Anger is a great motivator, providing the will to act. Evolution instilled the impulse, helping us protect ourselves so we can survive. But as energizing as it is, it bows in the presence of a greater motivator: Guilt.
In the absence of a crime, guilt is neurotic. At least that's what my therapist used to tell me. It resonates each and every time I fell compelled to visit with Dad. I worked hard to abandon the expectation of him coming close to my ego ideal of what a Dad should be. Instead I've suffered one crushing disappointment after another butting against what is and what will never be. Instead, I am crippled by a mistrust of males and only have a handful of male friends. The Reverend is the closest. Our bond stems from scars that refuse to heal, left by men whose job was to prepare us to survive this life, instead of just donating sperm, and using us to achieve their own nefarious deeds.
My anger and guilt erect walls that protect feelings of inadequacy. I’ll never be free of feeling like a little boy, cowering in the presence of Dad almighty. But when he asks me to call grandma I don't. When he asks me to patch things up with my brother, I scoff, opting for my pride in the face of a stalemate. Until I'm presented with an ideal father, incorruptable in matters pertaining to his son, do not ask me to nurture relationships that will bear no fruit, nor provide any solace.
Request denied!
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Change, Optional?
We've had discussions about lofting our mattress. We anticipated the arrival of Reverend Austin. To accommodate him, it made sense to hoist our mattress so that he sleep beneath us and avoid the any sleep disturbances caused by slumbering in the high traffic living room. To do so required getting rid of the bed frame, a platform, and one I've had for over a decade.
The loft idea fell by the wayside and wasn't given a second thought. The Reverend came, made himself cozy on our couch, and hasn't complained once. Last week, he built the loft out of scrap wood, packed it up, and zipped it down to us, resurrecting the plan and sending me into a complete tizzy.
I pride myself on my ability to accept change. I roll with it, welcome it, and accept it with only a modicum of apprehension.
Right?
In reality, I resist change. I sanction it with silence, withhold excitement, and withdraw. My first change embargo happened when Rachel wanted to combine our incomes and work as a team toward our financial goals. I resisted, using my credit card debt as an excuse. I even went so far as to deny her my savings, savings that would have helped her get out of her cash hemorrhaging condo. A move, I might add, that would have benefited us both.
I'm sure my reticence had something to do with my fear of intimacy. Symptoms of Male's Disease whose delirium includes a deep paranoia of female hidden agendas. Part of me was convinced she would squander my earnings. My mind changed when it dawned on me that if anyone was squandering, it was Visa and MasterCard. Once I relented, rara paid off my debt within six months.
Another momentous hurdle for Rachel to overcome was moving. Long had I lamented about my desire to leave Salem and its high polluting, coal burning, power plant. It took Rachel close to a year to get me out.
So many people have bestowed upon me accolades for overcoming so much adversity in my life, when in fact I merely survived. It's true that I have worked hard not to repeat my transgressions. To do so takes thorough examination, self actualization, and hard choices. I still feel as though I'm in flux, pushing hard to shed the false beliefs that hold me back. Tragedy, it seems, is easier to weather than the simple changes, life on life's terms.
As for the loft, it took a rare moment of honesty. Feeling cornered I yelled, "Excuse me, in case you two haven't noticed, I don't accept change very well. I love that bed frame. Do you have any idea how many coke binges I've slept off in that bed?"
They both laughed, then proceeded to store the loft in the basement, where it mocks me.
The loft idea fell by the wayside and wasn't given a second thought. The Reverend came, made himself cozy on our couch, and hasn't complained once. Last week, he built the loft out of scrap wood, packed it up, and zipped it down to us, resurrecting the plan and sending me into a complete tizzy.
I pride myself on my ability to accept change. I roll with it, welcome it, and accept it with only a modicum of apprehension.
Right?
In reality, I resist change. I sanction it with silence, withhold excitement, and withdraw. My first change embargo happened when Rachel wanted to combine our incomes and work as a team toward our financial goals. I resisted, using my credit card debt as an excuse. I even went so far as to deny her my savings, savings that would have helped her get out of her cash hemorrhaging condo. A move, I might add, that would have benefited us both.
