10/24/2011
I watched this video:
http://www.ted.com/talks/jill_bolte_taylor_s_powerful_stroke_of_insight.html
and then I wrote this, which is as scattered and unintelligible to me now as the talk was lucid and clear. This video scrambled my brain like eggs and as I wrote, I found myself jumping in and out of my contradictory brain spaces, which makes my writing sound completely illogical to me now. Watch the video and tell me what you think of this profound experience. You may find the act of writing about it to be as enlightening as the talk itself.
Maybe this won’t make it to you, because I will decide with my left brain that it is better not to share. That my thoughts are my own, that they are my property just as much as this computer which I purchased with something formless called money simply by choosing to participate in the shared social construct of capitalism, of society. But now it belongs to me, and that so-called truth of ownership makes my logical left brain believe in the truth and possibility of ownership. Now, I think I own my body, own my thoughts.
I watched this and I thought of you. I only just met you though, so I feel I have no right of ownership over you. Those aren’t the rules by which we live. There are stages to pass through, tests to be scored, before I can claim ownership of the thought of you. This was my right-brain, left-brain discourse as I watched a woman slowly dissolve and reform in front of me. It was so expansive, so beautiful. Her tears called out to my own, and I cried. But then I thought of you, and those tears dissolved. They were her tears, not my own. My left brain called out to me again, but in the form of you.
What is this reality? Why were you the thing to call me back, to redirect my dissolution into a logical absorption of information once again? To distract me from my own thoughts, my own tears? I think about living in that right brain space, that moment of nirvana, although even that word brings me right back into left-brain territory. Nirvana makes me think in a logical, linear line right back into the past, makes me think of India in a clear, straight line. Everything in order, even as I ponder divine chaos.
I love the idea of looking at my own body and thinking “I’m a weird sort of creature.” I own my body, that’s what I think most of the time. As a woman- a young, attractive woman- I am so used to fighting for the right to own my body. I feel I am constantly wresting it away from the stares of men. Fighting to hold on to the sense that it is mine, and separate from others. Sometimes, it makes me so tired. In those moments, something happens to me, like a hemorrhage in the brain, I suppose. In those moments I look down at my body, or I look into a mirror, and I see it all unraveling- piece by piece starting with all those coveted parts- my lips, my breasts, my legs. Then there is just a center left, a core and it doesn’t belong to me either. I’m a weird looking creature, without all those parts. And those parts are all pretty weird looking too. Schizophrenic misogyny, perhaps. There I am, floating out into the endless energy all around me, and each part starts to dissolve away. Those things others want go first, because they are the things I let go first and have traveled farthest away from my core. “Take them,” I think, they don’t belong to me. Nothing belongs to me. And then I feel very expansive, and for a moment: very beautiful.
Is this an experience of nirvana? In Buddhism it is all about attachment, but language inhabits the left hemisphere too, and so what do the words really do but bring us back into a place of blindness and distraction? In a place of no attachment, of nirvana: there is no “I am” there, no ownership at all.
The world is so harsh; the light like gunfire in my brain, and the sound a vast cacophony of horror from which no single voice can be distinguished. The experience of birth: when terror seizes us and makes us wail. Later, the pain of life teaches us to not be afraid. We get so adept at dealing with the pain and horror and the fear. We master it, we conquer it with drugs, we ignore it. Yet one single moment of complete right-brain consciousness is enough to remind us that the wonder of pain is a revelation, is a death. Death is the truth birth, and birth into this world: a brutal, slow murder.
But I don’t own the pain of the world any more than I own this body that is forced to absorb it. In that right brain place, all that pain is just a confusing and wondrous overlap of discordant memories- a golden retriever and the sound of your voice. Pictures as pixels, which my left brain reminds me is how digital cameras always see the world.
What is worth spreading? What did she say was worth squeezing herself into that tiny capsule of body again?
“We are the ___________________________ of the world. With manual dexterity. I am __________________________ and Dr. Jill Bolte ________________. That is the we inside of me. And you get to choose, what to be. What one would you choose? The more time we spend in the peacefulness of our right hemisphere, the more peaceful our world will be. And that, I thought, was an idea worth sharing.”
