Science vs. Romance

Part of the constant frustration of being me is that, when given enough information to go on, I can easily argue, and believe, both sides of any story or situation, even in the context of my own relationships. Oftentimes, the biggest part of the "fight" is that the other party isn't actually telling me how they feel and why, they're blocking me out, they're resisting communication, they're projecting anger or resentment instead of efficiently addressing the issue. Then, when the true, bare bones of the scenario are revealed, most of the time, that's the end of things, and it's usually met with some frustration by me since what has sometimes been weeks of misunderstandings could have been avoided entirely by just saying what you mean to begin with. I can be shockingly logical when it's clear that someone isn't just spitting evasive emotion at me. I do not have a prevaricating nature, and my hackles cannot be more quickly raised than by having to deal with it in others. I understand that sometimes, it's a process, and the other party honestly doesn't know how they feel or why and can't articulate things, but there's still the projection dance that's really hard to not react super emotionally to, which always exacerbates things. And I'm sure, from time to time, I do the same thing without realizing it. Unfortunately.

There's also the split of science vs. well, not science.

I can think about palm reading and know that there's no way looking at the lines on my hand mean diddly squat. And yet, the two times I've had my palm read, things were said to me that rang so true, I'm still nearly daily pondering them, years and years later.

And what of ghosts? Logic says there's no evidence of any soul or spirit that powers the body other than the simple (not simple) mechanics of a living thing. And yet, I've experienced visits from dead family members, seen things that shouldn't be there, had things go missing only to be found in conspicuous places months later, etc. I can reason that there is a "rational" explanation for all of this, but my heart also tells me to believe in ghosts is rational.

Or astrology, which has been painfully accurate to my life thus far. Or, well, a dozen other things. I feel like a hypocrite, but I don't think that's the word for it. Is there a label that can be applied here? I've always been at a loss to find one.

Suicide Machines.

When I am depressed, or freaking out, and I can't sleep, I fantacise about facets of suicide. (Let's not blow a gasket thinking I might be contemplating a move towards worm food--as much as there are some moments when these fantacies seem a solution, those moments pass and I've experienced enough of life to be wholly aware that things get better. And worse. And better again.) I was pondering, the other night, a theoretical machine that could replicate the physical feelings of various methods of suicide without the actual act. For instance, I think it would be quite soothing to go through the process of loosing the blood from my wrists. Or to ingest a million sleeping pills. There would be a problem, though, and that is for it to work fully, the brain would have to believe it were happening; be tricked into the pain, seeing the blood, etc. This could cause some pretty serious psychological trauma, I'm sure. And some Flatliners shit would probably go down. I do not want to have to face any of my demons in that manner, no thank you.

Last night I dreamt (that somebody loved me [titter]), in that lucid almost dreaming phase where you still have full control but you're so on the cusp of sleep it feels like it's actually happening, that Andy was in bed with me. That he died, for no obvious reason, in his sleep. I woke to his cooling, stiffening body, and had the clearest of mind about it. Got up, went to several stores where I purchased otc sleeping pills, came home, took a shower, wrote a blog that doubled as my will (which I think I'm actually going to do cuz it super freaks me out that there's nothing written down that indicates my wishes and I definitely don't want my mother taking the reins on that; she's already stated if I go before her she's gonna put me in a pink frilly dress and curl my hair, and I know for damn sure she isn't interested in who I am as a person or what would be a meaningful funeral/burial/wake for the people closest to me--it would all be ceremony for HER), then took a shit ton of pills and curled up next to Andy. Of course, this would turn into some kind of Sylvia Plath debacle, waking up moaning, covered in spiders in some god forsaken root cellar (are there god forsaken root cellars?), or I'd wake up in the emergency room with a giant fucking tube down my throat.

My idea of the perfect suicide involves months, even years with no sign of remains. A disappearing act. Crawling into a cave in the Arizona desert with a .38. Pills on an uninhabited island, somewhere. Or maybe no suicide at all, just the disappearing act.

I wouldn't want to kill myself because there's not a single person who would understand the motivation. My mother would take it incredibly personally. It would absolutely break my father's heart. I would be called horribly selfish, and that would be true. It's just not viable without upsetting everyone you love who loves you, and even a few who loathe you too (Christ, the people who loathe me, feeling guilty, like they had some hand in my demise [would that happen, or would they just nod and say they always expected it?], that would be disgusting). It's the escape that's tantalising. The freedom. But then there's the nagging, "What if there's an afterlife?" problem. God damn it.

Well, I guess I just won't be offing myself today.

My preferred way of dying involves being 85, in bed with my husband of fifty years and a carbon monoxide leak, btw. No one can get upset about that. Grandkids knew gran and pap pap well, we saw them through college, they've got kids of their own and we even kissed the foreheads of a few of 'em. A full life.

But then, it's times like this I wonder if that will ever be my life. And boy, that's a downer.

