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.

Plots

This post was actually started 11/20/05 -- It was "voted back in" thanks to knowbuddy (love that screen-name, BTW) when I asked for feedback. Please realize that all that existed of the post as of 11/20/05 were the 7 lines below (and this subject matter is, perhaps, not at all what knowbuddy expected).

Original Post -- 7 lines:
==============================
Man vs. Man
Man vs. Nature
Man vs. Environment
Man vs. Machine
Man vs. Supernatural
Man vs. Self
Man vs. God
==============================
Continuing post -- June 13, 2006 (which does include the stuff I was thinking of when I started the post):
=============================
When I was in college, I had very few teachers and classes that truly stimulated me. I was matriculating, goddammit -- I didn't have time for education!

But there was this one class -- the teacher was focusing on the seven essential plots that some say exist in all literature. They are listed above.

Even at 21, this seemed incredibly simplistic to me -- but was something of a relief at the same time. Seven plots! Just think of it! I could boil all extant literature down into seven simple formulas! Hey, why study any further? Why read another book? After all, it was certain to be a re-hash of the same-old-same-old.

I must say, this instructor was a gem -- she actually made her case very well, and managed to convince me that I actually should go on reading books. She studied only two of the seven themes, using Electra/Orestes from Aeschylus to O'Neill's "Mourning Becomes . . . ", and Faust, from Marlowe and Goethe to Bulgakov -- Electra representing, I guess, the oldest of themes -- (wo)Man Vs. Man, and Faust the most contemporary -- Man vs. God (or was it "Man vs. Himself"? -- I get those two mixed up ;-).

Now, when I say that this teacher used Electra from Greek tragedy to modern theater, I don't mean that she just pointed out examples. For some insane reason, she actually expected us to read all of these books/plays/poems. Since it was a semester class, this meant that I was assimilating "The Master and Margarita" -- a book that took Bulgakov 12 years to write, and which was finally completed by his wife after he died (no doubt killed by the book itself) . . . . in a week.

This instructor was relentless. She was also effective.

She was teaching college kids in Kansas. She was brilliant. She was dealing with young people who were "filling out" their English requirements (yes, that included me) -- but she gave no quarter.

She was gentle with most of my fellow students. When they could accurately identify Orestes as Electra's brother, she would pat them on the head affectionately and throw them a cookie.
Being the daughter of two teachers, I had an in-born revulsion for Cliffsnotes, and had actually plowed through the reading list (mostly because I was certain that my librarian-mother would psychically know if I was "skimming") -- and as I wrote my papers I tried, earnestly, to think about what the instructor was getting at with this whole "plots" thing -- I could see her eyeing me in the first few days of class -- as if she was shocked by the fact that I was thinking at all.

I should have been her pet -- maybe I was -- but if so, this resulted in papers that came back to me with "A+"s, and "100s" -- AND with notes in the margins like "Carol, you can do better than this", and "Carol, use your real intelligence."

That's just the set-up to the real "pith" of this post.

If all literature can be boiled down to seven plots, what is a blog?

Or must each post be considered on its own?

For example: Is "Why I have not shaved my head . . . recently" -- (wo)Man vs. (her)Himself, (wo)Man vs. Nature, or (wo)Man vs. Hair?

Or -- is a blog literature at all? Is it history, rather than literature? Does this depend on the author? The intended reader? The subject matter?

And what about actual plots -- like the Watergate -- like the assassination of President Lincoln -- like the homosexual agenda -- do they, also, fit neatly within these seven categories? Or do they always boil down to Man vs. Man?

I actually learned a lot in that class, but I get nervous when anyone (including myself) attempts to boil life down to some simple formula -- what I call the "done" box.

In the "Done Box" is anything that I have definitively decided about, based on information that I haven't obtained through direct personal experience.

As a budding young Lutheran, serious about my religion and dedicated to learning my catechism, I was handed a lot of things to put in my Done Box. Like this lovely little item, an answer from Luther's Small Catechism about what the Lord's Prayer means when it says "Forgive us our trespasses . . . etc.":

• . . . . that He would grant them all to us by grace; for we daily sin much, and indeed deserve nothing but punishment.
  

