Everything I Tell You is Hearsay

For those of you who were in the Gresham High School Concert Choir in 1995, you know what I’m talkin’ bout. As this does not (probably) account for an appreciable portion of my readership, I’ll expand…

The Googles tell me this is what a boundary looks like. Good thing they can spot them.

Every year we went on a retreat together to work more effectively as a group, improve group dynamics , and partially disrobe in front of each other. As this event was usually conducted at a church camp, they were always happy to see us coming, but much happier to see us go. In fact, the third portion of the tradition was so throroughly exercised* my senior year, they asked us not to come back. But I digress**

My senior year, I was a section leader. As such, I had certain “responsibilities” which I interpreted as “abusing authority over younger more vulerable people, preferably until they cry. Unless you like them, in which case don’t.” What this meant, in practice, was that when we were preparing for retreat, I was in charge of creating the trust exercises*** and I used this opportunity to think about how best to create an environment of safety, foster the growth of intimacy, and cherry pick the people I wanted to know more about and put them in my own group.

Cut me some slack, I was sixteen for chrissakes.

SO! Boundary breaking that year was like, epic. Everyone said so. It was pretty well acknowledged that there was crying IN EVERY SINGLE GROUP EVEN THE ONES WITH THE FOOTBALL PLAYERS. I took this as a mighty personal triumph to make the majority of a 70 person group of people cry all at once. In a good way, though.

Not that boundary breaking was the only opportunity for tears. Ohhhh no. We also traditionally played what was affectionately called “The Kissing Game” but would have been more accurately called “Rugby + Sexual Angst & Terror” We all LOVED this game, and I took home a semi-serious injury every year I played. Basically the deal was, someone was “it” and sat in the middle of a giant circle of hormone crazed teenagers. That person would call out a number (to indicate a girl) and a letter (assigned to the boys) and those two people would rise. The object was for the opposite gender person to attempt to kiss the person who was “it” BEFORE the same gender person could kiss the attacking opposite gender person. Whoever failed, was then “it” and so it went. Mother of god. It was not unusual to see a adolescent girl clinging to her male counterpart like she wanted to be Queen of the Rodeo. Legs flinging around madly; channelling her inner leech. This game is by its nature pretty gender-biased, but we had some TOUGH BITCHES in that choir, so the girls did usually hold their own with surprising facility.

Then we’d walk outside to the natural amphitheater and sing; The beauty of that moment would quieten the laughter and violence both. Our voices would ring out over the water and return to us augmented by the stones and the trees and we would feel powerful and alive and part of something amazing. In such contrast to our silliness that we were humbled by our own wondrousness.

Wait, what was the point of this post?****

Ah yes, I have been pondering the nature of boundaries lately, and why I don’t seem to have any sense of where they might be in other people. I’m much better at breaking them than I am recognizing or respecting them. I was going to talk about that. And I think I will, but not today. Because this just ended up being funny and making me happy, and causing me to miss a whole bunch of those tough bitches and football players a whole lot. I wouldn’t want to muddy that with my typical maundering. I’ll save that for later.

*Literally. We were  playing shirts vs. skins touch football. This was especially interesting because a) many of the starting line up for Gresham’s football team were in concert choir and b) many of the “skins” were girls. I wasn’t playing, but took my shirt off anyway to provide much needed moral(?) support.

** As is my wont.

***Which were different in that nobody took any of their clothes off. I think.

**** Shit, with the digression again.

There will come a time,

you’ll see, with no more tears.

And love will not break your heart,

but dismiss your fears.

Get over your hill and see

what you find there.

With grace in your heart

and flowers in your hair…

Mumford & Sons~

Just a little prayer, set to music. I am ready for this storm to be over.

Amen

So, take it then.

From Explodingdog

And, I ask, who hasn’t been tempted; exhausted and angry. Wrung out and sad. To wish to wash it all away…

This movie is clamorous, and jumbled, and confusing and sweet. Just like falling in love. Tenderness can be obscured by these tics, long endured. When at first we see only the enchanting possibility and none of the tiresome rest. Here instead we are offered a glimpse of the contempt of familiarity sent into retreat; the rut undug.

This is a love story in reverse, let run forward again. It is a portrait of romance that is resonant and revealing. It portrays moments of intimacy as they are; heart-rendingly lovely and breathtakingly embarrassing all at once. There is no adequate way to explain how we found our nicknames for each other, why we love to dance in our underwear, why our rituals evolve into the pattern and myth that offers enticing hints about, yet cannot encompass, the story of a particular love? Somehow this movie with its playful jangling pace and tone, does a better job than any other film I have ever seen.

