Sunday, June 30, 2013
Friday, June 28, 2013
Why Do You Still Need Feminism?
We sat at the counter and ate and drank. "Did you make the spaghetti sauce?" she said.
"Yeah. A secret recipe I got off the back of the tomato paste can."
"And the salad dressing? Is there honey in it?"
"Yep. Got that from my mother."
She shook her head. "Fighter, lover, gourmet cook? Amazing."
"Nope. I'll take the fighter, lover, but the gourmet cook is a sexist remark."
"Why?"
"If you'd cooked this no one would say you were a gourmet cook. It's because I'm a man. A man who cooks and is interested in it is called a gourmet. A woman is called a housewife. Now eat the goddamned spaghetti." I said.
She did. Me too.
Promised Land - By Robert B. Parker (1976)
There is something you are taught in therapy, I have been told. I myself have never had more than a brief fling with therapy (it becoming obvious quite quickly that it actually wasn’t me that had the problem the one time I went in for real) but I have been told and I have read a lot. You’re not supposed to make “You Statements” when you talk about something bothering you, but rather “I Statements”. It’s not supposed to be “You do this to annoy me!” but instead go for “I am annoyed by this.” which brings charges that therapy makes people selfish, because they talk more about themselves than other people. I’m often thrown by this, because the complaint often becomes “She just talks about herself and doesn’t want to gossip anymore.” or “They won’t just sit and listen to me anymore!” and I check out of the conversation from there. As a result, I’m going to try to use a lot of I Statements here, because I want to talk about how a thing effects me as well as others.
I’ve listened to a lot of Men’s Rights stuff over the last few years, and almost agreed with some of it. The problem is that they often loose me the more they talk, see if you can see where I’m going with this little playlet.
MRA – Men aren’t allowed to be what they want in this society!
Me – Okay, you’ve almost got something of a point there. (Let’s see what you do with it)
MRA – We’re as trapped as women by the expectations of modern life.
Me – Here! Here! (Why can’t a man wear a dress?)
MRA – Which is why feminism needs to go away!
Me – I’m sorry?
MRA – Women need to get back into the kitchen and remember their place!
Me – Wha-Huh?
MRA – And then men can be MEN again!
Me – What in the seven levels of hell are you talking about?
MRA – Bitches won’t date me! I’m Unwillingly Celibate!
Me – Um....
MRA – I mean, I open doors and everything.
Me – Okay, you need to shut up now or I will beat you to death with this small decorative elephant that a relative gave me as a memento of their trip to Mexico. Why a brass elephant from Mexico, I’ve always wondered, but I will kill you with it.
MRA – You’re just saying that because *URK*!
Me – *thump* Muthafucka! *thump* I did say. *thumpthumpthump*
NOW! Why was I even listening to this person at the start? It has to do with the quote I started with. A person starting with that phrase can go one of two ways, you can either go towards some idea of gender equality, or towards the idea that you should be handed “hot bitches” free with every oil change. I am not going to go into the whole argument here, but if you shower and if you open doors because you’re polite (instead of making a speech about chivalry and how now people OWE YOU for being a decent person) then things will actually go easier for you. It’s not that women love jerks, if they did, they’d go for some of you self-professed Nice Guys.
That’s not even what I called you all here to discuss!
I cook, I have always cooked, ever since I was a child I have cooked. When I have cooked, there have always been people who have treated this like it’s some kind of magic. As if I stood back away from the stove, rolled up my sleeves and yelled “Ala-ca-muthafuckin-ZAM!” and with a brilliant yellow flash (which would mean there was sodium in the mixture) there was suddenly food. Even people who themselves knew how to cook treated this mystical skill of mine like something I learned at the foot of Wong Fei Hung. Because I was a male, cooking, it was regarded as an odd and noteworthy event.
I was quite old before I realized that I actually could cook quite well, enviably well in fact. That it wasn’t just people reacting to the notion of a male-child applying the mystic roots and ancient flames to ingredients in order to create food from non-edible matter. The concept of a male cooking has become less noteworthy over the last twenty years or so, but well into my early twenties it was still an odd and interesting thing to talk about. That I was basically the only one in our house that did the cooking, was often seen as weird and frankly wrong.
Now, Syd can cook some. In that she can cook some things, when she puts her mind to it. I suppose if she had to cook all the time, she would probably be good at it, but she doesn’t need to. Holly could just about toast bread and spread peanut butter on it without burning the house down. She was more than happy to let me do the cooking, because she had no interest at all. In fact, most the women I’ve dated haven’t had much use for the notion of cooking, allowing someone else to do it as much as possible. Just a thing, like so many others. Women I have dated have many a similarity. ANYWAY. I get annoyed at the idea though, that because I cook I am performing magic. It’s bad enough when I actually do something magical, like make a marshmallow. It’s doubly annoying when someone treats any application of heat to food like I’ve performed some kind of goddamned miracle and should have statues erected in my fabulous honor. (Note, I’m not saying cancel the statue, it’s a great statue, but honor my skills as a world-class lover, not as someone who can cook.)
