VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT

When did it become standard practice to regard people as property? 

I was standing in line at the grocery store.  To either side of me were gossip rags screaming the latest in bi-coastal celebrity breakups.  Each one seemed more ridiculous than the next and I wondered if the Midwest was the last bastion of reason and common sense.  Or at least I did until the dowdy housewife behind me started unloading into her cell phone.  “It just makes me sick,” she said while piling frozen Lean Cuisines and boxes of Twinkies onto the conveyor belt.  “I know she’s gonna steal him away from me.”

Given the circumstances, it seemed fitting.  Where else could one feel a sense of cameraderie with the lovelorn if not next to the latest copy of Star magazine?  This particular story, however, did not require any reading.  Before I had a chance to pay and escape with my purchase, she was already onto her next gripe.  “…and after everything I’ve done for him, he owes me!”

That was more than enough.  I grabbed my bags and ran for the exit, hoping the bad juju wasn’t trailing me out to the parking lot.   I felt a cold sweat gather around my neck and I knew why.  It’s only when you’ve been oppressed, that you know the price of freedom.  Which brings me to the point:  When we commit to another person, do we sign our lives away and become their defacto possession?

It seems a strange road, the one that leads from an affectionate joining to the bitter haggling over whom gets whom.  Where along this path did we learn to regard our partners as inanimate objects?  Aren’t people sentient beings who decide their own destinies, or have I lapsed into some idealistic dream again?

I thought about the mindset of the individual who could reduce human value to a commodity which can be transferred or stolen.  Surely their self-esteem must be as low as their disregard of others.  Why else would they continue claim possession of a person who has no interest in them?  Or invent highly-charged emotional reasons to justify their action?

In addition, it’s interesting that despite all the posturing and tears, the slaveowner rarely inquires into the feelings of the slave.  Apparently their self-absorption doesn’t allow for it.  The only objective is to keep the boss contented, and if that means sacrifice of all others’ needs on the altar of their own glorification, so be it.

It’s ludicrous.  When did we move from gratitude to entitlement?  It’s not a given that we all will have the privilege of experiencing intimate relationships;  there are many who drift through life completely disconnected. They would give their eye teeth for a loving companion.  Yet those of us who have the good fortune abuse it and abase our partners until love is destroyed and only duty remains.

We’ve been told that a solid relationship requires faithfulness in both good and bad times.  Certainly we ought not desert each other just because we’re bored.  However I would argue that those who diminish their beloved in any way have already dissolved the union.   Marriage or other lifelong committment is an agreement between equals, not rank and file.   Once subjugation begins, the loving attachment ends and is replaced by the master/servant dynamic.

That job is a lot harder to quit.  An employer conscious of his role and the rights of his employee will accept a two-week notice.  A lover or spouse who has played the part of CEO will reject it and revert to their dual role of clingy dependent just long enough to get the agitator back in tow.  Once silenced, the no trespassing sign is posted and you’d be wise to heed its warning.  We may not care for the sanctity of marriage, but in this country, property rights are defended to the death.

THE ABYSS

It doesn’t take much to recognize that cold feeling in the pit of your stomach, the one that alerts you to inevitable trouble on the horizon.  It descends like an icy hand that pushes you toward the thing you dread most.  You put on a brave face and behave as if it’s of no importance, but you are shaking so violently inside that you’re certain everyone is aware.  Before you know it, the cord is severed and you’re floating independently.  The object of your affection veers away and you watch him go, knowing that you are powerless to change his course.

You shed countless tears because the grief is so intense that it leaves no space for words.  It squeezes all the air from your chest, but you don’t really mind.  You’d rather life be temporarily extinguished than to face the next moments.  They yawn like an abyss and swallow you whole, awash in pain so unbearable that your screams never reach the top.

But there’s a good reason why you’ve been cast into the immeasurable deep:  You will never be discovered.  You will lie as shipwreckage and be forgotten, your hull slowly disintegrating over time and spilling its cargo onto the sea floor.  It doesn’t matter if what you once carried was valuable.  In the cold black depths, no sunlight will ever illuminate its worth.

THE FALL GUY

If the deed cannot go unpunished and someone has to be blamed, it’s best assigned to the least significant player.  They are expendable.  In that way, conflict with the nearest and dearest is avoided and everyone is free to resume their usual roles.

It really doesn’t matter if those closest are at fault.  To acknowledge their transgression is tantamount to disowning the relationship and that would be dangerous.  Preservation of the status quo is more important than truth, especially when so much time has been vested in it.  Better to labor under false pretenses than to admit failure.

Nobody makes mistakes, or least nobody should dare admit to it.  Mistakes are only made by the weak-minded who forget their primary loyalties, and those who are most recently introduced to the fold.  Newcomers may not be fully apprised of what is expected of them and are prone to stumble. 

If they do, seize the moment and transfer all guilt upon them.  No one really values their opinion and they have so little seniority that their absence will go unnoticed.  If enough disparaging commentary is leveled, their reputations can be permanently damaged, thereby eliminating the possibility of reintroduction to the group.

With responsibility assigned to another whom has been safely removed, resume normal activity.  However, it’s best to remember that with shrinking membership comes the danger that when the inevitable arrives, there will be nobody to blame.

LESS THAN ZERO

I’m so tired, but there’s no vacation from this life.  Must keep soldiering on even though I want to crawl into a hole.   It’s exhausting to keep up this cheerful façade; everyone presumes the vigor comes from some endless well that requires no maintainence.  They feel free to tap into it until it’s nearly dry and the gears lock up.

I am not a paragon of virtue, only a human being trying to live as well as possible without carrying the world on my back.   My efforts do not excuse others from theirs.  Have we ever seen evidence that coat-tail riding translates into success for the passenger?  Arriving at the destination doesn’t mean one has arrived; only that you’ve managed to show up.

It might be easier if they were happy riders.  But despite their loud claims to the contrary, they still want to hold onto their old habits and fears which makes movement nearly impossible.  What vehicle can travel if its brakes are set? 

