Posts Tagged ‘intuition’

Catcalling season is here. As it has been for 30 years, if I had a dollar for every man who’s already said something sordid and gross to me, I could get 10 people dinner at Peter Luger’s today. 30 years.  Since I was 11. Guess how young I looked at 11? I would be a multimillionaire with all those dollars.

Two days ago, some guy talked about my bottom for an entire city block. “C’mon, girl, gimme dat azz!” He was serious. I almost felt sorry for him.  And he was about the 7th or 8th rude man that day.

Perhaps you think that at my age, I’d feel complimented by men loudly talking about my body as I go along, minding my own business. “Listen, old broad, you should feel flattered”, right? Imagine your wallets, fellas, in clear view to passers-by; your money exposed, no matter how modest you were being with it. Every few yards, some woman loudly remarks about your money, how she’d like to get with your money, and “Ooh, baby, you know you wanna give me that money!” Would you consider her for your next date? No? But why not? She’s only complimenting you on your money!

Is there no other way for these dudes to feel manly other than trying to assert some masculine privilege on strangers? Do they somehow really believe they can roll up and get sexual favours from women? Not. Happening. Idiot!

I won’t look back on it at 82, thinking, “Damn, I was something in my day.”


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His mouth is moving into the proper formations of nice-sounding words, but… It’s true what they say that to listen involves more than sound waves thrumming through to vestibular nerves. I’m listening with all my senses, and I hear him clearly. He’s lying.

I’ve never understood why it’s so hard for people to tell the truth. As if I’ve never been dumped before. Sure, it hurts, but that’s just the ego. I am not my ego. If I’m not what he expected, then no harm, no foul. Honestly.

Great, he’s asking me to come with him to his cousin’s wedding. He doesn’t want to go out with me anymore, but he can’t show up somewhere without getting grief for going stag – and he can’t handle it. Perhaps he’s not as mature as I thought.  “You’re 37 and unmarried!? Whatever are we to think?” I’m not saving face for him. The hell with that.

I wish he could see himself. Shoulders slumped like sacks of wet concrete. He keeps looking away; he can barely stand to look at me. And that’s the most monotone-y monotone in the history of monotones.

And… dodge.

You don’t have to put your arm around me. I don’t need reassurance. Anyway, it’s not me, it is you. It is most absolutely you. There’s a man out there who will appreciate me exactly as I am, and me him. Wish you weren’t such a coward, though.

“Hold up, Darryl. There’s something I need to say to you.”

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“The magic hour.”

That’s what they call it, right? Two times a day when the sun is at just the right angle, and even trash piled in a pothole-filled street can look like treasures. Do our lives have magic hours? Can I look at the moments and, even if those moments were times when I’ve been frightened or sad or anxious or guilty, can I look at those moments and see them as being magic? As being miracles of consciousness? Because they are, whether I recognize them or not.

So much of the time, I’ve gone through life in a daze, partially from beating myself up over things that aren’t even going to matter ten minutes hence, much less six months or twenty years from now, and rob myself of the joy of existing in this moment. When I’m not careful, I allow my thoughts to fill my heart with regrets over what I’ve said or done (and some of those things should definitely have been said and done) instead of realizing that they’re all just lessons. To rub those memories like a worry stone doesn’t allow me to learn anything, and then I make the mistake again. It’s all of a piece, if I forget the truth of things.

This moment is, as are all our moments, awesome. As in “to be filled with awe and wonder” and not restricted to when you’ll look your hottest in photos taken outside. Even the mistakes are awesome. Maybe especially the mistakes.

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Green shoots! I didn’t expect to see those for a few more weeks. This is the first winter ever that I became thoroughly sick and tired of it, it was so damp and cold. It’s too bad, really, because for hurf-durf-burf years, I have reveled in winter, including the sloppy, slushy New York City ones. After all, Mother Nature was just doing her thing. But this year, around about 26 February, I thought, F this. Seriously. Just F Winter! even though I knew Spring was on its way and I reckoned that, for all intents and purposes, I was relatively assured of sticking around long enough to see it arrive.

