Talk Thursday: Mea Culpa

Apologies are cyclical and transactional.  Action means reaction and a round of apologies.  Emotions get tossed like coins at a wishing well, wishing away the circumstances.  It’s when the coins are gone and the surface of the water quiets that the wronged is left with their time to heal and the apologist is left with promises to do better next time and those wishes have dried up and drifted away.

I had a boyfriend that swore to monogamy and ended up cheating three times because he wasn’t sure about us and had to ‘try out’ different guys.  At the time he was ‘the one’ for me, even though I knew, he knew, we all knew that we were not well matched, except in the bed department.  The bed department does not a relationship sustain, unfortunately, but that’s what we latched on to once, then twice, and three times a breakup.  Each time he screwed up (no pun intended), he’d confess his transgression and beg forgiveness and promise never to screw up again and then he’d have a big arrangement of flowers sent to me at work.  Stunning flowers.  Monstrously gorgeous flowers.  By the second set of tears and apologies, I hated the sight of them.  I was “done,” following the third episode, even though my co-workers loved the ambiance and observed that I ‘got more flowers than a dead person’s funeral.’  Each time felt like a funeral, and in a way that’s what each apology and new promise was – a little more of the relationship dying.  The mea cupla became the ritual acknowledgment of passing dreams.  I had said to him each time:  I was more sorry that I didn’t listen to myself better than him.

A decade later, now he’s still with the guy he cheated with the last time.  We talked about what worked and what didn’t work years ago and we both shared how wrong we were for each other (even though the bed department was so right – the bastard still knows exactly what turns me on).  Keeping in touch went from daily to weekly to eventually a few times a year.  When I look back at what he used to mean to me, I know I still see the man he could have been, which is the ruin of all relationships.  When we talk and he looks back, he sees the prior mea culpas I represented.

Our last conversation was a few weeks ago and saying goodbye was a pleasant sort of finality.  We’ve always gone through the ritual of goodbye but his other line rang for work and he had to go and with a soft click he was gone.  He texted me a few moments later and I read it and deleted and turned off my phone.  He was still sorry, and I was still glad I grew a pair and left him.  We were strangers trying to make sense of sorries from years ago, and I don’t want to pretend that we are any closer than we never were.

Red Leaves

The redbud tree in the front yard is dropping leaves.  The heart-shaped leaves crinkle and fold and fall to the ground and when the wind blows they scatter across the yard.  The oak tree across the street shares its harvest with every neighbor in the court.  When we walk Midas through the neighborhood, we’ve noticed a few trees that have bright and deep red leaves, but the ones that fall to the ground don’t have the same luster.

It’s a calm before the storm.  Even as the wind blowing through the bay area lowers the temperature to ‘jackets required’ kind of weather, and even as the days shorten so that I’m leaving in darkness and soon-to-be coming home in darkness, I feel calm (I don’t want to jinx anything with the “p” word here).  By the time I’ve driven home each day my mind has already put work inside a box with a lid and put it out of my mind for the night.  I keep in touch via telephone, and I am comforted and glad that my family and friends are healthy and well, that there are celebrations and triumphs (marriages, divorces, house buying, moving, reconnections, custody attainment) despite extreme hardships (suicide, health issues, marriages, divorces, moving, custody conflicts).  Lastly, I am more at peace with my own body since giving up soda, paying attention to what and when I eat, and by working out consistently.  My endurance is back up and I’m doing double sets again.  I’ve dropped 6 pounds, which is halfway to my goal.

I look at the world through the cycles of nature and Fall has usually been the most difficult season for me.  Part of me feels that I should be stressed out or manic because I’m about to start graduate classes again.  Part of me struggles with sitting down to write and share while other parts nod and smile and say, “Keep it up.”  Part of me expects a certain amount of sadness with the changing season, but I just don’t have it in me.  I’m enjoying the falling leaves that are instant reminders of life’s harvest before the bleak winter that doesn’t look so stark white.  Life is good and sweet, which make for rather mundane posts.  I think calm is good now and then.

Talk Thursday: Fabric of Connection

(Fair warning:  this is incredibly fractured and I’m tired and irritable.)

