I had to travel to San Francisco this weekend, and therefore I had the good fortune of participating in the 41st San Francisco Pride Parade. My lucky star shone on me for I was able to drag Brilliant Sulk to walk in the pride with me.
Yes you heard that right. WE. WALKED. IN. THE. PARADE.
(Apparently it was not that hard at all to just WALK in a parade… When there’s a will, there is a way)
Yes there were “protesters”. Some preacher guy was on a soap box, literally, with a mike yelling something about sinners, and Jesus, and The Lord, and Wrong. A woman yelled back, “Jesus would fuck a man!” Laughter broke out. The preacher guy shot back, “You are a wicked wicked young woman. The Lord would wash your mouth with soap.”
Of course, I sure hope The Lord worries about more important things other than washing somebody’s mouth with soap.
For several hours, I basked in the gorgeousness of people. The joy of life. The wonders of possibilities.
I hesitate in taking pictures of people without their permission. I want people to know that I take pictures of them because I find them beautiful, that I can see their spirits shining through and not because I am gawking at them. I caught their attention and they posed for me. Afterwards, we blew kisses at each other. I had the urge to run across the street to tell them, “Stay fabulous.” I wish they could see this post. Stay fabulous.
When I pointed my camera at him, again I felt awkward. Despite the flamboyant make-up, he exuded quiet dignity. I lowered my camera, paused, and mouthed, “Could I take your picture?” He smiled in return. Then again, we blew kisses at each other.
I ended up taking more pictures of the spectators. The exuberance was uncontainable and I soaked it in through the camera lens. I found beauty in all.
Maybe it is because I am was a “theatre person”, I always pay more attention to what happens when the show is over. You see a side of the performers that are undeniably human and I find the untold stories fascinating.
The ironic thing was, at the end of day, the one picture I hastily snapped with my phone while we were waiting to start was probably my favorite of them all…
Amidst the droning of idiocy that we hear and read about every day, esp. that propagated by the network with an animal name, for one day, I was proud to be part of the human race, part of the American fabric.
I am sitting here trying to catch up on the million things people just piled on my desk with a pool of blood in my mouth.
I don’t know why but I keep on thinking of Brat Pitt from Fight Club.
I don’t remember whether he lost any tooth inside the Fight Club or not. I guess you really cannot talk about it. But I just lost a tooth. So I win.
I did have my oral surgery today. All I remember now is:
I was worried that I would have to be like Liz Lemon from the Valentine’s Day episode and pretend I actually had a ride home. I did. My babysitter came through.
The doctor put the needle not very gently in 3 different places before he was able to draw blood.
The doctor not very gently used something with very hard bristles all over my gum which made me, mind you, I did not cry once during my root canal in March, cry quite a few times. “Are you sure I am supposed to be feeling this pain? Am I not supposed to be sleeping now as you kept on telling me?”
The doctor kept on yelling, “Open your mouth. I cannot see anything!” and complaining, “You have a very small mouth.”
I restrained myself from laughing out loud and saying, “Tell my husband about it.”
I woke up from a dreamless nap which I thought was only 30 minutes, but 2 hours had already passed.
I felt around my mouth with my tongue and my tooth was gone.
The doctor failed to volunteer any information to me. I had to yell, “Can I ask you some questions?” in my groggy state from my chair for him to come into the room. “So what did you do today?” And he told me to take it easy, one thing at a time. I fucking want to know what he’s going to do with that big giant hole in my mouth. He told me to wait until I see him again next week and we can talk about it.
I checked my phone and saw an IM from my boss asking for something that he has never asked me to do, knowing also that I was going under the knife today, actually, at that specific hour. I fired back with enough bitchiness probably never has been heard from me before.
The tooth that was taken out was the same tooth that has undergone the root canal not too long ago. And the salt that was added to the wound? I have just paid for the crown for it. It’s like renovating your house right before they decide to demolish it.
I now have an official diagnosis from a medical professional that I do indeed have a very small mouth. Here is a note from the doctor, honey.
