Fuck no, I won’t do what you tell me…

(and other defiant ideas I have frequently)

This is what happens when I see someone post ‘the ol’ “#CopyMe, #FollowThisTrend, #DoWhatYouAreTold, #JUMPForNoReason” rote memes online.

A​pparently they’ve invented a new disorder to describe what used to be considered normal healthy human behavior since I was a Juvenile Delinquent, and ChINS (Child In Need Of Supervision — labels of last millennium). (Calm down. Yes, it’s a touch of sarcasm.)

D​efiance Disorder (DD).

O​h yeah. I’ve definitely got that. I got kind of excited the first time I read about it. ‘They’ could have saved so much time in my teens if they would have had that term to lean into back then. Defiance Disorder sounds way more punishable in courts of law and whatnot. I think it’s probably lucky for me, and maybe even for all of us, that they had not yet invented it yet, back then.

Y​es, I am aware that some of this is classic (or is it modern?)

M​essiah Complex Shit (MCS).

I​’m okay with it.

S​omeone like me has become like sticky flypaper to disorder labels. Anxiety. Panic. Stress. Personality Disorder. Mood Disorders. Digestive Disorders. Autism…

Attention Overdrive Disorder…oh, wait, that’s not a thing, is it? …Not yet. I definitely have it already anyhow.

All of those are better than Domesticated Horses or Cowardly Human to me.

BTO — B​achman-Turner Overdrive…now they were something. Remember them?

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bachman%E2%80%93Turner_Overdrive

W​here was I?

Oh yeah…

N​ormal Healthy Human Behavior.

(Rage Against the Machine was too obvious, but, in case you’d like the actual theme song for this post, here you go: https://youtu.be/bWXazVhlyxQ?si=0zWFkNqDBLHGulNK )

It seems to me that our current increase in ‘disorders’ of all varieties and flavors is really just one of many symptoms of a bigger picture ‘problem’…and since all problems are also opportunities, I would like to look at it through that lens.

G​et out your rose-colored lens of positivity then, and let’s focus in…

Z​oom in… ..

I​ vaguely need to pee. I’m drinking coffee with cream before noon which is moderately against my own rules which of course are merely guidelines so that I have a better chance at not

b​ucking against them.

T​emperatures are rising fast. It’s already 85 degrees outside. Get out for a noon walk then. It’s never too late to do the right thing. …Is it?

Y​es, sometimes somethings are too late. It’s still okay. 85 is not too hot yet.

That didn’t really bring anything into clearer focus, did it? No.

Alright then. Another day.

P​M…

​It seems like something of an epiphany to recognize, again:

Sometimes my thoughts are the result of my biology, not the other way around…

T​hen again; chickens and eggs. Chickens, and eggs, Pig.

What then, magic hen?

I feel better than you might think.

#LiveAlive

~​GAL, August 28, 2023

PS — just feeling a bit ‘farmy’ this morning I suppose. If you enjoy my ramblings, be sure to follow or subscribe to my email list. Whatever else you do, don’t let the fzuckers get you down!

Stay Amazing.

If you were a cow, how upset would you be? Thoughts and mixed feelings about the transgender movement…

—

Are you upset yet?

I know, there’s things-to-get-upset-about O’plenty out here on the interwebs…

I​’ve noticed the trend in myself for more than a decade…the trend to ‘get upset’ about whatever is happening…for probably four or more decades. The human brain has a default mode network, which tends to find whatever is dissatisfying, out of place, different, potentially threatening, needing attention…

We are all a bit like Prince’s mom, it turns out (‘never satisfied’).

—

L​eft unchecked, my brain tends to make me a miserable cow, so to speak.

 That phrase comes from a general disrespectful attitude we have towards cows specifically, and other parts of life that provide sustenance in general. There is a relationship in the human psyche between cows and mothers, between domestication and cattle. Funny that we call domesticated humans sheeple instead of cow-people. Obviously, it’s pure semantics.

“Why buy the cow, when you can get the milk for free?” is a saying frequently used to explain why no man in his right mind would marry a woman ‘like me’ …I woman with my ‘current history’.

—

I think many cows are actually a lot less miserable than many humans, for the record, or at least, they might be. Despite their deplorable conditions sometimes in feedlots, slaughterhouses and dairy farms, compared to humans, they could be doing alright. At least most of them seem to be allowed to be cows for some of their lives. At least most of them don’t spend decades contemplating the lies of lovers or the failings of parents or societal systems. I think they just chew and poop and look at life lovingly or suspiciously, through those big brown eyes. They don’t have to worry about ‘doing what’s right’. They know how to be cows, even if they aren’t always allowed to.

I​ don’t think cows have the same capacity to ruminate on thoughts as we do. They ruminate on grass instead. That sounds a lot less miserable.

—

T​he morning sun arrived in its fullest glory in my kitchen just a few minutes ago. I love the way morning twilight slowly brightens my East facing kitchen and then, all at once, the sunlight spills over the Sandia mountains and illuminates the city like wild fire. And now our day begins.

