Death by Gnomes...



...and other bunny suicides.

Bunny Bound

This is one of the critters in my office that was made for me a few years back by a coworker. I love the St. Andrews cross created with coffee stirrers.



The top of my cubicle wall has a few more animals in varied play positions, such as a little horse in suspension bondage...the rope being dental floss. A little mummified dog (wrapped in saran wrap). A lamb in shackles (shackles were some of the plastic ring binding). A caged chick (the tight cage being the wire that covers the cork on a champagne bottle).

For a while, each time I returned from vacation I'd find another one of my little guys in a torturous position. :-)

Bunny was the first.

I'm headed to the WA State Mr & Ms leather contest tonight. It still cracks me up that I'll attend these things...but it's one time where I can see, in one place, a whole bunch of men I enjoy...at the same time. I'm heading over early to get social time in. A friend contacted me and asked me if I was going. Seeing I haven't seen her in a while, I thought it might be a good place to hang, drink and socialize. Auxugen is meeting me here and we'll walk over together.

The different cultures that make up the general leather community still amaze me. It seems I have toes in various ones...

I thought this would be the first year in five I didn't attend. It's been a very difficult few weeks, with the heat increasing daily. I've had to cancel plans when the pain is too sharp. Yet, balancing that out is positive movement and changes. I'm not writing about it yet. Not sure how or if it's even appropriate for this forum. Tough stuff. By not writing, it increases the sense of isolation.

C'est la vie.

Bah. Gross post.

I hate feeling disconnected by not sharing what's in my heart, but I'm in doubt as to how much to reveal. So, instead I lean heavily on the shrink..stepping in his shadow. Wow. That's a term I used to use with A., when I was in leather training. For a part of the training, we worked on stripping my exterior, which left me vulnerable. He mentioned that there would be times where I would need to step in his shadow for protection.

Stepping In His Shadow.
Powerful image.

In the last month, it seems I am doing that quite frequently with my shrink. It's tougher this time, carrying more risk because of the depths we've reached. Leaning on him is difficult. It means I need to trust. Big time. In addition I lean a little on a coworker, because he fully understands and continually encourages me in this journey. He isn't uncomfortable with my pain...or think it's too much. He knows it's something I need to go through, no matter how long it takes.

So...I get up, don't know why...and don't know yet what my drive is to do so, try to move on with my day...and eagerly grab any possible joy that comes my way.

Helluva entry.

Finally!

Want to see a recent painting, instead of a 10 year old one?
When I had my slides made this week, the amazing photographer took note of an offhand comment I made about getting digital images later on. He surprised me with high quality tifs I can print from and lower quality jpegs (which I wanted for the web) of the 3 pieces I brought him.

This is a little 8x10 quickie study, completed in August. Still lifes, although many will and do scoff at them, are quite relaxing for me. They ground me. I'm used to the snickers because I heard plenty during my thesis year. The youngsters (I was 36 and they were 22) wanted to do something "new" and "modern"...whatever that means.

What can and did I say?
Screw them.
I can't depend on trends or on others to live. Yes, I am feeling kind of ornery today. Very bruised for most of the week. So, I figured I'd share some of my heart that isn't hurting.

Once I realized that Brokeback was available in open-caption yet wasn't being taken advantage of, I was going to work on making this happen...but now I don't have to!

Three Dollar Bill Cinema, producer of the Seattle Lesbian & Gay Film Festival,
is proud to co-present an open-captioned screening of the ground-breaking and award-winning film, BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN.

This has been the most talked about queer film of the year, and yet many haven’t been able to see this film in the theatre. We’ve worked with AMC theatres and Insight Cinema to present two screenings of this film with complete English subtitles. Now everyone can appreciate the dialogue of the Oscar-winning screenplay. Deaf, hard of hearing, or hearing — all are welcome to attend these screenings.

WHEN: March 19, 2:45pm and 8:15pm

WHERE: Pacific Place Theatres
600 Pine Street
Seattle, WA 98101
(check with theatre for ticket prices)

WHAT: BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN - Captioned screening

Using the music of Jim's Big Ego (UnPop for the Unpopulous), check out this little video, Asshole.

(depending upon your office, may not be worksafe - it's political, not sexual)

Lobsters

I went to bed and woke this morning with a line from a friend's poem, Coddled Insanity. It begins:

"I have not yet walked
Lobsters down the Champs-Elysées;"

Isn't that lovely?
Damn.

I haven't been able to get the visual out of my head. Nor do I want to. I think I have this thing for lobsters. Growing up, we spent much time at the ocean - Martha's Vineyard, Ogunquit, the Cape. Then in '92 I moved to the coast, where I happily cherished my environment, until '98 when I left for Seattle. Even though I loved the ocean, I couldn't deal with eating lobsters. We'd cook them up every summer. I'd watch the transformation from green to screaming red. And I couldn't swallow the idea of cracking them open and sucking the meat out of their little legs or finding what others claimed to be true deliciousness.

When I moved to the Portsmouth area I decided to make myself love lobster. It took me a few years but I did it. I LOVE lobster.

On the 6 ft wall that divides our office/cubicles, I have many little critters. One of my favorites is a small, stuffed red lobster. He reminds me of my ocean home.

"I have not yet walked
Lobsters down the Champs-Elysées;"

Such a luscious and decadent image.

Today, believe it or not, Mark Morford writes about a lobster. Actually, more of a sea creature.

"OK, look. You're up to your neck in it, right? Too much white noise, too many demands on your time, too many drains on your brainpower, too much porn and scandal and guns and stress and tech and not in a good way because you're all up in the world and the world is all up in you and sometimes you spin and spit and whirl and just can't seem to find the ground. I know how it is.

But then something happens. Sometimes, somehow, these little gems of yes slither on through, these little snaps to the bra strap of your id, a pinch to the ass of your jaded perspective and you blink once or twice and snap out of your lethargic frenzied turmoil, even just for a second, and your head clears and your karma tingles and you see anew.

It can happen. It's still possible. Like when you see, for the very first time in your life, for the very first time in anyone's life, a very weird, oddly beautiful, blond, blind, fur-covered sea creature no one's ever seen before in the history of man, so far as we know."

Check out Behold, A Furry Blond Lobster. Make sure to look at the photo of the creature. It's seriously cool.

And thank you H. for sharing your vision.

From Jean-Paul Page

Call For Artists

Harken to this!! Anyone interested in being involved in a group art show focused on highlighting and celebrating spirituality within the gay community or if ya know someone that would be...read on!

Looking for artists of all medias – painters, musicians, circus performers, DJ’s, performers etc.

In association with the Seattle LGBT Community Center, I am putting together a group show centered on spirituality and religion within the LGBT community.

The show is scheduled to run during July, 2006. The show, which will involve wide-ranging interpretations of individual and collective experiences of spirituality, has two primary purposes: One is to create an open, safe and fun environment in which to express, celebrate and create catharsis while promoting perseverance, adaptation, growth and healing. The second is to open up dialogue and create conversation concerning spirituality from multiple points of view.

A wide range of mediums is acceptable. A representation (digital preferred) of the proposed image or a description of the piece needs to be received by Monday, April 3.

For additional information please contact Jean-Paul Page at jonpawl@yahoo.com

From this morning's email (yes, slight woo-wooness):

A Sheet of paper

"If you are a poet, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper. Without a cloud, there will be no rain; without rain, the trees cannot grow; and without trees, we cannot make paper. The cloud is essential for the paper to exist. If the cloud is not here, the sheet of paper cannot be here either. So we can say that the cloud and the paper inter-are.

"Interbeing" is a word that is not in the dictionary yet, but if we combine the prefix "Inter-" with the verb "to be," we have a new verb, inter-be... Looking even more deeply, we can see ourselves in this sheet of paper too. This is not difficult to see, because when we look at a sheet of paper, it is part of our perception. Your mind is in here and mine is also. So we can say that everything is in here with this sheet of paper. We cannot point out one thing that is not here--time, space, the earth, the rain, the minerals in the soil, the sunshine, the cloud, the river, the heat. Everything co-exists with this sheet of paper."
-Thich Nhat Hanh, Peace Is Every Step

Good morning.

Bunch of odd things for you, including horoscope and Morford.

First, I am still clearing out my inbox and am now down to 350, from the 1,100 plus. It feels so much better.

Today I'm meeting with the organizer for the queer spirituality art show so he can see my work.

I was up early and walking back from getting a coffee when I ran into someone from our apartment building. He said the oddest thing to me~

"You were our spiritual leader the night of the fire."
(insert a puzzled look on my face)
"What do you mean?"
"When you came outside, I noticed people were drawn to you and so gathered around. You were also connecting people together..."
"Curious. All I remember is being very dazed."

I remember the groups...I remember speaking with people. And I seriously remember feeling out of it. Shaking inside and almost numb.

Isn't it interesting what others see?

Today, Mark Morford speaks of saturation in I Am Done With Violence.

"I am, I realize, a broken American. Defective. Problematic. I know that ultraviolence is the American way. It makes us feel righteous and strong. Violence is how we stay, ahem, "free." Without violence, says everyone from the NRA to the U.S. military to the president, we would be overrun by, well, violence. It is in our blood and in our cells and deep in our gun-sucking culture and America without its violence is like a South Dakota Republican without his misogyny. I know.

