The Best Rejection I Ever Had

On Saturday, I got a "rejection" letter.

I had submitted the text of one of my favorite blog entries -- God and the Spin Doctor -- to my favorite radio show -- "This American Life" for consideration.

By the way, if you have never experienced This American Life, I will just state here, for the record, that I think it is the smartest, funniest, most moving, thought-provoking, and amazing piece of broadcast media that I have listened to or looked at. Ever. If you don't use the link above to find out more about it, I will consider that you have missed out in life. It's broadcast on our local NPR station (KUOW - Seattle) at 7 pm every Friday evening, and 11 am every Saturday morning. You can also listen to their archives online on your computer at the link above.

I have had a lingering desire to write a piece for this show ever since I first heard it coming out of my radio back in the 90s. Finally, I decided to do something that I had not done for nearly eight years -- I made a literary submission.

I did so with none of the expectation that I used to have as a youngster. I am now a "sadder-but-wiser" girl. I knew perfectly well that their submissions editor is probably deluged with fantastic material on a weekly basis. I knew perfectly well that my piece would probably be given no more than a cursory glance. I was prepared for either no response, or a form-letter rejection notice.

What I got instead was the most delightful rejection letter I had ever received in my life -- perfectly in step with the tone and energy that makes me love this program:

"Dear Carol,
Thank you for your recent submission to This American Life. I'm writing to say that the material you send (sic) isn't quite right for the show.
Please know that we reject a lot of material that's perfectly good work that simply doesn't fit the constraints of a radio show, or the idiosyncratic needs of This American Life. Even frequent contributors often find themselves reading letters remarkably similar to the one you now hold in your hands.
Best of luck to you in the future,
And thanks very much fro (sic) your interest in the show.
Yours,
Chris Ladd"

And now, I will break into song -- " . . .do let me down easy, yeah, yeah -- do let me down easy . . . . "

Somehow, Chris managed to make rejection an enjoyable experience for me. Now that's finesse. That's style. That's humanity.

I have been the recipient of other, less humane rejections -- in the course of relationship, to be certain, but also as a writer/poet/performer ("Dear sir or madam . . . "), as a budding young actress in the 70's (where you knew it was time to leave the stage when the audition agent simply said "thank! you" without looking up from his desk), and, more recently, as a psychic/channel/teacher when someone asks what I do "for a living", I tell them, and their eyes glaze over as they make a hasty retreat to . . . somewhere . . . anywhere but here -- and then pretend that they have never met me at some point in the future (and they never again ask me what I "do").

I've come to the point where there is no longer any real sting in these kinds of "rejection". However, I never imagined that the experience could be fun.

Maybe the misspellings in the letter are purposeful -- meant to give me the sense that I am getting a real letter -- just for me -- but even if that were the case -- even if this is actually a form letter that no one took any real time thinking about -- even if the seemingly real ball-point pen signature is simply the product of a really good printer -- I don't care. Even if all these cynical, self-protective thoughts that I entertain were true -- at least the folks at TAL tried to give me a sense of person-hood in their approach.

It's possible that my experience of this letter is related to some actual maturation process on my part. That is possible . . . . I suppose . . . . maybe.

It's also possible that it's been so long since I actually got a rejection letter that it's kind of a novelty (my last literary submission was in 1997 -- six of the ten poems I sent actually got accepted to an anthology . . . that never went to print -- but that's another story entirely).

It's also possible that this radio show actually makes an effort to treat the people who submit material to them feel like human beings. That's possible too.

I feel glad.

I used to harbor dreams of someday being "discovered". I don't know if this was a product of living my formative years when "old hollywood" still existed (cut to scene: home-spun but spunky young girl is plucked out of the chorus line by a whiskery director: "Hey, who's that gal there? She certainly can hoof it!"), or if this is simply the pervasive substance that allows closet writers/painters/actors to keep writing/painting/acting.

In fact, I was "discovered" twice in this incarnation. The first time, in a Judy-Garland-Star-Is-Born the early happy scenes kind of way, the second, in a Judy-Garland-Star-Is-Born the later slightly sleazy unhappy scenes kind of way.

"Being Discovered" Incident #1: I am closing the final show of my college acting career. (1978) I have been playing"Peter" in Peter Pan. I will graduate from college in a week, and I have no idea what I will do after that. I have the vague thought that I would like to be a professional actress -- I have schooled for this for four years -- but I have done so in a small Kansas town (about 17,000), and the thought of high-tailing it off to LA or New York seems -- well -- simply unimaginable.

High School seems eternal at 17, and college seemed eternal at 22. It just could not be ending, therefore, there was no reason to plan for any future. The future was now.

I return to the dressing room in the basement of the theater after the final curtain comes down, after I have been flying around (no shit, really) on wires for two weeks, belting out the big show-stopping numbers, dueling Captain Hook, saving Wendy and the lost boys.

I'm not exactly depressed. There's a cast party to attend, and my college graduation in a week, where I will grasp the diploma that seems to be the holy grail my parents have been wanting me to find.

I walk into the dressing room -- it's a chaos of quick-changed and discarded costumes, blow-dryers, open make-up containers, and weirdly, no people -- the usual gaggle of costume and makeup mistresses, the Indian Princess, Wendy, Nana, and Wendy's mom (the only females in the cast, basically, who were all there for curtain call) are nowhere to be seen.

At my makeup station, there's a big, huge, overwhelming bouquet of roses. I walk up to see who they came from. I'm thinking my mom and dad, but this seems rather effusive of them, and besides, they sent me flowers on opening night. (We are just not a two-bouquet kind of family.)

As I bend over to read the card, a voice from the door says: "So, Carol -- want to be in a show?"

At the door of the dressing room is my friend Steven, who graduated from this same theater department two years ago and went off to New York to seek his fame and fortune as an actor.

Long story short, he has moved back to Kansas, formed a song and dance company attached to the very large and very profitable catering company owned by his lover's family, and wants me to show up -- as soon as I've finished school -- like, the next week -- to join his company in Wichita, Kansas (a really big city in Kansas).

I do. For most of the following Summer, I ride around in his boyfriend's Silver Shadow Rolls Royce to hoof it for rich and not-so-rich folks who are gobbling down the catering company's infamous rib-eye steaks at various and sundry events. I wear a hand-tailored tuxedo with eyelash-glitter vest (which I still have), and a slinky spaghetti-strap dress (which I still have), stiletto heels (which I still have), and false-fingernails, and lots of make-up, and I somehow talk them out of making me wear false eyelashes, convincing that my own downy lashes will be adequate. (Check out my eyelashes sometime -- really!) I get to belt out all the Judy Garland tunes (You Made Me Love You, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Zing Went the Strings of My Heart) because Steven likes the way I do them, and I'm the slightest, shortest member of the troupe, so I evoke that Dorothy-ish quality. (I realize that, for some of you, this version of me may be hard to imagine, but I have the photos to prove it.)

Even at 22, I knew this was a one-of-a-kind experience. I even suspect that I held some sort of "this is too good to last" cynicism in my young heart, even then. Perhaps I created what happened next.

Everything was fine until Steven's beau's grandmother (grand matriarch and founder/owner of the catering company) figured out that Steven and her grandson were, perhaps, more than just "friends" -- maybe even more than just "boy" "friends" -- that perhaps, these two words, so innocuous when taken separately, had been joined in an obscene and perverted way.

That was the end of the company. Grandma cut the very long purse strings and the troupe was called in at our next scheduled rehearsal date and informed that, if we wished, we would all be offered jobs in the catering company as "help". (A job which I accepted for a short time. A very short time. I left this job to become a gas-station attendant at a Fina station managed by a dyke I knew. Imagine my mother's horror!)

So ended my first illustrious experience with being "discovered". It lasted two and a half months.

"Being Discovered" Incident #2: Fast forward 15 years to 1993. I have been performing as a lesbian stand-up comic and musician since 1988. (Again, no shit -- check Roz Warren's "Revolutionary Laughter" -- a book about women stand-ups -- I'm right in there, sandwiched alphabetically between Carrie Snow and Judy Tenuta.)

