Tuesday, February 6, 2018

Almost my birthday, and all I want is death

This post is a barely-edited version of an email I sent this morning. It's funny how trains of thought actually seem to create their own tracks and destinations.



Forwarded message to a best friend TEO...


"When bitching about a sweater gets REALLY dup and profiend.

Sometimes, being a writer is weird."


-----Original Message-----
Original email to Mr. X
Sent: Tue, Feb 6, 2018 8:06 am
Subject: Yep nope

The quest for the right wardrobe never seems to end. I bought a sweater maybe three months ago - it was definitely "recent" - but am deciding today, it has got to go. Which is especially irritating, as it's a GAP and I usually have good luck with GAP. (One red/black damask print v-neck has lasted me like six years now, it's woooooonnnderful.) But this simple blue rib knit: I'm not into that whole Marie Kondo thing, but this sweater is NOT GIVING ME JOY.

Which, ugh. This sweater made me use THAT phrase. This sweater sucks.

The thing is - it's really comfortable, it's the length I like, and the color is great on me. It is also pill--tastick (yes, with a K - like your name, it needs the consonantal emphasis), the "inseam" tag sticks out (and no, I don't cut out care tags because lord knows I'll louse up the laundry at some point), and the front hangs really weird at the bottom. Gah.

So, though I've worn this probably not even half a dozen times: I need to get rid of this thing.

Life is too short to wear unflattering (and prematurely RATTY) sweaters.

It's just a shame I happen to be wearing the thing NOW. On my fake-Friday, and family day. And with good jewelry, too! Blah.


Tonight is steak night at mom and Stepdad's. The filets from Christmas, which we didn't eat because everyone came down with the flu.

This'll be the way to spend some family celebration time with Step, but leave Wednesday free for me and mom. He's been in bed a couple days, and says he might not eat with us (he'll almost certainly eat with us, but how he'll be feeling today overall is up in the air). Sigh. Poor S. He just can't seem to die.

Bro and I were talking about him this weekend. He said it was something of a shame we came to love him after he lost his mind - I think there's a feeling akin to guilt, for Bro - but I feel like it's a blessing. We LOVE him. Neither of us felt like that was a possibility twelve years ago, and okay, it took dementia to loosen S up and give him this sense of humor we treasure. But he's loosened up. He is funny. We love him. That is enough of a blessing, and dementia is enough a part of life, I feel like it's worth just being grateful for the love and the blessing.

This is the power of a sense of humor, really. Laughter is so elementally *human*, I think, that the bonds it creates can't be trivialized. I mean: look at the way I talk about your face, broken up with laughter. It's in no way a small thing, the way that is beautiful to me.

It's in no way a small gift: S's immense grace in his sense of humor.

They always say there's no comedy without pain. I'd have to agree; that's fair. S's wit has come at such a price. Life itself, arguably. But his funny-ness has made all our lives just that much more wonderful. And just saying that squeezes my heart, and all but breaks it.

And as much as I am grateful for the incandescence of S's impishness and his smile, G-d I wish it could be taken from us all. I wish he could die. Because as long as we have his brilliance with us, HE has to endure such hideous, unbreakable pain. It is so unjust - and I know life is not fair. But nobody should ever suffer this. I would not even wish this on a Trump.

And even with all that, to feel *guilty* about loving his humor would be to waste it, and to negate the blessing it is. I just have to pray it is some amount of blessing for S. It looks like it is. It looks like, even if only a moment at a time, it takes him out of the pain. Even as selfish as it is: he takes *us* out of it. He invites us out of the reality he can't escape himself.

I've never seen grace quite like that. S is something so special.

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

When I'm not reading, I'm not writing

There was a period of about two years, when I began seriously writing The Ax and the Vase, that I was not reading for leisure. Research absorbed me in a very special way, I read the work itself, I talked about it a great deal. And I've always read a great deal online. But sitting down with an unrelated novel in my hands, taking an evening or a whole DAY ... I didn't do that. My enthusiasm was all for my own work in progress. Maybe I feared reading other people's writing, even on different subjects, would influence - maybe even compromise - my own voice or story.

