So my pack strap broke last week, motivating me to clean it out with the help of my organizer and move what was left into a temporary pack while I got it repaired. I'm back in the old pack now, but it's nearly five pounds lighter - which is good for both its structural integrity and my own.
That helped get me in the frame of mind to tackle the books, and we went through about half of my library. I was able to part with nearly half of the books I looked at - now all the shelves that I've done are a single layer thick, no longer double-shelved. I was on quite the roll, and we quit only because we ran out of boxes to put the discards into.
So we figure on three more sessions, the rest of the books, my music, and the kitchen. Then I move downstairs at the end of next month - having finally been approved for a new loan and struck a deal with Jim's estate. Then I spiffy up my old place and get it rented out, and then I retire. Hot darn!
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Long Time No Write
So, I haven't written a new post for a few weeks, since I've been so busy posting the old writings that I've been turning up in my decluttering efforts. Which, incidentally, are getting down to brass tacks - books and music. Considering each of the 2000 or so books that I own to determine which ones I'm willing to part with is something I've been putting off as long as possible. It would be simpler to go by categories, e.g., Christian books out, Jewish books in. But there are some Christian books that I couldn't part with, and some Jewish books that I'll never get around to reading. And how could I part with all my science fiction, or children's literature, or ...?
My books are the friends, talismans, security blankets, and source of stability about which I've written so often; how can I bear to part with a single one of them? I must try to console myself with the thought that others will be able to share their benefits if I let them go out into the world. But it's hard.
My books are the friends, talismans, security blankets, and source of stability about which I've written so often; how can I bear to part with a single one of them? I must try to console myself with the thought that others will be able to share their benefits if I let them go out into the world. But it's hard.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Yet Another Old Writing
Probably also from the mid-1980's:
I cannot cry unless I expressly give myself permission. When I feel a lump in my throat, I must choose whether or not to cry. Sometimes I give myself permission to cry, and sometimes I don't. Usually the times I deny myself tears are reasonable postponements. If I'm singing at the funeral of a relative, for example, I can't cry and sing at the same time, so the tears get postponed.
But often there's no real reason why I shouldn't cry, and yet the tears hover unshed in my throat until I give them permission to come, and sometimes they don't even come then. It seems to me that my difficulty in crying has to do with my father. He and I argued a lot when I was in my early teens. I would get so angry and frustrated at his stubborn wrong-headedness that I would begin to cry. Then he would tell me to stop crying, saying that I was using tears as a way to manipulate him.
So I learned to control my tears. Not in the way he meant, to turn them on at will, but to be able to withhold them until the coast was clear and I could cry in private. To this day I cannot cry until after I have decided that it is safe for my tears to come out, and maybe not even then.
I cannot cry unless I expressly give myself permission. When I feel a lump in my throat, I must choose whether or not to cry. Sometimes I give myself permission to cry, and sometimes I don't. Usually the times I deny myself tears are reasonable postponements. If I'm singing at the funeral of a relative, for example, I can't cry and sing at the same time, so the tears get postponed.
But often there's no real reason why I shouldn't cry, and yet the tears hover unshed in my throat until I give them permission to come, and sometimes they don't even come then. It seems to me that my difficulty in crying has to do with my father. He and I argued a lot when I was in my early teens. I would get so angry and frustrated at his stubborn wrong-headedness that I would begin to cry. Then he would tell me to stop crying, saying that I was using tears as a way to manipulate him.
So I learned to control my tears. Not in the way he meant, to turn them on at will, but to be able to withhold them until the coast was clear and I could cry in private. To this day I cannot cry until after I have decided that it is safe for my tears to come out, and maybe not even then.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
More Mothertongue Writings
You name it, I've been it. My Catholic mother had me baptized as an infant. Then I lived with my Jewish grandparents and went to Sunday School at a Reform synagogue. Then I lived with my atheist father. In college, I was converted to Christianity by Campus Crusade for Christ. Later I studied and worshipped with Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship. Meanwhile, I had joined a Presbyterian church because I loved the music that a professor of mine had recruited me to sing with their choir.