I go down to California. The plan is to perform at a couple of women's festivals, and in transit, to do a slot at "Josie's Juice Joint", a club in the Castro in San Francisco. I have been helped to this gig by Karen Ripley, a great person and comic who I'd met in Portland, where I lived at the time.

I am following Tom Ammiano and Marga Gomez. I'm nervous.

I'm a teeny-weeny baby comic. These are people with names and off-broadway shows and they look at me like I'm a bug. I go out on stage for my 15 minutes. I do my schtick. I sing the song that even the gay-pride organization in Portland asked me not to sing, because it was just too -- oh, I don't know -- too -- lesbian. The crowd is cheering and crowing. They're dying laughing. They love it. I walk off the stage and Marga Gomez turns to me and says, cooly, but not without respect: "You killed."

So, I am invited to a "special" party that night. The kind of party not everyone gets invited to, but that many people want to get invited to.

Some producers from Olivia music are there (if you're not a lesbian, you probably won't even know what Olivia music is, and if you are, and you do know, you're probably dating yourself by admitting it). I am personally introduced to these muckity-mucks. I am pleased.

One of the producers says to me -- "So," (she doesn't actually say "kid", but I can sense it hanging in the air -- it just wouldn't be politically correct to call me "kid") "So . . . Carol? Would you be interested in coming on our Boat?"

At that time, Olivia music has been doing these "women's (1980's code word for lesbian) cruises" for the past few years. It was a big deal to perform on Olivia Cruises. They still exist, by the way, but now, since we're so much more enlightened, they actually use the word "lesbian".

"Yes, sure I'd be interested!" I drooled.

"Great. Well, there is this one thing -- you know that song you sang tonight -- the one that has the line about "filling up and spilling over". . . .?"

A light bulb comes on. This "one thing" is that I am quoting, verbatim, a song by an Olivia artist. A big star in their stable. The big star in their stable.

"Yeah . . . ?" I say, cautiously.

"Well, we'd probably have to change that a little."

I explain to the woman I'm talking to that this line is a major factor in what makes the song funny, which seems relatively unimportant to her.

I'm starting to have that "uh-oh" feeling when she says:

"Oh yeah, and we'd like it if you didn't say 'fuck' so much."

So ended my second experience with "being discovered". It lasted approximately two and a half hours.

I didn't exactly turn her down. I think that the look on my face was enough to initiate her hasty retreat to somewhere . . . you know -- anywhere but here -- and to pretend that she hadn't been introduced to me for the rest of the party.

So, I figure I've been discovered already -- not once, but twice. This helped a lot when I was submitting an unsolicited manuscript to a radio show that I adore. I didn't really expect a third discovery -- or even a nod, really.

But the response I received from TAL -- quite frankly, I found it breath-taking.

This rejection letter has inspired me to do at least two things:

1. If I have to turn someone down in the future -- even a panhandler -- I will strive to do it with the most creative act of grace and personal acknowledgement that I can.
2. I will rethink my idea that the desire to "be discovered" is solely the province of artists and performers. I'm beginning to think that pretty much everyone is hoping to be "discovered" -- that all of us may be longing to have someone look at our home-spun edges and see the genius and capability just below the surface. I will be looking for that -- in everyone -- with the eye of a whiskery producer in the future -- who knows what treasures I might find?

And the letter? I think I'm going to frame it.

Leftenant, Ready the Hankies! - Confessions of a Mushbag

Night before last, after returning home from visiting a new buddy/associate (we haven't officially determined what our relationship will be called), I sat down with the rest of my household for a late-night viewing of "The Polar Express".

I was a bit surprised at how much I liked the film. It was fascinating to look at for starters (simply as a piece of art), but I also found it incredibly soothing.

Even though there were cliff-hangers, narrow-escapes, and enough roller-coaster imagery to virtually assure that it will become an ride at Warner Brothers "Movie World", I never had a single moment of angst about someone getting maimed or killed -- I didn't tighten up for a nano-second.

I realize that a small child might not have the insider information that I do, so for them, it might be scary -- but I sat, at ease, absolutely confident that nothing "bad" could happen -- because this was a movie about Santa, for god's sake -- a movie about Santa and Christmas -- a movie about Santa and Christmas and children.

What a relief.

The most surprising thing about my response to the movie was not that I cried (I'll go into more about my propensity for crying at the cinema later in this post), but how early in the film I started crying.

It was a puzzling thing for me. I'm not currently pre-menstrual. There are no pressing personal issues going on for me for which this movie would give me an "steam-valve".

I saw it coming, but I did not duck.

The minute the little waif from the house on the "other side of the tracks" began singing his plaintive recitative to the stars, standing all vulnerable-like in his PJs at the back of the train, I thought "Oh boy, here it comes -- they're going to make the hankie-grab."

Of course I was right about this. I chalk this up to my ultra-sensitive "schmaltz-receptor", which is able to detect the strains of a moving underscore while the notes of the about-to-be-moving song are still sub-sub-subliminal on the sound-track (a device which was apparently implanted during one of my many alien abduction experiences).

On cue, I started choking up -- a little embarrassed (even though my tribes-mates know that I am a big 'ole video boo-hooer), because I was thinking that I had been such an easy mark.

I continued to weep sporadically through most of the rest of the film -- and when Santa came into the picture . . . . well, I'm not even going to go into that.

I enjoy crying, generally. In fact, I would classify myself as strongly "Pro-Weep", (although I will clarify that, while I might march at a "Pro-Weep" rally, I would never bomb a clinic where people had their tear-ducts removed voluntarily).

I think of crying as cancer prevention. I personally believe that a lot of dis-ease in our culture is caused by suppressed emotion -- especially the emotions that we judge as "negative" (sad, bad, mad, scared).

I pondered on the whole experience, and even talked about it over Thanksgiving Dinner. We discussed my embarrassment at being so easily manipulated by the director(s) of Polar Express, then we talked about the fact that most of us attend movies precisely because we want to be manipulated/touched in this way, then we talked about the strange balance between creating art because we want to create art, and creating art because we want others to see and/or be changed by it.

I remain puzzled at my own responses, despite these interesting and informative conversations.

As I said, I am not surprised that I cried -- it was, after all, a movie about Santa and Christmas and children (doubting and poor children, no less).

However, I've been crying in other situations that lead me to believe that there may be something more to my recent emotional motility than the Kris Kringle Factor.

Kumatriel and I have been reading the Narnia Chronicles aloud to one another. When she told me that she had never read them, I moved into action immediately (like that moment in High Fidelity when Jack Black gasps: "Oh my God! You don't own Blonde on Blonde?!", places the album into the arms of the culturally-deprived phonophile and croons:"Don't worry, it's going to be alright.")

So, we are now reading through Narnia. We've read many books aloud to one another -- mostly our own childhood favorites (I highly recommend this to anyone who wants to remain chronically in love), but also novels, non-fiction, etc..

A notable thing has been happening with me during our Narnia-read. Whenever Aslan comes into the picture -- even if his arrival is only hinted at -- I choke, tear up, and get so verklempt that I often can't continue reading if it's my turn to read aloud.

I have strongly suspected that my response to Aslan and Santa are related. I think it has to do with a longing for a full transmutation of my idea of "God".

I have been working on my own assumptions, prejudices, and stereotypes about God for a very long time. Even as a kid, I just couldn't "get down" with the notion of this angry, bearded bigot who would condemn infants to eternal suffering just because their parents had neglected to get them sprinkled with water at the front of our particular denomination of Lutheran church (because those other Lutherans sure as hell weren't getting into heaven, even if they did baptise their kids in a church that looked just like ours, over a baptismal font that looked just like ours, and used the same hymnal we did).

I was always the kid in confirmation class who would ask questions like: "So, what if there's some totally remote undiscovered island and no missionary has ever been there, and someone dies and they never even find out about Jesus? Are they going to hell?" My minister assured me that, yes they would be going to hell, but that such an island was very rare, and even if there were such an island, it would be part of God's divine plan and so I shouldn't worry about it.