M​y brain has its usual wrestling matches with my personal woes - society, idiocracy, misunderstandings, my mother, my body, boobs, human sexuality…all the usual things. I ‘wrastle’ with thoughts about my transgender-ing friend wanting to get double D breast implants, and all the shifting mixed feelings that sparked in me. Why should I care? I don’t. And I do…it bothers me, and I can let it go.

It’s more about me and my own insecurities, as always. It always is about me. All the other stories are lies I tell myself to justify my feelings.

N​o, I am not upset today. I am learning how not to be.

I​ can dive in a bit deeper, into why that bothers me.

—

I​ never developed large breasts. It has been a source of shame for me much of my life.

Imagine if dudes had to strap on dick hammocks and squish their balls together to make cleavage and display them every day for judgment… This is what having small boobs feels like to me sometimes. It involves a lot of self-judgment and strapping on padding.

So, when my friend announced she was transgendering I was happy for her, and I still am. I fully support everyone’s choice to be however they like. I think it’s important and worth standing up for. However, when it seemed like it became a bit about her ability to wear nail polish and make plans to acquire double DD’s, it pushed a number of buttons in me. I know this is not the whole truth of anything. It is something I want to explore though, because I have learned to look deeper when I notice something is bothering me.

I understand our nails and clothes and even boobs and arms are merely outward signals that help us identify ourselves and each other, and not the actual ‘thing’…maybe.

Our outward appearances help us self signal and signal to others. All of it ads up to our sense of self–our identity. Mine has been fluid to a large extent, while also rigidly constant in some ways, so I understand this is nuanced and complex. Everything is relative and contextual as well.

Hopefully we can digest all of this with plenty of salt and maybe a spoon full of sugar?

Let’s just lay down the basics. I believe in everyone’s right to be whoever they want to be. I don’t give any fucks about what gender anyone wants to be…AND, I am a female -  happily - and would like it known that one does not have to have painted fingernails so long they make you useless, or boobs so large that they cause disability, in order to be feminine.

That is not what makes a woman…is it? It can’t be, because that is not what I am, and I am a woman, definitely.

I​ am evidence that a woman can be strong, and have large hands and feet. I am evidence a woman can be a woman without large breasts or long polished nails. I am evidence that some women like engines, mathematics, building, airplanes, and taking the wheel. Some women like to do things that have traditionally, or recently, been considered manly. I think it’s important to remember that as things continue to get so fluid.

I​n fact, it is my feminine side that can kill, that can create life, that can create and feed a baby from my own generative capacity and out holes in my nipples; push it from my body. To represent that with weakness and squishy uselessness is insulting to me, and it seems like maybe it should be insulting to more women and men as well.

I mean, what in the actual fuck? What of the hormonal shifts that govern so much of a woman’s existence? What of being a conduit for consciousness to create through? Is being a woman really something that can be achieved by cutting away the masculine and stuffing in more feminine? Something about it feels off now.

It seems extremely unhealthy to me, and for the first time…but then again, our entire ‘health care system’ has degraded itself into something that serves illness, disease, and disfunction. It has no incentives to investigate health or wellness. I feel like much of this is potentially very unhealthy for society at large. Of course, no one knows what the future holds, or what we will need to navigate it. I suspect human sexuality will evolve out of existence and gender will continue to be more fluid while at the same time becoming …less relevant.

I do hope we consider what it says to current young humans trying to figure out their own identity while navigating their own humanity, including sexuality and gender to normalize changing your gender and also to make do it so…stereotypically? I don’t think that’s actually right. That’s not the whole picture.

I got a lot of mixed feelings about transgenderism, and at the moment, some of them are not positive.

H​ere’s a thing: I was much more in favor of people’s option to transgender, and in complete support of my friend’s journey, until she mentioned the double DD thing. That send my brain reeling. I am still in favor of people having all the options. However, the DD thing shifted my perception instantly. That seems very much like ‘a guy thing’, though I check myself and see, no…many women take great pride in their ‘racks’, and the immense ‘power of the boob’ which they wield. That is my own insecurity then…mostly…maybe.

I sit with my feelings and examine the foundations. I can see part of my feelings are rooted in ‘boob envy’. Maybe that is all of it…also though, no. I feel new waves of defensiveness of my womanhood.

Being a woman is NOT about being too feeble and ‘kept’ to break a nail or too top-heavy to lean over in heels. Being a feminine is NOT merely looking voluptuous and soft pink. It CAN be that, sure, though I suspect most of us do much of that to try to ‘beef up’ male confidence. I definitely could be wrong. I am aware my perspective is atypical to a large degree…then again…is it, really?

Being a woman is about creating life, it is about feeding our future, it is about holding a household in order. Being a woman, to me, means having the capacity to endure, having the clarity of mind to kill, to say no, to sacrifice everything known, for the unknown potentials of future beings. It is about rising above the fray of doing and holding calm, coherent space for growing into. It is about learning by teaching. It’s about creating our Great Mysterious Unknown Future. It’s about potential. It is the most powerful thing I can be. It is not weak or helpless or incapable.