The latest kerfuffle Penny Arcade got into actually reminds and prompts me on this. The problem with all gender issues boils down to the cooking thing for me. Sexual identity means something to me, because all identity issues mean something to me. How you identify yourself is important, because without self-identity where are you? What you decide to be, who you are, how you act, how you present yourself to the world, it all has an impact. Sometimes it’s changing everything about you (even fixing physical errors you were stuck with by the cheap dvergar laborers that the gods hire for people construction) and sometimes it’s just doing what you feel most comfortable with.
Cooking should not be considered some kind of transsexual affair, and I should be considered a hero for doing it. And yet, I was by people who thought they were admiring me. I often got treated like I was some brave pioneer, throwing off the yoke of gender identity roles while... I dunno, cooking without an apron. I have never worn an apron, I don’t tuck a towel into my belt either. I just keep a hand towel on the stove and this isn’t important. I was actually called “Pretty Brave” by someone who was well meaning and thought they were delivering a compliment. When asked to elaborate, they said some people would “call you queer for doing that” and that “it’s kinda gay for a guy to cook” but that I made it “look masculine”. I almost felt bad killing that person and leaving their body in a peat bog but it was the only way people will learn! Now remember, that was supposed to be a compliment. It didn’t feel like one at the time, and the person began to see how I felt about it as the interview continued.
No one has ever tried to insult me, or threaten me because I canoodle in the kitchen (cooks have VERY big knives) but they do belittle the event with this notion of gender normativism. It’s deeply insulting to think that only a woman is really supposed to cook, and it harms both me and the woman not cooking to say so. That, if I may conclude where I intended to begin, is why I still need feminism. Yeah, it’s not as big as other people’s, but I’m a cis-gendered middle class white male. If I don’t like something you do or say to me, I’m still legally allowed to burn your house down (unless you are an upper-class white male) because, you know, privilege. That’s just it though, as a therapeutic tool, this has to be about me, not about you. Still though, it’s a sign, one that comes even up to the cis-gendered middle class white guy level that says “Shit’s still broken!” and asks us to fix it. The deeper we go, the more problems we're going to find, and if this one made it to the surface...
When I’m still being applauded for being a man that cooks, and rape culture is still a thing that people pretend doesn’t exist, and gender stereotypes are still rigidly enforced... can any of us say we’re truly free? There are eight million stories in the NakedCity Internet, this is one of them.
"Yeah. A secret recipe I got off the back of the tomato paste can."
"And the salad dressing? Is there honey in it?"
"Yep. Got that from my mother."
She shook her head. "Fighter, lover, gourmet cook? Amazing."
"Nope. I'll take the fighter, lover, but the gourmet cook is a sexist remark."
"Why?"
"If you'd cooked this no one would say you were a gourmet cook. It's because I'm a man. A man who cooks and is interested in it is called a gourmet. A woman is called a housewife. Now eat the goddamned spaghetti." I said.
She did. Me too.
Promised Land - By Robert B. Parker (1976)
There is something you are taught in therapy, I have been told. I myself have never had more than a brief fling with therapy (it becoming obvious quite quickly that it actually wasn’t me that had the problem the one time I went in for real) but I have been told and I have read a lot. You’re not supposed to make “You Statements” when you talk about something bothering you, but rather “I Statements”. It’s not supposed to be “You do this to annoy me!” but instead go for “I am annoyed by this.” which brings charges that therapy makes people selfish, because they talk more about themselves than other people. I’m often thrown by this, because the complaint often becomes “She just talks about herself and doesn’t want to gossip anymore.” or “They won’t just sit and listen to me anymore!” and I check out of the conversation from there. As a result, I’m going to try to use a lot of I Statements here, because I want to talk about how a thing effects me as well as others.
I’ve listened to a lot of Men’s Rights stuff over the last few years, and almost agreed with some of it. The problem is that they often loose me the more they talk, see if you can see where I’m going with this little playlet.
MRA – Men aren’t allowed to be what they want in this society!
Me – Okay, you’ve almost got something of a point there. (Let’s see what you do with it)
MRA – We’re as trapped as women by the expectations of modern life.
Me – Here! Here! (Why can’t a man wear a dress?)
MRA – Which is why feminism needs to go away!
Me – I’m sorry?
MRA – Women need to get back into the kitchen and remember their place!
Me – Wha-Huh?
MRA – And then men can be MEN again!
Me – What in the seven levels of hell are you talking about?
MRA – Bitches won’t date me! I’m Unwillingly Celibate!
Me – Um....
MRA – I mean, I open doors and everything.
Me – Okay, you need to shut up now or I will beat you to death with this small decorative elephant that a relative gave me as a memento of their trip to Mexico. Why a brass elephant from Mexico, I’ve always wondered, but I will kill you with it.
MRA – You’re just saying that because *URK*!
