I'm Moving My Blog!

Hi to all you devoted readers.

This is a heads-up that my blog is moving (all the old archives are at the new blog, and here as well) -- here is the address:

www.consciousservice.org/CarolSteinel/blog

Please be sure to bookmark this (you can also get an rss feed to the new blog by clicking the RSS feed button in the address bar once you've navigated to the new blog site).

The good news is that the new site has a search feature, a cleaner and easier-to-read interface (IMO), and it's served out of my home site, which is way easier for me in terms of maintenance and control.

The bad news is, those of you who have been getting my blog posts via email through the Google group will need to check my blog on the web for a time, until I can figure out how to get this feature working fully on the new blog-server.

I do have an interesting new post up -- the promised "Dictionary" post -- so slide on over to http://www.consciousservice.org/CarolSteinel/blog, bookmark it, and read on!

Please email me or comment here with any concerns. I'm leaving this blog intact for the next three months, but I won't be adding posts here.

Thanks!
Carol

Dictionary -- Webster's Third and the Developing Psyche

When I was a kid, I talked a lot.

In other words, very little has changed.

And I do have other words -- have no doubt. I have a lot of them.

One thing that has changed is this -- when I was a kid, there were certain settings in which I was not "supposed to talk". (Not that this stopped me, mind you.) In school, at church, when my mom was giving me a stern warning about the consequences of failing to clean my room -- I was not supposed to talk during these times, but I did.

When I was in 5th grade, I had a teacher who had a unique "punishment" for me when I "talked out of turn", as they said in those days (turn? I only get a turn?) -- she would demand that I copy pages (sometimes many pages) from Webster's Third International Dictionary. She would assign the pages, and I would make copies of them -- usually 5 copies of each page assigned, and sometimes 10 copies -- depending on how severe my trespass had been. These were entire pages -- words, definitions, and etymology, where found.

In the course of that one school year, I copied most of Webster's Third, by hand.

In my opinion, this was a genius punishment. She would say to me: "Carol, if you're going to talk that much, you may as well speak well."

And it worked. I know a lot of words, for what that's worth, and I spell the great majority of them correctly (if you noticed aberrations -- now there's a good word! -- in my last post, I must warn you that the Blogger spell-checker is an ignorant, meddling fool, who does not understand artists).

It never even occurred to me to refuse this activity when I was 10. I was a talkative child, not a rebellious one. I realize that my mother may have a different take on that.

Nevertheless, I dutifully copied out my pages, finding such gems as "Probity", which is "a complete and confirmed integrity", and "perspicacity" and "wunderkind", when I think that my teacher was really hoping I'd hone in on words like "loquacious", "garrulous", "extraneous", and "verbage".

The irony is that, at this same time, I was in "speech therapy". I had a pronounced lisp, which I still have a form of -- what is called a "sibilant S" (see, there's one of those words that I wouldn't know, if it weren't for my 5th grade teacher).

Every week, I would walk down the long hall with Jim C (the only other kid in the class with a "speech impediment") -- ha! I bet my teachers hee-hawed at that -- that I had a speech impediment! It sure didn't seem to be holding me up much.

But I digressss -- anywayssss --

I would walk down the hall with Jim and we would enter the "teacher's lounge" -- a very smoky den indeed, in 1966, when no one had every heard of "second-hand smoke" and this was the only place where the teachers could truly drop their gaurd and light up a fag.

This was a teeny tiny little brick room, with no windows, where the travelling speech therapist (who probably covered three or four counties) would run us through our remedial speech training every week.

Jim had a very interesting "impediment" -- he mixed up his "v"s and his "r"s -- don't ask me how -- but it resulted in what I thought was a fascinating, and rather sexy, patois that was all his own. He was one of the only kids in my school that had even a hint of melanine which didn't scream "whitey-white, white, white, WHITE!" -- I think maybe his mom was part Hispanic or more likely, Native American. Despite his revy intevesting revbal pattevns, he was a popular boy -- handsome, atheletic, and smart as a whip.

Remember this first grade picture?
That's Jim, just to the left of me -- (click it for a bigger view) and on the right, Tom Britain. I was the shortest girl in the class and Tom Britain was the shortest boy, so, of course, according to Midwest breeding tactics, we were destined to be married and produce diminutive children.

In fact, Tom (my right-hand man there) was my "first kiss", at a seventh grade dance, during which we locked braces. Not a happy moment, as our chaperone had to pry us apart, using a spoon from the community-center kitchen.

My Dad told me recently that Tom is now a hermit living near my old hometown. Apparently, the incident was scarring for both of us. I'm a queer and he's a hermit. So much for Midwest genetic planning.

But back to Jim, and speech therapy.

We would sit in this room and play different versions of the same "game". Mine was "S-traffic" and Jim's was "V or R-traffic" -- you moved pieces around the board and thtopped at the thtop thignsss, tuvned vight at the vight tuvn thignsss, etc., and then read aloud from the card that the therapist handed you -- in my case, words like "Mississippi", and in Jim's case, words like "revolutionary", which both of us generally made a botch of.

Sadly, there was no awarding of candy involved.

The "therapist" would basically just glare at us until we got it "right" -- I don't remember there being much therapeutic behavior at all besides the glaring. After a half-hour or so, we'd go back to our classroom, me gaily lisping along, and Jim declaring "Man, that was great! We missed a veally boving histovy class."

So, I learned lots and lots of words, both from my punitive sparring matches with Merriam Webster and the "helpful" sessions with the speech therapist -- some of these words I would, and probably never will, use, some of them would fester in my consciousness like a splinter, waiting until I was mature enough to use them, and some, I would use to alarm and amaze adults -- which got me into a bit of trouble (like the swimming pool "bastard" incident I talked about in my last post).

Once, I was at the High School in the evening with my dad. State music contest was coming up, so he often had after-hours rehearsals with brass quintets, soloing flautists, and conferences with nervous stage-mothers who were eager to secure their child's scholarship to thus-and-such a college (yes, in those days, you could actually get a college scholarship just for being musical -- I'm thinking that's different now).

So -- I was cooling my heels while Dad rehearsed a woodwind quartet composed of four young women in their cheer-leading outfits. Kind of an "American Beauty" scene, really. They were perky and pretty and chatty and bouncy, and off to the pep-rally as soon as rehearsal was over.

Dad went into the his office to fix one of their clarinets which had a loose pad -- a somewhat lengthy procedure involving glue and a blow torch -- so I was left alone with . . . the squad.

Eager to impress them (I was, like, nine? -- whatever you are in 4th grade) -- I began to tell them about the school report I was writing, about a person who shared my birthday (the whole class got this assignment) -- I had chosen to write about Jane Russell (who, of course, I had never even heard of before I cracked an encyclopedia and started searching for famous June 21sters). One of Jane's movie credits noted that she had starred in "The Naughty Widow", which I dutifully reported to my cheerleader friends -- and I think that it was about this point that I said something to them like "Pretty sexy, huh?"

And of course, they cracked up laughing, hearing this come out of my nine-year-old mouth. I was most likely dressed in a pinafore of some kind, to boot (we had to wear dresses to school). My dad emerged from his office, clarinet in hand, and asked what was so funny, at which the cheerleaders gleefully recounted my precocious reporting techniques, falling onto each other in refreshed gales of laughter. I was loving it, until my dad got very serious, looked over his glasses at me, and said: "Come with me."

I followed him into his office and he closed the door behind us. Not a good omen. He turned to me and said, in a very sober tone, "Carol, do you know what that word means?" Once again, as in the bastard incident, I stammered "nn - nn -no."

"Well then," he said, "You'd better not be using it." Then he left the room.

I got a lot of this. I was a kid with a brain fairly busting with words, and too many places where I was supposed to keep quiet.

Of course, at that point, fueled with a deep concern and curiousity, I'm sure I rushed immediately to the solace of Webster's 3, but if I found a definition, it apparently didn't impress me enough to encourage me to keep using the term on any kind of a regular basis.