But I do not care. Something has happened. Something has switched over in the past few years of my life, some sort of awareness has been raised and a threshold has been lowered and I now cannot help but see stark displays of brutish violence -- in movies, on TV, in real life -- as exactly what they are: Dark, dank, base energy, cancerous and poisonous, and I do not care where it is or if it's couched in the context of "raw" moviemaking or gritty urban inner-city tale. I am done.

Violence no longer informs me. It no longer has the power to teach. It is a one-note song I've heard so many times it has lost its power to stun or impress or delve deep. It now merely tears at the fabric of the soul, punches holes in the anima, scrapes its knuckles on the pavement of hate, and you can shrug and roll your eyes and go watch "The Hills Have Eyes" or "Saw II" or even play some hi-res shockingly ultraviolent video game and enjoy the brutal escapism and wallow in the bloodshed while pretending it's not slowly, quietly blackening your world view like a smoker sucking down another carton of Marlboro Reds, but deep down, where the meanings are, I think maybe, just maybe, you might be seriously mistaken."

For this week's Freewill Astrology, I'm posting each one here. No link today because at this time, even though I received the current horoscopes via email, the website isn't current.

For week of March 15, 2006

ARIES (March 21-April 19): Your horoscope this week comes to you
courtesy of the ancient Chinese book of oracles, the *I Ching,* translated
by Richard Wilhelm. The title of your reading is "Liberation." Here's the
heart of it: "In times of standstill it will happen that inferior people attach
themselves to you and even seem to grow indispensable. But when the
time of deliverance draws near, with its call to action, you must free
yourself from such chance acquaintances with whom you have no inner
connections. For otherwise the friends who share your views, on whom
you could rely and together with whom you could accomplish great
things, mistrust you and stay away."

TAURUS (April 20-May 20): I predict that animals will be especially
attracted to you in the coming days. The light of the sun will seem to
possess an uncanny fluidity and sparkle. You may experience vivid
fantasies like seeing a talking cat in a tree or hearing advice coming from
a soap dispenser. Strangers may gaze at you for no apparent reason, and
even your friends will have unusual feelings for you. You may be reunited
with precious memories that have been lost to you for a long time. In the
consciousness industry, we call this *natural magic time.*

GEMINI (May 21-June 20): "I am a fugitive from the law of averages,"
writes Sage Price, one of my Gemini readers. "I swore a long time ago that
I would never be taken alive by anything that was average, commonplace,
standard, or ordinary." His attitude is especially recommended for you
right now. In order to harvest the potential rewards the cosmos has
prepared for you, you've got to push to excel; you've got to cultivate a
lust to be unique; you've even got to be willing to risk making other
people envious of you. One of the worst sins you could commit would be
half-assed mediocrity.

CANCER (June 21-July 22): Siam's King Mongut had a harem of 9,000
women. On his deathbed, however, before succumbing to the ravages of
syphilis, he confessed that he was truly in love with only 700 of his
lovers--less than eight percent of the total. Why he didn't concentrate on
that eight percent and forget the rest we'll never know. Don't make a
similar mistake in the coming months, Cancerian. You will have the chance
to indulge in a great variety of pleasurable adventures, but only a fraction
will have the potential of nourishing your soul.

LEO (July 23-Aug. 22): What's the best way to defeat a dragon? Some
fairy tales propose the use of brute force, while others suggest that the
protection of a magical amulet is preferable. Still other myths say the
optimum strategy is to use stealth to avoid the dragon completely,
though that usually means living in constant fear of the beast. From what
I can tell, Leo, your future happiness will be best served if you use none
of the above, but instead employ one of the two little-known methods of
dragon-taming: either ask it sly riddles to confuse it or else pacify it
through the entertaining power of your songs and dances.

VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22): "We have art so that we may not die of
reality," said Friedrich Nietzsche. While I'm sure you won't literally be
killed off by reality this week, it could bore you half to death--unless you
aggressively subject yourself to massive amounts of really fine art. I'm
not just talking about listening to formulaic pop music or getting a
glimpse of the *Mona Lisa* on an ad for the upcoming film *The Da Vinci
Code.* I'm referring to intensive exposure to inspired painting, sculpture,
music, architecture, dance, and literature--sublime forms of creative
expression that you may have to work hard to find.

LIBRA (Sept. 23-Oct. 22): To be of real service to you, I have to do more
than be simplistically optimistic. It's important for me to be your
cheerleader, counterbalancing the negative reinforcement that so often
comes your way, but it would be irresponsible of me to inflate you with
false hopes. This week, for instance, I have to report that there's a 65
percent chance of you achieving a major breakthrough in at least one of
your relationships, but *only* if you lose every ounce of self-pity and
refuse to blame anyone for your sorrows. I also foresee the possibility of
you healing 55 percent of one of your old wounds, but only if you stretch
yourself to learn a new lesson from the original trauma.

SCORPIO (Oct. 23-Nov. 21): A few years ago, executives at a major
record company signed my band to their label. They loved us. We were
the next big thing. Or at least that's what they told us up until the
moment when they demanded that we change the titles and lyrics to
some of our songs. They were afraid that the cigarette company Philip
Morris would sue us for our song "Marlboro Man Jr." and that Kmart would
sue us for our song "Kmart Tribal Ballet." We agreed to make the changes
only because we had no choice: If we refused, our music would have never
been heard. The company owned the rights to it. Let this serve as an
example of what *not* to do in the coming weeks, Scorpio. Do all the
research and strategic long-range thinking necessary to avoid getting into
a position where people you don't know very well control your fate.

SAGITTARIUS (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): It's a good time to reconnect with your
childhood memories--especially the good ones that made your heart sing.
You will derive great practical benefits from remembering specific scenes
that embodied the essence of who you were back in the beginning. Was
there a time you read an exciting book under the covers with a flashlight
way past your bedtime? Or waded in the creek searching for a fantastic
treasure some big kid told you about? I hope you give yourself the rare
pleasure of reliving those events, trusting that they'll provide you with
the exact emotional lift you need.

CAPRICORN (Dec. 22-Jan. 19): This would be an excellent week to tilt all
the paintings on the walls of your home so they're hanging a bit crooked,
refer to yourself as the "Wizard of Desserts," and stand in a mud puddle
up to your ankles. I suggest that you further take advantage of the
astrological opportunities by using a felt-tip pen to draw tattoos of magic
symbols on your body, making love with grocery bags over your heads,
and reciting dirty limericks in front of people who think you're too serious.
It's high time for you to lose your cool.

AQUARIUS (Jan. 20-Feb. 18): Metaphorically speaking, you will duck at
just the right time to miss the cream pie that's headed toward your face.
At least that's what I predict, Aquarius. In addition to your good timing
and skill at protecting yourself, you will also have a knack for avoiding
messy complications, which is lucky given the fact that people around you
may act as if messy complications are fun and interesting. Here's further
good news: You will have an instinct for detecting the slivers of truth that
are embedded in wads of total BS. That will allow you to act with lucid
efficiency while others are out fighting non-existent demons.

PISCES (Feb. 19-March 20): One day 17 years ago I was lying alone on my
acupuncturist's table, floating in that hypnogogic state you sometimes
slip into when your ears, wrists, feet, and forehead are pierced with
needles. At one point she came in to check on me. Patting me on the
upper arm, she murmured, "You will live a long life." I received it as a
prophecy, as a gift from her intuition to mine. In the days and months
that followed, it stripped away the habitual anxiety I carried around with
me and freed me to live with more courage and abandon. It gave me
license to believe more wildly in my own potential. Now I'm offering you
the same gift, Pisces. If you're reading this horoscope today, you will live
a long life.

Thanks Mr. Brezsny!

Want to see some art?

The Seattle Erotic Art Festival website put up a preview gallery page with a small taste of what will hang. Check it out. Overall, I'm pleased with what we chose. A few, including some not in the preview gallery, really spoke to me in the way that good art does.

Part of last week's conversation with my shrink:

"I packed up my painting supplies, but did leave out my drawing tools. I am going to work again. Somehow."

"That makes sense. You can't take a deep enough breath that is required to paint."

His words have stuck with me. I can't breathe big right now. It does make sense. Yesterday he explained what's been going on these last many weeks:
"You are reliving the repression you felt as a child."

The thought hit me hard. I wonder if I needed to so it could come to the surface and my adult self can see and feel what the child couldn't make sense of.

Yesterday was another one of those tackle details kind of day. It included dealing with my paintings. I brought 3 paintings to the photographer whose studio space I covet, so I can have 35mm slides. He specializes in shooting artwork.

In addition, I contacted the man who will have the show in July and we are setting up a time to meet this week because he wants to see my submissions.

And...while I grabbed some lunch at the pub around the corner, the owner and chef approached me and asked if I'd like to hang my work there. The conversation came up because of a painting on my desktop. I had my laptop and chose to go to a place without wifi because it would force me to sit there and clean out my inbox. I had over 1,100 emails. Many are notes to myself. I'm now down to 800 and plan on doing more power clearing. The image on my desktop is one of my favorite paintings. The chef and owner happened to see it and expressed interest. So I showed them a few other pieces. We'll see what happens.

