Monthly Archives: December 2013

relationshipping

An impossible love

My eyeballs need cocaine

is not fun.

I was talking to a most awesome individual the other night, playing holiday catch-up, telling him what amounted to tales of a heart-hammering 2013.

At one point he said, “Wow…everyone loves you.  You have all these people who love you.  I have a lot of people I can fuck but nobody loves me.”

This disarmingly honest statement is the most endearing thing he could have said.

But what happens when none of that love is possible?
What good is being loved if life and individual circumstances don’t allow it to be fully realized?

Because that’s my situation.

2013 has been my year of impossible loves.  The love part has been tremendous but being hit with the reality of said impossibility hurts something equally tremendous.

Why impossible?
Physical and emotional unavailability, a waning sexual attraction, a disparity in levels of commitment…factors that can’t be compromised without compromising oneself.

So my year has been chock full.
Of expectations.
Of love.
Of letting go.

And the trade-off?
I stay true to myself and the situation at hand.
This truth fucking hurts me and causes hurt but it’s honest.

But truth?  I want to roll my eyes at pretentious honesty, ignore its gnawing presence and live in denial-land except I am incapable (thank you, fuck you previous life experiences).  I want to rationalize growing chasms in my relationships but I just can’t.  Once I feel that certain break, the one where my instinct high-alerts my heart and brain to prepare for impending sadness and grief, I know an ending is inevitable.  Ignoring my instinct isn’t an option as it has saved my ass too many times; my life, even, on occasion.

After an ending, I am a puddle of grief.

What to do between cathartic cries?

I focus on myself.
I hurt, I think, I grow.

And I appreciate this difficult thing that is love.

Standard
random love, relationshipping

Let’s jump ponds

Sex changesIt’s time for an adventure.

But why does anyone do an international move?
To find themselves
or to run away.

Before I started dating S, I knew I’d move from the American South but that was to be a decidedly domestic decision between my beloved NYC and possibly Philadelphia.

Then when S and I got serious, so did the international-ness of next destination- Spain or Japan.

Why Japan?

I used to give what I thought was a well thought-out answer:
I wanted to get in touch with my cultural roots.
I wanted to be in a big city again.
I wanted to be in a more creative city.

As the move-out date approaches after S comes out as trans, I begin to doubt.
I ask S on occasion, “We’re not pulling a geographic with this move, are we?”

She’s not.
She’s fulfilling her original goal of living abroad.
She’s had enough of America and her mostly very conservative and narrow-minded hometown.

But me?

I think if I name the thing I don’t want to be guilty of, it will keep it at bay. Except every time I want reassurance that I’m not running away, something in my gut sends an, uh-oh alert to my brain. As in, I’m definitely running away. Because these days more than simply wanting an adventure, I want to be in a new place. I want to consider my transsexual relationship away from the trappings of a small and (too) familiar town where everyone who finds out about S’s transsexuality has a pointed opinion they are not shy about sharing; usually it’s ultimately supportive (after many questions) but sometimes it’s downright mean.

A year and some months pass and I think about living in Japan.
I haven’t run away yet as I haven’t escaped the confrontations that come with a rigorous raking over of me and S’s future.
Case in point: we are no longer coupled and despite moments of wanting to jet on the immediate, I stay put. I work out the highs and lows of living in a far-off unfamiliar that still doesn’t feel like home. I’m also at peace knowing that I may not ever feel completely at home here; Tokyo was never intended as a final destination.

As for finding myself, that’s certainly happened and continues to, thank goodness. This life is an often funny and delightful little mindfuck in that just when I’ve figured something out, made the hard choice and breathed a sigh of, “Okay…that bit is finished,” I am shocked at what comes next.

So the next side of my never-ending relationship Rubik’s cube?
I’m just beginning to unpuzzle this one but it revolves around a specific notion of control as a new adventure begins…

Standard
relationshipping

I say, Give me the real

The other day

so it’s only fair that I give back said real.

And currently, this is the real:
We each found love post (visa)marriage and it has been the hardest thing.

I’m not friends with my exes.  With one, we aren’t not friends but we certainly aren’t a presence in each other’s lives.  And to get to true peace of the end of what was basically a common-law marriage, I had to exercise a total break.

With my ex-GF/wife (whom I will refer to as S from here on out):
I choose to break up.
And it is the most difficult thing.

As S transitions, there is no less love but the rapid-heartbeat, make-me-melt love gives way to a more protective, almost maternal love.  It isn’t the end of a honeymoon phase as this is 1.8 years into our relationship.  Romantic love turns agape love.

I move on, emotionally, while she is still in love with me.
This then becomes the most difficult thing.

I feel guilty for moving on, I wish I could ignore my stupid heart.  I don’t break up unless it is undeniably time because that look- when I look into her beautiful eyes that read only such deep heartbreak…well, that breaks my heart every time.  And knowing that I’m the cause of an agonizing heartbreak makes me feel pretty damn rotten.  There’s just no getting out of any meaningful relationship without hurt.  The deeper the love, the more fucking massive the hurt.

