31.1.08

Aftermath

"The children sucked my personality out," she said limply, after babysitting for an entire three hours.

28.1.08

How do I? Tell me, wiki, do!

I love wikiHow. I learned how to tell it I loved it at Say-I-Love-You. Before I loved it, we were just friends. I learned how to become its friend at Become-Friends-With-Someone-Who-Knows-You.

Of course, first I had to learn to Meet-New-People-Without-Being-Creepy. And now wikiHow tells me I have a problem and that I need to Control-a-wikiHow-Addiction.

The place slays me. The culture, the audience - it's this huge mash of humanity that is at times bizarre and touching and surprisingly insightful and always, always, good for a laugh. My faves lately:

23.1.08

consume this

Victor Lebow, a post WWII retailing analyst:
"Our enormously productive economy . . . demands that we make consumption our way of life, that we convert the buying and use of goods into rituals, that we seek our spiritual satisfaction, our ego satisfaction, in consumption . . . we need things consumed, burned up, replaced, and discarded at an ever-accelerating rate.
This article, and the above quote, have prompted me to find creative ways around outright replacing my dear technological companion, though the prospect of being away from her again for repairs tears at my heart. (Why do they make these things disposable?! They told me I was LUCKY to get three years out of my laptop!)

So again I tell myself: Buy less. Live more.

.

20.1.08

Men's Abortions & The War Mentality

Two weeks ago I read two articles about abortion on the same day. I'm glad I read them in the order that I did because the first one placed my paradigm in a more inclusive rather than exclusive stance.

The first article (A Change of Heart: From Pro Life to Pro Choice, AlterNet 1/9/08) included a perspective I needed to hear: "Our beliefs are not created by what -- or who -- we are against. They exist because of what we are for: comprehensive reproductive health for all, and the ability to decide for ourselves if we will or will not have an abortion."

A line from the second article (Changing Abortion's Pronoun, LA Times 1/7/08) elicited an audible groan from me, and my mind went to The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood and Starhawk's description of The Southlands in The Fifth Sacred Thing. A man, discussing his personal regret about several ex-girlfriends' abortions: "'I never really thought about it for the woman,' he says slowly." What?! He never really thought about the woman part of the equation in an abortion scenario? Excuse me?

It's an interesting catch-22. Though it disgusts me, it doesn't surprise me that anti-abortion activists will utilize women's termination regret to influence the courts toward the incorrectly-perceived need to "protect" women from their own choices. But would they do the same with men's regret as a motivator? To protect men from themselves? I do not doubt that some men experience loss or sadness over the termination of a pregnancy in which they played a role. But is regret the best measure of whether or not government should permit certain reproductive medical decisions?

Back when I was a married-to-a-man queer grrl, before the polyamorous part of our marriage was predominant, my husband and I terminated a pregnancy. In Utah. I wrote about it here, when the South Dakota mess was in the news. In the post, I half-heartedly pretended it wasn't me, but it was probably pretty obvious. Many women have termination stories; I have one. I don't see why men shouldn't get to tell their stories too.

My ambivalence toward abortion topics is deep and multi-layered. I believe it important to let stories and voices be heard, and yet I also recognize the deeply personal realm of reproduction, coming from a family where fertility, miscarriage, and ectopic (tubal) pregnancies were wrapped in whispered conversations, kept from children, spoken about with solemn secrecy.

The more we share, all of us, the more information we have, the greater likelihood that we might just be able to see each other and really connect and not live under the illusion that our way of experiencing the world is the only way it's experienced. The more information, more connection, more understanding, more empathy, the better. That includes having empathy for people who truly believe that abortion should be illegal. If I can empathize with their feelings, it may be a vital step in bridging the gap in our perspectives, and maybe that person will one day believe that even if abortion is not a choice s/he would make or want a loved one to make, it is a choice that should nevertheless be available in a legal and safe way. The "fight" is more about increased connection and communication rather than fighting. Give peace a chance, wo/man.

. . .

19.1.08

Blessed Intention

Upon reviewing yesterday's post I feel that much of it sounded like "wow, I'm so great," and that's not what I meant. Or at least not what I wanted to convey. I really wanted to express that seeing this guy, connecting with him the various ways I've connected, that's a blessing. Especially. Predominantly. Blessings can and are found in all sorts of circumstances. He is my blessing on the way to work everyday.