It's odd. I write all this without feeling much of anything inside. Although I can't paint right now, it seems I can't run from it.

Life is interesting.

Home again, and it's going to be a quiet night. After very little sleep last night, I feel myself crashing.

Had a wonderful afternoon with the Bear, a bunch of Livejournalers that I'm too tired to link to right now, and a few others who are nonbloggers. If you're in Seattle, go see Gay Sex In The 70s or as the Bear said over dinner, New York Gay Sex In The 70s. It's playing at the Varsity, for one week only.

I walked back into our building this evening and it seems they cleaned up all the hallway carpets. It smells fresh and clean. No fire smells anywhere. Nice.

Stuff from this morning, but I couldn't publish to Blogger until now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke at 9am with a pounding headache. It must be due to the middle of the night excitement (see previous entry). After that earlier blog piece, I went to bed and spent a couple hours trying to return to sleep. It was cold in my apartment, with the fan going and windows open a little more than usual. I'd try to relax, and found myself shaking...

Must have fallen asleep about 5.

When I woke, I wondered if it had been all a dream. I couldn't smell any smoke. My apartment was toasty warm. The sun was shining. I threw on some clothes because I needed coffee. Stepping out my door into the hallway it all came back. The hallway reeks of smoke. Before going back to sleep last night I stuffed a towel under my door to prevent more of the smoke smell from filtering into my space. It apparently worked well.

It's all strange.

I think about my neighbors who now have virtually nothing. My heart breaks for them.

On to other things.

Yesterday, I spent a wonderful afternoon over food at Septieme with Allan. It's the second time we met, and both times, it felt as if I was hanging out with an old friend. He's wonderful and easy to talk with. Today, some of the Seattle division of the Brooklyn Leather Posse are getting together for Gay Sex In the 70's.

Afterward I'll go through my closet and cupboards and see what I can put together for our neighbor.

Total aside - one of the quirks I love about Seattle is the strange weather. Yesterday was gorgeous and sunny although still unseasonably cool. While with Allan, the weather changed. The sky turned darkish, almost yellow green. I had a birthday gathering to get to and encountered thunder and lightning. The rain began to turn to snow. Trippy and fabulous.

Other sad news...Luna was killed yesterday.
For those of you who don't know, Luna is an orca who was separated from his pod about 5 years ago. Who's Luna?
Snippets from yesterday's Seattle PI:

In the end, the wayward orca Luna died as he had lived and become well-known -- alone. And lonely...
One minute Luna was frolicking around the back of a boat, as he did routinely in an attempt to secure the companionship he craved.

The next minute, he was sucked into a tube containing a propeller powered by a 1,700-horsepower engine. It chopped the whale into bits. Until authorities recovered a large piece of the carcass, they were unsure they would even be able to positively identify the creature.

...Luna's sad saga first came to light in spring 2001, when he turned up in Nootka Sound...When the L pod returned to Puget Sound without Luna and an older male, his uncle, conservationists speculated the two may have been hunting together when the elderly uncle died. Others wondered if Luna had been purposely shunned by his pod. There's no way to know the truth.

Orcas enjoy a lifespan comparable to humans. Scientists who study orcas say the 1-year-old calf being left alone was not unlike a human infant suddenly isolated in the woods. Fortunately, though, Luna was able to catch his own dinner.

At first, Luna stayed about halfway up Nootka Sound, avoiding boats as a normal orca would. But after a time he began to follow vessels. He had his favorites. Orcas love to splash in the water together, to rub each other, and they enjoy close family bonds. Luna bonded with boats.

Then he started soliciting petting by humans...

Poor Luna.

A little after hours craziness.

If this comes off disjointed, it's because the adrenalin is leaving my body and I'm still almost in disbelief. Why am I posting at 2:45 am when I'm normally asleep by 11?

We had a fire in our building tonight.

I just got back into the apartment, but can still smell the lingering smoke. About 1:30 I woke up because I could hear this loud engine type sound. Not too surprising because my large bedroom and living/kitchen window face the street. I tried to get back to sleep but couldn't. So I get up, look out the window and our street is lined...with at least 3 maybe 4 large firetrucks. My eyes travel near our entrance and I see the hose...going into our courtyard.

My heart begins to pound.

I hop up on my kitchen counter to peer out the little window that faces the courtyard (I have a corner unit). The building is shaped like a horseshoe. One gated entrance into the courtyard, and then two doors, one to each wing. The hoses were heading into the wing across from me.

So...I'm not quite sure what to do. I don't hear alarms. Get dressed and I step into my hallway where there is no sound. Going to the stairwell and peer into the courtyard, I see firemen...(oohhh)...milling in the yard. Wonder if I should leave. Are my neighbors awake? At the window again, I notice our sidewalk filled with folks. From there, I decide if nothing else, I need to get outside and see what's up.

We have about 75 units, three floors plus a basement.

I step in the hallway one more time and see our poor fabulous manager, white as a ghost and ask him what happened. "Unit 4 caught fire." He's heading through the hallways, popping open every window. (Apparently told to do so at this point by the firemen).
Back in my place I throw on shoes, coat, and my mind reels. What do I take with me? Just in case.

Grab my knapsack and laptop and leave. As I walk back into the hallway, and down the stairs, the smoke alarms in our hallway begin to go off. I can now smell smoke.

I step into our courtyard...dazed, still not quite awake and into the group of neighbors. We hung on the street for about half hour. Everyone looking a little shellshocked.

It seems one of the basement apartments caught fire. They lost everything.

The property owner was there as well. The house next to us (also part of the rental company)...was vacant, so they turned on the heat and let us sit in there. We filled up a couple rooms, sitting on the carpeted floors, enjoying the little bit of warmth from not being outside. The fire was out...but they needed levels of CO2 (I think) to come down before we were allowed back in.

One neighbor saw me and came up to me, worried. "I ran to every single door pounding wildly to get people out. I can't believe you didn't hear me!"

"Dont' be surprised. I obviously never heard the 4 firetrucks pull up with sirens either, even though they were right at my bedroom window, near my bed."

Talk about being in a sound sleep.

He then told me, because we've hung out in the past, that he especially pounded on my door really hard, over and over. Then figured I wasn't there.

Surreal. It is all surreal.

My heart goes out to my neighbor who lost everything. Really nice person. She's been doing the painting and some fixing up of units as they are vacated. I'll see what I can do this weekend to help her.

The windows are now open, my ceiling fan going and I'm a little too wound to get back to sleep right now. Also, the fire department just brought in more fans, and I can hear those going as well.

All week I had a nagging feeling about a fire in our building.

Just speechless.

"Do you know someone who needs hours alone every day? Who loves quiet conversations about feelings or ideas, and can give a dynamite presentation to a big audience, but seems awkward in groups and maladroit at small talk? Who has to be dragged to parties and then needs the rest of the day to recuperate? Who growls or scowls or grunts or winces when accosted with pleasantries by people who are just trying to be nice?

If so, do you tell this person he is "too serious," or ask if he is okay? Regard him as aloof, arrogant, rude? Redouble your efforts to draw him out?

If you answered yes to these questions, chances are that you have an introvert on your hands—and that you aren't caring for him properly. Science has learned a good deal in recent years about the habits and requirements of introverts. It has even learned, by means of brain scans, that introverts process information differently from other people (I am not making this up). If you are behind the curve on this important matter, be reassured that you are not alone. Introverts may be common, but they are also among the most misunderstood and aggrieved groups in America, possibly the world...."

From Caring For Your Introvert by Jonathan Rauch, Atlantic Monthly - March 2003.

Good article. Read the whole thing.
I think I'll be sending this to the staff at work.

Thanks to imaenad for the link.

Morford for today ~
Let's All Get ADD! What do coffee, cell phones, the Net, stress and sleep drugs have in common? You, silly.

"No one is getting enough sleep.

No one is getting enough sleep because everyone is so damned stressed.

Everyone is so damned stressed because everyone has way, way too much to do and far too little time in which to do it.

Everyone has way too much to do and far too little time in which to do it because modern technology has made us a thousandfold more accessible and more wired up and more media drenched and able to communicate in 157 different instant digitized ways, has given us entree to so much astounding information at so much faster and more unbearable rates that it has, in effect, compressed time into sweaty slippery little knots we are forever trying to untie as quickly as we possibly can even though we can't.

Slathered all over this is the fact that the Internet is a gorgeous wanton free-for-all of deliciously annoying distraction, porn and Instant Messenger and iTunes, eBay and Amazon and roughly one million blogs, RSS feeds and multimedia and movie trailers and the great time-sucking killer app of the 20th century, e-mail, and did I mention the porn and the music?"...

...the whole thing.

Painting - insights and outsights.

It is unseasonably cold this morning. The sky is gray and the wind stings my cheeks. Walking east to west with a hot venti coffee in hand, the air forcefully rushes up from the bay.

Where is spring?

