…over at that other blog I spend most of my time writing for, I wrote an essay about health care reform. If you work in the health care field, or live in Oregon, or don’t have health insurance.. or really any reason at all, you should check it out. Citations included!
A balance. He stood on one side, where he piled on everything he could give. She stood on the other side, with all she had to give. For the first time in her life, the balance was even. They stood at eye level. She was grateful.
What did the piles contain? They held dreams and emotions, certainties of the present and hopes for the future. These items took on shapes, some abstract but others more concrete, certain. The shapes on his side, though, didn’t always match her own. They had different dreams, different plans, different futures.
But the balance was even, for the first time in her life. Couldn’t she pretend not to notice the discrepancy? All she wanted was to stand at eye level with him. Did the specific items really matter?
The weight was the same, sure. But a pound of feathers isn’t the same as a pound of bricks, no matter what the scale says.
A little voice inside urged her to exchange some of her items for ones that would match his. Just a simple trade and the problem would be solved. But he wasn’t asking for that, and she knew she couldn’t do it anyway. They had no false expectations. They knew the dangers of that game all too well.
They could only stand there, finally at eye level, trying not to acknowledge what they saw right in front of them. They asked in a hesitant whisper, where do we go from here? but no one replied because there was no answer to give. There was nowhere to go.
So they locked eyes and stood still. They were at eye level and they were happy. For now, everything was perfect.
What is language? It’s a tool for communication, a fixed system used for interaction. It’s a way that people can connect, can share their thoughts and emotions with one another.
Imagine sex as a language. I’m talking about intercourse, sure, but also certain words – double entendres and barely concealed speech – and actions, with both overt and hidden goals, that move its subjects into a sexual context.
To me, sex is a foreign language. Don’t get me wrong; I’m good at speaking it: I’m a huge flirt. I pick up on sexual cues pretty easily. I can make “that’s what she said” jokes as good as anyone. In fact, most people wouldn’t be able to tell that it’s not the language I normally use, that it’s not the language I think in or describe my life with. But it’s true! I’m not a native – or even fluent – speaker.
I will always speak the language as an outsider, translating it back and forth into something that makes more sense to me. And because the language of sex doesn’t come naturally, my experience of speaking sex will always be different than that of a native speaker. Here, this bears repeating: My experience of speaking sex (which, for the sake of this metaphor, encompasses more than just sex) will always be different from the norm.
Why do I choose to speak sex at all? I like speaking this language because I like being able to communicate with those who speak it exclusively. Without it, there’s a barrier, a wall between me and others that I can’t tear down. But if we both speak the same language, it allows for an intimate connection, a closeness that wouldn’t be there otherwise.
Most people speak sex because they find the language inherently pleasurable. Speaking the language feels good physically and emotionally. I speak sex only because I find pleasure in the connections I build when I use it. Like I said above, my enjoyment of the act is one step removed from the act itself.
Some people who speak this language are, it seems, a bit conceited. They just don’t understand – can’t possibly imagine! – that there could be people who don’t speak sex naturally. They don’t realize, or never stop to consider, that there are other languages out there that people could use to communicate with or reach intimacy through even more effectively.
Personally, I prefer the language of touch. It overlaps a little with the language of sex, using some of the same words but with slightly different meanings. But I find it a more useful language overall, encompassing a larger range of interactions and emotions while still remaining incredibly nuanced. Holding someone’s hand, in my opinion, has the power to say more than a kiss ever could.
The language of sex is, by its nature, pretty narrow.
And then there’s the language of, well, speaking. Take for instance those really intense conversations with a friend that make your heart race and your muscles tremble. We’ve all had them. I love the intimate bond that can be created just through words. But I’m actually more shy with my words than I am with my hands, so I’m not nearly as proficient at this language as I wish I were.
Even so, as any given situation moves towards the intimate, most people choose to only speak sex.
So then I have to decide: do I explain the disconnect I have to my speaking partner? Do I try to refocus and redefine the situation away from the language of sex? Do I cut the conversation short?
Or do I just try my best at communicating in this foreign tongue? I know the words, but I might not always understand their meanings. And although it’s not my preferred method, the end result is the intimate connection I desire. Is that good enough reason?
It often is for me, but I don’t think it necessarily should be. Why not teach others to be bilingual?
So I’m moving. After four years in this damn apartment – and swearing that each year would be my last – it’s finally time to go. Naturally, though, I’ve accumulated an awful lot of stuff. Not just things I’ve added in the past few years, but the things I’ve taken with me from one place to another because maybe, maybe I’ll use them/wear them/need them some day down the line.
