| un air de famille |
[Feb. 9th, 2010|02:36 am] |
At the gathering I attended this past weekend, I created a workshop entitled, Dismantling our Sacred Obstacles. Its intent was for the men present to explore, how it is we benefit from continuing in patterns that impede us.
I chose to explore my tendency to compare myself, always unfavorably, to other men, in whom my partners are interested.
One of the things I unearthed, was the thought that, if I can attribute a woman's (real or imagined) dissatisfaction with me, to factors beyond my control, I can tell myself that it's not my fault.
This extends beyond matters amourous, to any number of issues in my life, which I absolve myself from seeking to improve, by believing that it is beyond my control to do so.
Another thing that happened this weekend, is that my greataunt Stella died. Therefore, my father has been calling. At one point yesterday, he called as I was discussing the above issues with a confidante/housemate, whom I've grown to cherish in recent months.
I looked at my 'phone, said, "my father," made a face, and silenced the call, inspiring my friend to ask about my rapport with him.
During my brief explanation, I made reference to my least favourite trait about him, namely his tendancy to use biology to justify his refusal to work through his depression.
I hereby commit to choosing hope and empowerment, if only as a big old middle finger to Dad. |
|
|
| changes, pt 1 |
[Oct. 13th, 2009|05:16 am] |
About 48 hours ago, my mother's second husband, the purpetrator of the lion's share of the violence I survived growing up, died.
In my early adulthood, I had told myself that I would forgive him, as soon as he acknowledged that there was anything to forgive.
In the last year or two, when he was doing some work in therapy in re: accountability, and extending tentatives through our shared family, I found that I was not so sanguine as I might have hoped. My predominant thought was: why bring this up now? And I suspected that he was looking for me to provide him with resolution.
Listening to my sister during the hours leading up to his death, I made a decision to wait a while on calling my mother. I found it hard to avoid attachment to my hope for her, that she would begin to look forward to her life without the responsibilities she sees as part of marriage, which have held her back for her entire adult life.
Recognising that she might, instead, be grieving, and that, while I recognise her right to her grief, it would nonetheless annoy me, I waited until she called me, then steeled myself, and called her back.
She is looking forward to the rest of her life, and appears to be taking action toward creating it. My pleasure in this, does not mean that I should stop exploring how to avoid having expectations of my loved ones. |
|
|
| vacation |
[Jul. 28th, 2009|04:17 am] |
On friday morning, I leave for ten days in Syracuse, Buffalo, Toronto. I'm in a pretty good place to be leaving. Though my back is a wreck, I seem to have concocted a decent management strategy. I am also working through letting go some attachments, of the sort with which the road can be helpful.
Where the road is the experience of travel, not the physical pavement.
This letting go, mostly has to do with fearing that my life will be meaningless if I stop hating the world. I suspect that eventually, this will be about making friends with meaninglessness, or at least the possibility of it.
Speaking of which, my Dad is having another angioplasty.
The confluence of meaninglessness and circulatory disease, being mortality.
I'm looking forward to seeing people and places I've been away from for too long. Being away from work for a week, is also likely to be refreshing. |
|
|
| drunken dialogue |
[Jul. 23rd, 2009|01:39 am] |
Me: Why am I doing this to myself?
Myself: Who else is gonna do it to you? |
|
|
| obligation |
[Jun. 6th, 2009|06:18 am] |
My eyes are burning from a nuit blanche. There is a cacophony of birdsong outside the house I work at. The young'n's are stirring but mostly asleep. When a colleague gets here at 08h to spell me, I go home and watch the women's final of the roland garros on the tele-.
My back is a fucking wreck.
I think I might be able to afford some craniosacral, this pay period. Heaven knows I could use it. Not that heaven much cares.
I essentially resigned my post in the band last week. I am just not made for rock n roll. Among the things I told maestro I'd do, is to record what I've already written. One of the reasons I gave him for that, was that I felt I owed it to him. His response included an invitation to do what I wanted around that, and not to feel obliged on his account. Exactly the sort of thing I might say to someone else, were I in his position.