Painting. I finally, yes finally finished two paintings on Tuesday. One for NYC and the other that belongs to the Bear and bunny. I thought, while I had the palette filled, I'd tackle at least 2 other paintings that aren't quite done. Maybe I could revive them and in doing so, personally engage in their life. Maybe I'd fall in love with the act of nurturing them.

It wasn't meant to be.

The anxiety began about an hour before I tackled the work. Chai. A chai was needed for fortification. Upon my return, not stopping to sit or check email, I pulled out the paints, poured medium, grabbed a brush and began to sweat. And shake. The physical symptoms(?) dramatically increased as I continued to work. I was drenched.

Anger overtook me. Quickly, I finished the two canvases and decided to clean up. In case I needed to touch them one more time, I left out my supplies.

It seems I can't paint at this time.
That scares me.
Yet I did not want to call it quits.

On Tuesday morning, before I worked on the paintings, I came across an image that brought back my desire to paint. I can clearly see the finished painting in my mind. It will be large, at least 5 feet. First I need the space to paint something that size, so it will be a while. But I was hungry. I can still taste it.

Carrying that hunger, my physical reaction to painting later on frustrated me.

If I can't paint, I can still draw. Pulling out my sketchbook I would introduce myself to the image. There's no reason why I can't work out the ideas, do drawing after drawing, and fuck the image first with pencils and later on, ink.

While drawing, I burst into tears. It all felt so uncomfortable and painful. I slammed shut the sketchbook and stopped for the day.

Today I will put away my paints but will keep out my drawing tools and even pull out watercolor brushes, paper and black paint. I AM going to get past this. Somehow. Someway.

There is something big blocking me. I haven't shared what's been happening in the last week because I'm not ready...still trying to make sense of it all. Thing is, the massive physical reaction that came with my attempt to paint confirmed the insistent awareness that's been weighing on me - the sense of past violation done to, not my physical self, but my creative source.

As each week of my sabbatical passed, I carried an increasing amount of shame because I couldn't paint. I had so looked forward doing so. Now, I feel quite fortunate that I've had this time to finally, dig in and discover what is really going on. Two memories flashed back. One, from 1983 from a painting instructor. She would look at my work and for some reason, saw something odd but couldn't put her finger on it. She felt some type of disconnect between me and the work. She threw around phrases "fear of failure" and "fear of success" but that didn't feel right to her.

In 1995, the painting prof I worked most closely with also became puzzled. He had referred to me as the department's prized racehorse. The ability was there, but there was something not allowing me to get to the other side. So much so that I actually saw his frustration turn to anger. His face became red as he tried to pinpoint the same disconnect that the first prof noticed. He didn't get it and so couldn't explain it to me. At the time, I was clueless.

These 6 weeks of intense therapy, in spite of the pain, confusion and despair, has been a huge blessing. I want to grab a hold of my painting demon. I need to be introduced so when it arises in the future...I can name it, kick it to the side and move on.

At first I mourned the idea that I had wasted this time off and now cherish it for what it is. A time for further healing.

Three Little Pigs or How We Love and Play Nice


Last Thursday, I met two coworkers for lunch. These guys each have a really special place in my heart. We share, tease and love each other. I missed them, spending this time away from work.

There they were. Walking into the restaurant, they were waiting for me.

"Gaggie, we brought you something."
"Cool. Thanks. What is it?"
Well...the musician grabs a plastic bag and pulls out an item.
"You see, we took up a collection for you this morning."

He places a little plastic shotglass, sitting in a colorful little rooster on the table. The shotglass was filled with...yes...a creamy, whitish substance.

I burst out laughing and my mind reels.
Is it really what I think it is, in which case I'll down it right here and now. Or, did they substitute something else for what really appears to be their sex juice?

Then, one of them says "Sorry about the lumps but R. is having a small problem with infection."

We all lose it. It was priceless.

The shotglass in the little colorful plastic rooster became my proud centerpiece for the table. Our waitress came over to take our order. She spies the glass.
"What is in that?"
Matter of factly I look at her and respond "well, you know..."

Her jaw dropped open. A little taken aback, she then quickly and impressively regained her composure, took our order and proceeded to give us great service. Yes, it was a great lunch and again reminded me how I love the people I work with.

The substance in the glass?
Slightly wet mayonnaise seasoned with a specky bit of fleeting disappointment because it wasn't the real thing.

A little late with Rob B. and Mark M.

Wednesday, and I'm a tad behind. It was a very busy morning, beginning at 6 am when my alarm woke me out of the deadest, soundest sleep I've had in...well...I can't remember the last time. It was a solid 8 hours. Glorious.

Why the alarm on my sabbatical? I made plans to pop into work for a couple hours to pull a query for a large mailing. It was the one work thing I needed to do, cuz of deadline, since extending my time off. From there, after a few hours, it was another therapy appointment, and then a leisurely walk in today's drizzle.

Now I'm home. Hot tea, a blanket, and I've gotten very sleepy. Before the zzzz's delay me further, here are our Wednesday guys.

"You know what's brilliant, in a skin-peeling, brain-grinding, I-can't-feel-my-soul sort of way? Target marketing.

Target marketing, like when they take some toxic product you don't really need and which you already know rots the lining of your skull and which could probably power a nuclear reactor, and then they put it into a special new package and pump it full with $100 million in marketing money and aim it straight at some exclusive demographic that's not actually exclusive but which they want you to think is exclusive so if you belong to it you can say, Oh my goodness, I'm part of a sly, hip subculture and they're speaking directly to me. I am so cool."

Read the rest of Morford in his latest column.

Rob Brezsny's Freewill Astrology freaked me out today. I glanced quickly at mine before emailing it to the staff at work...as I've done every Wednesday for the last few years. It's fun to share...and they look forward to it.

Capricorn:
A reader named Christy McMunn wrote to tell me that she'll be running for president of the U.S. in 2016. She promises that she will ruthlessly express the raw, naked facts, whatever the consequences may be. Her motto: "If you cannot handle the truth, be careful of what you ask." I urge you to make that your modus operandi in the coming weeks, Capricorn. Be a greedy hunter in quest of the genuine story, the inside dope, and the piercing revelation. In preparation, strip yourself of any belief that might interfere with your receptivity to and enjoyment of the raw, naked facts.

The reason it jacked with me is because I've been getting hit with powerful insight upon insight since Saturday. I haven't blogged about it although I may once the puzzle pieces begin to shape a clearer image. Instead, I have a word doc on my desktop entitled - My Bad Day. I thought I'd only be writing for the day, but it's continued. I date and time each entry because for some odd reason, it intuitively feels critical to document this unfolding period in my life. Anyway...I woke today and decided it's all garbage. It seemed senseless to continue this pursuit because I decided I am just being crazy, which of course nagged at me because I felt it was denial screaming.

Then I read my horoscope.
And so...back to the job that appears to be this sabbatical. Deep digging.

Balance.

Instead of more of my internal pain, here's a little levity for you.
Not work safe.

Funny, funny.

On a more pleasant note~

There are still 13 goldfish in the little pond in our courtyard. They were happily feeding and swimming around. It's been a year since they've called the pond home and I'm surprised that they all made it, in spite of this year's cold winter.

The cherry blossoms are gorgeous. When I walk down the street, I'm surrounded by a blanket of pink. Spring in Seattle is glorious. It is the prettiest time of year to see the city.

Not only have I not tired of my neighborhood, but each day I step outside, I'm still in awe. I love where I live. It is balm.

Today's nugget~

"A happy life is impossible; the best that a man can attain is a heroic life."
-Arthur Schopenhauer


The quote jumped out at me in a book I'm reading. It feels like a kind of dumb book, but it is thought provoking. Maybe the act of moving my mind disqualifies the perceived stupidity I've placed upon the book. I am learning a little about Schopenhauer, the pessimistic philosopher, and do not agree with all he says, but it doesn't mean there isn't some truth tucked inside.

I believe more and more in that quote. Yes, happiness can come in snippets. But I believe anyone who strives for full and complete bliss is missing the point of living. That's the great assumption that people make when they jump into buddhism. Nirvana. A peaceful life. Crap. All it does is provide another tool for living...how to deal with what life gives you. Worthwhile, but it's not a hero. It won't pull you out of suffering. Instead, I think it clearly reveals what true suffering is, and in doing so, maybe we become better equipped to deal.

It doesn't mean you aren't going to hurt, be afraid or rage. Living a mindful life means being aware of all the blood, mud and weeds inside. Yes, the sun will shine once in a while.

It is a matter of being, not of becoming. A striving for some unattainable perfection is ridiculous and as much of a fantasy as a fairy tale. The knight in shining armor is swapped out for a cushion and a chant.
Same fucking thing.

Other religions speak of praying to be at peace which involves a great denial of the here and now. You see, by acknowledging the pain and getting your hands dirty, then you have to admit that your traditional ideologies are misleading.

Nontraditional religions have a similar pattern, be it money, love, material stuff, food, etc.
"If only I had...then I'd be happy, fulfilled, content."
Fill in the dots. It's all the same.

Yes, I'm angry. I'm disgusted and I'm angry. So be it. That too will change with the wind.

Life sucks. We just are. What are we going to do with what we have?
What am I going to do with it?

