Today, I ventured out of my fast-moving comfort zone and headed into the slow-moving zone of Yoga in a beautiful studio by a lake. I was open-minded, mat in hand, until the door flew open from the previous class and I was hit by smell of everyone’s, shall I say, aura. After my nose adjusted, I was given a chenille carpet that I had an allergic reaction to. Itchy, watery eyes were followed by the thought that the last group was leaning, sweating, and breathing on these woven carpets which, I knew in an instant, were not 100% cotton, nor anywhere near sanitary. When I laid out my personal mat, which I had purchased to provide myself with an aire of confidence and commitment, a scent of petroleum rose from its surface, most likely from the toxic material it was made of in China.
Yin Yoga, to be exact, was the class for the day, but it wasn’t this style of yoga that made me make my definitive decision about my future and this activity, it was the fact that every position I was directed to take, made my neck, or back, or hip or shoulder ache. Now, my teacher is a wonderful teacher, and a dear friend, but I was a terrible student. She is older than I, so I can’t blame my pains simply on age. With Yin yoga, my teacher told us that one is dealing with the connective tissue not muscle in terms of concentration, so there is no need to get into the position - mainly executed on a mat - in its exact form. She knows her stuff. She’s been teaching various forms of Yoga for forty years. “If you feel the least bit of pain or twinge,” she advises, "re-adjust your body to accommodate the pose for comfort and relaxation. Use the bolsters or blocks in the room to help you.” The more you do this, the sooner you will be able to accomplish greater flexibility and relaxation.” There I was with four purple Styrofoam blocks and a navy blue bolster that I am almost certain has never been laundered, in between my forehead and knees, under my hamstrings and hips, and over my mat to prop me up. The problem is that there was no pose, no matter how basic, that I took without feeling pain, props and all. If I want to spend ninety minutes relaxing in a meditative state, I’d rather read or write a book, or take a walk or a nap. I must admit that, at one point, when others had their heads down, I was peaking around to see what everyone was doing that I could not. In the process, various pairs of dirty feet stared back at me as if to say, pay attention to your chakras instead of us!
My opinion has always been that Yoga is too slow for me. Now, I know that it is also too painful for me. By now, you must be imagining my body as cumbersome and stiff, a person who should be walking with a cane. On the contrary, at sixty-something, I can dance the night away without any aches or heavy breathing, and walk for miles at a fast clip without pain or self-pity. But with Yoga, I have never felt so much pain with so little movement. Yes, I’ve had my share of multiple, minor whiplash injuries, my spine is probably not at its S-curve best after years of normal and not-so-normal wear and tear, and my type A personality doesn’t help in the let-it-all-go philosophy. Sure, I know with all that in mind I should be moving head and pelvis first into this Yoga world that my teacher says is the cure all instead of resisting this wonder
non-drug. But, with my sensitive nose, and my germ-phobic ways, and my innate need to keep moving, and moving fast, I think it’s time for me to say, this is just not for me.
Contrary to what you might think, I do believe in aura, I do believe in chakras, I do believe in chi and I see god as the positive energy around and in me. If I believed in organized religion, I’d probably be a Buddhist. I guess I just would rather find my way through frenetic movement, like the whirling dervishes. Or, by hitting a boxing bag, or dancing up a storm, or walking at top speed on a treadmill or a path in a park going nowhere expect within.
So, to my dear Yoga friends who turn themselves into elegant, silent, still human pretzels, or those who are part of one big, hot sweat box of statuesque poses, I say, peace and love and flexibility wherever you find it. And I say, Namaste, which means the light in me recognizes the light within you, a lovely greeting in the Indian tradition. For me it also means, the light in me recognizes the light within you as we each find our own way to shine. Thank you, all of you who totally disagree with me but still read till the end of this story, and, thank you Saskia, my dear friend and Yoga teacher-for-a-day, for inspiring one of the things I do best: write.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Friday, December 17, 2010
PS: RE: Those photos in the last blog? no botox, no plastic surgery, no nothing!
This is just a postsript on my last blog. Yes, Melissa Leo, yes, those who are willing to be who they are. Perhaps its not for everyone, or is it? Because if it was, the waxworks (old Hollywood term), would take on a different point of view, no pun intended.
Hair's The Last Taboo
Note: This was an old blog from my first blog site with a pseudonym at the time, but I decided to post it here after talking with an old friend who had not seem my transitition, so I hope you enjoy this. Read it from bottom to top to get the chronological form. Enjoy!
Journey into hair's last taboo: growing out one's locks into the world of white. Follow this radical change by a fifty-something writer as she moves towards the image of her authentic self.
Photo 1 is from 2001, photo 1 is from 2010!
Friday, February 22, 2008
Taking it off! In Public!
