I was halfway through a tango when it began. A muddled lead into a waltz twinkle broke my concentration enough to hear the siren's song. Moooo.... come see me, Mo, come see how I turned out. . . I fought through the urge while I practiced my cha cha fan and had no trouble ignoring the call during the rhumba, my favorite dance. It was the salsa that did it. I can't salsa to save my life, except the basic step and this funny throwing turn that my favorite dance partner does with me while we laugh hysterically the whole time since it's the only thing either of us know in that dance. I had to go, I just had to. I knew it had only been 4.5 hours, instead of the "at least 5 hours, even if I don't wait the 8-10 recommended" I'd promised myself. I was almost sucked in by the samba line dance, and had already cha cha'ed with my coat on with a girl looking lost. Samba line dance be damned, I must GO!!
To my intense relief, the dye had picked up the yellow dye (at least enough to turn the color from purple to the brown family, the desired result) in the final hour... or, 5.5 hours since I'd seen it last. (a friend watched the pot the last hour of cooking so I could go do kid pick up) I should note, based on my earlier rant, that this is *not* a soul sucking brown, but rather a beautiful brown that defies description, vaguely referring to itself as brown for lack of a better english word to describe this brown that edges somehow into purple, but can certainly not be called such. Its purple nature is brought out by the failure of the silk gauze to dye the same way the wool did. The absolute purple of the silk gauze had me sighing somewhat smugly, "this is why we do color samples." On the piece that had felted wool on it, the colors go together nicely (I should hope, since they were both in the same dyebath) but they are distinctly different. I'm assuming the yellow left in the water is the yellow that failed to absorb into the silk.
So, it's 10pm and I think... hey, I don't have the kids, I should dye something! Internally, I'm taunting myself, "that's it, art geek, go dye some stuff. You got no kids, you're dressed up for dancing and looking good, why don't you spend the next 2 hours sweating over a dye pot and trying to keep fabric dye and acid off your clothes instead of going out and getting a life." Hmm... good idea, I think I will do just that. And I did. My hands are covered in dye (of course, gloves are for wussies!) but I did manage to keep my clothes unscathed. I'm rather amazed by that.
The light green skirt was asking for it, and the black tank top, suitable for keeping me from sweating *quite* as much in the oven they call a dance studio, (which, naturally, wasn't actually that bad today since A) it wasn't warm outside and B) I was actually dressed appropriately for the heat) was begging for an acid splash right onto that tender exposed cleavage. I could have been somewhat less appropriately dressed, but it would have required me being topless and wearing white. I actually was wearing white earlier in the day, dressing without any real thought about what I'd be doing today: dyeing. I did manage to keep *my* dye off me, but walked into the dye room at the exact moment my friend was shaking a jug of dye whose lid was not as secure as one would hope. The blue explosion resulting was such an amazing surprise that one could hardly jump fast enough to give it credit. The two blue spots on the right side of my white jeans are worn with pride, since one stride later and somewhat less fast reflexes would have had me as smurflike as my friend ended up being. While annoyed that she got dye on me after I managed to keep from getting it on myself, it's hard stay peeved at someone who has blue teeth. I hereby declare those jeans (getting too big for me, and with loops chewed off by my crazy australian shepherd some years go) as dye and/or paint jeans now, and there we have it. There's something intensely satisfying about getting color on white clothes. It's so incredibly apparent.
Ok, my hour is up. The wool turned the exact shade of purple intended, and the silk is an infuriating (if lovely in its own right) blue. We'll see how it looks tomorrow morning when I have the pleasure of getting up at the butt crack of dawn to rinse out the dye (mine, and smurfgirls)... likely, still blue. Stupid silk. What again was I thinking to set up a dye bath on the night before the only sleeping in day I get every other week? GEEK! Yes, it's true. When I choose art over sleep, there's something deeply wrong.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Umbrellas
People should be required to use visually interesting umbrellas. On a day when an umbrella is needed, the dreariness of the landscape is inescapable. Is it too much to ask that the huge swaths of cloth twirling and bobbing in motion should be the reward we get for enduring the complete lack of cheer that comes with the rain?
Black umbrellas, Bah, I spit in your general direction. As if it wasn't depressing enough be to damp and surrounded in an impressionistic landscape of desaturated color. Worse, I actually saw a brown umbrella. Don't get me wrong, I love brown. I think it's a misunderstood color with a rich depth and great potential when it's got a chromatic feel to it. However, this was not one of those browns. This was the exact color brown that gives brown a bad name. It's the color of brown with every last bit of soul sucked right out of it. Who would choose such an umbrella? Who is the soulless creature who thought it was a good idea to make it in the first place? It was a brown that was screaming for the release a mercy burning would give it. It could go to color hell where it belongs and release the general brown soul to try again next time... maybe a rich brown with a nice maroon edge, that would be nice.
Black is at least understandable. People who have black umbrellas are often the type of people who are so afraid of clothing that they can't take any risks with color. They are the accountants of the clothing world. This is not a surprise, considering how big the business school is in this town. Do you think tho, is it truly a fear, that people will take you less seriously with an interesting umbrella? You don't take your umbrella to the boardroom and you don't even want it drip drying in your office if you can help it, no matter what color it is.
That brown one tho, that was the insult that pushed the whole thing too far. Think of everyone else, people. We have nothing to look at but your umbrellas on a rainy day. Make it worthwhile. Take a little bit of time to bring some cheer to the world and pick an umbrella that's bright and cheery and possibly even brings a smile to the face of someone who looks at it. Is that too much to ask for on a rainy day?
Black umbrellas, Bah, I spit in your general direction. As if it wasn't depressing enough be to damp and surrounded in an impressionistic landscape of desaturated color. Worse, I actually saw a brown umbrella. Don't get me wrong, I love brown. I think it's a misunderstood color with a rich depth and great potential when it's got a chromatic feel to it. However, this was not one of those browns. This was the exact color brown that gives brown a bad name. It's the color of brown with every last bit of soul sucked right out of it. Who would choose such an umbrella? Who is the soulless creature who thought it was a good idea to make it in the first place? It was a brown that was screaming for the release a mercy burning would give it. It could go to color hell where it belongs and release the general brown soul to try again next time... maybe a rich brown with a nice maroon edge, that would be nice.
Black is at least understandable. People who have black umbrellas are often the type of people who are so afraid of clothing that they can't take any risks with color. They are the accountants of the clothing world. This is not a surprise, considering how big the business school is in this town. Do you think tho, is it truly a fear, that people will take you less seriously with an interesting umbrella? You don't take your umbrella to the boardroom and you don't even want it drip drying in your office if you can help it, no matter what color it is.
That brown one tho, that was the insult that pushed the whole thing too far. Think of everyone else, people. We have nothing to look at but your umbrellas on a rainy day. Make it worthwhile. Take a little bit of time to bring some cheer to the world and pick an umbrella that's bright and cheery and possibly even brings a smile to the face of someone who looks at it. Is that too much to ask for on a rainy day?
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Dreamscape: Mexican Cigarettes
I had my first dream involving ASL (American Sign Language) last night. I was waiting for the bus, it would come anytime. He drove up and said he was looking to buy something, but I couldn't figure out what he was saying... I realized that somewhere along the line he'd stopped speaking to me verbally and started signing. He was signing "Mexican", but I didn' t get it until he switched to the word "spanish". (which I thought I'd originally learned meant Mexican as well, but it appears doesn't. I'd just learned the proper sign for it yesterday in class) Oh! Mexican cigarettes, gotcha. ya, actually, this guy right here has some, maybe he'll sell them.
