Kodachrome

Last night Mags was going through some old boxes while I was in the kitchen doing dishes. Suddenly she called out, “Who is this?” Not quite sure what she had found, I asked her to bring whatever it was to me. She walked into the kitchen with an old photograph in her hand. I looked down at it and got transported back through time.

There was a younger, trimmer me staring back out of the photo. It was a picture of me from 1989, dressed in cammies, my arms crossed in front of my chest, trying my best to look like the NCO I knew I was about to become. In an instant, I flashed back to that day, saw Tommie holding the camera, asking me to pose for him.

Two years later, Tommie was dead, killed in the deserts of Iraq, and I had left the Corps, unable to handle what had happened, and unable to control the drinking that came so close to killing me. But on that day, in May of 1989, I was in control of the world. Cocky, self-assured, and so certain that nothing could ever touch me and that I would be young and strong forever.

They say inside every senior citizen is an eighteen-year-old wondering what happened. Although I am far from geezer status, I still was shocked by just how young I looked. There was a part of me that wished I could go back, just for long enough to warn the ’89 me of what was coming, and caution him against some of the choices he was about to make. Although I know that everything that I have gone through was necessary for me to be who I am today, (I was a real jerk back then,) I sometimes wish I could have learned the lessons I needed to in a less painful way.

I’ll have to see if I can’t scan and upload that photo. It’s a real trip down memory lane.

Shakespeare Got It

O, that this too too solid flesh would melt
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this!

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

-Robert Frost

I'm very scared at this moment. I just called Mags and told her I need to get some professional help. I can't sleep, I don't want to eat, and I'm just not feeling any joy in my life. I can't go on this way, but I'm scared of doing anything.

My brain is broken, and I'm not really sure I can handle that. I'm not much to look at, and have never been a great shake at sports. My mind has always been what I'm most proud of. To have it not working right scares me beyond measure. I truly wish that I didn't have to deal with this, but the side effects are starting to affect those around me, and I cannot allow that.

I sometimes envy Mags her manic depression. At least she gets the up swing to counter these periods of despair. I just get to deal with an ever deepening pit.

I'm scared, but I can't go on.

Story Time

Once upon a time, a man went to a psychiatrist. “Doctor,” he said, “I’m feeling depressed. Nothing that I used to enjoy is bringing me happiness. I can’t sleep. I don’t want to eat. I feel terrible, and don’t know what to do.”

The learned doctor thought for a moment. “I could write you a prescription,” he said, “But I’d like to try something different. There is a wonderful comedian in town tonight. Paggaci is one of the funniest men alive. Here is a ticket to the show, go and see if that doesn’t help you break out of your funk. Laughter is good for the soul.”

“But Doctor,” the man said. “I am Paggaci”

The Anti-Midas Touch

Have you ever had one of those days? A day when nothing seems to go right, and the world narrows to the width of your shoulders? Yesterday was that sort of a day for me. I had the anti-Midas touch, everything I had a hand in turned to s**t. From the debacle that was the start of the day at work, through the mess that my carefully crafted schedule became, the day was one long series of almosts and might haves.

Still, the day ended on an up note, Mags and I sat down to a good meal, watched a funny show on TV, and then I went to bed and got the first good night’s sleep I’ve had in about a week. All-in-all a Thank God That’s Over sort of day. Yet something about it is still troubling me.

Things are looking up between Mags and myself. She seems to be genuinely responding to my requests that she make me a priority in her life, and also seems to really appreciate my efforts to respond in kind. Still, something is troubling me, like that unidentified ache that you can’t quite pinpoint, but you know is there. Something has been keeping me up, staring at the ceiling for the past week or so. I’m tired when I wake up, but unable to get to sleep the night following despite my exhaustion.