Some of this, I think, is new-writer superstition, or more charitably, maybe it was just a different process. There is this, either way: I can TELL you the day I read again for the first time just for myself. What the weather was, what time, where I was, what the novel was. (The Dogs of Babel, by Carolyn Parkhurst.)


My (counter)point is probably a matter of course for most writers: if we are not reading, we are not writing. Say it with me now: "Duuuhh!"


I have not been reading. "There was family visiting" ... "I've been occupied for months with two big meetings" ... "My stepfather's been failing" ... "Holidays" ... it's all the usual load of dingoes' kidneys. The more insidious truth is that I have not been ALLOWING myself to read. I think, ultimately - never knowing why, probably - that was why I didn't read for those two years, back when. I felt like reading was a luxury, or an adultery against my own work.

What we all know is, of course, to BE a writer, you have to be a reader - and suspending that is painful to the process.

So is viewing *writing* as a luxury, as an adultery to the life you're living.



Today, I stopped work and read at my desk. For a few months now, I've been avoiding this; working through, doing other things. Generally acting like That Guy, like what I do is so important it must never be paused - at work and in real life too. In my family, I'm behaving like my stopping to read on my own time may be disrespectful to the difficulty my mom is up against as a fulltime caregiver. At the office, I've had occasion for some guilt nobody has put on me, and I'm overcompensating for acts committed that I know perfectly well nobody holds as sins.

And so, today ... sitting down with just a few pages of LeGuin's Orsinian Tales ...

Ahhhhh. Not merely a luxury, not merely the indulgence of cheating on my job or even my own writing. It was - of course it was - inspiration.

And I found a scene in my throat, urgent as pain, which at first I thought might be a letter to Mr. X, and then I found ... was a scene a certain character really needed. Two of them, in fact. And I learned a little something new about one of the most important events in my WIP. And I learned how to feel from inside a man's skin, for this particular moment. And I saw what it meant, ultimately and really *meant* for the woman he's feeling for, for years and years and long after he is gone from her.

The scene, oddly enough, is all about something incomplete, something un-built; a whole, sought.

It doesn't work out, in the novel. No building, no completion.

But it worked its way out of my brain. No small thanks (eternally, consistently, recurringly) to Ursula LeGuin.

“Incomplete. It’s like building something. Unfinished.

And sometimes, putting a brick against a brick, you end up with a building.

Sometimes.

Thursday, January 18, 2018

Open Letter to a Young Woman I Don't Know.

You deserve so much better.

You deserve comfort, and not to have to do the heavy lifting and take on emotional and bureaucratic headaches because of someone else's actions.

You deserve never to have been violated at all.



But you were.


The responsibility being pushed at you right now is this: to provide consequences for HIM. To make manifest how illegal and how immoral and how brutal his actions were.

It's a pain. It's unfair to you. You deserve better; peace, and never having to deal with him in the first place, and being able to concentrate on your goals, your life, your education. Yourself.

Because he concentrated on you too much, you're being asked to interrupt EVERYTHING and take on a terrible job, expose yourself before strangers tasked to judge him, examine and re-examine and document and reiterate a series of experiences it would be so much better to forget. Not easy. But better. You want to move on. You deserve to.

The problem is: does he?

Does this person, who not only intimidated, but in the end physically violated you, deserve to get past what he's done to YOU with all the comfort, with all the ease you seek and should have had all along? Does he deserve the seamless existence he disturbed for you?



Who am I to interrogate you?

I'm you.

Most women are. We've all dealt with encroachment upon our daily grind, our reveries, our desires, and our bodies. In this "moment of #MeToo" everyone keeps talking about, my question all along has been #WhoNOT? What woman has NOT had to deal with the harassment dealt out, from leers to assaults, every day, all day, around the world, at every level of society and in every culture?

When I was maybe eleven, it was the guy at the lake who tried to get me and my cousin away from our families. Who speculated as to our sexual experience. Assessed our bodies, in terms of how decorative and/or desirable he found them. Never touched us with his hands, but clearly touched some part of my brain that, forty years on, still bears the bruise.