What it leaves me with is this:
I have no idea what I would want if I didn't feel obliged. I create obligation all over my life, and it makes me less likely to do things. The thought of letting it go, and acting more freely from desire, is a lot like the thought of having as much money as one needs/wants. Good to keep in mind, as a way of working toward it, or at least creating a reasonable facsimile thereof.
In other news, I am in love. That rapport feels completely undramatic to me, unless I count erotic tension as drama.
And thespian and I have two new housemates. The other day they made our space beautiful, moving things around, adding some of their own, and having the consideration to ask before throwing things away. I think this is going to be a powerhouse household. Part of me is delighted that I am the closest thing to a butch there (although mormonnomore does own tools!), but I'm noticing myself feeling somewhat inadequate amidst all the fabulosity.
Good problem to have. |
|
|
| creve-coeur |
[Mar. 23rd, 2009|06:03 pm] |
A friend of mine, who's recently become more dear to me, is having a rough time, personally and financially, with consequences including that I'll be seeing a tonne less of him in the next year(s) of our lives.
I wish I could wave a magic wand, wish I could end the war on drugs and its devastating effect on addicts, wish I could guarantee him, and all people, the necessities of life, wish I could point him on a path that would satisfy him, wish I had the means that his family has to support him, wish they had the mind that I have to support him, wish he had felt he could share his struggles with me sooner, wish he could love himself without fulfilling one very specific dream.
At core, I wish my friend didn't have to go away. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Dec. 26th, 2008|07:15 pm] |
Apparently it takes me three and one half days of workless sobriety to get my shit together. I have practiced enough today that my head is abuzz and my back needs some work, the kitchen is clean, my belly is full, my face is hairless and I am bored with my novel.
Barbarossa and gershwyn came over last night and joined me and chutzpahgrrrl for dinner and a few episodes of Star Trek. There had been rumour of a sauna, which I think didn't happen due to dinner starting way too late due to my laziness-
Ah, there's the thing about which I need to write. Have been judging myself harshly and presuming others to be doing so lately. Last night I even dreamt that I'd been kicked out of my apartment. I guess I am aware of how dependent I am on the affirmation of others, and am correspondingly aware of a recent change in how connected I feel to many of my loves. Some of that is circumstantial (e.g. cohabitante is living with a partner), some of it a result of my feeling overwhelmed and backburnering people, some of it, I suspect, the natural attrition of particular connections becoming less relevant as people change.
I suppose it's made harder by the incompletely discharged pain of having lost friends due to my hurtful actions in the first halfdecade of this century. It's nice to feel sure that I'm not going there again, and nice to have let go the desire to win any of them back, but the regret persists.
As I write about it, my throat begins to clench, or perhaps to unclench, and I recognise the need to weep about this soon. The tears will feel different now than they did then, less bitter.
I could use a therapist, I wish I could afford my masseuse. One thing I can do, with or without an health plan, is to remember that the small disconnections and distances between me and my current loves, the times when I believe I have been unimpressive, inelegant, or accidentally offensive, are not the same as the dramatic disconnections of the past. I'm no longer giving folks reason to run screaming. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Dec. 18th, 2008|11:55 pm] |
What's it been, nine days since I've had a drink? No matter how many times I brush my teeth, I can't get my mouth to feel clean. Teatotallers must walk around like this all the time!
Il maestro is up this weekend. He'll be introducing me to a pianist who's working with us and lives locally and is hungry to get together with other musicians. I am nurturing an hope that having a composition partner, whom I see regularly face-to-face, will help me form the habit of giving time to the music. I have often noticed my tendency to cram before meastro's visits, and wished they were more frequent.
