Neither Here Nor There

As a rule, I’m not partial to discussing current events.  Verbal dissection of the situation — political, environmental, social, or cultural — invariably leads me to the conclusion that we’re going to hell in a handbasket and there’s fuck-all we can do about it.  At that point, my discomfort level hits critical, my brain shuts down, and I scurry off to distract myself with a suitably mindless and/or fantasy-based activity.

But this Palin business… I can’t get enough of it.  It’s a current event, yes, but the closer I examine it, the less depressing the political situation seems to me.

Has my practice of avoiding reality-based discussions created a giant blind spot in my political vision?  Will Ms. — sorry, I’m sure that should be “Mrs.” — Palin’s smiling presence at McCain’s right hand  (or will she stay 10 steps behind him?) actually secure the Republican Party a tip-the-scales size demographic?  Or did we just witness McCain taking a cue from the presiding V.P. and shooting the GOP in its elephantine face?

He had to select a woman for the V.P. spot.  That was a given.  But in his choice of Palin, McCain hasn’t just offended the sensibilities of leftist, pro-choice women like me.  He’s affronted the other, far more qualified women of his own party.

I’m sure there are a few feminists of the knee-jerk persuasion who will vote for McCain because he put a woman on his ticket.  I’m sure the coterie of disenfranchized Hilary supporters who’ve already declared their support for McCain will find it easier to justify their betrayal of all Hilary stands for by parroting the GOP-spawned notion that getting Palin into the White House means we’ve cracked the glass ceiling.  (This rationalization brought to you by the good ol’ boys who contest equal pay for equal work.)  I am sure there’s tons of voters who research their candidates so superficially that the tags “mayor” and “governor” will convince them that Palin actually possesses the requisite experience and qualifications to be Vice-President of the United States.

But those numbers don’t, won’t, surely can’t add up to much.  Palin’s cuter than Biden, I’ll give you that.  So, maybe McCain can pick up some votes from the Men Who Vote With Their Dicks demographic.  He’ll get more support from them than from Women Who Vote With Their Vaginas, anyway.

So what’s his grand plan, here?  He’s already got the anti-choice vote.  Women who pay more than a modicum of attention to candidates’ stated and demonstrated positions must notice that Palin has unequivocally repressive attitudes and beliefs regarding the role of women in society; indeed, some of us would feel no compunction about labelling her a traitor to her gender.

Shall we talk experience, the brush the GOP has been using to tar Obama?  Palin’s runs the gamut, from hockey mom to the PTA, from mayor of Wasilla (an itsy-bitsy town she left in dire financial straits) to Governor of the Great State of Alaska (pop. 670,000) for a grand total of two years, both of which were fraught with out-of-control scandals.  That McCain could imagine his running mate’s inherent dickless-ness will inspire women to vote Palin a heartbeat away — a 71-year old heartbeat away — from presiding over a diverse, complex nation of over 300 million people is jaw-droppingly sexist and demeaning.  But on what other basis could he have made such a choice?

Good on him.  I hope and pray the permutations of the Palin appointment have given McCain ample cordage.

(For a response to the Palin nomination from an Alaskan who knows what she’s talking about, see the letter I posted here under “Comments.”)

I’d been looking forward to supper. N.’s passion and calling is culinary art; when she feeds a crowd it’s a gustatory event not to be missed.

Her menu was sweet simplicity in the time-honored traditon of BBQ – grilled chicken, potato salad, coleslaw and vanilla ice cream. Her execution, as usual, was exceptional. Bits of crunchy, diced color adorned the red potatoes (skins on), the slaw’s dressing was from scratch, the jerk chicken had soaked two days in its homemade marinade and a syrup teeming with hand-picked blueberries waited to crown the meal’s frozen finale.

Anticipating the evening’s feast, I’d eaten little all day and deliberately absented myself from the post-lunch gelato expedition. When. at last, the virtual dinner bell rang, I helped set the utensils and platters on the board and took my seat, smiling.