The guy says he will, and his wife is startled. She says something like "oh no, you're not going to sell those are you??" He replies that they need the money more than the cigarettes. (I recognized the scarcity of the product in my dream so I understood why it would be appealing) I walked back to the car and signed "30" I added "dollars" on the end, feeling concerned that he wouldn't know what the number meant without the referent. (duh) He gives me the money and I take it over to the guy. He pulls out the pack, and it's all sort of smashed. I cringe mentally. As the go between, do I take a product, overpriced, back to him that's inferior? Is it worth it to him to have it anyway, considering the scarcity? I can't make that decision and go with the Stroker Ace philosophy of "I know nothing, I am just a messenger."
The pack drops, and a little cellephane wrapped bit of extra tobacco falls out, he says he's going to keep that. The tobacco is lovely. It's a beautiful deep magenta seeping into puple (a nice RVR with some RVR S1 traits, for you art geek types) color, fuzzy like wool roving (do we have felting on the mind, mo??) with these dark spots in it. My mouth turns into an O of understanding. Well, no wonder this would be scarce and desired, just *look* at it. I decide that he isn't going to care if it's smashed, he can just smoke it in some other format if it's too ugly, the tobacco is what's important, I'm sure.
I take it back to him, getting a little edgy because the bus will be there *any* second. He's disappointed, I can tell. I offer to get his money back if he wants and he waffles. As the bus is pulling up, I'm panicking. I *have* to get where I'm going on that bus, and I know damn well he's not going to offer me a ride if I miss it. He finally decides to get the money back and I sigh internally and dutifully take the pack, watching the bus getting ready to pull away.
*****
Aside from my complete inability to set good dreamscape boundaries to get my own needs met over his, I'm so tweaked by the idea that I had a dream in ASL. Maybe not completely in ASL, but a mix. It was wonderful. There are some things that are just handier to sign than to say, and I love the idea of mixing the two in daily conversation. The origin of ASL has its roots in Martha's Vineyard. Apparently, there was an unusually high rate of genetic deafness in that population. The majority of residents had some proficiency in signing, since so many people they dealt with daily were deaf. Even between hearing people, there would be a mix of signing and verbal communication, based on what was simpler to use to communicate a thought. There are things, like directions and descriptions and emotional context that are just way more effective in ASL then they ever could be in English. Some of that stuff is right up my alley, it's body language with structure and consistancy so everyone can read it if they know how.
Of course, pretty much all non-verbal communication can be read if you know how. People are amazingly consistent in the way they communicate. For a paper I'm writing, I've been researching those seduction websites. I'm still pretty early into it, but the primary thrust seems to be teaching and manipulating body language in order to get a woman in bed. I'm fascinated by how they hook guys into these pages by implying that society set them up for failure with women by watering down their manhood, then immediately turns around and teaches them TO BE MORE LIKE WOMEN.
There are plenty of pot shots in there about "chick logic" and implications that women want men to take charge so they can subsume their desires to his, but it seems it's more a way to manipulate the male ego to think they're being manly, when in reality they're being taught to have the very feminine trait of sensitivity to the other persons body language in order to get what they want from them. Sure, it's plenty insulting that the highest goal they can think of is to actually get to put their dick inside a pussy, but it's the methodology that's bloody serious. (in fact, it's mucking up the primary thrust of my paper, and that pisses me off)
I started being annoyed that they would advocate the man pretty much turn off their authentic self and concentrate solely on being what they discover the other person wants. Then I realized... wait a minute, that's what women have been doing for centuries, is it so bad for them to get a taste of what that's like? (Oh, of course I love football/cars/monster truck races, *flutter flutter* I would love to go with you.) Ok, well, that mucks up my paper too. Then I was bristling at the metaphoric language: chick, chump, laid until I realized this was just a tool to stroke male ego in an already vulnerable state (if you weren't feeling unsuccessful with women, you wouldn't be there, right?) in order to help them feel some power over a situation they find overwhelming.
I think my main point is valid that these websites don't do much to further open honest communication between members of the opposite sex and set up relationships on a fundamentally dishonest platform by forcing one of the people into a *performance* instead of an authentic representation of their personality. However, it's possible that they're *extremely* useful in being a bridge between old (and increasingly ineffective, inappropriate, and unfair) expectations of how men are expected to act, and the new reality of our more female based societal reality. In relationships, jobs, parenting, and more, men are expected to be more able to operate in our increasingly service based society. That means they have to develop skills like being more sensitive, multi-tasking, and understanding body/meta language the way women have been doing for a lot longer.
I firmly believe men are perfectly capable of developing these new skill sets, but are still struggling to do it willingly. Men do a lot to keep each other in line, the very nature of male bonding is one of sadism on an emotional and physical level. They think nothing of humiliating a friend in order to make sure the friend upholds the standards of masculinity he feels are important. Female society isn't much kinder to their own members, of course, but womens liberation has done a lot to muddle the issue even among ourselves. We can't force someone to conform when we've been told from the moment we could understand that we could do anything, that we can stay at home or work, we can have kids or not, we can be more masculine or more feminine, wear make-up or not, and it's all ok. We have been given the freedom of variety that is still considered normal and acceptable. Men haven't been given that freedom yet, and they are trying to figure out what to do now.
My peers are all young. My masculinity class is full of women who scoff at the stereotypes of manhood presented in the literature we're reading. They simply can't believe that men would be so emotionally crippled, so unable to communicate their feelings, so unwilling to consider alternative viewpoints, (especially coming from a woman) and so threatened by female success/assertiveness/independence. Their boyfriends are nothing like that. I don't think they're lying, I think, truly, the new generation of men reaching adulthood have a new understanding and a new freedom never before seen in men's lives.
A friend of mine explained this split when we were discussing a situation that had happened in a group we are both a part of, where it seemed the problem lay distinctly down generational and male lines. He said "well sure, it's because we're not assholes. We are the first generation of men to be raised primarily by women." I was absolutely confounded. Is that true? I think it may be. Single motherhood is reaching levels where joint parenting is becoming the surprise to discover. If nothing else, fathers are recognizing the shift in society that tells them that their warrior skills are no longer the ones really needed in the society they live in. Kids have to have people skills: jobs require greater levels of sensitivity, understanding and interpersonal relationship skills to be successful. A penis and a good golf score simply aren't going to get you ahead anymore.
No matter what, there's a difference between the men my age and the men in the undergraduate studies now. (those are the men I see most commonly right now) There's even more of a difference between men my age and their fathers. Most men I know my age are fucked up. They are struggling to identify who they are as men, and what manhood means at all. They aren't like their fathers in any real way. They were raised by those men, however, and have come to adulthood with some of the expectations of male entitlement that were the natural birthright of the penis bearer in our society as late at their own fathers time. That entitlement simply isn't as easy to come by anymore. Women bonded to the men my age were raised by the first generation of feminists, the first wave of women who came to adulthood with expectations of their own entitlement: entitlement to a job with a competitive to men wage, entitlement to their own sexual pleasure, entitlement to help around the house when they too work outside it, entitlement to pursue their own interests and to expect support from their mates to accomplish it. This stuff is all radically new, and it happened since I was born.