Me – *thump* Muthafucka! *thump* I did say. *thumpthumpthump*
NOW! Why was I even listening to this person at the start? It has to do with the quote I started with. A person starting with that phrase can go one of two ways, you can either go towards some idea of gender equality, or towards the idea that you should be handed “hot bitches” free with every oil change. I am not going to go into the whole argument here, but if you shower and if you open doors because you’re polite (instead of making a speech about chivalry and how now people OWE YOU for being a decent person) then things will actually go easier for you. It’s not that women love jerks, if they did, they’d go for some of you self-professed Nice Guys.
That’s not even what I called you all here to discuss!
I cook, I have always cooked, ever since I was a child I have cooked. When I have cooked, there have always been people who have treated this like it’s some kind of magic. As if I stood back away from the stove, rolled up my sleeves and yelled “Ala-ca-muthafuckin-ZAM!” and with a brilliant yellow flash (which would mean there was sodium in the mixture) there was suddenly food. Even people who themselves knew how to cook treated this mystical skill of mine like something I learned at the foot of Wong Fei Hung. Because I was a male, cooking, it was regarded as an odd and noteworthy event.
I was quite old before I realized that I actually could cook quite well, enviably well in fact. That it wasn’t just people reacting to the notion of a male-child applying the mystic roots and ancient flames to ingredients in order to create food from non-edible matter. The concept of a male cooking has become less noteworthy over the last twenty years or so, but well into my early twenties it was still an odd and interesting thing to talk about. That I was basically the only one in our house that did the cooking, was often seen as weird and frankly wrong.
Now, Syd can cook some. In that she can cook some things, when she puts her mind to it. I suppose if she had to cook all the time, she would probably be good at it, but she doesn’t need to. Holly could just about toast bread and spread peanut butter on it without burning the house down. She was more than happy to let me do the cooking, because she had no interest at all. In fact, most the women I’ve dated haven’t had much use for the notion of cooking, allowing someone else to do it as much as possible. Just a thing, like so many others. Women I have dated have many a similarity. ANYWAY. I get annoyed at the idea though, that because I cook I am performing magic. It’s bad enough when I actually do something magical, like make a marshmallow. It’s doubly annoying when someone treats any application of heat to food like I’ve performed some kind of goddamned miracle and should have statues erected in my fabulous honor. (Note, I’m not saying cancel the statue, it’s a great statue, but honor my skills as a world-class lover, not as someone who can cook.)
The latest kerfuffle Penny Arcade got into actually reminds and prompts me on this. The problem with all gender issues boils down to the cooking thing for me. Sexual identity means something to me, because all identity issues mean something to me. How you identify yourself is important, because without self-identity where are you? What you decide to be, who you are, how you act, how you present yourself to the world, it all has an impact. Sometimes it’s changing everything about you (even fixing physical errors you were stuck with by the cheap dvergar laborers that the gods hire for people construction) and sometimes it’s just doing what you feel most comfortable with.
Cooking should not be considered some kind of transsexual affair, and I should be considered a hero for doing it. And yet, I was by people who thought they were admiring me. I often got treated like I was some brave pioneer, throwing off the yoke of gender identity roles while... I dunno, cooking without an apron. I have never worn an apron, I don’t tuck a towel into my belt either. I just keep a hand towel on the stove and this isn’t important. I was actually called “Pretty Brave” by someone who was well meaning and thought they were delivering a compliment. When asked to elaborate, they said some people would “call you queer for doing that” and that “it’s kinda gay for a guy to cook” but that I made it “look masculine”. I almost felt bad killing that person and leaving their body in a peat bog but it was the only way people will learn! Now remember, that was supposed to be a compliment. It didn’t feel like one at the time, and the person began to see how I felt about it as the interview continued.
No one has ever tried to insult me, or threaten me because I canoodle in the kitchen (cooks have VERY big knives) but they do belittle the event with this notion of gender normativism. It’s deeply insulting to think that only a woman is really supposed to cook, and it harms both me and the woman not cooking to say so. That, if I may conclude where I intended to begin, is why I still need feminism. Yeah, it’s not as big as other people’s, but I’m a cis-gendered middle class white male. If I don’t like something you do or say to me, I’m still legally allowed to burn your house down (unless you are an upper-class white male) because, you know, privilege. That’s just it though, as a therapeutic tool, this has to be about me, not about you. Still though, it’s a sign, one that comes even up to the cis-gendered middle class white guy level that says “Shit’s still broken!” and asks us to fix it. The deeper we go, the more problems we're going to find, and if this one made it to the surface...
When I’m still being applauded for being a man that cooks, and rape culture is still a thing that people pretend doesn’t exist, and gender stereotypes are still rigidly enforced... can any of us say we’re truly free? There are eight million stories in the Naked
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Friday, June 21, 2013
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Friday, June 14, 2013
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
The little things
The only thing I want more than a nice wicker picnic basket, with wine glasses and plates and everything, is enough people to go on a picnic. I can assemble a picnic meal no problem. I mean a nice one, not crappy lunch meat on Wonder bread sandwiches but a meal you could be proud of.
