Spiraled notebook paper torn out:
*Sat 12 days ago last bowel movement 1/29
Revlen antiametics / other nausea meds avail
coat throat
__________________________________________
cancer answer
CT scan not show clear growth, but "leakage" in abdomen indicates cancer
^^^^^^^ word?
coat on upper GI near stomach
Fri: chemo plan for weekend
If nourishment not staying down, tube to intestines.
hyperalimentation
froz. pudding orange magic cup
milkshake van.
__________________________________________
cl. undies - tees
3-4 diapers/day
Tues - chemo last 2/1
nutrition -
Wed 2/9 - froz pudd orange magic cup; milkshake van, ? diarrhea all night (6x); Dr M 4:30pm
Thurs 2/10 - no mom; bread apple AM; vomit @ night
when I left: mac & chz, mash pots; some diarrhea Dr M 5pm
Fri 2/11 - no mom; 1 nutrition AM @ bfast;
Adv Dir Pwr Attrny updated, on file
- bfast:scr egg, apples, white toast, 1/2 long john, tea - still full 3pm
- has Ensure
- doc visit 8am: platlets too low for chemo ATM
dinner: spag, wildbry ensure, 6, 630 AM diah aggressives
- 125/83
- firmer BMs
- Aly PM -> 11:30
- Dr. Hawking weekend
Sat 2/12 - cup applesauce, supplement, yogurt, org spice tea ---- vomit, all came up
- 8:30 doc Hawking
- platlets? CBC?
- new bed?
- 12pm diah more watery lots
- bad dreams: bright, vivid, dark, depressive
- nap 1230-1
- Angie nutritionist: delay supplements, motility: better than solids sometimes, Reglen - diarrhea, another motility drug? side effects? small solids with no liquids, separate solid and liquids, liquids only: 2-3 meals/snacks? cold and dry post-chemo and not hot; sacchrine reject taste buds (nutritional supp) --> saltines/graham crackers, toast, fruit (strawberry juice bar --> ask in a bowl)
not enough, options:
1) tube nose bypass stom -> intestine, temporary, can go home, can try eating with it (size: top IV, pliable)
1b) line stom -> intestine
1) @ home with pump (continuous or few intervals) or gravity feedings or syringe so many CCs @ time
2) motility and nausea b/c GI; more nutrition thru vein more than IV, perentual outside GI tract port or new, yellow vitamin-colored proteins fat into vein -- in-patient, if you can't eat at all insurance covers; higher risks foreign into vein - infection, $ insurance
Sun: solids, snack, lunch
Sat: PM crm chkn soup; snack: Saltines
- ? diff med than Reglan? exacerbates diarrhea? arithromyacin smaller dose IV
- mid-week < 1500 --> tube discussion
magnesium, phosphorus, albumin (protein) pre-albumin
- people recording tray eating
** 2 pillows from dad bed slightly foldable
- 132/79 3:15pm Lbs: 158
-6:36pm soup, 2/3 yogurt, 1/2 tea
Sun 2/13: cr wheat, orange jello, 2% milk 8:30AM; magnesium shortage
**black pen, refills travel bag, undies/shirts
crackers 7AM (2)
lunch 12pm: chicken soup, vanilla ice cream, org jello, magnesium done 12pm, might do more Monday
? amortization - signing by Mom only?
----> Mom writes:
Dawn said not necessary - no rush.
Lunch 1:20 ate: Clinc Sauge (?) 1/3 jello and all ice cream
Vitals: 98 temp, 135/73, 98 oxgy. <----
Laps: 2am, 3 @ 2pm
160.2
toilet after walk: pee
5.1 potassium (3.5-5.2 good) goes to drop -> 20: 125/hr -> 100/hr
74 platlets (Sat 67, Fri 62)
3:30: 98.6, 130/83
4pm: Reglan
Denise = RN
__________________________________________
CFO: backfills for retirement under critical positions; HCO: nationwide hires normal program work
__________________________________________
mac & chz
mash pot & gravy
chkn noodle
scram eggs
wh toast
applesauce
crm of wheat
light very cherry yog
orange spice herbal tea
vanilla ice cream
orange sherbert
Tiffany - discharge
Sue/Janelle - case management - TPN lipids, metabolic / Dr Gui
12pm supplies
Janelle - home health / home care 830-930 call day of visit
Tiffany - discharge paperwork
Sue - until Sat if not working - case mgr (Rita, Jane)
Dr Gui - metabolic (TPN orders)
insulin?
Nurses - ? home diff
TPN --
TPN 7pm - 7am
home care - 5pm nurse
Hospital Home Care Plus - infusion, formulation meds, mixing
Hospital Home Care - 830-930 am call, let know doc appt, 2 visits first 2 days (tonight, tmw AM)
2/week - first 2 weeks --> 1/week
__________________________________________
picnic: Volta Park 12-4 for AA
__________________________________________
*********************************************************************************
I sewed 2 quilts for Christmas. One for my mom and one for my sister, featuring my dad's tee-shirts. You can see them over on tumblr. I'm making my own now. My sister told me the first year is still shock and maybe by the third year we realize he's really gone. I know he's dead. I know this. But I don't believe it still. It just seems like he's on a trip somewhere. And maybe that's the real truth anyway.
I also knitted 3 scarves and we randomly picked the one we wanted.
I gifted my mom a pair of earrings and me/my sister a necklace - all from our trip to Colorado to bury my dad.
I made a photo album of the photos from the slideshow and added in photos from our trip to Colorado.
Pretty much Christmas was a close-out of The Year of Dad Dying.
I'm hoping there's some new fun in 2012. Not that there wasn't fun in 2011. I went camping and made awesome friends. I got over fears of people that I had developed from drinking and isolating. I got over dislike for animals and adopted an awesome cat. I found my Higher Power and got on my knees for help. I had awesome, sober, fun New Years Eves. I went from standing at the bus stop wondering, "I do have pants on, right?" to gussying up in a skirt and boots. I stopped trolling Craigslist and haven't had sex since October. I baked and cooked all kinds of delicious treats. I joined the gym. I flew to the Midwest 6 times and decided to go other places in the next year. I made friends with women and found I could be friends with men without feeling sexual toward them. I went to therapy and cried my eyes out. I worked through the 8 steps with a super chill sponsor who finds me "illuminating" and is patient through my freak outs. I watched someone die with love and am living with that love.
I think 2012 has potential and I'm ready for whatever comes.
But I have changed a lot this past year. And one of the things I think about is that this blog really doesn't suit me. Sure, I need a place to write it all out - even if only sporadically every other month - but I'm not really Cheating Death Once Again. (Granted, we all are every minute of the day, but that's beside the point.) I'm more Sampling the Life Buffet or something touchy feely like that. We'll see what evolves.
Whatever happens, I'll let you know and hopefully you'll let me know.
Wishing you a delightful New Year. Wishing you a New Year that exceeds what you deserve and is better than you imagined ♥ ♥
Showing posts with label health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label health. Show all posts
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
La vie en rose
Yes, well.
I'll need to detail it soon or I'll forget everything, but I've also told the story enough times now that I've temporarily grown bored with it.
A few things I haven't told:
I've never loved or appreciated my family as much as I did for those 3 weeks.
I've finally seen their quirks and annoyances as delightful details of personality.
It was hard to see my father in pain for a full night, as my sister and I alternated between sleep and awake in his hospital room.
I think my mother may have taken it to heart when, as she poured her fourth glass of wine in the hotel room, I said "Mama? Please don't drink as much as you did last night 'cuz you fell into the TV and it scared me."
Yes, we all magnify a specific part of our personality under extreme stress. My sister became the project manager (researching whatever procedures or words the doctors said, memorizing the time line, digging more deeply with questions to gain understanding). My mother became the friendly neighbor (to everyone - little kids, old ladies, hotel managers, cashiers at Jimmy John's). And, oddly enough, I was the tough cheerleader... or the parent... or the companion... Dad had to walk every day to encourage circulation to heal. He'd beg out of it sometimes, but I'd bargain or trick or tease or mandate he get up. "C'mon, old man, up we go. Remember, it's not the distance but the frequency. After the walk, we'll see how you feel for a shower!"
Almost every day, minus the day he was high on dilaudid, we'd do some portion of the newspaper crossword puzzle together.
On the 7th day at the hospital, my temperament started to shift. I was growing bored and annoyed. But it was also a celebration that I was feeling irritable, since I'd skipped August's period entirely (due to stress) this was a good sign.
I didn't have sex the entire time while in the States, although I tried.
I had the most vivid and strange dreams, despite still taking the 1/2 Tylenol PM a night and drinking at least one glass of wine.
Dogs and cats are pretty awesome. I hadn't realized I longed for touch so badly.
&&&&&&&&&&&&
And so. For now, I'm back in Paris. When I left my parents, my father was successfully showering on his own and had peeled back the bandage on his abdomen, proving that I was right: "Dad, you're freaking out. You do not have a gaping hole from where they took the tube out. The body doesn't work that way. Skin heals. I bet there's a bit of gooey scabbing over, but you are not leaking or oozing or going to squirt all over the floor when you remove your bandage." My mother was dropping everything for my father, which he was recognizing and thanking her in abundance. My sister was losing trust in her fiance after he neglected the dogs for a day and one of them peed on the bed. But, she also found out from a visit to the eye doctor that her retina was detaching. This put her in 3 days of respite (face parallel to the floor with a bubble in the back of her eye), and dependent on the finance. I think they probably had some truthful words shared over that long time.
Everyone's doing just fine, in other words.
Still, I didn't much like going through tragedy so far from my family. And, I've been considering the meaning of 'community' much more. Mine seems to be attached to people, not to places. My people are scattered all over the world. There are some of them congregated into a region though and I might just like to stay there for a while: Midwest, USA. The thought of that idea in the long-term terrifies me, although I'm pretty sure that it's not possible. I'll start to drive my family nuts and they, me. So, I'll consider it a temporary community residence until I find a job.
Thus, for now, I'm searching for a cheap one-way flight back, finding out the costs of shipping books by boat, and checking out the Parisian sights I haven't yet seen.
Oh, and I've been mini-posting over on Tumblr.
I'll need to detail it soon or I'll forget everything, but I've also told the story enough times now that I've temporarily grown bored with it.
A few things I haven't told:
I've never loved or appreciated my family as much as I did for those 3 weeks.
I've finally seen their quirks and annoyances as delightful details of personality.
It was hard to see my father in pain for a full night, as my sister and I alternated between sleep and awake in his hospital room.
I think my mother may have taken it to heart when, as she poured her fourth glass of wine in the hotel room, I said "Mama? Please don't drink as much as you did last night 'cuz you fell into the TV and it scared me."
Yes, we all magnify a specific part of our personality under extreme stress. My sister became the project manager (researching whatever procedures or words the doctors said, memorizing the time line, digging more deeply with questions to gain understanding). My mother became the friendly neighbor (to everyone - little kids, old ladies, hotel managers, cashiers at Jimmy John's). And, oddly enough, I was the tough cheerleader... or the parent... or the companion... Dad had to walk every day to encourage circulation to heal. He'd beg out of it sometimes, but I'd bargain or trick or tease or mandate he get up. "C'mon, old man, up we go. Remember, it's not the distance but the frequency. After the walk, we'll see how you feel for a shower!"
Almost every day, minus the day he was high on dilaudid, we'd do some portion of the newspaper crossword puzzle together.
On the 7th day at the hospital, my temperament started to shift. I was growing bored and annoyed. But it was also a celebration that I was feeling irritable, since I'd skipped August's period entirely (due to stress) this was a good sign.
I didn't have sex the entire time while in the States, although I tried.
I had the most vivid and strange dreams, despite still taking the 1/2 Tylenol PM a night and drinking at least one glass of wine.
Dogs and cats are pretty awesome. I hadn't realized I longed for touch so badly.
&&&&&&&&&&&&
And so. For now, I'm back in Paris. When I left my parents, my father was successfully showering on his own and had peeled back the bandage on his abdomen, proving that I was right: "Dad, you're freaking out. You do not have a gaping hole from where they took the tube out. The body doesn't work that way. Skin heals. I bet there's a bit of gooey scabbing over, but you are not leaking or oozing or going to squirt all over the floor when you remove your bandage." My mother was dropping everything for my father, which he was recognizing and thanking her in abundance. My sister was losing trust in her fiance after he neglected the dogs for a day and one of them peed on the bed. But, she also found out from a visit to the eye doctor that her retina was detaching. This put her in 3 days of respite (face parallel to the floor with a bubble in the back of her eye), and dependent on the finance. I think they probably had some truthful words shared over that long time.
Everyone's doing just fine, in other words.
Still, I didn't much like going through tragedy so far from my family. And, I've been considering the meaning of 'community' much more. Mine seems to be attached to people, not to places. My people are scattered all over the world. There are some of them congregated into a region though and I might just like to stay there for a while: Midwest, USA. The thought of that idea in the long-term terrifies me, although I'm pretty sure that it's not possible. I'll start to drive my family nuts and they, me. So, I'll consider it a temporary community residence until I find a job.
Thus, for now, I'm searching for a cheap one-way flight back, finding out the costs of shipping books by boat, and checking out the Parisian sights I haven't yet seen.
Oh, and I've been mini-posting over on Tumblr.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Missed the tornado by 6 miles
Dad heads in for surgery tomorrow. He checks in at 5:45am. Who on earth gets up that early?
noman, I've got both the books you sent me for distraction. Thank you so much again! the Richard Yates comes with its own bookmark ribbon. Swoon!
More comments on the days of late on tumblr.
noman, I've got both the books you sent me for distraction. Thank you so much again! the Richard Yates comes with its own bookmark ribbon. Swoon!
More comments on the days of late on tumblr.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Here's to the practice week
From dad on Saturday: Short msg fm phone over lunch. We insist on skype tom but don't need to do so to say COME!!! See you tom. Love dad.
This is the practice week. I'll go to bed by midnight tonight and get up at 10am tomorrow (instead of the lazy 11am-2am I've been keeping). Then, on Tuesday, I'll get up at 9am. Then, maybe I'll practice an 8am. I'm also practicing quitting smoking until I'm done. And, practicing drinking less wine. It will be good to be forced into a "normal" lifestyle in the US.