The first programs in feminist/womens studies started in 1972. I was born in 1973. The bonding together of women who stood up and said "we will not be allow ourselves to be oppressed anymore" happened as my mother was blossoming into adulthood, deciding what kind of adult she wanted to be. She is so different from her own mother, that not just grandma being foreign (Latvian) and my mom being raised basically American explains it. I had always just thought it was a cultural difference. It is, of course, but I think it's much huger than country of origin. My mom was a transitional generation. She isn't on board with all that feminist crap. She still wants her door opened and if you want to get in her drawers, you better buy her dinner. On the other hand, she in no way expects that any woman should have to tolerate an inferior position in society based on gender, and in the workplace, she expects absolute parity between the sexes. Go mom. I was raised unfettered by any real notion that my gender would be something that would hold me back in the world. I thought being a woman was GREAT. I got to do anything I wanted, and men buy me stuff, open my doors and work hard to convince me to *allow* them to get in my pants. It was a good deal, I thought.
Now, I'm not quite that person anymore. I married a feminist, and he broke me of those notions of getting my door opened and getting stuff bought for me just because I was a woman pretty quickly. You want equality? You got it, babe, open your own damn door. It ended up being a fair trade. I opened my own door, he did the dishes.
Somewhere along the line tho, he cracked. I can only speculate on what caused it, I never even identified the situation until it was well over. Was it the pressure from his own gender? Did his imbedded ideas of what a man is really like finally leak through the seal he'd put on them until there was a crack that broke the whole thing down? Was it subtle pressure from his dad, implications that he wasn't a real man? Was it his own insecurities about being ahead of the curve, a man unlike the men around him? And he was. He was unlike the men around him, he was unlike anything I'd ever seen before, unlike anything I had known was possible for a man to be. Those men are the standard now, they're just 20 years old and not 30something. He was a man ahead of his time, and maybe being on the frontier just got to be too much. He's retreated into traditional masculinity with an aplomb I find sort of fascinating, if grisly.
It's interesting to see that it was in there all the time. He slid into it and it fits him like a glove. I wonder if it feels to him like my trip into emotional addiction felt to me... like returning to the womb, pure pleasure in running amok. He claims this was in him the whole time, and I can see he is right. It's got to be an intense relief to be away from all that pressure, to just be a "guy". I find myself wondering if the 20 year olds are going to revert after a time, or if the new generation will be able to hold true to the change.
I went to a lecture by Michael Kimmel, and he talked about how this change we're seeing is inevitable. Men simply are going to have to take on more traditionally feminine roles in society. Those roles still need to be filled, and women aren't going to back to working in the house only. This hasn't been completely accepted yet, it seems. In 1992, the... oh damn, what is the name of that guy, the member of the cabinet in charge of labor... anyway, he said that unemployment rates would drop to acceptable levels if women would just go back to the homes. *laughs* 19fucking92 people, and shit like that was not only still said out loud, but by a cabinet official. In any case, he pointed out the definite benefits to men if they take on these roles. If they're helping around the house, the woman they're with is going to be less tired, more happy, and more likely to have the energy and desire to have sex. Men who help around the house get laid more. They actually did the research. Men who help around the house have better health stats, more connection with their children, the children are better adjusted and get in less trouble academically and socially. Everyone wins here.
This isn't to say that people (especially Americans) aren't willing to deny the inevitable for longer than seems humanly possible, (look at our environmental situation) but unless the current administration is actually successful in getting women barefoot, pregnant and chained to the stove once again, it looks like the dialogue between men and women in relationships changing to one of more egalitarian sets of domestic responsibilities truly is inevitable. Those 20 year olds aren't going to have the option of reverting, not if they ever want to get laid again. The 30somethings, well, they can still find women who are willing to put up with all manner of misogynistic nonsense, but those women are getting harder and harder to find. Let's hope, anyway.
edit 4-13-05- I would like to say that I am thankful that for this once, my procrastination basically took the form of writing out the contents as they stood for my paper, and I'm able to take this post, play around with it, and form it into a rather workable rough draft to go over in class today, yeah me! I managed to blab on for 4 pages worth once I added an introductory paragraph, and took out my naturally vulgar expletives. w00t!
The guy says he will, and his wife is startled. She says something like "oh no, you're not going to sell those are you??" He replies that they need the money more than the cigarettes. (I recognized the scarcity of the product in my dream so I understood why it would be appealing) I walked back to the car and signed "30" I added "dollars" on the end, feeling concerned that he wouldn't know what the number meant without the referent. (duh) He gives me the money and I take it over to the guy. He pulls out the pack, and it's all sort of smashed. I cringe mentally. As the go between, do I take a product, overpriced, back to him that's inferior? Is it worth it to him to have it anyway, considering the scarcity? I can't make that decision and go with the Stroker Ace philosophy of "I know nothing, I am just a messenger."
The pack drops, and a little cellephane wrapped bit of extra tobacco falls out, he says he's going to keep that. The tobacco is lovely. It's a beautiful deep magenta seeping into puple (a nice RVR with some RVR S1 traits, for you art geek types) color, fuzzy like wool roving (do we have felting on the mind, mo??) with these dark spots in it. My mouth turns into an O of understanding. Well, no wonder this would be scarce and desired, just *look* at it. I decide that he isn't going to care if it's smashed, he can just smoke it in some other format if it's too ugly, the tobacco is what's important, I'm sure.
I take it back to him, getting a little edgy because the bus will be there *any* second. He's disappointed, I can tell. I offer to get his money back if he wants and he waffles. As the bus is pulling up, I'm panicking. I *have* to get where I'm going on that bus, and I know damn well he's not going to offer me a ride if I miss it. He finally decides to get the money back and I sigh internally and dutifully take the pack, watching the bus getting ready to pull away.
*****
Aside from my complete inability to set good dreamscape boundaries to get my own needs met over his, I'm so tweaked by the idea that I had a dream in ASL. Maybe not completely in ASL, but a mix. It was wonderful. There are some things that are just handier to sign than to say, and I love the idea of mixing the two in daily conversation. The origin of ASL has its roots in Martha's Vineyard. Apparently, there was an unusually high rate of genetic deafness in that population. The majority of residents had some proficiency in signing, since so many people they dealt with daily were deaf. Even between hearing people, there would be a mix of signing and verbal communication, based on what was simpler to use to communicate a thought. There are things, like directions and descriptions and emotional context that are just way more effective in ASL then they ever could be in English. Some of that stuff is right up my alley, it's body language with structure and consistancy so everyone can read it if they know how.
Of course, pretty much all non-verbal communication can be read if you know how. People are amazingly consistent in the way they communicate. For a paper I'm writing, I've been researching those seduction websites. I'm still pretty early into it, but the primary thrust seems to be teaching and manipulating body language in order to get a woman in bed. I'm fascinated by how they hook guys into these pages by implying that society set them up for failure with women by watering down their manhood, then immediately turns around and teaches them TO BE MORE LIKE WOMEN.
There are plenty of pot shots in there about "chick logic" and implications that women want men to take charge so they can subsume their desires to his, but it seems it's more a way to manipulate the male ego to think they're being manly, when in reality they're being taught to have the very feminine trait of sensitivity to the other persons body language in order to get what they want from them. Sure, it's plenty insulting that the highest goal they can think of is to actually get to put their dick inside a pussy, but it's the methodology that's bloody serious. (in fact, it's mucking up the primary thrust of my paper, and that pisses me off)
I started being annoyed that they would advocate the man pretty much turn off their authentic self and concentrate solely on being what they discover the other person wants. Then I realized... wait a minute, that's what women have been doing for centuries, is it so bad for them to get a taste of what that's like? (Oh, of course I love football/cars/monster truck races, *flutter flutter* I would love to go with you.) Ok, well, that mucks up my paper too. Then I was bristling at the metaphoric language: chick, chump, laid until I realized this was just a tool to stroke male ego in an already vulnerable state (if you weren't feeling unsuccessful with women, you wouldn't be there, right?) in order to help them feel some power over a situation they find overwhelming.
