Ladies, I'm feeling somewhat celebratory of the Gender tonight, for no particular reason. I think we should all take a moment to revel in the coolness of women. And there is nothing cooler in my books than a woman who keeps it together as the 30s click ever closer to 40 and beyond.
Yes, there are cool older men out there too. I admit that salt and pepper hair on a good lookin' fella gets me right gooey. The spotty 20-somethings and their fat shoes and nervous jitters, not so much. A good middle-aged bod, crinkly crow's feet that dance when laughing, and a general amused acceptance aka maturity are sexy as hell, sez I. I'll take the song of experience over that of innocence any day.
After careful consideration, I'm also going to reject the argument that women get older, men get distinguished. I don't know many "distinguished" older men. I see many older men who have very little style, who have let their bodies go to ruin and who become buffoonish caricatures of themselves. They are invariably the one who ask probing questions like "Hot enough for ya?"
On the other hand, I eye a few men well into their 30s and 40s and beyond ("beyond" usually referring to people I shall never meet, like Jeremy Irons and Colm Feore, granted) and admire their conscious efforts to remain trim and attractive and more interesting as they age. It's inspiring. I don't see why it should be any different for us these days.
I'm lucky to have some great role models in my life as older women, namely a mother with a rockin' bod at 64, a youthful enthusiasm for life and a boyfriend many years her junior who happens to dote on her. I'm determined to get cooler as I get older. Seeing how I was a hilariously awkward teen, a rambunctious asshole in my 20s, and plain serious for the first half of my 30s, this should not be too hard.
Here are some of my thoughts on why cool women get cooler with time:
1. Personal grooming gets better as we recognize ugly truths.
Wandering around Canadian Tire some time ago, I came across a nose hair trimmer. I've always thought these things were for grandfathers. We've all had conversations with long waggling noses sprouting tufts of hair and topped with prawny eyebrows, and thought, jeesh, my dear fellow. Please. I keep expecting a tiny Colombian to come hacking out of there with a machete.
But I must accept that I too have nose hair, always have, and it doesn't trim itself. So I bought one without even a twinge of embarrassment, and now every so often I jam this little device up my nose and voila! no nose hairs stick out when I laugh. (Try it in the mirror, you may be surprised.) I also get my pubic hair ripped out periodically, as it's makes the cat much cleaner and yes, sexier, and get regular haircuts and teeth-cleaning and the like. These things I wantonly ignored when younger, bubbling over with heedless vigour, but now I actually find I like taking care of myself.
2. Physical fitness becomes serious business.
It's hard to get into good shape, and stay in it. It does get harder to both start and maintain as we get older. There are so many valid excuses and demands on our time. That's why when as older broads we get determined to get in shape, it becomes a jihad.
I don't let anything get in the way of my workouts these days. I'm terrified to slack and slide back to where I was even a year ago, which wasn't bad but wasn't great either. I know how quickly one can revert at this stage of life, so it has become a serious business. I've donated all clothes too large for me, no matter how lovely or expensive. I will break your fucking kneecaps if you attempt to stop me from a workout. Losing a pint in the period doesn't stop me, I drag my anemic ass through it regardless. Only sex or a great concert or travel obligations or an emergency will cause me to skip.
So why is this cool? Well, personally I find men who exercise regularly and have good bodies to be more attractive than ones who don't. I'm not talking muscleheads or guys who watch more hockey than they play, just men who take pride in their physical conditioning and abilities.
Finally, as we've usually stopped looking at air-brushed asses in fashion mags and have accepted that even women like Kate Moss and Natalie Portman sport some traces of cellulite, we can breathe a sigh of relief over our own imperfections and just focus on getting leaner and stronger and healthier.
3. Through our careers, we become more confident or at least relatable.
Confidence is a very attractive quality. Most of us have ben working now for over 20 years, and have some firm understanding of where our skills lie. Most of us are successful in our field, to a certain degree. And even if we are midpoint through a career shift or have concluded we are frauds who don't know what the fuck we are doing, our experience makes us relatable to others. I think this is pretty cool.
