Clicked on one of Blogger's random links and found this: My New Favorite Blog
I think I'm in love.
Thursday, April 6, 2006
When Do We Stop Running?
There I was on the phone with EVG last night.
I think I would like to have a scheduled call with him a couple of times a week, just to hear THAT VOICE.
The last big and tall guy I dated, though handsome in a traditional American sort of way (well, he was a traditional American sort of boy, after all -- Naval Academy grad, etc), had a voice like an adenoidal teenager. And frankly, a tiny penis. There's nothing more disappointing to a girl than getting a guy naked only to find he's hung like a light switch. That one didn't last long.
Anyway, as I was saying.
The voice. It's not Barry White. It's not James Earl Jones. It's not just espresso-colored. It's the sludge left over in the espresso machine. If the face of Half Dome fell into the Yosemite Valley, his voice would be the sound of the rocks dropping.
So I mentioned how tired I was from the previous night and that I was going directly to bed. So, apparently, was he. One of the great things about being a grown-up is going to bed whenever you feel like it, even if the sun is still up. Remember being a little kid, and fighting to stay up until 10:00? Now, a grown-up, sometimes I want to go to bed at 7:00. AND I CAN. I love that.
He reminisced about being one of those little kids running around the streets until all hours.
I reminisced about being one of those little kids always running. In fact, little kids are always running, anyway. I asked, when do we stop running? Kids run for the sheer joy of the movement, it seems. I have a photo that I took of my niece, probably at 3 or 4, at the park at the Statue of Liberty. She is running across the grass toward the camera, and her face is alight with excitement and joy and vitality, her hair caught mid-bounce. When I look at that photo, it says one thing to me: Childhood.
You know what? I said. I think I'm going to start running again. Just like a little kid. He laughed.
I'd like to see that, he said.
He complained about how cold it is. I protested, saying, not cold. It's just like the weather in the mountains. I was looking out my kitchen window towards the west when I said it. The sun was setting, and the clouds had that same rolling Rocky Mountain look they used to have when I would drive out of Denver.
You're a freak, he said with affection. (He once told me he likes me because I'm odd. I told him I was the most normal-looking weirdo he would ever meet. My freak-flag just doesn't fly out in the open.)
Not a freak, I said. I just really miss the mountains. A lot.
It was a nice conversation. He attempted to make a tentative plan for the weekend.
If I don't have to work on Saturday, I'd like to come and spend some time with you, he said.
Well, let's just play that by ear, I said. This time if I feel disappointed, I'll be sure to let you know I'm disappointed. Since it seems to have hurt your feelings the last time I didn't seem disappointed enough.
And if I have to work on Saturday, he said, laughing, we'll do something next week.
I started to laugh, too.
I'd love that, I said, and hung up.
Today, I am going to run somewhere. Even if it is just across the street. Just to run like a little kid. For the hell of it.
I think I would like to have a scheduled call with him a couple of times a week, just to hear THAT VOICE.
The last big and tall guy I dated, though handsome in a traditional American sort of way (well, he was a traditional American sort of boy, after all -- Naval Academy grad, etc), had a voice like an adenoidal teenager. And frankly, a tiny penis. There's nothing more disappointing to a girl than getting a guy naked only to find he's hung like a light switch. That one didn't last long.
Anyway, as I was saying.
The voice. It's not Barry White. It's not James Earl Jones. It's not just espresso-colored. It's the sludge left over in the espresso machine. If the face of Half Dome fell into the Yosemite Valley, his voice would be the sound of the rocks dropping.
So I mentioned how tired I was from the previous night and that I was going directly to bed. So, apparently, was he. One of the great things about being a grown-up is going to bed whenever you feel like it, even if the sun is still up. Remember being a little kid, and fighting to stay up until 10:00? Now, a grown-up, sometimes I want to go to bed at 7:00. AND I CAN. I love that.
He reminisced about being one of those little kids running around the streets until all hours.
