Light Streams

What number are you?

2006-07-19T17:44:00.000-07:00

The Klein Sexual Orientation Grid differs from the Kinsey Scale in:

"that it focuses on the person’s sexual experiences and fantasies up to that time. So to develop and hope for a better understanding of an individual’s sexuality throughout their lives, the Klein scale investigates sexual experience and fantasies in three times: the present (the most recent 12 months), the past (up to 12 months ago) and the ideal (which is as close as one can get to intention and prediction of future behaviour)." -- via Wikipedia

Here's an online version of the test, to see where you fall on the grid.

I am buying this book

2006-06-28T22:09:00.000-07:00

"...blind allegiance to the Republican Party has distorted the faith of politically active evangelicals, leading them to misguided positions on issues such as abortion and homosexuality.

"They have taken something that is lovely and redemptive and turned it into something that is ugly and retributive," Balmer says."

I believe I could sit down over a cuppa and have good conversation with this man about political issues and religion.

This comes as no surprise...

2006-06-28T16:59:00.000-07:00

A strong-willed herald of causes against injustice, you passionately strive to right the wrongs around you.

Somebody has to save our skins!

I must be a bad blogger

2006-06-27T18:06:00.000-07:00

Because I post so rarely. Sorry to the two of you who read this.

I think the problem with my blogging is that I want to have something witty or meaningful to say each time I post. I don't always have anything meaningful or witty to say. Lots of times it's just wonder at why life is the way it is. Maybe that's meaningful enough, I don't know.

My stepdaugher has been diagnosed with schizo-effective disorder. This is her fifth hospitalization in eight months. I think, there's nothing quite like mental illness to tear through the heart of a family.

I remember her as a 13 year-old girl, eating peanutbutter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches with me, watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. How we both thought Spike was delicious, and how we both couldn't believe he was older than her dad.

I remember her at 14, all dressed up for her first highschool dance. She asked me to do her hair and makeup. I was honored and so proud of her.

At 15, came her first suicide attempt. I remember how we were wracked with guilt and anguish; how could we have not seen this coming? I remembered my first suicide attempt at 13 and tried to open up to her about depression, about her changing family, about how much we supported her.

I remember her picking fights with me and her dad, at 17. I remember her telling me she hated me and that I wasn't part of her family. I was hurt, but I weathered it.

I remember at 18, doing her hair and nails for her graduation. I remember telling her how proud I was of her; I remember secretly hoping that she would make it through her Freshman year.

And now the schizophrenia component has blossomed in her mind.

My heart grieves for her.

I know that her life is not over, I know that she is intelligent. But she is not in school and has no health insurance. Getting medicaid isn't easy if you're not pregnant. I fear that she won't be able to get the right medications. She already wants to leave the hospital; there is going to be a hearing tomorrow regarding her status. Hopefully the judge will move to commit her. What will I tell her brother if she becomes one of those people, talking to themselves, hitting themselves, on the street? Why does our medical system fail us, so?

I Am...

2006-01-30T15:43:00.000-08:00

[Props to Purple for sharing it and to Cold Poet. You may re-post as much as you please.]

I am the guy who came out to the entire school in his senior speech and got a standing ovation for his courage.

I am the girl who kisses her girlfriend on the sidewalk and laughs at those who glare.

We are the couple who planned and studied and got a damn good lawyer and BEAT the state that wanted to take our child away.

We are the ones who took martial arts classes and carry pepper spray and are just too dangerous to gay bash.

I am the transgender person who uses the bathroom that suits me, and demands that any complaining staff explain their complaint to my face in front of the entire restaurant -- and shares with my other trans friends which restaurants don't raise a stink.

I am the mother who told her lesbian daughter to invite her girlfriend over for dinner.

I am the father who punished his son for calling you a fag.

I am the preacher who told my congregation that love, not hate, is the definition of a true follower of God.

I am the girl who did not learn the meaning of "homosexual" until high school but never thought to question why two men might be kissing.

I am the woman who argues (quite loudly and vehemently) with the bigots who insist that you do not have the right to marry or raise children.

I am the girl kicked out of her home because I confided in my mother that I am a lesbian.

I am the prostitute working the streets because nobody will hire a transsexual woman.

I am the sister who holds her gay brother tight through the painful, tear-filled nights.