(Can't you just feeeeel the love?)

Yet, for me -- for many years -- this was in the Done Box.

I knew what to think about my sinful state, and my deservingness of punishment, because I had been told what to think about these things, so there was no need to think about them anymore. They were "done".

"That's the famous joke -- "I don't like peas, and I'm glad I don't like them, because if I liked them, I would eat them, and I hate them." — Quentin Crisp

Comforting as it may sometimes be, nowadays I'm not at all sure I want to know precisely what I think about things all the time. I'm not sure I want to be that "done".

I suspect it is this "done-ness" that disturbs me about various forms of fundamentalism. I'm not talking about Christians, or Moslems, here -- I know woo-woo New-Agers who are more "done" in their thinking than some Bible-Baptists I have met -- I'm not talking about religion -- I know liberal Democrats who are more inflexible in their view than some conservative Republicans I've met -- I'm not talking about politics, either -- I know married people who think they know everything there is to know about their spouses.

I essentially think that anything can be turned into a form of fundamentalism.

Even that statement right there ^.

I like the solidity of my belief in my particular understanding of Cosmic Law. I like knowing what I think about myself at this moment. These are things that I can access directly, through my own experience and observation -- and knowing that, I can predict that these beliefs and knowings will probably transform -- and also, that I may be wrong in that prediction.

I honestly don't know if I can (or even want to) distill every book, poem, play, and movie I've taken in into seven simple forms.

I will, however, happily divide this one word into seven simple forms.

Plots. Stories that are told.
Plots. Secret schemes to do something.
Plots. Small areas of land that are planted with a certain vegetation.
Plots. Schematics that demonstrate how things work.
Plots. Charts that show movement of a thing.
Plots. Areas of land on a map.
Plotz. To explode or burst, as with laughter or too much food.

In Ten Days

I turn Fifty.

I didn't think this was affecting me, but now, I think I was wrong about that.

This is witnessed, I believe, in my sending out my "birthday special survey".

I think I'm longing for some feedback about who I have been, and who I am, and who I may possibly become.

Sadly - feedback that can only really come from me.

Hence, I think, the recent posts about past exploits, hair-dos, and experience -- all seemingly reasonable recountings -- but perhaps obscuring that teenage drive to prove to myself that I actually have existed and done some shit while I existed.

I suppose, in this response to approaching a half-century, I'm quite normal. How strange.

I've been facing a creative dillema recently -- one I've run up against in the past, and that seems common to writers/artists/creators in general -- It goes something like this in my mind: "Yes, I could write that, but hasn't it already been expressed more ably, more gracefully, and more beautifully by a myriad of other writers?"

Therein lies the path of doom for a creator/creatrix. Or so I believe.

I believe I must simply take the cosmic bull by the horns and trust that some unique aspect of me is necessary for the divine completion. I can believe that so easily of others.

Yet -- witness, as I chase my tail:

Yesterday, I get this great inspiration for a song that I must write.

This inspiration arrives as I am listening to another songwriter's song -- a songwriter that I enjoy and esteem -- yet her song seems, to me, to yearn for an answer -- it is so focused on one perspective that it calls forth in me a desire to create its compliment in the paradox. In that moment, I am certain that I must write this song.

Then I think: "Maybe it's already been written."

I fight the urge to google the phrase I am considering for the refrain.

I listen to her song again, to strengthen the feisty internal muse that was originally piqued by her combination of words and melody.

I still believe that I will write the song that's asking for expression. AND -- I reflect.

At 20, I did not experience this reflection (or is it self-doubt?). At 20, I seemed superbly confident that I was thinking of everything for the first time that it had ever been thought of. And, at 20, I could not have googled the refrain.