I'll leave the end of this week and will plan to return end of August, as all the Europeans do. I'm hoping that I can be of some use to my family while I'm back. Mum apparently needs help fixing up their house so they can put it on the market in February. Their new house should be done by November. Dad's in the process of telling his siblings and my grandmother. I warned him not to freak her into shock as I'm desperate to see her at her 93 years old, instead of in a coma from the worry.
I've also drafted my three emails to all the friends in Minneapolis, Madison, and my parents town (where I graduated high school). Haven't sent them as I won't know what my travel schedule is like until after dad's appointment next Monday with the surgeons.
I'm nervous to see him. He looked fine on skype, but the camera only shows head and shoulders. I got no glimpse of pee bag or tubes. I'm nervous about being back in the town I went to high school in - the place crushes my spirit just looking at it. Cookie cutter suburbs all decorated with American flags and deer heads, big trucks and over consumption.
My sister tried to warn me in advance about Rochester (where Mayo Clinic is). It's designed for the sick and their families. Women walking down the sidewalk with tubes in their necks, pee bags all around, and none the striking as it's just how it's done. She said she felt a bit odd when the suits rolled in for a conference, as if they were infiltrating a special community and surely didn't belong.
I figure that it might be kind of cool - in that morbid "my dad has cancer" kind of way. Somewhat like a "my dad has cancer on Mars" kind of surreal reality. Plus, all the culture shock I'll have just being in this strange country. I remember when I moved back after only 9 months of study abroad in Toledo, Spain. I was depressed from the moment I stepped into the Minneapolis airport. So much space between everyone and everything. So many cars. The Midwest is huge and separated. And, I've never been one to often revisit places I've lived, but it seems like this whole triangle keeps coming back to me. It'll be nice to have friendly faces in the mix.
This is the practice week. I'll go to bed by midnight tonight and get up at 10am tomorrow (instead of the lazy 11am-2am I've been keeping). Then, on Tuesday, I'll get up at 9am. Then, maybe I'll practice an 8am. I'm also practicing quitting smoking until I'm done. And, practicing drinking less wine. It will be good to be forced into a "normal" lifestyle in the US.
I'll leave the end of this week and will plan to return end of August, as all the Europeans do. I'm hoping that I can be of some use to my family while I'm back. Mum apparently needs help fixing up their house so they can put it on the market in February. Their new house should be done by November. Dad's in the process of telling his siblings and my grandmother. I warned him not to freak her into shock as I'm desperate to see her at her 93 years old, instead of in a coma from the worry.
I've also drafted my three emails to all the friends in Minneapolis, Madison, and my parents town (where I graduated high school). Haven't sent them as I won't know what my travel schedule is like until after dad's appointment next Monday with the surgeons.
I'm nervous to see him. He looked fine on skype, but the camera only shows head and shoulders. I got no glimpse of pee bag or tubes. I'm nervous about being back in the town I went to high school in - the place crushes my spirit just looking at it. Cookie cutter suburbs all decorated with American flags and deer heads, big trucks and over consumption.
My sister tried to warn me in advance about Rochester (where Mayo Clinic is). It's designed for the sick and their families. Women walking down the sidewalk with tubes in their necks, pee bags all around, and none the striking as it's just how it's done. She said she felt a bit odd when the suits rolled in for a conference, as if they were infiltrating a special community and surely didn't belong.
I figure that it might be kind of cool - in that morbid "my dad has cancer" kind of way. Somewhat like a "my dad has cancer on Mars" kind of surreal reality. Plus, all the culture shock I'll have just being in this strange country. I remember when I moved back after only 9 months of study abroad in Toledo, Spain. I was depressed from the moment I stepped into the Minneapolis airport. So much space between everyone and everything. So many cars. The Midwest is huge and separated. And, I've never been one to often revisit places I've lived, but it seems like this whole triangle keeps coming back to me. It'll be nice to have friendly faces in the mix.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Admiration
Always had an unhealthy relationship with my dad.
My mum has told me of a time when I was 2 years old, and I looked up at my dad, with eyelashes batting, and asked him if he'd take me for a walk.
It's not unhealthy like incest or like pushing my mom out of the way so he's all mine or holding lovers up to impossible standards that they'd never be like my dad. It's more like, I have forever known that my dad could kick your dad's ass. Even when I hated him so much that I carved his initials on my ankle so as to forever remember my hatred for him. Despite the fact that I know my dad is not strong physically and would probably not do well in a fist fight. It's more that I know he's always got my back. He might not have "gotten" me all the time, but he's always come around and fought for me.
My sister was never eager to acknowledge this. I once told my family flat out that I knew that dad and I got alone better and mum and my sister got along better. My parents denied any favoritism, but I wasn't looking for that kind of confirmation. Instead, I was stating the reality. Dad and I debate politics. We see humanity and get it. We try to pry deeper into the way things work and try to describe them with psychological thinking. We use our sciences of the mind to get below the nuances.
Whereas, my sister still carries the burdens of being an older, more protective sibling. She still harbors conflict with her upbringing. She might even be (still) jealous of the fact that I was always younger, less understanding of the complex and not-so-good environs in which we grew up. She protected me. I am naive. But as an adult she still carries this. She doesn't want to let go of the martyrdom she has given herself. She lives on it. As I live on my accepted "black sheep" lifestyle. I am the crazy one. The unreliable one. The one who, when power of attorney and wills are drawn up, sits back and laughs, "Well, I'm not the one who'll be around to take care of you!" ha ha. But I know the power of forgiveness, evolution, growth, and change. I have forgiven my parents for their wrong-doings in upbringing (no one is given the manual of "Perfect Parenthood"). I know that people develop over time into better or worse and accept that. I know people can grow and change. I know I can be less selfish and more giving, more responsible. My sister. Well, in all her beauty, she claims some kind of unrepentant and unrelenting cross to bear. I would - in all my naivete - like to relieve her of some of that, but it's not for me to do. It is only for me to offer the space for her to drop some controlled responsibility if she chooses to do so.
And, so, with that, I will go to my family. See what mischief I can stir up (inappropriate giggling comments during a serious moment, a hospital fuck in a closet with a male nurse - pipe dream, a trip over an important tube into an important organ). See what help I can offer (being a sub isn't all for nothing). See what can develop in this next story. And, certainly, while I'm aware of my sister's precious hold on the drama, I, too, need my own piece of it. I need a drama in my life. I need my father to struggle and survive, I need to see my Superhero Dad fight the battle and win.
My mum has told me of a time when I was 2 years old, and I looked up at my dad, with eyelashes batting, and asked him if he'd take me for a walk.
It's not unhealthy like incest or like pushing my mom out of the way so he's all mine or holding lovers up to impossible standards that they'd never be like my dad. It's more like, I have forever known that my dad could kick your dad's ass. Even when I hated him so much that I carved his initials on my ankle so as to forever remember my hatred for him. Despite the fact that I know my dad is not strong physically and would probably not do well in a fist fight. It's more that I know he's always got my back. He might not have "gotten" me all the time, but he's always come around and fought for me.
My sister was never eager to acknowledge this. I once told my family flat out that I knew that dad and I got alone better and mum and my sister got along better. My parents denied any favoritism, but I wasn't looking for that kind of confirmation. Instead, I was stating the reality. Dad and I debate politics. We see humanity and get it. We try to pry deeper into the way things work and try to describe them with psychological thinking. We use our sciences of the mind to get below the nuances.
Whereas, my sister still carries the burdens of being an older, more protective sibling. She still harbors conflict with her upbringing. She might even be (still) jealous of the fact that I was always younger, less understanding of the complex and not-so-good environs in which we grew up. She protected me. I am naive. But as an adult she still carries this. She doesn't want to let go of the martyrdom she has given herself. She lives on it. As I live on my accepted "black sheep" lifestyle. I am the crazy one. The unreliable one. The one who, when power of attorney and wills are drawn up, sits back and laughs, "Well, I'm not the one who'll be around to take care of you!" ha ha. But I know the power of forgiveness, evolution, growth, and change. I have forgiven my parents for their wrong-doings in upbringing (no one is given the manual of "Perfect Parenthood"). I know that people develop over time into better or worse and accept that. I know people can grow and change. I know I can be less selfish and more giving, more responsible. My sister. Well, in all her beauty, she claims some kind of unrepentant and unrelenting cross to bear. I would - in all my naivete - like to relieve her of some of that, but it's not for me to do. It is only for me to offer the space for her to drop some controlled responsibility if she chooses to do so.
And, so, with that, I will go to my family. See what mischief I can stir up (inappropriate giggling comments during a serious moment, a hospital fuck in a closet with a male nurse - pipe dream, a trip over an important tube into an important organ). See what help I can offer (being a sub isn't all for nothing). See what can develop in this next story. And, certainly, while I'm aware of my sister's precious hold on the drama, I, too, need my own piece of it. I need a drama in my life. I need my father to struggle and survive, I need to see my Superhero Dad fight the battle and win.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
It's not about the money, it's about what it means
I sent my dad last week, before all this, a spreadsheet with my projected expenses and the total I thought my loans were at with him for school.
I was kind of worrying. I'm down to my last 500 Euros or so. Not enough for rent for the upcoming month. I had kind of worried, in a selfish way, what would happen if he died. How would mum know how to transfer funds to my account to get me out of the country and back home? For all my whorish tendencies, I still seem to have a line drawn when it comes to dancing or sex work. I'm not sure what that line entails. I've often dreamed of being given money in exchange for my blowjobs, instead of some other half-assed interest or champagne or taxi fare. But something keeps stopping me from pursuing this avenue. Or, perhaps, I'm not driven enough.
Regardless, I had kept a reserve in the US bank and knew I'd get by on it for the coming weeks, despite the horrible exchange rate.
I don't live a life of luxury, but there are certainly things I can do without. And I feel constantly guilty and beating myself up for not making income. I hate debt. Never had it until now. Never wanted to be that kind of American.
And, here I am... being so goddamn selfish and worried about my own survival. I was just now sitting on the balcony thinking, well, now's a good a time as any to start asking for payments. If only I were actually fucking people. Now's as good a time as any to go get a job at Breakfast in America or Shakespeare & Company. It's not that I couldn't get a "real" job, it's just that the track was on for this film thing. I was aiming to push it around and had been doing the leg work research for this goal.
There I am. Thinking this. And thinking about how every little daughter still sees her Daddy as Superman, despite his faults. (Or the potential of Superman.) Yet, now, he'll be my Superman with a pee bag on his saddle. Or, with his hair falling out. My dad's lovely salt and pepper hair, that when it grows a bit too long starts to wave and curl.
I never meant to write about cancer. But there are 200 registered cancers. "Hello. Are you new? Let's register you into this book for posterity sake." It's more common to die from cancer, I bet, than a bus hitting you. It seems like it's become a fact of life. I wonder if the previous 500 years had its own cancers that just weren't treatable with a CT scan, dye, chemo, and surgery. We just, well, died back then.
And there I am. Thinking this, between thinking and trying not to think of it by watching Pirates of the Caribbean 2. And I send off a random SMS to my dad because I heard from a friend that it's good to send messages when you can't be present physically: I love you dad.
In return, I get an email:
From: my dad
Subject: Money
Message: Have you checked your bank account this week? Just some to keep you going. Love, Dad
Of course, I cried. I'm a selfish little girl.
Of course, I checked the account. The money was transferred on Monday, the day we showed our parents the photo reenactment, the day before the surgery.
In return, I send the email (after many, many tears and sobbing and deliberations under the stars):
From: me
Subject: RE: Money
Message: I'll need it to settle things here and come home. :)
It's time, and I know people and job offers in Chicago and Minneapolis.. DC, NYC, SF... it's good to be connected to the world.
Thanks.
I miss you and I love you.
xoxoxo
I lied about the job offers. But it doesn't matter. It might be good to be the one without a demanding job, spend some time with my mum during dad's chemo. Capture their stories - because, boy, do they have 'em! Figure out next steps as we see my dad through transformation.
Maybe. Just maybe. This is a chance to not be so goddamn selfish.
(Move: ahead one space.)
I was kind of worrying. I'm down to my last 500 Euros or so. Not enough for rent for the upcoming month. I had kind of worried, in a selfish way, what would happen if he died. How would mum know how to transfer funds to my account to get me out of the country and back home? For all my whorish tendencies, I still seem to have a line drawn when it comes to dancing or sex work. I'm not sure what that line entails. I've often dreamed of being given money in exchange for my blowjobs, instead of some other half-assed interest or champagne or taxi fare. But something keeps stopping me from pursuing this avenue. Or, perhaps, I'm not driven enough.
Regardless, I had kept a reserve in the US bank and knew I'd get by on it for the coming weeks, despite the horrible exchange rate.
I don't live a life of luxury, but there are certainly things I can do without. And I feel constantly guilty and beating myself up for not making income. I hate debt. Never had it until now. Never wanted to be that kind of American.
And, here I am... being so goddamn selfish and worried about my own survival. I was just now sitting on the balcony thinking, well, now's a good a time as any to start asking for payments. If only I were actually fucking people. Now's as good a time as any to go get a job at Breakfast in America or Shakespeare & Company. It's not that I couldn't get a "real" job, it's just that the track was on for this film thing. I was aiming to push it around and had been doing the leg work research for this goal.
There I am. Thinking this. And thinking about how every little daughter still sees her Daddy as Superman, despite his faults. (Or the potential of Superman.) Yet, now, he'll be my Superman with a pee bag on his saddle. Or, with his hair falling out. My dad's lovely salt and pepper hair, that when it grows a bit too long starts to wave and curl.
I never meant to write about cancer. But there are 200 registered cancers. "Hello. Are you new? Let's register you into this book for posterity sake." It's more common to die from cancer, I bet, than a bus hitting you. It seems like it's become a fact of life. I wonder if the previous 500 years had its own cancers that just weren't treatable with a CT scan, dye, chemo, and surgery. We just, well, died back then.
And there I am. Thinking this, between thinking and trying not to think of it by watching Pirates of the Caribbean 2. And I send off a random SMS to my dad because I heard from a friend that it's good to send messages when you can't be present physically: I love you dad.
In return, I get an email:
From: my dad
Subject: Money
Message: Have you checked your bank account this week? Just some to keep you going. Love, Dad
Of course, I cried. I'm a selfish little girl.
