A Bit of Einstein's Energy in All of Us Celebrities

     With E=mc², we know that energy equals ( mass  x  speed of light )².  If this applies to all things with mass and thoughts harbor energy, then I ask the question—how much does a thought weigh? Perhaps someone will fill-in the missing part of the equation:
                     a thought = ( ?   x 2.99792458 )²
     With consideration for energy, a thought has enough vigor to put my lips and limbs into motion.  With mass, a thought has enough gravity to anchor an erroneous belief that builds negative emotions with much fervor. 

          …our real fears are the sounds of footsteps walking in the corridors of our minds, and
         [anxieties are the floating phantoms] they create.                         –  Truman Capote

Together, mass and energy have enough influence to attract Rationalization and Justification—two of the most notorious fellows.

     According to ‘Laboratory for Neuro Imaging,’ the average human has 70,000 thoughts a day. This might make you think your mind is busy, busy, busy, but I’ve come to suspect that there are rest stops—marked by red push pins—throughout my mind’s map.  These are stations where it meets Rationalization and Justification for drinks (and they probably order pizza, bulking up for more anchoring around).  Worse, I’ve watched my mental energy get stuck and become static—circling in its cage.  With this many thoughts going in and some not coming out, something’s gonna give.

       We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.          –  Oscar Wilde

     These days, my thoughts aren’t near as heavy.  It’s lunch and I’m sitting in the park, eating a Lebanese salad.  I feel good, so it’s safe for me to think about this time last year. With ‘now’ running parallel to ‘then’, I realize I’ve lost weight.  My memories and hopes are floating and agile, seeking better couplings.  But, I had to let go—of heavy thoughts and advantageous people—in order to be this fit.

      After a period of time, living as if you were someone else is no fun.    – Richard Chamberlain

     Over the past 10 years, I’ve hypothesized the weight of various thoughts.  The question pops up when there are thought clouds over me or an other, looming with complications and computations to filter through.  I’ve come to a simple conclusion. Experiences cause energy to flow, and then leave thin film residue.  Like plaque in an artery, these layers of experiential mass weigh my thoughts and lessen my powers.  The trick to life—it seems—is experiencing the unsolicited stuff (from everyone and everywhere), filtering it through, and releasing what isn’t beneficial.

     Wisdom is the daughter of experience.                                          – Leonardo da Vinci

     Today, an NBA athlete shared the wonderful display of shedding meta-mass…for all the world to see:

     It takes an enormous amount of energy to guard such a big secret.      – Jason Collins

Mr. Collins wasn’t blackmailed by a self-righteous stalker, and he didn’t apologize.  He freely released his truth, adding the profession of ‘athlete’ to these artists who preceded him.

     What’s changed?   Everything.  The new generation isn’t cowering with the usual suspects—Rationalization and Justification.  We introduced DADT because it was progress and soon struck it down because even it held back our species.  And, the younger ones are working their way through the muck that has weighed our souls and drained our powers.  They aren’t waiting, or asking permission, to participate in the next greatest evolution. 

     Things can change in an instant, so why not live truthfully?            – Jason Collins

     Today's hero silenced the usual suspects of yore.  What was the apocalyptic result?  His significant financial providers—including Nike—voiced support and friends had his back.  Whatever lucky man—who wins Jason’s heart—will share life’s spectrum of experiences with the man he loves (from really good floor seats).

     And your very flesh shall be a great poem.                                       – Walt Whitman

    If you have a freedom story to tell, we’d love to read it—whether you know you're a celebrity or not, “).

Riding a Tricycle, Holding Daisy Dukes

Alice

“Chazz, get up. Let’s take the dogs out.”

“No, I’m tired.”

“You never want to do anything. Why do you drive all this way to lay on my couch?” Alice asked.

“I don’t have this many stations on the other end of my remote. Besides, it’s good for the girls to visit.  When we were together...”

Alice’s phone rang and she answered it, cutting off a reminder of the beginning of a memory that was going to address the elephant that was cross-legged and smoking on top of the coffee table.

“Yeah, I do.  What time?” Alice spoke to the caller.

Pause.

“You know how to get here?”

Pause.

“Ok. The gate code is 1-2-3-4.”

Alice put her phone on the bar and then threw a pack of cigarettes at Chazz’s head.

“Get up.”

“Who was that?”

“It was Micki.  She’s coming over later. We’re going for beers.”