She finds love, which confronts me with a slew of unexpected feelings.
And this makes me a most difficult person.

It’s not fair.  It being the inevitable grief that comes with a significant ending to an incomparably more significant relationship.  It’s not fair for either of us because grieving is just plain hard.  When I chose to break up with S, I knew I was shutting the door on unconditional love.  I could have someone who would love and cherish me no matter what, who wanted nothing more but a permanent future with me because that equaled a bright hope and happiness.  Stupid, stupid heart.

I am no longer her person.
Her face lights up so brightly, voice softens, mood transforms and her heart visibly melts when she receives a text or call from her love.
Before this incredible, new love, my loss wasn’t so palpable; as I moved on, she’s been working through one hell of a terrific heartbreak until her new beautiful person.

This isn’t jealousy.
S is a beautiful person through and through and I want love to do right by her, in a way that I could not.

This is the realness of feeling the loss of the love I gave up.

Standard
random love

THAT word

THAT word

elicits some strong reactions.

Yup, I’m talking cunt.
And moist.
Ha.

I think those might be the two most hated words in the English language.  It seems that moist nauseates people and cunt offends the fuck out of many folks.

So of course my juvenile mind thinks, what if we committed to using those words in conjunction?  I mean, a moist cunt isn’t nauseating nor offensive unless one has issues of a different sort altogether.

Here’s my rationale:
If you’re a straight man, lesbian or bi there is no problem with a moist cunt.
If you’re a gay man and that combination is very ew gross, maybe it’ll lead to thoughts of other, much more scrumptious sex?
And after reading through the very violent insta-response moist produces, vag imagery might not be the worst thing.

Personally, moist doesn’t bother me and cunt has been one of my longstanding favorites.
Moist cunt?
That’s good fun.

Perhaps my side project of the week is what set off this train of thought.
I leave you beautiful people with that imagery below as I ponder what word does drive me nuts in a rotten way…

cunt fuji

Standard
random love

Perfect attendance

My eyeballs need cocainewas never my thing.

***

Except once.
Once in my life I didn’t miss a class the whole semester.

Goddammit, no Cont Art/Theory/Crit for me. Again.
I have yet to have a schedule that will allow my learning about Now Art so I take High Modern instead, which cuts off exactly when I get highly interested- 1968.
My sculpture advisor has such a constant hard-on for the macho gay artists of this period that I wonder if I’m going to witness the same reel of aggressive, testosterone-driven Rauschenberg, Johns, Pollock images and bios referenced in sculpture class.

Turns out, no.
The professor is a junkie for contemporary art, a beyond serious museum nerd and reputed to be a hard-as-nails, total bitch.
In other words, I will probably have a crush on her in a matter of days.
I smile.

This woman lives for modern art and I love her for it. She’s pretty ruthless if you don’t give two shits about investigating the why behind the art(ists) in their historical and contemporary context but the class cares. And though she’ll cut down lofty musings not grounded in earnest investigation of the topic at hand during class, she’s a really generous professor. For instance, her attendance policy: 100% attendance=final exam opt-out. Hell. Yes.

End-of-semester usually entails many hours of underslept hell on earth so eliminating one more exam/project sounds awesome. Except I like this class; I look forward to it and perfect attendance turns out to be a pretty painless endeavor.
This is unusual because I always skip a class or two. Sometime it’s because I can’t be in two places at once but often, I enjoy taking a personal day; I’ve done this since I was in my single digits.

***

So I’m memory tripping to a perfect attendance moment because of my recent FAILed attempt to post daily for the month of December. Pre-scheduled posts much? Right…I haven’t mastered that one yet. *sigh*

Still, let’s see what happens the rest of the month…although I guess it’s silly to daily post challenge during maximum holiday cheer month.
But I’m in Japan where people work on 12.25; there are no holidays in December*, which is extremely weird.
So of course I’m taking a personal day…it’s fucking Christmas for chrissakes.

*I lied; the Emperor’s birthday is December 23rd=holiday

Standard
random love

A share

…because some poems strike like that.

“After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.

She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.

Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.

Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,

With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.

Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.

Not everything is lost.”

— Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via awelltraveledwoman)

Standard
random love

5 things

My eyeballs need cocaine

I must have on a deserted island?

I’m working a damn long day; I will have had a three-hour break in a 36-hour workday, which makes me think survival mode.

I’ve never answered this question, actually.
And even though it’s a total hypothetical, I feel this pressure like oh shit, these are the ONLY 5 things I will be allowed when I get stranded on a desert island.

So what do I need?

