Wednesdayness Of The Random Mind

• From The Points–I keep a massive Word Document on my computer that I call "The Points". It is just a bunch of random quotes and lyrics and such, that make sense to me, and help me illustrate a point. It is about a million pages, that I will never print–it’s just there, on my computer. I’m all about the quotes. Me and Peter McWilliams–never enough quotes. Today’s quote is from Abraham Maslow, who I studied a LOT in college, with the whole self-actualization idea. Of all the crazy notions discussed in classrooms on that campus, his made the most sense to me. Until I grew up and met some Buddhists, but we don't need to talk about that right now. For your pondering pleasure:
  "What a man can be, he must be."
  I have run into a lot of interesting and emotional talk on blogs lately. (Mostly mine. HA!) Love lost, unrequited love, dreams not coming true, dreams coming true and being weird or not as cool as you thought they should be, people being melancholy, other people lending a hand out of the melancholy, "why am I talking about this when I should just be happy", or, just "why am I talking about this at all?", and on and on. Is it the threat of the future cold that brings this out in us? Because I have a weird thing about the Fall–as soon as that bit of crispness hits the air, I get a tad manic and ideas flood my brain, so I think more and write more, and ponder more. Life is bigger. Things beyond my immediate reach seem suddenly obtainable. Maybe it is a nesting thing, what with winter approaching. I just want to gather everything and hold it close. And then I hear a quote from Maslow, and think, all of this stuff that I am grasping onto is just more of me, and I want to make it home before the snow flies. I feel the pull of being everything I can possibly be. October has always been like this for me. Every time I got a new job, it was usually October. New Love? October. Break up? October. Fall ratings were always so much better than Summer. Relationships are more volatile, while I questioned everything . I guess I puff up a bit against the cold and look and feel sort of impressive/aggressive for a while. Typical bird mating dance stuff, you know? I feel the drive to be whatever it is that I must be, and assume that if I’m not totally happy right now, then I must not be doing what I am supposed to be doing. It is a feeling so strong that it changes everything in my life, because I make massive decisions on a whim. "Move to a new city? Why not?" Stuff like that. Everything is a gut reaction. I want to hold onto this feeling–just keep being whatever it is that I am supposed to be. So often, I let myself be turned by someone else’s idea of what I should be, and it ends up making me unhappy–not wildly depressed or anything, just, knowing in my heart that I should be doing something else. Unsettling. I need to remember the bliss that comes from doing what my heart compels me to do, and just do it, with no apologies--do it because I just wanted to. As "they" say, if you do what you love, the necessary resources will follow. You need to go for it, and trust that you will be taken care of. Some people find this to be a gigantic leap of faith, but it never has been for me. I always believe that no matter what, I’ll be fine. I know this important truth, even when the world is dooms-daying all around me. Nothing will happen to me that I can't deal with.
  

When a Fridge Full of Heineken Is Thrown Down a Mine

Justin Currie is a rather prolific, insanely gifted singer/songwriter, and sometime blog/essay writer, living in Scotland.

He writes amazing, apparently personal music under the gravest of self-imposed conditions, perhaps the most serious being that he never allows himself to be spared from his own disenchantment, especially in matters of love. He is always the lowest cad in every relationship story he tells. Having perfected this art of creating lush verbal self-depreciation, he marinates his songs in this vinegar, then tosses his head back and laughs when people pucker at the taste. Everything about him seems to scream, "see how awful I am?" followed by a charming, "trust me, darlin’, you’ll want no part of this".

He refers to his gorgeous compositions as "thunderously dreary dirges", and when asked to describe them, he’ll dash any hopes of discussion by saying among other things, that it sounds like "when a fridge full of Heineken is thrown down a mine".

In other words, he’s brilliant. And, in what would appear to be the most tragic turn of all, he appears to know, perhaps very well, that he is, indeed, brilliant.

Of course he knows. He has to know.

If he didn’t know, then he might actually talk about things like what guitar he likes to use, or some chord progression/drum crescendo/ harmony part, or where the inspiration comes from (besides heavy drinking, which is his stock answer).

But he doesn’t talk about those things.

In all his talking, writing, and singing, you never hear the man casually saying things like, "oh, I heard this old song on the radio and it reminded me of the time in my youth when blah, blah, blah, happened, so I sat down and wrote a song of my own about it, and was lucky enough to get Fellow Musicians A, B and C to come out and play, and their contribution was fantastic," which is a version of what pretty much everybody else says.