Micki

“I’ve got a date tonight,” Micki said to her ex after she hung up.

“Who?” Melinda asked.

“I used to work with her ex.  When Chazz and I lived in Houston.”

“Christy?”

“No—aye, veigh!” Micki glared. “Why do you always bring her up?”

“I wonder. You tell me why I always think of Christy when you talk about Houston.” Melinda leaned forward and bugged out her eyes.  She pushed her face toward Micki.  “Maybe, because she broke us up?”

“That’s not why we broke up.”

“She was the first of a few reasons why we didn’t break up.”

“You want to go there?”  Micki bugged her eyes and pushed forward before she pulled back with emphasis.  “Besides, we’re better as friends.  We don’t fight near as much. Right?” Micki pulled the top from a Lite—Psssssttt.  “Right.”

“Whatever.  Toss me one.”  Pssssstttt. “Who’s the new girl?  What’s her name—Chazz?”

“Her name’s not Chazz.  I worked with Chazz.  I’m talking about her ex, Alice,” Micki took the last gulp.

“That’s right.  I remember Chazz.  So, what’s up with this Alice?”

“She reminds me of Christy,”  Micki grinned and crushed the can.

“Aye, veigh!  I’m going to kill you!”

Chazz

“Now, I’m really, really tired,” Chazz was the last one up the stairs and into the apartment.
“You were tired the day you were born,” Alice said.

“I remember. I did a lot of work that day.”  Chazz stretched out and reached for the remote. “I’m going to watch tv while you and Micki go for beers.”

“No. You’re going with. You can’t just come here and lay around like when we were together.” Alice pulled the pillow from under Chazz’s head and then popped her with it. “You’re going for beers with us.”

“I brought a twelve pack,” Chazz pointed toward the kitchen.  “Besides, you don’t even drink.”

“I’m going to eat, and y’all drink.”

“I’m not going on a date with you and Micki.  Uh-uh, no way.”
“I’m not dating her, I don’t even know her.  We’re going for burgers.”

“She’s going for beer and you’re going for burgers.  That’s a date, going the wrong way on a trike.”

The Not-Date

Buzzzzzz

“Hello?”
“Hey- uh, Alice. Can you let me in?”
“The gate?”

“I forgot the code.”

“Hold on.”

Buzzzz.

Knock, knock.

“Who’s there?” Chazz smiled when she opened the door.

“What the—?  Oh, ‘hi Chazz.’ What are you doing here?”

“Taking a nap,” She lunged toward the couched and plopped. “We just walked the dogs.”

Alice was dressed except for her shoes. She bent to lace them and then straightened her new walking sweats. “Did you have trouble finding it?”

“I like those. Did you get them at Academy?” Micki asked. 

“Macy’s.”

“Oh,” Micki straightened. She looked around the apartment but stopped to stare at Chazz’ elongated comfortable stretch. “Yeah, I’ve been here before. I knew this girl last summer.  Have you ever been to the pool?”

Chazz stood. “You want a beer?”

“I drink anything that’s free.” Micki tugged on her UofH cap.
“Aren't we going for food?” Alice asked.

Micki caught the beer.  “You still know how to play 3 gulps?”

“I’m playing 6 gulps these days,” Chazz replied.

“Well, down the hatch.” Micki crushed the can and looked up, “What are you going to do?”

“Huh?” Chazz asked.
“While we’re gone.” Micki looked at Chazz.  “Do you lock up?”

The Date

“Chazz. Can you send back my tacos? I asked for chicken,” Alice asked. “Just get them in a to-go.”

“Sure.”

“Hey Chazz, what’ve you been up to since Houston?” Micki asked.

“Don’t you mean since last month when I gave you her number?” Chazz nodded toward Alice.

“I mean. Did you ever get a job?”

“No. I go to dinner with people who will pay my bill in exchange for sending back their food.” Chazz nods toward Alice.  “It’s only a part-time job, but it keeps me out of the dumpsters.”

“You don’t have to be a shit.  We were friends,” Micki said.

“Yeah—until you and Christy started going to Sonic for afternoon slushes.”

“Wow!” Alice looked at Micki with a renewed interest, “You were the one who broke up Chazz and Christy?”

“That wasn’t the reason they broke up,” Micki snapped.

“I’ll get the check,” Chazz raised her arm.

After the waitress split the bill, Alice went one way while Chazz and Micki headed to the parking lot.  One lit a cigarette, and they shared it.   