I'm sure my reticence had something to do with my fear of intimacy. Symptoms of Male's Disease whose delirium includes a deep paranoia of female hidden agendas. Part of me was convinced she would squander my earnings. My mind changed when it dawned on me that if anyone was squandering, it was Visa and MasterCard. Once I relented, rara paid off my debt within six months.
Another momentous hurdle for Rachel to overcome was moving. Long had I lamented about my desire to leave Salem and its high polluting, coal burning, power plant. It took Rachel close to a year to get me out.
So many people have bestowed upon me accolades for overcoming so much adversity in my life, when in fact I merely survived. It's true that I have worked hard not to repeat my transgressions. To do so takes thorough examination, self actualization, and hard choices. I still feel as though I'm in flux, pushing hard to shed the false beliefs that hold me back. Tragedy, it seems, is easier to weather than the simple changes, life on life's terms.
As for the loft, it took a rare moment of honesty. Feeling cornered I yelled, "Excuse me, in case you two haven't noticed, I don't accept change very well. I love that bed frame. Do you have any idea how many coke binges I've slept off in that bed?"
They both laughed, then proceeded to store the loft in the basement, where it mocks me.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Sitting Duck
I wake to her banging the window and shining a flashlight down on the pond next to the house where the ducks nested during the summer.
“God damn it, get away from those ducks!” She screamed loud enough to wake neighbors.
“Mom, what the fuck are you yelling at?” I shouted.
“That goddamn fox is stealing eggs from Emma!” she screeches, “Go down there and scare it!”
I didn’t argue. I knew that with Mom, it's best to do as your told. Walking down the stairs, clueless as to what scared hungry foxes, I grabbed a copy of the past due property tax bill that scared the hell out of Mom. I also grabbed a pot and wooden spoon and in my boxer briefs, I ran toward the pond, clanging the pot and yelling in chorus with Mom in the window, providing the only light.
The next day I came home to an unmarked van parked in the driveway. Inside I found Mom and a professional trapper. “Normally I’d set a few traps and catch the thing, but with kids in the neighborhood, I can’t,” he said, “What I can do is give you these,” and he handed Mom what looked like M80’s.
“These are quarter sticks,” he continued, “illegal without a permit, so you never got them from me. All you do is find the hole and chuck one in.”
Mom nodded. I'm sure she’ll throw the dynamite away and never give it a second thought. She paid the man for his time and for the quarter sticks. I waited patiently to laugh and make fun of him. Instead, Mom handed me the sticks without instructions since I already heard.
“You can’t be serious.” I said.
“I want you to find that hole and blow that thing straight to hell.” Her eyes flared.
“Mom, these are quarter sticks of dy-na-mite, you know, T-N-T.”
She raised an eyebrow. Admittedly, Mom couldn’t voluntarily raise an eyebrow; it was an involuntary response, a warning not to continue debating. “Do you know where the term sitting duck comes from? It’s because ducks on a nest never leave their eggs. They’ll die before they leave them and I’ll be damned if I’m going stand idly by while Emma gets devoured by that goddamn fox.”
She forced the sticks into my hand. I turned to go and she stopped me, “Wait, you’ll need this,” handing me a lighter.
I found the fox hole halfway between the house and the city dump. If I returned and feigned success she’d ask, in a voice I would only hear as Marvin the Martian’s, “Where’s the earth shattering kaboom, there was supposed to be an earth shattering kaboom.”
The earth shattering kaboom shook the forest floor, and no doubt, drew the attention of the fox safe in his hole. I possessed the intestinal fortitude to point a loaded gun at someone’s face, but lacked the callousness to toss a bomb into a foxhole. His only crime was to answer the call of his growling stomach and who was I to interrupt nature’s design?
“You couldn’t do it, could you?” Mom asked, sitting on the lawn chair, swinging.
“Nope.” I replied.
She smiled, “Good.”
“God damn it, get away from those ducks!” She screamed loud enough to wake neighbors.
“Mom, what the fuck are you yelling at?” I shouted.
“That goddamn fox is stealing eggs from Emma!” she screeches, “Go down there and scare it!”
I didn’t argue. I knew that with Mom, it's best to do as your told. Walking down the stairs, clueless as to what scared hungry foxes, I grabbed a copy of the past due property tax bill that scared the hell out of Mom. I also grabbed a pot and wooden spoon and in my boxer briefs, I ran toward the pond, clanging the pot and yelling in chorus with Mom in the window, providing the only light.