My role in the space I’ve created here this past year has been more of an unraveller than a weaver.  Negligence is self-evident.  I spent a lot of time tonight looking back at prior posts and comments and I cringed because there’s so much I didn’t do, least of which was writing and sharing.  Those nice little strings here and fixing hems there haven’t been completed.  Tonight I read other blogs that I haven’t been to in ages and noticed a common theme of people examining the space they’ve created and the reasons for which have changed over time.  My space here and my intentions have changed too – and I don’t have the full answers yet because I’m in the middle of it.  Obviously, I don’t want to let this space go or I wouldn’t have bothered writing at all.  Somewhere in my heart is the need to afix more buttons to this work, to gather more threads where my life is woven with others and chronicle those moments and bindings.  It’s not to say that there won’t be times when I cut a thread or get cut myself – nothing nothing nothing in this universe stays the same.  Change happens, will happen, is happening.  The weave we think we’re working with will invariably be knotted differently than we expected.

When I read other blogs and their spaces spaces and looked back at my own I had to pause and take it in and appreciate the connections.  While blogging may be one of the most self-centered and narcissistic exercises this side of Facebook status updates, it is the act of reading and feeling others in their experiences of exhibitionism and self-less narcissism that make this weave of life so fascinating and worthwhile.  All these words on virtual pages that may or may not make an immediate difference to anyone or ourselves, but in time may show our textures and colors and changes because we’re able to see a pattern that moves beyond this space we can “see” only in now.

I have been holding the threads in my mind that mean both connection and specific people and I’ve been asking myself questions that won’t get answered, at least not here.  The answers will come later, after the part where I quietly attend to the loose stitches, the hems, and all the button holes.  I’ll know when I know when I’m not tired and manic and annoying myself because I do feel guilt and I really hate that.

***

I am sitting here listening to music.  I keep forwarding through songs when something bothersome comes on, such as Beck’s “Loser” or Nitzer Ebb’s “Murderous.”  I am thinking too much.  I have been writing this in between reading posts and email:  write, backspace, edit, repeat.   I’m absorbing the fact that as of today I’m back in grad school, that class starts on November 3rd, and that I’ll be finished next November.  I’m annoyed with my parents because they’re aging and they tell me stories instead of telling the truth about their health.  I’m happy I made dinner tonight for Scott (yes, it’s a rare thing).  I’ve lost five pounds of the ten I gained this past year.   I’m slightly concerned about my current contract and the financial challenges in California for higher education.  I’m blathering.

I’ve written a lot of nothing and I’m okay with that because it means I’ve sat my ass down and wrote.  Please note that if you consider all the words on this post, know that I’ve deleted more than what is posted.  At this point, you may also consider yourself blessed.  G’night.

Balls Deep

(edit:   yeah – I changed my title of the post but did NOT change the start of the post, so if you’re scratchin’ your head, that’s my fault.  Bad Don.  Bad, bad.  Bad.  This was originally titled “Ping.”)

Not quite the sound of a pin drop, sorry, nor the sound of what happens before ‘pong’ (which always makes me think of “ding dong” and then I hear middle-school voices and the sing-song rhyme of:  “…plays ping pong with his ding dong”).  Yes, that’s how my mind works some days.  Random fragments.  I’m pinging myself in a post, a reminder that hey, you do have a blog, ya know.  Yes, I know.

I’m getting a little more organized.  Thoughts of birth and death, living and dying… always good motivators to take inventory and some self-stock.  Two weeks ago I stopped all caffeine, chocolate, carbonation, alcohol, and spicy foods.  I increased my work outs, which wasn’t too difficult since I went from nothing to everything-I-do-makes-me-breath-hard-and-sweat.  Discovery of muscles that I’d forgotten I had.  I don’t celebrate myself too much, but I’m gonna admit here that I like my biceps.  I’m stretching again and slowly relearning some yoga poses.  I come back to breathing, time and again.  Deep breathing.

I cleared off clutter on my desks – at home and at work.  I pulled out old magazines that I’d been meaning to read – I finished them and I threw them away.  The stack of filing I’d kept piling up I organized and filed away.  Stacks at work got put into folders, labeled and filed.  Those little pieces of paper with “important” phone numbers got put into contact information in Outlook.  I deleted over a thousand emails.

