Objectified

When did hello become: "You have a great body". When did: "Hi, can I buy you a

drink?" turn to: "I think you're sexy". When did it become okay to greet me with: "I like

your build". And what makes you think you can ask if you can touch me, (as you reach

your arm out towards me, your index finger erect, as if you were poking a piece of

cooking meat to test and see if it is "done".

You think these things represent me? You think I find this endearing? You think I am my

arms, my ass and my little titties which you can't take your eyes off of as I speak? You

think you make my heart skip it’s lonely beat or thaw the frost that builds thicker and

thicker inside, until it's walls close in, and there isn’t any more

room left inside for your meat?

It makes my tight firm skin crawl. It makes me want to fold in on myself, until there’s

nothing left for you to see but what’s inside. It makes me want to eat Twinkies and

Doritos and Chunky bars until my cheeks bloat out, my walk slows, and my flesh jiggles.

What will you think of me then? And will you say hello? Or nothing at all.

Bikram

Disgusting. The air felt toxic. The people looked toxic; crazed really. I felt like I had stepped into a cult of the already initiated, and so enmeshed they were in their common belief that what they were doing was right. What they were doing was good, that they had lost sight of reality: they were surrounded by germs.

The air was resplendent in them. It smelled the way it might if I piled 12 un-showered teenage boys, fresh from soccer practice, into my little Honda Fit. In the middle of summer. During a heatwave. While I sit in steamy air, in the drivers seat wearing all of their 24 socks tied around my neck. I tried not to breathe. Anxiety rose in me, and a little tiny voice of common sense and reason-that I have long since become accustomed to ignoring-telling me to: GET OUT. GET OUT NOW.

Having only seen the worn and glistening wooden floors, and soft cozy lighting of other studios, I looked down at the indoor/outdoor carpeting that covered the entry, changing areas and cubby spaces. And gasp! Horror of all horrors! When I opened the door to the practice room, I saw that the carpet flowed into that space as well. I trodded into the room in my bare feet. The floor felt sticky.

I found a spot for my mat, and before unrolling it seriously considered writing off the 16$ I had just paid as a relatively cheap lesson in common sense. Instead I stayed, and sweated, and tried not to think about what lived in the fake fibers of the furry thing underneath me-and now in between each of my poor, once pure toes. I Warriored and Scorpioned with the rest of them, doing my best never to touch the floor with my hands, while I watched in the cracked mirror on the wall, the rivulets of sweat pouring off the man in front of me, onto his towel, off his mat and into the floor.

And when I left, still wearing my soaking wet clothes and carrying my mat- which I would sanitize when I got home for the first time ever- I felt great, and I knew I would never, EVER, go back.

For T.

Since we never had one of the talks you wanted to have because you said: “we need to” or, “I want you to know how I feel”, and you never sent the letter you said you wanted to write, I have only confusion. I feel adrift in space, bouncing off the moon, hitting the sun and ricocheting off stars as I try not to fall towards the space at the bottom where you will send me flying again.

I can not make sense of your love that turned to indifference so quickly. I make myself crazy trying to figure it out, even as I see that whether I understand it or not it will still be the same. And realizing this is like buckshot that shatters my heart, my ego and my hope with that one blast. Realizing that you don’t want me- no matter how much you keep telling me you do- is a hard thing.

You texted me again last night. The words “I love you” lit up my screen, and for a moment my heart. These voiceless displays of your affection that were once your arms around me are familiar now, and though once I would feel the ache that I was soaked in drain from my body-I know better now. I know those finger taps are some misfiring synapse between your brain and your heart and having reached into that steely-toothed jaw inside you so many times before, I have gnawed my hands bloody trying to free myself; only to reach in again.

It is so easy to wrap my love around you, and so hard for me to stay angry, which keeps me sliding back into your black hole gravity. I know by now though, that although you may point your confused love at me, it is my finger on the trigger. Every time I read those words and I believe you I injure myself, and each time my heart becomes smaller and less recognizable. Each time I become smaller and less recognizable. We’ve played this game before and it has no winner. Just a slow pecking away at everything that once made us real to each other.

My phone dings again and I see the words: “I miss you . . . do you love me?”, and instead of telling you that I miss you too-which I do like a cut that will not heal-I tap back on the screen: the thing about missing people is that there’s an easy cure.

We both know you live only a five minute walk away although I think I’m the only one who understands this.

You ask: what is that?

I answer: that’s like asking what the cure for hunger is.

You say: I get it . . . but you don’t do anything about it.

* * *

I want to remember us that day at your mothers. The day at the beach when I took your dog (OUR dog, you corrected me) for a long walk to give you some peace because I knew her energy was hard for you. You stood in her living room and as I crossed the room to you, you looked at me and said, yes . . . whatever it is, yes. I want to remember you that day - the way you looked at me. You still saw me as perfect.

Instead I try to remember you as you were the last time I saw you. Our bodies with each other only the night before, I could not understand your coldness and reached out and touched you asking why, trying to grasp what was not comprehendible, and when you said to me: leave Deb, just fucking leave . . . just go, I finally did, with a new resolve and anger towards you I had never felt before, which would melt away in days under the heat of my love for you.