The next day I came home to an unmarked van parked in the driveway. Inside I found Mom and a professional trapper. “Normally I’d set a few traps and catch the thing, but with kids in the neighborhood, I can’t,” he said, “What I can do is give you these,” and he handed Mom what looked like M80’s.
“These are quarter sticks,” he continued, “illegal without a permit, so you never got them from me. All you do is find the hole and chuck one in.”
Mom nodded. I'm sure she’ll throw the dynamite away and never give it a second thought. She paid the man for his time and for the quarter sticks. I waited patiently to laugh and make fun of him. Instead, Mom handed me the sticks without instructions since I already heard.
“You can’t be serious.” I said.
“I want you to find that hole and blow that thing straight to hell.” Her eyes flared.
“Mom, these are quarter sticks of dy-na-mite, you know, T-N-T.”
She raised an eyebrow. Admittedly, Mom couldn’t voluntarily raise an eyebrow; it was an involuntary response, a warning not to continue debating. “Do you know where the term sitting duck comes from? It’s because ducks on a nest never leave their eggs. They’ll die before they leave them and I’ll be damned if I’m going stand idly by while Emma gets devoured by that goddamn fox.”
She forced the sticks into my hand. I turned to go and she stopped me, “Wait, you’ll need this,” handing me a lighter.
I found the fox hole halfway between the house and the city dump. If I returned and feigned success she’d ask, in a voice I would only hear as Marvin the Martian’s, “Where’s the earth shattering kaboom, there was supposed to be an earth shattering kaboom.”
The earth shattering kaboom shook the forest floor, and no doubt, drew the attention of the fox safe in his hole. I possessed the intestinal fortitude to point a loaded gun at someone’s face, but lacked the callousness to toss a bomb into a foxhole. His only crime was to answer the call of his growling stomach and who was I to interrupt nature’s design?
“You couldn’t do it, could you?” Mom asked, sitting on the lawn chair, swinging.
“Nope.” I replied.
She smiled, “Good.”
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Savasana
Flat out on the yoga mat, my body tells me again: enough. I'm sore from yesterday's class, and it feels hotter today, pushing 110 degrees. Sweat pours from me like a waterfall, preventing combustion. My muscles feel strong and I complete a few of yesterday's elusive poses, but after each one my heart thumps and my breath is hard to catch. Above me is a fan, set to low, in the center is a reflection of my limp lying form. Beside me, just outside of center, is rara, dripping but still working.
The fan swirls.
Sweat rolls unrelentingly. I try to get up. My heart pins me down. I acquiesce. Back inside the fan, back to purgatory. Ceramic space heaters blow with prejudice, cook fuckers, cook. I focus on a single blade. My eyes spin in their sockets.
The fan churns.
I remain still, staring. Yoga is completely different from what I know. It follows the body's kinetic chain, strengthens connections, and stimulates, encouraging peace. It is lack of peace that pins me to the mat. My heart, aerobically trained, feels out of sync with my body. Connections are cordoned off, impassable, forcing me to recall another time, when I fancied myself a bodybuilder. But in reality, my body flowed with the fuel of insecurity. I force fed myself to pack on size, to survive the unpredictability of an alcoholic and a sadist.
The fan agitates.
I wish I gave myself a break then, as I do now. I wish I never pushed against gravity, the weight of my depression, weights too heavy for my joints to bear. I am paying the price, taking that break too late, the damage is done...maybe...
The fan swirls.
Sweat rolls unrelentingly. I try to get up. My heart pins me down. I acquiesce. Back inside the fan, back to purgatory. Ceramic space heaters blow with prejudice, cook fuckers, cook. I focus on a single blade. My eyes spin in their sockets.
The fan churns.
I remain still, staring. Yoga is completely different from what I know. It follows the body's kinetic chain, strengthens connections, and stimulates, encouraging peace. It is lack of peace that pins me to the mat. My heart, aerobically trained, feels out of sync with my body. Connections are cordoned off, impassable, forcing me to recall another time, when I fancied myself a bodybuilder. But in reality, my body flowed with the fuel of insecurity. I force fed myself to pack on size, to survive the unpredictability of an alcoholic and a sadist.
