Man. Bonding is an intense experience.
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December 18, 2011, 11:52 pm in public
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Finding myself in the odd position of discovering I’ve been judged for being openly polyamorous. It’s sad and uncomfortable to me to know that, but I’m also incredibly grateful for the amazing, diverse community of accepting, loving people in my life. You guys make it easy to forget how rare that actually is. Thank you. ♥ December 17, 2011, 2:02 pm in public
Honoring the right of a person to fuck up on occasion, the retroactive removal of expectations, and letting go of the need to be the restorer of justice by putting down the bag of evidence I’ve been carrying and moving on. Yeah. :) I like that. December 15, 2011, 4:58 am in public
Among the everyday occurrences of this and growing up with a military Dad, at one point I spent a year and a half with a sociopathic partner who incorporated this kind of emotional manipulation to cover up his lies. It nearly cost me my mind, and my life. Though I’ve virtually eliminated this kind of treatment of myself in current times, the PTSD from that horrifying relationship experience, and other significant experiences of emotional nullification, can still significantly overwhelm my interactions. Man or woman, read about what’s covertly happening to us, and don’t fucking tolerate this being done to you anymore. Use your voice to stand up for yourself, to educate and empower others around you, and take back your emotional body for the intuitive, amazing gift that it is.
Yashar will be soon releasing his first short e-book, entitled, A Message To Women From A Man: You Are Not Crazy — How We Teach Men That Women Are Crazy and How We Convince Women To Ignore Their Instincts. If you are interested and want to be notified when the book is released, please click here to sign-up. I hope you will join him on Facebook and follow him on Twitter. This piece originally appeared on The Current Conscience Original article can be found at http://www.huffingtonpost.com/yashar-hedayat/a-message-to-women-from-a_1_b_958859.html December 12, 2011, 10:06 am in updates
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Sometimes it doesn’t matter how many times you’ve been somewhere with someone new trying to replace the past that’s attached to it, or how many times you wear something over and over again trying to rid it of a scent that still seems to live in it, or how many days, years, months or seasons go by – there will always seem to be that one memory much stronger than the rest that your heart will remember the most. December 8, 2011, 5:49 pm in public
There’s this time in every significant relationship where things are simply dripping in awesome. Life is flowing through everything you do with one another, you stand stronger on your own, the layers you skillfully peel away together reveal excitement, reverence and possibility. The processes are as enjoyable as the outcomes and it’s impossible to not at least occasionally catch yourself wishing and hoping that you may have found a fountain of perpetual fairy tale bliss that may just never have to end. And then someone fucks up. And shit gets real. In the most recent case, that someone was me. I found this detail highly inconvenient. It’s usually not me, at least not the first significant trial, but regardless of when it happens, the first time I royally screw up signifies a very particular point in the everlasting, yet constantly progressing cycle that is my relationship with relationships. It signifies a very important and basic test, a subconscious impulse that demands verification: Is this thing real. One side of a coin is not a real coin. Until you suffer challenge together, you don’t know the strength you may have in a bond. But until you’ve suffered the inevitable fallibility in the other person, until you know what that looks like, and how they handle themselves, and you, when it happens, you don’t know if that bond even truly exists. At least, I don’t. Or at least, some small hologram that periodically takes the wheel inside me doesn’t. So, that happened. I fucked up and it broke us both open and we were awesome and authentic about it and continue to progress as individuals and as a couple because of it. I’m not proud of it but I’ve worked through the vast majority of my guilt regarding my actions and I continue to learn a little bit more every few days. I demand integrity and truthfulness and breadth in my significant interpersonal experiences. But real, as much as I covet and search for and insist upon it, is god damn fucking scary. She wants you to fail that test. She wants to stay right, to have (job) security, to stay alive, to keep doing what she knows and does so well it’s almost sickening: Protecting the rest of me. And she’s incessant, she’s crafty and wise and skeptical, she’s righteous and wants to be right because her being right inevitably means less hurt. And that’s who bursting the bubble makes real, inside, for me. That’s when the shadows step in. That’s when insecurity starts nipping away at my confidence, when I start periodically shutting down emotionally and not knowing why, when I become ambivalent and oscillate between intense attachment and wanting the fuck out. Cause once it’s real, I have