I’m STUPID

I’m positively Bridget Jones. This week, in a single evening, I ate two bars of chocolate and got tanked up, because my I was coasting on PMS and felt generally miserable... then I  did the unthinkable. With my own fair hands, dear readers, I wrote a positively DISGUSTING email to X... declaring my undying love. Or something to that effect. When I awoke to a body ache and the realisation that I had done Something Stupid , I opened up the mercilessly SENT message, but it was so exquisitely PAINFUL to read, I had to shut it again after the first sentence. I then considered alternatively burying myself alive or throwing myself in front of the next car. I settled for beating myself up physically and mentally, cleaning my room, and settling into DENIAL. Never happened. It didn’t, it didn’t, it DIDN’T. And yet I am now living in fear of my Inbox. 

Single girls –WHEN will we learn?

Truth Time

I have a crush. I lie, I don’t have a crush, I’ve had a CRUSHING CRASH. Some months ago, I met, online, what I thought was a good prospect. He fulfills alll of my criteria, for a start, and I can’t imagine a better start, since I almost never meet such prospects... as you’ve seen. So, we started writing. Every day. We exchanged views on most things, dropped jokes, and I began to feel like my day was incomplete without some sign from him. That’s when I realised I was in trouble.

X is TOTALLY my type, which, like the types of most girls whose friends think she should know better, ISN’T the kind, smart, generous, soft-spoken guy that sends mothers into rapture (fortunately or unfortunateky, this guy  almost doesn’t exist any more, anyway). No. It’s the broody, opinionated, stubborn, impossible type. With a soft centre. This guy makes my world... well, not stop, but certainly slow down. And this sends me into a small panic because, though I’m not trawling the Internet for nothing, I am very aware of the things that made me chose singlehood, the biggest thing being that I wasn’t ready to be one half of a whole.

To be anyone’s other half, you have to make that midline where you are meld ed a veritable cauldron of liquid metal. That line is where the individual blurs into the mix of coupledom, through a combination of putting oneself second, willingness to compromise, staunch friendship and loyalty, all glazed with the feelings of love, affectiion and respect. Without any of these, the line solidifies, and the couple separates into two individuals.But first and foremost, in order to be able to get to that line, you have to have all of those feelings you bring to coupledom for yourself. Having spent a good few years growing up, I know that I am ready for coupledom; but there is another hurdle in my own way. Raging, tangible, constant Fear, in the form of that disgusting, frequently successful devil’s tool: What If?. What If I’m not a good girlfriend? What If I make a terrible wife? What If I’m the worst mother? What if I‘m not ready after all? What If I freak out because I feel too much is being asked of me? What if I’m not able to give as much as I want to, because I’m so scared of disappearing into the relationship that I loose all sense of myself?

In the past, I’ve entered good relationships confidently, almost without thinking, because –you know what relationships do, they make you feel WONDERFUL. Then, the guy starts Saying Things. Things about next weekend, and the Future. Things about meeting family and getting closer, and acting totally comfortable about  us staying in all cuddled up, kissing for hours, and putting his hand on my neck in public. I begin to FREAK OUT, and when I begin, it’s basically over, because I can’t stop. I want to scream at him that I have flaws that he couldn’t possibly be able to deal with, and that it’s no good planning next weekend, because sometimes I need to be alone. I want to scream that I freak out frequently (in my head) and that when I’m stressed, nothing except an act of God can restore me to my normal self. I want to ask him whether he hasn’t noticed that HUGE pimple right in between my  nose, that is showing no signs at all of moving on to grow somewhere more discreet. I want to point out that sometimes my butt looks flat, and sometimes it looks pregnant, and that there is no telling what it’s going to look like from day to day, until I get up and have to deal with one or the other. I want to tell him that my hair is out of bounds, and that he has no right to touch my face when I don’t know it’s coming, becuase it makes me feel emotional. But basically, I’m a coward. I disappeared. I wasn’t terrible to guys I had abolutely no romantic feeling for. Only to those I did. And for X, I DO, I DO, I DO. And I want to scream at him to go slowly, because of my tendency to self-sabotage. I also want him not to go slowly, because I’m dying to meet him in the flesh.

