Film fantasy

Film fantasy

In the film world – families have warm and close interpersonal connections, or even people have such connections with friends. Lifelong friends who are there for you through thick and thin. In real life, family members are distant and indifferent, and perfectly okay with that. Funerals, memorials, and spreading of ashes are not that important, not that meaningful. Sometimes they don’t even happen. That’s how it played out in my family with my supposedly much-loved mother.

Apparently what I was told in literature class at the beginning is true, that people use art to create worlds we can experience that are an idealized escape from the real world. I never believed that. I thought art was about truth. But it’s about beauty, which often doesn’t exist in the real world because it gets trampled or ground up in a machine. In the real world things happen that I couldn’t have ever imagined.

Over the past couple years I have learned that:

  • Someone may intentionally cross their property boundary over into Crown land and log 30-40 trees, gathering enough wood to heat a cabin for a year or more, possibly even selling the wood.
  • Someone may, without authorization, introduce a fish species into a lake and then introduce its predator species two years later, hoping to fish that predator.
  • And then there’s all those people who don’t keep their promises because their feelings changed.

 

Makeup

I have never understood makeup. That is, I have never worn it. I don’t mean, “only on special occasions” as when other people have told me they “never wear makeup.” I have never worn it in public. I’ve mucked around in the bathroom and I looked like a freak, could never make sense of it.

Oddly enough, I’m quite excellent at painting on paper or canvas. It’s not the painting skill I lack. I’m in the top few percent of colour perception. But social perception – somewhere in the bottom. And makeup is about social perception. I … don’t … get it. See, women dress up colourfully to impress each other, but somehow that also has to do with getting a mate. As with birds. I relate to the crows and robins – both sexes look basically the same. They mate forever. They don’t need to have breeding plumage each year to compete for a new mate. I don’t play that game. I am a geek, I might as well be a guy, with t-shirt and shorts or jeans, depending on time of year.

And then recently I saw a performance by the male bellydancer I’m so fond of. I captured a screenshot of his pleased side-glance, with heavy kohl-type eyeliner.

Now, finally, I want to wear makeup. I don’t think heavy kohl eyeliner is the best thing for a pale, white-haired, pink-faced woman over 50 with zero fashion sense, but it’s what appeals to me.

I never had the experience I imagine is common for most women – the playing with makeup with friends experience of teenage years and later. I mean we didn’t have the Internet in those days, so we couldn’t google makeup techniques. I assume people did it together.  There are books, but probably most people learned from each other.

From books, I learned how to pluck hair out of my face. The book, “The eyebrow,” yes, a book only on that topic, instructed me. But now I spend 4x as much time plucking hairs out of my chin. Pretty much every other day. It’s not makeup, it’s not adding anything. It’s removing something to create a more groomed appearance.

I might as well throw in that I’ve been accused of wearing makeup at times!!! Wow! Actually it was just that I used Facercise by Carole Maggio, awesome facial exercises that plump up muscles and create bloodflow, resulting in rosy cheeks and brightened skin tone under the eyes. Wonderful stuff.

Looking “good” makes it easier for people to connect, to look at your face. It’s good for confidence, too. I just have never worn makeup to get those effects.

But now I want the heavy black kohl eyes. Probably like what the Rolling Stones had back somewhere in the late 60s. Which video was that again? I’m kind of a pop music fiend, but it escapes me right now.

White hair and black kohl eyes. Right.

A void

A void

I’m writing into a void, but at least I’m writing, not avoiding. I wish I could tell people I know, but I’ve learned they don’t want to hear, so I’m going further afield. Maybe it will result in the same reaction: “Don’t wanna hear it. It’s a downer.”

It may be a downer, but it’s my downer. It’s my life.  My life that, according to nature, shouldn’t have been. But wait! Humans are part of nature, too. And humans, doctors, are what allowed me to be born. Saved my mother’s life during the gestation, and saved mine after the birth. And then let me rot in misery, of course. Life is sacred. But it’s all about quantity, long before quality.

And I like the good kind, so I tend to complain about quality.

I’m proud of myself for not just sitting back and taking it. Taking “the disability route,” hiding behind my curtains. My sister took that route, decided her mental and back issues were enough that she shouldn’t work. Her choice. I feel pretty disabled by being a social retard, but there’s no official category for that and apparently I don’t fit autism spectrum, nor am I paying two to three thousand bucks as an adult to confirm that. A diagnosis isn’t going to fix my life. I tend not to fit categories, anyway. As I said, I’m a unicorn – and not food-colouring rainbows like the current food fad, but a unicorn on a deeper level. My essence. And, no, I don’t fart rainbows.