Sure, it had impressed adults (very pretty, athletic, cheerleader-type adults at that), but I could do that by dropping something as safe as "archaeologist" into casual conversation at the dimestore -- and without incurring paternal displeasure.

Most of the adults I interacted with (outside my parents and their school-teacher associates) didn't have a lot of "big words".

The problem sometimes, with having a childhood "talent" is that it's like foolishly getting more than a single"two little piggies"salt-and-pepper set at a flea market.

If you have more than one pair, people generally assume that you collect them, and they start giving them to you, and pretty soon you have knick-knack shelves stuffed with porcine spice shakers, and sugar bowls, and cups, and little bells with cork-screw tails at the end, and before you know it, your town nickname is "Porky Johnson" or "Bacon McGee", and then people take to calling you "The Porkster" or "Bayco" at the tavern, and one day you are found crushed to death under a mass of pottery shards as a result of full-on hutch failure.

Naturally, since I knew a lot of words, people gave me books, and scrabble sets, and boggle games, and other "wordy" things for birthdays and Christmas. The teachers expected me to enter the spelling bee, and to take creative writing class. Which I did, and I enjoyed, 'cause I loved getting my "turn". In fifth grade, when we had a talent show, I did stand-up and told jokes. In High School, I joined Thespians, and the poet's guild, and I talked, talked, talked on the phone.

This, however, can be a dangerous game -- if you're known as a talker, when you go silent, there seems always to be the inevitable "Hey! What's wrong? Why aren't you talking?" I know people who gaurd themselves by showing up as the strong, silent type. I think that I have, just as often, gaurded myself with constant speech -- like, "as long as I keep talking, they won't think anything's amiss."

I do tend to notice, now, when I'm talking just to fill space, or as a "protection" mechanism. I suspect it's as boring for me as it is for others when I do this.

I actually don't talk nearly as much as I used to, which may be hard to believe. I do interrupt frequently (a habit I have tried hard to break, and which was a survival skill in my family-of-origin -- if you didn't interrupt, it was likely that your "turn" would never come).

Still, at this point, I want to communicate more skillfully. If the words help, that's great, but if having a surfeit of words is detracting from my ability to really communicate with grace and power, I'd just as soon use fewer, and smaller, of them.

I think that I have barely scratched the surface of this topic for myself. This week I've been pondering much about language, and its relationship to the true transmission of transformative energy. I suspect there's more to come.

A brief note (you'll get more clear notices shortly) -- I'm moving my blog to my home site. The new site (which contains all archives from this blog and this post as well) is now at this link: http://www.consciousservice.org/CarolSteinel/blog
I think you'll enjoy the new blog format I've made -- you can search it, for one thing, and I think it's cleaner and easier to read. Check it out. I'll be sending an announcement to my readers soon, and this site will have a notice posted when I've got the last little kinks worked out at the new server. Ciao!

Siren Song?

I used to be a commedienne/musician. I did this for money, and for pleasure, and I received some acclaim.

I think that I was pretty funny as a comic. I think that I can sing well enough to carry a tune and bring a song off, and play guitar well enough to back myself up, and I think that I have written some songs that were moving or well-crafted or passionate or clever or all four of these. I certainly don't think of myself as the best musician in the world, nor do I think of myself as the worst. I do think that I am funnier than many of the people that I see doing stand-up on TV.

I think that I have a pretty good sense of my strengths and weaknesses, both as a comic and a musician.

I didn't stop performing music and comedy because I thought I "couldn't cut it".

I just started doing other things.

So, today comes this email in my inbox from a DJ in Houston, who is including some of my old recorded material on his radio show, about "queer heritage".

This same guy contacted me back in 2001 -- found me on Google and hunted me down from an old interview that had been done in 1992, after the release of my first tape, and a certain song that I wrote called "The Lesbian Shuffle" (about lesbian serial-monogamy). He really wanted a copy of that song.

I had never recorded it (although I had performed it at countless concerts). So, I approached a friend and asked him to record this song for me, and he said "Hell, why record one -- why not just make another album?" Which I did, in 2002 -- it was called "Carol Steinel and Her All-Boy Band -- Live! At the House of Yang".

So, Mr. Queer-Heritage in Houston was unwittingly the instigator of my second recording, which was greeted with acclaim by a limited number of people, or, possibly, humored by those who already think I'm great.

Today, the DJ emails: "Just wanted to give you a heads-up that I'm including some of your stuff on my upcoming show" . . . etc. etc.

This, in itself, is not such a big deal.

But for me, it's "the third of three".

In shamanic totemic experiences, the number 3 is very important -- if an animal appears to you three times, or if three animals appear to you -- especially if they're appearing in odd configurations and doing odd things -- this is often considered a "totemic" experience -- something that you would be well-advised to sit up and take notice of.

A week or so back, I got two separate emails, in quick succession -- the first from a woman who had contacted me last year about being interviewed for a magazine called "Curve" (billed as the "best-selling lesbian magazine"), asking me if I would be willing to be interviewed (I begged off last year for reasons I'll discuss later), and the second, from a woman who had missed my concert in Boise (15 YEARS AGO! for chrissake!) and someone had bought her a copy of my tape and she had lost it (but still had the case) and could I please, please, please send her another one because she loved that tape and wanted it back.

And then this business with the DJ.

I have not performed in public since 2002. (By this I mean that I have played music in front of other people at parties and occasionally before/after a class, but have not performed in a any public venue that every Joe on the street could attend).

This wasn't really a huge conscious choice on my part -- it wasn't like I suddenly said "I'm not going to do that anymore" or anything -- my focus just went elsewhere.

I enjoy performing, and I think that I'm pretty good at it. People tell me I have a "certain something" in this regard. I have recently thought of my erstwhile performing career as preparation for what I do now -- it taught me how to deal with crowd dynamics, and how to fly by the seat of my pants in a group of strangers, and it made me fairly immune to public humiliation (I used to say that, as a comic, I'd "had my embarrassment glands removed"). I got good at saying outrageous things in front of people I'd never met and not taking their responses personally.

There were some peculiar down-sides to being "pseudo-famous" (which I was, at least in the gay/lesbian community in Portland, Oregon). The nature of my act was often intensely personal, and so, complete strangers that attended my concerts had a sense that they "knew" me, and would approach me on the street with great familiarity at times. That was a little weird -- and because I have a strange malady that has to do with having a hard time remembering people's names if I see them outside their usual context, I would sometimes wonder if these people actually were strangers, or someone that I knew well, who was simply not showing up in the exact context that the rolodex of my brain had indexed them into.

I started performing publicly a lot in 1988, and continued until about 1992 -- I made an album, did a tour, got air-time on the local alternative station, played clubs on the Castro in San Fran, opened for bigger performers, etc.. I was headed somewhere. Then, I had a nervous breakdown -- this was all part of the spiritual gauntlet I was running -- the initiation into my work as a psychic and channeler. But that's another story, and one I've already told elsewhere.

Suffice to say that, as I re-invented myself, the comic/musician/performer persona went into the closet, so to speak. I knew that I had that costume, but I rarely put it on. Maybe I had some doubts about whether it still fit me.

Maybe I still have those doubts.

But here comes the Universe, tap-tap-tapping at my door with this comedy/music stuff. Since I don't believe in coincidences, I assume that I'm being given a message. The question is: What exactly is the message, and how am I being asked to respond?

So, now on to the reason I turned down the interview with Curve magazine -- well, for one thing, I do have an aging fan-base out there (somewhere) that remembers me as a comic/musician -- I wasn't sure whether I would be able to adequately describe (or even be allowed to describe) the transformation my "career" has undergone since those days. And for another thing, I don't really identify that strongly as a "lesbian" anymore (even though I seem to mention something about my sexual orientation in nearly every post I write here). One night, my love and I were lying in bed, watching a PBS special about a lesbian choir in the Midwest (Chicago, I think) and looking at all those modified mullets (my straight friend used to call them "pony-dos" -- you know, clipped short on top, long down the back, usually with a braid somewhere) and observing all the subtle political dynamics in the choir (stern, dominating director, passive lover at her side, and various lesbo stereotypicals in the choir -- butches in the bass section, femmes in the soprano section), and we said to each other "I'm so glad we're not lesbians anymore".

