Vive la liberté!

When you pour your heart out, your mind responds with warning lights and shrill buzzers, maybe even an inner German voice going “Achtung, Achtung.”  I have exposed myself, and my mind is playing the “what if” game… I can come up with 100 vignettes where something will go amiss, like I will get an unsolicited email from someone else that will say “Sucker,” and make me feel like an idiot. Plus I am up for serious disapproval and reprimand, because even if half the world thinks what I wrote was amazing, Dan loathes 1) things in the public realm and 2) professions of love. The two combined are practically a one-way ticket to romantic Siberia…So my mind replays every thematic variations of “What if I love Dan, but he doesn’t love me…” I mean to be rejected… in full cyber-view… ugggghhhh!

And I suppose that is the grand lesson. To love even with no guarantee of ROI. And to have faith. Dan’s loving me is not the be all end all of happiness. That is dependency, and I am not dependent on him to make me whole, though its the way he teases and entertains me is so satisfying.

My captivity in Belgium illustrates the sweet simplicity of small victories like a croissant and coffee every morning or making it to the gym. Life (or my favorite academic word: the quotidien) is filled with things to be grateful for, and surprisingly few have anything to do with Dan Henderson… Of course virtually every time we see each other we amuse each other, comfort each other and more often than not, enlighten each other. There’s not many people who intuit your feelings, or know how you think, or have an encyclopedia of shared moments and memory…Those are healthy things to miss, and probably the reason it feels ill-advised to let go.

Anyway, at some point the inner panic will subside, and if he loves me, it will be wonderful, and if he doesn’t or can’t, life will still be wonderful. Either way, I am honing my talents, mastering my destiny. Either way, I am happy.

Sometimes one must tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth… so help me God, even though its terrifying. The world can read my thoughts for posterity in cyberspace, I’m going to embarrass myself, but here it is.

I have loved Daniel Henderson for years. Four in fact. To admit that en publique is unsettling because I have whined and moaned, cried and called him every name in the book that is a thesaurus entry for scoundrel or scamp. People that have known us have witnessed or heard about some doozy events. I have deleted his name from my phone fifteen times, yet he’s the only name I would tattoo on my skin. He was the reason I ran away to Europe, India and Africa. He’s the reason I am back in Belgium. I have spent more time running away from Dan than I have running to him. I have blamed him for almost everything, and given him credit for little.

But here is what goes unsaid. This man for all his flaws and failures has been important to me in ways that only God can explain. In fact, he has single-handedly brought me closer to God. He has made me stronger, smarter, braver. He has taught me what love is and what love is not. He has forced me to forgive before it was too late. He has shown me the perfection of imperfection.

If Dan wasn’t in my life, I would probably have a Ph.D. — but I wouldn’t have passion, clarity, a keen sense of self. I’d be drifting. Hoping someone would love me, instead of loving myself first. He has given me more money than my entire family combined, he has criticized me mercilessly, he has done stupid, stupid things, some of it unprintable, other unbelievable.

Yet, there is no one more committed to my success.

Dan, I have not wanted to attract attention to your presence in my life, and it made it seem you were unimportant. Often there were thinly-veiled jabs, musings written out of loss or regret or anger; the subtext was a deep dissatisfaction for not having you near.

The fact is no matter where you are on the planet, if I see you tomorrow or never again, you are practically imprinted on my DNA. So much of who I am now has to do with you, our time together, whether mutual failure or success. You are the universe wrapped into one. No one makes me feel more threatened, more expendable, yet safer and needed than you.

I still have the first rocks you collected for me in west Texas, the beach, a large specimen from the gorgeous M. mountains which now sits on the counter in the café, many large remnants from our trips to the holy quarries of Michelangelo, your somewhat-purloined handset, agate hunting (me three, you fifty)…I wasn’t just with you when you rewrote some major patent claims but the day you decided to be a sculptor… You were with me when we took the photo of the stunning Nike of Samothrace which unfurls across this very page. You were the cause of the loss of my prized ruby quartz somewhere on your driveway. Stone figures prominently in our narrative; steady, weighty, often overlooked, grounded and natural. And though I lost that quartz, what you fail to see is that you gave me a rock I wear internally now — eerily beautiful and indestructible.