He never does that. The writing process for him seems to be...well, it’s actually like the man has barricaded himself inside a huge "everybody please fuck off and leave me alone" fortress, from which we hear the occasional announcement of, "No peeking! Oh, and I’m sending out a song I wrote. It’s awful. You’ll hate it. Now please leave."

Of course, we don’t leave–we stay on the safe side of the tall brick wall and wait, and the song is never awful, and we never hate it. In fact, it is beautiful and amazing and lush and brutal and encapsulates the human experience perfectly, and we knew it was going to be that way all along, which is why we didn’t leave.

Listening, we just don’t know the big secret about how all of this music happens, and he’s not telling. It appears that all of this audio nitroglycerin was imported directly from some great unknown, happening to merely surge through Justin on its way to us.

How on earth could one explain that experience? Really explain it? Well, you end up spitting out coy, no-answer answers like, "it’s like when a fridge full of Heineken is thrown down a mine". Strangely, the unconventional definition satisfies.

It is a bizarre picture that surprisingly illustrates a lot things involved with writing, or creating. For example, faith that you can even do it in the first place. Is this even possible? Of course it is. Yes, the actual act of filling a fridge and dumping it, is quite possible.

But it is absurd! One would need to be prepared to answer a million "why?"s to even begin such a thing. And also know that there is no simple "why".

The "how?" is actually the easy part.

It takes a certain fearlessness and determination to act upon inspiration. And a fair amount of lunacy, knowing full well that what you are doing is kind of a pain in the ass, could potentially piss someone off, creep them out or hurt them, but also that nobody besides you may ever really understand it.

Going bowling tonight? "No. Staying home. Alone. Drinking. Writing." Sounds like such a drag. Why would you do that, if not forced?

Maybe "forced" is not the word I was going for. Let’s try "compelled."

Lately, I have felt rather compelled, myself. More so than usual. Trouble again? I got a funny fortune cookie about how love turns everyone into a poet.

I wondered: the turn you into a poet thing--is that before, or after it turns you into an irritable, distracted, and yes, compelled wreck? And are we sure that it is the love that turns you into the poet? Maybe what inspires you is the sudden and total loss of everything leading up to the love, as you enter some kind of twisted new reality where YOU are fabulous and amazing in someone else’s eyes, or perhaps only in your own infatuated dreams. How much of what you are now are you willing to give up to become this thing you envision? Maybe, you’re really mourning the old you, or maybe you are remembering all the other days leading up to this one–days that you spent NOT feeling this good/bad/compelled. How could you have wasted so many years settling for something that wasn’t THIS thing? And what the hell IS this thing? Maybe, it is just hormonal panic, and all you really need to do is talk yourself down before you do something stupid. Or, maybe, you’re just desperately trying to define your own willingness, with all your mad scribbling, and are not so unconsciously spelling out your intentions to your beloved, while praying that you get a thumbs up on your grand plans of togetherness and perfection.

Dustin Hoffman asked Sir Lawrence Olivier his opinion about what compels people to get into acting, and Olivier leaned in close, looked Hoffman square in the eyes and said, "Look at me. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me..."

So it is with all of love’s poetry. We put ourselves out there on display with high hopes, and beg the object of our desire to look our way in between the lines–to hopefully see exactly whatever it is that will make them want you as badly as you want them, and come running. It is a mating dance of self-exposure, and to do it properly, you have to present the up-until-this-moment absurd idea, "you and me, babe, how about it?", with a perfectly straight face, prepared for a million "why?"s, all of which you will answer, with prose snatched from your own great unknown.

Love/Lust/Want. The very core of inspiration. Motivation. Makes you, you, only better. Stronger. Faster. Smarter. More talented. And then scares the hell out of you while you frantically try to make sense of all your new and exciting powers, deciding what to do first, while a clock ticks loudly over your shoulder, reminding you that a window of opportunity is closing, and the girl/guy you want will soon be gone forever.

No pressure.

Funny, aren’t we? Society dictates that we can’t always have everything that we want, when we want it, even though the open and active pursuit of it brings out the best in us. Better. Stronger. Faster. More Talented. It is only through our efforts to be "nice" or "kind" or just not damage the people around us with our super-human strength, that we lock all of that volatile stuff away. We don’t necessarily want to piss someone off, creep them out or hurt them–we’re just trying to be understood, aren’t we? Isn’t that the point of this whole earthly exercise? Why then, do we constantly allow all our personal bests to become bundled so tightly in things called "relationships"? Later, when we become compelled to let them out, in these spurts of romantic pursuit, they behave like an avalanche, burying anyone unfortunate enough to be caught off guard. This is the danger of "kindness".