I Told You So (Panic Attack)

The poem came immediately after stating that poetry was coming. That's two poems now in a month, and several art pieces. This, for me, is highly productive. The previous poem written on a page of Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, while on the curvaceous, scenic road from Ely to Duluth that always makes me have a bit of a panic, despite it's loveliness, if I am not constantly sipping water and/or singing. When I was younger, when the particular problem first began, I remember Celine Dion on the radio. Then it was my Tori's Under the Pink on cassette, foisted upon my parents lest they have to deal with a freaking out teenager. It should be noted that I had no idea I was having a panic attack, something that had begun intermittently before puberty that my mother would hand me a paper bag for and send me outside to breathe. In late teen years, she resorted to giving me Xanax (while also telling me to go outside and breathe). It was always very matter of fact. I never understood why she failed to inform me that what was happening to me, the I can't breathe feeling, the overwhelming head-maelstrom, the sense of total doom, that it was something silly that I could plainly understand; my body producing too much epinephrine. This being a facet, evolutionarily speaking, of the "flight or flight" ha "FIGHT or flight" response. Which, it's been argued in some of the things I've read, is not the accurate interpretation as invariably, when someone experiences such a rush of epinephrine, they are somewhat immobilised by their panic. So what purpose, exactly, does a panic attack have?

I don't know. Writing this has put that old familiar feeling in my chest, a firm grip in a negative way, on the old blood pumper. I will get the fuck out of this house once I'm done with this blog (and a shower). Sarah needs some Cheerios and the dishes won't get done if there ain't no dishwasher detergent.

But the poem(s). Without further ado, poem one is about Andy, written on the road.

He wears his neurosis on his sleeve,
by an invention of his heart.
With a tug on one,
the other falls apart.
It is not foolproof,
this failsafe he's set;
He's already told me he loves me,
He just hasn't said the words yet.

10.18.09

And last night's, with a first couplet that's been in my head since Andy chose to take the route he has with us:

Any who run from love
be hung from the rafters
Any who stifle love
crucified on the mantle
Any who lie to love
dragged behind a truck
Any who "deserve" love
a shard of broken mirror
Any who ignore love
murder murder murder

11.14.09

Manizer

I'm a Manizer. But I'm not. The term Womanizer implies, to me, deceit, manipulation, bullshit. Doing anything one can to get into someone's pants. That ain't me, babe. But I will be completely straightforward about my intentions, and I will be trying to get into your pants. Those are my intentions. I generally also require some kind of emotional attachment, but it is by no means emotional attachment on an exclusive level. I am capable of loving, and giving love to many. Okay, perhaps "many" is a bit much. Two. Three people at a time. Maximum. Minimum, really. Which does not negate the previous blog's statement about seeking a committed relationship. Until that happens, this is what happens: I collect, sample, discard, compute, understand, probe, adore, worship, obsess, roll around in, burrow, lick, suck, sniff, compile, arrange, make mental spreadsheets, love, hate, like and enjoy the presence of people I want to enjoy the presence of. It's not complicated, but for some goddamned reason, everyone wants to make it complicated.

It's science, it's biology. Just roll with it.

Fuck microblogging.

Let's see if I can do this anymore. Twitter and Facebook updating have wreaked havoc upon the long-format thought. I ponder in 140 characters, or in witticisms or charms that might cause clever jabs and parries. I need a typewriter and a week long stay in a remote location. Before wifi is literally in every god damn nook and cranny of this planet...

Leaping in--

I've been thinking a lot about the nature of masculinity and how terrifically hard the balance must be. The alpha male. The leader of the pack. I have some experience here, as I am often the alpha in situations, co-ed or no. That comes with its own problems, but as a woman, my concerns are not with how blunt, vulgar or brash I am--all that's implied by this is that I have masculine qualities, which are dominant, in control, strong. But for a man, especially one who wishes to be in control, and to give the impression of stoicism, the opposite is true; show emotion, give insightful commentary, and suddenly you are not viewed as much as the Lothario, but as something soft, weak, feminine. I think this may be the hardest thing about being a man. It takes a truly confident male to strut about like a peacock giving off heady fumes of lust, but who can also meaningfully impart his thoughts, unabashedly displaying emotion, daring anyone to question the veracity of the meat dangling between his legs. In truth, of the men I have the fortune of being close to, I can think of only one who has achieved such a thing, and I know it's been a hard road for him to get there. I'd put money on him in any bar fight, but he cries like a bitch (See? Cries like a bitch; even I do it) at the Notebook. He'll be there for you for any genuine need, but he will not hesitate to tell you you're actin' a fool. He inspires strength of all kinds because he is offensive, sensitive, loving and cruel. Spending time with him is always fulfilling. Our relationship is not sexual, but our interaction is sexually potent, a reminder of our youth and fertility; I feel healthy and... yes, I think engorged is the right word, in his presence. I recently told him I wanted to find someone to love me the way he does, except, you know, with all the boyfriendy parts.

Which brings me to my next thought:

I would like a boyfriend. I want to be in love.

There, I said it. Now, the disclaimer: The above statement is not technically true. What I want on that front is still in the gestation phase, and after months now of being casually, but emotionally involved with one to three people at once, I think I'm ready for a committed phase. I miss having someone to cook for. I miss the assumption of someone next to me as I sleep. I miss the tedious things that are part and parcel of a romantic, one on one relationship. But, like many things that are a big step, I've got to say it out loud, talk about it, if you will, in order to become comfortable with it.

It's all a work in progress.