I think my main point is valid that these websites don't do much to further open honest communication between members of the opposite sex and set up relationships on a fundamentally dishonest platform by forcing one of the people into a *performance* instead of an authentic representation of their personality. However, it's possible that they're *extremely* useful in being a bridge between old (and increasingly ineffective, inappropriate, and unfair) expectations of how men are expected to act, and the new reality of our more female based societal reality. In relationships, jobs, parenting, and more, men are expected to be more able to operate in our increasingly service based society. That means they have to develop skills like being more sensitive, multi-tasking, and understanding body/meta language the way women have been doing for a lot longer.
I firmly believe men are perfectly capable of developing these new skill sets, but are still struggling to do it willingly. Men do a lot to keep each other in line, the very nature of male bonding is one of sadism on an emotional and physical level. They think nothing of humiliating a friend in order to make sure the friend upholds the standards of masculinity he feels are important. Female society isn't much kinder to their own members, of course, but womens liberation has done a lot to muddle the issue even among ourselves. We can't force someone to conform when we've been told from the moment we could understand that we could do anything, that we can stay at home or work, we can have kids or not, we can be more masculine or more feminine, wear make-up or not, and it's all ok. We have been given the freedom of variety that is still considered normal and acceptable. Men haven't been given that freedom yet, and they are trying to figure out what to do now.
My peers are all young. My masculinity class is full of women who scoff at the stereotypes of manhood presented in the literature we're reading. They simply can't believe that men would be so emotionally crippled, so unable to communicate their feelings, so unwilling to consider alternative viewpoints, (especially coming from a woman) and so threatened by female success/assertiveness/independence. Their boyfriends are nothing like that. I don't think they're lying, I think, truly, the new generation of men reaching adulthood have a new understanding and a new freedom never before seen in men's lives.
A friend of mine explained this split when we were discussing a situation that had happened in a group we are both a part of, where it seemed the problem lay distinctly down generational and male lines. He said "well sure, it's because we're not assholes. We are the first generation of men to be raised primarily by women." I was absolutely confounded. Is that true? I think it may be. Single motherhood is reaching levels where joint parenting is becoming the surprise to discover. If nothing else, fathers are recognizing the shift in society that tells them that their warrior skills are no longer the ones really needed in the society they live in. Kids have to have people skills: jobs require greater levels of sensitivity, understanding and interpersonal relationship skills to be successful. A penis and a good golf score simply aren't going to get you ahead anymore.
No matter what, there's a difference between the men my age and the men in the undergraduate studies now. (those are the men I see most commonly right now) There's even more of a difference between men my age and their fathers. Most men I know my age are fucked up. They are struggling to identify who they are as men, and what manhood means at all. They aren't like their fathers in any real way. They were raised by those men, however, and have come to adulthood with some of the expectations of male entitlement that were the natural birthright of the penis bearer in our society as late at their own fathers time. That entitlement simply isn't as easy to come by anymore. Women bonded to the men my age were raised by the first generation of feminists, the first wave of women who came to adulthood with expectations of their own entitlement: entitlement to a job with a competitive to men wage, entitlement to their own sexual pleasure, entitlement to help around the house when they too work outside it, entitlement to pursue their own interests and to expect support from their mates to accomplish it. This stuff is all radically new, and it happened since I was born.
The first programs in feminist/womens studies started in 1972. I was born in 1973. The bonding together of women who stood up and said "we will not be allow ourselves to be oppressed anymore" happened as my mother was blossoming into adulthood, deciding what kind of adult she wanted to be. She is so different from her own mother, that not just grandma being foreign (Latvian) and my mom being raised basically American explains it. I had always just thought it was a cultural difference. It is, of course, but I think it's much huger than country of origin. My mom was a transitional generation. She isn't on board with all that feminist crap. She still wants her door opened and if you want to get in her drawers, you better buy her dinner. On the other hand, she in no way expects that any woman should have to tolerate an inferior position in society based on gender, and in the workplace, she expects absolute parity between the sexes. Go mom. I was raised unfettered by any real notion that my gender would be something that would hold me back in the world. I thought being a woman was GREAT. I got to do anything I wanted, and men buy me stuff, open my doors and work hard to convince me to *allow* them to get in my pants. It was a good deal, I thought.
Now, I'm not quite that person anymore. I married a feminist, and he broke me of those notions of getting my door opened and getting stuff bought for me just because I was a woman pretty quickly. You want equality? You got it, babe, open your own damn door. It ended up being a fair trade. I opened my own door, he did the dishes.
Somewhere along the line tho, he cracked. I can only speculate on what caused it, I never even identified the situation until it was well over. Was it the pressure from his own gender? Did his imbedded ideas of what a man is really like finally leak through the seal he'd put on them until there was a crack that broke the whole thing down? Was it subtle pressure from his dad, implications that he wasn't a real man? Was it his own insecurities about being ahead of the curve, a man unlike the men around him? And he was. He was unlike the men around him, he was unlike anything I'd ever seen before, unlike anything I had known was possible for a man to be. Those men are the standard now, they're just 20 years old and not 30something. He was a man ahead of his time, and maybe being on the frontier just got to be too much. He's retreated into traditional masculinity with an aplomb I find sort of fascinating, if grisly.
It's interesting to see that it was in there all the time. He slid into it and it fits him like a glove. I wonder if it feels to him like my trip into emotional addiction felt to me... like returning to the womb, pure pleasure in running amok. He claims this was in him the whole time, and I can see he is right. It's got to be an intense relief to be away from all that pressure, to just be a "guy". I find myself wondering if the 20 year olds are going to revert after a time, or if the new generation will be able to hold true to the change.
I went to a lecture by Michael Kimmel, and he talked about how this change we're seeing is inevitable. Men simply are going to have to take on more traditionally feminine roles in society. Those roles still need to be filled, and women aren't going to back to working in the house only. This hasn't been completely accepted yet, it seems. In 1992, the... oh damn, what is the name of that guy, the member of the cabinet in charge of labor... anyway, he said that unemployment rates would drop to acceptable levels if women would just go back to the homes. *laughs* 19fucking92 people, and shit like that was not only still said out loud, but by a cabinet official. In any case, he pointed out the definite benefits to men if they take on these roles. If they're helping around the house, the woman they're with is going to be less tired, more happy, and more likely to have the energy and desire to have sex. Men who help around the house get laid more. They actually did the research. Men who help around the house have better health stats, more connection with their children, the children are better adjusted and get in less trouble academically and socially. Everyone wins here.
This isn't to say that people (especially Americans) aren't willing to deny the inevitable for longer than seems humanly possible, (look at our environmental situation) but unless the current administration is actually successful in getting women barefoot, pregnant and chained to the stove once again, it looks like the dialogue between men and women in relationships changing to one of more egalitarian sets of domestic responsibilities truly is inevitable. Those 20 year olds aren't going to have the option of reverting, not if they ever want to get laid again. The 30somethings, well, they can still find women who are willing to put up with all manner of misogynistic nonsense, but those women are getting harder and harder to find. Let's hope, anyway.
edit 4-13-05- I would like to say that I am thankful that for this once, my procrastination basically took the form of writing out the contents as they stood for my paper, and I'm able to take this post, play around with it, and form it into a rather workable rough draft to go over in class today, yeah me! I managed to blab on for 4 pages worth once I added an introductory paragraph, and took out my naturally vulgar expletives. w00t!
