like skunk mixed with grapefruit. I’ve had no complaints yet, but I don’t care. I wear deodorant when I want to, and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Either way, it is my smell and it will be with me longer than you will. 

My vagina is torn and wet. I’ve given birth to large-headed humans that forced their way to their first breath of life with the determination of a bull in a ring of matadors.  They both tore me, pulling me apart, dragging pieces of me with them, leaving me in tatters.  This is also mine, and I do not for a moment regret those gorgeous wounds of life that twinge on a rough bike ride or during jackhammer intercourse.  It’s a wet, torn, wild place of enormous strength and heat, ever flooding because of desire or your laugh or your blue.green.grey.black.brown eyes. I’m lucky to have such a reservoir. You’re lucky if you get to swim in it.

I’ve been marked, forever, in my breasts, belly, hips and arms by the growing and shedding of layers of genetics; stretch marks crawl across me like a thousand Arabic squiggles, each one with a story to tell. I don’t try to hide them.

I love sex. A lot. I have the freedom to use my body for sex in as many ways as I desire, with a willing and giving partner. We will treat each other like equals, neither seeking to dominate or belittle the other, unless it is part of agreed play.

I am not your exotic muse, nor will I be the one you chose to “slum it with”.  I am not to be placed on a pedestal, to be used as you see fit when you see fit. If I want to be used, you will know it. In the words of Momus/Amanda Palmer (see video below): I may want you, and I may want you to want me, but I don’t need you. And I don’t need you to need me to need you.

Note: The Amanda Fucking Palmer video is a cover of the Momus song. You can choose which one you like; I like them both for different reasons.

Listen To This

How many people think of how many ways to say that their music defines and/or shapes their lives? The obvious has been stated by us all--we love music, we breathe music, we allow it to transform our moods, our desires, our outlook on life...

This power was proven and set in stone 5 years ago by my son as he circled the kitchen, singing something nearly unintelligible, at full voice in the garbled tones only a two-year-old can screech; if I hadn't picked up "CBGB" I wouldn't have understood that he was singing "Life During Wartime" by The Talking Heads. My daughter was born to Elton John and Stevie Wonder. I always wanted someone to play "I Will" by the Beatles for me, but I got "Killing Me Softly" by The Fugees from my former husband. The end of my marriage was sealed by Aphex Twin's "Cliffs". It's been a long journey, and I quite like the path so far; "Cruel" by St. Vincent helped me in the early bits, and now the joy and sexiness of everything Nina Simone has ever sung is daily building buoyancy for me.

What's on your playlist? Any requests?