The million men who've told me to smile. Because, again: they are trained to think we're decor, and they like pleasant decor.

The ones who do so much worse.

The ass-grabbers.

He was not allowed. And here is the problem ... if you don't press the charges against him, which his actions legally invite: he'll think he is. And he will do this again.



Several years ago, a contractor in my department stayed late at work. This was someone who made me uncomfortable in the most general sense; he wasn't very socially ept, he demonstrated more interest in me than I would have liked. He never touched me.

But the night he stayed late (knowing I always stayed late), he popped up at my cube when he heard the sounds of my preparation to leave, and held up a napkin to me. On the napkin was a cherry stem, tied in a knot. And he said, "No hands."

He didn't use his hands then, either. The implication of what he'd LIKE to have used was entirely too clear. And so shocking that I found myself unable to respond except with a quick dismissive joke and a hasty exit.

I talked to a manager the next day - not a formal complaint, but a discussion with someone I thought I could trust with the question of how I should proceed. She blew me off, and I ended up saying nothing. Time went by, and he never said anything else to me - and I was able to move my cube well away from him. I had power of my own.

I also learned that there had been a witness to what transpired that night; a woman in the next row of the cube farm. She heard everything, and told me I was entirely correct to be creeped out. He was wrong.

I told at least one other person at work about the incident, and let it go.

I deserved that. Right? Moving on?



Then I saw Jane (pseudonym, obviously). I saw her doing her job one day, cashiering us out at lunch, and I saw the way his presence made her SQUIRM.

It was obvious, instantly, that I was on the only person he'd ever "been inappropriate" with. I may have talked with that other friend at work about what I'd seen.

But I didn't talk with HR. I didn't go to my boss.

Time passed. I was pretty comfortable. Jane had herself moved to another location. I told myself it was all okay.

Then The Stem emailed my boss, hoping for a recommendation as he applied for a permanent position. I audited my boss's emails, and within two minutes of seeing The Stem's note, I was in my boss's office, calling him while he traveled, and explaining that we must not hire The Stem.

In less than an hour, I was speaking with an executive in HR. She got exactly the story of what The Stem had done, including the part about why I'd been silent, and my previous discussion with the manager. I also talked about what I had seen with Jane: that I had no permission from Jane to discuss anything he might done to her, and that I didn't know what that might be, but that I was clearly not alone in my experience with him.

To hire him would be a risk. That was enough. He was put on the a list immediately, and did not get the permanent position.

I felt a LITTLE better about failing to act for Jane. She knew nothing about my incident, and may never have known about my discussion with HR. She had used her own power. I didn't know her beyond friendly greetings at lunch or breakfast, but she had a family. They all deserved peace, too.



There's been a lot of talk in recent months about extraordinarily wealthy and/or powerful men using their position and pull to harass women. This tells the comforting story that, since most of us aren't really in contact with famous men or highly-placed moguls ... these things happen to someone else.

But it happened to you and me both. It happens to everyone. It happened to Jane, and I didn't do anything for her the moment I saw that. She used her own power, and got out of The Stem's way. And in the end, I got him out of the way of my employer.

But he doesn't know that.

And he is probably still acting exactly the same way.

I had power enough to push the bubble in the wallpaper, but the bubble still exists. There is a whisper network - something not unlike the Shitty Media Men List - and he may still be stuck with contract work. But nobody ever held him responsible for what he'd done to me, and for Jane.

He never had consequences. It's entirely possible he never will. Just another awkward guy. Not a rapist (that we know of). Not a mogul or celebrity.

But still making women squirm.



He got off.

Does the man who touched you - do the women he will undoubtedly assault, and emotionally damage - for years to come ... deserve that?

Does he deserve to get off?

And do they deserve to endure anything he does to them? If he stays the same. If he escalates, with age - and knowing he can get away with stalking, with assault?

Don't even you deserve ... not to have to carry that question with you? Not to inherit complicity in his guilt, when you are innocent?