I do envy Justin’s complete lack of pretense about being a "nice" guy. Personally, while I never set out to be unkind, I do find that when things are bad, and there is no benefit in continuing, for any of the people involved, a swift, cold act on my part ends up being the kindest cut. I don’t particularly feel like the courageous and loving one at the time–more like the lowest cad in the relationship story. In retrospect, though, I know that I did everyone a favor.

Which is more caring, after all? Forcing someone to languish in the grey? YOUR grey? Your foul mood? Your distracted irritability? Or turning them out into the world of color, alone, to do as they wish?

Sounds like a cop-out. That whole "you’re better off without me" thing. Yes. Why is it though, for some reason, that nobody ever believes you when you say things like, "trust me, you’ll want no part of this"? What possesses a person to disregard such a statement?

*sigh*

So much of the big talk on this blog lately! Heh..Sorry...I have a head full of dynamite right now. It’s raining and blasting cold here in the North, and the days are spent alone. Nothing to do but think...

You Love Crazy

My best friend, Barb, gets sweet, girly crushes on impossibly cute and perfect boys. I call them "boys" even though they are all grown men, because they are just too sweet, and clean and perfect. These boys she swoons for are all like the perfectly mannered Varsity Club types–the ones that, if you are a high school girl and one of them calls you, your mom drops all objections to you dating and strongly encourages you to pursue.

Nice boys. Cute boys. Boys you could take home to mom. And your dad probably won’t wait on the porch with a shotgun if you go out with them. Because they are "good family" nice, and they probably charmed the hell out of both of your parents, your little sister/brother, and the family dog before the two of you ever walked out the door.

Nice.

These are the boys that Barb crushes on. And people, it is the cutest thing you ever saw. Barb has always been cute. But when you hear her giggle things like, "Shelly, just look at how cute he is!” she takes on a whole different shine.

It makes me smile.

In her personal life, Barb did not get together with the quarterback. In fact, her partner for a long time now has been another cool woman, who, years ago, made it past the long list of relationship requirements that Barb laid out while she and I were roommates in college. In her mind, there were 7 or 8 absolute musts in a future mate. Things like, owning a motorcycle, or being able to fix things. Oh, and the whole, "cute and fun" business. When she found the one, and that person happened to be a woman, she went for it, and explained it to the rest of us later, not that we cared–we were just happy that the fantasy person actually existed.

Barb has been with her honey longer than, well, both of my state-sanctioned relationships combined. They have a little house and a couple of dogs and a couple of cats. They are so forever. But she still crushes on the eye candy. Her honey just kind of rolls her eyes and occasionally asks to please watch something other than the CSI episode that she’s already seen 16 times, cuz, SOMEBODY needed a good long look at George Eads.

Sometimes, while I was sitting at work, I would get these e-mails from my buddy, with subject lines that said things like, "OMG, look at THIS!" and I would open the e-mail to find a drop-dead hunky picture of some guy.

And all the women in my office would crowd around and say, "oh, my...he’s pretty!" and stuff like that. Everyone agreed, Barb picked the cutest boys.

But taste in men was the one place were Barb and I, friends for over 20 years, would disagree. Not that I could deny George Eads’ pure, clean-living hotness–I mean, the man is beautiful, right? He probably takes good care of himself and is nice to his momma and everything. So why do I look at that picture and think...

...*yawn*..."...he’s ok, I guess..."

(Ok?? Oh-KAY??)

Yeah, I think, maybe if he had a prominent scar, or maybe if he looked a little like he was either up to something, or had just recently gotten into trouble, he might be more interesting. Or if I happened to know that his personal life was a bit of a disaster, maybe he’d be hotter.

You know, anything to keep it from being easy.

Which is why is Robert Downey, Jr, for example, so much more appealing to me than the grinning, fresh-faced Homecoming King?

*sigh*

Once upon a time, there was this very cute boy, who played bass guitar in a band, and all my gay male friends were hot after his ass. He was distractingly sexy. Seriously. But he didn’t happen to be gay, so my boyfriends figured he was the perfect guy for me, and they would drag me out to the bars where his band was playing and buy me drinks so I would sit still long enough to look at The Boy of Distracting Sexiness with them.

Maybe they just needed a heterosexual woman’s validation on the cute boy thing. And…was he cute? Definitely. Sexy? Beyond anything you could safely imagine. Talented? Truly.

So what was the problem?

Well...what can I say? He looked like he took good care of himself and was nice to his momma. As it happened, I was right. The boy never drank, never smoked, had never touched drugs and he was as kind and conscientious as any human being I ever met in my life.