Of course, I checked the account. The money was transferred on Monday, the day we showed our parents the photo reenactment, the day before the surgery.
In return, I send the email (after many, many tears and sobbing and deliberations under the stars):
From: me
Subject: RE: Money
Message: I'll need it to settle things here and come home. :)
It's time, and I know people and job offers in Chicago and Minneapolis.. DC, NYC, SF... it's good to be connected to the world.
Thanks.
I miss you and I love you.
xoxoxo
I lied about the job offers. But it doesn't matter. It might be good to be the one without a demanding job, spend some time with my mum during dad's chemo. Capture their stories - because, boy, do they have 'em! Figure out next steps as we see my dad through transformation.
Maybe. Just maybe. This is a chance to not be so goddamn selfish.
(Move: ahead one space.)
Marshmallow
I've had two "Bladder Cancer" tabs open in my browser for a day now.
My dad called me after my mum and sister had gone for lunch. He was even-toned and all matters-appropriately-considered. His blood pressure hasn't been this low in a long time, he said.
"You must like being hospitals then, dad."
"Well, I do. I've always liked my annual military check-up. It's kind of a competition. Not with others, but with my own health. See where I'm doing better, where I'm not doing so well. Although, as a kid growing up in the military, I didn't have good experiences with dentists. So, it's taken a long, long time for me to be able to sit in a dentist chair with more than just my toes and head touching it. This, it's not so bad. Kind of curious. We got to see high definition photos of the bladder. It's kind of neat."
That's my ol' man. I suppose that's where I get my keenness for endurance kink and my competitive streak.
They released him from the hospital this evening (Paris time). He'll go across the street to the hotel, have a meal, change his pee bag and take care of the catheter (for which my sister said she didn't express much interest in learning to help). He's got to drink a ton of liquids because the dye they'll use for tomorrow's CT scan can affect the kidneys if there's not enough fluids in the body. 7am. CT to pinpoint the scope of the cancer.
Dad explained it to me on the phone, but I'd already heard about it from my sister and the Mayo "Bladder Cancer" pages. At this point, it's likely they'll remove his bladder, and probably his prostate, and, if the cancer has spread, the lymph glands in the area. He was all very contained in describing it. We all are in my family - a bit of control freaks. The doctors told him that they could reformulate a bladder using a part of the intestine (which I'd read on the website, too).
We'll find out tomorrow what the state of his insides are.
Tonight, I might go out. I might stay in. There's nothing I can really do. Sure, I could start seriously job hunting for jobs in the Chicago/Minneapolis area - or just back in the mainland. And, I'd move back in an instant for my family. And, I probably will. There's no way I could stay over here with my dad undergoing chemo or another surgery without me being able to talk to him, hug him, smell him, and feel his smile.
But, for now, I can't seem to think about these things. I just feel stuck. Stuck in a kind of marshmallow way. I have an email poised and ready to be sent to the director of our program regarding his incorrect assumption that they have copyright of our film because they funded it. I've stopped the search for ideas for showing and selling the film. I've not written the TV Producer back when he asks to see me again and that he's got comments on the film. I haven't written a word for the upcoming Saturday afternoon "The Other Writers Group" at Shakespeare & Company - was thinking to go with a piece of writing to share and get feedback.
Everything on hold. But still moving along the spaces on the board.
My dad called me after my mum and sister had gone for lunch. He was even-toned and all matters-appropriately-considered. His blood pressure hasn't been this low in a long time, he said.
"You must like being hospitals then, dad."
"Well, I do. I've always liked my annual military check-up. It's kind of a competition. Not with others, but with my own health. See where I'm doing better, where I'm not doing so well. Although, as a kid growing up in the military, I didn't have good experiences with dentists. So, it's taken a long, long time for me to be able to sit in a dentist chair with more than just my toes and head touching it. This, it's not so bad. Kind of curious. We got to see high definition photos of the bladder. It's kind of neat."
That's my ol' man. I suppose that's where I get my keenness for endurance kink and my competitive streak.
They released him from the hospital this evening (Paris time). He'll go across the street to the hotel, have a meal, change his pee bag and take care of the catheter (for which my sister said she didn't express much interest in learning to help). He's got to drink a ton of liquids because the dye they'll use for tomorrow's CT scan can affect the kidneys if there's not enough fluids in the body. 7am. CT to pinpoint the scope of the cancer.
Dad explained it to me on the phone, but I'd already heard about it from my sister and the Mayo "Bladder Cancer" pages. At this point, it's likely they'll remove his bladder, and probably his prostate, and, if the cancer has spread, the lymph glands in the area. He was all very contained in describing it. We all are in my family - a bit of control freaks. The doctors told him that they could reformulate a bladder using a part of the intestine (which I'd read on the website, too).
We'll find out tomorrow what the state of his insides are.
Tonight, I might go out. I might stay in. There's nothing I can really do. Sure, I could start seriously job hunting for jobs in the Chicago/Minneapolis area - or just back in the mainland. And, I'd move back in an instant for my family. And, I probably will. There's no way I could stay over here with my dad undergoing chemo or another surgery without me being able to talk to him, hug him, smell him, and feel his smile.
But, for now, I can't seem to think about these things. I just feel stuck. Stuck in a kind of marshmallow way. I have an email poised and ready to be sent to the director of our program regarding his incorrect assumption that they have copyright of our film because they funded it. I've stopped the search for ideas for showing and selling the film. I've not written the TV Producer back when he asks to see me again and that he's got comments on the film. I haven't written a word for the upcoming Saturday afternoon "The Other Writers Group" at Shakespeare & Company - was thinking to go with a piece of writing to share and get feedback.
Everything on hold. But still moving along the spaces on the board.
Waiting for time zones
My sister says not to book a panic ticket back to the States. My mother couldn't come to the phone at all yesterday.
I couldn't understand what to do with myself last night.
It doesn't feel like a board game, where you miniaturize yourself into a little pink or blue peg with a round head, as each space offers you a new car, a wife or husband, one to three children, a mansion or a shack. It seems more like I just keep moving one space ahead, and all the questions about why or how struggle inside my little pink head. Like, the whole board connects and there really is no roll of the dice or choosing a card from the deck to determine next moves.
Why did I not move to Switzerland when Mr FD was offering? I had rational explanations: Paris is a more central hub from which to work, I need my own apartment / space, I don't think I'm slave material, etc. But the feelings underneath, surrounding me, swirling around my head as I lay floating in the sea - those feelings never really found explanations for themselves. Even as I tried to describe them to close friends, I couldn't solidly comprehend them.
Why was the vacation with my sister so meaningful? We grew closer than ever before. We took a day trip out of Amsterdam into a small city on the shore to reenact a photo from our youth, a surprise we gave to my parents two days ago.
Why did I choose to stay in Paris? One by one and in groups, my colleagues who have been my closest friends over the past two years have left the city. For two weeks, I've questioned the night sky about my loneliness, about community, about the curious desire for intense friendship.
Why did I visit the TV Producer? When I left his apartment, one sigh was of relief for releasing pent-up sexual frustration, the other sigh was for the old pattern: trading my ability for a lengthily, labor-of-love cocksucking for a short ride on his lap that ended before I began.
Why did the Butcher and I reinstate our friendship? Our dinner and drinks before he left for Asia led to me crying in his comforting arms. Last night, we were supposed to have dinner and drinks. I pushed it back to just drinks, and then cancelled, feeling like I should stay home to hear how dad's surgery was going. My sister called 15 minutes after I should have been at the Buther's apartment, "You home?"
It seems that, for me (not applicable to everyone) things have a way of just happening. I'm not commenting on quality of these events or feelings, and I'm not saying it was destiny that my father get bladder cancer (if it's that). But these little spaces on my board game seem on the one hand, predetermined, and on the other hand, whispering warning signs or encouragement to assist my free will.
And, now, well, right now, I have no idea what to do with myself. Last night, after I did and didn't do as much as I could (not booking a panic flight, but telling my landlord I might return to the States for a week or forever), all I could finally do was take a sleeping pill and drift off with the phone in my hand and "Pirates of the Caribbean" tallying ho in my ears.
My sister called at about 4am. Our father was out of recovery and was awake, but totally incoherent in his post-anesthesia dream land. She said he sounded like grandma, his mom who is slowly sinking into Alzheimer's and who rambles on about disconnected subjects and tells disjointed stories. Apparently, the hospital staff mistook this as a signal that our dad was fine, alert, and comprehending the situation. "Clearly," my sister said "they do not know dad." He's never a rambler. He deliberately chooses the words to explain his thoughts, even if it takes hours to tell a story about a trip to the grocery store. He was obviously not wholly conscious and probably didn't know what was going on in the slightest.
She said the doctor thought a CAT scan would be next in order and she urged him to schedule it now. I guess this idea hadn't occurred to him - they're so used to following procedure.
So, now, I wait. I wait for the 10,000 lakes to wake up.
I took a shower, fed myself, did laundry, and started a new book. These seem so mundane, but they're taking more effort than usual. When I indulge myself, I'm sick with guilt that I'm on this gourmand holiday while my sister and mother cry in the stale, air conditioned hallways of the hospital.
And then, just now, the next space on the board: he's awake, eating, feeling well and doctors will visit in a couple of hours.
I couldn't understand what to do with myself last night.
It doesn't feel like a board game, where you miniaturize yourself into a little pink or blue peg with a round head, as each space offers you a new car, a wife or husband, one to three children, a mansion or a shack. It seems more like I just keep moving one space ahead, and all the questions about why or how struggle inside my little pink head. Like, the whole board connects and there really is no roll of the dice or choosing a card from the deck to determine next moves.
Why did I not move to Switzerland when Mr FD was offering? I had rational explanations: Paris is a more central hub from which to work, I need my own apartment / space, I don't think I'm slave material, etc. But the feelings underneath, surrounding me, swirling around my head as I lay floating in the sea - those feelings never really found explanations for themselves. Even as I tried to describe them to close friends, I couldn't solidly comprehend them.
Why was the vacation with my sister so meaningful? We grew closer than ever before. We took a day trip out of Amsterdam into a small city on the shore to reenact a photo from our youth, a surprise we gave to my parents two days ago.
Why did I choose to stay in Paris? One by one and in groups, my colleagues who have been my closest friends over the past two years have left the city. For two weeks, I've questioned the night sky about my loneliness, about community, about the curious desire for intense friendship.
Why did I visit the TV Producer? When I left his apartment, one sigh was of relief for releasing pent-up sexual frustration, the other sigh was for the old pattern: trading my ability for a lengthily, labor-of-love cocksucking for a short ride on his lap that ended before I began.
Why did the Butcher and I reinstate our friendship? Our dinner and drinks before he left for Asia led to me crying in his comforting arms. Last night, we were supposed to have dinner and drinks. I pushed it back to just drinks, and then cancelled, feeling like I should stay home to hear how dad's surgery was going. My sister called 15 minutes after I should have been at the Buther's apartment, "You home?"
It seems that, for me (not applicable to everyone) things have a way of just happening. I'm not commenting on quality of these events or feelings, and I'm not saying it was destiny that my father get bladder cancer (if it's that). But these little spaces on my board game seem on the one hand, predetermined, and on the other hand, whispering warning signs or encouragement to assist my free will.
And, now, well, right now, I have no idea what to do with myself. Last night, after I did and didn't do as much as I could (not booking a panic flight, but telling my landlord I might return to the States for a week or forever), all I could finally do was take a sleeping pill and drift off with the phone in my hand and "Pirates of the Caribbean" tallying ho in my ears.
My sister called at about 4am. Our father was out of recovery and was awake, but totally incoherent in his post-anesthesia dream land. She said he sounded like grandma, his mom who is slowly sinking into Alzheimer's and who rambles on about disconnected subjects and tells disjointed stories. Apparently, the hospital staff mistook this as a signal that our dad was fine, alert, and comprehending the situation. "Clearly," my sister said "they do not know dad." He's never a rambler. He deliberately chooses the words to explain his thoughts, even if it takes hours to tell a story about a trip to the grocery store. He was obviously not wholly conscious and probably didn't know what was going on in the slightest.
She said the doctor thought a CAT scan would be next in order and she urged him to schedule it now. I guess this idea hadn't occurred to him - they're so used to following procedure.
So, now, I wait. I wait for the 10,000 lakes to wake up.
I took a shower, fed myself, did laundry, and started a new book. These seem so mundane, but they're taking more effort than usual. When I indulge myself, I'm sick with guilt that I'm on this gourmand holiday while my sister and mother cry in the stale, air conditioned hallways of the hospital.
And then, just now, the next space on the board: he's awake, eating, feeling well and doctors will visit in a couple of hours.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
yes, Sir.
Packing and re-reading my instructions.
Tomorrow I head back to Mr FD in Switzerland - back to my new home. Big hugs, strict enforcement, clear instructions, Bollywood, whiskey, amazing kisses, peace with my service, pain where I need it, deep sleep, pushing through boundaries, cuddles, and so much more.
There's even a footnote in the PDF instructions. Swooning.
#########
It's amazing how tired I am. Combined with a delayed girl-period, I thought for sure I was pregnant again. I was awake a total of 6 hours on Monday and have no idea how I'm still awake now. I'm getting on with the sickness, although it feels like the antibiotics aren't doing anything to my pressure head. I feel dizzy. The steroids to reduce the swelling make me feel like I'm on speed and could clean the apartment all day. On the inside, I feel like I'm running. On the outside, I've got bags under my eyes and could sleep for 20 hours. I feel like I need a neck and shoulder massage I'm so tense. My poor little body is fighting a civil war on its own accord.
My schedule for the next month is crazy intense with finishing our graduate project. If I'm not in class, or home on the weekends writing my 2 major papers, I'll be in a meeting with the team mates. The homestay this weekend is perfectly timed to get me out of this hell and then rejuvenate me with new confidence and strength.
7:58am my train departs tomorrow. I will sleep and probably snore. Through the hills of France into the lake.
Re-reading my instructions, I realized this is what I needed to not feel removed or far. The moment I put eyes onto them I could feel the excitement again, the swoon for him, the "this is how I want it to be forever." I have thanked the gods repeatedly today. I'm not sure if it's enough. I'm the luckiest girl in the whole wide world. And tomorrow pain and humiliation will befall me, and like a marathon, I will enjoy it, hate it, be challenged by it, and will cross the finish with the last leg of energy I have, thinking, "I can't fucking wait to do this again."