something to lose. Something else to invest in, give myself to, protect and foster and fight for, and fucking lose. And that just fucks up everything. She’s on. She’s fucking AWAKE. And it permeates everything in my life. I periodically want to leave my job, stop teaching aerial, give up music, get rid of all my shit, and disappear. Travel light. Travel light, and survive. I used to think it was all guilt. Once I stepped out of my integrity with someone, and treated them poorly in some way, the guilt ate my resolve away. I thought I felt muted and inconsistent because I deserved to for whatever it was I did, whatever thing I inflicted in my fucked up gauntlet I make the people close to me run. And I could imagine all kinds of things, even things that I hadn’t even done yet and may never do, that made me a bad person and a bad partner who was better off, and made others better off, alone. As well as I’m able to see this stuff in a relatively short timeframe, I’m still blindsided the test. It wouldn’t be a subconscious thing if I wasn’t, but god damn it if I don’t feel like I should see it coming. I’ve figured out that I feel muted and inconsistent afterwards because I’m threatened somehow, but knowing that doesn’t make it feel any less natural when it happens. I’m just being me, and everything feels fine. Monosaturated, but fine. I finally saw her today. She’s about 12, with long, stringy, dirty blond hair. She’s wet, and cold, and dirty, standing inside a stone cave, Indiana Jones style. She’s holding something, like a torch or a specter, stationed outside a huge, heavy door. She’s collected, logical, matter of fact and appears unphasable, but there’s a look in her face that tells you she’ll tear your jaw off with her teeth if you step sideways at her too quickly. She radiates old soul, intimidation, and is undeniably smarter than you. She’s the part of me that mama bears. She’s the one who stands up for the people around her because no one stood up for her. She’s the child that was so impressively mature. She’s constantly tense, constantly on guard. She’s intense and serious. She doesn’t sleep. She’s defined by her duty and by what lies behind that door. She’s the one who understands that there’s always a motive for someone to attack and try to steal what she’s charged to protect. She’s wrung out and full of endurance at the same time. She’s emotionally muted because she has to concentrate, obsessed with finding a breaking point and getting rid of you. And she has no fucking idea what it is she’s guarding. All the time I’ve known about this test, from the first “I’ll try to run eventually” warning I gave to this last “Aww, man, not again — What the fuck did I do that for?!”, I thought it was about the staying. It’s always been about the staying. Can they? Will they? Now? What about now? Oop, apparently it was time to test again, agh, I’m such a jerk. What, you’re still here? Really? Why? Sheesh, you’re fucking stupid. Again! Again again! .. This is boring. You know what, just.. nevermind. The test is never satisfied because it’s not about the staying. I want it to be that easy, and for a long time I’ve stayed in some version of this corrosive loop where the all-telling test us supposed to solve everything and prove I’m capable of becoming comfortable being close with someone, if I just run it one. More. Time. But it’s not. It’s about all the other shit that comes after the staying. All that scary shit I actually want. And it’s all behind that door. Another ingenious, beautiful, incredibly effective, creative, awe inspiring, bulldog stubborn, self inflicted fucking masterpiece of a booby trap. Fuck. October 29, 2011, 4:21 am in public
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Though it’s often looked like it to me, feeling insecure doesn’t lead to the matter of somehow behaving unlike myself. It leads to the matter of utter confusion as to which part of me I want to wear. September 18, 2011, 4:37 pm in public
It’s getting cold. Gusty. Leaves are just starting to wither and float crisply away. Even with only a whisper of what summer used to be in Seattle, I like this season. I like the destruction and death leading the way to renewal. I like the layers, the heavy coats, the warm scarves around my neck. I like the hot baths I take just to warm up. I like the season, the food, my birthday, the sense of nesting and home. I even, dare I say, am beginning to like the holidays, and the opportunity they provide me to create my own rituals and traditions around them. Opportunities to bond with the people around me, and sometimes, the people around them. I’m even sensing a readiness, an ever so slightly coiled spring, for the emotional crush I’ve felt every long, dark season. I can take this again — some new version of what happens every winter, another agonizing layer of skin I’ll shed and make into something that actually makes a difference in this world. My tools are sharper, my mind is finer tuned, and my safety net spans wider every day. Seriously. See the fucking show. September 18, 2011, 4:00 pm in public
August 18, 2011, 4:07 am in public
Summary video of my two week solo road trip, taken from my laptop webcam over the course of the 2500 mile drive. The music is Desert, Day 1, from the Fallout: New Vegas Soundtrack — which is excellent driving music, by the way.
