It’s been an extraordinarily interesting and intriguing and thought provoking weekend already, and there is much about which I wish to write, many thoughts roiling and boiling and bubbling and elbowing one another for room.
Last night’s semi-drunken visuals only post hints at some of the things about which I’m thinking, things I couldn’t put into words really. Marlon Brando connections prompted by Tennessee Williams thinking prompted by opening of “The Glass Menagerie” on Broadway starring two openly gay actors prompting a missing of New York prompting thoughts of my aunt Sissie prompting a stroll down tortured family relationship lane re-prompting Tennessee Williams thoughts prompting divergence into his long relationship with Frank Merlo prompting thoughts about relationships between people whose sexualities do not mesh prompting thoughts about the different kinds of being in love prompting thoughts about the little boy I was who truly loved and trusted everyone prompting thoughts of how having that trust betrayed led to drugs alcohol fear and loss of people prompting thoughts of my Tennessee Williams-esque tragic father death prompting father death and loss thoughts and the number of people I’ve lost to death and alcohol and drugs and fear and Williams-esque maneuvering and sorrows prompting thoughts about what caused those losses and the delusions and illusions and prompting thoughts about those I haven’t lost who hold me up, who hold my hand, who … on and on it goes in a way I can’t quite making into something “of a piece” yet – so …
AND TOO I’m fascinated by the heckling of actors at the Old Miss production of “The Laramie Project” by audience members who were players on the football team forced to attend the show for a class requirement and this dovetails with my horror about the new Matthew Shepard book in which the author tries to dismiss sexuality as cause for the crucifixion. Really? I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about this … but not now.
And then, I went to a hockey game yesterday in which the players were ten to twelve years old. I hadn’t been in a place with parents and kids, the purpose of which gathering was to compete, for quite a while, and I thought I could handle it and I sort of almost maybe kind of did, until I had to walk through a gaggle of ice skating tween girls and their moms – at which point. Wow. I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about this … but not now.
And I’ve been working so hard at this diet and exercising and being healthy and STILL when I look in the mirror all I see is someone I wouldn’t want to sleep with. And I’m horrified by my body-image self-hatred and so, I started looking for images on the web of bodies like mine, or, bodies not perfect, or just regular bodies being portrayed in ways that were meant to seduce, be erotic, a celebration of sex, and all I found were men reading naked and men naked in the woods and men … well, it distracted me and I started ANOTHER long short-story outline about living alone in the woods, reading and writing and being naked by myself until I could feel good about myself being naked and then … I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about this … but not now.
AND TOO … I had dinner last night with some friends of one of my family members. I’d never met these people before and everything about us – well – many things about us – are entirely opposite. They are very, very, VERY Republican and conservative-ish; fans of Sarah Palin even – yes – THAT REPUBLICAN, and yet – by the end of the evening (and Patron Silver shots and five bottles of really good red wines) we were all living in the things we have in common, appreciating one another – AND AT LAST SOMEONE HAS AGREED TO GIVE ME A FIREARM AND TEACH ME HOW TO SHOOT IT. The husband is actually a firearms/weapons specialist who makes his living training law enforcement types how to shoot. SO EXCITED. (Watch out people) Although, in the cold, sober light of day he might think better of it, as he said, late in the evening as I had him bent over the table doing a massage demonstration – “I’m not really sure why I let you have me in this position or why I agreed to let you handle a loaded gun in kill range of me.”
I’m kind of persuasive. And, P.S., healing, I fixed his years damaged shoulder – so, there. When the evening began and we started talking about topics on which we had very different opinions, I sat quietly. I sat quietly because the night before I had been having a discussion with a very dear friend whose opinion I value, who I love deeply and dearly and devotedly, and she had said to me; “I hate arguing with you because you get so arrogant.”
I had to think about that a lot. I went home and wrote about it in my journal and thought about it and explored it and realized that she was right, and whatever the reason for it, whatever my defense mechanism with which I could JUSTIFY to myself seeming, behaving, appearing arrogant – was beside the point. If I believed what I was saying, if I believed in myself, if I trusted that love was the bottom line between people – I didn’t need to MAKE other people believe as I did. And so, when these people and I disagreed – I would just say, “Ok. I don’t see it that way, here’s how I feel, but ok.” By the end of the night, gun instructor was saying, “You’re not really a liberal you know.” I said, “No, I’m more a socialist.” That stopped THAT line of discussion. But, I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about this … but not now.
AND TOO… someone stole my towel at the gym. WENT IN MY LOCKER and stole a towel. WHY? I am flummoxed by this. And I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about it … but not now.
AND TOO – it’s the 40th Anniversary of Erica Jong’s “Fear of Flying” and the introduction into the wider and polite cultural discussion the concept of the “zipless fuck” and I have been thinking A LOT about sexuality of late, and why this country seems SO TERRIFIED of its expression, and wondering why it seems we have gone backwards in the last decade rather than forward and – wow – I read the comments on the NPRBooks blog about “Fear of Flying” and was, once again, FLUMMOXED (today’s word) by the horrifyingly sexist anti-eroticism things people felt free to write. I have a lot to say about this but … not RIGHT NOW.
So … it’s Sunday and I haven’t gotten a paper yet and I have things I need to do and books to read and plays and stories to write and people to see and … here I am … going