This hurdle HAS to be pushed through, and Right Now, because it’s already reared it’s ugly head, and if I don’t get a handle on it, X and I will never live to see the children we’ve already named. Just before last Christmas, X and I had a huge fight about absolutely nothing, still, since it was a debate, and both of us ae stubborn, we took it too far, and stopped writing. I felt absolutely awful, because I knew that I could have let him have it without any skin off my nose, and sometimes women have to do that, and allow their man save face. Loosing face is one thing a man cannot forgive. But he was getting too close, I liked him too much  and I needed a reason to break it off.  We recently began writing again, and I was comfortable in the thought that I was over him... but I’m not. In fact, it’s worse. And what’s worse than that is that, upon realising this, I had a series of freak outs –AT HIM, them sat and waited for the message telling me never to write him again. He wrote to tell me how I’d made his day, i’m so hilarious. WTF AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THAT? You know, except fall even deeper for him? I sat and decided to pull my hair out, but when I had a few strands nicely lined up, I realised I don’t want to be half-bald when we meet, and stopped. Which means I WANT  to meet him. Which means I’m internally getting READY to meet him. Which means I should also get ready for a fresh Freak Out. Which I don’t WANT to happen.

Men! Can’t live with them... or painfully with them. Trawling the Internet now for some sort of anti-freakout pill. Any suggestions?

The Story of Eiyah (Part II)

The Story of Eiyah (Part II)

By nightfall, her parents, worried because she had never been late before, were raising the alarm wherever they could. In the village square, while the girls of the village gossipped wildly that she must have been drowned in the river or eaten by hyenas, a few of them indulging in overdramatic remorseful tears (“I should have helped her –everyone knows how dangerous it can be... poor girl!”) the men were swiftly gathered together by Ngoima (my great-grandfather) who was a close personal friend of Eiyah’s father’s, and a wildy respected village elder. Organising them promptly into three groups, he sent one to drag the river, another to retrace her path within the forest, and search there, and the last to wander and enquire further and wider from the village, looking for any signs that she had left or been forcefully made to leave the village. The village matrons swiftly gathered about Eiyah’s mother, who was inconsolable, alternatively comforting her, and indulging in their own musings about what could possibly have happened.

“In my day it wasn’t uncommon for the Masaai to come and steal away Kikuyu girls,” said one elderly woman, warming her hands around a large mug of tea. “I remember at one point having to go everywhere with two of my brothers for protection... but that hasn’t happened for years now. Surely it couldn’t have happened to Eiyah? It’s very strange.”

“IT’S STRANGE BECAUSE IT’S EIYAH, MOTHER!” a younger woman yelled into her good ear. She threw a mischievous glance sideways, and continued in a barely hushed tone. “Now if it had been Nyakio...”

Nyakio’s mother whose looks her daughter had inherited,  immediately reacted.

“And what exactly do you mean by that, you ugly old witch?” She screamed, coming to stand before the gossip, arms aggressively akimbo. The gossip was not known for backing down.

“I was simply saying that Nyakio is just the type of girl who would disappear with a man. You know it as well as I do. That’s why you’re always checking up on her.”

“You’re just spiteful because your own daughter’s not much better looking than Eiyah!” Nyakio’s mother spat. A friend of hers came to pinch her.

“Shut up!” She whispered viciously. “Eiyah’s mother’s right there.” Nyakio’s mother looked apologetically in that direction, and sighed in relief when she saw the poor woman deep in conversation with another friend. With all the comings and goings, it wasn’t noticed that four of the village’s young men were absent. Blithely unaware of the level of chaos they had initiated, they were, in fact, drinking beer at Njao’s house, while discussing his extraordinary choice, and what must be done next. Naturally, the first thing to do was to inform Njao Senior of the new tenant.

Dude 1 (with an anticipatory grin): He’ll be piiiissed! 

Dude 2 (likewise): Hell, I’d be pissed if my son eloped...

Dude 3 (wryly): It’s not that Njao eloped, it’s whom he brought home.

Njao (sharply): Shut up. You know nothing about it.

Dude 1: So tell us!!!

Njao (sighing): You see all those girls in the village? Most of them are beautiful. Much more beautiful than Wairimu...

Dude 2: Who’s Wairimu?

