I only have a few minutes today. I finally got my computer out of the computer ICU--$240! New keyboard, disk drive, lalalala. 12 hours later...the mouse froze. Back it went. So no computer. Just the library--and I can only use this one for an hour--and I have 14 minutes left, having spent the last 46 minutes filling out financial aid forms and answering emails and paying bills online.
Our library here in Little Dixie is really quite the thing. At first I hated it, but now I love it. But in my heart is still the old library. When I go to the library, or make a plan to go to the library, for some reason, that library is still the one I expect to walk into. I'm always surprised when I walk into this, past the flame colored metal sculptures depicting Don Quixote, into the round foyer--I'm always surprised. I have the old building memorized, and it's there I wander. When I think about a book I want, I always think I know where it is, then I come in here and stop..."Oh, that's right. That building isn't here anymore."
That must happen to old people a lot. They just walk around in a completely different world then we do. Ghosts do too, probably.
I mean, I even have the rubbed out formica of the counters at the old one internalized.
Sometimes, at night, I lie in bed and think about my grandfather's living room. It seems so real to me. I wander through, smell the old wool carpet, the placid pale blue velvet furniture, the quiet gleaming tables. The pictures of venice my grandmother painted in her oil class in college in small gold frames. The other ancient dark oil paintings--you could see a cow in one of them. That was about it. I'm always 4 in this living room. I'm always up before everyone else, trying to get onto the patio to catch lizards.
Much of the furniture from that house is shrouded in my garage now. But the living loving space they created is still in my heart, there for me to wander through.
I found out later about the dramas and petty betrayals--when I was an adult and could better understand ambiguity.
But these gifts I always have. These gifts are ours to give, as well. Remember to accept the simple things from people. Remember to give them too.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
the Cave
Just finished sitting.
Something different happened.
How to describe it?
When thoughts arise, according to Pema Chodron's advice, I look at them for a second, label them "thinking" and go back to my breathing. Lovely.
You miss so much beauty when you are hallucinating on your own dramas.
So, today, I'm sitting in the peace room--which Nick has taken over as his pad this summer. So now there is a Wii and a television set, as well as his 600 page sci fi novel that he's been working on since 2nd grade. At the last minute, right before we were due to fly off to his dad's, our state supreme court called Nick to interview for an internship he had applied for in February. Talk about timing. He got it. So he's with me all summer. He cut his hair and trundles off to the capitol every day. He's doing a lot of xeroxing and making minimum wage. It's his first job. "Mom," he says, "Do you realize that by the end of the summer I will have earned one THOUSAND dollars?"
I didn't have the heart to tell him about social security.
Anyways, the basement has sort of evolved into his pad. We're leading this sort of parallel existence. No living with Jay, as I usually do. I miss that, but the time with my son's pretty precious. And he'll be off in adulthood soon enough. Sniff.
So today, I'm sitting, and breathing, and all the sudden it felt like the top of my head had come off. You know those images showing a big light coming out of someone's skull? That's what it felt like. I felt suddenly that nothing I understood about the self was accurate. I felt that my skull was a cave of horrors, ego demons, and that all the sudden the rock rolled away and I was free. I felt this stab of sorrow, that we're all so locked in, and that it isn't really true--that we're all just part of something immensely bigger. I felt the world all around, above behind below front--then I thought--Wow--this is fantastic--and started getting caught up thinking about my romantic dramas.
Whenever I have a transcendental experience like that in sitting, my ego seems to reassert itself in really crappy ways that day--it's like it wages a war--"remember me? remember me?" and the biggest weapon it uses against me is my sense of self-righteousness. The "it's not fair!" response--"I'm not getting my due" I happen to be particularly vulnerable to this trap because of the domestic abuse I suffered through in my twenties. I swore I would never let that happen again--so I'm hyper vigilant. But it still happens. I'm terrified of getting screwed--and as a result I get screwed all the time.
So the minute I got off the cushion, I get this urge to check Jay's email. But that makes my day about Jay, and his lying is his business--it's his cave of horrors, not mine. He's not being straightforward about something--I can feel it. I don't think it's anything horrendous--but it's probably something I wouldn't agree with or like. Some bit of guilt. If I do anything, it will somehow be blamed on me--so I'm just letting him stew in his own juices. My duty is to be as happy as I can. I'm sure I'll find out everything I need to know. Checking up on him is demeaning, I've decided. He told me he was going to his parents Sunday night, but as I was riding home on my bicycle on the empty Sunday summer streets from work, he passed me in his car. Then, yesterday morning, he called.
"How are your folks?" I asked, knowing full well he hadn't gone.
"I didn't go...I just didn't feel well. I didn't call you because I knew you'd feel torn about leaving Nick by himself and coming out...so I didn't want to put you in that position."
What a load of crap. Oh well. Not my problem. I imagine with that big weeping sore on his penis he didn't get much action. He'll figure it out.
When someone is having a relationship with you--only it seems as if the "you" they've made is a complete fiction--the only cure is to step away, I think.
Sometimes, I am very, very lonely.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Something different happened.
How to describe it?
When thoughts arise, according to Pema Chodron's advice, I look at them for a second, label them "thinking" and go back to my breathing. Lovely.
You miss so much beauty when you are hallucinating on your own dramas.