4. Sex is better, if you can get it with someone you want.
I don't know about you, but I was a bit of a slut as a youth. I'd make out with any guy who was reasonable and into me, and even guys who were unattractive but persistent. Often, alcohol was involved in decision-making. And the sex could be exciting in a holy-shit-whadafuck-am-I-doing kind of way, but it usually wasn't very memorable or all that orgasmic. Youth has an animalistic enthusiasm which is charming in its own right, but which I am happy to leave in the past in exchange for the present.
I think I'm better in bed than I was 20 or even 10 years ago. I pay attention now, and am not so shy in either my language or actions as I once was. Frankly, I'm also more demanding, and have greater expectations of both my partner and myself. I'm doing it singlemindedly for pleasure, not out of peer pressure or procreation or to make somebody love me. I take it for granted they at least like me if we're screwing, and we can only start from there. I don't think you can actually fall in love from sex, I think one has to be more patient and broad in one's understanding than this. But sex is an expression of affection, and a glorious thing at that.
This is not a shallow pleasure: feeling deeply connected as partners is a large part of the thrill. But it is still first and foremost pleasure, and I've finally accepted that is a fine basis on which to have sex.
Of course, as I don't drink + sex, and am fastidious in my choice of partner, it means the sex is not as frequent as I'd like. But I'm at an age where I can afford decent toys, and have many other things on the go, and so I still conclude This is better now. I make up for the lack of frequency with an intensity than borders on the psychopathic when it is within my grasp. Plus I have great dreams, and I've learned by now that sometimes, the dream is better.
On that note, this old broad is going to sleep her 9 hours now.
Hooray for us!
GR
27 January 2010
23 January 2010
In Broken Images by Robert Graves
He is quick, thinking in clear images;
I am slow, thinking in broken images.
He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images.
Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;
Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.
Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact;
Questioning their relevance, I question the fact.
When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;
When the fact fails me, I approve my senses.
He continues quick and dull in his clear images;
I continue slow and sharp in my broken images.
He in a new confusion of his understanding;
I in a new understanding of my confusion.
I am slow, thinking in broken images.
He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images.
Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;
Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.
Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact;
Questioning their relevance, I question the fact.
When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;
When the fact fails me, I approve my senses.
He continues quick and dull in his clear images;
I continue slow and sharp in my broken images.
He in a new confusion of his understanding;
I in a new understanding of my confusion.
21 January 2010
The Singalong portion of the blog
Florence + the Machine: Kiss With A Fist
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tpsDegqioVA#watch-main-area
you hit me once
i hit you back
you gave a kick
i gave a slap
you smashed a plate
over my head
then i set fire to our bed
you hit me once
i hit you back
you gave a kick
i gave a slap
you smashed a plate
over my head
then i set fire to our bed
My black eye casts no shadow
your red eye sees no pain
your slaps don't stick
your kicks don't hit
so we remain the same
blood sticks and
sweat drips
break the lock if it don't fit
a kick in the teeth is good for some
a kiss with a fist is better than none
a-woah a kiss with a fist is better than none
broke your jaw once before spilt your blood upon the floor
you broke my leg in return
sit back and watch the bed burn
well love sticks sweat drips
break the lock if it don't fit
a kick in the teeth is good for some
a kiss with a fist is better than none
a-woah a kiss with a fist is better than none
you hit me once
i hit you back
you gave a kick
i gave a slap
you smashed a plate over my head
then i set fire to our bed
you hit me once
i hit you back
you gave a kick
i gave a slap
you smashed a plate over my head
then i set fire to our bed
The Rapture Shall Not Take Us
This was the name of my trivia team for the annual art gallery fundraiser late last year. We did not win, but it was funny to see normally nice people (including myself) visibly itch with impatience over their teammates' stupidity and rash judgment, and make excuses for their own.
Why I am concluding that indeed the Rapture shall not take me is that I'm becoming less nice, even notnice, and I have to admit it is both delicious and startling. I am The Baked Alaska--holy shit, there's frosty ice cream in this hot cake!
Exhibit A: I have chilled my heart to the pets. They are so adoring, but so messy (dog A) or demanding (dog B and cat 1.0). After staging my house for a real estate showing last weekend, I came home and admired my beautiful bed. Yes, scratch the surface and it's a nasty futon base topped with a Canadian Tire inflatable mattress, but I'd covered it with new sheets and blankets and fluffy white pillows and even two stupid shiny little cushions. It looked glorious.