We've been dealt our cards, just because. Our job, our purpose, is how to play those cards. I've spent the last few weeks feeling the shock of what I've been dealt. The sad part is, I am still flipping over cards. And I am still reeling.

At this time I no longer feel the overwhelming pain; the leech sucking everything out of me. The latest insight has replaced the pain with numbness. In the last week I've filled pages, with what is not my typical neat penmanship. The lines and curves are nervous and at times incoherent. Very scrawly and messy.

I still want to write about the evolved koan, but because of new circumstances, it is in a holding pattern. Right now I'm torn between putting the words out there and sharing the process as it evolves or waiting for things to make more sense before I reveal.

Until I decide, I keep these words in front of me -
the best a man can attain is a heroic life.

Heroism isn't necessarily dramatic gestures and actions. Sometimes, it's as much as forcing myself to do the little things that need to be done, in spite of everything else.

So I grabbed my knapsack and headed out the door at 7:30 for my therapy session. Walked to the east, and into the office. From there, back up, over the hill and down to drop off video rentals and then went to Septieme to write, read and grab breakfast. Afterwards, walked back up the hill to home.

I've checked off a bunch of personal administrative tasks since then. Activated a new credit card, transferred the balance from the old, cancelled the old one, registered for LLC, and now write. I'll answer a couple emails and then will make myself glaze those fucking paintings. It is time.

Sometimes being heroic is a greater act, such as the one I struggle with every week, but all I can do are the little ones. Pushing myself out of bed in the morning and accomplish what appears to be the simplest of tasks. Remember to breathe. Be reminded and know that I am no longer a child, and no amount of wishing will bring back what I have lost. So I move on.

I move on.

Heh...freudian slip. I originally typed: I move one.

I am here. Today I have the strength to do the little things.
With that, I do move one.
Me.

Knowledge Is Power.


I ran across a blog entry yesterday that sent chills through me. Sobering. And yet...very, very important. In response to South Dakota's new abortion ban, one very courageous writer posted in her February 23rd entry, information on how to properly do a dilation and curettage, the first entry in an abortion manual she is creating. As she says in her disclaimer:

"I believe this information has been kept from women for too long, and there is no reason they should not know about a procedure being performed on their own body, and no reason women should be kept in the dark about how to perform it -- especially if someone they know is having their health jeopardized by this law."

If you choose to read this critically important entry, For The Women Of South Dakota, make sure you also read this one as well.

UPDATE: There have been on and off link problems with Molly's blog today. The actual entries are February 23 - "For Women of South Dakota", and February 24 - "For those who seem to misunderstand". Just scroll down for the correct entries.

I know this is a contentious and highly emotional issue but the information needs to be shared, passed and spread throughout the blogosphere, if for no other reason than to remind people that the only thing an abortion ban does is force women to take matters in their own hands. Since the beginning of time we have made our own choice and a handful of misogynistic, sexually repressed, insecure, unhappy, power hungry men are never going to change that.

For a little synchronicity, Mark Morford wrote about the South Dakota ban in today's column, S. Dakota Slaps Up Its Women.

Yesssss!~

I just...finally...had the most amazing session where, instead of leaving, feeling hit by a truck and walking home numb like a zombie....my mind was reeling with excitement. It is truly encouraging. All these puzzles pieces came together. It felt as if I had flicked the first domino and then they all fell, in a gorgeous, visual design.

I promise, I'll write about it within the next week sometime, hopefully sooner than later. First I need to gather my thoughts because it is such a circular process.

I am not deluding myself into thinking it's smooth sailing from here, but I needed the sun to shine, and it has.

Let's talk about the weather~

In today's column, Mark Morford writes about our current climate:

"There is little doubt that climate change is happening, fast and dramatic and dangerous. The big question is why, and whether mankind is much of a factor, and whether there's anything we can do to slow or prevent it.

Which is exactly the point where your common sense joins hands with your intuition which then French kisses your intellect and you say, Oh my God are you serious, 7 billion methane-blasting carbon-monoxide-spitting pollution-happy bipeds stomping around the planet for a thousand years and hammering the environment and sucking down natural resources the way a Republican senator sucks down a Zoloft-Tanqueray lunch, and we haven't had a lick of effect? Please."

Read the entire column in Sunny Weather Creeps Me Out.

For this week's astrological forecast, pop into Rob Brezsny's Freewill Astrology.

I can still feel the Bear paw~


I may not have community in the larger sense of being a part of a big group or culture, but I sure as hell have community in a rock-solid intimate daily life way.

My community is family. My community cares about me in the same way I care about them. My community is there when someone is hurting or has not only a need, but many times, even a want. My community not only loves me...but adores me. And I, them. My community has increased over the last couple years.

Genuine. Filled with integrity. Gentle people. Caring. And...very important, they too are perv pigs.

What prompts this entry?
Something that happened yesterday.

Last week I made a Bear date day. He and I...for today. As life progresses and becomes more difficult, it has become harder to connect with people. Even when I try, there is a detachment. For example, Sunday night. We got a group together, went to the movies. Then food. Laughed. Talked. Hung out. I love everyone at the table. It was good to be surrounded by them. And yet...while engaged, I was simultaneously standing back because the pain created a separation between the others and myself.

Be in the moment. Be present. To be in both is...challenging. So it is easier to be alone.

Yesterday was a big session day. Once I get a little distance, I'm sure I'll write about it. It left me trashed.
It is not new memories or hidden secrets. Instead, I am overwhelmed with the realization of how much pain a little child can begin to touch before they need to tuck it away.

This grief leaves me paralyzed.

I called the Bear last night to cancel today's plans. You see, I feel...toxic. I fear the heartbreak that is pouring out of me will contaminate and drown anyone I come in contact with.

In an attempt to explain this to the Bear, I discovered he would not be moved. Futile exercise. My messy, bloody state doesn't scare him. More importantly, my heart was massaged by his big bear paw of resolve.

Family.

It is difficult enough to ask for help. We aren't comfortable with pain, with disability, with anything that doesn't appear to fit the norm. I believe this is what separates family from everyone else. They are there for you, regardless of how sloppy everything seems to be.

Part of what I need to learn is that when I feel incredibly isolated, I must learn to reach out to my community...my family. Although they may not fully understand what I'm going through, I do know their support lightens the load. I cheat them by not allowing them to share in all parts of my life.

This reminds me of a few people. :-)

Because my replacement is doing such a great job...determined not only by his brilliance but by my lack of anxiety around workstuff, I've requested and just received approval to take the extra two weeks. We are allowed 6 weeks of sabbatical, and I had booked only four weeks.

This means I am now only at my halfway point in my time off.

It provides some needed breathing room.

For something a little lighter than the last week~

How about a little Peter Sarsgaard in suspension bondage?
Check out the March edition of Vanity Fair.

From the bondage top's LJ, here are some more.

While I'm at it, here is an Annie Leibovitz photo essay: Men, Beams and Dreams. I love structural, industrial images. These are fun to look at.

I haven't had the desire to be touched in about 2 weeks. Very, very, very unlike me. My heart is so raw that it filters out to my flesh. My skin can't bear the contact. Any form of physical intimacy right now feels like too much. I fear that if I'm really touched right now, I'll fully lose it.

This is quite unsettling because it is so very much not like me. Yes I know it's temporary but still...

Today I have reached out to some good friends. Time away and out of myself will be a good thing. It's a bunny and me day. He came by early and right now is laying on my bed, reading one of the sex story anthologies from my bookcase. I'm sitting here trying to get it together, so I can jump in the shower and then we can hit brunch.

Later, I've gathered the bunny, Auxugen, Qnetter and his honey to join me in seeing the Academy Award-Norminated Animated Shorts playing at the Varsity.

Guess it's time to begin my day.

List of good things.


So, have I told you lately that this analysis stuff is probably the craziest thing I've ever done in my life? I mean it's one thing to have a therapist, someone you bounce things off of...a guide. A counselor. An objective ear. A hand to hold in difficult times. It's another thing for someone to give me a few tools and some safety gear so I can jackhammer through the hardened concrete that has filled the large gaps in my heart.

I'll write more at some point. But what I need to do now to remind myself that I am on the right path is list the positive changes and good gifts that I'm seeing because of this work. Each day, I mentally check off a reminder or two. It is what keeps me going.

~As I wrote once before, I care less what others think. That alone is a biggie. Refreshing and freeing. Yeah, stuff still stings, but it's different now.

~The LLC weekend coming up is a beaut. First ThorNYC asked me if I was planning on attending. Honestly, I never had the desire to. Not my scene. I prefer to leave the organized political stuff in the hands of those who get off on it. It's not my fetish. But for some reason I felt my hard "no" soften.

The weekend of the SEAF jurying, I was approached and asked if I'd like to sit on a panel for LLC. Very surprisingly, I jumped at it even though I had no idea how I'd be able to afford it. First, our proposal needed to be accepted, which it was. Then, thanks to Bad Faggot I was offered a room in Brooklyn for the whole time I'm in NYC! This week, Hoss gifted me with his extra frequent flyer miles. I now have a free roundtrip (non-stop both ways!) ticket in my hands.

