Shame on the Republicans, shame on them forever

On Day of Iraq Speech, House Conservatives Gouge Vets

My stupid friend

Spent part of Saturday with an old friend, a retired NYPD officer, FDNY firefighter and Fire Marshall. Now, I know that somewhere in these organizations, there must be at least one person who doesn't grovel to lick the shoes of the Bush administration while nodding mad agreement with all of their proclamations.

But for heaven's sake, is Bay Ridge so goddamn far removed from reality that it isn't possible to have a clue out there? He actually, albeit mildly, remonstrated me for being "unpatriotic" for saying something negative about George W. Bush. Now wait just a cotton-picking minute! Them's fightin' words.

But what I realized is this -- this is a great opportunity for me to observe the Bush supporter up close; to see what happens when a mind closes and a mouth opens. It's fascinating, really.

And this sort of entrenched Bushlicker has (I've found) the following arguments to make in favor of George Bush: "9/11, 9/11, 9/11, Saddam is a bad man, 9/11, 9/11, 9/11." Get the picture? They've bought the propaganda hook line and sinker.

My recommendation is for everyone to keep at least one stupid (read: Bush-supporting) person in your life, so you can observe and learn and say snarky things like: "Wow, that yellow ribbon magnet on the back of your SUV really makes those troops safer, doesn't it?"

The Natural Singer

Over the past 5 weeks, I've been taking a class called "The Natural Singer" at The Open Center which is my latest favorite place. We had our last class on Tuesday night and it was so surprising to me to reflect on the things I've learned about myself in this class.

The biggest realization is that I am an emotional bivalve. In the way a clamshell is sometimes open and sometimes clamped tightly shut, I open and close emotionally depending on how safe I feel at any given moment. Yes, I aspire to be open all the time (who doesn't?), but I realize that sometimes I am so watchful and so extremely protected as to be -- at times -- shut down. I am afraid so much of the time -- afraid to do or say the wrong thing, afraid that if I don't do things right, it will mean that I am a bad, bad person, afraid to stand up for myself because I fear someone will be mad at me or not like me. (How insidious is the need to be liked!)

There were a couple of times during the "improvisation" moments where I simply froze -- my throat locked and no sound would come out. And during all that I could almost hear my mother's soft voice, "If you can't do something right, don't do anything at all." If my mother had been born American, she would have been a southerner -- a Steel Magnolia. She was something out of a Pat Conroy novel.

Here's the message I would like to put out into the world:

Dear Mom,

I love you and I know that you were doing the best you could with the tools you had. I love you and I know that you wanted to protect me from being hurt by a world that had hurt you with racism and inequality. But about some things, you were wrong. Earning a "B" in a class didn't make me a bad person, or even a stupid person. I will always love you for the things you wanted for me, but I hope you can love me for the things that I want for me.

Love,
Your Youngest Daughter

P.S. I didn't take the singing class because of potential economic benefits...I actually took it just because I thought it would be fun.

Well, suffice it to say, the clamshell was pried open for a little while longer last night; there were a lot of tears around the room and a happy vulnerability suffused the room as we bade each other goodbye and promised to stay in touch. I wonder if we actually will?

Highlights of the course:

1) Claude Stein. More "roshi" than "teacher" in the western sense. The coolest thing to observe was the "finding out for yourself" exploration that he led each student through. (I'm reminded of Cheri Huber saying at the beginning of her workshop, "Believe nothing that I say. Find out for yourself." He created a safe, nonjudgmental place in what is quite possibly the most unsafe and judgmental city on the planet. And that is a miracle.

2) Augustina: She sat so quietly and appeared to be trying to make herself invisible at the far end of the room, and she barely spoke or sang above a whisper. During the personalized coaching, however, what emerged was a lovely clear soprano. And when we did a partner singing exercise in which we had to look into each others' eyes, what I saw was such a gentle spirit. Her song: A gospel song that she clearly felt strongly about. I wish I could remember the name of it.

3) Penelope: She started out with a very pretty voice. What was astonishing was on the last night, when Claude effortlessly guided her up to a High C. My God. Her song: "I Don't Know How to Love Him," from Jesus Christ Superstar.

4) Laura: Another tiny voice, but there was so much going on behind her eyes. And she commuted down from Westchester every week for this two hour class. This was a woman who had something to say and needed a place to say it. Her song: "Blackbird," by The Beatles... the lyric seemed to mean more coming from her.

5) Daniel: Sang a beautiful song in Spanish accompanying himself on the guitar. And on the last night, with the individual improvisation -- actually found humor in his song with the last line, "and I have a blue fish in my pocket!" I guess you had to be there.