Monday, April 11, 2005
Happy Anniversary Daddy
It was a year ago today that I last had Really Great Sex. I don't remember the event exactly, I don't think the incident itself was one of the most memorable of that period, it's just eventful because it was the last time. I didn't know at the time it would be the last. If I had, I may have made more of an effort to make it memorable, stretch it out and make it last. If nothing else, note each detail to help refresh my memory in my private moments later.
Apparently, Really Great Sex is like a lot of physically intense experiences. I remember that period of time was Really Great, but the nature of those sensations, the visceral memory eludes me now, a year later. Contractions in child birth were like that, pain from my back injury was like that, a host of other experiences, good and bad fade from physical memory and reside only in slippery terms like: good, bad, painful, cold, hot, right and wrong. When we felt those things, there was a strong intimate relationship between the description and the bodily response. Eventually tho, it fades into memory, a tricky unreliable beast at best with a lazy proclivity for making things seem better than they were.
It took a while to find out that was going to be the last of the RGS. The decision wasn't made by me, and once I asked I was offered an exchange: emotional closeness for physical closeness. I could have one or the other, not both. I am still not sure what was in my head when I chose the former over the latter. Maybe I wasn't even really given a choice, it's hard to say now.
The magical season of RGS happened at an interesting time in my life. January 19th of last year would have been the 2 year anniversary of my back surgery. It would have been second semester of my first year back in college. I'd spent the first semester walking my ass off, taking a belly dance class, and continued that level of physical activity by switching to ballroom dance, evening belly dance and more walking off of the ass second semester. In this time, I would have just discovered that I would be moving out of my disgusting, soul killing, too small apartment and into a house. A place with a yard, privacy and away from the invasive presence of a toxic relationship that ranged from iffy to radioactive in fairly regular intervals. I was buff, structurally sound in a way I had NEVER been in my adult life, and optimistic about my soon to be realized geographic solution (to the emotional landmine I lived across the street from) when no other solution had worked.
I really hadn't been looking for this kind of experience. If I'd known I would get a taste of it and have it yanked away, would I have made the same choices? Yes, I have to say I would. Even if I'd known it would be temporary, I still would have done it. I am still amazed and thrilled and awed by the things I found out could happen to my body, the ways I could feel, the things I could do and the acts I would revel in. The choice I would change was exchanging the physical for the intimate. I have friends. I have very close friends I share my secrets with, who support me and love me and provide me with a network of intimacy that work very nicely for my needs. They, however, can't make my body do that.
After this time, once I realized it was over, I went through a period of promiscuity. I discovered something about myself and I was determined to find it again, to continue the exploration and find out how far the rabbit hole went. What amazing failure awaited down that road. Like with poison ivy, sometimes it's better to ignore an itch than to scratch it improperly. The number of times I sent someone away then tried to find a way to stem the pressure of the boiling inside... well, fortunately, that's also an experience that fades into memory with only labels: sad, disappointing, infuriating, ego deflating.
Was all the sex terrible? No, not terrible. Some of it was ok. Some was fun and some even approached interesting. Was it worthwhile?? Recently, I've taken a poll amoung my friends: Is sex like pizza and ice cream? Even if it's not very good, is it still worth having?
I'm 32. My friends, the ones I respect and whose opinions I think are valuable are around my age and older. Around the time I turned 30, my body changed. Back surgery non-withstanding, there was a difference in my view of mortality. I could feel the effects of the wear and tear on my body. Things like my cholesterol levels, potential for diabetes and getting enough fiber in my diet suddenly become somewhat more relevant. This seems to be an experience shared by my peers. Something about 30 is passing through the gates from youth to something else. Adult, middle age. . . it's hard to say exactly, but the feeling is there for all of us. The clock may not be ticking, but suddenly, we're aware that there is a clock.
Is sex like ice cream and pizza? Mostly, the answer has been yes. All three things, even at their lowest quality, are typically tolerable. The question then becomes a little more complex and here's where it got interesting. We're getting grumpier, pickier, and more aware of consequences in our old age. Interestingly, pizza and ice cream have become emblematic of the things in life that are worth waiting to get the good stuff. I know what the good stuff is like, and frankly I'd rather not waste my time on an inferior product. Crappy ice cream doesn't have any less sugar, cholesterol, or lactose in it than the good stuff. Same with pizza for the most part. If consumed, you're still going to have the same consequences to your body.... fatter, unhealthier, and likely some sort of gastric upset.
Sex falls into the same category. It's not worth the mess: physically, emotionally or spiritually to tolerate bad sex. I had enough to know. It's been a year now since RGS, and many months since I made the attempt at all. I can get laid anytime. I know that. Having a presence in my bed simply isn't enough anymore. I may not remember exactly what the physical sensations felt like to have RGS, but I do remember how happy it made me, I remember my altered mental state because of it, and I remember that stretching feeling of potential inside me, that feeling of reaching for something huge and consuming in the universe. Faced with the options, I think I'll just sit it out until I can approach a situation with reletive certainty that the other person is really interested in putting forth the effort to make it happen.
There was something that happened in that time like no other. We both approached the experiences with a desire to please, an interest in the other. I remember a time when I was determined not to give it up, when I willed myself to believe that orgasm was more than physical stimulation, you had to be willing. He proved me wrong, with just his hands. I remember clamboring across the bed, the afternoon sunshine making the room aglow, hands, tongues and bodies squirming together with abandon. Abandon was the key to RGS, along with sheer joy in the act. I remember some of those moments, and I honor them today.
You don't know when your time is up. My grandfather had his prostate removed. They told him: you're never going to have sex again after this surgery, you won't be able to get an erection. At 84, he tried to be in good cheer, he said "my wife has been dead for 7 years, I'm not having sex anyway" but later, mom said he was unnerved. He thought his parts were going to shrivel up and go away because they were no longer going to be used. (he also had his bladder removed so he wouldn't even be peeing from it) I found myself wondering... does he remember the last time he had sex? Did he know it was going to be the last time it ever happened? Would he have done things differently if he did know? Then finally: Did he think about that last time, the night before his surgery and did he have one last go of it on his own, just to reassure himself that it did still work, even if his last chance for interactive sex died 7 years ago?
I anticipate my time isn't over. I imagine there will be more opportunities for RGS in my future, and I'm sure that the sea of lovers holds at least one more fish worth keeping, but today I honor the one that got away. He's the fish tale I tell when the subject of sex comes up. My eyes are bright and shining with the memory, the details are filled with glowing detail of exuberance and amazement and not a little bit of narcissism about how fucking amazing my body is and what incredible things I can experience through the physical realm. He gave me that gift, and it's one I can keep. I can pull it out in times like these, polish it on my shirt and hold it up to the light to see the facets sparkle and shine. I can remember how good it can get in the afternoon sunshine, giving everything you've got and getting everything he's got. I can feel the flashes of emotion flit through my head when the memory is especially strong... a scent, certain lighting, a mood all trigger a memory of my joy, my submission, my power, my orgasms given to me against my will and the ones given with me driving forward as unstoppable as nature. According to What the *bleep*, the brain doesn't know the difference between something it's experiencing, and the memory of that experience. The exact same parts of the brain are activated when it happens as well as when your memory is strongest about that experience. This means that I have that in my head, those experiences imprinted a physical memory of extacy of a physical experience, and that is accessible in a biochemically identical way with enough focus. (again, I wish I had more detailed writings about those times, and I certainly will in the future when it happens again) There are many women who don't have that memory to keep them going. Who knows, maybe they're the lucky ones, because they don't realize what they're missing or what they lost. But, I don't think so, I think it's better to know what is possible if you pick carefully and try hard enough.