I should get a 2 person* one for Syd and I... but still. Being a poly-person in the midst of a two person thing when you're accustomed to a multi-person things can be difficult sometimes.
*This one is awesome!
I should get a 2 person* one for Syd and I... but still. Being a poly-person in the midst of a two person thing when you're accustomed to a multi-person things can be difficult sometimes.
*This one is awesome!
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Monday, June 10, 2013
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Twins in Death: Chapter Eight – Part Six
Twins in Death
A Tale of The Weirdo
By Brett N. Lashuay
Chapter Eight: Concerning Birds and Clones
2:25 p.m.
“So is it always a flower you pick?” The Weirdo asked.
“What ever happens to catch my eye.” The samurai said.
“But usually a flower?”
“Usually.” He agreed.
“Okay.” The Weirdo said leaning back against the stone where they had made camp for the night.
“There has got to be something else.” The samurai said. “I can’t keep wandering like this.”
“You could try farming.” The Weirdo suggested.
“No I couldn’t.” He said.
“No, I didn’t think so.” The Weirdo said.
“Sometimes I wonder what use the gods have for us. To have made us, and then let our usefulness die away like this.”
“You sure it’s all gone?”
“Our day has passed.” The samurai said. “Now we are either noble children who have never touched a sword or ragged wanderers like me.
“You’re not so ragged.” The Weirdo said. “For a deadbeat.”
They both had a good laugh at that, they laughed for a while at that in fact.
October 25th, 2002
1:35 p.m.
The Weirdo came home, feeling beaten and battered in a daze of floating sounds. The front door opened and he stepped inside, feeling like he was moving through a wall of soft cotton. He took his coat off, sliding his arms out of each sleeve. He reflected, as he hung his hat on the hook, how much like armor it was. He took a hanger from the closet and put the coat on it. He hung the coat up in the closet, placing the hook on the rail carefully. He ran his fingers down the coat, and looked at it thinking about armor. He closed the door of the closet and walked away from it.
As he walked by one of the studies, Judy watched him go by, her blue eyes tracking his pained movements. She got up and watched as he slowly began to walk through the house. He looked like a machine that needed to be oiled and have most of the screws tightened. He heard her following him and turned to look at her, his face tired and haggard. His face looked like someone else had had a rather bad time with it before giving it to him so he could have a bad time. His eyes seemed to not want to stay open, and he looked like every moment was weariness.
“You don’t look too happy.” Judy said.
“No,” He said, shaking his head gently.
“Tell me about it?” She sat down in a chair, and looked up at him.
She brushed a lock of her golden red hair back, and looked up at him. She had learned how to look attractive and make men look at her in the last five thousand years. She looked up at him and batted her eyes, breathing in a deeply throaty way. Her eyes widened ever so slightly when she did open them and her lips pursing just so.
The Weirdo felt far too exhausted to argue with her, and too tired to take the hint she was trying to extend. He sat down and told her what had happened in the last few hours, as much as he thought she could bear. She listened with rapt attention, paying attention to not only the words but also the grand meaning behind his words. His words said a lot, but so did the rest of him.
“So what are you going to do?” she asked finally
“I’m not sure yet.” He said. “Maybe I’ll figure out where he’s hiding and hunt him down or something. Or maybe I’ll wait for him to come to me.”
“Shouldn’t you find him? I mean if he’s a killer.”
“Yeah,” He said nodding, “But for now I’m going to go to my room for a bit.”
“You’ll be alright, won’t you?”
“Yeah.” He said touching her hand. “Don’t worry, I’m always alright.”
He walked up the stairs, his feet pushing him up further and further. It was like the walk to heaven when he was tired, the constant pressing upwards of the stairs. He looked up the stairwell and kept at it, unable to stop. He hadn’t realized how tired he was till he had begun to climb the stairs. They seemed to go on forever and ever. He came to his room, opening the heavy oak door.
He looked at the bare floor of his room and came towards his bed. He suddenly couldn’t remember how he had gotten there. He was parking the car, and then he was up here. He knew he must have gone through the rest of the house, but some switch had closed that part of the world off from him. He touched the bed, trying not to think about it. It was a large bed with a huge canopy and heavy velvet curtains and also thinner silk curtains. The bed was covered with thick velvet and silk blankets, stuffed with down and wool. The bedclothes themselves were actually cotton flannel, soft and warm and comforting. He hated the cold feel of linen, had long preferred a warm bed to a cold one.
The Weirdo lay down on the bed, and flipped off his running shoes. The world was spinning around him, and he tried to hold on for just long enough. He didn’t need the world to be stable for long, but he needed it to be stable for a while. He peeled off his shirt as thoughts bounce from one part of his mind to the other. Another person’s untimely death zipped past almost without him noticing, the face zipped past without recognition. Random ideas kicking up and down in his brain. He looked up at the canopy for a moment and thought about life the universe and everything. He mused to himself and finally rolled over, drawing the thick velvet blanket up.