This was, roughly, the route I took. There were a few stops I didn’t map that were within a few miles of other destinations or along the way. I took a fair number of pictures in the first week, and not so many after that. My deepest gratitude goes to my friends and family for all that they did — cars, equipment, meals, hotels, support, interest, text messages, emergency kits, parties, massages, cuddles, movies, phone calls, crash spaces, sex, drugs, rock n’ roll, music, lock picks, books, advice, appreciation, excitement, and much more — to make this trip the profoundly therapeutic epic healing catharsis it became. I don’t have pictures of everyone who contributed, (um.. there were women too. Really!) but here are a few. Thank you. July 26, 2011, 3:02 am in public
Memories I’d long forgotten of the first show are flooding back. The pieces of music I never stopped listening to suddenly lurch me into the vibrating, broken, torn vessel I occupied then. I can feel the urgency, the jagged crystalline pain I was impaled on, like the soul of me I poured into that show is suddenly rising up out of the floor and pooling under my feet.
I remember the other side, too. The stress, the frustration with the venue, that fucking cigar box, the ulcers. The drinking. Being a new director, going through a very public and polarizing breakup, being filled with hatred. Having been forced out of my space for most of the rehearsal process for the show. Not knowing who I could trust. Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser. When I hear this song begin now, each time, I can feel myself being picked up from that red stage and set down next to Shawn. Every show, I relived the depths of despair I am capable of, brought it out and away and through me. Every show, I tried not to cry there, laying naked in a fetal position, offering myself to our audience and their paintbrushes. Most shows, I failed. Each time I laid there face to face with him, Shawn, who was supposed to be playing dead, did something to assure me. Every time, it was a different, unrehearsed gesture. Once he took my hand. Another time we met eyes for a moment. Every time, he did something unique and tender to show me I was loved and appreciated for what I was putting myself through, and that he was there to support me. Even if I cried, when I was supposed to be dead.
