THE ISLAND

It’s beautiful, even idyllic, with mountain peaks overlooking aquamarine water. Tradewinds blow, songbirds twitter and waves lap against pure white sand… a lovely picture postcard.

It’s perfect, like Eden with dense green foliage and abundant fauna romping in the meadows and hillsides.  Sweet water cascades from springs and at night, when all is quiet, the stars are so close that you could reach out and touch them.

I saw it from afar and was mesmerized.  It was the most inviting place I had ever seen, a veritable Utopia on earth and more than anything, I wanted to go ashore and stroll the endless beach.  

“Not allowed, I’m afraid,” said the captain.  “No one is permitted to land.”

I asked why and he shrugged.  “Desecration.”

What an odd response.  But then again, old sailors are a bit superstitious.  We slowly circled the island and I memorized every detail, burning them into my mind.   The swaying palm trees seemed no different than the many I had seen before.  The sun above shone equally upon my head as it did upon the land.  There appeared to be no celestial favoring, or at least none that I could detect.

But the island was strangely sentient.  Was it just a trick of my eyes?  It seemed entirely self-sufficient, a biosphere free of the violation of man… or woman for that matter.  And as I sailed around its coves and bays, I realized that it existed perfectly of its own, without outside interference, and I could bring nothing of value to it. 

Perhaps in theory I could thrive indefinitely within its confines, but what could I give in return?  It lacks for nothing and my arrival would only upset the balance.   I felt the rejection as keenly as that of a lover.  

My sigh drew a chuckle from the captain.   “Now you understand,” he said with a weary smile.  “Desecration.”

COMING FULL CIRCLE

 

Another year has come and gone.  Am I supposed to mourn its passing or celebrate?  The usual protocol doesn’t apply anymore.

How should I behave now that I’ve officially arrived at this milemarker?  Like a giddy teenager?  Like a cranky old woman?  I don’t have any reference points… or at least none that I really care to use.

I could pretend that old age and death are not a factor for me.  Wouldn’t be lovely to parade around in ‘tweenie clothes and shut my eyes to the inevitable?  Lots of wealthy and deluded matrons do just that.  Think of the host of 40 and 50-something celebrity women who are suddenly flooding the media with revealing photoshoots, fading stars flaunting their bikini-ready bodies in a last-ditch effort to prove that they still have it. 

It’s curious, don’t you think, that when we are young we go to extreme lengths to appear older and more sophisticated and when we are old, we’ll do just about anything -no matter how ridiculous- to appear young.   It seems we are never satisfied with just being. 

Not that I haven’t occasionally fallen prey to it as well, but I’ve long since dropped grown-up affectations.  There’s nothing glamorous or awe-inspiring in the smug and greedy attitudes of the common adult.  And what’s with all the anger?  So what if the world isn’t what you expected!  At least you have the good fortune to be alive. 

So, is it disappointment that drives us back to youth, or desperation?  I’m not particularly enchanted with the world either, but ignoring the reality doesn’t make it easier to bear.  No amount of Botox, plastic surgery or Pilates lessons will stop the wheel from turning.  It will eventually roll over your well-honed body and crush you back into dust.

And is that really such a bad thing?  Why live forever if you don’t really like living?

RUDE AWAKENING

 

Years ago, my father told me that I was over-idealistic, that I didn’t see what was obvious.  “Everyone has potential,” he said, leaning back into his chair and looking thoughtfully at the ceiling, “but few people actually live up to it.”  I wondered if all the years of working as an attorney had soured him to human nature.  He never really enjoyed it, although he always had a quick smile and a witty story to share.  “People can misrepresent themselves at will, sweetheart; that’s their perogative.”

At the time, I thought all adults were somehow the magical keepers of rational thought.  It worried me that the ones I observed were no better than the snotty kids from third grade.  To whom could I turn for a ruling or understanding?  If they all were tussling about for dibs on the monkey bars, there was little chance they’d offer reasonable explanations of the mysteries of life.

“If you measure yourself by the standards of those around you, then you will become no better.”  Why did Dad always make sense of the nonsensical?  “In the end, the only person you’ll have to answer to is yourself.”   He was right, of course, but it took me half a lifetime to concur.  The first half was spent hanging upside down on those goddamned monkey bars.

A DOORMAT BY ANY OTHER NAME

After witnessing the collapse of yet another friend’s long-term relationship, I wondered what all these women had in common.  Aside from shouldering the lion’s share of the work involved, it seemed that all of them were exceptionally giving and tolerant women.  Strange, then, that they were assigned the unfair moniker of fickle.

We gathered one night to discuss our mutual woes.  It was ironic that even after bolting, they were still concerned with the welfare of everyone else but themselves. 

“My priest says I’m going straight to hell if I don’t take him back.  Do you think he’s right?” 

I couldn’t help but laugh.  Only a celibate man would have the balls to make such a statement.  I asked her if Father Flannigan knew about her husband’s infidelities.  She confessed that he did, but advised her that since a man’s needs were so much greater and important than her own, she’d best turn a blind eye for the sake of the children.  Savvy advice indeed.  Of course he failed to mention than if she contracts HIV from her wayward husband, the kids will have to do without a mother. 

“I don’t want to be a single parent.  The kids need a father.”

Lots of guilty tears accompanied that one.   It seemed ironic that despite her remorse, she didn’t realize that for the last 10 years she has been the defacto parent while Mr. Right travelled the world.  She was absolutely correct; the children do need a father.  I suggested that she go out and find a suitable one immediately.

“I’m terrified of being alone.  Isn’t the devil you know better than the one you don’t?”

Sure, if you don’t mind selling your soul.  I couldn’t help but wonder why she rued leaving her alcoholic boyfriend.  Did she think she could love him into sobriety?  I thought that after his third DUI, she would finally gather the courage to leave.  Pity she waited until he actually broadsided another vehicle.  Now she can add the guilt of a stranger’s injuries to her list.

