Coming Out
coming out appears to me
to be, a series of leaps and creeps
not always in the same direction.
coming out appears to me
to be, aided by the slight of hand
of a magician.
coming out appears to me
to be, a lifetime of lefts and rights
a constant imperfect navigation.
~nina~
Thursday, January 31, 2008
My Favorite Five
My Favorite Touch:
Satin sheets
My Favorite Smell:
Peat Moss
My Favorite Taste:
Half~n~Half out of the carton
My Favorite Sound:
When I was young I lived a block away from the school. One summer they didn't turn off the automatic bell ring for the beginning and end of the school day. I remember lying on the lawn on a lazy afternoons hearing that bell go off and smiling at the fact that I didn't have to answer it's call.
My Favorite Sight:
Butch hands
(you didn't think I could go through this whole thing without putting a woman in here somewhere did you?)
I won't tag anyone but it would be nice if you would like to tell me what your favorites are.
My thoughts Chink against my ribs And roll about like silver hail-stones. I should like to spill them out, And pour them, all shining, Over you. But my heart is shut upon them And holds them straitly.
Come, You! and open my heart: That my thoughts torment me no longer, But glitter in your hair.
I received a happy letter today telling me that my art submission has been accepted by the Art-O-Mat people. I am delighted. After some minor tweaking of the presentation you will be able to buy a picture of me tied up and naked. I know that is what you all have been waiting for.
Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
1. I can't sleep with socks on because I can't breathe.
2. I have a concrete plan to eat half-n-half on my cereal every morning if ever I am diagnosed with a fatal illness.
3. I have never tasted pumpkin pie. (It stems from a nasty childhood pumpkin incident)
4. I have my own personal holiday. Sock Liberation Day. June 1st. That is the day that every single sock gets put away for the next 4 months. I hate socks. I hate wearing them. I hate matching them. I have a sock drawer where every sock that comes out of the washer goes in there. Unmatched. Everyone in the house must fend for themselves.
5. I suffer from "phone fear". Everytime my phone rings I get instantly panicky, even if I know the person.
6. I forget everything! I forget conversations. I forget phone numbers. I forget whether or not I have brushed my teeth. The only thing I don't forget is to take my meds. Cause there is one thing I have learned. Ya don't fuck with crazy.
My friend DP just finished a 5 part series on what she finds so electric about femmes. From her first installment she had women so breathless that the air was palpable. She has inspired me to return the favor.
It seems when I try to cite a reason why I am attracted to butch women, up pops an exception to the why. For instance, I love a woman with short cropped hair, yowza! Except that women like Amy Ray and Emily Saliers or Melissa Etheridge (before her struggle with cancer) all make me crazy and they have longer hair. So, it could be said that I love a butch with short hair except when the butch has long hair. And a note: Melissa Etheridge without hair flipped my trigger too so I guess I am attracted to butch women who have short hair, long hair and no hair. Or maybe I am just a reticent nymphomaniac?
Butch women walk with confidence. This I know. They look like they are about to take a running jump to wrestle an alligator. Their shoulders are square and their chin never tilts downward unless its to tie the laces on their boots. On second thought a butch's laces never come untied.
Butch women smell good. They smell of cologne. They put on just enough so that you have to get close to smell it. Sometimes they smell of just plain soap and water, clean and scrubbed and perfect. And somehow, I don't know how they do it but they never smell like cigarette smoke. Even if they are themselves a smoker. Some how smoke never sticks to them. But above all, they smell like a woman. It seeps through their pores and permeates the senses. A smell so distinct and subtle that it almost vibrates with electricity.
Butches have tattoos on their shoulders... even when they don't. Period.
Butches wear ties... even if they don't. Period.
Butches play guitar... even if they can't. Period.
Butches love my french onion soup... Period.
It's a mental thing, well except the soup, that's a personal thing...
Butches move as though they wrote the play. When asking you to dance they hold out their hand softly, palm up, fingers beckoning. Like Fred Astaire. When you put your hand to theirs they curl up their fingers tight, but not too tight. They touch you in places that honor your femininity. Your hands, your wrists, the small of your back. They will cup one hand to fit your jaw line and cradle your face as they pull you close enough to kiss you. And when they do they dive into you claiming their dominance and making you the most powerful woman in the world.
