Keisuke Ito: Lepidoptera (1855)

ten years

It has been ten years that I've actively loved women. It has been ten years of knowing, deep within me, who I am. Far more than I've accepted it. Most of those years were conducted miserably and flailing, in terror and loss aversion. I did not have wild, fanciful sex and romance with ingenues; I just dated men. I let men fuck me for some weird transactional peace. Never did it without wondering what the point was, however, or asking myself what was to be gleaned from these stupid carnal encounters. I knew all along: I was only playing it safe.

This very tumblr documents the worst and the best of those years, by a certain measure. Some of the best reflections and lessons and metaphors came from those years, and also some of the worst feelings and experiences.

This picture in my head of what I needed to be safe was so accurate and still so misleading: the holiday peppermint candy, kids and Christmases. The missing information was found in the shape of a woman, hair falling around her face, soft lips and eyes reflecting the feeling I was so desperate to conjure in myself -- but so incapable.

Now I've found it, though my political geography wants to strip it from me, from all of us. I will take that trip to Big Sur in the next few years.

[edited]

someday fuck this shit man, someday fuck this HAPPY HOLIDAYS to poor-pitiful-me, look at me martyr myself for this-that-and-the-other, with the rest of my family trying to ignore how sorry and confused they feel about my choices and my current state and my mental health and the whole fucking charade.  someday my self-loathing aunt won't write things like "AND WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR ON A RANCH IN COLORADO, ANYWAY??" in the most aggressive way possible, italicized and bolded like what the fuck are you 12?

no, no no no no.  because I know this formula, stupid and hilariously flawed and riddled with issues and switchback turns and labyrinths of emotions, and seemingly pointless tasks to achieve minimal FUCKING MINIMAL baby steps in some direction I can barely discern -- I know this formula will pay off, I know it will work.  because I know how badly I want it, and more importantly I know what I want.

the day will come.  that christmas will come.  I won't even need to see my parents or my siblings or their brood et cetera, though I certainly will. I'll have exactly what I need all around me.  I will have a healthy, roaring fire in the woodstove or fireplace, kettle slowly steaming.  there will be handmade rugs and quilts and christmas tapestries and quilted pillows for comfort, a live fir tree that just weeks prior WE cut and dragged in the snow in boots and carhartts and flannel, because that's what we wear. I may be a touch wrinkled and leathery, my hair lightly silvered, but I will be trim and agile and full of laughter and red cheeks and a wide smile.  this will also go for my beautiful children, whatever race or background they hail from, whatever age they are, whether biological or adopted or fostered, they will love the shit out of me and my mashed potatoes and our goose and my gravy and my bread and our canned vegetables from the summer's bounty.  we will eat to a fill, drink fresh milk with the cream-top and make egg nog from our blue and green and lavender eggs, even when the kids insist on cracking them and get shells in the mix despite my warning. I'll gently pick them out.

we'll talk about where reindeer really come from, how they're like elk, how they're different.  I'll ask my eldest if they remembered to lock the chickens in, they will look panic-stricken and quickly run to the mud room to don a jacket and boots; likely returning from the bitter cold with haste.  I'll pat their back and smile and say "thanks for doing that, bub."

cookies will inevitably get passed around.  the tree will glow with homemade ornaments and strings of lights, a perfect star to top it.  the dog or cat or both or multiples of either will stretch out or curl up on the cowhide in front of the stove.  candles will be lit in the window,  It's a Wonderful Life will, at some point, come on the public television station.   as my babes are chattering gayly about what the morning might bring, I will feel a swell of perfection, of peace, of knowing it was all worth it.  I will feel solidarity with my sow and her litter, my Jersey and her calf, both who are also tucked into a warm barn full of fresh straw bedding, one of which is gently ruminating as the mice scuttle around, hunting stray morsels for their own families.