The fan agitates.
I wish I gave myself a break then, as I do now. I wish I never pushed against gravity, the weight of my depression, weights too heavy for my joints to bear. I am paying the price, taking that break too late, the damage is done...maybe...
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Prison Laundry
Ideologically, I'm changing. Things matter to me more now than they ever did, like my carbon footprint. I find myself conscious of the things I do everyday that might make it a little deeper, or etched. We don't use plastic anymore and try hard not to purchase things that come in petroleum laden casing. We don't cook with it or use the microwave as much, if at all (Although I do use it to time my recipes, like the chicken pot pie that's in the oven right now).
Take laundry. We tried countless times to use only organic detergents. Tide and the like are poison to both us and the environment. But each time our clothes ended up smelling like a wet dog. Not the best scent for trying to keep clients, but I did fit in better on the T. Once again, at rara's behest, we are trying a product recommended by a fellow crunchie, I'll keep you posted, or maybe you can just approach me and take a whiff.
But as with all things, rara has taken laundry to a new level, preferring to take garments into the shower to clean. I have the utmost aversion to this, not because I don't applaud her efforts but because of the trauma it evokes. Let me explain:
Just after the initial strip search in prison, the guard hands you bedding, heavy denim, and a fishnet bag for laundry. Every Wednesday they collect those laundry bags, which we cons stuff and tie as tightly as we can for fear the bag will open. If your bag opens and loses your laundry, it can take weeks for the property offer to get around to answering your request for new duds. Sometime Wednesday afternoon the bags come back either steaming hot and burnt, soaking wet and smelly, or my favorite, microwaved, steaming hot on the outside, wet and cold in the middle.
I favored buying extra bars of soap from the canteen, so that once a week I could wash my clothes in the shower. It wasn't uncommon to see me walking to the showers fully dressed. No, this wasn't to thwart off those who might seek to follow up on my dropping of the soap, it was so I could scrub my clothes clean and avoid the possibility of the laundry leaving me with only one outfit.
These days, post prison, I am grateful for the opportunity to use a washer and dryer, as I am grateful for the opportunity to do just about anything without being strip searched first. rara, God bless her, uses a Yahoo group called Freecycle whenever we need to downsize, or are ever looking for something, like wine glasses, hiking boots, chairs, desks, bulletin boards, or Brita water filters. In Nahant, she got us a washer for free--and it screamed and hissed so loudly that sometimes we had to turn up the TV or leave the apartment entirely. Now, since she started bathing with our dirty laundry, things are showing up around the apt that she hoped I wouldn't notice, like the Laundry Spinner and the drying rack. I might have to shank her.
Take laundry. We tried countless times to use only organic detergents. Tide and the like are poison to both us and the environment. But each time our clothes ended up smelling like a wet dog. Not the best scent for trying to keep clients, but I did fit in better on the T. Once again, at rara's behest, we are trying a product recommended by a fellow crunchie, I'll keep you posted, or maybe you can just approach me and take a whiff.
But as with all things, rara has taken laundry to a new level, preferring to take garments into the shower to clean. I have the utmost aversion to this, not because I don't applaud her efforts but because of the trauma it evokes. Let me explain:
Just after the initial strip search in prison, the guard hands you bedding, heavy denim, and a fishnet bag for laundry. Every Wednesday they collect those laundry bags, which we cons stuff and tie as tightly as we can for fear the bag will open. If your bag opens and loses your laundry, it can take weeks for the property offer to get around to answering your request for new duds. Sometime Wednesday afternoon the bags come back either steaming hot and burnt, soaking wet and smelly, or my favorite, microwaved, steaming hot on the outside, wet and cold in the middle.
I favored buying extra bars of soap from the canteen, so that once a week I could wash my clothes in the shower. It wasn't uncommon to see me walking to the showers fully dressed. No, this wasn't to thwart off those who might seek to follow up on my dropping of the soap, it was so I could scrub my clothes clean and avoid the possibility of the laundry leaving me with only one outfit.
