Oddities and stereotypes

Confidentially, I rather enjoy stereotypes, in the same way I like those conventional, nondescript wafer-layers of KitKat you can pull apart. Who can resist those vaguely edible, graph-paper structure seams, present, yet void of depth or flavor?

I do not love the harmful, nasty, racist, sexist, any-ist words that make us wince, and yet we find our proverbial nipples hard with fear, and a fit of neurotic giggles coming on, at the very same second. We are like small children thrilled with emitting procreative expletives.

I do enjoy examining the subtle stereotypes which subtly allow for interference with the 'shoddy slum-lord construction' boundaries, of the narrow, fright driven mind.

Preconceived notions, make for a clowns' paradise. Are all blonde's both IQ deficient and actually have a better superficial quality of recreation? Is superficial recreation actually more possible, when you are experiencing consciousness as a nightlight, rather than a floodlight?
I do not actually mind those with 'too much stone' in their personality. Black and white polarities, create an exquisite simplicity in ones existence... It is either... Or...There is a blunt blade of honesty to adhering to a code verbatim, and yet, extreme truth in and of itself, is a lie. There are always shadows, there are gradients, degrees of depth in all things. Also, norms are subjective to begin with. There is always interpretation through ones lens of experience.

Also, side note to those judge, jury and executioner types, no matter what your official policy on religious affiliation is, if you have prejudices, then you don't truly believe in an infinite God driven, luminescent, energy imbued universe. Ultimately, ones soul is a flame, rising upwards from within the husk of the body from the day we are born.
Me, is such a mortal word.
We are all  of the same substance, a smoldering spark existence, eked out within this gorgeous, gargantuan cosmos.

I understand the tendency to pigeonhole people we meet into rigid categories. I mean, what are the chances, the guy in the Yankees tee, and matching cap does not like baseball? We subconsciously collect information, in an effort as social beings, to relate to those we meet. As expected, profiling individual ethnicities or cultures does reveal certain traits or trends.

Hipsters for example, are collective fashion victims, and should be shown sympathy, right up until they lecture you on their superior good taste. Then perhaps, a kick in the shins is more in order.

Myths and fairy tales of any given region could often serve as a guidebook to mans' beliefs and values. One collective truth is, there is tremendous darkness in our pages. A struggle between good and evil, handed down through generations. Shadows are embedded in every fairy tale, no matter the culture.

 What I love most about stereotypes is shedding them at will, like a white cat sitting smack in the middle of a freshly dry cleaned black coat, willing himself to exude puffs of hair, just because he feels like it.

Let's try on some stereotypes that have been thrown at me lately.

Women are emotional.

Try me bitch!

So, personally, it takes a long time to get me there, but when I do... It is true. I think anyone with non-sociopathic tendencies is prone to moody bitch moments, entire 'emo' episodes and stressed out freak-the-fuck-out sessions.

Hell, if you really give a shit about something or someone, there will be pain, there will be joy, and passion and also sadness and disappointment, and well, tears, sometimes they make sense, sometimes they don't.

Some of my friends though, are supreme ice queens, so it is not a woman thing, it is depth thing... its called giving a shit.
On the flipside, a little bit of balance is in order on the emotional outbursts allowed scale. 
My rough estimate is, if you appear sort of sane 80 percent of the time, you are just fine.

Lesbians have no fashion sense.
Gay men, on the other hand are fashionista's...

I think this lesbian notion might have been gleaned from those old college textbook pictures taken in the 70's and 80's of those no nonsense brave and butch freedom fighters, in their trucker jeans and golf shirts, tucked in and belted, below the belly, and worn with knee socks and sandals. Lovely!  
In my recent experience, hanging out with my 'birds of a feather',I see a bit of everything. There are the J Crew lesbians in their knit sweaters and ironed slacks. I see the sportsbian crowd in their Adidas jumpsuits and tank tops. I see the obviously 'expensive to maintain' high fashion women with their Italian knits and immaculately faded jeans. I see the rocker chicks who are often also the biker chicks, wearing variations of black jeans and band tee shirts. Then, of course I see the comfortable cargo shorts and tee shirt crowd, who just don't really think about what they wear much at all. 

As for me, I cut all the sleeves off my tee shirts, have tattoo's, a nose ring, a prodigious flannel collection, and five pairs of Combat boots. If I do fit a stereotype, it is inadvertent.

