Two quakes of note:
Sunday, May 17, 4.7M, 1 km ESE Lennox CA, 8:39 p.m PDT (depth 15 km)
Tuesday, May 19, 4.0M, 2 km NNE Hawthorne CA, 3:49 p.m. PDT (depth 15.3 km)
As a child I thought a great deal about meaninglessness, which seemed at the time the most prominent negative feature on the horizon. After a few years of failing to find meaning in the more commonly recommended venues I learned that I could find it in geology, so I did. This in turn enabled me to find meaning in the Episcopal litany, most acutely in the words as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end, which I interpreted as a literal description of the constant changing of the earth, the unending erosion of the shores and mountains, the inexorable shifting in the geological structures that could throw up mountains and islands and could just as reliably take them away. I found earthquakes, even when I was in them, deeply satisfying, abruptly revealed evidence of the scheme in action. That the scheme could destroy the works of man might be a personal regret but remained, in the larger picture I had come to recognize, a matter of abiding indifference. No eye was on the sparrow. No one was watching me.
Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking (Knopf, 2005)
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Dead Letter (II)
You are here, so grateful I am you returned, though only for a handful of days. [And when I said I missed you, that I'm glad you're here, you said: I'm glad you're glad.] Leaving again, day after tomorrow, and I think I can't go on, I'll go on*. I don't feel different; in fact, I may love you more, though this knowledge is too dangerous to share. Is it knowledge anyway, or just something I want so badly I've convinced myself it's something it's not? I think it shocks you someone desires you. Another summer to get through commences.
*S. Beckett
*S. Beckett
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Leaving Casterbridge
Her experience had been of a kind to teach her, rightly or wrongly, that the doubtful honour of a brief transit through a sorry world hardly called for effusiveness, even when the path was suddenly irradiated at some half-way point by daybeams rich as hers. But her strong sense that neither she nor any human being deserved less than was given, did not blind her to the fact that there were others receiving less who had deserved much more. And in being forced to class herself among the fortunate she did not cease to wonder at the persistence of the unforeseen, when the one to whom such unbroken tranquillity had been accorded in the adult stage was she whose youth had seemed to teach that happiness was but the occasional episode in a general drama of pain.
Friday, April 24, 2009
In Casterbridge
She admired the serious light in which he looked at serious things. He had seen no jest in ambiguities and roguery, as the Casterbridge tosspots had done; and rightly not -- there was none. She disliked those wretched humours of Christopher Coney and his tribe; and he did not appreciate them. He seemed to feel exactly as she felt about life and its surroundings -- that they were a tragical rather than a comical thing; that though one could be gay on occasion, moments of gaiety were interludes, and no part of the actual drama.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Adrift in the Brookner Universe
I read Anita Brookner's Undue Influence (for the second time) quite recently. Perhaps this wasn't the right move. Her heroines remind me too much of myself.
I was resigned to the laws of this rough world. I would take my chance, and with it the penalties, for there are always penalties. I had spent that morbid Sunday wondering if simple happiness were available to all and had come to the conclusion that it was not. One had to make a determined bid for it, and I did not quite know how this was done.
Even the most subtle explanations could not convince me that some lives, and not others, are destined to be unfulfilled.
But there is always something to look forward to, if you live long enough:
'Mark you, old age has something to be said for it. You can ignore all health warnings, for one thing. You can drink, smoke, take pills, eat butter, lie in the sun; it doesn't matter a damn. My life took on a new meaning when I decided to devote it to idle degeneracy.'
I was resigned to the laws of this rough world. I would take my chance, and with it the penalties, for there are always penalties. I had spent that morbid Sunday wondering if simple happiness were available to all and had come to the conclusion that it was not. One had to make a determined bid for it, and I did not quite know how this was done.
Even the most subtle explanations could not convince me that some lives, and not others, are destined to be unfulfilled.
But there is always something to look forward to, if you live long enough:
'Mark you, old age has something to be said for it. You can ignore all health warnings, for one thing. You can drink, smoke, take pills, eat butter, lie in the sun; it doesn't matter a damn. My life took on a new meaning when I decided to devote it to idle degeneracy.'
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Kind of like poetry
Written spring 2008:
Seven years ago I said: ( ) would have done a better job at life than I have. My father cried. It will be fifteen years this November since ( )'s death.
There was a line of demarcation drawn between my life before and my life after. The question was: are you looking for salvation, redemption? The answer was: no, I am searching for my own death.
Nowhere was home, that much was clear.