The thought of stripping it down and sharing it again with shedding beasts with earthy paws was too much to bear. So I didn't. Also, I've decided that if I want to ever share a bed with a human again, I need to kick out the animals. There's logic there somewhere. The dogs now stay downstairs on the nasty futon couch with the cover a la "Southwest" design (we were issued them in the early '90's, along with Celtic tattoos and at least two Sarah McLachlan cds). They give me the gooey eyes but so far I've been implacable. Plus that fucking cat was waking me up pre-dawn, so now he goes out and stays out all night. So far he survives.
Possesion of all animals is on the table in Gretchen's big year of Movin' and Shakin' and Doin' What it Takes. The cat may go to mum's; the dogs to the ex. I will get a cactus if I get lonely, or go to the movies, or get off with or without company. Apparently, animals won't get taken in the Rapture either, so we can catch up then.
Exhibit ii: I am not nice to men I am not interested in That Way, but who inexplicably are drawn to me out of self-destructive tendencies. They may chuckle to themselves and think "Oho, she's a challenge." or "Super, whatta firecracker!" Yes, if you're not careful I will scream over your neighbourhood, wake up your parents, cause an aneurysm in your pet budgie and take a few of your fingers with me. Mostly though, I get bored to the point I actually find it interesting to have reached a new plane of boredom...and then beyond. It's a marvel, and you can't blame me for being notnice to the point of sarcasm if you demand that I feign interest.
Truthfully, you dopes ruffle my feathers as I myself am on the receiving end of some indifference these days from one I desire. Truthfully, this is the notnice part: that I am flippant and a trifle cruel as a petty way to pass on my own pain, even in small doses. Sigh. No Rapture for me.
Exhibit 3.0: True proof of a nasty streak. The words "community service" reliably makes my gorge rise these days. Listening to chunky men and birdy women with pinched faces solemnly intone about the Need in the Community and how they are Getting Involved..."and it feels really good, even though I'm ever so busy with work and kids and family, you know, it's all so crazy but it's all what keeps me going." Big sigh as they give themselves the mental reacharound for being such champions. Good for you. Really.
Myself, I'm going home to drink expensive bourbon out of miniature brandy snifters (where the hell did I ever get these from, anyway?) and crank Florence + the Machine (definitely notnice and damn that girl is GOOD) while typing out my dementia before my hands curl into stiff witchy talons only good for boiling eye of newt.
And obsess over why I still have cellulite and book a Brazilian wax and put off doing income tax and lust over what I cannot have.
And feel spasms of hatred for men wearing baseball caps (why oh why) and boomer couples who cannot order lunch from a counter without having a goddamn discussion first about the implications of ordering soba noodles over chow mein, and don't forget there's rice...and computer geeks who find it an interesting puzzle that the computer I have brought back four times in five weeks still fails to work properly, and who have attained the adequate social retardation to ask me to confirm that the computer left the store working, right? So I have to reply that I don't know, it may be the case but as it does not work when I get home it is not pertinent, and by the way I am not paying for this and by the way Part II, if I have to pick up this computer again to take back to the mysterious computer-destroying forcefield surrounding my house, if I do this and this computer fails to work 100% I am returning it to the store through their front window. And then I smile and leave with a chirpy "Call me!"
Yes, I am becoming a bitch and the truth is I like it. I have more sympathy with Cruella de Ville these days than I do with Snow White (ooh, I'm mixing Disney, I AM bad! Plus I'm two days late in updating this blog--evil!).
Anyway, if you snap at your child today or roll your eyes at a coworker or don't pick up the phone because you have call display, I hope you remember me. Visualize me flipping the bird to a surprised senior as the poor dear cuts me off in traffic, and forgive yourself instantly.
Cheers,
GRrrrrrrrrr
Why I am concluding that indeed the Rapture shall not take me is that I'm becoming less nice, even notnice, and I have to admit it is both delicious and startling. I am The Baked Alaska--holy shit, there's frosty ice cream in this hot cake!
Exhibit A: I have chilled my heart to the pets. They are so adoring, but so messy (dog A) or demanding (dog B and cat 1.0). After staging my house for a real estate showing last weekend, I came home and admired my beautiful bed. Yes, scratch the surface and it's a nasty futon base topped with a Canadian Tire inflatable mattress, but I'd covered it with new sheets and blankets and fluffy white pillows and even two stupid shiny little cushions. It looked glorious.