Let me explain this. I used to be a "lesbian's lesbian" -- politically active, outraged at every possible opportunity, immersed, steeped, and up-to-date in queer culture -- I was a D-Y-K-E and proud of it (still am, I suppose -- proud that is, of what I am). I wrote songs about being a lesbian, and made jokes about being a lesbian, and even declared all of my audience members "honorary lesbians" (even if they had a penis) so that they would feel more comfortable laughing along with the actual lesbians in the crowd.

At first, I had a great focus for my material -- the OCA (Oregon Citizen's Alliance) had mounted a campaign to systematically curtail gay rights in Oregon (they succeeded, and failed, and succeeded, and failed -- the tidal motion of queer/anti-queer agendas was dizzying and invigorating -- and great material for a comic). As things started calming down on the political front, there I was, a girl with a guitar and a wicked intellect, and nothing much to make light of. So, I turned to the next thing I knew well -- lesbian culture. I started writing songs about the foibles of lesbian culture:

Like, how lesbian serial monogamy really worked (a square dance tune):

"Now gals in the middle, get real bored and cast your wanderin' eye
To the woman who'’s across the Square from you – ain'’t no crime to fantasize!
Now turn to your partner of two-to-six years, ignore her agony and her tears,
Listen to her feelings, validate her fears, and tell you’re attracted to someone else!
Change Partners!
Cause you don't need a cowboy hat or a petticoat with a ruffle --–
Just hit the floor, break up once more, and that’s the Lesbian Shuffle.
Sort out your kitchen utensils and divvy up your friends
And swear on your vibrator that you'’ll never live with anybody again.
Now throw the lampshade at her head, get depressed and wish you were dead
And end up sleeping with her therapist, instead -- –grab a battaka bat!
Free For All!!" - Full Lyrics HERE

and how lesbians kept each other in line (from "The Lesbian Rules")

"Number One -- Don't sleep with men
Number Two -- Don't fuck them either
Number Three -- If the grocery clerk calls you 'sir', just bean him with a carton of keifer
Number Four -- Don't call 'gay women' 'lesbians' and then there's Number Five -- Never
get the attention of separatists by screaming 'Hey, You GUYS!'
Number Six -- this is very important! Don't be an idiot or a fool
Never, ever, under any circumstances break any of the lesbian rules!"

"Now that you're out of the closet, you can finally be free --
Just be sure you don't offend us, or we'll have to break your knees." (complete lyrics HERE)

I thought this was pretty funny, and so did many other lesbians . . . . but not the real lesbians . Real lesbians often seemed upset by the things I said and sang. I found this odd, because while these were, exaggerated and parodied versions of lesbian culture, they were based in things that had actually happened to me. I began to wonder if one of the aspects of lesbian culture was the inability to self-reflect. However, before I was able to go all freudian on their dykey asses, something happened that shocked me to my core, and brought me to question whether this was a culture that I wanted to identify with at all.

In 1998, I was asked to MC at the Gay Pride Rally. I had done this for many, many years (since 1988). I also was asked to play at the Dyke March the night before. But the Gay Pride committee sent me a letter and asked me if I would please not sing "that" song. "That" song was a song that I wrote in 1992, parodying a phenomenon about "lesbian music" that I found very funny -- the fact that, although the whole big broo-ha-ha about being queer -- the reason that we are apparently going to hell -- is about us having sex with each other (witness the fact that the Baptists would have no problem with me living with my beloved, as long as we don't "do the nasty") -- that very few lesbian songs actually deal with sex. Instead, they dress this up euphamistically with phrases like "filling up and spilling over", etc.. So, I wrote a truly graphic lesbian sex song -- I wouldn't say it's an erotic song, really, but it is graphic -- it names body parts and activities, and most people think it's very, very funny (except for the people that think it's very, very embarrassing, crude, or nasty). I won't excerpt the song here -- suffice it to say that the title of this song is: "I Want to Put My Fingers in You."

The majority of dykes would shriek and howl (the shy ones would hide their faces and giggle, and the easily-offended would walk out) when I sang this song. It brought down the house at Mildred's in San Francisco, and after I sang it there, no less a luminary of lesbian comedy than Marga Gomez came up to me afterwards and said "You killed, kid!"

But the Gay Pride Committee did not want me to sing this song at the rally because -- are you ready? -- that year's theme was "Family Matters" and they were concerned that gay parents would be attending with their children. So I said OK, and didn't do the song at the main rally. But at the Dyke rally (a night rally, mostly dykes, no kids), my audience put up a clamor to hear this song and I sang it. The committee was, shall we say -- displeased?

I found the whole thing amazing. So, let me get this straight -- I can't sing a song about the very thing that makes us queers at the annual rally celebrating our queerdom?
We can name a Gay Pride event after a TV show with an ultra-nerd in it, but we can't sing about how these "gay families" came to be gay families in the first place (namely, because their same-sex parents engage in sex with one another)? This, I think, was the beginning of the end for my die-hard identification as a "lesbian". (In truth, I have never really liked that word much anyway -- it seems clinical and staid, which was not the aspect of queer culture that I liked. Dyke gets closer, but I like queer best -- in all its connotations.)

I want to make it clear that I am not queer because I dislike men, men's bodies, or necessarily, even sex with men (although it's been a long time and I'm not sure I can remember that well enough to make an educated commentary about it at this point). I actually believe that most people are, at some level, bi-sexual -- but my views on this are a whole other post -- really -- a whole other post.

I realized that I was queer at age twelve. I was taking a first-aid class at the Marion County Courthouse, and I wandered over to a rack of "health-literature" which had a pamphlet about sex (the title, of course, did not include the word "sex"), which was for teenagers (which I was not, technically, yet, although I was starting to have boobs) and which I slyly slipped into my coat pocket for later reading. Upon perusing it later than evening, I came upon the word "homosexual" and a definition that was . . . let's just say . . . less than affirming. However, when I read this definition, I was stunned -- I thought "that's ME!!!" -- and I felt as if someone had branded a huge, scarlet "H" on my forehead. The dread hung around for maybe six months, that someone else was going to make the same connection between this definition and me -- then I think it faded somewhat, although it never disappeared entirely, until I came out.

I had never met a homosexual (I thought). I certainly had never heard anyone ever talk about a homosexual -- in fact, I had never heard the word spoken. I wasn't quite sure how to pronounce it. In those days, the word "homo" was not even used as an epithet, at least amongst my peers. Our most withering put-down was "retard" -- reserved only for your worst enemies -- and never to be used toward one particular kid in class, whose brother actually was a retard.

(Side-story: I once did call a kid a "bastard" at the public swimming pool. I think I was about 9 at the time. guardlife-gaurd pulled me out of the pool and said "Do you know what that means?" I stammered "N--n-n-no." "Then don't say it," she said, curtly, and made me sit out for fifteen minutes. It was a terrifying experience, and later, a recurring one, as I read voraciously, and often read, and then used, words, that I had no understanding of. I think I might do a whole post about this one -- look for "Dictionary" in the future.)

Back to my point. I knew I was queer at 12. I recognized that this seemed to just be "something about myself", and that I was going to have to deal with it. So, when I finally did come out, fully and unabashedly in 1975, I was relieved and delighted to find that "my people" were outrageous, transgressive, and unique. Sure, I was going to be a social outcast all my life, but hey, I was going to be in great company -- Walt Whitman, DaVinci, Sophocles, Alexander the Great, Mary Renault, drag queens, bull-daggers, and "theatrical types" -- people who were "light in the loafers", "gay as a day in June", who were "friends of Dorothy" (hey! I'm from there!), who were "members of the choir", and "batted for the other team" -- even our euphemisms were zippy -- and we had hankie-codes, and "gaydar" and, and, and ---- what had started as a terrible burden to bear looked like it might actually turn out to be fun -- though might engage in the love that dared not speak its name, I was going to have a great time keeping quiet.