After moving to a new city, I joined a Lutheran church because it was near my home. After a few years, I began going to a Catholic charismatic prayer meeting with some charismatic Lutheran friends. Then I discovered the gay synagogue in town and started going there. The non-sexist liturgy charmed me, as well as the gay and lesbian congregation. So, I stopped going to the Lutheran Church, and joined the synagogue. Then I got involved in a twelve-step program, which has its own form of spirituality. Along the way I also attended a Quaker meeting, spent a weekend at a Moonie camp, and learned Transcendental Meditation.
What do I actually believe? Whatever is working for me right now.
_____________
My Favorite Things
Two-headed dildoes and long peacock feathers,
Butt plugs and fur mitts and shiny black leathers,
Garters and stockings and gold nipple rings,
These are a few of my favorite things.
Shiny ben wa balls and edible lotions,
Sturdy vibrator for long-lasting motions,
Honey dust powder and butt beads on strings,
These are a few of my favorite things.
When the mood strikes,
When my blood burns,
When I'm feeling gay,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I have got to play.
_______________
Used to be, they thought women were sick if we wanted sex. No they think we're sick if we don't.
________________
I've tried non-monogamy, and I've learned my lesson. My problem is not moral, ethical, or religious: I just don't have that much energy.
After moving to a new city, I joined a Lutheran church because it was near my home. After a few years, I began going to a Catholic charismatic prayer meeting with some charismatic Lutheran friends. Then I discovered the gay synagogue in town and started going there. The non-sexist liturgy charmed me, as well as the gay and lesbian congregation. So, I stopped going to the Lutheran Church, and joined the synagogue. Then I got involved in a twelve-step program, which has its own form of spirituality. Along the way I also attended a Quaker meeting, spent a weekend at a Moonie camp, and learned Transcendental Meditation.
What do I actually believe? Whatever is working for me right now.
_____________
My Favorite Things
Two-headed dildoes and long peacock feathers,
Butt plugs and fur mitts and shiny black leathers,
Garters and stockings and gold nipple rings,
These are a few of my favorite things.
Shiny ben wa balls and edible lotions,
Sturdy vibrator for long-lasting motions,
Honey dust powder and butt beads on strings,
These are a few of my favorite things.
When the mood strikes,
When my blood burns,
When I'm feeling gay,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I have got to play.
_______________
Used to be, they thought women were sick if we wanted sex. No they think we're sick if we don't.
________________
I've tried non-monogamy, and I've learned my lesson. My problem is not moral, ethical, or religious: I just don't have that much energy.
A Poem from my Santa Monica Years
I can share this with you because I still have, and recently rediscovered, the mimeographed literary magazine in which it was published during my high school years:
Fog, all around me,
sheltering me
from my world that was
torn asunder.
When will the sun shine again?
I can't see
through the fog,
Nor do I want to see
my world that was.
I look forward
to sunshine.
Upon what
will the sun shine?
What will I see
when it rises again?
What?
What new road
lies ahead,
shrouded now
by fog
which will
soon be revealed?
Fog, all around me,
sheltering me
from my world that was
torn asunder.
When will the sun shine again?
I can't see
through the fog,
Nor do I want to see
my world that was.
I look forward
to sunshine.
Upon what
will the sun shine?
What will I see
when it rises again?
What?
What new road
lies ahead,
shrouded now
by fog
which will
soon be revealed?
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Songs and Poems from the Mothertongue Years
Chorus: Hang in there, baby, hang in.
Hang in there, baby, hang in.
We're like that kitten hanging by her chin;
Gravity's against us, but we don't give in.
Hang in there, kitten, hang in.
Verse 1: We're up against the system,
pollution and the bomb,
anxiety, depression,
and the list goes on.
Hang in there, sister, hang in.
Verse 2: It's hard as women
trying to survive,
but we have hope and courage
while we're still alive.
Hang in there, women, hang in.
____________________________
The Process of Consensus Blues
Verse 1: I hate to go to meetings.
Usually they're boring.