The thought of stripping it down and sharing it again with shedding beasts with earthy paws was too much to bear. So I didn't. Also, I've decided that if I want to ever share a bed with a human again, I need to kick out the animals. There's logic there somewhere. The dogs now stay downstairs on the nasty futon couch with the cover a la "Southwest" design (we were issued them in the early '90's, along with Celtic tattoos and at least two Sarah McLachlan cds). They give me the gooey eyes but so far I've been implacable. Plus that fucking cat was waking me up pre-dawn, so now he goes out and stays out all night. So far he survives.
Possesion of all animals is on the table in Gretchen's big year of Movin' and Shakin' and Doin' What it Takes. The cat may go to mum's; the dogs to the ex. I will get a cactus if I get lonely, or go to the movies, or get off with or without company. Apparently, animals won't get taken in the Rapture either, so we can catch up then.
Exhibit ii: I am not nice to men I am not interested in That Way, but who inexplicably are drawn to me out of self-destructive tendencies. They may chuckle to themselves and think "Oho, she's a challenge." or "Super, whatta firecracker!" Yes, if you're not careful I will scream over your neighbourhood, wake up your parents, cause an aneurysm in your pet budgie and take a few of your fingers with me. Mostly though, I get bored to the point I actually find it interesting to have reached a new plane of boredom...and then beyond. It's a marvel, and you can't blame me for being notnice to the point of sarcasm if you demand that I feign interest.
Truthfully, you dopes ruffle my feathers as I myself am on the receiving end of some indifference these days from one I desire. Truthfully, this is the notnice part: that I am flippant and a trifle cruel as a petty way to pass on my own pain, even in small doses. Sigh. No Rapture for me.
Exhibit 3.0: True proof of a nasty streak. The words "community service" reliably makes my gorge rise these days. Listening to chunky men and birdy women with pinched faces solemnly intone about the Need in the Community and how they are Getting Involved..."and it feels really good, even though I'm ever so busy with work and kids and family, you know, it's all so crazy but it's all what keeps me going." Big sigh as they give themselves the mental reacharound for being such champions. Good for you. Really.
Myself, I'm going home to drink expensive bourbon out of miniature brandy snifters (where the hell did I ever get these from, anyway?) and crank Florence + the Machine (definitely notnice and damn that girl is GOOD) while typing out my dementia before my hands curl into stiff witchy talons only good for boiling eye of newt.
And obsess over why I still have cellulite and book a Brazilian wax and put off doing income tax and lust over what I cannot have.
And feel spasms of hatred for men wearing baseball caps (why oh why) and boomer couples who cannot order lunch from a counter without having a goddamn discussion first about the implications of ordering soba noodles over chow mein, and don't forget there's rice...and computer geeks who find it an interesting puzzle that the computer I have brought back four times in five weeks still fails to work properly, and who have attained the adequate social retardation to ask me to confirm that the computer left the store working, right? So I have to reply that I don't know, it may be the case but as it does not work when I get home it is not pertinent, and by the way I am not paying for this and by the way Part II, if I have to pick up this computer again to take back to the mysterious computer-destroying forcefield surrounding my house, if I do this and this computer fails to work 100% I am returning it to the store through their front window. And then I smile and leave with a chirpy "Call me!"
Yes, I am becoming a bitch and the truth is I like it. I have more sympathy with Cruella de Ville these days than I do with Snow White (ooh, I'm mixing Disney, I AM bad! Plus I'm two days late in updating this blog--evil!).
Anyway, if you snap at your child today or roll your eyes at a coworker or don't pick up the phone because you have call display, I hope you remember me. Visualize me flipping the bird to a surprised senior as the poor dear cuts me off in traffic, and forgive yourself instantly.
Cheers,
GRrrrrrrrrr
13 January 2010
The Inevitable Snarl
Dear readers, here's a sleepless slice of single life in my wet corner of the world from two nights ago:
Everything male in my life seems destined to drive me crazy. It's been non-stop deluging here for what seems like weeks and weeks and looks to continue, so Oscar is grumpy. He hates being outside but even a 13-year old cat, it seems, has its limits to how much he can sleep.
