The Naked Head

The other day the boy asked me to shave his head. When was the last time that I picked up a set of clippers? It was to my own head. Before that there were a few vital strokes before my eldest brother marched off into the military, and permanently beyond my understanding. I was terrified. Not now, but back then. I had never experienced someone leaving home. He was the first in our family to go. Looking back I cannot even remember a time when he seemed to be there. I distinctly remember my other brother. Our resources crossed often and there was constant bickering between us. I just can't remember my older brother living with us, even when his room was just across the upstairs landing from mine. That is my brother, a ghost, the eternally absent figure. I have no proof that he hasn't changed, and yet isn't that proof enough? Still, even though he wasn't actually there, I was terrified to see him go. I remember the sound of the clippers when we plugged them in, and how important I felt as I took the first stroke from his hair. The lessons I learned that night were deep and passed on to every generation. I learned about submission and pride. There is a proper way to submit. Submission needs to be accompanied by an act of defiance. There is always a line. Always burn something so that they can't take it. Always submit first to yourself. Surrender. Take the spoils, and let your captor have the leftovers. It was a stupid lesson. Surrender and pride. It always is.

But the other day there was no surrender and no pride. There was a certain level of trust and the giggles that accompany it. I was still nervous, but the thrill that I got from removing his head was much more fulfilling than the terrible thrill that I had on that night so many years ago. The buzzing of the clippers was intoxicating. I liked the feel of them in my hand, despite their weak current. I remembered the way it felt, for so many years, to trim up the sides of my head. I loved having my mohawk. In san francisco there was no political or social statement surrounding it. It was not about being different or fitting in. People barely noticed the geen wired pigtails. No, it was about loving my body and listening to how it wanted to be represented, and I missed it. By the time I had finished shaving the boy's head I had made a decision. My hair had to go.

After we finished his hair there was a moment of pinning, referencing pictures on the internet and a reorganization of the pins. Then there was a deep breath and staring into the mirror as the man that I love took away a small patch of my hair. Comparatively it wasn't much, just the tiniest hint at freedom. Freedom. Really, that is what it feels like. The freedom of wind on my scalp. The freedom on his fingers petting the tiniest patches of fur. The freedom to look how I want. Yes- what was once pride and surrender has transformed magically into a treatise on freedom. And, how free have I found myself over the years? Through the slavery of state and society I have burned a slight hole, burrowed myself in, and can safely say- I have tasted freedom. 

On Movement aand Experience

Yesterday the sun was shinning and aas I walked from campus to campus I trailed my fingers on the rails and had a itching desire in my belly to allow my feet aan extra freedom of movement. I saw the world as so much more than flat. It had so many surfaces that begged to be jumped upon and enjoyed. I watched my cohort moving from class to class, a line of efficiency. One foot in front of the other, shoulders back, head up, destination and goal. I wanted to laugh, to cry, to express in some physical way, but mostly just to move. Bodies are meant to be enjoyed. Movement should be something pleasurable. But I restrained myself. I wish I could say I don't know why, but I knnow that I caaved to the restraints of social expectation. I covered my joy, and life because I didn't want to attract attention.
This morning I dug out my mp3 player to have some music on the bus. A world seen through music is quite different from a world seen in its native sounds. It takes on the story of a music video. I was listening to Parov Stellar, aa nice swingy beat, and the buildings came to life more vibrantly than they have for the past 4 months. I thought about intentional meditation and when you can actually start teaching a child awareness practice without frustrating their natural developmental progress by demanding too much, too soon. I felt the sunshine and although it is wet here I can't help but compare it to Tucson in its mildness this late into the season. Then it started. A little head bob, the tapping on my fingers. Curbs became much more than a step but an excuse to elongate my legs, stretch out my toes, to pause and feel weight and gravity. To understand movement.
Oh, how I yearn to dance. None of this hiding in dark discotechs with drink in hand. I want sober, intentional, playful movement of bodies under the full exposure of the sun. I want a campout filled with love and joy and laughter and above all, expression.
Desire is fun, movement is better. Life is good.