Not that I really blame them actually.  There was a time when I, too, wanted all the trappings of a happy life without having to do the work to get them.  I wanted them handed to me on a silver platter.  Strangely enough when I was gifted a few, I had no idea what to do with them.  It was like being sent to live in Paris without any knowledge of the language or customs.  There’s no way to fake your way through it.

And no matter how much I repeat it, that lesson is always the last learned.  There is no easy way to obtain peace and contentment; you have to wean yourself from the pacifier and take those wobbly steps on your own.  If you want to walk, walk.  If you want to fly, fly.  No one can do it for you.

So it seems I must shake off my hangers-on because not only do they drain me, they have no real idea of what awaits them.  Their enthusiasm will sour when they discover they’re unable to navigate the new surroundings and they will blame the pilot for error.

BLACK HOLE SUN

It was like being shot with a high powered rifle and bled dry by a vacuum that has no off switch.  I looked down at my hand so recently and ineffectually shaken and knew why it felt lifeless.  I had to escape quickly before the rest of me was consumed.

It wasn’t easy because we were thrown together under presumably happy circumstances.  All the party guests were laughing and talking, but I couldn’t hear them.  They were muffled by the pitch of the drone relentlessly seeking its target.  It cast a funereal pall over what otherwise was a joyous occasion, and I wondered if sackcloth and ashes might have been the better fashion choice for the evening.

Was that a dirge I heard in the background?  I wasn’t sure for what or whom it was played, but the dancers began to wail and tear at their hair as the shadow spread further into their ranks, engulfing each one into its tarry black mass.  It oozed beneath my chair and lapped at the spindles before I jumped off, clearing the wave before the barstool sank.

I escaped to another room and locked the door behind me.  It won’t get me here.  It was just a matter of waiting out the destruction and allowing the creature to move on.  But as I heard the screams of the less fortunate subside, I suddenly understood why I felt no relief at its departure.  It would return.  And continue to do so until it had found satisfaction in the obliteration of its enemy.

PERSONAL DISCIPLINE

When Serena enters a room, most men (and a few women) sit up and take notice.  Not that she’s drop dead gorgeous; in fact, she might be described as plain.  But for what she lacks in beauty, she more than compensates with an appealing unstructured confidence.

I met her in college, while travelling in Europe.  She was Susan then, a frumpy sophomore from Iowa using a Eurrail pass to get as far away from her midwestern roots as possible.  We spied each other in the bar car and, after coffee and a pack of cigarettes, decided to join forces and head to Greece instead of Zurich.  Plans often changed spontaneously in those days.

Over the course of the next 12 hours, I learned that she descended from fifth generation farmers and was an accomplished equestrienne.  She had competed in a few dressage events in England that summer and although she had placed well, hadn’t captured the prize she really wanted.  I initially attributed her malaise to disappointment until learning otherwise.  Apparently she had discovered another use for her riding crop.

Susan never told me his name, only that he was a petty nobleman from an esteemed family.  He had judged her harshly in the last event, but seemed more than willing to make up for the blow in a private setting.  He may not have thought well of her form, but never forgot her seat.

He spent an entire weekend worshipping it while they holed up in his dilapidated estate in Norfolk.  Until then, she had never considered her plump Iowan figure an asset.  But after a frantic three-day initiation, she suddenly had a new-found respect for it.  She may not have mastered the horse, but she discovered she was mistress of all else she rode.

Her lurid adventures were a fascination.  I had never heard such things openly discussed, let alone whispered, in the strict Presbyterian circles of my youth.  And as she regaled me with hair-raising details, I began to wonder if the buttoned down life I had known was harboring secrets yet to be discovered.

We spent a dizzying week on the beach at Corfu drinking roditys and plotting strategies.  She rebuffed the marriage proposals offered by the lonely middle-aged Greek men, preferring the company of the young transvestites haunting the dance clubs.  She had no intention of settling down to respectable married life, even if it was on the other side of the globe, confessing to me that the orthodoxy of the Aegean was no better than the cornfed one of Des Moines.

We stayed in touch for a while after I returned to university, but our letters became fewer when she relocated to Paris and became a fixture of the swinger’s underground.  The last one was signed Serena, and I knew with certainty that she had finally completed her long metamorphosis and would fly away forever to her new carnal home.  But it made me smile, knowing that she took the trouble to say goodbye to a friend she had known only briefly.  She might have been the queen of discipline, but she never forgot her manners.

A VERY GOOD GIRL

“She’s a gem,”  I overhead them say.  “A very good girl.”

I glanced over, expecting to see a child in a pinafore.  Instead, I saw a fully grown woman, elegantly dressed.  She wasn’t aware of their commentary, walking by her admirers down the concourse to some unknown destination.  And as I resumed my reading, I couldn’t help but wonder how she might react to such an assessment.

There were dozens of families, lone strangers and couples crowded into our Southwest gate that afternoon.  I casually looked at their faces, trying to discern which of them were good or bad.  Was it possible to determine merit based upon appearance alone?

It made me reflect upon the strange duplicity with which we as women are reared.  We are expected to exhibit virtuous behavior in public and intuit how far we may abandon it in private.  Most of us spend a lifetime on a tightrope, afraid to stray to either side for fear of losing our balance.

As a consequence, we drive our natural impulses underground or wildly act upon them.  It’s no surprise then that the two usual epithets hurled at women, bitch or whore, reference love… either by its absence or its unrestraint.  A grim reminder that as the appointed keeper of unconditional love, we must dole it out conditionally.

It’s a curious thing to be assigned a task and not being allowed to perform it.  As such, we fail by default and foster generations of women frustrated by limitation, most of whom are not aware of why they are angry.  We assume that carrying the mantle bestowed upon us should provide the fulfillment we seek, but when it does not, we rarely question it.  That would not be appropriate for a good girl.  Instead, we smile, confide in our equally-frustrated girlfriends, and hope for the best.

So it was with a sigh that I returned to my book.  Did I think I could overturn millenia of habit with a single thought?  Maybe it was better not to question unnatural order; a good girl operative can maneuver more efficiently if no attention is drawn to her.