We are the parents who buried our daughter long before her time.

I am the man who died alone in the hospital because they would not let my partner of twenty-seven years into the room.

I am the foster child who wakes up with nightmares of being taken away from the two fathers who are the only loving family I have ever had. I wish they could adopt me.

I am one of the lucky ones, I guess. I survived the attack that left me in a coma for three weeks, and in another year I will probably be able to walk again.

I am not one of the lucky ones. I killed myself just weeks before graduating high school. It was simply too much to bear.

We are the couple who had the realtor hang up on us when she found out we wanted to rent a one-bedroom for two men.

I am the person who never knows which bathroom I should use if I want to avoid getting the management called on me.

I am the mother who is not allowed to even visit the children I bore, nursed, and raised. The court says I am an unfit mother because I now live with another woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who found the support system grow suddenly cold and distant when they found out my abusive partner is also a woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who has no support system to turn to because I am male.

I am the father who has never hugged his son because I grew up afraid to show affection to other men.

I am the home-economics teacher who always wanted to teach gym until someone told me that only lesbians do that.

I am the man who died when the paramedics stopped treating me as soon as they realized I was transsexual.

I am the person who feels guilty because I think I could be a much better person if I didn’t have to always deal with society hating me.

I am the man who stopped attending church, not because I don't believe, but because they closed their doors to my kind.

I am the person who has to hide what this world needs most, love

I am the person who believes that love should be all that matters.

I am making a difference. Hate will not win.

So, this is Christmas... and what have you done?

2005-12-09T13:36:00.000-08:00

Watch this and think about what you can do with your money this holiday season, if you want it bad enough. I'll wager that the folks who read my blog probably don't have $150,000 to spend. But I bet we'll spend a fraction of that amount this season on gifts for our friends and loved ones.

I am choosing to spend my money here. There are vegetarian and vegan options, as well: look here, here and here.

May you have a blessed season, filled with light and love and goodwill toward the Earth and her children.

Peace.

Los Muertos Hablar

2005-10-29T21:21:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I have neglected all of you again. Mea maxima culpa.

But, today was an interesting day and I want to share it all with you. I bitch about my town a lot. If you have ever been here, you know what I mean. The stench of enormous corporate dairy farms, the air you can see, oil refineries in the most inconvenient of places, that pesky valley fever...

However, I had a grand time exploring my town today. I was on the hunt for these little darlings. I have been too busy with emergency dental work and toddler birthday parties to do the actual sculpting myself. Sadly, no calaveras azucar for church tomorrow. BUT! I found a delightful Mexican bakery that made a goregeous pan de la muertos. I will snap a photo tomorrow and post it in the blog. I also got to have freshly fried churros. It's ok, you can smell my fingers.

In my travels today, I happened upon a story in a new ethnic/alternative weekly by a certain n.l. belardes. Without delving into areas that I don't usually explore on my blog, I am an acquaintance of this guy. But I didn't know about this guy. Poke around that site a bit! It's a fascinating and macabre telling about this town of mine. His is a novel based on grisly events that took place, here, in this dusty oil town of mine. Google this and you'll see what I mean.

This is indeed, a strange place.

Looking back

2005-07-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

I promise, I haven't forgotten how to blog. :0)

There is so much to talk about though, I am going to break it up into sections, though, so please bear with me.

The Bipolar
My husband was formally diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder, two months ago. No more ruling out the diagnosis, it's the real deal. Which is both a relief and a terror, since his mania seems to be irresponsive to the depakote, so far.

I have begun attending National Alliance for the Mentally Ill meetings, for support. The people there have been wonderful. I am very thankful that a group like this exists for individuals who love people with chronic mental illness.

That said, I am emotionally and mentally exhausted. "Riding a rollercoaster" and "walking on eggshells" are two common turns of phrase associated with families whose loved ones include an individual with bipolar that's not under control. I am doing both.

And I still love him, terribly, even though his disorder hurts us all sometimes.

Which leads into the next segue...

The Strattera
I was diagnosed with ADHD when I was 19 years old. I was single, I was mostly ok, and could deal with the disorder. My life has gotten to the point now, ten years later, where I need to be able to function without the constant background noise and stress. I need to be able to focus on my son, myself and my relationships without (what had become) an herculean effort to concentrate.

