That tiger is only partially housebroken ...

This post has been 'brewing' for a couple of weeks.  And recent events where I live brought it all into a focus that I hadn't had previously. 


A seven year old girl was abducted, raped and bludgeoned to death after being snatched between her apartment's playground and the apartment in which she lived.  A playground that is, mind you, in full and complete view of at least 50 residents.  A playground.  Full of children.  Most without supervision.  Because really, you expect that your child, of school age, is going to be safe a few steps from your door.  With other children present.   


As is the norm in Georgia - the first instinct is to persecute the parents.  What prior history of abuse or neglect, was this child alone frequently, did anyone notice the parents who may or may not have failed to 'watch' their children.  And you know what?  It's all not important.  Not in this situation - because there were 5 or 6 girls of the same age at that playground the moment that child disappeared.  The predator just took one.  A random one.  And whether or not the parents were watching, or cavalier in their attitude is not and should not be the concern.  You do not, as a parent, expect that an hour on the swings is dropping your child into the shark tank.  Yes, we all know that bad things happen, and can happen.  But none of us should be preventing our children from socialization and fun and play because of 'what could' happen.  


I say none of us.  Which brings up the next piece of this set of thoughts.  The reality is that some of us, because we were never protected in the smallest ways as children do always have that moment of pause, where the imagery and memories of being alone, being vulnerable, being 'hung out to dry' with no one to protect or cherish us; what can go wrong is the first thought.  


How do you overcome the blows to your psyche when those who should have protected you, should have kept the bogeyman away were the bogeyman.  Or at least complicit by leaving you there to be damaged, alone and unprotected?  How do you learn that everyone isn't that way? And, more importantly, how do you recover. 


See - I know what it is to not be protected. To not matter enough to those who should care, should have some concern where your well being and safety are endangered.  One turned a blind eye, one played the bogeyman for years.  


While the bogeyman went all maudlin and tried to 'apologize', the continued demeaning manner and dismissive approach, including abusive language and threatening gestures were far more representative of the 'real' reasons.  It is said that everyone has their 'come to Jesus' moment as the end is near, and when that end is not so palpable - it is situation normal.  Or whatever the 'new normal' in that mass of dysfunction has deteriorated to become.  


Yet, the one who failed to protect - has yet to even acknowledge a complicity in the mess that I was to become.  And, in some ways still am.  I don't believe in the 'apology' - for it won't rewrite history and years of ignoring, retaliatory acts or even the words spoken in anger.  But - it would be nice to see that they at least made the attempt to see where they were wrong. 


And I won't hold my breath.  


See - I realized that the only person in all of that family dynamic I can count on is myself.  I cannot necessarily overcome the pile of garbage that smashes down my esteem.  I can revel in the good things that are said and that I accomplish.  And I can learn.  Learn to control that  tiger that is buried within, who can fiercely protect hers.  And the "hers" is really not important to list - because like a cat, I have made a marking, a claiming on things that strike a chord with me. Things that are important to me.  And I shall, will and do defend it.


Sometimes that defense is all on me.  It's my feelings of impending loss or readjustment to the way I see things, the feeling that something is 'missing' and the desperate struggle to regain that which I thought I lost.  What I most often realize is that I never lost it in the first place - I just failed to see that things were changing.  And one day I woke up.  And panicked.  Thus started the scramble.  And the obsession with my role, my part in the change.  And you know what?  That sort of stuff is what sticks with you, and can colour the 'having' from that point forward.  Even when things are lost there is something that I learned.  I think.  I hope. 


Other times, I am just a tiger.  There is no thought involved, everything is running on pure instinct and reacting to all of the piles of stuff in the backroom of my life.  The pieces that most days I leave unexamined and sorted neatly into the piles it took years to create.  Reacting not being proactive.  Defensive and scared, backed into a corner and lashing out and forward.  Forgetting my boundaries, both physical and mental, and trying to take back something that may not have really been lost in the first place...just in case. 


It used to be the 'usual' reaction to all things.  Not even remotely attractive, and as I look back, I see just how much it hampered my life. Then, I learned about measured risk, and boundaries.  I learned that defensive and offensive are nothing more than saloon doors that allow all the good to slip out when you are otherwise occupied.  


And I haven't yet been able to totally control that tiger.  Some call it ego and superego and self esteem all roiling together for control. Control of reactions, actions and moods. Mine is now far more a paper tiger that is full of sparkly bits and dark shadows, not yet balanced but not so scary.  And, funnily enough, even less important to the who I am now, and the who I have yet to become than I ever thought possible.  


Is it because I acknowledge it that it has become less scary, less shameful to have and struggle with?  Or, has my growth and time spent sorting that backroom of psyche and 'what came before' into manageable piles of 'dealt with' and 'yet to touch' made my control much better?  I don't think I have an answer for that yet.  And maybe never.  Because that's how the gods work.  It's not important that you know the why, but that you can manage the what, and function in ever improving ways each day.  