I reminisced about being one of those little kids always running. In fact, little kids are always running, anyway. I asked, when do we stop running? Kids run for the sheer joy of the movement, it seems. I have a photo that I took of my niece, probably at 3 or 4, at the park at the Statue of Liberty. She is running across the grass toward the camera, and her face is alight with excitement and joy and vitality, her hair caught mid-bounce. When I look at that photo, it says one thing to me: Childhood.
You know what? I said. I think I'm going to start running again. Just like a little kid. He laughed.
I'd like to see that, he said.
He complained about how cold it is. I protested, saying, not cold. It's just like the weather in the mountains. I was looking out my kitchen window towards the west when I said it. The sun was setting, and the clouds had that same rolling Rocky Mountain look they used to have when I would drive out of Denver.
You're a freak, he said with affection. (He once told me he likes me because I'm odd. I told him I was the most normal-looking weirdo he would ever meet. My freak-flag just doesn't fly out in the open.)
Not a freak, I said. I just really miss the mountains. A lot.
It was a nice conversation. He attempted to make a tentative plan for the weekend.
If I don't have to work on Saturday, I'd like to come and spend some time with you, he said.
Well, let's just play that by ear, I said. This time if I feel disappointed, I'll be sure to let you know I'm disappointed. Since it seems to have hurt your feelings the last time I didn't seem disappointed enough.
And if I have to work on Saturday, he said, laughing, we'll do something next week.
I started to laugh, too.
I'd love that, I said, and hung up.
Today, I am going to run somewhere. Even if it is just across the street. Just to run like a little kid. For the hell of it.
Pay attention!
Sat with a lot of stuff last night and tried to just pay attention, as Cheri advises.
Came to the realization that I am still really, really angry with someone and I need to just stay away from him for awhile until I'm finished being angry. Because I run the risk of creating an action or behaving from the anger (fear) rather than from a compassionate, centered place. Because I was transferring my anger to someone else who really doesn't matter in my life and who really doesn't merit that particular attention. Out of that anger I became defensive, which only fed the fuel of self-righteousness which I projected on to her. Out of that anger, I was feeling, as I sometimes do, backed into a corner and ready to come out with all of my claws flying.
When I'm in that state, I'm certainly impressive. Not likeable or harmonious. But certainly awesome and terrifying to behold. I think the term "vengeful goddess" may have been coined to describe me in that active angry state.
I bring my attention to one of the precepts: "Actualize harmony. Do not be angry."
Now. What most people would think about this is that you should paste a beatific smile on your face and pretend that everything is just okay. This is how most would interpret "do not be angry." But, the precept doesn't say "Do not GET angry." I interpret it to mean, don't act from an angry place. I allow myself to feel the anger as it passes through me, and pay attention to the sensations that arise with the anger. Notice: I'm feeling angry, but also, fearful, small, judged, less-than. Asking myself -- what am I afraid of? Who is making me feel small? Who is judging me? Whom do I feel less than? Noticing, as I've been taught, whose mind those thoughts formed in and whose mouth they came out of.
Noticing the angry thoughts with interest, "Oh, that's just a thought." Just another emotion. Like everything, it passes.
You know what? I don't know what someone else thinks of me. I only project what I think I know she thinks.
It sounds more convoluted than it is. Cheri calls it the double-reverse projection.
Well, If you're going to do something, even projection, at least do it with style. No simple projection for me, no sirree bob. Let me do the double-reverse projection. Maybe with a full twist thrown in.
Yikes.
Came to the realization that I am still really, really angry with someone and I need to just stay away from him for awhile until I'm finished being angry. Because I run the risk of creating an action or behaving from the anger (fear) rather than from a compassionate, centered place. Because I was transferring my anger to someone else who really doesn't matter in my life and who really doesn't merit that particular attention. Out of that anger I became defensive, which only fed the fuel of self-righteousness which I projected on to her. Out of that anger, I was feeling, as I sometimes do, backed into a corner and ready to come out with all of my claws flying.