The cast almost defies intuition. Theoretically, Jim Carrey fails to inspire me as a romantic hero but his Joel manages to render an enchantment with Clementine so palpable as to convince me utterly. Kate Winslet, so often prim and lovely, embodies perfectly a slightly spastic but nevertheless compelling example of womanhood you cannot fault Joel for loving, despite her many trying tendencies.

I am avidly NOT a fan of Kirsten Dunst (people that successful should see a dentist about that shit-this means YOU TOO Patricia Arquette!) and somehow this works for me, because when we discover that she has been the dupe of the less-than-totally-scrupulous Dr Howie, I am all a-glee. I do however love Mark Ruffalo and feel deep chagrin at his fondness for this self-righteous and shallow git. His pained admission as she walks away “I really like you Mary Spavo!” and the heel of his hand in the corner of his eye is poignant and winning and wonderful. Even if it is wasted on that slattern.

I somehow love Elijah Wood as an Uber Creep; stealing panties FTW! And David Cross always delights “I’m building a fucking birdhouse!” The cast fits together in a way that allows each to illuminate the other in surprising ways.

I must also make a point to mention the very excellent soundtrack by Jon Brion. Always one to offer compelling work, he here weaves music and sound effects to heighten the sense of disorientation at one moment, and enhance wonder at the next. It is by turns quirky and irksome, then soothing and sweet. It more perfectly matches the imagery and mood of this film than any other example of a soundtrack that I can think of.  More, in the summer this film came out, I listened to “Everybody’s Gotta Learn Sometime” by Beck on repeat for hours, as if it was the only balm for the particular pain I was in. And indeed, it was.

In fact, this whole movie had that effect on me. It both illustrated and redeemed many of the things I believe and want to believe about love. It is the same sentiment and understanding communicated in a line from a song by The New Pornographers that says explicitly what this film portrayed in more nuanced terms: “Whatever the mess you are, you’re mine.” This, to me, is the truest, and most beautiful expression of love that exists. I do not love you because I fail to see all that you are, nor all that you are not. It is not that I am unaware of your flaws. I love you rather in spite of and because of them. You are beautiful and precious to me, entire. What with all your obnoxiousness and smells. So there.

And this is so perfectly, gorgeously, and touchingly conveyed. They stand across from each other in the hallway, having just listened to a litany of complaints, each about the other, rendered in their own voices, and yet they look at each other and he says…

“I don’t care”

so soon will burn. Without a noise, without my pride. I reach out from the inside~ Peter Gabriel

In Your Eyes

Every part of my body feels this song. And not just because Lloyd Dobbler stood outside Diane Court’s window boombox aloft in what might have been the singlemost romantic gesture in modern cinematic history (though it didn’t hurt). It is the heartbeat tempo, the echoing voices, the abandon in Peter’s voice, his willing submission to the passion he feels for this woman. This is a song I want to make love to, to sing at the top of my lungs, to inspire someone to think about me when they hear it. It is utterly romantic and hear-rendingly lovely.

The first sentiment expressed in the song is about his profound loneliness; and I can relate. Somehow there is an experience of peace and contentedness that I only seem to find when I’m in the presence of someone who has totally consumed my attention. It can be easier to find myself when there is someone else to help me look…

“I turned off the light switch and I,

I came down to meet you in the

half-light the moon left… “Bernie Taupin*

It can be difficult, with our glut of choices, to speak in terms of “favorite” things. When people ask, we are tempted betimes, to answer things that will explain us to that person more completely than time and more explicit verbiage might. I have adopted a policy of copping out: you ask my favorite, you get a list of five. There is room, in a list of five, for a breadth of answers, including the one that makes me look smart and cultured, the one that makes me laugh and cry, and the one that would elsewise be embarrassing if it weren’t insulated by being in the midst of other, worthier representatives.

And, oh, songs. How for me, to answer this. The funny part is how very easy indeed it is to do so. Because there are just some songs. For lack of other inspiration, I’m going to talk about them, one at a time…

Come Down In Time By Bernie Taupin and Elton John

I suppose that’s a harp in the beginning. And then there are the other strings. The melody is both spare and fully-realized. I like the understated way Elton sings this song. He can be prone to bombast, but there is no trace of it here; his voice is lucid and gentle, full of an understated passion and yearning.