Hmmm....methinks I am very much meant to be in Brooklyn in April.

~My boss is granting me something I've requested for the last couple years. Also huge.

~The painting I sold, that will be shipping out.

~My migraines have disappeared.
I had yet to share this news with you. I wanted to wait and see. 2 years ago, in December, I began migraines. I knew it was due to a big emotional release in therapy. The first migraine hit within 24 hours of a declaration I made in a session: "I wish I had never been born."

2 years to the month, this past December, I was on the phone with my parents. They had asked me about my therapy. I began talking, matter of factly...calmly. Within this conversation I tried to explain some positives, and I used my birthday as the example.

"Mom, Dad, you don't need to worry. There is progress. You see, two years ago I realized my birth was a mistake. I'm not supposed to be here. So I ignored my birthday. Last year, I chose to celebrate my unbirthday, the day I should not have been born. This year, I am celebrating my birthday."

There is silence on the other end.

Then I realized what I had done. I could not believe I told my mother that I shouldn't have been born. Crap.

My dad jumped in and said "you wanted to be born. Your mom was in labor for 72 hours!" I heard him, but thought to myself "yeah...that proves that I didn't want to come out."

For two years, my migraines came every 3 weeks, for a couple days, like clockwork. My last one was in early December, before talking with my parents. The next one was due a couple days after speaking with my parents.

I have not had a migraine since my blurt to the folks.

Many things.

~Being recognized on another site.

~Reconnecting with some people who were some of the first great pervs I met when I arrived in Seattle.

~Getting to know new folks.

~Oh yes, once again I want to thank the person who sent me the virtual bunch of roses on V-Day. Every time I go to my user page it makes me smile.

~Heh. This is the kind of thing that's been happening. And it's all about timing. As I'm writing this entry, an email came through. My shrink forwarded me an email he had just received. It is a call for art submissions for queer artists who have been hurt by religion. The show goes up in July, and the deadline for submissions is April 3rd. This is so fucking not a coincidence.

Lots of doors opening and interesting stuff happening. It seems there is something new every week. I need to keep looking at this type of development because honestly, right now, it is the only thing that is keeping me on this path. I have to trust my shrink quite deeply to continue which, with the pain, is tough to do most days. I continually fear that the deeper I go, I will just break and lose it. Go crazy for real. Become lost in some alternate reality.

Taking a moment to see the larger picture helps to ground me.

Each step rips me open, further and greater. Each move uncovers more cobwebs, revealing more ghosts.
And...when I shut down the clanging noise of my head...and listen to the quiet in my heart, I know I'm on the right path.

One more time!

About a month ago, one of my blog entries was listed in the Daily Bloggerback best of blogs round-up on Pierre Tristam's website. Well it happened again. Mr. Tristam included one of my koan entries in today's list. Check out Candide's Notebooks for the full list. And please take a little time to explore some of his other links. It's good stuff.

There is so much to write. Each day, my heart pain is greater. I thought I knew, from failed love relationships, what a broken heart felt like. This has similar characteristics, yet reaches depths I never imagined possible.
Breathing...Be in it.
Time to be with it.
I can't fight it. I can't hide.
I can no longer push it away.

My koan of "why am I not painting now?" evolved on Tuesday to "who am I if I'm not The Painter?". It's a question I don't even want to look at. You see, my whole identity is wrapped in painter. This is reminiscent of when I was in leather training. One night I was told, "It is time to give up your leathers." When the reality of what he requested hit...big, sloppy quiet tears immediately drenched my face.

"But how will people know me? What will I do without any of it?"

He responded "they will know by your eyes. Your light will radiate and attract others and you will see them as well".
My identification as a sexual being was so tied to my boots, my jacket, my toys, my books, my attendance at events...and it was time to let it all go.

Tough lesson. Scary lesson. It was one of the most valuable lessons in my entire life. It showed me that the physical, the material...are only trappings. We place so much weight on it for our identity. But who are we really?

Now, it is time to do that again. I am more afraid because I realized that my identity as Painter is core. I am not man or woman. I am painter. A genderless, highly sexual, creative being. It is how I see, smell, taste, feel and touch the world around me.

It is the reason that I never fit.

What if I let go of The Painter? What does that say about why I felt great isolation as a child? What would then be the justification? Holding onto the label of freak allows me to make sense of being shut out, excluded, and ignored. It allows me to remain the victim, instead of the victor.

Freak or pervert need not be terms of shame. They can be an empowering tool. Labels and anything else we wear on the exterior can be used with strength. But it matters how we hold it to ourselves. What is the reason for wearing it? The intent? The context?

We are each unique, with our own viewpoints and way of being in the world. In this, we are all freaks. We are also collectively the same. We all need to love and be loved. Feed others and be fed. Touch and be touched. Give and receive. Cry, laugh, dance. In this, then the term freak no longer applies.

We are all ordinary.

Yes, it is a very big pill to swallow.

So who am I once I pull down ALL the labels? It is only a pile of dust? Rubble? Or is there a gem of substance that's been hidden for 46 years? What does this thing...this "it" look like?

It is time for me to find out.

Seeing.

Morford is back with a column on what he saw on his vacation while Brezsny shares what he sees for the upcoming week in Freewill Astrology.

I didn't think I'd be posting this entry so soon, but when I wrote "fast and furious" in my earlier entry...I had no idea. It's sped up again. Therefore, it now feels right to begin my story. I've never worked a koan before...not really, and especially not with any kind of mindfulness. In spite of the pain, there is a delicate beauty and magic to what is happening inside me as the question moves through me.

My painting koan.

Why am I not painting?

This has been my struggle for the last week. Every day.
Last Tuesday, I was going to decide whether or not to take a short break from therapy so I could paint. What I knew deep down was that I had major resistance to painting. The most I've ever experienced. It has led to much, really much, and even more frustration.

So...after being still, thinking, talking, seeking the advice of a few artist friends, and being still some more, I knew that I had no idea if I would end up painting at all this month. I still don't. The idea hurts, but I can't force it.

I realized that with all I'm working toward in my therapy, hitting the painting nut was a biggie. What better time to zealously work on this than now, a time when I have no responsibilities to my job or much of anything? I've spent most of this time alone.

Since last Monday, I've increased my sessions. Last week I had a therapy session every single day. I thought I'd go back to 3 days this week, until we booked an add'l session for today.
I feel my resistance. I can taste my fear.

Last Wednesday, I walked in and sat down.
For the first time ever, I asked:

"Why am I not painting?"
"Excellent koan" he replied.
"So why?"
"I don't know. This is your koan, not mine."

Silence.

"Isn't it interesting that I have many memories of my mom and I doing art stuff and no memories of her holding me, feeding me, tending to me when I'm sick. I wonder about that. How it affects my ability to paint. What if I really let go and immersed myself in painting and by doing so, lose my humanity?"

That was the first day.

Thursday~
"Why am I not painting?"
"Excellent koan."
"So why?"
"You tell me."
"Well I was thinking...painting is a courageous act. And it's a solitary activity. I'm obviously not that brave. And I could paint when I had others painting beside me....such as when I was in school, or with my friend in Portsmouth. Otherwise I can't do it."
"Hmmmm..."

Friday~
"Why am I not painting?"
"Good koan."
"You didn't say it was excellent. Why?"
"Because you already know it is. You are using that as a distraction."
I become disgusted.

I've been thinking. I am disciplined. I realized I do not fear painting alone. My 3 month fellowship had me alone in the building painting. I left my lover's side every summer morning at 7 am because I couldn't wait to get in the studio. A few years later I quit my job to paint full time. I had no problem beginning each day with breakfast, 3 or 4 pages of writing, and then into the studio. My afternoons would be spent going to galleries, looking at paintings in books, and then finishing the day with tequila. It was glorious.
So I am not afraid of the solitary, courageous act.

Then I ask, "Why could I do that then and not now?"
"It's the momentum of youth."
"Oh, I get that. As we age, we slow down and so our demons catch up with us...paralyzing us."
"Exactly."

An idea.
"I'm not painting because I'm furious with the world and so now refuse to share myself with it."
"Try again."
Then the something came to me, from a deeper place.
"I'm not painting because it is the one way I know how to hurt myself."
"That's right."

Monday~
"Why am I not painting?"
This time I am just about glaring at my shrink. Dammit, I don't have the answers. He knows me. So now I expect a grand statement of discovery filled with much wisdom from him.
He responds, "If you think I can answer that, you are sadly mistaken. You're giving me more responsibility than..."

Ugh.

Seeing he is throwing it back on me, I had to state my latest insight.

"I'm not painting because I'm a spoiled brat."
"Well I'm going to stop that thinking right now."
"Don't you want to hear me out first?"
"Alright, I'll listen to your reason and then squash it."
"That's mighty open-minded of you."
"Yes it is."

I'm glaring again.

"I'm not painting because I don't have the space to paint. I ache to do full body work, not small wrist action paintings. In August, I became increasingly frustrated with the size of my space and so I put everything away. Couldn't deal anymore. See? I am spoiled. I have a great apartment, the perfect job, amazing friends, good life...and I'm not happy. Still want more. Spoiled."

