A Room Of My Own

The biggest news since the births of my four children: I’ve been approved for an office space. A tiny little white box of a room with a sliding window, a mini-sink, and a view of the brick building across the street. It has a ceiling. And a raw plywood floor. A lock on the door. And a shared bathroom down the hall. It’s hot in summer. Cold in winter.

It’s mine. 

Mine. With my books and papers and notecards and storyboards arranged just so, and exactly where I left them the day before. I was the mom who thought the babies would sleep in a Moses basket at my feet while I wrote everyday from ten to two. I’m the woman who said, “I won’t lose myself to parenthood. I will keep my identity.” I was the writer who by some miracle, which I’ve always believed was nothing more than a sympathetic jury, won a Literary Arts Fellowship for a drama I wrote on the bathroom floor while my toddlers tried to shake the door down.

I’m a woman who lives by impossible standards. I  overcompensate at work, at raising children, keeping the house, maintaining relationships. I’m a workhorse wearing blinders so it looks like I’m just plowing forward, like I’ve got it all under control. But it feels like I’m failing. Everyone. All the time.

They used to tell me, me with my leaky boobs, just make time to write. I didn’t. I couldn’t. (FYI in my world there’s no such thing as Just. Just abort. Just adopt. Just write. It all breaks my heart. It’s supposed to break my heart.) But even if I didn’t fail at the time thing, there was the space issue. One notecard left on any free surface of my house was immediately vacuumed up by the universe. Single sock heaven.

And all the while, I was failing the voices too.  The ones in my head.

I’m not a writer who doesn’t know what to write. Beautiful, painful, complicated characters and scenes. All without breath. I’m not saying they’re interesting or that I have any talent at all. I’m just saying they’re always there. Years and years of micro notebooks in the minivan, voice memos on my phone, sharpie on my arm, anything to mark whatever comes at me or out of me as I go about the momming and working and housing. And always the broken fantasy of a room of my own. The impossibility of it.

There was no money for childcare so the children, the four of them, had to be in school full-time. Also the two-year payment plan for twins in kindergarten had to be payed off. And I had to find my people. Which I did, eighteen months ago. Sage Ricci, Tom Spanbauer, and the Dangerous Writers. The exact right place for a story so itchy in my head and my hands it was beginning to show up as eczema. Then I had to ask for extra hours at work to help pay for the space and when that unexpectedly fell apart the whole thing nearly came undone.

But after all these years in, after all the waiting, I finally arrived at Fuck It. I’m doing this thing even if I can’t afford it. I’m getting rid of cable. I’m downgrading the internet. Whatever it takes.

A tiny little white box of a room with a sliding window, a mini-sink, and a view of the brick building across the street. It has a ceiling. And a raw plywood floor. A lock on the door. And a shared bathroom down the hall. It’s hot in summer. Cold in winter.

It’s so mine I could just cry my guts out.

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What is Polyamory?

Screen shot 2014-06-17 at 12.57.51 PMI had the opportunity recently to sit down with some non-monogamous friends to discuss the unique circumstances of their relationships.  At the table were wives, husbands, girlfriends, boyfriends, all interconnected.  Some of them were parents.  I’ve had many conversations like this (especially since working on Inviting Desire, The Dawn of Sex) and a couple of questions routinely come up: 1. What is polyamory?  2. Have people come out to their friends, family, kids?  There are a couple of routine answers.  Someone always states what polyamory is not.

“It’s not a fuck fest,” they say.

They, meaning almost everyone I’ve ever talked to about this.

When I first went to Burning Man someone suggested I check-out Poly Village.  I was scared.  I didn’t want to wander into a place where people assumed my presence meant I was willing to have sex with them.  So I stayed away, far far away.  But through the years I’ve begun to understand that there exists as many variations of sex, love, and marriage as one can imagine.  What sets polyamory apart is the intention of all parties involved to be honest and open with one another, for all parties to consent to their unique agreements, and for the  possibility of meaningful relationships to occur.  It falls miles away from the monogamy model that most of us grew up with.  It’s a lot to wrap our minds around, I know.

Another common theme in these discussions is that nearly everyone I’ve spoken with has been judged harshly for their lifestyle.  Wives, husbands, lovers alike have all at some point been portrayed as the villain or the victim.  Some have lost friends.  Some have been ostracized by their parents or in-laws or siblings.  Some have had friends distance themselves because they didn’t want to be associated with a person who identifies as poly for fear that they’d be identified as poly themselves.  (Take out the word poly and insert the word gay, black, Jewish, Muslim, etc., and see if that changes anything.)  If you know me then you know I’m a person who listens.  You know that people tell me things they’ve never told another human being in their entire lives.  When I say that the vast majority of non-monogamous people I’ve spoken with have been shamed in some way, you know I speak the truth.