Njao: Wairimu is Eiyah’s real name, and the only one you’re allowed to use from now on.

Dude 3: Wairimu, huh?

Njao: Wairimu. Those girls, they’re beautiful now, but beauty fades, and what you’re left with is the real person.  Have you noticed how they work?

Dude 1 (defensively): They work hard!

Njao (nodding): They work hard –but Wairimu works harder, and better. Have you noticed how they treat their parents?

Dude 2: They’re good girls, Njao. You can’t say they’re disrespectful at all.

Njao: No. But Wairimu treats her parents respectfully and lovingly. She’s warm. When they get money, how do the other girls behave?

Dude 3: Who knows what girls spend their money on?

Njao: Wairimu doesn’t spend hers on hair treatments and knick knacks and more clothes than she needs. She spend it on practical things for the home, and treats her littke brothers with snacks. In fact, she almost never spend money on herself. She is thoughtful and giving.  Ans what ios she doing when the other girls are gossiping every evening in one of their houses? Or at a village dance? She’s babysitting her siblings, and other people’s siblings, and preparing for the next day.

Dude 1 (pensively): That’s true.

Njao: You know how noone ever helps her at the river, which is why she usually makes two trips?

Dude 2: Girls are cats, even they know that.

Njao: Wouldn’t that just make you angry?

Dude 3 (uncomfortably): Certainly it’s not a very nice thing...

Njao: But she responds to this by making sure that she helps others. The widows who have no one to help them fetch water, and the elder women who run out of firewood. She is fundamentally kind. So she’s the woman I’m going to marry, and the one I want to care for my children. The rest of you can settle for the gossiping harpies that look so good in sheep’s clothing, who like to put themselves forward but help no one, and whose ambition in life is to be the most well-dressed girl at the village dance.

Dude 1: They’re not that bad... (uncertainly) Are they?

Dude 2: No, of course not. They’re fine... Right?

Dude 3: I don’t know. All this beer is making me fuzzy and suddenly panicky about marriage. (Brightening) You might just offer it to your Dad before you break the news, Njao.

Njao (grinning): I certainly will!

With all the beer, the talk, and the hurried preparations that had to be gotten into, once Njao’s household had been informed, it was quite forgotten that, to the rest of the village, Eiyah was plainly missing. A week later, Njao Senior, dressed to the tens and wearing his humblest, most deprecating expression, slowly made his way to Eiyah’s home.

            My grandfather had beautiful, calm brown eyes, in which mischief announced itself occasionally with a bright spark, inherited, by the way, by most of his offspring, and theirs. Still, it was unusual for any light of alarm to register within them, which is exactly what happened on a certain cloudy morning, as he witnessed his friend making a slow but determined way up the hill towards his home. Whatever this visit announced, it wasn’t good news, and as he pressed doggedly uphill, each achy bend of his friend’s back seemed to emphasise this. By the time he had reached the Ngoima homestead, Eiyah’s father may have been physically battered, but his eyes were as young and bright with indignation as that in any young man’s eye who had been rejected as a mate. My grandfather awaited him with refreshments and a sturdy stool at the ready, and rose to hug his friend in a warm welcome embrace.

                “My friend, do not speak but sit down and wet your mouth! I am grateful for your visit,” my grandfather stated almost impatiently, adhering to custom even as died for news. But when it had been to him, he sat back, mischief running rampant within those wide brown eyes. Slowly, meaningfully, he leaned forward toward his friend. Though a kind hearted and very generous man, his adherence to the truth in any matter not only served his reputation, which had risen him to the status of a venerated village elder, but also satisfied this mischievous streak in him, that couldn’t resist finding the humour in his fellow humans’ misfortunes. Now, though knowing that Eiyah’s looks were a sore subject, he said, containing a grin:

                “A hunter comes to take a hyena out of your home... and you’re complaining?”

For a moment, his friend stared at him as though he hardly knew him.

                “What?”

My grandfather sat back ad took a swig from his calabash of beer.

                “My friend... The handsomest, most eligible man in the village has claimed your daughter. What are you complaining about? Indeed, had anyone claimed her –what would you be complaining about? That they didn’t do it in the proper traditional manner?” He noticed his friend’s level of outrage and coughed out some of the mischief that had been brewing within him. “This is indeed so, and there is nothing for it but to make Njao’s family pay for it.”