after the fighting and the insisting and the anticipation, everyone will tuck in, finally.  my husband stunningly beautiful and rightly exhausted wife will come down the stairs with the final wrapped numbers and strategically place them around the tree. I'll silently pour our finest bourbon, turn on the record player ever-so-softly, and we'll watch the snow fall out the window as the fire crackles.  each of us will sigh deeply. we are both relieved it's almost over, but still glad it's not...quite, yet.  we don't need to speak. we sip quietly, until one of us lets out an introspective laugh.  we'll share in the reflection, chuckle together, and feel the peace of peace, the peace the bible and the christmas cards and the fucking NYT bestsellers and hogwash gurus talk about.  as we get up to turn off the music, to turn in for the night, he will pull me I will pull her into an embrace.  as usual, we'll know what the other one is feeling. she'll fall into me and heave a breath into my neck, and I'll squeeze her a little harder. some part of that sigh is the mutual satisfaction that all of the frantic clawing and gnashing and wanting and toiling and even some of the very creatures of our past who were so fucking determined to undermine us, or so it seemed at the time, are just that -- a thing of the past. maybe, or maybe not, this will trigger me to remember christmases like this one, and the one prior, and the one before that.  maybe I will smile, wishing I could telegram 26-year-old maureen alone in the cold house on the windy prairie where nothing, absolutely nothing, belonged to her and say "seasons greetings, it's all worth it goddamnit. trust me on this," as I press my body into another woman's, as familiar as my own, for one of the longest nights of the year.

and whatever whatever whatever.  It's coming.  I will have that, and so much more.  those kids and that man will love me so . I will love that woman and those children so fucking much, in every way I can't even imagine, for all of the right reasons, and finally FINALLY FUCKING FINALLY, for the first time in my life: I will be home for Christmas.

Moving On

My thoughts have shifted from "what went wrong" to "this is what's up next." I'm finally starting to move on.

Initially, I wanted to linger in sadness even longer, but everything I read and hear about this type of process recommends against it. Shorter emotional refractory period is better, they say. Alright, let's go then.

I certainly don't have the years to spend in grief like I did in my twenties. Hell, I didn't have the time then, either, but I sure took them anyway. Not again. Now, it's vision boards and one-step-at-a-time thinking. Predictable? Sure. But necessary for some major course-correction.

After the wrenching existential questions and mourning the lost future (which, to be fair, I started mourning a long time ago) I'm the type of person to see every rejection as a massive opportunity. At the risk of being crass, this boils down to an obligation that occupied most of my thoughts, time, and energy -- now erased. There is so much that can move into that space: ideas, practices, beliefs, projects, and work that actually serves me and moves my life forward.

This is a very good thing, actually.

#3 Apology

Dear Maureen, I'm taking the time to write this one out to you, as it has come to my attention that we're trying to move forward on broken ground. I owe you an apology. Many, many apologies. I'll get right to it. I am sorry for not protecting you heart and your space so soon after an abusive relationship. I'm sorry I let said abusive relationship go on for five years. You didn't deserve one moment of how he treated you, and I am so sorry I didn't put an end to it in 2015. I'm sorry that you couldn't stand to be alone back then. I'm sorry I took you on those dates and let the men that we encountered do whatever they pleased. I'm sorry I used sex as a form of self-harm, just to hurt you. I'm sorry that was the standard of success I held us to as well -- mainly out of fear and a desire to repress who you really were and are. There is nothing I regret more than that sentiment, honestly. You deserved to be celebrated for who you loved, and I didn't even tolerate it.

I'm sorry I put us through what I did with Annora, sorry I never let you confess your feelings and work through that in a way that felt meaningful. I'm sorry we had those awful few years with Brendan and sorry I made you feel like that's what we deserved. We deserved so so so much better, and lighter, and MORE. I wanted so badly to stay in those wounds formed from a few stupid men in your sexual awakening, and I'm sorry after all these years we still think their names and give them a legacy. Your legacy is NOT a handful of names of people who hurt you, lost to the ether otherwise. You have gone and grown so far beyond that. I am so proud of you, despite putting you through this. I am so sorry for looking at your beautiful body and telling you to hate it, for deeming it "unworthy" of this precious male gaze I obsessed over. I'm sorry I brought you into that hellscape, dragged you deep into compulsive heterosexuality, knowing full well it was all a scam. I'm sorry I made you run on busted knees and excruciating IT bands and rolled ankles and told you that pain was to be bartered for your sister's love, or maybe even my love of this body (someday...never.) I'm sorry for the miles that were never long enough, the swims that were never fast enough, the workouts that were never hard enough. I'm sorry I lied to you about a comic book character and femininity being a kind of redemption. I'm sorry we didn't love band and did it anyway. Sorry for KKPsi and Catherine and Darbi's homophobia. I'm sorry for letting Erin into your bed and leaving Kyla on read, and all that that represents. I'm sorry you never stood up to Erin, or kissed Jessica Drake, or held hands with Samantha Cox. I'm sorry I robbed you of that. I'm sorry I insisted on Pepsi and Oreos every day, didn't treat our acne, didn't buy clothes that fit or take time to do our hair. I'm sorry you felt so fucking ugly. I made you feel that way. And I'm sorry that opened you up to all the hateful things Dominic and Josh said about you. I'm sorry I told you you weren't worthy of competition, and so we never practiced mellophone or challenged those ahead of us. I'm sorry I told you we would never be the best at anything cool or good. Sorry I didn't let you switch to French horn. Sorry about all the women you were swept away by that I swept under the rug: Sandy, Paula, Amanda Adkins. Sorry for telling you you were broken because you couldn't love Zach. Sorry for abandoning Ashley when she could've been the most important friend we had. Sorry for abandoning Kelsey and Kendall and Stef for the same reasons. I'm sorry for deciding we were "weird" and "unfuckable" before puberty was even over. I'm sorry for letting a few bullies stop you from branching out and finding yourself. I'm sorry I let fear keep us from sports and skateboards and surfing and riding horses. I'm sorry it kept us from chasing a science degree or days spent on the ocean. I'm sorry you turned hard from the nuclear family model you knew only to stare into a void of loneliness and unworthiness. I'm sorry I painted that canvas black for you. I'm sorry you didn't take more fishing trips with your dad but took his criticisms to heart. I'm sorry I didn't stand up to Jennifer for you, or prove something to ourselves before I proved it to her.