So, Happy Anniversary Daddy, and wherever you are now, thank you. I learned a lot, and while I know the long term relationships between neurons that those experiences wired in my brain have long since broken apart from lack of upkeep, I have faith that the residual pattern is still there, a memory if nothing else, that I can perhaps upkeep on my own, a biochemical act of faith.
Apparently, Really Great Sex is like a lot of physically intense experiences. I remember that period of time was Really Great, but the nature of those sensations, the visceral memory eludes me now, a year later. Contractions in child birth were like that, pain from my back injury was like that, a host of other experiences, good and bad fade from physical memory and reside only in slippery terms like: good, bad, painful, cold, hot, right and wrong. When we felt those things, there was a strong intimate relationship between the description and the bodily response. Eventually tho, it fades into memory, a tricky unreliable beast at best with a lazy proclivity for making things seem better than they were.
It took a while to find out that was going to be the last of the RGS. The decision wasn't made by me, and once I asked I was offered an exchange: emotional closeness for physical closeness. I could have one or the other, not both. I am still not sure what was in my head when I chose the former over the latter. Maybe I wasn't even really given a choice, it's hard to say now.
The magical season of RGS happened at an interesting time in my life. January 19th of last year would have been the 2 year anniversary of my back surgery. It would have been second semester of my first year back in college. I'd spent the first semester walking my ass off, taking a belly dance class, and continued that level of physical activity by switching to ballroom dance, evening belly dance and more walking off of the ass second semester. In this time, I would have just discovered that I would be moving out of my disgusting, soul killing, too small apartment and into a house. A place with a yard, privacy and away from the invasive presence of a toxic relationship that ranged from iffy to radioactive in fairly regular intervals. I was buff, structurally sound in a way I had NEVER been in my adult life, and optimistic about my soon to be realized geographic solution (to the emotional landmine I lived across the street from) when no other solution had worked.
I really hadn't been looking for this kind of experience. If I'd known I would get a taste of it and have it yanked away, would I have made the same choices? Yes, I have to say I would. Even if I'd known it would be temporary, I still would have done it. I am still amazed and thrilled and awed by the things I found out could happen to my body, the ways I could feel, the things I could do and the acts I would revel in. The choice I would change was exchanging the physical for the intimate. I have friends. I have very close friends I share my secrets with, who support me and love me and provide me with a network of intimacy that work very nicely for my needs. They, however, can't make my body do that.
After this time, once I realized it was over, I went through a period of promiscuity. I discovered something about myself and I was determined to find it again, to continue the exploration and find out how far the rabbit hole went. What amazing failure awaited down that road. Like with poison ivy, sometimes it's better to ignore an itch than to scratch it improperly. The number of times I sent someone away then tried to find a way to stem the pressure of the boiling inside... well, fortunately, that's also an experience that fades into memory with only labels: sad, disappointing, infuriating, ego deflating.
Was all the sex terrible? No, not terrible. Some of it was ok. Some was fun and some even approached interesting. Was it worthwhile?? Recently, I've taken a poll amoung my friends: Is sex like pizza and ice cream? Even if it's not very good, is it still worth having?
I'm 32. My friends, the ones I respect and whose opinions I think are valuable are around my age and older. Around the time I turned 30, my body changed. Back surgery non-withstanding, there was a difference in my view of mortality. I could feel the effects of the wear and tear on my body. Things like my cholesterol levels, potential for diabetes and getting enough fiber in my diet suddenly become somewhat more relevant. This seems to be an experience shared by my peers. Something about 30 is passing through the gates from youth to something else. Adult, middle age. . . it's hard to say exactly, but the feeling is there for all of us. The clock may not be ticking, but suddenly, we're aware that there is a clock.
Is sex like ice cream and pizza? Mostly, the answer has been yes. All three things, even at their lowest quality, are typically tolerable. The question then becomes a little more complex and here's where it got interesting. We're getting grumpier, pickier, and more aware of consequences in our old age. Interestingly, pizza and ice cream have become emblematic of the things in life that are worth waiting to get the good stuff. I know what the good stuff is like, and frankly I'd rather not waste my time on an inferior product. Crappy ice cream doesn't have any less sugar, cholesterol, or lactose in it than the good stuff. Same with pizza for the most part. If consumed, you're still going to have the same consequences to your body.... fatter, unhealthier, and likely some sort of gastric upset.
Sex falls into the same category. It's not worth the mess: physically, emotionally or spiritually to tolerate bad sex. I had enough to know. It's been a year now since RGS, and many months since I made the attempt at all. I can get laid anytime. I know that. Having a presence in my bed simply isn't enough anymore. I may not remember exactly what the physical sensations felt like to have RGS, but I do remember how happy it made me, I remember my altered mental state because of it, and I remember that stretching feeling of potential inside me, that feeling of reaching for something huge and consuming in the universe. Faced with the options, I think I'll just sit it out until I can approach a situation with reletive certainty that the other person is really interested in putting forth the effort to make it happen.
There was something that happened in that time like no other. We both approached the experiences with a desire to please, an interest in the other. I remember a time when I was determined not to give it up, when I willed myself to believe that orgasm was more than physical stimulation, you had to be willing. He proved me wrong, with just his hands. I remember clamboring across the bed, the afternoon sunshine making the room aglow, hands, tongues and bodies squirming together with abandon. Abandon was the key to RGS, along with sheer joy in the act. I remember some of those moments, and I honor them today.
You don't know when your time is up. My grandfather had his prostate removed. They told him: you're never going to have sex again after this surgery, you won't be able to get an erection. At 84, he tried to be in good cheer, he said "my wife has been dead for 7 years, I'm not having sex anyway" but later, mom said he was unnerved. He thought his parts were going to shrivel up and go away because they were no longer going to be used. (he also had his bladder removed so he wouldn't even be peeing from it) I found myself wondering... does he remember the last time he had sex? Did he know it was going to be the last time it ever happened? Would he have done things differently if he did know? Then finally: Did he think about that last time, the night before his surgery and did he have one last go of it on his own, just to reassure himself that it did still work, even if his last chance for interactive sex died 7 years ago?
I anticipate my time isn't over. I imagine there will be more opportunities for RGS in my future, and I'm sure that the sea of lovers holds at least one more fish worth keeping, but today I honor the one that got away. He's the fish tale I tell when the subject of sex comes up. My eyes are bright and shining with the memory, the details are filled with glowing detail of exuberance and amazement and not a little bit of narcissism about how fucking amazing my body is and what incredible things I can experience through the physical realm. He gave me that gift, and it's one I can keep. I can pull it out in times like these, polish it on my shirt and hold it up to the light to see the facets sparkle and shine. I can remember how good it can get in the afternoon sunshine, giving everything you've got and getting everything he's got. I can feel the flashes of emotion flit through my head when the memory is especially strong... a scent, certain lighting, a mood all trigger a memory of my joy, my submission, my power, my orgasms given to me against my will and the ones given with me driving forward as unstoppable as nature. According to What the *bleep*, the brain doesn't know the difference between something it's experiencing, and the memory of that experience. The exact same parts of the brain are activated when it happens as well as when your memory is strongest about that experience. This means that I have that in my head, those experiences imprinted a physical memory of extacy of a physical experience, and that is accessible in a biochemically identical way with enough focus. (again, I wish I had more detailed writings about those times, and I certainly will in the future when it happens again) There are many women who don't have that memory to keep them going. Who knows, maybe they're the lucky ones, because they don't realize what they're missing or what they lost. But, I don't think so, I think it's better to know what is possible if you pick carefully and try hard enough.