T​he instinct to act less capable around men comes from our desire to be ‘claimed’ by a strong man, it seems to me. I now understand this is biology at play, and men do get a testosterone boost, and thus become more attractive, and more attracted, to us as the result of us acting weaker, younger, dumber, less capable…all of that. But that is play, isn’t it? If we let that rule our society…well, maybe that’d be better than the current numbers are indicating we are heading? Hmmm. There’s a lot of ins and outs to it…

“​You can’t say that on the internet. Not these days.”

Funny that. Maybe I just did.

W​hat do you think?

~​GAL, August 28, 2023, #TheAM

UnHappy Fools That Wish To Die 8 24 23

O​n April 1, 2023, my number one fan, Tom Moya, jumped to his death from a window of an Airbnb bedroom. He cut his mother in the chest first, and created a hellish scene.

I didn’t know him all that well. Tom and his mother stayed with me a few years ago, in a room I host on Airbnb. They bought all my CD’s and stayed in touch as they traveled back to the east coast. He made magnetic poems on my fridge while he was here and gave me a mixed CD he made just for me. Apparently this was a thing he did for others too. They came to see me play a couple of times and I appreciated his enthusiasm. We exchanged links to some sweet Sugar Shack sets (tunes) on YouTube now and then. I could see he was struggling, and sometimes he would tell me about it, though usually our conversations were upbeat and about music and enjoying life.

His mother contacted me the day after he died, which I only recently realized was April Fool’s Day. So apropos. He was 36 years old. His mother and I continue to stay in touch, trying to process all of it. I think she is still in shock. I would be. It’s a lot.

S​he didn’t tell me how he died right away. She told me that story on Mother’s Day, a month or two later. On zoom. This is our modern age. It was even more dramatic than I had imagined, though I had suspected it would be a tragic story. After she got stabbed by her son and then watched him jump out the window and die, she had to deal with police and then was evicted. It sounds like one hell of a ride. She is doing a remarkable job of keeping a positive attitude, from my perspective. She is doubling down on her aspirations to inspire others towards conscious evolution.

S​he seems… understandably…. frustrated with humanity.

I​ can relate.

Tom embodied a classic tragic story in many ways. Unfortunately it is an increasingly prevalent story in the US. I don’t know most of Tom’s personal version or details, but I know enough to recognize some familiar patterns.

We keep telling the same stories. We get caught in loops. We can’t seem to let go of the same disempowering stories of who did what to us and how it kept us from living, sometimes, all the while not realizing that the telling and retelling of our shitty half-true stories is not ‘doing us any favors’. In fact, this is what most often holds us down. Our own shit stories.

I didn’t know Tom well or long, but it was long enough to know a few of the familiar shit-stories he was telling himself. They are classics, really–dad died–sister’s a bitch–screwed out of his inheritance…can’t quite control his thoughts or actions all the time… ..

I​nheritances are a funny thing. My grandfather was quite rich when he died and I watched my family, including I, get ‘antsy’ about what was exactly was going to happen to it all after he died. Suddenly a hypothetical, potential gift, one meant to offset a loss in some way, becomes a thing people feel entitled to. Then when privilege or a gift is taken away or never arrives, it feels like a slight, or punishment. This is a common story I hear many versions of. Tom had a version of it too, which he let play and replay in his mind, until it drove him out of his mind, and out of a second story window. Crazy.

I​ think my grandfather was wise to give half his fortune to the state of Idaho, even though it did sting for us grandchildren a bit. I have always been the ‘black sheep’ of the family–my mother was disowned for a time for having me out of wedlock, and I managed to turn out just about every bit as fucked up as everyone predicted, so I had no expectations. A few of my cousins, and my half-brother had their moments though. He left half the remaining half to his wife, and had his lawyer divide everything else up between his four kids. It seemed pretty fair. Everyone was a little disappointed, but even I got at least a memento from his fantastic mansion of a house, which he had engineered himself. He was a ‘self-made multimillionaire’ with his name in all the right books. He understood the value of hard work, sacrifice, discipline, and all that. He lived in a different time, in a different world. His ideas about working for what you have still hold true though. I think this is something we might need to talk more about.

I​ worry for the young men of today. I have a son who is 28. He says he is okay, but I see his joy and hope slipping away over the last decade.

W​hat can we do to give our young men more to live for? What can we do to inspire them to have hope and put in the work it takes to create a great future?

I don’t think the answer is more medication or more beatings. It is probably service, and healthy bonding opportunities. We can do that…

~​GAL, 8 24 23

You say ‘God’, I say ‘IOL’

My understanding is that “God” was a name given to something beyond naming. Lately, I prefer to call it “The Great Mysterious Grand Poo Paw”, truth be told. IOL has been a good stand in though. As good as any.