My husband and I decided to have a dinner party for a few friends. The question was: To wear a wig or not in order to cover the skunk line. (I found a way not to have the skunk streak - but more on that later.) I decided to wear the curly, highlighted, lowlighted, long one and all at the party guests raved about how good it looked. But, by the end of the night, and after a few extra unflitered Saki, the women were asking me to take it off! So, with a bit of encouragement, I whipped it off (after the removal of a few strategic pins) and showed them the white growth so far. They found it shocking but exciting, but were more interested in puttting on the wig on themselves! One began an impromptu Tina Turner routine, the other started posing like Marilyn! We snapped photos, laughed, and their encouragement they gave me to keep on keeping on with my quest was wonderful.
My next big public move was to venture into the gym, without any head covering. In a place were image is everything, I told myself that since a wig would not do in the midst of sweat, and head bobbing in aerobics class, and a hat or scarf would get in the way, I decided it was time to bare all. But how to do it with the utmost confidence? I chose to brush and pull it straight back into a high ponytail. Like a ballerina, like a 1950's rock n roller chick, with an in- your-face version of I'm growing my hair out but I can still keep pace on the treadmill and lift those weights attitude, I entered. (My husband and I had gotten free passes for a week at our local NY Sports Club and thought I'd give it a try.) Yes, I got a few looks as I entered. Yes, looking at myself in the mirror in Zumba class made me feel like it was not quite me in front of me, but I held my head high and the more I did so, the more confident I became. The truth is, with my hair pulled back, it is quite elegant even though it is not all grown out. And the skunk streak is gone that way. With it this way, one sees a blending of sparkling white long hair gradually cascading into red. Yuk, you might say, but remember that Hair's Last Taboo is just this. Not pink, or shaved, or multicolored hair, or carved, but white hair. So, your reaction is understandable. Still, the more I do this, the more I realize that this is probably the most radical thing I've done in terms of appearance. At least I can say, no one has hair quite like me! The transition continues.
Sign up for blog to be delivered to your e-mail whenever I make an entry! Thanks for reading.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
As the White Line Widens!
I now realize that I have crossed into the last taboo. You can color your hair green, blue, orange, tint all of it or parts of it, buzz it, leave the center long and clip the sides, you can evenly shave it all off, but don't try to grow out the grey! No one likes to go to a funeral and look at a dead person, and no one likes to look at a head that is showing its true colors! It reminds us too much of the end of life's journey when it comes to a head and where we are all headed! As a singer, I wear wigs not to shock and dismay the audience or distract them from my voice and performance. As a part time, substitute teacher, for the first time, I wore a wig to school! When the phone rang before the sun came up that morning, I had to decide how I would present myself in the classroom. I teach only in ele. schools so the kids are much less interested or aware of grooming and fashion, so I figured I could pull it off. Not my wig, of course, but the idea of appearing with a new kind of hair every time I go to the school. I am not that often at the same school, with the exception of one private school, where all the kids know me well. (This time was not at that school but I will be there next week!) I donned, this time, a black straight wig with bangs. (I have a long silver/blonde curly wig much like my own hair's texture and a aurburn red bob with bangs, too.). The day at school went well. The secretary at the desk looked at me with a vague expression as if she was thinking I know this person but maybe I don't. I have decided to warn the teachers about my wigs at that private school by e mail. This is a long trek but I feel confident I will get there.
The other night, after donning a hat, my husband and I went to a bar-b-que joint. A woman came in, in her early 60's and in exellent physicall condition with white, shoulder length, straight hair with bangs. I could not stop looking at her, admiring her, wanting what she had. She was beautiful. I had to go over to her and tell her so, and tell her of my jounrey. She was supportive and encouraging and that made me smile.
We all have choices and this one is mine. I have always walked to a different drummer, as one of my freinds said when she heard of my idea to grow my hair out. This is true and I am proud of hardly ever following the crowd. More and more women are saying, this is me and I can still be vibrant, sexy, strong, full of fun and life with white hair. Even more so since they are not using so much energy trying to fight the clock. Don't fight it, I say to myself, run along side of it with all that you've got. We are all going in one direction no matter how you slice it (no pun intended in regard to plastic surgery). Of course, do your own thing as I am doing mine. This is not for everyone, I know. Be the best you can be, no matter what hair color you choose. Just don't faint the next time you see my white stripe getting wider and wider!
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Skunk or Monk?