Something is out of kilter in my life, something I can’t define. I’ve chewed over all the data I can find, and sill can’t see what’s happening. I’m feeling a strong craving for the new and different, and feel as if something is missing. I guess I need more data

An Uncomfortable Dinner Party

Yesterday, Mags and I went over to some friends of ours for dinner. Mags works with Donal, and Frosty is her best friend, but I have only a passing acquaintance with them. Donal and I are kinda in the guy dance stage of an emerging friendship. We really aren’t too sure of each other yet, but think the other one might be okay. Still, it’s an awkward stage.

Add into the mix the fact that Donal and Frosty are staying with a couple of their friends, Larry and Jolene, until they get their trailer set up (which is supposed to happen this week.) I have met Larry and Jolene, but that’s about it. To top everything off, it was a fiber thing, with the girls getting together to talk about spinning. That left us guys sitting around watching “Death, Doom, and Destruction” night on National Geographic. I made several attempts to get a conversation going, but they all quickly lapsed into silence. I’m sorry, when you’ve actually seen what a bullet can do to the human body, a show on the ballistics and evolution of the bullet, while fascinating, is a little off-putting.

Still, although uncomfortable, the food was good and I managed to get through the evening unscathed. Mags seemed to have fun talking about wool and spinning with the girls. So, all in all it was a good night.

Other than that, it was a great weekend; I spent most of the time puttering around the house, getting various little chores done. I managed to knock three things off the honeydo list, so I count the weekend as a success. I also discovered that Mags likes Salsa music. She really likes Salsa music. That makes “Supernatural” by Santana one of the best musical purchases I’ve made in a long time.

Mags seems to be coming over to my way of thinking on how much I love Nib’s boys. When we were out shopping for some supplies on Saturday, she was the one to suggest that something would be perfect for the boys. I know there’s still a little bit of jealousy there, I just hope that she will come to realize that while our marriage is still in a rocky place, if I do end up leaving her, it will have nothing to do with Nibs or her children. I won’t be running to anybody else, I’ll be running away.

Actually, that thought of being alone again is what scares me the most. There’s a large part of me that just wants to shut up, hunker down, and accept whatever is dished out to me. Given that the alternative is loneliness, I’m willing to put up with almost anything to avoid that. Almost anything. As conceited as it sounds, I’ve come to realize just how much I am really worth as a person, and to expect that those in my life to acknowledge that worth. Things seem to be progressing along those lines.

Working in the garage on Sunday, a snippet of a song by John Denver (I know, I know) came to mind. In it he sings about “..the joy of rediscovering you..” I feel as if I’m there with Mags. I’ve lost track of who she is, and I’m having to meet her all over again. Not everything there is pleasant, but on the whole, she seems to be a pretty great person herself. (Which reminds me, I’ve got to set up the boom box in the shop so I don’t drive Mags crazy listening to things like John Denver.)

Avast Me Hearties!

Today do be International Talk Like A Pirate Day! So get out there and buckle some swash.

Death and Duty

In the movie, "Forrest Gump," Gary Sinise played Lt. Dan Taylor; a man convinced he had been robbed of his destiny of dying gloriously in battle. In many ways I know how the character feels. There is a saying, it feels old, although I first ran into it in Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series: "Death is lighter than a feather, Duty is heavier than a mountain." I had to read a friend the riot act last night, and I'm feeling depressed about it this morning.

Had I had the chance to go to battle when it was my turn in '90, I might not have survived the experience. This would all be over now, and I wouldn't have to worry about the multitude of problems that seem to be piling up. Yes, I would have missed some pretty incredible times, but somehow, from the middle of a time of troubles, those annis mirablis seem distant and hazy. The problems are closing in on me, and although I know things will look bright again, I can't see the light in the distance.

A glorious death in battle would have meant an end to these cares. I would be safely in heaven, without these things to worry about. Still, I have to hold on to the thought that there is still something I need to do here before I can take that rest. The heavy duty still has a claim on me.


DEATH is stronger than all the governments because the governments are men and men die and then death laughs: Now you see ’em, now you don’t.

Death is stronger than all proud men and so death snips proud men on the nose, throws a pair of dice and says: Read ’em and weep.

Death sends a radiogram every day: When I want you I’ll drop in—and then one day he comes with a master-key and lets himself in and says: We’ll go now.