Got to work together, though, to get things done.
Chorus: Don't you fret yourself none.
It's sure to take forever.
That's the process of consensus blues.
Verse 2: Women use consensus,
not Robert's Rules of Order,
But sometimes it seems as if they're both the same.
Verse 3: We've got eleven women,
crowded in the front room.
Lots of big decisions are a'comin' down.
Verse 4: Two of us are for it;
two of us against it;
all the other women don't give a damn.
Verse 5: If we block consensus,
will we still be welcome?
Wish we didn't have to, but we feel we must.
Verse 6: All of us are tired;
all of us are cranky;
come on, let's decide so we can go on home.
_________________________
Greenham Geese (tune of Dona, Dona)
1 On the commons, Greenham Commons,
lives a flock of unruly geese
trained to honk and flight,
guarding day and night,
so that war isn't stopped by peace.
Chorus: How the geese are laughing.
They laugh with all their might.
Laugh and laugh the whole day through
and half the summer's night.
Dona, dona nobis pacem.
Grant us peace, we pray.
We are here to save the planet.
Greenham camp is here to stay.
2. Geese are easily trained for warfare:
honk alarm, then attack the foe.
Women, drawing near, cut the fence, and hear,
with them, silent, the geese did go.
3. When the roll is called and no geese are found,
major-generals are red of face.
All their well-trained geese, AWOL, and learning peace,
have adopted new friends and place.
_________________________
Books
Books are almost as good as friends,
at warming my heart, at making me cry,
at bringing a laugh, or a tear, or a sigh.
They take me away from this world that I know,
make me feel like a child and then help me to grow.
I revel in fiction and marvel at fact,
learn points to debate with, examples of tact.
Humor is good when I'm sick, weak, or blue.
For escape, science fiction will usually do.
Feminist writings may spur me to glory,
but my favorite of all is a women's love story.
__________________-
Flowering Fruit Trees
Love is flower-like, they say, and
friendship's like a tree
that shelters one from sun and storm
beneath its canopy.
I will not choose between the two;
I want them both, I say;
a lover's arms to hold me close
and friends with whom to play.
The trick, it seems, to having both
is found in friendship's bower,
where love will come one day, I hope,
when two dear friend-trees flower.
Hang in there, baby, hang in.
We're like that kitten hanging by her chin;
Gravity's against us, but we don't give in.
Hang in there, kitten, hang in.
Verse 1: We're up against the system,
pollution and the bomb,
anxiety, depression,
and the list goes on.
Hang in there, sister, hang in.
Verse 2: It's hard as women
trying to survive,
but we have hope and courage
while we're still alive.
Hang in there, women, hang in.
____________________________
The Process of Consensus Blues
Verse 1: I hate to go to meetings.
Usually they're boring.
Got to work together, though, to get things done.
Chorus: Don't you fret yourself none.
It's sure to take forever.
That's the process of consensus blues.
Verse 2: Women use consensus,
not Robert's Rules of Order,
But sometimes it seems as if they're both the same.
Verse 3: We've got eleven women,
crowded in the front room.
Lots of big decisions are a'comin' down.
Verse 4: Two of us are for it;
two of us against it;
all the other women don't give a damn.
Verse 5: If we block consensus,
will we still be welcome?
Wish we didn't have to, but we feel we must.
Verse 6: All of us are tired;
all of us are cranky;
come on, let's decide so we can go on home.
_________________________
Greenham Geese (tune of Dona, Dona)
1 On the commons, Greenham Commons,
lives a flock of unruly geese
trained to honk and flight,
guarding day and night,
so that war isn't stopped by peace.
Chorus: How the geese are laughing.
They laugh with all their might.
Laugh and laugh the whole day through
and half the summer's night.
Dona, dona nobis pacem.
Grant us peace, we pray.
We are here to save the planet.
Greenham camp is here to stay.
2. Geese are easily trained for warfare:
honk alarm, then attack the foe.
Women, drawing near, cut the fence, and hear,
with them, silent, the geese did go.