“You remember when Melinda and I broke up?” Micki asked while exhaling.

“Yeah?  But then you always went dancing,” Chazz replied.

“Right.  That’s my point. On Sunday morning, we’d always say, ‘Why doesn’t anyone ask me out?’”

“Because everyone thought you were still together.”

“Right.  You ever wonder about stuff like that?”

“No. I don’t care what other people think. ”

“You seein’ anyone?”

After the Not-Date-Date

“Great idea.  Thanks for making me drink $4 beers instead of free ones,” Chazz said.

“What was up with her?” Alice asked.

“She was pissed because you brought your ex on a date.”

“If she wanted it to be a date, she could have asked me out.”
“She called you and asked you out.”

“She said, ‘Do you want to get something to eat?’”

“That’s what people do at the beginning of a date.” Chazz leaned in for a hug and whistled for one of the two sisters, “Come Daisy.”

“Stay, Dukes.”

Smelling the Sky Like It was Yesterday

I grabbed a used pair of Levis from the hamper.  I did a full day of yard work on Saturday and assumed it was the pair that’s dedicated to pulling weeds and scooting against the earth.  But, I’d grabbed the pair that I wore Sunday when I took Sweet Georgia Brown and Cali Surfer Girl for a drag around LSU lake. 

It’s routine for me to get home, walk down the half flight of stairs and put on clothes for our immediate daily walk. There's no chance for negotiations. The two of them have formed a union chapter and know their rights.  They are staring and waiting for me to get on with what they’ve been waiting for since I put on my work clothes and left this morning.  

Cali doesn’t throw her head forward to beckon me out of the closet but moves toward my knees and smells the denim that’s wrapped around my thighs.  I think that’s weird, but I remember that she is smelling yesterday—the other dogs that brushed me, the pollen that’s everywhere, the air, and maybe even the sky. She’s half here and half back there on the path we explored.  This is the gift of a dog’s smell. 

I thought about how that experience is so much like sensations that humans bring to first dates.  Everything might be new, but former sights, and maybe smells, compete with “now.”

Benvenuto! Yin-dee-ton-rab, ยินดีต้อนรับ! Selamat Dating! Bienvenido! Willkommen!- You've Got Friends in Smoky Places

Dragging my bag into my most-often-visited Hampton, I see a couple that is smoking (cigarettes).  They are inhaling and then throwing back their heads to blow the smoke up and away.  For some reason, people who do this are most often smiling on their way down.  Isn’t that odd?

Usually, I abhor smokers because I had to hate the smell and residue in order to stop the habit that perpetuated for the length of a ski tip (+) 9.99 more years.  But watching the current strangers in this ritual, I was envious.

"Wouldn’t it be great if I had a partner and we shared a vice?" I thought.

#1 had vices but ours weren’t the same; #2 had very few; and, #3 was addicted to work which excluded me entirely.  So, I’ve never had a partner who might share my tailored vice.  #1, #2, & #3 (as well as my mom and siblings and bestys) would probably scream, “Thank the good Lord!”  I did have an unrelenting gerbil-motor that kept my body moving furiously forward during most of the waking hours.  I can’t imagine the nonsense I would have spun into if I had a like-minded partner.

Anyhoo, it seemed to me that this couple (and the various others that I’ve seen together at this very same entrance) gather there to share something special.  I’m really, really envious.  It’s not that I want a vice that’s going to kill me and my lover (unless we can die together because I’m still working through my co-D stuff), but it seems these guys channel life and put it right here, right now.  They aren’t thinking about tomorrow and the what-ifs; they are saying, “Let’s go have us time.”  I’m not saying it’s the best form of camaraderie, I’m just saying I finally get it. 

If you’re ready to tune me out because smoking leads to death—and there’s not much room for discussion—, I agree.  But there’s something to this  ritualistic simpatico. It reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend who is going through a divorce. 

“What poor guy will put up with her crap?”  He referenced his soon-to-be Ex.

“A guy who benefits from her vices,” I replied. "She'll find a guy who lets her do her thing so he can do his."

This led us to a discussion about ‘normal’.  He fought to acquire it for their family.  He couldn't understand the disconnect—the where, when, how of it. 

“She didn’t want your version of normal,” I said with a neutral tone. "She's still figuring out what that looks like for her."