“Forty-two my ass.” He said. “It’s obvious the answer is forty-three.”
He lay there for a long time, but sleep wouldn’t come. The world kept spinning around him. He stared open eyed into the room, his body unwilling to move any more. His mind wouldn’t stop working, no matter how much he wanted it to. He now had the time for his mind to unroll the deaths and displeasures before him. This time it was a particularly bad argument he’d had with someone when he was five years old. The events themselves were unimportant, as he knew for a fact the person he’d argued with that day was dead but the argument still galled him. He had been right, but they had said he was wrong and got everyone to agree with them. He hadn’t had the facts right in front of him so he was called the liar. It still made him angry to think about that long ago argument, and he wanted to sit up at that point.
He pushed the blanket and felt his hand shudder under the strain. His mind wasn’t ready to go to sleep but the body had been all for the idea. He managed to push himself up though and walked to the desk, thinking about the long ago argument. It had been a stupid argument, but it still made him angry. The point was he had been right, and the other person had been wrong.
He looked out the window as he sat down at the desk, his body wanting to give up at that point. He was moving his body not so much through the willingness of his limbs as the force of his mind. He felt every string and fiber of his muscles complain with each tiny movement. His body was lodging some serious complaints, but the mind wouldn’t listen. The mind was still angry about an argument that had gone by so long ago that few would credit the fact that it still bothered him.
He should have gotten over it a long time ago, but it was unfinished business. He didn’t like unfinished business it gnawed at him. There had to be a way to put this open file on the desk of his mind into the closed cabinet. He knew he couldn’t, the people who he had the argument with were long dead. He turned on the computer monitor and opened a web browser. He ran a quick search and looked at a bit of data online. It at least confirmed he was right, if the argument ever came up again he would know where to find the answer. He looked at his bed and stood up, muscles sang out warnings now, not just complaints. They would soon collapse and would be unable to continue. He managed to walk to the bed though and lay himself back down.
“Anyway.” He muttered to himself as he lay down and drew up the blanket. “Jupiter does have a few rings.”
© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Hired Self-Destruction - On the Subject of Suicide and Changes
“ I starved to death in 1916. ... Logically I was dead; a man can't live on dry grass. Actually I went on breathing.”
-- Nero Wolfe (Over My Dead Body)
“I worry about you. About you doing something stupid and permanent.”
“Have I given you reason to worry about me?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A thousand things.”
I didn’t tell her that I knew where her mind had been, that I could smell her sadness, feel her desperation like movement of the air. That when she was near, I could practically taste the danger she seemed to be in. There wasn’t time, and I didn’t have the words to articulate it without sounding ridiculous.
Because we’ve all been there, right?
Maybe?
Maybe not.
For about a year and a half, I toyed with the idea of a post called “On the Subject of my Impending Suicide.” Wherein I would explain that I wasn’t planning anything, but that some days it felt inevitable. It kept coming up as an idea, as a thought, as a backup if everything else went wrong and I had no other recourse. It’s good to have a plan, even one that requires you to end your own life. I couldn’t come up with anything that seemed right, that wouldn’t be too painful. Also, I absolutely didn’t want to fuck it up. The last thing I wanted was to have an “attempt” to explain. I also didn’t want to do it in such a way that it gave the message “See what you made me do.” Because I was going to do it on my own, for me.
I got a captcha one day that has stuck with me for whatever reason.
Hired Self-Destruction.
I remember it because A) the idea of hiring out your self-destruction seemed like a turn on the old irony wheel and B) I knew people who had done/were doing it. You may remember that in September of 2009, I posted some photographs of a place called Flat Rock. I was visiting that town for what I had decided was the last time. I was there for the funeral of my cousin, who had engaged in his own Hired Self-Destruction. That sounds nicer than saying “He killed himself in a way that was indirect enough that people wouldn’t accuse him of committing suicide.” Because that’s what Craig did, let us not bullshit ourselves. He had hit rock bottom, and there was no one to help him out, or he wasn’t able to ask for help, or... whatever. He packed on about 100 pounds to what had already been pushing 300. When he was laid to rest, they didn’t cross his arms over his chest because his limbs literally couldn’t be made to sit like that.
Hired-Self Destruction.
This was just about the apex of bad times. You might remember if you were there. A couple of months later, a relationship fell apart, we had to move to pokey little apartment, and we were feeling a little bereft. Friends who would have helped lived too far away, people who lived nearby fell away from us in droves. Syd did not react to the situation well, and some members of her family reacted by saying “Quit being such a selfish little bitch and let me score points of your depression! Can’t you see your suicidal state of mind is ALL ABOUT ME?” I have few good things to say about certain people, and I won’t spoil a cheerful post like this by going into that. Suffice to say, I had to help her carry the load. When you tell someone you’re not going to leave them alone, and you’re not going to let them kill themselves, you’ve got to stand by that or what are you?