When I'm in that state, I'm certainly impressive. Not likeable or harmonious. But certainly awesome and terrifying to behold. I think the term "vengeful goddess" may have been coined to describe me in that active angry state.
I bring my attention to one of the precepts: "Actualize harmony. Do not be angry."
Now. What most people would think about this is that you should paste a beatific smile on your face and pretend that everything is just okay. This is how most would interpret "do not be angry." But, the precept doesn't say "Do not GET angry." I interpret it to mean, don't act from an angry place. I allow myself to feel the anger as it passes through me, and pay attention to the sensations that arise with the anger. Notice: I'm feeling angry, but also, fearful, small, judged, less-than. Asking myself -- what am I afraid of? Who is making me feel small? Who is judging me? Whom do I feel less than? Noticing, as I've been taught, whose mind those thoughts formed in and whose mouth they came out of.
Noticing the angry thoughts with interest, "Oh, that's just a thought." Just another emotion. Like everything, it passes.
You know what? I don't know what someone else thinks of me. I only project what I think I know she thinks.
It sounds more convoluted than it is. Cheri calls it the double-reverse projection.
Well, If you're going to do something, even projection, at least do it with style. No simple projection for me, no sirree bob. Let me do the double-reverse projection. Maybe with a full twist thrown in.
Yikes.
Wednesday, April 5, 2006
To Be Socially Acceptable or Not? THAT is the Question
Actually, it doesn't really need an answer.
Friday night, I popped over to the EV to have a drink with Z. Actually, things with him are feeling a little tied together with bread twisties and Elmer's Glue right now, and a good nor'easter will probably uproot the whole thing. (I think I may actually have to follow the advice of Thubten Chodron after all. I was actually meeting my old friend Steve later on that night to go to a concert at Crash Mansion.
Sound system was abysmal at Sin, so we packed up our kit bags and headed across the street. Walked into Fish Bar and there he is in his corner, like a glowering Cerberus, EVG.
I swear to you, I can HEAR the gates and doors slamming and closing inside my head. I need to pay attention to that. We take seats at the bar, Z placing himself between EVG & me like the East Village's own Guardian of Morality.
I mentioned that I was going to see a band; that the invitation contained my four favorite words in the English language: "No Cover. Open Bar."
His response? "My four favorite words are, 'Take me home now.'"
Love his brazenness.
We went outside to smoke, and there were a couple of folks out there, one of who gave us a sniffy look complete with eyeroll and then she brushed past us to go inside.
"Well, she doesn't like me at all," said EVG.
"Don't worry about it," I replied. "She doesn't like me, either."
"How come she doesn't like you?"
"Ummmmmm ... Maybe she suspects that there is something going on between us? Maybe because I am many things that she is not?" I replied evasively.
"Oh, because you're open and free and you don't have big old stick up your butt?"
Ahem. *smirk*
Which brings me to the subject at hand. I'm done - absolutely DONE - trying to be "socially acceptable" in the EV. You know what? If anyone gives a shit who I am fucking, well, I'm glad you find it interesting. Are you so seriously worried about whom someone is sleeping with that you feel it threatens your way of life or your family's? What business is it of yours? Well, judge away if it makes ya feel better.
Searching to be "socially acceptable" feels too much like a sacrifice of basic humanity in exchange for some sort of political expediency. And frankly, life it too, too short for me to waste time politicking during the times I've stepped away from my "approved" work persona. Holy crap, I want to unwind and be myself when I'm out with my friends, not be reminded that "so-and-so may be able to help you in your career." When I'm out with my friends (and the reasons they love me, I hope) is precisely because I am boisterous and blue-collar and wrong side of the tracks and have a loud unladylike laugh. What I hope people remember about me most is that I laughed without reservation and that I was kind. My friends cross all levels of society and I'm not going to play that "Well, I can't invite so-and-so because someone else might not like him/her." Throw em all into the pot and call it jambalaya. Life tastes better that way.
