It's All about Fucking

Or should this post be called All Things Limbo? On the one hand, I am full of anger and hopeless thoughts. I remind myself that holidays, especially Christmas and particularly one that finds us in an unbearable political climate, bring depression. On the other hand, I am trying to see with a wider lens, not spun by all the details of each day, notice goodness along the way. I'm always searching for a heart of gold.

A couple of days ago Georgia called. I wait for these moments of openness from her, which are few and far between. She said she is busy, always working, and she misses me. She said she thinks she uses work to avoid thinking about the things she needs to do in her life. That was all, just the cryptic Georgia with her message that all is not well but that she, too, will carry on.

Yesterday sitting in a mall parking lot I called her and she answered!

"I love you, Georgia."

I love you too." she said plaintively. "We just packed the dog in the car and are on our way to the coast." We quickly hung up and I tried to be happy for her, riding in her old car toward the Oregon coast with her stinky old dog and Theo. Georgia certainly deserves happiness. She is one of the most generous and selfless people I know.

I wrote an entry in November that I saved as a draft, but seems appropriate to include now, while I am in limbo and questioning all of the cultural beliefs that have effected my life:

It's All About Fucking

It seems to me that Howard Stern is right. All relationships with men are about fucking.

When you are in a relationship with a man it is all about when you fucked last and when you will fuck next.

A woman's self esteem? Based on whether men will find her desirable to fuck.

All female adornment? To attract male attention and reassure her that she is a desirable fuck.

All music is ultimately about fucking. Male strategies to get fucked are subtle and varied. There is the sympathy fuck, like "Help me Make it Throught the Night" in its many forms, or blatant like most hip hop, or explosive like the stalker in Sting's "Every Breath You Take". I dunno much about classical or opera, but even intellectuals need entry to the vagina.

The convention of marriage is all about convenient and reliable fucking (hence, procreating).

I KNOW! I am quite the romantic! So why do I still search for gold out there in the world? Maybe it is that old guy at the check-out the other day who told me his wife had a stroke and he does all the cooking now (but that she offers to bring everything to the family Christmas party). Maybe it is that tossled little girl who looked up at me and smiled. She hasn't learned not to do that yet.

I visited Dolly, my mother, last night, and the country music awards blared as I sat longing for my mom, who has been traveling further and further away in her mind. She doesn't remember that I just told her where Auggie works, and she forgets that Christmas was two days ago. "It doesn't seem possible that Christmas is tomorrow, does it?" she marvels. Huck and Auggie come in the door, she hasn't seen them for a year, and she continues watching Faith Hill and again wonders "Who is that singer's husband?" I am sad, but irritated, too. I am battered by the noise and meaninglessness of the evening. She gave each of us a toothbrush and hoped it was like hers. "The inside bristles are hard and it feels so good to brush your teeth with them."

Is this how things end? I remember her advice to her daughters long ago: "Learn to play the piano and you'll be the life of the party." "MJ, stop philosophizing so much. Can't you just have fun?" "Get married so you have someone to take care of you."

Again I will remind myself to simply look. Don't look for a heart of gold. Don't look for death and destruction, either. Simply look. The only thing that is certain is that things change. Ride it. Don't struggle, don't reach and grasp. Appreciate the little things.

The trees breathe outside my window. I look out at them and I too, breathe.