T​o my perceptions religions take obvious truths and exploit them for personal gain in the long run, though I like to believe they are rooted in good intentions, like so many things. That’s a wordsy way of saying I don’t believe in god in any conventional sense, unless it means ALL, everything, consciousness itself, in which case–we’re good.

O​bviously there is a whole lot that is beyond my capacity to comprehend. It’s handy to have a short word to represent that vastness, that apparent and invisible infinity.

T​he Irony Of Life

i​s what I call those magnificent twist and turns that make it seem like there must be a ‘fate’ of some sort and whatever ‘higher powers’ that are, must have an incredible sense of humor.

S​pent half your life hating your mother? IOL will give you two or three daughters so you can work it out.

H​ate it when people hate people just because of their skin color or race or political affiliation? Not to worry, IOL dictates you become what you hate so you can learn how to really let go of it.

T​hink disability laws and curb cuts are dumb? IOL has it all worked out. You are very likely to find out exactly why universal design has all of our best interests in mind.

A​ll of this is hyperbole to some extent, of course.

O​nce, on a first and last date with a man I was interested in, our attraction was diminished when I tried to explain my thoughts on this, “the Irony of Life Factor”, as I was calling it. He said

“​You keep using that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

“​Of course I know what irony means,” I retorted. “It’s practically god to me.”

E​ye roll.

A​fter that, I looked it up to make sure I was right, and discovered we were both right…is that a nice way of saying I might have been a little bit wrong? Actually, it’s just that I hadn’t realized yet how narrowly so many humans see things, compared to me. Apparently that is an autism thing.

As it stands, it isn’t that we disagree on the definition of ironic, or irony, but more that we probably do not see “in the opposite way to what is expected” in the same light. To me, I suppose that is anything delightfully improbable, which seems obviously likely when you factor in something like ‘the improbability drive’ of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Universe, or, something ‘godlike’.

“happening in the opposite way to what is expected, and typically causing wry amusement because of this”

Y​es, it’s the wry amusement that delights me. That’s the part that is godlike–well–the juxtaposition of that with the unexpected twist or turn that seems obvious with hindsight.

T​his is a train of thought I believed was logical and easy to follow, but the last few years have shown me, somewhat ironically, that humans are not so capable of following logic, or keeping things easy. In fact, we seem to be digging our heels in to making things harder than they have to be.

C​an we get better an ineffectiveness and inefficiency? You might think we wouldn’t want to, and yet–look around. This is irony.

~​GAL, 8 24 23

7 Life Lessons I Learned From Snowboarding

Snowboarding has saved me more than once from living half alive. Here are my favorite snowboarding tips that also serve as life lessons:

1. F​lip over before you try to stand up. If it seems impossible, try changing your perspective. I spent my first day of snowboarding stuck on my back half the day with my abdominals in agony, unable to get up again after falling so.many.times. Then I took a lesson, and learned to turn, stop, steer, and (what?!) flip over before standing up.
2. B​end your knees, relax, and face the direction you are going. Look ahead! It helps to stay aware of the alignment of your knees, hips, and shoulders, especially as they relate to the mountain, gravity, and the direction you want to go.
3. C​ontrol yourself! You are responsible for you. Look ahead, and up the mountain. Slow down at intersections, and pack a snack and a beverage so you don’t get hangry or dehydrated.
4. I​f you are not falling, you are (probably) not trying! That might be a bit of an extreme, but it is very true. I spend an entire season not falling once, while healing a cracked rib, and made great progress on my form and foot control. In general though, in order to acquire new levels of skill, you must be willing to fail, to fall, and to get up and try again. Take pride in trying and improving, not on never falling. You can ‘not fall’ sitting on your ass watching tv at home.
5. R​elax and roll with it if you fall clear of obstacles. There are exceptions, when you must pull out of a fall in order to avoid a bad crash, but most of the time it’s best not to fight it. Learn to fall well and recover quickly.
6. Expect the unexpected. Be prepared for anything and everything you can. Bring an extra. Let someone know where you plan to go when you are exploring the wilderness if you can, and try to have a plan B.
7. S​teer with the bottoms of your feet. Relax! A lot of things are easier than you think. It takes a lot less effort when you are not making things harder than they have to be. Often a slight toe press is all you need.

~GAL (8 23 23)

If you found anything tasty here please consider hitting the follow button and/or leave me a comment.

Be excellent to yourself!

Alcohol ain’t got nothing on TV 8 22 23

I​n fact, it is television that convinces us it is okay and even fashionable to over-consume alcohol, candy, cookies, bad news, sex, hate, and whatever else we can get our sterilized weak little hands on.

M​y hands are strong and grubby, thank you.

I​ haven’t been consuming alcohol or television lately. I gave up TV many years before alcohol, though they both have caused some rot to my brain, no doubt.

O​bviously, it depends on how we measure it. As with everything, we can probably find data to support a case for either being worse, and a case for both doing more good than harm, or harm than good. Can we agree that they both have potential to do harm, to individuals, families, and whole societies, when over-consumed?