                “So you agree that this is improper?” Spluttered Eiyah’s father. “I mean, it is totally IMPROPER!!! You can’t go around kidnapping fair maidens in this village, and getting away with such behaviour!”

                My grandfather choked at this description of Eiyah, then covered his amusement with a ferocious expression, in support of his friend.  

                “Absolutely NOT. What will they think of next?” He roared. He put a confident hand on his friend’s arm. “We will make them pay –Oh they will PAY, my friend...” Just as he wished, Eiyah’s father was now comfortable enough to take a large, relieved swig of his own calabash of beer. If my grandfather approved, this horrendous action against his Eiyah would be revenged. “But my friend,” Grandfather went on, “ do not take this all so sorely to heart. The man kidnapped your daughter, but he has not returned her –he has not used her ill. His intentions are pure, since he has sent his father to you, and this deserves some credit.”

                Eiyah’s father, mellowed by the beer, and his wise friend’s comforting words, seemed to think likewise. Banging his stick on the ground, he nevertheless would roar.

                “Still, they must PAY”

My grandfather grinned.

                “And they will.”

Indeed, over the next few weeks, the two send Njao’s father up and downhill, bending over backwards to correct his son’s indiscretion. There were goats demanded to restore the breach in tradition. There were goats asked for, on behalf of the young men who had been gathered onto the village square, and sent looking for Eiyah in the forest, the river and abroad. There were punitive damages. There were penalties for the emotional trauma of Eiyah’s parents and siblings. In fact, by the time Eiyah’s family had done with their demands, Eiyah’s dowry had become one of the most expensive in the history of the village. Those beauties that had previously reserved themselves for Njao’s favour had begun by being amused by the entire fiasco. They were now completely enraged, not only because there would actually be a wedding taking place, but because of the icing on the cake that was Eiyah’s severally discussed dowry. While the proudest girls took to their beds in a tantrum, wiser ones, such as Nyakio, promptly became engaged to Njao’s friends. Influence was almost as good a currency as popularity, and admiration could be shared.

               

And so Eiyah was married in unparalled pomp and ceremony, disbelieving, herself in all that was suddenly happening to her. Njao may have kidnapped her, but she had fallen in love with him more deeply than she knew herself capable of. Indeed, this man loved her, and more than this, he appreciated her. She knew, quite soon in her marriage, that Njao had not chosen idly, but that he had been watching her for years. He honoured her as a hard-working mate and wife, and glporied in the tall, strong sons that she gave him, almost as if he knew of their coming. Furthermore, Njao was one of the only men in the village who never took another wife. Eiyah was the one for him, and as she grew in this confidence, her happiness became complete.

The Story of Eiyah

To comfort myself about the complete dearth in palatable prospects, recently (we will NOT mention the 64-year old German man who, last, week, sent me a lovely short message –to which I replied with a polite thanksbutnothanks-type message–.... then criminally followed it up with three emails containing ten pages each of ‘I love you’s, poems and declarations, attached to which were three thousand pictures of himself, his home, and his 4 year old whom I am supposed to mother. He’s DARLING cute and I’ve no objection to step-motherdom but... Almighty. The wife of a psycho? Happy to say I’m not THERE yet. In fact, I have a guilty secret I have to share with you, if I’m to be as honest as I profess and believe muyself to be...

But that’s for next Friday. Today, I am going to end your week by sharing with you the story of Eiyah, which my mother told me, when we were recently discussing the question of Chemistry.