He has set aside his usual schedule of being my 6-6:30am wake up call in favour of random acts of wee hours town-crying. Today's went off at 1:30ish, and as I had bourbon for supper with a side of ice cubes following a two-hour workout, that and the empty stomach and the general state of churning I've been feeling the last weeks has kept me up. I'm hoping this does not foreshadow a state of churn for all of 2010, as by spring I'll be choked up with butter and drop dead of a cardiac infarction.
So back to the Male driving me apeshit, well: yes. A lover, likely ex-lover, ex-friend, aloof and caustic driving around Nowhereville, Texas. The ex, depressed and lost, still throwing out the odd "We should get back together, man" like that will fix everything. It would be mildly comical if it weren't so half-hearted. A family friend in Europe sending me a short dreamy email that alludes he has fallen into idealization with me following my recent visit. (My sister is quite suspicious on this front, interrogating me like I'd had my carnal way with him instead of just giving him what I thought was a sweet, innocent goodbye kiss).
To add insult to injury, despite all these phantasms shifting and drifting around my life via email and telephone, I am HORNY AS FUCK and LONELY AS HELL and wouldn't mind a date with a real life guy who didn't repel me, or who wasn't 16-years old physically or mentally. Man-child, get thee behind me.
Years of coupledom have made me selectively retarded, and I have no way of gauging guys' ages or their single or not status. I don't know how to approach a guy I remotely am attracted to without seeming like old broad on the prowl. So boo hoo hoo for me. Now I know what it's like to be a single man, keyed up with lust and feeling at a disadvantage. At least they have video games and "buddies" so they can travel in packs.
There I'm done, I now rein myself in with a HA! Even dear readers have their limits in tolerance. It has been pointed out to me that as a single, attractive, financially independent 36-year old who has terrific career/life options open to her following the sale of the country abode, I am living the dream or as a sour friend once put it, “at the top of the food chain”.
Translation: I should quit whining already, and fretting that my life is just sooooooo good but I could be sooooooo happy if only I could fill my heart up with my dreamman to complete me. Guilty as charged! and I'm fucking working on it, but it would still be nice to fill at least part of my need aka did I mention I'm horny as hell? There's that fucking cat at the door.
Excuse me, my usual Poignant Bravery is slipping. I'm defenceless at 4:02am. I'm tired of being myself at such times.
I take solace that we all feel this way, and I don't get to pass go and collect $200 just because I did 150 pushups in two hours yesterday (and had a dude ask me, so, how old are you anyway? like there was an ongoing bet in the club, after I pointed out to the whining teens exclaiming they can't do it, not even 20 pushups that indeed they can if I can).
I take solace that we're all adrift, and wishing we were elsewhere at times, and wishing we were not ourselves but someone better or more together. This too shall pass. In the meantime, please enjoy my snarl.
Epilogue: Last night I did a Flintstone and threw the cat out for the night. I slept uninterrupted for the first time in months. My god. New mothers: you have my full and imperfect sympathy.
05 January 2010
A Lesson in Refusing Niceties
Is your 2010 developed enough to cry a bit in her crib yet, or is she still sleeping in a state of shock? And that old hag 2009, she in the grave yet or still dragging her cadaver around? Put her down, already.
My new year started with events and revelations, adding up to a much-needed and well-aimed thunderbolt. (If you haven't listened to the song below, please do, as this post won't make much sense otherwise.) I shouldn't be surprised to be struck by lightning. It hurts, how it hurts, but that'll teach me to dance barefoot under the tallest tree in a storm, waiting for something to happen.
Conclusions:
1. We all fuck up, tragically and comically.
In my case, what started out as "coping" mutated into cheating myself.
My best friend pointed out that I'd been in warrior mode all year, dealing with crippled finances and home renovations for the inevitable sale and all the other logistics of break-up. Admirable and fierce and necessary for survival.
Oh warrior. Hopped up on adrenaline while wearing armour, you don't know you're wounded. Go get some help. You're bleeding all over the goddamn place already. Christ. You think you're being so tough but your friends have all turned away in pity or disgust. Please just stop kicking the corpses and get off the battlefield.
Summary: Peacetime is scary in its silence, but I'll get used to it.