There were places with rain, places with sun splitting the clouds. There were places on the ring of fire, places near fault lines.
Now, the city seems no longer a myth – just a place where earth is volatile. Palms, anorexic, sway toward the ocean.
My mind's not right.*
There was a list of what angered me:
The bride and groom were in a capsule.
My ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend were in a similar capsule.
They smiled.
I smiled. The smiling exhausted me.
The sun went down and I had to take off my sunglasses.
He introduced her as his girlfriend.
She was born in 1981.
I called a sometime lover. He talked about himself.
My dress was old.
I felt old.
I only saw the past, which I couldn't get back to,
and the present, which I didn't want.
My sweater didn't match; my nails were bare.
I didn't want to get back to the past. It seemed as ugly as the present.
The future may or may not exist.
I was alone, even though I was talking to people.
There were people I missed, some dead, some far away.
I didn't want to dance.
*from Robert Lowell's "Skunk Hour"
Seven years ago I said: ( ) would have done a better job at life than I have. My father cried. It will be fifteen years this November since ( )'s death.
There was a line of demarcation drawn between my life before and my life after. The question was: are you looking for salvation, redemption? The answer was: no, I am searching for my own death.
Nowhere was home, that much was clear.
There were places with rain, places with sun splitting the clouds. There were places on the ring of fire, places near fault lines.
Now, the city seems no longer a myth – just a place where earth is volatile. Palms, anorexic, sway toward the ocean.
My mind's not right.*
There was a list of what angered me:
The bride and groom were in a capsule.
My ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend were in a similar capsule.
They smiled.
I smiled. The smiling exhausted me.
The sun went down and I had to take off my sunglasses.
He introduced her as his girlfriend.
She was born in 1981.
I called a sometime lover. He talked about himself.
My dress was old.
I felt old.
I only saw the past, which I couldn't get back to,
and the present, which I didn't want.
My sweater didn't match; my nails were bare.
I didn't want to get back to the past. It seemed as ugly as the present.
The future may or may not exist.
I was alone, even though I was talking to people.
There were people I missed, some dead, some far away.
I didn't want to dance.
*from Robert Lowell's "Skunk Hour"
Friday, February 20, 2009
Vanadium I-Ching
(The following is an essay I wrote last term for an intro. philosophy course.)
I learned quietness was an undesirable trait as early as fourth grade. “You’re going to have to speak up,” my teacher once said, “or else you’ll never be a cheerleader.” Of course, I didn’t want to be a cheerleader. I’d never said I wanted to be a cheerleader. But she implied that I should. After all, didn’t every girl dream of being a high school cheerleader someday, especially at a Texas elementary school?
The “quiet” label followed me. I was told being quiet – by teachers, parents, friends – was something I needed to shake. Had it ever served me well? In school, I was perceived as stuck up. I stood in front of class and mumbled intelligent book reports, but my presentation and speaking style left much to be desired.
In the workforce, I eventually learned that the people who hired me for my current job thought I was “a bad interview.” They’d taken a chance on me, on the strength of my resume, and they were glad they did. (As it turns out, I still work for said company.)
But the point is: I gave a bad first impression. I almost didn’t get hired. And I believe that’s because my traits are not compatible with America’s idea of success. I’m quiet, which leads one to believe I may not be a competitive go-getter. Perhaps quietness, too, indicates that I like to be alone. I therefore may not be a “team player.” How could a person with these traits be successful in corporate America?
To be quiet and still and quite content spending time alone is incompatible with our culture in general. To be busy and on-the-go, talking on the phone in the car, at the supermarket, in the middle of dinner, indicates success, a full life. To be “plugged in,” BlackBerry or iPhone in hand, indicates that one is a Very Important Person.
When I was younger, there was a time when I wanted to be someone else. Then I realized as I grew older that sure, I’d changed a bit - I certainly wasn’t as shy or reticent, and it’s not like I could be considered maladaptive - but I was still quiet. I would always be labeled “quiet.” I would always prefer solitude. Some things weren’t going to change, and did I really want them to? The answer was no. What was wrong with me? Perhaps nothing.
It dawned on me eventually that other cultures might value quietness, or at very least, have a tradition of quietness, counter to America’s tradition of conquering the frontier. Coming to the Tao Te Ching, my personality traits were affirmed in Chapter Fifty-Six: “Those who know do not talk. / Those who talk do not know.”