3. When the roll is called and no geese are found,
major-generals are red of face.
All their well-trained geese, AWOL, and learning peace,
have adopted new friends and place.
_________________________
Books
Books are almost as good as friends,
at warming my heart, at making me cry,
at bringing a laugh, or a tear, or a sigh.
They take me away from this world that I know,
make me feel like a child and then help me to grow.
I revel in fiction and marvel at fact,
learn points to debate with, examples of tact.
Humor is good when I'm sick, weak, or blue.
For escape, science fiction will usually do.
Feminist writings may spur me to glory,
but my favorite of all is a women's love story.
__________________-
Flowering Fruit Trees
Love is flower-like, they say, and
friendship's like a tree
that shelters one from sun and storm
beneath its canopy.
I will not choose between the two;
I want them both, I say;
a lover's arms to hold me close
and friends with whom to play.
The trick, it seems, to having both
is found in friendship's bower,
where love will come one day, I hope,
when two dear friend-trees flower.
The Mothertongue Era, the 80's
When I joined a gay synagogue and left the Lutheran church, I came out as a lesbian and got involved in feminist pursuits. My main avocation was writing and performing with Mothertongue Readers Theater. I worked on anthology scripts concerning identity, survival, sexuality, and peace. And now I present some of my pieces:
My name is Dana. I've always thought it meant Dane, a native of Denmark, which I'm not. But I since gathered that I was named after a close male friend of my father's, possibly a lover of his.
I always liked my name. I didn't have to share it with a lot of other people. In fact, I never met another Dana until I was in junior high school, one boy and one girl, and still we were few and between.
People often tell me I have a pretty name, which is not the term I would have chosen, but I appreciate the sentiment.
There are more of us Danas now, so I'm less unique. On the other hand, fewer people misspell the name these days.
Yes, I like my name; I think Dana is a neat, spare name, simple and without a lot of connotations. I think of it as straightforward and androgynous, two characteristics I like to think I share with it.
_______________
I needed to have a Hebrew name by Yom Kippur this year, so I could be called by that name to chant blessings for a Torah reading. I had known for at least a year that I would eventually have to choose a Hebrew name, but I hadn't chosen one. Making choices is not my strong suit.
I liked one name, Shira, because it means "song," and I'm a singer; but to me it belonged to someone else, a teacher of Israeli folkdance. This gave me mixed feelings. I admire Shira, and wouldn't want to take a name associated with a person I didn't respect, but I also didn't want to take a name that already belonged to someone else. That feels like cheating, like being a copycat.
I had even worse problems with Devora, Hebrew for Deborah, the first woman judge of Israel, because, although it is an honorable name and shares some letters with my own name, the Hebrew and English versions of the name already belong to my therapist and my boss, respectively.
So I called the rabbi for help, and he provided a book of English names and their nearest Hebrew equivalents, by sound and by meaning. It turns out that Dana, or Danah, is a perfectly valid Hebrew name, meaning "to judge." Since I'm a member of the State Bar and have a somewhat critical personality, the name seemed appropriate. Moreover, it's simply derived from my own name and doesn't belong to anyone I know, so that it's as rare a Hebrew name as my English name used to be and I don't have to take a whole lot of responsibility for selecting it. I hate making choices.
___________________
Somehow I always knew I would have to earn my own living. When my brother and I were babies, our parents got divorced and sent us to live with our grandparents. When I was 9, Grandma died, and two years later Dad took us from Grandpa, to live with him. When I was 15, Dad died, and we went to live with our mother. It seemed to me that the only person I could count on to be there was me.
Grandpa had told me that I would be taken care of when I grew up. Maybe he meant that my husband would take care of me. Well, I don't know how I managed to grow up without any interest in marriage, but I did. I couldn't decide whether to be a comedian or a psychiatrist, but housewife, I knew, was not for me.
While I was in college, I discovered that I was a lesbian, and that marriage really was out of the question. I enjoyed studying music in college, but it finally became clear to me that I could not earn a living as a musician. So I went to law school, even though I had never met a lawyer, because I thought that as a lawyer I could earn a secure, professional living. After I learned something about the practice of law, I took my law degree and went into legal research and writing instead. I worked for a research service, then for a court, and now in legal publishing, writing, editing, and managing publications.
