Becoming Something

Paul the Brat

Natasha — Fri, 25 May 2012 17:56:37 +0000

Paul was going to be leaving for California on Friday, so we were going to spend one last night together (which turned into two). The plan was that he would show up at my place after going to the passport office and we'd head out to Irish Times for their $10 cheese pizza + pint deal, then head back to his place for me to get caught up with Breaking Bad whilst he packed, and then spend time together.

I had about an hour and a half before he arrived. Enough time, I thought, to fine-tune the previous blog post's writing (to which no one publicly confessed to totally "getting"—thanks for that, private messagers). I estimated that I could still get in the shower and blow dry my hair without missing the sound of him ringing my phone for me to buzz him up.

About seven or so minutes into my shower, I heard a knocking sound. I figured someone let him into the building and he was at my door, a little early. But surely he could hear that I was listening to music on the portable Bluetooth stereo he bought me for my birthday, while in the shower. Which meant that he could wait for me to finish and knock again.

When I didn't hear another knock, I worried it had been a neighbour trying to tell me my music was too loud. I turned the music down. (From my iPhone, beside the shower. Bluetooth superpowers!)

When my shower was done, I peeked out into the hallway via the door's peephole and didn't see him. Odd. Then, realising I missed shaving an entire leg (I do this a lot), I turned up my tunes and hopped back into the shower.

When I was done, I checked the hallway again. Nothing. I gave my hair a full five minute blow-out. Moisturised my face. I would have flat-ironed the afro I've acquired since turning 30, but the iron wasn't hot enough. When I realised I couldn't find my tube of face concealer, I stepped into the living room to rummage through my purse.

And there was Paul, sitting primly and cross-legged on my red sofa, squarely pointed toward me, wearing his brown summer hat, grey chinos I picked out, and the beautiful striped sweater he bought after my subtle peer pressure, looking preppy, dapper, and... innocent. As if he didn't realise that I had no idea all this time that he was there, and as if he's not someone who delights in practical jokes.

I, totally naked, giant fuzzy triangle-haired, and splotchy-faced, squealed and quickly covered my breasts. My breasts. Not that it matters, because (in case you haven't picked up on the very subtle hints) he has seen me naked, but it's interesting that of all the private places I could cover, I went straight to my baby-feeders. Isn't that odd?

I almost never leave my door unlocked and it didn't occur to me that it was, and that he might just come in. In that one second of surprise, I blushed, embarrassed. I was caught naked, triangle-haired, splotchy-faced, and I couldn't remember what songs I was listening and singing to. I had some good tunes playing—Fleet Foxes and Stars—but I knew that somewhere in this playlist was "Back in Time" from the Men in Black soundtrack, "Summer Paradise" by Simple Plan, and "Payphone" by Maroon 5. Good grief.

It only took a moment to realise it was silly to be covering my body. And so what if my hair was a white girl's afro. And he's seen me without make-up. And besides that, he was across the room and technically, he's legally blind. But, having good enough taste in music to be bashful about my love for formulaic bass-heavy pop tunes, I try to keep them a guilty pleasure. And I don't really sing around Paul, though I've had a number of people tell me that I have a nice voice. (Singing hymns is not like singing pop music.) Not only is he a talented musician who has made me cry with some of his recent deeply beautiful and magical guitar songs, but he's the most perceptive, observant person I've ever met, not including myself. It can be unnerving being observed so intensely. And here I was being observed without my knowing it. Did I do anything particularly embarrassing? What songs were playing? I couldn't remember!

When the two or three seconds of shock wore off, I spent the next ten minutes laughing.

I had a going away present for him—a pretty cool card I made, and half a Milka chocolate bar I knew he'd love because it was milky like milk chocolate but had a strong cocoa flavour, like dark chocolate. I reached for the chocolate bar and it was smaller than I remembered.

"Did you eat the chocolate?" I thought of the Lindt caramel chocolate bar he bought me for my birthday and ate ENTIRELY before I even made it to his apartment.

"What chocolate?"

"YOU KNOW WHAT CHOCOLATE. You know because you ate it."

"Hmm," he pretended to be thinking hard. "Was it creamy and delicious?" You mean that chocolate, his face asked.

And his bratty little boy face lit up with the light of the sun and we laughed. In that moment, I was clear on two things: 1. This impish man cannot be trusted around sweets. 2. I pretty much adore him.

Daily Gratitudes

Another beautiful day in YYJ.
My first couchsurfers arrive tonight. A 28-year-old French woman and her German female friend. I'm letting them sleep in my bed while I sleep on Paul's foamie. They better be fun.
I'm done three seasons of Breaking Bad. Don't start on the path to making and selling drugs, friends! Before you know it, you'll be murdering people and watching them choke to death on their own vomit while you do nothing! At least try prostitution first.
I've gained back the two pounds I lost. Phewf! I was so worried about that.
My chocolate is safe another two weeks.

Shacking up: Is it worth the mediocre sex?

Natasha — Wed, 23 May 2012 14:10:37 +0000

[Warning to delicate (possibly Mormon) readers: This may not be the post for you.]

Is it unromantic of me to say that the best part of living with someone has got to be sharing rent and expenses? I estimate that I could save between $600-800 a month, living with someone. And they could save around the same amount. That's travel money right there. Or saving-for-a-house-or-vehicle money. Unfortunately, a room mate is pretty much the last thing I want. The only person I can imagine living with is someone I'm sleeping with. And by "sleeping", I mean bonking. And by "bonking" I mean, you know. But is that maybe the worst person to live with?

Shortly after moving in with anyone, the whoo-fun! honeymoon period wears off and you take your situation for granted. You start to speak to your partner like they're as commonplace as running water or food in your fridge (both of which you should not take for granted), forgetting what a miracle it is that you found someone you actually like enough to willingly sacrifice your independence and your freedom to poop in private and who actually likes you enough to do the same. (Presuming this is the case and you're not simply someone who settled because you're afraid to be alone. For you, it's not much of a sacrifice and you love the security of entrapment.)

You get annoyed by things you never noticed before and by things you noticed but found endearing (note past tense). They don't do the dishes as often as you'd like (me). Or they use too much water (not really me). Or they leave their clothes lying all over the bedroom or dressing area (sometimes-me). And why do they have so many clothes anyway? (Because I need them. I don't see you wearing your collection of Legos and Transformers or playing with your twenty cardboard war games, boy.)