These days, post prison, I am grateful for the opportunity to use a washer and dryer, as I am grateful for the opportunity to do just about anything without being strip searched first. rara, God bless her, uses a Yahoo group called Freecycle whenever we need to downsize, or are ever looking for something, like wine glasses, hiking boots, chairs, desks, bulletin boards, or Brita water filters. In Nahant, she got us a washer for free--and it screamed and hissed so loudly that sometimes we had to turn up the TV or leave the apartment entirely. Now, since she started bathing with our dirty laundry, things are showing up around the apt that she hoped I wouldn't notice, like the Laundry Spinner and the drying rack. I might have to shank her.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Traditions
Traditions are like compulsions, done over and over, without much thought as to why. Growing up, we'd attend midnight mass on Christmas eve. Why? It was tradition. We set up a traditional tree, decorated with ornaments made by my Polish grandmother. We ate a traditional Polish dinner, pierogi, golabki, kielbasa, and cruscik. I haven't continued any of these traditions, for the most part, they nauseate me.
Today, I create my own traditions. On Sundays, we get together with our neighbors downstairs and eat the dinner I prepare, usually out of the Fresh and Honest cookbook from Henrietta's Table, where we got married. We sit, hopefully reverend Austin is there to bless the meal, mostly by remaining quiet, resting his neck. Tuck (Aka: Tuck Amuck), sits patiently, waiting for me to toss him a morsel, several actually.
Being with Allison, or Al, never Ali, and Gaylen feels like home to us. They've been here since we moved in but it's only been lately that we've gotten this close. Actually, Rachel has always been close to them, it's me that it takes a while to warm up to. Mostly because of my faltering filters, that fail to stop me from saying whatever comes to mind. Countless times throughout the year, I've left them speechless. My sense of humor is like quills on a porcupine, relaxed, they are soft, erect, they prick.
Allison and Gaylen have the type of relationship that rara and I have. Separate, they are completely different people. Gaylen has an undeniable edge, that fiery anger that makes her a menace on the road and a riot after a few drinks. Allison buys humane mouse traps that contain rather than kill. Picture Gaylen in the early morning hours letting our mouse free in a field, something I'd do for rara. I wonder if, to the mouse, the experience is like an alien abduction without the anal probe. But I digress.
Unlike oil and water, they emulsify, their differences gloss over, and they blend. It's hard to imagine one without the other, or that either exists as separate entities. Sunday dinner, and our lives are richer because of them, good friends truly are hard to find.
A few Sundays ago I attempted what seemed a simple crab and corn chowder recipe. I bought all the ingredients except the rock crab that Whole Foods doesn't carry. The fish counter suggested I try H-Mart in Burlington. So Reverend Austin and I made the trek. We could tell by both the business of the lot and the predominance of the shoppers going to and fro, that H-Mart was a different kind of store. The size of a typical Shaw's, inside it opened up into a unique shopping experience. Immediately to our left were several glass cases of jewelry. With a furrowed brow I turned to Reverend Austin just in time to see him shrug.
To the right, a food court of sorts lined the wall, only there was no pizza, burgers or, greasy tacos, there were only Japanese steak houses, and Chinese fresh fish joints. The produce section was a plethora of every imaginable fruit and vegetable. The back wall was sectioned for meats, the reds made up only a fraction, the fish stretched the entire length of the building. They had everything imaginable, and five varieties not yet discovered, including a tentacle section. At each station stood at least three workers, waiting to assist. I asked for crab and was directed to the corner where several varieties sat chilled in a cooler. Only one was shelled and canned. I grabbed what they had and made my way to the front.
Many things stood out as Reverend Austin and I, made our purchase. One was that along with food, parts of the building were sectioned into smaller stores where one could buy a TV, luggage, T-shirts, and the aforementioned, Jewelry. But what stood out the most was the fact that as I hurried through, I was stymied countless times by groups of people standing in the way. Typically, this annoys me, until I realized that it wasn't coincidence, running into these groups. More than shopping, most were there to chat, catch up with old friends, or make new ones. There was a sense of community amongst these people and I found myself feeling ashamed of pushing my way through, intruding on these people's Sunday Tradition, just so I could get back to my own.
Today, I create my own traditions. On Sundays, we get together with our neighbors downstairs and eat the dinner I prepare, usually out of the Fresh and Honest cookbook from Henrietta's Table, where we got married. We sit, hopefully reverend Austin is there to bless the meal, mostly by remaining quiet, resting his neck. Tuck (Aka: Tuck Amuck), sits patiently, waiting for me to toss him a morsel, several actually.