I cannot eat hard food for the next week. Here is the same note from the same doctor, honey. Eh, I mean, I will probably be able to lose my tummy fat (yes I know this is kind of contradictory to my previous Rah Rah post about Ruby the Anti-Barbie…)
I will probably finally put my Vitamix to good use. Bacon smoothie anyone?
The doctor did NOT say that alcohol is not allowed.
I am still walking in Cloud 9 because of this episode from yesterday…
When I was waiting for a taxi to come by outside the office building yesterday, a truck made a U Turn and stopped in the middle of the street. The guy on the passenger side poked his head out of the window and yelled at me,
“You are really attractive. Wow. Really really attractive.”
Mind you, he did not use the word HOT. Or SEXY. Or GORGEOUS. Or BEAUTIFUL. And I was not showing any cleavage. In fact I was wearing a plain black t-shirt.
I thanked him for making my day. I believe I may have even curtsied when I thanked him. I am still thinking it was probably a bet, or a random act of kindness, or candid camera, or Punk’d.
I am just glad he saw me yesterday and not today.
Ok. Got to go and spit out the blood that’s almost overflowing inside my puffed cheeks.
Strangers are just friends waiting to happen. — Rod McKuen
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I almost missed the postscript. And when I first read it, I was upset that he asked for $100 cash! "You little...!" I thought. I burst out laughing when I saw the instruction to Santa. Despite everything, I did not ruin this child. I think.
Dear Friends,
Yes, you dread this moment of sappiness and it has come. No, seriously, I am so blessed to be surrounded by people who show me what the true human spirit of giving and caring is, not just around Christmas, but on a daily basis.
In the past year, I have been fortunate enough to get to know many of you better through words and some, through images (although to my disappointment, nothing risqué. We need to work on that, my friends!), from all over the world.I have been even more fortunate to see a few of you materialize in the real 3D world. Do you know how awesome that is? It means that I would have more than one Cora waiting next to my Ducati right outside of Flynn’s Arcade when I came out of The Grid if I were Sam Flynn.
I am so grateful for the community I have found and become part of that my heart aches every time I think about it. I find it easier for me to breathe and to be myself every day because of this place right here.
I want to wish those who celebrate it a Merry Christmas and those who don’t, a wonderful long weekend and/or vacation. And for my Jewish friends, enjoy the movies and the Chinese! And you know, by Chinese I mean the food, not ME.
And to all, unless you are a Jehovahs Witness, a HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Now I’ve got your attention. This proves that if put in the right context with the right mood implied, ANYTHING you say can be interpreted with a naughty bend. But first, a warning.
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That being said, like a good strip tease, I am going to start with something wholesome… See? Pink roses and fancy china and proper tea time.
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Big Little Wolf over at Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy passed this award to me… this September… Ugh… I did mention before that I am in a P.A. (Procrastinator Anonymous) program right? Thank you for the award. I really appreciate it!
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Next up is an intriguing award from Wendy at Herding Cats in Hammond River. It is British with a distinct British word and should be savored properly in Queen’s English. Since I do have a British-accent-fetish, I enjoy looking in the mirror and saying, “You are bloody brilliant!” and also “Blimey! It is almost 4 months since you’ve received this award. You are a rotten wanker indeed!” Thank you, Wendy!
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Yeah yeah yeah. You are thinking, “Well, one BLOODY does not NC-17 make. It won’t even get you bleeped!” Be patient my lad. Now here come the awards by Rabbit aka Micael over at The [Long] Journey [to the Middle].
Rabbit said to take one or all. I couldn’t choose so I took all three. I am NOT being greedy just indecisive…
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This one is rated PG…
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This is all a big tease, isn’t it? Not so… Quick! Earmuffs!
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This award is NOT censored on my blog and it is still fucking awesome!
But wait, there is MORE!