At twelve, I came to the conclusion that this "Almighty" fellow seemed to be both extremely exacting (you have to belong to the right church and say the right words/do the right things) and terribly haphazard (if you're born on an island where such a church doesn't exist, and whose missionaries will never visit your island, you're SOL -- and the "right words/things" could also seemingly change at a moment's notice).

Aslan and Santa are both way more palatable as Divine models for me. Beneficent and discerning, they are always observant about whether you've been naughty or nice, but also willing to give you a chance to change. They may be a little miffed if you don't believe in them, but basically, they figure that in the long run, you will be the one who really misses out, and they don't seem to take that personally. They're willing to give you what you want, even if they have foreknowledge that it probably won't really make you happy, giving you the chance to find out for yourself, and they both respond well to direct requests. (I loved the line in "The Magician's Nephew" where Diggory tells the horse that he figures Aslan already knows that his mother needs to be healed, and the horse says "Yes, but I have the feeling He likes to be asked.")

I must say that, watching Polar Express, I realize that, in my opinion, this Santa is a somewhat pale reflection of my perfect Aslan/God, but I still feel glad that there is a secular image that represents that energy in some form.

Things I love about Aslan:

1. He gives people "lion kisses", usually on the third eye. (I want that!)
   
2. When he wants to effect some huge transformation, he just blows his breath on something.
3. He sings to create the world.
4. He "punishes" the guy who is intent on killing a lot of people by turning him into a donkey for a period of time (but also gives him the information about how to be turned back into a human), and he doesn't seem to make a huge distinction between the acts of this killer and the little boy who twists the arm of his friend to get his way, even when the humans try to argue "well, it wasn't that bad".
   
5. He seems to have an unending faith in the ability of beings to "rise beyond themselves", even though he knows the tasks they face are huge or difficult. This faith helps them carry on.
   

I'd add the #6 thing I really like about Aslan, but it would be a spoiler to my partner for the last book, which we are about to begin. (She reads my blog.) I'll add it later, after we have finished "The Last Battle". (Stay tuned for Carol's Sixth Favorite Thing about Aslan.)

I don't believe that C.S.Lewis does, in fact, intend to portray Aslan as God -- he is "the son of the emperor across the sea" (read Jesus -- he's even killed and resurrected in book #1).

I've always loved Jesus. As a kid in church, as a jesus-freak in the 70's, and now, as a post-modern lesbian trance-channeler. Not the Jesus of the church, necessarily (at least not the Jesus of a lot of churches). Not the Jesus of the post-crucifixion apostles (revisionist bastards!).

I love the love your neighbor as yourself, let him among you who is without sin cast the first stone, suffer the little children to come unto me, forgive them for they don't know they do, for god's sake people wake up and realize that money isn't everything! Jesus. I love that Jesus. Jesus-in-his-own-words-Jesus.

There's that embarrassment cropping up again. Somehow it feels embarrassing to confess my love for Jesus. I have concern that people will miscontrue what I mean -- think that I'm some conversion-happy fundamentalist or something.

It's not like that. I really love that this being (or even the story of such a being, if it's not "historical fact") existed -- a being who spoke out at a very essential level about principals that I treasure. I guess that, in that sense, I'm also glad that C. S. Lewis had the guts to write a story that offered me, as a child, an alternative view of the Divine -- it probably kept me spiritually alive. (Now that I think of it, there were times as a kid, that I cried in church, usually during sermons about Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemene.)

To me, there is something very important about retaining my ability to conceive of, and believe in, the possibility of the existence of a being who is empowered and vulnerable, loving and discerning, tough and soft, immense while remaining connected with what appears to be small, "Just" in a complete way, and exacting in a very ordered and sensible manner.

When I hold "God" in this way, I find that it is much easier for me to pray and to remain connected to the Divine.

I think, maybe, that "belief" in Jesus may not, in fact, be intended as belief in Jesus as a "savior" (as in: "someone who did it for me so now I can relax and be an asshole") -- but belief that a certain way of being can exist. In other words, if I can believe that a being like Aslan, Jesus, Buddha, or even Santa can actually exist, then I can emulate that being. I can believe that I could exist this way.

I think this is what Carruch is talking about when he speaks of "a template of being-ness".

I feel glad that I cry when Aslan comes on the scene. It's not really a "sad" crying, although that sense of soul-hunger does seem to come in at times -- it's more of a "moved" crying -- a blend of all emotions at once.

I feel glad that I cry when Frodo and Sam and Pippin and Merry are bowed to by the entire population of Middle Earth.

I feel glad that I cry when Powder runs into the field and re-assimilates himself back to his source.

I will keep collecting image and ideas that move me, and and templates of beingness which I aspire to, and I will keep responding to them openly.

I heard a definition of responsibility as response-ability -- "the ability to respond". Maybe crying at the movies is just my responsibility.

So, here's my first invitation to a sort of a "poll" -- please leave a comment to this post about what, in cinema, books, etc., consistently brings you to tears, and what you think it touches in you. Especially those moments in a movie/book that you have seen/read more than once, and cried at every time.

I'm interested.

Speaking Kansan

A commenter asked "Will you speak in Kansan more often?"

And so, I will oblige with a brief primer on Kansan, so that readers from other parts of the globe may comprehend.

Note to reader: There is a book called "How to Talk Midwestern", but since it covers only a basic lexicon, rather than grammatical and phonetic rules, I will illuminate you about some of the arcane and underlying laws governing acceptable forms of resident speech within the State of Kansas.

I personally think that generalizing the multitudinous and interesting dialects of the Middle States as a single language (Midwestern) qualifies as a gross over-simplification of a complex and fascinating region, which might lend itself to stereotyping and "making fun" of the inhabitants of these noble regions.

Something that I would never do. And so --

A GENERAL GUIDE TO PRONUNCIATION AND GRAMMAR WHEN SPEAKING "KANSAN"
The main thing to remember when speaking Kansan is to move your lips as little as possible, and to speak as if everything is coming from under your tongue or directly from the nasal cavity. Try this -- grit your teeth, hold your jaw completely still, speak rapidly in the "under the tongue" mode, and move your lips as little as possible as you say:

"Shelley, do you want another beer?"

If you are speaking Kansan correctly, this should emerge as:

"Shuhli, d'yuhwannotherbir?"

Also, remember that Oranges are pronounced "ernches", and Oil is pronounced "erl", as in "erl-well".

Keep firmly in your mind that there is no true "O" sound in Kansan, only various diphthongs -- Cows are "kieows", Hours are more like "owers" (although this doesn't completely grasp the sound)-- these words are pronounced in the top front of the mouth through the nasal cavity, skating through the diphthongs as quickly as possible (but again, without excessive movement of the lips and jaw, which will surely mark you as a faggot in the Sunflower State).

The only place where a long "O" is appropriate is during a campfire sing of "OH, give me a hohm, where the buffaloh rohm . . . "(Home on the Range is the State Song of Kansas --even though it does not include the word "Kansas" at all, and was the subject of a lengthy lawsuit, concluded in 1935, which supposedly confirmed that the song did actually originate from Smith County, Kansas, even though an Arizona couple sued for rights as the original authors).

You are also allowed the use of a long "O" when pronouncing "Pee-Oh-Nee" (stress on the "oh"), because that is a furen flahr ehnuways.

In nearly all other cases, simply ignore the long "O" while conversing.

In most words, vowels should be glossed over briefly, or eliminated altogether if possible.

For example: Wichita is "Whichtaw", Emporia is "mporeuh", and Topeka, the State Capitol, is "T'p'kuh".

Contractions should be employed uniformly, and shortened to the greatest extent possible.

"Wouldn't you" should be truncated to a rapid form of "woodenshoe" -- like so: "wudnchew?" (I was literally thumped on the head by a diction coach every time I pronounced it in Kansan while rehearsing for a college production of Jean Genet's The Maids in Mporeuh -- a break from humor here -- that is a true story).