“E​verything in moderation, especially moderation” has been my motto a lot of this life. I know a thing or two about habitual consumption, numbing, distractions, and filling holes, or trying to.

A​t the start of 2020 I gave up drinking alcohol ‘for sport’, and didn’t drink but a few droppers of tinctures for more than two years. Then I decided to start drinking wine with friends again, and before long…well…it’s safe to say I am pretty good at drinking. I have practicing a long time–on and off since age 12.

I​ didn’t have much trouble giving it up. I probably smoked more weed and drank more coffee. I took my own nonalcoholic beverages with me to band practice. The guys got used to it. But I gained nearly 20 pounds. I started eating more cookies, cakes, pudding…I have gained and lost over 100 pounds of excess adipose tissue in this body, and I know how damaging that is.

U​nfortunately, drinking wine did not help me curb the sweets in the same way that vodka did, and so I am still contending with the weight. I got a continuous glucose monitor last year, and that has helped me a great deal, to see the effects of what I consume and of stress and exercise too. It all effects metabolism, and metabolism effects mood. It’s all connected you see?

I​ think negative thinking, and the hate propagated by television is our biggest threat. If my guts were healthier I would be drinking vodka and wine more often, though not all the time. I will still enjoy sweets, usually in moderation.

A​ll the people I know who watch TV frequently break out in fits of hate and blame. I can tell it’s programming because it will be a strong opinion about someone they never met, or something that has nothing to do with their own day to day lives. Sometimes it is about something that does have to do with their day to day lives, and then, watch out! Things get personal and humans get nasty.

S​ighs.

A​nyhow, no alcohol or TV, or cookies or cake for me tonight, and I am grateful for that.

5 Simple Ways To Cultivate More Joy

1. Start your day with a smile and a positive attitude. Intentionally choose joy! This one is simple but not always easy if you have a pattern of waking up feeling bad. Protip: A good morning starts the night before. Set out prompts, like your journal and some good smelling soap or lotion to help make your morning special, and try to get a good night’s sleep.
2. Make time for joyful movement. Listen to what your body needs. Get outside! Humans are not designed to live inside all the time. We need to see the sky, touch soil, and watch sunsets and sunrises regularly to live fully alive. Protip: Your body is a fantastic, healing, meat machine. If you move it regularly, it will surprise you. You are more capable than you think!
3. Listen to upbeat music or comedy anytime you need a lift. Did I forget to say SING!? Dance, laugh and sing regularly. Protip: Even if you have to ‘fake it till you make it’ at first, your neurochemistry WILL respond positively to dancing, laughing, and singing. Watch what birds and other animals do to celebrate being alive, and find a way that creates more joy in your life.
4. Give yourself time to relax and enjoy your life. Mornings and evenings are perfect times to check in with yourself and inquire: What do you really want? Regular self reflection can help you build self mastery. You are worthy of your own love! Protip: Feeling ‘unworthy’ or ‘not enough’ is the most common cause of human suffering. You are not alone if you feel unworthy, and, you CAN train your brain to think differently.
5. Forgive yourself and others regularly. Lighten up! Life is much too important to take it very seriously. It’s important to let go of stresses, fears, and resentments regularly or they might pile up and threaten to consume you. Protip: Forgiveness is for the forgiver, not the forgiven, and it does not mean you approve of a behavior when you stop carrying resentment about it. As the saying goes, holding hatred or resentment is like drinking poison and expecting it to kill someone else. Do you really want to cause yourself or anyone else harm? Why not lighten your load? Let it go.

~GAL, 8 22 23

“N” is for nuances… (part two) 8 21 23

“​N” is for nuances, nincompoops, neverlands and nevermores…nectarines n narcissists…no.

I​ notice that the ‘n’ sound is more negative than the ‘m’. Harder and less yummy. Hmmmmm.

Y​ou can take a whole class–or various series of classes–to learn about phonics and linguistics and the interesting ways that human language evolves. If you look into how languages become more or less complex, you will see the same ebbs and flows you can find in all other aspects of life. First more, then less. In general, languages become more complex over time, as more people use them more, and simplified in individual arenas. If a language lasts long enough, you can see it get simplified on a more universal scale. I don’t know if all of that is actually true, but is sounds right to me.

I​ think it was Chris Williamson, on the Modern Wisdom podcast, who I first heard say “Nuance is the new N-word”. Since then it seems to be showing up with rapidly increasing frequency.

P​erhaps that is because we seem to have lost sight of that for a minute. Everything got black or white, wrong or right; we got very polarized…perhaps I just got caught up in it more than I had for a time.

‘​You become what you hate’ is a favorite phrase of mine (you become what you love also, I often point out), and in disliking the polarization I perceived around me, I began to divide people mentally as well, into those who are capable of considering context, and nuances of individual circumstances, and those who have been

…assimilated?

…d​omesticated?

…p​rogrammed.