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Are you ready for this? I simply HAD to share this award with you because I do like me some good licking and besides, Nomi says so…
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So step right up! All of you. Please. Because a 10-inch dick is simply too fucking awesome to not be passed around!
AND I would like to give this award backto Micael because he totally deserves it — I hope I just succeeded in finding a loophole for a blogger to accept and display an award that they created…
I know what you are thinking. You are going to be coy. You are going to be humble. I understand. I’d behave the same way if suddenly a 10-inch-dick award were to be thrust in front of my face.
How about this: How about if we do this for charity? For anybody that brings Nomi home to their blog, a dollar will go to The Global Fund, and another dollar will go to The Trevor Project.*
Do it for Nomi. Do it for the children. And do it, for goodness sake, for the Great 10-inch Dick!
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* Disclaimer 1: I am NO saint. This is in our annual household budget anyway. I know it is uncouth to talk about one’s own charity giving; on the other hand, I do not want to be disingenuous and pretend that I am doing anything extra.
* Disclaimer of the Disclaimer: In the unlikely event that more than the usual number of people come by my blog (Unlikely because Thanksgiving is over and people have stopped searching for turkeyand landing here), there IS a certain cap to the Bring Nomi Home campaign. I hope you understand.
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Linlah @ Corn-Bean brought Nomi home and had a great time with her on the stripper pole. I know you want to do it too!
Micael @ The (Long) Journey (to the Middle), Nomi’s creator, was reunited with Nomi on his side bar (Ok. This sounds disturbing for some reason… But it is really all legit…)
Holly aka Midwestern Mamah @ ARE YOU SERIOUS? (yes, it has got to be all CAPS. That’s how I hear it every time I visit her blog…) has put up Nomi right in her living room. Nothing speaks of holiday cheer than a show girl licking the stripper pole.
Wicked Shawn @ Wicked Girls Think It, Do You? (yes, I do I do!) had some technical difficulty at her house so they ended up doing it on the beach. (By doing it, I meant the PARTY. What?)
“Duff Diddy” @ Dufmanno’s Blog (yeah, I have no idea what Dufmmano means either. Go ask her yourself!) needs a 10-inch dick to complete her fancy tea party and we sent Nomi over to deliver the award. I haven’t heard back from Nomi yet. I guess the tea went long. *wink wink*
The Peach @ Being Peachy is being a peach by setting up Nomi in a gorgeous trailer complete with jacuzzi, heart-shaped bed that vibrates with an overhead mirror. And her own personal bejeweled stripper pole! What’s more: Peach produced TWO 5-inch dicks so they could both have a good time. Nicely done, m’lady. That’s what friends are for…
I came across an interesting article today in which the author questioned the recent brouhaha / vociferous protest against the security measures enforced by TSA while some other, more serious, offense committed by the US government, such as the wrongful execution of its citizens, did not inspire nearly enough the appropriate amount and degree of outrage. The author posited that it is easier to find compassion for and harder to ignore when things affect people who are more like ourselves, in this case, law-abiding, gainfully employed, relevantly affluent people and their families who can afford to fly.
To first approximation, everyone can empathize with their neighbors or co-workers and people who they see every day. It’s a bit more of a stretch to take the point of view of people in the next town, or those from a different ethnic group or class, or the gay, or the homeless, or those who dwell in radically different social worlds (Afghan tribesmen, say). The liberal humanist imagination at least strives to see the world through the eyes of others; whereas the conservative mind seems to thrive on shutting out foreignness, or reducing it to something known.
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Being cosmopolitan is hard, it takes work. Empathizing with others is also hard — and it’s not even clear what it should mean. Nobody has the time and resources to empathize with everyone, but the modern world puts us in contact with essentially everyone.
What the author wrote about the modern world and the access to “essentially everyone” really struck a cord: I pride myself on being an informed global citizen. Compared to the average Americans, I (believe I) know more about histories, geographies, cultures, customs, and happenings in other countries. I listen to NPR religiously and I read Business Week(used to) read The Economist after all!…
Expanding my alter-ego through the Interwebs, I feel connected to parts of the world that I would not have had any connection to otherwise. I am the product of globalization. A citizen of the world. A resident of the World Wide Web. My peeps are all over the world.
