Kind of hilarious

George Ellery Hale was the twentieth century’s most important builder of telescopes. In 1897, Hale built a 40-inch-wide telescope, the largest ever built at that time. His second telescope, with a 60-inch lens, was set up in 1917 and took 14 years to build. During that time, Hale became convinced that he suffered from “Americanitis” a disorder in which the ambitions of Americans drive them insane. During the building of his lens, Hale spent time in a sanatorium, and would only discuss his plans for the telescope with a “sympathetic green elf.”

Thank you, Useless Knowledge.

Now back to writing about a central and guiding tragedy in my life.  Oh, Mars Hill.

Photos

Posted some new photos on my art blog:  Seattle in the Fall

What I think I want

I’ve been thinking a lot about my last post, and trying to answer the question, what do I want?  And I’ve had several moments of clarity that have helped me to figure that out.  All of these answers may not be right, but they seem to make sense for now.  And these certainly aren’t necessarily the things that I should want, but I think awareness of them is important.

 

1.  When I ask my therapist to let me tell the whole story without interruption, what do I want from her?

I want her to interrupt.

2.  When my actions say to my therapist, “Fuck you.  What are you going to do about it?” what do I want from her?

The question isn’t rhetorical.  I want her to do something about it.  I want her to fight for me.

3.  When, in my dream, my mom comes to the door, but says nothing, what do I want from her?

I want her to speak.  I want her to get rightfully angry.  And I want her to see me.

4.  When I decide I’m not comfortable seeing my old therapist and she calls me unexpectedly (though possibly by accident?), and I’m angry about that, what do I want from her?

If I’m honest, I wanted her to call.  I wanted to feel like she cared, and like I mattered, even if calling wouldn’t be the best thing for me.  At the same time, I want her to care enough to protect my boundaries by not calling.  I want to see her, but for some reason, I just don’t think it would be a good idea.  Something about it makes me very uncomfortable, and I think the best thing for me will be to let her time in Seattle come and go without crossing paths.  I also recognize that the call could have been an accident entirely, but it’s an important question for me to consider, anyway.

5.  When I send a deeply valued friend an email about the ways that they have hurt me, but don’t ask for an apology, what do I want from them?

This one is much more complicated.  She was right.  I wanted to make her feel guilty.  I wanted her to hurt, so she would be able to see that a friendship with me is bound to end in heartache.  I wanted her to see how toxic I am, so she would just leave me alone… for her sake.  At the same time, I think my deeper desire was for her to fight for me, to prove me wrong, to show me that I’m worth the struggle.  And that was a burden that I don’t think she could bear, and I’m not so sure she should have.

6.  When, after having a complicated week with my anti-depressant medication, I take one of the pills in front of that same friend (now somewhat estranged), what do I want from them?

Your guess is as good as mine.

7.  When I’m annoyed with new friends for the way that they chose to take care of me, but I’m glad that they did it, what do I want from them?

I wanted them to hide my pills.  They saw me, they heard me, and they took care of me when I couldn’t take care of myself.

8.  When I’m angry at my mom for not listening to me, but lie to her when she asks me how I’m doing, what do I want from her?

I want her to search for me.  I want her to refuse to accept “I’m good.”  I want (and wanted) her to see that I’m not always okay.  I want her to push back, even if it makes her uncomfortable.

 

What… the hell… do I want?

I want to be loved.  I want to be pursued.  I want to be fought for.  But I also recognize that I make that really difficult for people to do, maybe even impossible.  So I want to learn how to let myself be loved, pursued, and fought for.

What do I want?

When I ask my therapist to let me tell the whole story without interruption, what do I want from her?

When my actions say to my therapist, “Fuck you.  What are you going to do about it?” what do I want from her?

When, in my dream, my mom comes to the door, but says nothing, what do I want from her?

When I decide I’m not comfortable seeing my old therapist and she calls me unexpectedly (though possibly by accident?), and I’m angry about that, what do I want from her?

When I send a deeply valued friend an email about the ways that they have hurt me, but don’t ask for an apology, what do I want from them?

When, after having a complicated week with my anti-depressant medication, I take one of the pills in front of that same friend (now somewhat estranged), what do I want from them?

When I’m annoyed with new friends for the way that they chose to take care of me, but I’m glad that they did it, what do I want from them?

When I’m angry at my mom for not listening to me, but lie to her when she asks me how I’m doing, what do I want from her?

 

What… the hell… do I want?

