Part Truth, Part Fiction
Now I play board games with Gina, who has schizophrenia, and the other mentally ill people who live in the intentional community where I live. It's not so bad here. I have a one-bedroom apartment. I can be grateful I'm only on-and-off dating a cranky middle-aged guy with a DWI and a kid he gets to see once a week, instead of being married to one and pregnant with his kids and watching soap operas on TV. I should be grateful for my intelligence, and my independence, and forget my loneliness.
I met the cranky middle-aged guy on facebook. When I brought him over to join the Community for Mental Illness, he expressed some interest. He brought a cake. I met him outside a Starbucks. I told him later I thought of Hagrid. He said, “When you think of me?” When we went to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II, I said he was Lupin, and I said that we could be Lupin and Tonks for Halloween. The guy had a thing for werewolves. He didn't like being compared to Lupin. He thought he was ugly. He didn't like redheads. I have no idea why he didn't like redheads. I am clueless, it seems. He covered my eyes when it got to the part where we were watching Alan Rickman as Severus Snape. He'd gently kiss my hair and nuzzle my neck at the right parts, though, and that's what I needed, that's all I could handle I felt, as damaged as I was, as broken and damaged and needing the Lord's forgiveness. And my mother was dead. He liked to bite. Tonks was younger, had punk rock hair. At first Lupin rejects her because he thinks he is too old and too scary for her.
The day that I picked him up in the car, he was just a friend of a friend I'd added on Facebook. When I got angry, the feelings of which are expressed in the following paragraph, angry enough to upset the gameboard, he told me, “It's just a game.”
The following is adapted from a blog post I wrote called “Self-Pity is Fun.”
It is about how I managed to ruin a perfectly good game of Settlers of Catan. It is about how I stayed miserable despite winning on my first time playing. It is about how I chose to over-analyze the politics of the game. Most of those progressive politics I learned from my time volunteering at a gift shop in Nob Hill Albuquerque called Peacecraft. I collected the wood, the iron, the other resources. I set up roads and houses. In my mind, it was boiling, it was steaming, and I couldn't stand the placid calmness of the group of us sitting around the table. Gina was especially calm. She has learned to be that way. She hears voices. Thing like board games help her stay distracted from her voices.
By going off on a rant. I'm the only politically correct person in the world. I came from such backward Republican people who had no idea what they were talking about. Every time I mentioned something about the environment or civil rights it got shot down.
This stupid game Settlers of Catan is fucking capitalist. It's all about buying. Buy wood. Buy wheat. Buy sheep. Buy coal. Buy bricks. Build settlements. Hey peeps! Ever hear about the Israeli settlements that are driving the Palestinians off their land? What? We should just play the game?
And I'm winning. I'm a good little Capitalist. It's easy to win when I play by the rules. Cuz boy ain't I smart!
The guy asks to be excused. I want to escape the maddening game, so I follow him out into the backyard of the apartment. There is a full-grown tree. The wooden fence is perfectly cut around the shape of the tree trunk. The side walls that separate this backyard from the ones around it are made of corrugated tin.
“I came out here to smoke,” the guy explains apologetically. He withdraws a cigarette from the inside pocket of his black trench coat.
“I don't mind as long as you stand downwind,” I say. I am used to hanging out at coffee shops like R.B. Winnings or Satellite with smokers. Smokers remind me of summer camp.
He asks me if Gina works at a hospital. A mental hospital, he means. She is so together, in his opinion, with her serious eyes which he can see through her tortoise-shell glasses, that he cannot believe she will be visiting the facility tomorrow for ECT.
“One almost hesitates to inquire what ECT is,” he says.
“ECT is Electro-Convulsive Therapy. Shock Treatment straight out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest,” I explain.
“Oo! Poor baby!” he says.
I consider it a bit patronizing that he would call a grown woman a baby, but in the circumstances we find ourselves in, I can appreciate his sympathy.
“She thinks it helps, though,” I say. “Sucks to be her.”
“Wow. That is pretty intense and is a shame,” he says. “I feel for her. Makes me wonder what warranted the treatment.”
“You can go back in there and ask,” I say. “She's very open.”
Dating can be like a game of Settlers of Catan. You can feel like you lose even when you are winning.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
My Homophobic Ex-Boyfriend
My homophobic ex-boyfriend has dated women even younger than me.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend is a lesbian in a man's body.
My lesbian friend laughs when I tell her about this and says
"I like my lesbians to have actual lesbian bodies."
My homophobic ex-boyfriend feels discriminated against because he is a straight white male.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend has never hit a woman.
My homoophobic ex-boyfriend thinks for himself.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend was attracted to who I am.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend gave me permission to write shit about him on this blog, as long as I stay away from his son
And don't bother him at work
My homophobic ex-boyfriend likes King Kong and Godzilla
My homophobic ex-boyfriend likes Mothra
My homophobic ex-boyfriend likes Bjork and U2
My homophobic ex-boyfriend couldn't stand all my angst
It kept him up at night.