I think Syd helped me carry my load, but I felt like I was doing most of it on my own. That’s probably my warped perspective, because I didn’t even really have my parents to talk to and she can at least sort of talk to her mother and father about certain things. Not everything, but some things. I couldn’t talk to anyone about anything. My parents were going through... they had their own bullshit to deal with. I’d always been the emotional booster anyway, everyone came to me with their issues, and I would either help them solve those problems or distract them.
I felt on my own in a way I’d never felt alone. Not as lonely as those last six months with Syd and Holly. We weren’t lonely, not like that, and Fancy willing we will never feel that lonely again. I’d gotten used to being internal from the time I was a child. Living in a house of tension had prepared me, doing it with twice the people ready to explode made steel out of the iron.
Internal. I’d spent some time simply sitting and looking at the internet, saying nothing, doing little, making myself small and inoffensive. Hard way to live, but it was one that didn’t seem to break any rules. Syd’s suicidal thoughts kept coming to my mind, that she had plans and ideas, and knew what to do. I’d had no idea, just a vague wish for it all to be over.
And then Hol left, and I knew if I did anything dramatic it would look like I was trying to blame Hol, which isn’t what it was about. I just wanted things not to be the way they were. I didn’t want to feel the emptiness I had felt. I never felt fear, or sadness, or shame, just nothing. As the Rockbiter said “A hole would have been something, this was nothing.”
I came to a conclusion. This has to end. Either with the death of the body, or the death of this existence. One way or another, this has to end. Syd had come to the same conclusion, although we never articulated it in such a fashion. Neither of us chose the first route, and we concentrated on the second.
Hired Self-Destruction.
Syd got the lap-band operation. That was hard, painful, and a complete and utter change in the eating habits she’d formerly known. If anyone wants to call it an easy way out, I will gleefully puke up half eaten Arby’s in their car so they can share in the joy I felt. They can slurp on clear broth for a month, then extend the thrill of actually having broth that was cloudy! OOOOO! You can’t actually see the cats through the soup anymore. That was no more easy than going on a starvation diet is easy, or suddenly having to avoid anything with gluten is easy. It was hard, and it was painful, and we’re still going through it. But we’re doing it together, and we’re going to get there. She has had to destroy the person she was, in order to become the person she is becoming.
I got a job. Because we had only one car, if I was working when Syd would be at work, I had to walk. Two Miles. Rain, heat, sun, cold, snow, wind, monkeys, custard... I walked to work and got there on time. Syd would get me on her way home and I’d take my lunch break taking her home and coming back. If I was working in the morning, I would drive Syd to work, come home, get my lunch, drive to work, work eight hours, drive home, pet the cats, drive to Syd’s work, pick her up, bring her home, cook dinner, and try to come up with the energy to explain to people why I didn’t seem to be writing anything anymore.
If you want to talk about a period of Hired Self-Destruction, then that was is. Physically, I was in torment. Mentally, I was pretty badly depressed and I had no patience for the bullshit that dealing with people brought upon me. I had to bend my will toward the idea of patience, to dealing with people without hitting them. I had to work harder in that year and a half than I’d ever worked. Remember, I was still holding up Syd a lot of the time, or at least felt like I was. And I was cooking every day, or trying to. I was destroying myself, and I was basically employing my employer for the task.
Hired Self-Destruction.
And then the clouds actually broke. Later than I thought they would, but THEY DID BREAK is the important part. I thought they’d break with my second store, but that place was in a neighborhood that was as close as it could be to the ghetto while still being patrolled by the police. For a while there, I felt like I was piled on more than ever. I had a feeling my Self-Destruction was going to be a complete job. But that was actually a good thing. It caused me to do something I hadn’t thought about before. It caused me to prove I could take the extra weight. If I could strive through this morass, then I could do anything... right? I grew stronger, and it was then that I’d realized how weak I’d been, how dependent. But here was the thing, I could take the weight.
And then we got the car, and then the I heard about the new store opening, and I started to make a plan. And it was about that time I realized what had happened. I’d basically completed the Self-Destruction project and had somewhere along the line begun the rebuilding process. Making a plan was a sure sign that one is done being destroyed and that one is ready to build again. I got the car, I got the job, I got some shoes so I can go running, I’m going to buy some dumbbells, and I’ve got plans to make some art again. The shoes and the pass to Stony Creek were step 3, and I’ve got 7 more steps to go as far as I can figure. I’m making progress though. I am moving forward. We’re going to be okay again... or at last. I can’t tell yet.
Stephen Fry made an admission recently, that he’d attempted suicide last year, and it got me thinking about this. It got me thinking because I feel like I did commit suicide. I killed the person I had been, I just went on breathing like Nero Wolfe, and that gave me enough time to build up this person I’m becoming. Sort of building on the ruins, but still... building. I had to go through this period though, just to manage to get through.
Hired Self-Destruction. Sweet Fancy's Mousey, that's a stupid phrase.
