Something My Therapist Said To Me That I Forgot To Mention

"You're the data woman; you've got to collate the data..."

Little did she know how accurate she was. My chief function at work is that of data whore as evidenced by all of the pointless reports I am asked to furnish and "calibrate" against other data sets.

In my private life, I have often said "Well, I'm a data gatherer."

Coincidence?

I don't think so.

I did get together with Ms. F last night, and as I learned would be the case from Mr. R. when I spoke to him on Wednesday, he was not there. I have such a nasty propensity toward anxiety when I am at their apartment. It's a visceral reaction to several things, though it doesn't happen all the time. It is the fear that I am always about to find out bad news, or this expectation that the bottom is always about to drop out from me. I started praying about this last night--even though in some ways it doesn't matter, because that apartment is going to disappear in a few short months--but still, whatever I'm associating with it, I wouldn't want to carry over into my relationship with Ms. F., which I fear has already happened.

I don't mean to be daft. I do understand better than I've represented above, what the trouble is. The very first time I stayed over at their place, on a friday night, about a year or so ago, Mr. R. was out on a date, and that knowledge forever soured the experience of being in their place, for me. It is this same root of the fear I have of being socially and emotionally humiliated. Lots to work through.

Other than that, I did have a good time watching television and talking with my old friend. It was probably the last time that will happen since her wedding is so close--and in truth we haven't hung out in quite the same way since she's been dating her fiance, which makes sense, but still makes me sad. When my close girlfriends marry I feel like I am handing them over to a different life that doesn't include me. I am not aware of feeling jealous...just unable to relate to this new experience, and it makes me feel that I am obsolete, like old software that can't be converted into the new updgrade and keep everything humming.

Tidbit:
In addition to Mr. R "playing" music for Ms. F's wedding, he will be singing the song she comes down the aisle to. That wedding song, you know the one...
"Wherever two or more of you are gathered in His name, there is love...."

The Friday Five

1. As a child, who was your favorite superhero/heroine? Why?

Wonder Woman. Three words. Lasso of Truth.

2. What was one thing you always wanted as a child but never got?

I can't think of something I wanted so badly that I never got. I had a pogo stick for goodness' sake!

3. What's the furthest from home you've been?

Tucson, AZ on business.

4. What's one thing you've always wanted to learn but haven't yet?

How to drive a car.

5. What are your plans for the weekend?

After my bout with food poisoning/flu, resting up and not doing anything too weird eating-wise.

I Call This One 'Fledgling Flower.'

A common motif in my ongoing dialogue with the Lord is the rose. The pink rose, usually, but any rose will do. I am not particularly attached to roses, as a flower. I am fonder, for example, of the sunflower, or even the carnation. In any event, it is the multi-layered conspiculously blooming flower's flower that illustrates His answer to my prayers.

Once in 1996 I'd been given a pink rose by a good friend, Rebecca. It was beautiful, long-stemmed, and a first. No one had ever given me a rose before. I remember her asking me if it was the right colour. I told her that it could have been polka dot and it would have been the "right" colour. A day or so later I was sitting in my office at work wrapping up the day and feeling gloomy about the fact that at age 23 I was still single, no prospects anywhere. My gloomy mood morphed into true sadness, and I began to talk to God out loud as I often do when I am alone. Complain, more like. In the middle of my tirade, I heard him whisper to me to "sit down." I was so shocked at the absolute certainty of having audibly processed another voice that I immediately complied.

So, upon sitting, His voice continued. "Look at your rose."

I did.

"What colour is it?"

"Pink." [out loud, I'm answering, mind you]

"What makes pink?"

"Red and white."

"And in the language of roses, what do 'red' and 'white' mean?"

"Red is for passion, or romantic love; white is for purity and innocence."

"That's the kind of love I'm preparing for you."

[End of dialogue. Sic.]

Several years later, praying with two other women in my kitchen, I received a vision of a sickly looking flower, somewhat generic, not specifically a rose, not not a rose, either.

God gave me an impression this time. I knew that this flower was my relationship with Mr. Renaissance, in its then current state. God showed me that everything this flower would need for blooming, it already possessed--that no amount of watering, pruning, repotting, or uprooting and replanting would do it any good. All it needed was to be left to itself, to grow in its own time. In fact the lesson was that poking and prodding it would deter growth. Further, I intuited that Mr. R. would need to come to his own conclusion about how he felt about me, and that when he did, that's when our relationship would be what it was capable of becoming. But I needed to wait and not try and coax him into a realization. I guess he is also the fledgling.

The Doctor Is IN: 5 Cents Please

I have been wondering, for weeks now, how my first official counseling session would begin--what issues would surge to the forefront immediately--which ones would wait for weeks or months to come barreling out...

Mr. R came up immediately, in the context of the question, what was I doing back in the city where I presently live? My answer, in addition to the standard answer I give of preferring the city to the suburbs, was 'unfinished business.' Which begged the question 'What unfinished business?'

There you have it. Mr. R.

We also touched on my anger, my family dynamic, my sense of self....

I'm not saying there isn't more mystery to uncover, but it was a pretty thorough catch all for an opening session. I feel good about where it's all going.

Blowing Chunks Into My Polyester Hair

I made it one third of the way into work on Tuesday morning. First of all, I woke up not feeling quite right. My stomach felt as though it had a huge knot in it. I felt, in general, "off." I figured my less-than-ideal dinner hadn't really settled well, and that things would work themselves out. I finished my morning routine and hoped for the best. Off I went. Once on the train, I settled into my usual seat, and prayed that I would be able to hold everything together. About half way through the trip I gained a seatmate. As soon as this poor, unsuspecting woman sat down next to me I tossed my cookies right onto the floor without warning. I apologized and she hurriedly moved to a different seat. The man across the aisle from me handed me a wad of paper napkins. He was completely grossed out and who could blame him?!