OK. I've made the commitment. Choosing hats, wondering what I'll wear in spring and summer. Next step is to find someone to strip the hair and go platinum or not, and just ride out the white wave. Called my colorist. Cancelled my appointment. Felt bad for her. What about me? Made an appointment at a different salon for a haircut today. The more I cut off the better but no way do I go to a pixey cut. That is worse than a skunk streak. I think. I'm pulling out my wigs from shows. Asian style, shoulder length, bangs. Auburn, shorter, bob from the 20's. All look real. Still feel wierd. My big concern is when I teach kids part time in the arts. I guess I'll wear a simple hat and tell them I have a scalp disease. Better not. Or a tee shirt that says, "I'm sparing you my roots!" No way can I wear a wig at school. The work is too labor intensive and there is always the possibility of a kid suspecting and pulling it off! Why am I putting myself thorugh this? So I don't have to put myself through color every month and not see/be who I am in the mirror. Who knows, I may not want to after my hair goes all natural. Wait and see with me...
Simone, for now...
Friday, January 11, 2008
Simone Speaks for the first time - on her blog!
You may or may not know me. On my blog, I've returned to a pseudonym I used way back when when I first began my career as a writer. I guess I could not accept myself fully as such, so I created this pen name. My first work (of poetry) was published under this name but soon the real me rose to the surface in non-fiction, fiction, creative nonfiction, essay, poetry, performance art and playwrighting. So, once again, I head back to the secure cloak of Simone and shall emerge to the real me (with my real name) as soon as my hair does. My initial venture into blogging is my transitition towards the visual, authentic me. Come with me as I grow out my long, wavy red tresses and become the white-haired women I am.
My daughter thinks I'm crazy to do this. "You have no wrinkles, you don't look old, why don't you wait till your face matches that of a old woman?" she asks, trying to find a compromise for the future, not wanting to see her Mom as is at point in time.
As for my husband of less than a year, he'd rather I stay red, but with his full head of salt and pepper hair, there is not much he can say. Except, "I think I can get used to it," was his comment when I wore a long, wavy, silver and platinum blonde wig for the first time at our Jazz gig last night. More on that later. (I'm also a Jazz singer, can you guess who I am yet?)
I did not spring this on him during our honeymoon. I told him soon after I met him that I had plans to go white one day. In fact, when he met me, he knew I was not a true redhead. We met in a show we both were in (I had met him before at a party at his house a year before as a guest of a drummer friend of his who happened to be my nieghbor and a lesbian, so me walking in the door with her led to zero interest in me on his part. As for me, I wasn't looking for love at that time, just out of a bad relationship with a guy who turned out to be gay, but that is another story for another day). My future husband told me that when I walked down the steps of the studio after rehearsal, he followed me out to invite me to a party after hearing me sing and being "blown away" {his words} by my voice, but noticed that revealing white skunk streak {my words} down my head and said to himself, "Hmmm, how old is she anyway?" But he still asked me to the party and that story is also for another day. What a guy? Right? He's a feminist and a radical at heart; it showed then, and shows now.
Well enough about what those people I love most think of my latest, bold move. Now for my thoughts about it. I have never done anything drastic with my hair. Yes, I went from brown to red after the greys started showing, and it was always naturally wild and curly although age is talking the curls and turning them into waves, but this is different. This is a drastic change in a world where white hair means over the hill. I see it as reaching a summit and standing tall and saying, this is me. I'm still funny, sexy, smart, and a Leo (if you haven't figured that out already). I'll save money, time and myself from being a slave to trying to hold onto another time and place. I'm not the first to do this. I've read all the recent articles and books on this. And if I hate it, I can turn back to the red, I guess. But, this is more than hair color for me. It is about seeing me from the outside, now that you are truly seccure and happy and strong about who I am on the inside. Of course, this path is not for everyone. But if I can share my step by step moves to white, then maybe there are others out there who want to travel this journey but would first like to see the steps as they happen. Trust me, I'm nervous about this atfer all I've said to you. And there will be times when I'll want to go back to the bottle. The hair dye bottle, that is! But follow me now into what lies ahead as I navitage what to do about the roots, whether to strip out the color and go platinum first, wear wigs, cut it all off (no chance, remember, I'm a Leo) and how to just get to my desination on a road I've never traveled. Eventually, you will not just learn my real name but also see photos of the before, after and even the in between!
I hope to be here everyday with my musings on this and other things as they pop up. Thanks for reading!
Journey into hair's last taboo: growing out one's locks into the world of white. Follow this radical change by a fifty-something writer as she moves towards the image of her authentic self.
Photo 1 is from 2001, photo 1 is from 2010!
Friday, February 22, 2008
Taking it off! In Public!
My husband and I decided to have a dinner party for a few friends. The question was: To wear a wig or not in order to cover the skunk line. (I found a way not to have the skunk streak - but more on that later.) I decided to wear the curly, highlighted, lowlighted, long one and all at the party guests raved about how good it looked. But, by the end of the night, and after a few extra unflitered Saki, the women were asking me to take it off! So, with a bit of encouragement, I whipped it off (after the removal of a few strategic pins) and showed them the white growth so far. They found it shocking but exciting, but were more interested in puttting on the wig on themselves! One began an impromptu Tina Turner routine, the other started posing like Marilyn! We snapped photos, laughed, and their encouragement they gave me to keep on keeping on with my quest was wonderful.