(Lord knows we wouldn’t want THAT, now would we?)

On the second occasion of my friends taking me out band stalking, word filtered down from the stage that Distractingly Sexy Boy wanted to hook up with me, news which delighted my boyfriends and filled me with dread.

Crap.

At the time, I was lacking a convincing "out". And Distractingly Sexy Boy was pretty persistent. So we went out.

And all my gay male friends swooned.

And the bar waitresses, who had been eyeing this dude for months, were all jealous, and started giving me crappy service...

See? Nothing good can come of this! (Really, ladies, this was not MY idea! Can I just get a freaking beer now???)

We actually went out for a few months before I ruined everything by choosing my career over the boy and moved away. (Please give the words "ruined everything" as much sarcasm as you can bear.)

All the time in between "Hello" and "Goodbye" were very interesting to me. Distractingly Sexy (Cute and Nice) Boy, who had initiated the relationship, almost immediately took issue with all of my bad habits, none of which he shared, and asked me to please drop them, causing me to stubbornly fold my arms and say things like, "you knew what I was like when you met me!" in order to defend wanting a smoke break. Plus, he wrote me about a half-dozen uber-smarmy, sickeningly sweet love songs, the mere listening of which would give you a sugar rush for a week, painting the picture of me as some sweet girl, while I was trying so hard not to be sweet—I mean, I WORKED AT IT, PEOPLE!

Oh, yes...doomed from the start.

Thinking about it now, 10 years later, I can see it rather simply on a psychological level. He was neurotic about being saintly nice and clean and sweet, and I was neurotic about keeping everybody at arms length with my good list of bad habits that were unconsciously, yet specifically, designed to be turn-offs for nice people, like smoking and drinking, and curling your grandmother’s ear hair with absolutely filthy language. I thought he was being nice and clean and sweet at the expense of actually experiencing anything…And I was uglying myself up so that I wouldn’t have to experience anything.

Duh.

He wrote songs about how cute I looked tucked under the covers on a Sunday morning instead of songs about the awful day he buried his father, or the day that his brother got beat up for being gay. Where was he hiding all the ugly? I was afraid to find out.

Because all have Ugly. We all have Crazy. We all have Selfish, and Unkind, and we all have nicks and burns and things–things self-inflicted, or things done to us by others, though no fault of our own. You can’t even live on this planet without acquiring scar tissue on your soul. In fact, that might be the entire point of being here in the first place. He with the most hurt wins!

So, I just don’t feel right about people who DON’T have any marks on them. Not normal, is all.

There are those, of course, who are constantly ripping open their shirts to bare their latest lashings for the world to see. Hurt is not something that they hide. Human cruelty is the fashion they wear, forcing everyone to see what it is really like.

Strange, isn’t it, that they are the ones that society considers so questionable, while cute, perfect, neurotic boy is some kind of ideal? Really, who is crazier?

Crazy Aunt Purl wrote the line about loving crazy "until Crazy love you back." It struck me as almost a summary to most of the relationships I have had. I didn’t think I sought out any particular type of person. For some reason, though, a certain type of person always finds me: Wounded, but maybe not quite ready to talk about it yet, with bit of the Crazy and a bit of the Ugly Past. And I pick up that mommy role and run with it, not trying to "mend" anything, just, trying to reduce the fever, and make them as comfortable as possible, I suppose. Isn’t that the best I can do? Eventually, they don’t need the care anymore, or, I start resenting the fact that they do, and it all ends.

I realized that if I’m not taking care of someone in some way, then I really don’t know what to do with myself. Having the kind of relationships that I have, in which the whole process is basically me taking care of somebody, goes a long way in explaining why I have a half-dozen broken engagements and two failed marriages. I’m just not good at this stuff, people. Just not. I wouldn’t even know what to do with a normal, balanced person. They both bore and scare the living crap out of me.

It could be one of the better defense mechanisms the human race has ever come up with: loving crazy until crazy loves you back.

I think about my best friend, who made a list. And checked it 27 times. And found her one person, through all that nothing. What a miracle. Could it really be that simple? How will I ever know if I don't try? What is it about not "settling" that is so bad?