So I sat there waiting for the conductor to come by so I could tell him what had happened. He brought me a wad of paper towels, wet naps, and some cold water to drink. He was so sweet; he made sure I knew that he didn't expect me to clean up the floor. He just wanted me to get cleaned up, and to have a cool drink so I'd feel better.

I detrained with everyone else at Union Station, took the opportunity to call in sick (thus abandoning my post as PSR back up guru), and turned back toward home, where I spent the day tossing my cookies with great regularity.

The plot thickens.

Sarahbina, after a morning of looking after me, began to experience my same symptoms. I know I'm melodramatic, but I fully expected us both to die. Between the chills, yet being so hot, the stomach cramps that lasted for five minutes at a time, and the complete inability to move around without exerting full effort was enough to do anyone in. I called people who would not mind doing so, and asked them to pray.

Sarahbina called up Michael at about 4 a.m. to go and get her some things from the pharmacy, which he did.

I left Mr. Renaissance a voicemail message about our illness on his cell (sounding sufficiently pathetic, I'm sure). He got it the next morning and called to check on me. We talked for a few minutes about how I was feeling better, and how pet/housesitting for his parents has made him morbidly introspective, and how much he's looking forward to resuming his normal life.

Pretty stellar.

Hide When Tempted to Show; Show When Tempted to Hide

This saying functions as a helpful litmus test of the purity of one's motivations for wanting to share information with someone. The idea is that if you are not sure if you should impart some piece of knowledge, ask yourself if you are too excited--hoping for a specific reaction--to achieve some sort of status for having done so. If the answer is yes, then you shouldn't, at least not right away. You get the idea.

The City Cafe

After an exhausting grocery store run Sarahbina and I lunched at the City Cafe, a few streets over from our apartment, yesterday. We both got chicken salad sandwiches on white with a slice of bacon and french fries on the side. We discussed some of the pitfalls of the contemporary Christian subculture, how it misses the mark for one trying to live out a life of faith that is characterized by authenticity. As the years have progressed I feel that I have become more and more fringe, in terms of the classic protestant evangelical paradigm. My issues are not with the ideology of Christianity, but with the perception of many believers that true faith has a prefabricated, shrinkwrapped kit of clothing, preferred music, acceptable artistic expression, etc. I am not anti standards or opposed to fundamental Christian principles. But there is so much room for interpretation where so many things are concerned--and too many of the brethren have made black and white what needn't be.

I came to understand a few years ago that any man I would even consider marrying needed to be just as committed to his faith in a fringe way as I am. Who knew that "rebellion" and conservatism could co-exist? As long as it's taken, I feel that I can finally embrace the ambiguity of my own preferences and opinions, and can make room for blurred edges. in some instances, anyway.

With that being said, Let's get this show on the road!

My styrofoam coffee cup is marred by burgundy striated lip prints (mine); the coffee inside is tepid. The day is half over; I've already eaten my lunch. The PSR meeting has been rescheduled for tomorrow. I've only gotten one e-mail this morning. I am thinking of a line from a Joy Harjo poem.

This is how it is at precisely noon/if anything touches me/I am ashes.

State of the Union

I am pleased to report that things are happening just as they should, no matter how screwed up it can sometimes seem, this story is not off course.

My relationships are all at an even-keel. My finances are stable. My hair is still holding up (though showing the expected wear and tear of a style that is a week old). My expectations have swung back around to "reasonable." The PSR is holding its own with all updates in at this juncture.

Superbowl Sunday Highlights

Had an unexpected, frank discussion about sex with friends just after the half-time show.

Week At-A-Glance

Monday: PSR meeting splits the day in half

Tuesday: Gearing up for Wednesday

Wednesday: Week is half over; go to 1st full-on counseling session and begin taking a pick axe to my issues

Thursday: Post counseling epiphanies; dinner and Friends with Ms. F and Mr. R.

Friday: Meeting up with my baby sister after work (for real this time)

Equilibrium

I am often the culprit behind my own meltdowns. As a long-time friend put it "I think you like to put your chocolate chips on a heating lamp." Always ready with a clever turn of phrase, she is. In short, of course creating awful scenarios in my head and then working myself up into a state about how awful it would be if this thing happened is unproductive. I am hoping that I will learn, in counseling, to stop myself from going down these bendy paths. And learn to have proportionate responses to events--good or bad. Now I am like a yappy dog. Everything is a crisis. When you spend your life trying not to be in a state of emotional turmoil, and focus all of your energy on not feeling anything much, when you do have a feeling it is overwhelming. The sky is always falling on me, from my perspective. When will I learn to look up and say "Oh. It's just rain."?

Ms. F's wedding is in May. Yesterday was January 25th. By 9:00 p.m. last night I had myself convinced that I just wouldn't go to her wedding, 4 months away, because what if being there caused me to be socially and emotionally humiliated? When I am in that mindset it doesn't matter to me how such a decision would affect anyone else. In a moment like that, I believe I am the only one with anything to lose, that my withdrawal from engagements, people's lives, events, or whatever is totally justified.

Sometimes self-preservation is just selfish.

That is so difficult for me to write because I perceive myself as the person who is always supposed to be hurt. The preordained loser of every game.

What if I refused to play that role?