I can sense again the unspoken connection in being so naked, so raw, and so honest about what it is to be in the dark. What it is to BE the dark. Why it is that I do what I do. Over these last two years, I’ve said more than once that I would never do this show again. That what it was meant to do had been done, I didn’t want to revisit those wounds, I didn’t have anything more to say. I lied. July 16, 2011, 2:00 pm in quotes
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“He who has a why can endure any how.” – Friedrich Nietzsche July 15, 2011, 10:56 pm in public
Wing Chun was the perfect movie to watch tonight. Thank you, Sophia. Hm. In revisiting my last post (sometimes I revisit them periodically for the first day or two to keep checking in whether I want it public or not) I just noticed another change in how I interact with the internet — I no longer post things as members only if I realize I only want one or two people to be unable to see it. Expressing myself to a public audience when I think a stranger might actually benefit from what I have to say has become more important to me than protecting myself or someone else from looking like a dickhead. Huh. Wonder what that’s all about. Maybe neevita will eventually go public like phuqed was. Sean made me wonder in his comment on “Of Hope and Romance” about The One. I had already been thinking about the shape of my relationships throughout my life, how I engage, fall, bond, and break away. How it feels, how I almost crave the journeys through my relationships knowing they will probably end, how I seem to get off on the first breakup and enjoy engaging in that intense test of a relationship. I must enjoy it — I’ve only made a clean break once, and I’ve been a part of quite a few failed romances. Each and every one has been an artistic goldmine in some fashion, whether it be a slew of productivity or a giant leap in my understanding of myself as a lifeforce. The coping is almost a reward, a sickening, twisted, sinfully painful fucking amazing learning and growth experience that I get to express to people and release into the world and touch lives with. Making my art feels the best when I’m screaming it into someone’s aching ear, and I think I make my best art over heartache. I think my art may be The One. I am incapable of staying unattached and also incapable of attaching. I fear no mere mortal stands a chance at more than two years entwined with me, but I do wonder how my existence would be altered were I to view my muse as my primary relationship. Would I be embracing reality, or self fulfilling the prophecy that I will be searching and churning for sustainable, passionate love the rest of my days? What the fuck kind of fucking weirdass life am I living here? July 15, 2011, 6:18 pm in public
When I was about 8 years old, we lived in a trailer on 5 acres of land in the country. Our yard was gated with a big wide metal farm gate that I, as copilot if our little Nissan sentra, was frequently tasked to open. One day, as I leaned on the side of the car with my open hand, I slammed the door closed (it had to be slammed to latch) onto my thumb. I felt a weird numby stab, realized what I had done, decided I was dumb for having done it, yanked my hand out of the doorjam, and decided I wouldn’t tell my dad what happened all in about a quarter of a second. I calmly and collectedly walked in front of the car toward the gate as if nothing had happened, for a total of about 5 steps. At that point a wave of unbelievably intense pain washed through me and my legs went out from under me. I doubled over and started screaming, clutching the base of my thumb, watching the rest of it turn purple and swell in front of my eyes. My Dad was pretty confused at first, but very reactive and concerned. He acted in military medicine fashion and stuck my thumb in ice water. Over the next few weeks, I slowly lost my thumbnail. So gross. When I yanked my hand clear and started walking, I thought ensuredly that i would be fine. And further into my life, this immediate delayed disconnect with pain and damage has continued, even as I’ve learned to know better. When I shaved the tip of my toe off on the sidewalk while taking a full speed corner in sandles. My excessive drug abuse as a teen. After labia surgery when I couldn’t find the incision where I was expecting it. Falling off an rope and breaking my back. After hitting four obstacles downhill on my bike and not realizing I’d broken my elbow. And, most repeatedly, after braving an emotional tide and getting cracked over jagged rocks. I don’t know where I got this idea that seeing something coming is supposed to make it hurt less. Like watching someone hit me in the face with a bat or piss away my affection with mediocrity and lies is supposed to change the blow for the better somehow. Like it’s supposed to transform the damage into something else and I’m not supposed to have to really fucking feel it. I don’t know where I got it but it’s hard to put down, it’s embedded, even with the mounting evidence that it actually hurts more to get hit in my open eyes than the back of my thick, ignorant head. Somewhere in that deep baseline of me, I am still that girl who raises her chin, walks 5 steps, and falls the fuck apart anyway. Don’t fucking touch me. July 7, 2011, 10:01 am in quotes
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“Anyone who says their problem is that they love too much is only referring to themselves.” – Andrew Cardillo June 30, 2011, 11:57 am in public