My homophobic is an artist and a writer.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend smokes pot and hates his mother.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend says that Norman Bates says that a man's best friend is his mother.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend is not a Republican.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend is a Pagan.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend once said, "Why do you have to be so cool? You're going to make me like you."
I realize he might mean like in more ways than one,
meaning he might fall for me
and he might become like me
and I might become like him.
The day we broke up, he kissed me and said, "Please don't hate me."
My homophobic ex-boyfriend sends me angry emails when I break up with him.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend says I'm paranoid.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend invites me over to eat trout with him and have "fun"
I'd love to, but I have plans tonight.
I'm going to a Queer poetry slam at a coffee house to read this poem.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend is a lesbian in a man's body.
My lesbian friend laughs when I tell her about this and says
"I like my lesbians to have actual lesbian bodies."
My homophobic ex-boyfriend feels discriminated against because he is a straight white male.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend has never hit a woman.
My homoophobic ex-boyfriend thinks for himself.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend was attracted to who I am.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend gave me permission to write shit about him on this blog, as long as I stay away from his son
And don't bother him at work
My homophobic ex-boyfriend likes King Kong and Godzilla
My homophobic ex-boyfriend likes Mothra
My homophobic ex-boyfriend likes Bjork and U2
My homophobic ex-boyfriend couldn't stand all my angst
It kept him up at night.
My homophobic is an artist and a writer.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend smokes pot and hates his mother.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend says that Norman Bates says that a man's best friend is his mother.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend is not a Republican.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend is a Pagan.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend once said, "Why do you have to be so cool? You're going to make me like you."
I realize he might mean like in more ways than one,
meaning he might fall for me
and he might become like me
and I might become like him.
The day we broke up, he kissed me and said, "Please don't hate me."
My homophobic ex-boyfriend sends me angry emails when I break up with him.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend says I'm paranoid.
My homophobic ex-boyfriend invites me over to eat trout with him and have "fun"
I'd love to, but I have plans tonight.
I'm going to a Queer poetry slam at a coffee house to read this poem.
American Nightmare
After James Arthur
The red, white, and blue lights
of a white Ford Crown Victoria
flash in my rearview.
A mix of local punk from a student ghetto free box
"You and I could be lovers on the run in 1933"
drowns out the roly-poly siren.
Ford decided to retire the model this year.
I pull onto a side street. I got a warning last time.
The news won't be good.
I expect citations, but not hancuffs.
He makes me stand against my sky-blue Hyundai Accent
and pats me down.
Boyish with a crew cut,
he reminds me of my brother, the Army captain.
It is night.
Soon I'm in Orwell's place of no darkness.
The sun shone as I drove to Carlsbad
one of the last times I saw my mother
before she died of stage four liver cancer.
Driving too fast, I got pulled over.
Life and death happen and make one forget
trivialities like unpaid traffic tickets.
In the holding cell, I tell a woman with cranberry eyes
proverbial ghetto trash
about something I read online about
warning signs that one is in a bad relationship.
A good feminist, I say she doesn't have to stay
with the boyfriend who gave her the bruises she displays
on her body.
I can't remember where.
I have always had problems with insomnia.
I watch the waif coming down from heroin,
blowing her nose on my black cashmere sweater.
Valerie Stevens,
a thrift store find, but still.
Thinking my experience was interesting
is a defense mechanism.
The red, white, and blue lights
of a white Ford Crown Victoria
flash in my rearview.
A mix of local punk from a student ghetto free box
"You and I could be lovers on the run in 1933"
drowns out the roly-poly siren.
Ford decided to retire the model this year.
I pull onto a side street. I got a warning last time.
The news won't be good.
I expect citations, but not hancuffs.
He makes me stand against my sky-blue Hyundai Accent
and pats me down.
Boyish with a crew cut,
he reminds me of my brother, the Army captain.
It is night.
Soon I'm in Orwell's place of no darkness.
The sun shone as I drove to Carlsbad
one of the last times I saw my mother
before she died of stage four liver cancer.
Driving too fast, I got pulled over.
Life and death happen and make one forget
trivialities like unpaid traffic tickets.
In the holding cell, I tell a woman with cranberry eyes
proverbial ghetto trash
about something I read online about
warning signs that one is in a bad relationship.
A good feminist, I say she doesn't have to stay
with the boyfriend who gave her the bruises she displays
on her body.
I can't remember where.
I have always had problems with insomnia.
I watch the waif coming down from heroin,
blowing her nose on my black cashmere sweater.
Valerie Stevens,
a thrift store find, but still.
Thinking my experience was interesting
is a defense mechanism.
Wheel Throwing
I wrote this for Not Made in China Pottery Studio
If you’ve seen the movie Ghost, you know what wheel throwing is. “Throwing” is the term potters use for building clay vessels on the wheel. There are several steps to throwing. The first step is called centering. In centering, you slam a ball of clay onto the wheel with enough force to make it stick. Using a sponge, add just enough water to make it slippery. Use your left leg as force behind your arm and wrap your hand around the clay to push it up. Your other hand should be behind but not pressing hard. To push the clay back down, have your arm against your stomach and push away from your body. Do this several times until the clay doesn’t move when you place your hands on it.