Sex. There I said it. It's what we all think about right? I like her to lead me to bed but allow me to wander... I like her to devour me then give me room to memorize every curve of her body... I like to watch her lose herself in her orgasm above me and have her watch me find myself in mine... she stays clothed long after mine are thrown into a pile on the floor and stays naked long after I have risen to make her coffee.
It seems to me that Butch is an attitude. An aura. It's not tangible except that it is. It is easy to explain and impossible if the person isn't also attracted. It's sexuality. We are all keyed differently.
My dear friend BA asked some very pointed, honest questions.
"Why if I like women, don't I like women who look like women?"
I just don't know. Perhaps I turn away from such images because all I have ever been exposed to is countless Buffy and Heathers going at it for the camera. It is fake. It is awkward. It's a lie. It's porn made by men, geared toward men and women forever have been conditioned to believe that *that* is what real women/lesbians look like and act like. Just like hetero sexual images of female beauty. Its a lie. Its not beautiful. Its not beautiful because its a lie. Butch women look like women to me. Beautiful, strong and confident.
To answer another of BA's questions:
Yes, there is such thing and butch/butch, femme/femme couples. There are soft-butches, stone butches, high femmes, stone femmes. There are countless variations in between. There are some women who sleep with women but don't consider themselves lesbian. And some women hate the word "lesbian" and prefer something else, such as queer... yes we have reclaimed that word, along with dyke. We have also taken control of rainbows and the entire month of June. But that's another post entirely. There are no rules of attraction except that attraction rules. I have been in the past attracted to one woman who is the eptome of femme. She was straight. But nobody's perfect. *grin*
To end this worship service I would like to dedicate the following song to the Butch woman.
February is my darkest time. It is the season of my discontent. The thrill of first snow has long since passed and spring lies waiting for resurrection. It is a dead quiet time. Time that coerces thoughts you have long since reconciled back to the surface.
So to my delight I was given flowers to stave off the coming darkness. I breathe in and smell spring. I breathe in and smell hope. Hope that love lives, spring will again stir and rise to delight my senses. I will tend to them and encourage their longevity. It is still a long way to February and longer still until spring.
During World War II, bakers in the United States were ordered to stop selling sliced bread for the duration of the war on January 18, 1943. Only whole loaves were made available to the public. It was never explained how this action helped the war effort. This made me wonder if it was the reintroduction of sliced bread rather than the invention that sparked the idiom. Do you know?
It is also:
The Polygraph Birthday. Honest! (1951)
It's Thesaurus Day! I tried to think of another way to say this. 1779 birthday of Peter Roget.
It is also Winnie The Pooh Day. A.A. Milne's Birthday Born in 1882.
I was scrolling through my archives and found the original posting of this video. I made it the day I returned home from an impromptu dash to the Washington coast. I was heart broken and dizzy with self revelation. I put down forever this day, my heterosexuality. It seems forever ago. I do miss the rush that came with coming out. I miss how all my nerve endings were alive and raw. I certainly do not miss the pain. I miss my friend Becky. She teaches school in Utah. She will always be my sister. I miss the emotionality of the ocean. It's passionate indifference. The grey chilly air and the warm fire we built to stave off the cold.
Is That a Gas Station Being Built in Your Backyard, Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?
It could also be called:
"Really Bad Real Estate Purchase"
"Easy Access to Services"
"One Minute Beer Run"
"Fuck I Will Never Sell This House Now"
*sigh*
I guess when you take advantage of urban sprawl it will eventally bite you in the ass. The field behind me used to be a grassy field full of horses and grasshoppers. Soon it will be full of drunks peeing behind the building...
I see trees in my future... lots and lots of trees.
*Mad Gab Monday Answers:
1. Three Men in A Tub 2. There's Always A Chance 3. Exterminator 4. Big Man on Campus
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You are about to have your own band’s CD cover. Follow these directions to the letter.
Go to……
1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first article title on the page is the name of your band.
2. http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.
The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.
4. Use your graphics program of choice to throw them together, and post the result as a comment in this post. Also, pass it along in your own journal because it’s more amusing that way. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Meet my new CD!