I am overwhelmed with fear at the moment--fear of the consequences for having felt so hopeful for the last week--and I am waiting for a shoe to drop on my head. I hate that I feel this way. I hate that my hopes always seem to ruin me. I feel doomed to always have to ask "What's the catch?" "What's the angle I didn't consider?" I am horrified at the thought of being humiliated. Again.

The latest scenario I've envisioned? Ms. F's pending wedding. I am imagining Mr. Renaissance bringing a woman as his date to that event, and me having to sit there, alone--tormented, embarrassed, hurting so badly that my throat constricts, that my mind mocks me and echoes the terrible refrain "You are a cosmic loser" over and over again. If this seems left field to you, it's because you don't know that I have had this very reaction when I've either heard about him being on a date, or accidentally bumped into him while he was out on a date.

While it may be jealousy, on some level, it feels so much more devastating than that. That would imply that I don't want him to be happy. I do. Instead, it is like a violation of what I believe I know about the future. If I didn't think he was the person for me, I would want him to date someone else. And I don't know if I'm right, but I can't help that I believe this--and as long as I do--I will hurt everytime this scenario plays itself out.

I don't know what to do with my feelings for him. I feel, sometimes, that I need to make a decision not to want him and then stick to it--but then something encouraging happens, and I can't deny that I don't want to not want him. I cannot convince myself that I believe I don't belong with him, ultimately. But between now and ultimately there is so much pain.

The questions I keep asking:

Why am I in this situation?
What should I have learned already that I clearly haven't?
How do I need to respond differently so this madness will end?

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Forgotten Songs

After munching on some mediocre thin crust delivery pizza, Sarahbina and I unwound from the week by listening to excerpts from her greatest hits/live recordings of Dan Fogelberg, Jim Croce, Fleetwood Mac, Pat Benetar, and John Denver. I remembered again, how I was the weird kid in sixth grade who listened to the easy listening station almost exclusively, who cried in her room while she mouthed the words to Barbra Streisand's "Evergreen." There were so many memories tied up for me in those lyrics. Like the sense of smell, memories of songs can put you sqaurely back in time, to the precise experiences that make the songs so meaningful.

A Common Phenomenon

As a kid when I was sick enough to go to the doctor, a strange thing would always happen when we got to my pediatrician's office. I always felt better and my symptoms would seem to go into hiding. My energy would return to me, the fever would break, or I wouldn't cough that body-racking cough I'd had for days. So it is with my decision to go into counseling. I have felt fairly well-adjusted, hopeful, and positive about my self-image for the last couple of weeks or so. In the last few days I've tried to catalogue my reasons for seeking out therapy--and though I know what they are--I can't seem to list them off with any conviction at the moment.

It is because the hope of help is imminent, I think, and this gives the afflicted elements of us a new sense of will--the effort to make a showing--because there is the understanding that things will be different at some point.

Make Mine The P-Funk

Okay, so I'm 2 hours out from the close of my work day, the PSR has been put to bed for the week (though changes are piling up for the monday rework as we speak!), I am nursing a hot chocolate with a bottled water chaser, and my cubicle is a colossal MESS. It's possible I'm meeting my youngest sister for some on the fly bonding at the train station before I head back up to the charming city I call home.

So what'll it be for music on the way home? Well, maybe some vintage funk (Flashlight, Neon Light a la Parliament), or maybe some yearning Christian alternative. Either way, I'll find the groove.

Peace out, you beautiful people... And if someone asks you, just say "Make mine the P-Funk."

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Intellectual-Sexy.... You are the brains behind every operation, and it shows. The precision with which you lure the boys is unsurpassed. You need someone as intelligent as you, which seems to be your greatest problem, as no one is that smart. Give some of us neanderthals a break!

Initial Impressions

I went to the intake meeting and felt a strong sense of benevolence the moment I walked in the door. I met with Mr. Brantley, the husband of Dr. Astra Brantley (the counselor I'll be seeing), who conducted my session just by having me fill out some forms; there wasn't much to the process, but his manner made me feel welcomed and cared for. He took my coat, poured me coffee, thanked me for my patience while he helped out others, and I just knew I was in the right place.

Because this organization is Christian faith-based as well as psychologically sound, my therapy will be grounded in the world view that is so foundational to me, my choices, how I feel and process information... and while I was not originally going to insist on that combination, I believe it is the best for me.

and I loved that Mr. Brantley asked me if I am praying for a husband. He wasn't suggesting that this is a solution for me. He was just being personable, wanted to know more about me--and it got right to the heart of a desire of mine. I believe that question was God ordained. I told him that I was--that I felt that God had spoken to me quite directly about it. He encouraged me to pay attention to that, then told me the story of how God brought his wife, my soon-to-be counselor, to him.

It gave me courage to believe that this whole process is not just for my general emotional well-being, but for the fulfillment of my hopes.

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PSR: Week Two

Until further notice, this document is in my charge. It hasn't been so bad this week, owing, I'm sure, to the fact that I was off on Monday. But today is the day it will be issued, so things might get frantic as the hours go by. I find that "the agency" likes to send me updates at the last minute. I'm a real time kind of girl, so I revise the report as I receive the revisions, not in a lump, but still--this thing is so dynamic--it is meant to reflect status up to the very moment, and keeping it straight has gotten hairy a few times.

