Dearies, I am not quite dead. I have just been dormant from the written word as a means of expressing myself, for several reasons.
1) I've been getting banged silly and sideways every weekend for the last several weeks. This is draining, especially in conjunction with 2) a sinus infection which enabled yet another cold. Made me a trifle mental and reckless, as it seemed unfair to have been sick on and off since the onset of the Fever Blister (11 Feb 2010).
Anyhoots, though I expect you have no sympathy for my sexfatigue, spare a sympathetic "Awwww..." for the thought of my snuffly, snotty self. Honestly, congestion makes blow jobs sooooo hard. Two streamers of snot forming a mucusy moustache mid-fellate is not hot, according to the latest research. However, it is hilarious. At least thrice this spring I've started cracking up during the Act, had to excuse myself snuffling and chortling and covering my face as I bolt to the bathroom to honk my nose with much gusto. Se-xy!
Where was I? Oh yes, 3) I've been in the midst of making a gut-wretching, life-altering decision that will have a ripple effect upon the rest of this life, and perhaps a portion of the afterlife as well. However, the decision looks like it has been made for me, and Authentic Drama Queen language aside I'm a pretty hardnosed realist.
I was supposed to start my fabulous new life this fall studying something called "Integrated Design Strategy" in Toronto. The idea being: I cast off the shackles of my West Coast small-town living, flip the bird to the past and conquer the big city with my downhome sass and streetsmarts and kickboxing-tightened bod. Learn, connect, blossom, hold forth in coffee shops, take in undiscovered bands, plus do a whole lot of urban fuckery while pursuing a fab-O career.
Flash forward five years: I recline on modern furniture in a loft in an undisclosed metropolis. Wearing elegant and understated clothes, I purse my lips while managing a nervous, insomniac client in Barcelona. A glass of cold white wine sits beside me, as it is almost end of day. I anticipate my gorgeous husband will be home within the half-hour. I can't remember if he's an architect or a commercial photographer or a vet to the ultra-rich, but he's adoring, handsome, tall and zitless. We are elegantly, understatedly rich. He's fabulous, I'm fabulous. It's all ever so fabulous.
Only problem: I need roughly 40k right now to attain this higher plane of fabulous, for tuition and living and etcetera. And I ain't got it. It's all tied up in my property and house, which sits, charmingly, still unsold. And as I, amazingly, still somehow manage the shitload of debt resulting from my past relationship and my own pisspoor judgement, the chances of acquiring more debt in sufficient student loans are nil. So be it. Eat the rich!
Really, as much as I mock my own vision of What I Want, it really has been true. I'd get these vague flashes of fabulous, and go, all like, oooooo, that's what I want, and that was that. If my house had sold and I had money in hand, I'd be slapping down my first tuition installment tomorrow (the deadline for payment, coincidentally).
However, referencing that hardnosed pragmatist (who is typing in bed, wrapped in her old kimono, by herself in a comfortable three-bedroom house in the countryside with feral pets gallumphing outside--somewhat unfabulous but admittedly cozy), I am blessed with the ability to accept reality with reasonable cheerfulness.
The Vonnegut approach: And so it goes. Or as the people here are fond of saying "It is what it is." The say this half-sagely, half sardonically. And it's true, it IS what it motherfucking is. Truer words never were spake.
I might not be so laissez faire were I not cognizant that my life has, in fact, taken a recent turn for the better. My health has returned, after a stint of antibiotics (quite useless, jeer my doctor friends--to which I retort, well, you have all proven useless otherwise).
I'm already shedding some of the 9 (nine)(!) pounds I packed on in stress and PMS and illness time away from the gym.
Work has picked up on several fronts, including the big, juicy, exciting venture that had been forestalled indefinitely in the early spring.
The house will eventually sell, and I may never have to look at my ex's stuff ever again.
And importantly, I have never had so many good relationships on all fronts before. Family, friends, lover--all are close to my heart these days as reassuring presences. No nasty undermining, no evil co-dependency, no oblique criticism to poke at me. Good vibes. I am not ungrateful. Blessings are counted, roses are smelt, silver linings noted every damn day.
In summary, my final excuse for not having written sooner was that I needed some time to figure this one out,and consult the people around me, and come to terms with what staying put might mean for the present. Now I'm finding life is fairly relaxing and interesting and hilarious once again. Plus it's summer (sort of) so people are frequently half-naked in public, which always lifts my spirits. Stay tuned!
G
PS Always the optimist, I am pleased I no longer have to try to explain what "Integrated Design Strategy" is to people who are polite enough to enquire. Conversely, I had been hoping to find out the first week of school, and now I'll never know...alas. And so it goes.
24 June 2010
01 June 2010
There Will Be Blood--So What Are You Going to Do About It?
Epilogue: I sat down tonight to pontificate on the topic of friendship. Instead, I have written about sex during menstruation. The scatalogical wins over the abstract, once again.
I've been charting my period the last several months, mainly for sexplanning purposes. My reproductive organs are flattered by the ongoing scrutiny, as their response seems to be a) prolong the bloodshed and b) shorten the bloodfree intervals.
My typical period now lasts a full week. I was bemused to find this entry scrawled in my day-timer from a couple of months ago: "9 fucking days?!!" Two days heavy, two days moderate, followed by one-two days light, and then another two-plus days of spotty not-quite bleeding. More like a pinch-flat leak versus a hemorrhage.
The conventional wisdom for period-tracking is to count from Day 1 of your last period to Day 1 of your next. For most women, this is 28 days. For myself, it varies from 21-26. From the last day of Period A to the first day of Period B, however, the interval is more like 14-19 days. Jeesh. So I don't "get" my period every 28 days. I "have" my period (in some measure) half the month.
This leads me to two conclusions: one, this blog should be sponsored by Always and Tampax; two, it is little wonder I have such a raging libido when I only have two weeks a month to Make It Happen.
Let me qualify Make It Happen. This refers to sex without a colourful mess. Though at times inconveniently moist and sticky, ejaculate doesn't really count; indeed, it is a badge of honour for work well done.
Menstrual blood, on the other hand, stains vindictively. Also, at its onset it may be attended by black clots of cervical material. Yum! In addition to the sloughing of one's womb, there's the distinct scent of the abattoir to contend with. Cunnilingus is not desired at such times by either party, which is a sorrowful state of affairs in general. (When encouraged to paint a sign at a recent event celebrating love & positivity & good vibes, I daubed "Eat More Pie" on a piece of bright corex board. I then added a clumsily drawn pastry, replete with steam curls and a piece cut out of it. In my defense, I was a) uncharacteristically drunk in public and b) it was an event attended by nice, middle-class hippies. I'd just come from watching the UFC fights at the local redneck bar, so was discombobulated. But I digress.)
On the plus side, menstruation provides excellent lubrication. There's also the getting-to-know-you factor. The determination and grace with which a mate pursues a bloodfuck speaks volumes about his character and ability to plan.
Some defer the hard-on, or politely request a blow-job. This is usually fine by me, as I may be feeling self-conscious and sexually disabled.
Others push on, but are silently squeamish or distracted. Some are impractical or helpless to contend with it. Faced with a dismayed or frankly grossed-out man after the fact, it's tempting to make like the oozycoozy swamp creature you now resemble in his eyes and slither back to the slough, thanks.
However, if a man suggests the shower stall as an alternative bedroom (easy clean-up!), or procures a dark towel or voluminous, seldom-worn sweatshirt for the bed like it ain't no big thang, chances are he's a Keeper. And if he admires the post-coital swathes across his groin and hips and abdomen, and laughs at your observation that he resembles the Joker from the Dark Knight film, then chances are you and I are dating the same man. He's a peach, isn't he?