From this premise, the Tao instructs the reader on how to “know.” The first instruction is: “Keep your mouth closed.” To accomplish this means you have to keep still. You have to keep quiet and listen, as it is more important to listen than to talk. If you are too busy talking, you might miss what you need to know.
The reader is instructed further to “Guard your senses. / Temper your sharpness. / Simplify your problems. / Mask your brightness.” The initial instructions indicate that we must protect ourselves in terms of what we expose ourselves to. We must be careful and discriminating; if we’re not, we may stray off course. To whom might we not want to expose ourselves? Those who talk.
The subsequent instructions tell us to be humble and not call attention to ourselves. We should tone down our sharpness – and sharpness can mean many things, ranging from acute perception to shrewd intelligence. We should not catastrophize and dramatize our problems. We should not flaunt what we have, whether it is intelligence or riches.
Such a person will no doubt mystify. As Anneli Rufus writes in her collection of essays titled Party of One: “By Veblen’s reckoning, we [loners] give no evidence." She is referencing political economist Thorstein Veblen’s concept of “conspicuous consumption.” To be a conspicuous consumer is to display wealth ostentatiously. Quiet, under-the-radar loners aren’t conspicuous, so we give the outside world little indication of who we are. The Tao, likewise, instructs us to give no evidence.
Our final instruction is to “Be at one with the dust of the earth,” for that is “primal union.” If we follow these instructions, the Tao indicates that we will be unconcerned, which is “the highest state of man.”
To be at one with the dust also is to be humble because you are dust. To be at one with the dust also indicates that you are grounded – not untethered. You have gravity pulling you toward the earth, and you are heavy; but you are also light: “unconcerned with friends and enemies, / With good and harm, with honor and disgrace.”
The book has instructed me to be more like myself. I am keeping still. I am keeping quiet.
I learned quietness was an undesirable trait as early as fourth grade. “You’re going to have to speak up,” my teacher once said, “or else you’ll never be a cheerleader.” Of course, I didn’t want to be a cheerleader. I’d never said I wanted to be a cheerleader. But she implied that I should. After all, didn’t every girl dream of being a high school cheerleader someday, especially at a Texas elementary school?
The “quiet” label followed me. I was told being quiet – by teachers, parents, friends – was something I needed to shake. Had it ever served me well? In school, I was perceived as stuck up. I stood in front of class and mumbled intelligent book reports, but my presentation and speaking style left much to be desired.
In the workforce, I eventually learned that the people who hired me for my current job thought I was “a bad interview.” They’d taken a chance on me, on the strength of my resume, and they were glad they did. (As it turns out, I still work for said company.)
But the point is: I gave a bad first impression. I almost didn’t get hired. And I believe that’s because my traits are not compatible with America’s idea of success. I’m quiet, which leads one to believe I may not be a competitive go-getter. Perhaps quietness, too, indicates that I like to be alone. I therefore may not be a “team player.” How could a person with these traits be successful in corporate America?
To be quiet and still and quite content spending time alone is incompatible with our culture in general. To be busy and on-the-go, talking on the phone in the car, at the supermarket, in the middle of dinner, indicates success, a full life. To be “plugged in,” BlackBerry or iPhone in hand, indicates that one is a Very Important Person.
When I was younger, there was a time when I wanted to be someone else. Then I realized as I grew older that sure, I’d changed a bit - I certainly wasn’t as shy or reticent, and it’s not like I could be considered maladaptive - but I was still quiet. I would always be labeled “quiet.” I would always prefer solitude. Some things weren’t going to change, and did I really want them to? The answer was no. What was wrong with me? Perhaps nothing.
It dawned on me eventually that other cultures might value quietness, or at very least, have a tradition of quietness, counter to America’s tradition of conquering the frontier. Coming to the Tao Te Ching, my personality traits were affirmed in Chapter Fifty-Six: “Those who know do not talk. / Those who talk do not know.”
From this premise, the Tao instructs the reader on how to “know.” The first instruction is: “Keep your mouth closed.” To accomplish this means you have to keep still. You have to keep quiet and listen, as it is more important to listen than to talk. If you are too busy talking, you might miss what you need to know.
The reader is instructed further to “Guard your senses. / Temper your sharpness. / Simplify your problems. / Mask your brightness.” The initial instructions indicate that we must protect ourselves in terms of what we expose ourselves to. We must be careful and discriminating; if we’re not, we may stray off course. To whom might we not want to expose ourselves? Those who talk.