I wish there were a PSR for my life. I am very encouraged by the idea that progress is being made, even if the bottom line hasn't changed. And this is the one element of this beastly waste of time assignment I can get behind. It tracks the smallest movement, in any direction, that is occurring on a given publication. If someone made a telephone call to find out the number of someone else to call to find out information, that gets recorded. It encourages productivity, It implies, then states "next steps;" it tells you, by section, who "owns" the responsibility to make a move. It is the ultimate in "Whose Court Is This Ball In, Anyway?" politics.

The Cacophony of Rejection

I will admit that I watched the first installment of the second season of American Idol. I am amazed at the sincere belief so many people have that they are truly and deeply talented. Is their desire to be validated, to have commercial credibility, so overwhelming that they are blind to the miserable deficit of any performance gift in themselves?

First of all, what often passes for talent in the industry is often just marketability with a smidge of vocal styling and some canned dance moves thrown in. This from the woman who still holds that NSYNC, unlike the other groups they are often lumped with, possess actual talent. But that is another soap box.

Anyway, my heart hurt for most of these contest losers who will never be famous, except briefly, for sucking so badly at their audition that they should have done something, anything, that day, except audition. Who are their friends and why didn't they tell them how terrible they are in private so their humiliation didn't have to become public? Simon Cowell has developed a reputation for being a meanie, but he's said to these unmarketable and talentless scrubs what someone should have said to them a long time ago.

Then again, I live my life avoiding even a hint of embarrassment. Save for one social/romantic gaffe almost two years ago, I always remember my place, and don't think more highly of myself than I ought to. It's not about martyrdom or false modesty. It's just being aware of what's true.

What this all comes down to is that people desperately want to be loved, and they want to believe, even in the face of opposing facts, that they have something that is widely accepted and acknowledged as being lovable. Their efforts to demonstrate this, however, often sound like train wheels screeching on a track.

As per usual, Ms. F needed to reschedule, so we are on for next Thursday. She wasn't feeling well, but thought it would be an added incentive for me if I could come over when Mr. R would be in attendance. In light of all of the nice exchanges I've had with him lately I was okay with him not being there, but everything happens for a reason, I guess.

As it turns out, our e-mail train is stopped at the station, at least for today. nothing new.

In other news I am getting used to the new weight I am carrying and its strain on my neck. Pounds of hair. I feel like I'm wearing a heavy hat.

A History of Us

A love for the "City of Lights" is being engendered in my heart. I'm not sure how this happened. I just woke up one morning and it appealed to me, and then my life opened up to receive it. Devika sent me that lovely lyrical story Black Girl In Paris, before that, it occurred to me that I might like to go there for a honeymoon, and now in Auster's autobiography, which I am nursing like a cocktail, he waxes on about returning there after a 3-year hiatus feeling like there was "unfinished business" waiting for him.

My precious Mr. R laments not being able to get good croissants since he's been there (some years ago now).

I imagine riding around with him on his motorcycle through the city square, scaring pigeons, being crazy in love and newly married.

Paris has come to me like every good idea I've ever had, like every notion that ever panned out, like each piece of intuitive knowledge I've come to own...

Of its own volition without coaxing from me.

The African Braiding Parlour...

Both saved and consumed the day. The salon with whom I had made arrangements to get braids, beginning at 9 a.m. this morning, proved to be a no go. I was there at 8:55. By 9:30 after calling from my cell phone while I stood right outside the building and being told to "wait," I hailed the next cab home, looked through the phone book, found the place referenced above, and headed on over there.

I got there at about 10 a.m.; work began on my hair almost immediately, but it was apparent that it would be slow going. 'Patience, Grasshopper,' I thought to myself. I reminded myself that I was committed to a very detailed process, that if I wanted good results, could not, and should not be rushed.

One of the stylists had her infant girl tied tightly to her back with a large scarf. When the baby was not slung to her mother's lower back, she could be found resting in the arms of one of the customers while her mother performed a particularly difficult braid maneuver. I desperately wished I would get an opportunity to coddle her. She woke up from her mid afternoon nap crying with hunger. I was handed her and her bottle as though there was no question of my willingness to feed her. It was the highlight of my day. Both of her ears are already pierced with two holes each.

I called Ms. F to confirm plans for our get together tomorrow, and got Mr. R instead. Since I was still two hours out from being finished, I lamented my fate in the chair, and got his usual reply of "Good Lord!" when I told him how long I'd been there and what remained to be done. My cell phone cut us off, and I debated not calling back, but I did. I think he was waiting, because he answered immediately. He was heading up to his parents' to begin his house/pet sitting gig, but encouraged me to call him and e-mail him. Said he couldn't wait to see the braids.

I don't think I've ever looked prettier.

The Era of The Small Black Bag

Sarahbina says we are in our 'Audrey Hepburn' phase of life (i.e., era of the small black bag) now. These are the years of cocktails, little black cocktail dresses (which neither of us can really wear), and emotional intrigue. I went to Sarah's hometown with her this weekend. She had an appointment to get her hair highlighted and trimmed. I just needed time away from my regular routine. I purchased, over the weekend, a small black bag, a sauce pan, and a copy of this charming tale.

Now I'm just finishing up laundry, getting geared up for a new work week (to start Tuesday), but first.... for braids.

Mr. Renaissance and I are in the thick of steady e-mail correspondence chain. Wonder where it will end.

I just read an article in Jane Magazine that personified each of the major sexually transmitted diseases as various types of social and emotional pariahs. Pretty clever. I almost read the whole thing. But this is how magazine reading is for most. It's a skimmer's best friend.

What else is on Kate's mind this morning? Well, for starter's she's wondering where her shipment of cds from bmg is. She's getting tired of waiting for the remastered Funkadelics, the best of Parliament, the remastered Indigo Girls self-titled collection, The Clueless and Ocean's 11 soundtracks, and Radiohead's Kid A and Pablo Honey.