After the clay has been centered, you’re ready to open up your piece. Place your hands on either side and dip your thumbs in to create a well. Press down close to the bottom of the piece. Using a needle tool, measure to make sure the bottom is about three-quarters of an inch thick. Use a tool to flatten out the bottom. Now you are ready to begin building the walls.
To build the walls, hold one finger on the inside of the vessel and the other on the outside. Use your thumb on the outside wall to make a groove. Bring your fingers up to the top of the vessel and let go gently. After your walls are at the desired thickness and height, you’re ready to shape the vessel.
To shape the vessel walls, hold the tool at up to a 45-degree angle. Turn it until the walls are at a desired shape. Now you are ready to remove the vessel.
To remove a finished piece, use a wire tool to slide beneath it. Wet the wheel with water to create a slippery surface. Reach your hands behind the piece and gently push it off the wheel onto a bat or other flat surface.
Next time: Hand Building
If you’ve seen the movie Ghost, you know what wheel throwing is. “Throwing” is the term potters use for building clay vessels on the wheel. There are several steps to throwing. The first step is called centering. In centering, you slam a ball of clay onto the wheel with enough force to make it stick. Using a sponge, add just enough water to make it slippery. Use your left leg as force behind your arm and wrap your hand around the clay to push it up. Your other hand should be behind but not pressing hard. To push the clay back down, have your arm against your stomach and push away from your body. Do this several times until the clay doesn’t move when you place your hands on it.
After the clay has been centered, you’re ready to open up your piece. Place your hands on either side and dip your thumbs in to create a well. Press down close to the bottom of the piece. Using a needle tool, measure to make sure the bottom is about three-quarters of an inch thick. Use a tool to flatten out the bottom. Now you are ready to begin building the walls.
To build the walls, hold one finger on the inside of the vessel and the other on the outside. Use your thumb on the outside wall to make a groove. Bring your fingers up to the top of the vessel and let go gently. After your walls are at the desired thickness and height, you’re ready to shape the vessel.
To shape the vessel walls, hold the tool at up to a 45-degree angle. Turn it until the walls are at a desired shape. Now you are ready to remove the vessel.
To remove a finished piece, use a wire tool to slide beneath it. Wet the wheel with water to create a slippery surface. Reach your hands behind the piece and gently push it off the wheel onto a bat or other flat surface.
Next time: Hand Building
Monday, November 29, 2010
Sadly, Resignation
"I'm not a leader /
I'm not a left-wing rhetoric-mobilizing force of one.
But there was a time way back many years ago in college
Don't laugh, but I thought I was a radical...
I am sad to say that I am no longer a liberal and no longer a feminist. At the same time I am relieved. There will be no more arguments in my head. No more echoing of my grandmother's voice, quoting Winston Churchill: "If you're young and you're not liberal, you don't have a heart. If you're old and you're not conservative, you don't have a brain."
I am not conservative either. I am just sadly resigned. Feminism is something to get excited about in college. It is great fun. It does not stop rape, femicide, domestic violence.
There is still war, poverty, racism, and other injustice and always will be despite what liberals and radicals argue about. That doesn't mean one shouldn't care about these things. There just isn't a point. It makes me sad, but less exhaused too.
Disappointed.
If only it weren't true, but it is.
The world is not kind.
I am a 31-year-old single woman without much income. I live far away from my family. I am depressed and tired.
Politics sell books, magazines, bumper stickers, T-shirts. They don't change anything.
Congratulations, Republican relatives.
You win.
I give up.
I'm not a left-wing rhetoric-mobilizing force of one.
But there was a time way back many years ago in college
Don't laugh, but I thought I was a radical...
I am sad to say that I am no longer a liberal and no longer a feminist. At the same time I am relieved. There will be no more arguments in my head. No more echoing of my grandmother's voice, quoting Winston Churchill: "If you're young and you're not liberal, you don't have a heart. If you're old and you're not conservative, you don't have a brain."
I am not conservative either. I am just sadly resigned. Feminism is something to get excited about in college. It is great fun. It does not stop rape, femicide, domestic violence.
There is still war, poverty, racism, and other injustice and always will be despite what liberals and radicals argue about. That doesn't mean one shouldn't care about these things. There just isn't a point. It makes me sad, but less exhaused too.
Disappointed.
If only it weren't true, but it is.
The world is not kind.
I am a 31-year-old single woman without much income. I live far away from my family. I am depressed and tired.
Politics sell books, magazines, bumper stickers, T-shirts. They don't change anything.
Congratulations, Republican relatives.
You win.
I give up.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Martyr
Inspired by my friend C's autobiographical erotic poetry about power exchange:
I'll write a poem "Martyr" about my grandmother's next-door neighbor, who stayed with her abusive husband, raised 2 sons. How my mother objected to her not being allowed to go to church, not to the abuse.
I'll write a poem "Martyr" about my grandmother's next-door neighbor, who stayed with her abusive husband, raised 2 sons. How my mother objected to her not being allowed to go to church, not to the abuse.
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