As the self-blame fest continued, it seemed odd that the shortcomings of their (now former) partners were not mentioned.  It seemed that no matter the circumstance, each woman assigned herself the responsibility of failure, a choice eagerly endorsed by their errant lovers. 

“Greg’s telling everyone that I had a nervous breakdown.”

Of course he is.  That way he’s completely excused for his behavior, assumes none of the responsibility and is free to commit the same blunders with another woman.

“Marv told the kids that I’ve become a lesbian.”

When all else fails, try character attacks.  It works on the campaign trail; it can work for any resentful dumpee.  Just describe the opponent in the worst possible light and then feign ignorance when grilled.   Simply blame those tear-filled, late-night calls to her girlfriends for any misconception, and walk away.  It doesn’t matter if her reputation is besmirched.  This is a competition! 

Now logic dictates that these behaviors are co-dependent.  A clear-thinking woman would notice it and make the necessary changes to keep her sanity.  But what of those who are so caught up in fixing others that they don’t even know the damage wrought to themselves?  My grandmother once told me that if you don’t want others to tread on you, you must stop acting the doormat.

Maybe it’s time to put the welcome mat into storage.

GEOGRAPHICALLY CHALLENGED

It was nearly three months since I last talked to Diane.  At the time, she was nearly giddy, just having met the man of her dreams on e-Harmony and spending every available moment on Skype.  She fell in love, and off the radar, into what I hoped was well-deserved domestic bliss.

So imagine my surprise when she called me on Sunday, interrupting my otherwise placid Mother’s Day luncheon with sobs and an urgent plea for advice.  Through her tears, she explained that Prince Charming had scuttled the new-formed relationship before taking it out to sea.

“He refuses to meet me,” she wept. 

“Uh, he refuses to greet you?”  It was a little hard to understand Diane when she was in the middle of a crying jag.

“No!  Kimmy, he won’t even meet me for coffee!”

I admit I was a little puzzled.  Had they had a lovers’ quarrel and the Prince refused to kiss and make up?  Apparently not, I soon learned as she hastily brought me up to speed.  It seemed that despite their torrid exchanges via webcam, they hadn’t actually met in person.

“He says I live too far away.”

It made perfect sense to me.  Why else would they lurk on Skype?  Romance is difficult enough without the challenge of distance.   

I tried to remind her of this as she bemoaned her fate.  “Didi, you can’t exactly meet at Starbucks if you live in New York and he’s in L.A.”

There was long pause.  “Kimmy, he lives only 20 miles from me.”

Oh, one of those predicaments.  I didn’t know what to say to her; it seems that even the most desirable women are not immune to the scourge of poor location.  Of what value are charm, grace and accomplishment if the lady at issue is not conveniently located?  It’s not enough that we must be attractive, fit, solvent, employed and sexually adventurous.  If we’re not within easy reach, we don’t merit the effort.

It’s a bitter thing for a woman to hear.  Nobody wants to be judged unworthy.  But esteem issues beg the real question here:  Just how lazy have men become anyway?

I remember one such fellow years ago.  After a few preliminary dates, he announced in a rather self-satisfied way that he was pleased with me.  Not because I was an interesting female, but that my apartment was conveniently situated between his home and place of work.  “Now, I don’t have to go out of my way to see you,” he said blithely.  Needless to say, that acquaintance ended badly.  If a man is determined to torpedo a budding or established relationship, all he need do is mention his partner’s lack of specialness.  The world is full of unremarkable people; to be lumped in among them is the kiss of death.

It was little comfort to Diane, who insisted that her life was over.  “This is worse than high school when my boyfriend dumped me for the head cheerleader,” she mourned.  “Her locker was right next to his.”

I agreed that his behavior showed an absence of vision, but cautioned her.  “Maybe he’s just not that enamored of you, Didi.  If he was, wouldn’t he move heaven and hell just to be with you?”

“Yeah, I guess he would,” she snuffled, “but only if hell was next door.”

HANGING IN LIMBO

I must stop thinking about him or I shall go mad.  It’s best not to dwell on things that are unreal.  Even a child knows when to stop pretending.

But I cannot help myself.  I don’t believe he knows just how badly I want him.  Or, how I lie awake at night aching with desire.  He’s never asked me how I feel or what I want.  Instead he keeps me suspended and I wonder how long this purgatory will last.

It’s enough to drive me out of my mind.  I don’t want to play the politely interested friend anymore.  Friends don’t torment each other with sighs and vague promises of heated coupling in the dark.  Yet he shows no inclination to make good on his word, and I’m beginning to despair that it shall never be realized.

This is a torture that no one should experience.  It’s a demanding and fretful creature that if not appeased soon, shall rip me apart.  I can feel it now, tearing at my flesh and goading me into arousal so acute that it’s almost unbearable.

I can do nothing to stop it; even my own body betrays me.  Never have I so intensely loved and desired another.  I didn’t think I was capable of passion this furious and deep, but yet I am.  It’s wild and without logic and I don’t care if it dashes me to pieces on the rocks.  I’d rather be fractured and bloodied than to have never known this bliss.

IN THE END, IT’S ALL GARBAGE

As I hauled my worldly goods to yet another transient location, I had to laugh.  There’s something poignant, but ultimately hilarious seeing one’s life distilled to a couple of trash bags.  What was I holding onto… a dream, a handful of possessions, my security blanket?  As I hoisted them into the car, I wondered just how important they were.

Here’s a garbage bag full of winter clothes, ready to be stored until the snow flies once again.  I’m tempted to stop by the Salvation Army and leave it on the doorstep.  But of course that means that I’ll have to pick it up and move it yet again.  Surely there’s some poor soul who can use these fleece pants and shirts until the frost forces me back into them.