Problem #246
“Whoso would be a man, must be a nonconformist. He who would gather immortal palms must not be hindered by the name of goodness, but must explore it if it be goodness. Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind. Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson
That sounds good, but I grew up in the 90s, when everyone was trying to take ol' Ralphie at his word and found that non-conformity became the conformist view.
― Ralph Waldo Emerson
That sounds good, but I grew up in the 90s, when everyone was trying to take ol' Ralphie at his word and found that non-conformity became the conformist view.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
“You should go Poly” and other things I am not allowed to say.
“You should go Poly” and other things I am not allowed to say.
Before we begin, I should state that I am not Private Skippy, and I do not actually have a list of things I am not allowed to do. Besides, who would make such a list? Who could enforce it? Syd has been of the opinion for some time that if we need rules, then I am not the right person to spend her life with. I behave within the code of conduct at work as well, and even keep most aspects of my private life private. Not because I feel fear or shame, but because my private life is private and only on display for you, my friends, and even then not always. I am fully aware this blog is public, but no one actually cares. Reading, I have been reliably informed, is for squares.
Anyway, enough of that preamble bullshit, let’s talk.
You will no doubt, at this late spot in our relationship, be surprised to learn that I am polyamorous. That Syd and I have been this way for the duration of our relationship and that a third person was with us for more than ten years before we parted ways. I know, right? As shocking as it is scandalous. Okay, it might be news to some of you, some of you haven’t been around that long. Point is, it’s a thing.
A thing that has been sometimes more and sometimes less of a subject for conversation depending on my mood. I know you know about my moods, everyone knows about those. Only, it seems, some don’t. That’s not really important, it’s just a lead up and I need five sentences to make a paragraph. There, that should do it. One more for luck.
I can date people, get serious about them, love them, and still love Syd. I can also love people on many a different level. I can love my dear friend, who I have talked about in the past, but love her in that I Am in Friend-Love With You way. I am mostly friends with women, and a great many of them mean a great deal to me. Many of them are also attractive, mentally stimulating people that I enjoy talking to, sure, but I’m talking hindbrain attractive. I can deal with it, because I’m a damn grown man and not some stupid little boy who can’t handle the fact that not everyone is for him.
EXCEPT! Every once in a while I find myself wanting to turn to one of these friends and say “You should go poly and we should totally date.” Except you can’t really say that. To say that would be rude, or too forward, or just weird. Most the time, the friend in question has made some kind of comment. “I’m going to be with him for the rest of my life.” or “I don’t think I can be with someone who doesn’t/does (insert a thing that makes me ineligible).” Or even “I’m not poly.” These are from people who know me, respect my life choices, and some of whom say things like “I love you” to me. They don’t mean “I want to bang you.” but they do mean “You are important to me and I care a great deal about you.” As a result, I can’t say something like “You should go poly and we should totally date.” Because who wants to be seen as a creeper, right? And I do understand, it’s a creepy sounding statement, but it’s one that occurs to me from time to time. Lots of creepy things occur to me, as I assume they occur to most men, I just try not to express them.
Again, in an attempt not to be creepy, I can’t say something like “For fuck’s sake, you’re a hottie.” or some such statement. Someone was discussing with me how they get dressed up in what was a reveling/attractive outfit recently and how everyone just looked at her like she was from Mars or something. And there I am, listening to this story and wanting to say “Yeah.... OR! You’re an incredibly good looking woman, with a frankly fantastic body, and you were showing it off in an unmistakable way. Only people don’t want to be creepers/ know you’re deeply mono with someone /cat calls are kind of passé (pick one or all) so they were covering up as best they could besides it’s hard to actually get a good drool cup these days.” Only you can’t because she’s kind of self-conscious and sort of shy and I don’t want to come off as hitting on her and so on. And if you don’t know that many a person would rather be known as a person rather than a collection of looks and parts, then I don’t know what to do with you.
I’m not even sure it’s society that tells me I can’t say these things. Some segments of society would say “You should tell your friend you’re interested in taking it to another level and see what she says.” or “A girl likes to be told she’s pretty.” And that sometimes even sounds good, buuuuuuuuuuut...
No.
It would be bad to tell someone who you’re pretty sure isn’t into your brand of luvin’ that you want them to join your program. If they haven’t asked some leading questions, or made some coded statements by now, then they probably aren’t interested. I speak seriously, when I speak of such things, and these people would know that if I said something like that I meant it. Even if I tried to play it off like a joke, they would know. These are undeniably smart women, or I wouldn’t be attracted to them in the first place. We can talk about all the poly theory you want, we can talk about anecdotes where that worked until the cows come home. There are other problems, and some of them are not surmountable without serious effort. Distance, time, money. Not having the privilege to suck face with them also means I don’t have the responsibility to be available for them whenever they need me.
I’m not sure I’ve got things enough together to take on someone right now anyway. I am only to step three of a ten step plan. Took me three years to get to step three, I’m playing a long game. Maybe, if someone came along and said “Hey, let’s hang out.” I might be willing to give it a try, but I don’t know right now. My personal stress-tests so far have said no, but I could be wrong. Besides, I’ve never really been an aggressive pursuer of the ladies anyway.
