I am a performance artist.

My media are juxtaposition, irony, and oxymoron. Hyperbole is my stage and apparent non sequitors are the nearly ubiquitous impetuses. I hope you enjoy it. If you don't, refer your concerns to the complaint department.

today

sitting in the back yard, watching the house mates^53 beat each other with plastic lightsabers, weezer on the boom box, chatting with a most excellent female. I know this to be a fine, fine fucking day!

^ Yeah, what that says, up there

Five years ago today I was wed to a woman I loved very much. At the time, it seemed like a brilliant idea, a continuation of the (mostly) interesting and exciting life we’d been living together for the previous four years.

As I write this, My iPod moves from Vince Gill “Trying’ to Get Over You”

Sure, I viewed marrying her mostly as a means of binding her to me; it seemed the only way to convince her to return to me. I had never wanted anything more in my life than I wanted “us”. When you look at it that way, is it not the reason all couples marry? So they have one more layer of security in their relationship? So they can say to the world, “This person finds in me something they want to keep forever and we shall not be parted.” Those who marry for love, anyway. Some marry for financial reasons, or “for the kid”, I suppose.

to Tim McGraw “Red Ragtop” and Randy Travis “On the Other Hand”

Things change after marriage. Not necessarily for the worse, but change they do. Of course, one could argue that change is the nature of all things, so it’s hard to say that the ceremony led to the change.

to Weezer “Damage in Your Heart”

I do not regret the decision to marry her. Don’t expect I ever will, either. At the time it was the right thing for me and (I believed, and still hope.) her.

Nine days from now will mark one year from the last day I lived in the same home with that woman.

to “He Stopped Loving Her Today” and Chris Cornell “Wave Goodbye“; while I sit and ponder this crazy, spontaneous play list

This, too, I believe this to be the right, if horribly painful, thing. Our other options were (it seems to me) her miserable because I refused to fulfill her most precious dream or me miserable because I did. I tried very hard for four years to learn to love her dream or at least share in it a bit. Immersing myself in it whenever I could muster the energy.

Only to find myself exhausted, crabby, and back to square one when finished.

to George Strait “Haven‘t You Heard“

To her I apologize if she feels like I wasted years of her life - I did try… and I’d do it again. Even knowing the outcome. Those years were precious to me. I’d not trade them.

to Pearl Jam “Last Kiss“

Now, after a nearly a year, the pain is not overwhelming. The melancholy is not unlike that which one feels for one’s youth. Sweet memories float through my mind as I recall the good times, distance dulls the (rather few, I think) bad.

I find myself glad for the flight delay that gives me time to write this. Not to mention the location (airport: home to tearful goodbyes, and homecomings as well as excited travelers bound for new places and terrified panic cases) that makes for good impetus.


I have lots of other things to be glad for, too. You can look around here and find nearly all of those things, if you’re interested. Sometimes it’s necessary to read between the lines.

Weezer “The World Has Turned“

Life, in general, is quite good for me. Today I am thankful (as I try to be most days - not everyone is this fortunate) for all the good in my life, but balance it with the awareness of pain I’ve caused, in the past near and distant, as well as the pain I’ll surely give to others to come.

Well, there’s my flight crew (finally, two hours late) and I must board my plane.

Finishing up with Dwight Yoakum “I‘d Avoid Me, Too“. Lovely electronics, not a sour note to be found.

Training

In a far away place there is a men's room. Well, it's not all that far away from me, now, but it's very far away from my home and heart.

Today I come out of that room rubbing my hands together and my training partner says, "What is that stench?"
"I thought it was just me. Does it really smell that bad?"
"Yes! What the hell is it?"
"Lotion."
"Lotion? Where did you get lotion?"
"In the men's room."
"What!? There's lotion in the men's room? What are you guys doing in there?"
"You mean there's none in the lady's room?"
"Nope."
"Wow. Uh, how many kinds of soap do you have?"
"Two."
"Oh. Really?"
"Really."
"Uh, I'm going to go was this foul smelling stuff off my hands."

So, when I returned, I described the men's room to her as I describe it to you here: It's like being in a cockpit. A bathroom cockpit. From right to left: Dual lotion dispensers (one above the other), a towel dispenser above a hand dryer of the hot air style, an automatic foaming soap dispenser, a push style liquid soap dispenser, the sink/mirror, another push style soap dispenser, and (I shit you not) a biohazard receptacle. All of this wrapped around three walls of a cubby not designed to be spacious without a plethora of decorations.

What on earth do the guys here do in this bathroom?

What happens next is all a blur, but you remember “fist” can be a verb.

Last night my girlfriend careens into the driveway and opens the door to her truck and says, “Get in.” “OK.”, says I.
What? You expected a lengthy discussion?

So begins an hour long drive to the top of a mountain. I swear to you, I can hear the dueling banjos playing from the woods we are so far from civilization. And me without my gat. Luckily she’s a dark belt in several disciplines (and I’m off to get my green belt later this week), so I feel safe enough, right?
So I spend a couple of hours in the middle of nowhere so cold that my balls have decided to take up a new career as ovaries. She’s plenty warm over there, cozied up to a Shetland pony or two, but I’m keeping my distance from the people who live here. No one I know of has ever caught “stupid”, but I do not want to break new ground. These are the people to catch it from; it oozes out of their pores.