ENTER THE DRAGON

Come on in… if you dare.  None of your polite affectations will serve you here; leave them at the door along with the rest of your baggage.  The only thing required is a willingness to go beyond the limit, so be prepared to face your worst fears and most secret desires.

What do you mean you don’t want to go there?  If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be loitering at the door, trying to peek in.  Don’t bother.  The red corridor inside is a maze designed to fool the onlooker.  Only the ones brave enough to step over the threshold will be treated to the rapture within.

You look like a man who’s been sitting on the sidelines, only dreaming of playing the game.  I’m afraid that no amount of mental imagery will substitute for the real thing; you’ll have to man up or get out of line.  The anxious ones behind you won’t take kindly to delay.

Ah, you didn’t notice the queue.  It seems there are scads who share your sentiment, frustrated ones desperate to drop the burden of artificial existence and reclaim their rightful position among the living.  Sad creatures, really, most of whom don’t even know that their lives are a sham but will learn soon enough once they enter.

However, the door swings only one way.  The exit may leave you many miles from where you started… not a bad prospect if, after decades of living, you’re still at the starting gate.  Where would you like to go, to a place you’ve only dreamed about or to fully inhabit the one you’re in?  Anything and everything is possible here, if you’re willing to pay the entrance fee.

A small price, don’t you think, for the opportunity to be reconfigured?  Even smaller if you think of how much you’ve already paid.  The cost of remaining stationary is always higher in comparison; you just haven’t noticed because the bleedout is incremental. No respectable sycophant kills its host.

You can do that yourself.  Step inside, if your courage holds, and slay the monster.   What you do after you’ve stepped out from behind him, is your own affair.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, DARLING

I’d put your present under the tree, only I don’t fit under it. Santa conveniently placed this gift in an infinitely more comfortable, but less traditional spot.  How he knew is anybody’s guess.  Maybe the missus taught him a few tricks that he saves only for the grown-up kids.

Of course I’ve been a good girl; how do you think I’ve been able to keep my wits about me?   It’s not easy, especially when you pass by so near that your scent fills my head and all I can think about is you pressing against me.  It’s not a crime to dream about you slipping down my chimney and rewarding me, is it?  There’s something so terribly erotic about that form of breaking and entering that it leaves me weak.

But then, there isn’t much about you that doesn’t fascinate me.  It’s like waking up on Christmas morning every day.  Each time I unwrap you, there’s something new for me to discover.  But unlike the thoughtlessness of youth, I don’t want to tear into you only to consume the sweet creamy center and discard the cake.  No… I want to savor every bite.

What an incredible feast do I see before me.  Have you been reading my mind again, enticing me to a table groaning with the most delectable flavors imaginable?  If you’re sitting at the head of it, be forewarned that I’ll push aside the entire repast just to taste the sugarplum on your lips.

AULD LANG SYNE

A long time ago… is that what this year has become?  Already relegated to the land of the fable, where a review of its highs and lows won’t trigger a storm.  A place where we can look back fondly, either grateful that it’s come to an end or eager to tackle the next.

I used to wonder why time was traditionally represented by a man wielding a sickle and why when he was finally wise and forebearant, he was replaced by an inexperienced child.  It seems foolish to part with one’s wisdom, especially if it’s been hard-won.  Must we always start from scratch?

Maybe it’s reflective of our childlike trust in the certainty that all wrongs will be righted, and the mistakes of the previous year will be wiped clean.  Wouldn’t it be lovely if at the stroke of midnight, all sins were forgiven? 

The only snag is that the one who bestows forgiveness, the child, still clings to juvenile notions.  He hasn’t the capacity to understand, nor the patience to listen. He will ignore the plea of his elder and rush headlong into life, invariably making the same mistakes as his predecessor.  And only when it’s time for him to relinquish his job will he realize what the old man wanted from him.

DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL

I couldn’t help but feel a tremendous amount of empathy for him because I know exactly what he’s undergoing.  If there was an easier route, we’d take it.  However, how many of us really know where we’re headed when pain grips so tightly that all vision is temporarily halted?

Having been through it more than a few times, I know that the reward on the other side is much greater than the effort.  However, first-timers are often overwhelmed by the magnitude of the challenge.  It seems insurmountable, but that’s only an illusion concocted by the players.  If you extricate yourself before intermission, the ensemble will be short an actor and the drama suspended, causing resentment among those left onstage.  Pity we can’t send in an understudy…

Not that he would be welcomed.  A pinch-hitter is only as good as his predecessor.  It’s unlikely that he’s aped your habits well enough to fool the audience, or the blood demands of your fellow thespians.  So you must choose between your own wellbeing and that of the show.  Which will go on?

Of course the problem is that the longer the show goes on, the harder it is to leave it.  It’s like a long-running stage contract in Las Vegas or a sitcom with endless residuals.  It’s difficult to leave the steady paycheck and familiar routine.   And yet even these may not be enough for you, especially when you’re alerted to something greater beyond them.

Hence the quandry, which in essence is not conflict between others, but internal strife.  When you realize that the hot mess you’re in is of your own creation, suddenly you have no one to blame and the long watch begins.  It’s a lonely black night sitting with yourself, ruminating on all the detours you’ve taken.  You might rail against all those choices, despairing over your inability to hit the bull’s eye.  But who of us do on the first try?

You might feel ashamed that you didn’t learn sooner and had to involve so many people in your journey.  But how can you thank those who are ignorant of the role they’ve played?  Or angry and dismissive when you do?  No amount of explanation, however earnest, will convince them.  Just as you have, they must discover these subtleties on their own.

And they will… in time.  But for now you must sit quietly in the dark and wait.  The light of understanding will come, not carried on a tray by a rowdy host of friends and family, but slowly over the horizon.

DANGER: QUICKSAND

If you’re not careful, it will pull you down and no amount of flailing will save you.  That’s the clever hitch in emotional quicksand:  the more you engage with it, the tighter it becomes.