I never realized how many pairs of shoes I have.  I feel like Imelda Marcos.  Is it just a girlie affectation, or does the poverty of my youth haunt me still?  I cannot wear all of these at once, yet the thought of losing a single pair fills me with anxiety.

Why do I hold onto these dusty books?  I’ve read them over and again.  Is there some bit of wisdom that I’ll absorb by proximity?  How many times can I re-read Pride and Prejudice before its plot no longer captivates me?  No, I think I’ll keep it;  for the first time in my life, I understand why Elizabeth Bennet was so defiant in the face of adversity.

I want to throw it all away and walk unfettered into the next phase of my life.  Can I arrive unclothed and unshod?  Or must I carry these possessions like a talisman against the future?

THE PLAYGROUND BULLY

I wondered how long he’d continue to harangue me.  After nearly two hours of pointless arguing, I hung up the phone and stared out the window.  Talking to a bully is not only exhausting, it’s an exercise in futility.

There was a particularly vicious girl who dominated the playground in seventh grade, a tall gangly girl with buck teeth and a bad temper.   She wasn’t especially bright or well-liked, but most agreed that that given her ferocity that it was better to be a marginal friend than an opponent.

Even the boys kept a wide berth.  She towered over the roughest, elbowing them out of her way in the hall, more swaggeringly macho than their overheated imaginations could conjure.

I observed her one day holding court after recess, handmaidens and toadies gathered ’round in concentric circles.  Suddenly, I felt a pity so profound, it caught me off-guard.  My teen self objected vehemently;  Surely she was the most loathsome creature ever to prowl junior high.  But yet this feeling wouldn’t budge and it forced me to watch her most closely.

True, she didn’t provoke the battles as much as wage them as a mercenary, usually acting as proxy to someone less skilled (and more cowardly) than herself.  She walked home alone after school, deserted by the throngs of admirers who kept her company during the day.  She never attended the dances or mixers and, other than to pummel them, was never seen in the company of a boy.

The truth was later revealed when I overheard her confiding the name of her teenage crush to a less-than-discreet companion. Within hours, the entire school knew and the object of her affection was mortified.  He loudly voiced his dismay, denying any and all romantic affiliation with the lady in question.

So I was more than a little surprised when I discovered her weeping behind a door in the gymnasium.  Wouldn’t it have been more in character had she sought out the cad and gave him a dusting?  Instead, she wept the bitter tears that only an adolescent girl knows how to shed, all her bravado dissolving into the wad of dirty Kleenex clutched to her eyes.

She seemed so terribly sad, so heartbreakingly lonely that I would have comforted her had I not been convinced it would lead to my doom.  Bewildered, I crept away to ponder the ironies that life was beginning to show me.  It was so much simpler when I was a child; things were black and white.  But those demarcations began to blur as I marched out of childhood into the storm of adolescence.  Who really is a villain or a hero anyway? 

I thought about that before I made my last phone call.  Maybe this real-life monster was only terrifying in his zeal to control the circumstances beyond his ability.  Perhaps the bluster, the unreasonable posturing were just his attempts to manipulate the outcome he dreaded.   Even so, how could two people diametrically opposed ever reach a compromise?

I let go of my own expections and dialed the number.  Before I could get a word out, he called for a truce.  Did he recognize the playground bully in himself and rue that he had driven away that which he loved most?  Maybe.  Or perhaps he was just as weary of fighting as me.

CHANGING FROM THE INSIDE OUT

They were sitting at a table in Starbucks and the blonde was complaining to her companion.  “I want to be completely different,” she said, brandishing her triple vente latte, “but I don’t want to be inconvenienced.” 

Normally I don’t pay any attention to random conversations, especially those between manicured North Shore trophy wives, but this one caught my notice.  In spite of her plasticine  malaise, she managed to distill the biggest obstacle to personal growth into one sentence.

As I drove away, I thought about the implications.  How many times had I talked about or visualized change only to be dismayed when it actually occured?   Somehow I learned to think of change as cosmetic, as easy and fun as changing hairstyles, but without any longterm consequences.  It seems, if café conversation is any indicator, this presumption is shared by others.

Nobody thinks about the transition that change requires, only the happy result.   If we really knew what it takes to change jobs, relationships, homes, location or even our minds, we’d be less likely to romanticize it.  Change is not for the fainthearted or the dilettante.  They are better off drifting through life or allowing occasional minor shifts.  As long as the change is so slow that it’s imperceptible, they can be smugly content knowing they’ve avoided the pain of real upheaval.

However if you don’t care that your life will be  ripped asunder, then jump in with both feet.   The only fixed thing in life is change and the sooner you embrace it, the less likely you’ll be alarmed by the aftermath.   Does this mean complete indifference to the wailing of those around you?  No, but don’t be surprised if you’re labeled unfeeling because you’d rather celebrate than mourn.

HOWLING AT THE MOON

Throw me down.  I don’t care if the grass is cold and wet.  None of that will matter once you lay your body over mine.   The dampness will begin to steam, enveloping us in a fog, and I will forget the line that divides me from you.

Can’t you hear the hum that surrounds us?  The nighttime is full of creatures that have come to witness.  Drawn by the heat we generate, they wait in the shadows and attest to the irresistible cycle that binds us to each other and the earth.

I feel it reaching now, loamy tentacles that skim over my skin and pull me down.  Its sweetness is on your lips and in your hair, burying me deep below the black surface.  There is nothing inconceivable in this place, this matrix of form and formlessness.   Let’s stay within it, suspending ourselves in the dark until we finally push up out of the ground like crocus in the spring.

But the moon won’t let us hide.  She will assume her rightful place as mistress of this gathering and call us before her, pale light shining like a beacon over your shoulder and into my eyes.   Who are we to deny her?  She cares neither for the laws of men, nor the self-imposed restraints that hinder the dream she sows.   She beckons and we answer, writhing as one beneath her silver eye.