But -- if all the songs have been written, and I can google these phrases and assure myself that this part of the paradox has been fully covered -- that my voice does not necessarily have to be added to the cacaphony of the vast human cry -- isn't that a good thing? Doesn't it mean that our group consciousness has become more cohesive, more morphogenetic? Doesn't it mean that a song that is truly needed will be called forth from someone, whether I take it up or not?

Thinking this -- that my particular voice may not be necessary, is both painful and comforting. I feel a relaxation in that driven state I experienced so often in my younger days.

But then I think: What if Leonardo Da Vinci had thought his voice unnecessary? Or Wagner? Or Nancy Griffith? Or Charlie Chaplin? Or Hitler? Or my grandmother? What part of me would be missing now, if their voices had not influenced my own?

A wedding of the paradox -- I think that's what I'm seeking now, as I push toward 50 years.

I want to understand my own voice as simultaneously necessary and unnecessary. I want to feel this at some very basic, assimilated level.

I want to believe that my actions, and words, and thoughts, are shaking the foundations of the earth, and, in the same moment, believe them to be the briefest breaths, incapable of disturbing dandelion fluff.

Witness -- this is how I chase my tail.

In the past few weeks, the seals have been barking in the Sound.

I could hear them as I lay in bed, drifting toward dreams. Every time I heard them, or Kumatriel said "Listen. Can you hear them?" and I listened, and I heard them, I found myself torn -- part of me wanted to get up and go down to the beach, and see them and be close to them -- part of me wanted to lie in bed and listen to them barking, marveling at the fact that I could hear seals barking as I lay in my bed.

These two parts of me scrambled and thrashed night after night, while the seals barked their . . . . . what? Their joy in mating, maybe, or their delight at the arrival of warm currents, or their warning that the Orcas were returning?

As I thought about it, though, I realized that, for me, my warring urges were ultimately based in some form of human interaction.

I think that my desire to go down to the beach was not really to see the seals, so much as to say that I had seen the seals -- to relate this to humans somewhere, or to state to another human that I had some understanding of why the seals were barking. My desire to lay in bed and hear them barking was also human-related -- I thought "What a strange and wondrous thing, that I should hear seals barking -- nearly a half-mile away -- as I lay cossetted in comforters", and then, fast upon this thought . . . . "what a story that will make -- how strange it will seem to people who do not live on the ocean".

I want to embrace these urges, both urges centered on human connection, rather than denigrate them as somehow "unworthy", or "unenlightened". I think that this overriding urge to share experience with other humans is in nearly every human I have ever met.

Even "Birders" -- bird-watchers -- often very solitary and introverted types, keep their "life-lists", and rush to report their sightings. Henry David Thoreau left Walden behind, to share with us the tale of his solitude.

And this is another tail-chasing for me.

I don't often seek solitude. When I do, I think I seek it in order to come back to connection with something to offer.

A wedding of the paradox -- seeking myself in solitude in order to connect with others, and seeking others in order to connect with myself in solitude.

Now, nearing fifty, I have met and seen and known and read and heard enough talented individuals to know that my voice is not indispensable. I feel certain that it will all get written, or spoken, or sung.

Now, nearing fifty, I have met and seen and known and read and heard enough of ever-changing life to know that everything that can be known has not been known yet, or is already so known that we won't mind knowing it again, and again, and again, and so, no voice is indispensable. I feel certain that it will never get written, or spoken, or sung completely.

I think God sees us like this -- the book that has already been read, but can never be read completely. We are the text that slips and slides and transforms and remains the same.

==========
Seals Barking at Chetzemoka

The seals are barking
down below the park.

At first, you think -- a dog.
But no.

This is like laughter forced out of a stern face
by a joke too good to pass up --
like blows to the stomach.

Now, I place myself:
Under blanket
head-heavy on pillow.

I sleep against this sound
with every part of my ear
leaning toward it.

One More on Hair

I realized, in my head-shaving post, that I had another story to tell about hair.

I held back. I didn't follow through. I thought the side-stories had reached a limit.

But it continues to simmer in my head, so here it is:

After I shaved my head, and some hair grew back, I dyed my hair for the first time. Blonde.