Regardless, the prow and stern of a SuperLong maxi-pad jutting from either end of one's granny/period panties is an offputting visual. As is the mysteriously long string of a tampon snaking forth down one's inner thigh like some lost dental floss.
I try to arrange things with more discretion, but am limited in my menstrual aids. Sadly, I didn't have any success with the Instead option, which I was told by a friend could be left in during sex. I've concluded my kegels are too argumentative to even admit this weird little dog frisbee-like object. And though I like the idea, the DivaCup is messy to insert and remove. If I can somehow assume the right lunge position to stuff the thing inside, it insists on poking me to remind me it's still there. Yes, I know. Christ, you're a pain. Plus you leak. The DivaCup now resides permanently under my bathroom sink.
No, there's not much to be done about the blood catchment options available, nor the fact that I appear to have sprung a semi-permanent gush as I approach the cusp of my late 30's. (At this rate, I'll be completely anemic by 40.) Growing philosophical in my dotage, I've finally accepted it, even shrugged off the injustice of not having feminine hygiene products paid for by our fine medicare system (well, why not?).
I'm just happy to be with a man who doesn't give a shit if I've got my period, as long as I don't. I repeat myself from a couple of posts back: it is gratifying to date a man with long-term relationship experience, versus a manchild with little to none. The latter fears the unknown mysteries of the female form, while the former knows it all too well and is just grateful for occasional attempts at delicacy. Amen to that, sisters. He agrees that the ideal couples' house is one with separate bathrooms; I'm one step closer to love. So it goes.
May your periods be short and pain-free,
Gretchen "Gusher" Rutte
I've been charting my period the last several months, mainly for sexplanning purposes. My reproductive organs are flattered by the ongoing scrutiny, as their response seems to be a) prolong the bloodshed and b) shorten the bloodfree intervals.
My typical period now lasts a full week. I was bemused to find this entry scrawled in my day-timer from a couple of months ago: "9 fucking days?!!" Two days heavy, two days moderate, followed by one-two days light, and then another two-plus days of spotty not-quite bleeding. More like a pinch-flat leak versus a hemorrhage.
The conventional wisdom for period-tracking is to count from Day 1 of your last period to Day 1 of your next. For most women, this is 28 days. For myself, it varies from 21-26. From the last day of Period A to the first day of Period B, however, the interval is more like 14-19 days. Jeesh. So I don't "get" my period every 28 days. I "have" my period (in some measure) half the month.
This leads me to two conclusions: one, this blog should be sponsored by Always and Tampax; two, it is little wonder I have such a raging libido when I only have two weeks a month to Make It Happen.
Let me qualify Make It Happen. This refers to sex without a colourful mess. Though at times inconveniently moist and sticky, ejaculate doesn't really count; indeed, it is a badge of honour for work well done.
Menstrual blood, on the other hand, stains vindictively. Also, at its onset it may be attended by black clots of cervical material. Yum! In addition to the sloughing of one's womb, there's the distinct scent of the abattoir to contend with. Cunnilingus is not desired at such times by either party, which is a sorrowful state of affairs in general. (When encouraged to paint a sign at a recent event celebrating love & positivity & good vibes, I daubed "Eat More Pie" on a piece of bright corex board. I then added a clumsily drawn pastry, replete with steam curls and a piece cut out of it. In my defense, I was a) uncharacteristically drunk in public and b) it was an event attended by nice, middle-class hippies. I'd just come from watching the UFC fights at the local redneck bar, so was discombobulated. But I digress.)
On the plus side, menstruation provides excellent lubrication. There's also the getting-to-know-you factor. The determination and grace with which a mate pursues a bloodfuck speaks volumes about his character and ability to plan.
Some defer the hard-on, or politely request a blow-job. This is usually fine by me, as I may be feeling self-conscious and sexually disabled.
Others push on, but are silently squeamish or distracted. Some are impractical or helpless to contend with it. Faced with a dismayed or frankly grossed-out man after the fact, it's tempting to make like the oozycoozy swamp creature you now resemble in his eyes and slither back to the slough, thanks.
However, if a man suggests the shower stall as an alternative bedroom (easy clean-up!), or procures a dark towel or voluminous, seldom-worn sweatshirt for the bed like it ain't no big thang, chances are he's a Keeper. And if he admires the post-coital swathes across his groin and hips and abdomen, and laughs at your observation that he resembles the Joker from the Dark Knight film, then chances are you and I are dating the same man. He's a peach, isn't he?
Regardless, the prow and stern of a SuperLong maxi-pad jutting from either end of one's granny/period panties is an offputting visual. As is the mysteriously long string of a tampon snaking forth down one's inner thigh like some lost dental floss.
I try to arrange things with more discretion, but am limited in my menstrual aids. Sadly, I didn't have any success with the Instead option, which I was told by a friend could be left in during sex. I've concluded my kegels are too argumentative to even admit this weird little dog frisbee-like object. And though I like the idea, the DivaCup is messy to insert and remove. If I can somehow assume the right lunge position to stuff the thing inside, it insists on poking me to remind me it's still there. Yes, I know. Christ, you're a pain. Plus you leak. The DivaCup now resides permanently under my bathroom sink.
No, there's not much to be done about the blood catchment options available, nor the fact that I appear to have sprung a semi-permanent gush as I approach the cusp of my late 30's. (At this rate, I'll be completely anemic by 40.) Growing philosophical in my dotage, I've finally accepted it, even shrugged off the injustice of not having feminine hygiene products paid for by our fine medicare system (well, why not?).
I'm just happy to be with a man who doesn't give a shit if I've got my period, as long as I don't. I repeat myself from a couple of posts back: it is gratifying to date a man with long-term relationship experience, versus a manchild with little to none. The latter fears the unknown mysteries of the female form, while the former knows it all too well and is just grateful for occasional attempts at delicacy. Amen to that, sisters. He agrees that the ideal couples' house is one with separate bathrooms; I'm one step closer to love. So it goes.
May your periods be short and pain-free,
Gretchen "Gusher" Rutte
24 May 2010
The Tau of Gretch
A shear stress, denoted 
(tau), is defined as a stress which is applied parallel or tangential to a face of a material, as opposed to a normal stress which is applied perpendicularly.
-http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shear_stress
This week I've been a veritable Nutcho of stresses, pushed and pulled into contortions of compression and tension. It begs the question: How much displacement can take place before irrevocable deformation results?
I do not understand much of material science, but grasp that there are several types of stresses within physics and engineering. The so-called normal type of stress is force exerted perpendicular to the face of a material. If you've ever broken a bone, chances are it came from blunt impact of this kind. It can snap a radius or femur in two with casual ease. Hopefully, it's a clean break that can knit itself strong again, once set and cast.
I liken this normal stress to the infinite number of aggravations and motivations that propel us through daily life. We learn to expect them--the traffic jam, the nosy co-worker, the extra-large phone bill--and fortify ourselves accordingly. We just deal with them. These normal stresses make us resilient over time. It's mental conditioning; we learn to deflect and absorb these perpendicularities.
Shear stress, however, occurs parallel to the face of a material. This stress is more difficult to counteract. It's not delivered in a blow we can see coming, and either deflect or steel overselves to absorb. Enough of these tangential stresses in a short period can leave us feeling frayed, pulled out of recognition, deformed.
My shear point was reached this week. First, some context: PMS week. My best friend and I recently had a conversation about this topic, when I was expressing embarrassed recognition over my state.
"What do you think happens to us during PMS?", she asks.
"Well, personally I just get a heightened sensitivity to things that normally I take in stride. I become swollen, physically and emotionally. Everything has the potential to scratch at me, I'm in a state of rawness."