The problem is, of course, we don’t even know that we’ve encountered danger until we’re neck deep.  What often appears to be random is actually a neatly constructed ruse designed to trap, and in our desire to please (or to rescue) we inadvertently step into it.

The captors are fully aware of your nature.  They know which button to push to elicit the response they require.  You might think those plaintive cries for help are genuine, but these are not the requests of hapless souls.  They are manipulative strategies.

Not so, you might tell yourself.  How could those eyes brimming with tears be anything but sincere?  Very easily actually, especially if you are stepping outside the box and trying new behaviors.  Those tears aren’t triggered by grief, but by anger and loss of control.

What is truly shocking is not that loved ones are capable of low behavior, but that we have been hamstrung by our own arrogance.   Have we become so deluded that we think others incapable of managing without us?  If so, we’re no better than the victims we aid.  It’s just as vain to think you’re indispensable as it is to believe you’re ineffectual.

Acknowledging your role is not always a sure way to avoid entrapment, but it will clear your conscience.  However, if you expect validation from the other participants, don’t hold your breath.  Some folks love the murky depths and shrink from the light.

ABANDONING REGRET

What is regret anyway?  Another means of self-flagellation?  A symbolic gesture of conscience?  A frustrated desire to change the past?  If self-condemnation actually accomplished its goal and altered the past, the person you are presently would not exist.  Do we really believe we can change ourselves by mourning the past?

The reasons for regret are usually linked to unpleasant current circumstance.  We experience disappointment and immediately rue our actions, as if we were solely responsible for the event.  If only I had been prudent, this discomfort would not have occured.  But there is no way to predetermine any outcome, especially if other people are involved.

We tend to forget that people are masters of their own lives.  Changing our actions will not necessarily change them.  In fact, they might respond in ways that are completely unexpected. 

Furthermore, if we are so stubbornly vested in specific outcomes, perhaps we should examine our own neediness and control dependency.  Are we really so fragile that we must manipulate every detail?  

It’s been said that adversity draws out one’s true character.  In crisis, we are put to the test and must act spontaneously in response.  There isn’t time for elaborate rumination to decide which of our many faces to wear.  We act in the moment, prompted from honest intention or fear, and this unguardedness reveals whom we truly are.

What has it revealed about you?  That you are decisive, doing what is principled and right?  That you are joyful, acting from the heart and connecting to others?  Or that you are self-protective, taking whatever you can and running from the scene?

No matter which best describes you, it is what and whom you are.  No amount of remorse will change that fact.  Therefore, if you are struggling with regret, the struggle is probably with self-acceptance rather than with external conflict.  Conflict with others usually occurs when we are not honest and disguise our natures to conform to another’s expectation.

If you are behaving with sincerity, then there is no place for regret because you honor not only yourself but others, too.  Giving them the freedom to behave and react as they choose is equal to giving yourself the same.  Allow them to be and you will discover that you have been liberated from the bonds of expectation and attachment, and regret will become nothing more than a habit discarded.

THE VELVET EDGE

I know I’m going to lose myself utterly in this.  When I look about, I cannot see from whence I came nor where I’m going, only the juicy soft and tactile center.  It’s pulsing like a heart, emitting a rhythm which I have no intention of resisting.

Even if that was possible, what would I do with the cadence that’s already begun?  My entire being is vibrating in tandem and I cannot stop its motion.  It pulls me irresistably forward, onto a ledge and into the velvet blackness beyond.

When I was younger and bricked up behind an impenetrable wall, it was easy to dismiss my feeling nature as a random mistake of Providence.   But what I thought were painful lessons in the unreliability of human nature, were actually demonstrations of depth perception and a living reminder of what and who am I.

Without the shield of the wall, I cannot rely upon old habits.  I am forced to look upon this without filter and its profundity amazes me.  It’s contrary to convention and trumps all prior agreements, refusing to be silenced by them or any other arbitrary social custom.

What can I do but yield to it?    There are some mysteries of life which will always remain so, and that excites me.  I don’t want the world to fall under the limited definition of my finite mind, but to expand forever beyond it.

JUMPING OUT OF MY SKIN

If one more person counsels patience, I’m going to scream.  I don’t need to hear another patronizing remark about how these events are strengthening me; I want results!

I’ve had it with being stretched to the limit and expected to smile through the pain.  This is absolutely ridiculous.  What is it about the piggyback habits of others?  Are they so special that their feet cannot touch the ground?

More importantly, how did they get there?  Have I been so brainwashed that I yield without question and add my voice to their complaints?   It seems this world is occupied with nothing but wounded souls either demanding attention that they are incapable of giving, or lavishing attention that they are incapable of getting.

I am tired of melodrama.  I have no desire to ride this emotional rollercoaster.  I fully understand that addiction to the thrillride is appealing to many, but I’m not one of them.  I find no fulfillment in death-defying loops that switchback on themselves.  Why go around and around and get no where?

Nor do I want to feel dizzy.  The novelty of being off-balance has long since worn off.  It might have served a useful purpose when inertia was slowly suffocating me, but the logjam was broken a while ago.  Is it really necessary to keep living in a blender set to frappé?

It’s said that in order to operate from a sturdy foundation, the entire structure sometimes has to be razed and rebuilt.    If that’s true then it might be the lack of my own internal scaffolding that truly is the bother.  Operating without form creates a greater dependency on the good will of others… the very same people incapable of reliance.  Little wonder that I’m so short-tempered.

I am in essence a kite without tether.  Is it possible to exist, happily exist, with neither internal compass nor asking for directions?  Maybe it’s the meandering that is the sole point of this exercise.  If I can conjure a little empathy for the wailing of others -or at least learn to tolerate them-  perhaps I’ll even develop a little for myself.

CORPORATE HOSE JOB

Bend over and grab your ankles because the corporate monster wants your ass.  Don’t even think about being wined and dined; you’ll be lucky if you can manage to get your pants off in time.  The business of the United States is business, so assume the position.

And you can stop the liberal kaffeklatsching because your voice was silenced years ago.  Nobody cares about your rights.  All that fluff about the Constitution is nothing but that:  a pile of fuzz meant to distract you from the menial work you’re obliged to perform. 