Worst of all, the passion fizzles. Sex is more exciting when it's a scarce commodity. Or at the very least, you're more grateful. "Thank you so much for walking over at 12:30 am to do this. This really is very nice of you. My legs are unshaven and I didn't even shower, I just cleaned up with those Huggies flushable wet wipes. And you— you've put on a few pounds, you had to have noticed. ...No? Well, I mean, you look great. I like some cush right here anyway. I'm just saying, we are very nice people to do this for each other." "Why do you have to talk so much? Shut up and kiss me." "This is the best pap test I've ever had!"

Ahem. Inside joke. (That never stops being funny. For me.)

I think the loss of sexual passion disturbs men more than women. Women generally crave security because, evolutionarily speaking, we want to be sure that we won't be raising potential babies alone. Even if we don't want kids, we're still programmed to want security.

My problem is that I'm about 55% feminine and 45% masculine in pretty much every way possible. So, I'm constantly feeling divided between, well, everything and its opposite. I look at couples who are clearly at the taking-each-other-for-granted phase and I think they're lucky. I miss that stage of life. When you can just relax about wondering if you're going to be alone forever and who is going to hold your hair back as you hover over the toilet, and massage that omnipresent knot in your shoulders, and you can get productive with other things.

However, I love being single. I love having options and getting free meals and being able to flirt unabashedly and feeling like anything is possible. Like, I still have room on my dance card, Jude Law.

I love being alone. But I hate being alone. My mind has a tendency to race when I'm alone. Just being around other people causes my biorhythms to slow to normal, or something. It's soothing to have someone nearby. (I'm settling right now for the people in Willie's Bakery, as I write this.) It's not that I always want to do things together—gross. Most of my favourite things to do are solo activities: reading, writing, sewing, photography, painting. But I want to do it with someone else nearby doing their own solo things. All I want is everything, you see.

On the other hand, I hate being on someone else's schedule. I hate feeling like I'm impeding someone else's life. I don't want to be asked if I'm coming to bed when I'm clearly not wanting to go to bed right now. Someone on Facebook is wrong about something, it's only 12:47 am—what's the rush? Or, I want to read in bed until 11am. I've put in my time, getting up 6-10 times a night with four babies, then, while inhumanely sleep deprived, making sure they stayed alive all day; if I want to laze in bed reading books for half the day, I will do so. And yes, sometimes "reading books" means jumping from email to Facebook to texts on my iPhone.

I don't live on a strict schedule and don't usually want to (except for when I totally do!). I don't want someone to resent cooking for me all the time and me not returning the favour, just because that's what they would have cooked anyway for themselves and they wanted to share—look, I eat like a (weight-concerned) 18-year-old bachelor, okay, and I'm mostly fine with that. I'll just have a banana and a handful of almonds for breakfast... or supper. But if you're going to make me food, well, of course I'll eat it. If you insist. I never do the dishes often enough to please any man I've been with (though, I'm better at this now), but I've never met a man who keeps a bathroom as clean as I do (and that's not even always that clean).

You see how complicated this gets?

Back to what I was saying earlier. Of these terrible afflictions, the loss of sexual passion has to be the worst. Remember, I said that I'm nearly as much masculine as feminine? This is truer in this arena more than any other. (I think that means my math somewhere is off.) And what is to be done about this, people?

Women largely don't get the concern, I think. They are more content to let sex go by the wayside because women typically have a harder time youknowwhatting than men, and the more familiar you get with someone and the less exciting sex is, the harder it is. Men don't have this problem. If anything, they can lean to its opposite. So, I'm asking you men. What is to be done? This is why men watch porn, right? Because at a certain point, you've done everything you can think of to do together, in every comfortable position possible, with every accoutrement that doesn't completely shame you and blanch your partner, and it's hard to get excited by this same person for the 300th time. And yet you really, really like doing this thing. Even at the worst of times, it's still a good thing to do, a sure thing. You're never going to be all, "You know what? I'm just not feeling connected to you enough, and I'm thinking about the bills and [best friend] sounded sad on the phone." And you're sad to have this favourite activity not be as good as it used to be and to know that this is a forever prospect if you keep things as they are. I'm mostly with you on this, men. I GET YOU. It's so hard being us. People just don't understand us.

So, I'm thinking that the only possible solutions to this are:

cheat on your partner with at least one other person on the side. Duh.
escalate your relationship to BDSM activities, which then bore you at some point, so you're kinda forced to keep escalating them to the point where you're mummifying each other with plastic and just the tiniest of breathing holes, or asphyxiating each other, or hiring people to accost you when you're not expecting it to faux-rape you in a forest with wolf hounds growling two feet from your face. To each their own, and I know I've left Mormonism and all for the dark side, but I'm not interested in going this route for at least another three months!
never live together or commit to each other. Maintain the feeling of insecurity of resources.
commit to each other but have an open relationship, which can take the form of polyamory (yikes--complicated!) or one-night stands (this works better for men), or group sex. (Mormons, I warned you not to read this.)
build a house with separate living quarters and stick to a schedule.
live together, commit to each other but, take vacations alone sometimes, and get creative: Set up fun and silly hoops for each other to jump through in order to "get" sex; play games where you are not allowed to do anything but make-out for a week; keep separate sleeping quarters; make sure to have a good social life—doing things with other people helps you to see your partner through the eyes of others (new and desirable); keep growing and developing yourself as an individual so that your partner has someone new to be with every few months or years; have projects and hobbies and passions that you do alone—it's good to feel a little bit excluded from your partner's life because it creates needed distance for appreciation and that jealousy that comes when other people share your partner's interest. Jealousy is uncomfortable-to-painful but it keeps you on your toes and can make your loins ache. Have fun projects you do together. Me—I really want to design and build a house from scratch with my own hands. Join me?

Only some of these appeal to me. You can probably guess which ones and be accurate. Note: Not pro-near-death sex.

So, I think I've concluded that as much as I love my own interior decorating, my own bed, cleaning after my own messes only, my own music, my own living patterns, my own poop (not really), and that feeling of being so very single and walking down the street feeling free and like anything could happen, I must admit... I'd rather save $800 every incredible month.

* * *

What about you married peeps? I know you know the compromises of marriage very well. I know you wonder, "Is this it?" and you feel guilty for being dissatisfied and wonder if there's something wrong with you. Any thoughts? What do you do to keep things feeling deliberate and appreciative and exciting?