This was made evident when someone in Haiti visited and commented on my blog. At the same time I started noticing the crack in my self-congratulatory complacency.
Kathryn at Reinventing the Event Horizon wrote about the recent presidential election in Haiti and the alleged corruption that’s gotten people agitated to say the least. Did I know about Haiti’s presidential election? Yes, kind of. I heard about Wyclef Jean’s failed attempt to register as a candidate there, and I am aware of the potential for election frauds. Reading Kathryn’s posts was my first exposure to what is currently going on in Haiti. My knowledge of Haiti’s present until then was to the extent of what NPR aired and Twitter tweeted that I happened to catch. The same goes for everything that is happening around the world.
Another fissure showed up in my facade of a well-informed global citizen when a blogger in Indonesia that I got to know online (through Twitter and blogging) tweeted me to say Hi.
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Hundreds of people have died since the first volcano eruption at Merapi on October 25. I did not know anything about it until today. But even my self-chastisement sounds hollow and self-indulgent at this moment. In the scheme of things. Nina sent me a link to see for myself how huge a deal this was in her part of the world. The images speak volumes to the massive force of nature. (For the faint of heart, please do NOT go on to Page 2 where horrific images of the victims are included…)
At times the world seems smaller and the people in it closer because we are all connected, for the fortunate amongst us anyway (Think of Kathryn whose connection to those of us outside of Haiti depends on her WiFi connectivity). At times, of course, we seem yet so far away because I was celebrating Thanksgiving and complaining about cooking while Nina and her people were holding their breath, tweeting the latest updates on the volcano eruptions and relief efforts.
Once again, this is one of those posts where I stated a problem without providing any answers and in the process of writing, only got myself even more confused. I lost my point if there was even a point when I first started.
Reaching out.
We reached out to each other. That should count for something, right?
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Reach out.
Would you reach out and touch a young boy’s heart? Trevor is 12 and he will be undergoing a risky heart surgery today. Pray for him please.
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Elly is having her appointment with Dr. Aloysius today. Let your positive thoughts reach her. She is in the general direction of the original Lady Gaga aka Statue of Liberty. Think good thoughts for Elly today. If you play any instrument, play a song for her to keep her company while she waits.
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It is cheesy. Yeah it is true. It is cliche. See if I care. Let there be love, baby. Let there be love.
As a researcher, you hate it when you come across a piece of evidence that proves against the theory/conclusion you are hoping to make. How I wish I could sweep it under the rug. Pretend I’ve never seen it. Plead ignorance. I hate being able to see both sides: Why can’t I just believe in “It Gets Better” and “The kids are more tolerant than before” and shut up?
Before I go off on a tangent, you roll your eyes “Here we go again!” and hit EXIT, please watch this. Just watch this video and we will be comforted to see Glass as Half Full.
THIS. Is what hope looks like.
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I also feel hopeful because for every Clint McCance, the anti-gay, hateful, douche-bag, offensive Arkansas school board member who is in a position to set an example and affect what goes on inside schools yet whose tirade on Facebook ignited a nation-wide outrage in the midst of suicides by gay teens, let’s hope that there is someone like Jay McDowell, a high school teacher in Michigan who asked a student to leave the classroom who walked in on Spirit Day announcing his disapproval of gays, and who subsequently got his hand slapped (one-day suspension without pay) when a parent wrote a complaint letter to the high school.
Psss. Andrea! This kid and this teacher from Ann Arbor, MI, absolutely make up for having to live with NO Costco within an-hour drive.
What Mr. McDowell did was what St. Charles High School in the Chicago area should have done yet was too risk-averse (i.e. BALL-less) when handling their own Spirit Day Controversy. I was still repressing my anger and feeling dejected about what went on at St. Charles High School when Elly sent this video to me. I feel so much better now that I have seen the face of hope and courage itself in such a young person.