The subsequent instructions tell us to be humble and not call attention to ourselves. We should tone down our sharpness – and sharpness can mean many things, ranging from acute perception to shrewd intelligence. We should not catastrophize and dramatize our problems. We should not flaunt what we have, whether it is intelligence or riches.
Such a person will no doubt mystify. As Anneli Rufus writes in her collection of essays titled Party of One: “By Veblen’s reckoning, we [loners] give no evidence." She is referencing political economist Thorstein Veblen’s concept of “conspicuous consumption.” To be a conspicuous consumer is to display wealth ostentatiously. Quiet, under-the-radar loners aren’t conspicuous, so we give the outside world little indication of who we are. The Tao, likewise, instructs us to give no evidence.
Our final instruction is to “Be at one with the dust of the earth,” for that is “primal union.” If we follow these instructions, the Tao indicates that we will be unconcerned, which is “the highest state of man.”
To be at one with the dust also is to be humble because you are dust. To be at one with the dust also indicates that you are grounded – not untethered. You have gravity pulling you toward the earth, and you are heavy; but you are also light: “unconcerned with friends and enemies, / With good and harm, with honor and disgrace.”
The book has instructed me to be more like myself. I am keeping still. I am keeping quiet.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
What I'm Reading
She knows that Love looks like Hans, which is by no means an unattractive proposition but is still decidedly disagreeable. Because he has not realised what a gem she is and that she is the best woman he'll find, really she's too good for him in fact. Alas, he is in pursuit of faraway happiness, yet in reality happiness is so close. As close as the Good Things in Life are. But he must needs go a-roaming far away. Which is disagreeable for her. Though not for him.
~Elfriede Jelinek, Wonderful, Wonderful Times (tr. Michael Hulse)
~Elfriede Jelinek, Wonderful, Wonderful Times (tr. Michael Hulse)
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Dead Letter
There was a time, sitting with you at the work table in your apartment, when I felt like I'd been hit on the head with a brick. And I mean this as a wonderful thing: I was jolted into the present. That's when I realized I might be in trouble because I couldn't see you the way I see most men.
You see, I had begun to think of dating as killing time. But I realized, when I was hit on the head with that brick, that I'd been split open. How easy it would have been simply to kill time with you and to breathe a sigh of relief as your plane took off, away from this city, this country, for good. It could have been that way, if you were a different person. It could have been that way, if it weren't for the brick.
You see, I had begun to think of dating as killing time. But I realized, when I was hit on the head with that brick, that I'd been split open. How easy it would have been simply to kill time with you and to breathe a sigh of relief as your plane took off, away from this city, this country, for good. It could have been that way, if you were a different person. It could have been that way, if it weren't for the brick.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
The Simple Truth (II)
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
-- Sylvia Plath, "The Moon and The Yew Tree"
It's not that I don't like LA. It's fun. There are plenty of things to do if you feel like doing them. It's a metropolis, and once you've lived here you likely are going to be bored anywhere else in the U.S. besides NYC. But I don't love it. Then again, I've never loved any place I've ever lived.
I don't think I'd be bored outside the U.S., mind you. But the places I've been, of which I continue to dream (Berlin, for example, and Prague) ... well, I romanticize those places heavily.
Do I actually want to love the city in which I dwell? I might not. It's become such a part of my identity to be contrary. I lament not fitting in - and yet, this is what I do ... I don't fit in. If I ever felt like I fit in, would I be myself anymore?
LA, like many (most?) large cities, can be a revolving door. I have friends who used to live here, but now they're gone. We're still in touch, and they're still among my dearest friends. Everyone I know in LA now (aside from [ ]) is an acquaintance, really. And of course [ ] is moving soon, so he'll join the ranks of Those Who've Left.
Leaving is what people do, though. Sometimes they disappear altogether. It seems nothing is permanent, except for those things inside ourselves that never change... those personality traits we can't seem to shake. But would we necessarily want to shake them?
-- Sylvia Plath, "The Moon and The Yew Tree"
It's not that I don't like LA. It's fun. There are plenty of things to do if you feel like doing them. It's a metropolis, and once you've lived here you likely are going to be bored anywhere else in the U.S. besides NYC. But I don't love it. Then again, I've never loved any place I've ever lived.
I don't think I'd be bored outside the U.S., mind you. But the places I've been, of which I continue to dream (Berlin, for example, and Prague) ... well, I romanticize those places heavily.
Do I actually want to love the city in which I dwell? I might not. It's become such a part of my identity to be contrary. I lament not fitting in - and yet, this is what I do ... I don't fit in. If I ever felt like I fit in, would I be myself anymore?