At night before bed I’ve been doing crossword puzzles or logic problems, the attempts of which usually frustrate the hell out of me.  Word games I’m fine with, but the order and structures of logic are challenging to me.  The “get it right” perfectionist part of me will take those logic problems and erase and start over until I figure it out.  In the last two weeks I’ve solved a few that had stumped me years before.

Lastly, or maybe firstly, I carved out time for me to write.  Dreams, plans, and outlines… fine – any day, any week.  But since the writing workshop in Monterey this spring, I consciously put writing away and didn’t allow myself the time for pen to paper or fingers to keyboard.  I’m not the swiftest with figuring myself out, but it was another one of those slamming my head against the wall revelations to acknowledge that distractions are the same as saying conscious priorities.  Maybe in my older age I’m learning to embrace that which, historically, I’ve enjoyed running from.  Could be too that I’m over being coy with myself – I do like to write.  Skip the extended forplay that is an existential exercise in mental blue balls – it’s balls-deep fucking time to write.

Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Color me inebriated.  The drinks were fantastic, but having dinner with JulieAnn and Kent was divine.  (I’d do linky links, but right now is not a time for fancy formatting or hand-eye coordination, other than typing.)  I could worry about my drinking ability, since I had at least two drinks more than they did.  I’m slightly worried that I’m still awake and haven’t crashed – because, by gawd, I should be sleeping off this buzz.

The best best best part of the evening was an offhand comment that cemented a solution to a particularly challenging plot element I’ve been working on for 1.5 years.  In this instance, I’m grateful for the presence of alcohol and good friends for their inspiration.

Wish me luck at the Big Sur writing conference, through Sunday.

The Interview, redux

The instructions…You have to link back to the original post and also to your interviewer’s post and include the following:

Want to be part of it? Follow these instructions:
1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.” Be sure your comment has your email addy.
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions. (If you don’t have a blog – respond on the comment thread.)
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Gallus asked me these questions:

1. If you could have lunch with any three people, who would you like to dine with most? I’d love to dine with my Scott, Julz, and her Bill at a sushi restaurant because we haven’t done that for a while and they are lovely and dear friends.
2. As a writer, if the pen is mightier than the sword, what is the most cutting thing you’ve ever written? Other than hating Mormonism and Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter, I’m more bark than bite to the outer world. In my inner world? Call me He Who Inflicts a Thousand Cuts to Himself with the Stupidity Knife. Here’s a sample of cutting self-love and one of my favorite mistakes. Other wounds were less obvious, like the story of Leo in part I and part II.
3. What is your best naked story? since we know you like blogging naked. Not sure how to define “best” naked story, nor which context, nor setting. We could be talking bad nights, early boyfriend experiences, making up stories, attempting poetry, or maintaining eye contact at the gym.
4. There are foods and here are comfort foods, What is something you love, but would never tell anyone (except us)? I have no shame nor qualms about my love of food. By all rights, I should be 400 pounds, but I can thank the gods for my smaller frame and higher metabolism (but those gods need to crank it up a notch – this aging thing really sucks). Specific food? I love potatoes and could eat them at every meal. If you taunted me with McDonald’s fries, I would leap across the table and tackle you.
5. What is one trait that instantly endears a person to you? Out of my personal favorites of being contrary, moody, snarky, and adorkable… then I’ll go with adorkable. I could market the essence and call it “Eu de Don.” Move over, Beckham.

Boycott?

Boycott Utah?  There are active bloggers and GLBT groups who’ve already started a general boycott on all-that-is-Mormon or Catholic because of Prop 8.  That anyone would be surprised is beyond me.  Hello?  You don’t piss off the drag queens and lesbians.  Common sense, people.  I have no issue with going for (boycotting or publicly humiliating) the individuals and businesses who did give to Prop 8:  Priceline, Dell computer exec, etc.  While Bill Marriot did not donate to Prop 8, the moral giant came out with his own accolades of what a great guy he is and how sensitive he is to diversity.  Bill Marriott is a good Mormon and pays tithing.  I can’t in good conscience support his hotel empire, knowing my super-homo monies trickle into Mormon coffers – even if Mr. Marriott so considerately has started including gay porn in select locations.  Mr. Marriott – I’m sorry, but you’re on the bigot bus.  Let us (the GLBT) community know when you’re done on that ride?  Kthxbai.