The color of the first year of my life -- the only time I was a real towhead.

I come from the standard mid-western family of six -- four kids -- 2 boys, 2 girls -- two parents (now in their 56th year of connubial bliss -- they've been married longer than I've been incarnate, which is actually a helpful thing, if you're concerned about your legitmacy).

My dad and I have dark hair -- the other four members of my immediate family are blonde or blondish (testament, perhaps, to the somewhat semitic paternal heritage and the clearly scandinavian maternal heritage).

I never considered my hair color a disadvantage in any way. After all -- my hair was long, luxurious, heavy, and -- as I have been assured by professionals -- it was "good" hair.

I think that the whole dyeing thing was a whimsy, really -- having become accustomed to the shock value of a shaved head, I just wasn't ready to devolve back to "normal" hair.

I had a willing accomplice -- my rather out-there hair-dresser, Gretchen, whose speaking voice was reminiscent of Sarah Vowell's, and whose bedside-manner as a beautician included such comforting phrases as "Okay, well, here we go!"

I was also, by that time, completely undaunted by the concept of cutting it all off again, which really helps when facing hairdo-angst -- if the cut (or the dye) sucks, you can just go back to ground zero -- the scalp zone.

So, Gretchen applied stinking, nasty chemicals to my locks -- spiked me up with foil wrappings and ammonia compounds -- and left me sitting in the exact middle of the salon in this state for what seemed like hours, accompanied by nothing but piles of dog-eared People magazines.

I let her dye my hair maybe 8 times over the course of a couple of years, usually just blonde, although she later moved into more daring experiments -- like "painting" my hair so that it actually looked like a leopard's pelt. ("Okay -- well -- here we go!")

But the first time that I dyed my hair, I had a socio-cultural epiphany.
============================

It was a weird and lonely time in my life.

I was "involved" with someone, but they were pretty much unavailable, except for the odd bi-weekly date.

The vast majority of my time, I spent alone. This was about three years after my "breakdown".

I lived, and worked, in the city. I shared a home with a roomate and my cat, Little, who is still with me. I had many "friends", many "clients", a "girl-friend", and hundreds of acquaintances. I was surrounded by people, but profoundly isolated at the same time.

When I left the salon, the first time I dyed my hair, I went to Lloyd Center.

I drop this name only because it might give you an idea of the significance of the place.

It's a Mall. In Portland, Oregon.

It sometimes claims to be the "original" mall. When it opened, in 1960, with 100 shops, it claimed it was the largest shopping center in the world. (Which might have been true at the time -- but seems a little, to me, like saying "Hey! Look at me! I am the original molecule that created the Black Plague!")

Not that I have anything against Malls.

On the contrary -- I think that I went to the Mall because it was the ultimate place to be with people without actually being with people.

I wandered. I shopped. I might even have had a purpose for being there. I don't remember that part.

But here was the epiphany:

As I wandered from store to store -- "Lamont's" -- "Newberry's" -- "See's Candies" (Old Navy and The Gap did not exist at this time), I noticed a strange thing . . . .

. . . . everyone was being very, very nice to me. Clerks who would normally give me no more than a cursory glance were greeting me with ultra-warm and gooshy "Hi!"s and "How are you today?"s and "Is there anything I can help you with?"s. The woman at See's Candies actually offered me two extra "sample" chocolates before accepting my cash.

It seemed kind of creepy, really -- I think that I had become used to being ignored and invisible.

When you cut, or shave, or dye your hair, you are the last person to realize that you look different -- because you're not looking at yourself.

It wasn't until I was standing at See's Candies, where there was a huge mirror behind the suddenly generous counter-girl, that I figured it out -- I was now a blonde.

They were all being nice to me because I was blonde.

There was no other explanation. I was just as surly, lonely, and weird as I had been the day before. The only difference was my hair-color.

I was so pissed off about this.