SWIMMING UPSTREAM

What’s the point?  Why bother spending an entire lifetime fighting the current only to be devoured before reaching journey’s end.  If the lesson isn’t obvious to you, read on.

Sure, you can devote yourself to the amassing of riches and other luxurious vices.  You can even sit it out, moping with the rest of the herd, complaining about your lot in life and bemoaning the difficulties of existence.  You can eke out a living or live the high life.  It really doesn’t matter whether you’re flush with cash or living on the street.  Both options are subject to the same ideology:  Life is hard, so better choose to sink or swim.

Who said life has to be hard?  Your neighbor?  The government?  Your own intuition? If life is nothing but an endless series of kicks to the groin, there’s really no point engaging it.  It’s a complete waste of time.   And you’re a fool to participate in something that has no logical outcome.

If this constant struggle yields nothing but misery, why not just float downstream?  If the current is pushing you away, there maybe a damn good reason for it.  Instead of thinking that the current is only hindering you, consider that it’s actually doing you a favor.

Of course your peers will strongly object.  There’s something rather mean-spirited about friends who begrudge you the right to live your own life.  Everyone will weigh in, and usually disapprovingly, so you have to make a choice.  Either face the discomfort of collective disapproval, or experience the gut-wrenching pain of watching your life pass by.  You might desire the good opinion of family and colleagues, but who among them will stand with you at the very end?  They will be too occupied with their own disappointment to notice.

Ultimately the only voice you must answer to is your conscience, but she may not buy your decision to ditch integrity for gain.

SOMEBODY MAKE IT STOP

One can only be pestered so much.  Sooner or later the lid will blow, so it’s best to take cover before being wounded by your own shrapnel.   It doesn’t matter how many times you warn bystanders; they never pay attention.  If your warnings aren’t strident or colorful enough, they think you’re joking.  Therefore it’s always best, even if it’s not your style, to break a few dishes as you calmly argue the point. 

Of course then you’ll be asked to explain.  Never mind the original point at issue; the real question is why you broke the Pyrex casserole dish.  Watch as your needs are buried under piles of minutiea, knowing that it will take centuries before archeologists stumble upon them.  Listen as you’re upbraided, criticized for failure to meet expectations and judged unworthy.

And if that’s not enough, try to maintain your poise while being hammered repeatedly with the same argument.  It doesn’t work.  Invariably, your assailant will find the chink in the armor and gleefully put you off-kilter.  If you think tearful pleas are effective, think again.  That type of drama just encourages them.  Once they catch sight of your weakness, you might as well give up.  It’s a feeding frenzy and you’re the chum, Chum.

Then again, you can always pull the plug.  There’s no law that says you have to participate in madness.  Trying to reason with a person caught up in the unreal is ridiculous; you’ll never succeed.  Instead of grieving over the impossible, why not celebrate?  You escaped with your wits intact.

LOVING WHAT IS

Woe to the woman who flaunts more curves than are deemed necessary by the fashion élite.  Think of the public humiliation endured by young women like Jennifer Love Hewitt and Jessica Simpson, ladies of voluptuous figure who dared cross the haute couture line by appearing less than skeletal.  The commentary was so great that their stories were plastered across the media.  What’s more important than war in the Mideast and global economic meltdown?  Apparently women who refuse to comply with impossibly rigid standards.   Scandalous! 

The people who wring their hands, despairing over the sad lack of esteem among pre- and post-adolescent women are the same who snipe about the waistlines of public figures.  You can’t discourage your teen daughter from binging and purging if you’re buying copies of People magazine.  The volume of stories featuring weight loss and dieting is astounding; it has to be the extreme sport of the 21st century.

Who decides what is fit and what is fat?  The medical community?  They can’t even agree amongst themselves.  The fashion world?  It seems ironic that an industry designed for the benefit and beautification of women would go to such lengths to alter them.  It seems a woman is only truly fabulous if she is less than herself.

With the current vilification, even acknowledged sirens like Marilyn Monroe would be considered too hefty for notice.  No doubt had she survived the 60s, she would have hired a personal trainer, nutritionist, stylist and assistant hired for the sole purpose of counting every calorie she consumed.  Strange that the camera, in spite of its notorious 10 pound distortion, captured her allurements just as well as the scrawny waifs on Gossip Girl.

Perhaps the real issue here is not beauty standards, which apparently fluctuate with the generations, but self-acceptance.  Inner confidence cannot be assailed from without.   No matter how many high-strung fashion mavens gather round and hurl unsolicited advice, a woman sure of herself doesn’t care.  She knows that the criticism is borne from their own fear of rejection and has nothing to do with her at all.  In fact, she might even smile and swing her hips a little more provocatively.  Those hostile skinny bitches might tear her apart in public, but every last one of them would jump at the opportunity to switch places with her.

MAKING AMENDS

So, now that you know you’ve sacrificed hundred of things on the altar of fear, what are you going to do about it?   Think of all those things -people, tasks, relationships, obligations, duties, pleasures- all deferred just to keep the peace, a peace which in the end was never found.   Are you going to cower and blame someone else, again, for your choices, or will you step up and own them? 

The consequences of your actions lay bare; you can’t ignore them anymore.   They may have been committed in moments of weakness and doubt, but they’re still yours.  You can tackle it now or wait until later when the interest and penalties are impossibly steep.

This might be a bad time to ask, but what the hell were you thinking?  Hiding behind another and pretending is no way to live.  Did you think the charade would last indefinitely?  This is not a Cinemascope production.  The characters will not ride off into the sunset.  They will sit in front of you, gradually growing older, until you decide to address them.

And what can you say except I’m sorry?  You don’t have any excuse.  Haven’t you been plugging away at your practice, chanting and contorting for realization?  Well, here it is, sister.  Better take a long hard look because it’s got your messy fingerprints all over it. 