Did not = Didn't = Dint
Aren't You = "Rntchew"
Haven't = "Hant"
and, of course:
Are/Am Not = "aint" -- (Never say "ain't" -- you mother will faint, your father will fall in a bucket of paint . . . . )

Vowel substitutions are a must. Most "Ah" sounds will become "uh" -- as in "uhmer'can" -- (of or pertaining to the United States), "restrunt" (where you eat), and the "dahllur" with which you will pay the "weytruss".

Your vowel substitutions will be effortless and intuitive if you remember the cardinal rule: Move your jaw and lips as little as pahss'bul. It's windy and dusty in many parts of Kansas, which may have led to this thrift of mouth movement -- perhaps in order to prevent entry into the oral cavity of june-bugs, rag-weed pollen, or other airborne particles, such as cattle (during tornado season).

When pronouncing "dollur", clip the "r" as short as possible. Otherwise, people will think you're from Ill'noise (As an old friend from IL used to say: "Illuh-noy, where we give you all the Rrrrrrrr" -- as in "gimeeuh dollurrrrr" or "git'n'thuh carrrrr".)

The low under the tongue or high nasal cavity placement of the dialect is often a matter of personal preference, but generally falls into gender specifications -- males more often using the under the tongue projection, females more often using the high nasal projection. This allows residents of the area to identify the gender of another person fairly easily, even if they r talkn on the telphun wee-uth suhmun they nuhver me-aht beefur.

As you advance in your understanding of Kansan, you will begin to notice certain anomalies to these patterns. (By the way -- do not use the word "anomaly" in the company of real Kansans -- they may think that you have contracted a life-threatening disease.)

For the intermediate to advanced student, here are a few hints: When an individual is attempting to make a point, diphthongs and vowels may be stretched to unbelievable lengths and detail.

Example: "Nayuu --t hayut is uh geh-noo-ayeen Ayh-mehr-ee-can mayed ah-toh-MOH-beel."

Translation: Now, that is a genuine American-made automobile.

Memnonic Aid: With diphthongs held longly, the speaker feels strongly.

My best recommendation for a listening study of Kansan dialect is the scene in the movie "Trains, Planes, and Automobiles", wherein Owen, the son of an associate, picks up the two errant travelers from a motel in Whitchtaw.

"Yu th-shaur currtuhn fellur?"
Close-captioned for the hard-of-Kansan: (You the shower-curtain fellow?)

"Hur furrst baybee cuhmowt sighdwuhys. She din't screem ur nuthun'."
(Her first baby come out sideways. She didn't scream or nothing.)

And a wonderful sample of emphatic-diphthong-making-a-point mode:

"Gee-it yore lay-zee buh-uht owt thuh truhck". (Get your lazy butt out of the truck.)

-------------------------------

Enough. Enough. I think you get the point.

In truth, I feel glad that I was born and raised in Kansas -- "wheat basket to the world" -- geographical center of the continental United States.

I adore the physical land (if not the theological/philosophical territory) of the State where I entered this incarnation -- it has weighty limestone buildings and big skies rolling with gigantic thunderheads, cows and creeks and cottonwood trees and copperhead snakes, and sorghum and wheat and silos, and real sweet corn, and fences of wood or barbed wire or stone running over endless expanses. In Winter, everything is a million shades of gray and yellow and brown, and the Flint Hills roll into the distance with god-knows-how-many other strangenesses hidden among them.

I have sketched, or painted, or dreamed, this one building alone a thousand times:

I have thoroughly enjoyed the strange distinction of originating from the great state of Kansas. It seems to carry some sort of automatic "bonafidia" -- whether I meet a person from Seattle, New York, London, or Warsaw -- when I say that I grew up in Kansas, the first question is uniformly dependable and ridiculous -- "Do you know Dorothy?" (An irony, as this was also a "code question" for "Are you queer?" in the days when I was first coming out.)

When I think I can get away with it, I reply: "Yes! Did you know that there is a life-size statue of Dorothy and Toto in the exact geographical center of Kansas?" (There isn't, but I think this is a great idea for promoting Kansas Tourism.)

Dorothy, as it turns out, is an excellent icebreaker for conversation about the weird work I do. I would go so far as to say that she is the metaphysical spokeswoman for the State of Kansas.

She (and her house) was lifted out of one world by a spiraling wind (much like the ones that may create crop circles), carried safely to another world of preternaturally colored and shaped people and things, met and defeated a witch, ventured forth down an unnaturally-hued trail with a talking scarecrow, lion, and metal/mechanical man, exposed a fraud of a wizard after having her nails done, and returned home safely, only to discover that the whole adventure was an OOBE (Out of Body Experience).

So, most non-Kansan people who hear that I was born and raised in Kansas seem willing to accept, without question, that I must be:

1. Hardy And Capable (Of weathering twisters, evil witches, fraudulent wizards, flying monkeys, drought, and Bob Dole. Which I am).
2. Woo-Woo/Other-Worldly in a down-home, Auntie-Emmish way. (Which I am.)
   
3. Salt-of-the-Earth-Ish (Which I also am. I can fart without apology, and work without complaint.)
4. A General Survivor (This perception is much enhanced if they know that I have known I was a lesbian since I first learned the definition of the word at age 12 from a County Health office brochure, and have been a "practicing lesbian" -- practice makes perfect! -- since age 19, and that I didn't leave Kansas until age 22.)

I can't say that I haven't capitalized on these assumptions from time to time. Not in any way that is harmful to others, but, say, in the certainty that flashing my birth-certificate wallet-card, notarized by the Attny Gen of KS, might be helpful when crossing the border into Canada or Mexico. Or, perhaps more importantly, when returning home to the US of A -- because I can say, in all honesty:

Eye Ehm Ay Geh-Nu-Ey-Een Ayh-Mehr-Ee-Can!

The Impermanence of All Things

Dearly beloved, we are gathered together tonight to honor the passing of
Frank and Fritz. (10/31/2005 - 11/18/2005).

They are headed off to that big compost heap in the sky (okay, that big compost heap in the back yard -- neither of them were particularly religious).

They may have passed on to adventures in some Tim Burton production on the other side . . .

But we shall always remember them as they were:

Ever vigilant by the front doorstep, always prepared to terrify and delight.

Yes, in his later days, the black mold-bloom in Frank's innards took a toll on those who lifted his lid to light a candle, but he put a brave face on it, preferring to just allow it to creep out between his pumpkin-seed teeth, thinking of it simply as an enhancement to his Halloween sneer. What a trooper.

It must have been hard for Fritz to watch his brother go like that, but he never let on.

True -- their lives were short, but can we measure the value of a being by hours and days? And . . . . I'm sure, like Arnold, they would simply say: "We'll be back".

This is one of the things I love about Andy Goldsworthy's work -- his willingness to deal with -- nay! -- to relish! -- impermanence. (If you haven't yet seen Rivers and Tides, I strongly recommend that you do so.)

In the past few days, I've been having some synchronistic experiences with the subject of impermanence.

You might have read my recent blog entry where I "posted pictures" of our trip to San Juan Island -- pictures that I did not take with my camera, but with my mind -- subject to change over time, I'm sure, as my internal assimilation of that trip continues.

Last night, we watched "Little Buddha", with it's homey, westernized version of tibetan buddhism. (Now, this is totally off-topic, but who does Keano Reeves sleep with to get these roles?!? In my opinion, his portrayal of samadhi was soooo goofy! I have seen cowboys exiting a whorehouse who display more beatific smiles!)

To get back to the post-title -- the subject of impermanence was touched on in this film -- (IMHO played nicely in the death scene of the llama who has finally found his previous teacher).

And today, it became clear to me that Frank and Fritz were due for recycling. (Actually, Frank more than Fritz, but I just couldn't bear to separate them.)

There is a saying: "What you resist, persists."