Tomorrow I head back to Mr FD in Switzerland - back to my new home. Big hugs, strict enforcement, clear instructions, Bollywood, whiskey, amazing kisses, peace with my service, pain where I need it, deep sleep, pushing through boundaries, cuddles, and so much more.
There's even a footnote in the PDF instructions. Swooning.
#########
It's amazing how tired I am. Combined with a delayed girl-period, I thought for sure I was pregnant again. I was awake a total of 6 hours on Monday and have no idea how I'm still awake now. I'm getting on with the sickness, although it feels like the antibiotics aren't doing anything to my pressure head. I feel dizzy. The steroids to reduce the swelling make me feel like I'm on speed and could clean the apartment all day. On the inside, I feel like I'm running. On the outside, I've got bags under my eyes and could sleep for 20 hours. I feel like I need a neck and shoulder massage I'm so tense. My poor little body is fighting a civil war on its own accord.
My schedule for the next month is crazy intense with finishing our graduate project. If I'm not in class, or home on the weekends writing my 2 major papers, I'll be in a meeting with the team mates. The homestay this weekend is perfectly timed to get me out of this hell and then rejuvenate me with new confidence and strength.
7:58am my train departs tomorrow. I will sleep and probably snore. Through the hills of France into the lake.
Re-reading my instructions, I realized this is what I needed to not feel removed or far. The moment I put eyes onto them I could feel the excitement again, the swoon for him, the "this is how I want it to be forever." I have thanked the gods repeatedly today. I'm not sure if it's enough. I'm the luckiest girl in the whole wide world. And tomorrow pain and humiliation will befall me, and like a marathon, I will enjoy it, hate it, be challenged by it, and will cross the finish with the last leg of energy I have, thinking, "I can't fucking wait to do this again."
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Tales
Cheating Death Once Again: Tales of Modern Romance
No, I'm not all that romantic am I?
CDOA: Tales of a Third Generation Anais Nin
No, I'm not that egotistical to think I could even be close to her. (And, frankly, noman, I had to put her diary down for a while. Man, did she whine quite a bit about her lovers and circumstances with them... God, do I do that?)
CDOA: Tales of Modern Lust
Perhaps. But I am more than this.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The beginning. A very good place to start, so said the nanny. Let me count the ways. Let me be free.
Each orgasm is never like the last and none are like when I do it myself. Now, it's straight to Literotica chat to talk about naughty age play. I am not a roleplayer now. I am a dreamer - a what if we could, a what if I pretended I would, a place as they all are for us to fantasize (the magic word that lets - let's - us all say the things we'd never enact). And while the boring introductions roll through to me (Hi, I'm 47/m/UK - or - you are late from school and i must punish you as your step-father - or - you catch me sniffing your panties.... after all Lola states no limits and asks for pervy men), I open the other window to You Porn and scroll through the new ones or search for the fantasies: older men, creampie, anal, glory hole.
And I turn the egg vibe up slowly and push my clit out like a cock. (When did the male rooster become the object of my desire?) I can feel what (and with) men do. The rising up the scale of arousal, concentrated like a pulsing red target between my thighs. And there are those moments when I can catch it and slow down the vibe to make it last longer - an hour if I like. Or, days when it escapes me and I'm only mid-way through the most depraved "Best ANAL compilation yet.... ASS BUTT..." ["stick that ass up - there it is baby - it's in my ass - your cock is in my ass" and "mmm I like that... bitch, you like that? where you goin'? where you goin'? put that fucking leg down - put those knees on the floor!" and the grand finale with the pretty chick freaking out with a cum on her face "get back here, suck it out, don't open your fucking eyes, just suck my dick.. say good-bye plastic man... good bye plastic man.") And I just can't hold back. It's pulsing and contracting, its pulsing and contracting and then to shut off the vibration because it's too much then.
I am thinking of the nice slowness of the butcher and how he entered my raised ass with his fingers and hands and then his cock, only to sag at seeing blood, thinking I was in pain when I was only in excitement. The first ass fuck in so long, too long. I am picturing when I'm on my back and wanting to be on my knees and why he thinks he's taking me when I feel myself bouncing back on to him. I am thinking of the fuck we tried to have on the side of the road in rural France, when my knee started to sting and I looked down to see tens of too many red ants swarming our knees and how he suddenly felt the sting and we ran back to the car with burning all throughout our bodies. I was prepared to ignore it and bend over into the car to finish when a very old, wrinkly man and his dog came around the corner of the abandoned farm house.
I am seeing him on the floor of the cabin when we arrived and me squatting over his face, thinking back to the squat over the roadside toilet and pushing but not pushing to let the piss come out and down to his pursed lips and then sucked into his mouth. I cannot replicate this. It feels too wrong for me to give this way. My entire body fights against his request for this. He should be peeing on me. And then along the road with a perfect sunset on a castle miles in front of the car. I am leaning backwards across the passenger seat and over the gear stick, my knees are wide open and he is licking me with the passenger door open. Tourists are coming. I can see the sky the green grass his head the bright daylight.
I am feeling red slaps on my ass and homemade whips on my back - enough to break skin just before bathing suit time in Italy with my sister. I am reading so many SMS from him when I wanted short words.
And then, there is Italy. We drove to Cinque Terre and stayed in a quiet hotel that felt old and empty, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. I caught a glimpse of the speedy motorcycle couple. They only travelled with the thick, protective moto suits and light tee-shirts and underwear under neath. She was drying her shirt on the terrace adjacent to us and was wearing the smallest bikini bottoms I'd ever seen - her thong, duh. They'd come to dinner in moto wear since it was the only clothing. An young man with shaved head, looking a bit skinhead and an older woman with dyed black straight hair.
And one day we parked and blocked a Harley guy from entering to register at the hotel. We joked and made eyes. Later that night he and his friend were at the table together and we made more eyes. He must have been in his late 50's and his friend in early 60's. Seeing the older of the two go out for smokes on the terrace from the dining room, I wanted a smoke. My sister acquiesced to my leaving the table for vice. I wanted the younger of the two but he tsk'd tsk'd me on smoking. My sister joined the Harley Younger at the table while Harley Older and I talked on the terrace. Pretty soon more wine came, we laughed the other 4 patrons out of the restaurant (old, unhappy couples), we got kicked out and took a bottle of wine to the Harley Older room. We laughed and talked and smoked and I started cuddling up to Harley Older, and Harley Younger started grabbing my sister's ass, but she felt uncomfortable (I remember drunkenly telling her, "Don't do anything you don't want to do."). Harley Older closed the door behind them and locked it and I know he said, "Ride it. Yes, yes, cum." And I don't think he could last very long, that German Swiss man.
I was defiant in another town in Italy and found a quiet cobblestone road to pee on and then argued with the local Italian men we met about why men can openly pee but women can't. It was the first fight of me and my sister and I stayed out with the men we met (celebrating a married friend) and got walked home by a man boy who couldn't kiss to keep me out from swerving to the hotel room.
In the last city, my sister and I missed our return flight. I thought it was Thursday but it was Wednesday. The extra 100E we paid was for being one more day together and it was great. An enormous storm came in and threatened to flood the already watery town. We laughed and ran together in the rain.
And forseeing nothing here in Geneva, my destiny found itself. I returned to Paris once for the aforementioned fucking in rural France. And after, I decided I needed to buy a bicycle to avoid paying 4-7 chf a day to get to and from work with stops between on the bus. Plus, it's more of a bike town than Madison, but perhaps equal to Amsterdam (from what I've seen). I sent a general message to the other interns and got a secret from one of the Americans. A small indie bike shop, owned by a Scot guy, who makes bikes for you or sells cool ones. Not like the other options of buying from a [insert Wal or Targ like store in the US].
Of course, I had already called out the bike I wanted to the gods: subject: women's bicycle - Negotiable on cost. Used or new. Women's style or men's style frame. Need a decent bicycle to get around town on. Bonus if it is more mountain bike and less racing bike; has a basket or back seat shelf; water bottle carrier; and has been loved. Thanks!
So, when I visited it was genius. I followed Google Maps (what did we do before this?) and found the store with bikes lined up outside. Walked in to find a guy over an upside bike. He looked up and I was hit with cupid desire. One bright blue eye, one black as night eye (not color, but defect). I mentioned the above and we bantered back and forth, flirting as Western cultures do. An excerpt:
I fell for the bike guy there. I've been back twice. Once for a sticker that is insurance - and he said I'd better come back and what does he do on the weekends or when he's not working, I asked. He sleeps. And would I like to sleep with him? A bit too forward for the second. But I went back for an alignment and a seat adjustment and I got grease on my leg and he pointed it out. I said it didn't matter. He got down on a knee and wiped it off and pretended to fog my calf with his breath to shine it.
And one night, after biking 50km (to another town with my girl friend from work and biking back), I wanted a whiskey and a smoke so I parked the bike inside the building and went to the nearby plaza. The plaza which dates back to Roman era and heralds back to days of beheadings and hangings (a very detailed article I read told of how the merchants from out of town would arrive to the city gate and find it locked, knowing there was a beheading happening, would wait until the body was thrown over the city walls knowing that they'd be let in at that point; and tales of whores 2 streets over; and then Voltaire and then Calvin - who I was told fucked boys). I got a Red Label straight and was given 2 cigarettes by a nice guy and then closed out some guy who sat at my table - the plaza bar seating is always packed, and with rich people.
And then, one night, after hours of sorting and editing and uploading and titling some photos (I started with 2000+ and I'm only up to Italy in June now). I wanted a smoke and whiskey so I went back to the plaza. Cased the place and found no seats. Was fake SMS sending to appear like I was with friends and then spotted a guy smoking, asked for a cigarette and got 2 (they are so much nicer here than in Paris). Walked away and decided to ask if I could sit at his table. We chatted and I got whiskey and I ended up speaking Spanish with the Spaniard and then going back to his place for more whiskey and ended up fucking him.
I'm not sure about this guy. His story seems to be that he's from here, a dad that's Spanish, a mom that's Swiss. He's forty, owns and lives in a sparse apartment in this part of town (which means wealth) and rents out a furnished apartment in another part of town (which means more wealth). He's an economist by trade and just finished dating some woman who bore his kid. He's a bee keeper and gave me honey in a jar with a label with his name. He's off to Spain this weekend to sail and catch huge calamari with his father. And he can't keep an erection. But he can make up for it with dildos and licking and fingers. And he's got a great collection of classical and flamenco music.
The second time I saw him he invited me for a drink on the plaza and then back to his place. It's becoming a ritual I guess, based on our third date. And then, we talk and drink whiskey on the rocks and he adds coke to his and then later offers me coke - up my nose. I haven't done drugs in a long time, but I took a line and thought, well now we'll see how his cock behaves. And, again, up and down like a rollercoaster. Dependent upon nothing, reacting to no one. Coming and going. The second date, he took his cock and rubbed the head up and down my slit. Over and over again. And, on coke, let me tell you... It feels almost greater than my own private vibe. Pulling my knees apart wider and wider and feeling this sensation of hunger and thrill and sensitivity. The last time I saw him somehow a porn of lesbians ended up on his tele screen. And he tried to fuck my ass but it wasn't happy enough for this. So, he stayed hard and fucked me for longer than I could handle - or what seemed long, when really it wasn't so long at all. We ended up laying down watching a Vigo Mortensen film while he caressed me - all riled up from the coke, each stroke felt like my skin was missing and all I had was nerves feeling his slow hands. And, then, I left. It's good to leave and especially at 12:50am. Enough time to crash before work, enough space to pass out, enough promise that I will get sleep.
And then, back to Paris. The butcher enticed me to cross the border and accompany him to a huge family celebration. It was overwhelming and I said no at first, and then he lobbied me (his words, genius). A sociological study, a tradition of France, an interesting circumstance, a photographic exploration. I had to do it. And then, there were so many people who were impressed by meeting me. And then, he didn't help the situation of my commitment and seriousness fear. He told me how so many people asked if I was "the one" and he told me that the told them no.
But really, it's a French cultural thing - from what I gather. While we Americans are so pragmatic and slightly cold and removed. The French are latin. They say I love you early (the butcher said it after a month of dating once a week, and said "Would you mind if I told you I love you?" I said yes without a beat). They say I love you often. They hold and cuddle and kiss and embrace and make out in public. They swoon and woo and romance. They eat love and hearts and cupid and romance for breakfast, lunch, apertif, and dinner. So, he followed his nature and we agreed to follow and allow our own natures. He'd say out loud what he thought and I'd brush it off. We agreed to act naturally. So, when we went to the full family (cousins from 5 to 80, parents, aunts, uncles, friends), I knew what *I* was doing - removed and observing. And he knew what he was doing.
I left the weekend feeling a genetic repulsion and a need for space. While I want him, I want it in context and within reason. I did feel days of longing for him and did feel moments of love. But they were subsumed with strange pushing away. I had to break away and stay away. When he asked if we'd see each other in 2 weeks I said I had writing and photos to attend to, I had to get to know this new city and get out on bikes. All of a sudden I felt put on a pedestal and too high for comfort. I felt needed and wanted nothing of that.
I also left with an infection - curses, batman! So, I had a week of getting to know the medical system in this city. Again the mixing of holes for poor Lola. She is so sensitive. My body reacts to the slightest disagreement, the slightest imbalance. My feet can't handle the round bars of the ladder to my flatmate's loft bedroom. My skin is burning brown from the sun here. My emotions make the sun follow me from city to city without rain. My cunnie is too precious for combinations. I went to the family planning place in town and they literally only do that - no tests, only words, and only help for pregnant women. They sent me across the street to the hospital maternity ward. They wanted 500 chf (1 chf = 1 USD) deposit for a consultation. The receptionist sent me to some urgent care clinic and a gyno doc. He was awesome. In the business for years and years and years. We spent an hour together. Me detailing my history. Him asking questions and making inappropriate jokes and over-sharing about anonymous patients who thought the suppository was for their mouth. He showed me where to give the pee test (the WC - which they called Winston Churchill room for a while). He let me stand in the lab while the pee test ran and he chatted in French on the phone, almost pulling it off the desk. He invited me into the stirrups and I undressed in front of him and then he described each manouever into me and then invited me to view the slide he'd made under the microscope. He recommended homeopathic remedies. They didn't work. I went back and waited an hour to see him for test results. He called the lab on Friday night and put them on speaker so I could hear. He reluctantly prescribed me antibiotics -- we are so accustomed us Americans. Our alternate bodies in another reality hugged goodbye. I biked on my super bike to the only open pharmacy after 6pm and got drugs that fixed me up. I want to finger paint a drawing of happy sun and beach and grass and send it to him.