So, I am here at the office wrapping up my nerve racking week as keeper of the Publication Status Report (hereafter, PSR) while the regular keeper of it devoted her attention to other matters, like a confidential report of some type. The PSR is evil, the classic example of "rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic" (as my genius pal Sarahbina would say).

Know what I've discovered about myself? I can't even fantasize about kissing Mr. Renaissance unless I have fresh breath. My stash of the curiously strong mint had been depleted, so I restocked this morning. Let the elaborate metaphysical kissing sessions begin!

Happy weekend, everybody. You know I love you, right?

My first counseling meeting was preempted by the snow. I am so sick of snow. Once was cute, twice was something of a fluke for a midatlantic winter, three times is annoying. Definitely not a charm. So, I will wait until next week to begin this process. It always seems to be the case that I am waiting for the actual events of the various and sundry situations in which I find myself to catch up with what I know about said situations.

I referred to Mr. Renaissance as "my sweet" in an e-mail I sent him tonight. It was an unguarded moment in which I called him something I've called any number of friends before, but I was nervous after sending the note. It was not affectionate, per se, but more like "listen here, honey, you're gonna have to fish or cut bait..." kind of like that idea. I knew he wouldn't address it either way, but I didn't know how he would take it. And I feared his "silence" would be deafening as it always seems to be when I am feeling insecure.

All's well that ends well. He's already written me back, and if he felt violated, it didn't show in his reply. See. this is what I mean. I need not to worry about stuff like this.

Okay, so here's to hoping that my appointment to get braids goes off without a hitch. without a hitch. famous last words. And I mean that in a very non fatalistic kind of way...

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How's this for warmth: I am wearing sweat pants underneath my slacks, and in addition to my turtleneck sweater, I am wearing a zip up polar fleece jacket beneath my coat-- Yak fur scarf, itchy wool hat, and of course, gloves completing the picture? It wasn't as bad as yesterday when sharp stabs of air traveled with ease up my pants legs. But I still didn't feel as warm as I would have liked to feel. I consider this biting air to be offering a challenge to me and my layering prowess.

Okay, enough of that.

I'll be back later when I have something more intriguing to say.

It is freezing! I have already called building maintenance to let them know that people get into work as early as 7:00 a.m., so the heat needs to be circulating by then. It is hard to type, or do any kind of work when your fingers feel like popsicles. I mean, even my feet are cold.

Some kind soul brought in pumpkin bread this morning. I have no lunch, to speak of, so the two slices I snagged may be my only sustenance for the day, which I hope goes quickly. This could be an annoying week because the two days I normally work downtown are going to be preempted for pressing workload here at home base. At least I am finishing out the week with a trip to Sarahbina's parents' house, and then next monday I am off!

And now for a total non-sequitir:

I did not tell Mr. R. about counseling yesterday. There was something of a window, but the crack was not wide enough. He asked how my new year was going so far. The only thing of note to share was the debaucle of a conversation with my father, and the subsequent, wrenching visit to see my grandmother. I did tell him, anecdotally, about the stalemate with my birth dad, but did not follow the trail into my decision to get some help processing everything. I told him instead about getting braids,and as I suspected, he thought this was a cool idea. He wondered why I didn't just get dreadlocks. I told him I thought braids were a bit neater.

As we ambled in and out of rooms at the museum yesterday he asked if I'd written any poems lately. I told him I had, and he asked about the process of draft and revision, and I said something banal. I'm just glad he didn't ask to see the poem. It is, of course, about him.

It's just a bit premature for him to read. I make enough declarations to him--in my writing--with my eyes--in my unhesitant 'yes' to his every question. He needs to make a proclamation or two before I let him read how much I love him again.

Painting: A Sunday Outing

Mr. Renaissance called me to ask if I'd like to accompany him to the museum to look at paintings of the Old Masters. Of course I said yes. I met him in the vestibule of my building; he was wearing the jeans of his that I like best, a red plaid button down with a t-shirt underneath, and his leather jacket. I wore my burgundy turtleneck sweater, pale jeans, and grey polar fleece jacket.

We parked close to the furniture store I walked around inside yesterday. I showed him the crimson velour chaise lounge I covet, and he agreed with me that it's "great."

Once inside the museum, we went up to the third floor and began with the Baroque period. Walking beside him like that, looking into his eyes behind his thin, black, oval shaped frames, I felt so much love for him. His hair was so delightfully messy! I saw a couple of gray strands, and I smiled to myself that someone with such a boyish face could have hints of age beginning to show.

After the Asian Art section, where we ended, we walked over to the library so he could get a card, listened to a bit of a set the jazz band was playing, and then walked across the street to the Basillica. We only stayed for a few moments, in truth, I wish we could have sat down, prayed, just been silent--together--for a few minutes.

I was so aware of wanting him to kiss me; I was so aware of my desire to let myself love him without checking it.

But I don't know who I am yet. Not yet.

Self-Hypnosis (Warning: Don't Try This At Home)

I toyed with the idea of hypnotizing myself by following the "recipe" I read in an Anne Lamott book. Essentially, you just think about a colour, and then say aloud all of the associations (word and picture) that flow from your meditation on this hue. Eventually, you are in some kind of trance, and your own memories come bubbling up to the surfce, and you follow them backward in time to the very first memory you have. That memory is, in all likelihood, your "root" memory--the cause of all your trouble.