2. No one escapes a broken heart.
An old friend pointed out that he and I share a special arrogance. We're such smartypants we think we don't have to go through loss like everyone else. Our capable brains will take care of everything, shush up the noisy feelings and put them to bed, repeatedly. Get back there...don't make me come up there!
They always make us, though. We always end up going up there just to realize our feelings aren't tired, not at all, and don't want more any bedtime stories either. Dang, how inconvenient. But it's either drug them or kill them or let them run free, so go on, run around and make some noise at this late hour. Who cares what the neighbours may think.
Summary: It feels better to accept pain as a companion than to pretend it doesn't exist.
3. You can't fix a broken heart by replacing the batteries.
I've been on the feedlot of romance since an early age. Yeah, I've thought at times I was ranging free, but I could usually see the fenceposts and I didn't like getting hungry. It's easy to be a glutton when everything around you points to the trough.
It's easy to blame Society and the Patriarchy and Just The Way Things Are for how women in particular are fed on the cheap protein of romance. It's rewarding in the short term to be the fattest cow on the feedlot. But at the age of 36, I must ask myself: who's choosing to eat up now?
At a certain point, we all see an open gate. Stay put for the predictable meal and companionable mooing, or wander into the unknown? Staying is certain death, but comfortable; going is certain discomfort but a chance to live.
I've decided to go, and am tentative and scared shitless but I want to live.
So what's this metaphor about? Well, about not looking for l*o*v*e to save me from myself. Forcing someone to fit inside that vacant hole in my heart is a sure-fire distraction from pursuing life. It's hard to stop searching for a catalyst in the form of The One, Part II.
It's easy to play at love. It's pretty simple to find a serviceable match and focus on Making This Work by Making You Work, You Poor Clod. It's easy to play, anyone can play. I don't want to play, though.
If I look inwards, the questions are deceptive and plain:
What do I want.
What action can I take to try and get it.
Can I accept repeated failure. If not, I should just slink back to the feedlot and hope no one notices I was gone.
Don't think I'm turning my back on love, dear reader. I crave it just like you. I'd been denying I had it because I missed it so much, and tried to only remember the gory parts and disremember the beauty. I didn't want to admit that we'd lost it together, so I claimed never to have found it at all. Neat trick, but it came with a price. I turned into a half-assed activist, all right.
It's hard not to want to define Love and get caught up in myopic dissection. Worse is the temptation to find someone and project onto them the perfect picture we've created. I'm told by menfriends that a) women do this often and b) it is downright SPOOKY.
I've been spooky myself recently, and can report that this realization is mortifying. To a far lesser extent, I've also been spooked a couple times this past year. It's unsettling to have someone look at you and will themselves to see what's not there, and may never be. The more they want it, the less likely it becomes as unsettling turns into get me the hell outta here.
I've lacked patience. I've been afraid to be alone, because who will I have to blame if I fail?
Summary: I'm trying. I accept confusion, and I'll get there. It's exciting and have I mentioned I'm scared shitless? I reckon that's a great start to the year.
Two hooves on the range,
G
My new year started with events and revelations, adding up to a much-needed and well-aimed thunderbolt. (If you haven't listened to the song below, please do, as this post won't make much sense otherwise.) I shouldn't be surprised to be struck by lightning. It hurts, how it hurts, but that'll teach me to dance barefoot under the tallest tree in a storm, waiting for something to happen.
Conclusions:
1. We all fuck up, tragically and comically.
In my case, what started out as "coping" mutated into cheating myself.
My best friend pointed out that I'd been in warrior mode all year, dealing with crippled finances and home renovations for the inevitable sale and all the other logistics of break-up. Admirable and fierce and necessary for survival.
Oh warrior. Hopped up on adrenaline while wearing armour, you don't know you're wounded. Go get some help. You're bleeding all over the goddamn place already. Christ. You think you're being so tough but your friends have all turned away in pity or disgust. Please just stop kicking the corpses and get off the battlefield.
Summary: Peacetime is scary in its silence, but I'll get used to it.
2. No one escapes a broken heart.
An old friend pointed out that he and I share a special arrogance. We're such smartypants we think we don't have to go through loss like everyone else. Our capable brains will take care of everything, shush up the noisy feelings and put them to bed, repeatedly. Get back there...don't make me come up there!