Family is Family

I am not particularly close to my blood relatives. The distance has become so ingrained and so natural that I was actually, honestly suprised when my parents very easily said that they would fly across the world in order to attend my wedding. My father hates to fly. I have not forgotten that about him, and my mother has never left the country except for quick border hops into mexico and canada back when they did not count as actual excursions from the United States. I had an expectation that they would think about it for awhile and ultimately the trip would be too much for them, and they would just wait for me to come home in a year or so in order to meet my fiancee. They suprised me though. Within a week they had applied for passports, bought airline tickets, and started a packing list. They searched through my left-behind luggage that has been carelessly stored with them for years to find my grandmother's wedding ring and my prom dress. They have offered to help in any way that they can, including paying for hotels for me and my fiancee when needed. It has been an overwhelming show of love and support, and I have been truly touched.
My familial identity has never been an easy one. From a very young age I was the black sheep of the family. My brothers were more outgoing, and more like my parents. I was this far-off dreamer that, really, very few people could reach. I was a stubborn child, not in any loud or rebellious way, but in a way that made it difficult to form those connections that I see my friends valuing now. When I was 18 I moved out, and I more or less never looked back. I like to think that my parents are proud of me. I like to think that they talk about their daughter who is out travelling the world and serving in Peace Corps, and getting her degrees, and living life out on her own. But even when I hear them say that at least when I don't call they know they did something right, because I don't need them, I hear a twinge of hurt and longing in their voice... wishing that their little girl was still 12 and under their roof, and needing them.
Something happened last night in my family that is altogether tragic. I won't go into details except to say that my family has known its fair share of tragedy and bad luck, and this is among the milestones. It made me realize that my parents are really all right. They are filled with love and compassion, which are some of the more important traits in life.
This jolt in my life shook me into the reality that I am really starting a family with Nikola. It makes me wonder how most families start. Are they intentional? Are they aware? Are they fueled by love or some sort of need? For a moment I skipped a breath and wondered if I am doing the right thing. It is so hard to have a positive familial experience in the world. But then he held me, and kissed me, and I realized that I was just being silly. We are very much in love, and two very loving, considerate, caring people. We are both excited to start a family (the family of the two of us, but yes, there will be little ones added in the future.) and I don't think I need to concern myself with disaster. He is an amazing person and I refuse to question my own self based on my past. The person I am now is altogether ready for these deep, rich, lifelong connections.

The time has come... part III- jealousy and rings

One ring to rule them all. What is a ring? In my paper on the symbolism of modern weddings I am briefly examining the modern abstraction of the ring. I take the ring off my finger and lay it on the table next to me. My finger feels naked without it, eveen though I have only been wearing it for a couple of months.
The ring is gold. I know this because it doesn't leave green marks on my finger, and because of the little number printed on the inside of the ring. It is light, and makes a delicious sound when placed on a hard surface. Although it is light and delicate it seems to also be indestructable. I know this is not true. Gold has a relatively low melting point compared to other metals. How did it get its shape in the first place?
Shape. It is perfectly round. Japanese monks spend a lifetime trying to draw a perfect circle. No, they do not try. Perhaps they try in the beginning, but eventually they learn to let go of the trying and to allow a circle to express itslef through them. I never finished that story- do they succeed? Can perfection be obtained? A circle is mathematical. Goldsmiths have moulds that have been designed by computers. They can make a perfect circle. The ring really has no beginning and no end. It hardened into existence complete.
The stamp tells me the value of the gold. Its purity. I have no idea how to read the stamp. Purity and value are foreign languages to me. I would rather wrap my tongue around whispered "I love you"s than to spend my time learning the symbols of every jeweller. I have no idea how to buy a ring.
It is his mother's ring. A symbol of family, that he handed to me. I took it with a cuirious furrow of the brow aand chewed on it for over a week before I burst with the question of whether he knew what that means to a girl. He knew.
Now we are getting rings of our own. His will return to his mother. My mother is bringing my grandmother's ring. It is another symbol of family. It is also a symbol of lasting, as my grandparent's marriage lasted until death did them part. It feels very different than the symbol of his family, and part of me wants to have a symbol of our family. But heirlooms are made through generations, not on arbitraty whims of the now.
The ring means forever. It is a sign of ownership, like the peircings and collars of slaves. It is a sign of fidelity. It is a sybol of wealth. It is so mixed up in history and society that I am uncertain how I actually feel about it.
We decided to get tattoos instead of rings. Tattoos are forever. You can not take them off. When a marriage ends and the ring is removed there is a period of aa tanline, perhaps, but it fades. We do not want the possibility of fading. Forever is something to be taken seriously.
Most of all, rings are a symbol of the modern christian monogamy. I am not a christian and neither is he, but he tells me that I am his only and I believe that he honestly is monogamous to the core. I wonder if that will change in time, and I want, most of all, to let him blossom without corruption. The thing is that he put the ring on my finger and he called me his, and he did so without the slightest hint of jealousy. How can a person be possessed without jealousy? What is possession? The modern feminist argues that we are all our own and no one can be possessed. Cyrano took ownership to mean a responsibility to the other. "The things you own end up owning you," is not far from the truth. So then, possession, the naming of something or someone as yours, is really a surrender to the desire to care for them, and take responsibility for them. It has nothing to do with jealousy and status. That came later. Love begets possession, and it feels beyond great to be possessed.