Along with donating clothes (including some clothes I had rescued from my parents’ donation pile way back when, see paragraph above for my reasoning) and trashing some (but not all) knickknacks, I’m throwing away my old notebooks.
They aren’t all notebooks, really, some are just utilitarian pads of paper… that I wrote in obsessively. One in particular has some random observations and doodles, like they all do, but eventually breaks down into an exploration of my memories of the guy I dated during my college junior year, who turned out to be a failure and a fuck-up in every sense of the word (reminisce with me here). The relationship was filled with drama, and mind-bendingly odd drama at that. The bonus was that, besides being a fuck-up, he was also a compulsive liar, so the stories he told were fascinating and strange and almost too unreal to be lies. Fun to keep track of for the disconnected tales to tell at parties.
But I got really involved in writing everything down. I poured through my private journal for details and stories, which in turn tapped more memories. I wrote and I wrote. At the same time, though, I was trying to move on – I wanted to label the situation a “learning experience” and put it behind me. But the exercise was keeping me fully immersed in the past, and one day I realized I didn’t want to do it anymore. Even if the story I wove would’ve made a convincing movie or at least a sensational memoir, I suddenly wanted none of it.
I hung onto the notebook though, just so I could remind myself one day or look back and laugh or… something. I just don’t like throwing my words away. I always cling to old notebooks. But it’s been long enough since the situation and, hell, I can’t even read my handwriting anyway. There’s no reason to keep this baggage.
There are a few notebooks that are half filled and a part of me wants to hang onto them to use after I fill up my current notebook (which I don’t write in often, but it’s been my exclusive notebook for a while), but they’re all also from times that have passed that I’m not going back to.
I sat around a few months ago with a friend and we read to each other prose and poetry from our high school days. I had found some old Word documents buried within my external hard drive, and I wanted to bring them to light and see what I felt.
As it turned out, not much. Whatever wounds from high school I once had were long gone, only traces of “oh hey, I remember when…” remained. I read my poetry and prose with a sort of cheerful condescension, taking note more of the repetitive writing style or poor choice of grammar than the emotions that hid underneath. And honestly, because it was the more polished writings that I had bothered to type up (and not the scrawlings in my various notebooks that my mom assures me are somewhere in storage on the east coast), there wasn’t all that much real emotion anyway (although some of my poetry feigned it as best it could). This wasn’t any sort of autobiographical baggage, just a record of personal growth.
He said, I don’t know if you can ever forgive me.
I said, you’ve unforgivably fucked up.
But what does forgiveness matter, really? Not forgiving someone means that you’re stuck thinking about a single event that hasn’t diminished in importance even as it becomes more abstract with passing time. It’s more important to just let go and move on.
I think I’ve frightened people by how easily I’ve been able to do that. Yes, I was an emotional mess on and off for two weeks while everything was confused and beyond my control but now the answers are there and even if maybe they weren’t the answers I (or anyone) expected, they’re answers nonetheless. No sense in getting upset. Accept the turn of events and move forward.
Five years dating and nearly as long living together, and I’m on good terms with him by the next day and laughing about it not much later. People look at me with pity in their eyes, half expecting me to break down at any moment and be much less okay than I let on, and that’s probably the most frustrating part of this whole ordeal. I’ve known for a while that I don’t experience or process emotions quite like everyone else, but never has it been so blatant. When I was broken up with over email many years ago I called him immediately and cried into his voicemail but even while it happened I had the distinct feeling that I was just doing it because it was something I was supposed to do. What an odd disconnect.
One of my friends called my subdued reaction a superhuman feat, but it’s not that I’m exceptionally skilled at getting over messy problems. They just don’t make that big of a mess for me.
I’m a very tactile person. I like touch – a lot. It’s one of the many reasons why I decided to go into massage. But beyond that, I’m just one of those people who touches as a way to show friendship/affection/empathy/whatever. Holding hands, giving hugs, brushing against shoulders; it’s all good.
Within the appropriate context, that is. I interact with people regularly across a variety of settings, and where we are will determine the actions allowed. There’s massage: a pretty intimate but completely professional setting. As the practitioner, I’m the one doing the touching. And every touch is for a purpose, for loosening the muscles or relaxing the body. Beyond the physical contact that happens during the massage, I don’t otherwise touch my clients, not for hello’s or goodbye’s, not for personal connection when I speak.
Unless, of course, the client is also a friend.
Which brings me to the second context, social life. Interacting with friends, going out on the weekends. By its nature, it’s completely casual, open. I interact with these people through touch – lots of hugs especially, and with some friends there’s extra physical closeness. For the most part, we all share the need to be cuddly and tactile; it’s one of the best ways to connect and communicate.