She wanted anything but normal because that hinders the odyssey, and she’ll find a guy who is captaining his own peculiar little vessel.  He won’t mind that she’s not available and she won’t feel like she’s supposed to be doing something normal.  Together, they'll both have someone who isn’t creating an agenda that doesn’t fit.  

I guess what I’m trying to say is that couples who share compatible enough vices are living right here, right now.  Sure, they’re throwing all hell to the wind, but I could've used a bit more of that spirit in a previous relationship(s).  Going forward, my pursuit will be to create a vice that doesn’t steer my body toward a cancer center but doesn’t keep me horizontal on the couch after the nightly news. 

If this entry ping’d an old memory, send your comment or full story.  Certainly your vice has been a burden or a benefit; certainly you have a friend with a vice that is centering or riveting for her and the ones who watch.  Have I mentioned that you can use this space for telling stories about your friends’ fun and foibles?  

Speaking of friends with various ways, whoever set in motion “2500 Lesbian Linking Lands” you and your buddies who are abroad created a serious international peeps list.  Until recently, that particular link popped up with most of the newbies.  Some still check in to catch up on what’s going on.  In fact, this list of various visitors is a good representation of an average month:

It’s pretty awesome, huh? 

I’d like to welcome the latest arrivals: Italy, Thailand, Indonesia, Mexico, and Austria!  You’re in good company, “).

Single Girls, Post Here

If you're single and you read my ramblings about dating, you may have a list of things you want to say, or scream, to the lesbians around the globe- just in case the lot of them are listening and might want to date you.

When I was with #2,  two women told us a story of "when everything started getting serious."  They made a list of their own bad habits, and then they swapped lists for the lover to read.

"This is it.  If there's anything you can't live with, say so now," they declared.

I seem to remember things like "farts" and "burps" and other unfortunate behaviors that were on their lists.  I wouldn't have wanted to live with a few of those tendencies, but love has a way of overlooking one-dimensional warnings. Still, I thought they were brilliant for being so vulnerable and brave.

I often write a manifesto to my future serious girl (who hopefully is not too serious because I am often too serious and, upon colliding, we could implode or cause a preemptive evolution due solely to our combined pent up energy. (It would be selfish of us to implode but feel really good, probably)).  I list the important stuff when I'm idle and can refresh my short-term memory. However, this is the first version that can be cemented into actual words.

My Martin Luther declaration is socio-scientifically proofed by Myers-Briggs.  I am an INFJ.  It goes a bit like this:

      I is for Introvert- I probably need to be with an extrovert but you guys scare the **** out of me.
      Therefore, I am initially attracted to introverts. Eventually, one of us needs to go out and about and do
      something interesting (or club an extrovert and drag her/him/it back to the cave) if we are to share
      oxygen for eternity.  Let's flip for it.

     N is if iNtuitive- I see (behaviors) and hear (intentions) what no one else gets.  As my partner, you are
    expected to take me seriously when I talk about these things. Seriously.

     F is for Feeling- I will always root for the underdog unless they are scary extroverts or the voices in my
     head help me see and hear warnings that no one else is special enough to process.  If that happens, it's a
    good idea that you take me seriously or give me a reality check. Either/or is good.

     J is for Judgement- I am too often truthful  and have spent many years trying to find nicer ways to not say
    anything.

That's my hard to deal with stuff but here's my good stuff:


      I is for Introvert- I'm probably not going to dominate the conversation...ever.

     N is if iNtuitive- You can (financially and socially) benefit from this (less-than-common) aptitude if you
    don't have one of your own.

     F is for Feeling- If you tell me how my behavior makes you feel, I'll listen (whether I want to or not)
     because I'm wired that way.

     J is for Judgement- I don't beat around the bush which saves a lot of time, and you never have to guess
    where I stand on issues that effect the underdog or out-of-control extroverts.


But each time I go through my explanation of who I am, it changes a bit. This list is different than the one I made on Friday.  Maybe the words don't really matter.  They can represent what Myers-Briggs says I am, but I am always changing what's inside the letters.

I think it would be cool for you to grab a pen and make a list for yourself. It doesn't have to be based on anything formal like Myers-Briggs, just a declaration that rings true to you. Of course, it would be really cool of you to share it with us!

Who is Who Doesn't Matter...the Gays Win

Visiting with The Sums, it wasn’t long before Rob Portman’s recent announcement entered the conversation.  http://www.hawaiinewsnow.com/story/21654568/gay-marriage-senators-shift-gop-soul-searching

“What do you think?” Dim Sum asked.