This is a love song of simplicity and uncertainty. It is not strident or demanding. It has poise and poetry. It is quiet and communicates such longing, such anticipation.  It is unresolved, it is a song in the midst of the fall.

i barely recognize myself lately; but i think it’s mostly a good thing.

i have always been somewhat glib about my strange relationship with food. i have characterized is at combative in the past, and it really seemed apt at the time. it still occasionally does, but lately i’ve been trying harder to make peace.

previously shudder inducing; now considered edible!

a few weeks ago i was sitting at the bar in a local eatery looking at the menu and contemplating my options. typically, in almost every dish there was at least one ingredient i did not wish to enter my mouth. this is because i have a fairly long list of food items i do not much care for. and one of them is tomatoes. which, it turns out, lots of other people actually like. while i am not certain i will ever understand this fact from anything more than an intellectual standpoint, i do recognize that since so many people like them a) they may, in fact have some redeeming qualities (even though i have yet to discover them) and b) they are present in lots and lots of things i want to eat.

i have handled this in the past by ordering in a vaguely “When Harry Met Sally” sort of way:

“i’d like the bacon mushroom bbq swiss burger with no tomato or mushrooms. and could i get cheddar instead of swiss? and mustard for my fries rather than ketchup?”

and yes, i DO like the taste of spit, thanks very much.

recently however, i’ve decided to revise my attitude toward food. i do not want to see it as my enemy. i do not want to see a meal as a gauntlet of nasty unwanted items to be plucked out and disposed of.

so.

i have started eating stuff anyway. things i would normally have NEVER eaten. tomatoes only being the most prominent item on the list, there are many more indeed:

• avocados: slimy yet flavored as i would expect earwax to taste
• cilantro: mmmm soapy!
• beets: why yes, i do love “vegetables” that look like dayglo innards
• garbanzo beans: in hummus, they are yummus. otherwise gro-ess
• mushrooms: fungus. nasty. only meant for recreational consumption. not budging on this one.

so now, my new approach is to simply order whatever i am getting with the ingredient list in tact. then, i put it in my mouth. if i do not immediately throw up or die, i chew and swallow. turns out, this is not nearly as hard as i expected it to be. i havent died once so far!

this also extends to other sorts of food related hang ups. for example, i have long had the tendency to not eat leftovers. i cant explain why this is exactly, but i just find the concept of reheating food rather odious. an exboyfriend of mine used to INSIST i take home doggy bags from restaurants (i have a small appetite and can almost never finish a portion the size a typical restaurant delivers) so as not to make the chef/waitstaff/maitre de/parking attendant feel bad about themselves in case they saw my leavings as a condemnation of their fare. he would insist upon this knowing FULL WELL that i was going to throw the food away as soon as i got home, or after letting it take up space in my fridge for a few days more. because i simply could not bring myself to eat something a second time around.

and yet, tonight, i made myself a meal that was comprised ENTIRELY of food items from last week. and it was tasty. and i did not throw up or die. this, is progress.

the funny thing is, that for the first time in my life there is no one pressuring me to make these changes. it has been a sore point in almost every relationship i have ever been in, my pickyness. and now, when everyone who matters seems to be pretty okay with my weird relationship with food, i look at the people i most admire, and they are not the least bit picky about their food. they eat with relish and enjoy what is set before them. it is more that i wish to follow their example than that i am being prodded to grow up and stop being such a brat about what i eat.

thinking about this made me contemplate more fully the role of acceptance in relationships. i like to think of myself as a pretty forgiving person. i judge people certainly, i see faults, but i in no way expect or desire them to change. i feel like i should be able to take people as they come, appreciate who and how they are, and love them nevertheless.

and yet, it is a truly rare thing to have. i know i am not always perfect at this, but i think i am pretty damn good about it overall. and, not to be unduly immodest, but i consider myself to be better at it than a lot of the people in my life who have loved me. much of the love i have received in the past was expressly conditional; dependent upon my willingness to change, fix, and improve myself.

but somehow, at this stage, i can say that i have love in my life that is profoundly unconditional. that is based on that kind of comprehensive acceptance. it is not that anyone is fooled about me; it is not that they fail to see my frailties and shortcomings, but rather that they are seen, and accepted, and loved in their own right as a part of the whole of myself.

and this, beautifully, is what helps me feel free to change in the ways that i like. to become more who i am, and who i want to be.