The Time Has Come... part II- weight

It is just a number, I know, and I have struggled as most girls and some boys do, against the opression of that number. The ideal weight. Ideal to whom? Where do we get these numbers in our heads? Mine came from my adolescence, and is strongly associated with that time of purity aand youth. I was 15 or 16 and never bothered to weigh myself, but somehow I know what I weighed. 116, 118, The number kept pace with the rising gas prices and still I have no idea when it became more than 120. It was just that I woke up one day and weight became a question and I was 140. How was that possible? I was a tiny girl.
Strangely weight and size are so confusedly wrapped up in each other that I am tempted to say that they have nothing to do with each other. I want to weigh less, and yet I like my body shape. I am okay with where things are laid out. I like the hint of curves that I have. When I look at myself I do not feel overweight. When I look at a scale I do. I have never really admitted it, except to my closest of friends, that I have a secret weight that I want to be. I am not that type of girl. I do not diet, I cultivate healthy eating habits. I aam not the type to obsess over clothes or how they fit, or looking good. It isn't about that. It is very simply about a number. 120. A number that hovers over me insultingly.
When I created my identity I had brown hair, sometimes colored, I was an alternative girl, I was active, I had bad skin, and hazel eyes, and I weighed 120 pounds. It is how I see myself.
This doesn't come up often, but since I started running, and had to keep track of m weight for training, it has snuck into my thoughts. Now I miss having a scale. Do I weigh less? Am I closer to that number? I feel like without a scale I am floating without a name, not sure if I am drifting further or nearer to my destination. Target.
I tell myself that this is nonsense. Health matters so much more than a number. Health is not defined by a number. Attractiveness is not defined by a number. It seems to be a little prince issue- adults always needing to measure things in order to give them meaning. So I walk by the store and I think about throwing down 40tl for a scale. After all, I am going to start training for my next marathon soon. But then I wonder why I have this obsession. This guilty little goal that will never, and probably should never, be achieved by me.
I feel such guilt that I struggle with this. I am supposed to be "better" than such mundane struggles. I should be struggling with ethics and questions of the soul, not weight. It isn't something that I think about constantly, but it floats into my head often enough that I wonder why, and how it came to be, and wish for it to just fade away. 130, 140, are good numbers too, and I have known them for quite some time.

The time has come... (part I- Academia)

The time has come, my soul has said, 
To write of many things, 
Of weights and scales and social acts, 
Of jealousy and rings. 
Of construction of realities 
And the madman's right to sing. 

There comes a time when life no longer makes sense. All of the things that you have been working towards crumble when hit by a single word. These are the times of crisis- the quarter-life, the mid-life, and if you are me, the every couple of years-life crisis. I have grown accustomed to these crises, more or less, so that when hit with the final, soul-shattering, mind-blowing bullet I give little more reaction than a hot face, a hint at the possibility of tears and a few deep breaths. These are growing experiences.

For the past few months I have had it in my mind that I will apply to graduate school. In many ways it seems like the next logical step. After all, I love academia and I am rather successful in it. Despite the fact that I am no longer anything close to the traditional student I am still faced with the choice: grad school or work after graduation? I realized that both ideas terrify me, but grad school does so a little bit less than actually starting my career. (Yes, I have been "working" in my field for the past ten years, but the experiences that I have had as a volunteer and crew leader have been the experiences of working within someone else's construct. To actually start out on my own and stick to my values in the career sense is still foreign territory to me.) I chose an okay graduate school that my grades and test scores (although the tests have yet to be taken) will surely gain me entrance, and I just thought that the next two years would be research and writing. Case closed, life is simple. I get to stay in Turkey, be in love, and thoroughly research my career field before getting my feet wet. However, something as simple as turning in a research proposal last week has made me question whether or not that will actually be helpful to me, and whether I am just doing it because I am scared of the real world.