(For younger folks, I'll give a little background -- when I was a kid, there was an ad that posed the question: "Is it true that blondes have more fun?" -- by Clairol, I think-- and later, Rod Stewart made an album called "Blondes have more fun" -- seeming to answer the question definitively, but frankly, I dismissed this as advertising in the first case, and, --well-- advertising in the second case as well. I was absolutely convinced that hair color could not be the answer to the fun-factor.)

As I stood there, looking at my own reflection -- my own shockingly yellow shock of hair blazing out beyond the clerk's oh-so-beaming-smile -- it began to dawn on me that maybe Blondes actually had been having more fun than I had-- for more than 40 years!

All this time, blondes had been -- catered to at candy counters! -- loved up at lingerie stores! -- favored at the five and dime! -- while I had lingered in stultifying obscurity.

It was an outrage!

I wondered what jobs I had lost, what opportunities I had missed, and just how many extra chocolates had not been surrepticiously stuffed into my sack over the years.

I don't think the clerk noticed when I had to lean over and put my head between my knees to keep myself from passing out as a result of pure rage.

My sister was blonde. She had never said a word about this preferential treatment.

I had blonde friends. Not a peep out of them.

On my way out of the mall parking lot, I started to chuck the sample chocolates into the dumpster in disgust, then defiantly stuffed them into my mouth -- after all -- these were chocolates I should have had long ago, if I had been valued for my talent, rather than my tint.

As the months passed and my roots begain grow out, creating a ragged brown DMZ at my part-line, I decided to dye my hair again -- blonde.

And I noticed that I was becoming accustomed to the pampering. Which is probably why my sister never said anything. She probably didn't even notice it.

When I was blonde, it was definitely easier to schmooze a policeman out of giving me a ticket, pick up girls, and get a refund for an item I had bought over a year ago.

Which I still find bizarre, and slightly icky.

The first time Gretchen "made" me a blonde, I asked her to do something that looked reasonably realistic. Now, as I realized that I was becoming numb to the red-carpet experience, I asked her to make me increasingly unbelievable as a blonde -- with each treatment, I was a little more peroxidish -- until finally, it was so apparent that I was not a "real" blonde that even a two-year-old wouldn't have been fooled.

I expected this to inhibit my privileged status with clerks and cops -- but no. In fact, the blonder I got, the nicer they seemed to get. Not that I intentionally alerted them to my subterfuge -- in fact, I think, as things progressed, that I might have been a little gleeful about the ruse.

Which, I suppose, means -- blondeness corrupts, and absolute blondeness corrupts absolutely.

I considered that being nice to blondes may be a cultural compensation for all the degrading jokes that we tell about them -- an unconscious form of pity -- but I don't think so.

My Marilyn phase ended when I picked up my spiritual work in earnest -- at that time, I shaved my head again, and when it sprouted once more, it was in my natural hue -- a dark warm brown with occasional reddish highlights (that's my Clairol advertisement for myself).

I don't miss the special status. I've actually been enjoying the anonymity that is afforded me now, as I've grown older, chubbier, more "ma'am-worthy". No one tries to hit on me at the tavern. If I weren't such a loud-mouth, I imagine I could walk through the world entirely unnoticed, if I wanted to.

I will close, now, with my two favorite blonde-jokes:

A blonde dyes her hair brunette, hoping the world will finally stop seeing her as a bimbo, and recognize her native intelligence.

After her visit to the salon, she takes a drive in the country in her convertible, and stops when she sees a man tending a large herd of sheep.

She calls out to him "Hey! If I can tell you how many sheep you have within 60 seconds, can I have one?"

The guy says, "Sure."

She sweeps her eyes over the herd for three seconds and announces "472."

"That's amazing lady! Come out here and take your pick!"

She staggers out in the field in her high-heels, wraps her arms around a smallish, furry bundle, and trots back to the car, depositing her prize in the back seat.

The shepherd calls out after her: "Hey, if I can tell you your original hair-color within 60 seconds, can I have my dog back?"

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

A blonde driver is stopped by a blonde policewoman. The policewoman comes up and says: "I'll need to see your driver's license, please."