I’m not an advocate of boycotting Utah.  Yes, the Sundance folks need to come out strongly in support of human rights for all or they can see their venue dry up like a condom left in the sunlight.  Yes, the skiing is great in Utah, but if Colorado was smart, they’d leverage the charges of Utah bigotry and make some big, gay, ski bunny money.  Suddenly, I wish I had a marketing background, but I digress.

But boycott all of Utah?  No.  Not even in my rage against the fucktards that are Mormon would I advocate such a stance.  I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again – go for the misguided bigots that donated directly, and go for the businesses they represent.  But leave the innocents and guiltless of Utah alone.  The non-Mormon folks living in Utah are the only rays of sunshine the whole goddamn state ever experiences.

Let’s pretend for a moment that you could boycott a state?  Which one would you choose, and why?  Sorry – Utah is hypothetically chosen, at least until Mormonism has a revelation on the sacred institution of man to man peen worship.  My bush is burning.  I have to go now.

Proposition 8

Fair Warning:  this post is gonna ramble and contain highly offense words and phrases.

For the media-clueless, Proposition 8 is an initiative to change the California constitution, negating gay rights to marriage.  Tonight we saw a “yes for Proposition 8″ ad while watching the post-VP debate between Biden and Palin.  The talking points were almost comical:

• protect the institution of marriage!
• gay marriage is against the will of the people!
• “activist judges” overturned prior rulings!
• and the ad started and ended with a video montage of Gavin Newsom’s May 2008 press conference, celebrating the unconstitutional laws against gay marriage being struck down.   I’m sure THAT went down well for the Bible thumping right wing – probably farther than a porn star’s throat.
• ((Oh… tangent alert))

most fuckable mayor EVAH

• ((end tangent))

So some back story.  I fixed a stiff… drink and moved furniture (we’re getting carpet tomorrow) and put the plug faceplates back on that I’d removed (fear me – I’m proficient in unscrewing… and screwing).  ((We finished painting the other night, and no, I don’t/won’t have pictures yet – hush.))  So I did my chores and started reading news and blogs and came across a lovely post by a lovely friend and some of his fans’ not so lovely comments where some holier-than-thou douche bag used the phrase “gay lifestyle.”  Oh yes, she did.  I will tolerate the ignorant and asinine usage of the phrase from friends or fucking clueless family, but I won’t tolerate it from a stranger whom I could run over with a tractor and not lose any sleep.

Pay attention.  I’m going to paraphrase and then quote myself from a prior post on Mormons and Polygamy:

Golf, Mormonism and polygamy are lifestyles.  Sexuality is NOT a lifestyle, nor a crime. The next time someone uses sexuality and the word “lifestyle” in the same sentence, remember: one can CHOOSE to have more than one spouse (lifestyle), but gay/straight/bi/confused is a state of BEING (sexuality). Thou shalt not confuse the two, or thou shalt be struck down with a big floppy double-headed dildo.

Understand, I’m not so much riled about the Prop 8 advocates as I am about a really basic illiteracy of sexuality and the careless use of words.  It shouldn’t astound me, but it does, that people continue to denigrate, qualify and minimize the spectrum of sexuality through the lens and assumption of inherent choice.  Spare me the “but I’m not 100% gay or straight” missive.  I’m not talking about the physical capacity of gay men fucking women or straight men fucking gay women or whatever flavor you want.  I’m talking about sexuality as identity and discovery, which is deeply personal.  I could fuck everyone and anyone from here to Heaven and my physical, emotional, psychological, spiritual, intellectual, chemical, hormonal levels would all prefer men.

Legislate that, ass hats.

Not Sharing

Besides the fact I haven’t been online because I was behind the Zion Curtain, and despite how I recovered from excessive vodka and vino (not at the same time, dearies, I’m occassionally not-smart but I’m not stupid)…  I haven’t felt like saying a whole lot.  Thoughts rumble around my mostly-empty head and I’m aware that I’m focusing on not focusing.  If this is serenity, I have to say I rather like chaos.  And sex and erotica and alcohol and dancing.  But I digress.