I'm sorry I told you you didn't deserve more than an anonymous internet romance or a toxic friendship. I'm sorry we fell out of touch with Lauren Radak and Sara Pickard. Sorry for the. hard feelings and friend breakups and ghosting of people we loved.

Sorry for all the questions we didn't ask mom during puberty. Sorry for not living more of your dreams or validating you. Sorry for giving up on piano and softball. I'm sorry for not taking you on more vacations or adventures or road trips -- almost zero in the last 10 years. I'm sorry for not loving you deeply, truly, and perfectly as I could. Instead, I made us cry to pop country music while driving across the flatlands of Colorado with aspirations of becoming a traditional wife. Again and again, I let the patriarchy win. I'm so sorry. I will do better. I'm sorry that I've made everything your fault. I just want to feel in control. I operate out of fear and about 90% of these apologies were born from just that, FEAR -- of being seen, of falling down, of learning some painful truth or having to know you differently that I wanted to/felt comfortable with. I'm sorry I couldn't commit to our art or our writing or our love of anything, actually, for fear of other's opinions, abandonment, or being called a fraud. You are not neutral. YOU ARE NOT HERE FOR SOMEONE ELSE'S BENEFIT. YOU ARE A GIFT FROM THE UNIVERSE TO ITSELF AND I WILL NOT WASTE ANOTHER MINUTE PUSHING YOU AWAY OR NOT LOVING YOU FOR EVERYTHING YOU ARE AND EVERYTHING YOU COULD BE.

YOU ARE ENOUGH. Love,

Maureen

When Self-Love Felt Like Infidelity

The five years that felt like: 20 or 8 months of whirlwind chaos or breaks in a VHS tape recorded over too many times.

A year out of the woods, I can finally see where some things went horribly wrong, but only in a clinical, risk-management framework. My therapist might say "That's OK." "That's good, actually."

Remove all emotionality from that particular past and let it fade away ever-so-gently. Allow the ocean of self-soothing to pull the claw marks of rage and fear back into a smooth, blank surface. It's OK, you are safe. You are safe here. No one is coming for you. The need to repeat these mantras to myself throughout the day has also waned. Instead, I pose questions like "Why did I stop exercising?" in the middle of folding laundry. Ah, yes. That's right. The memories come forth reluctantly at first, then as deluge. And with that, all the details; so many useless details.

To be fair, these little anecdotes of torture are easy to yammer on about when anxiety is seeking an outlet of comfort or external validation. It's these stories that garner many sympathetic eyes, nodding along with the same usual offerings. "I can't even imagine." "I have no idea how you put up with that." "What a terrible human being." But I'm not so concerned anymore with details of "what happened."

Instead, I want to know who I was and I need to know who I became. Because without this critical lens, I will undoubtedly carry parts of that evil inside myself, possibly none the wiser for it. The only way to develop a resistance to poison is to regularly consume non-lethal doses, yes, but how long does it take for that resistance to break down?

I'm finding out.

The Other Side

When you truly love them, watching someone slowly fall out of love with you is still just as exquisite as anything else they do.

😳 what if we accidentally kissed 😳

in the garage 🙈

after all the tears, things are going OK

My life thus far has been the stuff of Jenny Lewis and Kacey Musgrave ballads; with a bit of the flavor and punch of some classic rock and delta blues -- and I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

oh man. 