My next big public move was to venture into the gym, without any head covering. In a place were image is everything, I told myself that since a wig would not do in the midst of sweat, and head bobbing in aerobics class, and a hat or scarf would get in the way, I decided it was time to bare all. But how to do it with the utmost confidence? I chose to brush and pull it straight back into a high ponytail. Like a ballerina, like a 1950's rock n roller chick, with an in- your-face version of I'm growing my hair out but I can still keep pace on the treadmill and lift those weights attitude, I entered. (My husband and I had gotten free passes for a week at our local NY Sports Club and thought I'd give it a try.) Yes, I got a few looks as I entered. Yes, looking at myself in the mirror in Zumba class made me feel like it was not quite me in front of me, but I held my head high and the more I did so, the more confident I became. The truth is, with my hair pulled back, it is quite elegant even though it is not all grown out. And the skunk streak is gone that way. With it this way, one sees a blending of sparkling white long hair gradually cascading into red. Yuk, you might say, but remember that Hair's Last Taboo is just this. Not pink, or shaved, or multicolored hair, or carved, but white hair. So, your reaction is understandable. Still, the more I do this, the more I realize that this is probably the most radical thing I've done in terms of appearance. At least I can say, no one has hair quite like me! The transition continues.
Sign up for blog to be delivered to your e-mail whenever I make an entry! Thanks for reading.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
As the White Line Widens!
I now realize that I have crossed into the last taboo. You can color your hair green, blue, orange, tint all of it or parts of it, buzz it, leave the center long and clip the sides, you can evenly shave it all off, but don't try to grow out the grey! No one likes to go to a funeral and look at a dead person, and no one likes to look at a head that is showing its true colors! It reminds us too much of the end of life's journey when it comes to a head and where we are all headed! As a singer, I wear wigs not to shock and dismay the audience or distract them from my voice and performance. As a part time, substitute teacher, for the first time, I wore a wig to school! When the phone rang before the sun came up that morning, I had to decide how I would present myself in the classroom. I teach only in ele. schools so the kids are much less interested or aware of grooming and fashion, so I figured I could pull it off. Not my wig, of course, but the idea of appearing with a new kind of hair every time I go to the school. I am not that often at the same school, with the exception of one private school, where all the kids know me well. (This time was not at that school but I will be there next week!) I donned, this time, a black straight wig with bangs. (I have a long silver/blonde curly wig much like my own hair's texture and a aurburn red bob with bangs, too.). The day at school went well. The secretary at the desk looked at me with a vague expression as if she was thinking I know this person but maybe I don't. I have decided to warn the teachers about my wigs at that private school by e mail. This is a long trek but I feel confident I will get there.
The other night, after donning a hat, my husband and I went to a bar-b-que joint. A woman came in, in her early 60's and in exellent physicall condition with white, shoulder length, straight hair with bangs. I could not stop looking at her, admiring her, wanting what she had. She was beautiful. I had to go over to her and tell her so, and tell her of my jounrey. She was supportive and encouraging and that made me smile.
We all have choices and this one is mine. I have always walked to a different drummer, as one of my freinds said when she heard of my idea to grow my hair out. This is true and I am proud of hardly ever following the crowd. More and more women are saying, this is me and I can still be vibrant, sexy, strong, full of fun and life with white hair. Even more so since they are not using so much energy trying to fight the clock. Don't fight it, I say to myself, run along side of it with all that you've got. We are all going in one direction no matter how you slice it (no pun intended in regard to plastic surgery). Of course, do your own thing as I am doing mine. This is not for everyone, I know. Be the best you can be, no matter what hair color you choose. Just don't faint the next time you see my white stripe getting wider and wider!
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Skunk or Monk?
OK. I've made the commitment. Choosing hats, wondering what I'll wear in spring and summer. Next step is to find someone to strip the hair and go platinum or not, and just ride out the white wave. Called my colorist. Cancelled my appointment. Felt bad for her. What about me? Made an appointment at a different salon for a haircut today. The more I cut off the better but no way do I go to a pixey cut. That is worse than a skunk streak. I think. I'm pulling out my wigs from shows. Asian style, shoulder length, bangs. Auburn, shorter, bob from the 20's. All look real. Still feel wierd. My big concern is when I teach kids part time in the arts. I guess I'll wear a simple hat and tell them I have a scalp disease. Better not. Or a tee shirt that says, "I'm sparing you my roots!" No way can I wear a wig at school. The work is too labor intensive and there is always the possibility of a kid suspecting and pulling it off! Why am I putting myself thorugh this? So I don't have to put myself through color every month and not see/be who I am in the mirror. Who knows, I may not want to after my hair goes all natural. Wait and see with me...