"No." She says this emphatically. "No. What's happening is that your body is full of all the shit you've been taking all month from people. At the end of the month, your body is about to do some serious house-keeping, and get rid of everything you've been carrying since your last period. And if too much shit comes your way, your body rebels. It can't take it any more, and your reactions are just that: not being able to take anymore from anyone."
"Men swing in and out of their "period" all the time, and this is known as being assertive. Women try to keep it together until their bodies can't take it anymore, and this is known as PMSing. It's bullshit."
I see her point. Instead of looking at PMS as a weakness peculiar to the fertile feminine, it could be seen as a heightened state of self-defense. When my body aches and cramps and I feel alternately murderous and depressed and ardent and hungry, this is a distillation of feelings and desires I've suppressed over the course of the previous weeks. This would explain why some months are much worse/heavier than others. Food for thought.
Anyway, it is in this state that I begin to experience my shear stresses. It begins with a creeping feeling that something is off at work. I've just started working on a new and significant project as a subcontractor. The person I'm working through is normally a reliable communicator, in daily contact via phone or text. A few days pass where no or very little response is forthcoming, and I start to worry. I discover he's out of contact with everyone, and that the brief texts I'm getting are more than anyone else has heard.
Already fretful, I'm visited by another tangential stress. It's been my companion for so long I've become inured to its presence. My Ex, he calls and disturbs me deeply. He is in his own state, due to the one-year marker of our break-up and his birthday. He has a penchant for extremes, made more dramatic by an inability to express himself and perfectionist tendencies. Throw in some ADHD and an addictive personality for good measure.
The phone call rips me up. It's terrible to hear him suffer, a person I'd loved so fully. It's terrible to be manipulated by someone who doesn't know how else to be. And it's a terrible relief to hear him say that the break-up wasn't my fault. He told me I'm an amazing person, and had done and been than he'd thought possible in a mate. I hadn't realized how filled with self-doubt I'd been until I heard that.
Dark and light. The dark being his hinting at self-destruction, the dark being his use of my terrible need for approval against me, in an attempt to pull me back towards him. Tangential stress number two; now where's the third, the inevitable third?
Next is the arrival of Guyfriend with a few hours notice. We have a lovely, friendly dinner together, watch some tv in bed, and nestle down as comfortable as childhood pals to sleep. Except both of us are creatures of dreamy desire, and find ourselves thrashing around together before one or both of us wakes up and rolls over in the knowledge that we just don't do that anymore. Habit, mistaken identity, generic desire, the id versus the superego. Who knows?
A night of frustrated sleep leaves me has me behaving gingerly in the morning. One more normal stress I've accepted as part of the terms of this strange relationship, right? Except I'm scraped raw again, upon learning that my work colleague has officially gone AWOL. An alcoholic flare-up, is there ever a good time?
Faced with deep uncertainty over how I'll make my living in the next few months, I reach my shear point. I can't take it anymore. Now, guyfriend's funny stories about his sexual adventures and his esoteric thoughts on love and most of all, a damn picture he has pulled up on my computer of himself with a gorgeous woman he has not winnowed out, well, it all is too much. I cannot understand why a "friend" would hurt me like this, and ask for an explanation.
He claims to be startled. Turns out he had not realized the extent of my feelings for him until that moment, and his response is (wince, wince) pity and concern. He tries to point out why he's not fit for a typical relationship, why I'm better off not thinking about him in those terms, and how much he values me as a friend. Fuck. Me.
It is a relief, in a way, as I don't believe him. He has known the extent of my feelings for some time now, or at least suspected enough to break it off; if not, he is more monstrously self-involved than even I can accept. Either way, the effect is the same: a loss of love for him and all its attendant sorrow. I was gratified to hear him use the word "joy" in describing our time together in the early days of the Experiment, but that's about the only light in the situation.
After he leaves on his perpetual roadtrip, I engage in a flurry of damage control for work to buy us a few days. Then I sit in my kitchen, gripped by the need to get the hell out of town. I've reached the point where it was not going to be enough, to hang out with galpals or clean the house or kickbox or any of the other coping mechanisms I usually rely upon. My sanity is ready to cleave.
(tau), is defined as a stress which is applied parallel or tangential to a face of a material, as opposed to a normal stress which is applied perpendicularly.-http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shear_stress
This week I've been a veritable Nutcho of stresses, pushed and pulled into contortions of compression and tension. It begs the question: How much displacement can take place before irrevocable deformation results?
I do not understand much of material science, but grasp that there are several types of stresses within physics and engineering. The so-called normal type of stress is force exerted perpendicular to the face of a material. If you've ever broken a bone, chances are it came from blunt impact of this kind. It can snap a radius or femur in two with casual ease. Hopefully, it's a clean break that can knit itself strong again, once set and cast.
I liken this normal stress to the infinite number of aggravations and motivations that propel us through daily life. We learn to expect them--the traffic jam, the nosy co-worker, the extra-large phone bill--and fortify ourselves accordingly. We just deal with them. These normal stresses make us resilient over time. It's mental conditioning; we learn to deflect and absorb these perpendicularities.
Shear stress, however, occurs parallel to the face of a material. This stress is more difficult to counteract. It's not delivered in a blow we can see coming, and either deflect or steel overselves to absorb. Enough of these tangential stresses in a short period can leave us feeling frayed, pulled out of recognition, deformed.
My shear point was reached this week. First, some context: PMS week. My best friend and I recently had a conversation about this topic, when I was expressing embarrassed recognition over my state.
"What do you think happens to us during PMS?", she asks.
"Well, personally I just get a heightened sensitivity to things that normally I take in stride. I become swollen, physically and emotionally. Everything has the potential to scratch at me, I'm in a state of rawness."
"No." She says this emphatically. "No. What's happening is that your body is full of all the shit you've been taking all month from people. At the end of the month, your body is about to do some serious house-keeping, and get rid of everything you've been carrying since your last period. And if too much shit comes your way, your body rebels. It can't take it any more, and your reactions are just that: not being able to take anymore from anyone."
"Men swing in and out of their "period" all the time, and this is known as being assertive. Women try to keep it together until their bodies can't take it anymore, and this is known as PMSing. It's bullshit."
I see her point. Instead of looking at PMS as a weakness peculiar to the fertile feminine, it could be seen as a heightened state of self-defense. When my body aches and cramps and I feel alternately murderous and depressed and ardent and hungry, this is a distillation of feelings and desires I've suppressed over the course of the previous weeks. This would explain why some months are much worse/heavier than others. Food for thought.
Anyway, it is in this state that I begin to experience my shear stresses. It begins with a creeping feeling that something is off at work. I've just started working on a new and significant project as a subcontractor. The person I'm working through is normally a reliable communicator, in daily contact via phone or text. A few days pass where no or very little response is forthcoming, and I start to worry. I discover he's out of contact with everyone, and that the brief texts I'm getting are more than anyone else has heard.
Already fretful, I'm visited by another tangential stress. It's been my companion for so long I've become inured to its presence. My Ex, he calls and disturbs me deeply. He is in his own state, due to the one-year marker of our break-up and his birthday. He has a penchant for extremes, made more dramatic by an inability to express himself and perfectionist tendencies. Throw in some ADHD and an addictive personality for good measure.
The phone call rips me up. It's terrible to hear him suffer, a person I'd loved so fully. It's terrible to be manipulated by someone who doesn't know how else to be. And it's a terrible relief to hear him say that the break-up wasn't my fault. He told me I'm an amazing person, and had done and been than he'd thought possible in a mate. I hadn't realized how filled with self-doubt I'd been until I heard that.