So, Happy Anniversary Daddy, and wherever you are now, thank you. I learned a lot, and while I know the long term relationships between neurons that those experiences wired in my brain have long since broken apart from lack of upkeep, I have faith that the residual pattern is still there, a memory if nothing else, that I can perhaps upkeep on my own, a biochemical act of faith.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
What the *BLEEP* Do We Know??
Since I don't watch TV and never have the money to go to movies anyway, I never even heard of this movie. The first I pretty much heard of it was when it broke up the relationship of one of my best friends. She said: I watched this movie, and I just sat there stunned. I went home, and I just kept thinking. The next day, I realized... I don't need to put up with this. I am trying to make myself ok with something that just isn't, and I don't need to do that. I'm not *going* to do that.
Powerful words indeed. To say I was piqued was an understatement. I borrowed the movie from her new Ex, and watched it today. I watched the special features, the interviews with the actors and crew and director/writer. Then, I watched it again because I simply couldn't believe what I'd seen, and hoped some of the technical stuff would sink in a little better the second time.
I am absolutely blown away by this movie. I've long felt the truth in the statement: Your focus determines your reality. I've been able to see patterns in my life where I can tell that things are better or worse because of the way I look at a situation. I've been able to step out of bad places, and with effort, change my point of view to get out of the mental rut I was in.
This movie, however, took it a few steps further. For one thing, I was fascinated by the biological description of how emotions act on the cells, and this idea of cellular addiction to emotions. I hadn't known that the peptides that deliver emotional information to the cells used the same receptors heroin does. (I'd known there were opiate receptors, but I hadn't realized they docked peptides as well as pain killing hormones the body produces.) The implication, spelled out in plain english in the movie: If we can be addicted to heroin, we can be addicted to an emotion, any emotion.
I knew what he was talking about. I went through a period of emotional addiction, an emotion loosely bundled in the anger/frustration/victimization family of emotions. It's a long proud family tradition, that mix. My family, in fact, has a long proud history of addiction in general. The explanation of biological addiction to emotion clicked a key in my head, something I've instinctively known all my life but didn't have the biology to back it up until today. There were several dramatizations in this scene to back up the nature of how broad emotional addiction can be. The warning: be careful, you think like that and it will be a self fulfilling prophecy leaps to mind. The way it was basically described is this:
If you react in a certain way consistantly, you are rewiring your neural net to reflect that consistancy. If I heard right, the person implied that as our "identity". I say that tentetively, because it's a totally new idea for me, and I'm still feeling it out. He slipped it in there so fast, and then moved on, I found it hard to believe that a little word like that could have such an impact on me, and not be explained further. If what he's saying is true, then our identity, the very nature of how we view ourselves, is based on the choices we make about how to react to the things that happen in our lives as the body rewires itself to reflect those choices on a biological, cellular level.
"Nerve cells that fire together, wire together. Do something on a daily basis, and your neural net develop long term relationships between neurons, get angry, frustrated, suffer, give reason for vicitimization you're rewiring the neural net on a daily basis, called an identity" That's pretty approximate quote, based on my notes.
So, if addiction is something you can't stop, then emotional addiction is when you can't control your emotions. If you can't control your emotions, you're addicted to them. And, if you're addicted to something, then we will bring ourselves to situation that meet the biochemical needs of our body. Translated: If we are convinced that something will happen to us, or that we're going to react in a certain way, we find ways to make that true. As with most emotional stuff, perception is reality. The trick with this movie, is that physical reality and the nature of matter becomes just as uncertain through the wonderful world of quantum physics.
I began to understand what I'd always felt inside, which is that the reality around us is in flux all the time. We choose how we want to be in the world. Sometimes, we make bad choices based on (perhaps?) an addiction to a negative emotional outcome. That's why growth is so fucking hard. Growth is hard because you are literally breaking the chemical connections between neurons that have grown together, stuck together in your brain in a physical, tangible way. Making different choices is hard, because it means making new connections, new pathways true, but more importantly, you have to break the old ones down. That's no fun, because you're going against the neural flow, path of least resistance and all that crap.
I mentioned before that I went through a period of emotional addiction. Man, it was wonderful. In a time when I felt completely unable to affect change in my life, to fix things that were broken on a level I couldn't even completely comprehend, slipping into my biochemical heritage was like returning to the womb. My family, to say the least, is tempermentally volitile. I'm not really naturally inclined towards that, or at least that's what I like to tell myself. They have a tendency to explode first, think later. Mostly, you just deal with that pattern. That was not a pattern I was interested in for myself, however, and I've spent most of my concious life making sure that's not the tempermental path I fall into. I learned, however, that it's there waiting for me. It's so very very easy to be that kind of person, to let yourself lose that control. It can give you a feeling of power when you feel that you have non otherwise, it can make you feel that you can get things done when you feel that your opinion doesn't count, that no one is listening. Feeling lost, almost as an experiment, (I'd always sort of wondered what I was missing, why that was so attractive to so many people to act like that) I entered into that mental place, just to see if it made me feel better.
It didn't. In fact, the reactivity that you have to commit to just consumes a huge amount of your time, energy and resources without giving anything helpful in return. Now, I see that biologically that's also true. When we barrage our cells with a certain chemical mix, emotions, drug, stress hormones, etc etc, then they adapt. When they divide (and here's where I felt a *crack* in my brain) they make sure there are more receptors to accept that stimulation in the new cell. We learn in Cyber Chase that a computer has a finite capacity. If you're using up the capacity for one thing, something else slows down. There are only a certain number of possible receptors on a cell. If you take up more receptors to handle a barrage of emotional/chemical input, then there are fewer receptors for taking in nutrients, exhanging water and even handling waste. Fascinating.
They concluded this area of thought by saying: Does it really matter what you eat when you're older, if your cells are unable to even absorb the nutrients you put in the body after 20 years of emotional abuse?
Wow. Put a fork in me, I'm done. My back was already broken on the emotional reactivity front from a simple time/energy/resources standpoint. I just didn't want to commit that energy to it, for the ephemeral feeling of pleasure satisfying those urges gave me. My natural tendency is towards a low key emotional existance, where I experience my pleasure and pain with acceptance and then it's usually gone. I'd always sort of felt a vague unease about that. I thought maybe I just wasn't passionate, that I wasn't capable of strong emotion, that I lacked the depth to care enough to get really really pissed off. Now, I see the advantages of that personality type. Maybe I get myself in stupid situations over and over because I tend to be forgiving, but holding a grudge is just too damn hard. And, I see, it's hard on my body!
My dip into emotional reactivity has brought balance to my life. I know I'm capable of strong emotion, and it's there to draw on as needed. I also know that in general I'd rather just let things go. I'm content with that balance. It feels like an integrated and centered place to be.
For many years, I've managed my infrequent headaches with a visualization exercize. When I was young, very early teens, I remember hearing that if you can imaging a headache is a giant muscle in your skull, squeezing your brain, then you can imagine relaxing that muscle, releasing the grip it has. I know there aren't any serious muscles in the brain or around it, I did pay that much attention in health class, but I do make my headaches go away by picturing the muscle relaxing, leaving my brain alone.
Now, I feel like I have a whole new set of visualization tools given to me from this movie. I realize the idea of habits causing physical connection, of emotions and how they link into cells, of the long term effects of emotional barrage, and the concept that I can control what emotions I feel, and thus control what kind of, and the intensity of the abuse I'm going to put my body through on a cellular level. That appeals a great deal to me. I guess it's the creator in me, the defender of the underdog, that can't allow my actions to cause harm to something else if I can avoid it. Now I'm a tender of my cells, the keeper of my body's future ability to function at full capacity, the determiner of what reality I choose to function within, and the former of my world. Why make that world crappy and petty and drama filled? There is so much out there that brings joy and health and beauty. You have to experience emotions, that's how we work. But if I can maintain control over what emotions and what intensity, then I may as well work on the ones that bring happiness and contentment in my life.