Death is a nurse mother with big arms: ’Twon’t hurt you at all; it’s your time now; you just need a long sleep, child; what have you had anyhow better than sleep?
- Carl Sandburg
Death Snips Proud Men

The Contradictions Of Honor

Last night I found myself in a situation where my code of honor seems to demand that I act in two totally contradictory ways. Without going into too much detail, one side of honor dictates that I pass some information on, while another dictates that I stay silent unless asked directly. I am currently wrestling with which of the courses of action I should take.

Honor is a funny thing, examining the code of chivalry, it seems to be straightforward. Yet the more I try to follow it in my life, the more situations I run into where one tenant of the code is at odds with another, or where obligations to different people demand different, often contradictory, actions. When I was a teenager, computer games were just beginning to come into their own. The graphics were primitive or nonexistent, and the action was often reparative and monotonous. Yet often the stories behind the games were much more involved than almost anything out there today.

I particularly remember one series, The Ultima series by Lord British. In the game of that name (or maybe it was the fourth), you had to run around the landscape and perform actions that increased your scores in each of the seven virtues. Unlike many games of that time (or since, for that matter), there was no character setup, per say. Rather than choosing abilities and classes from a preset list, in the opening screen, you were presented with a series of questions that pitted one virtue against another. (For example, one of the situations you were given was that, as a knight, you were asked to speak to a group of orphans about your exploits. Do you follow A) Charity and brighten the children’s day by telling them stories of what you have been through; or B) Humility, and refuse to speak on the grounds that you should not promote yourself?) While simplistic, the questions required though, and in the end your answers provided you with the statistics for your character.

While the questions Ultima asked were simple, I am finding that in real life, the apparent contradiction between the action required by each of the virtues comes up more often than I would have dreamed possible. While no one ever said behaving honorably was easy, I had no idea it would be this involved.

Twenty Cows?

A story I ran across this AM seems to be the “twenty cows” moment from the entire Katrina disaster. (Link here: Iraq Story
The gist of the story is that a group of Iraqi soldier collected 1 million dinars to send to the victims of Katrina. Although the amount isn’t much by our standards (approx $680 US) it’s about a month’s pay for most of the soldiers. What was particularly touching was the words of the Iraqi commander, Col. Abbas Fadhil, “We are all brothers. When one suffers tragedy, we all suffer their pain.”

I haven’t had much use for Arabs in general and Iraqis in particular since the first Gulf War, but I am deeply touched and a little shamed by this action. Once again, the magnitude of the gift in comparison to the means of the giver is humbling.

A Hellride

Not all of this weekend was taken up by my reminiscing on the anniversary that passed yesterday. Mags and I also moved our household back from house sitting for my folks. This, of course, entailed packing up all of our own junk that we had brought and getting the animals ready to go.

Sunday morning, after breakfast, I cautioned Mags to get the cats closed up in a room before we even though about bringing the carriers in. (I don’t know how they do it, but the cats KNOW when they’re going to be going into their carriers.) So, the first order of business, before anything was packed, before any move was made to get moving, was to corral the cats in the sunroom. Annie, the oldest, and Sasha, the youngest, proved to be no difficulty at all. Stinker, the middle cat, was nowhere to be found.

Three hours of fruitless searching later, it was decided that we would leave her there and pick her up after she had come out of wherever she had decided to secrete herself. (Stinker is, indeed, the hide and seek champion. I’ve seen her run into an empty room and when the lights were turned on, she wasn’t there. I suspect I have a cat that can indeed walk through walls.) So, rather than starting on the hour-long trip to get home around 10, we didn’t end up leaving until almost 1:30.

We got everyone home mostly in one piece, and managed to get everything packed. Mags was puttering around, glad to be back in her house, and I went to lie down for a bit, as the cold I’ve been fighting for the past week was acting up again and I was totally worn out. About an hour later, Dad called. The prodigal had come out from her hiding place inside the box spring on one of the beds! So, I had to wake myself up, take another dose of Dayquil, and head back to pick up the cat.