I want to remember you the way you were that last night I saw you, but instead, all I can think of is you, the way you were that day, leaning against your mothers wall.

Fourteen year quilt

So this is the most creative thing I've done lately. I started this quilt about 14 years ago-not kidding. I have made several other quilts since then, but I would always pull this one out, work on it for a while, then put it away again. Finally I made a decision a couple months back that I would finish it and so did. It is an original design I made, using several steps in process.

First I sketched my idea on a piece of paper, then gridded it off. Then I took freezer paper (has wax on one side) and taped enough pieces together to create a full size pattern which I then gridded off to same number of grids as original drawing, and then the fun began of transferring the drawing to large scale. Entire quilt, measures about 62" square, and was pieced together with around 700 pieces (I haven't counted but it's a guesstimate) , sewn into 144 squares, which were then sewn into one piece.

It was a pretty intensive project as there were a lot of pieces to keep track of, and so every single piece, no matter how small, was given a number and letter and color to designate it's position in the quilt. As in: 1aB meant: row 1, piece a which would be sewn to piece B and so on, in a shade of blue. After the design was transferred onto the freezer paper, then the entire pattern was cut into pieces, and then each piece was ironed onto the appropriate fabric using a warm iron (wax allows the pattern piece to adhere to the fabric but peels off very easily without leaving any residue.

Section of quilt. You can see the squares the quilt was assembled with. An attempt was made to keep the design flowing from square to square, but different fabric stretches differently and I wasn't always completely successful. Whatever! I wasn't completing in a competition and so cut myself some slack!

Detail of quilting stitches. Entire quilt was machine quilted.

Another detail of quilt stitching. Voila! Piece of cake!

F.M.L.

Poof!

I knew it.

Processing

Something happened yesterday and I'm not gonna write about it. It's hard for me to write about emotional things without having time to process them. Kind of weed away the pain a bit. I don't have the same problem if I am just irritated-that can flow baby!-and writing helps to relieve the pressure and lighten my own mood. But when it's something sad, I need some time to distance myself.

I still can not quite come to terms with what some people do. I'm talking about adults. No offense to anyone under 29 out there, but kiddies are just natural born, self-centered little creatures. You expect them to act like self-aborbed, out of control, hurtful asses. But when you are dealing with an adult and they seem to be missing that little dam that lives in most peoples brains, that tends to be moderately effective at keeping their feelings from raging down the river, and becoming really destructive behavior (phew that's a long sentence and I'm not even done), it's another thing all together. Mix in little ol' -pure and innocent-trying -to -be- a -better- person-me . . . and I'm gonna get wiped out by the water.

So this thing happened last night . . . again. And I should just let it roll off my back like the greasy, toxic poison that it is, but my pores are too big and I soak it in like a sponge, and then spend the night, and the next day, and maybe even the next, waiting to dry. I leave a lot of water behind me on the floor.

Bitter goo

So first, I just want to thank everyone for reading my blog. I was gone for a long time and just knowing everyone is still out there is comforting. Also, there are some new readers and I am very grateful for you as well. So there. That is the touching segment of this evenings show.

So I guess you saw the picture on the left? I wish I were that pale but sadly, that is just photo editing-but that's not really the point. You might be thinking: "cool". She super-imposed that nifty saying onto her back. I wonder if she used Photoshop. . .? Truth is though, that those words are printed in my back with ink.

I got this tatoo about two years ago (I think this is the first time my father Dennis has ever seen it. Surprise!) A long time collector of teabag wisdom-the words more inspiring to me than those of the bible-I found these words when I first began the crazy journey I've been on these last two years. I found them at at a time when it would have been easy to judge and walk away from someone's sad, decrepit life, (which would have saved me a lot of grief, but been a lesson lost). I don't know-I guess I was trying to turn over a new leaf. You know, care about people more (so much easier just caring about myself). I'm not exaggerating when I say that getting this tatoo changed me as a person. Of course I realize that the real change came when I decided to try and be a nicer person, but something about being branded with that commitment to this new philosophy . . . it made it stick.

I have been asked before why I got it on my back? If I got it to change myself then shouldn't I have gotten it somewhere where I could see it everyday? All I know is that I am acutely aware of it's presence. That little subconscious jolt has shocked me back out of anger and filled me with peace and love more than once. If anything, at times I sometimes have wished it away because as long as it is on my back I have to walk the talk and sometimes, like now, it's just hard. When people are mean and cold it is easier- and honestly more satisfying in a way- to be mean back. Just let your shit hang out and give it to em! But I just don't like the icky way that makes me feel anymore. Slimy; all covered in bitter goo.

I think all my anger just leaks out through these words and I like that. I can't hold a grudge anymore and it's good. Like an unbearable lightness of being thing, (I don't know if that actually applies but it sounds good). Right now I feel a little sad and despondent. My heart is broken a little. It sucks when things don't work out like you wish they would have. But as much as things have hurt I still try and remember the good and not the bad and still feel love and compassion for these people who have hurt me. I believe that they only do the things they do because they were hurt really badly once too. But that won't stop me from writing about them . . . (kindly of course).