Become What You Are

Remember the movie ‘La Boum’? I must have watched it 20 times. Back then I thought I wanted to be Sophie Marceau, now I know I wanted to be WITH Sophie Marceau.

After watching, L’âge de Raison, I still do.

I mean, really ….. 

The movie tells the story of Margaret, a successful and very skillful business woman, who channels the characters of strong feminine figures to draw strength from.

At the day of her 40^th birthday she receives a surprise visit from an elderly notary, who insists on calling her ‘Marguerite’. He delivers her a package containing letters written by her when she was 7 years old.

The first letter says:     

             “Dear me,

             At the time of reading, it is your birthday.

             So I wrote this to help you remember the promises

             I made today, at the age of reason.

             Right, let’s start with what matters most:

             What have you become?”.

From that point forward, she goes on a journey, both in time and in place, remembering and re embracing the childhood she spent so many years running away from to the point of erasing it completely.

She makes peace with the past and the present and becomes an adult with a child’s eyes.

Watching the movie, felt like drinking a sweet and tangy cocktail. With its bright colors and fast (yet calm) pace, I got an instant warm buzz that kept me smiling long after I left the movie theatre.  

As referenced in the movie, Pablo Picasso used to say that his mother told him: “If you are a soldier, you will become a general. If you are a monk, you will become the Pope”.

Instead, he said, I was a painter, and became Picasso.

Become what you are. The age of reason is now.

Lucky Six

On my way back home from San Francisco I stopped for a few days in London. I had planed on seeing a good play, do some shopping, tour the book stores. Instead I became anxious and dazed.

A day and a half later and without much thought, I packed my bag, checked out of the hotel, and stepped out straight into the pouring rain. The hotel was right next to Paddington Station and I ran inside to escape the slashing raindrops.

Standing there, all socked and shivery, my agitation just grew louder, and all I could hear was the sound of my own voice in my head asking, over and over again, what now?

My flight back home was in two days and I had no idea where I was headed.

People passed me by with intent directions and purposeful strides. I felt lost.       

Just calm down, I said to myself (quietly, in my head). Calm down and it’ll come to you.

What if I went with a random platform number? Easier to choose a number then it is to decide on a destination. Right?

I chose the number six. I love the sound of the word rolling on my tongue. Six. And then I remembered reading that every multiplication of the number 6 by 6 will have 6 in it. Random order was just what I needed.

I went over to platform number six, not looking at the departure board and got on the train. Passed a few carts until I found a perfect four seater with a table and I had it all to myself. I set down facing the driving direction, and tucked my bag under the table.

When I leaned to take a book out of my bag I heard a voice saying “is it OK if I sit here?” of course I banged my head straightening up, which turned my face a little red. I looked up and my skin flushed even more to the sight of the smoky blue eyes of my enquirer.

“Sure. Go ahead”.

She sat down and looked at me. “Do you need tissue paper?” she asked, and when I looked at her, puzzled, she smiled and said “you have raindrops on your face”. She handed me some tissues with little drawings of sheep on them and kept on staring at me as I whipped my face.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” she asked

“I’m sorry, have we met before?”

“The flight from San Francisco to London – I sat across the aisle from you. You were reading ‘Red Audrey and the Roping’. I love that book”.

“So you noticed the book. Not me”

“No…” it was her turn to fluster. “Well, maybe at first”. She paused and then extended her hand and said “I’m Rachel”.

“Shai” I replied.

“As in bashful?”

“As in gift. ‘Shai’ means ‘gift’ in Hebrew”.

She lingered her hand just a little while longer and pulled back as the conductor approached us. She handed her ticket and I purchased mine. Destination: Bath.

An hour and a half passed by as we chatted casually, as two strangers do.

When we arrived in Bath she put her hand on my shoulder and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Perhaps I’ll see you around town” she said as she walked away.

It was a little after 5pm and the quirky guy at the tourist information set me up with a room in a nice B&B. Two hours later I was settled in my room (named after George Eliot) and Rachel’s scent was still with me.

I took a shower and went out to get a bite to eat in a little Italian restaurant recommended by the B&B’s owners (a sweet old couple who where spending the evening reading newspaper segments to each other sitting by the fireplace). I walked through the city’s streets and felt the summery evening breeze on my face, slowly erasing the memory of London’s foggy rain.  