Daily Gratitudes

I found some new tunes I really dig, which always gives me a hit of dopamine and stuff.
While I had a horrible nightmare about my mother dearest kidnapping my favourite child (ha— that's a joke) it got me up early enough to take advantage of Willie's early bird $6 breakfast special. I even got a discount on the fresh-squeezed orange juice for being so pretty a regular customer. Eggs, sourdough toast, the best bacon in town, potatoes, OJ (the drink, not the killer), a latte and a $2 tip: $15.
All my life's searching for the best chocolate bar is over. Galaxy Caramel, from the UK, at the candy shop near me. One less thing for me to worry about.
I gots big plans tonight.
My brave son.

Plastic consumption: Is it worth it?

Natasha — Tue, 22 May 2012 18:53:42 +0000

"On Midway Atoll, a remote cluster of islands more than 2000 miles from the nearest continent, the detritus of our mass consumption surfaces in an astonishing place: inside the stomachs of thousands of dead baby albatrosses. The nesting chicks are fed lethal quantities of plastic by their parents, who mistake the floating trash for food as they forage over the vast polluted Pacific Ocean.

For me, kneeling over their carcasses is like looking into a macabre mirror. These birds reflect back an appallingly emblematic result of the collective trance of our consumerism and runaway industrial growth. Like the albatross, we first-world humans find ourselves lacking the ability to discern anymore what is nourishing from what is toxic to our lives and our spirits. Choked to death on our waste, the mythical albatross calls upon us to recognize that our greatest challenge lies not out there, but in here." Chris Jordan, Seattle, February 2011.

Please see Chris Jordan's website for a series of larger photos similar to the one above.

Stop doing what you hate

Natasha — Tue, 22 May 2012 01:11:53 +0000

Well, to answer yesterday's question, here's something I can always obviously use my blog for: bragging.

You know that TIME cover with the ultra-thin mom nursing her prop bewildered-looking 3-year-old that has so many bloggers harping and howling because it gives them good blog fodder and controversy-hits? Meh. I've been at this mommy thing and this blogger thing long enough that I'm soooo yawn. More than that, I recognise this as subdued misogyny, the kind that a progressive nation can get away with, and I'm bored by misogyny that doesn't have the balls to really parade its patriarchal mission about like, say, this:

"We're Afghanistan and we chop off our ladies' ears and noses if they try to leave their prearranged abusive marriages. We've got passion in our pants and we ain't afraid to show it (show it, show it). Top that."

I didn't breastfeed for three years but I did for nearly two, for two of my kids—I definitely believe in long-term nursing. I also object to pitting women against women. Still, this cover and article got no reaction out of me. I've never been so bored with mommy wars or misogyny.

Anyway, this blog post is just to say two things: 1. This really makes me want to get my new feminist blog up and rolling. And 2. I love the advice given in this article: "Avoid and stay clear of the poison of resentment."

Inasmuch as possible, this is the way to parent. Don't do what you really don't like to do. If you both really don't like to do something, you and your partner should take turns as much as possible. If you have a friend who really likes to do something, have them do it. (For example, Joelle loves doing laundry. I love teaching kids to read, interior design, and untangling knots. Had we lived closer together, that would have been a nice trade-off right there. Well, throw in some of her tiramisu and I'd have been happy.) If you don't like playing imaginary games, don't. If you don't like juggling three activities per kid a week, driving them to and fro, and keeping track of all the things they're supposed to be doing and achieving within these organisations, don't. I didn't do much of those things and my kids still love me and are healthy and happy.

But then, I'm kind of king of the castle of "stop doing what you hate". Some call that selfishness. But that's exactly what a patriarchal system would have you think. Egalitarian systems value happiness. And so do I. Less guilt and resentment, more happy.

Daily Gratitudes

I've been eating some really stellar mango lately that's better than any candy I've ever had, or as good as.
The sun just came out after a day of rain. I love the way the orange building and roof across the street looks against the blue sky.
I'm happy my kids love music so much.
I'm glad that Paul is going to California for a couple weeks. He deserves a fun break and some space between us will be good. I'll be more likely to get work done.
I'm glad that cheap pizza and some chocolate is just a five minute walk away. Oh no. I just remembered there's another pizza place five minutes away in a different direction and now I can't decide where to go. ... Well. Only one direction has chocolate nearby....

Wherever you go, there you are. And, hopefully, that will remain enough.

Natasha — Mon, 21 May 2012 02:36:18 +0000

My children are back at home and my life has continued with only a brief ugly-sobbing session as I left the airport to be driven home by my friend Robert. It's been busy since then, meeting new people (including this fantastic person and her fun and beautiful sister and daughter); sunburning my shoulders and chest into funny patterns and tanning my face; attending the Highland Games to watch men throw logs into a 12 o'clock position and eat perogie poutine with miso gravy (and the angels sang!); and to be mock-domestic with Paul, the choreographer of some of my favourite parts, and dearest, most trustworthy companion without fur. Well, without a tail, anyway.

I really do feel a change, as I said last post. Peace pervades. Amazingly, I am not very worried about the future. Money is no longer a big concern--not that I'm flush with bills to wildly stuff into the panties of strippers or anything. I'm not very worried about the kids and I don't expect to go so long without seeing them again. I don't know which direction things will go with this Paul human, this painstakingly ethical bearded hippie/hipster guy who never gets chapped lips; I can see us parting as good friends or progressing into a mutually loving partnership where we share the rent and a couple cats and he cooks for me every day and does all my web design work for free. While I'll... ummmm... be appreciative?

Funny how I feel no anxiety about the future. I could just be on a sun high. Maybe it's just that school is done. But all I can see are reasons to relax and see possibilities everywhere. And I'm not even smoking dope.

Some questions on my mind right now relate to my blog: What do I do with this blog? Why do I write it? What should I write about? Things I care about? My life? Continue it as a confetti of stuffs? Why do people blog, like Dooce, about their lives? Is it really so much more self-indulgent and self-absorbed than the journals written by different people over the many centuries? Wouldn't some have made their journals public via the internet, if they could have? How would I feel if potential employers found my blog? Colleagues? Future clients? I've already had a couple of local men google me by a few obvious search terms and find me. Do I care? Is there anything here about which I should be ashamed or at least a little embarrassed?

I'm not well-convinced by Shame. Shame is the insecure asshat who failed Kindergarten. Twice. The problem is that I do live in the world and raise my children here. I do want some careers which require me to be "normal" by some standard of averageness--or do they? Is success worth the compromise of values? I suppose it is, if starvation is pending.