The class that I had to submit a research proposal for was my communication and media course. We have been discussing how different types of communication are constructed and how the construction perpetuates the status quo. I wanted to do my research on billboards as an advertising agent that is created for specific places and times. I had what I thought were some pretty solid arguments, but when I submitted my proposal my professor informed me that my basic proposition was flawed: that in Istanbul people do not at all regulate billboard advertising. It is an honest enough, if embarrassing, mistake. But here is the thing: I don't believe it is a mistake. Sure, there may not be formal groups protesting billboards, and there may not be city ordinances regulating the billboards, but I do believe that there is a link to billboard advertisement and the locale that they are placed beyond visibility, even in Istanbul. Perhaps the research is too large to undertake for one semester and I am not even interested by it, but there is still a strong possibility that I am right, or maybe I am wrong but the relationship between culture and billboard advertising in Istanbul is still worth exploring and understanding. However, my proposal was rejected, quite simply and easily. I find it ironic that the day my professor rejected my proposal was also the day that we were reading Foucault's thoughts on discourse. He spoke of the limiting factors of commentary and the educational institution- how everything must say the same thing that has never been said before, and at the same time must say the new thing that has already been said. He speaks of the madmen, and how their ramblings are discarded. He speaks of all of the areas of discourse that we do not allow in our lives. This article had a very strong effect on me. It depressed me, and in the midst of that depression this final straw of rejection (which, lets be honest, is never easy to bear) wormed its way into me and made me realize that I am not actually "good" at academia. For years every thesis that I have made has been rejected. My instructors all tell me, in not so many words, "That is not the way the world is." Usually I rework my writing to reflect a reality that has already been proven by research and that they understand. Sometimes I don't, and I get points for the style and logic of my paper even though they disagree with the main premis of the article.

What I realized last night is that I can function in academia. I can play the game. But coming back to school after 10 years in the real world I realize that it is just a game. It is just repeating the same things that have been known for too long. It is just accepting the reiteration of ideas that are rarely new, and any alternative viewpoint is not accepted. My viewpoint is never accepted. I am tired of being told that the world is nothing like what I see and feel. I am tired of being told that my experiences are not valid. I am tired of being told that I am the madman and my voice is fun but useless. I am, most of all, tired of having to hide myself and my opinions in order to be considered valid. Is this what academia is, and do I belong here?

I am not making any quick decisions. Possibly I will get over this in a month and keep working on those grad school applications. I will spend two years researching my field, ignoring the things that I think actually matter in order to get published, and I will find it worthwhile. But maybe, just maybe, there are other things that are more important in life than research. Maybe it is time to really start working towards the things that I value. Maybe, I am realizing 10 years later that it is not that I got into the wrong major, but that there is no major for me. I will always be grateful that I am lucky enough to experience college. I have had the time to remain infantile and to thoroughly question the world. I have been exposed to many theories and schools of thought that have definitely shaped my worldview. However, maybe enough is enough. Maybe it is time to protest the acceptance and strike out without a higher degree. 

Fear of the unknown

The most attractive thing to me is the unknown. There is something about making eye-contact with a complete stranger that thrills me. In mere seconds an entire lifetime of possibility passes between you, and the buzz that is shared in that moment is electrifying. It is intoxicating. I am not talking about attraction. Well, yes I am, but not of the traditional sort. I am not writing only about lust and love. I am writing about recognition and the desire for understanding. I am trying to capture the moment that holds not only romance but the possibility of a deep friendship or a challenging enemy. Sometimes, hell, to be honest, most of the time, the best seconds of knowing someone come in the moments before knowing them. You can go ahead and think that I am callous, preferring the objectified disembodiment of fantasy to the rich depths of real relationships, but you know it isn't true. You know that I love intimacy and friendship. I love the joy of discovering truths that I could not imagine about people. But think about it. There is one perfect moment when you see someone and they are everything that you want them to be. They are funny, and their voice (although you've never heard it) is the sweetest sound that you can imagine. They are warm, and comforting. They are exciting and dangerous. They hold the knowledge of the world. They will be there when you cry, and their hijinks will always make you smile. They remind you of your best friend when you were five. Your parents would hate them, your current friends would not understand them, but you would love them. Across the room they are all of this and more. They are undefined possibility, and as long as they stay far enough away from you they can continue to play the hero in your fantasies. You wait for them to drop into your life, and sometimes they do. They give a word or a smile, and maybe it is not everything that you imagined but we are resourceful beings that quickly recreate our lies and so it is enough to fuel their perfection. You delicately ride this golden wave of mystery, hoping to just barely graze their surface, knowing any misstep will plunge you deep into their being.