Carla and I went out dancing last night at Pengilly's. Besides almost breaking her jaw while I performed random dance moves, we had a good time. The place was full of beautiful women. Sometimes RS can really pack in the lesbian crowd and the place literally vibrated with female pheromones.
A little piece of heaven.
Looking around the room I realized that I still don't look gay. I will never look gay. Shit. I have finally become less shy about lifting my eyes and smiling. (Eye contact with a woman to whom I am secretly salivating over is very difficult) But I am still unable to start up a casual conversation with a Butch. I get tongue tied and feel awkward. I would be more comfortable seeing the proctologist than walking into a room filled with Butch lesbians.
At one point a woman leaned over to me and said,
"Your friend is cute."
Well that *is* progress... even if she thought I lead when dancing with Carla. Of course, if she did think I was Butch then why was she commenting on my pretty Femme? Letch! There is also the possiblity that she thought we were two Femmes lookin' to hook up. Which reminds me of a joke:
What do two Femmes do in bed? Each other's nails.
By the end of the night Carla knew the names of everyone who was within a 200 yard radius of our table. Why? She smokes now. Every so often she wandered outside and engaged in a little conversation and nicotine with these beautiful women while I sat practicing my chopsticking skills with two straws and my ice cubes. I should take up smoking.
It all boils down to this, I have an identity problem. I wear the Femme Invisiblity Cloak.
A Femme is a noun, a verb, an adjective... A Femme is the girl who shyly looks at you quickly and then back down at her shoes. We are mistaken for curious heart breaking hets and sometimes feel we must produce a resume of past lovers to prove we are not. We are quiet but powerFULL and we can rock your world. But first we have to be recognized.
So if you recall, I had a "lightbulb" moment a while ago with regard to my vinyl slat blinds that I hate/have in my kitchen.
I finally found cheap curtains in a color I can live with. I have also bought valances which will cover that god forsaken vinyl valance but I haven't "lightbulbed" my way to installation yet. So until then...
School was this horrible.fucking.experience. Not because I wasn't a good student. Being scared to death of not pleasing the adults around me assured my 4.0 status from the get-go.
I was a victim of bullies.
It began slowly and early.
Children watch and wait to see who is the weakest, the quietest, the one who has something that is easily pointed out as inferior. They begin their campaign with the friend at the desk next to them. Once there is a consensus they jump.
I was an obvious choice. I was over weight, as I am now. I was quiet and desperately wanted to be liked so I would never stand up for myself in fear of angering further the perp or their friends, as I am now.
And... I had an abusive mother.
My mother didn't believe in washing clothes after wearing once. Or twice. My mother, as well as my father were heavy smokers. I can imagine now just how badly I must have smelled. Everytime I smell cigarette smoke on a child I get a violent reaction in my stomach and it sends my heart into near tachycardia.
My mother also didn't believe in washing hair more than once every 7-10 days. Bad enough in a child but imagine as I grew into puberty. Once I remember being pummeled with rotting tomatoes on the way home from school and being nearly hysterical by the time I was home because I was certain she would be angry at me for messing up my hair and wouldn't wash my hair until I was "due". As I got older (upper grades of elementary) I would hurry home on Thursday because she had joined a bowling team and she didn't get home for 30 minutes after I got home. I could wash and dry and pretend it never happened before she walked in the door. God bless bowling.
In my last months of 6th grade, (elementary still) my only friend moved a few blocks away and next door to a family with a 15 year old boy. The story of what happened with that boy is a topic all unto itself and deserves a post of it's own as well as years of therapy. But from the outside it was just another thing the "in crowd" could attach to me. We were all growing into sexual beings at that age. In a staunch Mormon community. There were good girls, priesthood worthy boys, wild boys, and sluts. I carried my black sheep status into high school with every negative label they could attach to me. Boys were teased if they showed interest. Yet they all bragged about "getting it". The girls were just mean. The ones who weren't would apologize to me because their mothers wouldn't let them hang out with me. After all, a girl like "that" did everything.
Eventually I had had enough. I fabricated a threat against myself in a note and stuck it in the slats of my locker. When I "found" it I broke down crying. The note wasn't real (no one ever, until now, knew that) but the tears were. Years of tears. I was done. Finished. I wanted to die. Disappear. Curl up in a corner and rock, forever.