I never get tired of complaining about how lucky men are, and have made quite a skillful patter of listing the advantages of their sex while I’m having a bitching session about my oh-so tragic love life –usually to my mother, who finds it hilarious. I sincerely believe, for example, that given time, a woman could allow herself to fall in love with almost any man. Men, on the other hand, have a distinct taste for their kind of woman. And girls, Mum (a very, very wise woman), and I agree –if a man is giving you the vibes that he doesn’t want you romantically? Give it up. He doesn’t. And he never will. Better to move on than to pine or to make a fool of yourself, which is something that you’ll later spend a good amount of time actually trying to physically kick yourself for. When a man knows –he knows. Which may be slightly disheartening, but is also quite romantic and freeing to think about, as there’s no telling who’s type you are. I quite happily imagine the man of my dreams stopping in his tracks during some party on some enchanted evening, arrested by the sight of my perfectly put-together self, just as I gracefully throw my head back (in slow motion, bien entendu) and emit the most fairy tale-charming-like tinkle of laughter, in response to a joke made by another guest who is interested in me, but has no chance at all. My Prince, having shortly recovered from his astonishment at finally having found his One and Only, would then hand his glass absently to the person near him, and murmur “That is the girl I am going to marry,” before (again, in slow motion) making his way accross the room to me. Our eyes would meet, then lock.. and two months later, I’d be married and expecting our first bundle of joy. OK, I’ll stop this nonsense, and keep it for my own happy place.

Right! Back to Eiyah. The story of Eiyah is a true story, and happened  when my mother was a young girl in her village of G_____, in Kenya. Incidentally, thi story centres on the perception of Beauty, which is SUPER relative. Any of you who believe you are an Ugly Duckling may surpeised to be informed that, imagined flaws and all –you’re Somebody’s Ideal Type!

The Story of Eiyah (Part I)

Eiyah was so-called because, on the day she was born, an aunt of hers visited, who had come to congratulate the couple on the birth of this, their first daughter. Eagerly, she made her way to the main bedroom, and peering closely into the coverings of the bundle the mother held close to her, abruptly jumped back with a shocked exclamation of  “EIIIYYYAHHH!!!” The child, you see, was ugly. So very ugly, in fact, that the name Eiyah stuck, and continued to describe her as she grew up into early womanhood. Whereas other girls enjoyed smooth, light brown skin (the first indication of beauty) Eiyah was very dark. Where other girls tended to grow to a height perfectly suitable for laying one’s head on a man’s chest, Eiyah, if she ever were so fortunate as to land a man, would have to be content with laying her head on his shoulder, as she was tall. Whereas other girls compared body parts (as young girls do) admiring polite, manageable breast sizes, the evenness and whiteness of teeth, and only the slenderest of ankles, wrists and waists, Eiyah’s graduation from puberty and adolescence had been so complete as to leave her no almost no girlish traits whatsover. Her breasts were full and generous, her waist was slender, but gave way to hips which, though firm and perfectly porportioned, seemed to advertise her fertility. There was nothing admirable about her ankles or wrists, which were strong from work, and which she never bothered to adorn with bracelets, as they only got in the way.

Those were the good old African days when life was simple, and the idyll of village life continued to triumph over the slow but steady upset of modermisation, technical innovation and city life madness. Girls of a marriageable age worked hard during the day, helping out in the shambas (crop fields) but sunset signalled the winding up of the day, and the beginnings of preparation for an evening of socialising. At that time, all the beautifuk girls went in happily chatting group to the river, where they gathered up firewood, cutting and placing them in neat stacks, then drew water for their homes in large gourds. Finally, they would withdraw to the bathing spot, where they would thoroughly scour away the dirt and dust of the day, allowing their beautiful skin to glow gently in the pale light. Their ablutions completed, they formed a communal snake, each girl heaving up her stack of firewood onto the next girl’s back, and helping her settle the gourd on top of her head. Thus finally laden, they slowly, and loudly made their way homeward through the well-beaten forest paths, fully aware that the young men, now back from the fields, would be taking every opportunity to gaze upon them in admiration. This was the routine for all of the young women of the village, that is, except of Eiyah. Shunned by all of the other girls for her ugliness, she usually struggled alone all day, heaving up her own stacks of firewood, and coming back for the water. She almost never attended the occasional village dances because, whereas the village beauties arrived in a blaze of popularity, and almost never sat down, so vigourously were they pulled into dance after dance by handsome prospective husbands, she had never once been asked, and had to content herself by watching the event. She had accepted that she was ugly, and her being shunned by the other girls meant that she never went visiting, as they frequently did, never partook of any gossip, and instead learned to be quite self-sufficient. She had the love of her parents and her family, and she was happy to work hard for them.