My Label? Comes with a Surgeon General's Warning ...

In reading the comments to the last post on labels, I learned several interesting things.  Apparently, as a general rule: people don't want to be labeled.  I don't see them as a bad thing, not until you are tasked to create one for yourself, or if that is the ONLY measure by which you quantify and define the people you meet. 


For me, the labels are simply a shorthand.  It's not perfect, never was meant to be.  But just as some surnames come as a result of professions of forefathers ( Cooper, Baker, Smith ), sometimes a label can carry something positive forward.  


I think that we tend to rail most against the 'idea' of being labeled, as if that simple word or set of words will then define who we are and confine our possibilities to a little box.  That in some way, a label will haunt you, or discourage you from exploring options.  And, when one is given a particularly heinous label, it can ( and often does ) make you rethink your approach.  Or it does for me.  


Lately, what amuses me is the "troublemaker" addendum that has been added to references about me by different groups.  See, you get those sorts of additions when you either refuse to play the reindeer games, or are questioning an opinion that someone holds so clearly as a spoon fed belief that their little brains explode from the contradictions.  And the fact that I, as most sentient beings should do, am able to and open to reevaluating my position and ideas about any one thing am not above saying "I was wrong" or "I never saw it that way" is somehow an anathema to their views on the world, so much so that my admission of my mistakes is a personal and direct attack that somehow will send their world spinning into oblivion.  


It's amazing to be so powerful and omnipotent. I assume dictators get that same rush.  Then I realize, I'm really NOT that important.  I am someone who simply enjoys learning and evaluation and discussion.  And I like people who enjoy the same things.  I understand that ideas simply are - and that there are no crimes committed when people discuss ideas and options.  But, things do break down and go all pear shaped when people start to dissemble and deny, or start to judge and limit ideas, behaviours and people simply because they can't engage in a similar manner.  Oh - and when they can't remember what they did or said a week, a month or a year ago ... and how it directly conflicts with what they are saying now.  And get angry when that simple issue is pointed out. 


See - labels, to me aren't the issue.  It's the people who are all too involved with or concerned with stuffing me into that little box covered with their determinations and labels.  I don't think that you can neatly package anyone, tick off all the boxes that is them, in a single adjective. 


And, somewhere in there - if you are all to concerned with rebelling against being labeled rather than seeing if those labels can somehow, in some small way, effect the way you do things or approach people ....maybe they could be seen as something helpful?


It's how I'm trying to see them. 

Label you, label me

I've been dancing with this idea for a few days ... lots of people have had different ideas and questions.  But really - it all comes to labeling someone or something.  See - I think that we have a need in our lives to have some neat little package that explains just what something is.  We have a word that both describes and others are able to understand for things:  when I use the word 'table', everyone has an idea of what a table is.  


But then we get into people.  And the labels become more like a loaded die, there are many connotations and emotions tied into words that describe what a person is.  See - I can use mother, woman, lover, blonde, caucasian, short-ish, slim-ish .. the list goes on.  But, just what those words mean to everyone else - what you get as a 'mind image' and your reaction to that image are all going to be different.  


Then we can talk about that famous phase in our lives where we used things to express our 'individuality':  the teen years.  How some cloaked themselves in long bangs or black, donned 'shocking' ( to our parents ) clothing and accessories, maybe even wore our underwear on the outside.  And if you looked around - you would find at least one, and usually several other of your peers expressing themselves and their individuality in exactly the same way.  


So, if there isn't something that truly just defines WHO you are - how is it that we are all often far too comfortable and content to try to fit the labels others give, or strive to emulate the ones that we find are most comfortable for us to adopt as some sort of personal mantra? We've all seen the people who seek to convince us of their superiority and good fit to a label .. those who are constantly and consistently telling us how wonderful, sexy, smart, enlightened, researched, open minded, whatever positive you find.  And we have seen people who truly are those things, and they are far more content to just exist quietly - letting their actions and selves just BE the word. 


It all sprung from a set of posts from the Urban Dictionary - put your name in, and see what comes up.  But, mine - wasn't there.  Oh sure - sound the same but spelled differently .. and about seven million entries for Ashley and all of it's spelling variants - but none for mine.  So a suggestion was posed - that I write my own.  And you know what - it's damnably difficult to do.  Because it means either completely expounding on every word so the connotations are removed, or accepting labels as they come - with connotations.  And then - what about the pieces that aren't so wonderful - those pieces of me that I am still trying to organize and either change or decide how their outwardly negative feel ( to me ) can actually be something of use and value?


And - overcoming my initial knee jerk reaction to being labeled in the first place.  