So, today, I'm sitting in the peace room--which Nick has taken over as his pad this summer. So now there is a Wii and a television set, as well as his 600 page sci fi novel that he's been working on since 2nd grade. At the last minute, right before we were due to fly off to his dad's, our state supreme court called Nick to interview for an internship he had applied for in February. Talk about timing. He got it. So he's with me all summer. He cut his hair and trundles off to the capitol every day. He's doing a lot of xeroxing and making minimum wage. It's his first job. "Mom," he says, "Do you realize that by the end of the summer I will have earned one THOUSAND dollars?"
I didn't have the heart to tell him about social security.
Anyways, the basement has sort of evolved into his pad. We're leading this sort of parallel existence. No living with Jay, as I usually do. I miss that, but the time with my son's pretty precious. And he'll be off in adulthood soon enough. Sniff.
So today, I'm sitting, and breathing, and all the sudden it felt like the top of my head had come off. You know those images showing a big light coming out of someone's skull? That's what it felt like. I felt suddenly that nothing I understood about the self was accurate. I felt that my skull was a cave of horrors, ego demons, and that all the sudden the rock rolled away and I was free. I felt this stab of sorrow, that we're all so locked in, and that it isn't really true--that we're all just part of something immensely bigger. I felt the world all around, above behind below front--then I thought--Wow--this is fantastic--and started getting caught up thinking about my romantic dramas.
Whenever I have a transcendental experience like that in sitting, my ego seems to reassert itself in really crappy ways that day--it's like it wages a war--"remember me? remember me?" and the biggest weapon it uses against me is my sense of self-righteousness. The "it's not fair!" response--"I'm not getting my due" I happen to be particularly vulnerable to this trap because of the domestic abuse I suffered through in my twenties. I swore I would never let that happen again--so I'm hyper vigilant. But it still happens. I'm terrified of getting screwed--and as a result I get screwed all the time.
So the minute I got off the cushion, I get this urge to check Jay's email. But that makes my day about Jay, and his lying is his business--it's his cave of horrors, not mine. He's not being straightforward about something--I can feel it. I don't think it's anything horrendous--but it's probably something I wouldn't agree with or like. Some bit of guilt. If I do anything, it will somehow be blamed on me--so I'm just letting him stew in his own juices. My duty is to be as happy as I can. I'm sure I'll find out everything I need to know. Checking up on him is demeaning, I've decided. He told me he was going to his parents Sunday night, but as I was riding home on my bicycle on the empty Sunday summer streets from work, he passed me in his car. Then, yesterday morning, he called.
"How are your folks?" I asked, knowing full well he hadn't gone.
"I didn't go...I just didn't feel well. I didn't call you because I knew you'd feel torn about leaving Nick by himself and coming out...so I didn't want to put you in that position."
What a load of crap. Oh well. Not my problem. I imagine with that big weeping sore on his penis he didn't get much action. He'll figure it out.
When someone is having a relationship with you--only it seems as if the "you" they've made is a complete fiction--the only cure is to step away, I think.
Sometimes, I am very, very lonely.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Monday, June 30, 2008
It is an Infected Tick Bite
It's not herpes.
$495 worth of wound cultures and blood tests later, guess what....nope not it. It's not a social disease.
So....WHAT IS IT?
23 ticks. I pulled 23 ticks off of him a few months ago. He thinks this is no big deal. He lets the cats sleep with him. This is the problem with having a Jeremiah Johnson complex, eventually you contract rickettsiae.
But, I feel really relieved...sort of. Except, being a trauma nurse, my mind is teeming with all the things it could possibly be...and the consequences. Strep A, necrotizing fascitiis, fournier's gangrene. He's all happy. I'm like..."START AN IV" visions of debrided scrotums and penile shafts dancing through my mind.
I had a patient with fournier's gangrene. It was terrible. I had to give him ketamine for dressing changes. He almost died. His wife gave up on him and stopped visiting and redecorated the house. The gangrene spread from his genitals throughout his abdomen. We changed dressings on him every 4 hours. Throughout, I would talk to him--try to paint a picture of how good life was going to be. I try to do that with my unconscious patients--I try to talk about the world outside. I think a big thing that keeps you going through something horrible is hope, and the ability to visualize a better time. But I think in the ICU, with its endless fluorescent twilight and institutional scheduled pain, patients lose track of that--they forget about the living breathing growing fishing wal-mart shopping car horn honking steaming asphalt world out there--so during the dressing changes, I would talk about the pond, and a cooler of beer, and pastrami sandwiches. I feel insane when I do it, but I wonder if it helps. Maybe I was talking myself through the dressing changes.
I just hope it's over soon. We're doing a lot of cuddling, which is good. We're exploing a different side of our relationship--one that involves lots of wine and board games. We actually played a game of Risk. That's how bad things are. Actually, we didn't really finish the game. Tell me something, has anyone, ever, finished a game of Risk? Does that really happen? Does the game ever end?
It was Baggins' last day yesterday. I'm going to miss the oversexed little hobbit. We had a big carry-in for him and chipped in on an espresso pot (the whole unit has recently become addicted to cafe con leche's)
He told me that as he walked out of the hospital, he was thinking about mooning everyone.
"But then we'll see your tattoo." I said, just talking. I don't know anything about him, really.
"How did you know I had a tattoo?" he asked.