And now. Here I am.
Finally. The stories of this moment told.
I have no idea what will happen but I'm on AFF and ALT and planning to replace the Spaniard with the bike shop owner. I'm totally mad for the butcher but have to space myself. I don't love my internship but I'm growing to love the city. I have a great girl friend who is Russian and who intrigues me to no end. I have bicycle freedom to take me through the city and learn me the one-way streets. I miss my Paris and my apartment and my bread shop and hookers. I am not sure why I am here or what I should do. I keep whispering over and over to people that I will (am) write a book here. But I have thousands of photos first. I have no interest in finding a better internship or working too hard, in fact I wanted to quit due to almost complete boredom. But there is a culture of sorts which I like. And a morning bike ride which tests my strategic senses and a bike ride home which gives me air. There's a cat that brought me a gift (ask if you want more info - it's a good story). And ghosts that live in this apartment (suicide makes them linger). And a good flatmate who reads my tarot and allows me to be. Things are too perfect. I wonder when they'll break. Or perhaps, I already know this. As I've said - I won't make it to 40. So, maybe, this is my living the fullest now. Perhaps the crazy dream feeling is a reality and I'm fortunate enough to know and now can't do anything other than feel it. Be it. Be here now.
No, I'm not all that romantic am I?
CDOA: Tales of a Third Generation Anais Nin
No, I'm not that egotistical to think I could even be close to her. (And, frankly, noman, I had to put her diary down for a while. Man, did she whine quite a bit about her lovers and circumstances with them... God, do I do that?)
CDOA: Tales of Modern Lust
Perhaps. But I am more than this.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The beginning. A very good place to start, so said the nanny. Let me count the ways. Let me be free.
Each orgasm is never like the last and none are like when I do it myself. Now, it's straight to Literotica chat to talk about naughty age play. I am not a roleplayer now. I am a dreamer - a what if we could, a what if I pretended I would, a place as they all are for us to fantasize (the magic word that lets - let's - us all say the things we'd never enact). And while the boring introductions roll through to me (Hi, I'm 47/m/UK - or - you are late from school and i must punish you as your step-father - or - you catch me sniffing your panties.... after all Lola states no limits and asks for pervy men), I open the other window to You Porn and scroll through the new ones or search for the fantasies: older men, creampie, anal, glory hole.
And I turn the egg vibe up slowly and push my clit out like a cock. (When did the male rooster become the object of my desire?) I can feel what (and with) men do. The rising up the scale of arousal, concentrated like a pulsing red target between my thighs. And there are those moments when I can catch it and slow down the vibe to make it last longer - an hour if I like. Or, days when it escapes me and I'm only mid-way through the most depraved "Best ANAL compilation yet.... ASS BUTT..." ["stick that ass up - there it is baby - it's in my ass - your cock is in my ass" and "mmm I like that... bitch, you like that? where you goin'? where you goin'? put that fucking leg down - put those knees on the floor!" and the grand finale with the pretty chick freaking out with a cum on her face "get back here, suck it out, don't open your fucking eyes, just suck my dick.. say good-bye plastic man... good bye plastic man.") And I just can't hold back. It's pulsing and contracting, its pulsing and contracting and then to shut off the vibration because it's too much then.
I am thinking of the nice slowness of the butcher and how he entered my raised ass with his fingers and hands and then his cock, only to sag at seeing blood, thinking I was in pain when I was only in excitement. The first ass fuck in so long, too long. I am picturing when I'm on my back and wanting to be on my knees and why he thinks he's taking me when I feel myself bouncing back on to him. I am thinking of the fuck we tried to have on the side of the road in rural France, when my knee started to sting and I looked down to see tens of too many red ants swarming our knees and how he suddenly felt the sting and we ran back to the car with burning all throughout our bodies. I was prepared to ignore it and bend over into the car to finish when a very old, wrinkly man and his dog came around the corner of the abandoned farm house.
I am seeing him on the floor of the cabin when we arrived and me squatting over his face, thinking back to the squat over the roadside toilet and pushing but not pushing to let the piss come out and down to his pursed lips and then sucked into his mouth. I cannot replicate this. It feels too wrong for me to give this way. My entire body fights against his request for this. He should be peeing on me. And then along the road with a perfect sunset on a castle miles in front of the car. I am leaning backwards across the passenger seat and over the gear stick, my knees are wide open and he is licking me with the passenger door open. Tourists are coming. I can see the sky the green grass his head the bright daylight.
I am feeling red slaps on my ass and homemade whips on my back - enough to break skin just before bathing suit time in Italy with my sister. I am reading so many SMS from him when I wanted short words.
And then, there is Italy. We drove to Cinque Terre and stayed in a quiet hotel that felt old and empty, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. I caught a glimpse of the speedy motorcycle couple. They only travelled with the thick, protective moto suits and light tee-shirts and underwear under neath. She was drying her shirt on the terrace adjacent to us and was wearing the smallest bikini bottoms I'd ever seen - her thong, duh. They'd come to dinner in moto wear since it was the only clothing. An young man with shaved head, looking a bit skinhead and an older woman with dyed black straight hair.
And one day we parked and blocked a Harley guy from entering to register at the hotel. We joked and made eyes. Later that night he and his friend were at the table together and we made more eyes. He must have been in his late 50's and his friend in early 60's. Seeing the older of the two go out for smokes on the terrace from the dining room, I wanted a smoke. My sister acquiesced to my leaving the table for vice. I wanted the younger of the two but he tsk'd tsk'd me on smoking. My sister joined the Harley Younger at the table while Harley Older and I talked on the terrace. Pretty soon more wine came, we laughed the other 4 patrons out of the restaurant (old, unhappy couples), we got kicked out and took a bottle of wine to the Harley Older room. We laughed and talked and smoked and I started cuddling up to Harley Older, and Harley Younger started grabbing my sister's ass, but she felt uncomfortable (I remember drunkenly telling her, "Don't do anything you don't want to do."). Harley Older closed the door behind them and locked it and I know he said, "Ride it. Yes, yes, cum." And I don't think he could last very long, that German Swiss man.
I was defiant in another town in Italy and found a quiet cobblestone road to pee on and then argued with the local Italian men we met about why men can openly pee but women can't. It was the first fight of me and my sister and I stayed out with the men we met (celebrating a married friend) and got walked home by a man boy who couldn't kiss to keep me out from swerving to the hotel room.
In the last city, my sister and I missed our return flight. I thought it was Thursday but it was Wednesday. The extra 100E we paid was for being one more day together and it was great. An enormous storm came in and threatened to flood the already watery town. We laughed and ran together in the rain.
And forseeing nothing here in Geneva, my destiny found itself. I returned to Paris once for the aforementioned fucking in rural France. And after, I decided I needed to buy a bicycle to avoid paying 4-7 chf a day to get to and from work with stops between on the bus. Plus, it's more of a bike town than Madison, but perhaps equal to Amsterdam (from what I've seen). I sent a general message to the other interns and got a secret from one of the Americans. A small indie bike shop, owned by a Scot guy, who makes bikes for you or sells cool ones. Not like the other options of buying from a [insert Wal or Targ like store in the US].
Of course, I had already called out the bike I wanted to the gods: subject: women's bicycle - Negotiable on cost. Used or new. Women's style or men's style frame. Need a decent bicycle to get around town on. Bonus if it is more mountain bike and less racing bike; has a basket or back seat shelf; water bottle carrier; and has been loved. Thanks!
So, when I visited it was genius. I followed Google Maps (what did we do before this?) and found the store with bikes lined up outside. Walked in to find a guy over an upside bike. He looked up and I was hit with cupid desire. One bright blue eye, one black as night eye (not color, but defect). I mentioned the above and we bantered back and forth, flirting as Western cultures do. An excerpt:
"I'd like a bike, not for road cycling or mountain biking but for going about town, something around 140chf, is it possible?" I asked.
He scoffed a little, moved around, turned his back to me to put a tool down, and mumbled that most of the bikes in view right now were going for 260, but he didn't turn down the beginning of our bargaining. "It's possible, I mean what kind of bike do you want? A man's frame? A woman's frame?"
"It doesn't matter so much. A bike that needs a little repair but something I can have soon since I'm only here for 2 months. Nothing too new. Nothing too shiny. A little character would be great. It'd match me. A bike that's been loved."
He turned back around and looked up. "Loved? How am I supposed to know if it's been loved?" He asked me a bit smiling, a bit sarcastic.
"Well, we don't know how the owners treated the bike, but I'm sure you love each one of them as you work on them."
He showed me a couple of bikes that basically need a bit of repair. Depending on the price and time it would take to repair leads us to the final bidding price. Some gorgeous 1950s bodies. One was a possibility but the other needed too much work/time. "Well, I guess you want to see the back then?" he half-asked, half-said. "I don't know. Do I? What's back there?" I mean, how was I supposed to know. I didn't know the place. He went outside, around to the back of the building where there were 3 bikes laying around the walls surrounding the yard - he pointed to each and told its brief story and how much work / too much work. Then, we walked further back through the yard to a storage / garage, he opened the door and the whole thing was filled with bikes: bikes with rusty chains, bodies on twisted tires, bodies with handle bars that needed adjusting, bikes with crooked whatever, rusty this, broken that. But anyone who saw this could tell that he was a master of his trade and wouldn't mess around with quality. He'd do what you paid for and he'd do just enough but he'd do it well.
I didn't spot anything in the garage, turned around to go back to the front of the store, and it clicked. That one. Against the wall. The one that needed some work, but not too much, the one that survived a fire, was a bit blackened, a bit in need of fixing up, but the survivor. That's one hell of a tough bike. It's not ready to give up and it needs some love.
It's a Swiss-made bike, which he said meant it was well-made. It has a woman's frame, bell, light - all that need a bit of work, along with the chain and needing new, second-hand tires. "So, when can I pick her up?" I asked. He offered a week, I offered 10 days (since I wouldn't be in town the next Saturday). This will give more time for more attention, I hoped. He grabbed a pad of receipts. "Can I have your number?.. and name." I gave it to him and then asked him, "And, what's your name?" Eddie. "And, can I have your number?" I was just poking a bit of fun. He gave me his business card, "I've prepared for that question." He smirked.
I fell for the bike guy there. I've been back twice. Once for a sticker that is insurance - and he said I'd better come back and what does he do on the weekends or when he's not working, I asked. He sleeps. And would I like to sleep with him? A bit too forward for the second. But I went back for an alignment and a seat adjustment and I got grease on my leg and he pointed it out. I said it didn't matter. He got down on a knee and wiped it off and pretended to fog my calf with his breath to shine it.
And one night, after biking 50km (to another town with my girl friend from work and biking back), I wanted a whiskey and a smoke so I parked the bike inside the building and went to the nearby plaza. The plaza which dates back to Roman era and heralds back to days of beheadings and hangings (a very detailed article I read told of how the merchants from out of town would arrive to the city gate and find it locked, knowing there was a beheading happening, would wait until the body was thrown over the city walls knowing that they'd be let in at that point; and tales of whores 2 streets over; and then Voltaire and then Calvin - who I was told fucked boys). I got a Red Label straight and was given 2 cigarettes by a nice guy and then closed out some guy who sat at my table - the plaza bar seating is always packed, and with rich people.
And then, one night, after hours of sorting and editing and uploading and titling some photos (I started with 2000+ and I'm only up to Italy in June now). I wanted a smoke and whiskey so I went back to the plaza. Cased the place and found no seats. Was fake SMS sending to appear like I was with friends and then spotted a guy smoking, asked for a cigarette and got 2 (they are so much nicer here than in Paris). Walked away and decided to ask if I could sit at his table. We chatted and I got whiskey and I ended up speaking Spanish with the Spaniard and then going back to his place for more whiskey and ended up fucking him.
I'm not sure about this guy. His story seems to be that he's from here, a dad that's Spanish, a mom that's Swiss. He's forty, owns and lives in a sparse apartment in this part of town (which means wealth) and rents out a furnished apartment in another part of town (which means more wealth). He's an economist by trade and just finished dating some woman who bore his kid. He's a bee keeper and gave me honey in a jar with a label with his name. He's off to Spain this weekend to sail and catch huge calamari with his father. And he can't keep an erection. But he can make up for it with dildos and licking and fingers. And he's got a great collection of classical and flamenco music.
The second time I saw him he invited me for a drink on the plaza and then back to his place. It's becoming a ritual I guess, based on our third date. And then, we talk and drink whiskey on the rocks and he adds coke to his and then later offers me coke - up my nose. I haven't done drugs in a long time, but I took a line and thought, well now we'll see how his cock behaves. And, again, up and down like a rollercoaster. Dependent upon nothing, reacting to no one. Coming and going. The second date, he took his cock and rubbed the head up and down my slit. Over and over again. And, on coke, let me tell you... It feels almost greater than my own private vibe. Pulling my knees apart wider and wider and feeling this sensation of hunger and thrill and sensitivity. The last time I saw him somehow a porn of lesbians ended up on his tele screen. And he tried to fuck my ass but it wasn't happy enough for this. So, he stayed hard and fucked me for longer than I could handle - or what seemed long, when really it wasn't so long at all. We ended up laying down watching a Vigo Mortensen film while he caressed me - all riled up from the coke, each stroke felt like my skin was missing and all I had was nerves feeling his slow hands. And, then, I left. It's good to leave and especially at 12:50am. Enough time to crash before work, enough space to pass out, enough promise that I will get sleep.