The blonde driver opens her purse and puzzles at the assortment of items within it.

"Which one is my license?" she asks.

"It's flat, square, and has your picture on it," replies the cop.

The driver pulls out her compact, opens it, peers into the mirror, and then hands it to the policewoman, who looks at it and says:

"Well, hey! Why didn't you tell me you were a cop!?"

Apologies, Again

I've been bad. Very bad. Very very bad about blogging.

It's not that I don't have anything to say. Quite the opposite, as my posts must indicate.

I think I've actually got an aversion to brevity -- like, I think if I can't write more than a few lines, I shouldn't write anything at all.

Plus, my mind has been elsewhere.

I just put up a survey as part of my annual "birthday special". I think that I was thinking that this would just be a quick thing.

Okay, so I'm not so realistic, sometimes.

I just wanted some feedback. I searched around on the internet for software, thought about doing it myself on my website, etc.. Finally, I found this survey site that could provide me with what I wanted for $20, and I started constructing the beast.

It wasn't a quickie.

First, I had to think about what I actually wanted to know from people.

Then, I had to think about how to ask the questions I wanted answers to in ways that were actually likely to get the information I wanted.

I have a new-found respect for survey-makers. I bow down.

It took me a week to put it together and mail out the link to 659 people. Afterward, I had a five minute relief period where I thought to myself "There! That's done!"

When the first response rolled in within five minutes, I thought "Oh My God! What have I done!?"

So, I've been reading responses, digesting suggestions, assimilating assessments.

I have a new-found respect for data analysts. I bow down.

As of midnight 6/8, I've gotten 49 responses. Some of the feedback has been surprising, interesting, and enlightening. I'm glad I did it.

But apparently I forgot that I sent this to 659 people.

Some of whom do not know how to actually use their computers.

So, in addition to reading responses to the survey, I've responded to emails from people who have never used their computer for such a purpose, and who don't intuitively grok that they have to hit the "next" button at the bottom of each page to move forward to the next series of questions.

I have a new-found respect for technical helpers. I bow down.

And to people who actually get it together to post to their blog every day. I bow down.

No, I mean I really bow down.

You'll hear from me tomorrow. No, really, you will -- hey! Hey! Where are you going?

Why I Have Not Shaved My Head (Recently)

This Post was originally begun on January 4, 2006. Thanks to my Commenters, it will finally appear.

Strangely (not so strangely) it has become pertinent again, for reasons I will divulge after June 3rd, 2006.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
WHY I HAVE NOT SHAVED MY HEAD (RECENTLY)

Well, at this moment in time, to answer honestly, I think mainly because it's cold.

Until you shave your head, you really have no idea how much warmth this built-in hat provides.

Likewise, until you shave your head, or go bald, you do not realize that you have never actually felt your scalp (or at least, maybe since infancy).

After you shave your head, every little breeze seems to whisper . . . . (No, not "Louise")

. . . . . every little breeze seems to whisper:

"I'm touching your head! I'm touching your head! Nah-nah-nah-Nah Nah!"

Okay, you're thinking "What the fuck is she talking about? Why is this entry about head-shaving?!?"

I'm having a hair dillema. That's why.

I have had hair.
Lots of Hair. Lots of ways

Blonde i was. Later Brunette.

Hairy i was





Shaved i was

Then Blonde.

Again.

This time, fake.


I shaved my head for the first time ten years ago, on my fortieth birthday. I had hair down to my ass. I had kick-ass hair down to my ass. It was long. It was luxurious.

It was heavy.

I shaved my head for a number of reasons.

First and foremost, I wanted to do something that would clearly demarcate my entry into my forties. I think I accomplished that.

Additional reasons had to do with the significance of personal history with hair, and there was a lot of crap I wanted to get rid of at the time.

I gathered with friends at the nude beach outside of Portland, Oregon (where I had celebrated many birthdays in my 30s), and with their assistance, first snipped off a long braid, then progressively cut to many styles -- china-chopped, page-boy, fabulous mohawk, then shaved down to the scalp.

