What's organic.

Recently I was grousing to Sweet Hubby about how much it bugs me when I notice an assortment of almost empty bottles of shampoo in someone's shower.  (Don't ask how I happen to look in people's showers.  That's several long and uninteresting stories.)  SH laughed and asked why I let it bother me when it's got nothing to do with me, doesn't affect me, has no impact on my life whatsoever.

And that's when I realized: We are bothered by what we're bothered by.  It's not a decision we make, it's simply a natural individual response to whatever.  Bugged is bugged.

What bothers us is just as organic as whom we are attracted to.  We can't determine who makes us hard or who makes us wet.  Attraction is attraction.

And that got me thinking about those people, who, sadly, still abound, who condemn homosexuals.  Especially those people who say homosexuals choose their sexuality.  I have so many questions for those people.  Such as:
Did you choose to be hetero?  At what point?  Could you have chosen to be homosexual?
And why do you think someone would choose that?  "Because they like to have penises up their bums (or equivalent)."  Yes they do, because they're homosexual.  Why would someone choose that, knowing their families might reject them?  Knowing there are ignorant bastards such as you in the world who will make their lives miserable with your narrow-minded condemnation.
One old gentleman told me, in an exchange such as this, that homosexuals are aberrations in God's eye.  "Oh no," I replied, "God made everyone."  I did not add "Not just the people you approve of."  I wanted to open this man up, not shut him down, so I kept the conversation as friendly as possible.  But I mean really, what an empty argument, using God as a reason to condemn someone just because you're uncomfortable with him or her.  I'm an atheist, but I think I have a much more expansive idea of God than an awful lot of supposed Christians.

Anyway, now when something bothers me, I just let it bother me and don't try to talk myself out of it or defend it to others.  And next time I look in someone's shower, I'm going to make sure I have a funnel so that I can consolidate all those half inches of shampoo into one bottle.  And if that bothers him or her, well, that will be what's organic to him or her.  (I'm beginning to think the use of the pronoun "they" for individuals can be useful.  But that's another story.)

You first. No, actually, me first.

It's hard to know what to say any more about gun violence, and violence in general, because it seems to be getting so much worse, so random, but I guess not unfathomable.  There are currents of anger and anguish and territoriality running through our culture, which 45 and Fox have not necessarily caused, but have certainly tapped into and nurtured.  

I sometimes wonder if some of this global societal stress boils down simply to the fact that there are too many of us and resources and opportunity are scarcer, or is it that there has always been this much violence, but now, with the introduction of the Internet, we hear about it more, or more about it?  Or has it actually gotten worse?  Has human growth been toward more aggression rather than toward more peacefulness and sense of community?  Over and over, I keep returning to the one resting place that gives me any sense of right response: I just need to be the kind of person I wish everyone were, to be kind and open minded and unselfish.  But I'm as bad as anyone about becoming argumentative, or talking sweepingly about "them" (usually Republicans, sometimes religious fanatics of all stripes, sometimes "the bad guys") and how wrong and awful they are.  If I can't find it in my heart to be more understanding and inclusive than that, how can I expect it of anyone else, when I have more than most?  More love in my life, more opportunities, more friends, more resources, more education than so many others.  If I can't be a loving, kind, honorable person, then how can I expect it of anyone else?

Mojo!

I've really been down about playwrighting lately, to the point where I was ready to quit my playwrighitng group and burn all those unfinished plays which torment me with their unfinished-ness.  I've been sort of chipping away at one of them for a while, but completely uninspired, not much idea of what to do next, couldn't see it, couldn't get to its meat.  I've cycled through my other full lengths-in-progress, and although I love them all and see each one's promise and potential, none of them lit me up.

I suppose part of the problem is that my creative energy is being satisfied by acting right now.  But really these writing doldrums came before that.  I was pretty sure I'd simply lost my mojo.  Not incidentally, I recently read an article that talked about how many of us do our best work in our 20's and 30's, and that our brain's creative power fades after that.  Even though we most often see photos of Einstein as a white haired old man, he came up with his theory of relativity when he was still a young man.  Had I simply reached a stage in life when the best I could hope for would be finishing the Sunday crossword and maybe scribbling a new 10 minute play now and then?