A little over a week and a half ago, I saw the same psychiatrist who treats my husband and was given Strattera to try for a month. I spent the first week, blissed out on the utter quiet in my mind. For the first time in my memory, I felt truly relaxed. My brain hurts thinking about how much energy I spent on compensating for the ADHD. I have given myself a huge gift and the ones I love will benefit from it.

The Girlfriend
Amdist this tumult, I have met someone truly wonderful. She is beautiful, a good friend, is just as silly as I am and we connect. I am proud to say she's my girlfriend and am very glad this happened. (To stop any confusion before it starts, please read about polyamory.)

So that's that. Thanks for sticking around.

Peace

2005-07-07T13:57:00.000-07:00

Close up of the water hyacinth. Enjoy!

2005-07-07T13:56:00.000-07:00

Found that the water hyacinth bloomed this morning.

2005-04-27T17:21:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, I cut the spikes off my calla lily today so no pretty white flowers there. But my fuscia seems to be doing well, along with another mini-colored calla, another daffodil, my jade plant and some more ivy.

2005-04-27T17:18:00.000-07:00

From left, my white pelargonium from my mom, a miniature blue agapanthus, a Martha Washington pelargonium, a miniature white gapanthus, my columbine, a rosemary topiary and a poor, pathetic hibiscus that got too cold this winter. It's sprouting leaves though, so there's hope!

2005-04-27T17:16:00.000-07:00

My Mexican Primrose, because it's just too beautiful not to have it's own shot.

2005-04-27T17:14:00.000-07:00

We've got ivy and a Mexican primrose in the front, a ficus and a Meyer Lemon tree in the background. There are daffodil bulbs (that must have been exposed to radiation) spiking up in front of the lemon tree.

2005-04-27T17:07:00.000-07:00

The fountain! There are about 50 mosquito fish in there, living it up! I really should cut that white handle off though, huh?

867-5309

2005-04-15T14:51:00.000-07:00

I wasn't home the first time it happened.

Chris, from called me collect from Pine Grove Conservation Camp, last night. The recorded male voice that announced his call sounded cold, metallic, strangely upbeat. Chris sounded down, bored and a little angry. I don't know Chris, so I can't explain where the anger was coming from, other than the anger of incarceration.

I listened to the message three times. I do not know anyone in prison. I chalked it up to being a wrong number.

And then Bernard called me from Chuckawalla State Prison, at 8 am this morning. The same metallic, upbeat voice announced that Bernard wanted me to accept charges and speak with him. He sounded tired and his speech was slurred.

The recorded voice said that I had the option to refuse all calls from correctional facilities if I pressed 7 on the keypad. And while I'm intrigued (not to mention a bit startled) at how these men got my phone number, I'm not up for a prison pen-pal right now.

I spoke with David at the MCI Inmate Services Call Center. I told him I wanted to be removed from their list of available phone numbers. He obliged, cheerfully. I apologized to David because even though I know it's not in his job description, I asked him if perhaps he knew how a prisoner could have gotten my telephone number. He laughed a bit and said sometimes inmates dial random numbers, sometimes they pick exchanges that are near their those of their relatives (relatives who have perhaps denied their calls or do not have phone service) and then ask the person on the other end to contact their relatives or do a favor for them. He said it's very much like the "For a Good Time Call..." on the bathroom wall scenario. If one inmate doesn't have luck reaching a person, they'll pass the number on to another inmate. I thanked him for answering my question, which I'm sure he gets hundreds of times a day.

I am a bit weirded out by the whole thing. David's answer makes perfect sense. I am sure that's what happened. My phone number is not unlisted.

I am struck at my own ambivalence, however. I feel compassion for those in prison. Perhaps it's because I think that if they had better role models, parenting and/or education they would have made better choices. And yet, I am unnerved that I was contacted. Twice... from individuals in prisons that are MILES apart.

Perhaps they have internet access, I don't know. The one individual I do know who has spent three years in prison says computers were not allowed at her facility because they could be used as weapons.

As of now, no inmates at prisons served by MCI can call me.

I am so excited!

2005-03-04T14:03:00.000-08:00

Dead Can Dance is back together and are going on tour! Who are Dead Can Dance, you may ask? If you've seen Gladiator, Ali or Whalerider then you've heard the female voice of Dead Can Dance already. Lisa Gerrard [flash warning] was a composer and/or sang for the soundtrack in all those movies.