And then, back to Paris. The butcher enticed me to cross the border and accompany him to a huge family celebration. It was overwhelming and I said no at first, and then he lobbied me (his words, genius). A sociological study, a tradition of France, an interesting circumstance, a photographic exploration. I had to do it. And then, there were so many people who were impressed by meeting me. And then, he didn't help the situation of my commitment and seriousness fear. He told me how so many people asked if I was "the one" and he told me that the told them no.
But really, it's a French cultural thing - from what I gather. While we Americans are so pragmatic and slightly cold and removed. The French are latin. They say I love you early (the butcher said it after a month of dating once a week, and said "Would you mind if I told you I love you?" I said yes without a beat). They say I love you often. They hold and cuddle and kiss and embrace and make out in public. They swoon and woo and romance. They eat love and hearts and cupid and romance for breakfast, lunch, apertif, and dinner. So, he followed his nature and we agreed to follow and allow our own natures. He'd say out loud what he thought and I'd brush it off. We agreed to act naturally. So, when we went to the full family (cousins from 5 to 80, parents, aunts, uncles, friends), I knew what *I* was doing - removed and observing. And he knew what he was doing.
I left the weekend feeling a genetic repulsion and a need for space. While I want him, I want it in context and within reason. I did feel days of longing for him and did feel moments of love. But they were subsumed with strange pushing away. I had to break away and stay away. When he asked if we'd see each other in 2 weeks I said I had writing and photos to attend to, I had to get to know this new city and get out on bikes. All of a sudden I felt put on a pedestal and too high for comfort. I felt needed and wanted nothing of that.
I also left with an infection - curses, batman! So, I had a week of getting to know the medical system in this city. Again the mixing of holes for poor Lola. She is so sensitive. My body reacts to the slightest disagreement, the slightest imbalance. My feet can't handle the round bars of the ladder to my flatmate's loft bedroom. My skin is burning brown from the sun here. My emotions make the sun follow me from city to city without rain. My cunnie is too precious for combinations. I went to the family planning place in town and they literally only do that - no tests, only words, and only help for pregnant women. They sent me across the street to the hospital maternity ward. They wanted 500 chf (1 chf = 1 USD) deposit for a consultation. The receptionist sent me to some urgent care clinic and a gyno doc. He was awesome. In the business for years and years and years. We spent an hour together. Me detailing my history. Him asking questions and making inappropriate jokes and over-sharing about anonymous patients who thought the suppository was for their mouth. He showed me where to give the pee test (the WC - which they called Winston Churchill room for a while). He let me stand in the lab while the pee test ran and he chatted in French on the phone, almost pulling it off the desk. He invited me into the stirrups and I undressed in front of him and then he described each manouever into me and then invited me to view the slide he'd made under the microscope. He recommended homeopathic remedies. They didn't work. I went back and waited an hour to see him for test results. He called the lab on Friday night and put them on speaker so I could hear. He reluctantly prescribed me antibiotics -- we are so accustomed us Americans. Our alternate bodies in another reality hugged goodbye. I biked on my super bike to the only open pharmacy after 6pm and got drugs that fixed me up. I want to finger paint a drawing of happy sun and beach and grass and send it to him.
And now. Here I am.
Finally. The stories of this moment told.
I have no idea what will happen but I'm on AFF and ALT and planning to replace the Spaniard with the bike shop owner. I'm totally mad for the butcher but have to space myself. I don't love my internship but I'm growing to love the city. I have a great girl friend who is Russian and who intrigues me to no end. I have bicycle freedom to take me through the city and learn me the one-way streets. I miss my Paris and my apartment and my bread shop and hookers. I am not sure why I am here or what I should do. I keep whispering over and over to people that I will (am) write a book here. But I have thousands of photos first. I have no interest in finding a better internship or working too hard, in fact I wanted to quit due to almost complete boredom. But there is a culture of sorts which I like. And a morning bike ride which tests my strategic senses and a bike ride home which gives me air. There's a cat that brought me a gift (ask if you want more info - it's a good story). And ghosts that live in this apartment (suicide makes them linger). And a good flatmate who reads my tarot and allows me to be. Things are too perfect. I wonder when they'll break. Or perhaps, I already know this. As I've said - I won't make it to 40. So, maybe, this is my living the fullest now. Perhaps the crazy dream feeling is a reality and I'm fortunate enough to know and now can't do anything other than feel it. Be it. Be here now.
Friday, July 18, 2008
The beginning, a very good place to start
I'm not sure where to write or how to do it.
It's been so long.
I've been wanting to write, and to do so freely, lately. But every time I had some free time, I couldn't find the way or the words or the worlds to describe.
I turned off a light in the room to hope that would help. I finally poured some wine. I feel free and can sleep in until 10am tomorrow and still, where are the words?
What? Who? The things I've tried to remember and my memory serves no good.
I fell in love with the Butcher and his whiskey and his attention. I didn't want to see anyone else. I was squeezing in friends and finals and fucking. The last year - where has it gone? To cock and whipping with his homemade leather ropes that were not good because they made me bleed, to ass licking and spanking and jubilation when we saw each other. And then I moved. I packed it all up and pretended I didn't and wouldn't live at the Paris apartment. I realized I had too much and threw a lot out. I put a lot into a bag and tried to give it away. I stuffed boxes into cupboards. I lifted boxes and marked them "special" and "good times." I packed and then re-packed to be able to come across the border with a backpack and a luggage on wheels. They only check the black people at this border between France and Switzerland and then, I learned that this country is even more backward.
I love my flat with ghosts of suicide. A jeweler lived up here, with his wife. He dealt in diamonds and watches. There is such an immense history in this neighborhood - it was originally the place where beheadings and hangings and burnings took place (the merchants would arrive to the city, the gates were locked, and they'd know when they'd be allowed in to sell once the body was tossed over the wall of the city). And then just up the road the street of prostitutes and the street of Voltaire and the street of Rosseau and it's Calvin territory. Such an overlapping in one small square mile. So the jeweler, supposedly - as told by others living the building who are all related (except my outcast flatmate) - lost his sight and got depressed and then, just outside the apartment, on the same floor, in a small cupboard room next door, they killed themselves. My colleague questioned - suicide or murder-suicide? I don't know, all I know is that it is utterly polite of them to do it outside the apartment. And yet the cat is still afraid and I still feel things, which I choose to ignore.
I bought an old 1950s bike from an incredible Scottish man with one blue eye and one black eye (non-functioning I think). He repaired the wheels, the chain, the brakes, the seat with second-hand parts. The bike was a survivor of a fire. I knew she was for me - needed to ride again. I love this bike now.
I love the hiking I will do tomorrow for 20km. I love the biking I will do on Sunday. I love that I walk to the UN. I love that my flatmate read my tarot cards. I love that I shower with the showerhead in my hand instead of standing under pouring water for 20 minutes. I love that things are not easy.
But I also hate these things.
So, I moved here for an internship and am getting life lessons - as we all do.
The first weekend I was here I went back to Paris to see the Butcher and to travel up to Brittany and Normandy. I met his people, slept in the main hall of the cabin complex. Slept on a boat. Tried to fuck in the fields only to have our knees bitten by vicious red ants.
The next weekend I biked 50km on a heavy rental bike to another town on the huge lake (to go around it would take days).
The next weekend I returned to Paris and then went to Brittany again for the 50th anniversary of the Butcher's unkle's marriage. A castle renovated, a chapel renovated, so much eating so much drinking so much singing and polka and waltzing! (And then we mixed the holes and I got an infection, which I am now fighting with antibiotics and homeophathic drugs).
And in between, there was the Spaniard. I had been working on photos one week night and drinking wine and went out to the plaza for a smoke. I paced the plaza and saw no seating. This neighborhood is too rich for my taste, for any normal person. So, the last time I was here was after the big bike ride of 50km and I needed a whiskey and a smoke. I sat down and reveled in my accomplishment. This time, there was no open space for me. So I spotted a guy sitting and with smokes on the table. Could I have one? Yes. Here have two. I walked away wishing for a place and fake SMSing on my phone as if I had friends. Then, I turned back, fuck it. And asked him to sit at his table. I ordered a Red Label whiskey as that's all they have. We talked. I thought he was gay.
Oh, my gadar. In Europe men are so much more fluid than men in the USA. There's much more acceptance of the macho and feminine combined. A man could
[["A Perfect Day" by Lou Reed on the French radio]]
freely feel fluid and flouncing and it wouldn't dictate a sexual preference at all. There's such cross-over here. Men are bi and switches and fluid. Whereas I prefer my men to be USA men, as bold and macho as they come. So, my gaydar is off entirely. And women I would peg as dykes are just tough farm wives. So confused.
Alas, he invited me back to his place for better whiskey. And we went. And talked and he gave me a jar of honey grown from his own bees. And gave me great head and couldn't get his up. Too much liquor. And I showed him biting of my nipples. And he's 40 and I didn't have to explain why.
Then, again, I saw him. And I was nervous. I was working all day and got his SMS on the lawn, wondered if I should or shouldn't. We had an intern cocktail hour after work.. oh but wait.
I had my bike then. Oh, my, the bike shop owner. He reminds me of all the bikers of Madison combined together. Grease on his hands. ... So, I was looking for a cheap bike and online could only find the places of normal bikes - aka a type of Walmart. But an intern told me of this special place where a guy works on bikes and makes them to order essentially. She told me he was Scottish but failed to mention so much. And that's good - I was able to find out for myself. And oh did I find out. As is acknowledged, I ooze sexuality and couldn't help but explain myself in a way that wanted him and he wanted me.
So, I biked to the intern cocktail and kept watch of the time, a short window to see the Spaniard. I biked up to our plaza and I was nervous, sober and he is too good looking for me. He is an economist by trade and grown in Geneva and lives in my neighborhood and, while I know he is more nervous than I am, he's wild. After a drink he invited me back to his place as the sun set. We talked, listened to music, drank whiskey on the rocks, and finally touched. He invited me to take coke and I did - after a few hesitations (I'm too old for this, I don't want to be wrecked, etc). And then, the touching was like electric eels. His cock head rubbing up and down on my cunnie. It wasn't hard and he didn't enter, but the sensation was enough - the teasing, the touching, the concentration in his eyes when I caught a look. And then a finger in my ass. I have heard that I am healed from others who have touched me there. I do not feel whole yet - even since the surgery last year. But I have been able to feel total excited pleasure with a small smidgen of an entry. And then a bit more of a finger and then a whole finger and then a twisting finger and then a tongue and a couple fingers and then .... I'm ahead of the story.
After our hours of music and touching and kissing and semi-fucking and me trying to suck his semi-soft, it was plenty and we were tired and before that sets in, I know it's time to leave.
Back to Butcher man. He has had my pee. As a summer refreshing drink after I have tried and pushed and finally let go. He has asked me to push with his tongue against my ass. He has inserted fingers and tongue and finally, cock. Finally, a cock in my ass again. (Only to shrink out at the sight of a bit of blood. I'll never be the same, but I'll always be different thank god.) And down by the river in the middle of Brittany nowhere farm and castle land. His fingers in me, his hands on me, his tongue in me, his eyes watching. And me, looking at dirt, ants (not red!), leaves, bugs, my own feelings.
And a train ride again. Two or three in a day. Across France. Across land that reflects the land I came from, the land I want, the land of semi-peace. Back to asking the bike man about a few adjustments and his flirtations. His "I hope you do come back - soon." "What do I do in my free time? Well, I'm here all the time so when I'm not, I sleep. Do you want to sleep with me?" His buffing the bike body from fire residue. Changing the seat joints for free. Removing the plastic protector of the chain since it was broken. Him, squatting, wiping grease off my shin and pretending to shine it up with his breath. Sarcastic and hungry at the same time.
And then, when it rains, it pours. Again. My life is like this. If ever I want a man, I forget I want them and they come (take heed, desperate women). The temporary infection from mixing bummie and cunnie. Right now, before the Spaniard goes on vacation next week and while I'm flirting with the bike man, and when I just want the Butcher's lips all over me.
So, I take it as a rest. As an interpretation that I have to write. Have to focus on photos. Have to hike and bike and be well. Get back to me and remember my body's rules. No mixing. No tainting. No hurt.
Yes. That's it.
For now.
Exorcised.
Not in detail, not in depth, not in poetry. Just told. Not like girls gossiping at the table over drinks. But a navigation, a map of memory for future reference.
It's been so long.
I've been wanting to write, and to do so freely, lately. But every time I had some free time, I couldn't find the way or the words or the worlds to describe.
I turned off a light in the room to hope that would help. I finally poured some wine. I feel free and can sleep in until 10am tomorrow and still, where are the words?
What? Who? The things I've tried to remember and my memory serves no good.
I fell in love with the Butcher and his whiskey and his attention. I didn't want to see anyone else. I was squeezing in friends and finals and fucking. The last year - where has it gone? To cock and whipping with his homemade leather ropes that were not good because they made me bleed, to ass licking and spanking and jubilation when we saw each other. And then I moved. I packed it all up and pretended I didn't and wouldn't live at the Paris apartment. I realized I had too much and threw a lot out. I put a lot into a bag and tried to give it away. I stuffed boxes into cupboards. I lifted boxes and marked them "special" and "good times." I packed and then re-packed to be able to come across the border with a backpack and a luggage on wheels. They only check the black people at this border between France and Switzerland and then, I learned that this country is even more backward.
I love my flat with ghosts of suicide. A jeweler lived up here, with his wife. He dealt in diamonds and watches. There is such an immense history in this neighborhood - it was originally the place where beheadings and hangings and burnings took place (the merchants would arrive to the city, the gates were locked, and they'd know when they'd be allowed in to sell once the body was tossed over the wall of the city). And then just up the road the street of prostitutes and the street of Voltaire and the street of Rosseau and it's Calvin territory. Such an overlapping in one small square mile. So the jeweler, supposedly - as told by others living the building who are all related (except my outcast flatmate) - lost his sight and got depressed and then, just outside the apartment, on the same floor, in a small cupboard room next door, they killed themselves. My colleague questioned - suicide or murder-suicide? I don't know, all I know is that it is utterly polite of them to do it outside the apartment. And yet the cat is still afraid and I still feel things, which I choose to ignore.
I bought an old 1950s bike from an incredible Scottish man with one blue eye and one black eye (non-functioning I think). He repaired the wheels, the chain, the brakes, the seat with second-hand parts. The bike was a survivor of a fire. I knew she was for me - needed to ride again. I love this bike now.