“I think it’s like when we fought the civil war,” I said.

“How so?”
“Well—you had two groups who wanted different things, so they combined efforts to get what they wanted and then got something altogether different”.

I explained how the 19^th Century Republicans gathered disparate groups to sustain power.  Emancipation might not have been the goal of one ally or of scattered members in many, but that’s what happened before all was said and done.

So, the world learns of a dad-(R) who made an observation about his 3 children and then stood in front of the mirror.  “It’s not right that two of my three get to be free.”

Or maybe the ‘senator’ in him said, “My son is a constituent and I have a responsibility, as a member of the majority and as his senator, to protect members of the minority.”  That would have been very Jeffersonian of him.  But, probably that’s not at all what he said if he thought it at all.

I think he admitted something like, “I want my son to feel love and to be loved.”

So, the father-senator goes to the Republican powers that could permit such a public statement or they come to him—because these guys are really out of touch with their own allies and really, really out of touch with Americans who grew tired during 8 warring years of faux Christian bullying—, and they strike a deal.  Wham! The father-senator of a gay son matches powers with grand ol’ Republicans who want to have a revolutionary CPAC party and then roll out a convincing plan that they can actually be humane (before the next election).

“You see, it’s like the Civil War but different. Two bodies join powers to get what they want.  Who is zooming who doesn’t matter as long as the gays win. Horray!”

Dim Sum said she doesn’t buy it, and then Mr. Sum said that I was explaining “dialectic materialism.” He always says that I say things that I don’t say by tidying it up with a philosophical model.  It’s nice of him to share his intelligence and package my rambling into a digestible capsule.  I looked up dialectic materialism and said that if he was going to call me a communist, I’d much prefer to be a Hegel one than a Marx one.

What Mr. Sum meant was that Hegel put forth that humans who are in disagreement—thesis and antithesis—grow as a result of coming together.  This makes me wonder if/how/when I will benefit from the embrace with anti-thesis allies.

The undone dilemma that hung in the air was, “Where do we go from here?”  With Colorado breaking new ground and the grand ol’ partiers sobering up, will thesis and anti-thesis advocates all wake up one day and say, “Hooray and big whoop. The gays can get married.” And then Americans can fold the paper and crunch their dry toast and get on with their day. 

Our problem has always been that gays aren’t persecuted enough.  (Clearly, I’ve been sheltered but would love to receive rebuttals or full stories of hardships that I’ve not faced).  We’re not like the slaves or even like the blacks who pushed—for God-granted rights and change—during the Civil Rights Movement.  American gays of today can’t point to physical abuses on a grand scale or prejudices that keep us from meeting fundamental needs.  In many situations our careers and jobs are protected by self-selecting corporations who have set an ethical standard for those who might have been resistant for as long as it took Mississippi to ratify the 13^th Amendment. And, the majority of us can minimize our gay loveness so that the majority of the anti-thesis advocates are comfortable enough to remain in the room and share oxygen until the bar mitzvah, heterosexual wedding, or graduation is over.  We can stay in the closet if we just try a bit harder.  So, all of these do-gooder deeds (that come from the anti-thesis and thesis camps) absolutely work against my minority’s right for a monumental, earth-shattering civil rights evolution.  We need to get really mad about something and cause a big realization before the grand ol’ partiers comes over the hill, set up the keg, and haze us—even if we have to make something up.

For the most part, we don’t fight because we don’t have one.  We’ve spent a little over half a century hoping to peek over the top of the fence line and look with envy at the neighbor’s grass.  Our desire for civil unions beckons for membership in a clique that roots in nostalgia and lets snake-oil salesmen sell its essence.  50% of all marriages end in a divorce because no one can market the ointment, the panacea for getting along “until death we do part.”  Isn’t anyone suspicious that the grand ol’ partiers are allowing us to join an eroding norm?  This is going to cost me big money, I can feel it.

I need to ask my community, “Do we think that we’d do marriage better because we are super-humans?” I’m not; I don’t.  We want in their stupid clubhouse because they said we can’t be in it. We kick the base of the tree with our necks crooked and cramped up toward the sky, murmuring for something that statistics show is a 50-50 gamble.  