You mean you didn’t notice the shackles around your feet?   Look down.   They’re the shiny happy ones with the Wii trademark embossed on the side.  Keep jumping and buying, my little serf friend, because you’ll never get off this farm.  And neither will your children or your great-grandchildren.  

You’ve amassed such a huge pile of debt that indentured servitude is your only option.  Consider yourself lucky; if you weren’t needed to keep that grist mill turning, you might be sweating it out in a debtor’s prison.

Oh, wait a minute… this is a debtor’s prison.  It’s just the extra-large house arrest variety with the flip-top work release option.  They think of everything. 

But don’t worry; everyone’s plugged into the same matrix.  As long as you’re kept doped and exhausted, who cares if you’re pimped out to the highest bidder?   Besides, even if you wanted recourse, to whom or what would you appeal?  There will be no one to hold sleazebag corporations accountable and they know it.

So relax and enjoy it.  You might find sitting a little painful, but that’s all by design.  Time is money and loafing around in chairs is counterproductive.  Remember… you’re a team player now.

COURTESY AND OTHER TRASH

 

Why is courtesy the first thing jettisoned in intimate relationships?  Is it the dynamic of the thing itself which fosters it, or do we simply feel safe enough to behave like complete idiots?

I have often wondered why politeness is reserved for strangers, but not extended to loved ones.  It is the daily grind whose gears require greasing; so why hold out?  Do we honestly expect the mechanism to run if it’s not properly tended?

If we do, then we know as little about loving relationships as we do car mechanics… which tends to explain why we’re more devoted to our vehicles than to each other.    I suppose it’s easier to love an inanimate object, no matter how broken down and unreliable, than one who habitually criticizes your wardrobe, table manners and take-home salary.

Then again, if confronted with a beligerent stranger, would you just as readily acquiesce to their demands?  Of course not.  You’d tell them to mind their own affairs and butt out of yours. 

So why do we lie down and take it from those who’ve promised to love, protect and cherish us?  Shouldn’t they be our greatest champions?  All things being equal, we only share our life with others; we are not beholden to them.  There is no good reason to tear apart the person you love most just because you’re in a bad mood.

Yes, we all have rotten days that challenge us to the nth degree, but that does not give us license to indulge in willful and juvenile behavior.  If you find yourself angry enough to belittle your companion, perhaps the person with whom you are truly disgusted is yourself.  It’s said that we are all but mirrors to one another; if this is true, then acts of incivility do not end with tears from our partners, but tears from our own eyes.

ENSNARED

Never have I faced an adversary so fascinating… or formidable.  Though I wear a brave face, my knees buckle when he’s around and I have to hold onto the table.   It takes a lot of effort to curb my mind from wandering into forbidden territory.

He won’t admit it, but I know he’s cast a net and pulls it a little tighter every day.  I can feel it drawing close, channelling me down into the lion’s mouth where he’s patiently waiting like a man assured of victory. 

I’m constantly amazed by his unruffled demeanor.  If he shares my agitation, he hides it well behind eyes that look like the south Atlantic.  Only once did they betray him and it led to my undoing.

And now I’m willingly caught in the snare, but loathe to move until he pulls away the netting and resuscitates me.  Until then, I float in suspended animation, neither living nor dying, waiting only for that moment when all that is within me bursts forth and showers down like rain.

SELF IMAGE

I looked into the mirror yesterday and wasn’t sure who or what was looking back at me.  The face seemed familiar, yet I was unacquainted with this particular woman.   She was unusually confident with a definite air of mystery, as if a secret was hiding just behind her eyes.

It caught me by surprise.  I normally avoid looking at my reflection unless absolutely necessary because, like most females, I fixate on imperfection.  This time, however, the face held her ground, mocking my criticism and challenging me to look beyond the surface.  Could it be that this person might actually be a friend?  I’m not sure what alarmed me more, that I could be friend to myself or that I hadn’t been such in decades.

To thine own self be true.  I’ve heard it a million times, but it always seemed shopworn and more than a little selfish.  Haven’t I also been programmed to put others before myself?  Both notions are in opposition; which do you choose?

I chose neither, leaving myself free but rudderless.  Sometimes I’d fluctuate madly between the two, trying to reconcile them, but it only led to frustration.  How could I embody the best of both worlds if neither occupied the same space?  It was like being voluntarily torn asunder.

Why was I playing it safe?  Did I think I could hedge my bet by avoiding allegiance?  In my zeal, I must have forgotten that abstaining is also a choice, one that doesn’t necessarily free me from accountability.  Like the many thousands of voters who fail to turnout on election day, my lack of voice influences the outcome just as severely.  Who was I kidding? 

Apparently no one.  And somewhere along the way, the choice was made and the die cast.  I looked back at my new friend and thanked her for steering me to safety even though I had let go of the wheel long ago.

THE CONFESSIONAL

You think you can keep it secret.  You can shove it into the darkest recesses of your mind and pretend you don’t care.  You can feign indifference and try to look away.  Maybe you’ve even tried to force yourself to accept the dreariness of your lot.

But it won’t last.  If you think you can outwit the inevitable, you’re mistaken.  Eventually, you’ll have to own the turmoil that rocks you and realize that it’s only its refusal that troubles you.

So what do you do when the love you’ve sought all your life comes to call?  Throw yourself on its mercy and pray it will overlook your foibles?  Keep it waiting at the door because you’re inconvenienced?   Curse the day you picked up your first romance novel?

The real question here is why do you insist upon playing the innocent?  Are you completely oblivious to the creative role you play in your own life?  It’s a mystery why people are astonished when the thing they most desire arrives on their doorstep.  Perhaps what they truly want is not the outcome itself, but the yearning.

Maybe it’s easier to secretly anticipate failure.  In that way, one isn’t challenged to own personal power or to deal with the gritty reality of sharing intimate space with another person.  My friend Daniel, a glib but oddly reserved man, recently started dating a woman whom he described as ideal.  When I spoke to him last week, he told me that he had abruptly ended their acquaintance because it was too good.  It was only after a stulted conversation that I realized that it was not the lady to whom he objected, but to the tsunami of emotion triggered by her arrival.