Not so pretty after all, is it?  Maybe not, but it’s still yours.  Why don’t you just pick yourself up?  If you expect the onlookers to help, you’ll be lying on that floor forever;  everyone’s waiting for you to stand up and help them.

I’D LIKE TO THANK THE ACADEMY

. . . for  their unswerving devotion to the craft and taking a chance on an unknown.  Without your support, I’d still be slinging drinks in a bar back in Jersey.  Of course, my gratitude to the producers and director who saw in me the raw material possible to bring their creation to life.  I’m just the luckiest girl on the planet.

Tomorrow, my fee will increase exponentially and I’ll have less and less to do with the people who pushed me.  But that’s the price to be paid.  I’m a star; I can’t have useless hangers-on weighing me down.  Can’t you see my life is so much more important than yours?

Think of it:  Billions of dollars spent in the pursuit of the pretend.  Nothing is so relished as avoiding the boredom of our fake lives by complete absorption into even faker lives.  It’s as if we delude ourselves into believing the knot becomes untangled by tightening it.

Who doesn’t love a compelling story?  The characters, the photography, the pathos all hold us in raptures.  What will become of the heroine?  Will the hero sell his soul or come to his senses?  Nail biting adventures await you when the lights dim and the film begins to roll.

The only problem is the story isn’t real.  It’s no more real than the life you lead right now, albeit with more high-profile glamour and preferential treatment.  What’s worse, we worship the players and pay them exorbitant salaries, just our little way of thanking them for distracting us from the dullness of reality.  If life is so dreary, why do we watch the pantomime?  If you really are fascinated by human interaction and sizzling drama, why don’t you just watch your neighbors? 

Maybe it’s only stylized human behavior that intrigues.  Nobody wants to view the bloated alcoholic next door as he screams at his kids and beats his wife.  We’d rather pay big money and watch George Clooney do the same.  At least he’s handsome and has trimmer waistline.   Bile is so much easier to swallow when it’s disguised.

THE END OF ALL THINGS

So, it plays out like the last scene in a Chekhov drama.  The family members are distraught, looking at the flayed remains of their pack,  and silently accusing the others of sabotage.  Family secrets are just that:  secret.  No one needs to know the pain, the mortification, the grief.  A loyal member carries these in silence and passes them on the subsequent generations.

But invariably, there is always one among them who can’t stomach the pretense.  It wouldn’t be a drama otherwise.  The rebel, or traitor depending on viewpoint, divulges family intelligence  and the infrastructure collapses.  What was really important to this family, the well-being of its members or the collusion?

The poor treatment of the whistleblower is a clue.   Branded as disloyal, he’s relegated to non-person as the injured parties take center stage.    Under the spotlight, they tell tales of woe in the best Method acting possible and the audience shivers, knowing they are all carrying the same dark secrets.  And what scares them most, that they’re dysfunctional or that someone might out them?

Pain is an interesting phenomena in that people are willing to live with it rather than do anything about it.   They not only co-exist with it, they elevate it to an artform.  Look how I’m suffering; I’m a really special person.  The implication being that pain creates rank.   If you loved me, you’d agree to wallow alongside.  Nothing proves sincerity more than shared ignorance.  How could you do this to me?   Perhaps the real question here is why do you do this to yourself?

Not that leaving behind learned behaviors is easy.  It’s not only the action that’s abandoned, but all the players as well.

PROFOUND STILLNESS

I’m hanging on a moment that stretches out before me like a map.  I lean into its elasticity and it waves under and through me, yet I’m not prompted to reach out and clutch it.   This ride cannot throw me off because I’m interwoven in the mesh.

And so together we elongate, stretching into infinity like the waves of a bell.  I can’t remember what I did yesterday or even an hour ago.  Those trifles don’t exist anymore.  There’s only this moment and it’s moving in all directions.

Why was I always so afraid of endlessness?  I only vaguely recall that it used to trigger panic in me, as if something without beginning or end was a threat.  What possible danger does this cradling pose to me?  It holds me fast in its weave and I’m happy, knowing that my little thread is part of an unending whole.

But my brain is on temporary hiatus.  Tomorrow it will awaken and refuse to believe that I left without it.  It will invent countless excuses for my present experience, baiting the hook with fear, hoping I will forget my solo flight.

BENDING NATURAL LAW

I’ve decided to bypass logic and proceed as if nothing can hamper me.  Gravity, law of return, karma, e=mc². . . who cares about all that stuff?  I’m operating in a law-free environment, independent of consequence, suspended in a cloud of optimism so puffy and white that it whisks me away before the chips fall.

I’m not ignoring the facts, just disregarding them.  Do I have to be constantly reminded how dreary life is and why it’s my duty to shoulder the same monotonous burdens that everyone carries?  No.  I’m perfectly aware that life is unfair, thank you.  I just choose not to get line and pony up for my yoke.

So, is it sadness that I detect from others or resentment that I refuse to play along?  Those long faces can’t all be the result of personal grief and disappointment; surely a good amount of hostility is worked in there as well.   It’s easy to spot.  Just look for the pout.

Oh, and the slumped shoulders.  And the beady stare that challenges you to abandon the course you’re on.   How could I forget about the whining and the wheedling for attention?  I need a daily reminder of how selfish I am for refusing to act codependently.  Since when did I become the guardian of ignorance?

Probably when I signed on as the gatekeeper of everyone’s happiness.    I no longer want the job, but it’s not my fault that there are no other candidates for the position.  Who said I had to find my own replacement?  Besides, who in their right mind would take it?  The pay is terrible and there’s no 401K.

Fear and self-loathing are no longer incentives for me.  Instead, I choose the open road.  I may not yet know how to get there, but I know where I’m going.