I spent the time on the drive enjoying some of the music I had copied from Dad’s collection. The Chieftain’s “Sake in the Jar” is just wrong. Funny, but wrong nonetheless. I picked up Stinker, managed to get her packed into the car, and turned around for the hour drive back to home. That’s when I discovered that she had picked up a new trick.

It started almost as soon as I pulled out of my parent’s driveway, a high-pitched, loud caterwauling that set my teeth on edge. I pulled over immediately to see what was hurting her. Looking into the carrier, I saw an indistinct black lump huddled in the back. Two piercing green eyes glared balefully at me from over what seemed like an oversized pink mouth filled with an impossible number of very white teeth. (It’s good to know the anti-tartar treats we’re giving her are doing the job.) Stinker, seeing she had attracted my attention, redoubled her efforts and, amazingly, began to produce even more noise. She appeared unhurt, just pissed, so I set off again.

In an attempt to counteract the noise, which was cutting into my brain like a hot ice pick, I turned the music up. Stinker got louder. I turned the music up again. She got louder still. This process repeated until I finally had the stereo playing at nearly full blast. Stinker just couldn’t keep up with that. Then she changed tactics on me.

The stench hit me in an almost visible wave. They say cat farts can bleach wood. This was truly foul, even given that standard. Even though my nose was blocked, my eyes began to water. Gagging, I rolled down all the windows in the car. It must have been some sight indeed for the outside observer. A white Malibu screaming down the round to the blaring sound of massed pipes and drums, with an ever-present wailing underneath. At this point, Stinker’s cries had taken on the tone of a baby in distress. I’m just surprised that the police didn’t pull me over on general suspicion of being up to no good.

Finally, the highland bagpipes had played all the way through, and I popped in Tom Paxton’s “Politics (Live).” Most of the songs were old favorites, from the hilarious “I Don’t Want a Bunny-Wunny (In My Littl’ Wo Boat)” to the ultra powerful tearjerker “Jimmy Newman.” (One of the, if not the, most powerful and chilling songs I have ever heard.) Then, I found the true gem. “When Princes Meet.” After the first playing, I hit the back button to hear the song again. And again. Then I just put the song on repeat so I could learn the tune. I’ve decided that this is one of those songs that I just have to perform the next opportunity I get.

When princes meet the poor little men must tremble.
In judgment seat,
They speak of their wars while great armies assemble.
Their armor shines to shame the sun
They move like gods they do resemble
All bow their necks to iron feet when princes meet

God save the king!
For he grants us leave to serve him.
His praises sing! And grant that we may deserve him.
Who counts the cost? The cattle and men to be lost?
'Tis no small thing to serve a king

Finally, after one of the longest hours of my life, I got home and managed to get the miscreant unpacked. Two Tylenol and a couple of minutes later, I was actually starting to feel human again.

Four Years On

I was struck by just how similar the weather was yesterday to what it had been like four years ago. The same, crisp, cool morning without a cloud in the sky or a hint of haze. Again, as it had that morning, it struck me how terribly inappropriate the weather was, that it should have been gray, damp, and cold. Weather to fit the gravity of what happened on that day. The terrorists didn’t just bring down the towers; they ruined beautiful fall mornings for me.

There were memorials abounding on the web sites I visit regularly. One in particular struck me. I think it was on LGF. It was a simple editorial cartoon showing two New York City Firefighters climbing a set of stairs. The landing has a sign that reads just “51.” There is a pair of women’s shoes on one of the steps below them. At the bottom of the cartoon is the face of a woman, looking back up at them, her mouth open as if she is going to say something, and a look of sadness in her eyes. Simple, direct, and powerful.

That was incredible heroism, beyond what we should expect of any mortal, and yet what still amazes me was that behavior like that was the rule rather than the exception on 9/11. Now, when I hear the New Orleans Police Chief try to make excuses for the 30+% of his officers that didn’t show up to work after Katrina hit, I want to yell at the TV. “You took an oath! You didn’t say you would protect and serve only when it was convenient! Your officers have disgraced the uniforms that they wear!”