We have somehow learned to equate love with the magical elimination of all problems.  And in essence, we are right; love will correct all errors, but that process is never easy.  Love is relentless.  It will shed its harshest light on your sickest secrets and force them into the open, where they may be addressed and neutralized.

You cannot take a seat at the banquet if you are already filled beyond capacity with fear.  Will you let love transform you, taking you far beyond the limitations of your finite mind, or will you settle for the scraps that fall from the grown-ups’ table?

OPENING PANDORA’S BOX

Does anybody really know what’s inside themselves?  Curiosity might lift the lid, but it’s the scary stuff within that prompts us to close it.  However, just like the evils that Pandora inadvertently loosed upon the world, we can’t force our own back into the box.

Self-examination ain’t for sissies.  All the nasty little behaviors that we are quick to spot in others are usually roosting within ourselves. How else would we recognize them?  I’ve often wondered if the reason we are quick to condemn others is because we secretly know we’re guilty of the same and want to punish ourselves in effigy.

Better someone else than me, right?  The only problem with that line of thinking is it rarely, if ever, delivers you from misery.  It just prolongs it.  If you know that you’re capable of low behavior, you can’t unknow it by passing the blame to another.

Why then is the process of redirecting so difficult?  Are we really so cowardly that we cannot face the truth?  Just yesterday, I listened to my neighbor complain about her wayward boyfriend.  Within the avalanche of angry tears and words, not once did she acknowledge her own hand in the events.

Nor did she mention the years of co-dependent behavior that fostered it.  Instead, as do we all, she focused solely on the perceived wrongdoing.  When I gently reminded her that she was free to walk away, she was appalled by the suggestion.  It seemed, despite her loud protests to the contrary, she was content with the degradation and almost reveled in it. 

Is that all there is, sacrificing ourselves, our lives and our happiness just to prove a point?  Is this a competition?  If so, what’s the prize?  It must be a good one, judging from the volume of people participating, captivating their limited imaginations like so many of the viewers of Dancing with the Stars.

Eventually even that mind-numbing opiate won’t conceal the task you’ve left unfinished.  If you think you’re itching now, just wait.  No amount of scratching will put it back into the box; you’ll have to face this one head on.

DERAILED

Sometimes the best laid plans go awry. 

I should have known that avoidance wouldn’t work, but after some serious soulsearching, it was my only option.  Being the catalyst for radical change wasn’t the role I wished to play, so I decided to put as much distance as possible between he and I.  Maybe it only forestalled the inevitable, but I was determined that no one would suffer by my hand.

Least of all myself.  It had become a torment to be in his presence and yet not part of it. I hated being caged and forced to behave like a good moralist.  But the circumstances were beyond my control and there was no point pining for someone unattainable, so I turned away.  It didn’t matter that he sought to bind me to him by unconventional means; I could dismiss those ethereal ties and walk unfettered without him.

Or so I thought.  I tried to distract myself with friends and new acquaintance, but they only served as a reminder and that mystified me.   It was his story coming out of other mouths, his eyes gazing from other faces, his quirks demonstrated by other hands.  It was as if I was being shadowed by a thing I could neither acknowledge nor confront.

It only stiffened my resolve.  I persevered until I was nearly home free, interacting in the moment with as much raw honesty as I could muster.  I was only steps away from complete liberation when the portend of a dream brought everything to a halt.  A freight train derailed in a broadside collision with a speeding passenger train, the boxcars crashing in every direction and my sifting through the wreckage for survivors.  The only one I found was shellshocked and no longer recognized me.

I knew what it meant, but I didn’t want it to be so.  Was this my reward for acting in good faith?  It troubled me and I couldn’t go back to sleep.  He was beckoning in such a visceral way that I could no longer ignore the summons.  So I answered the call and wasn’t in the least surprised when all my carefully laid plans suddenly imploded that very afternoon.

DECONSTRUCTION

You might as well pick your side of the bed because you seem to spend a lot of time in it.  I think you’ve taken up permanent residence because as soon as I drift off, I can almost feel you crawl in next to me.  And there you stay, haunting my dreams until I wake up exhausted.

For a while your appearances were so rare, I thought you might have deserted me.  But you were only hanging back, chastened by discovery and slightly dismayed that I was fully aware of your presence.  Did you think I was insensitive to the ebb and flow of your thoughts?  They are as apparent to me as waves upon the sand.

Perhaps it unnerves you to be that vulnerable before me, but all I perceive is beauty and passionate yearning so tangible that I’m never quite sure if I’m awake or dreaming.  And when you greeted me last night, with so many kisses that I lost count of them, the pretense was gone and you were so relieved by its absence that I thought you’d break me in two.

I wonder how long you will keep me company in this dimension.  Some think it’s just a harmless pursuit, locked in the privacy of the mind, but I know otherwise.  Intention dropped into the pool of action sends endless rings before it and there will come a time when the heat from your innermost desire will rise up like a flame and consume us both.

WAKING AND DREAMING REALITIES

I absolutely did not want to get out of bed this morning, being caught up in a dream so vivid and sensual that I wasn’t sure where I was.  When the alarm sounded, I wanted to throw it across the room for daring to interrupt.

Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t return to that moment.  It was like a soap bubble that once punctured could not be remade.  But as fleeting as it was, the effects are long term.  I am, hours later, still plagued by vision and deep-seated longing.

It would be easy to dismiss this as an act of the overly-imaginative, but why?  Is the activity of the subconscious mind unimportant?  Or does its non-linear nature disturb us so profoundly that we disregard its messages?

Granted, it’s difficult to reconcile two seemingly disparate factions.  If your waking and dreaming minds are at odds, then your behavior must be tailored to the medium in which you operate.  Clearly, we cannot move from one impulsive act to another without carefully weighing the consequences, but dreamstate eliminates them.  You are free to act from the deepest part of self, exploring scenarios which otherwise might be off-limits.