It is there, beneath the waters of the flesh, that the imperfections lie. They become a friend or enemy and they are never what you never were aware that you expected from them. They are always different. Sometimes they are better, sometimes not as good, and even though it is not quite a disappointment it is still a bit of a let down, a deflation of excitement. You can grasp them, touch their existence. They become real, with all of their imperfections and surprises. For better or worse, the mystery is gone and they become a person.

Now the truth is that I am not writing about anyone that I have lost. The plunge into reality has usually been quite sweet, and I realize that there will be infinite fantasies out in the great wide open. What I am afraid of is loosing my own mystery. I know how enticing the unknown is, and I know that the known cannot compare to the unknown. It isn't better, it isn't worse, it is on a different plane altogether. I know this and yet the possibilities that I will never have after hello has been said cut me to the core. Even while writing this I know that it is not a big deal. I can whimper and whine over the perfection that I am not, but I will always desire the arms of a lover, the knowing smile of a friend, the pointed comment from a rival, and the stinging love of family rather than the cool, distant excitement of mystery. 

DIY turns me on

For quite some time my mac has been having some issues, from the fans not working in any positive way to the battery no longer holding a charge. An issue that I should have taken care of awhile back, but instead just slapped a piece of electrical tape on, has now become something that threatened any more use of the machine: the power supply. 

Anyone who has a mac knows that the power bricks are AWESOME in their magnetic design, and suck in every other way, including how easy the cord splits and how expensive they are to replace. Electrical tape had been doing an OKAY job of holding mine together for the past three months, but it finally gave up last night and the damage looked a little like this, without the friendly red and green lights that give me such a thrill when it actually works: 

My first reaction was to have the pouty freak-out that I so enjoy, followed by looking up where to buy new power bricks for a reasonable price. Unfortunately we still have not gotten the whole package-delivery thing fully worked out at our new place, and so Nikola suggested that we try to fix it. What did we have to lose? It was broken anyways. We looked up a few different videos on the internet, pulled out our cheap-o and rather useless soldering iron, and started taking things apart.

While laying in bed in the morning we had debated what to do with a sunshiny sunday. Perhaps we would go to the mall, as I had a slight desire to see what they have going on there. (It is an odd desire, but I am filled with those these days). Perhaps we would go down by the water, take a picnic, and see the Monet exhibit. Perhaps we would waste the entire day in front of the computer, watching movies and getting some new-lover-cuddles in. Nope. All of our plans were quickly and happily tossed aside for a bit of DIY.

 I must say that I absolutely love and appreciate living with a boy who is as in to DIY as I am. So far we have figured out how to deal with mold, taken parts of our ceiling apart, taken all of our washing machine apart, and as of today, fixed my power brick. Nikola is great at these little projects as he doesn't get easily frustrated. I am also great at them. I do get easily frustrated, but I also have a bit of frustrated determination that works in my favor, as well as a background in self-sufficiency that most girls in the world lack these days. But I think the best attribute that we both share is a certain level of lust towards DIY projects. We both recognize how fun it is to take things apart, see how they work, and hopefully put them back together working a little better. It is a fun hobby that we can share and I cannot imagine dating someone who did not like to do these things. However, thinking about sharing my life and home with someone I am now hyper-aware of how awesome it is going to be to live together, fixing things as they come and go.

We spent the beginning of the afternoon taking apart the tip of my ac supply. We then soldered a bit, realized it wouldn't work, and soldered a bit more. We had a few failures, and a little bit of grrr coming out of me, but in the end there was the joy of seeing THIS:

The light at the end of the tunnel, and the part of DIY that gets me right in the gut :) 

I get all warm and gooey inside... just like the hot glue that I used to make my tummy holding red/green buddha :)