I do have gorgeous dresses. I just have to sit delicately in them, ankles crossed. I also have to wear my matching sexy-ass heels with them. Why this diabolical looking footwear is as commonly worn as they are, is beyond me. The foot is at such an odd, unnatural angle.
Still, on occasion, I strap on those fuckers, and ignore the laughter ringing in my ears from anyone in the general vicinity, witnessing the odd sight of me in a dress and wearing some five inch prongs. Alas, me teetering around in those heels, is akin to a rollerblader with Parkinsons.

Good God. The things women do for the sake of beauty. I have no issue with makeup, with deodorant or general, and regular body grooming. What I do have a problem with, is nails, so long and well manicured, a woman can barely pick anything up. I object to hair that is never allowed to get soaked in the rain. Screw frizzies, rain is wonderful. I object to super tight clothing (or the useful garments which allow us to fit into said garments in the first place like control top tights or spanx) so constricting, you run home at the end of an evening, strip it all off, and realize you have not fully breathed all night.

I prefer my beauty, expressed in my strength, my comfort, my softness, my endurance and my knowledge,. It is my mind that says, I do not want to be hobbled by my clothing for some ridiculous cultural norm idea of beauty. I can, but I do not see the point, except leather pants. Those, I think are wicked, and I want a pair.

Cotton, is sexy. Boots, well worn, hot as hell... Especially if they show the battle scars of work, well done, and an equal measure of adventure. Gay couture? it depends whom you ask.
I do think most gay boys are better dressed then average. I think perhaps they adore the rituals and the color of fashion, they have traditionally been told is not theirs to have. So now, it is extra Godamn delicious to have it all.

There are other odd stereotypes, or strange truths that require further research.
I was told the other day by a girl who mysteriously stated, "If you date a masseuse, chances are you are not going to get a massage very often."


You tell me...

There must be silence...

It must be lovely to be a tree, eternally spread eagle, reaching towards the heavens, with calm, sturdy arms of oak or maple or perhaps cedar or ash.
As the sun glimmers through the green fronds of her hair, whispered laughter echoes in her branches.
She is in love, with mere existence. She loves the universe, the way a cloud melts into the warm skies... Her breath dissolves. She submits to the light, to the love, to the atmosphere. She loves completely, content.
She melts softly for her maker, the way a midsummer rain falls heavy and hot. She swells in the moisture, feasts on the water and the soil that sustain her. Soon, she is satiated.
Her roots cord within the cool earth, gather closer to her. They intertwine, like fingers clasping in respite over decades, as she considers all.
I would love to understand the solemn, slow sentient wisdom of the tree.
We mortals must be nothing but a blur to them, over centuries of chaos. There must be silence, there must be peace....

 

 

Words from 1983

I press the subtle button on the side of my clunky, cracked out laptop and it glides outwards. I take the CD out of the case. There is a post it note stuck just under the cover. 

It says... 

...in careful sharpie handwriting, and then I press play on my screen and wait to hear him speak.  

I had found the tape before I left home for america, at sixteen. A tape with Abba's ballpoint blue, bird-wings-in-flight scrawl, in a drawer. I had wanted something of him besides the few 5x7's I had purloined from various photo albums. It did not matter that I did not have anything resembling a tape recorder. 
South-African electronics did not function smoothly on America's volts, and come to think of it, probably nor did I.

At religious seminary, I scraped by on babysitting money. Rent, a bit of sustenance in the form of chocolate for dinner, but there was no extra cash for toys. I had a tiny little battery operated radio for music, so that was all right. As long as there was music in some form, there was life.  

There is a shoe box of remnants, in my drawer that has remained with me through a succession of residences. In it, is the tape, resting between handwritten cards from friends, photographs, a mini book or three, little scraps of writings in dog eared notebooks, coins in odd currencies, old keys to long lost locks and so many other things, sweet and sad, funny and foolish.

By the time I thought about the tape again, tape recorders had quietly gone the way of the Dodo bird. 
From time to time, I thought about bringing it to someone who could convert it for me. Then a friend told me recently, he had the technology to do it for me, and I tentatively handed it over. Not many material things in this world are irreplaceable to me, but that cassette is.    