Powerful words indeed. To say I was piqued was an understatement. I borrowed the movie from her new Ex, and watched it today. I watched the special features, the interviews with the actors and crew and director/writer. Then, I watched it again because I simply couldn't believe what I'd seen, and hoped some of the technical stuff would sink in a little better the second time.
I am absolutely blown away by this movie. I've long felt the truth in the statement: Your focus determines your reality. I've been able to see patterns in my life where I can tell that things are better or worse because of the way I look at a situation. I've been able to step out of bad places, and with effort, change my point of view to get out of the mental rut I was in.
This movie, however, took it a few steps further. For one thing, I was fascinated by the biological description of how emotions act on the cells, and this idea of cellular addiction to emotions. I hadn't known that the peptides that deliver emotional information to the cells used the same receptors heroin does. (I'd known there were opiate receptors, but I hadn't realized they docked peptides as well as pain killing hormones the body produces.) The implication, spelled out in plain english in the movie: If we can be addicted to heroin, we can be addicted to an emotion, any emotion.
I knew what he was talking about. I went through a period of emotional addiction, an emotion loosely bundled in the anger/frustration/victimization family of emotions. It's a long proud family tradition, that mix. My family, in fact, has a long proud history of addiction in general. The explanation of biological addiction to emotion clicked a key in my head, something I've instinctively known all my life but didn't have the biology to back it up until today. There were several dramatizations in this scene to back up the nature of how broad emotional addiction can be. The warning: be careful, you think like that and it will be a self fulfilling prophecy leaps to mind. The way it was basically described is this:
If you react in a certain way consistantly, you are rewiring your neural net to reflect that consistancy. If I heard right, the person implied that as our "identity". I say that tentetively, because it's a totally new idea for me, and I'm still feeling it out. He slipped it in there so fast, and then moved on, I found it hard to believe that a little word like that could have such an impact on me, and not be explained further. If what he's saying is true, then our identity, the very nature of how we view ourselves, is based on the choices we make about how to react to the things that happen in our lives as the body rewires itself to reflect those choices on a biological, cellular level.
"Nerve cells that fire together, wire together. Do something on a daily basis, and your neural net develop long term relationships between neurons, get angry, frustrated, suffer, give reason for vicitimization you're rewiring the neural net on a daily basis, called an identity" That's pretty approximate quote, based on my notes.
So, if addiction is something you can't stop, then emotional addiction is when you can't control your emotions. If you can't control your emotions, you're addicted to them. And, if you're addicted to something, then we will bring ourselves to situation that meet the biochemical needs of our body. Translated: If we are convinced that something will happen to us, or that we're going to react in a certain way, we find ways to make that true. As with most emotional stuff, perception is reality. The trick with this movie, is that physical reality and the nature of matter becomes just as uncertain through the wonderful world of quantum physics.
I began to understand what I'd always felt inside, which is that the reality around us is in flux all the time. We choose how we want to be in the world. Sometimes, we make bad choices based on (perhaps?) an addiction to a negative emotional outcome. That's why growth is so fucking hard. Growth is hard because you are literally breaking the chemical connections between neurons that have grown together, stuck together in your brain in a physical, tangible way. Making different choices is hard, because it means making new connections, new pathways true, but more importantly, you have to break the old ones down. That's no fun, because you're going against the neural flow, path of least resistance and all that crap.
I mentioned before that I went through a period of emotional addiction. Man, it was wonderful. In a time when I felt completely unable to affect change in my life, to fix things that were broken on a level I couldn't even completely comprehend, slipping into my biochemical heritage was like returning to the womb. My family, to say the least, is tempermentally volitile. I'm not really naturally inclined towards that, or at least that's what I like to tell myself. They have a tendency to explode first, think later. Mostly, you just deal with that pattern. That was not a pattern I was interested in for myself, however, and I've spent most of my concious life making sure that's not the tempermental path I fall into. I learned, however, that it's there waiting for me. It's so very very easy to be that kind of person, to let yourself lose that control. It can give you a feeling of power when you feel that you have non otherwise, it can make you feel that you can get things done when you feel that your opinion doesn't count, that no one is listening. Feeling lost, almost as an experiment, (I'd always sort of wondered what I was missing, why that was so attractive to so many people to act like that) I entered into that mental place, just to see if it made me feel better.
It didn't. In fact, the reactivity that you have to commit to just consumes a huge amount of your time, energy and resources without giving anything helpful in return. Now, I see that biologically that's also true. When we barrage our cells with a certain chemical mix, emotions, drug, stress hormones, etc etc, then they adapt. When they divide (and here's where I felt a *crack* in my brain) they make sure there are more receptors to accept that stimulation in the new cell. We learn in Cyber Chase that a computer has a finite capacity. If you're using up the capacity for one thing, something else slows down. There are only a certain number of possible receptors on a cell. If you take up more receptors to handle a barrage of emotional/chemical input, then there are fewer receptors for taking in nutrients, exhanging water and even handling waste. Fascinating.
They concluded this area of thought by saying: Does it really matter what you eat when you're older, if your cells are unable to even absorb the nutrients you put in the body after 20 years of emotional abuse?
Wow. Put a fork in me, I'm done. My back was already broken on the emotional reactivity front from a simple time/energy/resources standpoint. I just didn't want to commit that energy to it, for the ephemeral feeling of pleasure satisfying those urges gave me. My natural tendency is towards a low key emotional existance, where I experience my pleasure and pain with acceptance and then it's usually gone. I'd always sort of felt a vague unease about that. I thought maybe I just wasn't passionate, that I wasn't capable of strong emotion, that I lacked the depth to care enough to get really really pissed off. Now, I see the advantages of that personality type. Maybe I get myself in stupid situations over and over because I tend to be forgiving, but holding a grudge is just too damn hard. And, I see, it's hard on my body!
My dip into emotional reactivity has brought balance to my life. I know I'm capable of strong emotion, and it's there to draw on as needed. I also know that in general I'd rather just let things go. I'm content with that balance. It feels like an integrated and centered place to be.
For many years, I've managed my infrequent headaches with a visualization exercize. When I was young, very early teens, I remember hearing that if you can imaging a headache is a giant muscle in your skull, squeezing your brain, then you can imagine relaxing that muscle, releasing the grip it has. I know there aren't any serious muscles in the brain or around it, I did pay that much attention in health class, but I do make my headaches go away by picturing the muscle relaxing, leaving my brain alone.
Now, I feel like I have a whole new set of visualization tools given to me from this movie. I realize the idea of habits causing physical connection, of emotions and how they link into cells, of the long term effects of emotional barrage, and the concept that I can control what emotions I feel, and thus control what kind of, and the intensity of the abuse I'm going to put my body through on a cellular level. That appeals a great deal to me. I guess it's the creator in me, the defender of the underdog, that can't allow my actions to cause harm to something else if I can avoid it. Now I'm a tender of my cells, the keeper of my body's future ability to function at full capacity, the determiner of what reality I choose to function within, and the former of my world. Why make that world crappy and petty and drama filled? There is so much out there that brings joy and health and beauty. You have to experience emotions, that's how we work. But if I can maintain control over what emotions and what intensity, then I may as well work on the ones that bring happiness and contentment in my life.
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