 

 

Songs for Me

I swear this man writes music just for me.  These two excerpts from his songs “Breathe” and “Crinan Wood” describe perfectly what this week has been for me:

“And all the suffering that you’ve witnessed
And the hand prints on the wall
They remind you how it’s endless
How endlessly you fall
And the answer that you’re seeking
For the question that you found
Drives you further to confusion
As you lose your sense of ground
You know you are here
But you find you want to leave
So don’t forget to breathe
Just breathe”

– Breathe

“See these knots around my hands around my feet
They would take me down my end for me to meet
And I grow weary of this struggle and this fight
Morning so far off from out here in the night”

– Crinan Wood

Yesterday

Song for You Alexi Murdoch

So today I wrote a song for you

Cause a day can get so long

And I know its hard to make it through

When you say there’s something wrong

So Im trying to put it right

Cause I want to love you with my heart

All this trying has made me tight

And I dont know even where to start

Maybe thats a start

Cause you know its a simple game

That you play filling up your head with rain

And you know you are hiding from your pain

In the way, in the way you say your name

And I see you

Hiding your face in your hands

Flying so you wont land

You think no one understands

No one understands

So you hunch your shoulders and you shake your head

And your throat is aching but you swear

No one hurts you, nothing could be sad

Anyway you’re not here enough to care

And you’re so tired you dont sleep at night

As your heart is trying to mend

You keep it quiet but you think you might

Disappear before the end

And its strange that you cannot find

Any strength to even try

To find a voice to speak your mind

When you do, all you wanna do is cry

Well maybe you should cry

And I see you hiding your face in your hands

Talking bout far-away lands

You think no one understands

Listen to my hands

And all of this life

Moves around you

For all that you claim

Youre standing still

You are moving too

You are moving too

You are moving too

I will move you

Poem About My Rights

This is a poem that someone shared in class on wednesday, and it took me by surprise.  I found myself in her words as they were read aloud.

“Poem about My Rights”

June Jordan

Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear

my head about this poem about why I can’t

go out without changing my clothes my shoes

my body posture my gender identity my age

my status as a woman alone in the evening/

alone on the streets/alone not being the point/

the point being that I can’t do what I want

to do with my own body because I am the wrong

sex the wrong age the wrong skin and

suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/

or far into the woods and I wanted to go

there by myself thinking about God/or thinking

about children or thinking about the world/all of it

disclosed by the stars and the silence:

I could not go and I could not think and I could not

stay there

alone

as I need to be

alone because I can’t do what I want to do with my own

body and

who in the hell set things up

like this

and in France they say if the guy penetrates

but does not ejaculate then he did not rape me

and if after stabbing him after screams if

after begging the bastard and if even after smashing

a hammer to his head if even after that if he

and his buddies fuck me after that

then I consented and there was

no rape because finally you understand finally

they fucked me over because I was wrong I was

wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong

to be who I am

which is exactly like South Africa

penetrating into Namibia penetrating into

Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if

Pretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look like the

proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blackland

and if

after Namibia and if after Angola and if after Zimbabwe

and if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even to

self-immolation of the villages and if after that

we lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they

claim my consent:

Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people of

the wrong skin on the wrong continent and what

in the hell is everybody being reasonable about

and according to the Times this week

back in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problem

and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so they

killed him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba

and before that it was my father on the campus

of my Ivy League school and my father afraid

to walk into the cafeteria because he said he

was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong

gender identity and he was paying my tuition and

before that

it was my father saying I was wrong saying that

I should have been a boy because he wanted one/a

boy and that I should have been lighter skinned and

that I should have had straighter hair and that

I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should

just be one/a boy and before that

it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for

my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me

to let the books loose to let them loose in other

words

I am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.

and the problems of South Africa and the problems

of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white

America in general and the problems of the teachers

and the preachers and the F.B.I. and the social

workers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very

familiar with the problems because the problems

turn out to be

me

I am the history of rape

I am the history of the rejection of who I am

I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of

my self

I am the history of battery assault and limitless

armies against whatever I want to do with my mind

and my body and my soul and

whether it’s about walking out at night

or whether it’s about the love that I feel or

whether it’s about the sanctity of my vagina or

the sanctity of my national boundaries

or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity

of each and every desire

that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic

and disputably single and singular heart

I have been raped

be-

cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age

the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the

wrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographic

the wrong sartorial I

I have been the meaning of rape

I have been the problem everyone seeks to

eliminate by forced

penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/

but let this be unmistakable this poem

is not consent I do not consent

to my mother to my father to the teachers to

the F.B.I. to South Africa to Bedford-Stuy

to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon

idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in

cars

I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name

My name is my own my own my own

and I can’t tell you who the hell set things up like this

but I can tell you that from now on my resistance

my simple and daily and nightly self-determination

may very well cost you your life

I Woke Up Laughing

Normally, I spend my week counting down the days until my next therapy session. But I’ve had two sessions with my therapist here when I have left feeling so wiped out that I was grateful to have at least a week to rest before having to go back to her office. And yesterday was one of those sessions. Don’t get me wrong, it was great. It was a really important session. It was one of the first ones where I felt almost 100% present for the entire hour. But it was also exhausting. My therapist is going to be out of town next week, and I must admit that I’m glad for the break.