The village population, though differing on innumerable subjects, many of which had to be resolved by the Chief and other recognised elders, did agree on a single thing. The best-looking, most attractive, most sought after, most eligible bachelor in it was Njao, son of Njao. Tall, strong and perfectly proportion, aside from being handsome, he had long been the target of the most beautiful girls in the village, each of whom daily expected the arrival of Njao Senior with their dowry and a formal proposal on behalf of his son, as dictated by tradition. Every sunset was a chance for them to show off their wares, in the neat way they cut and tied up firewood, in the graceful way they balanced the heaviest gourd upon their heads, in the glowing cleanliness of their uncovered skin, in the dainty, beautiful adornments they made and wore to compliment their arms, wrists, waists and ankles. Every dance was a chance to wriggle those hips as enticingly as came up to the borderline of slutty, and a chance to show Njao (who danced sparingly) how popular they were with the other eligible bachelors in the village. Yet month followed month, and Njao, it seemed, had not yet made his choice of bride. Those less good-looking girls gave up the dream and accepted modest proposals from other men, while the most beautiful pridefully held out for Njao, convinced that he would be sending over his father any day.

Njao, in fact, had long made his choice, and if he did not speak, it was only because he was well aware of his status in the village, and, being a rather shy, retiring man, detested the idea of the hullabaloo that would no doubt follow his making his intentions public. Having quietly ruminated on his problem in three thousand ways, he finally decided on the most daring course of action, and, one sunset, quietly beckoned aside three of his closest friends, who were returning from the fields along with him.

Njao: “Dudes,” he began, “the girls are just now leaving the bathing area, and making their way back home through the forest.

Dude 1: Duh... where do you think we’re headed? I want a good look at that Nyakio creature. I’m almost sure that she’ll have me if I ask...

Dude 2: In your dreams, Dude. Nyakio’s WAY out of your league. You’d qualify for... Wanjiku. Or maybe Nyambura, though even she’s too hot for you.

Dude 3: You’re just saying that because you want Nyakio. And you don’t qualify for her either, because only I do. Well... me and Njao. If he wants her. What do you think of Nyakio, Njao?”

Njao: I don’t want Nyakio, and you’re welcome to her. I need you guy to do me a favour.

Dudes 1, 2 and 3: Sure, man. Whatever you need. Righto.

Njao: The girls are on their way back home, but Eiyah isn’t yet. She’s always the last.

Dudes 1, 2 and 3: So? And? What of it?

Njao: I need you guys to go and grab her, and bring her to me.

Dudes 1, 2 and 3 (pop-eyed): You want what? I didn’t hear that. What did you say, old fellow?

Njao: I said...

Dude 1: We heard you, only... Why on earth would you want us to grab that bitch?

Dude 2: He said grab her, and bring her to him. What the hell do you want with her?

Dude 3: You did say grab, eh what?

Njao (succintly): Just grab her and bring her to me. I’m going to marry her.

Dudes 1, 2 and 3 (collapsing with laughter): Njao please, man! Oh no, that’s too killing! Don’t kid us like that old chap, I have a stitch!!!

Njao (calmly): I’m serious.

Dudes 1, 2 and 3 (pop-eyed, but slowly sobering.) I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it either. Nor do I.

Njao: Are you guys going to help me or what? Hurry up! She should be on the path now. Just grab her, and bring her to me by that copse of trees. Make sure you’re not seen, and be as quick as you can about it.

Dudes 1, 2 and 3 (suddenly going into action): OK. OK! On our way! (as they run off): Fool’s done lost his damn mind. I always knew he wasn’t quite right. Lost his marbles properly, eh what?

Eiyah was duly kidnapped, and eventually concealed at Njao’s home. 

Alternatives to Sex

A couple of weeks ago, Mum proudly handed me a book she said she’d landed on, and been saving for me. When I read the title, I immediately threw her a suspicious glance, but I regretted my reaction when she began prattling about how the author was a good writer, and that his humorous, genuine style was exactly the type I might like. She was being supportive of my writing –not sending me a message about my life. When your Mum hands you “Alternatives to Sex”, and you’re practically a virgin again, and haven’t misbehaved, even mildly, with anyone, in such a long time that even you can’t remember who it last was; and romantically things are so bad that you’ve established a blog about online dating which is the only kind dating you can lay any claim to having done in years... you’re entitled to be a bit defensive.