And the fact that I don't know his name, that's embarrassing. It's as though he is this objectified opportunity for me to feel good, to feel connected with a stranger, to experience heartfelt humanity. And that really sucks. Romanticizing poverty and homelessness is downright shameful. Though I'm not sure that's what I'm doing, the mere possibility of my complicity with it - that's something of which I want to be well aware.

Until I moved to Portland, I didn't witness homelessness in such a visible way, so spread out throughout the city. That's not to say there was no homelessness in Salt Lake City - there is/was. But my experience with it was different than it is here. I need to unpack my emotions and reactions as I process this new reality.

Ah, the process.

16.1.08

I Don't Know His Name

I see him almost every day on the offramp at I-205 and Glisan Street. When I don't see him, I wonder where he is and if he's okay.

Hard lives can age people; I really have no idea if he's sixty or forty. His right leg is missing below the knee. He has a white beard and kind eyes and holds a tattered sign that says, "Anything is a blessing. God bless." Based on my experience and observation, I think he really means that. Anything is a blessing. Some days my blessing is a smile. Some days it's whatever extra food I have in the car. He's always grateful, and he always smiles back at me, unlike the younger men who squint incredulously when I offer them fruit or a granola bar. They want money. But my guy, he's something else. After I handed him a tangerine he said, "Ooooh! These little oranges, they sure are good!" I smiled, "Yeah, they are. They are really sweet!"

The difficulty with his location is that if I'm not the first car stopped at the light, he usually can't reach me for a tangible exchange because of his crutches. Many days I have something for him besides my smile, but I can't give it to him without stopping a whole line of cars at a green light. So one day, between Christmas and New Years, when there was little traffic and I felt particularly flush, I gave him a crisp $10 bill. I'd been saving it in my glove compartment for him. He looked shocked, shook his head, "Too much!" My eyes welling with tears, I said, "I see you every single day and many days I can't give you what I want to give you. This makes up for that." He smiled at me shyly, his tears matching my own.

As I turned the corner and drove toward my office, I realized the truth in his sign. Contact with a person so humbled as to broadcast his need, to stand out in the freezing temperatures and precipitation, leaning against a cold guardrail with his crutches, to ask his fellow humans for anything they can and will share - I am blessed to be reminded of our shared humanity.

Anything is a blessing.

*

13.1.08

Important Stuff

Twenty minutes. I'll be bold and say that you can't afford not to spend this twenty minutes. Maybe that sounds melodramatic, but this is one of those things that feels Important.

Maybe you don't want to watch it. Maybe you say to yourself, "But I like not knowing. If I don't know, I'm absolved of my participation." Or you say, "Look, I know, but I have a XYZ factors in my life that require me to live the way that I do." Or maybe you say, "I already know. And I live frugally and consciously and watching this is unnecessary."

But this is Important Stuff. Seriously seriously important stuff. And even the most examined life can use a boost, a reminder, a tool to share with others, perhaps. I'll embed a teaser below, but more importantly, go spend twenty minutes watching or listening to the film The Story of Stuff. Let a kid watch it. In fact, please, encourage your kid to watch it. Important Stuff.

12.1.08

Blogs & Family

Two more conversations with the 5-year-old who lives upstairs:

#1
me, giving her a hug hello: I wrote about you in my blog yesterday.

B: What's a blog?

me: It's a complete and utter waste of my time.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

#2
B: I don't know for sure about this, and I might be wrong, but you know what I think?

me: What do you think?

B: I think that if someone moves into your house, that means they are your family.

me: Like me?

B: Yes! My family has grown! It used to be 3 people: my mom, my brother and me, after my dad died. Then it was 4 when mommy met N. Living with you makes it 5! And when T gets here, it will be 6! Our growing family!

me: I love being in your family, B.

10.1.08

Yo

B, the 5-year-old who lives upstairs, announced with a little hop and a big grin: This DVD is off the chain, yo.

me: What does that mean?

B: I think it means this DVD is all scratched up, yo.

me: What does "yo" mean, B?

B, exasperated: Mossssseeeeee! I think it means YO! . . . yo . . . YO . . . yo-yo-yo . . . It's like a word that you can call people. You can call people Yo, like YoMomma.

me: Hmmm. I'm not sure about that. You might not want to say "yo momma" without knowing for sure what it means.

B: I know just one more thing! The first letter is y, yuh. I'm not sure of the second letter, yo.