It seemed easy enough, but when I told Sarahbina about my plan, a decidedly dubious look crept to her face.

'I don't think that's such a good idea.'

I thought about it again, and was sure that I had oversimplified what hypnotizing myself would actually mean, so I decided to forego it. What if in my attempt to put myself "under" I slipped down Alice's rabbit hole into a perverse, bizarre world that reads like an LSD trip?

Tea For Two

I remember being about 7 and my mom teaching me the words to this song. I was obsessed with it, and sang it over and over again, much to her and my stepfather's chagrin, I'm sure. Courtesy of the In The Sun cd, it has been brought back to me. It's still a lovely song....it served as part of the backdrop of my walk yesterday... as I was standing in front of the abandoned jazz pub, Ms. Monheit sang "Me for you, and you for me alone...just tea for two and two for tea....oh, can't you see how happy we would be?"

Narrative Voice

So as not to lose my reading momentum, I am now consuming Paul Auster's autobiography Hand to Mouth. I am particularly intrigued by his refusal, as a young man, to "lead a double life" by having a 9-to-5. He made the decision that he was a writer, and would not do anything to finance that life, but would instead live that life. This was possible in part because he never minded being poor. Can I be frank? I want too many things to be the 'starving artist.' This is probably why it is taking me so long to get going. It would be easier if I could content myself to live in a cold water flat if I were out having adventures, could milk that whole 'kindness of strangers' notion, or were having regular sex with a man I loved. Not to be crass or anything, but life is a trade off.

I walked on my favourite street in the city--Charles Street--for the better part of an hour. I listened to Jane Monheit's In The Sun and saw everything as a photograph. I freezeframed the bronze statues in the dog parks in my mind's eye, mourned the shut down cafes and jazz pub, and I let the freezing cold air sink into my bones. I wanted everything I saw to own me.

I walked into the furniture store that has the velour crimson chaise lounge in the window, instead of just admiring it from outside. And I realized how content I am to view what I long for from a distance...how few times it occurs to me that I can possess something that appeals to me, that I can walk into a place and have a right to be there. I don't even press my dirty little nose against the glass, content with just that. I walk by the windows that are a view into rooms I wish would welcome me.

A small effort, but I learned it is easy to walk into a place. Most people don't know you don't belong unless you tell them you don't.

The Winter of My Discontent

Am I choosing to be miserable? Am I choosing to languish in a constant state of waiting by making other people responsible to initiate change for me? Am I staying in relationships and friendships that stunt my spiritual, emotional, and psychological evolution?

Yes.

One of the things I immediately understood upon making the concession to return to more purposeful analysis is that I would have to open my palm and learn to hold loosely everything I currently hold dear. I hold lies dear. The lie of the image of who I am, who I have made myself be, to others. I hold fantasy dear, and prefer it to the nitty gritty reality of what it means to be in relationships with people. I hold safety dear, and as a result have become a lead footed curmudgeon. I hold control dear. So dear, in fact, that I don't give myself the freedom to be spirited along my journey, and enjoy not having to grasp desperately at the reigns. I hold grasping dear, and therefore, do not understand the dizzying joy of letting myself be pursued.

This is the soundtrack of my waning psychosis:

the clacking of the keys on the keyboard as I write the book I've been trying to write since I was 10 years old

the sound of sirens playing in remix mode outside my window

the sound of hookers laughing deeply on street corners

the sound of train whistles, forlorn and pure, blaring into a night's fog

and

the cessastion of the sound of my own voice cursing me for being who I am

I have decided that I am not telling Mr. Renaissance about my decision to go into counseling–at least not yet. To clarify, I don't plan to volunteer this information in a vacuum. If an organic moment presents itself, I'm not saying I would sidestep it. I feel the need to wait right now, though. Maybe if he is still going to paint me, I will tell him after our sessions are underway. Or, if I happen to talk to him just after a doctor's appointment, and he asks me what's going on, or where I have just been, I will tell him then.

My reasons are three-fold:

1. I don't want to use the fact that I am going to be pursuing help navigating my personal issues as any kind of currency. Sometimes I use the things in my life–even my decisions–as a kind of prop to prove how evolved and mature I am. He would not necessarily attribute these to me for sitting on "the couch", but I might be tempted to hope for that response. No good.

2. There is so little about me that is not available to him–because in truth–I am not really inclined to keep precious morsels back. It's a practice of restraint. There has to be something for him to discover, even if it's just that I am seeing a therapist.

3. I don't want him to relate to me out of this decision. I don't want to become his friend "who's in therapy." I want to find my footing in this new process without it defining me for better (see number 1) or worse. After I've gone through it for a while, a month or so, then maybe the revelation will be more significant. If there is a revelation.

Wanna Call You Everyday And Beg You To Be Near Me, But I Know Your Head Is Under water... I Doubt That You Could Hear Me...

I am very faithful to the care and feeding of my music collection. For the last 4 years I have worked to make it something more than the scant 20 compact discs I owned, mostly comprised of forgettable songs, at that time. I joined BMG, first of all, and quickly learned that if you control the beast, this club can work for you and save you thousands of dollars.

Your criteria for purchase-worthy music may be different from mine, but let me urge you to begin the process of expressing yourself this way if you've not already. For me, If I am going to purchase an album, I use as my rule of thumb that I must like at least 3 songs on it, or I purchase a single of the song I do enjoy. There have been a few occasions in which I purchased an album because I really liked one song, but in those cases, I perceived the song to have an inherent timelessness--or that it would be so important to me, musically, that I trusted the rest of the album to follow suit. I've regretted this perhaps once. Not bad.