“Alternatives to Sex” IS indeed a good book, and half-way through I was already regretting there wasn’t more. It would have panicked me if I suspected that Mum had gone very far into the book –it is set in the world of promiscuous, gay sex, with all the politically correct and utterly embarrassing terms involved in that activity, complete with mentions of sex toys, and lubricants, and very unreserved poppings up of the word ‘Fuck’ in noun and conjugated verb form. Still, she had gone far enough to feel warm towards the writer in his honesty, and I myself was completely engaged by the bottom of page 1.

I have never thought of the practical complexities of gay romantic life. I was brought up a Christian, voluntarily confirmed my faith in my teens, and have never found anything in Life, mine or others, to dislodge me from it. Among MANY other things, my faith informs me that that God isn’t happy about tattoos (which is why I’m pierced but not tattooed, though I have a sincere craving for a beautiful Blue Crab somewhere on my anatomy) but more importantly that He loathes homosexuality. I am glad never to have dealt with it as a personal issue (it sounds like I would have spent my entire life dealing with it, and nothing else!) While I must ‘disapprove’ of it on God’s behalf, I must also follow God’s attitude of acceptance and respect for people for who they are fundamentally, rather than parts of whom they are, including those that occasionally (or even frequently) do bad things (Love the Sinner, Hate the Sin.) At the end of the day, in fact, if you look at everyone that way, your attitude towards people mentally is much more peaceful and clear. While a person’s sexual leanings rarely phase me, I am completely hostile to compulsive/manipulative/malicious liars, cheaters, and dishonest people in general. Besides, being homosexual, whether it is scientifically a biological issue or not, seems to me an unnecessarily, even foolishly difficult choice of life to burden oneself with, if it isn’t genuinely attached to a person’s core self. As one gay college friend asked me once, “Would you choose to be gay?” I think not.

As I am very busy battling my problems with heterosexual singlehood, gay singlehood –the gay scene, in fact, has rarely ever crossed my mind, and certainly never more that for three seconds together, until now. I am sorry to say that on issues that I know little or nothing about, which have nothing to do with me and generally do not cause me concern, I tend to inform myself at the very minimum level possible, then take a good, safe midline (like a good President should). In this manner, all that I actually know about gay people is that 1) They are extremely intelligent, 2) They are exceedingly well organised, 3) They are generally creative, 4) They are strong enough in character to take firm stands, 5) They are loyal to each other (or their sexual community,) and 6) They love to party and entertain, or be entertained, and have contributed to this industry no doubt more than could be suspected. I am sure that these are generalities, but they are comfortable ones for me to assume, and eminently socially acceptable (not that I’m shy about being socially contrary, when it is warranted.) I had heard that they are also extremely promiscuous, but the figures that have been mentioned in such passing conversations I always took as complete fiction –until now. “Alternatives to Sex” is appallingly shock-making in that regard, at least, to me. I had absolutely no idea... and I’m not sure I wanted one. Still, it’s part of an honest tale, and I have to accept it, if I am to accept the author (Stephen Mc Cauley, which I do, whether the tale is even a fraction biographical, which I feel it must be; or not.) The whole thing is wonderfully intelligently insightful, refreshing, and I love its style and tone, and sense of humour from beginning to end.

My admittedly self-centred point is that, I may have it hard, but Lord might I have it harder. I’m not sure what makes gay relationships apparently so very difficult to have and maintain –though the mention of couple in which one of the males had given permission to his boyfriend to sleep regularly with another may be a clue. We’re human beings, and gay or not, jealousy has to be an issue in such a situation. Perhaps, also, gay men have super high sex drives. I don’t know. I just want to send a big, warm hug to all those single gay men (and women!) who are also in Pursuit of Happiness, and wish them the very best of luck in their journey. 

Don’t Get Up...