T​hat’s how easy it is to slip down that slope. One minute you are feeling all justified in your righteous position, and the next you find yourself doing the exact thing you were pushing against or criticizing. (This is me, recognizing my own hypocrisy in action. It’s a thing I practice a lot.)

B​ack to nuances.

There are times and places and circumstances in which black and white thinking works best. There are a lot of scenarios where it doesn’t. One of our greatest strengths is that we can ponder complexities of things, that we can consider context, that we can apply nuanced thinking and decision-making to our lives. I hope you will join me in continuing this practice, for I think it will be as necessary as it has ever been as we come into this next bit of the ride.

~​GAL 8 21 23

W​hat do you think?

“N” is for nuances… (part one) 8 20 23

W​here to begin?

M​y mind works in a web-like pattern. All things are connected to my way of thinking. Perhaps this makes the complexities and nuances of things more obvious to me than it is to some other humans. I have gathered that many minds operate differently from mine. That is all beautiful to me. It’s beautiful to be me, even as I suffer sometimes.

E​verything being complicated and interconnected, makes it challenging to communicate or plan effectively sometimes. It also gives me a super-ability to see patterns and the fractal nature of things. There are trade-offs to everything, as I see it. Nothing is inherently ‘good’ or ‘bad’ in and of itself. Context is necessary to evaluate the relative positive and negative effects. Even with an understanding of context, a human animal’s perspective and capacity to process incoming data is comically limited. Comically, in that we tend to think of ourselves as ‘the most’ intelligent, conscious, special beings ever created. I mean, that really is funny if you think about it. We are some of the ‘youngest’, so it makes some sense when I take that into account. We are toddlers in evolution, basically.

S​tart with story, if you want to communicate with humans…Alright then. Let’s begin near the beginning.

G​ermany. Psychology…my first memories…how far back shall we call it the beginning of me? That is an interesting question that we don’t have time to explore this morning. We’ll tuck that one away on the ‘list of many things’.

S​ome of my earliest memories are of playing at the train tracks. I lived with my mother in a shack near the ocean, off of Puget Sound in the far northwest corner of Washington State. I was born there, near Bellingham. We left before I turned five, but I still have a rich bank of memories from back then. Many of them are pleasant fragments of the train tracks that ran between the shack we lived in and the mud flats of the sound below.

A​ tall lumberjack who lived nearby, named Josephinie, had shown me how to put pennies on the tracks and wait for a train to go by and smash them flat. I was two or three years old. Josephinie was nearly 7 feet tall, and later killed himself, I heard, because he was accused of molesting his daughters. I don’t really remember his daughters at all, but I have many memories that involve him. He is the only specific man I remember having any contact with in my early childhood, except one visit from my grandfather…that visit my mother explained that I must keep clothes on the entire time he was there. The whole day. I agreed and kept the dress she had sewn for me with rainbow ribbons on it. I loved the dress, and I did keep it on for what seemed like most of the day.

B​ack to the tracks…

M​y memories are of putting all sorts of things on those tracks–coins, sticks, shells, a log…–I have fond memories of putting my ear down on the metal track and listening to see if I could hear the train in the tracks, or feel it as it came closer. I remember putting my ear to the ground also and comparing, and feeling excited that I could gauge about how far away it was, or when it was approaching. I would stand, off to the side, and watch as the great train went by, shaking the ground and sending whatever I had placed on the tracks flying. If it wasn’t completely destroyed I would find it and admire the drastic changes. Of course, coins and bullet casings are the most satisfying, but I didn’t always have coins, so after I had cleaned up all the casings in the area, I made due with whatever else I could find.

O​ne memory in particular, I have classified as the first time I remember feeling fear, or something close to it. The second time, I think, was when I climbed too high up a cherry tree, probably that same year. Years seemed like lifetimes back then, I can vaguely remember.

In Washington state the tracks run through many tunnels, and one of them was relatively near our house. I can’t remember how often I went in the tunnel, but I do remember one day being in it while the train went by. The entire mountain shook, and I pressed my little three-year-old body against the cold stone sides of the tunnel as stones flew out of the train cars and off the tunnel walls, and felt very small–much smaller than I had before. I remember feeling a new awareness that the mountain and the train were so much bigger and more powerful than I, and feeling a bit frozen, and then relieved when the train finished passing by and I was able to exit the tunnel.

M​y mother told me a decade or so ago that the only time she remembers spanking me as a child was for being down at those train tracks. She claims she could not stop me from wandering down there alone from the garden and so she tried to impress on me that it was dangerous and gave me a good swatting and lecturing. Funny, I have no recollection of that. Not a glimmer. My only memories of the tracks are positive and exhilarating, and the ‘healthy respect’ I remember gaining came from the mighty mountain itself , and the way the force of the train shook the granite walls so much that it would knock bits of it loose. I think it was the flying lose bits that sparked fear in me, and feeling like I couldn’t get out safely until the train finished passing by.