I love the hiking I will do tomorrow for 20km. I love the biking I will do on Sunday. I love that I walk to the UN. I love that my flatmate read my tarot cards. I love that I shower with the showerhead in my hand instead of standing under pouring water for 20 minutes. I love that things are not easy.
But I also hate these things.
So, I moved here for an internship and am getting life lessons - as we all do.
The first weekend I was here I went back to Paris to see the Butcher and to travel up to Brittany and Normandy. I met his people, slept in the main hall of the cabin complex. Slept on a boat. Tried to fuck in the fields only to have our knees bitten by vicious red ants.
The next weekend I biked 50km on a heavy rental bike to another town on the huge lake (to go around it would take days).
The next weekend I returned to Paris and then went to Brittany again for the 50th anniversary of the Butcher's unkle's marriage. A castle renovated, a chapel renovated, so much eating so much drinking so much singing and polka and waltzing! (And then we mixed the holes and I got an infection, which I am now fighting with antibiotics and homeophathic drugs).
And in between, there was the Spaniard. I had been working on photos one week night and drinking wine and went out to the plaza for a smoke. I paced the plaza and saw no seating. This neighborhood is too rich for my taste, for any normal person. So, the last time I was here was after the big bike ride of 50km and I needed a whiskey and a smoke. I sat down and reveled in my accomplishment. This time, there was no open space for me. So I spotted a guy sitting and with smokes on the table. Could I have one? Yes. Here have two. I walked away wishing for a place and fake SMSing on my phone as if I had friends. Then, I turned back, fuck it. And asked him to sit at his table. I ordered a Red Label whiskey as that's all they have. We talked. I thought he was gay.
Oh, my gadar. In Europe men are so much more fluid than men in the USA. There's much more acceptance of the macho and feminine combined. A man could
[["A Perfect Day" by Lou Reed on the French radio]]
freely feel fluid and flouncing and it wouldn't dictate a sexual preference at all. There's such cross-over here. Men are bi and switches and fluid. Whereas I prefer my men to be USA men, as bold and macho as they come. So, my gaydar is off entirely. And women I would peg as dykes are just tough farm wives. So confused.
Alas, he invited me back to his place for better whiskey. And we went. And talked and he gave me a jar of honey grown from his own bees. And gave me great head and couldn't get his up. Too much liquor. And I showed him biting of my nipples. And he's 40 and I didn't have to explain why.
Then, again, I saw him. And I was nervous. I was working all day and got his SMS on the lawn, wondered if I should or shouldn't. We had an intern cocktail hour after work.. oh but wait.
I had my bike then. Oh, my, the bike shop owner. He reminds me of all the bikers of Madison combined together. Grease on his hands. ... So, I was looking for a cheap bike and online could only find the places of normal bikes - aka a type of Walmart. But an intern told me of this special place where a guy works on bikes and makes them to order essentially. She told me he was Scottish but failed to mention so much. And that's good - I was able to find out for myself. And oh did I find out. As is acknowledged, I ooze sexuality and couldn't help but explain myself in a way that wanted him and he wanted me.
So, I biked to the intern cocktail and kept watch of the time, a short window to see the Spaniard. I biked up to our plaza and I was nervous, sober and he is too good looking for me. He is an economist by trade and grown in Geneva and lives in my neighborhood and, while I know he is more nervous than I am, he's wild. After a drink he invited me back to his place as the sun set. We talked, listened to music, drank whiskey on the rocks, and finally touched. He invited me to take coke and I did - after a few hesitations (I'm too old for this, I don't want to be wrecked, etc). And then, the touching was like electric eels. His cock head rubbing up and down on my cunnie. It wasn't hard and he didn't enter, but the sensation was enough - the teasing, the touching, the concentration in his eyes when I caught a look. And then a finger in my ass. I have heard that I am healed from others who have touched me there. I do not feel whole yet - even since the surgery last year. But I have been able to feel total excited pleasure with a small smidgen of an entry. And then a bit more of a finger and then a whole finger and then a twisting finger and then a tongue and a couple fingers and then .... I'm ahead of the story.
After our hours of music and touching and kissing and semi-fucking and me trying to suck his semi-soft, it was plenty and we were tired and before that sets in, I know it's time to leave.
Back to Butcher man. He has had my pee. As a summer refreshing drink after I have tried and pushed and finally let go. He has asked me to push with his tongue against my ass. He has inserted fingers and tongue and finally, cock. Finally, a cock in my ass again. (Only to shrink out at the sight of a bit of blood. I'll never be the same, but I'll always be different thank god.) And down by the river in the middle of Brittany nowhere farm and castle land. His fingers in me, his hands on me, his tongue in me, his eyes watching. And me, looking at dirt, ants (not red!), leaves, bugs, my own feelings.
And a train ride again. Two or three in a day. Across France. Across land that reflects the land I came from, the land I want, the land of semi-peace. Back to asking the bike man about a few adjustments and his flirtations. His "I hope you do come back - soon." "What do I do in my free time? Well, I'm here all the time so when I'm not, I sleep. Do you want to sleep with me?" His buffing the bike body from fire residue. Changing the seat joints for free. Removing the plastic protector of the chain since it was broken. Him, squatting, wiping grease off my shin and pretending to shine it up with his breath. Sarcastic and hungry at the same time.
And then, when it rains, it pours. Again. My life is like this. If ever I want a man, I forget I want them and they come (take heed, desperate women). The temporary infection from mixing bummie and cunnie. Right now, before the Spaniard goes on vacation next week and while I'm flirting with the bike man, and when I just want the Butcher's lips all over me.
So, I take it as a rest. As an interpretation that I have to write. Have to focus on photos. Have to hike and bike and be well. Get back to me and remember my body's rules. No mixing. No tainting. No hurt.
Yes. That's it.
For now.
Exorcised.
Not in detail, not in depth, not in poetry. Just told. Not like girls gossiping at the table over drinks. But a navigation, a map of memory for future reference.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
I can feel it
The next burst of writing, the next series of stories, all I have kept and all I have felt. The faces, the frustrations, the release with grand sighs of eyes closed and mouth smiling wide open, the rollercoaster, the fear, the giganticness of it all, the short person I feel inside, the capacity to fill the room. These thoughts and feelings are coming back again. They were just happening and now they must be told. The motor has gone spinning in the cotton picker and now slows, slows, slows to a monotonous, mesmerizing, hypnotic, relaxed pace. It is now. Now that I will catch the fluff and thorns and put them here. A smooth factory line with my microscope looking at each branding, each strain, each formation, each exactness and every unique diversion. It is coming. It is coming.
There are ghosts around me. I can feel them and see them through the lids of my eyes and the corners of my sight. This part of the city has hangings, beheadings, witchcraft. The merchants going to market within the city walls would come upon the city, note that the doors were closed and would wait until they saw the head thrown over the wall to know it was okay to enter now. I live in one of the first buildings of those days. I try not to hear them or see them. I think only good thoughts and wish only good things and at night I drug myself.
............
I didn't tell the Butcher, my current French lover, that it had been a while since my last test. I don't remember when it was or if I lied to someone to say I had. But he was going today and I thought it had been long enough. There was nothing to fear but the impossiblity that I was Bionic Woman and had been kicking ass this long. Alas, the quick test came back at the interesting gay HIV testing place and I was negative. I wanted to be more happy but I also wanted to act like I got this test every year just as a precaution. Regardless, it's good to do and I want to do it more often.
.............
There is more.. it's coming.. this weekend.. heat, head under the shower on cold, wine, chocolate and cheese and fruits. I will tell my stories.
There are ghosts around me. I can feel them and see them through the lids of my eyes and the corners of my sight. This part of the city has hangings, beheadings, witchcraft. The merchants going to market within the city walls would come upon the city, note that the doors were closed and would wait until they saw the head thrown over the wall to know it was okay to enter now. I live in one of the first buildings of those days. I try not to hear them or see them. I think only good thoughts and wish only good things and at night I drug myself.
............
I didn't tell the Butcher, my current French lover, that it had been a while since my last test. I don't remember when it was or if I lied to someone to say I had. But he was going today and I thought it had been long enough. There was nothing to fear but the impossiblity that I was Bionic Woman and had been kicking ass this long. Alas, the quick test came back at the interesting gay HIV testing place and I was negative. I wanted to be more happy but I also wanted to act like I got this test every year just as a precaution. Regardless, it's good to do and I want to do it more often.
.............
There is more.. it's coming.. this weekend.. heat, head under the shower on cold, wine, chocolate and cheese and fruits. I will tell my stories.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
How Much Jail Time for Women Who Have Abortions?
(I know a bridge collapsed in Minneapolis. It's a sad and tragic day for Minneapolis, the anomalies of life, and construction. I already made sure all my pals are safe.)
Quindlen: How Much Jail Time for Women Who Have Abortions?
By Anna Quindlen
Newsweek Aug. 6, 2007 issue
Buried among prairie dogs and amateur animation shorts on YouTube is a curious little mini-documentary shot in front of an abortion clinic in Libertyville, Ill. The man behind the camera is asking demonstrators who want abortion criminalized what the penalty should be for a woman who has one nonetheless. You have rarely seen people look more gobsmacked. It's as though the guy has asked them to solve quadratic equations. Here are a range of responses: "I've never really thought about it." "I don't have an answer for that." "I don't know." "Just pray for them."
You have to hand it to the questioner; he struggles manfully. "Usually when things are illegal there's a penalty attached," he explains patiently. But he can't get a single person to be decisive about the crux of a matter they have been approaching with absolute certainty.
A new public-policy group called the National Institute for Reproductive Health wants to take this contradiction and make it the centerpiece of a national conversation, along with a slogan that stops people in their tracks: how much time should she do? If the Supreme Court decides abortion is not protected by a constitutional guarantee of privacy, the issue will revert to the states. If it goes to the states, some, perhaps many, will ban abortion. If abortion is made a crime, then surely the woman who has one is a criminal. But, boy, do the doctrinaire suddenly turn squirrelly at the prospect of throwing women in jail.
"They never connect the dots," says Jill June, president of Planned Parenthood of Greater Iowa. But her organization urged voters to do just that in the last gubernatorial election, in which the Republican contender believed abortion should be illegal even in cases of rape and incest. "We wanted him to tell the women of Iowa exactly how much time he expected them to serve in jail if they had an abortion," June recalled. Chet Culver, the Democrat who unabashedly favors legal abortion, won that race, proving that choice can be a winning issue if you force people to stop evading the hard facts. "How have we come this far in the debate and been oblivious to the logical ramifications of making abortion illegal?" June says.
Perhaps by ignoring or infantilizing women, turning them into "victims" of their own free will. State statutes that propose punishing only a physician suggest the woman was merely some addled bystander who happened to find herself in the wrong stirrups at the wrong time. Such a view seemed to be a vestige of the past until the Supreme Court handed down its most recent abortion decision upholding a federal prohibition on a specific procedure. Justice Anthony Kennedy, obviously feeling excessively paternal, argued that the ban protected women from themselves. "While we find no reliable data to measure the phenomenon," he wrote, "it seems unexceptionable to conclude some women come to regret their choice to abort the infant life they once created and sustained."
Even with "no reliable data," he went on to conclude that "severe depression and loss of esteem can follow." (Apparently, no one has told Justice Kennedy about the severe depression and loss of esteem that can follow bearing and raising a baby you can't afford and didn't want.) Luckily, there still remains one justice on the court who has actually been pregnant, and Ruth Bader Ginsburg roared back with a dissent that called Kennedy's caveat about regret an "anti-abortion shibboleth" and his opinion a reflection of "ancient notions about women's place in the family and under the Constitution—ideas that have long since been discredited."
Those ancient notions undergird the refusal to confront the logical endpoint of criminalization. Lawmakers in a number of states have already passed or are considering statutes designed to outlaw abortion if Roe is overturned. But almost none hold the woman, the person who set the so-called crime in motion, accountable. Is the message that women are not to be held responsible for their actions? Or is it merely that those writing the laws understand that if women were going to jail, the vast majority of Americans would violently object? Watch the demonstrators in Libertyville try to worm their way out of the hypocrisy: It's murder, but she'll get her punishment from God. It's murder, but it depends on her state of mind. It's murder, but the penalty should be ... counseling?
The great thing about video is that you can see the mental wheels turning as these people realize that they somehow have overlooked something central while they were slinging certainties. Nearly 20 years ago, in a presidential debate, George Bush the elder was asked this very question, whether in making abortion illegal he would punish the woman who had one. "I haven't sorted out the penalties," he said lamely. Neither, it turns out, has anyone else. But there are only two logical choices: hold women accountable for a criminal act by sending them to prison, or refuse to criminalize the act in the first place. If you can't countenance the first, you have to accept the second. You can't have it both ways.
Quindlen: How Much Jail Time for Women Who Have Abortions?
By Anna Quindlen
Newsweek Aug. 6, 2007 issue
Buried among prairie dogs and amateur animation shorts on YouTube is a curious little mini-documentary shot in front of an abortion clinic in Libertyville, Ill. The man behind the camera is asking demonstrators who want abortion criminalized what the penalty should be for a woman who has one nonetheless. You have rarely seen people look more gobsmacked. It's as though the guy has asked them to solve quadratic equations. Here are a range of responses: "I've never really thought about it." "I don't have an answer for that." "I don't know." "Just pray for them."
You have to hand it to the questioner; he struggles manfully. "Usually when things are illegal there's a penalty attached," he explains patiently. But he can't get a single person to be decisive about the crux of a matter they have been approaching with absolute certainty.
A new public-policy group called the National Institute for Reproductive Health wants to take this contradiction and make it the centerpiece of a national conversation, along with a slogan that stops people in their tracks: how much time should she do? If the Supreme Court decides abortion is not protected by a constitutional guarantee of privacy, the issue will revert to the states. If it goes to the states, some, perhaps many, will ban abortion. If abortion is made a crime, then surely the woman who has one is a criminal. But, boy, do the doctrinaire suddenly turn squirrelly at the prospect of throwing women in jail.