Uncommon heroism, not to be expected, and yet, in a way, it has set a standard. How can anyone wear the uniform of a police officer or firefighter and not be aware of the incredibly high standard established by those brave men and women marching up those stairs to what they must have known would be their deaths, just on the chance that they might be able to save a few more people?

When I joined the Marines, our D.I. would come in every night and read us a bedtime story. It was always the Medal of Honor Citation for some Marine who had won that award. The message was unspoken, but clear. “These are the men whose company you want to join. By earning the right to wear the uniform, they are your brothers. Are you worthy?”

September 11th, 2001. May we never forget.

Equine Excrement

There is something oddly comforting about mucking out a barn. Mags and I have been house sitting for my folks this week, so that means twice a day I grab a barn rake and head out to take care of the horses. It’s a nasty, smelly job, particularly if Sugar, the mare, decides that she is upset about something and kicks the piles all over her stall. Still, there’s nothing particularly mentally or physically challenging about it, and it’s easy to fall into a rhythm. While the body is working, it gives the mind time to think.

This week it has given me plenty of time to think about my current difficulties with Mags, and what my part in our little drama has been. Last night, while I was doing the evening clean out after picking hooves, I had a disturbing, but relevant thought. I feel as if my life has fallen into a rut, and I’m desperate to get out of it.

It’s not like there’s anything going particularly wrong, in fact life is better than it has been in a long time, but it’s gotten predictable and a little boring. Weekdays, I get up at o weird thirty and get ready for work, by 7, I’m sitting at my desk, taking calls from people pissed off that their air conditioning isn’t working. (Soon, it’ll be taking calls from people whose heat isn’t working. Compared to the people without heat, people without air conditioning are at best mildly annoyed.) This continues until about three to three thirty, then it’s back home to feed the kids, make dinner, eat and then fiddle for an hour or two before its time to go to bed and get up to do it all over again.

There’s absolutely nothing objectionable about this (other than the o weird thirty part,) but it seems to be chaffing. I’ve been having trouble concentrating enough to read coherently, and even the computer games that I used to love have seemed pointless of late. In short, I feel as if I’ve slipped into a routine that is numbing my mind. A sick little part of me misses the dread of dealing with the next upcoming crisis, and the rush when the crisis was successfully dealt with.

I’m a little young, but is it possible I’m having a midlife crisis? If so, does this mean I get to by a flashy, totally inappropriate sports car and try to pick up women half my age? (This is no longer the instant ticket to jail that it once was, a truly frightening thought.)

This week has had a break to the routine, between house sitting and picking up Nib’s kids after school, things have been shaken up a little. I actually find myself looking forward to rushing out to get the boys from school after work. (They’re great boys, and now that we’ve gotten over the initial jitters, the half an hour of conversation that we have on the ride home is truly priceless.) I even find myself looking forward to dealing with the barn twice a day.

More data, I need to process it. I’ve been getting so much lately that I’m close to the point of overload. I’ll need to find some time this weekend to be by myself and try to digest everything.

Same Thing, Different Results?

All in all, yesterday was a good day. Work was a bit of a pain, in the “Oh my God! What am I going to find for these guys to do?” sort of sense. (But, then that’s what I do, we are either scrambling to find work for the guys or we’ve got more work than we can handle.) There was a flurry of activity right at the end, but I managed to get out in time to pick up the boys from school.

We’re starting to get into a routine, the boys were more willing to talk about what had happened during the day, and the sibling warfare was much less intense. They saved that for after I got them home. I’ve been coming in to chat for a couple of minutes after I drop them off, but I think I may need to stop that. I’m starting to get the sense that the boys are competing for my attention. I know they’re competing for their mother’s, and I really don’t need to be intruding on that. I’m going to miss it, the domestic bliss of seeing children getting home from school is touching my heart, but I have to remember, this is not my family.