I​ only remember my mother spanking me one time, currently, and I remember her feeling scary and out of control while beating a rug another time. Both these occasions feel unjust in my body, even still, as I reflect on those memories. Perhaps that is why they stuck. One is a vague memory of being punished and made to roll up the giant Persian rug we had in the living room and drag it outside to beat it with a broom and clean it. I think there was snow on the ground but that could be made up. I have no recollection of what I did or why my mother was angry, or if she even was angry at me initially, but I do remember that she came over to show me how to properly beat a rug and snapped the broom handle in half beating it too hard. I think I felt smug. She was clearly out of control.

T​he other time is one we have reflected on briefly together and she remembers completely different from me, for whatever that is worth. My recollection is that she opened a letter I got from my best friend and figured out that I had snuck out and had sex for the first time. I was 13 and the man who ‘took my virginity’, unceremoniously and with little to no gratitude or consideration I might add), was 23. My mother was furious at me for lying and sneaking out and threatened me thusly:

“I​ am going to chain you to the bed for two weeks and only let you off to go to the outhouse, or, you can pull your pants down right now and I am going to beat you with a two by four” (that’s standard lumber for those who don’t know–she was an aspiring cabinet maker at the time and I was essentially living in her unfinished workshop).

“​Fine. Beat me then.”

My mother did not hit me much, though most of my peers got beaten regularly, as it was considered bad parenting not to beat your children back then. Maybe it still is…

T​his was new, and of course, the two-by-four option sounded much more appealing than being chained up for two weeks. It also seemed like the kindest, or least cruel option for her. I was pretty confident my mother was in way over her head. I didn’t have the language for it then, but now I understand the power dynamic in our household was quite twisted up, and I have come to understand my mother has a great deal of unresolved trauma in her own body, which sometimes causes her to disassociate. She has not learned to recognize this so she is largely unaware of her actions or energy. I think we all can relate.

As a related aside, my mother currently brags that she had me to ‘fix her’, and it did. She seems to have no capacity for compassion towards the parts of me that remind her of her unhealed aspects. My femininity, specifically.

S​o I said I would take the beatings, thank you, and she went out to get a board, which, at least in my memory, she did come back with. We moved into the living room for some reason…in hindsight, my bed was closer to her woodshop, so I don’t know why. As she recalled that incident with me more recently, she claims she remembers hitting me with her hand and that it stung, and that could be. I remember her saying “Look at the ground and be sorry!” as she struck me, over and over and over again. I felt sorry for her.

It is a very vivid memory and back then struck me as quite silly. I looked back at her, with my pants down around my ankles, ass facing her, and tried not to laugh. She hit me harder, and harder, until finally I made some noise that indicated pain, out of mercy, and she burst into tears and collapsed. This is what I remember of it. Soon after that she drove me to the jail in Espanola and asked them to arrest me. It took a long time for them to come to the door, as the plain steel doors on the side of the detention center is not one people usually knock on. Eventually someone came and told us that was not how things work.

They sent us away, and we went to the local police station where the office walls were covered in pictures of Farrah Fawcett in a bikini–a detail that also displeased my mother greatly. They sent us away there too, and we wound up at a juvenile justice center where we filled out my fist criminal record. A CHINS report, it was called. I remember it vividly. Child In Need of Supervision. The officer filling out the report explained it was the ‘best they could dot, and that they could not arrest me yet, because I hadn’t really done anything criminal, but now that I had a record, if I had further incidents, then perhaps they could arrest me in the future.

My mother was generally dissatisfied with the outcomes of that entire day, and even to this day I think she has not resolved whatever was going on for her. She likes to think of me as a criminal and someone who deserves any unkindness or abuse I endure because of ‘karma’. The first time I told her I had been beaten up and raped, or sexually assaulted (as the nuanced legalities of having your vagina penetrated by a non semen ejaculating penis crowbar calls it), by two men at age 17 she said, “welcome to being a woman”, and “that’s why I didn’t want you to cut your hair and start wearing make up”, or some such fucked up shit. The story of my first haircut at age 12 is one for another day.

“​To be honest, m’am, your daughter does not seem at all like the kind of kids we usually get in here. I mean, it looks like she is a good student and a good kid. She’s got straight “A”‘s and she is clearly very bright. The girls we see are usually all tattooed up, hair dyed, lots of make-up…maybe she just needs a little parenting.” The man filling out my first criminal report clearly felt sympathy for me, and also, ‘his hands were tied’.

That’s one of many expressions humans use when they choose cowardice and conformity over doing the right thing.

I dyed my hair jet black within a year of that, and w​ithin a few years I had my first tattoo. I even became a tattoo artist for a while…In many ways I am still working out how to be worthy, deserving…any kind of anything to anyone… I digressed again.

T​hat feels pathetic, and of course, it’s not the whole truth. Nothing ever is.

T​o be continued…

Oh Caroline! 8 12 23

T​his picture reminds me of a girl named Caroline. She was one of the most beautiful girls at school, but she was not super popular with the other girls. I think this was because she was mixed blooded, an irony I would only come to understand somewhat less muddily later in life. I think she was Apache, from the Jicarilla nation, now that I think about it, because she was taller than many of our peers.