Daisy Jazz Isobel Ridley | April 10th, 1992

Someone once said to me ‘You’re an Aries, aren’t you?’ And I said: ‘Yeah! How you’d know?’ And she goes: ‘Because you don’t know where you’re going, but you’re leading me.’

Putting the Past to Rest

It’s Sunday night. On Friday afternoon, I bought a farm. 

While reflecting, it became apparent to me: this overwhelming feeling is the same feeling I had seven years ago; when I rented my first neighborhood house that was not an apartment. And then I slowly reconciled this thought: I was never in love, or anything even close to it.

I just had a house, and I wanted to do things with it. So that changes some things.

This Journey Seems to Beckon Bad Weather

A New Manifesto 

I will respect my elders, for every line carved in the soft cartilage of women far wiser than me, is a marker of the unknown. Those lines are a map of paths not yet walked, a document of pain not yet felt, a marker of joy still unimaginable.

I will know my body, I will trust my body, I will love my body. I will let my thighs flipper through pale blue water, playfully released from the weight of gravity. I will let my rib cage spread and lead my limbs down a wooded path, a neighbor’s long driveway, a sandy beach. Left foot, right foot - thumping. 

I will breathe deeply and close my eyes when I need to, I will release the nervous energy without violence against myself or others, and most importantly, without violent thought.

I will learn to smile wider at increasingly smaller things.  I will have gratitude. I will recall the spinning, thrilling, exhilarating sensations of the best moments of my life, and I will relish in the confidence that they will be out-done. 

I will rest comfortably in the smell memory of clover hay; the touch memory of picking wild hops on the side of a mountain; the visual memory of a sunset over the Pacific ocean as I rode bareback with a little girl in long braids and a cowboy hat; the sound of fireworks erupting over my tiny hometown soccer field, or rain on the roof in midst of an agonizing drought. For each of these there are hundreds more, and for that I am already grateful.

I will trust my heart. I will know all things to be right when they are simply right. I will know if and when I should conceive, and if I choose to, I will be supported and safe and cared for during that process. 

I will hold dear the brightest eyes and the tenderest hearts, no matter where they are in proximity to me. I will answer their call, I will help lift them up, I will consider them an indivisible part of me.

when the pages in your book crinkle from the moisture

I'm always on about the humidity down there.

Florida.

What I really mean is the bodies down there.  That's where they are, I guess.  Up here at a mile plus, gravity loses its tug and we're all just ghosts speculating opportunity costs of theoretical trips to the mountains or the brewery.  It sounds played out -- because it is, I'm afraid. 

I rented a redbox film the night before I got on the plane, and I returned it without watching. I sat next to a man in the morning hours, after a date -- the formal kind -- on his couch.  I waited.  Nothing happened.  He made me tea. 

Hours later

I sought the dark, mildewed corners of familiar, comforting places. What surfaced were all the obsessions and memories I'd long lost track of, for better or worse.

After the standard amount of time and introspection and feeling safe in my own skin, again, I felt the collide of skulls and warm tongues touching and the effort of trying to lie sideways, unevenly, still gripping onto one another.

This was home.  My clammy, naked body pressed into the night, the local, the true, that home-base, all which is good and fond of me and me fond of it.  The failures-to-start and the frustrations and sense of impervious limitations all fell slack; I was long overdue for a warm homecoming.  

You  belong.

You always will.  

We love you, Maureen.

I love you too, Gainesville.

American Wife

Shivering from the coffee, still shower-wet with the towel slack at the tips of your breasts.  The mountains are swaddled in clouds, but the sun is shining down here, in the valley.

The dogs are bored and miserable; they've given up.  

The dogs are not yours.  

The dogs know every intimate curve of your body, and the sound of your voice, choked with tears.  The dogs know the smell of your cooking and exactly what time you wake, the sound of your footsteps on the stairs of the stoop. The dogs watch you get dressed, they crow with your laughter, they dance around your legs while you shake your hips to some faint record player music.

We have nothing.  We had nothing.  Those cunning lies we told were, in the end, just sand slipping through the gaps in our drunk logic. 

You felt my naked body once.  In a haze of booze.  In the pitch black. In a sub-zero vacuum.  

One more. I love that face.

How To Write A Poem, by Bhanu Kapil

1. Eat the raw heart of a horse. This will distinguish you from a cast of thousands.

2. Are you an urchin? If so, consider writing a novel instead.

3. Have carnal encounters with anyone but another poet. For obvious reasons, you do not...