And was do your secret activities say about you?  Are you repressed and only able to express creativity and emotion in the privacy of your own head?  Or, are you problem-solving and making sense of your life through strange metaphor?  More importantly, how have you integrated what you’ve learned into your life?

If you’re like most people, dreams are just pleasant (or occasionally terrifying) diversions to which you attach no significance.  Think of all the dismissive commentary that comes to mind.  It was just a dream.  Just ignore everything and learn to mistrust yourself.  Go back to sleep.  Like that will make a difference?  There are no such things as monsters under the bed.  They only exist in the bed, and are usually parked next to you.

Worse yet are the condemnations of the uplifting dreams.  It’s just a pipedream.  Happiness is only for the stoned?  You’re dreaming your life away.  I thought I was devising ways of making it better.  You’re just a dreamer.   True, but only if I believe that the sole measure of success is that obtained by mindless adherence to corporate principles and the utter disregard for the soul’s yearning for truth.

I’m not going to limit myself and pick through the crumbs offered by external reality.  I’ve seen no evidence that living by its code unifies the world’s inhabitants.  Much to the contrary, they are being slowly ripped apart and devoured by the same entities that promise deliverance.  I will not add myself to the feast.

If that makes me a dreamer by default, so be it.  I accept my lot and embrace the happy dreams that both waking and sleeping provide.

VIRTUAL AFTERMATH

The café door blew open and she rode in on a gust.  “You’ll never guess what I did today!”

There’s no telling what Suzanne will do, so I played along.  “You joined the circus?”

She giggled and threw her purse onto the table.  I had to grab my latte to prevent it from capsizing.  “No, silly!  I broke up with Neil!”

“Who?”

“You remember him, Kimmy, don’t you?  He’s my virtual boyfriend.”

Apparently, she was still capable of surprise.  “You gotta be kidding me…”

She continued, oblivious to my response.  “Nope.  I told him flat out that it wasn’t working for me and that I didn’t want to see him anymore.”

“You told your imaginary boyfriend whom you’ve never seen that you no longer want to see him?”

I didn’t think it was possible, but she answered without a trace of guile.  “Yeah, he just wasn’t there for me…”

She waltzed up to the counter to place an order and I wondered if she had finally lost her marbles.  Suzanne is a formidable business woman and one of my dearest friends, but her romantic sensibilities are questionable at best.  I vaguely recalled a discussion of her latest paramour, but she didn’t refer to him by name; nor did she mention that he wasn’t quite real.  The mystery was almost starting to intrigue me. . .

. . . until she plopped into the seat opposite me and started a litany of his alleged offenses.  “You know, if I had known that he’d be so unreasonable, I would have never started up with him!  Did he think I’d carry the weight of all this by myself?”  She took a sip of espresso.  “And I thought I really knew him. . .”

I didn’t bother concealing a smirk.  “So, how did the two of you meet?”

“In Cannes,” she sighed.   “Remember when they sent me to cover the festival for that art rag that folded last month?   Well, we met in the press room one night and that was it. . .”

“You’ve never been to Cannes.”

“. . . at least I thought that was it until he turned into a complete absentee.”  She stirred her coffee thoughtfully for a moment before looking up suddenly.  “Kimmy, you don’t think he’s a player, do you?”

“Who, the invisible man?”

“I’m serious,” she said, indignant.  “What if I was just one of many?”

I patted her hand.  “If there were other women, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it; they’re probably fictional as well.”

GIRLY GIRL AND PROUD OF IT

“You throw like a girl.”

At first I took offense.  “You mean my trajectory and spatial skills are not up to par?”

“No, I mean you throw like a girl,” he said, dramatizing the statement with a limp flip of his wrist.

I almost wanted to cower and issue an apology for being the wrong gender.  Fortunately, I quickly recovered and walked off the field after bestowing a digital flip of my own.  If he wanted a tomboy to help him perfect his curve ball, then he shouldn’t have asked the lady in the slinky dress and spike heels.

Since when did femininity become a liability?  Contemporary mores dictate that the modern femme fatale should be a unique hybrid of classic womanliness and macho swagger.  Who made up these rules?  Being a woman is difficult enough without the added burden of being a man as well.

I don’t want to be a man.  If I did, I would have had a sex change years ago.  Instead, I happily accept my XX assignment and furthermore, I’m going to shamelessly revel in it. 

Why should I feel inferior if I can’t throw a ball or pee standing up?  I don’t know many men who feel ashamed if they’re unable to walk in heels or nurse a baby.  I simply refuse to buy into the argument that the attributes of my gender are lesser.

But then, I never thought it was necessary to compete with men.  There’s no need for hostility if both parties have equal footing.  And although I can appreciate the male drive for competition and dominance, I am not obliged to adopt them.

Why would I?  The full expression of my own sex is wonder enough.  It surprises me then when I’m asked (by women, no less!) why I bother to dress up.  Invariably my questioner is festooned in boy clothes -tee shirt, sweat pants or jeans- and resentment.  The implication being that I must be on the prowl because no woman in her right mind would wear anything else.

Maybe gals do primp excessively for the benefit of men, but I’ve been playing dress-up without cease since I was 4, and able to clunk around in my mother’s stiletto boots (with the rabbit fur trim!).  Were my efforts done solely for an imaginary male audience?  Doubtful.  I just loved to swath myself in ladies’ acoutrement and dream of the day when I could wear them without hearing the patronizing remarks of well-meaning, but clueless adults.

I’m still waiting.  Just last week a colleague questioned my wardrobe, chuckling as he remarked how previous contractors had never strayed from shapeless hospital scrubs and orthopedic oxfords.   “Boy, you sure like to get gussied up,” he said, giving me the once-over.  “Are you sure that you can perform your job?”

Although I patiently explained to him that my decision to wear a summer dress under my lab coat would in no way hamper my ability to think and behave rationally, I had to suppress a strong urge to smack him upside the head.  Just because a lady likes to use a powderpuff,  it does not make her one by association.