I have never understood why what takes place in a person’s bedroom or in a person’s personal life is reason to judge or shun or shame that person.  Where consensual adults are concerned I simply can’t fathom what would justify one human judging the head or heart of another.  If you’re one who enjoys sex please consider your fantasies, think about the touch that brings you pleasure, think about all the intensely private moments you’ve shared with your spouse, your lover, your friend… is it really our place to judge such personal information?  Should we have the power to decide what’s right and what’s wrong for all people?  Straight, gay, bi, transgender, monogamous, poly, Christian, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist.  Consent.  Free choice.  Acceptance.  Love.  Isn’t that what’s important?

Anyway, there’s this rad poly-friendly apartment complex in New York City (I’ve linked the piece below) and here are a few choice quotes I pulled from the report.  You’ll have to watch the video to see who said what.  I grabbed what I could while my kids were demanding more mac n’cheese.

– “Polyamory is not sleeping with whomever.  It’s having relationships with more than one person.”

– “It bums me out that I have to be anonymous because I’d be happy to share it with everyone.  It’s really important for people to understand what polyamory is…”

– “…as long as everybody involved knows and consents.”

– “…you don’t have to be polyamorous to live in the apartment complex, you simply have to be respectful of other people’s life choices.”

– “Being in open, consensual relationships forces you to be much more communicative, much more in touch with who you are, what you want.”

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/06/16/hacienda-villa-polyamorous-housing-complex-in-new-york_n_5499723.html

Here’s to the pioneers who are mapping out a more loving and respectful road for all of us to travel on.

 

 

 

Aside

Bosco, the love of my life, the puppy who saw me through some of the most brutal bullying I endured in childhood.  We moved to a new city after the murder of my uncle.  It was supposed to be a step up.  The city, I mean.  But it was hard.  New kid.  Head low.  Confused, unable to articulate my feelings.  Bosco saved me.  Distracted me from the bullet that killed my uncle, the grief that silenced my family, and the mean things kids said to me because I was new and weak and different.  My parents got Bosco from the animal rescue.  The label said Mixed Spaniel but he proved to be a gigantic black Newfie mix.  Beautiful, docile, strong, affectionate.  When he walked down the street people stepped aside.  Thirteen when he died.  Internal hemorrhage.  Frail.  Pained.  Ready.  The least I could do was stay with him.  Keep my arms around him.  Stroke his head.  Show him that there was nothing to be afraid of.  For so many years, elementary school through college, he’d done the same for me.  His head on my lap.  The cold, cold floor of the vet’s office.  Even then, as he left, he gave me something.  He taught me that I possessed an inner strength.  Probably one of the most important discoveries of my life.

When I was just out of college I got Bodhi, an American Eskimo pup from a breeder in the Berkshires.  People said I was crazy (that was nothing new).  I was a couple of months shy of having enough money to leave for the West Coast. Bodhi was the symbol of my independence.  My true companion.  A marshmallow puff with dainty legs and a curled up tail.  The pride of West Hollywood, a real dandy boy.  He could cross a room on his hind legs, balance a treat on his nose, shake, bark soft or loud, be cradled like a baby, play hide and seek.  We lived in a tiny studio with a mattress on the floor and at night we spooned and slept with our heads side by side on the pillow.  By the end of Bodhi’s twelve years we’d moved to Oregon, and I was married with two kids which really wasn’t Bodhi’s cup of tea, because, I hate to say it but, he was a narcissist.  He devoured the attention he got from Sunset Plaza to Santa Monica Boulevard and every block in between.  He would have loved it if we commissioned a wall-sized portrait of him to hang over his bed.  In the end, just a bag of bones.  Riddled with cancer.  He was as close to a first pet as my husband, TC, ever had.  When we put Bodhi to sleep TC was entirely unprepared for the grief that would hit.  Hole in his heart.  Cried for days.