************************************************************************************

This is my favorite picture of my best friend and me. It was the very first time I met her girlfriend, and I suppose everyone was a little nervous. There was whiskey. Barb asked her honey to take a picture of the two of us, so we stood, while the photographer sat on a breakfast bar stool and tried to lean back to fit the two of us into the frame. Whoops! She leaned so far back that she fell over backwards! We leaned over the bar to make sure she was alright, and she took this picture while lying flat on her back. That is my kitchen ceiling that you see behind us. I always say that this is a picture of what Happy looks like. You find the one guy or the one girl that you just feel sure about, things are new a you're giddy, and you have your friend that you feel totally sure about because you've known each other forever, and everyone gets along and there is much laughter and fun. What could be better?

I Had Suspected This All Along...

You Are From Neptune

You are dreamy and mystical, with a natural psychic ability. You love music, poetry, dance, and (most of all) the open sea. Your soul is filled with possibilities, and your heart overflows with compassion. You can be in a room full of friendly people and feel all alone. If you don't get carried away with one idea, your spiritual nature will see you through anything.

What Planet Are You From?

OK, I agree with all of it, except the "open sea" part. "Open sea" is kind of scary to me...

North Woods Psychotherapy, Good Clean Fun With Wet Dirty Women, and "What The Pho?"

Sometime this week, I promise to sleep. Thursday is looking good.

My husband's best friend is married to a psychotherapist. She and her husband live in a cabin in the woods, on a lake, with two dogs and about 52 cats. OK, more like 4 or 5 cats, but...anyway...

Going to their house for a weekend is like getting 48 hours of therapy, free. I don't try to take advantage of her professional skills and my access, or anything, it is just that both of our husbands happen to be freaking bug-nuts, so, we kvetch. And laugh our asses off. Until 2 in the morning. While drinking wine, or Bailey's (me the wine, she the Bailey's). Then, we get up at 7 AM, pour gigantic mugs of coffee, and start over.

This is what I call a cleansing. All the crap that is too stupid for the blog (Yes, there is some stuff in my life just too freaking stupid for this blog. I spare you because I love you.) is exercised from my soul, replaced with perspective, laughter and mild intoxication.

Some people write depressing poetry. Sad songs, maybe. I choose the lighter path. Less traveled. (She's a shrink--you didn't think I was going to miss a chance to throw in the obvious pop reference, did you?)

In-between "My husband is crazier than your husband" stories, we exchanged home-grown veggies, sampled Swiss vodka, and ate extremely well. Like, filet mignon for breakfast, well.

All that AND free therapy? A win-win.

Sunday morning, after hugs, our family trudged South to St. Paul, where the State Fair eating experiment was soggy, but satisfying. I did mention wet, dirty women, right?

You have to keep the deep-fried candy bars dry in the rain. Very important. And do not allow the Summit Ale to be watered down in a cloudburst. That would be terribly bad form.

Then, on to another friend's house, one of those "love her, hate him" friendships, to flop on another guest bed. It was strange to go from a place filled with animals and woodsy coziness, to an urban duplex where our host raised an eyebrow about the prospect of having a canine in their vicinity, hairing up the place. Their chi-chi neighborhood was full of dogs, just not their particular house. But, cats were everywhere--4 or 5 of them, with the run of the house, doors open to allow their free movement indoors and out (Ugh, don't get me started...). However, the dog...well, she simply must stay quietly tucked away in our room. As if the old girl has any "quiet" in her...

Somewhat less therapeutic...

We ate Pho while our host expounded about his intimate knowledge Vietnamese food (made all the more interesting by his persistent mis-pronunciation of the word "pho") and poo-poo'ed our lowly under-$40 bottle of wine.

Are we home yet?

I was fresh from a cleansing, and therefore found the strength to blow him off.

We hit the Ren Fest the next day and did yet another food tour, peppered with bawdy behavior, and mead. Because that is what Minnesota festivals are for, right?

My only real shopping motivation at Ren Fest was handmade soap, because someone is always selling it, and it is always awesome. Not only did I find a truckload, but I talked the spouse into buying it, and I think most of us know how fun that can be.

Because we apparently couldn't leave Shakopee without being stuffed to the gills, we pit-stopped at El Toro for Mexican food on the way home--it is a favorite of ours. And, whatever we can do to give ourselves fitful nights of sleep due to relentless heartburn, we're all about it.

Today, we finally wrapped up with a birthday shopping spree for Diva Daughter #1 at the Mall of America.

Because Hot Topic is just better there. Go ahead, ask her.

The music shopping was a highlight, even though it was your basic mall/retail drubble--I snagged a couple of CD's myself. Happy Birth Day to me.

Home again, home again, and a fresh tongue lashing from the cat who missed me and loves me and therefore must yell at me for making him worry. Such a mommy. I'll be crashing as soon as I can find the bed under the luggage. And the soap...