I don't feel the same need I used to feel to blog. I am not desperate for feeling connected to people, anyone, even people I don't know and can't see. I am not so needy for the opinions of others as to what to do with my life. Leaving the Mormon church (yes, this cataclysmic event being mentioned yet again) forced me to grow up. I'm not a kid who needs permission, agreement, and admiration quite like before. I'm pretty happy with what I've done with my life and what I'm doing, so I don't need the savvy reframing talents of others to constantly re-woo me to my life choices; the more words needed to sell us on any lifestyle or philosophy, the more likely it is to be a product of invention for the sake of others. Whereas doing what I want to do with my life comes naturally. Oh, the natural man, always being an enemy to God. Tsk, tsk!

Hmm. That's it. No deep thoughts. Just some questions, not entirely rhetorical.

Now I shall leave to eat something I didn't have to cook, and sleep in the shape of a spoon, and read lots of books. I have no idea what tomorrows will bring and I don't even mind not knowing. What a welcome change!

Daily Gratitudes

Found some new jeans that fit very well, without any adjustments needed, and they were the first and last pair I tried on and only cost $28. Crazy. That never happens. And all it needed was the sweat and sleeplessness and poverty of some people in China, probably. Okay, so that part makes me feel sad.
I love being a "local". Only people who live in tourist destinations get called "locals".
I love that there's always something going on in this small town.
The kind of learning that can only come from mistakes.
Earplugs. (Stupid morning birds. Grumble.)

Kids kicking it up a notch

Natasha — Mon, 14 May 2012 05:19:26 +0000

Thank you for your birthday comments, those of you who left them. They did not go unappreciated, even though I didn't reply.

I have been busy and distracted and thoughtful and having fun and the next two days will mark the end of my children's second visit to me in Victoria. It's been practically perfect. The weather has been amazing. The only rain was at night and today was 27/81 degrees. Plain blue skies every day. Flowers and green, nearly everywhere we look. And the kids! They are happy and they love each other. They hardly ever got grumpy with each other. The youngest two skip along the streets, hand-in-hand, and tickle and tease and play with each other everywhere we go, laughing and behaving as though someone is filming a commercial advertising the having of children. My second oldest is giving me glimpses of the kind of teenage girl I envied and wanted to be when I was that age. My son is going through big changes and needs his "mommy". I took him to a philosophy café that ended up being about gay marriage and American politics, two topics in which he's well-versed and his clearly and calmly articulated thoughts were appreciated by those present.

It's been overwhelmingly grounding and peaceful to be with them but also really emotional in places. They need me but they also need me to give them things and to be things for them that I can best be and give here. There are changes I see in them, and a friend noted, like being afraid and meek and overly apologetic and it's heartbreaking. In order to build within them an air of carefree life-loving and self-confidence, I need to cultivate that myself. I know they felt it somewhat because I have seen a change in them in just a week.

There have been moments when it's been a challenge to not get impatient with them and I remember being more impatient when we lived together. It's tough to be patient and peaceful when you're depressed and stressed out. It's so much easier now to speak calmly and to be good humoured about things like mess making and forgetting to push the start button on the dryer and wasting my money that got put into the machine, or stepping in front of me or other people on the street, causing us to trip or bang into them. It's taken some deep breaths and zen effort sometimes, but I've been patient.

I am actually changed by this visit, in profound ways.

Firstly, I was already feeling pretty secure about their affections and loyalties after our Christmas visit, but I am even more so now. My kids really look up to me and adore me. They pretty much think I'm hilarious and cool and brilliant. Tonight, I was explaining that it's okay that they're not strong swimmers, that they can practise to become better if it bothers them that much, but that everyone can't be great at everything, that it takes 10,000 hours to be an expert at something so no one has the time to be an expert at everything. I explained that being great readers is one of the best things they can ever be because they'll be able to teach themselves anything and do well in all kinds of jobs and communicate well, whereas swimming is really only useful when you're swimming. They felt better after that. And I explained that we can't all be the smartest and the prettiest and the most creative and the— and Daisy interrupted and said, "Like you?" Shucks. I realise they'll get older and realise I'm not as amazing as I seemed when they were kids, but I think we'll do okay. I just need to stay a few steps ahead of them, right? Give them something to look up to? (Don't tell them how much I want to be like them and try to be!) (Actually, I tell them that.)

Secondly, I've realised that I spent a lot of time feeling badly about myself in the past for having a hard time being a great mom to four kids. Four is a lot of kids. It's too many, frankly. I never realised that until now because kid problems get bigger as kids get bigger. Imagine having four best friends who need to talk about their problems and hurts as they come up and if even just two have problems at the same time, that's a lot of time and energy expended and when they're your kids, you care more and feel more responsible than if it was just your best friend whom you care about. You know your friends will pull through but your kids depend upon you to pull them through.

Raising kids is about so much more than just doing their laundry and feeding them and barking platitudes at them like, "Be kind." and "Treat people as you would want to be treated." They need to be taught self-soothing skills. (Which I have to learn first!) They have problems with friends at school and problems with self-image and problems with family members and gimmicks and empty words just don't cut it; they need psychology and lots of time spent talking one-on-one. Oh, the days of poopy diapers that go up to the neck! Oh, the days when I could lose my temper and my child would never remember it again! We are now at the days when every mistake gets logged somewhere and too many of the same mistake will create an overall impression that becomes a fixed memory of how things "always" were.

Thirdly, being so mindful and present has been great. Being in the moment has brought me a lot of peace. They give me something I have to do every-now, so I don't feel torn between all the things I have to and want to do and not knowing what to do first. When they are gone, I need to find some way to create within myself the same sense of urgency and importance to my tasks.

Fourthly, it feels great to feel so loved and I need to spend more time with people who appreciate me and show it. I feel good about saying goodbye to people who have seriously dragged me down. It's sad to reject people but it had to be done.

Most notably, I've noticed by seeing it in a couple of my kids, that I need to move on from all the pain from the past few years, and get positive. I've been trying to have optimism but it's been hard for a few reasons. One is that the past has been so legitimately difficult that it's hard to believe in the future. I worry about being seriously disappointed after hoping and expecting things to go well. I know logically that it's stupid and a sure way to be disappointed to expect disappointment, but emotionally it seems like I'd rather be disappointed now in my negativity than to plunge later from a high cliff of hope to the valley of disappointment if something doesn't work out. I've experienced enough dramatic plunges in the past to know that I never want to experience that again. And yet, I've recovered. So, logically I know it's better to risk severe disappointment than to exist in a low grade steady disappointment. Especially since being optimistic and excited about life puts me in a happy state, emotionally healthy and better able to cope with possible disapointment than being slightly depressed or jaded.