Simone, for now...
Friday, January 11, 2008
Simone Speaks for the first time - on her blog!
You may or may not know me. On my blog, I've returned to a pseudonym I used way back when when I first began my career as a writer. I guess I could not accept myself fully as such, so I created this pen name. My first work (of poetry) was published under this name but soon the real me rose to the surface in non-fiction, fiction, creative nonfiction, essay, poetry, performance art and playwrighting. So, once again, I head back to the secure cloak of Simone and shall emerge to the real me (with my real name) as soon as my hair does. My initial venture into blogging is my transitition towards the visual, authentic me. Come with me as I grow out my long, wavy red tresses and become the white-haired women I am.
My daughter thinks I'm crazy to do this. "You have no wrinkles, you don't look old, why don't you wait till your face matches that of a old woman?" she asks, trying to find a compromise for the future, not wanting to see her Mom as is at point in time.
As for my husband of less than a year, he'd rather I stay red, but with his full head of salt and pepper hair, there is not much he can say. Except, "I think I can get used to it," was his comment when I wore a long, wavy, silver and platinum blonde wig for the first time at our Jazz gig last night. More on that later. (I'm also a Jazz singer, can you guess who I am yet?)
I did not spring this on him during our honeymoon. I told him soon after I met him that I had plans to go white one day. In fact, when he met me, he knew I was not a true redhead. We met in a show we both were in (I had met him before at a party at his house a year before as a guest of a drummer friend of his who happened to be my nieghbor and a lesbian, so me walking in the door with her led to zero interest in me on his part. As for me, I wasn't looking for love at that time, just out of a bad relationship with a guy who turned out to be gay, but that is another story for another day). My future husband told me that when I walked down the steps of the studio after rehearsal, he followed me out to invite me to a party after hearing me sing and being "blown away" {his words} by my voice, but noticed that revealing white skunk streak {my words} down my head and said to himself, "Hmmm, how old is she anyway?" But he still asked me to the party and that story is also for another day. What a guy? Right? He's a feminist and a radical at heart; it showed then, and shows now.
Well enough about what those people I love most think of my latest, bold move. Now for my thoughts about it. I have never done anything drastic with my hair. Yes, I went from brown to red after the greys started showing, and it was always naturally wild and curly although age is talking the curls and turning them into waves, but this is different. This is a drastic change in a world where white hair means over the hill. I see it as reaching a summit and standing tall and saying, this is me. I'm still funny, sexy, smart, and a Leo (if you haven't figured that out already). I'll save money, time and myself from being a slave to trying to hold onto another time and place. I'm not the first to do this. I've read all the recent articles and books on this. And if I hate it, I can turn back to the red, I guess. But, this is more than hair color for me. It is about seeing me from the outside, now that you are truly seccure and happy and strong about who I am on the inside. Of course, this path is not for everyone. But if I can share my step by step moves to white, then maybe there are others out there who want to travel this journey but would first like to see the steps as they happen. Trust me, I'm nervous about this atfer all I've said to you. And there will be times when I'll want to go back to the bottle. The hair dye bottle, that is! But follow me now into what lies ahead as I navitage what to do about the roots, whether to strip out the color and go platinum first, wear wigs, cut it all off (no chance, remember, I'm a Leo) and how to just get to my desination on a road I've never traveled. Eventually, you will not just learn my real name but also see photos of the before, after and even the in between!
I hope to be here everyday with my musings on this and other things as they pop up. Thanks for reading!
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Alphabet of the Dead: Revisiting Sept. 11, 2001 with its tragedy again in the news...
Below is my-time award winning a poem about the aftermath of 9/11/10: (It is not in its line break format but I think it still works.)