A few minutes after I was seated by the host I glanced over my menu and saw Rachel walking into the restaurant with a cheerful group of friends. Before I could decide on a course of action she spotted me and came over to my table.

“Are you following me?” she asked.

I felt like such a dork but disguised it well “I thought it was the other way around”.

She raised her eyebrows a little, as if my answer caught her by surprise, and then invited me to join her and her friends for dinner. “I promise we won’t bite. Well, depending on how much wine we’ll drink tonight”.

Dinner was lovely. Her friends were warm and welcoming, and the wine and pasta were just what I needed to dissolve the last of my London edginess.       

As the evening wind down everyone said their goodbyes until it was just the two of us again.

What now? Asked the voice in my head.

“Now what?” she asked out loud.

“We can take a walk” I suggested, no doubt influenced by the wine.

“Wonderful”.

Our hands entwined, we walked through the quiet moonlit streets. 

Standing by the B&B Rachel said “I’ve never been to a hotel room in Bath”.

The wine buzz still tingling in my ears, I took her hand and we went inside.

Yes, that was some good wine.

I remember every moment of that night: how she pinned me against the wall outside my room loosening her grip only so that I can open the door; the taste of chocolate mousse and strawberries in our breath; the laughter that turned into moans; how my tongue pressed on the small of her back, tracing her spine all the way up to her neck; her fingers eagerly journeyed all over my body; our heart beats so close we couldn’t tell them apart; and long, voracious, insatiable kisses.

When I woke up the next morning Rachel was gone. Leaving the smell and taste of her on my fingers, and a note:

     “My darling Shai,

     I wasn’t following you yet I’m so happy to have

     found you.

     Till we meet again.

     Rachel.

     P.S. It wasn’t the wine.”            

On the back of the note she scribbled her e-mail address.

Waiting for my flight at the airport, I googled the number six and found that the symbol of the Sex Chakra, Svadhishthana, is a flower with six petals. 

I sent Rachel a message:

     ”Dear Rachel,

     I’m still a little lost for words and so I’ll quote

     someone else’s:

     ‘your slightest look easily will unclose me

     though I have closed my self as fingers,

     you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

     (touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose’…

     (E.E. Cummings).

     Thank you for being so skilful with my petals.

     Shai.”

I boarded the plane through gate number six. Lucky, lucky six.

Faux Feminism

New York Times Magazine writer, Virginia Heffernan, believes that WAHM – a work at home mom – is a feminist concept.

 

Thanks to modernized and computerized telecommunications, Heffernan states, “the bourgeois home has become a woman’s base of operations”. Indeed, “Telecommuting is a familiar story” but she feels she “must sing its praises again – this time in a feminist key”.

I’m sorry, what? WHAT?

According to Heffernan, telecommunications freed women (women, not men!) from the burden of encountering the outside world. Now you don’t have to leave your house and “enter the unpredictable world of vice presidents and printer hubs”.

Ooooh, that’s so scary! Why do that  when you can stay home, do your work – work, the house work and take care of the children and pets, all the while wearing drab pants and watching trashy TV. Heaven forbid you should go out in to the real world, wear actual cloths and face your male colleagues as your equals (and by “equals” I mean mentally and emotionally inferiors).

News flesh: a work at home mom (as depicted by Heffernan) is not a feminist. She’s just sad. Not to mention a servile of the modern patriarchal system. Glorifying her would only result in another generation of girls (and boys) growing up with a gross misconception of what the world should look like.

 

Misusing the term “feminist” or “feminism” is worse than misogyny because it creates further miseducation. At least with misogynists it is straight forward. You know what’s in front of you and you can face it head on. Attaching the word “feminist” to the wrong issue, cause or idea is blasphemy, for lack of a better word.

For the love of Mary, pick up a book and learn something, anything before you go around spreading mock, evidently non feminist ideas in the name of feminism. In other words: if you don’t have anything feminist to say, it is better that you say nothing at all.   

P.S. Dear Virginia Heffernan: Mary Wollstonecraft called from her grave and asked that you never ever mention her name again. Ok? Thanks so much!

 

A Sunday Kind of Love

There are four chambers in a humane heart, but mine was more like a maze. Keeping all seekers away.

Another year was ending, and my best friend threatened to cut all ties with me if I didn’t go with him to a New Year’s Eve party. “Oh, come on, it’ll do you good. I know what’s best for you” he said, teasingly, knowing those last word will irritate the hell out of me. Surprisingly, I just said yes.