Dark and light. The dark being his hinting at self-destruction, the dark being his use of my terrible need for approval against me, in an attempt to pull me back towards him. Tangential stress number two; now where's the third, the inevitable third?
Next is the arrival of Guyfriend with a few hours notice. We have a lovely, friendly dinner together, watch some tv in bed, and nestle down as comfortable as childhood pals to sleep. Except both of us are creatures of dreamy desire, and find ourselves thrashing around together before one or both of us wakes up and rolls over in the knowledge that we just don't do that anymore. Habit, mistaken identity, generic desire, the id versus the superego. Who knows?
A night of frustrated sleep leaves me has me behaving gingerly in the morning. One more normal stress I've accepted as part of the terms of this strange relationship, right? Except I'm scraped raw again, upon learning that my work colleague has officially gone AWOL. An alcoholic flare-up, is there ever a good time?
Faced with deep uncertainty over how I'll make my living in the next few months, I reach my shear point. I can't take it anymore. Now, guyfriend's funny stories about his sexual adventures and his esoteric thoughts on love and most of all, a damn picture he has pulled up on my computer of himself with a gorgeous woman he has not winnowed out, well, it all is too much. I cannot understand why a "friend" would hurt me like this, and ask for an explanation.
He claims to be startled. Turns out he had not realized the extent of my feelings for him until that moment, and his response is (wince, wince) pity and concern. He tries to point out why he's not fit for a typical relationship, why I'm better off not thinking about him in those terms, and how much he values me as a friend. Fuck. Me.
It is a relief, in a way, as I don't believe him. He has known the extent of my feelings for some time now, or at least suspected enough to break it off; if not, he is more monstrously self-involved than even I can accept. Either way, the effect is the same: a loss of love for him and all its attendant sorrow. I was gratified to hear him use the word "joy" in describing our time together in the early days of the Experiment, but that's about the only light in the situation.
After he leaves on his perpetual roadtrip, I engage in a flurry of damage control for work to buy us a few days. Then I sit in my kitchen, gripped by the need to get the hell out of town. I've reached the point where it was not going to be enough, to hang out with galpals or clean the house or kickbox or any of the other coping mechanisms I usually rely upon. My sanity is ready to cleave.
Throwing caution to the wind, I decide to go visit the man I'd met recently, who lives two hours' drive away. Whether I end up hanging out with him or sleeping in my car, I just need to go.
So I do, and make a wonderful discovery, In my raw and fractured state, I throw myself upon the kindness of a relative stranger. Not knowing what to expect, I find solace.
It sounds prosaic: he takes me for dinner and asks me about what's going on and listens to what I'm willing to share, without prying or passing judgement on anything. He cheers me up with good tequila and great sex and is all in all so damn sweet that despite myself, I relax into genuine affection. I've resisted for many reasons, but now just give up. Interesting.
I explain this to my best friend, his small acts of thoughtfullness, like stopping me on a hike to do up my shoelace like it was no big thing. "It sounds like you're finally dating a man", she ventures. "Someone who's not afraid of doing things like that, who's able to give and to take. Who's not afraid of showing how they feel. A man, not a dude or a guy."
She's right, of course. I've finally graduated to dating men instead of manchilds. Interesting, soothing to feel a sense of comfort from another instead of having to be the constant source.
At any rate, there are still thorny and unresolved issues galore. I still wonder how to move to go to school, my house still does not sell, I'm encumbered by my past as much as ever. I still worry about my ex, grieve my unsuccessful romance with guyfriend. I'm cautious about a new man thinking I'm so great. Financially, I'm beyond broke. My colleague is still M.I.A. on his bender. I've had an on-again-off-again sore throat for three months, and the engine light has come on and stayed on to indicate some puzzling electrical issues with my car. It is not bliss.
Despite stresses both perpendicular and tangential, I think I'm past the shear point for now. Now it is just the logistics of dealing with all the shit, and holding onto the belief that it'll all work out eventually. I find some intrigue in having had to get to a vulnerable place to find strength. There may be hope for me after all.
Stay flexible,
-G "is for Gumby" Rutte
I explain this to my best friend, his small acts of thoughtfullness, like stopping me on a hike to do up my shoelace like it was no big thing. "It sounds like you're finally dating a man", she ventures. "Someone who's not afraid of doing things like that, who's able to give and to take. Who's not afraid of showing how they feel. A man, not a dude or a guy."
She's right, of course. I've finally graduated to dating men instead of manchilds. Interesting, soothing to feel a sense of comfort from another instead of having to be the constant source.
At any rate, there are still thorny and unresolved issues galore. I still wonder how to move to go to school, my house still does not sell, I'm encumbered by my past as much as ever. I still worry about my ex, grieve my unsuccessful romance with guyfriend. I'm cautious about a new man thinking I'm so great. Financially, I'm beyond broke. My colleague is still M.I.A. on his bender. I've had an on-again-off-again sore throat for three months, and the engine light has come on and stayed on to indicate some puzzling electrical issues with my car. It is not bliss.
Despite stresses both perpendicular and tangential, I think I'm past the shear point for now. Now it is just the logistics of dealing with all the shit, and holding onto the belief that it'll all work out eventually. I find some intrigue in having had to get to a vulnerable place to find strength. There may be hope for me after all.
Stay flexible,
-G "is for Gumby" Rutte
18 May 2010
Drafting an Intelligent Response
Salutations earthlings. Warm spring drizzle is blanketing my corner of the world and adding a new dimension to the surreal. Important events still have not occurred but are spoken of frequently, in the half-assed hope of bringing them closer into existence through reference.
Speaking of the future is drafting an object in the imagination. Did you ever take drafting in junior high school, as part of the wonderful oddity called 'Home Economics'? Draft, sew, cook, work with metal and wood. I wonder if it's still a mandatory glob of useful skills thrust upon teens, or if it's been broken down to sub-modules on demand. Ah, the kids. I fear they're presented with too much specificity and not enough mystery.
Back to drafting. Drawing 3D is a major shift for kiddies adept at outlining unidimensional horses and Garfields and rockets. It breaks a straight-on perspective that we accept as reality, aka what we see.
When we look at something, we don't see underneath and behind simultaneously, correct? A child could assume objects are composed of shifting flat planes that click into our field of vision through movement, and which exist only as we see them. Drafting, however, connects the planes as visible proof that they co-exist, despite what we see or don't see. It makes a gawky 13-year old philosophical without knowing it.
I was good at drafting, if too slow to get an outstanding grade. I'd get bogged down in how the lines connected, get dreamy. Not much has changed in 24 years, in that regard. I still get caught up in the idea of looking behind and underneath. What does it mean, and why am I looking?
Although it is not, benign curiosity can feel like a curse. I have to chronically remind myself that discoveries are just as often stumbled upon as found. Best to keep my eyes open, despite a lack of focus. Once they focus, then the conversation can begin in earnest.
Author and journalist James Howard Kunstler recently was the opening speaker at an (un)conference, one of these grand "deSIgN shall s@ve the world" events that incubate faith that yes, we can do it. He spoke of the distinction between intelligent response versus a solution.
My understanding of what he said goes like this: when solutions are spoken of, it's in the context of perpetuating an untenable present. How can we keep going as we are, even as we know this reality is unsustainable and even undesirable? He gives the example of proposing electric cars as the alternative to traditional automobiles, because the idea of having to re-shape the whole way we live and work and interact is overwhelming.
Solutions are clever compromises, a bargaining tactic we use to avoid meaningful change. Solutions are ways we play tricks on ourselves. Intelligent responses, on the other hand, are ways to engage in answers or tactics that address not only a question, but the underlying psychology that underpins it. Here is a problem; now let us look underneath and behind it and to the side, and talk about all that, and what the structure can realistically and positively support as a "solution".