Haven't spoken with lajolierousse since our visit. Not sure what to think about that. Chutzpahgrrrl has been away for a time. Kind of champing at the bit to see her again soon. And jeunesseouverte has invited me to something that I fear might be more like a swingerparty than a playparty. I've half a mind to go, though all of my usual fears about the attitudes of the other men, and neuroses about my own desire, are active. And, sober, I can't push them under. Ah, compulsive emotional erudition.
Today, after a tiring group, under the influence of sleep deprivation, I was walking down the street and wondered what I'd be doing if there were no social consequences to my actions, or if I knew that the people passing me by would either never see me again, or be guarranteed not to think ill of me.
In that moment, the answer was, that I would probably sit down on the ground and start weeping.
Some of those tears would be for the men in group, for their victims, for the boys who are currently learning masculinity and for their future victims. Some for my friend who recently got himself out of an horrible situation at no small price. Some for the benighted world and the victims of free enterprise, some as always for my grandfather. A fair number for the frustration of having more vision than motivation to improve the quality of my own life. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Dec. 12th, 2008|12:52 am] |
Lajolierousse left Tuesday morning, and I began six weeks sober. No real effects observable yet. I must stock the house with seltzer, lest my lust for tasty beverages find me imbibimg too much caffeine. Perhaps I'll try to restrict my use of this last to Thursdays, while I'm being disciplined.
The visit was sweet. The first thirty hours or so were spent fervently reestablishing our sexual connection, after which we settled into a comfortable domesticity centered around the kitchen. Strangely, it seems that distance has given us less, not more, to talk about. Or perhaps I was straining as I managed the voices of insipient paranoia, which were trying to convince me that she was disspointed, unimpressed, couldn't wait to leave, didn't have the heart to say so. This sort of groundless, or minimally grounded, suspicion, had been the fuel for my cruelty toward zarabell. Eventually my insistence that she hated me, made her hate me. With lajolierousse, I checked in once about this, to wit (something like): I'm afraid I'm boring.
I chose to take her innocuous response at face value.
Resposibility is so undramatic.
In other news, the maestro will be up this weekend and we will compose together. I have done very little work on this since his last visit. I feel guilty, and judge myself for it. What does it mean about me if music is simply a passing fancy? I could, of course, simply choose to make time to make a discipline of that, too. When I was a teenager, I found that compelling. I find it less so now. That doesn't mean I couldn't choose to do it.
As one becomes less dramatic, more accountable, less attached, less driven, it is easy to fear that one is doomed to fade into mediocrity. I suppose that tension is a source for creative energy.
A man finished group tonight, and was in tears both checking in as his victim, and discussing his motives for change. The cocktail of empathy and critical attention I experienced as he wept, would be good for me to cultivate in my work generally, and in my life generally. To do it every minute of every day would kill me. But to find cause to do it 3-5 times per day, might keep me alive longer.
I suspect I'll be posting here more frequesntly in coming weeks. Winter and sobriety both give themselves to contemplation. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Nov. 28th, 2008|03:27 am] |
Today I was mostly home alone, as the others were with their families of origin. I got stuff done, I played in the kitchen, did not make time to compose music, spent a lot of time fucking around on the internet.
And I thought quietly about stuff in my life. Some of that while in the bath. This continued through my walk to work and some here as well. Got some peace around the origins of my thinking about lajolierousse, about chutzpahgrrrl, about zara, this last a long time past due. I'm kind of blissed out, all that resolution and whilom en route tomorrow. I suspect I'm going to shine at the party.
I am a bit troubled that it took knowing I'd have pretty much a full day alone to do it. It's not like my life doesn't have solitudes and silences built into it, on purpose. But when faubourgeoise is about, even when she's being completely inoffensive to my overdeveloped sensibilities, I'm on edge.