Score! "Please," I said, "I know lots of things you would never expect me to know." Then, a wild shot in the dark, I said, "I know all about the other one, too."
"How on earth do you know about that one?" he asked. "Who told you?"
Oh, god, now I was going to get someone in trouble. He had followed me into the room of my patient.
"Did Allison tell you?"
"Please, I didn't even know you were dating Allison. "
"Who?"
He was serious.
"Listen, Baggins, I was just playing you. I don't know anything about either tattoo. What they are...anything. just a lucky guess."
"Oh." He was silent a moment. Then: "It's a lightning bolt."
"What?"
"It's a lightning bolt."
It took me a second. "You have a lightning bolt tattooed on your ass?"
"I have a lightning bolt tattooed on my..."
"Oh my God! You do not."
"I do."
"Holy crap, Baggins. Didn't that hurt?"
"Like a mother."
"What on earth possessed you? And how did they do it? I mean, did you go into a tattoo parlor--what was that exchange like" my mind was just reeling. I mean, can you imagine?
"I was dating a tattoo artist."
I started laughing. "Talk about having you by the short hairs."
"Shut up."
"Hell no, you're the one with a lightning bolt tattooed on your hingus. Holy moley."
"Well now you know."
"Now I know."
We stood there looking at each other. What is there to say after that sort of revelation? I love you? Fortunately, someone across the way through a PE and Baggins had to run.
My patient, an elderly woman, woke up, motioned me over. Wrote something on her board.
"You should have asked him to show it to you."
Ahhhh....always remember. Just because your patient is intubated, doesn't mean they aren't deaf dumb and blind.
That's my 1/2 hour. Remember please, this is all fiction.
$495 worth of wound cultures and blood tests later, guess what....nope not it. It's not a social disease.
So....WHAT IS IT?
23 ticks. I pulled 23 ticks off of him a few months ago. He thinks this is no big deal. He lets the cats sleep with him. This is the problem with having a Jeremiah Johnson complex, eventually you contract rickettsiae.
But, I feel really relieved...sort of. Except, being a trauma nurse, my mind is teeming with all the things it could possibly be...and the consequences. Strep A, necrotizing fascitiis, fournier's gangrene. He's all happy. I'm like..."START AN IV" visions of debrided scrotums and penile shafts dancing through my mind.
I had a patient with fournier's gangrene. It was terrible. I had to give him ketamine for dressing changes. He almost died. His wife gave up on him and stopped visiting and redecorated the house. The gangrene spread from his genitals throughout his abdomen. We changed dressings on him every 4 hours. Throughout, I would talk to him--try to paint a picture of how good life was going to be. I try to do that with my unconscious patients--I try to talk about the world outside. I think a big thing that keeps you going through something horrible is hope, and the ability to visualize a better time. But I think in the ICU, with its endless fluorescent twilight and institutional scheduled pain, patients lose track of that--they forget about the living breathing growing fishing wal-mart shopping car horn honking steaming asphalt world out there--so during the dressing changes, I would talk about the pond, and a cooler of beer, and pastrami sandwiches. I feel insane when I do it, but I wonder if it helps. Maybe I was talking myself through the dressing changes.
I just hope it's over soon. We're doing a lot of cuddling, which is good. We're exploing a different side of our relationship--one that involves lots of wine and board games. We actually played a game of Risk. That's how bad things are. Actually, we didn't really finish the game. Tell me something, has anyone, ever, finished a game of Risk? Does that really happen? Does the game ever end?
It was Baggins' last day yesterday. I'm going to miss the oversexed little hobbit. We had a big carry-in for him and chipped in on an espresso pot (the whole unit has recently become addicted to cafe con leche's)
He told me that as he walked out of the hospital, he was thinking about mooning everyone.
"But then we'll see your tattoo." I said, just talking. I don't know anything about him, really.
"How did you know I had a tattoo?" he asked.
Score! "Please," I said, "I know lots of things you would never expect me to know." Then, a wild shot in the dark, I said, "I know all about the other one, too."
"How on earth do you know about that one?" he asked. "Who told you?"
Oh, god, now I was going to get someone in trouble. He had followed me into the room of my patient.
"Did Allison tell you?"
"Please, I didn't even know you were dating Allison. "
"Who?"
He was serious.
"Listen, Baggins, I was just playing you. I don't know anything about either tattoo. What they are...anything. just a lucky guess."
"Oh." He was silent a moment. Then: "It's a lightning bolt."
"What?"
"It's a lightning bolt."
It took me a second. "You have a lightning bolt tattooed on your ass?"
"I have a lightning bolt tattooed on my..."
"Oh my God! You do not."
"I do."
"Holy crap, Baggins. Didn't that hurt?"
"Like a mother."
"What on earth possessed you? And how did they do it? I mean, did you go into a tattoo parlor--what was that exchange like" my mind was just reeling. I mean, can you imagine?
"I was dating a tattoo artist."
I started laughing. "Talk about having you by the short hairs."
"Shut up."
"Hell no, you're the one with a lightning bolt tattooed on your hingus. Holy moley."
"Well now you know."
"Now I know."
We stood there looking at each other. What is there to say after that sort of revelation? I love you? Fortunately, someone across the way through a PE and Baggins had to run.