When he sent back the tape, and the CD, dressed in that post it note, there were no words I could really say, to thank him properly. 
  
I did not listen right away. I let it sit for a moment. 
I was aware as I wait, that there is a part of me which will forever be in mourning. I exist there, in a small, winter village. I exist on the precipice of tears, a spiderweb of lacerations, eyes frozen deep in blocks of memories. I try not to visit there too often, because once there, it is difficult to break away again.

It was the next morning that I felt ready. 
I slipped it into my computer, and it began playing.  
"What is that?" asked Rikal. I told her. 
Rikal's eyes brimmed with tears. "Mom, that is so sweet, that you are hearing your dad after twenty seven years." 
This stoic business would not go according to plan if she kept saying things like that. Who knew Rikal had a sentimental sap streak like her Mother. Lucky girl, can probably look forward to moments of finding herself crying copiously over diaper commercials, on particularly vulnerable days.

Dovi, hearing all of this, and not wanting to miss a grand theatrical gesture, rested his head on the table as if the bones had melted from his body and gazed at me with sad round chocolate frosting eyes, as the disembodied voice played on...

Abba had been a psychiatrist and this was a tape of a group session, involving folk music. His voice was distinct, both gentle and firm, a precise South-African accent winnowed his words.
His cacophony of patients sounded through my speakers, participating, sometimes rambling. Him soothing, guiding, explaining when required. I heard a synergy of voices,a choir...

He summarized the session with the thought, "as the group progresses, there is increasing integration of rhythm, of movement, of tone, of that quality of total unity in the group, the gestalt concept, the perception of the whole being much greater then the sum of  its parts. 
There is everybody now, willing to be in such unison with each other, now moving around rhythmically, spiraling around physically, emotionally and reaching higher levels spiritually. 
This is the whole process of integration and therapeutic processes of group therapy. In a sense, its like a whirlpool. The water starts  moving faster and faster, irresistibly, the quality of irresistible energy being produced
...and this I think, is the part of a creative process in human beings and if they direct their powers in a unified way, the group itself generates enormous pride, capacity, scope and tremendous function..."   

Or in other terms not deliberately describing group therapy... 


“The Destiny of Man is to unite, not to divide. If you keep on dividing you end up as a collection of monkeys throwing nuts at each other out of separate trees.” 
- T.H. White

and 

Individually, we are one drop. Together, we are an ocean. —Ryunosuke Satoro

Twenty seven years. He was wise and warm...              

...I like his style. 

It was almost as if we had a conversation. 
                                                           ...almost. 

To seek a unicorn

People talk about "finding a unicorn."

In colloquial ideology, 'a unicorn' is defined as:
- an imaginary creature represented as a white horse with a long horn growing from its forehead.
-an imaginary creature; a being that exists only in legends or myths or fiction.'
There are other definitions of course, but in essence the unicorn is the idea of a rare, pure or impossible standard, something sublime, ethereal, gorgeous but utterly elusive.
The unicorn, is the perfect magical girl or boy, the perfect place, the perfect situation, a work of art in the flesh, creative within its mere existence.

Unicorns also represent an ideal of transcendent purity. Legend has it that they were wild and strong and had curative properties.

Creature of myth, creature of legend, the unicorn is also understood to be mentioned in ancient religious lore.

Biblical text interests me, partly because I grew up with it as literal truth. More importantly though,no matter ones belief system, it is a psychological and historical chronicle of culture and beliefs through thousands of years.  

So, It says in exodus, God gave direct instructions to Moses on Mount Sinai, to create an earthly abode for Gods 'shechina' (essence) to dwell in. The details of the planned Tabernacle were highly specific. The Tabernacle, contained the beauty of the entire universe past and present, and the divine purpose of elevating all of creation. This dwelling place was used from the exodus from Egypt until the construction of the first Judaic temple in Jerusalem. 

The instructions for building the Tabernacle begin with a list of materials: "And these are the gifts that you shall accept from them: gold, silver and copper, blue, purple and crimson yarns, fine linen, goats' hair, tanned ram skins, tachash skin, and acacia wood" (Ex. 25:3-5).
"In the center of this enclosure was a rectangular sanctuary draped with goat-hair curtains, with the roof made from rams' skins. Over the rams' skins was placed a covering of "tachash skin", a term of uncertain meaning (Exodus 25:5)
What is a 'tachash?' 