That wouldn't actually be a bad life.  There are times when I have longed to have the mixed blessing of being a writer lifted from me so that I could just be a person.  Being a writer means that a very particular sword of Damocles hangs over one's head, a sword named "No matter what else you are doing, you should be writing".  I love my plays, love them intensely, the bad ones, the perfect ones, the unfinished ones, the unproduceable ones.  I love them as a parent loves a child, wanting to make each one strong enough to go out into the world and survive being manhandled by others.  I see in each one the possibility of a brilliant story which, if well told, could enhance life on the planet, at least for those few dozen who might see it.  But it would also be lovely just to wake up in the morning and think "I'm going to have breakfast, do a few chores, exercise, get together with a friend, hike in the mountains, make supper for Sweet Hubby, and watch a movie."  That sounds like a superb life to me.  But no, every morning I wake up thinking "I should be writing!  I should be writing!  I should be writing!"  So it was with a mix of relief and sadness and confusion that I very seriously considered giving up calling myself a writer and just being a person and sometimes actor.

And then, two nights ago, I had one of those breakthrough revelations that no amount of wishing will cause but which arrives of its own mysterious free will.  I had just a small thought about one moment in my unfinished full length play "Santa's Little Mrs."  I decided to write down the thought so that I wouldn't lose it by morning.  And as I was writing, the entire play suddenly and quite naturally revealed itself to me.  I knew the purpose each character served.  I knew the sequence of events and the emotional arcs of the characters.  I knew the final moment, the one that makes this a Christmas play, when hearts are opened, wounds are healed, love is gloriously shared.  I could see it all.  I know exactly how to write this play.  I GOT MY MOJO BACK!

Sleep Envy

Sweet Hubby, as I have said many times, has a remarkable number of skills and talents.  One of his finest talents is for sleep.  I am envious, to a frightening extent, of his ability to fall asleep, stay asleep, go back to sleep if he's awoken, and sleep into the morning.  He can't sleep until 11 any more, but he can go to 9 or 9:30 easy.  He seems to enjoy his sleep so.  I watch his face sometimes and he just looks so damned peaceful and comfortable.
I am very, very short on sleep, which I know is one of the worst predictors of, or causers of, Alzheimer's and other senility diseases.  I used to be able to sleep.  Most of the time I can get to sleep fairly easily, unless my mind kicks in and keeps agitating all night.  But I often don't sleep through the night and most often wake up early.  My time in bed is plagued by hot flashes (now proudly in their 13th year),leg and foot cramps, and migraines.  Recently it was plagued by bursitis in my shoulder.  Sometimes it is not plagued by anything at all, but simply doesn't fall or stay asleep.
One of the few things capable of possibly putting me back to sleep is being spooned by Sweet Hubby, listening to his even, peaceful breathing.  I wish I could see his dreams projected on a screen, in all their chaos and color.  A brain like his must take him through territories and emotions and memories and inventions and problems to be solved, probably with a lot of me and our fuzzbutt Flow sprinkled throughout.  I would love to be able to see that brain at work.  When I see the deep concentration on his face when his brain is active, it's just a delight.  How fast those circuits must be sparking.
I'd want to keep those screenings to myself, though.  If word got out about how extraordinary and smart and wise he really is (not to mention dreamy to look at, if you like the professor with a twinkle in his eye sort of man), he would almost instantly be made the icon of some movement, or the god of some religion, or the leader of some cult.  Everybody would want some of what I got here - but it's mine, all mine.  That blows my fucking mind.

A Clear and President Danger

I have spent the last several years in a continual state of anger, disgust, and despair.  Only recently have I come to understand at whom I am truly angry.  I’m not angry at Trump.  He is who he is, who he has always been: a braggart, a narcissist, a bully, an uneducated  man who has been given enormous power. 

I am not even angry at his true believers, his most fervent acolytes.  There seems to be no doubt in their minds that he is The One.  The one to lead us and represent us in the world.  The one to set our standards of behavior.  The one to whom we look in times of crisis.  Even if Trump draws us into nuclear war with Russia or China or Iran, these followers will undoubtedly blame the other country.  Something very, very personal is going to have to happen in their lives for them even to consider changing their minds.