I realized as I went home in the cab that night that I was actually expending valuable energy trying to get someone to APPROVE of me. Then I realized something else. Something important.
I just don't give a shit if she approves of me or not. As someone once said to me during the 90-day experiment, "What anyone else thinks about me is none of my business." Meaning -- people are going to hold whatever opinion they want, and I can't do anything about it.
I could be Mother Theresa working the charity circuit and performing miracles of healing, I could have a silhouette of Jesus on the old bacon in my refrigerator, and she would still see me as "The Woman Who Slept With the Married Guy and Is Fooling Around With That Tall Guy Who Has a Girlfriend."
And that's okay. People will do what they need to do in order to be comfortable in the world. If that includes pigeonholing me, that's okay, too.
But I don't have to be around it. Let's see, I'm going to willingly put myself into situations where there is a person looking down on me or thinking I am "less than." Wow, I don't think so. I realize that the situation brings up so many of my old, old issues going all the way back to grade school and high school -- that there are the Popular Kids, and the Outsiders, and I am an Outsider. The old me sometimes tried to find a way to get the Popular Kids' approval, but ultimately that dog just didn't hunt. All it did was make me feel weird and uncomfortable, and I realized that this situation was bringing up the same discomfort and weirdness in me.
Besides, I don't really enjoy spending people who take themselves soooooo damn seriously. Jesus Christ in a sidecar, isn't life grim enough? We'd better fucking laugh our asses off every chance we get, and that means at ourselves, too.
As Kudra said: "ERLEICHDA!"
However, there is one thing I need to put out there into the universe, to all the other "Dear Janes" out there, who might hear a whisper about "Janeys" like me.
NEWSFLASH: Just because I slept with a married man, or with someone else's boyfriend, that does not mean that I want YOUR husband or boyfriend. In general, they just aren't good looking or interesting enough to fuck.
Friday night, I popped over to the EV to have a drink with Z. Actually, things with him are feeling a little tied together with bread twisties and Elmer's Glue right now, and a good nor'easter will probably uproot the whole thing. (I think I may actually have to follow the advice of Thubten Chodron after all. I was actually meeting my old friend Steve later on that night to go to a concert at Crash Mansion.
Sound system was abysmal at Sin, so we packed up our kit bags and headed across the street. Walked into Fish Bar and there he is in his corner, like a glowering Cerberus, EVG.
I swear to you, I can HEAR the gates and doors slamming and closing inside my head. I need to pay attention to that. We take seats at the bar, Z placing himself between EVG & me like the East Village's own Guardian of Morality.
I mentioned that I was going to see a band; that the invitation contained my four favorite words in the English language: "No Cover. Open Bar."
His response? "My four favorite words are, 'Take me home now.'"
Love his brazenness.
We went outside to smoke, and there were a couple of folks out there, one of who gave us a sniffy look complete with eyeroll and then she brushed past us to go inside.
"Well, she doesn't like me at all," said EVG.
"Don't worry about it," I replied. "She doesn't like me, either."
"How come she doesn't like you?"
"Ummmmmm ... Maybe she suspects that there is something going on between us? Maybe because I am many things that she is not?" I replied evasively.
"Oh, because you're open and free and you don't have big old stick up your butt?"
Ahem. *smirk*
Which brings me to the subject at hand. I'm done - absolutely DONE - trying to be "socially acceptable" in the EV. You know what? If anyone gives a shit who I am fucking, well, I'm glad you find it interesting. Are you so seriously worried about whom someone is sleeping with that you feel it threatens your way of life or your family's? What business is it of yours? Well, judge away if it makes ya feel better.