So using his example: it's not yippee, everyone just needs to drive a Prius and we'll be fine. It's more like hmmm, is it sane or feasible to center our lives around roads and parking garages and gas stations? Do we fear a loss of convenience, an examination of what we value as freedom? Are worries about uncertainty and risk and social engineering justified, or automatic responses to our current way of life being challenged? Are we, in short, finding clever excuses for the insularity of a single dimension?
I write about this because I'm equally fascinated with Big Ideas and little pathologies. On the surface, we're all solid ground. Looks good, let's build our solution here. But wait. Underneath is where we see the true load-bearing capacities. Here may be rabbit warrens and ant colonies and worm holes and organic matter, all of which could subside and threaten the integrity of whatever we build superficially. If we recognize they exist, we can move our site to bedrock or dig through it. Best to know, though. Collapse may be spectacular for onlookers, but is only devastating to occupants.
Believe it or not, these esoteric musings help me make sense of daily life. In my last posting, I was ready to reject a recent person of interest based on what I perceived was a lack of sexual interest in me. I made caustic reference to the ex-Date, who'd drifted into silence. These seem like logical, or at least understandable, responses. Protective measures. Refreshingly, I find I'm not so fragile after all these days. Either my sense of self has improved or I'm tired of erecting defenses, or maybe I'm not taking things as personally as I used to.
I was suspicious of the new guy's sweetness, of his expressing how much he liked me. What was wrong with this person that he liked me so much? Why was he so nervous about pleasing me? The more I get to know him, the easier it is for me to accept that he just does like me, and is working through his own pathologies and defensive measures. Okay.
I've also concluded that it's not my job to protect him from me. I've been frank about leaving town in a few months to study several thousand kilometers away, and I refuse to speculate on what I'll be doing during or after my studies. I've been open about a lack of interest in a long-distance relationship. This could change, or not.
In the meantime, I'm getting more comfortable with enjoying myself and being enjoyed in the present. This weekend, he surprised me with a great bottle of bourbon. He bought me breakfast, refinished my French doors, and got me using a radial sander. It's nice.
As for the ex-Date, after a few weeks of silence I sent him a courteous email wishing him the best. He wrote back apologizing for the absence of communication, which he called juvenile on his part, but confirming that he'd felt we were drifting apart. He linked a change in his residence with moving on in the emotional sense, and wished me the best back.
I thanked him for the resolution, and so we end on a grace note rather than a sour one. I regained enough respect for him to feel good about having once been interested in him. My interest in him was marginal, and mainly sexual in nature. I was seeking a distraction from a larger hurt. That's neither good nor bad, just the truth, and it's part of the ongoing conversation with myself to accept that love is not an all-or-nothing venture. Not one dimension, not three, but an exploration of various planes and intersection and angles that can't be contained by the size of a sheet of paper or a deadline. Maddening, uncertain, exciting, continuous.
With that, I go back to work, which today consists of learning more about software design programs and spreadsheeting applications. I'm trying to find the joyful mystery in it...
Gawky 36.9 year old Gretchen signing off-
Speaking of the future is drafting an object in the imagination. Did you ever take drafting in junior high school, as part of the wonderful oddity called 'Home Economics'? Draft, sew, cook, work with metal and wood. I wonder if it's still a mandatory glob of useful skills thrust upon teens, or if it's been broken down to sub-modules on demand. Ah, the kids. I fear they're presented with too much specificity and not enough mystery.
Back to drafting. Drawing 3D is a major shift for kiddies adept at outlining unidimensional horses and Garfields and rockets. It breaks a straight-on perspective that we accept as reality, aka what we see.
When we look at something, we don't see underneath and behind simultaneously, correct? A child could assume objects are composed of shifting flat planes that click into our field of vision through movement, and which exist only as we see them. Drafting, however, connects the planes as visible proof that they co-exist, despite what we see or don't see. It makes a gawky 13-year old philosophical without knowing it.
I was good at drafting, if too slow to get an outstanding grade. I'd get bogged down in how the lines connected, get dreamy. Not much has changed in 24 years, in that regard. I still get caught up in the idea of looking behind and underneath. What does it mean, and why am I looking?
Although it is not, benign curiosity can feel like a curse. I have to chronically remind myself that discoveries are just as often stumbled upon as found. Best to keep my eyes open, despite a lack of focus. Once they focus, then the conversation can begin in earnest.
Author and journalist James Howard Kunstler recently was the opening speaker at an (un)conference, one of these grand "deSIgN shall s@ve the world" events that incubate faith that yes, we can do it. He spoke of the distinction between intelligent response versus a solution.
My understanding of what he said goes like this: when solutions are spoken of, it's in the context of perpetuating an untenable present. How can we keep going as we are, even as we know this reality is unsustainable and even undesirable? He gives the example of proposing electric cars as the alternative to traditional automobiles, because the idea of having to re-shape the whole way we live and work and interact is overwhelming.
Solutions are clever compromises, a bargaining tactic we use to avoid meaningful change. Solutions are ways we play tricks on ourselves. Intelligent responses, on the other hand, are ways to engage in answers or tactics that address not only a question, but the underlying psychology that underpins it. Here is a problem; now let us look underneath and behind it and to the side, and talk about all that, and what the structure can realistically and positively support as a "solution".
So using his example: it's not yippee, everyone just needs to drive a Prius and we'll be fine. It's more like hmmm, is it sane or feasible to center our lives around roads and parking garages and gas stations? Do we fear a loss of convenience, an examination of what we value as freedom? Are worries about uncertainty and risk and social engineering justified, or automatic responses to our current way of life being challenged? Are we, in short, finding clever excuses for the insularity of a single dimension?
I write about this because I'm equally fascinated with Big Ideas and little pathologies. On the surface, we're all solid ground. Looks good, let's build our solution here. But wait. Underneath is where we see the true load-bearing capacities. Here may be rabbit warrens and ant colonies and worm holes and organic matter, all of which could subside and threaten the integrity of whatever we build superficially. If we recognize they exist, we can move our site to bedrock or dig through it. Best to know, though. Collapse may be spectacular for onlookers, but is only devastating to occupants.
Believe it or not, these esoteric musings help me make sense of daily life. In my last posting, I was ready to reject a recent person of interest based on what I perceived was a lack of sexual interest in me. I made caustic reference to the ex-Date, who'd drifted into silence. These seem like logical, or at least understandable, responses. Protective measures. Refreshingly, I find I'm not so fragile after all these days. Either my sense of self has improved or I'm tired of erecting defenses, or maybe I'm not taking things as personally as I used to.
I was suspicious of the new guy's sweetness, of his expressing how much he liked me. What was wrong with this person that he liked me so much? Why was he so nervous about pleasing me? The more I get to know him, the easier it is for me to accept that he just does like me, and is working through his own pathologies and defensive measures. Okay.
I've also concluded that it's not my job to protect him from me. I've been frank about leaving town in a few months to study several thousand kilometers away, and I refuse to speculate on what I'll be doing during or after my studies. I've been open about a lack of interest in a long-distance relationship. This could change, or not.
In the meantime, I'm getting more comfortable with enjoying myself and being enjoyed in the present. This weekend, he surprised me with a great bottle of bourbon. He bought me breakfast, refinished my French doors, and got me using a radial sander. It's nice.
As for the ex-Date, after a few weeks of silence I sent him a courteous email wishing him the best. He wrote back apologizing for the absence of communication, which he called juvenile on his part, but confirming that he'd felt we were drifting apart. He linked a change in his residence with moving on in the emotional sense, and wished me the best back.