No, I’m mad at those men and women to whom we have also given a great deal of power, those who scorned and reviled Trump when he was a candidate but since have become his strongest enablers.  They’ve made it clear that they recognize how terribly unsuited he is for the office of President.  However, once he was elected they realized that his inexperience and ignorance were gifts to their party, that they would be able to mold his agenda to theirs, turn him into their mouthpiece. These people are devoted by choice.  It is they who frighten and disgust me.  Don’t they realize that their pet is out of control and actually could take us into a devastating war?  History will deal harshly with these people, but that is little consolation now.

To Perquack or not to Perquack

I have my insecurities, but I manage to feel pretty much an equal partner to Sweet Hubby.  He is a very intelligent, highly educated man.  As I like to say, he has more degrees than a thermometer, while I am a college dropout.  This is all well and good, because I'm smart and I know I'm smart and he knows I'm smart, so there is no sense of hierarchy or competition between us in that regard. 

However, Sweet Hubby also has the infuriating trait of being good at just about everything he does, even when he's trying something for the first time.  After he retired, he took ceramics classes, and our shelves immediately began being filled with the most beautiful plates and bowls.  We took archery classes, and his arrows were tightly clustered almost from the first day, while I made a more normal progression of shooting wildly and then a bit less wildly.  We played a game called Bananagrams once, a game of making words from lettered tiles.  First time we played, first round, he made the word "volumetric".  I come from a game playing family (Sweet Hubby does not), and in my family, we do love love love to win, so to be so thoroughly bested time and again is quite infuriating.

I was mentioning recently to SH that I thought I ought to be acknowledged for having a strong enough ego to stand tall next to him.  I mentioned just a few of the dozens of activities at which he excels and I do not.  He generously reminded me that I can beat the pants off him at Perquackey, one of my favorite games, in which a player makes as many words from lettered dice as possible in a short period of time.  "Yes," I grumped back, "and you notice we never play Perquackey.

For that matter, no one will play Perquackey with me.  I'm almost preternaturally good at it, so some family members have played with me a couple of time and then never again because what's the fun in knowing you're going to lose?  (My sister did beat me once, years ago, and still holds it up as a shining moment in her life.)  I love word games, and I love this particular game with a passion.  Sometimes I play with myself just for the fun of it.  But it's awfully frustrating that I have such a hard time getting anyone to play with me at the one thing I'm good at.  (All right, that's an exaggeration, there are other things, but none of them are games.)  I don't like this reputation of being a Perquackey genius.  It scares people away and robs me of something I most especially enjoy.

I suppose I also don't relish the idea of playing a game or sport with someone I know is fifty times better at it than I am.  And this makes me think that perhaps I should play with those folks so as not to rob them of their enjoyment of doing what they love and are good at.  It's good ego management, after all, to do something for the challenge of it rather than the satisfaction of accomplishment.  No way to get better at something without actually doing it, after all.

And, PS, last night Sweet Hubby played Perquackey with me in a most generous husbandly gesture.  Of course I beat him by miles, and he was a really good sport about it.  Didn't turn the table over or anything.

 

Taking steps

I wear a Fitbit, and let me be clear: I love my Fitbit.  I put it on first thing in the morning and take it off last thing at night.  I even tuck it into my bra when I'm acting in a period play.  I now park in the farthest corner of the lot at my grocery store, and have also become delightedly addicted to putting on music at night and dancing my ass off, all to see the number of my steps ticking.

However, I decided early on to opt out of getting weekly summaries of my step counts.  When they used to show up in my Inbox, I found myself feeling slightly anxious as I checked to see if I'd gotten more steps than the week before, and the week before that, and the week before that.  I finally realized that I was being programmed to believe that the possibility for improvement is infinite, and that if I hadn't bested myself, then I had failed.  It seems to me rather like the idea that one is always supposed to earn more money and more and more and more, with no thought of satiety.

I don't like the idea that I'm supposed to keep getting better.  Sometimes it's all I can do just to keep up. What I really need to learn is how to gracefully walk toward my ending.  Isn't that enough?