6) The Other Laura: A teeny tiny little birdlike person with a voice the size of Montana.

I'll have to add more later.

Bloggerview Question #3

3. Considering the content of your blog (which is riviting, btw), what do you find sacred in an intimate relationship, if anything at all?

Sacred is such an opinion word. If you don't believe me, ask a Bush Republican about marriage. What will they say? "Marriage is the sacred bond between a man and a woman." That's a statement of opinion, not a hard and fast fact. This is borne out by the facts about marriage in America today, as evidenced by the divorce rate and even by my own situation. My married guy clearly doesn't view his marriage as sacred -- if he did, he wouldn't have a Special Naked Friend Who Isn't His Wife.


I do have my own opinions about what is sacred, but I'm trying to pay attention to those opinions and just observe that they are opinions. I have the opinion that the environment we live in is sacred, and yet I contribute to the destruction of that environment. I smoke, take long showers, drive, use an air conditioner, buy books. Ah, see, even the things that we might assign to be "good" things (air conditioning and books), have an impact on the environment. I will pay more for organically-grown fruit, yet walk an extra block out of my way to save 50 cents on Charmin Toilet Paper (virgin, bleached tree fiber). I sneer at East Coast suburbanites in their huge SUV's and pickup trucks, yet I take a much more benevolent view of the mountain residents I knew who drove the same things -- Marc lived on the side of a mountain where the winter weather and heavy snows made a 4-wheel drive vehicle seem necessary, rather than self-indulgent; Bruce used his pickup truck in his contracting work and attached a plowblade to the front of it to clear driveways for the residents of Breckenridge.


So you see, for every thing we claim to hold "sacred," some other thing in life comes along to remind us that nothing is ever just one way all the time. No right, no wrong, just is. We can go back and forth on the teeter-totter of duality all the time -- and we do. Another example: I believe Republicans are stupid -- except, of course, the Republicans who are my friends. Try it yourself, it's actually a fun little exercise in awareness.


As for sacred relationships? The minute you attach that much meaning to a relationship, suddenly you're caught up in the whirlwind of making sure you do it right, and that the other person is doing what you believe they should be doing, rather than just allowing it to be what it is, at the moment that it is, right here, right now. It becomes positively fraught with expectations, and because of that, inevitable disappointment. This goes not just for "intimate" -- I interpret that in this context to be "intimate with a level of sexuality." -- relationships, but for friendships as well. Whether we like it or not, whether we are aware of it or not, we each have our own list of "shoulds" that we put onto relationships. That's neither good nor bad, but something to be aware of. You may believe that the person you're an intimate relationship with should know to call you at least X times a day to demonstrate how much he cares for you. You may believe that the person you're in an intimate relationship with should know when you want to be alone. By saying (in a relationship), "This is what I hold sacred," you are setting yourself up for disappointment down the road.


My attachments and expectations and disappointments in this relationship have actually been an amazing gift to me. I try use them every day to practice conscious, compassionate awareness, paying attention to my own reactions and in particular my belief system with regard to relationships. It is challenging, aggravating, exhausting and exhilarating to have those moments of "aha," when I have some insight that is an insight into how my mind works. I can never have any insight into how his mind works because I am not in his mind. I can only know myself, my beliefs, my projections, my thoughts, and my emotions.


I dated a man who used to call me several times a day. Let's call him "The Unemployed Sad Sack." At first I found it extremely flattering, but over time, bothersome and irritating. One day, during a particularly busy period just prior to a website launch, TUSS called me at 10 in the morning to ask if I wanted to go to the movies in Bryant Park. My response was, "I won't be able to go. We are launching a site at midnight tonight, and I will have to work late."


Well. TUSS called me at noon to tell me what movie was playing. TUSS called me at two to tell me what time he was meeting his friends at Bryant Park. TUSS called me at four to tell me what time he was leaving his apartment. He called me at six to tell me he was leaving his apartment. And he called me at seven to tell me he was in Bryant Park and where I could find them. Each time he called, I repeated that I was going to be working late and would not be going to the movies. And on the day after The Day of The Six Phone Calls, TUSS called me to tell me how disappointed and upset he was that I didn't go to the movies with them. He was so caught up in his expectations and the shoulds of what couples do that he never heard what I said. And because he had those expectations, he was disappointed. His disappointment had nothing to do with what I did or didn't do, did or didn't say (though he would probably tell you differently), but he was so attached to his expectations that he chose not to hear the "no".