When I got home, Mags had dinner waiting. She actually started to flirt with me, one thing lead to another, and we ended up going to bed early. She called it quits after two go-arounds, although I was raring to go again. She rightly pointed out that we had been at it for two and a half hours, and I needed to get up for work this morning. I got what I said I wanted; yet I still ended up staring at the ceiling after she fell asleep.

I guess I’m worried that we’re right back into the same old pattern. I make a big stink, there’s a huge fight, I get a tearful pledge that things are going to be different, and they do change. For about two weeks. I’m willing to accept what is happening on face value, and believe that things are truly different this time. Still the definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results. I want to believe that this time things are different, but I’m afraid they aren’t.

Despite the pain I’ve been through, I still love Mags. I don’t know what life would be like without her, and I’m afraid to try. Still, the Mags I miss really hasn’t been there for a while. Am I just holding on to a memory, hoping that things will go back to the way they were despite evidence to the contrary? I’m willing to give it a shot.

What Rough Beast, Its Hour Come At Last, Slouches Towards Bethlehem To Be Born?

I know I’m in mentally troubled waters when quotes from Nietzsche come to mind. Still given my current turmoil, it was sort of inevitable that old Friedrich would show up. What’s been running through my mind lately is a quote from the beginning of Thus spoke Zarathustra,
“Man is a rope, tied between beast and overman—a rope over an abyss..”

For all that I reject one of Nietzsche’s basic premises, that God is dead, I can’t help but admire him. His attempts to define morality in a context separate from the divine, while flawed, are useful nonetheless. If I were to come up with a similar thought on my own, I would probably say something about man being stretched between the diabolic and the angelic. I believe that we all have an angel and a demon within us, in potentia. The angel shines forth when we practice love, the demon comes out in fear and hate.

My personal demon has been stirring of late, feeding on my fear and fueling certain hungers. Given my history, when I was actively practicing my addiction, I know that I have the capacity to be a predator in the worst sense of the word. I was Nietzsche’s beast, totally uncaring for anything other than myself, totally unable to feel empathy for another being. In short, I was something of a monster, and I am glad beyond measure that I have left that part of my life behind. One of the greatest horrors in life is to see the capacity for evil, for chaos, in yourself. I’m not talking about the everyday, garden variety, make-no-plans fly by the seat of your pants chaos; I’m talking about the raw, unbridled, Neolithic chaos. KAOS

Still, my life has bumped up against another quotation (this time from Goethe,) “Love is an ideal thing, marriage a real thing; a confusion of the real with the ideal never goes unpunished.” My personal punishment has been an unhealthy dose of uncertainty and fear. In that vacuum I can feel the beast stirring. I have never been comfortable around someone else’s blood, my own is fine, but seeing someone else bleeding has always revolted me. Lately, to my great disgust, there has been an element of sick fascination in it. Not that I want to cause bleeding (were that the case I’d check myself in to the local psych ward immediately,) but a fascination that this is the stuff of life itself. I am disgusted and sickened by the thought in my rational mind, but (as I said) the beast is stirring.

Two other quotes seem relevant, the first from one of my favorite authors, Neil Gaiman:

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”

Also, to wind out, Good old Friedrich again: “Love is the state in which man sees things Most widely different from what they are.”

Prince Charming and the Fair Maid in Divorce Court

Reading Spider Robinson’s Callahan's Lady, I came across a supposition he made that has stuck in my head. Robinson contends that there are three purposes to marriage; three needs that marriage meets. Marriage provides financial, emotional, and sexual support.
That has to be one of the most succinct assessments I have ever read. Having come by this newfound insight, I was all ready to chide a friend of mine who has neatly split the three between different men in her life. One thing lead to another, and I didn’t get a chance to see her for a while. In the interim, I had an epiphany. Why is her approach so wrong?
Our society (she would say culture, but that’s another point of disagreement for another rant,) says that it is only acceptable to seek the three supports from the same individual. But is that really the best way to handle things?