I love seeing my name in print. I love figuring out complicated problems of legal analysis. I love working on a word processor. Sometimes there's deadline pressure; sometimes the material is boring, or gruesome, or not on the shelves. Sometimes, though I look around my office, which has my name on the door, African Violets on my handsome wooden desk, and a view of the Bay out my window, and marvel at my good luck, but I also know that I do good work and earn my salary. And in my spare time, I sing, compose, and conduct a choir. My father, also a professional, also a musician, and also gay, would have been proud of me.
_____________________
I often call myself Singer when I make restaurant reservations. It's easier than Vinicoff to get across to someone on the phone, especially to someone whose English is poor. And, anyway, I am a singer, so I'm entitled.
_________________________
Two different women look at me from the mirror. The one I see most often has a round face, a pasty complexion, and acne. Her expression is blank; she is plain. The other woman looks much better. She has cheekbones and a chin line. Her skin is clear and she looks wise and confident. She is attractive and I enjoy looking at her.
How can the women be so different? How can they both be me? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is the difference in my head rather than my face? Is it that how I feel about myself affects how I look? Or maybe a bit of both? Maybe I just look better at some times than others.
I don't know. But it would be nice if that attractive woman were the only one living in my mirror.
__________________________
I stand at the open refrigerator. I am hungry, but I know that food will not satisfy my hunger. All right. If I'm not hungry for food, then for what?
For people, I think. For friends, for a lover. I feel so paralyzed. But it's not that I can't reach out to people. I call women for dates, friends for lunch. Sometimes they call me. But it doesn't seem to be enough. Some friends say that they really enjoy being with me and value my friendship. I wish I could believe them. I see their comments as nourishment, but I just can't seem to absorb it.
So, I stand at the open refrigerator.
_______________________
I hate crying unlabeled tears. Crying itself doesn't bother me; it makes me feel better to cry. But I don't like crying if I don't know what I'm crying about. In part, it's because I want to be able to do something about the situation that's making me cry. If it's a problem, I want to solve it. If it's a joy, I want to savor it. If I'm simply tired or sick, at least I can understand what's happening and know that I'll get over it. But it's frustrating to cry without apparent reason. It makes me feel stupid or emotionally immature.
Well, it keeps on happening, and the intelligent, mature response would be to simply cry until I don't have to cry anymore. At the very least, it'll be good for my digestion.
_________________
One day I came home to my mother in tears. I couldn't stop crying and I couldn't explain why I was crying. She filled the bath tub with hot water and told me to get in. "You can't cry if you're in a hot bath," she said. "I don't know why, but it works for me."
I got in. It worked for me, too. Why does it work? Maybe it's just relaxation caused by the heat. Maybe it's a symbolic return to the womb. I don't know and I don't care. A hot bath is good for what ails you.
______________
Did you know that it's illegal in California for a woman to appear in public barebreasted? Men may take off their shirts any old time they want to, but a woman becomes a criminal if she does it. How is it, I wonder, that bare breasts are considered so threatening to the body politic as to constitute a crime?
Is it that poor, innocent, weak-willed men will lose control of themselves and rush like starving beasts to grab and bury their faces in the unveiled and beckoning bounty? Is it that young children will see the ordinary, human sight that lies beneath their mother's shirt? I think it's the possibility that allowing women to control when to reveal our bodies would give us the revolutionary notion that our bodies belong to us rather than to men, and that would bring the patriarchy crashing in pieces to the ground.
_______________
Woman 1: The world is in such trouble. Sometimes I just lose hope. Why bother working and planning when tomorrow may never come?
Woman 2: I know. Sometimes there's nothing I can do but pray.
Woman 3: Sometimes I have to just get out of the city and watch the sun rise.
Woman 4: It helps me to use my body. I do tai chi.
Woman 5: I run.