A few meaty haunches, a few tong-loads of slaw had already made it onto a few plates before those of us seated at the south end of the table quite realized R. in the north wanted us to pause before chowing down. Pause, and hold hands.

A moment to reflect on and wonder at the heaped blessings before us, a unison breath of gratitude for the good food, good company, good cook and good fortune that had brought us together to share this feast… fine with me. Grace before meals is a lovely observance, if not one I daily practice. I dutifully relayed the “hang on” request, linked hands left and right and opened my heart to the incipient words of thanks R. evidently felt inspired to pronounce.

Only the words that spilled off her tongue weren’t thankful. Not yet. First came covert criticism, then an edict. Our habit of sitting down at mealtimes and digging in without preamble had been rubbing her the wrong way for days, apparently. Tonight (and to make amends?) she’d like us to join in her standard pre-meal rite; we’d go ‘round the table, each proclaiming aloud what, in the moment, was making us joyful. She ended her announcement with, “Is that ok?”  The others immediately assured her it was, and R. was off and running.

It wasn’t ok. Not with me. But to decline or even voice my reticence to participate in the communal soul-baring session was never a real option. I was loath to tell them what they wanted to hear; telling them what they didn’t want to hear was no solution to my problem. I hadn’t time to frame a polite refusal, anyway. If I’d had, tact would hardly have helped. The minute I piped up, I’d be the bad guy. I’d be creating a scene, casting a pall over the festivities, making everybody uncomfortable, ruining the party. Pipe up, and I’m an unsupportive, unenlightened, anti-social bitch who would’ve done better to embrace this golden opportunity to face my social failings and rise to the general and superior level of spiritual consciousness.

Hell with that. I used to buy into the idea that my profound unease with engaging in touchie-feelie, lovey-dovey rituals meant there was something wrong with me. I don’t shop there, anymore. I’ll cop to being overly sensitive and an unevolved soul. That doesn’t mean I’m not a good person, a loving person, a caring person. Doesn’t mean I don’t have a generous heart. I’m more than willing to lend an ear to those who feel compelled to declaim their inner joy to their tablemates. But being a painfully shy and private person, I feel compelled to keep my feelings to myself and prefer to demonstrate my joy in and gratitude for a great meal by being first to my feet to clear the dishes, put away the leftovers and clean the kitchen.

I’d been happy — I’d been joyful about dinner, until I was blindsided by the group-hug mandate, backed into a corner and coerced into verbalizing a context for feelings that were no longer mine. I wasn’t feeling joy. I was feeling trapped, mortified, desperate, angry and miserable; yet, the assumption that we were experiencing a common emotional state was so pervasive, each passing moment and new disclosure of shared happiness tangibly widened the rift I’d create if I dared abstain from the ritual.

I couldn’t run, I couldn’t hide, I couldn’t pretend I had to pee. I was fucking fourth in line, it was my turn already. I hated the eyes on me, I hated the ears tuned to my voice, I hated the stink of expectation that had obliterated dinner’s tantalizing aromas.

I’m shy. I’m not a coward. My brief speech was clear and plenty loud, something about appreciating the company of good folks — hypocritical words and a double-betrayal that belied both the ritual’s true intent and my own true feelings.

There was a brief hiccough of silence as it registered with the crowd that I wasn’t going to elaborate. Swiftest on the uptake, J., bless him, brought welcome closure to the hideous moment (hideous for me) with an exuberant “All right!” More eloquent, intimate and lengthy orations followed. M. got all teary when her turn came, much to her family’s and friends’ sympathetic delight. I sat with eyes fixed on the joint cooling on my plate, trying to release the knot in my belly where my hunger had been. I’d lost my appetite entirely.