My patient, an elderly woman, woke up, motioned me over. Wrote something on her board.
"You should have asked him to show it to you."
Ahhhh....always remember. Just because your patient is intubated, doesn't mean they aren't deaf dumb and blind.
That's my 1/2 hour. Remember please, this is all fiction.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Hiscarrots
Back in Little Dixie.
Ho-ome. Ho-ome.
Jay calls.
"We need to talk."
Blecch. I hate it when conversations start like that.
"Okay, what's up?"
"Face to face."
"Oh, fuck that. Don't go all drama rama. Just tell me."
Long pause. Exasperated sigh.
"I have something unpleasant on my...thing...."
"Tick bite?"
"I wish."
Oh, heck. Didn't mean to pass that on.
So I went over with sunflowers, Valtrex, chicken soup and lidocaine gel.
"Do you think I'll need this?" Jay asks, looking at the gel. "It doesn't really hurt."
"Don't worry, it will. The first Herpes outbreak is usually pretty painful." I tell him
"You can't use that word." He's serious.
"What else should we call it?"
"That word is gross."
"Okay--how about...spotted dick."
"Stop."
"My lifelong friend, oozing genital sores, his-carrots?"
"I vote for either oozing genital sores or his carrots."
"I like spotted dick."
"Do not make jokes about my affliction, you evil pestilential woman. You're like something from Revelations"
"Please, you've been exposed before. You're from the sixties. Let me see it."
"No. Do you know I've even started wearing underwear?"
"Something you should have been doing long before this. What if you're in an accident? Let me see it."
Okay, I don't mean to make light of this, but on his thingy tip was a little red dot.
I just started laughing. "That's it?"
"That's a big deal!"
"You're right. I'm sorry."
"This is horrible!" He looked offended. "I have a sore on my penis!"
"Okay, you're right. I know."
He zips up. "Just for that attitude, you don't get to see it anymore. Ever."
But I think I made him feel better.
Later in bed he says, holding me close, (definitely a cuddle night) "It's okay. Getting to make love to you is worth any number of weeping genital sores."
Okay, this is why I love him, in spite of all the baloney.
But now it's time for my soapbox.
Herpes is forever. I've been lucky so far. I had one outbreak in 2003 and haven't had one since, but boy, was that one a doozy! You don't want one, ever. If you have had a herpes outbreak, even once, you STILL HAVE THE VIRUS. And you can transmit it at any time. When Jay caught it, I was taking valtrex and hadn't had an outbreak in 5 years. It's never over. Don't fool yourself. Be honest with your lover, and your potential lover. Bring it up frequently. Paint the nastiest, most truthful picture you can to them, don't try to gloss it over. Be sure to use words like "CRUSTING" and "PAINFUL" If they still want to make love to you after hearing the phrase "CRUSTING GENITAL LESIONS" baby, you got a keeper. We talked about this frequently and openly and I made sure he had all he facts and understood the risk. Valtrex will help reduce the risk of transmission, but it can't prevent it entirely. We made the decision after about a year to go without condoms (Jay has a vasectomy). Jay's in his mid-fifties and I'm in my forties--so it's a different stage of life, you know? It just isn't big deal it would be if I were like, 22. But it still SUCKS. Even if you do have it and your lover has it, you're not home free. Did you know you can get reinfected...with a different strain? Woohoo! Even as up front as I was about it, I don't think Jay really understood what it entails. I shouldn't have given in on the condom thing. I could have spared him this. If I could have done anything differently, I would have insisted on that. He says I'm off the hook on that one, since he so avidly pressed his case, but I'm not. I knew. Arrgh. Well, it least it wasn't the big surprise for him that it was for me. I think we'll get through it.
That's my 1/2 hour
Ho-ome. Ho-ome.
Jay calls.
"We need to talk."
Blecch. I hate it when conversations start like that.
"Okay, what's up?"
"Face to face."
"Oh, fuck that. Don't go all drama rama. Just tell me."
Long pause. Exasperated sigh.
"I have something unpleasant on my...thing...."
"Tick bite?"
"I wish."
Oh, heck. Didn't mean to pass that on.
So I went over with sunflowers, Valtrex, chicken soup and lidocaine gel.
"Do you think I'll need this?" Jay asks, looking at the gel. "It doesn't really hurt."
"Don't worry, it will. The first Herpes outbreak is usually pretty painful." I tell him
"You can't use that word." He's serious.
"What else should we call it?"
"That word is gross."
"Okay--how about...spotted dick."
"Stop."
"My lifelong friend, oozing genital sores, his-carrots?"
"I vote for either oozing genital sores or his carrots."
"I like spotted dick."
"Do not make jokes about my affliction, you evil pestilential woman. You're like something from Revelations"
"Please, you've been exposed before. You're from the sixties. Let me see it."
"No. Do you know I've even started wearing underwear?"
"Something you should have been doing long before this. What if you're in an accident? Let me see it."
Okay, I don't mean to make light of this, but on his thingy tip was a little red dot.
I just started laughing. "That's it?"
"That's a big deal!"
"You're right. I'm sorry."
"This is horrible!" He looked offended. "I have a sore on my penis!"
"Okay, you're right. I know."
He zips up. "Just for that attitude, you don't get to see it anymore. Ever."
But I think I made him feel better.