WANDERING AMID THE ALIEN CORN

I hate this goddamn corn.  I’ve been walking up and the down the rows for years and can’t get out.  The leaves are slapping me in the face and I just saw a snake.   It’s like being trapped in a scene from Signs, just waiting for the bloodthirsty extraterrestrials to jump out and consume my brain. 

I’d feel better if they actually did.  Then I can blame all my woes on somebody else. . . just like all the rest of the brainless zombies walking around.  Hey, maybe they’re all victims of the corn, too!  Just like that B-horror classic, Children of the Corn, they slink out at night and rob the living of their souls.  They look innocent enough, plump and rosy-cheeked, but inside they are slimy and amoral, prepared to dash your head on concrete pylons and scoop out your brains with their chubby little fingers.  Yum, yum.

I think I see a couple of those kids behind the row to my left.  They’re easy to spot, with their blank stares and excessively clean school uniforms.  I mean, just look at me.   I’m a complete mess!   I’ve got grass stains on my knees and spider webs in my hair and those little bastards are pristine.

I gotta get out of here.  If the little monsters don’t get me first, then the monotony will.  I think there’s more than bio-fuel available out here.

FALLING DOWN THE WELL

The pain is so bright and unceasing that I’m on constant alert.  It’s like being stabbed repeatedly in slow motion.  What a God-awful sensation.  I had no idea that people live like this everyday.

How do they manage to drag themselves to work without dissolving?  Is it possible to interact with others without bursting into tears at the slightest provocation?  I’m assured it’s relatively easy, once the Prozac kicks in.  Oh, joy.  Moving out of a 40 year bio-active paralysis, only to re-enter a pharmaceutical one.  I think I’ll stick with the pain.

At least it’s real.  This emotional disembowelment is better than living in a drug-induced coma and watching the same thing take place.  The pain is there regardless; you’re just too stoned to care. 

I’ve already been down that road.  It only appears to be the path of least resistance.  Sure, you can sail through life unattached to emotional fluctuation, but there is a bill to be paid for it.  If you leave it unpaid until the very end, the interest and penalties will kill you before the myocardial infarction does.

Heart attack . . . interesting pairing of words, don’t you think?  The layman assumes that his heart simply stops working, that he has been betrayed and attacked by his own viscera.   Never does he think that it’s a slow disease process to which he actively contributes.   The cardiac muscle weakens and fails because he has, through his choices, cut off the very thing the heart needs to survive.  Whom has really attacked whom?

If you don’t value yourself as a complete human, it’s easy to shelve the pain, to laze about, disregarding the fundamental needs of the body and soul and then cry unfair when it breaks down and strands you along the side of the road.  You think AAA will send a wrecker to tow your mangled heap back to town?  I doubt it.  If you’re lucky, you can crawl back, grateful to be alive.

ALL THIS AND ANGER, TOO

Just think of what pearls of wisdom they’ll offer. Shake hands and come out fighting like a man.  Great advice, except I’m not a man and I don’t enjoy fighting.   Don’t get mad; get everything.  I suppose that worked for Ivanna Trump, that is until she wound up on the losing end after recklessly marrying/divorcing an enterprising Italian boytoy several decades her junior.  Guess she learned nothing from her experience with the Donald.

I should have listened to my mother.  Had she bothered to offer any advice, I might have done it.   Sadly, she was too wrapped up in her own dysfunctional marriage to care.   You should have thought twice.  Okay, I admit I did not.  Instead I thought a zillion times and it still backfired.  

Maybe you ought to accept your lot.  I really love this one.  Not only is it a dig, but it just drips with resentment.  The implication being that I think too highly of myself and don’t exhibit enough solidarity toward my sisters who choose to stay miserable.  Is this my only option?

No one likes a quitter.  That’s true.  Better to beat a dead horse than be labeled a shirker.  Everyone has to do his part to maintain the illusion.  Think of the widespread panic if we all were to re-evaluate our relationships.

There’s no such thing as happiness.  Now that’s a downer if ever I’ve heard one.  Why don’t we all just commit mass suicide?  At least we’d be out of our collective misery.

Only men benefit from marriage.  If that’s true, why are so many women hell-bent getting to the altar?  If they knew what was waiting after the honeymoon, they’d throw back those multi-carat solitaires and invest in their own futures instead.

It’s God’s will.  When all else fails, starting quoting scripture.   You’re sure to find a passage to either absolve you of guilt or press the cause for reconciliation.  In addition to the self-righteous rush, it’s a real pleasure to condemn another.  Think of it as the ultimate trump card.

MY BRILLIANT PLAN

I amaze myself.  How many years were spent concocting crazy schemes and goofy plans that, although solid in theory, yielded unexpected results?  Even more unbelievable was my steadfast refusal to give up.  Surely with a little tweaking, the plans would produce the visions I had engineered in my head.  Fabulous schemes made real by will alone!  Bending natural law to suit my mood!  The reanimation of dead tissue!

It’s a good thing that none of these succeeded or I’d really be out of control.  There’s nothing worse than mental gymnastics.  The cerebral exhilaration they produce is usually used as a substitute for real emotion.  Who cares about the unpredictability of feelings when provable outcomes are only a theorem away?  Safe inside my double-blind test laboratory, I can perform experiments to prove my hypothesis that the heart is an unreliable source of data and subject to quantum fluctuation.

There’s no room for that nonsense in a three-dimensional world.  Give me facts, theories and concrete evidence and I will construct a brave new world free of circuitous meandering and romantic idealism.  Who needs music and candlelight?  You can’t see a damn thing through the microscope with lighting that bad.  And will someone please tell the contralto to shut up?  I can’t think with all that racket!

Ah, that’s better.  For a moment there, I thought I might quote Byron and start openly weeping.  That wouldn’t do at all.    Hey, what’s this on my cheek. . .?