That’s not altogether fair. The kids seem like they could be cured - with intensive retraining. I’m not taking any chances, though.

About an hour into the visit: The lady has been talking to the wyvern doctor about the 1000 (it’s an approximate number, I didn‘t actually take a head count, but I could not see over the sea of them) dogs she has; telling her that they are all rescues that are not adoptable based on ”aggression” and/or “viciousness”.

Any guess what happens next?

Yes, Boom?

That’s right, sir: One of them magically looses from his containment and bounds towards us like we are rabbits trying to escape their proper fate. Note: this no “mouse” of a dog. Some folks I know name dogs this big things like “bear”. I think the kid says it’s a mastiff/shepherd/rott/golden retriever/ogre mix. So, it charges up to us; we crouch and hold out the limbs we are least fond of (Well, she did. I hid behind her. Hey, she’s the one who dragged me up here. I was just chillin’.); the dog crouches all the way to the ground; barks; and bounds away - chasing phantom butterflies. It was… cute.

Twelve hours later: I’m standing out in the cold. Yet again. Did I mention the boys have permanently set up shop inside my abdominal cavity? The bright side of having ovaries is that I finally qualify for financial aid. And, as a MTF transgender person, I’m a protected minority, now. Suddenly I love the ADA.

My girlfriend is now fisting a farm animal. All the way over the elbow. And whispering nice things to it. I, on the other hand, am sharing a look with an ancient rancher that means, to me, “Yuck”. I think I see dollar signs in his eyes, though.

In between, I ate fish for dinner.

How did my life come to this? This is what I get for setting off on an “adventure”, I suppose - more adventures.

What's wrong with me?

You would think that, in light of the seasonal mammary explosion on campus if nothing else, I would be more appreciative of casual dating in the new millennium.

Yeah, it's new to me, at least the dating part. Is this the first post here you've read? Don't start here. It's not the beginning. Go back to start and wait for Simon to say it's OK to begin reading.

Take, for instance, the thick little thing that passes me each day on my way back to my vehicle after class: Long, blond hair (I'm a sucker for long hair). 5', maybe. (and short girls)145 ish. Looks to be all muscle, it's easy to see, because I think she must spray her clothes on each morning. Think "1/3 scale volleyball star", add huge... tracts of land, and you'll have kind of the right idea.

Today she tackled me in the grass outside the library. If you know me, this seemed like she'd asked the Boom what she could do to spark some interest from me. As she was talking, and picking up her books, I realized I could very nearly see the back of her skull through her pretty little eyes. How do people that... vapid make it into a college? I know it's a community college, but still...

Now, I have some experience with pretty eyes. Come to think of it, I must be attracted to them, since all of the women I've ever been in love with have this as a common attribute. Apparently, I can save myself (and some lucky girls) a bunch of time on wasted short term relationships by just sifting those with less than beautiful eyes out.

It seems to me that they do not need to be attached to... well, nothing, I guess. they can be connected directly to a quick wit. Or a sharp analytical mind. Or a deeply philosophical brain. Or an encyclopedic knowledge of Monty Python. Or a slim volume of poetry.

So, rather than contemplating ways in which to make myself invaluable to this girl, I found myself being thankful for the women in my life who are intelligent. I barely had time to acknowledge this poor, confused creature before I was completely absorbed with this thought.

Why couldn't the Boom have been there to deflect her to? I think the cosmos really has it in for that guy.

What I learned on the first day of school, this time around.

First off, this is the 7th go I've given college, and I like school. It just never seems to work out. Even this time I'm running into little snags and hiccups. At least these are fun impediments.

As I was saying before I segued: Some girl's pants are falling off. She has a belt on, but she cannot walk any faster, because her pants will fall off. I cannot see this girl. She is so far away that I cannot perceive her with my eyes. I can, however, hear her clearly. And what I hear is that she will be naked from the waist down, if I can just figure out where the friend she is apparently waving to is and get this friend to urge pants girl to move just a bit faster.

Speaking of college girls, boobs are in, er... out for spring. As in busting out. Heh, I made a punny. It was frigid (I'm totally omitting a sweet zing, here. I cannot share it but, trust me, it's sweet.) on Monday, yet the decolletage was plunging. Boobs hanging by the nipple hairs to their coverings.

Stereotypes are not mythological things made up by the Man. Or, if they are, then sometimes people fill them with verve.

Oh, and there are 360 degrees in a circle.

I was on campus for something like three hours and this last thing was the only one I learned that had anything to do with a class for which I was signed up. OK, so I didn't learn it today, (already knew that a circle is 2*pi radians, too) but I had to put something about a class in this post.

Didn't I?

I like weezer.

This played just as I prepared to write a post. It doesn’t necessarily apply to me (at this moment), but is indicative of the wonderful lyrical weirdness that is Weezer.

I’m so tall / can’t get over me
I’m so low / can’t get underneath
I must be all these things
For I just threw out the love of my dreams