Later in bed he says, holding me close, (definitely a cuddle night) "It's okay. Getting to make love to you is worth any number of weeping genital sores."
Okay, this is why I love him, in spite of all the baloney.
But now it's time for my soapbox.
Herpes is forever. I've been lucky so far. I had one outbreak in 2003 and haven't had one since, but boy, was that one a doozy! You don't want one, ever. If you have had a herpes outbreak, even once, you STILL HAVE THE VIRUS. And you can transmit it at any time. When Jay caught it, I was taking valtrex and hadn't had an outbreak in 5 years. It's never over. Don't fool yourself. Be honest with your lover, and your potential lover. Bring it up frequently. Paint the nastiest, most truthful picture you can to them, don't try to gloss it over. Be sure to use words like "CRUSTING" and "PAINFUL" If they still want to make love to you after hearing the phrase "CRUSTING GENITAL LESIONS" baby, you got a keeper. We talked about this frequently and openly and I made sure he had all he facts and understood the risk. Valtrex will help reduce the risk of transmission, but it can't prevent it entirely. We made the decision after about a year to go without condoms (Jay has a vasectomy). Jay's in his mid-fifties and I'm in my forties--so it's a different stage of life, you know? It just isn't big deal it would be if I were like, 22. But it still SUCKS. Even if you do have it and your lover has it, you're not home free. Did you know you can get reinfected...with a different strain? Woohoo! Even as up front as I was about it, I don't think Jay really understood what it entails. I shouldn't have given in on the condom thing. I could have spared him this. If I could have done anything differently, I would have insisted on that. He says I'm off the hook on that one, since he so avidly pressed his case, but I'm not. I knew. Arrgh. Well, it least it wasn't the big surprise for him that it was for me. I think we'll get through it.
That's my 1/2 hour
Racehorses
Profoundest apologies to the spider whose web I just walked through this morning. I think the midge I inadvertently released is very grateful, though.
I sleep so well here. I just fall.
We're in Ohio, I think I mentioned. 9 days with my family. My folks have a house on Lake Erie. It's not the house I want to have here, but it's the one I've got. I want one of those old victorian houses on Kelley's Island--hang on, the espresso's done. Got to boil the milk. There, it's done, and I'm sitting on the bench on the promontory in the bright sunlight. It's 0730, very bright for this time of day. Here comes my heron.
I can see my reflection in the computer screen as I'm typing--I never look at myself from this angle. Good thing, too, I've got a nice double chin starting to develop. Aack! How did that happen? Maybe it's always been there? I can kind of hold it up with one hand, but then I can't type. I think I've gained weight. My nasolabial folds seem nonexistent. God--Ohio. The Polish Riviera. Where I'm fed like a pig for the slaughter.
Arthur came to visit. I slept with him maybe 3 or 4 times about 21 years ago. He's married and he's been visiting us here for years. I didn't tell Jay he was coming--part of my revenge for the plum poetry.
We used to fool around more when he came up, but then I got this new shrink and decided that whole situation was too confusing and put the kaibosh on it. I sometimes wonder if I''ve made a big mistake not having a big affair with Arthur--you know, maybe I'm just a prude missing my big romantic chance and my bourgeois morals keep me from enjoying the passion of life, blah blah blah. But the problem is that I have this weird sense of exploitation that I just can't get past. I've had one affair with someone married and wanted to basically kill myself before, during, and after it--big depression--wandering around with no bra in my pajamas at the grocery store stocking up on frozen healthy choice dinners for the kids because I knew I wouldn't be able to cook, fired from two jobs, alienating all my friends because the only thing I could drone on about was him, him, him 2am, 6 months after the breakup "leslie--I saw his car in the parking lot at the super walmart. OH GOD! The PAIN!" so I think...lesson learned. And I'm very frank. I tell him this. My shrink warned me that our friendship probably wouldn't survive the shift in dynamics, but so far it has. I like Arthur. I guess I probably love Arthur but his visits are a mixed bag. Not during, but afterwards. Okay, during, too.
For one, Arthur just likes to spend time with me, as me. Which is very affirming. Because Jay doesn't like to just hang out with me. I have almost no one in my life who just wants to be around me for the sake of being around me. So, it's really good, and god knows, you need a shot of that every once in awhile, but I kind of wish that particularly flavor was more of a constant in my daily life salad.
For two, Arthur's friendship is a rejection in a way--"I love you , but not enough to marry and not enough build a life around." I know that's probably not the whole thing, but there is that element, and it hurts. He makes me feel like a spinster.
So--ambiguity, Freud said the hallmark of adulthood (and I'm really paraphrasing here) is the ability to accept ambiguity.
I could make a connection with all this to non duality and the present
Went with my crazy family to Cedar point last night. My mother wanted to ride the race horses (they have a carousel there with painted race horses that move back and forth, "racing" each other) They wouldn't let us on with our purses (what, honestly, can possibly happen on those slow little horses with a purse? Do they think we're carrying grenades?) They're her favorite ride. She's been riding them since she was a little girl. I remember going on them with my grandmother. I held the purses and watched my parents and my children go round and round, racing each other. I thought about my mom as a little girl, I thought about all my civil servant immigrant polish/irish relatives, coming here for fun since 1930, I thought about them all being young, and dancing at the palladium, flirting on the horses, bringing their children later. It seemed like everyone was riding with us, the past selves, the children we were, the children who are coming. It seemed so crowded and lit and joyous, exciting, the round house and the carnival lights, still running, cool sunset wind blowing in off the lake, still racing, knowing it wasn't real, getting off--the same old joke between us--did you win?