1) the fattest plain notebook ever and a megabox of pens (0.5mm)
2) resistant-to-the-elements sleeping bag
3) the toughest, most comfortable, weather-proof shoes on creation
4) potatoes (starchy comfort food plus it’s easy to root, yes?)
5) glasses of the severely corrective lenses variety (oh, can that be a flame source?)

This is the most practical list I can come up with.

I thought about adding love, in any form, even as an unforgettable memory because I do need that in my life regardless of the where.  But if a memory- a feeling, a series of instant recall, flashback experiences- will suffice, then maybe it has already carved a permanent  sanctuary in my brain-heart and I don’t need it on a list?

I won’t forget but sometimes a fade happens…evidence of time and distance working their (un)fortunate magic.

Standard
random love

Let’s fast!

She expected me to leaveUm no.
Was my first response.
Actually I think it was my first 38 responses.

Him: No one NEEDS to eat as much as they do.
Me: Nodding. I get that. But fries(!!!). Oh god, do I love a fried starch.
Him: You’ll get so much energy…you’ll feel great!
Me: I think I should watch you, get inspired, then try it out.
Him: You say you like to try new things…

I don’t know how it came to be that I agreed to fast.
Honestly, I think I was bored and that’s often dangerous.
I mean, it could cause a person to not eat for 11 days.

A few hours into Fast Day One…
Me: Oh my god, what are we going to do after we smoke weed?
Him: Uh, Rumi, we don’t smoke while we fast.
Me: WHAT?!
Him: Have you not been listening? It’s not just food; we’re getting pure.

What the shitty shit have I just agreed to?
I don’t meditate.
I’m not seeking mental clarity or an epiphany.
But at this point it seems like a good challenge. And it’s true that I’ve been feeling pretty lethargic and kinda gross in general so…yeah, let’s fast.

I’d never fasted before so I decide to maintain it until I can’t or don’t want to anymore, whichever comes first.

The first few days I think about how to handle hunger, hang out with friends at bars and restaurants, what if food smells gross me out, or I feel weak, would I be angry for being hungry, etc. I filter quite a few what if’s and feel excited about the new challenge and before I know it, I’m 2.5 days into the fast.

My body temperature fluctuates. A lot. I feel an intense heat radiate from within a few times a day. I’m a bit shaky for no more than 30 minutes every evening, between 21-23:30, towards the end of my work shift. I nap almost everyday; he tells me it’s a good way to conserve energy and let my body have extra rest.

The sight and smell of food don’t gross me out. Everything smells and looks fucking fabulous BUT I don’t want to eat except for a 15-minute window towards the end of my work-night. My sober self goes out to a drunken, hungover brunch and I’m severely tempted by fatty-fat dripping burgers and endless mimosas. But temptation isn’t indulged and she moves right along.

Life slows down, slows way down.
I calm down, my thought process is much more deliberate. Little things fall by the wayside; actually, they don’t even blip on my radar. I contemplate many things but it’s not necessarily deep thoughts, just thoughts.
Maybe I’m physically incapable of rapid-fire thoughts or knee-jerk emotional responses.
Maybe I’m gaining…clarity?

It was a peaceful, interesting and unexpectedly fulfilling 11 days.
Fast Day 12 doesn’t happen because I simply don’t want to fast anymore.
I want consumable energy.
I make a veggie soup and it is delicious.

Oh, and that first hit of pot, post-fast?
I-n-c-r-e-d-iiiiiiiiiii-b-l-e.
Pura Vida.

Standard
random love

Inpatient

Inpatientwas a blur and a huge cliché but with one unforgettable connection.

I don’t know how I got to thinking about this woman today.
But here we are…

Even the most severely medicated patient feels her cold wall of silence, one that staunchly taunts the staff: just try to get me to give anything up. Because no.
And fuck you.

But I meet her gaze one day and it hits me- she is trying so hard to keep it together, which makes me instantly care about her. She’s not okay but she is fighting so hard to convince herself otherwise. Call it survivor’s instinct but we identify something in each other, which leads to our first conversation on some bench-table thing outside. It feels so nice, being outside; the natural light a warm and welcome relief from many a fluorescent bulb.

She is tough.
And not just because she’s a damn tough gang member who has been living The Bluest Eye. But because she is committed to dealing with her demons, regardless of how she is perceived by her biological family (completely untrustworthy), her gang family (traitor), the father of her child (unworthy). Her life doesn’t allow for a mental health check-out without some severe consequences. So she has to make this count.

As she tells me her story, my heart sheds shocked tears.
She was Pecola.

Later that night, as I sit in my room and process, reprocess what she shared, I cry for her. Hard.

Two days later, when someone open-shuts the door to her group therapy session I happen to catch a quick earful. I hear her crying for herself. I think it’s the first time she has let herself cry in a long time. Possibly ever.

It was both of our first times in this kind of place.
I never did go back.
I never saw her again but to this day, ten years later, my heart crosses its fingers for her.

Standard