In the Talmud, there is some debate as to the identity of the "tachash." The general consensus of older biblical scholars, understand the word tachash as the Unicorn.

"It was a huge kosher animal in the desert, and it had one horn in its forehead, and its hide had six colors from which they made the curtains of the Tabernacle'.- Rabbi Judah
"It was a miraculous beast that was hidden away after it was used in the Tabernacle. Why was it necessary to create such a beast? It is written that the curtains of the Tabernacle were thirty cubits long. It is also written that the skins of the Tachash that were used for the curtains were also 30 cubits long. What animal hides are 30 cubits long? Rather it was a momentary miracle that was hidden away soon after it happened. Rabbi Nehemiah (Talmud- Shabbat 28a,b)

Some modern scholars though disagree. They believe that tachash could refer to a specific leather technique. The Egyptian linguistic root 't-ch-s' means "soft-dressed skin." In that case, tachash could then describe a specific tanning or dyeing process for any animal skin.

Rashi, one of the foremost scholars of the bible, was of the belief that the tachash was a very real exquisite animal. He states, "the tachash was a kind of wild beast. It existed only at that time (when Israel built the Tabernacle). It was multi-colored and therefore it is translated in the Targum (the Aramaic translation) as 'sasgona' (which means) delights and prides itself in its colors.'

So now you know where the symbiotic idea of unicorns and rainbows comes from. Unicorns are almost always depicted as white (probably for the idea of purity), when in fact the one and only unicorn was a vision of rainbow furred flamboyance.

Only one of these "tachash" creatures would be created, just for the purpose of its skin, to become a doorway to divine presence on earth. There was only ever one, it was never meant to procreate, it was pure in intention, it was never meant to be more then transient, a perfect moment in time.

Which makes me wonder, when people seek 'unicorns' or speak of them, maybe they realize what they are asking for, the perfect being for what they need right then and there.
The unicorn is the transparent, purest of ideals, a jar of clean water for the thirsty, for the dusty, for the seeker who knows the rarity only because he has been looking forever.
The only problem with that would be recognizing what they actually are searching for. That would require examining their deepest core selves, in all its flawed, wounded, gorgeous, intense glory. they would need to rake over their actions like coals, the embers of conscious and subconscious and their thoughts their dreams... They need to come eye to eye with the horror or how insignificant they are, and yet how vital too, Knowledge, wisdom and understanding of whom they really are and what and whom they might truly need.  Then, and only then, they may find the unicorn.

Obstinate continuance

I have no issue with resolutions. They are simply formal expressions of resolve, sprinkled with 'New Year' confetti and the loveliest of intentions. They are 'call to arms' decisions in the war on personal apathy. They say, I will change, I will grow (or shrink in all the right places), I will start..., I will stop..., I will become...
I have more of a battle with obstinate continuance. My resolve is towards tenacity, towards perseverance in and of itself. I will embark (or re-embark) on further (mis)adventures, with amplified indomitable stubbornness.

.......................

When we arise and make changes, our motives are often scrutinized by those in our lives. It begs the question, what is the distinction between being 'true to oneself' and merely being self-indulgent? 

To me, self indulgence is a contrivance, a stammering reflection in the mirror, when we are too busy applying cover up and color to meet our own eyes. 

Self indulgence is repetitive, it emanates from our wounds, from our uncertainty, our shadows and fears. It seems to be a lugubrious, leaky bucket of ego, a voracious void, emptying even as it fills.

On the other hand, being true to oneself, emanates directly from the spirit. It is the smoke signals rising from the animus mountaintop, which call us to task. 

It is the bass vibration undercutting every thought, every decision which tells us whom we are at our deepest core. We may temporarily be able to shut it up with cookies, with retail therapy, with alcohol, with attention, with religion, with drugs, with sex, with money, with electronic interaction, or with 'yes men' rubber-stamp validating all we do. Yet we cannot hide in sensual chaos forever. 

The true self, is that part of us which makes us feel discomfort, a horrid squeak of naked shame in quiet moments when something feels 'wrong'. It is also the part of us which radiates serenity, contentment, delirium and joy, as we sync with ourselves and with those we love. It is the soul, relentlessly seeking substance, inspiration, purpose, integrity and insight to bear and brighten our mortal days.