I suspect there's some different way I could think about her that would make this not a problem. The struggle is knowing what that way is. |
|
|
| poeme |
[Nov. 21st, 2008|03:16 pm] |
soit l'ivresse
soit l'amour
soit le clair vite
du soleil de novembre
le datum objectif est solide:
mon coeur luit en reponse
au ciel gris du tout court jour |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Nov. 7th, 2008|03:09 am] |
If I am to be prepared for the eventual diminution in a woman's enthusiasm for me, and not to take it as a personal affront, I must recognise that it has nothing to do with me.
The other side of this is recognising that her initial enthusiasm also has nothing to do with me.
I think I really got that with lajolierousse, really saw her desire as hers, and loved it, as a part of her.
How did I manage that, and what stands in my way with others? |
|
|
| poem |
[Aug. 25th, 2008|06:40 pm] |
Is there work for me to do in the vineyard today?
Foreman says yes but the boss says no
That's why you ask the guy whose money it ain't
I just wish he'd had the sense not to ask the guy that owns the joint
Now the grapes won't get the care that makes them into great wine
Profit motive fucks with the product every time |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 16th, 2008|09:32 pm] |
Aujourd’hui Bernard Joseph Trippanier aurait-il eu cent ans. J’espère que j'ai passé le jour en honorant l'exemple qui fût sa dernière contribution à sa famille. Not long after midnight arrived chez moi jeunesseouverte, to whom I made love until she came and we fell asleep together. I have a vague recollection of her departure vers 06h00. Then I put my ménage in order en dépit du ressentiment que je me sentais de la mère d'un de mes cohabitants, then met up with a new friend, qui me rapèle de zarabell mais I'm already confident that she won't be as mean, and walked in the woods, which remind me of the patriarch, and also of cohabitante and foxhound, with whom I used to walk there. After which on s'est retraité to my verandah, où elle s'est prononcé ravie de la lumière lorsque je bouvais mon cocktail. Tonight I wait for friends with whom to go out to the whiteparty, opportunity que je me sentisse sexy.
Today me suis-je comporté comme s'il aît raison and that I am fabulous, worthy of love, tout ce qu'il m'avait cru. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Mar. 7th, 2008|04:24 am] |
I've been crying more frequently of late. This afternoon it was a couple of Billy Bragg songs that got me there. They were political songs, and so there were elements both of tenderness for the sufferings of others, and of sadness at what the world has lost. You'd think this last would inspire some bitterness, but it didn't. I appear to be going through a generally optimistic phase.
A week ago I cried on three separate occasions while watching a production of the Vagina Monologues. Again, tenderness at the pain of others. Now that I write about it, I notice it also shares the quality of relation to my more strongly held beliefs. Perhaps for me there is a confluence of conviction with access to emotion.
In a related note, I'm more frequently waking up with intact memories of my dreams. I have in the past gone years without remembering a single dream.
One recent event that may have opened me up to myself, is an entretient with lajolierousse, wherein I communicated an intention ambiguously, leaving her feeling angry at having, essentially, been stood up.
There were two 'phone calls, between which a shower in which I knew I'd screwed up and thought about why. I then communicated my conclusions to her in the subsequent call, which, together with an apology and a plan for rectifying the behaviour, seemed to find us feeling closer to one another.
For me there was an acutely alive feeling associated with intentional selfawareness and communication thereof to someone for whom I care deeply.
I seem to be capable of cultivating it, if the last week and a half is any indication.
Also, the sex has been really good, it's spring, and I'm working less, any of which go a long way toward making an optimist of me. |
|
|
| proposition a discouter, disputer |
[Oct. 23rd, 2007|01:14 am] |
Maybe all spiritual paths are ways of organising, explaining, dramatising or otherwise rendering palatable the disonance between the way we believe the world ought to be and the way we believe that it is.
That would explain why most spiritualities seem to have a judgemental component not far beneath the surface.
It might also explain why historic periods of romanticism (efforts to make the world as it ought to be) are often followed by corresponding periods of mysticism (efforts to synthesise the awful truth into something that feels good) Hence 1848 spawns Crowley, where the summer of love spawns all those new age seminars in the 80s.