Woman 2: I need to be with a group of people, like my synagogue.
Woman 3: My coven.
Woman 4: Mothertongue.
Woman 5: The point is, do whatever works to make you relaxed and strong, but do it. There's work to be done, and we need to get on with it.
____________
Ah (with mild embarrassment). There's an explanation for that. It has been scientifically proven that humans need to be touched and held as much as we need sunlight or fresh air. If a baby isn't held enough, it can get sick or even die. That's why babies who have to stay in incubators are put on sheepskins, because the animal fur provides some substitute for human touching. Scientists believe that most people suffer to some degree from touch deprivation.
And that's why there's a teddy bear sitting on my desk.
_________________________
My name is Dana. I've always thought it meant Dane, a native of Denmark, which I'm not. But I since gathered that I was named after a close male friend of my father's, possibly a lover of his.
I always liked my name. I didn't have to share it with a lot of other people. In fact, I never met another Dana until I was in junior high school, one boy and one girl, and still we were few and between.
People often tell me I have a pretty name, which is not the term I would have chosen, but I appreciate the sentiment.
There are more of us Danas now, so I'm less unique. On the other hand, fewer people misspell the name these days.
Yes, I like my name; I think Dana is a neat, spare name, simple and without a lot of connotations. I think of it as straightforward and androgynous, two characteristics I like to think I share with it.
_______________
I needed to have a Hebrew name by Yom Kippur this year, so I could be called by that name to chant blessings for a Torah reading. I had known for at least a year that I would eventually have to choose a Hebrew name, but I hadn't chosen one. Making choices is not my strong suit.
I liked one name, Shira, because it means "song," and I'm a singer; but to me it belonged to someone else, a teacher of Israeli folkdance. This gave me mixed feelings. I admire Shira, and wouldn't want to take a name associated with a person I didn't respect, but I also didn't want to take a name that already belonged to someone else. That feels like cheating, like being a copycat.
I had even worse problems with Devora, Hebrew for Deborah, the first woman judge of Israel, because, although it is an honorable name and shares some letters with my own name, the Hebrew and English versions of the name already belong to my therapist and my boss, respectively.
So I called the rabbi for help, and he provided a book of English names and their nearest Hebrew equivalents, by sound and by meaning. It turns out that Dana, or Danah, is a perfectly valid Hebrew name, meaning "to judge." Since I'm a member of the State Bar and have a somewhat critical personality, the name seemed appropriate. Moreover, it's simply derived from my own name and doesn't belong to anyone I know, so that it's as rare a Hebrew name as my English name used to be and I don't have to take a whole lot of responsibility for selecting it. I hate making choices.
___________________
Somehow I always knew I would have to earn my own living. When my brother and I were babies, our parents got divorced and sent us to live with our grandparents. When I was 9, Grandma died, and two years later Dad took us from Grandpa, to live with him. When I was 15, Dad died, and we went to live with our mother. It seemed to me that the only person I could count on to be there was me.
Grandpa had told me that I would be taken care of when I grew up. Maybe he meant that my husband would take care of me. Well, I don't know how I managed to grow up without any interest in marriage, but I did. I couldn't decide whether to be a comedian or a psychiatrist, but housewife, I knew, was not for me.
While I was in college, I discovered that I was a lesbian, and that marriage really was out of the question. I enjoyed studying music in college, but it finally became clear to me that I could not earn a living as a musician. So I went to law school, even though I had never met a lawyer, because I thought that as a lawyer I could earn a secure, professional living. After I learned something about the practice of law, I took my law degree and went into legal research and writing instead. I worked for a research service, then for a court, and now in legal publishing, writing, editing, and managing publications.
I love seeing my name in print. I love figuring out complicated problems of legal analysis. I love working on a word processor. Sometimes there's deadline pressure; sometimes the material is boring, or gruesome, or not on the shelves. Sometimes, though I look around my office, which has my name on the door, African Violets on my handsome wooden desk, and a view of the Bay out my window, and marvel at my good luck, but I also know that I do good work and earn my salary. And in my spare time, I sing, compose, and conduct a choir. My father, also a professional, also a musician, and also gay, would have been proud of me.