I know they are handy.  I know that we all have this internal shorthand that puts people we encounter into little outlines - that we sort them into 'not interested' to 'has potential' to 'impressed' and all of those other little spaces that keep our need for having some sort of communal language to define one person to another.  It's my table theorem.  That someone can say of me ____ -- and immediately everyone understands.  Or at least is close to the same idea. 


And, it's far easier to admit that while I don't like being labeled - I want to have one that is so accurate and feels so right that everyone who hears it has a similar idea.  


And then - it dawned on me.  I had one of those.  A few simple words that said it all. 


I am human. 

Fuzzy teeth?

Groggily he awoke to the announcer exclaiming the perfection of a ball landing. Rolling toward the table, he picked up his dentures which prtially obscured the cover of a National Geograpic with some large cat featured.  A puzzled look crosses his brow, as he thought he had placed the teeth next to the Pepsi glass.  Slowly arising, he places his teeth into their intended orafice, runs a hand through his rumpled hair and heads toward the voices he hears in the next room.  From around the corner she spots him, t-shirt untucked, chinos in a state of dishabille guaranteed to make a plumber proud.  His eyes scan the group, noting that the sheltie pups were piled in various states of sleep, their mother watching over them.  A conversation revolving around the lesson just completed, the control and flexion work necessary for the coming week; was under way.  His daughter, clad in black riding tights, with little flecks of horsehair over her legs, was listenting intently.  Her hair showed signs of being captured under a helmet, an overly large t-shirt, hole in the shoulder due to an errant pair of Morgan teeth searching for snacks, was curled on a chair, drinking water.  Her instructor (and owner of 3 of the 4 pups, and their mother) was demonstrating with her hands; drawing concentric circles on the table with her fingertip in an ever-increasing radius. The only person to notice him was his wife, who quickly picked up her coffee cup, masking all expression.

He clears his throat, then states "my teeth are furry. I know I put them by my glass, but when I just woke up, they were moved, and are now furry".  To this he recieved no respose, had he been more awake, or focused, he would have noticed the quick glances exchanged by the three at the table.  The girl quickly reached for her glass, ducking her head and concentrating on the liquid contained wthin. He repeats the first statement, sounding not ulike Sherlock Holmes without the accent, and adds "would anyone know how they came to be this way? Or, better yet, who is going to tell me what happened?".  Three pairs of human eyes turn toward him, and Follie (the mother of the pups) raises her head to look at him as well. The pups, alerted into movement by the new voice in the room, lift their heads sleepily, first to their mom, then to him, then proceed to chew on each other, as puppies will. The only voice to break the silence was Sue, "I'm sorry Larry, what did you just say?".  Perfect combinations of concern, politeness and innocence captured in her voice, impressive demonstration of control.  His wife merely glanced up at him, over the rim of her mug. As the pups were stirring and venturing in search of more trouble, as  one went to the girl, and proceeded to pull on the ankle of her sock, smelling as it did of horses.  The girl, avoiding all eye contact, leaned over to play with the pup, goading the others into displays of one-upmanship and jealousy.

Hitching up his pants with a loud sigh, and some muttered comments to which the clear words were collusion and liars, he bent down to the Follie: "anything you have to say about this Fee dog?" he asked her.  Her response, in the way of Shelties, was simply to huff out a noise sounding faintly reminiscent of 'hamburger'. "I am going to get to the bottom of this, and one of you will tell me how this happened" he stated in a sharp voice. Instant images of deerstalker caps and magnifying glasses popped into my head, and a small giggle escaped my lips. He immediately turned to me, the full force of his inspection and anger centred on that giggle. "I'm laughing because you asked the dog for an answer; not only is that laughable, but futile. Perhaps if you rethought your part in this, leaving your teeth out which is just so totally gross", emphasizing this point by a complete look of disgust "you too would find it funny".  "Just what part did you play in this?" he asked in an ever-increasing tone.  

The interrogations continued, similar to those performed by the SS or Gestapo in wartime, his focus so narrow and intent that each denial was treated with increasing disbelief and scorn.  The only props missing were a blinding light, manacles to tie the interrogated to the chairs and the constant "thwack, thwack" as the riding crop hit the side of the tall boots.  Neither Sue nor his wife cracked however, and the whole display of his dominance and logical methods of dedcution were reduced to nil. A pathetic display of a man, shabbily clad, circling in his own incompetance and impotency.

Horses cared for, I returned with the pups to find him again, napping on the sofa, teeth next tothe Pepsi glass.  Immune to his constant displays of disgustingness that only a thirteen year old can see, I sighed, reached down to scritch Magoo  behind the ears, coaxing him back to the room in which Sue and my mother sat.  A decision was made to load up the car, and the three of us would head over to the ice cream stand, with the dogs.  Loaded up, dogs in various positions over and around me in the back, my mother and Sue in the front, Sue driving the car erupted with hysterical laughter as we left the driveway.

Sue catches my eye in the rear-view mirror, "well Watson, shall we break down the chain of events?"