I​ think Caroline was the first person I heard having sex, that I can remember. Back then there wasn’t porn everywhere, and my mother and step father slept with my little brother between them. Sometime close to that I saw my friend’s father having sex with a young mistress he had brought back from a trip to Alaska…come to think of it, she looked a little like this picture too. I think she was Eskimo. He fucked her standing up beside the creek, bent over with her skirt lifted up. My friend’s mother was not happy about the mistress but was glad he came back to help her raise their four kids. They lived in separate houses.

C​aroline had sex in the back of some low rider, with one of the guys we were hanging out with. She seemed to enjoy it. She made a lot of noise. I wandered around in the dark among sage brush, looking up at the night sky, trying not to step in cactus. It seemed to take a long time. I don’t remember a moon. I was probably 12 or 13.

S​oon after that, Caroline started inviting me to ditch classes at school. I had been labeled gifted, skipped through a couple grades, and placed among 10–11th graders though I was supposed to be in 7th grade. I thought she was beautiful and strong and so I followed her to the arroyo behind our school Actually, Mesa Vista HS is, as the name implies, atop a mesa, so everywhere is downhill to an arroyo. I think she smoked some weed and made out with someone. I don’t remember what we did.

I​ do remember when we came back we got caught, or maybe we got caught while we were out, and we were sent to the principal’s office.

M​r. Gonzales was well-loved. A pillar of our community. He took in problem kids like me, and like Caroline, and gave them ‘special treatment’. Caroline told me not to worry. Everything would be fine, she said, because all she had to do was let him see her breasts, maybe feel them a little bit, and we would go back to class. I stood outside while she went into his office for a while. When she came out, she was tucking her shirt into her skirt, and smiling. “Back to class” she said, and off we went.

L​ater that year, my mother made me catch rides home with Mr Gonzales if I wanted to go to a basketball game. The school was 30–40 minute drive from the small town we lived. After the game, we drove back mostly in silence, and before we got to town, he said he knew a back way home. He took me on a dirt road I had never been on before, which crossed the creek just below his house. He stopped his truck when we were in the middle of the creek, turned off the engine, and started to climb on top of me, trying to kiss me.

“​You better take me home, Right Now.” I said, in my sternest ‘mom voice’. He looked shocked and backed off. He started the truck again and drove me home and dropped me off without saying anything about it. The following Sunday, my family and I were at church and he came over and shook my step father’s and mother’s hands and looked me in the eye and gave me a squeeze. I knew in that moment that he knew, that I knew, that no one would take my word over his.

Years later, in my 30’s, I tried to tell my mom about it. “You are right,” my mother said, “I would not have believed you.”

H​is wife was the principal of the elementary school in El Rito where my stepfather worked, and they were well respected in the community. They took in problem kids regularly, and kept them in their converted basement. I played there a few times while I had a crush on one of the boys that stayed with them. The story was that he had to clean up his father’s brains after he shot himself. We played a game I remember fondly that we called “what’s this?” which was essentially a heavy groping game among half a dozen or so teens and preteens. Now I wonder if Mr. Gonzales was watching us, and if he encouraged us. I don’t remember.

S​ome years later, in my late 30’s or early 40’s, I stopped for tacos at El Parasol, a popular taco stand in Espanola. While I was waiting for food, I ended up having a conversation with a woman standing behind me, also waiting for tacos. I mentioned I had lived in El Rito when I was a child, and she asked my last name. I said my step father’s last name, and explained we were not local (probably obvious in hindsight, but then again…). For some reason I mentioned that he had worked for Mr. Gonzales, and that Mr. Gonzales had been a pervert.

“Why do you say that?” the girl asked.

“H​e used to grope girls at the high school, and he tried to kiss me in the creek by his house one time.” I said, somewhat casually.

“​Wow!” she said. “Did you ever tell anyone?”

“​No. I knew no one would believe me because I had been in some trouble and he was so popular.” I said.

“​I know what you mean.” The girl shifted. “Actually, the Gonzaleses adopted me when I was almost 17 and I had to call him dad for a year. He used to take me to that spot in the creek all the time. I know it well. It was bad.”

W​e both stood in the taco line feeling a bit stunned.

“​Did you tell anyone?” I asked.

“​Yes.” She said. “I tried. I told his wife but she just told me I better not say anything like that again. I was so glad when I turned 18 and I got out of there.”

J​ust then my number was called, and I went up to get my order.

I​ stopped as I was leaving, feeling awkward and grateful.

“​It was really strange to run into you here, and share this with you.” I said. “I’m not sure what to make of it…it’s incredible to think of what a negative impact one man could have on so many lives…how much trust and love he ruined. I am glad to have run into you, and I am sorry that happened to you, and sorry to bring up such a bad memory here so randomly.” 

“​Yeah, me too.” she said. “What a trip… I guess it is kind of cathartic.”

I​ agreed and walked off to continue on my journey and eat my tacos in the van.