Secondly, I really did cling to my Mormon religion like people cling to psychic predictions and magic. I believed that a glorified man somewhere far in the sky, presumably in our galaxy, could see and hear and know what I do and think and that he had my back, that at some point he was going to bless me and help me to like this life that he wanted me to live. I no longer believe that prayers work in supernatural ways. I no longer believe that someone is holding on to some blessing that he's going to grant me maybe next week or next month.

That's been difficult to lose this belief, silly as it sounds. Because now it's all up to me. As much as it would be nice to believe that a god has my back, I can't believe it just because I want to. It has to actually be believable. The more I think and read and trust my instincts and intuition, the more I feel that the belief in an anthropomorphic god and especially one who has an agenda, is just ridiculous. And the benefits that come from believing in that are not worth it for me. They are for other people and I'm fine with that, really. They were for me once, too. But I have to somehow find another way.

I have to be okay with the unknown and have to find a way to be optimistic just because I believe in myself, in my abilities to make great things happen. I have to cope with the knowledge that things can go poorly even if I recite some magic incantations and sacrifice an animal or pay money, or be on my best behaviour to earn a reward. I have to internalise the idea that I'm worthy of good things even if I drink coffee and alcohol and have lots of phenomenal sex. Intellectually, I know this is true. But do I always feel it? I'm not sure. It takes time and repetition to undo the pathways we've created in our brains, the jump from one thought or feeling to an automatic other. And the Mormon church does a helluva lot to ingrain into people that they have to live in this one way or God will not bless them and their "sins" will be shouted from the rooftops when Christ comes, and people will find out what they've done and be disgusted and then shame will rightfully follow. I've mostly let go of those fears but not entirely.

I have left the nest and I've been freefalling to the ground, being forced to learn how to fly. I gradually lost faith in the Mormon church but going from a belief in God to no belief is a huge leap. I'm trying to have faith in my new life, in new understandings about the world and people, and in a new family for my kids which if I'm being honest (and everyone knows I think this, anyway) I think was a hasty and bad decision in ways that will change my children forever and I have to work to undo the damage that's done. (Of course, people think that's what my divorce was. Perspective is relative.) I feel like I've been forced into growing and developing and coping with a lot all at once. I'm being asked to have a lot of optimism with so little personal experience. Just because other birds have been booted from the nest and learned to fly, doesn't mean that I can. My left shoulder has been bungled for months—what if I just can't flap right?

These traumatising experiences have made it difficult to not feel guarded, scared, betrayed, and wounded. It's like I was in a marriage and my spouse had been having an affair behind my back the entire time, except that marriage was life and so much of what I gave my entire stupid trust—ignoring all the signs of what was really going on, making up convoluted explanations for lipstick on its collar—is completely different than what I thought.

So, I'm okay with needing a few months to cope. I'm forgiving of myself for being negative, for feeling hurt and angry.

But I'm not okay with my children entrenching within their young brains negative ways of thinking and responding. I want them to be happy and strong and confident. And I can't give them what I don't have. They need a world view that makes logical sense and they need to see an example of someone living a life of their own making and being happy and confident regardless of the opinions of others. They need to be surrounded by positive, excited, loving, successful people and so I need to attract these people into my life for them to know.

Thankfully, I feel like I'm making peace with my stories. I've told them enough that I'm sick of them. I've been traumatised but the telling of my stories somehow shifts the power from these events to me by my making sense of them, and by justifying my pain, and by finding value in my experiences. The retelling of stories is a part of the grief cycle. It's how people come to a place of acceptance. The more they tell their stories, the more they believe them and I have had such a hard time believing my own story, it's just so absurd (yet true).

Having the kids here has kicked my spiritual ass into gear. I've been wanting so badly to move on and heal and have hope and positivity but have been in pain. I'm not naturally a pessimistic person—I'm a romantic optimistic idealist who has been scared and scarred. The worst part has been fear about what will happen with the kids. But I see now that we'll be okay. I feel how much they need me, how much they can get only from me, and that I have a lot to give. I see how Victoria has so much to give to them. Their dad can give them love, maintenance, discipline, and a superstitious binary belief system that works well as a foundational building block. I can give them love, social skills, an understanding of a complicated world and social structure, art and culture, an ability to follow their own instincts and hearts with faith and confidence, an ability to forgive and love the things that go "wrong", an openness to new experiences and words like "fart", an ability to deconstruct and think critically, and an ability to love and feel comfort and respect in the presence of all different kinds of people. In some ways, the way we're split up is ideal.

It also helps that school is done a spell and the sun I knew I've been badly needing as a consistent balm has been here. Our mantra has been "Don't be negative!" until the negativity of that became amusingly obvious and now it's, "Let's be positive!" It's been working already.

It's going to take a time and mindfulness effort to carve new neural pathways. It will require an avoidance of upsetting things like patriarchy and religion (putting a pause, perhaps on my new feminist blog). It will require more effort toward meditation and yoga (my body is forcing it). It will require self-soothing when things go wrong rather than using other people to complain at, to expell my frustration and receive their assurances. Also, reading good positive books that make sense and sit right and knowing people who mesh with my inner hippie. And good music.

Want to help with the good music part? What songs make you feel motivated, peaceful, positive, and love for people and the world? Right now I'm digging Xavier Rudd's "Love Comes and Goes," "Come Let Go," "Better People," and "Messages". Especially these last two. Thank you, Ms Kyla!

* * *

Six-year-old Lulu: "All I care about is socks."

Me, giggling: "That's it?"

Lulu: "Yep. And you." And she runs to burrow her face into me.

* * *

Daily Gratitudes

The kids love fetching me coffees, and capers for Marry Me Chicken from the market up the street.
The incredible summer weather, and earth-fragrance in the cool night air that reminds me of Michigan.
My children's gorgeous faces and my pro camera to capture them.
My friends for their help with my kids.
Paul for his patient empathy through all my new life struggles and post-life pain. And for other things.

Your birthday mission

Natasha — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 16:51:34 +0000

I am thirty-two today. I am as old as my ex-husband was when he first kissed me. That's weird. Because that was sixteen years ago. (And my mother said, "But he's twice your age! When you're twenty, he'll be forty!" Yes, and he's now 64, which is why I had to divorce him. My answer to The Beatles was, No, I will not.)