The gift of our time together, our interaction, rarer than any pink diamond, surprisingly more luminous than the phosphorous objects in the Natural History Museum and more precious than all the jewels in a mile radius from super-swanky Claridge’s (which given the proximity to Westminster you know is quite extensive…). I believe you once showed me around London. Somehow you knew it better than one of its residents…

One of our common bonds is our love-hate of travel, international ethos, which the rock-hunting and faraway locations explain… The best trips were with you next to me in an airplane seat, even if you did poke and tease me during turbulence…For better or for worse, planes will figure prominently in our lives, and I suppose you will run from me and I will run from you ad infinitum until we figure it out. In the meantime, I appreciate how you call me on things such as pretending you don’t exist on my blog. You have been gracious about letting me assume the “better one” role, and as you know, its not always true.

Now Mitch Albom (Mr. Tuesdays with Morrie) is not my cuppa tea… but there is one story that I adore in his latest book “Have a Little Faith” on page 163:

A farmer wakes up to find that his horse has run off.

The neighbors come by and say, “Too bad. Such awful luck.”

The farmer says, “Maybe.”

The next day, the horse returns with a few other horses. The neighbors congratulate the farmer on his reversal of fortune.

“Maybe,” the farmer says.

When his son tries to ride one of the new horses, he breaks his leg, and the neighbors offer condolences.

“Maybe,” the farmer says.

And the next day, when army officials come to draft the son—and don’t take him because of his broken leg – everyone is happy.

“Maybe,” the farmer says.

A slippery slope, porn. Never did I think I would lend my blog as a space to discuss the ramifications of the adult industry, but never did I realize how unhappy porn makes me.

Granted, to talk negatively about porn suggests words like “Puritan,” or “Party-pooper!” Or being dim enough to state the obvious: junk food is bad for you. Besides, if you eat healthy all the time, can’t you grab a greasy burger and fries without guilt? To reject porn is to reject modern-day. Ubiquitous and convenient, porn is akin to plastic water bottles or cell phones, it would feel like going backwards if it were banned or marginalized. Admitting you watch (or make) porn is tantamount to saying you’re a free thinker, liberated, free from social mores: unaffected.

We’re all voyeurs. Porn is embedded in our daily lives. You can’t open a newspaper without seeing Paris Hilton’s crotch. Or avoid a photo of a 14-year old Kardashian in a bikini giving come hither looks. Like scrubbing the floor or painting a wall, porn has a rote quality to it; in-out, up-down, as if it bores through membranes and lodges in deep recesses of the brain. Three years ago I saw an image of “Chxxe” pleasuring herself by squatting on a “toy.”  I still remember, down to her tattoo with the word “Bear.” The thing is I don’t want to. You cannot erase, you cannot delete. Those images persist. I am defiled.

Porn reflects how sex is no longer intimate, sex is sport — made for spectators. Could be running or cycling, only naked and with tawdry props. There are no “I love yous” or romantic gazing, just massage the oil, suit up and get physical. Adrenaline rush signals game over. Parties can go home, click off, hang up.

The problem with porn is it strengthens the wrong muscles. As our connective abilities atrophy, our excitement receptors scream for more. We need more titillation, more thrills, more drama to stimulate the synapses. Cross the three-way boundary, for example, and after awhile it loses its buzz and we want … a four-way? There’s no taboo left: grandpa with his granddaughter? Sex with a goat? How about porn for the entire family? Swapping and swinging with clergy, political leaders even elementary school teachers… Its all out there. Some of it has been dressed up with spiritual overtones (tantra), some is straight out sex for hire disguised as private webcams. Whatever your moral assessment, porn is a keypad stroke away.

What is porn really? Is it fun? Female or male degradation? Harmless amusement?

It used to be that sexual gratification was the prize for intimacy. You could only engage in sexual relations if you were “intimate” with someone. That went the way of knob radios and poodle skirts. You had to date, discover, go through assorted rituals and efforts before you got to first base. Intimacy requires empathy, listening, sharing, forgiving, patience, caring, negotiating, compromising, sacrificing. “Making love” embodies that, and for some reason its considered dull, inadequate. Or is it just laborious?

We can alleviate whatever needs we have, frustration, loneliness; there’s no problem a little lube can’t fix. Who wants to take the time to caress and cuddle, share or entwine, when we can pick up the phone or type in website or switch on hotel cable and watch others with their naughty bits exposed and save the mental exertion required for intimacy. Porn is the ultimate in self-reliance. No need to reveal your self, your innermost fears and flaws; we can stare at penises or vaginas (with a close-up lens!).