The Alphabet of the Dead: 2002, September, 11 and beyond: And the wind rose to kiss their lips and the dust rose and whirled around them and touched their shoulders and brushed their cheeks. And the wind swirled to stroke their foreheads and wipe their tears. And they walked into the open-air mausoleum, and the names read became a poem, and the names became a chant, and the names became a prayer. And the dust blew in their eyes and the dust blew into their mouths and dust blew onto their tongues and into the crevices of ears and spoke like no speech could ever speak.And a circle of honor was set, a ring, in the center of the open grave, like a hole in the earth, like a place of resurrection, like an empty circus ring. And from a distance, from the view of birds and gods, a living wreath was formed, surrounding the ring with those who mourned for those who died. All the mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, children and daughters, sons and cousins, aunts and uncles, and the couples and strangers, hand and hand, descending. And there were dogs, and cats, and birds, the animals, the loyal pets who waited and waited and waited and died waiting. And all the names, all ages, all sexes, all religions, all strata, from many countries, from many states, from all boroughs, all people, a family of strangers. The dust of angels, of unsuspecting soldiers. It is painful to listen to the list of names, numbing to listen to the names, necessary to listen to the list of names. The names become a poem, the names become a prayer. And what have we learned from this beyond that men can weep out loud in public and embrace each other in grief and that race means nothing? Beyond that people will still talk on cell phones in the street, even while the alphabet of the dead is read aloud? Beyond that we must live for today but plan for tomorrow? In this pit, all the living wear the same face, lips tight with corners down, squinting between tears. The living gather earth and dust into plastic bottles, what little they can take home. Dust of angels now angels in a bottle, Genies in bottles, wishes never to come true. Some pick up pebbles, perhaps pieces of bone. Small relics in this rubble, what little they can take home. And every year the list of surnames with different faces scroll down my TV screen, to tell me we are one. That all that is left is dust tells us we are one. That we all cringe with dust in our eyes tells us we are one on this beach, desert, tightrope, consecrated ground. Mary Crescenzo
The Alphabet of the Dead: 2002, September, 11 and beyond: And the wind rose to kiss their lips and the dust rose and whirled around them and touched their shoulders and brushed their cheeks. And the wind swirled to stroke their foreheads and wipe their tears. And they walked into the open-air mausoleum, and the names read became a poem, and the names became a chant, and the names became a prayer. And the dust blew in their eyes and the dust blew into their mouths and dust blew onto their tongues and into the crevices of ears and spoke like no speech could ever speak.And a circle of honor was set, a ring, in the center of the open grave, like a hole in the earth, like a place of resurrection, like an empty circus ring. And from a distance, from the view of birds and gods, a living wreath was formed, surrounding the ring with those who mourned for those who died. All the mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, children and daughters, sons and cousins, aunts and uncles, and the couples and strangers, hand and hand, descending. And there were dogs, and cats, and birds, the animals, the loyal pets who waited and waited and waited and died waiting. And all the names, all ages, all sexes, all religions, all strata, from many countries, from many states, from all boroughs, all people, a family of strangers. The dust of angels, of unsuspecting soldiers. It is painful to listen to the list of names, numbing to listen to the names, necessary to listen to the list of names. The names become a poem, the names become a prayer. And what have we learned from this beyond that men can weep out loud in public and embrace each other in grief and that race means nothing? Beyond that people will still talk on cell phones in the street, even while the alphabet of the dead is read aloud? Beyond that we must live for today but plan for tomorrow? In this pit, all the living wear the same face, lips tight with corners down, squinting between tears. The living gather earth and dust into plastic bottles, what little they can take home. Dust of angels now angels in a bottle, Genies in bottles, wishes never to come true. Some pick up pebbles, perhaps pieces of bone. Small relics in this rubble, what little they can take home. And every year the list of surnames with different faces scroll down my TV screen, to tell me we are one. That all that is left is dust tells us we are one. That we all cringe with dust in our eyes tells us we are one on this beach, desert, tightrope, consecrated ground. Mary Crescenzo
Friday, July 23, 2010
What I've Learned About Men
What I’ve Learned in My Life About Men - My own POV, of course!
Look for a man who has a good job, not one looking for a job.
Look for a man who knows who he is, not one who is searching for who he is…when he finds who he is, he’ll leave you since you were what he found, emotionally and financial, while he was searching.
Look for a man with similar interests, beliefs and passions.
If your expectations are low, men with low expectations will find you.
Don’t allow a man to move in with you, you will be his crutch and you don’t want someone who is broke(n). (Exception: He gave you a ring, you’ve set a date for the wedding, and you’ve booked the place – now move in together!)
Look for a man you can be proud of, who inspires you, respects you, not one who brings you down, is jealous of you and those friends around you.
Lies are like cockroaches, if you see one, there are many many more!
Man are like cockroaches, if you can’t catch one, there are many more!
These are man who are damaged goods: You don’t want them!
• If he emotionally and/or physically abuses you, it will only get worse and you can’t change him.
• A man who was/is in the military has been brainwashed to hold back emotion (but can fake it when necessary), brainwashed to hate, to be violent, use weapons and kill. If he feels he has to, he’ll use these skills against you. I’m sure there are exceptions. I hope so.
• A man (or person) who has a parent who is/was an alcoholic – if he is not one himself, he will be distant, not be able to commit, have mood swings, be jealous and be violent when least expected – responses he knows best from observation of that parent – (look for curved-over nails in people whose parents were alcoholics). Not his fault but what it is! Of course with a lot of work and 12 steps groups, etc. he may turn out to be a wonderful man but you probably had to go through the discovery with him – a real waste of time! Unless you were in the same boat and then the mutual discovery and understanding will be worth it - if it sticks.