Unfortunately, there came a point in queer culture where the focus on "assimilation" increased. I'm not sorry this happened, really, because I think it actually has had a good effect on the American psyche -- there seems to be, at this point, a basic recognition that queers have always been, and will always be, a part of the human species, no matter how much some people hate this thought - and I think that life is very different for many young people who are coming into their own as gay/lesb/t-g/t-s/queer than it was for me, in 1968, wearing that scarlet "H" around elementary school.

However, I want to assimilate into something I can actually support. I don't want to assimilate into anything -- even queer culture, or total acceptance by the straight culture -- at the cost of freedom of expression, or individuality, or frank discussion of sex (something that every one of our parents did, at least once, or you wouldn't be reading this -- with apologies to test-tube babies out there if this statement seems bio-birth-centric -- oh, wait, maybe I am still a lesbian!).

My current culture/community, the one that I spend the most amount of time, energy, and attention on and in, is not based on my identity as a lesbian -- it includes men, women and gender 'tweeners, gays, straights, bi-s, and celibates, old and young, rich and poor, people of various racial and cultural heritages, classes, and self-definitions. Their connection is this -- they all think that there is something spiritual going on with their existence that transcends what they are physically.

Still, it's probably good to remember that if you say something demeaning to or about someone regarding their sexual orientation in my presence, you will probably get the tongue-lashing of a lifetime -- from me. I've had advanced Dyke-Outrage-Training (DOT), so be warned.

That long, long, long ramble was all about my original hesitation to take the Curve interview -- because basically, how could I authentically appear in a lesbian magazine if I don't consider myself a real lesbian anymore? At the time that the interview was actually offered, I was also about to move, so I turned it down -- phew! -- and avoided having to think more about what it might mean to delve into all thispersonay/personna analysis, and the thought that many lesbians would really not like to hear that "one of their own" had deep and abiding questions about being part of their culture.

I also have concerns about how the reporter might edit what I say, what light they may try to project me in, etc.. -- over this, I have no control -- yet I think I have a basic mistrust of nearly all media -- even the "most popular lesbian magazine" is no exception.

Yesterday, though, I emailed and accepted the interview. I intend to be utterly honest and truthful -- what they do with the material I give them is, as I say, out of my hands. I also responded to the DJ, and the person who wanted a tape -- I will dig the tape out of some box in the basement (I still have a few of them left, plus many of the album I cut in 2002 -- if you want one, email me or go HERE). I figure I actually belong in the "queer heritage" show, cause if you're cassettes are showing up in a number of estate sales, it means your fan-base might now be old enough to die of natural causes.

Oh -- I almost forgot -- if you want to listen to the webcast of the show where my music is featured, tune in at this website: www.kpft.org at 9 pm Central Time (7 pm Pacific) on the last Monday in September -- 9/25/06. You can hear one of the songs now online -- at http://www.queermusicheritage.com/sep2006.html (three others will be included on the full internet broadcast 9/25/06, but the DJ didn't want to edit them for radio broadcast to the extent that the FCC could handle -- don't worry -- no body parts or practices, just good, old curse-words).

I do all of this because that big cosmic dyke comic seems to be knocking at my door, and so, I shall answer:

"Who's there?"
"Old Lady."
"Oldy Lady, who?"
"Hey, I didn't know you could yodel!"

You Are Here

(I'm borrowing the title of this post from participant, with gratitude.)

Interstate rest stops in Iowa have free wireless internet access.

Now doesn't that just blow the hell out of your stereotypes of the Midwest?

I've been pondering how to even begin to blog about my trip "home" (which happened in July)-- I use the term home parenthetically because my partner pointed out that I was using this term -- "Going home" -- frequently before we travelled to Kansas and Wisconsin.

In fact, I consider Port Townsend my home, but still, I talked about the trip to Kansas, before we departed, as "going home". I'm entirely not comfortable with that, but it is what I said, so I have to think that there is something present for me there.

I'm sure I'll be talking about that more, but for now, I'll return to my musings about the rest stops in Iowa.

It was hot when we stopped at these rest-stops in Iowa -- it was blow-in-your-face-100-degrees-plus hot.

And I did not have a wireless device with me, so I cannot comment upon whether these promises of wireless access were overblown or not.

I can say that the toilets were spotless. Kind of . . . . spooky spotless.

Plus, we had a synchronistic experience in one of these rest-stops, involving the history of intentional community.

We were returning from Wisconsin to Kansas City, from which city we would then depart for Seattle and home-again-home-again-jiggity-jog and all that.

We had seen more corn-fields than I had previously believed were in existence (and remember, I grew up in Kansas) -- and we had seen the Mighty Mississippi, and many tiny towns similar to the one in which we dwell, and the inside of a cafe that served an incredible breakfast, but in which, the waittress made it abundantly clear, you do not call the "cook" the "chef" when complimenting the meal.

We were not hot, because we were driving in my brother's car which has air-conditioning. But once outside the car, the rest-stop was hot, and the wind was hot, and the trash-barrels were hot, and the sign that said, on one side, in big, raised, letters: "The Mormon Trail" -- was also hot.

We stopped a lot on that drive southward, to stretch our legs and move our chi and drink water and pee. I wandered down to the mormon trail road-marker, to read what they had to say about those wacky Mormons.

I read what they had to say, and then walked around to the other side of the marker, where it had a lengthy post about the numerous intentional communities that had been started in this area during the late 1800s, who had nothing to do with the Mormons. I believe its big stand-out letters said something like "Intentional Communities of the Area".

This sign was pertinent to me because I live in an intentional community, and the concept of intentional community is something that I cogitate on frequently. I talk about it with my fellow community members, with others who live in other intentional community, and with people who think they might, one day, want to live that way. I did not expect to encounter it on a white-hot historical marker in Iowa, much less, backing a description of the Mormon trail.

Not that these subjects are so far removed from one another -- I will confess that I have a certain tiny grudging respect for some aspects of Mormonism (very tiny and very grudging).

Most of their ideology is, in my opinion, complete wacked out -- like the idea that there are different heavens for people of different color, or even of different families, the concept that you can baptize people after they're dead, even if they didn't (and probably wouldn't) have anything to do with your religion while they were alive, and perhaps most immediately, the fact that most, if not all, of them think I'm going to hell . . . . for loving my wife.

That said, I think it's kind of cool that they get to wear magical underwear, and as to their belief that God is an ET, well, hey --I believe that human DNA was manipulated 12,000 years ago by a confederation of beings from other planets, and I guess people in glass houses shouldn't . . . . you know.

My grudging respect has to do with their sense of community. LDS people do actually seem to have real community -- not a community that I would want to live in, and not always emotionally functional, but they care for their own, in sickness and health, and most of them that I have known personally seeme to recognize a responsibility to that community.

So maybe it wasn't so weird that the intentional communities of 19th century Iowa were backed by the folk-of-the-sacred-underpants. For me, though, it was a bit other-wordly to be standing in the midst of the Iowa prairie, reading about people who were doing something that I was doing -- but doing it more than 100 years ago.

I wonder if it was as strange, at that time, to other people -- what they were doing by creating intentional community -- as it seems to be to my parents.

My parents (and most of my family-of-origin, actually) seem to eye my lifestyle askance. I don't really understand this, because I was raised with a strong sense of the importance of family, and I do view my community as family (except way more functional than the family I was raised in -- or 90% of the families that I know of, for that matter -- and way more honest, and way more responsible, and way more accepting, and way more -- ok, maybe this isn't a family after all).