Financial support: We’ve pretty much bollixed that. (Yet another one of the unintended consequences of Johnson’s Great Society.) It used to be that for an woman to receive financial support from a man, she was expected to respond by filling his emotional and/or sexual needs. (I use women in this example, because traditionally the man was the bread winner. In my own personal life, Mags and I have this backwards. In out entire married life, she has allowed me to make more than she does for exactly six months, then she went and got herself a better paying job and that was the end of that.) By providing a safety net, not only did the woman get a chance to escape from the possibly excessive needs of the man. (Even abusers are receiving emotional support from the abused. As sick and twisted as it is, it validates their masculinity.) Woman now had a chance to survive on her own without a man’s direct help. The rise of women in the workplace and the two career family have only hastened this severing.

Emotional support: Haven’t we always turned outside the marriage for additional support in this area? The wife with her girlfriends, and the husband with his drinking buddies?

Sexual support: Ah, here’s the kicker. This is the last of the supports that society insists come only from within the relationship. Despite the efforts of some of the more radical elements of the counter-culture in the seventies, the idea that it is only acceptable to get one’s sexual support from one’s spouse has held firm. The best that was achieved was taking the traditional definition that the only relationship suitable for receiving sexual support was marriage and broadened it to include the monogamous relationship with or without the blessing of the state. The AIDS epidemic has reinforced the idea that the only suitable place to receive sexual support is from a long-term, monogamous relationship.

Still, like any triangle, the FES support system is only as strong as it’s weakest leg. When confronted with a deficiency in one area, the idea of turning outside the relationship for support is frowned upon. (Rightly so, IMHO.) I also find it interesting that the two legs that the sexes seem to equate with each other are so totally different. It’s been my experience that women seem to see Emotional and Sexual support as linked, while men seem to pair Financial and Sexual. There are many variations on this and exceptions to the rule, but one only needs to look at "Men’s" and "Women’s" magazines to see this.
Magazines aimed at men tend to feature pictures of attractive, nude or scantily clad women and articles about all the latest (expensive) toys. The message being clear: "Make enough to afford these (the toys), and you’ll attract one of these (the desirable women.)"
Women’s magazines, on the other hand, (to borrow a line from Coupling) feature two hundred pages on why men are jerks, and an article on why you should wake one up with a blowjob.
My friend, by splitting the FES triangle apart, has managed to protect herself from the dangers of a relationship. If any part of the triangle falters, she can turn to the men fulfilling the other two legs for support in that area. The traditional couple, receiving all three legs from each other, are in a theoretically stronger position. Yet, should one of the legs falter, it endangered the entire relationship. Should the traditional relationship fail, the triangle comes crashing down, damaging or destroying the bulk of the primary support system.

I was raised to believe in happily ever after. Prince Charming, having rescued the Fair Maiden from the clutches of whatever danger had her in bondage, then settled down to a life of domestic bliss. In the world I came from, divorce was unheard of except in the most dire of circumstances. Even then, it carried a stigma that hung over the heads of the couple like a cloud.

Except in the real world, Prince Charming wakes up and rolls over one morning to find the Fair Maid has gotten older, put on weight, and lost interest in sex. What’s more, she has become cold and distant, and threatens to destroy him financially should he leave her. (Half the kingdom is HERS dammit!) Confused, he finds the sympathetic ear of a local bar-maid. If things go really wrong, he takes the cute girl to bed, and the Fair Maiden finds out. Soon, the kingdom is locked up in divorce court while Prince Charming and the Fair Maid are spitting venom at each other.
When it works right, the FES system can make a relationship stronger. When it breaks down it is devastating. Which way is right? Or is it a matter of the person? I can’t figure this one out.

Dulcinea and Aldonza, (revisited)

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Man of LaMancha a lot lately. Yesterday I was reflecting on the importance of seeing Aldonza through the Dulcinea. Reflection last night had me reversing the thought. What about the importance of seeing Dulcinea in Aldonza? Aldonza is the real, but what about holding onto the ability to see the ideal? I turn to the libretto from the musical:

Aldonza
(Having been assaulted and raped by two muleteers, pissed that their usual piece has gotten airs of grandeur, Aldonza takes out he wrath on Don Quixote.)