There are blanks in my memory. They aren’t my words. But I feel them settling into those porous parts of me, and the next time I crawl into that right-brain consciousness and begin to expand, I know they will have the space to grow.
Thank you for sharing.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Less (and More!) Than Single
From: 10/6
I hate the well-established idea that single is synonymous with less. Really, single is bad in almost every linguistic and social context. For example, take the “single-serve,” the “single issue” (usually more expensive than buying a subscription), the “single sale” (items discounted for no other reason than their single-ness), and the “single-speed bicycle” (as distinct from the more distinguished nomenclature “fixie”. All of these things are less, even if they are actually higher quality. If all of these things are considered somehow inferior to the bigger, better, multiple versions, why do we persist in the ridiculous ideal of individualism? Of course, things are more contradictory in this country, where nothing seems to make sense when examined in even the most cursory way. In America, we have so much crap and contradiction piled up in our dark corners that we might trigger an avalanche if anyone so much as jiggles the knob of our collective closet. However, this misnomer is not unique to the United States. Most cultures seem to share a disdain of the word single. The Spanish translation is solo, which is actually the same word for lonely, if you can believe it. Those Spanish speakers are just a little more direct, but the sentiment is the same. Basically, being single is bad, whether you are a solo chica or a lonely sweater marked down 25% at Anthroplogie.
I recently purchased a wonderful book, which I have read bits and pieces of in the past and which has long been recommended to me by several of my more confident friends. The book is The Ethical Slut, by Dossie Easton and Janet W. Hardy. The book addresses the question of polyamory, open relationships and “other adventures”, as stated in the subtitle. Although I have yet to finish the book, I have come to the conclusion that those “other adventures” largely consist of the legendary quest to learn to love ourselves. Step one: dismantle the idea that single is less. Single is a state of being, not a temporary holding pen or cell block eight; where you serve due penance for the sin of not being partnered. Likewise, the authors encourage us to see that more than one is also equally blameless. How can single be a sin, yet monogamy a virtue?
Last weekend, I went to see a really incredible movie at Living Room Theaters. The movie was “The Cave of Forgotten Dreams.” After calling no less than seven friends, who all declined my invitation to hang out in favor of spending the evening with their partners, I took myself to this amazing flick. Twelve dollars and one stout beer later, I was comfortably ensconced in the big, cushy chair that makes Living Room so much better than Fox Tower. The problem arose when a porter/waiter (what do you call those guys?) asked me “when my companion was coming.” I looked around me in the small theater and it’s true: I was the only single in the place. The same question, in different words, was repeated again by a couple looking to expand their cuddling into my seating area mid-viewing. And at the end of the evening, once more when another well-meaning porter looked at me with a twinge of pity and asked me “if I wanted to talk about the movie.” Now, aside from some limited hand-holding and those annoying shushers, movies do not seem very social to me. Why is it shameful for a single chica to take herself out on a Saturday night? Am I not simply sitting, like everyone else, staring at screen? Does the presence of one empty chair next to me really make me discount goods?
This is bigger than the question of coupledom. Fuck coupledom. I would love to find someone to love, but in the meantime, I would really appreciate the levity to love, period. To love a movie, to love a walk in the park after dark, to love myself just as I am. Maybe to love one man who fulfills everything I need, or maybe to love more than one, who each fulfill something I need. Again, the contradiction: not single but monogamous. Not single, but definitely individual. How is a woman supposed to breathe in this illogical environment? I should be strong and independent, yet if I get raped while out running my errands at night, I asked for it? I should be monogamous, but if my partner treats me like shit, leaving him is less stigmatized than the inevitable period of single-ness that will follow? For the sake of our collective sanity, can we please just agree that sometimes we want a single-serve ice cream, even if we can afford the double-scoop? And equally, that sometimes we might need three or four smaller scoops in order to taste all the flavors we crave.
On a side note: I received a mysterious phone call today while purchasing my book in Powell’s. It consisted of one whispered sentence: “I love you, ok?” I couldn’t make out the voice and the number was unlisted. I hung up once and they called back again. This time, the voice was ever so slightly less faint: “I love you. Ok.” Then they hung up. To this mysterious caller, I have only one sentence for you, too: Love without courage is no love at all.