For some reason, most members of my family seem to think that there's just something a bit odd about living with people that you haven't married, given birth to, or who have given birth to you. Maybe it's that, or maybe it's that they don't trust the thought of living with people that you actually enjoy. Maybe, if this thin strand of blood heritage or wedlock didn't exist between them and their co-habitants, they would run screaming from these people.

Of course, if you hang out in intentional community long enough, there probably will be strands of blood heritage and wedlock amongst various members, but I don't think that was completely the case with these settlers, at least at the beginning of their journey to the great state of Iowa.

Then again, now that I think of it, it's not just my family -- I actually know people of my own generation -- of similar persuasion and spiritual outlook -- who seem to consider my communitarian lifestyle a quirky choice or a form of idealistic folly. They seem to believe that living with other people just has to be difficult. In fact, for me, it's quite the opposite. Sure, there are challenges -- but these are far out-weighed by the benefits, in my opinion. I share my life with others, but get to be an individual at the same time. My life is witnessed in some important way, and I get to leap-frog with my community-fellows into spiritual expansion -- I get to learn from the up-close and personal nature of our lives together, watch them go through things and get information about what works and what doesn't work. I am definitely living a higher quality of life in community than I ever managed on my own (and I don't mean just financially). Plus, I have people to watch movies with.

When I was a kid, I would dream about what I would do if I had millions of dollars -- I wanted to have a big piece of property, with lots of little cabins on it for all my friends and loved ones -- everyone could have their own place, but be together at the same time. My friends could come and go for travel and adventure, but they would always have a place with me if they wanted it. I realize that, for some people, this would seem like more of a nightmare than a dream, but for me, that was the cat's meow.

I'm thinking of those intentional communitarians, crossing the plains, looking for a place to do their thing, and make a life that was different from most communities they were passing through. No telephone to call back home to mom and dad, no quick-mart down the road if you ran out of flour for bisquits, or bottled water if the well runs dry -- certainly no wireless internet at the conastoga rest-area so that you could log onto the intentional communities website and have a chat with someone of like mind.

Then again, no way for mom and dad to call you on your cell-phone while you're busy unhitching the horses, no pesticides in the bisquit flour that you did have, no zoning laws that prohibit you from digging a well, and no highway taxes to pay for road-signs about the Mormon trail.

I think this started with internet on Iowa freeways -- but I've given up on any thought of continuity at this point.

If I had gotten that wireless notebook for my birthday, I might have posted this from the rest-stop, and missed the Mormon trail sign completely.

And then what would I have written about?

Corn, probably. Or maybe the huge map of Iowa posted behind fading plexi-glass, with its pointy red arrow claiming "You are here".

Jus' like a mushroom . . . .

. . . . Popping up where you least expect it. Here I am again.

SuperIntendent said... (among other thing) . . . where've you been?

Well, yes, I did go to Kansas and Wisconsin (and Iowa and Missouri on the road in between familial destinations). When I got back, it was tax time for me. Then a wedding in Seattle. In the interim between these things, I had a major immersion experience with the computer game "Caesar III", and I processed, processed, processed about events surrounding a visit to my family and loose-ends that I returned to at home in terms of personal relationships.

So, in two months, I've been to:
Kansas City
Emporia
Blue River
Appleton
Port Townsend
Seattle
Rome
Tingis (North Africa)
Lugdunum (Northern Gaul)
Tarraco (Egypt, I think)
Carthago Nova (Southern Italy)
and . . .

Tax-Hell (Okay, not really -- more like tax purgatory, but "tax-hell" is just so much zingier)

And I'm back now. And I'm ready to blog again. Someone asked a question, and jarred me loose from my curule chair.

Which is something I'm interested in exploring -- when someone leaves a comment, however small, it invariably stimulates a response from me. I don't know if that is also true in my life in general, but I'll be looking at that.

The Summer is still lingering here, but I can feel it slipping away. The plants are blooming, still flourishing, but their enthusiasm seems dimmed somehow -- almost as if they are bored with their own beauty -- like aging movie stars who can't wait to get away from the cameras and take off their make-up.

Last night's full moon emerged in rusty tones, heralding harvest and halloween -- reminding me that the spirits Fritz and Frank are probably, at this moment, beginning to hover over local pumpkin fields, picking out the perfect body for their next incarnation.

My birthday typically falls on the longest day of the year. So, for me, celebrating my nativity holds both a rambunctious joy at the abundance of daylight and a sobering knowledge that every day after this will grow shorter.

I have always truly loved Summer, and have learned to truly love Winter (this is likely to happen if you live on land where you garden extensively -- Winter becomes the blissful time when napping, reading, and cozying up to a fire are necessary to re-fueling).

I enjoy the Spring, and I enjoy the Fall -- but I haven't learned to love them, I think. Once Fall is really here, I can embrace it. But during this transition, when I feel it's fingers creeping into the air, but can't tell exactly what direction it's coming from, I experience a certain internal resistance, a futile sense of poutishness. I stamp my little feet and shake my little fists. Though this tantrum is usually brief, I am feeling it now.

Fog has covered the Sound most mornings this week. By mid-afternoon it will burn off, leaving us a clear view to the boats arriving for the Festival. Yesterday the Lady Washington sailed in, firing her cannon and rattling our windows.

One of the peculiar things that happened for me in past weeks is that I nearly sent a quasi-political letter to the editor of our local paper. This is something that I'm rarely tempted to do -- I simply don't believe that politics will change our world, and I choose to put my energetic outbursts toward transformation elsewhere. I don't know what exactly stimulated that old reflex in me, and I had to look long and carefully at my urge to understand what exactly I thought would be affected by my writing a letter.

Had I just been swept up in the back-to-school-oncoming-primary fever that saturates our weekly rag?

Understand that our local paper is a real, live local paper -- lots of quirky folks in the area make for a very interesting op-ed page, and the police blotter is often funnier than anything on Comedy Central (recent entries include the young man who was valiantly rescued from a hide-a-bed, in which he became stuck during a party, and the woman who called 911 to report that her "relatives were annoying her" -- wow! I didn't realize you could call 911 for that -- I'll be placing this in my FOO survival kit). During one particularly slow news week this summer, the front page featured a 5 x 7 full color picture of the fellow who is vying for the Guinness Book record for longest eye-brow hair (Yes, really -- and there was a three-column spread about it on the front page followed by a half-page continuance in the A section).

The issue I wanted to talk about wasn't really political -- more social -- all about public service and freedom of speech, etc., etc.. But I just didn't trust myself to send this before the election -- I thought that I would probably, at least in some very teeny-tiny corner of my heart, believe that my letter could/would/might/may change the outcome of the primary -- and I think that this is a stupid reason to write a letter, because I really don't believe that the outcome of the primary is what will transform our culture for better or worse.

I believe that real transformation happens at the basic interactive level of human being to human being. I've seen this evidenced in a million ways -- so, politics will not change us -- we will change as individuals, and then politics will change -- or better yet, disappear altogether.

I know that this is what I have observed to be so -- and so I was surprised when I felt this sudden crusading energy arise in my energy field -- "I'll write a letter, by God!" I used to be all over this -- printing pamphlets, marching in the streets, protesting, whining, blah, blah, blah -- I choose to do it differently now, not because I think that is wrong, but because it's my perception that it wasn't effective.

But it is seductive. For one thing, there is always the tantalizing energy of being right about something -- anything -- When I came to conclusion that I wouldn't send a letter (at least not until the election is over and the ego-danger is passed for me), I felt like Lady Galadriel turning down the ring of power. (I have passed the test. I will fade and go into the West.) ;-)

Oh for God's sake -- how did I get from Fall to the One Ring?????

That's enough for now. Stop me before I blah, blah, blah again!!!!

Thank you to the SuperIntendant for stimulating this spasm of blogging. I think that this will probably result in another spate of spouting.

Look for me tomorrow -- and remember, if you're tired of checking back, checking back, checking back, you can subscribe to the blog -- use the link at the upper left corner to subscribe to the google board.