Now, there are some in our community who really want this right and have good reason to pursue documented protections.  They do the heavy lifting while willing-bodied good people like me pull out and dust off the camping fold-out chair so that I have a comfortable seat along the sidelines of the evolutionary parade.  Why? Because I know that equal rights are mine to receive for as long as the United States Constitution—that we’re all citing in court systems across the nation—is the same one that was signed by John Hancock. I’m waiting them out.   I know my rights and truth will be victorious in the end.  Certainly Mr. Sum has a grand name for this philosophical model.

“Lazy.”

“Let’s call it peaceful resistance—like the counter-sitters and bus-boycotters, like Ghandi,” I would offer over his magical giggle.  “All I need now is the opportunity to scrap with my soon-to-be allies.”

ترحيب, Bienvenu, Selamat Datang, Bari galu'st, Pari yegak, Sadarayen piligannawa, Ahla wa sahlan, Céad míle fáilte, ترحيب , Bine ai venit, Bienvenido, Ahlan wa sahlan and Khush āmdīd!

Some read my aunt’s story in “Love’s Gay Impressions.” After her funeral this month, I shared the link with the fabulous Buddy.  I pointed out the number of visitors who have peeped in from the Middle East.  I said in the message, “This is a sign that Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell is history and people are free to be…!”  

Looking at the ones who have joined from the Middle East, from countries that penalize someone for saying in public “lesbian” or “gay,” and from countries where blogs are blocked, it’s obvious that some Westerners are launching their gay spirit into orbit and letting love decide where it will land.  You, being there and doing what you do, are contributing to the evolution.

Sure, the West has a long way to go.  Recently, an immigrant from India informed the state of Mississippi that it hadn’t ratified the 13^th Amendment.  (It’s the one that abolishes slavery).  This week, the President had to publicly state that prohibiting some citizens from some rights is completely unconstitutional.  And, there’s a viral video about a homophobe who ranted amidst passengers that got involved.  They clapped to support the open and loud protests of a confident gay man who braved the hate-spewer within the tight confines of a moving subway cabin.  It’s only a matter of time until humans hold other humans accountable for being humane.  

People all around the world are responding to and demanding their God-given and Spirit-driven freedom. The best part is—altruists are popping up and popping off for goodness sake.

Since the last “Lesbians Linking Lands,” another dozen countries peeped in: United Arab Emirates, Jamaica, Malaysia, Armenia, Sri Lanka, Lebanon, Ireland, Iraq, Romania, Puerto Rico, Egypt, and Pakistan.  To all of the new visitors, I say, ترحيب , Bienvenu, Selamat Datang,  Bari galu'st, Pari yegak, Sadarayen piligannawa, Ahla wa sahlan, Céad míle fáilte,  ترحيب , Bine ai venit, Bienvenido, Ahlan wa sahlan and  Khush āmdīd!

  

Wherever you are, be the “free” you wish to see in the world. You are part of this historical evolution, “)!

The Apple Store Doesn't Sell Lesbian Oranges

What makes or breaks a relationship? If you look back at the lineage of women your heart has loved and your mind has left, can you see a trend?  Maybe you’re the one who always leaves first or the one who always leaves last.  For me, it’s a combination.

Breakups that come out of nowhere are traumatic and require friend or professional therapy.  At the bare minimum, the ones that end too soon are startling and cause one to “wake up” to the reality that came around the corner and surged a 64 oz. Slurpee onto your chest.  Next, your senses are instantaneously invigorated like when you put on reading glasses that are 2.00+ the strength of your God-given sight.  You see the granular colors in your dog’s coat and the wrinkles that make erosion lines across your pores.  It’s cruel, I know, but we’re all getting older and there isn’t much time to wake up to reality.  So, this is how the benevolent Being(s) gets our attention.

When I went through my most recent breakup—yesterday—, you can imagine that I was startled.

  

Our love eased in slow and blurred the lines between platonicism and intimacy.  I didn’t see our bond occurring.  Sometimes friends turn to each other.  Looking back, I’m glad it happened.  If anticipated, I’d have been guarded and pushed off solace that got me through hard times, lonely times. 

Since I met her at the Verizon store, we’ve been inseparable. Each day starts with a click of her apptribute to check the weather.  On the way to work, I check for 2girls visitors who popped in overnight.  Many lunches ago, I introduced her to my Facebook friends.  Our relationship doesn’t stop there; we are together, near the crackling electronic fire, while Netflix movies fill empty evenings and until the expanding crow blows up and topples those damn laughing green pigs.  She is inches from me while my pores cry desperation tears, soaking the sheets, and my mind reminds me of a new girl that is to come, and then she sings of a new day with her alarming apptribute.