It takes courage to love someone, and it takes courage to reject the idea that not loving someone (anyone or one person in particular) makes you a lesser being. But without courage, love is just as empty as the single sale rack at Anthropolgie.
I hate the well-established idea that single is synonymous with less. Really, single is bad in almost every linguistic and social context. For example, take the “single-serve,” the “single issue” (usually more expensive than buying a subscription), the “single sale” (items discounted for no other reason than their single-ness), and the “single-speed bicycle” (as distinct from the more distinguished nomenclature “fixie”. All of these things are less, even if they are actually higher quality. If all of these things are considered somehow inferior to the bigger, better, multiple versions, why do we persist in the ridiculous ideal of individualism? Of course, things are more contradictory in this country, where nothing seems to make sense when examined in even the most cursory way. In America, we have so much crap and contradiction piled up in our dark corners that we might trigger an avalanche if anyone so much as jiggles the knob of our collective closet. However, this misnomer is not unique to the United States. Most cultures seem to share a disdain of the word single. The Spanish translation is solo, which is actually the same word for lonely, if you can believe it. Those Spanish speakers are just a little more direct, but the sentiment is the same. Basically, being single is bad, whether you are a solo chica or a lonely sweater marked down 25% at Anthroplogie.
I recently purchased a wonderful book, which I have read bits and pieces of in the past and which has long been recommended to me by several of my more confident friends. The book is The Ethical Slut, by Dossie Easton and Janet W. Hardy. The book addresses the question of polyamory, open relationships and “other adventures”, as stated in the subtitle. Although I have yet to finish the book, I have come to the conclusion that those “other adventures” largely consist of the legendary quest to learn to love ourselves. Step one: dismantle the idea that single is less. Single is a state of being, not a temporary holding pen or cell block eight; where you serve due penance for the sin of not being partnered. Likewise, the authors encourage us to see that more than one is also equally blameless. How can single be a sin, yet monogamy a virtue?
Last weekend, I went to see a really incredible movie at Living Room Theaters. The movie was “The Cave of Forgotten Dreams.” After calling no less than seven friends, who all declined my invitation to hang out in favor of spending the evening with their partners, I took myself to this amazing flick. Twelve dollars and one stout beer later, I was comfortably ensconced in the big, cushy chair that makes Living Room so much better than Fox Tower. The problem arose when a porter/waiter (what do you call those guys?) asked me “when my companion was coming.” I looked around me in the small theater and it’s true: I was the only single in the place. The same question, in different words, was repeated again by a couple looking to expand their cuddling into my seating area mid-viewing. And at the end of the evening, once more when another well-meaning porter looked at me with a twinge of pity and asked me “if I wanted to talk about the movie.” Now, aside from some limited hand-holding and those annoying shushers, movies do not seem very social to me. Why is it shameful for a single chica to take herself out on a Saturday night? Am I not simply sitting, like everyone else, staring at screen? Does the presence of one empty chair next to me really make me discount goods?
This is bigger than the question of coupledom. Fuck coupledom. I would love to find someone to love, but in the meantime, I would really appreciate the levity to love, period. To love a movie, to love a walk in the park after dark, to love myself just as I am. Maybe to love one man who fulfills everything I need, or maybe to love more than one, who each fulfill something I need. Again, the contradiction: not single but monogamous. Not single, but definitely individual. How is a woman supposed to breathe in this illogical environment? I should be strong and independent, yet if I get raped while out running my errands at night, I asked for it? I should be monogamous, but if my partner treats me like shit, leaving him is less stigmatized than the inevitable period of single-ness that will follow? For the sake of our collective sanity, can we please just agree that sometimes we want a single-serve ice cream, even if we can afford the double-scoop? And equally, that sometimes we might need three or four smaller scoops in order to taste all the flavors we crave.
On a side note: I received a mysterious phone call today while purchasing my book in Powell’s. It consisted of one whispered sentence: “I love you, ok?” I couldn’t make out the voice and the number was unlisted. I hung up once and they called back again. This time, the voice was ever so slightly less faint: “I love you. Ok.” Then they hung up. To this mysterious caller, I have only one sentence for you, too: Love without courage is no love at all.