I thanked him for the resolution, and so we end on a grace note rather than a sour one. I regained enough respect for him to feel good about having once been interested in him. My interest in him was marginal, and mainly sexual in nature. I was seeking a distraction from a larger hurt. That's neither good nor bad, just the truth, and it's part of the ongoing conversation with myself to accept that love is not an all-or-nothing venture. Not one dimension, not three, but an exploration of various planes and intersection and angles that can't be contained by the size of a sheet of paper or a deadline. Maddening, uncertain, exciting, continuous.
With that, I go back to work, which today consists of learning more about software design programs and spreadsheeting applications. I'm trying to find the joyful mystery in it...
Gawky 36.9 year old Gretchen signing off-
10 May 2010
Snap! D.H. Nails It
The feelings I don't have, I don't have.
The feelings I don't have, I won't say I have.
The feelings you say you have, you don't have.
The feelings you would like us both to have,
we neither of us have.
The feelings people ought to have, they never have.
If people say they've got feelings,
you may be pretty sure they haven't got them.
So if you want either of us to feel anything at all,
You'd better abandon all idea of feeling altogether.
-D.H. Lawrence
The feelings I don't have, I won't say I have.
The feelings you say you have, you don't have.
The feelings you would like us both to have,
we neither of us have.
The feelings people ought to have, they never have.
If people say they've got feelings,
you may be pretty sure they haven't got them.
So if you want either of us to feel anything at all,
You'd better abandon all idea of feeling altogether.
-D.H. Lawrence
09 May 2010
One Day, My Freak Shall Come...
May is wondrous, is it not? We get the first real tastes of summer in May where I live. Extended days of sunshine, the flirtation with 20 degree heat, pasty arms and legs sprouting from fleshy winter tubers dressed up in shorts and t-shirts. It's the promise of a new year and a new season.
Of course, the nights are still cool enough to remind us of the previous four months of the new year, which really isn't that new anymore. A reminder that we best be paying attention as the continuum, well, it continues.
I'm enjoying the kick of a fey spring. It's a good time to take stock of the mistakes of the past, and the consequences of more recent lapses in judgement as well. All part of the continuum. Whether it leads to a particularly "self-actualized" self remains to be seen, unless the actualization is accepting that I'm kind of an asshole as well as all the good stuff.
I don't know if things move quickly in my world because I have a lot of time on my hands these days, or I'm just the impatient kind who likes to move things along. What's it been, a week or two since I outed myself as an old-fashioned romantic? Bleating away, swollen with recovering feelings and PMS. Hinting that one day, if I'm steadfast in my convictions, my prince shall come...
You may be chagrined to learn I'm backsliding away from that position; I know I'm irked with myself (and of course amused). I'm bled out and got some of what I thought I wanted, two occurences which bring a fresh and sceptical perspective. So that's what I concluded? Really?
Fickle cow. No sooner do I have a eureka moment of utmost sincerity, do I start experiencing deflation. No sooner do I find a comfortable perch from which to survey life's rich pageant than I start to experience boredom with that particular view. Ack. I may be beating a hasty retreat to a romantic absence soon enough. An emotional beige may be appropriate for a spell. (A "spell" being more than a day, the duration of my last kick at it.)
The nice man I met a couple of weeks ago has turned out to be so nice. So nice it makes me uncomfortable. There's a fine balance between being appreciated and being idealized. Plus he thinks a lot.
I've met overthinkers before, of course. The ex-Date was one in his own right, except he found some liberation from anxiety in the sex act (eventually) before getting paralyzed by the other stuff. If he'd stuck with objectifying me, we would've been dandy.
The flip side of that is the nice guy overthinker. He likes me so much that he worries about pleasing me, worries that he likes me more than I like him, worries that it's not going to be as magical as it should be, etc. So of course it's not. I'm left in the position of having to reassure him.
This is workable in the short, short term. I'm not wholly unkind, and don't mind reassuring someone or playing polite. Much like ignoring a drop of spittle flying out of someone's mouth while they're talking, or feigning deafness at occasional bathroom noises, polite definitely has its uses.
However, as I'm not looking to cast myself as Girlfriend or even An Understanding Let's See Where It Goes Candidate, it's insincere to continue. Eventually, it'll get farcical. Embarrassed for the two of us, I'll blurt out something along the lines of "Dude, quit spitting!/Man, you really need to cut out the cabbage..."
It's been an interesting exercise, mind you, to rise to the challenge (one of us has to, correct?). I'm proud of my creativity, and gotten fine results under the circumstances. One small cheer, please, for a can-do attitude.
Still, to me there is no more glorious, prosaic truth than a rigid cock. It may be fleeting in the grand scheme of things, it may be attached to 180lbs of moral relativism and inarticulate confusion and outright lies, yet it is something to be sure of and that my friends, is good enough for me at this point. I still worship at the altar of Priapus. I'll take that hard truth over a discussion of feelings, which is really a discussion about doubt. I don't have the appetite or patience for those conversations without sexual certitude.
I recognize the irony, if not outright hypocrisy of my stance. I was guilty of being the overthinker with my ex-lover, which did eventually lead us to a solid and interesting friendship devoid of physicality. Fair enough. Other circumstances were at play, but there was still a respectable amount of sexual chemistry between us and some lovely, dirty sex even as the end drew near. Not many people would call it quits when we did, preferring to exhaust it completely. I'm lucky to have him in my life, if only to teach me that lesson in timing.
Back to nice guy. Conventional wisdom may dictate I be patient and understanding, but I don't think so. Not me, not now. No, this one calls for retreating in a sensitive and tactful manner, but in a way that leaves no doubt about which direction I'm headed. Back away from the nice man. Back away while you still think he's nice.
Anyway, if there's anything to be learned it's that I don't know jack-shit about what I want or what my type is. I wrote once about the perfect situation being a man for each room of my house to fulfil separate needs. Now I see my ideal emerging as a Frankenstein creation: a dash of the nice man's sweetness mixed in with Guyfriend's intellect and sexual prowess, poured into the ex-Date's hot bod. Something along those lines. We're all looking for a workable composite.
Hence, let me set aside any further comparisons of myself to pastries, or any stolid analysis of my romantic desires or types. These thoughtful conclusions will strike me as false almost immediately. Better to keep it amorphous.
For now, it's reasonable to conclude I'm a sweet old-fashioned girl who daydreams of fucking every nice pair of shoulders she sees. One day my freak will come, and hopefully not in my eyes. Surely not an unreasonable hope.
Schizophrenically yours,
Gretchie
Of course, the nights are still cool enough to remind us of the previous four months of the new year, which really isn't that new anymore. A reminder that we best be paying attention as the continuum, well, it continues.
I'm enjoying the kick of a fey spring. It's a good time to take stock of the mistakes of the past, and the consequences of more recent lapses in judgement as well. All part of the continuum. Whether it leads to a particularly "self-actualized" self remains to be seen, unless the actualization is accepting that I'm kind of an asshole as well as all the good stuff.
I don't know if things move quickly in my world because I have a lot of time on my hands these days, or I'm just the impatient kind who likes to move things along. What's it been, a week or two since I outed myself as an old-fashioned romantic? Bleating away, swollen with recovering feelings and PMS. Hinting that one day, if I'm steadfast in my convictions, my prince shall come...
You may be chagrined to learn I'm backsliding away from that position; I know I'm irked with myself (and of course amused). I'm bled out and got some of what I thought I wanted, two occurences which bring a fresh and sceptical perspective. So that's what I concluded? Really?