They always make us, though. We always end up going up there just to realize our feelings aren't tired, not at all, and don't want more any bedtime stories either. Dang, how inconvenient. But it's either drug them or kill them or let them run free, so go on, run around and make some noise at this late hour. Who cares what the neighbours may think.
Summary: It feels better to accept pain as a companion than to pretend it doesn't exist.
3. You can't fix a broken heart by replacing the batteries.
I've been on the feedlot of romance since an early age. Yeah, I've thought at times I was ranging free, but I could usually see the fenceposts and I didn't like getting hungry. It's easy to be a glutton when everything around you points to the trough.
It's easy to blame Society and the Patriarchy and Just The Way Things Are for how women in particular are fed on the cheap protein of romance. It's rewarding in the short term to be the fattest cow on the feedlot. But at the age of 36, I must ask myself: who's choosing to eat up now?
At a certain point, we all see an open gate. Stay put for the predictable meal and companionable mooing, or wander into the unknown? Staying is certain death, but comfortable; going is certain discomfort but a chance to live.
I've decided to go, and am tentative and scared shitless but I want to live.
So what's this metaphor about? Well, about not looking for l*o*v*e to save me from myself. Forcing someone to fit inside that vacant hole in my heart is a sure-fire distraction from pursuing life. It's hard to stop searching for a catalyst in the form of The One, Part II.
It's easy to play at love. It's pretty simple to find a serviceable match and focus on Making This Work by Making You Work, You Poor Clod. It's easy to play, anyone can play. I don't want to play, though.
If I look inwards, the questions are deceptive and plain:
What do I want.
What action can I take to try and get it.
Can I accept repeated failure. If not, I should just slink back to the feedlot and hope no one notices I was gone.
Don't think I'm turning my back on love, dear reader. I crave it just like you. I'd been denying I had it because I missed it so much, and tried to only remember the gory parts and disremember the beauty. I didn't want to admit that we'd lost it together, so I claimed never to have found it at all. Neat trick, but it came with a price. I turned into a half-assed activist, all right.
It's hard not to want to define Love and get caught up in myopic dissection. Worse is the temptation to find someone and project onto them the perfect picture we've created. I'm told by menfriends that a) women do this often and b) it is downright SPOOKY.
I've been spooky myself recently, and can report that this realization is mortifying. To a far lesser extent, I've also been spooked a couple times this past year. It's unsettling to have someone look at you and will themselves to see what's not there, and may never be. The more they want it, the less likely it becomes as unsettling turns into get me the hell outta here.
I've lacked patience. I've been afraid to be alone, because who will I have to blame if I fail?
Summary: I'm trying. I accept confusion, and I'll get there. It's exciting and have I mentioned I'm scared shitless? I reckon that's a great start to the year.
Two hooves on the range,
G
Thank you Vic Chesnutt
1964-2009Listen to this:
http://hypem.com/track/997487/Vic+Chesnutt+-+See+You+Around
I'm sorry for my lack of communication
but as I'm staring out this fifth floor window
it seems like the least amount of communication the better
oh, well what am I supposed to say
"there's a bloody effigy on my wall
and the complimentary carnation is falling apart"
and I ain't got time for the niceties
or rather I was never, never fond of the niceties
I will see you around
I will see you around
see you around
see you around
well I must admit I'm flattered by your consecration
It's a mind-numbing spine-chilling
but never-the-less heartwarming gesture
but as you make your advances so clumsily
I'll save us both the both the hassle and leave
and hang out all night
in the familiar fluorescent light of Dunkin' Donuts
'cause I ain't got time for the niceties
or rather I was never, never fond of the niceties
I will see you around
see you around
see you around
see you around
well, how are you with issues
lately you've been a half-assed activist
you've been seen sashaying around the picket line
wearing scarcely any sign
oh, but always vocal in love and strife
and the politics of your all important life
well, I'm sorry but your routine is coming off a bit ragged
and I ain't got time for the niceties
or rather I was never, never fond of the niceties
I will see you around
I'll see you around
see you around ...
I'll see you around ...
For more songs and information on Vic Chesnutt, http://www.myspace.com/vicchesnutt and http://hypem.com/list/5381
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