It takes courage to love someone, and it takes courage to reject the idea that not loving someone (anyone or one person in particular) makes you a lesser being. But without courage, love is just as empty as the single sale rack at Anthropolgie.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Rage and Rot
From: 10/1
This is the first time I have sat down at this desk to write. Even long ago, when it first came to me, I never sat at it to write. Only to pile things up on its various surfaces, only to fill in all the empty cubbyholes with crap I never used, and soon forgot. So here I am tonight, in my first, my very first, apartment of my own writing at this long-forsaken desk.
I said this was why I wanted to move: to write. To begin. To feel at long last that I might have not only a forum, but a physical space in which to get my thoughts out on paper. Yet it is Saturday night, and all I can think to write about is my own loneliness. Perhaps a work of fiction could be like a child: a bandage for this loneliness of mine, something that is for me and only me. Something that will never leave me alone to rot on Saturday night.
I do not have confidence in myself, or in the system. I do not believe that it is possible to write. To write something that contains a piece of my soul. I feel just as worthless as I did in high school, as I always have. No matter how much I accomplish in life, it seems impossible to convince myself of my own worth.
Although I am sorely tempted to ask, yet again, WHY this is, I know that is not the question for this night, or any. The question I must strive to answer now is simply: How can I change this? How can I convince MYSELF of my own worth?
I realize in this moment that part of the pressure I feel about money is actually tied to this lack of self-confidence. I am killing myself, trying to quantify my self-worth in dollars earned, which translates to freedom gained in my mind. Freedom gained is the ultimate goal: freedom to stop feeling guilty, ashamed, of myself. Freedom to love sitting at my lonely desk on Saturday night, listening to the sound of my refrigerator as it hums out a steady rhythm of white noise into this negative space. Negative because it is devoid of company, yet filled already with my own self-loathing. Negative because it is an almost perfect inversion of my original vision for my own place; which was to be a place of peace entirely free of judgment. Negative, because I feel the emptiness, the hollowness, of this American social ideal of individualism; personally understood simply as isolation.
I feel overwhelmed by all the anger I am carrying around. I feel it weighing me down, eating me alive like acid on my skin. Let me give it voice here, in hopes it will leave me in peace. I am angry that I am alone, and that I seem to be the only one in my social environment. I am angry that I haven’t met anyone in the last seven months who even gives me a real reason to have a crush. I am angry that no one seems interested in me, really interested in, despite that brief period of many suitors. I am angry that everyone else seems to dismiss my sorrow and frustration at being alone. I am angry that my loneliness doesn’t seem to bother anyone but me. I am angry that I feel better about myself professionally than ever before and yet worse about myself personally. I am angry that I look in the mirror and I see someone worth loving, possibly for the first time ever, and yet I can’t seem to decide what image everyone else is absorbing since I am so wholly alone.
I am angry that I can’t seem to diversify my income. That I can’t seem to make money. Enough money, whatever that means. I am angry that I do not find my job particularly rewarding, and yet can’t seem to find the time to really invest in a worthwhile outlet. I am angry that my most cherished skill- writing- seems to have absolutely no value in this society, and no hope of ever bringing me any sort of financial stability. I am angry that I will most likely be poor forever, and therefore voiceless. I am angry that as much as I want to make a change in the world, I feel that all the scales are tipped against me, and yet I am so much better off than the majority of the people in the world. I am angry that the reality of wealth truly is synonymous with unchecked power, unlimited freedom, and unjustified greed. I am angry that the world is not only unfair, but seemingly devoid of human connection. I am angry that art made us human, and now art is the least valuable asset of our shared humanity. I am angry that art is not shared equally by all humanity. I am angry that I cannot seem to become financially solvent, or personally independent. I am angry that I should feel guilty about the very human need to rely on others. I am angry that sometimes I feel inhumane, and therefore inhuman.
I am angry that I am a woman and that so much of the paternalistic doctrine has leaked into my own perspective that I now longer recognize my own human rights. I am angry that I almost never feel safe. I am angry that my sexuality is simultaneously a source of sorrow and longing and a source of fear and dread. I am angry that I may never truly enjoy the experience of being a woman, because women may never be truly free. I am angry that men have found so many complex ways to justify their own depravity and weakness. I am angry that despite their general depravity and weakness, I still long with such deep desire to hold a man in my arms, to love him and see love reflected in his eyes.