"Recognizing your limitations is not being spoiled."

"Why aren't I painting?"

I've come up with different answers each day. There is some truth to each and yet...something is still missing. In addition, I do see the huge resistance I have to diving into the black here in our sessions. I think it's connected. As long as I keep resisting I will not be able to paint.

My table is covered with a tarp. I finally pulled out paintings and began touching up a few of them. I dropped over a $100 bucks on restocking my supplies. I have about 8 blank canvases of various sizes ready to go, and at least 5 others to rework. I've let a friend come over each Monday so he could do sketches. Normally, all this is more than enough to excite me and from there, jump back in.

Not this time.

"I touch the fire and it freezes me."
(Buffy, from "Once More With Feeling")
I can't get those lyrics out of my head.

I had completed the entire Buffy series about 3 weeks ago but held onto the last two seasons...watching them over and over. For me, at this time in my life, I can relate to so much from various characters in season six and seven. I finally returned the dvd's yesterday. But before I did, I had one more viewing of the musical episode.

"I touch the fire and it freezes me."

Truly. In therapy, I am currently headed into the fire. With each step I become colder. Flat voice. No emotion.
At one point yesterday I snapped back a comment and my shrink responded "oh...the ice lady."
He is correct.

I feel myself detaching because I don't want to go where I need to.
I guess it really isn't a mystery why I can't paint.
Painting is a vulnerable act.
Painting is all about passion.
Painting is a feeling of connectedness with everything around me.

And all I feel is cold.

At this point, I believe I will come through this. I have no idea how or when, but I will.
Last week I met with my coworker, the musician, for lunch. We were playing catch up. I mentioned my lack of painting drive in the face of my initial excitement and explained in more depth what I'd been learning and dealing with.

He said, "But Gaggie, you are painting! Maybe it doesn't look the way you expected it to, but when you come out of this...you'll know how to deal with this. You are painting."

I need to remember his words...even though it is all cold inside.

Today, the koan evolved some more...in a greater way. First in the session, and still now...as the day grows longer.
Therefore, this story will continue as such. Bit by bit.

In the meantime...

I just want to sit and cry today. All day.

As you've noticed, I haven't written about what's going on. Last night, I began an entry and was checking it twice before posting it. The phone rang. I saved the piece as a draft.

After the call I was going to post it but then in that moment I knew it wasn't ready. Developments are happening fast and furious...so it is time for me to be with this. Alone, for now.

For now...today...I'm quite sad inside.
My heart hurts.

Aaarghhhh...

....I have a 45 minute window, just enough time to lay glazes on 3 paintings, one which is already paid for and headed to NYC very soon. Unfortunately, I cannot get my new can of turpentine open. My palms are raw from many attempts. Without the turp...I can't glaze.

It means I'll have to see if my friend M. can open it when he arrives. He's coming over with with drawing gear because he needs me to sit for a portrait. If I don't touch my paintings now...I won't be able to until tomorrow.

Sigh...

Popping in to say I am here but I haven't been up for writing. There is much going on. All good. Some very difficult, but good.
The words are inside but they aren't ready to expose themselves. Guess I'm still incubating.

Enjoy the beautiful day...

Don't have much to write about at this time. Maybe later. But there's always our weekly Freewill Astrology.

For you...
and for me...

To touch a bit of love and decadence today...and have it flow the rest of the year.

Today bit the big one.

I just made an extra therapy appointment for tomorrow. Within that session, I'll decide whether or not I take a little time off from therapy and will inform my shrink then. The pain has been oozing through every pore of my skin. This pain, right now, is a major distraction.

On one hand, I'm so very close to breaking through something huge. Yet with that, comes no room for anything else...important things...such as painting. Then again, as he put it today, I'm only living at about one quarter of my potential. Coming out on the other side of this would push me into a fuller life.

But why does this have to happen during my sabbatical???

Those of you who know me know I don't run from the hard stuff. Hopefully tomorrow, I'll gain the wisdom to know whether I'm running away or pacing myself which will allow me to enjoy this time off.

Yeah...it stinks, sucks, and all needs to be obliterated.

From The Nation, an essay by Bernard-Henri Lévy.

A Letter to the American Left.
by Bernard-Henri Lévy

[from the February 27, 2006 issue]
Translated from the original French by Charlotte Mandell.

Nothing made a more lasting impression during my journey through America than the semi-comatose state in which I found the American left.

I know, of course, that the term "left" does not have the same meaning and ramifications here that it does in France.

And I cannot count how many times I was told there has never been an authentic "left" in the United States, in the European sense.

But at the end of the day, my progressive friends, you may coin ideas in whichever way you like. The fact is: You do have a right. This right, in large part thanks to its neoconservative battalion, has brought about an ideological transformation that is both substantial and striking.

And the fact is that nothing remotely like it has taken shape on the other side--to the contrary, through the looking glass of the American "left" lies a desert of sorts, a deafening silence, a cosmic ideological void that, for a reader of Whitman or Thoreau, is thoroughly enigmatic. The 60-year-old "young" Democrats who have desperately clung to the old formulas of the Kennedy era; the folks of MoveOn.org who have been so great at enlisting people in the electoral lists, at protesting against the war in Iraq and, finally, at helping to revitalize politics but whom I heard in Berkeley, like Puritans of a new sort, treating the lapses of a libertine President as quasi-equivalent to the neo-McCarthyism of his fiercest political rivals; the anti-Republican strategists confessing they had never set foot in one of those neo-evangelical mega-churches that are the ultimate (and most Machiavellian) laboratories of the "enemy," staring in disbelief when I say I've spent quite some time exploring them; ex-candidate Kerry, whom I met in Washington a few weeks after his defeat, haggard, ghostly, faintly whispering in my ear: "If you hear anything about those 50,000 votes in Ohio, let me know"; the supporters of Senator Hillary Clinton who, when I questioned them on how exactly they planned to wage the battle of ideas, casually replied they had to win the battle of money first, and who, when I persisted in asking what the money was meant for, what projects it would fuel, responded like fundraising automatons gone mad: "to raise more money"; and then, perhaps more than anything else, when it comes to the lifeblood of the left, the writers and artists, the men and women who fashion public opinion, the intellectuals--I found a curious lifelessness, a peculiar streak of timidity or irritability, when confronted with so many seething issues that in principle ought to keep them as firmly mobilized as the Iraq War or the so-called "American Empire" (the denunciation of which is, sadly, all that remains when they have nothing left to say).

For an outside observer it is passing strange, for instance, that a number of progressives needed, by their own admission, to wait for Hurricane Katrina before they got indignant about, or even learned about, the sheer scale of the outrageous poverty blighting American cities.

For a European intellectual used to the battlefield of ideas, it is simply incomprehensible that more voices weren't raised long ago, in the name of no less than the force of "the Enlightenment," to denounce the ridiculous fraud of the anti-Darwinian supporters of "intelligent design."

To read the entire article.

On yesterday's little Dove chocolate wrapper:

"Discover how much your heart can hold."

Isn't that a delicious thought to wade in? It opens up possibility.

How about some lightness and fun to break the heaviness of recent entries?

Thanks to Thor, here is some Sunday silliness for you.

Anger.

No...rage.

Have you ever been enraged? Not the surface rage that comes from being screwed over at work, or a Hummer cutting you off at the intersection, yet the rage that bubbles up from deep within.

I don't know about you, but I felt it yesterday. My first time. My rage cherry was popped.

It did boil up from my bowels. I had tapped into something so dark, that as the day wore on, the more I found myself falling into this newly released anger. It was so vicious, so ferocious, it terrified me. I feared losing myself in the ugliness.

And I discovered I am not at all comfortable with the blackness of this emotion.

In my session last night I spoke of the rage. Then I grieved my calm and easy way. I miss writing about other things. I remember when this blog once held small vignettes of life's charm. Things I'd see, colors, characters on the street. I hate the idea that I'm currently so self-involved. It is consuming.

I still see beauty all around me. Everytime I step out of my door and walk to the corner, the mountains take my breath away. Everything, whether rain or shine, has a vibrancy to it. I think about sharing it with you and even create the entry in my head. But it all falls to the wayside. Sigh...

The shrink told me this is where I needed to be. He reiterated a few times that it will pass, but the only way out is through. I still wonder if I've gone into dark places that really are not meant to be disturbed.

I was so embarrassed by my anger yesterday that for a few hours, I pulled down one entry. The Bear called during that time and he reassured me it was fine. I didn't trust my outward expression of rage. I knew what I was feeling inside...and it being so mammoth, couldn't objectively see what I put out.

I wasn't planning on writing the following today, but think I will.

Connections were made last night. Yes, I needed to feel and play with this anger to work past it. What pushed this into being was twofold. The first was in regards to being held. After a certain experience when I was held and momentarily felt visible...I hadn't requested to be held since. It seems that comfort and sense of home scared the shit out of me.

Instead of continuing to turn to, I turned on my therapist. The distrust began. And the anger. It was too frightening. The second thing that pushed me over the edge into the pain and rage was the intimate evening I created last week. Once again, home.

Both were examples where I needed to create my own sense of home. It reflected my past back at me and brought up all the resentment, pain and anger I stuffed for years. The holding and the party combined have sent me to the place I need to be for this time.