The party was held in a beautiful country house, built with dark wood and immersed in a citrusy scent. As we walked up the driveway we could hear the music coming from inside, and when we entered the door I was a taken back by how many people where there.

“You said it was going to be a small house party. Jeez, it looks like Times Square in here” I shouted into my friend’s ear, but he just smiled at me and motioned towards the bar “I’ll go get us some drinks”. That was the last I saw him that night.

Not an empty seat in sight I leaned against the wall and felt the headache ensued by the loud music. I looked around and spotted a staircase leading to the second floor. Upstairs I found a room with a lit fireplace. I closed the door behind me and sat on the couch. Although muffled, I could feel my head thumping to the beat of the music coming from downstairs. I put my head between my hands and tried to squeeze the pain away.

A few minutes passed when the door opened and a woman was standing there. “Would you close the door please? The music is really loud”. There was a look of surprise in her eyes as she gazed at me, and then she slowly closed the door behind her.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asked. “You look a little pale”.

“I’m fine. It’s just a nasty headache”.

“I think I can help”. She sat on the couch, her back leaning against the side of it and crossed her legs. “Here, lie down and rest your head”.

My hesitance clear, she leaned forward and reached her hand to me. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing”.

There was something in her voice just then, so tender, that I could feel my resistance melting. I turned around and lay down, my head between her legs.  

She placed her fingers on my temples and started massaging them with small circular motions. “It’s OK to breathe” she said “In fact, it’s recommended”.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No. Not at all. Now be quiet”.

Slowly, she moved her hands, and when she slid them down the back of my neck, it felt as if her fingers were everywhere, and the sweet warm sensation came over me like a wave. She felt my shiver but did not stop, her hands moving towards my chest. I took a deep breath. If it were any deeper, I might have fainted.

“Now exhale” she whispered, and my face turned red with blush. The warmth of her lap drew me in and surrounded me like a soft embrace. I let go and surrendered my self to her touch.  

When I opened my eyes I found myself lying on the couch, alone. No music, just the sounds of crackling fire woods. I looked over and saw her sitting on an armchair by the fireplace, reading a book.

She looked up and smiled at me. “You dozed off there for a little while. Are you feeling any better?”

“I am. I’m all better. What time is it?” 

“I’m not sure, but its way past midnight. Everyone’s gone home”.

“Wouldn’t they mind us being here?” I asked, sitting up.

“If by ‘they’ you mean the hosts of the party, then no, I don’t mind” she said, smiling again.

We sat there quietly for a few moments when she suddenly asked “Would you like to dance?”

Not waiting for my answer, she got up, went over to the stereo and turned it on, filling the room with the velvet voice of Etta James. She came towards me and for the second time that night reached her hand out to me. I got up and pulled her close. Resting one hand on her back and the other her collarbone I could feel her tremble. I moved even closer and with my mouth to her ear I whispered “Just breathe”.

“Do you know this song?”

“A Sunday Kind of Love” I replied, the words rolling like wine in my mouth.

Her hand slowly travelled to the small of my back, and once again I shivered.

“I’m sorry you missed your New Year’s Eve kiss”.

I looked at her and smiled “That’s OK, I’m Jewish”.    

She tilted her head back, laughing. I swayed her gently, and as I pulled her back to me, I met her with a kiss, lingering the tip of my tongue on her lip.

That night she found her way through my mazy heart.

Shut Up and Go To Sleep!

Ladies, drop what ever you’re doing and go to sleep. According to Mizzzz Arianna Huffington that is the answer to all our womanly problems.

Her royal Redhairness has come up with a Sleep Challenge guaranteed to eliminate chauvinism and misogyny, and to put us well on our way to world domination. All you have to do is get a couple of more hours of sleep tonight.

You see, apparently “… the next feminist issue is sleep. And in order for women to get ahead …. we’re all going to have to lie down and take a nap”. Personally I believe that the next feminist issue is to actually be a feminist, and not to pussyfoot around the issue, sugarcoating and diluting it into an “acceptable” concept. A part of me is glad Mary Daly passed away a day before this post went up. Although, she’s probably stomping her feet up in feminist heaven anyway.  