I know I'm not old. I know that, really. I'm so young, still. But, golly, do I ever feel like a 50-year-old 23-year-old. It's complicated.

I should be studying Anthropology right now, as I have an exam tomorrow. Sigh. If it's not Mormon Stake Conference, it's some exam or another. Party poopers! But as I was reading my text book, I couldn't help but think about what I could do with an Anthropology degree, wondering if I should get a double major in Anthro and Creative Writing or maybe I could do Anthro and Psychology with a Creative Writing minor?

Here's the problem, peeps. God won't tell me what to do. Because there is no god. At least, I don't believe so. I never was good at feeling answers to prayers. I hated praying because I felt like such a failure that I didn't feel anything, usually. When I did, it was at a time of great anxiety and I believe that the calm and peace I felt was nothing more than the same calm and peace that people feel when they meditate. If you are heavily anxious, and you take time out to breathe and concentrate and feel centred, it will calm you.

So, when I needed answers to prayers, I would get a blessing from my husband or my friend/father figure Ron. I just told myself that I wasn't "spiritual" enough to get answers, even though I was living in accordance with the commandments as much as anyone else, probably. And I'd read the scriptures and not usually feel anything.

But I really believed in priesthood blessings. The end of my belief came when I went to my stake president for a much-needed blessing for answers to big questions, and I got the vaguest blessing I'd ever received, albeit from a lovely and caring man, and I was devastated that it didn't work when I most needed it to.

Now I live in a whole new world of autonomy and self-sufficiency, for the most part. And I have no idea what the freak to do with my life and no one can tell me. I have to figure it all out by myself. And I want to do everything. This would be no problem if, as Paul says, we lived to 200. No biggie. Just do lots of everything. There are no answers. There is no god looking out for me, who's going to tell me what to do and make it a successful venture.

And before any faithful person goes feeling sorry for me, might I remind you that you have had answers to prayers that have not worked out. Everyone does. And then you're left with the confusion as to why. Why is it so difficult? Why doesn't it feel right? Why doesn't it make you happy? Why did it end so badly? Why did you feel so sure that someone was going to live and then they died? Etc. It happens to all of us.

Some will have an easier time dealing with that confusion than others. (Like those of us who don't believe in divine intervention.) Some people are really good at just making up explanations and believing in them. Some people believe in magic. Some people are skeptical about everything and everything is a conspiracy theory. Some people are just paranoid, some people are just able to think of all kinds of contingencies and possibilities and it makes it hard to have faith in any one thing.

C'est moi. No matter which direction I look, I can see good and bad possibilities. And people could say, "Well, if you don't know how things are going to go, you might as well believe the good!" Right. Or the bad. I might as well believe the bad, too. I am speaking mathematically. Math is logical.

So, how do I NOT be logical? What are some good mantras to turn me into someone who can believe in fantasies? I am starting to suspect that the Law of Attraction is just another crutch belief system designed to soften the blow of the unknown. I mean, maybe not. I feel like I've attracted good things into my life. I feel like my children are pretty close to what I always imagined and hoped they would be. I live in a city like I've always wanted to.

But some of the things I've attracted into my life, IF I have, are things that haven't worked out. Maybe I just wanted the wrong things? I think wrong things are easier to have, don't you?

Anyway.

If I get a double major and a minor, there is no room for any other electives. I'll be going to school because I'm on a career track and not just to be educated and happy. If you're majoring in what you really love, it should make you happy, right? But what if you're like me and you want everything and you can't figure out what you want most?

Minors I can't choose between:

Social Justice
Women's Studies
Psychology
Philosophy
Professional Writing
English
Anthropology

Majors I can't choose between:

Anthropology
Creative Writing
Professional Writing
Psychology

Careers I can't choose between:

counsellor
social justice advocate
professional writer
anthropologist (what are my options??)
Anthropology prof
Writing prof
Women's Studies prof

Plus, there are a slew of other courses I'd like to take, such as in Sociology, History, Political Science. And lots of art courses.

So. Reader. Your birthday mission, should you choose to accept it, is to leave a comment telling me one or more of the following:

How did you choose your career path and how did you know you were on the right one?
How do you manage to think positively about the future if your past has been really difficult and you have no guarantees?
When do you feel you have ever used the Law of Attraction to bring something good into your life?
How do you make difficult decisions and then just relax about them (not including supernatural means)?
Anything else that could help?

Daily Gratitudes

The wonderful email from Pam.
The present and funny blog post from Joelle. (My apartment isn't THAT tiny!)
The seafood supper being made for me tonight by Paul.
The way that Paul calms my anxieties with very sensible logic, information, and a calm and confident disposition, combined with excellent empathy.
The many warm Facebook birthday wishes.

Running monologue garbage

Natasha — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 19:11:53 +0000

The problem with going weeks without blogging is that I have a head packed full of thoughts and then feel overwhelmed at the thought of writing anything down because I don't know which thought to pick. I think I'm happier and healthier when I write the spiders and butterflies out of my head.

I've been debating keeping the blog up though. What value does it have? What value is there in oversharing? Isn't that what writers do? Even in fiction, aren't they imparting their own observations, ideas, stories, fantasies?

Holy cannoli, I wrote all that hours ago. THANKS, Facebook and sexy-bus-crush-sitting-beside-me-in-café.

Where was I? I was going to give myself permission to a stream-of-consciousness/running monologue type thing.

First off, I'm listening to David Vertesi, who I recently watched play live at the Victoria Joel Plaskett Emergency concert and I think I like him better than Joel. "Caroline! A Ghost!" is a great song. That's playing right now. I'm so downtown, too. God, I love living downtown. The thought of living even just a few streets over, five minutes from downtown but not RIGHT in the heart of downtown makes me feel panicky. I like looking out my apartment window into the sexy yoga studio, and onto the funny parallel parkers, and onto the tourists and it makes me feel less alone. Like, at any point, I could just walk outside and talk to people. And sometimes they make me feel ashamed for being unshowered and unkempt at 11am and I take their cue and drag myself outside.

And then I go to the hippie café and there is the guy who I was trying to meet up again on the Friday 15x bus in order to tell him I want to take him home, in the hopes that he's a stray puppy. Risky sentence, for so many reasons. And one I never feel inclined to say, so I can't help but think the inclination requires follow-through because it must mean something. I want him to take my virginity. How tragic is that?