In 2005, I discovered a movie called The Red Violin, and wrote this post about it. Letting that film take me where it wanted to was one of those experiences where suddenly, and fully, I felt like someone in the world understood me. At the time, I was switching from trick based badassery on rope to storytelling and audience connection on silks, going through therapy for the first time, and grieving. So, it was pretty perfect timing to be open to a little guidance via art. That Red Violin feeling faded of course, over time, but the influence of that experience didn’t. That influence has been walking with me, slightly behind and inside my shadow, quietly informing how I’ve grown into who I am and what I believe in, along with those core-cutting influences that came before and after it. Like The Matrix, Inception, Donnie Darko, and Batman Begins. And I hope that Obsidian, HASML, Not Applicable and Zita are that as well – core-cutting influences that alter the lives of those who dare to truly see what they are. I realize now that that film was what planted the seed for bloodwork, which grew out of the death of my most unsettling romance to date three years after seeing it. Before Red Violin, I’d only really heard of raging nutcases and crappy artists slicing themselves to bleed on paper or squatting on a canvas during that time of the month. Both methods were primal and valid but lacked a polish and higher purpose to it that I find needs to be present for me to appreciate. The Red Violin helped me see that there was an element to placing that profound amount of self and energy into physical art that was more eloquent and meaningful to me. So, last night, I finally hit that bump in the road of interpersonal change, and felt discouraged and lonely. As I loaded up the movie on netflix, remembering the intense connection I felt with the idea of a bereft and lovesick man varnishing the last violin he would ever make in a way that would go on to touch the world for centuries, I realized the closest name I knew for what that was, and something in my guts sank. I updated facebook: I think I might be a god damn hopeless romantic. How utterly fucking embarrassing. For a moment I wasn’t sure if I was crying out of recognition and understanding or out of disappointment in myself. So I was a bit.. grumpy. Especially when, within a half hour, I had 30 comments on my status entry of the notion “Um.. duh, Courtnee. We all knew that.”. Like a lot of turns of phrases and concepts, the idea of romanticism has been horribly mangled and molested in our modern, superficial world. When I think of hopeless romantics, I think first of those fucking one-dimensional people with their idealized version of “love” being nothing but positivity and sunshine and fucking cupcakes that don’t make my ass explode, who avoid all life experience besides ‘fun’ and ‘being happy’ and lack the courage to truly LIVE, let alone connect in depth with another human being deserving of being loved for their whole person. Or worse, I think of those insufferable overdramatic assholes who think a one true soul mate is going to fall down from the sky into their lap, that they’ll recognize it instantly and fall completely and madly into an all-encompassing love that never wavers or changes, and believe they simply DESERVE a happily ever after without any fucking effort or personal responsibility, and throw a petulant crybaby fit if that’s not what they get. Yeah, so I basically think most people who identify as hopeless romantics are misguided douches, and just haven’t had their eyes open long enough to know better. Which meant these people, my friends, knew I was a delusional asshat and didn’t tell me. Christ. Just let the world end already. It may be true that a lot of dumbasses identify themselves as such, but actual Romanticism, it turns out, really explains a lot of things about me, and isn’t a damn thing like what I’ve identified it as being. But really, even of the kinds of romantics I mentioned hating up there, I wouldn’t mind being one – if I actually believed consistently that there is ‘someone’ out there for me. I really just don’t. My standards for partnership are high, and yet my chemistry is drawn to weak willed wishy-washy lying fucking jerks. Clearly I’m forever doomed to clumsy polymorphic trigger-shy dating, rewarding but sexless singledom (Oh The HUMANITY!), being in an unfulfilling partnership, or being captivated and dealing with a bunch of inappropriate hurt and horseshit and drama. Between this and my recent discovery of the Always Broken Goddess, however, I may at least be on track for discovering, and cultivating the foolproof capability of articulating, my deepest emotional and spiritual beliefs. That’s a big step in the right direction and proof, at least to me, that my failed attempts at my ideal romance are giving me lots of good stuff in the long run. .. *sigh* A long time ago, I thought the key was growing past looking for someone to complete me. Apparently, there’s a lot to it even after that. June 28, 2011, 10:33 pm in public
Monday finally broke my numb shell, I’ll be crying tonight, finally, I think, but in the ‘I have shit to process’ way while feeling supported and loved rather than the ‘I’m so lonely’ way. Thank you. Please keep registering with marrow.org and encouraging our extensive community to do so as well. Any one of you could be the key to saving an integral part of our family. |
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