Fickle cow. No sooner do I have a eureka moment of utmost sincerity, do I start experiencing deflation. No sooner do I find a comfortable perch from which to survey life's rich pageant than I start to experience boredom with that particular view. Ack. I may be beating a hasty retreat to a romantic absence soon enough. An emotional beige may be appropriate for a spell. (A "spell" being more than a day, the duration of my last kick at it.)
The nice man I met a couple of weeks ago has turned out to be so nice. So nice it makes me uncomfortable. There's a fine balance between being appreciated and being idealized. Plus he thinks a lot.
I've met overthinkers before, of course. The ex-Date was one in his own right, except he found some liberation from anxiety in the sex act (eventually) before getting paralyzed by the other stuff. If he'd stuck with objectifying me, we would've been dandy.
The flip side of that is the nice guy overthinker. He likes me so much that he worries about pleasing me, worries that he likes me more than I like him, worries that it's not going to be as magical as it should be, etc. So of course it's not. I'm left in the position of having to reassure him.
This is workable in the short, short term. I'm not wholly unkind, and don't mind reassuring someone or playing polite. Much like ignoring a drop of spittle flying out of someone's mouth while they're talking, or feigning deafness at occasional bathroom noises, polite definitely has its uses.
However, as I'm not looking to cast myself as Girlfriend or even An Understanding Let's See Where It Goes Candidate, it's insincere to continue. Eventually, it'll get farcical. Embarrassed for the two of us, I'll blurt out something along the lines of "Dude, quit spitting!/Man, you really need to cut out the cabbage..."
It's been an interesting exercise, mind you, to rise to the challenge (one of us has to, correct?). I'm proud of my creativity, and gotten fine results under the circumstances. One small cheer, please, for a can-do attitude.
Still, to me there is no more glorious, prosaic truth than a rigid cock. It may be fleeting in the grand scheme of things, it may be attached to 180lbs of moral relativism and inarticulate confusion and outright lies, yet it is something to be sure of and that my friends, is good enough for me at this point. I still worship at the altar of Priapus. I'll take that hard truth over a discussion of feelings, which is really a discussion about doubt. I don't have the appetite or patience for those conversations without sexual certitude.
I recognize the irony, if not outright hypocrisy of my stance. I was guilty of being the overthinker with my ex-lover, which did eventually lead us to a solid and interesting friendship devoid of physicality. Fair enough. Other circumstances were at play, but there was still a respectable amount of sexual chemistry between us and some lovely, dirty sex even as the end drew near. Not many people would call it quits when we did, preferring to exhaust it completely. I'm lucky to have him in my life, if only to teach me that lesson in timing.
Back to nice guy. Conventional wisdom may dictate I be patient and understanding, but I don't think so. Not me, not now. No, this one calls for retreating in a sensitive and tactful manner, but in a way that leaves no doubt about which direction I'm headed. Back away from the nice man. Back away while you still think he's nice.
Anyway, if there's anything to be learned it's that I don't know jack-shit about what I want or what my type is. I wrote once about the perfect situation being a man for each room of my house to fulfil separate needs. Now I see my ideal emerging as a Frankenstein creation: a dash of the nice man's sweetness mixed in with Guyfriend's intellect and sexual prowess, poured into the ex-Date's hot bod. Something along those lines. We're all looking for a workable composite.
Hence, let me set aside any further comparisons of myself to pastries, or any stolid analysis of my romantic desires or types. These thoughtful conclusions will strike me as false almost immediately. Better to keep it amorphous.
For now, it's reasonable to conclude I'm a sweet old-fashioned girl who daydreams of fucking every nice pair of shoulders she sees. One day my freak will come, and hopefully not in my eyes. Surely not an unreasonable hope.
Schizophrenically yours,
Gretchie
30 April 2010
Final Dating Advice from a Guy (Inspired by Another Guy)
Dear Dears,
In a state of fuzzy delirium yet again, darn these spring colds! This one caused me to lose my voice completely for two days, and has left me gravelly. I'm hoping very soon to stop sounding like Ms. Kathleen Turner in its current manifestation and start sounding like her sexy growl of Body Heat/Romancing the Stone.
Considering the cold has coincided with my monthly bloody mess and I've had to take a few days off exercising, I'm surprisingly chipper. Usually I get crankypants when forced to rest, but having to shut up completely for a few days has mellowed me.
At any rate, being a blognerd I did my homework in order to better present the final installment of Dating Advice from a Guy. It entailed watching the excellent 2009 documentary 'Tyson'. It was recommended by Guyfriend (new official title for friend turned lover turned back to friend), and forms the basis for another one of his dating tips.
Let's recap first, shall we?
1) Eye-fucking (or if you prefer, eye-stroking or eye-grinding or eye-chastely kissing on the cheek, whatever suits your M.O. Eye contact, for a G-rating.)
2) Allow the other to bring their A-Game/give them space to be a-MA-zing (and for god's sake, quit being Funny Girl all the time, it's too much).
This leads to the final piece of his advice:
3) Tyson It Up
"Tyson's already won the fight before he steps in the ring." enthused Guyfriend. "He's won it in his head three days before he actually gets there. All he has to do is show up. That's what you need to do, Rutte. You need to visualize getting what you want, and then just show up and get it. Confidence. You need to watch this movie. You'll learn a lot."
Hmm, I thought. Makes sense. Isn't that the Shhh...ecret, after all, the power of positive thinking to manifest positive reality? So okay. Take it as a given that the physical conditioning is there, both in boxing and dating. Take it that the norms are established, and there are clear expectations of win-lose-draw. That you're both there knowing what's expected of you.
So I watch the documentary to learn, and I do, and come to an interesting conclusion. What I get from the film and what Guyfriend has taken away highlights our emotional incompatibility, which has recently neutered our relationship. (A turn of events I'm learning to appreciate after a few weeks of being sore as hell, by the way.)
Guyfriend saw Tyson very clearly as winning the fight through visualization. Here's what Tyson actually says:
"Most guys lost the fight before they got hit. I knew the art of skulduggery, I knew how to beat them psychologically before I even got into the ring...As I approach the ring, I'm supremely confident. I'm scared to death at the same time, but the closer I get to the ring the more confident I get. Once I'm in the ring, I'm a god. No one can beat me."
Tyson searches for weakness in his opponent, and at the height of his powers found it again and again. "It could be just a tenth of a second, his eyes slip...when I see the chink in his armour, boom! I know I got him. He may fight hard for two-three rounds, but I got him beat. I already broke his spirit."
Guyfriend interpreted this as Tyson seeing himself as winning. I interpret it as him seeing the other guy losing, the other guy getting beat. This may smack of semantics, but I think it's a telling distinction.
I partly disagree with Guyfriend on this advice. I don't want to take this attitude into my personal relationships. I don't want to conquer men (my sexually reticent ex-Date aside, but really, he was just ridiculous. He needed to go down. Sadly, it's ended before he had much of a chance to, but I'm glad I had him anyway as he was bugging the shit out of me).
Back to the nicey doughnut side of me: I want to trust myself and the other person enough to believe one side doesn't have to prevail over the other or resort to skulduggery, however charming. That we can find mutual benefit from knowing each other. Maybe only for two-three rounds, maybe longer, but at the end of it we can both walk away feeling like neither of us lost. Hopefully, we've each gained something from knowing one another. This is naive, but I like it. There are worse things than aspiring for some nobility in modern relationships.
So I'll take the advice to "Tyson It Up" with a large chunk of rock-salt. Confidence, yes. Arrogance and delusion, no. After all, this worked for Tyson only for a few years, and then he got cocky (another form of laziness), and got whupped by Buster Douglas in Tokyo in 1990 and never was the same. After losing his last fight in 2005, he stated he'd lost the passion for boxing and was only there to pay his bills, and was going to retire out of respect for the sport.