I need to think about something else. There's a cute kid anxious to eat her bagel with lox and capers. Nice tastebuds, 4-year-old. I kind of want another kid. Maybe just half a kid. Share it with someone. I want a baby with someone who really, really, really wants a baby. Someone I don't have to talk into having a baby. Someone whose mind is blown when I give birth to his baby and who will actually get up at night with the baby and not pat himself on the back for doing the dishes and making supper when I was up ten times in the night feeding and calming his sperm-consequence. Someone who will walk with me to the park and let our kid eat daffodils and then will quickly google on his smartphone whether or not daffodils are poisonous and I won't even care if it's an iPhone or an Android because I'm becoming more open-minded out here in Victoria.

But I don't want to stay home again and raise a baby. I have a degree or two or three to get. I can take turns raising a baby at home, though. And I'm happy to breastfeed again. But I'm not going to raise a child essentially alone while my partner gets to establish a career that he can then take with him if we split up, while I'm stuck and dependent. Stupidest thing ever. And I love how *some people* think that I'm getting this generous alimony when, if you think about it, I'm getting paid a quarter of what a mom's worth is estimated at, at the lowest estimate I've ever read. How much is a mom's work worth? How much do you pay a chauffeur-cook-maid-therapist-etc?

So, I have no idea what I want to do now with my education and career other than to know that I want to write and help people. I don't want to teach writing or English because I don't feel like it's meaningful enough. I want to help as many people as I can with my life, not just one or two students in a class who feel like I mentored them into self-assurance. I'm considering getting a double major in writing and anthropology with a minor in professional writing but that leaves no room for any other classes. No art, no philosophy, no history, no psychology, nothing. That's not good for anyone, nevermind a writer. Everyone should learn everything. Bus Crush told me that the writing programme was lacklustre because it was workshop based and the students are young and not necessarily great writers. I thought of that very problem and wondered if it would be worth it. It was his opinion that an English degree makes for a better writer. Yeah, I thought of that, too. Maybe if I had profs who I didn't think were pretentious arrogants, who didn't mind talking with me about English after hours, I would go that route again. But I'm so tired of writing essays about things I don't care about. Yes, it strengthens my writing skills but can't I do that while writing about something meaningful, like Rwandan conflict? I'd rather spend my time pursuading people about something that can make the world a better place than pursuading them about the use of free indirect discourse in Ethel Wilson's Swamp Angel. Should I italicise when I'm trying to write stream-of-consciousness?

Unfortunately, the only way to know for sure what I want to do is to first do it. That's so time consuming. I'd rather know in advance. I'm so used to knowing. I'm used to knowing that there's a God and He says X and wants Y and if I do Y, I'll be happy dontchaknow and now I don't know anything. In fact, it's impossible to know anything for certain and that's so damn exhausting. I'm working on getting better at not caring, but it's a pretty big switch to go from knowing and being right about everything regarding the creation of the world and sin and such to not knowing anything. Sometimes it's exhilerating to not know, of course.

They're playing Elvis in the hippie/hippy café right now which reminds me of Easter last year in Cortona at Jacob's house with that cute little stove.

Don't mind the marble countertops there. Or this view:

Or this grumpy-looking backyard turtle:

I like this photo of supper being made:

This also reminds me of my grandfather. He used to sing like Elvis, a bit, and he styled his hair after Elvis. Never changed it. That reminds me that the bathroom at The Fort recently smelled like my grandparents' bathroom. Amazing how memory and smell are so strongly related that one sniff of something can instantly conjure up a vivid memory of something both banal and ancient. My grandparents' bathroom was all blue. The bathtub, the tile, the walls. Even the toilet? I can't remember for sure but the funny thing was that my grandfather would paint it periodically, even the bathtub, and it would be differnet shades of blue but still basically the same and I'd be all excited because it was so different except that it totally wasn't. What's different about all blue, all the time? They also had this blue work of art with a bunch of goldfish in it, on the pink and peach floral wallpaper walls of the guest bedroom and I was thinking of the piece a few months ago, out of the blue and it appeared in one of my art prof's slides recently.

My battery is running out. 6%.

I didn't bring my cord. Didn't think I'd need to because I planned on getting right down to writing and thought I'd finish something. Instead, I goofed on Facebook and talked with Bus Crush.

I like Elvis.

Who wants to read some running monologue bullshit? It's so self-indulgent. Or intriguing. But I feel like anything I would write down would be boring.

Love Me Tender. This one my grandfather used to play all the time on the guitar. I almost phoned him a couple of weeks ago but I was too afraid that he'd reject me again. And now he and my grandmother are probably going to die without me ever speaking to them again, which is sad, considering they helped raise me and he was more a father to me than my father. Man, I had a shitty childhood. I totally believe in abortion AND adoption. Whatever works. Just don't give babies to parents who can't raise them, please, because then they'll start a blog and love all the wrong people and eat dill pickle chips for breakfast.

The Joel Plaskett concert the other night was great. I commented about it on Facebook and Samuel Seth Bernard replied to it, which surprised me and made me happy because he has over 4600 Facebook friends and how would he even notice this update? Must have been good timing. I met Seth twice in Michigan. Not sure he remembers me. I adore his music. He and May are my faves.

Okay, I'm done. I don't do running monologue. It's awful. The end.

I didn't edit this once.

On honesty in relationships

Natasha — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 16:12:49 +0000

I am so tired and overwhelmed by things to do and figure out and obstacles to overcome that I have started a few blog posts and just not had the energy to finish. So, this morning, I'm just going to recycle something I wrote elsewhere which I thought would be good to post here.

This morning, my best friend Joelle made me famous on her blog, so that was fun. She talked about our policy of honesty toward each other. I don't remember the instance she cited of clothes-trying-on and I even wondered if she was just making it up as an example because the real example she could think of was more personal than that. I do remember us having a conversation about honesty and her arguing that it's okay to lie to people about things to make them feel better. Most people would agree with her, probably. I remember arguing that it wasn't okay to lie ever BECAUSE THE CHURCH LEADERS SAY SO, JOELLE. AND EVERYTHING THEY SAY IS TRUE. <whisper> Everything. </whisper>

I don't trust people who only ever give me compliments and gush over me because I know myself better than anyone else does and it's not all pretty.