I drove home from the beach alone. I hung my head out the car window like a labrador retriever, marvelling at the wind on my pate.

I stopped at a quik-mart to buy a Pepsi, and was surprised when the woman behind the counter backed away from me oh-so-subtly (I had forgetten that, to the outer world, I now appeared to be a possibly-deranged punk, rather than Dorothy Gail of Kansas).

The following day was Gay Pride day. I marched in the parade and had my photo taken with two fabulous drag queens.

I was going to try to describe that photo, but perhaps you'll agree -- it defies description.

==========

Amusing side story about this picture:

My friend was going to "surprise" me on my 44th birthday by enlarging a copy of the photo and framing it in all its fabulousness. Mind you, I'm living in a small town -- 8,000 souls on a busy day. She took it to the printer's and copy/enlarged it. Then off to the local pharmacy to find a frame. Somewhere on the journey, she lost the original photo -- the only copy I had. She was mortified. She retraced her steps three or four times. It was nowhere to be found. After she presented me with the framed enlargement, she apologized tearfully. I forgave her. I didn't worry too much about the original because I had this beautiful blow-up.


Fast forward six months. I am standing at the counter at Don's Pharmacy with three or four other people in line, and I look up to see the photo scotch-taped above the register.

"Is this your picture?" a sticky note next to it inquired.

"Hey!" I exclaimed, "That's my photograph!"

The clerk, and the other four customers, turned to look, first at the photo, then at me.

Remember that I am no longer shaven-headed, and I am definitely not wearing motorcycle leathers (or a black leather chest harness from which one could conveniently be suspended from the ceiling).

The clerk peers at it more closely, and says "Why, I believe that is you."

I grab my photo, and the old guy next to me drawls: "Was that taken at that Mardee Graw?"

"Uhm, no," I say, and tuck the photo away.

End of amusing side-story.
================

Needless to say, that summer, the beginning of my fortieth decade, was a sensual and shocking time, what with the wind not-in-my hair, the retreating quick-mart staffers, and the many people who hadn't seen me in a while who greeted me with the ultimate objective statement:

"You shaved your head."

(Or, more commonly, "Oh my god, you shaved your head!")

Here I am, closing that decade. I will turn 50 on June 21. And I think something simply must be done about my hair.

For the past few years (ever since our trip to Mexico in '04) I've cut my hair myself, doing what I think is a passable and consistent job of creating a "do" that is manageable, not too much of a "statement", yet distinctly me.

But it lacks pizazz -- oomph -- zeitgeist.

I thought about shaving my head again (when I started this post in January it was just too freaking cold), but that's so been done -- even by me. Even shaving my legs seemed more radical, at this point.

I think that hair is a funny thing.

• Powerful (Samson + hair + jawbone of ass = Dead Philistines, Samson - hair = Gouged-Out Eyes) . . . AND . . .
  
• Goofy (Imagine yourself in the morning mirror, with your coiffure standing out at pillow-influenced angles.)

Hair seems to me to be, at one and the same time, taken for granted (until you don't have it, or might lose it), and yet a crucial part of personal profile and identity.

I was watching a documentary filmed in the 70's the other day, and realized how precisely certain hairdos "placed" the people of the film in the era for me, regardless of how generic or timeless their clothing was (a very specific type of afro, a particular greasy drape of bangs across the eyebrows).

Hair seems to inspire unusual passion and creativity in its wranglers, too. Beauticians and barbers across the country -- people who in their homelife might be as hum-drum as you could imagine -- title their tonsorial parlors with panache-ful names like "Whip the Do!", "Darlene's Cut-n-Strut", and "Curl Up and Dye" (these are all names of real establishments) -- and they seem to feel no embarassment in doing so.

I have had many a beautician/barber run their hands through my hair and pronounce "You have good hair," . . . . and I have wondered: "What does that mean -- 'good hair'? Is my hair ethical? Strong? Does it have leadership qualities that I'm not aware of? Is it saintly? Will it go to heaven when it dies?"