Take the clouds from your eyes
and see me as I really am!

You have shown me the sky,
But what good is the sky
To a creature who'll never
Do better than crawl?

Of all the cruel bastards
Who've badgered and battered me,
You are the cruelest of all!
Can't you see what your gentle
Insanities do to me?
Rob me of anger and give me despair!
Blows and abuse I can take and give back again,
Tenderness I cannot bear! S
o please torture me now
With your "Sweet Dulcineas" no more!
I am no one! I'm nothing!
I'm only Aldonza the whore!

The hazards of hope. This is what the world can (and often does) do to those who dare to dream. Still, when Don Quixote lies dying, she comes back to him and begs for a return of the dream:

Dulcinea... Dulcinea...
Once you found a girl
And called her Dulcinea,
When you spoke the name
An angel seemed to whisper...
Dulcinea... Dulcinea...

Dulcinea... Dulcinea...
Won't you please bring back
The dream of Dulcinea...
Won't you bring me back
The bright and shining glory
Of Dulcinea... Dulcinea...

The dreams do matter; hope does matter. Hope can indeed kill (as it does Don Quixote shortly thereafter.) But surely lack of hope can kill much more swiftly and surely. Without hope and dreams, the world is a terrible place.

I have had several years of wonder in my life. Times when everything went just right, and the world was filled with joy and hope. There were probably periods of hardship within those times, but I cannot remember anything but the joy. Are those periods in my life any less real than the times of trouble? Of course, they were often followed by periods of deep despair, as the cares of the world came rushing back in. The memory of the wonderful times was too fresh and new, and the contrast was, at times, too much to stand.

Yet for all of that, I wouldn’t trade a single one of those times for anything. I crave the next one as strongly as I ever craved a drink. Particularly in times, like now, when my life is a mess, I find myself yearning to return to a period of joy.

“And in the end, all of life is a series of pictures on the brain; with no difference between those born of outward experience, and those born of inward dreaming. And with no reason to value one over the other.” -H.P. Lovercraft, “The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kaddath”

Dulcinea and Aldonza

It is always a painful experience to have one’s illusions shattered. We live in a comfortable fog, seeing what we want to see and ignoring what we don’t. In many ways, it is what allows our society to function, allowing us to ignore some of our fellow human’s more egregious faults. Still, occasionally, one hits a perfect set of circumstances in life that prevent these illusions from continuing. When these circumstances happen with your fellow citizens, they can lead to shock, revulsion, and withdrawal.

When they happen with your spouse, the effect is devastating.

I woke up two Saturdays ago, and realized that I really didn’t know the woman asleep in bed next to me. This revelation had been building for some time, so I can’t really say it was all that sudden, but the impact hit me like a punch in the gut.

I reacted with hurt and anger, directed both inwardly and outwardly. I questioned my choice of a mate. I questioned her motivations. I questioned my own sanity.

Now that I have had a chance to truly calm down, (writing this blog has helped a lot,) I’ve come to a shocking realization. What I was truly angry about was my own capacity to deceive myself. Mags hadn’t really been anyone other than who she is. True, some of her more outrageous personality traits had been coming out, but they had always been there, and I had just chosen to ignore them.

In the story of Don Quixote, the good Don comes across a tavern wench named Aldonza. He instantly sees her as the embodiment of courtly love, and dubs here Dulcinea. Aldonza, ever the practical girl, wants nothing to do with this crazy old coot who is suddenly speaking to her of the finer things in life. In the musical version, The Man of Lamancha, she actually delivers one of the most powerful songs damning him for making her look beyond her station, and causing her to dream dreams of what could be.

Is the greater love to ignore the loved one’s faults, or to recognize them and love anyway? At the same time, isn’t a great part of love seeing the other person’s capabilities and rejoicing in what they could be? Part of what I love in Mags is the me that I see reflected in her eyes. I strive to be the man that she sees me as.