Figure it out, people. Chocolate may be heaven on earth to you. To others, it’s poison. What makes you laugh might put my teeth on edge. Just because Bikram Yoga works for you doesn’t mean I have to try it. There are no tenets, no rites, no cure-alls that are equally and unequivocally beneficial to everyone. There is no universal truth, no absolute right and wrong. The true path is a different road for all of us, not a narrow track we tread single-file.

So, if you ever find yourself thinking that what you believe and the way you practice it is so goddam wonderful that you’ll be doing us a favor to show us how it’s done -– think again. Please, yes, do whatever you need to do to stay whole and in balance. Absolutely, by all means, invite us to join in your observances. But keep your invite casual, give us shy folks an easy out. Make participation voluntary, for chrissakes. It takes only a pinch of “holier than thou” to make a meal unpalatable.

So.  Fate gave the Wheel of Fortune a might spin, catching us all off guard.  It hasn’t been easy, clinging to splintering spokes as the Wheel hurtled through fire and flood and careened against mountains, as the winds roared against us, striving to pluck us from our purchase.

It’s not over, it’s not done.  But the winds are abating, the Wheel’s reeling tempo has eased.  We’re dazed and disoriented.  We’re no longer in shock.  Now we’re dealing — with the disasters that befell us, the life-changing events that surprised us, the consequences of our desperate choices.

Some of us are lucky.  We’re going to get through it unscathed.  Some will survive, but barely; they’ll carry the scars for the rest of their lives.

Some of us aren’t going to make it.

Some are already gone.

For a Friend Defeated

Be still; let them mock

Lie there in the dust,

Study what the earth

Beneath the Himilayas

Can bear because it must.

Learn silence now and learn

Silence from the fern

That, bitterly oppressed,

Still stamps its delicate frond

In the oppressing rock.

[This poem by Elder Olson was among my mother’s favorites]

It shook me up to learn there’s widespread agreement within the scientific community that we — we the planet — have entered a new geological age.

The “new age” part is no surprise.  I’m an earth-worshipping pagan, fer chrissakes.  I’ve been bearing witness to the passing of the old epoch and rise of the new since high school biology, when I found out what an ecosystem was and how hard it was to find a healthy one that wasn’t under siege in the greater Chicago area.  In my unscientific, intuitive way, I’ve always known that every Rhode Island-size chunk of rain forest that falls to the axe, every star that’s blotted out by city lights, every green and ancient valley that’s carved up by a high-speed motorway, every species that earns a place on the endangered list, every glacial centimeter that recedes is another nail in Mother Earth’s coffin.

Our mother, I’m saying.  Not the mother of the miniscule percent of current species that will survive global warming, ocean acidification and a dearth of biodiversity.  I’m talking about our mum — the planet that birthed, nurtures, protects and sustains the human race.

Yeah, fine, ages come and go.  Time (and photosynthesis-capable cyanobacterial slime) brought an end to the atmospheric era of volcanic gasses and created a delicate nitrogen and oxygen balance we affectionately call “breathable air.”  Smilodons didn’t make it out of the last Ice Age.  Dinosaurs ruled the earth for 200 million years, then vanished (along with virtually every other living thing) under a cloud of dust in the aftermath of a meteor impact, or due to a 6^o rise in temperatures planet-wide, or whatever the reason — I get it.  And I’m good with it.  Whether they’re precipitous occurrences or multi-millennial events, cycles of death and rebirth are natural to our world.  I don’t need convincing that the Industrial Revolution and rampant over-population have triggered one of these cycles; the idea isn’t foreign to me.  It doesn’t rattle me, either.

What’s rattled me is how quickly geologists have gotten behind the idea and how swiftly it’s permeated public media and consciousness.  Except in the area of applied technology, science tends to be laggard in affirming the obvious.  How long did it take biological and developmental scientists to “discover” that infants thrive when held and wither when left alone?  How long did it take physiologists to affirm that smoking cigarettes wasn’t good for our lungs?  How many decades did the plethora of earth, air and water scientists look at the damning evidence of global warming without being persuaded by it?