9.1.08

Shrinkage

For five months our love-connection has been nurtured and cultivated by daily phone calls across a couple of states, a rendezvous in Idaho, frustratingly short visits spaced four to six weeks apart, and much anticipation.

Last month when she spent twelve days in south Florida, we were separated by 2650 miles. And I felt those extra 1900 miles. In some ways it was sort of romantic, envisioning us on opposite ends of the continent, but the time difference made phone call coordination difficult.

Now the distance has shrunk from 2650 miles to 766 miles and soon to mere inches. Instead of counting the weeks or days, I'm counting the hours until she's here for good with a truck full of instruments and clothes and kitchen supplies, my decadent request for Red Iguana Mole Poblano fulfilled, a sexy (and sedated for the roadtrip) black cat in tow.

I am giddy with the prospect of holding hands and burying my face in her neck and laughing together and feeling her breath in my hair and watching her sleep and seeing her eyes gazing at me when I awake.

The phone sex has been fun, and has probably kept me from plummeting into a celibacy-induced psychosis, but getting off is so much better in person. Juggling a cell phone and saying "what?" when one of us starts mumbling somehow bleeds the eroticism from the experience. But soon the phone sex will be reserved for those public masturbatory adventures when I may need a little prompting and my grrl is on the other side of town, instead of far far away in MormoniaZionia.

Here, kitty, kitty!

. . .

7.1.08

Apostrophe

I'm a word-nerd. I have an inner editor-proofreader, and she is snarky. Lately she has been squirming, but not in that pleasantly-sexy-squirming way, but in that oh-shit-my-OCD-is-sure-squirming way. (Lest ye question my word-nerdness, I'll just say that I creamed myself when I took a look at this WildWords game. Not-so-subtle gift idea!)

Lately I've been fixating on misuse of the apostrophe. The lovely apostrophe, though not nearly as fetching as a semicolon, is nevertheless a marvelous mark of punctuation. And so I lament! How it loses its power when well-meaning but ill-informed people toss it into a word, believing it necessary to make a word plural or past tense! I did it myself last week, writing that we had subpoena'd someone. My inner proofreader recoiled, and I rephrased the sentence, giving it a different verb, and looked it up later. (I'm sure you're aching to know that the correct spelling of the past tense to subpoena is subpoenaed.)

You want proof? Think that surely you are doing it correctly? Check out this wikiHow page on apostrophes. Or this grammar rule page. Or this one. Or see this site dedicated to Apostrophe Protection. Those Brits are oh-so-polite:
We are aware of the way the English language is evolving during use, and do not intend any direct criticism of those who have made the mistakes above. We are just reminding all writers of English text, whether on notices or in documents of any type, of the correct usage of the apostrophe should you wish to put right mistakes you may have inadvertently made.
For you visual learners, see the flickr pool of public apostrophe misuse.

Until I went to graduate school and well-paid legal writing professors told me that it is perfectly acceptable (in their warped universe) to start a sentence with And, But, or Because, that particular writing choice used to bug me too. And now I do at incessantly. So perhaps I just need some grammatic authority to tell me to get over myself for cringing over the alleged apostrophe abuse.

Maybe I just need to get laid and transform the obsessive-squirmy into some sexy-squirmy. Soon, friends. Soon.

* * *

4.1.08

Wind

Things can and do blow away when the wind blows.

It picks up, sometimes slowly at first, and builds, flicking around, rustling, crescendo, quicker now, and whips things from where they were. Or maybe where they were was just a temporary resting spot, in that metaphysical sort of way that life can take. Maybe those dreams, those possibilities, that DreamedLife, was waiting for the wind to take it to the next place, leaving space behind.

To say that death and loss are parts of the life cycle is obvious. However true, the actual experience of LifeLoss, or LifeTransformation, is something else. Something the body knows. The physical. The flesh.

Strong winds tonight; a lot of change. And also a strong intention toward blessedness and gratitude and spirit and Aliveness. The joy of Life punctuated by Loss. Letting go. Life passage.

* * *
Writing in this semi-veiled diarist (diarrhea-ist?) fashion, yet ever-conscious of the privacy of those around me, can be slightly challenging when something really huge is happening in my immediate domestic proximity.
* * *

3.1.08

1 down

One day down. Fifty-six to go.

I curse the tagline at the bottom of the nasty-ass 11x17 page of daily assignments from now until the end of February:

Do it once, do it right, and NEVER do it again.
I did it once. I didn't do it right. And now I'm doing it again.