Drawing and Travelling

Babs asked if I still draw.

In a word, yes.

To the left, you'll see an old drawing (circa 1995, I think. Click to view it in detail).

I've been very muddled recently -- hurrying around for the past two weeks preparing for my upcoming trip to the midwest.

Yes, tomorrow, July 12th, my beloved and I fly off to Emporia, Kansas to be present for my dad's birthday (he was 30 when I was born -- if you've been paying attention and can do simple math, you'll be able to extrapolate how old he is this year).

Then, we're off to Wisconsin -- a state that I have never even set foot in, which I think is odd, given the amount of rambling I've done around the midwest -- to visit Kumatriel's parents and my favorite uncle and aunt.

(For those of you Kansan readers, drop me a line at ruccha@hotmail.com if you'd like to connect while I'm in Emporia.)

For everyone, anticipate field reports about my experiences in the Flint Hills, on the Wisconsin River, and random encounters with fire-flys, mosquitoes, and thunder-storms.

The last "vacation" I took was in 2002, to Loreto, Mexico, for two weeks. Somehow, this trek seems no less exotic and adventuresome to me.

When I was in Loreto, internet was a very far-fetched concept-- hell, even a phone call to the States was a pretty big deal -- but I'll be checking email during this trip, and will be blogging from the road whenever I can.

I embark with excitement, and the only real tugging on my heart-strings about leaving Port Townsend (aka Paradise) behind are these:

My cat is already giving me stink-eye, and I do sincerely ache at the thought of not getting to pet her for two entire weeks, or to see her wash her pristinely white paws. (She is a grey tuxedo-cat with white ballet slippers on her front paws and white Nancy Sinatra hip-boots on her back legs -- but this doesn't even begin to touch the complexity of her beauty -- I'll have to post some pictures of her someday).

The carrots I planted last week are just beginning to come up, and starting to throw out real "carroty-looking" middle leaves. By the time I get home, I may have missed their entire child-hood!

The family of crows that we have "be-friended" (Okay, that we have fed -- same diff, maybe) have a new fledgling who is, in my opinion, so funny to watch, and changing so fast, that I am not sure I'll recognize her/him/it by the time I get home.

I find that I have a sense of solidity with the humans with whom I am close here -- that I have confidence that our sharing upon returning to contact will be deep, thorough, and exciting -- and I wonder -- do I fret about the cat, the carrots, and the crows because my communication with them is not very accomplished, whereas I think I know how to communicate with the humans that I love? Hmmm. I'll be thinking about that one.

I'll be flying through the air tomorrow. I'll be setting intentions for this trip as I hurtle through the skies. When I touch terra-firma in Kansas City at 6:30 Central time, the journey will already be underway.

I wonder what will happen after that?

What ARE you going to do with me?

Okay -- so two full weeks have passed since I last blogged.

I'm not even going to apologize this time.

I think we all just need to get a grip and realize that this may be how it's going to be -- I'll post a bunch, then there will be a hiatus, then I'll post a bunch. If you want to dispense with periodically checking my blog, only to find that I haven't posted since you last checked -- look to the left sidebar and join the Google group that will email stuff directly to your inbox, or put me on your RSS feed. If you actually enjoy the suspense of seeing whether I've blogged or not, just keep checking.

Now, non-apologies aside, let me get on with it.

A few weeks back, in response to my post on PLOTS, "knowm" wrote: "Now may I ask: how can 'we' contribute? We're asking for suggestions. What do you want from your readers?"

I realize that "knowm" may not speak for all my readers, but I also entertain the possibility that KNOWM is an all-seeing, all-knowing, all-present manifestation of All-That-Is . . . . I'm loathe to ignore that possibility -- AND to disregard the opportunity that knowm has put forward.

That said, I really had to ponder this one: What DO I want from my readers?

It's kind of like the genie -- if I had just one (or better yet, three) wishes, what would I ask for? I had to think long and hard about this, what with the cautionary tales I've heard in the tag-lines of various jokes ("I guess she thought I asked for a twelve-inch pianist", "How about a little head?", and the ever popular: "Make me a thousand times smarter than that guy!" -- hey, if you're lucky, someday I may give you the actual set-up for each of these punchlines as well).

Today, in the bath-tub, I had an Archimedian revelation while considering this query.

No, I did not leap up and shout "Eureka!", and I did not run, dripping and naked, through the streets of Syracuse (although, as you can tell from my last post, it's quite possible that I might have) -- first of all, I don't live in Syracuse, and second of all, I don't think that my discovery is about to change the human understanding of physical science (but who knows -- I might be wrong about that).

I did figure out what I want from my readers.

I want: Questions. Small and large.

Here's why:

I've talked about this weird blogging block I have -- I start a topic, then realize that it's really a much bigger topic than I had originally thought (witness the post on shaving my legs, which I thought would be a few brief lines), and I get all balled up about whether it's really worth writing about the topic at all, or find I don't have the stamina to continue at 2 am, or, or, or . . . .

So I think it would be great to have a bank of questions from my readers that I could respond to -- then, when I find myself "clutching up" about my blog output, I could turn to one of these questions, and make a response.

Example -- in the last two weeks, I actually have started many posts. Various titles include: "Exceptional Exceptions", "In Two Weeks", and "On Being Short, Mouthy, and Fat -- In that Order" -- but . . . . . I haven't completed them. Sometimes because I've just flat-out been occupied doing other things, sometimes because I didn't trust my drooping eyelids to see me through the post, sometimes because I really wasn't convinced that what I was writing would be of any expansive benefit to anyone, including me.

I figure that if I had a bank of curious questions, I could provide some succinct responses -- and that this would help "juice me up" for additional blog entries.

So, dear reader, are you willing? Will you send me your questions? Are you willing to prod my process with yours?

Many friends and loved ones gifted me fabulously this year on my fiftieth birthday -- and my beloved mate made me a birthday gift that I have been treasuring -- she committed to making a revelation to me every day of something that I didn't already know about her. It's been very yummy to experience this.

Want to "present" me? (As in "birthday present", but the multitudinous layers of meaning in that question are not escaping my notice.)

If so, make a comment to this blog, particularly with questions. If you don't know how to comment on the blog, just go to the end of this post, and click the comments link (even if it says "0 comments") -- then you can leave your comment, anonymously or not.

The thing about a blog is that there is no real way for me to know if anyone is even reading this -- unless they tell me. That's kind of cool, in my opinion -- and also kind of disconcerting.

On the other hand, your comments get mailed to me immediately.

Blogging consistently without response seems, to me, to require some sort of internal panache that I don't seem to possess (at least not at the present moment). I'm more a "call and response" kind of girl, I guess -- Carruch gave a teaching about this in the past couple of weeks -- on how we create transformation, and then are transformed by the results of our creation, which then leads us to create new transformation, which then transforms us, etc., etc., etc..

I notice that I blog more when people comment. Maybe the comments are the "evidence" of this creative cycle for me -- the means by which I transform and return more readily to creation.

I don't know about that completely. I do know that I want --

Questions. Large or small.

(I will probably pass on this one -- "Why is there air?" -- it's a bit out of my league at present.)

Birthday Suits

33 invitations sent out. 10 attendees "in the flesh", and 3 clear "virtual attendees" (who either committed to spending some part of my birthday naked, wherever they were, or who sent me a lovely photo of themselves, all dressed up in their birthday suit).

That's how my naked birthday party went. Not bad, I'll say -- a 39% return on my invitations.

So, for those of you who have never had, or been to, a naked birthday party, you're probably wondering -- what does one do?

Play mah-jongg in the buff. Perform and listen to au-naturel live music. Get in the hot tub (well, duh). Eat ice-cream cake. Grill steaks in the Weber (carefully). Sit on the back porch in the sun. Make sure that there are no gaps in the laurel hedge.