 

Update: PS, the “rainbow” shown is actually a type of interpreted satellite image called a fringe. I borrowed the image and can’t remember from where, but there are many many similar images around. Sorry for the attribution fail! It won’t happen again.

My life is over?

My life is over?

I’ve definitely felt this for several years. My marriage going down the toilet amplified the feeling and showed that I even screwed up in the one thing that I thought would save me.

And now I’m chasing after something else to fix my life, a new career? A year of job applications got me one interview, but no job. Now I’m trying “networking”, ie connecting with people in the fields I’m interested in. And someone is supposed to like me and if there’s a mutual fit I could be in?

I don’t fit. I never have belonged. I always had to struggle to even play the role of fitting anywhere. I’m a unicorn. I’ll explain next time. I’m spending over $2000 to go to various learning and networking events so that I can connect with people in fields of interest, find out what I need to know, and ultimately make a career change. I fear that “what I need to know” is that “this is not the place for me.” Fifty-five years of that message has brought me much despair.

Taking these steps, making these decisions – it doesn’t feel natural, doesn’t feel comfortable. There are moments of excitement and many more of terror.

When I met my sweetheart, we were both despairing of this world, wanting out, and then hoping for salvation in each other. Turns out we just hurt each other. He found his salvation elsewhere, blaming me a thousandfold with hailstorms of criticism, along the way. I feel so beaten down since our connection failed. I thought we had a plan and a life together, to the end.

In the end, as in the beginning, I am alone and hurting.

Acceptance and letting go

Acceptance and letting go

I would prefer to hang onto old, cracked, and shabby things. Wabi-sabi is good enough for me, and preferable to new and shiny. But in this case I concede the need to let go.

We aren’t comfortable with each other, and haven’t been since the separation. That’s almost two years ago now, and things weren’t great before that. When he ended our sex life, that was the death knell. He thinks I caused the dead bedroom, whereas to me, clearly, I was willing to carry on and he was not.  As with everything else.

Was it ever good? Was it ever secure? There were brief moments of basking in the wonder of seeming-closeness, but it was never that good. Always insecurity lurked in my question, “How can you love me?” Oh, right, you really don’t. Punch in the gut: I accepted this state of being, this lack of connection. Can I connect with anyone, ever?

I remember once I was trying to make conversation with a colleague that I disliked. Suddenly he burst out with, “You’re not connecting with me.” I was astounded. Back in those days, the concept of connecting with someone was not really a frame of reference for me. People have never been an area of expertise for me. Marketing, diplomacy, influence? I’m the opposite, a geek of some sort.

But with my former sweetheart, I thought we would grow together, nurture each other, always care about each other. He said a few times recently that he cares in his own way. Hmm, a way that includes absolute unilateral demands out of nowhere, shifting goal posts, and General Madness (the guy in yesterday’s post. See painting.) I don’t like being cared for in that way. It’s better than being hated, but cold comfort, that.

I hate to let go, but I have to accept that we aren’t going to sit down and sort it out between us. He wouldn’t do that two, three years ago, never mind now. Oh, and the capper, something he said somewhere during the last year. He was always afraid of me. Now it’s my fault that he put himself below me. He had fear; that must be my fault. I don’t believe that, but I know that’s how he sees it. I always saw that he put himself below me. Then suddenly he put himself above me. I don’t think we were ever equal, and equality is a thing that seems critical to me. Equal partners. My ideal, not his.

So it’s “Good” Friday, a time of ending, of suffering, of seeing my own failings, and having compassion. Yes, I have it for him, but today it will be for me. I have never had enough of it.

I’m not a Catholic or a christian or even religious in the slightest, so I googled what Easter is all about. Amazingly, the term “Happy Easter” can actually mean “Talk to the hand” or “Fuck off bitch,” apparently. I say this because of an unfortunate interaction I had with noisy people outside my door today. After claiming the hallway was not a transitional area but rather more of a hangout type social area where loitering was perfectly appropriate, this woman tried to end the discussion by saying “Happy Easter,” ie “Talk to the hand” of Seinfeld fame. I guess her happy Easter didn’t include having any compassion for someone driven mad by her group-yap right outside my door.

So, I can accept and let go, but there are fresh new irritants around every corner, it seems. I don’t use religious euphemisms like “Talk to the hand,” so I translated it for her then and there.