Please to pick apart. |
|
|
| Shannah Tovah |
[Sep. 13th, 2007|01:41 am] |
The following High Holy Day Message of the Jewish Theological Seminary
of America for 1992, published in Newsweek, The New York Times, and
The Wall Street Journal at the time, was sent me recently by a colleague. Despite its theologic emphasis, I feel strong resonance with it:
"Know whom you put to shame, for in the likeness of God is (s)he made."
(Genesis Rabbah 24:8)
Some people who are reading this were beaten yesterday, or terrorized,
or kept in isolation.
Some who tormented them are reading this now.
And they are not strangers to each other; they are family.
Intimates. People like us. Us.
Home should be a haven, the place where you can count on being valued
and protected. If instead it is a place where the people closest to
you beat you up, or keep you on edge with threats, or isolate and
demean you-then what is safe?
Violence in the family is not love; it is not discipline; it is not
deserved.
It is an abuse of power, and it is wrong--
because decent people don't behave that way;
because it is against the law, and for one more reason:
we are all made in the image of God.
To lash out in violence--
especially against someone whose life is linked with yours--
is to violate a likeness of God, and to degrade that likeness in
yourself.
Are you being hurt or humiliated by the person you are closest to?
Believe that you do not deserve the abuse.
No one has the right to tell you that you are worthless: your worth
comes from God.
Have you been taking out your anger and frustration against the people
who depend on you?
Know that you are better than that; you are made in the image of God.
You have the power to stop hurting and belittling them. God gives it
to you.
To all who read this, we ask:
--Look at yourself, at your partner, at your elderly parents, at your
children, as images of God. Treat each of them with the respect which
that demands.
--Make your home a haven. Instead of raising your hand or your voice,
raise your own dignity and the self-esteem of the people who turn to
you for love. You may not be able to perfect the world, but this much
you can do.
--Help your religious community to face the fact of domestic violence
and to offer active support to those who have been enduring abuse,
threats, and humiliation. A house of God should be a place for
teaching restraint, decency, and reverence; make yours that place.
--Behave as though God made you worthy; it is true. Behave as though
the world depends on your humanity and decency. It does.
"...for the sin which we have committed before Thee, openly and in
secret..." |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 31st, 2007|03:57 am] |
This weekend I get to cap off my month and a half of seemingly nonstop vacation and guesthosting with three days with a group of men competent and inclined to help me work through my heaviest obstacles. And I know exactly how I want to go about it.
In other news, the weekend takes place at a friend's home equipped with hottub, sauna, mountainviews, and lavish communal sleeping space.
When I return, perhaps I will find time to detail all the other reasons that life is good. |
|
|
| poem (apres Auden) |
[Aug. 16th, 2007|02:37 pm] |
It was to you that I, the average man
Eschewing greater destinies,
Tucked tail between my legs and ran
My sole regret my slowness to embrace
The hopeless message written on your face.
I caused such misery to both of us
In striving to stay unremarkable
At least I turned you off enough that you
Found unaccustomed stores of passion to
Push me as far away as you could manage
My gratitude is infinite for this:
Only by becoming my better self
Could I fend off the spectre of your kiss |
|
|
| redflag |
[Aug. 10th, 2007|04:23 am] |
I've been lying to myself. My jealousy about cohabitante's recent flirtation is not principally about my judgements about the guy. It's about my fear of becoming less important to her, which is a function of my valuing our amitie.
My temptation to discount her is much like my choice to discount the ex- instead of telling her how I felt and what I wanted. If I tell cohabitante how I feel, the worst she's likely to say is, "I'm sorry but I don't feel that way," hearing which still beats contriving to avoid her company while she's with him.
The conclusion that dismissing her would be a defense mechanism, would seem to imply that it was also that with zarabell, and that all of my judgments of her are smokescreens. Which means I could, if I wanted, forgive her and start remembering what I was grateful to her for at the time.
That might be nice. |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
briseur's journal