Despite feeling completely exhausted when I left the studio, I also felt this overwhelming sense of peace and calm. I felt calm. I think my therapist deserves a pat on the back. That complete sense of calm couldn’t have been further from how I felt when I entered the room. Unsettled. Angry. Frustrated. Overwhelmed. Tired. Panicked. Fifty minutes later, my world had slowed. Calm.

And I gave myself the rest of the day.  I’m actually very surprised that I was able to manage any form of self-care considering the burdens that I brought with me to therapy that morning.  But I managed somehow.  I walked to downtown Ballard (discovering that I love to walk in the Seattle rain) and bought myself a pair of good winter boots, ate dinner with Matt, Victoria, and the girls, watched Away We Go (Amazing!!!  I liked it so much more this time around), and finally decorated my new journal.  It was a profoundly good night.

And then I dreamed an Office episode (I should write it down, maybe they can use the material someday… haha), that somehow involved Mr. T.  Yes, Mr. T.

And I woke up laughing.

Poem

I read this poem as I was flipping through the City Arts magazine (FREE Seattle art magazine… amazing), cutting out things for my new journal (*smile*).  It floored me.  Amazingly and profoundly heartbreaking:

One of These Days by JT Stewart

Wash his shorts
clip his toenails
fumigate his socks

throw out his beer bottles
lie about your black eye
thank him for the flowers

remind him to shave
get him a new elegant watch
tell him you still love him

lie about your swollen face
thank him for the flowers
wait on him in coffee shops

learn to watch bowl games on HDTV
iron his shorts and his T-shirts
threaten to move out

lie to your few remaining friends
break all the good dishes
hide most of his credit cards

look for something to burn
lie to your therapist
find a new cosmetic surgeon

buy more candles and incense
lie about your broken thumb
thank him for the flowers

take gourmet cooking classes
memorize exotic wine lists
find new homes for your cats

thank him for the flowers
buy a discreet handgun
lie to your therapist

sleep with your gun under your pillow

dream of your next confrontation
pull out your gun
stand with your back to the wall

hesitate
aim for his head
hesitate

aim for his heart
hesitate
ask him once more

to explain himself

hear him say
You know I don’t mean it
you know I love you

tell him next time you’ll shoot
I will shoot you next time

lower the gun
wait for him to smile
put the gun away

wait for his flowers
lie to your therapist

Being Kind to Myself

I’m feeling a lot today.  And not really feeling about specific events or thoughts… just feeling.  It’s one of those days where my body feels the emotion before my mind can tell me what it is.  I don’t feel pain because I’m thinking about something painful.  I feel an ache in my chest, and eventually my mind gets around to realizing that I’m feeling pain.  And right now, my mind doesn’t have to do very much work to figure out where that ache is coming from.

So the question for me is rarely “Where is this pain coming from?” but rather “What do I do with it?”  Self-care is an idea that has come up a lot for me recently.  So when my mind catches up with my body and realizes that I’m feeling pain, I have to ask, “How am I going to take care of myself?”  And I’ve found that I run to movies and TV shows a lot (which is surprising considering how much I hate television, but I’ll save that for another day).  But I can’t just watch any movie or TV show and consider it self-care.  I really have to think about what I’m feeling, why I’m feeling it, and figure out how to deal with it in a way that holds the emotion well, but is also kind to myself.  For example, there was a day this week where I was feeling an intense pain, but felt like I wasn’t able to express it well.  After several minutes of deliberation, I put in the movie I Am Sam, and let myself have a good cry.  And believe it or not, agree with it or not, that was an act of self-care.  But later in the week, I was feeling a pain that was threatening to overwhelm me.  If I had put in a movie like I Am Sam and let myself fall apart, I may not have been able to pick up the pieces again.  I would be banishing myself to even lower depths.  So instead, I watched an episode of The Office… lots and lots of episodes of The Office.  Was that dissociation?  Probably.  Was it a good, healthy dissociation?  I think so.  Was I running from my pain, or forcing it back down into myself?  I don’t think so.  I think I was acknowledging the pain, identifying the reason for the pain, and saying, “Not right now.”  I think I was holding it well, letting it be, while refusing to let it control me.

And here I am again.  I feel the ache, I know the source.  And now I have to ask, how can I honor the pain, and how can I honor myself?