That's my 1/2 hour
I sleep so well here. I just fall.
We're in Ohio, I think I mentioned. 9 days with my family. My folks have a house on Lake Erie. It's not the house I want to have here, but it's the one I've got. I want one of those old victorian houses on Kelley's Island--hang on, the espresso's done. Got to boil the milk. There, it's done, and I'm sitting on the bench on the promontory in the bright sunlight. It's 0730, very bright for this time of day. Here comes my heron.
I can see my reflection in the computer screen as I'm typing--I never look at myself from this angle. Good thing, too, I've got a nice double chin starting to develop. Aack! How did that happen? Maybe it's always been there? I can kind of hold it up with one hand, but then I can't type. I think I've gained weight. My nasolabial folds seem nonexistent. God--Ohio. The Polish Riviera. Where I'm fed like a pig for the slaughter.
Arthur came to visit. I slept with him maybe 3 or 4 times about 21 years ago. He's married and he's been visiting us here for years. I didn't tell Jay he was coming--part of my revenge for the plum poetry.
We used to fool around more when he came up, but then I got this new shrink and decided that whole situation was too confusing and put the kaibosh on it. I sometimes wonder if I''ve made a big mistake not having a big affair with Arthur--you know, maybe I'm just a prude missing my big romantic chance and my bourgeois morals keep me from enjoying the passion of life, blah blah blah. But the problem is that I have this weird sense of exploitation that I just can't get past. I've had one affair with someone married and wanted to basically kill myself before, during, and after it--big depression--wandering around with no bra in my pajamas at the grocery store stocking up on frozen healthy choice dinners for the kids because I knew I wouldn't be able to cook, fired from two jobs, alienating all my friends because the only thing I could drone on about was him, him, him 2am, 6 months after the breakup "leslie--I saw his car in the parking lot at the super walmart. OH GOD! The PAIN!" so I think...lesson learned. And I'm very frank. I tell him this. My shrink warned me that our friendship probably wouldn't survive the shift in dynamics, but so far it has. I like Arthur. I guess I probably love Arthur but his visits are a mixed bag. Not during, but afterwards. Okay, during, too.
For one, Arthur just likes to spend time with me, as me. Which is very affirming. Because Jay doesn't like to just hang out with me. I have almost no one in my life who just wants to be around me for the sake of being around me. So, it's really good, and god knows, you need a shot of that every once in awhile, but I kind of wish that particularly flavor was more of a constant in my daily life salad.
For two, Arthur's friendship is a rejection in a way--"I love you , but not enough to marry and not enough build a life around." I know that's probably not the whole thing, but there is that element, and it hurts. He makes me feel like a spinster.
So--ambiguity, Freud said the hallmark of adulthood (and I'm really paraphrasing here) is the ability to accept ambiguity.
I could make a connection with all this to non duality and the present
Went with my crazy family to Cedar point last night. My mother wanted to ride the race horses (they have a carousel there with painted race horses that move back and forth, "racing" each other) They wouldn't let us on with our purses (what, honestly, can possibly happen on those slow little horses with a purse? Do they think we're carrying grenades?) They're her favorite ride. She's been riding them since she was a little girl. I remember going on them with my grandmother. I held the purses and watched my parents and my children go round and round, racing each other. I thought about my mom as a little girl, I thought about all my civil servant immigrant polish/irish relatives, coming here for fun since 1930, I thought about them all being young, and dancing at the palladium, flirting on the horses, bringing their children later. It seemed like everyone was riding with us, the past selves, the children we were, the children who are coming. It seemed so crowded and lit and joyous, exciting, the round house and the carnival lights, still running, cool sunset wind blowing in off the lake, still racing, knowing it wasn't real, getting off--the same old joke between us--did you win?
That's my 1/2 hour
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Redemption Song
6th day in Ohio. It's raining today. We had tornados last night. There's a little wooden bench out by itself on the end of the promontory by the docks--no shade, but it's nice to sit on in the evenings and watch the swallows chase the bugs. There's a heron that has a nest on the rocks. He's always been there--ever since I can remember. I guess he couldn't possibly be the same heron...but maybe. I don't know anything about herons--how long they live. Jay would know. He knows all sorts of things about animals. I miss Jay.
One day, when I first started sitting, I was up here. I was in college. 17. And I had just heard of Bob Marley and learned the words to Redemption Song. I decided to meditate on the promontory. My grandmother owned the lake house then--she was still alive--and she kept very tight control over things--so I snuck a pillow and a towel outside early in the morning before she woke up. New to sitting, my thoughts wandered easily (they still wander easily), and I started thinking about the song.
"Emancipate yourself from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our mind....all I ever had, redemption song.."and I started thinking about redemption and how redemption was salvation found after forgiveness--it gave you back to life, to the present, I started thinking and following my thoughts all the way through. But it seemed that redemption and returning, to the breath to life were the only essential things. The thought hit me like a gasp, and my eyes opened fully and at that moment, the heron spread its wings and took flight across the water in the grey dawn, and it seemed that all the world was in its wings right then and that there was nothing more to know. Who was the heron? Who was I?