The other half,Brendan Perry is a veritable renaissance musician (who sounds quite a bit like Jim Morrison from the Doors, only not stoned.)

I should note that there are other band members, however Perry and Gerrard founded the group and remained constant members throughout it's history.

DCD had an illustrious 18 year history before calling it quits in 1999. One website calls it a six-year sabbatical, but that isn't what they said six years ago.

Come September 2005, they're hitting North America on tour. If they go to SF I'm there, if they go to LA I'm there. Who's up for a roadtrip?

Should I or shouldn't I?

2005-01-26T23:16:00.000-08:00

Tonight, I began to watch Auschwitz: Inside the Nazi State. I sometimes feel that it's my moral duty as a human being to remind myself of what we, as a species, are capable of. It keeps me humble and grateful for what I have. It keeps me empassioned for social justice. Tonight, as the show began to unfold into the horror that was Auschwitz I was interrupted by a telephone call. It was a friend from church, with whom I serve on several committees.

"You sound tired," she said. "I am... but I'm watching a TV show I'm not sure I should be watching." "Really," she replies, "what?" I told her. She agreed that I probably shouldn't be watching it right now, given all that's on my plate: dealing with my husband's bipolar disorder, our son the two year-old dynamo, financial worries, automotive trouble, actively grieving the death of a friend, skirting my depression.

Yes, I have every reason in the world not to watch a documentary that will more than likely bring tears to my eyes, I tell myself. It's okay.

Later, while reading Metafilter, I happen across this entry and I began reading. I don't watch NBC news so I am not familiar with Kevin Sites. When he goes on to describe the reverence and care with which the volunteers attend to the dead of the Tsunami, I am overcome. I cannot bear to look at more. I turn to my blog...

Is it okay for me to turn my face away? Can I sleep soundly knowing that I donated my fistful of cash to Oxfam? Can I sleep soundly knowing that the horrors akin to Auschwitz are being repeated in Darfur, while we have our hands firmly planted in Southeast Asia (and Iraq?)

I have responsibilities to my husband and to my son. I cannot join the peace corps and provide relief to the stricken. I am unable to liberate anyone from suffering. I feel powerless and overwhelmed. So, I tell myself it's a responsiblity of my own humanity to watch the Auschwitz documentary; to read the blog chronicling the disaster in Aceh; it truly is the least I can do.

But tonight, I just couldn't.

Blue holes

2005-01-21T14:30:00.000-08:00

Hi there.

Yep, still here. I have had so much going on within the past few months, I've been too emotionally tapped out to produce anything of value for the blog. So, I've been quiet. I hope the crickets kept you company.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about Adam's death. I cannot imagine bringing a child into the world and watching him grow, become a track star, get married then divorced, go to college, become a chef, raise horses ... only to die by accident at age 35. He was an only child. My friend, his mother, is 60 years old and divorced. She is unable to bear the costs of another child, let alone have the energy to adopt. She is an only child. I contemplate the lonliness she's feeling and I feel as if I'm looking out into a great, expansive void. Why go on? What's the point? If your child, the sum of your dreams, love, joy, tears and hope dies before you... what is the point?

I understand that depression while actively grieving is normal. I am certainly grieving and I am certainly sympathetic. I look at my little one and I think about how I would feel if I were able to watch him grow to 35 years only to be taken from me in a freak accident. I cannot know, but I think perhaps the grief and pain of knowing a life that was and what never will be again, is the most torturous pain of all.

I guess this entry is dark, but it's where I am right now. I feel myself looking at the door of depression, praying it won't open and swallow me whole. Do not fear, friends, I am on meds. I am in therapy. I know what to do if it does overtake me. It is unnerving, though, looking at that door. My fingers tingle with the knowledge of the grooves I've made in the walls behind that door, clawing desperately to get out at first, then slowly into gentle despair.

I tell myself that it's situational, it's grief responsive, it's because I am powerless over so many things happening in my life right now. And that's fine... I just want these blues I'm carrying to stay blue and not turn black.

Goodbye, my friend.

2004-11-23T14:24:00.000-08:00

My friend Adam died on Sunday from an accidental, self-inflicted hunting accident. He was a beautiful, funny, sexy, kind and caring individual. I am heartbroken and devestated.