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In case you are still wanting to hear some psychotic foaming that I am well-known for: Earlier this month at St. Charles High School, a few students showed up wearing t-shirts with “Straight Pride” on the front in defiance of the school’s participation in Ally Week. Not only that, on the back of those t-shirts were the famed bible verse condemning homosexual individuals to death. With the “first amendment” in mind, the school merely asked the students to cross out the bible verse with a Sharpie and wear a sweatshirt over the t-shirt.
The school congratulated itself on handling the matter well, stating that this was a good thing because it started a conversation.
I am puzzled because the whole “Ally Week” and Anti-bullying messaging thing was not enough to start a conversation on its own, and, based on the whole “it started a conversation” thing, I am assuming that previously it was not known that some students harbor anti-gay sentiments, and therefore their making such a strong statement with the t-shirts was the first time a “conversation” could be started, and that for the first time the students with anti-gay agenda were given the podium to air their points of view, ’cause, you know, what they must have expressed in the hallways, the gym, the cafeteria, the bathrooms, the buses, etc etc, do not really count.
I am also puzzled because, I am going to assume again, that the school has some sort of anti-racist policies in place since it’s going to be a bitch if you attract the attention (and ire) of ACLU by letting little racists off too easily. Imagine if the t-shirts were emblazoned with “White Pride”. Imagine if the students have walked into the school during the assembly commemorating African American History Month, demanding a month to be dedicated to White People “’cause it ain’t fair otherwise.”
Here is what Chicago Tribune columnist Erin Zorn has to say about this incident that unfortunately, imo, has not received enough attention and made enough waves nation-widestate-widecity-wide suburb-wide: (and I am beyond delighted to see someone from Chicago Tribune making a strong stand regarding something that matters!)
“Gay Pride” is an antidote to gay shame — the sense of alienation and otherness in adolescence that prompted writer Dan Savage to start the It Gets Better project to reduce the incidence of suicide among gay teens; kids who kill themselves in part because they’re treated unmercifully by the sorts of peers who would wear shirts to school consigning them to being murdered at the command of an angry God.
And because there is no corresponding concept of straight shame, the expression “Straight Pride” can only be read as a gratuitous and contemptuous response to the suggestion that gay people not be marginalized.
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This under-reported incident at St. Charles High School found me shocked and dispirited because I have this ill-placed faith in our young people. (Sort of like how I was surprised to learn that there are gay or African American Republicans… What can I say? I am naive…) I was misled by Pew Research Center‘s executive summary that the new generation is more tolerant than ever.
I forgot that MORE is a relative term.
Here is the reality of today’s teens as reported by Chicago Tribune this week: More tolerant than the older generations yet desensitized.
“The problem is that tolerance doesn’t necessarily mean understanding.”
Growing up with the encouragement to speak your mind, respect relativism, pursue your own truth, they (may) grow up with a false interpretation of First Amendment as “I can say whatever the F I want to say because less than that is not acceptable” and the blind belief that “everybody is entitled to his/her own opinion ergo I don’t have to listen to you because who’s to say your truth is better than mine?”
To this, I would like to give out t-shirts to all high schoolers with these words:
The project is a series of portraits of people who have gone on this journey. Each portrait is accompanied by words chosen by the person pictured. Posthumous portraits are included in this group and for these portraits the families have chosen the words which accompany the painting.
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In 2005, as he watched the news of wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, Matthew Mitchell, a painter in Amherst, MA, felt disconnected and feared that the memories of the soldiers, like the news, would soon fade.
“The big danger that we have is that we can forget about war.”
He decided to do something about it. His project, 100 Faces of War Experience, is exactly that: he will paint the portraits of 100 veterans and each portrait will be accompanied by the personal statements of the soldier. So far Mr. Mitchell has completed 38 of the 100 portraits, and this project has turned into something that is a lot more powerful than he has anticipated.