LA, like many (most?) large cities, can be a revolving door. I have friends who used to live here, but now they're gone. We're still in touch, and they're still among my dearest friends. Everyone I know in LA now (aside from [ ]) is an acquaintance, really. And of course [ ] is moving soon, so he'll join the ranks of Those Who've Left.
Leaving is what people do, though. Sometimes they disappear altogether. It seems nothing is permanent, except for those things inside ourselves that never change... those personality traits we can't seem to shake. But would we necessarily want to shake them?
Saturday, January 31, 2009
The Simple Truth
I admit it: I do love [ ]. I've only known him about five months. We're in some sort of relationship, but it's irrelevant. He is leaving the city terribly soon. I might be going mad.
My mood changes. Sometimes I make a concerted effort to live in the present. I want to enjoy the remainder of my time with him. I don't want his last memories of me to be of a broken, crying fool. To worry about the future would ruin everything.
Other times I cry - in the car, at work, in my bedroom before sleep. I've cried in his presence several times. That I've been able to crack in front of him is telling. That he still speaks to me afterward ... well, the significance does not escape me.
There is something different about him. If I were ten or fifteen years younger, such a statement wouldn't mean anything. But I'm older now. The fact of the matter is I might be at the halfway point in my life (if I'm lucky). I've been through a lot, I've moved around a lot, I've visited a lot of places, I've encountered many different people. So at this point, when I say there is something different about him, I'm inclined to believe there actually is.
Goddamn it.
My mood changes. Sometimes I make a concerted effort to live in the present. I want to enjoy the remainder of my time with him. I don't want his last memories of me to be of a broken, crying fool. To worry about the future would ruin everything.
Other times I cry - in the car, at work, in my bedroom before sleep. I've cried in his presence several times. That I've been able to crack in front of him is telling. That he still speaks to me afterward ... well, the significance does not escape me.
There is something different about him. If I were ten or fifteen years younger, such a statement wouldn't mean anything. But I'm older now. The fact of the matter is I might be at the halfway point in my life (if I'm lucky). I've been through a lot, I've moved around a lot, I've visited a lot of places, I've encountered many different people. So at this point, when I say there is something different about him, I'm inclined to believe there actually is.
Goddamn it.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Es ist Zeit
One of my favorite books:
Selected Poems and Prose of Paul Celan. Trans. John Felstiner. New York: W.W. Norton, 2001.
Two favorite lines, from two different poems:
Wahr spricht, wer Schatten spricht.
Speaks true who speaks shadow.
Schwerer werden. Leichter sein.
Growing more heavy. Taking on lightness.
The poem "Corona" from the book Mohn und Gedächtnis (Poppy and Memory) - and yes, "Corona" appears in Felstiner's book - is my favorite love poem, ever. Happiness tinged with autumn, which is the only happiness many of us ever know. But it is still happiness. I confess I can't relate to the speaker of this poem, but I want to, and to admit that is weakness. Nevertheless. Es ist Zeit.
Selected Poems and Prose of Paul Celan. Trans. John Felstiner. New York: W.W. Norton, 2001.
Two favorite lines, from two different poems:
Wahr spricht, wer Schatten spricht.
Speaks true who speaks shadow.
Schwerer werden. Leichter sein.
Growing more heavy. Taking on lightness.
The poem "Corona" from the book Mohn und Gedächtnis (Poppy and Memory) - and yes, "Corona" appears in Felstiner's book - is my favorite love poem, ever. Happiness tinged with autumn, which is the only happiness many of us ever know. But it is still happiness. I confess I can't relate to the speaker of this poem, but I want to, and to admit that is weakness. Nevertheless. Es ist Zeit.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Lovvve
One of the many poems I like in Marie Howe's latest, The Kingdom of Ordinary Time, is "After the Movie," in which appear the following lines:
Simone Weil says that when you really love you are able to look at someone / you want to eat and not eat them.
I think this is the best definition of love I've encountered.
Yes, I've loved, and I suppose most everyone has. But I have a very specific definition of what it means to be in love, and based on that I can say I've never experienced it.
In my definition, to be in love is a mutual experience. You both want to eat each other, but you don't. "Both" is the operative word here.
And never being in love, never being content in a relationship has become so much a part of my identity that I feel like a stranger to myself when I start to think maybe such contentment is possible. But I snap back to reality soon enough - not necessarily because I want to, but because reality reveals itself to me.
