Tag: posts titled after tori amos songs

I Can’t See New York

On By BekkiIn Musings & RamblingsLeave a comment

Today is the 25th day since the fires and the smoke started. The deck is covered in small piles of ash, like a toddler came home from the sandbox. Even with the towels at the bottom of my doors and an air purifier constantly running, my house is still filled with smoke.

***

Things with E— blew up for almost exactly the same reasons as they did the last time, although the way in which it exploded was rather more painful than I’d expected.

“Can we talk again in a few days?” he’d asked.

“I’m not sure,” I’d replied.

We didn’t. I spent the next few weeks thinking about what I wanted from the relationship, and what he brings to my life, and whether it made sense to let it go. I thought about the dissonance between his asking if we could talk again and the radio silence that followed. I thought about the fact that I hadn’t exactly been sending talk to me signals. I texted him, saying that I didn’t want to close any doors but I was still too angry and hurt to talk. He wrote back that he didn’t want to close any doors, either.

I did my best to put it aside. I went on distance visits and Zoom calls with friends, engaging in what passes for a social life these days, and tried to get outdoors for the brief stretches the air was breathable, all the while acutely feeling the E— shaped hole in my life.

***

I can’t wrap my head around the numbers. At least 9/11 was quick. This goes on and on, no finish line in sight, and the death tolls ticks up relentlessly.

What if the AIDS epidemic had started with college students? What if it had been young, straight people dying? We forget this isn’t the first pandemic in recent memory. We forget that 30 years ago HIV was a death sentence.

***

My phone keeps buzzing with messages from people who are losing their shit. It feels like it goes in waves. One week, everyone is fine. The next, the sky is on fire. “How are you doing?” is a fraught question. We are all ok, until we realize that we aren’t, that we haven’t been, that we have no idea if we will be.

***

E— and I talked yesterday for the first time in 6 weeks. I said what I needed to say about how his actions had been hurtful, and he apologized, and then we fell right back into the kind of conversation about everything and nothing that we always have. “Dammit,” I said, “this is why I missed you.”

Because he does fit into my life, without any fuss or finicking, as though he’s always been there. And yet. We do not speak the same love language. It leaves me in a strange place, where I have an unshakeable belief that he loves me and cares about me but feel like it’s rarely expressed in a way I understand.

“Goodnight,” he says, as we hang up the phone. “Sleep tight. Keep breathing. Don’t catch on fire.”

I love you too, I think.

Where’s Neil When You Need Him?

On By BekkiIn Musings & RamblingsLeave a comment

E— texts yesterday afternoon. Dammit. [Kid] has a fever. I ask if it’s a real fever, or if it’s because it’s ridiculous hot out. It’s a real fever.

We’d been planning a phone call last night. I’d asked a few days before, said I wanted to talk about sex. Specifically, what he thought about adding sex back into our relationship. I’d wanted to feel him out on it when we met up for dinner a few months ago, but we never had the conversation because lockdown.

I read his text, asked if he needed anything, and figured we probably weren’t talking that night. And that was ok.

***

About three weeks ago, Amanda Palmer told her Patrons that Neil Gaiman had left New Zealand, where they’d been in lockdown together, and flown back to to the UK.

“all i can say is that i’m heartbroken, i really am profoundly struggling and i need to call my community to me like never before.‬ i need you. “

It hurt. I don’t know either of them, have never met either of them outside a signing line. And yet. They were supposed to be solid. They were my model for love after divorce, for the possibility of an open, loving, long-term relationship. If Neil Gaiman and AFP can’t make it, what does that say for the rest of us mortals?

***

I have been turning over in my head the conversation that needs to happen next if the answer from E— is a yes.

How do we do this without either of us getting hurt? Without ruining a friendship we both value? How do we reconcile the things about poly that are hard for both of us, that time is limited and children require an immense amount of bandwidth? That healing from trauma is a long process which rarely proceeds in a straight line, and often leaves casualties along the way?

***

Sex at Dawn describes a culture where people live with their extended families and sexual partners are not expected—or allowed—to become part of the family.

“A Mosuo girl has complete autonomy as to who steps through the private door into her babahuago (flower room). The only strict rule is that her guest must be gone by sunrise. She can have a different lover the following night—or later that same night—if she chooses. There is no expectation of commitment, and any child she conceives is raised in her mother’s house, with the help of the girl’s brothers and the rest of the community.”

Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jethá, Sex at Dawn

Women do not need to rely on their sexual partners for emotional, financial, or any other type of support.

“Sassy and confident, [a Mosuo girl will] grow up cherished in a circle of male and female relativies….When she joins the dances and invites a boy into her flower room, it will be for love, or lust, or whatever people call it when they are operating on hormones and heavy breathing. She will not need that boy—or any other—to have a home, to make a ‘family’ She already knows that she will always have both.”

Cynthia Barnes, China’s Kingdom of Women.

***

I’m in liminal space right now. With the enforced pause on any kind of intimate contact, I have time to think on what I want—what I want, not what cultural norms tell me I ought to.