Matt used to say something that made me crazy, "Expect nothing, get nothing, and you'll never be disappointed." I hated it, because my perception of myself as a person who is hopeful and optimistic was very, very important to me. Or rather, my projection that I needed other people to see me as hopeful and optimistic was very, very important to me. But in retrospect, I appreciate Matt's statement as one of the most Zen statements anyone has ever made to me. (One of the others is from my father, who is wont to listen politely to one of my anti-Church rants, then quietly say, "Is that so?")


Expect nothing, get nothing, and you'll never be disappointed. Give up hope, for hope is about sizing up the past and projecting it into the future.


Everything is sacred.


Nothing is sacred.

Him

Dear Jane,

Big dumb head and no neck
Looks like Patrick from Spongebob Squarepants
when he does that stupid thing with his mouth
But then again, looks a little like Jimmy Kimmel
which is enough to ruin my hardon (I'll take Patrick any day)
Chases a tiny white ball around in the hot sun on the weekends --
and calls it fun
Loves old 1970's rock and roll and is one of the few people who can beat me at trivia
Wears Levi's Dockers -- the pleated kind, and
really bad suburban shoes
Also lots of those stupid golf shirts with little logos on the chest
Downloads porn - but not even good porn - that his friends send to him
He would be better suited to get friends with more imagination to send him porn
Although I believe his friends probably live lives as similarly small as his

He does, however, drive a muscle car, which a girl like me is susceptible to
And seems to be afraid to let people know how deeply kind he actually is
God forbid, his cover should get blown by a random act of kindness
He seems to be genuinely touched by acts of kindness that are shown to him
As if it is something that he is not used to
Which makes me feel compassion for the little boy he once was
Who was apparently conditioned to believe the old saw "kill or be killed."

He is a passionate and generous lover,
A phenomenal kisser
And other things

Jane, to be perfectly honest, if you don't want to have sex with your husband, I am perfectly happy to. Damn, he's just so good at it. The funny thing is you would never look at him and say, "I'll bet he's a smokin' hot lay." I mean, the guy looks like he dances with the White Man's Overbite and I'm sure he owns a double-breasted suit (bet you picked it out, told him it was "slimming.")

I don't want him forever. Right now is good, though.

Anecdote: The day after Valentine's Day, your husband showed up at work wearing what had to be the most godawful fugly shirt I have ever seen. It was this billowy pink plaid thing, and it was just horrible. At this fashion moment in time, I am seeing pink checkered shirts all over the place -- the boys in Chelsea are buying them by the rackful at Banana Republic or something. But those are different -- those are close-fitting, stylish, and so crisp and summery looking. I like them. The 7th Avenue abortion your husband was sporting that day looked like, well... here is what my comment was (and I will be the first to admit that sometimes I can be breathtaking in my meanness, this one even caught me off guard) -- "Nice blouse, ___. Did you get that made from Laurie's dress from Oklahoma?"

He has never worn it to work again.

Love Without Attachment

I've got a new practice for the summer. I'm calling it Love Without Attachment. I've put a bright yellow Post-It on my computer with those three words scrawled in blue sharpie. (next to the reminder "Left Foot, Right Foot, Left Foot, Breathe.")

What it means is that I am trying to practice loving people (friends, family, and HIM) without all of the baggage that we attach to it.

It's remarkable -- when you really pay attention -- how much we invest in telling ourselves and someone else that we love them. Things can be going along swimmingly, and the minute you introduce "love" into the picture, suddenly there's all this stuff. And by stuff, I mean expectations, rules, conditioned beliefs, and so on and so on.

We love to tout our abilities to love unconditionally. But do we ever, really?

More on this practice later. I need to go home and get some dinner.

Finding my voice again

I've been taking a class at The Open Center called "The Natural Singer" which is taught by a guy named Claude Stein. I'm finding it is a Zen approach to singing. I'm not doing it because I want to be a singer, but because I'm hoping that freeing my singing voice will help to unlock my writing voice, which has been stifled lo these many years.

So far, it's been fun.

And no, I haven't written a word since I started taking the class.

Sliding Down the Gaping Maw of Satan

Here we are a week before the official "First Day of Summer" and it's been over 90 degrees for many, many days. While we sweat through our clothes, necessitating an emergency trip to the Gap for a pristine white tee, the heat is all anyone can talk about.

We sweat and complain, and complain and sweat.

I walk on the subway platform at 14th Street, hating the girls who look like they don't sweat. Meanwhile, I can leave the house pretty and scrubbed and fresh, and 10 minutes later my eye makeup has migrated a quarter of an inch down my face and I'm peeling stray hairs off of my cheeks.

Going outside is an act of courage, take a deep breath at the door and swim through the soupy air.