All in all, he cuts a sad figure. A talented fighter who hated himself to the point of being hateful. Alternately jailed, bankrupt, dissolute, ridiculed, violent, trusting of no one, he's not exactly an inspirational figure if seen purely through the lens of his past.
What is admirable about him, though, is how direct and humbled he is in looking back. He openly rejects a lot of earlier beliefs. For me, the most striking moment in the film was his observation on what he'd once thought made a man great.
"The thing that they (great men) have in common is conquest over great women, and famous women, whatever they may be. So I always thought that in order to be a great figure you had to have these women in your life. And the more women you conquer, the greater figure you may be. I never knew that conquering so many women takes so much from you, more than it gives to you, more than it adds to you."
Yes. This is what I'll tell Guyfriend the next time we talk, as this may be advice he could use. In the meantime, I'm adapting "Tyson It Up" to better suit my own temperament. Be confident, yes, but have enough respect for myself and others to be humble as well.
It'll be interesting to see how this works for me. In my last post I outed myself as an old-fashioned doughnut and ever-so-bravely accepted an absence of romance for the time being.
One day later (ha!) I met an interesting man. At an afternoon beer garden, of course, that's where all we old-fashioneds go looking for love. He walked up to me and complimented my eyes (and I hadn't even been eye-fucking, honest!) and said he'd watched me talking to some shared acquaintances and wanted to meet me. We proceeded to make a ten hour date of the day that was quite sweet.
Despite living a couple of hours apart, we are meeting tomorrow for dinner. Awwww cute, eh? I'm pleased at the prospect of spending time with an attractive guy one year older than myself, who doesn't drink to excess or swim in a protective school of bros or mentally curl into fetal position at mention of serious topics. It'll be refreshing. And hopefully I'll sound less like the Godfather by then.
Arrivederci (cough, cough)
G
In a state of fuzzy delirium yet again, darn these spring colds! This one caused me to lose my voice completely for two days, and has left me gravelly. I'm hoping very soon to stop sounding like Ms. Kathleen Turner in its current manifestation and start sounding like her sexy growl of Body Heat/Romancing the Stone.
Considering the cold has coincided with my monthly bloody mess and I've had to take a few days off exercising, I'm surprisingly chipper. Usually I get crankypants when forced to rest, but having to shut up completely for a few days has mellowed me.
At any rate, being a blognerd I did my homework in order to better present the final installment of Dating Advice from a Guy. It entailed watching the excellent 2009 documentary 'Tyson'. It was recommended by Guyfriend (new official title for friend turned lover turned back to friend), and forms the basis for another one of his dating tips.
Let's recap first, shall we?
1) Eye-fucking (or if you prefer, eye-stroking or eye-grinding or eye-chastely kissing on the cheek, whatever suits your M.O. Eye contact, for a G-rating.)
2) Allow the other to bring their A-Game/give them space to be a-MA-zing (and for god's sake, quit being Funny Girl all the time, it's too much).
This leads to the final piece of his advice:
3) Tyson It Up
"Tyson's already won the fight before he steps in the ring." enthused Guyfriend. "He's won it in his head three days before he actually gets there. All he has to do is show up. That's what you need to do, Rutte. You need to visualize getting what you want, and then just show up and get it. Confidence. You need to watch this movie. You'll learn a lot."
Hmm, I thought. Makes sense. Isn't that the Shhh...ecret, after all, the power of positive thinking to manifest positive reality? So okay. Take it as a given that the physical conditioning is there, both in boxing and dating. Take it that the norms are established, and there are clear expectations of win-lose-draw. That you're both there knowing what's expected of you.
So I watch the documentary to learn, and I do, and come to an interesting conclusion. What I get from the film and what Guyfriend has taken away highlights our emotional incompatibility, which has recently neutered our relationship. (A turn of events I'm learning to appreciate after a few weeks of being sore as hell, by the way.)
Guyfriend saw Tyson very clearly as winning the fight through visualization. Here's what Tyson actually says:
"Most guys lost the fight before they got hit. I knew the art of skulduggery, I knew how to beat them psychologically before I even got into the ring...As I approach the ring, I'm supremely confident. I'm scared to death at the same time, but the closer I get to the ring the more confident I get. Once I'm in the ring, I'm a god. No one can beat me."
Tyson searches for weakness in his opponent, and at the height of his powers found it again and again. "It could be just a tenth of a second, his eyes slip...when I see the chink in his armour, boom! I know I got him. He may fight hard for two-three rounds, but I got him beat. I already broke his spirit."
Guyfriend interpreted this as Tyson seeing himself as winning. I interpret it as him seeing the other guy losing, the other guy getting beat. This may smack of semantics, but I think it's a telling distinction.
I partly disagree with Guyfriend on this advice. I don't want to take this attitude into my personal relationships. I don't want to conquer men (my sexually reticent ex-Date aside, but really, he was just ridiculous. He needed to go down. Sadly, it's ended before he had much of a chance to, but I'm glad I had him anyway as he was bugging the shit out of me).
Back to the nicey doughnut side of me: I want to trust myself and the other person enough to believe one side doesn't have to prevail over the other or resort to skulduggery, however charming. That we can find mutual benefit from knowing each other. Maybe only for two-three rounds, maybe longer, but at the end of it we can both walk away feeling like neither of us lost. Hopefully, we've each gained something from knowing one another. This is naive, but I like it. There are worse things than aspiring for some nobility in modern relationships.
So I'll take the advice to "Tyson It Up" with a large chunk of rock-salt. Confidence, yes. Arrogance and delusion, no. After all, this worked for Tyson only for a few years, and then he got cocky (another form of laziness), and got whupped by Buster Douglas in Tokyo in 1990 and never was the same. After losing his last fight in 2005, he stated he'd lost the passion for boxing and was only there to pay his bills, and was going to retire out of respect for the sport.
All in all, he cuts a sad figure. A talented fighter who hated himself to the point of being hateful. Alternately jailed, bankrupt, dissolute, ridiculed, violent, trusting of no one, he's not exactly an inspirational figure if seen purely through the lens of his past.
What is admirable about him, though, is how direct and humbled he is in looking back. He openly rejects a lot of earlier beliefs. For me, the most striking moment in the film was his observation on what he'd once thought made a man great.
"The thing that they (great men) have in common is conquest over great women, and famous women, whatever they may be. So I always thought that in order to be a great figure you had to have these women in your life. And the more women you conquer, the greater figure you may be. I never knew that conquering so many women takes so much from you, more than it gives to you, more than it adds to you."
Yes. This is what I'll tell Guyfriend the next time we talk, as this may be advice he could use. In the meantime, I'm adapting "Tyson It Up" to better suit my own temperament. Be confident, yes, but have enough respect for myself and others to be humble as well.
It'll be interesting to see how this works for me. In my last post I outed myself as an old-fashioned doughnut and ever-so-bravely accepted an absence of romance for the time being.
One day later (ha!) I met an interesting man. At an afternoon beer garden, of course, that's where all we old-fashioneds go looking for love. He walked up to me and complimented my eyes (and I hadn't even been eye-fucking, honest!) and said he'd watched me talking to some shared acquaintances and wanted to meet me. We proceeded to make a ten hour date of the day that was quite sweet.
Despite living a couple of hours apart, we are meeting tomorrow for dinner. Awwww cute, eh? I'm pleased at the prospect of spending time with an attractive guy one year older than myself, who doesn't drink to excess or swim in a protective school of bros or mentally curl into fetal position at mention of serious topics. It'll be refreshing. And hopefully I'll sound less like the Godfather by then.
Arrivederci (cough, cough)
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