Currently the portrait of Sgt. Rick Yarosh is in the Smithsonian’s National Portrait Gallery. Sgt. Yarosh suffered severe injury when his vehicle was hit by an IED with 60% of his body burned, including his whole face. Looking at his face, you would be surprised to hear him speak because he sounds upbeat and positive and proud.
I’m lucky and blessed to be here, I’m able to share my story with others.
That day started the same as every other day, but that day has never ended.
This is a post originally published last November. For some reason, ever since September, a lot of people have searched for “turkey” and landed on my post from last year, skewing my stat counts since I know all of them got the pictures of the turkey and left without even looking at my blog.
Tis unfortunate. Not because I am vain (well, I am) and I want to treat the increased page views as real numbers (well, I do) but because I really wish more people will heed the plea, not just by me but also by some other bloggers, for example, Midwestern Mama said, “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas… And frankly, its pissing me the fuck off!”
The following is my tirade against the demise of the significance of Thanksgiving in the face of overwhelming commercialism…
Yeah tirade! Aren’t you glad that I am back in more ways than one?!
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I started campaigning for a forced postponement, a temporary deferral, of celebrating Christmas until AFTER Thanksgiving Day four five years ago. I even registered for the domain name: BringBackThanksgiving.com (which is still available… Any takers?) I stopped paying for it after two years when I realized that with a full time job and three boys to take care of, I simply did not have the capacity to deal with Microsoft FrontPage. (Yikes. Do you remember the days, the days before Blogger, WordPress, etc. when one had to use a software such as FrontPage in order to have one’s own website? *shudder*)
“Curb your enthusiasm!” I beseech you. “As you recover from the sugar high from all the Halloween candies. As you dispose of the spider webs, the goblins, the mummy tombs, the rotten carved pumpkins.”
Please, oh, please don’t switch directly from Orange and Black to Red and Green. However tempting it is when you move all the Halloween boxes down to your basement and see all the Christmas boxes beckoning at you. The smiling Santa with the chubby cheeks. The snowman. The reindeer. Resist the temptation: Didn’t Jesus die on the cross partly to teach us this lesson? Be strong for the sake of your children.
The children need you to show them that, Yes, you believe in the meaning and significance of Thanksgiving Day. Yes, it is important that we take one day out to deliberately remember and show gratitude to all the people who add meanings to our lives, to all the material goods that we are blessed enough to own. To strangers who give you a smile in the street and thus brighten your day. To strangers who by merely doing their jobs are making the world a better, safer place.
My heart aches upon seeing houses adorned with Christmas lights right after, sometimes even before, Halloween. Of course I am not intimating that the homeowners are therefore not thankful. No siree. I am simply dismayed that the significance of Thanksgiving, the arguably ONE holiday that we should all be able to agree on and celebrate, is undermined sandwiched between Halloween and Christmas.
(I admit: I may be putting my foot in my mouth by saying this. I have no clear idea how the native Americans take this holiday though I suspect there must be a lot of conflicting feelings. Do they sometimes wish that Squanto were not so kind as to assist the pilgrims? FWIW, by reading “Thanksgiving: A Native American View” and “Teaching About Thanksgiving“, I am convinced that Thanksgiving is indeed deeper and bigger than just the Pilgrims and the Indians… I hope I do not offend should anyone of Native American descent stops by this post…)
I blame the turkey.
You heard me right. It is the turkey’s fault. In terms of merchandising, turkeys are just not as attractive as say, bunnies, chicks, Santa Clause, snowman, reindeer, and so on. I have not seen any child hugging a plush Turkey toy lovingly.
To be honest, that red thing hanging down the throat freaks me out. Pardon me for being crass, but it always reminds me of testicles. I don’t know why. But it does.
Many, especially Hallmark (bless their heart!), have tried to turn the turkey into an adorable icon: but seriously, how adorable can you make a turkey?
Even more sickening is that in these cutesy depictions of turkeys, they are all forced to celebrate the event in which they will be slaughtered, cooked and eaten! The abomination!