Forget about Taking Back the Night, Arianna’s message is far more powerful and empowering: “We’re saying no to the zombie side of things and, as of January 4, resolving to get a full night’s sleep every night for a month”. Because “Rob yourself of sleep, ladies, and you’ll find you never function at your personal best” (Ha! If only Arianna shared this wisdom with the makers of “Personal Best”); and I will be remiss not to include this quote: “A nation of sleepy women is even less capable of greatness”. This is the stuff D grade ghost written autobiographies are made of.

Make no mistake, Arianna (and her lover gal pal Cindi) are putting their heads where their mouths are: “Cindi’s going for seven and a half hours … Arianna’s choosing eight”. Of course they are falling short behind Queen Elizabeth who’s been averaging ten hours a night for years. It has done wonders for her.

These pearls of wisdom are based on extensive empirical studies. For instance, did you know that “Even Bill Clinton, who used to famously get only five hours of sleep, later admitted, ‘Every important mistake I’ve made in my life, I’ve made because I was too tired’”. Oh, I get it! If only he had slept properly, there would be no DOMA and DADT, not to mention that unfortunate incident involving a cigar, a dress, some sperm and a 22 year old intern.

Don’t get me wrong, sleep is important, but this notion is neither feminist nor innovative. It’s as old as Oprah’s talk show. In fact, I’m pretty sure Oprah made a show (or five) about the exact same subject. Come to think of it, perhaps Arianna is gearing up to be the next (white) Oprah post 2011.

Inspired by the redundancy of Arianna’s challenge, I’ve come up with a few more of my own: Round the Wheel, Square the Box and Overhead the Roof. And these are just of the top of my head. Imagine what I could accomplish after a good night sleep.       

And to think it might all have started on The L Word.

Have a good night, and if you’re lucky that means the recommended eight hours will include more than just sleep.

Tis the last day of the first decade of this millennium

The title of this post is about half of a Twitter tweet. If you’re still with me, I appreciate it. And by appreciate I mean my heart is yours forever.

If you’ll bear with me, I will try to justify my long and descriptive title and take a look at the past 10 years. However, this won’t be another turn of the decade rundown of the economy and dead celebrities. I’ve picked a one of kind subject: me. My blog – my choice. Not to worry, this will be short and painless (unless you like pain, in which case I am open to suggestions. But I digress).

For me, this has been a decade of coming out. Alas, my closet was different than the usual gay one (that’s not to say that I’m not gay. I am. As gay as a purple rainbow pooping unicorn). I did not hide from my sexuality. I hid from life. My closet was as dark as it was familiar and the key was handed to me as a child. I did not know any better, and for the longest time I believed I would end my life in that closet, sooner or later.

I tried to get out. The new car my ex-therapist bought is a testimony to that. Don’t get me wrong, I know a lot of people (God bless them) who benefit from therapy. But ultimately, for me, it was wrong. The never ending probing of the past led me deeper and deeper into my murky little closet. The constant investigation of what this one said and what that one did allowed me to see only that: the past. No present, and certainly no future. On the up side, my said ex-therapist was quite a hotty, so she wasn’t a complete waist of my time.

Then something happened. I realized that the gloomy closet, cold as it was, did not operate like a fridge. I could open it from the inside, by myself. In fact, that was the only way to do it. Please believe me when I tell you it was as simple as that: I reached forward, pushed the door, and I was out. It felt so good; I wasn’t blinded by the light, nor dizzied by the fresh air. I just felt good. This was, literally, my coming out to life party. However, trust me when I tell you there was no puffy dress involved (nor will there EVER be one).

An old Master taught his students to always be aware and concentrate on what it is they were doing in each particular moment: if you’re reading the paper – focus on that;  if you’re eating a sandwich – let that be the center of your attention. A few days went by, and one of the students saw the old Master sitting on a park bench, reading the paper and eating a sandwich. Perplexed he approached him and asked “why aren’t you living according to your teachings?” The old Master looked at him and answered peacefully “That is precisely what I am doing. I am fully concentrated on what it is that I am doing right now – reading the paper AND eating a sandwich”.          

More times then not, things are really that simple. I am no Master. I’m barely a student. And I don’t know the secret of life. But I know this much: be happy and thankful and try to do good by others. This might just be the secret to life.  

This will be my new blog – home. You are welcome to visit anytime and I hope you’ll stick around and grow to love it. As for me – like I’ve stated above, I already love you.

Happy New Year.