I wondered at first if things felt out of whack because of the job-or-lack-thereof. Impending mid-life crisis? Existential angst? Then I realized: Every year, there’s a hint around the end of February that hits me by the nose, just for a second and then it’s gone, and then I feel better. That didn’t happen this year. I suppose I somehow need that little reminder of what’s to come to stave off the Seasonal Affective Disorder.

I walked outside this morning and there near the entrance of my building, the shoots from the daffodils and tulips were poking out of the soil in the planters that are so carefully tended by resident volunteers. All my anomie fell away. For all my feelings of coziness during winter, my adoration for autumn and my excitement for summer, there has always been  something about spring.

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There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. You’re worth something.

It seems easier to go along with thinking you’re terrible, right? When other people say you’re awful? But it’s just as easy to believe in yourself. Everything is equally easy, but it’s thinking that makes it so difficult. It hurts only because you agree with what they say about you. Bullies instinctively know this and they use it against you.

All they do is use you to get a cheap ego high by hit-and-running you. Do you understand how? Do you understand that what they do has nothing to do with you? What will make you stop being complicit to this? You can’t change other people.

But the rest, after they’ve gone, the rest you’re doing to yourself. So why would you complete the circuit by bullying yourself? If you don’t stand up for yourself to your inner bully, then what? Ask yourself why you do this. I’ll bet deep down, there is no satisfactory answer. You decided to believe it one day because someone bigger and stronger than you said it was so. You’ve been doing it for so long, you don’t know any other way.

Stings, doesn’t it, realizing the waste? I know you’re hurting. It hurts because the part of you that knows your worth is trying to get you to see that believing that you’re awful is a lie.

The pain of your beliefs has to become more unbearable than your fear of letting them go.

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MRS. JOHNSON (80s) and LUCIA (30s) are seated drinking tea in an almost-Victorian living room. Sunlight streams through open floor-to-ceiling windows.

So kind of you to visit me, my dear… Lucia, is it?

Yes, ma’am. It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Johnson, really!
The two single ladies of the block! This won’t be my only visit!


Next time, I’ll bring scones and cream!


Then it’s settled. You have a lovely home.

Thank you.  I was raised here, married
here. I raised my own children here.
Everyone’s gone now. But I’ll never leave.

It must be hard to keep up such a large… gorgeous… house.
I haven’t lived in the neighbourhood for very long, but I couldn’t
help but notice that no one comes over. Aren’t you lonely?

Not at all.

A large white dog with fluffy fur gambols up from seemingly out of nowhere. Lucia sets down her cup, Bailey playfully jumps on her.

He’s… friendly!

Quite the funster. Like his siblings.

Six similar dogs appear and swarm Lucia, pulling her to the floor and covering her.


What? Sorry, a bit hard of hearing!

Lucia soon goes limp. Mrs. Johnson goes to take Lucia’s pulse as the dogs trot away.

Of course, they left a mess. Tea should
have been outside. I really must think
these things through.

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Why am I afraid of you? You look at me and can see the stains on my soul that I’m “refusing to look at”. You know I’m deceiving myself, that I’m actually a bad person. You see it. Of course you can. You have that power. You use it to judge me, as you should, and find me wanting, as you should. Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin

My value is inherent on being of service to you, or having something to offer, whereas you exist and that’s all you need.  I judge, too. But my judgement of anything is as effectual as a pebble lobbed against the side of the Taj Mahal. You know your place in the world and nothing I think has any bearing on that knowledge.

You control me. I want you to control me, because if I control myself, I’m going to make a bungle of it. Everything I do will be selfish and wrong and you’ll be more disgusted with me more than you already are. What right do I have to challenge any of this? Being human isn’t enough, not in my case.

To imagine that I have worth is utterly threatening, but you couldn’t imagine that. You have no problems. No worries. No concerns. Your life is whole. Your life is fairies. Your life is filled with love, money and excitement. You sit there, you look at me, and you know you’re better.  You’re the real thing, I’m a fraud; the illusion is complete.

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