Not three hours before, after a very long and protracted play session involving snacking on horse manure, chasing brooms, and running in circles during my lesson, the pups were settled into a nap.  We were going over the same lesson, drinking water and coffee, and discussing the work to come. Into the room entered Magoo, the mischievious pup, withe the largest smile known to dogdom.  He marched in proudly, head held high, tail wagging, a little spring in his step, and a complete pair of dentures dellicately grasped in his teeth ...smiley side out.  After smothering the laughter and recovering the teeth, my mother gently placed them back on the table, not near the Pepsi glass, but on the National Geographic.  The mystery was solved, and I can still laugh like a fool when I picture the puppy smiling at us. 

I am a thief ...

Oh not of anything interesting.  No, I don't have the missing millions from Iraq, or the paintings from the Gardiner Museum.  I don't even have a real grasp on where Rick Perry's brain cell went to die.  


But, a thief I am nonetheless. 


Emotions, phrases, experiences, trials, tribulations.  All of these I steal from those I know and encounter.  Not to take them away - but to stash them into this little box of "fodder", to be mulled over in quiet times.  Perhaps to include in a story or an idea, that moment of triumph that spurs on a coincidental fearless jolt of energy within me.  


See, I am a writer. Sure, at the moment I am using the word, unadorned and perhaps a bit softer than the other I am's that I could announce.  


But, despite it's being smaller, and somehow "less" it is none of those in import or investment from my perspective.  


As I come to grips with using that as one of the many labels that I can whip out at any moment to give a small descriptive of "who I am"; I also have learned that thief is possibly the one thing that best fits that new me, as it can fit any who have been "writers" before or since. 


The sum total of everything I read, hear, see and do is also somehow, somewhere informing the words I put down here that you, hopefully, read.  And, when something seems familiar, a turn of phrase or the outlines of a situation you encountered you will look back and realize that writers of fiction and fancy are, 
above all, 
thieves. 

Stepping from ennui

It is a curious facet of this thing, this drive to write.  Ennui does raise it's ugly head far more often than it should.  Ennui.  Great word.  That 'meh' feeling with everything.  Funny that it is only a 'meh' feeling with writing.  Writing something worth committing to paper.  Writing something that makes me understand better the compulsion to put it on paper.  For it is a compulsion for me sometimes I think.  There are multiple times a day I think 'that would be good to write one'.  Mull it over for some time, create a line that encapsulates the feeling.  


But then comes the time to commit.  To take that thought and run with it.  Not a huge fan of the 'edit' or the prewrite - often my first step in dancing with a topic is to open the "Create a Post' window and tap away at the keys.  More often than not, of late, the window was just as quickly closed for lack of interest after a few paragraphs were tapped out. 


Tapped out.  That is exactly how it's felt of late.  No interest.  No real sense of purpose. Putting it all down and out there feels so self pitying and attention seeking.  But - it's real. It's there.  That who cares and why should they. 


Then I realized.  The who, well - it has to be me.  That if I want to make something of an idea, that the process, the thought, the writing, the taking the step is what is really the important bit. 
The rest will come. Or maybe it won't.  But, I'll never know if I don't take that step...


Away from Ennui

Can I please complete a thought?

Yeah.  That's a real problem.  Over at the other space - everyone is rehashing their justifications, pointing fingers and well ... enjoying their not being in the spotlight.  Truth for all of them seems to be a malleable concept.  As long as their "truth" is not in the spotlight - or bits are uncovered that conflict with their portrayal of self ... they are silent.  Or behind the scenes gleefully rubbing hands and cackling.  


What's the most interesting part of all of this is the idea of persona.  We all have to agree and recognize that we are only portraying and sharing a part of the essential who we are in our writing.  That as true to ourselves we try to be, and as descriptive and concise with the words we choose - everyone, literally every person who reads this has a different opinion of who I am. 

Some are quite close to who I actually am - but, my dirty secret is that I am ( and always have been ) far more focused and well-spoken in the written word than in person.  Sure - there is editing, but I don't use it that often.  I like the shape and the flow of words in the written form, that connection and focus of just getting the thought out there, without interruption, that allow me to stay focused and optimize my time.  In person, I am quite quiet, and oh so easily distracted, one thought leads to another - or I can pick up a word and have a whole parallel and completely unconnected series of thoughts, words and sentences about that.  So the written me is the 'best' version of the spoken me - the thoughts are the same - just better organized. 


It's this dichotomy that has led me to toss away more ideas than I have kept. Or to stall out midway through the idea, and since I am one who doesn't often spend time writing before I log into my blog and write - I have to have my idea pretty well flushed out and thought through before tapping away to the keyboard. 


So - take this as a small placeholder as an "I am thinking" and will have something worth writing about soon.  


I hope. 


Perhaps when my muse returns from her world tour.