Which might explain why things I take pleasure in seem to skim away so easily, while experiences I attempt to avoid seem to hang around and recur and return with amazing regularity and persistence.

Today, I woke up with that weird "Luke-I-Sense-a-Disturbance-in-the-Force" Feeling. I still don't know whether it was the heavy November sky, some random and unremembered dream, or fore-knowledge of the some of the people who would ring my door-bell or phone today (one quite unexpectedly, that was a definite surprise, but not a delight). The feeling has waxed and waned throughout the day, but it still seems to be perched over my right shoulder somehow.

I am working with non-resistance to this sensation. It doesn't feel particularly "bad", but I also don't find it particularly enjoyable. It is an "Is". I figure that embracing it will help it move along, as embracing my pleasurable experiences seems to result in them moving along.

The question for me tonight is: How to best wrap my arms around this vague sensation?

Using my intellect hasn't helped. I've turned the searchlight of my mind here and there most of the day -- "Is it this?" -- " Is it that?" -- to no avail. I've sat with my body (took a hot bath this afternoon) to see if it could reveal anything to me about the nature or source of this sensation -- also to no avail.

But I cop to the fact that most of these searchings have, as the underlying motive, the thought that if I can "get it", it will "go away" -- which is just another form of resistance.

I want to learn to sit in grace with all forms of experience. Real grace. Real acceptance. The kind that is assimilated and innate and natural to me -- not some forced mental discipline ("Now, don't think like that -- you know where that goes!")

I actually do notice that I have successfully integrated a lot of practices and understanding that used to feel like "work" to me -- so I know that it is possible to restrain the mind and and reshape the manner of how I experience consciously.

But today, as I have been feeling/experiencing this "disturbance" sensation, I have found myself "talking myself down" into relaxation and embracing of it -- the result of which has been the kind of "relaxation" I experience in the dentist chair in response to the dentist's "Now just relax!" -- which my body always interprets as "Okay, here comes the torture!" That's just sooo relaxing.

And nothing "bad" has happened today.

In terms of circumstances and events go, the day's been just fine. The only undesirable thing, to me, really, has been this weird sense of suspension -- anticipation of ---- what? Something.

Definitely something.

The day's not over yet. Perhaps I'll post after circle and let you know what, if anything, reveals itself.

In the meantime, I shall chant the mantra: "This too, shall pass."

I imagine Frank and Fritz are chanting that, too.

On George -- The Consolation Bunny

I've been thinking tonight about George. George is the rabbit pictured at left -- okay, to be fair, here's another picture of George (less cranky, more fuzzy):










I realized, tonight, that I continue to think of George as a "consolation bunny" -- he was given to me by my ex-, just weeks before she left me. I believe that she knew that she was going to leave me when she gave George to me, and somehow thought that this tiny being might be able to assuage my lonliness. At the time, George was about five inches long, and I suspect, wholly inadequate as a receptacle for grief.

George was born on April 1, 2002 (I started my first business on April Fool's day, which turned out to be a great idea, btw), and I have a deep affinity for this Day of Fools.

George is, by the consensus of those who care for him, a "high maintenance" bunny. He has an extreme malocclusion (which means that his front teeth don't meet correctly). Since rabbits' teeth continue to grow throughout their life, and if they do not meet, they are not ground down to the typical Bugs Bunny grin, George's lower "tusks" grow up to an alarming rate. Which means that, every few weeks or so, we gird our loins for a bunny-tooth clipping, armed with a head-lamp and a wire snips (no shit --- a wire cutter). I would show a video of this process (trying in the extreme for all involved), but I don't know if you actually have the stomach for it.

George is also very, very weird. For example: George eats alfalfa pellets, hay, and raisins. That's it.

Just those three things.

Dangle a carrot in front of George, and he is indifferent -- even scornful. Greens of all kinds, other fruits, nuts, crackers, etc. -- all the favorite bunny treats have been offered -- but are simply ignored as non-food items.

Ah, but offer him his morning or evening raisins (His Raisin-D'etre, as we call it), and he will thrump and run with the best of the long-ears. This have given rise to the inevitable "pet" nicknames: Georgie Raisen-Craver, Bun-On-The-Run, etc..

George prefers cats to human beings. When our elder cat, Pleiades, was alive, she would wash him from head to foot until he looked like Sting, fur sticking out in all directions. He occasionally follows Little (our other cat) around, but she generally just gives him the brush-off.

George has "spells". He sits quietly, moving his head from left to right as if he is reading some arcane text that we cannot see. The vet has checked him -- no ear infection -- no hidden virus -- just some metaphysical event beyond our understanding.

Ocassionally these episodes go into a more dramatic mode. He actually has a little bunny epileptic fit -- thrashing, trembling and all. Afterwards, he is back to normal and demanding his dried grape.

I entertain the possibility that George is some sort of Lapine Prophet -- that during his fits he is communing with and transmitting something ineffable and mysterious.

I had another rabbit, many years ago -- Winston. I purchased Winston at a pet store (at the same time, I bought my girlfriend a very expensive Yorkshire Terrier puppy, a dog she had been hankering for ever since we met an incredibly intelligent Yorky in LA while we were on tour). This was mere weeks before the relationship broke up, and I subsequently lost my mind. (Some would argue that I had already lost my mind by virtue of being in relationship with this person in the first place.)

But hey -- didn't they understand? --If someone is treating you to emotional, verbal, and physical abuse, buying that person a puppy will take care of everything! Sheesh. Come on, people! Get on the clue bus!

Thus I came to live with Winston, my first rabbit. He was a fantastic teacher for me. Rabbits are often connected with fear -- as mammals go, they are a very low man on the food-chain totem pole, relished by cats, coyotes, dogs, hawks, and humans alike -- they live in a state of constant alert, watching for the shadow of wings above and listening for the growl that precedes a pounce. And that was a fearful time for me, as I dealt with emerging memories of childhood abuse and a general breakdown of everything I had known as myself.

Winston, as I understand it, was very normal for a bunny. He insisted on his treats, rattled his cage vigorously and loudly if I didn't let him out when I came home, thumped the floor when he was annoyed, and generally scared the shit out of Little (which may explain why she tries to avoid George).

So when George came along, I was somewhat perplexed. The nature of my relationship with him was so different. I loved watching him run around -- he loves to race up and down the hallway, ears flopping, leaving bunny-poop treasures at each rest stop. (You have to love an animal that can take a crap which has no odor and looks exactly like what you fed it some hours earlier -- dried alfalfa pellet in/dried alfalfa pellet out).

But there was no real "there" there between us. Winston nuzzled and purred and nudged me -- he nipped me when he thought I was out of line, and communicated in his half-wild way. George is either too involved in his airborne talmudic studies, or just genuinely doesn't care enough to involve himself with me overly much (unless I have a raisin).

I think this may have something to do with his status as a consolation prize.

Ever heard of a "mercy fuck"? Basically, it's when someone sleeps with you because they feel sorry for you. I think that, in some basic level of intention, George managed to be a furry form of a mercy fuck. I can't imagine that he likes that much. I wouldn't like it, if it were me.

I've been pondering how I might change that situation, if only in the way I think about it. After all, George may have a completely different idea about why he is here, what his purpose is, and why he chose me as a caretaker/toothclipper/raisin-wrangler.

Really. Think about it. During his pre-incarnation consideration period, George might just have been shopping for a relatively easy life. Let's say he's perusing the incarnation-placement classifieds, and says: "Hmmmm. Okay, here's this woman in Port Townsend, Washington. Moderate climate, organic foods in the household (did someone say 'raisen'?), loyal to her "pets", infrequent with vet visits, not too fussy about stuff on the floor, just breaking up with her female partner (probably a softie for small, furry things -- you know how lesbians are). Okay guys, I've found my new home! Line me up with an adorable body and I'm soooooo there!"

I started opining about this just days after I started my blog. I was thinking about George, who, to me, seems inscrutable. I haven't got the slightest notion about what, or how, or if, he thinks. I realize that my opinions and suppositions about him are entirely subjective on my part. I also realize how much of my behavior toward him is based upon those suppositions.