When I am experimenting--that is out shopping for music without a roadmap or a specific purchase agenda--I go by the cd cover. If I like the cover, I like the music. This strategy has only failed me once in the past. Or, sometimes, and I don't know how I am able to intuit this, I can feel the artistic intentions of a group or individual very strongly when I hold an album. It isn't always so much that I like the aesthetic qualities of the cover art, as much as I am inexplicably viscerally compelled by it.

Of course, you should never underestimate the failsafe of being observant of the music you hear when you are at a friend's house or when you are out and about in the world... If something moves you, ask "What's this group?" "How did you find out about them?" and then, ask to have a more indepth listen. Pursue your leads to productive ends. And become one of those cutting-edge types while you're at it.

Something else that is important to me when choosing the music I want to own is its historical significance. There are albums I believe I should own purely because of their impact on the culture of the time they represent, or in some cases, on the world. The Beatles are a bit before my time, and I have never been ga ga about them (though if I think about it, I do like enough of their songs), but I believe it is my duty to own Abbey Road. As someone born a mere ten years after their invasion, I am a post british invasion music baby. My shelves need to reflect that. What is past is prologue as someone once said.

It is crucial to me, personally, that many different genres be represented in my collection as well. That's a lot easier these days due to the intuitive blurring of categories, crossover efforts, and the conclusion all music lovers eventually come to.... the more you listen to all kinds of music, the more univeral you understand it to be. I am proud to say that I own Barry White's Greatest Hits and The Cure's Disintegration.

The weather in my region of the world has been balmy today. The reprieve from the harsh, bitter cold we've been having was, of course, welcome. My time at work today was uber productive, and my train ride home was sunny, peaceful, and filled with the sound of Mel Torme's velvet fog voice lulling me down the tracks into the heart of my own freedom, which is waiting for me to own it.

The counseling office I contacted a couple of days ago returned my call this afternoon. My mobil phone vibrated when I was still in the first leg of my hour long journey home; I set up a time for next week on Thursday. A journey of a thousand miles.... once begun is half done...

Fumbling Towards Ecstasy

I am chagrined to realize that the path to freedom--to having the love I want--involves confronting my issues with my father. So, I am reentering the arena of counseling and analysis. I anticipate that it will be very hard for me, and will involve all of the things I hate most: just sitting with myself and feeling the nasty feelings I have in order to feel my way through to the end. I have to follow the trail of the feelings to sources I don't want to confront, and then confront them as if my life depended on it, because it does.

Give It Up For Dead

Over the course of the last 4 days things have been turned upside down for me. I was forced to confront a beloved grandmother's mortality, and was in reality, too much of a coward to really talk to her when I went to see her. My decision to go was grudging because I felt that everyone was trying to dictate to me what my last memory of her should be. I was frightened and grieved by the figure in the hospital bed--so different from the woman I knew as a child--that I thought there must be some mistake. The entire molecular and spiritual structure of her face is compromised by years of strokes and seizures, her inability to talk is simply eerie, and her level of cognition is a mystery, so I just felt pounded by grief and shame over my negligence of her.

See, what I remember is a woman who was a dish! She had sass, style, arrogant elegance. Well into her sixties she still wore tight jeans, pumps, and well tailored blouses. I still remember associating the smell of her cigarettes with warmth and love. I think it is the reason why every man I've ever seriously cared for is a smoker, or was at one time a smoker. Vestiges of the scent of unlit Benson & Hedges still comfort me. She liked cocktails, she told it like it was. You just didn't want to cross her... but that is because she had been so badly hurt by my grandfather. She made cutting remarks an art form, but if she loved you, it consumed her.

I remember being about 8 years old and sitting in her lap at some party. We were seated on the floor, just rocking together in time to our own rhythm. I was proud she and I shared that connection. That even though I did not know my father, that I had her and that she had me.

I give up. I need help.

Done So Many Things Wrong, Don't Know If I Can Do Right...

A Long Winter's Nap

I had contact with 3 people yesterday who I have not seen or heard from in several years. The first was my friend Helen, whom I ran into at the library. The second two were my Uncle Gary and my father Samuel. Gary and Samuel called within ten minutes of each other. My conversation with my uncle was quick and genuinely jovial. He wanted to get my address and promised to keep in touch more often. Samuel called to remind me of his ailing mother, the grandmother I haven't seen in several years, but to whom I was very close as a child. He barked at me that I owed her a hospital visit, said goodbye, and then got off of the phone. With the exception of a brief and purely business conversation about 5 months ago, I have not talked to Samuel in two years.

This morning when he called again, to apologize, of all things, for his approach yesterday, I told him that he was a bully. I told him that he wanted all of the rights and privileges of a father, though he'd not been one to me. I tried to explain that this did not make me bitter, but that it did have a consequence. That being the decision I've made that I don't have a father, except God. I told him that I am not interested in revisiting my unsuccessful relationship with him, nor will I respond the way he wants me to when he orders me around.

My mother had called me, thoroughly interrupting my sleep just two hours before, and made me feel pressured into going to see this same ailing grandmother--and I felt resentful--not at the notion that I needed to see her, but at this campaign from out of nowhere. I agreed, though the onslaught left a nasty taste in my mouth. I was agreeing to go on the principle that three people (Gary, Samuel, and my mother) mentioned how badly she was doing in the space of 14 hours, and that since I don't believe in coincidences, maybe this warning of sorts was a gift.... A clear sign that I should go if I wanted to see her again at all.