Here’s what I’ve not been sharing:

• New fave drink is carbonated water with ice.
• Working out, stretching and meditating… and slowly making progress.
• I’m likin’ the new template here.  The days of my black blog are over.
• Thank you to Christopher for the new headers (top of page).
• Scott and I are talking marriage before November.
  • No ceremony, no announcements, no presents, no photographers.
  • We already have rings.
  • We loved our 2005 commitment ceremony.
  • Neither of us want the other’s last name, but we may merge both and make one.
  • I would be completely fine with another honeymoon.
• I’m on book three of a young adult series, and book one of a new vampire series which I liked even though I thought the main character (who unfortunately survived) had as much empathy and compassion as Vlad the Impaler.
• Tarot and archetypes.  Its’ been ages since I did a reading, even though I took my stash with me (runes and two decks) to Utahrd.  Tarot of the Spirit, also affectionately known as the “Armageddon” deck.  Not for the faint of heart or heartless.  Helpful if one is familiar with Joseph Campbell and world mythologies.
• We hauled out the pool cover, which means summer is over.  If we’re lucky, we can use the cover and still be swimming through October, global warming permitting.
• With the turning of summer into fall, I have ample reason to pull out TLC’s Pussy Cap for our walks with Midas.  More on TLC when I can wrap some words around the wonder that he is.
• It’s a fellow blogger’s birthday tomorrow and I am completely unprepared.  I’d like to dedicate either a poem or a gorgeous hunk of a man to him.  Or offer to write him a short story.  Or send a care package of music, apricot butter, vodka, wine, or a big fuckin’ basket of all the above.  His choice.

That is all.

What’s on YOUR mind?

Shake and Bake

Funny thing, earthquakes. When you’re right in the middle of one, you try and find a focal point for stability. The sound is sort of like a giant train going by under the house. Friday’s earthquake lasted about 7 to 10 seconds. I was in the front bedroom sitting in a chair and Midas and Kiwi were on the bed, sleeping. Scott was in the living room watching television. The drawn-out roar from far away coincided with the house shaking and moving. Midas lifted his head and looked around, his eyes big, and about that time Scott yelled out “Earthquake,” but I didn’t say anything because I was sitting down and looking at the room, my one brain cell trying to figure out how much the room was moving. As I was wondering if the shaking would get worse, the house-creak noises subsided and then the roar underground faded. Scott jumped up and we met in the hall and hugged quickly, then he ran into the office to get online and check on the US Geological Survey site. I ran out back and the water in the pool was sloshing and making small ripples. We couldn’t believe that it was “only” a 4.2, later downgraded to a 4.0.

***

An old friend of mine from my Westminster days was in town over the weekend. She came with her one-and-a-half year old daughter and her husband. The last time I saw her was at their wedding in 2002 in Salt Lake. Since that time, she’s changed jobs, had a baby, and life is good for their family. We took them to dinner at one of our favorite Italian places on Saturday night. Appetizers, entrées, wine, dessert, coffee… and a round of food orgasms for four adults. I’m so glad they got to meet Scott and see our home. There are times when I really wish I lived closer to my friends in Utah, but at the same time, I’m happy we have a home that friends from far away can come to and visit and be comfortable… and be themselves.

***

The temperature got up to almost 100 yesterday. We did our usual weekend thing of going our for breakfast and running errands. Back at the house, Scott worked on his car until the temperature in the garage was baking… and I downloaded the newest driver for my video card all by myself. We said the magic phrase of “swim swim” for Midas (who got so wound up that he barked at us while we were undressing). Scott’s more bashful – he wears swimming trunks. I’m not bashful – I don’t. The water was 84 degrees. 84. Pools at the gym are typically between 78-80, but there’s something so right about 83-84. Especially with the afternoon sun beating down and you’re throwing the dog toy for Midas and he does flying leaps that cover half the pool. Or when you’re swimming with your partner and he “accidentally” loses his trunks. Or when you float in the water and look at the yard and overlook what needs attention or at your dog who’s proudly running his victory laps… you know that life is good.