I finished the next 3 years of school through visiting teachers in social isolation.
THAT was school for me.
Today I registered for school. I am studing Pharmacology. I start in March. It will take me 22 months to get my Associate's degree. I had to take a valium just to get there. From 1987 to 2006 I hid inside marriage, being the dutiful wife until I knew I would die if I didn't "confess". For a year now I have been putting it off hoping my life would take me in a different direction. I finally realized it was never going to happen. Before I live in a cardboard box I MUST learn to take care of myself. This is my last chance.
Carrie whispers to me
School walls steal my breath Bullies loom beyond my peripheral Humiliation echoes, echoes, echoes...
My ex-husband is a wonderful musician. He has a "chocolate milk" voice. He has been writing his own music and playing almost every Monday night at Pengilly's and doing the open mic circuit around Boise.
Last night the resident musicans Dan Costello and my not so secret lesbian crush Rebecca Scott played with him for the first time. I know it meant a lot to him. It meant a lot to me too. He has worked hard. I hope he continues with his success. He is my best friend and I wish the world for him.
My parents used to live Salt Lake. I could make that trip just below 80mph in about 6 hours. Now they live in Vernal. The extra miles put at least 4 more hours onto the trip. Because of the mountains and (this time) the weather. Half way up the mountain I looked over at my ex-husband and said, "My parents better be worth it." He laughed but I know he was thinking the same thing. For the record, of course they are.
We went with the expectation of days of playing in the snow. Vernal has a ton. We pulled in at dusk. When we opened the car door we were hit with a blast of cold this Boise resident has never experienced. So cold we left everything in the car and huddled on my parents couch for a half hour trying to get the guts to go back out there.
The next morning my children were bouncing off the walls and ready to dive head first in their first "real" snow (boise hasnt had much in years past). We bundled them up and sent them out. Not long after they came in wide eyed saying "It's too cold!" we looked at the thermometer, it's 3 degrees. Uh huh, I didn't know temperatures actually came in one digits. I have to give them credit though. I threw their clothes in the dryer, they put them back on and went back outside. We did this in about 10 minute shifts all through the day. No one over 8 stepped foot outside the door all day.
The next day we took them to the dinosaur museum. We have been there before but when its 3 outside in Vernal, you don't have a lot of other options. We went through it as slow as we could. The ex taking the "cute kid" pictures and me taking pictures of corners of walls and shadows...
The rest of our time the girls huddled around a DVD player watching The Princess Bride and High School Musical 2.
The grown-ups and grown-olds spend the rest their time talking politics, computers, and football. I got fixated on the old couch my parents have had since the invention of couches and took several macros. To which my dad exclaimed, "What the hell are you doing?". I just laughed because really its just too hard to explain.
The day we left I prepared to wake up before sunrise and get some photos of the orange and reds that had filled the sky the day before. I laid out my equipment the night before and woke up on time. Bundled myself up and opened the door. Glancing at the thermometer and seeing that is wasn't 3 anymore, it was -2. I looked out in the grey morning and realized that I will never be Ansel Adams and closed the door. Back inside I poured a cup of coffee and walked over to the dirty sliding glass door and took a picture on the fly.
It could have been a breathtaking picture but it was -2.
First and foremost "thank you" to everyone who began checking up on me after discovering my blog was locked. It was appreciated more than you know.
It has never been my intention to use Closer to Fine as a vehicle to make a case against those whom I have had a disagreement. Its not part of my character to tear apart someone in a public forum in which I make all the rules and decisions about who gets heard. I won't start now. Closer to Fine has always been a safe place. Closer to Fine is about healing.
What I will say is this, a few days before Christmas my 2 year relationship began bleeding out. I am very sad about its death. This was and will always be one of the most important relationships I will ever have. I will always love her. I will fight very hard to always remember its "goodness", its "rightness" instead of the mess left in the wake of its death. She was my first love. Out of respect for her I will not put all the blame at her feet and walk away. I am not the easiest person to love I know that.
It is my hope that I can now continue publically with my blog without poison pen letters and comments etc. This is my house, all are welcome to come in unless you are here to start or continue the verbal onslaught which has led me to block emails, close accts and change phone numbers.