By the time Samuel called this morning, it had begun to snow. Soon after I told him that he was a bully, the conversation quickly devolved back into the same doomed monologue from last night. 'You owe her! You owe her!' he shouted. He added that he had a right to be angry with me for not going to see her before. At this point I had already mentioned that I had agreed to go there with my mother to see her today, and he was pissing me off so I said to him 'I already told you I was going to go and see her, so there's your satisfaction.' And I hung up.

Then Sarahbina and Francesca and I went out for breakfast to a cafe just a few streets over. The flakes were fatter and more insistent when Francesca dropped us off in front of our building. We waved her a wintry goodbye.

Later I made my way out into the wet slushy mess again to go and purchase my train tickets for the week. I came home and warmed up with tea, started another book, and wondered why I keep going through this sick and painful drama with a man who is a stranger to me. I wondered how crucial figuring out the mystery of who he is to be to me is to figuring out the myster of Mr. Renaissance and his place in my life.

I settled in for a warm nap within an hour of returning home from my errand, it being decided that the weather was too bad to go out to see my grandmother Lillian. And I dreamed images that are only vaguely graspable to me now. I was complaining about my horrendous work commute to a bunch of asian guys, one of whom I used to nurse a fatalistically conceived hope for. And I dreamed of my stepfather, to whom I am also not speaking, because his infractions against the family are also too great to bear.

Timing is Everything, But Then You Already Knew That

A few weeks ago I attempted to get a library card, but the process could not be completed because I did not have proof of my current address with me. Shortly after that I got sick, the holidays were upon us, and in general, I just felt a lack of motivation regarding it. Today, however, I decided, was the day I would go back and just get it taken care of. So I waited in line with my completed application, and 2 proofs of address. Just as I was about to be waited on, and old and dear friend shouted across to me from the book return line. We ended up talking and exchanging numbers, giving each other the quick and dirty versions of what had been happening for the last 3 or 4 years, promising to get together soon. I still remember when I first met her at church back in 1996 (or 1997) that first time--we had an instant connection and talked animatedly like old friends resuming a long running dialogue.

It is still a mystery to me the way things--even small things-- are held back, held off, aborted, even, until such a time as they ought to be brought to fruition.

I called and made an appointment at the Roots African Hair Braiding salon for 9 a.m. on January 20th. It's time now for something a bit sensual to start.

Presently, I am alone in the apartment listening to Miles's Kind of Blue..... the moon is a tiny sliver of a thing... and I am drinking a quasi dry red wine.

I have been dreaming in the narrative voices of the women in the books I read. The text, made up in my own mind to match the tone of their voices, repeats like a backdrop to a moving montage in my sleeping brain.

I was also aware of trying to make several connections with Mr. Renaissance and failing. Sometimes he couldn't see me, sometimes efforts I'd made to give him nice presents went completely awry, or he talked about other women.

I slept for a total of about 11 hours last night. So I guess I'll have some lunch, and then take up my place in the narrative.

Send in the Clowns

Isn't that funny?

Something random

Here's a poem I wrote in May of 2000:

Ella Fitzgerald

There is a seven-pointed star caught in my throat
the sound it makes when I sing
is so pure and so clean
all the words fall from me
whole
and well-meaning
warm rain on the face butter cream pearls
this thing violently lodged
is softening the world with its terror

Take the What Should Your New Year's Resolution Be? Quiz

Unsatisfying Conversations

Have you ever gone through a period of having dialogues that fall flat no matter how hard you try to construct them to do otherwise? Lately, I have not been getting what I need from my verbal exchanges, because, I think, I need something very specific. Reassurance. And when you are needy the way that I am presently needy, nothing can really satisfy you. I can't expect anyone to bear the burden of holding my hand through this bout of uncertainty. If my friends had divine prophecies for me they would supply them.

No one can say to me 'Yes. A new job in the city where you live is right around the corner.' Or, 'Yes. you will be with him; the two of you belong together, and before you know it you will be exploring what it means to be in a relationship with him.'

What can I do then, when that is what I desperately want to hear? I need an apt verbal assessment of this phase of my life.

How I Spent The First Day of 2003

I woke up at 10:10 or so this morning. His was the first call to my apartment; he was returning a call of mine from last night inviting him to a sort of New Years' Day brunch. He could not make it. Plans for dinner with Ms. F. had been downgraded to coffee, so I told him I would just see him later. But, before long, Ms. F. called to reschedule altogether. Seeing him today was not in the cards, I guess.

Eventually I showered, put on a tight black sweater and tight Levi's jeans, and ate a late afternoon repast of broccoli quiche and maple link sausages. Now I am nursing a Yuengling Black & Tan while reading more of the memoir of a woman I relate to in some ways, but not in others.

My bank account is overdrawn, and night has fallen on the first and very anticlimactic day of a new year. At least there is the weekend to look forward to.

Interior Monologue

Sarahbina pointed out to me last night that I cannot serve two masters. I can either bow to the "logic" of my interior monologue, or I can exercise faith, unapologetically, where my hopes are concerned. There is a point at which the properties of truth that are held in one situation or paradigm override everything else. Sometimes truths co-exist. More often than not, one thing being proved true, proves millions of others false.

New Year's Eve was a low key affair. We had a few cocktails, some finger foods, and a nice movie viewing. For about twenty minutes after midnight, noisemakers, firecrackers, and a good deal of screaming could be heard reverberating through the south end of the city.

So here's a new shot to refuse to cop out, to do the right thing, to allow myself to own the truth of my life:

I am not too much of a mess to be desired.