No cute icons, no easy way for merchandising. No easy way for merchandising, no rampant commidification of Thanksgiving. No rampant commidification of Thanksgiving, no shelf space at your local drugstores and grocery stores.
(I am grateful for no longer being in the academia which affords me the opportunity to posit theories full of holes and preaches them on the Internet with no qualms… I am like Glenn Beck on an anti-Turkey path…)
But with your help, we can stem the tide. We can start it from inside of our homes.
Perhaps we can all start a tradition of having each one of the family members mention one thing that they are grateful for, every day, in the month of November. No matter how small or how trivial.
Perhaps we can start a quiet movement to resist the Red and Green color scheme from popping up inside of our own houses. Until the day after Thanksgiving.
On the morning of November 27 this year (because November 26, Black Friday, is reserved for Competitive Shopping, or most likely, nursing a stomach ache and hangover headache), I am moving up the Christmas Tree from our basement first thing in the morning. I am really looking forward to it. And to optimize my effort of transforming my house into a winter wonderland for Christmas, I shall keep the decorations up until after Valentine’s day. Thank goodness for the lllloooonnnngggg winter here. That is, of course, until one of you starts a campaign for bringing back Valentine’s Day…
I have been giving this a lot of thought ever since I started getting readers/commenters who, more often than not, became friends:
Why do the relationships I have forged online with people I have never met often feel a lot more authentic, real and immediate than those in real life?
This was what Wicked Shawn and I talked about yesterday when we met for the first time.
Me: We have just met. Why do I feel so close to you already?
Shawn: But honey (in her sweet sweet Kentucky twang. *melting*) we have known each other for a long time!
She’s right of course.
Just because we communicate by words, over the Internet, it does not make the connections any less valid. People used to have pen pals. Did they feel embarrassed when they told their family and friends about their pen pals? Did they worry about being mocked when they traveled to meet their pen pals in real life?
In fact, y’all know me, what I really think, what I value, my fears, my aspirations, and yes, my neurosis, a lot better than 99% of the people I know in real life. You may not know the names of my husband and children, you may not know where I live or what my house looks like, but you know the “real” me. I am not saying that in my “physical” life I am walking around faking or pretending. My existence here as words in the Interwebs is the essence of my being. Stripped of all adornments.
Well, I am going to contradict myself: sometimes when I think about this whole thing, I see this as my essence being digitized and so I am seeing all of us running around like Tron… So maybe not stripped of ALL adornments because you know, we’d be all carrying a flying disc…
Here, I am not so and so’s wife. So and so’s mother. Weird Asian lady who lives next door. My odd co-worker I have to put up with. The woman who works for/with me. The person who could not pronounce “Doug” (Thank you all!). The person who also apparently cannot pronounce “Don/Dawn” but somehow can “Shawn”. etc. etc.
You get to know me before your judgement/impression/evaluation/or whatever it is that people do when they meet a person of me is influenced by any visual or audio cues.
And this is why when we finally met (and hopefully meet) each other, after the first 30 seconds of awkwardness, we are going to behave as if we have known each other, like, forever.
I just want to thank each and every one of you that has ever visited, commented or emailed me; you have contributed to my improved mental health and self-esteem. The therapy sessions are working, and they are free! Thank you for letting me mooch off of you… Sometimes when life gets me down, I think to myself, “Hey there are people who actually think I am fucking awesome!”
Case in point: Attending conferences by myself is one of my worst fears. Today I had to do so for work. First I was afraid / I was petrified/ But then something clicked: I remembered my “secret identity” as the coolest awesome ass-kicking hot babe that you somehow led me to believe. (Fine. So what if I made the avatar myself? You are a bunch of enablers a girl can ever ask for!) So I behaved as one.
I carry with me your blind faith in me like a protective shield as I go about my daily life.
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happy birthday, e. e. cummings.
Disclaimer: I look nothing like the avatar I made.