No, this isn’t just what you tell a shockingly short man when you’ve turned up late for a date that was arranged online. It’s also what you do when, after finally getting to sleep after a busy night’s work, you suddenly fall devastatingly in love with a man you’ve literally met in your dreams. This is because it’s quite useless, if you do get up, to pretend that you will be able to put him out of your mind, just because you’re busy with another project. It’s no good. He’s got to come out, and that means a new Word Doc, a fresh blank page before you, a sudden mix of the inertia of stupidity, and complete panic at the thought that He might not come out after all, in the moment (suffering, as He continues to develop himself in your mind) or if He does, He may come out in the wrong context (frustration, as this is tantamount to tons of rewriting, re-casting and proper cold rethinking, which is horribly difficult, as opposed to instinctive flow.) Worst of all, He may come out wrong, which means mental TORTURE, the deletion of everything, and a fresh, fresh start, even in the midst of now sheer panic.

This is all very terrible, but do you know what’s worse? Battling with said Dreamlover, while juggling work, your hair (which for some reason, this month, has completely refused to submit to your authority) and your time, some of which you are required to spend with family members, close and distant, or they become either Resentful or Suspicious. I can’t deal with either because, while most families revel in drama, whether high (and loud) or low (and passive-aggressive,) mine being no exception, I reserve most of mine for my writing, and, indeed, tend to avoid it altogether in real life.

 Nevertheless, my dramatic instincts are highly challenged when I’m conducting said battle with new Dreamlover, work, hair and time, and ALSO a short story. I am emphatically NOT a short-story writer, but like all good writers, it may take me some time to accept this. It is a skill, and, logically, all skills can be learned. I tend to submit myself to the torture of trying to write a short story at least once a month –which isn’t as dramatic as it sounds, because writers are born self-torturers, but it is certainly one of my more painful enterprises. I should have given up long ago, except that occasionally, I put out a marvel, and then I’m so proud of myself, I try again... and the cycle restarts. I’m not used to not being good at things, even on the first try. This isn’t due to some super natural talent or a streak of lucky recklessness in my character –quite the contrary. I am OCD about reading the instructions, directions, rules and regulations of the thing, until I understand exactly what I’m about. Then it’s (usually!) smooth going. It’s how I first got myself on a horse. It’s also why I didn’t panic (completely) when it began to move (the exercise was to mount it –the horse wasn’t supposed to move, once mounted, but who knew horses don’t get implied directions?) Following the instructions on how to communicate with a horse, I gently pulled (trying with all my might not to clutch) my reins tighter to my chest, and gave a squeeze using my inner thigh muscles –even though I’d only just that morning discovered I had them. Worked like a charm. And horse-riding has since been one of favourite things to do.

Do you know what’s even worse than getting up to battle D, W, H, T, and S.S? BEING INTERRUPTED. Though I never qualified to be called a spitfire, I apparently used to be one remarkable erupting volcano when I was a child. I quite remember being a sulky teenager (which has always been in fashion) but grew up to manage my temper in ways my parents certainly still walk in disbelief that I can, and though my habit of bubbling stewing internally has yet to dealt with (which it must, because like toothpaste, shampoo, microwaves, alcohol and too much bread, it is apparently causes of Cancer) I have learned enough to keep my eruptions at bay –literally by physically distancing myself from any potential Last Drop. Thankfully, I’m not much of a rancorous person, and I forget quickly and easily (mainly, I suspect, because my mind is too busy processing every minute’s overload of information, questioning etc.) and I can usually come back to said Last Drop with some composure. Unfortunately, however, if I am NOT given enough time to put my simmering temper sufficiently far away from the surface, composure is not possible to regain fully, in which case, it has been reported to me by my mother, an aunt and some young cousins that, though my speech and manners may be faultless, I look either like the very depiction of an unbalanced murderess (Mum) or like a cartoon of the evillest witch (cousins.) I believe I once witnessed one of these little devils actually take a picture of me for a school project, with quite detached scientific interest... Don’t know why I didn’t blow. The shock probably acted like iced water over my outrage, delaying it the point where eruption was impossible. My friends are so-called because they have earned this right –which includes instinctively knowing when the volcano is doing its thing, in which case they are experts at distracting it.

In SHORT, I don’t WANT to get up today. It would be a successful attainment of Happiness if I could just stay in bed, and do nothing but read and drink hot cocoa. (Sigh...) Alas, since this won’t be possible, I must ask all of you to send me calming ‘Ommms’ or prayers to keep my simmering going without eruption!