So anyway, of all the things I’m allowed to say, “You should go poly and we should totally date” doesn’t appear to be one of them just now.
Before we begin, I should state that I am not Private Skippy, and I do not actually have a list of things I am not allowed to do. Besides, who would make such a list? Who could enforce it? Syd has been of the opinion for some time that if we need rules, then I am not the right person to spend her life with. I behave within the code of conduct at work as well, and even keep most aspects of my private life private. Not because I feel fear or shame, but because my private life is private and only on display for you, my friends, and even then not always. I am fully aware this blog is public, but no one actually cares. Reading, I have been reliably informed, is for squares.
Anyway, enough of that preamble bullshit, let’s talk.
You will no doubt, at this late spot in our relationship, be surprised to learn that I am polyamorous. That Syd and I have been this way for the duration of our relationship and that a third person was with us for more than ten years before we parted ways. I know, right? As shocking as it is scandalous. Okay, it might be news to some of you, some of you haven’t been around that long. Point is, it’s a thing.
A thing that has been sometimes more and sometimes less of a subject for conversation depending on my mood. I know you know about my moods, everyone knows about those. Only, it seems, some don’t. That’s not really important, it’s just a lead up and I need five sentences to make a paragraph. There, that should do it. One more for luck.
I can date people, get serious about them, love them, and still love Syd. I can also love people on many a different level. I can love my dear friend, who I have talked about in the past, but love her in that I Am in Friend-Love With You way. I am mostly friends with women, and a great many of them mean a great deal to me. Many of them are also attractive, mentally stimulating people that I enjoy talking to, sure, but I’m talking hindbrain attractive. I can deal with it, because I’m a damn grown man and not some stupid little boy who can’t handle the fact that not everyone is for him.
EXCEPT! Every once in a while I find myself wanting to turn to one of these friends and say “You should go poly and we should totally date.” Except you can’t really say that. To say that would be rude, or too forward, or just weird. Most the time, the friend in question has made some kind of comment. “I’m going to be with him for the rest of my life.” or “I don’t think I can be with someone who doesn’t/does (insert a thing that makes me ineligible).” Or even “I’m not poly.” These are from people who know me, respect my life choices, and some of whom say things like “I love you” to me. They don’t mean “I want to bang you.” but they do mean “You are important to me and I care a great deal about you.” As a result, I can’t say something like “You should go poly and we should totally date.” Because who wants to be seen as a creeper, right? And I do understand, it’s a creepy sounding statement, but it’s one that occurs to me from time to time. Lots of creepy things occur to me, as I assume they occur to most men, I just try not to express them.
Again, in an attempt not to be creepy, I can’t say something like “For fuck’s sake, you’re a hottie.” or some such statement. Someone was discussing with me how they get dressed up in what was a reveling/attractive outfit recently and how everyone just looked at her like she was from Mars or something. And there I am, listening to this story and wanting to say “Yeah.... OR! You’re an incredibly good looking woman, with a frankly fantastic body, and you were showing it off in an unmistakable way. Only people don’t want to be creepers/ know you’re deeply mono with someone /cat calls are kind of passé (pick one or all) so they were covering up as best they could besides it’s hard to actually get a good drool cup these days.” Only you can’t because she’s kind of self-conscious and sort of shy and I don’t want to come off as hitting on her and so on. And if you don’t know that many a person would rather be known as a person rather than a collection of looks and parts, then I don’t know what to do with you.
I’m not even sure it’s society that tells me I can’t say these things. Some segments of society would say “You should tell your friend you’re interested in taking it to another level and see what she says.” or “A girl likes to be told she’s pretty.” And that sometimes even sounds good, buuuuuuuuuuut...
No.
It would be bad to tell someone who you’re pretty sure isn’t into your brand of luvin’ that you want them to join your program. If they haven’t asked some leading questions, or made some coded statements by now, then they probably aren’t interested. I speak seriously, when I speak of such things, and these people would know that if I said something like that I meant it. Even if I tried to play it off like a joke, they would know. These are undeniably smart women, or I wouldn’t be attracted to them in the first place. We can talk about all the poly theory you want, we can talk about anecdotes where that worked until the cows come home. There are other problems, and some of them are not surmountable without serious effort. Distance, time, money. Not having the privilege to suck face with them also means I don’t have the responsibility to be available for them whenever they need me.
I’m not sure I’ve got things enough together to take on someone right now anyway. I am only to step three of a ten step plan. Took me three years to get to step three, I’m playing a long game. Maybe, if someone came along and said “Hey, let’s hang out.” I might be willing to give it a try, but I don’t know right now. My personal stress-tests so far have said no, but I could be wrong. Besides, I’ve never really been an aggressive pursuer of the ladies anyway.
So anyway, of all the things I’m allowed to say, “You should go poly and we should totally date” doesn’t appear to be one of them just now.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
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