_____________________
I often call myself Singer when I make restaurant reservations. It's easier than Vinicoff to get across to someone on the phone, especially to someone whose English is poor. And, anyway, I am a singer, so I'm entitled.
_________________________
Two different women look at me from the mirror. The one I see most often has a round face, a pasty complexion, and acne. Her expression is blank; she is plain. The other woman looks much better. She has cheekbones and a chin line. Her skin is clear and she looks wise and confident. She is attractive and I enjoy looking at her.
How can the women be so different? How can they both be me? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is the difference in my head rather than my face? Is it that how I feel about myself affects how I look? Or maybe a bit of both? Maybe I just look better at some times than others.
I don't know. But it would be nice if that attractive woman were the only one living in my mirror.
__________________________
I stand at the open refrigerator. I am hungry, but I know that food will not satisfy my hunger. All right. If I'm not hungry for food, then for what?
For people, I think. For friends, for a lover. I feel so paralyzed. But it's not that I can't reach out to people. I call women for dates, friends for lunch. Sometimes they call me. But it doesn't seem to be enough. Some friends say that they really enjoy being with me and value my friendship. I wish I could believe them. I see their comments as nourishment, but I just can't seem to absorb it.
So, I stand at the open refrigerator.
_______________________
I hate crying unlabeled tears. Crying itself doesn't bother me; it makes me feel better to cry. But I don't like crying if I don't know what I'm crying about. In part, it's because I want to be able to do something about the situation that's making me cry. If it's a problem, I want to solve it. If it's a joy, I want to savor it. If I'm simply tired or sick, at least I can understand what's happening and know that I'll get over it. But it's frustrating to cry without apparent reason. It makes me feel stupid or emotionally immature.
Well, it keeps on happening, and the intelligent, mature response would be to simply cry until I don't have to cry anymore. At the very least, it'll be good for my digestion.
_________________
One day I came home to my mother in tears. I couldn't stop crying and I couldn't explain why I was crying. She filled the bath tub with hot water and told me to get in. "You can't cry if you're in a hot bath," she said. "I don't know why, but it works for me."
I got in. It worked for me, too. Why does it work? Maybe it's just relaxation caused by the heat. Maybe it's a symbolic return to the womb. I don't know and I don't care. A hot bath is good for what ails you.
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Did you know that it's illegal in California for a woman to appear in public barebreasted? Men may take off their shirts any old time they want to, but a woman becomes a criminal if she does it. How is it, I wonder, that bare breasts are considered so threatening to the body politic as to constitute a crime?
Is it that poor, innocent, weak-willed men will lose control of themselves and rush like starving beasts to grab and bury their faces in the unveiled and beckoning bounty? Is it that young children will see the ordinary, human sight that lies beneath their mother's shirt? I think it's the possibility that allowing women to control when to reveal our bodies would give us the revolutionary notion that our bodies belong to us rather than to men, and that would bring the patriarchy crashing in pieces to the ground.
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Woman 1: The world is in such trouble. Sometimes I just lose hope. Why bother working and planning when tomorrow may never come?
Woman 2: I know. Sometimes there's nothing I can do but pray.
Woman 3: Sometimes I have to just get out of the city and watch the sun rise.
Woman 4: It helps me to use my body. I do tai chi.
Woman 5: I run.
Woman 2: I need to be with a group of people, like my synagogue.
Woman 3: My coven.
Woman 4: Mothertongue.
Woman 5: The point is, do whatever works to make you relaxed and strong, but do it. There's work to be done, and we need to get on with it.
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Ah (with mild embarrassment). There's an explanation for that. It has been scientifically proven that humans need to be touched and held as much as we need sunlight or fresh air. If a baby isn't held enough, it can get sick or even die. That's why babies who have to stay in incubators are put on sheepskins, because the animal fur provides some substitute for human touching. Scientists believe that most people suffer to some degree from touch deprivation.
And that's why there's a teddy bear sitting on my desk.
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