To love someone deeply, with all the trust and forgiveness, understanding and patience relationships require, why not cut to the chase and get some satisfaction instead.

have this amazing ability to make you really angry! Yet, are so clever in refuting (or as Sarah Palin might say refudiating) the facts that you can’t be mad at them any longer. Here’s a hint. If you want to win an argument with me, just insert Nelson Mandela and a few witty phrases, and like the bird that gravitates towards shiny objects, I am distracted by brilliance and forget to be mad.

Once you train yourself to spot the self-absorbed, instead of tolerating their antics, you develop an instant allergy. Recently I met someone who in the course of two hours gave me information about his/her life in detail: siblings, jobs, how he/she met the great love (now embroiled in a divorce), children, parents’ occupation, work-out habits, etc. After 2 hours I could probably fill in a detailed questionnaire. Yet this person got up from the table and knew very little about me simply because he/she didn’t ask. I’m not saying what I have to say is riveting or worth learning about. But there are two sins of communication: hogging all the airtime, or blatant omission, both which have to do with balance.

Increasingly, I have little patience for “only I matter” behavior. I despise being asked questions as a courtesy gesture, just to give the appearance of interest, or an intentional segue into another topic they want to talk about:

Away it goes 40 minutes about a statue near Gower Square or Tube rides, but never a query “Have you been to London?” or “Do you like London?” If this happens a little in a conversation, its normal. If it happens more than once, its hijacking an audience under the guise of dialogue, but its an oration. There is no genuine interest in the other person’s feelings, opinion or experience.

Talking too much has a twin of saying too little. Deliberately leaving out information so that people have a different image about who you are or what you are doing is equally impaired. Not to mention creepy. I mean we all embellish or edit to look good. That’s normal, but if it can lead to unnecessary pain then — sorry to be heavy-handed, but IT IS — unethical.

Take people who have romantic hopes, they need the complete picture to decide how to expend their energy. Do I invest in someone willing and available, or do I look for someone else? These are important questions answered only with accurate depictions of reality. If someone makes the point that they are flying solo, but essentially travelling to far-flung places to team up with another, its not an honest representation. Flying solo connotes availability, meeting up with someone else does not.

What is more important to the Omitter is the image of availability (which coincidentally keeps someone interested), not the impact of faulty data. Bad decisions, such as pursuing a relationship with someone truly unavailable, means inevitably someone will get hurt. Who needs more hurt?

That’s why I am proud of the fact I am running away a lot earlier from the meglomaniac. This week I turned down drinks and refused to take someone’s call with the zillionth excuse for not showing up. It doesn’t matter if they are talented, entertaining, good-looking, intelligent, or have a host of desirable qualities — or even skills I desperately need right now. Brilliant minds aren’t worth the time invested in a glass of wine if paired with an aversion to the truth. What do you get?  More insightful ways to be evasive? And the chatterbox, why do I have to be reduced to the equivalent of furniture so you can feel special? Ditto the handy-man with a laissez-faire  sense of letting me know what he can do and when. If you are not considerate, what are you, actually?

Once you start to see a pattern, or signals that flash “SELFish, SELFish,” it will only end up good for them because they fundamentally do not care about you — your time, your heart, your feelings. NO! Person who talks nonstop about yourself, I’m not interested in knowing you, talking to you, working with you. And NO! Omitter, I am not interested in your life because one can’t tell if its a page from a mystery or fantasy novel when I want poetry… or at least a phone call letting me know your schedule so I can adjust mine.

These kind of communicators are energy vampires. You are just a means to letting them fulfill their needs, and their needs alone, most of it involves power-tripping. Learning to recognize the signals, and walk away, preserves one’s balance, and self-esteem. Or so I am learning.

Recently I had a good conversation with a psychic friend. Sometimes we get fixated on having something: a baby, a house, a better job, winning a lawsuit, money… and we think “Oh, if I could only have that, then I’d be happy…” My friend’s point was knowing the future or getting what you want still doesn’t guarantee fulfillment…

She’s right. Its a classic mistake. To work for something, seek something all in the pursuit of happiness, often we find that when we reach our goal, we discover that along with the positives, the good feeling, success!, there are also new, unanticipated negatives. It’s like Mt. Everest. Those who conquer the hypoxia, the cold, the elements and reach the top are more likely to die on the descent than the ascent. In other words, reaching our goal doesn’t ensure satisfaction.

This can only mean that happiness is not a future outcome, it’s a present-moment choice.

With thyme is actually quite amazing.