I am angry because today I feel hopeless and above all: helpless. How can I take control to change any of these things? How can I set aside this anger before it destroys me? Is living alone making me an angrier person, or simply allowing me the space to process this anger instead of burying it?
This is the first time I have sat down at this desk to write. Even long ago, when it first came to me, I never sat at it to write. Only to pile things up on its various surfaces, only to fill in all the empty cubbyholes with crap I never used, and soon forgot. So here I am tonight, in my first, my very first, apartment of my own writing at this long-forsaken desk.
I said this was why I wanted to move: to write. To begin. To feel at long last that I might have not only a forum, but a physical space in which to get my thoughts out on paper. Yet it is Saturday night, and all I can think to write about is my own loneliness. Perhaps a work of fiction could be like a child: a bandage for this loneliness of mine, something that is for me and only me. Something that will never leave me alone to rot on Saturday night.
I do not have confidence in myself, or in the system. I do not believe that it is possible to write. To write something that contains a piece of my soul. I feel just as worthless as I did in high school, as I always have. No matter how much I accomplish in life, it seems impossible to convince myself of my own worth.
Although I am sorely tempted to ask, yet again, WHY this is, I know that is not the question for this night, or any. The question I must strive to answer now is simply: How can I change this? How can I convince MYSELF of my own worth?
I realize in this moment that part of the pressure I feel about money is actually tied to this lack of self-confidence. I am killing myself, trying to quantify my self-worth in dollars earned, which translates to freedom gained in my mind. Freedom gained is the ultimate goal: freedom to stop feeling guilty, ashamed, of myself. Freedom to love sitting at my lonely desk on Saturday night, listening to the sound of my refrigerator as it hums out a steady rhythm of white noise into this negative space. Negative because it is devoid of company, yet filled already with my own self-loathing. Negative because it is an almost perfect inversion of my original vision for my own place; which was to be a place of peace entirely free of judgment. Negative, because I feel the emptiness, the hollowness, of this American social ideal of individualism; personally understood simply as isolation.
I feel overwhelmed by all the anger I am carrying around. I feel it weighing me down, eating me alive like acid on my skin. Let me give it voice here, in hopes it will leave me in peace. I am angry that I am alone, and that I seem to be the only one in my social environment. I am angry that I haven’t met anyone in the last seven months who even gives me a real reason to have a crush. I am angry that no one seems interested in me, really interested in, despite that brief period of many suitors. I am angry that everyone else seems to dismiss my sorrow and frustration at being alone. I am angry that my loneliness doesn’t seem to bother anyone but me. I am angry that I feel better about myself professionally than ever before and yet worse about myself personally. I am angry that I look in the mirror and I see someone worth loving, possibly for the first time ever, and yet I can’t seem to decide what image everyone else is absorbing since I am so wholly alone.
I am angry that I can’t seem to diversify my income. That I can’t seem to make money. Enough money, whatever that means. I am angry that I do not find my job particularly rewarding, and yet can’t seem to find the time to really invest in a worthwhile outlet. I am angry that my most cherished skill- writing- seems to have absolutely no value in this society, and no hope of ever bringing me any sort of financial stability. I am angry that I will most likely be poor forever, and therefore voiceless. I am angry that as much as I want to make a change in the world, I feel that all the scales are tipped against me, and yet I am so much better off than the majority of the people in the world. I am angry that the reality of wealth truly is synonymous with unchecked power, unlimited freedom, and unjustified greed. I am angry that the world is not only unfair, but seemingly devoid of human connection. I am angry that art made us human, and now art is the least valuable asset of our shared humanity. I am angry that art is not shared equally by all humanity. I am angry that I cannot seem to become financially solvent, or personally independent. I am angry that I should feel guilty about the very human need to rely on others. I am angry that sometimes I feel inhumane, and therefore inhuman.
I am angry that I am a woman and that so much of the paternalistic doctrine has leaked into my own perspective that I now longer recognize my own human rights. I am angry that I almost never feel safe. I am angry that my sexuality is simultaneously a source of sorrow and longing and a source of fear and dread. I am angry that I may never truly enjoy the experience of being a woman, because women may never be truly free. I am angry that men have found so many complex ways to justify their own depravity and weakness. I am angry that despite their general depravity and weakness, I still long with such deep desire to hold a man in my arms, to love him and see love reflected in his eyes.