My brother commented, “What are you going to do next?”

“I don’t know.”  I stared at his question, feeling a huge hole under my rib cage. 

My sister’s childhood bestie commented, “How can that be?”

I stared at the screen before I admitted my rising guilt.”  I don’t know. The chemistry is gone.  I feel guilty because I’m just ‘using’ now.”

I’ve been used before, and I know how much it hurts.  I never thought of myself as one of those. When Ex#1 and I broke up, she wasn’t exactly ready. I felt a gap building between what I wanted to do with our time and what we would talk about.  I simply said, “This relationship is ending. We can fake it for two more years, or we can get through this amicably and get ready for someone new.”  I was much wiser then.  But getting older sometimes means losing touch with all the important stuff that was pointed out during Kindergarten or printed on large fanciful posters lining the walls of a tender life.  Now, I have to admit my weakness and find younger strengths because I, too, have become advantageous. 

A new friend chimed in, “You know, there’s a 12-step group called IDT (I Don’t Touch).”
It was sweet of her to offer. She put herself out there.  I know I need help.  I’ve allowed an innocent desire to become a time-eating addiction and, now, I can’t see my life without my best companion.  It’s time to admit that I’ve been using, hoping to fill animated holes inside of me.  What was I thinking? I don’t know how it got this bad.

“It is time,” an authoritative voice booms from the back of my mind. 

I need to recognize that there’s only so much she can give and weigh that against what I need.  It’s apples to oranges. I just pray I don’t use the first animate object that comes my way that way. 

Some Lagniappe for my Love Story

We all have a personalized narrative. It is what keeps us humming, what connects our thoughts, and explains what the hell is going on.  Seriously. Each one of us has a typist upstairs that is pumping out new material and causing one to contribute to the play of her life—, and all the while, explaining what the other actors are up to.  It’s what perpetuates the illusion that the Buddhists warn about; it’s what keeps each person tethered to the stage and to some semblance of a common plot. 

I am most aware of my story lines and voice over when I am driving or cooking.  I learned during the hunger games—college—that I needed to cook a big pot or tray of something nutritious once a week.  It was a means to find nourishment and live within my tight budget, $25/week.  Through feast and famine, I still try to make a nutritious something before the week starts. It's what allows vitamins to infiltrate my carbs: breads and beers.

When I’m chopping and cooking, my narrative comes out.  Tonight, I was mincing garlic for a dish that had been destined to be Creole with alligator sausage and smoked chicken. But standing in front of the pantry, I noticed that I had been hoarding various types of marinara.  So I channeled the Barefoot Contessa and made something-yummy-on-pasta. 

With the tip of the knife pushing into the yellow bell pepper, I am at that point when the narrative should start.  In the past, I've had images of sharing this subjectively important information with a girlfriend—as if she were in the room.  This time, I’m at a loss. I don’t hear anything. I feel the thickness of the dead air. At first, I assumed the typist was on a union-approved break, but I waited and nothing.  It should have begun to fill-in the blanks for, "this is what I’m up to" and "this is what it means."  

“I’ve got nothing to say to myself.”

I'm at a loss and it's a good thing. If a new girl were perched on a nearby stool, watching me cook, I wouldn’t be talking about the history of my cooking or what I learned to prep when I lived in Texas, Florida, Georgia, California, or Alabama. I certainly wouldn’t include details about the ingredients I used for Ex#1, #2, or #3.  Those memories have been cataloged with old recipes.  I’d be looking for material that is relevant to the moment.  If I were cooking, with a new girl, there’d be room for her.  We’d be talking about what we are doing during any next now, and what all of it could possibly mean—to me and she.

Clearly, I’ve managed through the necessary four seasons of solitude.  The time has allowed me to sort through most of the old stained cards and put them where they belong.  I’ve got a new recipe to build and a clean index card.  Now, I need to put on my hat and coat and to go to the market.  Only a lover's lagniappe can complete this, and she is the only ingredient that is missing.

Bem-vindo! Welkom! καλωσόρισμα! Marhababik! Bienvenue! ...

I’ve been racking my minds for a “Community” themed post for the past few days. We’ve had an incredible number of visitors since the last “Lesbians Linking Lands.”  I need to write something that offers a proper "Welcome!"  