I’M READY FOR MY CLOSE-UP

Tell Mr. DeMille I’ll be right down.  I’m planning to exit this madhouse with my head held high and dressed to the nines.  Who cares if I’m living in a fantasy world and I’ve just left a trail of casualties in my wake!  All those lovely people in the dark are waiting for me.

Descending into the dark is exactly what it feels like.  There is no way of knowing what, if anything, is out there; not a comfortable sensation for a person who loves to design contingencies for every conceivable end.  But since I cannot predict the outcome of this crapshoot, taking a leap of faith is the only option.

Me and my bright ideas . . . .  now I have to trudge down a blackened staircase into a group of hostile strangers who can’t wait to pick me apart.  Do I hear knives being sharpened in the background?  Lucky me.   But since it’s too late to run, I’ll have to bear this dissection as well as all the others. 

Being stared at becomes second nature after a while. Despite my best efforts to pass as normal, I’ve never been able to pull it off successfully.  Why bother anymore?  It’s best to just own it, move on, and hope that I won’t be further obliged.   From now on, someone else gets the dubious honor of behaving like a mindless submissive.  I’m done.

Does that mean I’m a troublemaker?  Probably.  But then, I’ve never been terribly interested in performing for the amusement of others.

UPSIDE DOWN AND UNDER GRACE

It seemed like an ordinary moment within a non-descript day.  The usual indicators were there:  hostility, suspicion and frustration.  Despite fervent prayers and non-stop chanting, the pain in my solar plexus wouldn’t let up.  The pressure was so intense, something had to be done before the combatants disintegrated into intractable heaps of dust.

Without warning the balloon burst, not with fanfare and a choir of angels, but quietly.  Before I even realized it, the deed was done and the opponents fell away neutralized.   The haze lifted and the parties regarded each other with detachment and new found respect.

Were they so weary of the stand-off that they gave up, or was what transpired beyond human reach?  It stripped away the egocentric posturing and the juvenile resentment that impaired an otherwise friendly association, and for the first time in years, perhaps ever, they stood as platonic equals.  Without the burden of expectation, they could see clearly and realize that the task ahead was not necessarily a bad or good one, but only one that must be faced with compassion.

It’s hard to receive loving kindness unless you are first willing to give it freely and without condition.  You cannot tie your gift to expectation of return.  It must be given without attachment.  You might be deeply cherishing a specific outcome, perhaps understanding, love or freedom, but none of these are obtainable through the usual routes.  The boundlessness we all crave is only found when you stop your habit of binding. 

How can you expect infinite love or joy from another if you demand prerequesites?  I want perfect love and happiness from you, but it must take this shape.   Perfection has no shape.  It exists quite happily of itself without the intervention of well-meaning but clueless interlopers who are determined to box everything in manageable piles.  

Formlessness is untidy.  We feel compelled to sweep the portions available to us into bite-sized pieces that are less threatening and more digestible.  Maybe it’s the grasping of our minds onto that which cannot be held that makes us so jumpy.  However, it’s only when you’re willing to let go of what you want that it actually comes to you.

FREAK SHOW

Why don’t they just put me in a side show and charge a dollar per viewing?  Come see the two-headed lady!  She lives!  Children and grown men will turn away in horror as I creep out from behind the ragged curtain and drag my misshapen body to the stage, the living embodiment of what will happen if you dare to live outside the box.

Will I suddenly be dropped from phone trees and potluck dinners because my principles do not marry well with the liberality of opinion at the table?  Heaven forbid I fail to carry the cause du jour without the proper amount of enthusiasm; somebody might suspect me of free-thinking and then I’ll be subject to ridicule and ostracization.  Isn’t living the cookie cutter American life the absolute pinnacle of achievement?  Brave people have suffered and died so that others may live quietly in suburbia.  Shouldn’t I show more gratitude by eagerly signing on and abandoning individualism?

Bad, bad Kimmy!  We’ll show you what happens to defiant young ladies. . .   First, we will humiliate and make an example of you.  We can’t have any loose cannon running around here, upsetting the natural order!  What would happen if every woman refused to resign herself?  Unacceptable!   Someone has to be responsible for all the world’s ills. . .  Then we will hunt you down like a dog and force you to wear a scarlet R for rebellious.  If any of your friends or family try to take you in, we’ll punish them as well.   Guilt by association is a chargeble offense.  For all we know, you might have learned these behaviors from your mother or grandmother.

It’s off to the circus with you!  Let’s see if a few months of hardscrabble life with toothless carnival workers and a jeering public won’t soften you up.  A vagabond’s life only sounds romantic.  Sooner or later, you’ll yearn for the comforts that only defeat can provide.

DREAMSCAPE

It was hard to discern where she was.  The last thing she remembered was turning off the light and falling asleep.  But here he was, dark eyes looming and lips hovering  over hers.  She couldn’t get away from him, even in sleep.

It was bad enough that thoughts of him tormented her during the day.  At the oddest moments, she was consumed by them, suddenly finding herself suspended in mental pictures so real that they seemed more tangible than the task at hand.  How was it possible that she could feel him stroke her skin when he lived so many miles away?  Nobody’s reach is that long.

She was wrong.  He managed to infiltrate both her waking and nighttime reverie, pressing his cause in absentia.  It was like being quarried by an invisible predator, one who could strike without warning and leave her aching with desire.  It was so ruthless, she had to ask herself if his forays were a violent presumption, or if she actually welcomed them.

She knew the answer.  It reverberated the moment he opened her legs and pressed into her.  She could not withhold what was already his.   There was no point arguing or analyzing a connection that had no logical explanation.  It was a conundrum carefully devised to baffle her mind.   It forced her to rely upon her feeling nature, an aspect she had carefully hidden years ago.   