It is not pretty.
And it is necessary.

Treat~

Hot chocolate is definitely needed tonight.
Time to make a cup.

Chuck the chai.
I'll save it for later.

Instead, I put on Concrete Blonde's Bloodletting. I haven't listened to them in years, and there's something soothing in their bizarre, somewhat dark and edgy emotion.

I think I'd rather be beaten into oblivion before having to face what I need to.
I am scared.

You see, I know that although religion is a problem, the real problem is that my parents were too weak to be their own people. They leaned on religion and allowed it to control them and therefore how they raised their family.

To face the reality that very loving people couldn't see their children through their religion-induced mist...is a tough one.

We expect our parents to be our heros. Our saviors. Our protectors. But when we can't come to the table openly and honestly without fear of being told..."it's okay. Suffering is holy. We'll pray for you to be "at peace". Gawd I hate that term.

I didn't need prayers. I needed to be held. Their Jesus or blessed fucking virgin couldn't hold me. It was up to them. They were the ones with the arms and hearts. It was their sperm and egg that created me and her cunt that birthed me. The responsibility continues after the fucking.

You don't let your kids be brought up by the goddammed pope.

If I don't do anything else today...I will take inventory of my paints and make a list of what needs to be restocked. It's shopping list day to prep for a trip to the art store tomorrow.

See? I'm beginning to get the painting bug.
Not bad, considering I'm in a fucking foul mood.

Something is brewin' and there's a big "uh oh" sitting in my gut. I have a session tonight and my shrink better be wearing armor. Each session this week has left me more and more furious with him. On Monday my mouth sliced and diced. He hasn't done anything wrong. I know where it's coming from. It is not a coincidence that my therapist happens to be an ordained zen buddhist priest, who is fully committed to his temple and the people within.

Yeah. It's time for me to deal with my immense hatred and rage of organized religions. All of them. Religion took my parents away from me. To me, it's interesting that the 'religious folk' I could/can deal with, and see as most compassionate are the ones who never speak of their beliefs (in a religious or dogmatic way). I normally don't even have an idea they are practicing christians. Whereas those who are more open and even a little preachy, tend to do a fucking fabulous job of pushing people away whenever they open their mouths.

It's about the action not the words.
Words do nothing but hurt.

Feeling comforted, loved, nurtured...is created by doing, not talking.

Marx was right. Religion is the opiate of the masses.
Religion is for sheep who need someone else lay down the dictates of how to believe and live. Religion is not for freethinkers. Religion is a drug, that can be abused as any other. You live in a fog world and let go of the reality and personal responsibility of life.

Bah.

To be fair, because nothing is black or white, I do believe aspects of religion can be used in a healthy way. Unfortunately, it is rarely done. Even the most 'enlightened' practitioner, still has this belief that god is for everyone. Believers do not understand the concept or valid possibility of spiritual atheist. For them, it is all about some type of god. I've yet to meet a full out of the box religious thinker.

Anyway.

As I begin to face and replay this very painful time in my life, I've increasingly acquired much doubt about my therapist. All week, I've had a large sense of distrust. So much so that I fight the urge every day to cancel appointments. I wake in the middle of the night wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into.

It is fear. It is all about fear..

Yes, I will face the dragon but I don't want to. I know this because I am doing all I can to push away the one warrior who has been my steadfast ally.

So it's time for a chai tea, a walk and then a peek in my art supply closet. It is time to tuck away this ickiness until I have to sit with it this evening.

Last Saturday night.

I created a container which, if I remained vulnerable and honest, had the potential to ignite a sexual bomb. I knew I couldn't control the energy of the participants. But I could put the pieces together and see what happens.

So I held a play party. The timing worked out - the very first weekend of my sabbatical.

I hate hosting parties. I get nervous. Very nervous. I have a deep-rooted fear that no one will show up. And for those that do, I'm afraid they'll be bored. The monthly events back on the seacoast were a breeze. I didn't have to entertain anyone. Instead I was simply opening my space up...for a watering hole. Easy.

These parties are different.

In addition, I have a lot of resentment around throwing play parties. You see, I know that to go to the types of s/m parties that I want to go to...I need to create them. It is highly unlikely I'll be invited. I am not one of them. It's a societal/cultural thing. At times it makes me angry. I'm the one who has to plan, organize, and drop a couple hundred bucks to simply celebrate my sex and sm. It hurts. I do understand it all. But it still hurts.

Don't get me wrong. I still believe strongly in exclusivity.
One of my great desires is to get over the anger and resentment surrounding this.
Because I do get it, I hate the hurt. I don't need to be accepted and allowed everywhere. I just want space for me too.

Sometimes I truly dislike being a freakazoid.

I've tried really hard to enjoy other gatherings. I've played in pan and dyke space. It doesn't work in the same way for me. It feels like a different method of play, of viewing sex. A different culture. Not good or bad. Just not home. I do know if I could celebrate home and my sex more often, then the other gatherings wouldn't feel so foreign. It would all be more enjoyable.

But when one is starving...well, if I don't get meat, then everything else is too much of a tease, and therefore too painful.

And as I've said in the past, I refuse to transition to make my entry easier. I shouldn't have to fuck with my chemistry. I won't. The price for this choice is the celebrations are fewer and far-er between.

So be it.
I learn to deal and it is part of my healing and growth.

Now...having said all that...I'm not saying I won't throw larger parties. My guest list could have easily been doubled. There are many others I would invite. One day, I will. I am fortunate to know many intense sadists and masochists...amazing, intelligent, sensitive people. And regardless of gender and orientation, I want them all under one roof for a weekend of debauchery.

But for this one, I sought a very specific energy.
I fervently, desperately needed to taste home.

So it was limited, knowing full well that maybe only a handful would show.

There were 10 of us.

I was nervous. The last two parties I held didn't open up in play the way I'd hoped. Yes, there was some. The first event, about 4 years ago held more play than the second one. But it wasn't as rampant as I sought.

Interestingly, on Saturday night there were 4 who said they would attend, but couldn't make it. I heard from two of them before the party. It didn't freak me out. Yes I was disappointed, but it was okay. In the past, I would have been upset...but this time, all I felt was intense calm. Somehow, I knew deep down that whoever showed up was absolutely meant to be there.

It was going to be whatever it was.
In that, there would be perfection.

It was a fucking amazing party. It wasn't frenetic energy, yet slow, easy and very sexy. It began well when a boy walked in, and almost immediately was taken downstairs to the dungeon, stripped naked, and had shackles locked to his neck, wrists and ankles. His attire suited him perfectly and he wore it for about 7 hours.

One of the tops that walked in, saw the shackled boy, was told that the boy was up for grabs...immediately took him downstairs where they seemed to have loads of fun. At one point I was down there playing. You could hear grunts, moans and the periodic rattling chain from the nook.

That's a party.

At least a couple times, there would be a few hanging around in the dungeon, touching, or laying on someone's lap. Intertwined. Play would somehow begin again from there. Fluid.

A tapestry of sex was being woven. Different textures and colors.

People naturally flowed from upstairs for food and talk down to the dungeon and back again.

I think everyone got a chance to play. All types of play...not only s/m. It began at 7pm, and by 2am, there were 5 of us left in the dungeon. We didn't want to break the space or energy. But one boy had to catch a ferry and I needed to get away from cat hair. (I had prepped for 4 days with allergy meds so I could do this).

The Sadist and I played. In addition to canes he broke in my birthday gift. It's a toy, created by our friends at Bareleatherworks. It is crafted with their beautiful handle that is normally used for floggers. Instead of tails...it's a timing belt from a Subaru. Very mean toy. My voice was hoarse the next day from all the screaming.

Because of the energy and intimacy of the evening, we were able to go deeper than what would normally happen in more public play. Play with him is...amazing. In addition to the Sadist...I played with a few others. They were hot. I don't want to out them unless they choose to be. But you know who you are. I anticipate further play, when my body isn't oversensitized from beatings and "dumb" sensation toys. I very much look forward to being pushed...when fresh and ready...and have no doubt you will challenge me.

This was a huge risk for me.

I remembered Nayland's birthday request from last year because it was brilliant. I had created one of my own that I was going to share with everyone...in lieu of gifts...but remained silent. This year, it seemed more important for me to push myself. But prepare yourself for next year!

Nayland asked for creation. Make something. Not for him. But make something. For my personal twist, I added the caveat of touching something that is hard for me...something that, by taking risks, expands my sex. The challenge churned in my head for a couple months.

Dare to create something that opens my sexual world.

So the gathering was born. Along with many doubts.

What if no one came?
What if I didn't get played with?
What if no one likes me?
What if they are all being polite?
I really don't fit. This is crazy. I don't know my place.
How dare I step in spaces I don't belong?

But I grabbed my guts, took the chance, and was immensely blessed. Some of the aftershocks from the party are future scenes with new play partners as well as an invitation in this morning's email to attend a bondage weekend in Portland and be a demo bottom.

I guess, between sleepsacks, and bj's, this party, and getting beat...I am in the process of rekindling my erotic self.
It seems to be time.