Maybe that's what George is doing here, for me -- showing me my own projections. I treat George a certain way because I think I know what's going on for him, or not going on for him. The truth is, I have no real idea about what goes on with him.

Rabbits are barely domesticated. If a full-blown, bred rabbit is released into the wild -- say, a big spotted dutch rabbit -- it's offpsring will revert back to the regular old dun coloring of a wild rabbit within two generations -- yes, that's right -- two generations. The grandchildren of that show rabbit will look pretty much like every other Peter Cottontail on the block.

So, is my inability to fathom George because he's basically a wild animal, because he's just a weird individual, even among rabbits, or because he's a highly enlightened llama taking a vacation as someone's pet (which might explain the invisible reading thing)?

In the end, I have found that it doesn't really matter whether I understand George or not. In my own way of being with domestic animals that I share my life with (what other people call "pets'), I have an ethic that, if I accept them, I have a responsibility to them. I don't get rid of them because they're inconvenient or difficult -- that just wouldn't feel "right" for me. I even go so far as to actually consult with them about whether they are going to the vet or not -- this is not cheapness or laziness -- I just think that they get very few choices, and I want to honor their sovereignty as much as possible (I do draw the line at pissing on my bed, stealing food off my dinner plate, and such). I also believe that nearly all my "pets" have been exponentially wiser than I.

So if I am able to have an enjoyable and ongoing relationship with George, despite the fact that I don't really "get him", what does this imply about my relationships with humans? I'm chewing on this one.

I have accepted George as he is. He is, in my opinion, high-maintenance, fairly self-focused, and possibly a bit slow. That doesn't seem to matter to me in terms of my dedication and loyalty to his welfare. He doesn't give me a lot of strokes and attention. That also doesn't seem to dent my sense of connection with him. I am satisfied with the "rate of return" on our relationship just to see him flouncing down the hall, ears flopping, or, even better, to see him sit up on his haunches and wash his face with both paws. It is absolutely, positively the most crushingly cute thing I have ever seen.

And some day, maybe I will be able to see that book he's reading. Perhaps I will become lost in its depth and choose to become a rabbit myself, in my next incarnation.

Home Again .... Jiggity Jig

"Pictures" from our trip.

An owl, perched in broad daylight atop a lone fir in the middle of a meadow. (Whidbey Island, Wed., 11/9/05)

Kumatriel, at a table overlooking the Sound in the Dog Town Cafe. The table slants radically with the tilt of the old wooden floor. (Whidbey, 11/9/05)

Carol, reading aloud to Kumatriel from C.S. Lewis' "Voyage of the Dawn Treader" in the car during the ferry crossing to San Juan. The islands in the background are tipped with clouds. The water is flat calm. (Anacortes Ferry to Friday Harbor, 11/10/05)

Greg, Christian, Lea, and Kumatriel sit in the glow of the candles at the kitchen table at Olympic Lights. That stuff they are eating is pizza. (Friday Harbor, 11/10/05)

Here is the night view from the back porch at Olympic Lights. That glow just ahead is Port Angeles, across the water. Further to the right, you see the big glow of the lights from Victoria, Canada. I'll snap a daylight view of this, too. (Friday Harbor, 11/10/05)

The three opened blossoms on Lea's hibiscus tree reach desperately for the sunlight at the kitchen window. (Olympic Lights, early morning, 11/11/05).

Poppy (Christian and Lea's next-to-youngest cat), hunting in the garden. Notice that he seems to think he's invisible, even with all that bushy black fur standing out against what's left of the wind-torn dahlias. (Olympic Lights, 11/11/05)

The day view from the deck at Olympic Lights. The mountains are shrouded across the Sound, and you can see the scattering of rain clouds that will blow in later today. Weather was like this all weekend. (Olympic Lights 11/11/05)

I like taking "pictures" like this. I have a perfectly serviceable camera, but I find that often, if I spend my time hiding behind the shutter, I miss the trip in some essential way. I think that this has to do with trying to capture "now" for "later", rather than experiencing the now.

The trip was good. We had more time than usual to play with our friends, as well as do some "work" (nine sessions and 27 people in circle on Friday night). A lovely meal at the Back Door Cafe, and Kumatriel got lots of sweet presents for her 49th birthday, which was Saturday. She and I will now be the same age for the next seven months. My time as the "elder" is over, lasting only from June 21 to November 12th. I guess I'll have to stop bossing her around now ;-).

We had many "owl synchronicities" on this trip, starting with the owl by daylight in the field, pulling up to the restaurant where we ate in Whidbey only to look up and see a window full of owl hand-puppets. Later, Kumatriel randomly opened a magazine, to find a owl staring her in the face (more than once), and the start of the next C.S. Lewis book in the Narnia Chronicles featured a "parliament of owls". Hmmm.

Like any good "woo-woo" gals, we turned to Ted Andrews' "Animal Speak", to determine what all these hooters might be trying to communicate to us. Andrews lists Owl's Keynote as: The Mystery of Magic, Omens, Silent Wisdom, and Vision in the Night.

It's interesting, because recently, I had commented about my night vision seeming less acute than it used to be. (Of course, spending the majority of many of my days staring at a blazingly clear computer screen and then expecting my eyes to handle the plunge into the unlit kitchen for midnight snack might be a bit much to ask of my visual cortex.)

Then of course, Carruch spent a lot of time this week in classes and circles talking about the year 2006 -- the year that he has said our species will experience a big initiation and opening of the third eye. So, I'm wondering if my seemingly decreased night vision (and the owls) are asking me to look with a different eye in the darkness. I'm going to be trying that out -- I'll let you know if I fall down the stairs at 1 am, or navigate my way to a bowl of cereal successfully.

One more picture from the trip -- my favorite:

See here, we are coming up the rise after getting off the ferry on the way home -- this is taken from the top of the hill where we get our first glimpse of Port Townsend. The sun is shining fiercely through a break in the otherwise continuous and dramatic clouds, falling in distinct shafts and streaks, and lighting up the water of the Sound around Port Townsend as if God is over there.

We look out of the car and say: "Ahhh, Home."

Off We Go!

Well, Kumatriel and I are off for a four-day jaunt to play and teach.

The travel requirements for a trip to Friday Harbor are truly strange. Even though we can actually see Port Townsend from our final destination on San Juan Island (the lovely Olympic Lights B&B owned by our dear ones, Christian and Lea Andrade -- which we highly recommend, BTW) -- it takes all day to get from here to there via an often-rocky ferry ride over the Strait of San Juan De Fuca, a drive up Whidbey Island across Deception Pass, another one and a-half hour ferry ride up the Puget Sound, and a short drive to the Andrade manse.

Then, of course, there is the challenge of packing. I rarely travel light, even when I'm not going to teach (if we're teaching, add a 40 lb bag of crystals, candles, and invocations). For some reason, I remain convinced that if I am traveling, I will need art supplies, guitar, computer, three books to read, my Hebrew notebook and primer, and a partridge in a pear tree -- just in case.

Consistently, during my visits to place outside PT -- I don't even open the bag that these accoutrements are in. But hey -- I've got them in case I undergo a complete personality shift overnight. It could happen.

Saturday is my beloved's birthday. Three years ago, we travelled to Friday Harbor to teach on her birthday as well. The ocean offered up nativity-anniversary greetings to her as we crossed the strait -- it was a sunny, cold, and windy day, and the little ferry rocked through the big waves, which threw up sprays of rainbow every few moments.

Even on a calm day, that particular crossing is a bit rough. In a wind, people stagger down the outside decks like drunks. But it is rare that I don't venture out when crossing to Whidbey, even in a storm. The Olympic mountains tower all around, and as Port Townsend fades into the distance, I feel a renewed sense of softness toward my home-town. It looks delicate and tiny from here, and I always greet the site of it, on my return trip, with a sense of dewey-eyed relief.

May I just say here that I adore Port Townsend?