I want to make it clear here -- I cannot claim to be a "nudist" -- I think that this term is reserved for braver souls than I. A real naturalist is a very committed being, in my opinion. I am just a wannabe.

Besides wanting to create a memorable 50th birthday (which I did manage to do for myself, as well as, I suspect, for a few other people), I wanted to create an opportunity for myself, and everyone that I invited, to "get over it" at some level in terms of fears/concerns/shames about the physical vehicles we are tooling around in -- or at least spend some time thinking about the issues that were brought up for them as they considered whether or not to come.

In point of fact, I found that I talked and thought about the concept of hanging out in a social setting with a bunch of other people without wearing clothes way more in the weeks and days before the party than I did when I was actually at the party. Once we were all in the room and in the raw, it was, for me, not only not challenging in any way, but weirdly mundane. (No, that's not the exactly the right phrase, I think -- Oddly blase? Strangely commonplace? -- how 'bout this: No big fucking deal.)

I intentionally did not announce my intention for the party until two weeks prior -- I didn't want anyone "getting in shape" or "tanning up" for this fest -- and everyone I talked to who was considering coming expressed some level of challenge around the party theme.

I think that we all have things that we judge, or fear that others will judge, about our bodies. Those lumpy thighs -- that place where your fifty-year old buddha belly is threatening to (or has already) flopped over your panty line -- arms that are thinner than Fitness Magazie says they "ought" to be -- breasts that have nurtured children and as a result, are pendant-ic rather than "perky" -- a scar here, a lopsided testicle there, cellulite, long and unexpected hairs sprouting from odd places, those rolls of fat on your back (what someone I know once referred to her as her "back titties", which cracked me up completely -- I have them, by the way), eczema, acne, dicks that are too small, or too big-- or parts of your body that are so "culturally desireable" that they are sure to result in a lewd and unwanted come-on when all you wanted was to sit in the hot tub and enjoy the stars without some schmuck making a pass at you. ("Nice tits," complete strangers used to leer/sneer at me on the street.)

The thing about the "perfect" body is . . . . . either nobody has it -- or --everybody does.

In speaking with people prior to the party, I was surprised when a couple of people mentioned to me that they felt challenged about coming. In terms of the cultural projection of a "good" body (if you don't know what this cultural projection consists of, check out the magazine rack at the check-out counter), they were way closer to that projection of "perfection" than I am.

I think it's disengenuous to say that this cultural projection doesn't exist, or to deny that most of us spend at least some energy comparing ourselves to it in some way. I know that I do (even when my politically correct dyke-self screams that I "shouldn't"), -- and from what I heard from nearly everyone who considered coming to my party, I think they do, too.

It has been my observation that even those who have altered their bodies with implants, or lipo-suction, or self-induced starvation, or injury-inflicting workouts, (or, or, or) in order to attempt to meet this cultural projection, still don't feel "OK" about their bodies, much less think that they have met the "perfection" goal -- I base this observation on actual people I have known who have undertaken these procedures, sometimes at the risk of their lives.

So, either no-one has this "perfect" body -- or everyone already has it already

Yesterday simply re-inforced my belief that the latter is full of truth.

Sitting in a room with a bunch of people that I enjoy, watching them in their native attire, I was struck again and again by the beauty that was revealed once the mask of clothing was gone.

Freed from the tugging-down of shirts, the readjustment of a biting bra-strap or waistband, they seemed, to me, to move in ways that flowed more easily with the current of true Self.

A friend told me "how thoughtful of you to send us an invite and relieve us of the need to decide what to wear!" -- she also said, "And your invitation -- you thought of everything -- you should have been a lawyer."

Here's the text of my invitation - maybe you'll see what she means:
===================================================

I'm requesting your presence at my 50th birthday party -- in your Birthday Suit.

I have deliberately held off on sending this invitation, because I didn't want anyone "getting in shape" for this party.

I'm turning 50 on Wednesday, June 21st, and I'm having a birthday party --

a naked birthday party.

And you're invited.

My intention in having this particular type of party is three-fold -- 1) Most importantly, I want to gather with people in a way that is radically open and vulnerable, and I figure this is about as open and vulnerable as it gets -- 2) I noticed that I put down, in my "Livelyhood" class homework, that if I had a short time to live, I would spend much more of my time naked -- instead of waiting for some "dire event" to spur me into living as I want, I want to start doing what I want to do now -- 3) I want to kick off my second half-century in a way that I am not likely to forget -- I'm thinking this will do the trick. Some of my most enjoyable birthday parties were at the nude beach at Sauvie's Island outside of Portland, where folks just dropped in or didn't. When I was talking to my Kindle-mates about this, and trying to decide what I wanted to do for my fiftieth, I was lamenting the lack of a nude beach, and they (and Diana) helped me think outside the box by suggesting that we have a nude beach party right here.

If you attend, these are the agreements that I invite you into:

1. Bring with you whatever you want to eat and drink -- I'm serious about this. I'm not catering and there will not be an open bar ("We're not hosting an intergalactic kegger down here."). If you want a beer, bring the beer you want to drink. If you want juice, or pop, or liquor, or wine, or whatever, bring that. Filtered water will be provided, and we'll probably have a cake or some other festive sweet on hand. The grill will be going from 2 pm to 5pm, and you can barbeque (carefully) whatever you want to bring to eat if you want meat or tofu pups -- you can use the microwave, fridge, whatever -- and you can bring food to share if you want to. We'll have ice, places to store cold drinks, cups and plates and utensils to eat with, etc..
2. Come anytime you want from noon to 7 pm on the 21st. Cake-cutting/or something like it will be at 3 to 4 pm. We may linger longer than 7 pm, but I reserve the right to close the party down at 7 pm if I want to. Come when you want and leave when you want -- that's up to you entirely. We will be cutting and eating cake/gathering together at 3 to 4 pm -- If you want to target the party "nexus" time, this will probably be it, but you can arrive earlier or later than that if you want.
3. Come prepared to get naked and stay naked. You agree to wear clothing at the party only for the following purposes and in the following forms:
   1. A "drape" (blanket, sheet, sari, etc) for the purpose of protecting your sensitive parts from sun, wind, rain, cold, dirt, or damage (bleeding women or the incontinent may wear underpants if they are pad-ridden) -- but you agree not wear clothing or wraps for the purpose of hiding, obscuring, or shielding part(s) of your body that you are ashamed of, or parts of your body that you don't think anyone (including you) will like, or that you think will "gross someone out" or, or, or -- if you choose to get back into any close-fitting clothing that is not simply to protect your body from the above-named "dangers" (or to catch your menstrual blood or manage incontinence), I may ask you to leave the party. If it's chilly, we'll probably have a fire in the fireplace, the house heat will be high enough to be comfortable, and we hope to have the hot-tub up and running by the 21st. If you want to warm up in the shower, you'll be welcome to use the bathroom any time you like while you're here.
   2. Eyeglasses, medically-necessary braces or supports, and jewelry (as long as it's not designed to "hide" anything) are permitted. (Protective aprons during barbequing are both permitted and advised.)
   3. You agree to give me (and you're only agreeing to give me this) at least one hug during my party -- "in the nude" -- that's right, naked flesh to naked flesh! You don't have to hug anyone else in the flesh, but you do agree to hug me in the flesh -- and you agree to ask everyone else whether you can hug them naked before you do so, but I encourage naked hugging. Not for any sexually perverse reason, but because I think it's high time we all "get over it" (shame, fear, separation, etc.
4. I had originally thought that I would just throw the invitation open, and allow anyone to come who was willing to get naked, but I have changed my mind. I am inviting you. If you want to bring someone else that has not been specifically invited, you agree to clear it with me before next Tuesday, the 20th. This is because I want to enjoy myself with people that I know I enjoy. Also, before you ask me if you can bring someone who hasn't been specifically invited, please ask them first if they agree to the following -- if they don't, please don't ask me to take my time considering them as a possible guest.
   1. They agree to attend in accordance with all the "agreements" I have listed above.
   2. They must at least "like" me. Please do not consider asking me to include guests who have expressed to you unresolved hostility or dislike toward me. The point of this party for me is: I want to enjoy myself with people who enjoy me, and who I enjoy.
   3. Let me know, at least 24 hours in advance (noon Tuesday 6/20), that you want to bring someone that I have not specifically invited. A good way to know whether I have specifically invited them is to ask them -- "Did you get an email invitation to Carol's 50th birthday party -- the one about being naked?" I'm guessing that they'll remember whether they got the invite or not.
   4. If you ask me if you can bring someone and I say "no", I'm going to ask you (and ask that you encourage them) not to take this as a personal rejection of them or judgment about them as a person -- it may be because I don't enjoy them, but it may also be that I don't know them well enough to know whether I spend my 50th with them, or because I just don't feel like it at that moment, or it may be some intuitive thing that I can't fully explain to you intellectually.