Those initial steps were wobbly, crammed full of awkward mistakes.  It was like learning to ride without training wheels again.   There was no way to fake her way through this time, no opportunity to finesse herself out of tight spots.   She was a gangly teenager again, every nerve raw and exposed.

But at night, in the hothouse of her dreams, he was a different creature altogether.  He did not plague her for pasteurized answers to stock questions, nor evade the avalanche of feeling that threatened to derail him.  Instead he made love to her with a slow deliberateness that challenged her sense of location.  Where was she after all?  In the never-ending expansion of the future or the desert of the real? 

 

 

I LOVE ORIGINAL SIN

It’s arguably the funniest thing I’ve ever heard . . . and the lamest excuse for personal accountability ever invented.  Presuming that one will be judged in the afterlife, what sort of omnipotent being will believe that the dog ate your homework?

One who already knows how spineless you really are and is well-acquainted with your appetite for blame.  You can hope that He’ll indulge you, forgiving your unkindness, while you furiously quote the passages that most justify your actions.  Of course you have mastery over the world; it’s your playground, isn’t it?  You can run roughshod over the earth and its inhabitants because you just can’t help yourself.  You’ve been a mess since she led you astray.

Those irritating females, what can you do to keep them in line?  I mean, you’ve tried just about everything to keep them docile.  You’ve clubbed them, enslaved them, obligated them, restrained them sexually, covered them with veils and shrouds, branded them, mutilated their feet, genitals and faces to keep them under the radar.  You yell at them, condemn them, smack them around, abandon them and their offspring, criticize them, belittle them, and force them to carry the responsibility for the fall of man. 

And yet you’re still miserable.  I guess your brilliant plan didn’t succeed.  Now you have no choice but to reflect upon your actions and take responsibility for yourself.  But don’t be alarmed; we won’t be demanding payback for what you’ve done.  Once you’ve fully understood the consequences of your behavior, the horror alone will be enough to chasten you.

THE SOUND OF INEVITABILITY

I wonder how long it’s possible to pretend that the trappings of life are real.  Those mundane tasks, the endless boredom, the crushing mediocrity, all spun around you so tightly that it’s impossible to discern what’s actually real.  And yet if you step beyond it, even for a moment, you can never be truly content returning to the fold.  A part of you knows that it’s just a game.

Then why do you continue to play?  Are you staying to oblige others or are you getting a perverse thrill indulging in the last of your fears?  Maybe it’s comfort.  Wouldn’t be easy just to pull the blankets over your head and wish away the boogieman under the bed?  But this monster doesn’t want to kill you with a chainsaw, he wants you to participate in the reality behind the reality.

You’d rather face the chainsaw, wouldn’t you?  At least when you’re bloody and carved up like a turkey, you won’t have to think about the choice you forfeited.  That is, of course, if your consciousness is hacked apart as well.

That’s unlikely.  Instead, you get to hang in limbo and wait for your next turn at bat.  Who knows how long that might be.  Does it really matter?  You can use the interminable interim to contemplate your weakness and invent new vows of perseverance.   Go ahead, bolster yourself.  You’re going to need it for the next round, when the stakes are higher and the fears more grotesque.

EYE OF THE HURRICANE

There’s something to be said for keeping calm in the midst of disaster.  While the storm rages, it’s possible to be utterly quiet, listening only to what is occuring in the moment. 

There really isn’t any point to bemoaning the weather; it doesn’t change its course.   In fact, what disaster, natural or otherwise, was prevented by worry?  Handwringing never solves anything, yet it’s the default mode of most people.  Yes, afterward there will be clean-up and costs to be paid, but neither of these can be avoided. 

It can be argued that upheaval triggers deep emotions and not to participate with them is a sign of indifference.  It’s hard to watch your house or marriage blow away and not feel sadness.   Yet, what is actually provoking the sadness?  Is it the shock of the present, or moments future and past? 

If one is fully present, one cannot  know what will happen from moment to moment.  The storm could shift course, it might worsen or it may suddenly disappear .  Any of these are possible, yet none of them are actually occuring.   If we don’t know what will happen, why do we presume?

Reactions based on the past or future are groundless.  If one is operating from either, then there is cause for hysteria because one is in freefall and that’s really something to worry about!  However, weaning off the speculation habit is difficult.  Fretting can be exhilarating.  The rollercoaster of emotions spin in every direction; who wants to give up the rush?

Perhaps addiction is the real problem.   Those craving the highs and lows might regard a life without them as boring and uninteresting.  What they haven’t discovered is the sheer joy of being freed at last.

FUBAR

If there’s a solution to this mess, I’ve yet to discover it.  I’m treading water in a garbagey pool, trying to avoid the messiest chunks that float nearby.  What is it about raging domestic disputes that pull you down, down to the bottom of the ooze?

I often wonder why people involved in intimate relationships feel so free to attack.  Does the connection give them the security to behave like idiots?  When the rings go on, the gloves come off.  And there’s no referee, unless of course the fights are waged in front of a third party. 

Why do these associations trigger the worst in us?  Can it all be reduced to that shopworn adage Familiarity breeds Contempt?

Perhaps it’s less contempt than laziness.  The bond is taken for granted and the backsliding begins.  First to go is the effort to make the connection special.  This is quickly followed by the re-introduction of offensive habits and refusal to modify alienating behaviors.  Lastly comes the defiant stance, challenging the offended party to discard her sensibilities and become a mindless participant.

Once you’ve agreed to play this game, you cannot change the rules.  Any questioning is considered betrayal.  You must continue to support the players in their ignorance because asking more of them is simply not done.  Downsize your expectations and learn to love mediocrity; it will become your closest companion.

Or, risk it all and face the trash heap.  It’s covered with all your hopes and dreams.  Picking through the wreckage is dangerous, but you might find a few that are still viable.   Do you have what is takes to revive them, or will you succumb to the guilt and reproachment for forfeiting the game?