• A man who hates or dislikes his mother or has unresolved resentment issues with parents will eventually take his anger out on you.
• A man who drinks in an out of control manner or takes drugs needs professional intervention, not you. These habits are means of self-medication and he will love them more than you.
Just because a man loves you, doesn’t mean he is right for you.
A man (or any person with tattoos) is trying to find himself by drawing images and words outside of his body to define himself, instead of looking inside of himself for answers to whom his is. (flashy cars, bling, piercing, etc., especially those that one cannot afford, attempts to achieve the same thing) Tattoos are a form of self-mutilation, therefore, self-medication. Of course, if and when he finds himself through heart and mind and spirit - without coloring onto themselves to create a personal image – he may turn out to be a wonderful man but those outer scars will still exist, and you probably had to go through the discovery with him – a real waste of time in your life. If you both were coloring to fill in the blanks, then hope that you both find who each of you are at the same time!
A man with a good job, money, who has a neat, clean, so-called upright appearance can still be damaged goods!
Listen to some of the first things a man tells you when you meet him. He will tell you what is most troubling him and what is most unresolved in him.
Gifts from a man are important as well as special days remembered and celebrated, but so are the gift of manners, honestly, listening, and forgiveness.
Anything I left out?
PS: With a lot of self-work that turned into self-worth (after the dysfunctional hand I was dealt as a child, and the bad choices I made) I finally figured this stuff out and am now happily married to the amazing man I deserved my whole life. I just didn’t know what I deserved - way back when…
Look for a man who has a good job, not one looking for a job.
Look for a man who knows who he is, not one who is searching for who he is…when he finds who he is, he’ll leave you since you were what he found, emotionally and financial, while he was searching.
Look for a man with similar interests, beliefs and passions.
If your expectations are low, men with low expectations will find you.
Don’t allow a man to move in with you, you will be his crutch and you don’t want someone who is broke(n). (Exception: He gave you a ring, you’ve set a date for the wedding, and you’ve booked the place – now move in together!)
Look for a man you can be proud of, who inspires you, respects you, not one who brings you down, is jealous of you and those friends around you.
Lies are like cockroaches, if you see one, there are many many more!
Man are like cockroaches, if you can’t catch one, there are many more!
These are man who are damaged goods: You don’t want them!
• If he emotionally and/or physically abuses you, it will only get worse and you can’t change him.
• A man who was/is in the military has been brainwashed to hold back emotion (but can fake it when necessary), brainwashed to hate, to be violent, use weapons and kill. If he feels he has to, he’ll use these skills against you. I’m sure there are exceptions. I hope so.
• A man (or person) who has a parent who is/was an alcoholic – if he is not one himself, he will be distant, not be able to commit, have mood swings, be jealous and be violent when least expected – responses he knows best from observation of that parent – (look for curved-over nails in people whose parents were alcoholics). Not his fault but what it is! Of course with a lot of work and 12 steps groups, etc. he may turn out to be a wonderful man but you probably had to go through the discovery with him – a real waste of time! Unless you were in the same boat and then the mutual discovery and understanding will be worth it - if it sticks.
• A man who hates or dislikes his mother or has unresolved resentment issues with parents will eventually take his anger out on you.
• A man who drinks in an out of control manner or takes drugs needs professional intervention, not you. These habits are means of self-medication and he will love them more than you.
Just because a man loves you, doesn’t mean he is right for you.
A man (or any person with tattoos) is trying to find himself by drawing images and words outside of his body to define himself, instead of looking inside of himself for answers to whom his is. (flashy cars, bling, piercing, etc., especially those that one cannot afford, attempts to achieve the same thing) Tattoos are a form of self-mutilation, therefore, self-medication. Of course, if and when he finds himself through heart and mind and spirit - without coloring onto themselves to create a personal image – he may turn out to be a wonderful man but those outer scars will still exist, and you probably had to go through the discovery with him – a real waste of time in your life. If you both were coloring to fill in the blanks, then hope that you both find who each of you are at the same time!
A man with a good job, money, who has a neat, clean, so-called upright appearance can still be damaged goods!
Listen to some of the first things a man tells you when you meet him. He will tell you what is most troubling him and what is most unresolved in him.
Gifts from a man are important as well as special days remembered and celebrated, but so are the gift of manners, honestly, listening, and forgiveness.
Anything I left out?