Being with Allison, or Al, never Ali, and Gaylen feels like home to us. They've been here since we moved in but it's only been lately that we've gotten this close. Actually, Rachel has always been close to them, it's me that it takes a while to warm up to. Mostly because of my faltering filters, that fail to stop me from saying whatever comes to mind. Countless times throughout the year, I've left them speechless. My sense of humor is like quills on a porcupine, relaxed, they are soft, erect, they prick.
Allison and Gaylen have the type of relationship that rara and I have. Separate, they are completely different people. Gaylen has an undeniable edge, that fiery anger that makes her a menace on the road and a riot after a few drinks. Allison buys humane mouse traps that contain rather than kill. Picture Gaylen in the early morning hours letting our mouse free in a field, something I'd do for rara. I wonder if, to the mouse, the experience is like an alien abduction without the anal probe. But I digress.
Unlike oil and water, they emulsify, their differences gloss over, and they blend. It's hard to imagine one without the other, or that either exists as separate entities. Sunday dinner, and our lives are richer because of them, good friends truly are hard to find.
A few Sundays ago I attempted what seemed a simple crab and corn chowder recipe. I bought all the ingredients except the rock crab that Whole Foods doesn't carry. The fish counter suggested I try H-Mart in Burlington. So Reverend Austin and I made the trek. We could tell by both the business of the lot and the predominance of the shoppers going to and fro, that H-Mart was a different kind of store. The size of a typical Shaw's, inside it opened up into a unique shopping experience. Immediately to our left were several glass cases of jewelry. With a furrowed brow I turned to Reverend Austin just in time to see him shrug.
To the right, a food court of sorts lined the wall, only there was no pizza, burgers or, greasy tacos, there were only Japanese steak houses, and Chinese fresh fish joints. The produce section was a plethora of every imaginable fruit and vegetable. The back wall was sectioned for meats, the reds made up only a fraction, the fish stretched the entire length of the building. They had everything imaginable, and five varieties not yet discovered, including a tentacle section. At each station stood at least three workers, waiting to assist. I asked for crab and was directed to the corner where several varieties sat chilled in a cooler. Only one was shelled and canned. I grabbed what they had and made my way to the front.
Many things stood out as Reverend Austin and I, made our purchase. One was that along with food, parts of the building were sectioned into smaller stores where one could buy a TV, luggage, T-shirts, and the aforementioned, Jewelry. But what stood out the most was the fact that as I hurried through, I was stymied countless times by groups of people standing in the way. Typically, this annoys me, until I realized that it wasn't coincidence, running into these groups. More than shopping, most were there to chat, catch up with old friends, or make new ones. There was a sense of community amongst these people and I found myself feeling ashamed of pushing my way through, intruding on these people's Sunday Tradition, just so I could get back to my own.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Someone said, "It's like they got married in a Starbucks." It's funny how many people take offense when we tell them we got married in a restaurant. So conventional, marriage seems, that when it's done unconventionally, people write it off as if our bond isn't sacred.
I used to joke with Rachel that the only thing that mattered to me was the ring. I felt she needed it. She felt she had enough gems. So I bit the bullet, spent more than I had, and bought her the ring I am proud to see sparkling under the track lighting of the wine tasting we attended tonight. She, in turn, employed a local artist to design my band, using gold and stones bought by reputable, sustainable companies, who don't pollute or use slave labor. So quintessentially rara.
The ceremony was held in The Charles River Hotel, in the function room of Henrietta's Table. We invited close friends and family, 35 in all, to sit with us, enjoy a great meal with organic wine, the food prepared using ingredients bought from local farms, that grow mostly organic produce. The ceremony, performed by the newly ordained, Reverend Austin Ritter (rara's bro), could not have gone more smoothly, hilarious yet poignant. After, we ate, drank, some danced, without the stuffiness of most conventional weddings. The cake was perfect, the flavors accentuated by the excitement of the day, and the proximity of those we love the most.
For me and Rach, the day could not have been more perfect. We married in the same fashion as we live, for each other, conscious of where our money goes, careful to consider the long term consequences of our actions.
And we laughed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)