"They never connect the dots," says Jill June, president of Planned Parenthood of Greater Iowa. But her organization urged voters to do just that in the last gubernatorial election, in which the Republican contender believed abortion should be illegal even in cases of rape and incest. "We wanted him to tell the women of Iowa exactly how much time he expected them to serve in jail if they had an abortion," June recalled. Chet Culver, the Democrat who unabashedly favors legal abortion, won that race, proving that choice can be a winning issue if you force people to stop evading the hard facts. "How have we come this far in the debate and been oblivious to the logical ramifications of making abortion illegal?" June says.
Perhaps by ignoring or infantilizing women, turning them into "victims" of their own free will. State statutes that propose punishing only a physician suggest the woman was merely some addled bystander who happened to find herself in the wrong stirrups at the wrong time. Such a view seemed to be a vestige of the past until the Supreme Court handed down its most recent abortion decision upholding a federal prohibition on a specific procedure. Justice Anthony Kennedy, obviously feeling excessively paternal, argued that the ban protected women from themselves. "While we find no reliable data to measure the phenomenon," he wrote, "it seems unexceptionable to conclude some women come to regret their choice to abort the infant life they once created and sustained."
Even with "no reliable data," he went on to conclude that "severe depression and loss of esteem can follow." (Apparently, no one has told Justice Kennedy about the severe depression and loss of esteem that can follow bearing and raising a baby you can't afford and didn't want.) Luckily, there still remains one justice on the court who has actually been pregnant, and Ruth Bader Ginsburg roared back with a dissent that called Kennedy's caveat about regret an "anti-abortion shibboleth" and his opinion a reflection of "ancient notions about women's place in the family and under the Constitution—ideas that have long since been discredited."
Those ancient notions undergird the refusal to confront the logical endpoint of criminalization. Lawmakers in a number of states have already passed or are considering statutes designed to outlaw abortion if Roe is overturned. But almost none hold the woman, the person who set the so-called crime in motion, accountable. Is the message that women are not to be held responsible for their actions? Or is it merely that those writing the laws understand that if women were going to jail, the vast majority of Americans would violently object? Watch the demonstrators in Libertyville try to worm their way out of the hypocrisy: It's murder, but she'll get her punishment from God. It's murder, but it depends on her state of mind. It's murder, but the penalty should be ... counseling?
The great thing about video is that you can see the mental wheels turning as these people realize that they somehow have overlooked something central while they were slinging certainties. Nearly 20 years ago, in a presidential debate, George Bush the elder was asked this very question, whether in making abortion illegal he would punish the woman who had one. "I haven't sorted out the penalties," he said lamely. Neither, it turns out, has anyone else. But there are only two logical choices: hold women accountable for a criminal act by sending them to prison, or refuse to criminalize the act in the first place. If you can't countenance the first, you have to accept the second. You can't have it both ways.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Cohm-pruhn leuh frohn-say
I got a MacBook
I got Pimsleur french on tape... ameri- /cahn/ versus /ken/; oui; vous etes
ooh la la
Yeah, okay, the Macbook is all it's cracked up to be, but transferring over from PC to Mac is killing me. 1GB flash drive. Have to get a 6-4 firewire for the external hard drive as a translator and moving van. (Tried the ethernet cable, but can't seem to get them to recognize each other)
No sex. All planning and tinkering.
Haven't even gotten to the iPod yet. Or the iWork. Or the MS for Mac. Tinker Tinker.
Got a friend doing a rummage sale this weekend out on the west side. Gonna bike out there. About 9 miles. Gave about 8 boxes of crap. Sorting, dusty, trying on old clothes, getting rid of painful shoes, je suis, je ne comprehend pas, non mademoiselle, some kitchen things, some old old lame books (my Stats book, pdh).
Learning how to run lately, too.
Who has taken over my body and mind???
Meanwhile, the days are flying by at work. 2 weeks, 3 days. I'm still in negotiations with a woman about her apartment in Paris. At some point I'll just have to take a leap of faith.
Mais oui.
Meh we mahd-eh-muh-zell.
I got Pimsleur french on tape... ameri- /cahn/ versus /ken/; oui; vous etes
ooh la la
Yeah, okay, the Macbook is all it's cracked up to be, but transferring over from PC to Mac is killing me. 1GB flash drive. Have to get a 6-4 firewire for the external hard drive as a translator and moving van. (Tried the ethernet cable, but can't seem to get them to recognize each other)
No sex. All planning and tinkering.
Haven't even gotten to the iPod yet. Or the iWork. Or the MS for Mac. Tinker Tinker.
Got a friend doing a rummage sale this weekend out on the west side. Gonna bike out there. About 9 miles. Gave about 8 boxes of crap. Sorting, dusty, trying on old clothes, getting rid of painful shoes, je suis, je ne comprehend pas, non mademoiselle, some kitchen things, some old old lame books (my Stats book, pdh).
Learning how to run lately, too.
Who has taken over my body and mind???
Meanwhile, the days are flying by at work. 2 weeks, 3 days. I'm still in negotiations with a woman about her apartment in Paris. At some point I'll just have to take a leap of faith.
Mais oui.
Meh we mahd-eh-muh-zell.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Snaps
I haven't updated the photos in a long time. There are now new pics on the flickr. If you haven't viewed before or can't seem to see anything when you click, just ask me [click on "view my complete profile" for email addy]. There's no test required to gain entry. .. unless you want one.
Other things:
I'm healing well, I think. I kind of don't want to go back to work tomorrow and am hoping there's a snow day or there's something to let me stay in my little bubble. I went for a nice, slow, long walk today in the foot+ snow. It was really wet out and the snow was still falling. I like walking with a destination so I decided to go scam quarters from the laundromat nearby. I took the messy way home through the park and went back out again with my camera. It was so quiet. Not because there was no traffic or cars, but because the cars were silenced in the slush and people stayed inside. I realized that this was the last February 25th I'd have in Madison and that made me kind of sad. A little lonely on the inside with visibility like the Arctic Pole and only slowly-filling prints in the snow to remind me that I'm not alone.I wish I had a boyfriend:
**to tell my silly jokes to [a blizzard outside last night, I would have liked to call him up and say, "Can you drive over and take me to the grocery store? I'm out of juice." Then, I would have said I was totally kidding. Because it really was a blizzard outside.]
**to crack my upper back - I just can't seem to do it on my own.School is plugging along. I'm happy that crazy cat lady Econ prof is so flaky. It helps relieve me from studying so hard for her class while I'm constantly trying to keep up with Stats. My next Stats exam is a week from tomorrow. Probabilities are not as easy to understand - especially when I don't have good, everyday or professional examples. I don't play poker. I am not a geneticist wondering what the probability of 4 girl babies from 10 couples.
The acceptance letters from schools have slowed as I won't hear anything until March - which, I know, is around the corner. I am requesting an expedited renewal of my passport though. Why not wait? Well, there's this possibility [which is not a probability] that I'll go to Mexico in May with the new guy [who needs a name]. He's got a gifted-over time share and a ton of frequent flier miles, and for the most part so far we get along really well. Minus a very important factor which I've only shared with James - and so shall it remain until I'm ready to talk.I'm totally riddled with senioritis at work. I really could care less about things and feel like my performance and dedication is slowing to about 80% right now. Then again, I guess it's only due. After all, I have like 115.32 vacation hours and 161.86 sick hours left to use - which only means I've fucking worked my ass off for years.... Jeezus. I just tallied that and divided by 8. I better get to work on taking time off!!!
So, I totally omitted any info on my last weekend before the surgery. It was like "The Last Supper for Lola's Snatch." I was truly horrible. I don't even know if I want to confess out loud. If James and I were still going out, he'd totally guess what I mean when I say "I was bad." And, he'd secretly get a stiffy thinking about how naughty and slutty I can be. And, he'd love me for who I am. There are those of you out there reading who I'm not so sure you'd be so happy for me and my conquests and accomplishments. I do remind myself often to not remind myself of the readers. This is my space and my place to write. [I think you're right, Clichemonster. I do tend toward some kind of confessional self-observance of my writing right before I launch forward with whatever truth I'm going to tell. God, even this sidenote is a reflection on that confessional self-observance. Make myself sick.]
Anyway. I filled Lola's lil' holes with my darling dates. If you're smart, you'll note that Flickr adds dates to the photos. Andy in the Friday afternoon, [new guy] in the evening, and SirMax on the Saturday. Okay, so that's not so bad, is it? Shuddup. Yes, yes, yes, it's true, I could actually understand how Anna Nicole's custody conundrum would come about. [I couldn't pee to save my life at the hospital for the pre-surgery pregnancy test. I was asked if there was any way I might be pregnant. I said no. I mean, there's always a way a chick could be pregnant. Shit, the Immaculate Conception says so. Then again, I wasn't about to say, "Well, maybe, but trust me. If I am, there is no way I'll be having it so a little anesthesia won't kill anyone."]Yes, I had a wonderful last hurrah before I had to calm down, starve myself silly, poop everything out of my body, and go through the craziness that was the hospital. I have to say that I was remarkably calm throughout the whole process. I think the most I freaked out was when I wasn't allowed to eat after 12noon on the day before the surgery. By about 10pm I was soooo hungry and so sick of berry-flavored clear water. And, I only shed one tear in the out-patient cubicle I was assigned to - when my nurse [her name was Festival] asked if I was experiencing any anxiety about the surgery. "No, no anxiety but I'm a bit nervous." One little tear of pride mixed with bravery and a bit of fear.I stopped taking the meds yesterday. They gave me a dehydrated hang-over drowsiness and I wasn't digging sleeping for 14 hours straight. My body was starting to ache and the bed was starting to sag and I was wondering if I was going to start growing bed sores. So, if anyone wants some A-grade codeine something something rather - I've got like 12 of 'em left.
Here's a taste:
Other things:
I'm healing well, I think. I kind of don't want to go back to work tomorrow and am hoping there's a snow day or there's something to let me stay in my little bubble. I went for a nice, slow, long walk today in the foot+ snow. It was really wet out and the snow was still falling. I like walking with a destination so I decided to go scam quarters from the laundromat nearby. I took the messy way home through the park and went back out again with my camera. It was so quiet. Not because there was no traffic or cars, but because the cars were silenced in the slush and people stayed inside. I realized that this was the last February 25th I'd have in Madison and that made me kind of sad. A little lonely on the inside with visibility like the Arctic Pole and only slowly-filling prints in the snow to remind me that I'm not alone.I wish I had a boyfriend:
**to tell my silly jokes to [a blizzard outside last night, I would have liked to call him up and say, "Can you drive over and take me to the grocery store? I'm out of juice." Then, I would have said I was totally kidding. Because it really was a blizzard outside.]
**to crack my upper back - I just can't seem to do it on my own.School is plugging along. I'm happy that crazy cat lady Econ prof is so flaky. It helps relieve me from studying so hard for her class while I'm constantly trying to keep up with Stats. My next Stats exam is a week from tomorrow. Probabilities are not as easy to understand - especially when I don't have good, everyday or professional examples. I don't play poker. I am not a geneticist wondering what the probability of 4 girl babies from 10 couples.
The acceptance letters from schools have slowed as I won't hear anything until March - which, I know, is around the corner. I am requesting an expedited renewal of my passport though. Why not wait? Well, there's this possibility [which is not a probability] that I'll go to Mexico in May with the new guy [who needs a name]. He's got a gifted-over time share and a ton of frequent flier miles, and for the most part so far we get along really well. Minus a very important factor which I've only shared with James - and so shall it remain until I'm ready to talk.I'm totally riddled with senioritis at work. I really could care less about things and feel like my performance and dedication is slowing to about 80% right now. Then again, I guess it's only due. After all, I have like 115.32 vacation hours and 161.86 sick hours left to use - which only means I've fucking worked my ass off for years.... Jeezus. I just tallied that and divided by 8. I better get to work on taking time off!!!
So, I totally omitted any info on my last weekend before the surgery. It was like "The Last Supper for Lola's Snatch." I was truly horrible. I don't even know if I want to confess out loud. If James and I were still going out, he'd totally guess what I mean when I say "I was bad." And, he'd secretly get a stiffy thinking about how naughty and slutty I can be. And, he'd love me for who I am. There are those of you out there reading who I'm not so sure you'd be so happy for me and my conquests and accomplishments. I do remind myself often to not remind myself of the readers. This is my space and my place to write. [I think you're right, Clichemonster. I do tend toward some kind of confessional self-observance of my writing right before I launch forward with whatever truth I'm going to tell. God, even this sidenote is a reflection on that confessional self-observance. Make myself sick.]
Anyway. I filled Lola's lil' holes with my darling dates. If you're smart, you'll note that Flickr adds dates to the photos. Andy in the Friday afternoon, [new guy] in the evening, and SirMax on the Saturday. Okay, so that's not so bad, is it? Shuddup. Yes, yes, yes, it's true, I could actually understand how Anna Nicole's custody conundrum would come about. [I couldn't pee to save my life at the hospital for the pre-surgery pregnancy test. I was asked if there was any way I might be pregnant. I said no. I mean, there's always a way a chick could be pregnant. Shit, the Immaculate Conception says so. Then again, I wasn't about to say, "Well, maybe, but trust me. If I am, there is no way I'll be having it so a little anesthesia won't kill anyone."]Yes, I had a wonderful last hurrah before I had to calm down, starve myself silly, poop everything out of my body, and go through the craziness that was the hospital. I have to say that I was remarkably calm throughout the whole process. I think the most I freaked out was when I wasn't allowed to eat after 12noon on the day before the surgery. By about 10pm I was soooo hungry and so sick of berry-flavored clear water. And, I only shed one tear in the out-patient cubicle I was assigned to - when my nurse [her name was Festival] asked if I was experiencing any anxiety about the surgery. "No, no anxiety but I'm a bit nervous." One little tear of pride mixed with bravery and a bit of fear.I stopped taking the meds yesterday. They gave me a dehydrated hang-over drowsiness and I wasn't digging sleeping for 14 hours straight. My body was starting to ache and the bed was starting to sag and I was wondering if I was going to start growing bed sores. So, if anyone wants some A-grade codeine something something rather - I've got like 12 of 'em left.
Well, I've got to go finish up the laundry before the Oscars. Not that I'll be watching, I've got homework to finish, but it'll be a nice break to see all the pretty people in gowns try to hold their tongue about the war or poverty or Darfur or God Bless or Anna N.S.
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