Here's what I said in the comments section of Jo's blog:

Just some clarifications I'd like to make that you communicated but I don't think it will be explicit enough for some people. I don't believe in complete honesty. If people don't ask, I try to keep my mouth shut. I'm not always good at it but I never am mean.* This isn't always true but I think it is a lot of the time: when people ask, they are open to the truth or they would not have asked. Even when they think they don't want the truth, they ARE open to it. Just think of all the questions we don't ask people because there's a chance we might get an answer we don't like! When we know we can't risk a devastating answer, we don't ask a devastating question.

And you left out the part we've discussed about WHY we're safe people to each other: Because of honesty, we know that we can believe the good stuff. Think of all the compliments, all the validating that ends up being for naught when people hear it from friends who never tell them any negative truths. They end up worrying that their friends are just trying to make them feel better.

There can also be this kind of resentment that builds up when we can't be honest with our friends, and when our relationships are false and shallow. When we have to always only say kind things, and build up our friends even when we don't believe what we're saying, when we're forced to lie, we end up resenting the lack of true intimacy and we resent that we have to be false, so we want to take the person down a notch by being passive-aggressive. We let our negative opinions out in a way for which we can't easily be scorned because we can just fawn and lie, "Oh, that's not what I meant at ALL!" when it totally was.

Being honest doesn't have to mean being cruel. We don't say, "Yeah, those pants make you look ugly." What's the goal—for your friend to feel ugly or for her to just not embarrass herself by buying those pants? If it's the latter, you simply say, "They're not the best on you, no. But I'm sure that something here will look fabulous." Or whatever. If your goal is to make your friend feel ugly, then you need to get some therapy.

Being authentic in relationships is not about feeling free to say whatever is on our minds. It's about being able to trust that you're loved enough that you can say when you're hurt, that you can be honest when you're asked your opinion, and that your friend or partner respects you enough to give you truth instead of lies when what you're essentially asking is, "Who am I?" That's a big question and it's sacred ground. As you would say, Joelle, "Don't f*ck with my intuition."

People eventually learn that you'll be honest if asked and they will just not ask you things they don't want to know. I'm honest in all my relationships and it's not often a problem.**

Oh, I just thought of something else. The reason why there's resentment when we can't be honest with our friends is because when we can only douse them with compliments and positivity we feel like they get to feel amazing about themselves because of us while we feel like crap because most of us feel like crap at some point. WE need those compliments and that validation but now we can't even trust it because we know that WE aren't being honest when giving that to someone else so we can't trust it when it comes back to us. But we think our friend does believe our validation and so we resent that because we're so "nice", they get to feel great while we feel like crap.

* (At least, I'm never trying to be mean. The degree of honesty I appreciate and can handle is more than some people's so they might think that my degree of honesty is mean. But generally, I say what I intend. It's not like I don't know how to say, "You're a despicable person". If that's what I MEAN, that IS what I will say, 95% of the time. And if I didn't say that, don't you dare tell me I implied it. I don't usually IMPLY things. I hate it when people read more into what I say than I intended because it's an insult to my literacy and humanity.)

**Adding now: That I'm aware of, and unless I wasn't asked in the first place.

I suppose there are some people who only want lies and "niceness". They just aren't at a place of understanding yet to know that they don't REALLY want this. What they want is to feel good about themselves and they think this is the way to achieve it. But it's not. Dishonesty, even "nice" dishonesty, is like white sugar. It fills you up and makes you feel good but the effect is so short-lasting.

If you love people, you won't be dishonest with them. If they can't handle your kind attempts at authenticity, when they ask you for your opinion, that is most definitely their issue to work on and you don't need that friendship until that person can meet your level of authenticity and trust and communication.

Literary criticism as pointless masturbation

Natasha — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 01:03:07 +0000

I've reluctantly concluded that I just don't care enough about literary criticism and theory. The fucks I give are minimal. I suppose writers commonly disdain literary theory. The very fine detail into which critics delve, parsing words and commas, and trying to find deep significance for why the poet used iambic in the first foot and then a spondee, and then—oh my!—trochaic metre, makes me want to burst aloud in class, "There is no significance! Every poem uses these but not every poem uses them deliberately! And if you are picturing the poet sitting there wanting to write the line one way but choosing not to because then it would be iambic when he's got some hidden, special reason for wanting to now use trochaic, then you're just looking for leprechauns for something to do. It would be like saying, 'Ooh, the poet used a word here that begins with A. This is interesting.' No, it's not. The word 'and' begins with A. The poet wanted to use the word 'and'. It's a coincidence that it begins with A." Yes, often deliberate rhythm exists. But when there's no pattern, I am apt to conclude that there's no significance.

Literary criticism becomes like the philosophy of very fine, invisible things. Philosophy is an important endeavor. And anyone who really knows me or who has read enough of my blatherings, knows that I am capable of analysing things to a fine degree; I have analysed my analysis of my analysis, enough times to feel sheepish and lacking in control. But, at a certain point, literary criticism and philosophy becomes mental masturbation, becomes the Olympics of the Frivolous.

Imagine art critics spending 1000 words analysing just one glob of paint on a painting. That's what literary criticism can offer you, but for words and punctuation. Don't all rush on over now—single file!

In the meantime, people suffer, the economy teeters, diseases plague. What kind of person is comfortable spending the majority of their time sitting at a desk analysing what other people actually do to make the world a better place? The luxury, the inactivity, the ego, the uselessness horrifies me. It's evidence that people just need something to do and when there's nothing else for them to do, they will invent stuff.

Besides entertainment, and unless it includes philosophy and other practical things, I don't see the point of fiction. So you made up a story with a good life lesson in it; it wasn't REAL. I can teach all sorts of tidy moral and psychological lessons if I just make stuff up.

I value truth. I value real emotions from real people. I value honesty, and stimulus and response. If The Life of Pi, for example, is not real, I don't see the point other than to say, wow, that guy has a great imagination and he can really wield and organise words. Some people value that which makes them comfortable over that which is true. They are happy with fantasy, with cozy narratives, with things that work for now.

It's not that I only value practical things. Obviously. Most of my favourite things to do involve just making stuff. And if I had to choose between a cure for cancer for the world or an abundance of good literature, music, and art, I'd choose the arts without hesitation. I'd happily sit around a table or a gallery or a campfire and discuss the meaning in that art, how it makes me feel, what it has to say about life, and I can offer up some pretty astute commentary that makes people raise their eyebrows. I even understand that uncovering hidden patterns, methods, and meanings can add so much more pleasure to the partaking of art. But beyond that, we're just stroking our brains with Astroglide and getting off on others watching, showing them how fast or hard or how many times we can come.