What if I can have my emotional needs met through my community? What if, when I’m having a rough day, there are 5 or 6 people I could turn to for support instead of only the person I’m having sex with at the time? What if I’m able to take lovers for a night or a season or even a lifetime based on our mutual desire to be with each other rather than our compatibility as nesting or anchor partners?

***

About ten days after the initial post from AFP, she and Neil Gaiman posted a joint statement.

We have been trying to figure out how best to love each other for twelve years.  It is fair to say that this relationship has been the hardest, but also the most rewarding, collaboration of our lives. . . .We will sort out our marriage in private, which is where things like this are best sorted. We’re working together to try and do this better. We care about  each other so much, and we have a small boy we love and delight in, and those are reasons enough to work together to fix things. 

***

E— and I talk in the evening, as he walks home from a Tylenol run. It helps, I think, that we’ve known each other a year now, and have been friends instead of dating for half that. There is a level of trust, of emotional intimacy, that didn’t exist when we were dating. The kind that builds through time and hard conversations and doing the work to stay friends rather than saying goodbye.

We agree, with a fair amount of conspiratorial giggling, that we are both a hell yes to sex. We agree with less giggling and more seriousness that keeping our friendship intact is a priority. That neither of us wants to hurt the other or get hurt.

We put a pin in the rest of the conversation. It’ll keep for a time his kid is not waiting on him to come back in the house with the Tylenol.

And that, too, is ok.

“Precious Things”

On By BekkiIn Pinned Posts, This is Feminism4 Comments

Yesterday, Amanda Palmer posted an amazing blog on internet hatred and bullying.  You should go read it.  Spend some time in the comments.  It will probably break your heart.  It broke mine.

When I was a kid, I was drawn to the kids who were different.  The ones who were fragile and fantastical and generally quite fucked up.  I didn’t hang out with the cool kids, partly because there was never money for whatever the latest craze in toys was – slap bracelets, troll dolls, sticker collecting – but mostly because the cool kids were boring.  My friends were never boring, but the flipside was that they would turn on me in an instant.  I had frenemies long before the term was popular.  Girls who loved me one day and said vicious things about me the next.  Or kicked me as we went down the stairs to recess, so that one year my shins were black and blue from September to June.  Or poured chocolate milk all over me during lunch.  Or took the confidences I had whispered during sleepovers and spread them among all the other girls to get a leg up the popularity ladder.

Seventh grade was the worst.  It was the year of the bar mitzvah’s.  I grew up in a mostly Jewish town, went to a mostly Jewish school.  There was a bar mitzvah almost every weekend, sometimes two.  The rich kids had their parties at the country club, where there would be a magician or face-painter or a DJ, or sometimes all three.  The popular girls collected photo albums of invitations.  Even the unpopular girls like me got invited to their share – someone who invited all of their homeroom, or all of their Hebrew school class, or whose parents made them invite the kids who’d been in carpool.

I don’t remember which one of them thought up the game.  I don’t even know why it was so funny to them, or so hurtful to me.  It went like this.  I would be sitting alone, staring at all the kids out on the dance floor and wishing someone would come over to talk to me.  A group of the popular boys would be hanging out at the other end of the table, whispering with each other.  Suddenly, one of them would run over to me, get down on one knee, and ask, “Will you marry me?”  I would sit there in shock and confusion, without a clue as to how to send him away so that I came off as the cool one.  Then, laughing hysterically, he would run back to his friends and they would all exchange high-fives.  I was convinced, utterly and absolutely, that what they were really telling me was that I was hideous, and ugly, and that nobody would ever, ever want to marry me.

By the time we hit high school, it was mostly over.  I hung out with the freaks, took the honors and AP classes, played lacrosse, dated a guy who thought I was gorgeous, and pretty much tried to ignore everyone who had caused me so much misery a few years back.  It worked so well that by the time senior year came around, I was a certain kind of cool.  At senior prom, one of the hottest guys in my class told my boyfriend he’d never realized how hot I was.  The popular boys wanted to pose for pictures with me on the last day of school.  I told them all to fuck off.

Which should be the end of it, except for one last thing.

About five years ago, one of the boys who’d played the marriage game found me on Facebook and sent a friend request.  I’ll admit, my response was not as graceful as it could have been.

facebook

I never wrote back, because I didn’t know what to say.  In truth, he wasn’t even the worst of them.  In high school, he was actually pretty friendly to me.  I still hated him, even more than I hated the ones who had bullied me for so long.  The way I saw it, they were idiots.  They couldn’t help themselves.  He was smarter, more popular, better than all of that.  He could have stopped them, if he’d wanted to.  He never did.

***

So.  To all those kids who made my life a living hell.  To the kids who lived through it from the other end.  To the ones who bullied, and were bullied, and watched the bullies and did nothing.  If you want to talk, I’m here.  I’m listening.  Hit me up in the comments.

And to all those kids who are going home after school and crying, and cutting, and wishing they could die:

IT.

GETS.

BETTER.