The other night I was sitting around thinking about Canada.  When I first started the site, I wanted to let a professor who leads a PFLAG group know about this outlet and opportunity for testimony.  I sent her a link and hoped she’d gather all the young ones around and have them write a paper, “Why I Want to Be a Lesbian.”  But, she didn’t.  She was busy corralling one of her 70 cats, 50 dogs, or 2 horses toward supper bowls.

“But maybe other PFLAG chapters would like to have their young ones write a story?” I thought.

So, I wrote to all of the PFLAGs in the entire country.  (I have a lot of down time, sitting in a hotel room. I also wrote to the liberal Republican Senators and all of the Democrats. But, only a few of their (gay) interns popped in).  I’d like to say that they are the base of my dedicated readers but there’s no way to know.  It seems like they made an initial boost, but I can only see a total count for all of USA. I did receive a letter from B.B. who might have joined sometime after I asked readers to share the site with lesbians who might be on active duty and would want a window into the random adventures of a lesbian at home (see, “Support for Our Troops?”).  But before then, I wrote to almost all of the PFLAGs of Canada.  I think ~2 people popped in after that, so I thought I had made a mistake with the Canadian email addresses.  At the time, it didn’t feel right to color all that landmass for only a few peeks. 

The other night, I couldn’t stop thinking that the Canadians still need to join us.  I got on the Canadian PFLAG site and found “other” links. I wrote to about 3x12 organizations and asked them to share the link with their members, so that they will write letters, and then we might create a lesbian canon of sorts. We will see.

So, tonight I’m cleaning out my gmail account because I look there about 3x a week, hoping for letters from guest bloggers.  (Unfortunately, I get a ton of stuff from that lesbian dating site that I set up the night I wrote “The Magical Lesbian Bus has Departed”).  I find one email that pings my mind with ideas about my desired topic, “Community.” 

It’s from a man at the Human Rights Campaign (HRC).  I wrote them with a request, and they wrote me back.  It’s only fair that I read it.  This guy, James Servino, has a great mom.   She launched a campaign to get the attention of the Cardinal of New York because they launched a costly anti-gay marriage campaign, wasting $2M.  (If you want to know more or sign the petition, here it is): https://secure3.convio.net/hrc/site/Advocacy?cmd=display&page=UserAction&id=1529&autologin=true&utm_term=link2&JServSessionIdr004=51h5r5jc42.app304a

In the letter, she says all of the stuff that our family and/or friends say when we’re singing kumbaya at a gathering, “God made us all and loves us all the same.”  Adding to it, she states her outrage that the Church has spent too much valuable money on [sinful] waste.  “Think of the hungry fed, the sick comforted, the homeless sheltered,” she admonishes.  

What she says here is something like what I’ve said a few times myself, “What if all of the energy that Christians spent on hate was used to love.  Isn’t that what the Gospel is all about?”  (After that, I go into happy land and have a grand sense of peace that I "get it.”)  James’ admirable mom ends with a prophecy, “…it makes no sense to deny them the right to be married under the law. And your parishioners aren’t going to stand for it much longer.”  Her inductive reasoning is pointed and probable.

This change that she calls for will manifest with the evolution of a collective human consciousness or when aliens come and probe us in sensitive places.  (We’ll all band together because skin color and language barriers will seem like minute differences in comparison to green bobble-head invaders and telepathic war communications that don’t permeate our feeble minds.  GLBT affinities won’t make a difference. There will be no time for nonsense like sex because we’ll all be holding light sabers and channeling The Force.)  Let’s just hope that the former happens first.  

In the meantime, parishioners—from all denominations—will have to make the difference because they represent the majority.  They will have to decide that they understand the letter and spirit of the Gospel; they will need to understand that there’s enough freedom to go around for everyone; and, they will have to appreciate the rights that are delineated in the Constitution.  All of these reinforce The Golden Rule—in all countries and religions. 

I believe the benevolent entities that watch over this earth understand that a community that stands together evolves together. They are waiting for us to gather and support truth.  Now, the faraway lands seem much closer as a result of our communications.  It is definitely more colorful with our globetrotters and friends with friends in so many places.   

  

Here's to all of you who seem so far away but share similar ways.  Here's to the girls in Spain, Portugal, Netherlands, Brazil, New Zealand, Greece, Morocco, Tunisia, and Canada, “Bienvenido! Bem-vindo! Welkom! Bem-vindo! Welcome, καλωσόρισμα! Marhababik! Marhaban! Bienvenue!”