But the newest context in the mix is kung fu, and it’s proven difficult to find the proper balance. On the surface, it’s similar to massage: there’s physical contact when sparring and practicing, but beyond that there’s no touching at all. But it’s much more laid back than massage, and I’m actually allowed (and would enjoy) to connect with my colleagues on a level beyond our interactions in class. Not necessarily as friends, but at least as close acquaintances.
And that’s where things get tricky.
When people cross over between contexts, I have a hard time keeping track of the allowable tactility. It’s not so much a problem between massage and kung fu because the touching in both of those settings is minimal, purposeful. But people from either of those settings whom I see in the outside world, whom I hang out with one evening, I don’t even know how to say hello. With a hug? With a touch on the shoulder? Or with just a smile?
Of course, it also doesn’t help that the people from kung fu are primarily men, and the separation between platonic touching and flirtatious touching is more like a fuzzy gradient than any distinct line.
I went out to a movie with some guys from kung fu a few weeks ago. They met for drinks beforehand, and I arrived at the hotel bar as they were finishing (I had told myself beforehand that I wasn’t yet ready to drink with these guys; that’s another whole wrench to toss in). I had reminded myself all day that I knew them in a different context; our touching was only at a low key, professional level. But the moment I saw them the only thing that registered was that we were now in a social context, so what did I do? I raised my arms and made motions to hug. But I caught myself at the very last minute and dropped my arms, exchanging just a half-hug with one of the instructors. Friendly, but not overly so.
But even that, did that change the rules? I saw him in class that week and at the end he casually touched my back as he said goodbye. It’s a harmless gesture, feigning closeness while still maintaining a professional distance. But it was something new, a new form of touch introduced to the setting. I didn’t mind – as I said before, I like touch of mostly any kind – but I had to remind myself that this interaction was person specific. That touch was allowable because of the relationship I’ve cultivated with that particular individual. I can’t open myself up to that sort of touch from all of the guys in class, no matter how harmless it seems. I see them sometimes several times a week, interact with them pretty closely, and I can’t have anything – or anyone – confusing the established order.
But then, someone already has. Last week, one of the guys I’ve been practicing with took it upon himself touch me in a teasing/friendly/perhaps mildly flirtatious way. The instructor working with us saw the gesture and responded (“personal space!” he called out, bringing attention to the necessary boundaries in place), but I didn’t say anything; I could only shyly smile. I knew the touch was taking place in the wrong context, but it was hard for me to react properly. I’m aware of my boundaries and I’m aware of what crosses the line, but the touch would’ve been completely acceptable in another situation, so it rendered me completely indifferent to react. And therein lies the problem.
I miss writing on this thing, and it’s a bit depressing that the main page with the most recent posts goes back a year and a half. Resolution: a sentence a day, or at least a subject per week.
Where have I been?
I have been writing, seriously, but it’s all been massage related. Which is good for the new blog, and (potentially) great for business, but it leaves me lacking. People ask me in polite conversation, what have you been up to besides massage? and I have a hard time answering. Since getting out of the cubicle life, my work is less time-consuming but definitely more (self-)involving.
I volunteer at a clinic for the homeless and less fortunate but I give massages there so it all ties back to what I’m supposed to be doing things besides. I work out of the acupuncture space and the computer/office area is filled with jars and jars of Chinese herbs and have I mentioned that I’m quite sensitive/averse to strong smells? The clients only show up about half the time but by now I’ve been able to massage some of them on multiple occasions. In that setting – working with people who are just learning to take better care of themselves, in need of extra support wherever possible – I feel like I’m using my massage skills in the best possible way (cue warm fuzzy feelings). On alternating weeks I give short massages to the staff there, and with them I’ve made an entirely different (but also incredibly gratifying) kind of connection.
But other than massage, what? Many of my friends are slowly drifting away from Portland. I’m trying to retain as many local guy-friends as possible to counter the incredibly female atmosphere at my clinic (which thankfully is a bit less passive-aggressive than 6 months ago). The majority of my friendships are now more adult-type than college-type, meaning we see each other every so often at events but rarely make plans to get together otherwise because we all live very separate lives. Massage has been my one useful tool for making plans (hey, we should hang out! want a massage?), which, to bring this post full-circle, is another reason why massage has started to define me.
Not that I’m complaining. That’s what having a profession is about, right?
In the space between posts here, you should take a look at my new massage website(!!!) There’s even a blog there, which is going to get the majority of my attention from here on out (well, for a while). So even if you don’t live in the Portland area, you can still enjoy my writings over on the new site.