It would be a mistake to judge the girly girl as a pushover.  Her femininity does not replace common sense, but enhances it.  Only a woman who is confident and comfortable with herself, and not a stereotyped or dictated version of self, has access to unlimited reserves of strength.  Not the superimposed variety hawked by men and fashion, but the unwavering type that grows exponentially in the presence of truth.  It may not be truth of all womankind, but for those who feel an affinity, it is.

THE WAITING ROOM

I’ve been here so long that it’s beginning to feel like home.  What is it about interminable waiting that makes it so irksome?  The tedium?  The powerlessness?  Or knowing that you’re being shaped for some unknown purpose?

It’s been said that patience is a virtue, albeit one that is not terribly popular.  In a world of instant gratification, it’s difficult to cheerfully bear the passage of time without thinking about loss.  Shouldn’t it be put to better use?

But I often wonder if the tasks we undertake in the interim are just distractions.   We can persuade ourselves that the mindless job at hand is important and needs to be done.   But we’ve done it so many times that it’s rote and before we can stop it, we’re already daydreaming.

Are we so desperate to escape the monotony that we’ll invent virtually anything to keep us occupied?  I used to think that patience was the hallmark of the the weak-willed, but after having been recently forced to it, I realize it takes steel and a considerable amount of perseverance.  It’s a lot easier to run off and indulge in a whim than to exercise self-discipline and wait until conditions change.  Easier, that is, until you discover that your premature action has jeopardized the goal and you’re left with nothing.

So what do you do?  Push the envelope and risk a lifetime of regret?  Or, take your lumps now and wait until your objective is realized, happily spending the rest of your life free of the pangs of conscience?

DYNAMIC TENSION

 

What’s to be done when the life you want is not the one you’re living?  Do you spend your time daydreaming of an alternate reality or take the steps necessary to realize it?

I have often heard that people are reluctant to change because they fear repercussion.  It could be argued however, that change occurs whether one is embracing it or not.    The real question is for whom are you living your life. . . .for yourself or for something or someone else?

It’s not such a strange notion.  When we are young, our dreams are big but unfocused.  They are usually linked to the expectations or karma of our families, and it’s not until we’re much older (and hopefully wiser) that we regain control.  But by then, we are so entrenched in habit that we fear starting again and just resign ourselves to fate.  This makes for an unhappy lot of adults who yearn for fulfillment, but are loathe to part with the familiar.  Over time, they forget that it was choice that shaped them, and their inherent joyfulness begins to fade.  They assume the mindset and physical form of the aged and bury themselves in distraction until death releases them from any further obligation.

But it’s never that easy.  Death will not discharge anyone from responsibility;  it can only delay it.  If there is a reason why you are slow to make change, consider the arguments against it.  It is not the repercussion of others that you should fear, but the enormous toll your own procrastination will levy.

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING IN THE WORLD

…is when you lie beside me and I can forget myself for a few hours.  I don’t want to think about all the tasks that await me, or the insurmountable obstacles that ring you like a barricade.  Instead, I want to dissolve, losing all sense of myself in a kiss that goes on for days.  Can I reach the very bottom of it or will it wind languidly on a never-ending trip, leading me to parts unknown but still strangely familiar?

It doesn’t matter because I will board that train and take it to the end of the line.  The uncertainty of the future doesn’t frighten me nearly as much as the possibility that it could be lost and never realized.  Why should I fret about the inconsequentials?  They shall be swept away, for I have seen what lies beyond and nothing save self-doubt can sabotage it.

What an exquiste surprise this journey has become.  I’m captivated by the beauty and complexity of its design, and thrilled that I no longer have to take the helm.  I only have to acknowledge that I’ve been chosen and then to participate wholeheartedly.

Is it the joining of you to me that is the end, or is it representative of my missing pieces coming together in joyful reunion?  It has been said that love cannot manifest between two if it does not first exist independently within each one.   If this is true, then my happiness is magnified a hundredfold for I know with absolute certainty that no matter the outcome, I shall be upheld.

THE DEEP END OF THE POOL

Have you ever been faced with an insurmountable problem and known that the solution lays at the bottom of the abyss?  It’s there, ripe for the plucking, if you can muster the courage to jump into the unknown.

Of course, what choice do you really have?  You can stay in the miserable place that has you trapped, or you can venture beyond the frontier.  There are no guarantees as to what you’ll find in this unexplored country, but that’s what all leaps of faith entail.

A cushy landing… isn’t that what we all expect?  A miraculous resolution to the problem that pushed us into the leap and assurance that not only will everything be all right, but that the new conditions will yield answers and unending happiness.

Perhaps that’s what we all seek:  a tidy solution to our mess.  The only problem is our conflicts usually involve others, and people always seem to have their own idea as to what is acceptable.  No matter how hard you try, you will never completely convey your idea to another because they do not have your particular perception.

The manner by which we view the world varies wildly, even among the like-minded.  At best, we hope for affinity and mutual respect.  However, most of us want more, a kind of soul-level understanding that is beyond human ability.  We want delirious love without condition, but are incapable of it. 

Why, then, do we insist upon asking the impossible from our partners?  Are we trying to avoid our responsibility, or the guilt when we discover that the love we seek is not of this world?  As much as we habitually make individuals the center of our private universe, we tear them apart when they fail to deliver.  It might be pre-emptive anger.  Better to strike first than to be found wanting.  At least when you’re on the offense, you don’t have to explain your own shortcomings.

But that’s only a temporary fix.  Eventually you will have to acknowledge that the blackhole in your soul is of your own making, and that everyone is struggling with the same disease.  It’s only when you realize that all of us are in the same boat, that you can develop a sense of true compassion. 

We are not alone in our delusions.  They assume different shapes, as unique as snowflakes, but they are all the same in essence:  expectation based on attachment to outcome.  But to what are we really clinging?  If we tie ourselves to fluctuation, then we will bob and weave with the motion.  No one person can steer you to safety if he/she is at the mercy of the same conditions.

Better to anchor one’s self in the unchanging, even if that decision requires a leap of faith so monumental that it scares you to the core.  Will you let your life be guided by fear, or will you resume control of it by surrendering control?