Truly there are no words to express this tragedy.

I will miss you dear, darling, dandy cavalier.

Our blue jewel suspended in space

2004-11-16T13:39:00.000-08:00

Read this blog!

May the Force be with us all...

2004-11-04T14:19:00.000-08:00

Well, this is the first thing to make me happy in two days (USA election blues.) Thanks, Drew :)

Daddy

2004-11-01T14:26:00.000-08:00

We spent this weekend at my parents house because of my son's birthday. He'll be two on November 2. He had a lovely time visiting his grandparents, as did my husband. I didn't have a lovely time. My visit brought up issues with my father that I had almost stopped feeling... I had buried them somewhere deep inside my grown-up, clinically observational, detached self.

My father is always happy to see my son. He is affectionate, attentive and very present. My son adores his grandfather. I have always felt an indefinable distance when I approach my father. Oh, after I came back into their lives after a five-year self-imposed hiatus he was much more approachable, demonstrative even. But this weekend, some of that old discomfort resurfaced. My disapproving, unlovable father had reemerged.

For example, we were watching Boohbah because it is one of my son's favorite television shows. My father sat on the sofa and in earshot of me, my son and my mother said, "This is stupid." I suddenly felt like I was six years old again. My face burned with shame. My heart ached with sadness and my stomach lurched with anxiety. I can't believe how much those three words hurt me. I quickly stepped out of my feelings. I resumed the role of Mother and told him that I would appreciate it if he would keep his comments to himself, as it's one of my son's favorite television shows. Inside, I wanted to scream at him for tainting my son's joy, like he had tainted my own with his indifference and disdain.

My father has always been rough with me. I can't remember him ever being gentle or tender as a child. I always got the rough slap on the back, for praise. I wouldn't consider it physical abuse, rather I feel he wouldn't allow himself to be gentle with me. Perhaps he treated me like a son because my brother was disabled. I do not know. I do know however, that I'm nearly 29 years old and I do not like to roughouse any more. So, you can imagine my surprise when my dad "punched" me in the arm, as punctuation to a joke. I was startled and, quite frankly, my arm hurt. I asked him to please not hit me. Twice. He never looked at me and did not apologize. He just kept right on doing what he was doing.

Right now, I feel incredibly sad. Sad for the emotionally stilted relationship I have with my father. Sad because what I thought was becoming a vital, feeling relationship is still weighed down by the trappings of the past. Oh, I know that it was just one weekend and that two years of rebuilding my relationship with my family and all the positive things that accompany that aren't flushed down the drain because of one weekend. But, old hurts are the most painful; old shame, old sadness, old loneliness are the deepest.

My father is morbidly obese and has been most of his life, excepting his tours in Vietnam. He is diabetic and has high cholesterol. He's approaching sixty and I don't think he'll make it to seventy. My time with him is incredibly limited. I don't want our relationship and the remainder of our years together to be framed in "what never was."

National Coming Out Day

2004-10-14T21:23:00.000-07:00

So everyone who reads this blog knows that I'm bi. Yay. But, in honor of National Coming Out Day (Oct. 11, yes, I'm late) I'm going to come out about something else.

I'm a Dr. Who fan. Yes, I grew up watching K-9, Tighan, Ramona (hot hot hot,) Tom Baker and my all-time favorite Doctor Peter Davison (also hot hot hot) on the local PBS affiliate late, on Sunday nights. Those were the 80's, baby!

Fast forward to now. For some reason my husband downloaded windows media player 10 and I opened it up to listen to some streaming radio, tonight. The program defaults with the visualizations on and I was flipping through them, mildly amused with the visual catnip, when I happened upon the "battery: cominatcha" setting. Holy cow! It's like looking at the opening credits of Dr. Who! I'm in geek nirvana! Let the music play!

Ok, and while I'm at it... If you really love me, please buy me seasons one through four of Red Dwarf. I fell in love with this show in '89 and adore it to this day. I still sometimes catch myself singing the theme song in the car. Don't know it? Listen, and sing along here.

Ahh, disclosure. I feel better now.

2004-10-07T12:44:00.000-07:00

My father called last night. He wants to celebrate my mom's 60th birthday next year with a family cruise to Alaska. Perhaps now my lifelong dream will come true. I'll get to see the Aurora. Peace