And last night, there was the heron again.
Over the years, I have formulated my own set of internal tarot cards--a deeply personal major arcana--a code the world sends me to let me know what's really going on. Messengers. Owls tell me someone's lying to me. Turkey buzzards confer their blessings (everyone misunderstands turkey buzzards). And herons always tell me the one I love is true.
He knew I was coming as I walked up. But he doesn't bother flying off anymore at my approach. He knows me well and will stay perched as long I don't do anything different. So I sat there and watched the swallows diving. The heron stayed perfectly still and so did I. The wind started picking up and the waves became grey and high with white caps. I suddenly noticed the yellow, leaden color of the sky and that the tops of the trees were whipping back and forth like feather dusters--and, more ominously--the swallows had disappeared. The heron still stood there, though, neck extended--one eye on me--I heard something break free--something metal, from the sound of it--and go clattering across the docks. I decided it was time to go inside, but I somehow wanted to make it okay with the heron, wanted a sign from him it was okay to leave. But you know, he's a bird, and he probably doesn't understand the weight of mystical responsibility he bears in terms of my own personal mythology, and he just wasn't complying. He seemed in fact to be more interested in looking for easy fishing due to wind and approaching storm etc.
Even the zen birds are opportunists.
I decided to save my own skin and go back to the house. Where every one of my fat polish cousins had called and left us voice messages warning us about the tornados in our area.
That's my 1/2 hour. Well more than that, because my father kept coming onto the porch and interrupting with vacation ideas for me. Christ, you can't finish a thought in this family. I know, I know. I sound like an ass, but if you'd grown up with these people, you'd know. They want to own every piece of you. Ah, if only everything and everyone would comply! The universal psychosis...
Later.
One day, when I first started sitting, I was up here. I was in college. 17. And I had just heard of Bob Marley and learned the words to Redemption Song. I decided to meditate on the promontory. My grandmother owned the lake house then--she was still alive--and she kept very tight control over things--so I snuck a pillow and a towel outside early in the morning before she woke up. New to sitting, my thoughts wandered easily (they still wander easily), and I started thinking about the song.
"Emancipate yourself from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our mind....all I ever had, redemption song.."and I started thinking about redemption and how redemption was salvation found after forgiveness--it gave you back to life, to the present, I started thinking and following my thoughts all the way through. But it seemed that redemption and returning, to the breath to life were the only essential things. The thought hit me like a gasp, and my eyes opened fully and at that moment, the heron spread its wings and took flight across the water in the grey dawn, and it seemed that all the world was in its wings right then and that there was nothing more to know. Who was the heron? Who was I?
And last night, there was the heron again.
Over the years, I have formulated my own set of internal tarot cards--a deeply personal major arcana--a code the world sends me to let me know what's really going on. Messengers. Owls tell me someone's lying to me. Turkey buzzards confer their blessings (everyone misunderstands turkey buzzards). And herons always tell me the one I love is true.
He knew I was coming as I walked up. But he doesn't bother flying off anymore at my approach. He knows me well and will stay perched as long I don't do anything different. So I sat there and watched the swallows diving. The heron stayed perfectly still and so did I. The wind started picking up and the waves became grey and high with white caps. I suddenly noticed the yellow, leaden color of the sky and that the tops of the trees were whipping back and forth like feather dusters--and, more ominously--the swallows had disappeared. The heron still stood there, though, neck extended--one eye on me--I heard something break free--something metal, from the sound of it--and go clattering across the docks. I decided it was time to go inside, but I somehow wanted to make it okay with the heron, wanted a sign from him it was okay to leave. But you know, he's a bird, and he probably doesn't understand the weight of mystical responsibility he bears in terms of my own personal mythology, and he just wasn't complying. He seemed in fact to be more interested in looking for easy fishing due to wind and approaching storm etc.
Even the zen birds are opportunists.
I decided to save my own skin and go back to the house. Where every one of my fat polish cousins had called and left us voice messages warning us about the tornados in our area.
That's my 1/2 hour. Well more than that, because my father kept coming onto the porch and interrupting with vacation ideas for me. Christ, you can't finish a thought in this family. I know, I know. I sound like an ass, but if you'd grown up with these people, you'd know. They want to own every piece of you. Ah, if only everything and everyone would comply! The universal psychosis...
Later.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Pillow Talk
Things eased up at work. It's amazing how things change when you guess right. Grudgingly, the night supervisor, in morning report, Liz, reads my patient's summary and then adds..."and she's surprising us all by getting better..." significant look in my direction. Then, Barbara, later in the day coming into my room, grunts, "color's better. Maybe there's hope after all."
I look into my patient's eyes, boy is she ever there. I want to say, "please keep healing."
So 5 days all in all. I was bananas the night after. I felt that my personality had been scourged, gouged out with a burnt stick. Hypersensitive. Went over to Jay's that night, parked the car in the barn and trudged over the soggy path in the rain to the door. Felt like Wee Willy Winky. Jay was lying and probably lie-ing haha on the couch, reading. I knocked.
"Come in."
No. After 5 14 hour days changing dressings on a patient every hour, I request all lovers to get off the couch, come to the door and take me into their arms upon arrival.