Those are the agreements -- here are suggestions: Bring musical instruments, drums, music -- whatever (probably nothing with spikes, though :-) -- and come only if you really want to participate in this experiment -- (feeling nervous or scared or challenged about it is fine). We're thinking about a session of body-painting or some other joint creative venture. Since I will be naked already, I will probably cut my hair that day (keeps the hair-bits out of your undershirt that way).

I have to say, this is not without its challenges for me -- I've almost backed out several times. I have fears that people will look at my big buddha belly and judge me as unfit or unhealthy, will view my cellulite with disgust, will stare at a pimple on my ass, judge me silently, or say something mean, etc.. I have a feeling that the "theme" of the party may be a recurrent topic for conversation while we're gathering -- then again, maybe we'll all get over it in the first five minutes and wonder why we were worried about it at all. I encourage you to use this opportunity to examine your judgments about yourself and others, to see what comes up for you when you imagine coming to this party, and see what happens if you actually do come. I will ask that you treat others as you would wish to be treated, and to treat yourself as you would treat others. I will be using this opportunity to be naked both physically and in terms of communication -- if I hear you say something I think is mean or cruel, I'll probably say, right then "I think that's mean/cruel" -- I encourage you to attend as an experiment in authenticity, immediacy, and vulnerability.

If you come to the conclusion that this just isn't your cup of tea, or you can't muster up the courage to do it, or you adamantly absolutely cannot support this sick, perverse activity ;-) -- but you still want to see me on my actual 50th birthday, I will be having a "nudity-optional visitation period" from 11 am to noon that day. If you want to drop by, bring a gift, or make a greeting, please feel free to come over -- I may, or may not, have clothes on during that time.

Notes on Privacy and Legality -- We will be screening off the back yard of our house from outside eyes on the street with constructions of cloth, so that it is highly unlikely that anyone would be able to see us from the street without making a real effort, so that we can be naked outside if we want. Our neighbors to the rear of our property do overlook our back fence, but they are both legally blind -- isn't that convenient? The living room of our house will be curtained so that those outside the house cannot see us in our birthday suits if we are in the house. We will set up the side room (where the piano is) as a "de-clothing" area. You may enter and reveal your birthday suit there, then go through the curtain to the living room to where the party is happening. There will be a sign on the front door indicating that you should come around to the side door (to your right as you are facing the house) to enter the party.

Washington State Law says this about nudity:

Washington state code RCW 9A.88.010 INDECENT EXPOSURE

(1) A person is guilty of indecent exposure if he or she intentionally makes any open and obscene exposure of his or her person or the person of another knowing that such conduct is likely to cause reasonable affront or alarm. The act of breastfeeding or expressing breast milk is not indecent exposure.

(2)(a) Except as provided in (b) and (c) of this subsection, indecent exposure is a misdemeanor.

(b) Indecent exposure is a gross misdemeanor on the first offense if the person exposes himself or herself to a person under the age of fourteen years.

(c) Indecent exposure is a class C felony if the person has previously been convicted under this section or of a sex offense as defined in RCW 9.94A.030.

Keeping that vague legal description in mind, you may not want to attend if you have been convicted of a sex offense, just in case. I don't anticipate any trouble with this, but I wanted to give you the skinny (no pun intended) from my research on whether it's OK for us to be naked in our own backyard.

Presents are very welcome, although not required. RSVP not required, but I'd love to know if you're coming.

Hope I'll see you on the 21st!

Carol

==========================================

So, you probably read that bit about the "naked hugs" -- to me, this was one of the highlights of the party -- not from any prurient place at all -- but from the dearness of getting to hug people I love "flesh-to-flesh". Some of them were slightly cool to the touch, others very warm, some soft and squishy (like me), others muscular and more springy to the touch -- many of these people are folks I have known for years -- we have talked, cried, eaten, kvetched, and spent hours on end with one another, but until yesterday, I didn't know what they actually felt like. It was, for me, very sweet, nurturing, and freeing.

The event that really spurred me to pick up my work with Carruch was the passing of a friend in the late 90's. During her final days of life, she was, as always, very funny. On one day, while she was drifting in and out of communication with the people on "this side" -- maybe a result of the morphine, maybe as a result of the amazing journey she was treading -- she suddenly opened her eyes wide and said loudly: "I need a ticket!" I got all weird and serious and leaned into her bed, thinking she was imminently passing over (she was with us in body for several days after this), and said (in what I now imagine was probably an absurdly melodramatic voice): "Are you at a gate? What do you need a ticket for?"

"For the naked dancing!" she exclaimed.

I teased my friend's fundamentalist Christian mom with this -- 13 of us (including mom) kept vigil for the next three days, and during that time, several of us threatened to strip down and give my friend the naked dancing she had anticipated, to which her mother would give a faux-horrified "Oh no!", throw up her hands, and laugh with us.

Yesterday, I finally did the naked dancing. I hope you're watching, my friend -- or at least off at an equally interesting party of your own.

Signing off on this, the first day of my 51st year, and flaunting my back-titties proudly.

Now, I'm Fifty

Which means what, exactly?

I have considered that this means that I will no longer take lip from "whipper-snappers" (and by this I don't necessarily mean people who are chronologically younger than I am ).

I have considered that this means that I "ought to/should" know something by now.

I have considered that this means that I am approaching, or have passed, some high-water line that supposedly imbues me with power, or wisdom, or strength demonstrated by the sheer stamina of withstanding the passage of days/weeks/months/years/decades ----

But . . . . AND -----

"Fah!: I say.

It means, exactly -- nothing --

-- almost --

-- maybe --

-- No! Wait! I reserve the right of my age and gender to change my mind! --

-- it means exactly what meaning I assign to it.

So, today, in entering my second half-century (my mate pointed out that I don't technically enter my second half-century until 4:41 pm Wednesday, June 21st, the exact anniversary of my nativity -- but I'm giving myself the benfit of the doubt here) -- I'm thinking, considering, pondering, contriving, manifesting, opining . . . .

And this is the meaning I will give to this day, and to all the days that seem to follow it through time:

For my second fifty years, I am going to utterly be the magnifiicent, huge, and kick-ass being that I have always been.

I am going to do this without holding back, hunkering -- or dumbing -- down.

You might remember that, a few posts back, I said that my post about head-shaving had become pertinent again for reasons that I would soon reveal. The time for that revelation is now.

I was wracking my brains about what to do to celebrate my fiftieth birthday. I wanted something memorable (like shaving my head) but with a little more punch. So, today, I'm have a birthday party. A naked birthday party.

I sent out about 33 invitations to various people -- not necessarily people who I thought would actually come, but people I wanted to spend my day with. Nearly everyone who got the invitation expressed that they had some level of challenge with the notion (you can only come to the party if you agree to get, and remain, naked for the duration of your stay).

Somehow, I think this will make for a memorable event.

I'll be reporting in later in the day, and let you know how it goes.

If you want to celebrate my birthday with me, wherever you are, spend a little time in your birthday suit -- oh wait, you're already naked -- under your clothes.