Instead, Serendipity! I came across this video/poem today.
“How to Be Alone”
It is the perfect remedy we need in order to recover from the highs and lows after fighting through our fears of opening ourselves up and meeting strangers. The powerful reminder to combat that gnawing insecurity, that tiny voice, that propels you to down five shots of vodka within the first 30 minutes of setting your foot in a party so that you can be the Dancing Queen that you dream of being. The talisman to arm ourselves with next time we attend any social occasion when ironically we often inadvertently feel so alone within the crowd.
Watch this.
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I came across this beautifully written and performed poem through It Is Monday… Thinking Moment. The filmmaker is Andrea Dorfman, and the simple yet profound words were written and performed by Tanya Davis.
I cannot help but reprint the entire poem here just so I can read the words, slowly, hoping to absorb them into my being, to have them become part of the fiber of my soul.
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How to Be Alone
by Tanya Davis
If you are at first lonely, be patient.
If you’ve not been alone much, or if when you were, you weren’t okay with it, then just wait. You’ll find it’s fine to be alone once you’re embracing it.
We could start with the acceptable places, the bathroom, the coffee shop, the library. Where you can stall and read the paper, where you can get your caffeine fix and sit and stay there. Where you can browse the stacks and smell the books. You’re not supposed to talk much anyway so it’s safe there.
There’s also the gym. If you’re shy you could hang out with yourself in mirrors, you could put headphones in.
And there’s public transportation, because we all gotta go places.
And there’s prayer and meditation. No one will think less if you’re hanging with your breath seeking peace and salvation.
Start simple. Things you may have previously based on your avoid being alone principals.
The lunch counter. Where you will be surrounded by chow-downers. Employees who only have an hour and their spouses work across town and so they — like you — will be alone.
Resist the urge to hang out with your cell phone.
When you are comfortable with eat lunch and run, take yourself out for dinner. A restaurant with linen and silverware. You’re no less intriguing a person when you’re eating solo dessert to cleaning the whipped cream from the dish with your finger. In fact some people at full tables will wish they were where you were.
Go to the movies. Where it is dark and soothing. Alone in your seat amidst a fleeting community.
And then, take yourself out dancing to a club where no one knows you. Stand on the outside of the floor till the lights convince you more and more and the music shows you. Dance like no one’s watching…because, they’re probably not.
And, if they are, assume it is with best of human intentions. The way bodies move genuinely to beats is, after all, gorgeous and affecting. Dance until you’re sweating, and beads of perspiration remind you of life’s best things, down your back like a brook of blessings.
Go to the woods alone, and the trees and squirrels will watch for you.
Go to an unfamiliar city, roam the streets, they are always statues to talk to, and benches made for sitting gives strangers a shared existence if only for a minute, and these moments can be so uplifting and the conversation you get in by sitting alone on benches, might of never happened had you not been there by yourself.
Society is afraid of alone though. Like lonely hearts are wasting away in basements. Like people must have problems if after awhile nobody is dating them.
But lonely is a freedom that breaths easy and weightless, and lonely is healing if you make it.
You can stand swaffed by groups and mobs or hands with your partner, look both further and farther in the endless quest for company.
But no one is in your head. And by the time you translate your thoughts an essence of them maybe lost or perhaps it is just kept. Perhaps in the interest of loving oneself, perhaps all those sappy slogans from pre-school over to high school groaning, we’re tokens for holding the lonely at bay.
Cause if you’re happy in your head, then solitude is blessed, and alone is okay.
It’s okay if no one believes like you, all experiences unique, no one has the same synapses, can’t think like you, for this be relived, keeps things interesting, life’s magic brings much, and it doesn’t mean you aren’t connected, and the community is not present, just take the perspective you get from being one person in one head and feel the effects of it.
Take silence and respect it.
If you have an art that needs a practice, stop neglecting it, if your family doesn’t get you or a religious sect is not meant for you, don’t obsess about it.
You could be in an instant surrounded if you need it.