Then, in bed at midnight, Jay cuddles next to me naked and says, "is it all right if we just cuddle and listen to the rain tonight?"
So--5 days of no food and cafe con leche and being locked one on one with my poor patient, and facing 11 days without him--and he's bought new sheets and fixed up the boathouse. And now he doesn't want to make love.
I'm not too rational at this point. Who are the sheets for? I think. The other Halie? The one he sent the poetry book to? Is he saving his sperm for her? Will they eat plums and roll around on the new 300 count cotton sheets in the boathouse and read post-coital poetry to each other while I'm gone? While I'm in Ohio, schlepping along with my elderly parents and sullen teenagers to fudge shops--oh excuse me, shoppes and japanese steakhouses? Then I think--this is terrible. I can't say anything to him about this, because if he is planning to cheat on me, I'll lose the advantage of being virtuous and wronged when we do break up (always worth points and desperate pleas for reconcilation on the part of the betrayer--so satisfying). I'll come off being paranoid and strident and then he'll feel justified in cheating on me. If he isn't attracted to me for some reason--if I've said the wrong thing or maybe just somehow conveyed the fat clammy despair I'm feeling in general to him--discussing it will just make it worse. Attraction is never increased by discussion. Talk is the enemy to all sexual attraction. But if we don't make love, then that means we will go almost 2 weeks without making love and that will be awful--that means he's trying to erase me from his memory to give himself permission to cheat...and so on and so on...
and so what? so what if the lying fuckhead dumps me and rejects me sexually? Big fucking deal.
"Are you okay?" he asks, in the dark.
"yeah," I say, deciding to go with honesty, "only I guess I wish you hadn't made this big deal about getting naked, because now I feel sort of rejected."
"I'm just really tired. Aren't you tired?"
Yes, actually, I'm exhausted. On almost every level. It's midnight, and I've been up since 4 am. In fact, I was going to suggest cuddling, but hadn't because of leaving town, etc. I'm just mad that he did it first.
"I'm tired. But is everything okay? I mean--not getting up to let me in, new sheets we haven't used, the boathouse all fixed up--but us not sleeping in it--is anything up?"
As we say in nursing narratives: "reassurances given."
But who knows? Trust is hard to reestablish.
Well, three years. Not too many messy conversations in the dark, so one every once in awhile is probably survivable. We kept talking, then we made love.
That's my 1/2 hour
I look into my patient's eyes, boy is she ever there. I want to say, "please keep healing."
So 5 days all in all. I was bananas the night after. I felt that my personality had been scourged, gouged out with a burnt stick. Hypersensitive. Went over to Jay's that night, parked the car in the barn and trudged over the soggy path in the rain to the door. Felt like Wee Willy Winky. Jay was lying and probably lie-ing haha on the couch, reading. I knocked.
"Come in."
No. After 5 14 hour days changing dressings on a patient every hour, I request all lovers to get off the couch, come to the door and take me into their arms upon arrival.
Then, in bed at midnight, Jay cuddles next to me naked and says, "is it all right if we just cuddle and listen to the rain tonight?"
So--5 days of no food and cafe con leche and being locked one on one with my poor patient, and facing 11 days without him--and he's bought new sheets and fixed up the boathouse. And now he doesn't want to make love.
I'm not too rational at this point. Who are the sheets for? I think. The other Halie? The one he sent the poetry book to? Is he saving his sperm for her? Will they eat plums and roll around on the new 300 count cotton sheets in the boathouse and read post-coital poetry to each other while I'm gone? While I'm in Ohio, schlepping along with my elderly parents and sullen teenagers to fudge shops--oh excuse me, shoppes and japanese steakhouses? Then I think--this is terrible. I can't say anything to him about this, because if he is planning to cheat on me, I'll lose the advantage of being virtuous and wronged when we do break up (always worth points and desperate pleas for reconcilation on the part of the betrayer--so satisfying). I'll come off being paranoid and strident and then he'll feel justified in cheating on me. If he isn't attracted to me for some reason--if I've said the wrong thing or maybe just somehow conveyed the fat clammy despair I'm feeling in general to him--discussing it will just make it worse. Attraction is never increased by discussion. Talk is the enemy to all sexual attraction. But if we don't make love, then that means we will go almost 2 weeks without making love and that will be awful--that means he's trying to erase me from his memory to give himself permission to cheat...and so on and so on...
and so what? so what if the lying fuckhead dumps me and rejects me sexually? Big fucking deal.
"Are you okay?" he asks, in the dark.
"yeah," I say, deciding to go with honesty, "only I guess I wish you hadn't made this big deal about getting naked, because now I feel sort of rejected."
"I'm just really tired. Aren't you tired?"
Yes, actually, I'm exhausted. On almost every level. It's midnight, and I've been up since 4 am. In fact, I was going to suggest cuddling, but hadn't because of leaving town, etc. I'm just mad that he did it first.
"I'm tired. But is everything okay? I mean--not getting up to let me in, new sheets we haven't used, the boathouse all fixed up--but us not sleeping in it--is anything up?"
As we say in nursing narratives: "reassurances given."
But who knows? Trust is hard to reestablish.
Well, three years. Not too many messy conversations in the dark, so one every once in awhile is probably survivable. We kept talking, then we made love.
That's my 1/2 hour
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