I had something like this feeling when I moved to Portland. I loved Portland's quirky interfaces, it's body bi-sected by rivers and bridges, and the mix of city/town that it had.

But I never felt that I was truly home until I moved to PT. Within a month of moving here, I had the certain sense that I would never leave this place. Indeed, if I did not have a vocation that sometimes called me out to teach, and a vet that is 40 miles away, I wonder if I would leave town at all.

But this week, I am wandering away. I may find time to blog from the road -- I'm hoping I might be able to. If not, I'll be back to report on the travels upon my return.

If you Port Townsenders think of it while I'm gone, give our little town a good-night kiss for me every night between now and Sunday.

Feeding the Beast

Last week, while I was pretending to be sick, I did a good bit of "serendipity surfing" on the internet. This is very different than using the internet for research and examination. It involves some elements that can lead to surf haze, but in this case, I was just wandering aimlessly, so I experienced no real disappointment or shock when I arrived at some weird destination (shock at, or a sudden realization of, arrival at an unexpected web location is a primary warning symptom of surf haze).

Here's a thing I noticed, in many of the threads I was following: There seem to me to be a lot of people out there actively nurturing their anger.

I don't think that this is always a bad thing. For example, I know some people that tend to live their lives in a fairly inert state, and anger sometimes seems to be the only thing that gets them motivated to take action. If anger does lead them to action, this might actually be a net-gain for them.

Many times, though, I think there can be a state where feeding anger actually becomes a recreational activity -- and that this state can become habitual, even enjoyable, to the participant. In this case, taking any action to move the anger would actually become an undesirable thing, for if the anger stops, the "game" is over.

I say this because I became aware of my own attachment to "righteous wrath" in the past. In earlier periods of my life, I would patiently harbor my "little angers" in secret, waiting until someone fucked up so unambiguously that I could jump out, my hair standing on end like John Brown in the Kansas State Capitol Rotunda, and scream "Philistene! Reprobate! Sinner!"

In that moment, the experience of anger felt satisfying and potent.

Problem was, this practice rarely changed anything. The person "at" whom I was angry kept doing things that "made" me angry.

And, after a time, my hairdo started to suffer, after so much standing on end.

And -- I wasted a lot of my life energy "scouting around" for stuff to get angry about.

And -- people around me tended to see me as slightly dangerous (which I think was a justified conclusion, by the way).

A BRIEF PRIMER ON WHAT I NOW BELIEVE/THINK ABOUT ANGER:

1. I don't believe that "anger" is an emotion.
2. I believe that "mad" is an emotion.
3. I believe that mad comes first, in the moment, and is closely related to the physical experience of "irritation/inflammation" -- it indicates that something is breaching the natural boundary of my Self in a way that is out of alignment with Cosmic Law. (I'm not going to go into my understanding of full-fledged Cosmic Law right now. Suffice it to say that it involves us all being connected, sovereignty/free-will being a reality, authenticity required, and equal exchange being necessary to all sustainable systems -- oh damn, I just went into my understanding of Cosmic Law.)
   
4. I believe that "mad" can be my response when someone else violates Cosmic Law, or when I violate Cosmic Law, and that I was trained to project this emotion outward onto someone else, even if I'm really mad at myself.
5. I believe that if I don't deal with "mad" in the moment, it becomes a secondary phenomenon called "anger" -- an energy-generating device that says "Do something! Do something! Do something!", and that this (anger) doesn't go away until I address the root cause of the "mad".
6. I believe that if I don't deal with "mad", "anger" will result. If I don't deal with "anger", "frustration" will result. If I don't deal with "frustration", "rage" will result.

The best example I can give is this (from Carruch, as usual): "Mad is 'You're whistling right now and it's bugging me'. Anger is 'You whistled yesterday, and you whistled the day before, AND NOW YOU'RE WHISTLING AGAIN!!!'"

I don't think that anger is necessarily bad, or wrong, or anything like that. I'm just wondering if it's useful. I'm especially wondering if it's useful to nurture it.

I've been trying to remember if any of the "political" people that I know, or read of (or the extremely political person I used to be), have ever really demonstrated some form of pure "glad" in their various speaking/writing for any length of time.

Oh, sure, among liberals, there was that five minutes when Clinton won his first term. And when G.W. Bush "took back" the White House, there was a bit of celebratory feeling among conservatives. But how long was it actively sustained?

I think people can actually become addicted to remaining angry.

Think about it. It's high energy. Anything that can make your hair do that (just take another look at Mr. Brown up there) must be chock full 'o ergs.

However, I have my doubts about anger as a long-term recreational drug.

Yes, it is energetic, but that energy has to come from somewhere. And in my experience, it generally comes from the person who is invested in remaining angry. Anger is a hungry beast. It requires a lot of time and attention to keep it smoldering at just the right level to provide the desired level of heat without singing the person that is pumping the bellows.

In my line of work, and in the way I live my life, I have the opportunity to hear a lot of people's stories. In the past few years, I had the opportunity to interact with two people who were betrayed by their spouses.

Both were in long-term relationships. Both of their spouses betrayed them in blatant, overt, and similar manners. There were parallels in their stories that were spookily synchronistic as I listened to each of them, right down to the specific questions that they each asked which finally elucidated the real nature and extent of the betrayal.

It was fascinating for me to watch these two stories unfold -- as if the Universe had placed me in a laboratory with two experiments to observe -- both with the same root cause: dishonesty in relationship.

And each with very different outcomes.

My perspective is: One person chose to act on their anger. The other chose to nurture it.

Some years later, I see the effects of these choices. I hear the person who chose action (in my opinion, the request that anger is making) now speaks of their life with renewed direction, hope, and vigor, and rarely speaks of their ex-spouse. I hear the person who chose nurturance speak of being uncertain of which way to go, and mentioning their ex-spouse in nearly every interaction I have with them.

My "scientific" conclusions are, after observing these situations:

1. If I choose to take responsibility for my anger (an abrogation and dereliction of attending to my initial "mad"), and take the action that anger requests, I will likely move through and beyond it.
   
2. If I choose to remain angry and nurture anger, I will likely become inextricably connected to the "object" of my anger.

There is an old saw in our culture: "Don't get mad, get even."

I don't care for the implications of this saying, because I do not believe that "revenge" settles anything -- I believe that it simply sets me on another cycle of karma with the person I supposedly "avenging" myself on.

However, if I look at the actual words "Get Even", I think there might be something in this statement that I want to examine. Something about anger, action and energy exchange.

I believe that dishonesty/manipulation/deceit, etc., sets up an energetic imbalance between individuals. I do not believe that relationships can thrive and remain sustainable if energetic imbalances are not brought into balance (and the sooner, the better).

In observing the person who chose action in response to their anger, I noticed that they moved fairly quickly to directly addressing the energetic imbalance that had existed throughout their relationship with their ex-spouse. I heard from them full admission of their choice to participate in a relationship that had not been satisfying for them for many years.

Yes, this person experienced moments of great anger, which they vented to me quite clearly. However, in a very short time, they seemed to come to the conclusion that remaining angry without taking any real action was exhausting. Their energy, as they moved through their process, seemed extremely variable. They seemed to move in and out of various emotional states quickly -- now feeling glad that it was over, now feeling mad about the betrayal, now feeling sad at the loss, now feeling scared about what might be next, now feeling bad about their own participation and self-betrayal. These states of feeling were often entertained simultaneously, or in quick succession.

In observing the person who chose nurturance of their anger, I noticed that, while they would occasionally acknowledge that they had been unsatisfied with the relationship for many years, they seemed to talk much more frequently about the betrayal. In listening to this person, the ongoing dynamic of the relationship seemed to me to be compressed and oversimplified into this "event", and other persons involved in the event.

This person also experienced moments of great anger, which they vented to me quite clearly. I noticed, however, that there were very few other emotional experiences expressed. I heard much more rarely about any sadness at the loss of the ex-spouse, or feeling glad that it was over, or feeling bad about any self-betrayal. In fact, simultaneous (or conflicting) states of emotion were rarely expressed.