PS: With a lot of self-work that turned into self-worth (after the dysfunctional hand I was dealt as a child, and the bad choices I made) I finally figured this stuff out and am now happily married to the amazing man I deserved my whole life. I just didn’t know what I deserved - way back when…
Thursday, July 15, 2010
One Unexpected Turn Away From Living in a Truck
One Unexpected Turn Away From Living in a Truck
Limbo is different for everyone except that is bears that common weight of neither here nor there, a place we may be closer to than we think, in a world where we are one unexpected turn away from living in a truck. Weeks ago, on a road trip with my daughter, thoughts of life were part of what I carried with me as we traveled to Los Angeles from her apartment in Las Vegas to find a new place for her to live. What to bring, what to discard, what to sell, what to give away was heavy on her mind. Ever fashion-conscious yet ever the bargain hunter, her musings that day on these decisions make me think of what we carry and what we own, on our backs and otherwise.
Hungry, singing Broadway tunes under a wide desert sky of Wedgewood blue, we turned off the highway into the parking lot of a Subway Sandwich Shop. As we pulled into a spot, we were approached on the driver’s side by a female, around my daughter’s age, with a squeegee and spray bottle in hand. My first reaction to this young woman’s polite, “Pardon Me,” with the tone of a shop girl from Sax’s Fifth Avenue, was to turn away with a quick, “No Thanks,” as I had done many times back in New York, when those covered with the grime of city approached my car at a stop light, ready to give my windshield a squirt and a wipe in exchange for a some change. My daughter, more gracious and giving then I, said, “No, thank you, but here are a few dollars for you,” as we exited our car for a bite to eat. Her generosity put an awkward smile on my face, one part shame that my first reaction was not as giving, one part caution, hoping this was not the prelude to being hi-jacked along with our vehicle. The woman, a bit surprised, accepted the money, walked away and gratefully wished us a good day. While my daughter ordered, I watched through the window as the tattered woman and three others in disheveled clothing converged at a rusty pick-up, set their tools in the back along with piles of clothing and large plastic bags, then drove away.
Back home in New York, before I left for this trip, I had spent time with two friends, both in a limbo of their own. “You can’t buy a dress for less than two hundred dollars unless you want it to look like a shmata!” said one, complaining about dressing her mother for her daughter’s wedding. “My mom just doesn’t want to spend money!” said my friend about her widowed mother from Queens whose age would tell you that she lived though the first Great Depression, a time when apples instead of window washing were being sold on the streets. Limbo for my friend is a mother without a dress good enough for her daughter. This friend has the best of everything yet she’s hanging in the balance of credit cards and monthly interest charges that she sees as just another expense.
The other friend whom I spent time with before my trip was dressed in a hospital gown patterned with the kinds of fluids found only in the ICU. Limbo for him was the dangling of six IV bags attached to tubes jutting into his skin, and a heart monitor. Perfumed in urine, he was decked out in morphine and bracelets identifying him as an esophageal cancer patient who hadn’t consumed food by mouth in over a month. Once a virtuoso Jazz guitarist who could not pay for the high cost a freelancer’s health insurance, his life hung in the balance of hospital bills he could not pay. His house is half paid for, he kept food on the table, but his wife and son are in between jobs. Their full time job has become his care. With such an unexpected turn, the mother of the bride, with or without insurance, could be one illness away from living in a vehicle, in her case, a Lexus.
Our encounter with the window washer was not on the streets of New York. The foreclosed homes and construction-halted neighborhoods we passed driving out a Las Vegas didn’t start out as ghost towns. And I have to admit, we were on a desert highway from Las Vegas to Los Angeles in the midst of our own limbo. My daughter, a college graduate, spent the last few years as a Hooter’s girl in the company’s hotel and casino making money from tips, saving for her pursuit of singing with a band on the west coast. She did find a great studio to live in, a job, and has the good fortune of having loving relatives and friends who live a few minutes away from her new place, but others with dreams are not so lucky.
I never thought about the homeless and downtrodden living outside of urban landscapes. But they are alive and not so well in the west, on the corners of suburban Henderson, Nevada, in all parts of the world, and on the road between the City of Angels and Sin City. Stop for a moment and feel the heat of the quiet murmur of purgatory, of the desperate, ill, jobless, and newly foreclosed. And no matter how they got to be in limbo, they, as well as those who have more than they need, are like the zombies in, “Night of the Living Dead,” on the move, on the march.
Los Angeles, mission accomplished. Upon my return flight to a snowy and grey New York, I paid one last visit to my troubadour friend. Those who stood around his bed, although they sincerely loved him, acted as if he was invisible, talking about him but not to him. It is easier to pretend that those who no longer look and act as we do in our take-for-granted lives, still exist. Entering his room, I entered his limbo, his mouth half open, eyes half shut. All I could give him was what he loved best: music, and a song. I asked everyone there, “Pardon me,” in my politest voice, “may I please have a moment with him alone?” And I sang, “The Nearness of You” and “California Dreamin’,” knowing more than ever that though we all must eat and possess money to live, kindness, on this road, goes a long way.
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