One of the challenges in life might be to come to terms with the realization that some of us may not get what we want. And we have to learn to cope with it. We are not born entitled to anything. The Big Love, the being in love, where you want to eat him (or her) but don't, and he (or she) wants to eat you but doesn't ... well, not everyone gets to experience that. Some people do; some don't. Perhaps in another life, a parallel universe, or... I don't know... if you believe in that sort of thing.
Simone Weil says that when you really love you are able to look at someone / you want to eat and not eat them.
I think this is the best definition of love I've encountered.
Yes, I've loved, and I suppose most everyone has. But I have a very specific definition of what it means to be in love, and based on that I can say I've never experienced it.
In my definition, to be in love is a mutual experience. You both want to eat each other, but you don't. "Both" is the operative word here.
And never being in love, never being content in a relationship has become so much a part of my identity that I feel like a stranger to myself when I start to think maybe such contentment is possible. But I snap back to reality soon enough - not necessarily because I want to, but because reality reveals itself to me.
One of the challenges in life might be to come to terms with the realization that some of us may not get what we want. And we have to learn to cope with it. We are not born entitled to anything. The Big Love, the being in love, where you want to eat him (or her) but don't, and he (or she) wants to eat you but doesn't ... well, not everyone gets to experience that. Some people do; some don't. Perhaps in another life, a parallel universe, or... I don't know... if you believe in that sort of thing.
Monday, January 26, 2009
History
It started with C, a guy whose motto - who needs foreplay if you have water-based lubricant? - still rings in my ears. He was health-conscious (didn't even drink caffeine!) and exercised with weights. He thought I should too and bought me 10-lb. dumbbells. I just really, you know, needed to get in shape. Maybe someday we'd be that perfect jogging couple in color-coordinated shell suits.
No.
I dated M many years later. He liked poetry, but I knew more about it than he did, so I exposed him to more poets. I liked classical music, but he knew more than I did, so he exposed me to more composers. Oh, the give-and-take! I pictured white nights at the opera during our St. Petersburg honeymoon. It seemed perfection until he confessed he usually went for thinner girls. My intuition had failed me. I asked him to elaborate, and he said he liked girls thin to the point of delicacy, but not waif-like. Oh, I said, you mean like the young Mick Jagger? Bonne chance.
Non.
And then there was P, who said after three years of dating: ya gotta lose the cellulite.
Let me be honest and say that I've weighed more than I should once in my life, when I was taking Paxil. It never fails with Paxil, it seems: you won't have panic attacks anymore, but you will gain at least 20 lbs. and never, ever have an orgasm again. Until you stop taking it.
Otherwise I am normal. (5'8" and 145 lbs.)
If I could go back in time, would I present C with a copy of Tibetan Arts of Love and withhold sex until he presented me with a notarized document stating he'd read it from start to finish? Would I tell M to cut his effing hair because it wasn't 1990 anymore and he was no longer the AlternaBoy in high school? Would I tell P ya gotta lose that smallish c_ck?
Probably.
Why didn't I have the balls back then?
Later there was G (God bless that boy), who encouraged ice cream atop the peach cobbler because well, girl, you're just too thin.
No.
I dated M many years later. He liked poetry, but I knew more about it than he did, so I exposed him to more poets. I liked classical music, but he knew more than I did, so he exposed me to more composers. Oh, the give-and-take! I pictured white nights at the opera during our St. Petersburg honeymoon. It seemed perfection until he confessed he usually went for thinner girls. My intuition had failed me. I asked him to elaborate, and he said he liked girls thin to the point of delicacy, but not waif-like. Oh, I said, you mean like the young Mick Jagger? Bonne chance.
Non.
And then there was P, who said after three years of dating: ya gotta lose the cellulite.
Let me be honest and say that I've weighed more than I should once in my life, when I was taking Paxil. It never fails with Paxil, it seems: you won't have panic attacks anymore, but you will gain at least 20 lbs. and never, ever have an orgasm again. Until you stop taking it.
Otherwise I am normal. (5'8" and 145 lbs.)
If I could go back in time, would I present C with a copy of Tibetan Arts of Love and withhold sex until he presented me with a notarized document stating he'd read it from start to finish? Would I tell M to cut his effing hair because it wasn't 1990 anymore and he was no longer the AlternaBoy in high school? Would I tell P ya gotta lose that smallish c_ck?
Probably.
Why didn't I have the balls back then?
Later there was G (God bless that boy), who encouraged ice cream atop the peach cobbler because well, girl, you're just too thin.
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