Bodhi, West Hollywood, circa 1990's

Bodhi, West Hollywood, circa 1990’s

But during the Bodhi years, when we were still in Los Angeles, I longed for the big dog of my youth.  A dog I could wrap my arms around.  A dog who would make me feel safe – which is an impossible dream, recreating one’s youth and all.  I dragged TC out to a pet adoption day way out in the valley to snap up the black retriever puppy I found online.  We named him Simon after a character in the film, Henry Fool.  He was a dog-dog.  Fascinated with poop and bad breath.  Would sooner have you topple down a flight of stairs than move out of the way.  Sad, droopy yes.  He loved Portland, because frankly he never got Hollywood.  And Hollywood didn’t get him either.  All that emphasis on looks, charm, who you know.  Unlike Bodhi who lived for praise Simon wasn’t about to jump through hoops for anyone.  He barely knew how to sit.  Loved the babies though.  The mess of them, the stench.  Sat at our feet every time we burped D and Z, because his very favorite snack was spit-up.  Fourteen years together.  The day we put him down his tail was stronger than ever.  Same tail that knocked glasses off of tables, food off of plates, toddlers off their feet.  But he’d been barking every night for a week and he was disoriented and in pain.  His legs were giving out.  He was deaf.  And so tired.  Two of our kids, Z and T, decided to come with us.  We got Simon a DQ kids meal and a hot fudge sundae before we took him in.  In the vet’s office we rubbed his back, held his paws, kissed his head.  When the vet began to empty the fatal dose into Simon’s catheter T said, “Are you going to kill him now?”  The mouths of babes.  Hot tears onto Simon’s fur as his head came to rest slow on the floor.  All of us touching one another, touching Simon, so close, so silent, so still, until six-year-old T spoke low and serious.

T: “Did his heart stop beating?”

Vet: “Yes.”

T: “Will he still be able to dream?”

The vet and the technician cried with all of us.  But it was one of those moments when life became more beautiful than it had been just a few seconds before.  The adults knew that part of us would be in that room forever because of the boy and his words and the dog and his family and how transitory life is and how all of the sadness is worth it if you’re lucky enough to know love.

We said wouldn’t get another dog for a long time.  TC talked about a shelter dog down the line.  I had my sights set on one of those designer numbers.  The kind that doesn’t bark, shed, or smell.  A dog who walks itself.  And trains itself.  And can stay home alone for days at a time.  I scan the Humane Society online for this dog.  Same way real estate people troll for houses.  And I came across this one little guy, Beatle, while I was at my cousin’s house in San Jose.  A distraction from how sad I was about Simon.  Beatle stood out amid the abandoned pit bulls and chihuahuas.  He was funny-looking with his long fur and tangles.  And he had this crazy underbite that made him look like an ewok or a luck dragon or a muppet.  But his write up didn’t match our family.  Not that I was looking for a match.  Beatle, shy, older kids only, needs a quiet house and lots of patience.  Maybe I looked at him because his name was Beatle.  Even if it was a spelling error The Beatles happened to be a happy and an important part of my childhood.

A week later we had forty-five minutes until our reservation at a restaurant in Southwest Portland.  Not enough time to do anything really.  I knew there was a Humane Society nearby.  And I swear my intention was to see if the place was clean, see if the staff was knowledgeable, see if I might someday warm up to the idea of a shelter dog.  But when I mapped the address the first thing popped up was a pic of that funny-looking Beatle.  We asked to see him.  Just for practice.  He came into the room and it was an all out assault.  The children jumped on him.  He jumped on them.   He wagged his tail and dodged all four balls that all four kids threw at him at once.  He watched my eyes and followed my hand signals, and the next day when I went back alone he remembered me and was only too happy to sit and stay and come when I called.  TC dreamed a dream of poopless days and nights.  Days and nights which might last the summer.  But he never stood a chance.  And when my mother said she’d pay half, the deal was done.  Three days later Beatle was part of our family.  A friend said, “You realize if this dog lasts as long as your others, he’ll still be around when Daisy is out of college.”  No, I never would have realized that because it involves stacking numbers and adding them which is something I avoid at all costs.  But wow.

So Beatle has been with us for almost a month now and I can tell you this, he seems to have been tailor-made for my family.  And vise versa.  He hugs me when I come home.  He’s great on a leash.  He loves sitting in the passenger seat of the van.  He comes with me to drop-off and pick-up the kids.  He’s damn smart.  And funny.  Full of life and personality and affection.  A dream come true.  Seriously.  I can hardly believe he was marked for death at a shelter in Sacramento, California.  A staff member there thought he deserved a second chance and had him transferred him to Portland.  Severely underweight.  Flea-bitten.  Unneutered.  No tags.  No microchip.  He sat in the Oregon shelter for more than a week being seen but not adopted.  Crazy, crazy people, not knowing a little miracle dog when they saw one (could it have been the underbite?).  Turned out to be our great and most incredible good fortune.  We were so lucky to have found this dog.  He kind of reminds us of Bodhi.  He’s a tad vain.  And more than a touch of totally awesome.  xxoxo

Beatle, 2014

Beatle, Portland, 2014