I am angry because today I feel hopeless and above all: helpless. How can I take control to change any of these things? How can I set aside this anger before it destroys me? Is living alone making me an angrier person, or simply allowing me the space to process this anger instead of burying it?
Something Comes Loose
From 9/25:
Often when I attend yoga class after a prolonged absence, I feel something bubble up inside of me that seems to have been lying dormant. A kind of evil, or sorrow, that I didn’t even know that I wasn’t acknowledging. Some kind of pain that I didn’t realize was buried.
About one month ago, I suffered a mysterious injury to my back. I was sitting at breakfast one pleasant Sunday morning, when I suddenly felt a pain in my lower back. When I stood up to stretch, I lost consciousness and collapsed near the bathrooms. A nice stranger found me and picked me up off the floor, but I was immobilized and largely unable to move for the better part of two weeks. Slowly but surely, I have been working to regain some of my strength, flexibility, and mobility over the course of this last month. It has been a long and frustrating process that I realize is actually relatively short due to my age and determination. So yoga has been off the menu for me for several weeks. Tonight was my first class.
I don’t really know what made me cry tonight, but it happened during the final moments of class, and it was almost as unexpected as my back injury, although I managed to stay conscious. I could feel something give way in my heart, something break loose and come bubbling out of me, literally pushing tears out of my eye sockets. I am sad, underneath it all.
I am sad because I am afraid, and I am lonely. Yet I have been so blessed since my return from abroad; in finding a job, making new friends, getting a great new apartment. I am ashamed to admit my sadness. I know I should count my blessings, and I do! However, I think there is danger in locking away your ill feelings. I must speak its name, or I will continue to carry around a load that is much too heavy for me.
I am sad, and I am lonely. I am tired of striving alone in this life. I miss having a partner, and I wish I didn’t have to do this alone. “This” being life- the act of living. I so value having someone to share my time and energy, my stories, with that I feel so empty and sad now that I come home to my own lonely space each night.
This is exactly what I was afraid of when I thought about moving. I was afraid I would spend all my time worrying about how to find someone to share it with. Did I make a mistake, or this a necessary passage to a better place?
Often when I attend yoga class after a prolonged absence, I feel something bubble up inside of me that seems to have been lying dormant. A kind of evil, or sorrow, that I didn’t even know that I wasn’t acknowledging. Some kind of pain that I didn’t realize was buried.
About one month ago, I suffered a mysterious injury to my back. I was sitting at breakfast one pleasant Sunday morning, when I suddenly felt a pain in my lower back. When I stood up to stretch, I lost consciousness and collapsed near the bathrooms. A nice stranger found me and picked me up off the floor, but I was immobilized and largely unable to move for the better part of two weeks. Slowly but surely, I have been working to regain some of my strength, flexibility, and mobility over the course of this last month. It has been a long and frustrating process that I realize is actually relatively short due to my age and determination. So yoga has been off the menu for me for several weeks. Tonight was my first class.
I don’t really know what made me cry tonight, but it happened during the final moments of class, and it was almost as unexpected as my back injury, although I managed to stay conscious. I could feel something give way in my heart, something break loose and come bubbling out of me, literally pushing tears out of my eye sockets. I am sad, underneath it all.
I am sad because I am afraid, and I am lonely. Yet I have been so blessed since my return from abroad; in finding a job, making new friends, getting a great new apartment. I am ashamed to admit my sadness. I know I should count my blessings, and I do! However, I think there is danger in locking away your ill feelings. I must speak its name, or I will continue to carry around a load that is much too heavy for me.
I am sad, and I am lonely. I am tired of striving alone in this life. I miss having a partner, and I wish I didn’t have to do this alone. “This” being life- the act of living. I so value having someone to share my time and energy, my stories, with that I feel so empty and sad now that I come home to my own lonely space each night.
This is exactly what I was afraid of when I thought about moving. I was afraid I would spend all my time worrying about how to find someone to share it with. Did I make a mistake, or this a necessary passage to a better place?
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