You have the power of the law itself behind you. You have a lot of people behind you, too. You can do more than take a different route out of the cube farm at night, or wait a year and whisper when you think it finally matters. You can provide real consequences to a real criminal.

You have the power, maybe, to save a bunch of Janes - and their kids - and their families. To give them the peace that they deserve.

Please don't trade your power ... for regret ...

Monday, January 15, 2018

Collection

Just two links today, unless you count the recursive looks back upon my own musings.

For them/by them - a remarkable collection of perspectives not just on the period of sexual harassment history that began in Autumn of 2017 (and more), but on the dominant narratives and who is STILL left out of those narratives. The graphics are exceptional, and the writing ... well. Exemplary.

The very fact that such a model exists offers tacit permission for him to treat his wants as valid. ... I wish that he, as the adult in the room, had looked past his emotions to consider what would have been best for me ...

Also: "I’m disappointed that the story has remained focused so squarely on the villainous doings of the metropolitan elites." Yep. It's not just the "powerful" (rich) men, and it's not just white women in subjective but nonetheless injurious situations.

There is a constructive breadth, at that first link, of ages and understandings of (cis and binary) gender dynamics, and some of what is said I question. But it is best to understand than to refuse to know that others think things we do not.

“I remember when you told me I made this one girl feel uncomfortable because she had to say no twice, and I never forgot that.”
Some of what is said, in the last quarter or so of this anthology of perspectives - those things said by men, and about their looks - are ... well. Striking.



Where is the second link, you ask? Right here - and here is why:

While women aren’t confusing egregious incidents with less obviously offensive ones, the small ones matter, too. And not talking about them is the easiest way to ensure they go on and on, ad infinitum

Wednesday, January 3, 2018

Collection

Well, apparently the year I was born was important enough to commemorate. Some of the tidbits The Atlantic has archived here are pretty interesting; stay tuned for more, no doubt I'll come back to this well more than once this year.

Plant lore! I love so many aspects of this story - not merely the nerd who looked at a lock and understood its symbolism, but the images of a centuries-old trunk and its archives, and simply the word "hutch" - thanks again, History Blog, for a multi-layered read and look at an unusual collection of artifacts and facts. Moonwort. Heh.

Random note - in opening this new post window, I was listening to a 70s music mix, and "Moonlight Feels Right" by Starbuck happened to be playing. Yep: marimba solos happened in 1976. The times of my life (redux).

Map nerdlery! CityLab has thirteen maps to help make some sense (or at least get a view of) the year 2017. Some of it is interesting, some even amusing - some of it is dark (literally, and spiritually). From marches to regions to events within them, take a *look* at the year that was.

Sunday, December 31, 2017

Happy Enough Old Year

The evening is underway, as are feline and canine post-supper naptimes. Goss has his front half upended inside the warm curve of his back half, curled in the new chair, and Pen is flaked out on her flank in the floor. I chose "Arrival" tonight; slow-moving and blessedly low on explosions, at least halfway along it is - it's gloomy and murky but not too thinky so far. Seems to be just the ticket for me.

The year has been dwindling down with oddness and pains in my head, a great deal of work around the house, but mostly quiet. It is one of my pensive years, to be rung out alone and contemplating.

Last year was a jangle. Good times with friends, but the car got towed, there was loud music and cigarette smoke. This year, just this; staying in, staying warm. Remembering, and looking forward as as I do: seldom and poorly. The memories are ones which once were so painful, but now only make me who I am. And I am content with that, mostly. Always some work to do.

Life is like homeownership; if you don't have something you think you need to work on, the place'll go to pot.

In two weeks from now, many long months of meeting planning, and two trips to attend them, will be over. I realized this a couple of days ago, to my own surprise. Most of 2017 has been occupied with these events; and now I will be able to just do my day-to-day job. It'll be strange for a little while.

I am as content as the fur-bearing critters, this hour. Never satisfied. But content.



CONTENT NEW YEAR TO YOU, and to yours.

*Raises a glass, be it whatever you happen to like* Cheers!