It was only six years ago that Nobel Prize-winning chemist Paul Crutzen suggested that the world’s timeline needed an official notch at the start of the 21^st Century to denote the end of the Holocene and beginning of the Anthropocene.  In January of 2008, a group of Brit researchers presented findings in support of Crutzen’s proposal in the geological journal GSA Today, thereby laying the scholarly groundwork for the International Commission on Stratigraphy to formally adopt “the Anthropocene” as the newest segment on the geological timescale.  “The dom­i­nance of huma­ns has so phys­ic­ally changed Earth,” they wrote, “that there is in­creas­ingly less jus­tifica­t­ion for link­ing pre- and post-in­dus­tri­al­ized Earth with­in the same epoch.”

Back in the ‘60s, astrologers were ga-ga over the notion of the dawning Age of Aquarius, a new “Age of Man,” where the inherent scientific genius and humanitarian beliefs of the Aquarian nature would manifest in a spiritually-transcendant reality, a technological eden that would empower our species to realize its fondest utopian ideals.  Well, we’ve got our “Age of Man,” alright.  It’s not quite what we’d hoped for.

I just talked my way out of a job.  A big job.  A double-digit thousand dollar job.

Dimiter and I met on a show about two years back.  He’s a pretty extraordinary guy, a Bulgarian-born actor, director, acting coach, musician and gourmet chef, among other things.  Dimiter has written a book; a dual-purpose “how-to” manual for students of the Dimiter Method of Acting and “teacher’s guide” for Dimiter-trained instructors.  It just needs editing, and it’s ready to go to an agent, a publisher, or print.

If a basic edit would do the trick — a once-over to correct formatting, grammar, spelling and punctuation and a one-more-time to polish & tweak — we’d be in business.  But the ms. requires a heavy edit — a once-over to translate the English into English (a process that invariably involves substantial consultation/discussion time and copious amounts of re-writing (see “Bulgarian-born,” above)), a second-time-through to cover the basics, a third pass to polish & tweak.

A heavy edit means lots more time, lots more money.  The job would’ve been a boon to my bank account… if I hadn’t turned it down.

When people shell out for a professional edit, they want something in return.  What they really crave is assurance that once-edited, their work will sell, but few prospective clients are so naïve they actually expect me to provide them a guarantee of publication.  What they do expect is my honest assessment of their chances of seeing their words in print and at least breaking even on the deal.

If they’re not big-name authors, their chances are slim.  If they’ve written fiction, their chances are slimmer; if it’s genre fiction, they’ve whittled their slim chances down to slivers.  Publishers are looking for markets, not material.  Good timing, good connections, good luck and quality writing doesn’t hurt their chances.  Quality writing cleanly edited and print-ready definitely improves their odds, but it won’t garner them a sale if they can’t submit a viable mass readership along with their ms.

Dimiter’s readership may someday grow to include every wanna-be actor in the world.  If and when that time comes, publishers will descend on him in their numbers (it’s seven major houses in the U.S.A. at last count, isn’t it?) to vie for the rights to his book.  Just now, though, Dimiter’s anticipated audience is a bit smaller — a nice size, in fact, to consider self-publishing with a print-on-demand company.  But if it costs him upwards of $10,000.00 to get his ms. into shape and then he has to pay to publish, his book ceases to be an enterprising way to make a better living from his art and becomes a vanity publication.

I don’t mind profiting from a client’s vanity, as long as we’re both getting what we want from the deal.  I mind that Dimiter’s best chance of seeing his words in print is to sell the proverbial farm.  It adds weight to ideas I don’t like at all — the idea that literature is dead, that books are passé, that people don’t read anymore and that when it comes to nabbing a publishing slot, only potential bestsellers need apply.

I broke it down for Dimiter, the likely return he’d be getting for the hefty price he’d be paying, and declined to take his money.