Category Archives: Social Science

Feminine Intrigue

“Woman is the promise that cannot be kept,” said the poet Paul Claudel.
But does she know that? She — her sexuality, her voice and eyes and skin and hair — is the promise that we men make to ourselves hour after hour every day, every day of our lives. If she is not the secret of the universe, then there is none. To us she appears in the clandestine and burning center of the mind as the form we most deeply desire and must create or die. There she is — dressed, or half-dressed, in her mysterious clothes, hair a little mussed, lips just moist enough; and from going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it — the real earth, and not just the enchanted fragment of it that blazes in the longing mind to furnish her setting — she becomes a hidden archetype to the beholder rendered godlike by her presence: his possession and promise, soulless and soulful at the same time, receding, flashing up with terrible certainty at the most inopportune times that she then makes opportune. Behind her are real women, giving to the ideal the substance it requires from the lived world, and serving to make more powerful and imperious those all-powerful creatures of the depths of our being, the slaves of our needs who enslave us. We have seen her in actual beds, and seen her satisfactions taking place hiddenly, deep in the body, from outward signs so powerful and intimate that we know, with awe and gratitude, that we could never attain anything of like consequence, or even approach it. We leave her sleeping, and retire to the center of the mind, where she has taken a new dimension, another hairdo, another set of magic lingerie. We love her there in another one of her endless changes, and wonder when she will come true again, taking on the mortal and identifying flesh without which all ideals die, as a real woman, perhaps not yet encountered, unhooks her bra with the strange motion that only women have ever mastered, smiling with infinite complicity.”

–James Dickey

[via whiskey river]

I’m Gonna Sit Right Down And Write Myself A Letter

I’m gonna sit right down and write myself a letter
And make believe it came from you
I’m gonna write words, oh, so sweet
They’re gonna knock me off my feet
A lotta kisses on the bottom, I’ll be glad I’ve got ’em…

–by Joe Young

Have you ever yearned to hear certain words? Have you wished someone would tell you wonderful things about you, or encourage you, but no one does? Perhaps you’re troubled and you wish someone would write thoughtfully about your plight, communicating her understanding and providing some insight. People don’t read minds, though. Many folks are very absorbed in their own daily concerns; their attention isn’t attuned to others. Often, what we most wish to hear from someone else is an echo from childhood. Perhaps you didn’t receive a lot of praise or empathetic listening. You might have grown up under a barrage of abuse, neglect, and judgment. Or, you might have come from a loving and demonstrative family, but you’ve discovered that no one can ever have too much of caring expression.

When I prepared to move from Syracuse to Austin in 1994, I was scared. The move involved leaving behind a world I’d known for 31 years. It was a journey of 1800 miles. I was moving “cold” in that I had no job waiting for me, no living arrangements set up (other than a temporary one with my brother). My car was paid for, but I still had some bills, and only about $2000 in savings. Austin’s population was about four times greater than my hometown; it was a much bigger city. The cost of living was twice as high as I was accustomed to.

Before I left, I got an idea. I meditated on my fears until I understood what they represented, and then I wrote letters to myself, sent in care of my brother. I wrote several letters, telling myself that things would be okay, describing my strengths, expressing hope and providing practical advice. I wrote these as if I were writing to a friend. I signed them from Katharos, which is the Greek root word for my name. When I had arrived, they waited in a small stack on my brother’s dining table. I was comforted just to see them. Since I wrote them several months in advance, I didn’t really remember what they said. So in the following weeks, as I located an apartment, learned to navigate the city (new routes and crazy drivers), and sought work, I would open one of these letters when I felt especially vulnerable. I wasn’t homesick at all. But this was a huge transition, and as good as it was, it was also scary. I re-read these whenever my heart needed a boost.

This week, take time to be quietly with yourself. Explore your heart and mind; think about your past, your current life, your future. Listen for whispers of issues unresolved, hurts ignored, nagging fears, criticism that’s destructive. Whatever comes up, make a quick note. Let time pass, and then spend time considering these concerns, fears, disappointments, and losses. How would you respond to a friend? Write a letter (or several) that attentively and compassionately responds to these issues. Choose a different name as the letter writer, if you wish–this is from your inner wisdom. And then (this is important) put it in an envelope, address, stamp, and mail it. For a longer span between writing and receiving, send it to someone else and ask them to mail it to you (use an SASE to ensure cooperation). When you get the letter, listen to your soul; it will tell you when it needs some extra love, and then you will have this to read.

It’s A Small World

Oh, I know that’s trite. Trite, but true.

I belong to an Internet community called Orkut. When I learned we were moving to this area, I joined some communities, such as the South Bay Area community, and sent a message, a call for information. I was open to whatever advice people wanted to give a newbie. Well, a very nice man named George was among those responding, and I liked his warmth. I read his profile and thought, “This is a neat person!” So I extended an invitation to become friends, which he accepted. Granted, he hardly knows me, but in these communities the concept of friend is defined loosely.

Anyhow, during the two visits I’ve had with Tish, she has spoken highly — nay, raved — about her friend George. He is so cool that he danced with her to Leonard Cohen. (I don’t know about you, but most men in my life have demurred at any suggestion of dancing, so any man who will boogie is wonderful indeed.)

Her enthusiasm about George sparked my curiosity, so I went to his blog. And wouldn’t you know, it’s the very same George! (Insert a quote from the Bugs Bunny cartoon where Hugo the Abominable Snowman finds Bugs and says “I will love him and hug him and pet him and squeeze him and I will call him George.)

A brief perusal of George’s blog provided some advice on how Movies are cheaper than therapy or pills. Below is an excerpt of his take on a movie that’s been hot in my little circle.

A. and I did get to see “What the Bleep Do We Know,” which annoyed the shit out of me. (Repetition of the phrase “quantum physics” by a slew of experts and special effects to describe peptides’ and hormones’ effects on humans doesn’t help. Biting the pacing of “The Matrix,” railing against addiction/overprescription of anti-anxiety/SSRI drugs and using a leaden overlay of story doesn’t help. Use of a Magic Negro with a basketball to explain superpositioning and a third-eye-touching shaman to explain how Native Americans learned how to see Columbus’ ships really, really, really doesn’t help.

Thank you, George. You’ve saved me some time. I owe you!