Which cycles me back to the words "get even". I think that there is great healing potential in the idea of re-balancing long-term energy imbalance. I think this is the essential core of the concept of "revenge" -- to somehow reclaim some form of energy imbalance that was created in the process of relating.

But (and as PeeWee always says -- a very big BUT) I believe that I might be skating on very thin ice if I attempt to "become even" in a long-term relationship (that hasn't been cleaned up and attended to along the way) based on a single event within that relationship.

Yes, you may have betrayed me. You may have committed the unspeakable and socially unacceptable act, upon which I can pounce and pronounce myself the John-Brown-holy-man, and you, the sinful reprobate -- and then I can be socially sanctioned to remain angry at you forever!

But . . . .

But . . . .

It doesn't feel any better, really, to be "right", in the end. It doesn't remove the longing ache of my sad at the loss of you in my life, the crushing pressure of my bad at my own self-betrayals, the terrifying loneliness of my scared, or my glad relief that finally, something has happened, if only an ending. "Being right" and "staying angry" only covers these emotions with a thing that (temporarily) feels more energetic and enlivening -- my mad turned to anger --

The Beast I Feed.

The beast I fed.

I'm pretty dedicated to my pets. Even those who have been given to me, unbidden, I take seriously. I feed and care for them. I consider that I invited them at some level of my being, so I will not abandon them.

But you, Oh Beast of Anger?

I'm taking you to the pound.

Pajama World

Last Tuesday, I woke up with the little nigglings of a cold. I made a deal with my body that I would "pretend to be sick" for the next two days, giving it the same care and attention that I would have if the cold went full-bore -- and it worked. I spent Wednesday and Thursday lazing around, drinking lots of fluids, taking vitamin C, laying down when I got tired, and not doing much of anything (including letting the monthly newsletter for the Society wait -- heresy!).

By Thursday night, I found that all signs of a "viral ally" seemed vanquished.

One of the nods I made to the hovering rhinovirus was to remain in my "pajamas" for two solid days (except when showering/bathing, which I did lots of).

I kind of miss real pajamas.

When I was a kid, if someone was outside in their pajamas, you would know this. Night-clothes were distinct from day-clothes. They included odd patterns, fabrics forbidden in the day (light flannels and flimsy cotton), drawstrings, and loose, baggy outlines that clearly marked them as apparel suitable only for dreaming.

No more.

I actually went to the corner store in my pajamas Thursday evening (Gray fleece pullover, burgandy fleece pants).

No one -- I repeat -- No one -- noticed.

"Hey Carol," said an eighteen-year-old buddy in the check-out line, "How's it going? What are you getting?"

"Sushi. Beer. I've been pretending to be sick today. I'm still in my pajamas."

"Really?" She eyed me up and down.

I eyed her up and down. The outfit she was wearing could also have qualified as pajamas, in a more rigid age of dress codes.

When I was a kid, I had "night gowns" and "nighties". Gowns for Winter, nighties for summer. The gowns were horrid, long affairs, invariably with lace around the color (oh, the agony for a young butchlette!). In a night of average kid tossing and turning, the gown would insidiously wrap itself into a tourniquet around my legs. Many a dark eve I woke, convinced that I was being slowly swallowed by an anaconda.

The nighties were not much better. Though shorter for the hot weather, they were absolutely covered with lace, if not wholly made of it. Accckkk! Pooeey!

And of course, you wore your pajamas all night long. Because this was Kansas, after all, and we din't have no neked childruns runnin' around in the wee owers (that's how you say "hours" in Kansan).

Truth be known, my current pajamas may not really qualify as pajamas. They are actually "early to mid-morning" and "mid- to late evening" clothing. The night, and the sheets, belong to my skin.

I can remember a time when sleeping in the buff was something of a scandal. I think my Dad did it, because I caught him naked in the kitchen a couple of times past midnight when I was a kid. I can't imagine that he got up and undressed to take a pee and get a midnight snack.

Then again, it was Kansas. You never know -- maybe he did sleep in his pajamas and undress for the snack-ritual -- in accordance with the prophesy.

(That's just a bit of humor I threw in there. I once read this email that said that if you really wanted to freak the people in your office out, simply end every sentence you speak with the words "in accordance with the prophesy".)

I do actually own a nightgown currently. One that I love. It is dark blue, heavy flannel, covered with stars and moons and planets in yellow. It's like a wizard's robe. No lace. A sort of nehru collar (do you remember nehru collars?).

But I still take it off before I go to bed.

I was talking with someone about this recently (someone my age, also raised in the midwest) who confessed that it never even occurred to her to sleep naked until she was in her mid 20s. She did note that she had lived a long time in Wisconsin, and that sleeping naked in a wood-heated cabin in Wisconsin qualified as suicide by hypothermia.

I don't actually remember when I started sleeping in the nude.

By the way -- I love that phrase: "In the nude" almost as much as I love "temporal anomaly". Butt Neked -- Buck Naked -- In the Buff --- Birthday Suit --- These euphemisms cannot, in my opinion, hold a candle to this artistic, yet racey, turn of phrase: "IN THE NUDE"

I know a guy who used to wear (don't know if he is still practicing) pajama bottoms in public. Most, if not all, of the time, and especially to his public gigs as a musician.

And these were very obviously pajama bottoms -- light flannel complete with thin, faded stripes, and a drawstring which was usually prominently displayed and dangling in an evocative manner. I think he probably did it to be weird, which is actually getting harder and harder to accomplish (being truly weird, that is).

Think about it: In an age when being a out-lesbian trance-channel in a podunk town is really no big deal, when there is an actual debate going on in our government about whether torture is a good idea or not, when bigdey laylah (clothes of the night in Hebrew) are virtually indistinguishable from bigdey yom (clothes of the day), how hard does the non-average Joe have to work to stand out as truly strange?

I think I'm going to save further musings on that topic for another post: The Increasing Challenges of Cultivating Eccentricity.

Meanwhile, it's past midnight. Tomorrow is one of my many anniversaries with my beloved -- two years since we chose to "wed" one another. We made this choice on top of a volcano. At the moment of the Harmonic Concordance.

I'm going to go to bed now. In the Nude. In Accordance with the Prophesy.

Quickie

Okay, I've been WAY remiss in posting -- and I am still in the clutches of "first of the month" activity (newsletter, etc.) -- so I thought I'd post a quickie.

This is the writing I posted to my Monday Email Writing Group (a group of us who each write to a theme once a week -- the theme comes out Sunday night or Monday morning, and each of us submit a piece of writing that we do that day by 3:33 pm). One of our "rules" is that you cannot read the other people's writing until you have sent your own, which really puts the pressure on, as those unopened emails sit in your inbox, awaiting your adherance to your literary "duty".

Here is the poem I posted today:

Storm and Fury

I remember when I was full of it.

The passionate political

ravings, the opinionated diatribes,

the iron-clad certainty

that I was right.

Now, I read these pundits

and politicos.

Their outrage as their "enemies"

trespass.

Their triumph as their "enemies"

tumble.

I can sometimes get myself to

feel something like a stirring,

a tiny whirlwind that will never

become tornadic --

a hollow shadow

of its former self.

Even as it tickles

and swirls inside me,

I know it is a sham.

I don't think this is the product

of simple years.

True, how many times can one watch

the same show

without arriving at the day

when waiting for the now-predictable end

seems simply an exercise in ennui?

I'm not sure if it is wisdom.

I know it is not lack of energy.

It may be some resilient, burgeoning

mutation of optimism --

Some result of perspective.

Not the product of time passing

and placing this now into its place,

but the long view

granted by awareness

of lifetimes --

eons --

incarnations uncountable.

I think it is this that prompts me now,

like an earnest seven-year-old,

to the take the hand of some distraught

person worried about the oil, the president,

the impending ballot measure, the corrupt governance,

-- to take their hand and sincerely lisp:

"Don't worry. It will be alright. You'll see."