Searching to be "socially acceptable" feels too much like a sacrifice of basic humanity in exchange for some sort of political expediency. And frankly, life it too, too short for me to waste time politicking during the times I've stepped away from my "approved" work persona. Holy crap, I want to unwind and be myself when I'm out with my friends, not be reminded that "so-and-so may be able to help you in your career." When I'm out with my friends (and the reasons they love me, I hope) is precisely because I am boisterous and blue-collar and wrong side of the tracks and have a loud unladylike laugh. What I hope people remember about me most is that I laughed without reservation and that I was kind. My friends cross all levels of society and I'm not going to play that "Well, I can't invite so-and-so because someone else might not like him/her." Throw em all into the pot and call it jambalaya. Life tastes better that way.
I realized as I went home in the cab that night that I was actually expending valuable energy trying to get someone to APPROVE of me. Then I realized something else. Something important.
I just don't give a shit if she approves of me or not. As someone once said to me during the 90-day experiment, "What anyone else thinks about me is none of my business." Meaning -- people are going to hold whatever opinion they want, and I can't do anything about it.
I could be Mother Theresa working the charity circuit and performing miracles of healing, I could have a silhouette of Jesus on the old bacon in my refrigerator, and she would still see me as "The Woman Who Slept With the Married Guy and Is Fooling Around With That Tall Guy Who Has a Girlfriend."
And that's okay. People will do what they need to do in order to be comfortable in the world. If that includes pigeonholing me, that's okay, too.
But I don't have to be around it. Let's see, I'm going to willingly put myself into situations where there is a person looking down on me or thinking I am "less than." Wow, I don't think so. I realize that the situation brings up so many of my old, old issues going all the way back to grade school and high school -- that there are the Popular Kids, and the Outsiders, and I am an Outsider. The old me sometimes tried to find a way to get the Popular Kids' approval, but ultimately that dog just didn't hunt. All it did was make me feel weird and uncomfortable, and I realized that this situation was bringing up the same discomfort and weirdness in me.
Besides, I don't really enjoy spending people who take themselves soooooo damn seriously. Jesus Christ in a sidecar, isn't life grim enough? We'd better fucking laugh our asses off every chance we get, and that means at ourselves, too.
As Kudra said: "ERLEICHDA!"
However, there is one thing I need to put out there into the universe, to all the other "Dear Janes" out there, who might hear a whisper about "Janeys" like me.
NEWSFLASH: Just because I slept with a married man, or with someone else's boyfriend, that does not mean that I want YOUR husband or boyfriend. In general, they just aren't good looking or interesting enough to fuck.
F vs. EVG
Interesting.
If you stood the two next to each other, from the standpoint of sheer physical attractiveness or even handiness, EVG has a much more outward sexiness and beauty than F. Come on, a chubby Jewish guy from New Jersey versus the smoldering Brooklyn Bad Boy? Should be a shoo-in for EVG to win, right? You'd never look at F and think to yourself, "Hmm. I'll bet he's a really hot lay."
But F was, hands down, the
BEST.
SEX.
EVER.
Just needed to record it for posterity.
Jury's still out on EVG, there hasn't been enough of it to really be able to tell yet. It is certainly, um, plentiful and very, very physical. Let's just say, things are in proportion. Which is a good thing. And he did express to me last week, "I hope you didn't mean it when you said that was just one for the road," so I suppose we'll be doing nekkid explorations again eventually.
If you stood the two next to each other, from the standpoint of sheer physical attractiveness or even handiness, EVG has a much more outward sexiness and beauty than F. Come on, a chubby Jewish guy from New Jersey versus the smoldering Brooklyn Bad Boy? Should be a shoo-in for EVG to win, right? You'd never look at F and think to yourself, "Hmm. I'll bet he's a really hot lay."
But F was, hands down, the
BEST.
SEX.
EVER.
Just needed to record it for posterity.
Jury's still out on EVG, there hasn't been enough of it to really be able to tell yet. It is certainly, um, plentiful and very, very physical. Let's just say, things are in proportion. Which is a good thing. And he did express to me last week, "I hope you didn't mean it when you said that was just one for the road," so I suppose we'll be doing nekkid explorations again eventually.