Alas, I think that these professional karatenized-protein-whackers were simply saying that my hair will do what they want it to do (which may be only a dim echo of what I have told them I want it to do). In other words, "good" hair is compliant, well-behaved hair. Which is odd, as many of these hair-dressers did their utmost to make my hair look wild and mussed, as if it were about to burst forth from my head and foment revolution.

===================
Amusing side-story #2 -- My first haircut in Port Townsend

I had moved from Portland (half-a-million without the suburbs = thousands of hair-dressers) to Port Townsend (8,000 with the suburbs = many fewer hair-dressers). I had a "dykey" hairdo when I arrived, and I didn't know where to turn for a haircut.

I was directed to a small parlor in a downtown "mall-lette", where, I was told, there was a woman who was good with "short cuts".

I told her that I wanted my hair short.

She began to cut, and to ask me questions. I quickly suspected that she might be trying to figure out how short I meant by "short".

She asked me: "So, what do you do?"

These were the days when I was not forthcoming to everyone about my profession as a psychic, and I was also doing some carpentry work at the time, so I said "I'm a carpenter".

Her question seemed to be answered. Yes, I was definitely a dyke -- which probably meant that when I said "short", I meant SHORT -- really short -- make me look like a man!

She began to snip away with confidence "SNIP, SNIP, SNIPPETTY SNIP".

Her next question was: "Where do you live?"

"Gary and I have a place in Uptown, " I answered.

Her scissors stalled in mid-stroke. She began to cut more conservatively, more carefully. Sniiiipp, sniiiiiiiiiip, sniiiiip.

"His wife and he split up, and he needed some help with the rent, and we've been friends for a while, so I moved in for the Summer, just till I find a place of my own. Gary got me some work hanging dry-wall for his friend."

Confidence seemed to return -- I was, probably, a dyke again. "Snip, SNIP, SnipPiTTY SNIP".

"I like Port Townsend, but my sons are in Portland, so that's kind of hard."

Sniiiipp, sniiiiiiiiiip, sniiiiip.

(Okay, now I was just fucking with her. My "sons" are step-sons, and at the time, I hadn't seen one of them in three years, and the other, for eight months. But the process was amusing me, and I just had to know whether it was an orientation issue or just her particular cutting style. I don't think I'd do that now -- it just seems mean.)

As might be imagined, and in accordance with karma, I got a really weird haircut out of the experience.

End of side-story #2
============

So I'm not going to shave my head, -- I don't think. There is a haircut that I've always wanted, and that I've never completely had

-- and it's like this:

Although I think I'll forego the piercings.

At least the ones on the side of the mouth.

There is something very appealing to me about this 'do. Come to think of it, there is something appealing to me about Amazonian tribes-people in general -- their body types seem sleek and muscular without being stringy -- rounded without flabbiness -- like walking seals.

You can't see it here, but the back and sides of the hairdo are shaved very short.


I also find this particular photo very beautiful, and stirring in some way that I don't fully understand.

For those of you who have never shaved your head, I recommend it highly.

There is the revelation of the actual shape of your head, for one thing.

There are the unique sensations of feeling the wind, rain, ambient air temperature, and the brush of a fleece pullover on some of the thinnest and most sensitive skin on your body.

Plus, about two to three weeks after you do it, your scalp is usually covered with this velvety plush stubble that it is virtually impossible not to compulsively run your hand over. I spent many an hour petting my own head at this stage.

And, for the socially adventurous, there are the numerous encounters with other human beings, ranging from those who walk right up and ask "can I touch it?" to those who gaze at you from afar, eyes clouded with misgivings, trying to figure out whether you are undergoing chemo-therapy or planning to steal their purse.

I realize that it's not for everyone.

I like that it's still something that I would consider doing. Somehow, that feels liberating -- just one more thing that I haven't eliminated as a possibility for myself because I'm too "scared" to do it.

Right now, though, I'm not going to shave my head.