Mark bought two tickets to Sigur Ros, one of his favourite bands. He keeps insisting that I like them because the lead singer is a woman, but I find them dreary and dissonant and generally difficult to listen to. The lead singer doesn’t even sound like a woman, but like a man singing falsetto. They aren’t bad, I don’t hate them, but in general I would rather be listening to Macy Gray.

Finding someone to go with turned out to be surprisingly difficult. He asked me again to go with him, so I said that he could tell his single-parent friends that I would babysit - but that yes, if that didn’t work, I would go.

It didn’t work. So tonight I prepared by drinking half a beer, taking acetominophen and ibuprofen, and buying earplugs. I sallied into the night to do my best at enjoying an outdoor concert with my beloved.

It was quite nice, really. This old biddy had a good time. The music was somewhere between Bjork and whalesong, and the lead singer is a man singing falsetto. 

I have received advice in the past to include more of what I think when I write, rather than just listing events. I have resisted because I think that making my readers try to figure out what I thought the listed events meant gives them something to do.

At least, I thought I was resisting. But apparently I give a one-sided, unbalanced picture, rather than a black-and white one that just needs colouring in.

I got passionate responses to yesterday’s letter interpreting my camping weekend as:
dangerous
a time of horror
terrifying.

One person became very agitated at my account of having been persuaded by a reckless and unethical companion to go on a technical climb far beyond my abilities and then abandoned.

Let me be clear: I was never in any danger, never horrified, never terrified. I was outside in the woods, walking and (except for the summit) dressed for the weather. I was happy. “Strenuous” basically means steep. It wasn’t a “difficult” walk, which would have suggested, say, a narrow path along a cliff edge with a backpack (which I have done, and felt annoyed about, but not this time). There was no technical climbing, no ropes, no gear. I expected to be out of breath and I was. I am fat to begin with and have spent the winter crouched over various computers. Getting separated from Mark was not a problem for me: it was an opportunity to think for myself, which I happen to enjoy. Mark was anxious of course, and I was concerned for him for that reason, but I knew he was basically fine. Mark is always anxious on these trips, anticipating the worst even on the most innocuous stroll on a wide gravel path. (What if one of us sprains an ankle in the rain and the other needs to go for help: are we properly equipped or is this certain death from exposure?) He is not heedless, reckless or inconsiderate. Quite the opposite. If he thought it was safe to leave me to my own devices it’s because it was safe.

Other interpretations:
interesting
marvellous.

Marvellous yes, interesting… no. Not in itself. I wrote you guys because I think you’re interested in me, but this was a very mundane walk in the woods. Nice to do, not so much to read about.

A question:
How were the bugs?
Answer: There weren’t any! It was high and windy and the water was pretty much all trickling downstream. No bugs.

Advice:
Motorola Walkabout.
Response: Yup, a set of walkie-talkies is on our shopping list. Though they can’t be light… We’ll see.

Hugs, all!

[originally transmitted by e-mail June 3, 2004]

He’s leaving Friday evening for Holland. Margrit’s had a series of neurological incidents of some sort: they aren’t TIAs exactly (Transient Ischemic Attacks) because she has lasting effects that aren’t transient; they don’t seem to be strokes, because her condition is variable, improving and and worsening from day to day; and it doesn’t seem to be her heart, because they’ve done all the tests. (This is third or fourth hand, of course, and has gone through at least one translation. So I am assuming a certain amount of the broken telephone phenomenon.)

But whatever they are, they are getting worse and more frequent. Up from a yearly fainting spell to attacks of paralysis every other day. Compared to yesterday, today her leg is the same, her arm is worse but her speech is better; last week she was speaking just fine and walking with a cane, and had bought tickets to come visit us in Montreal.

Anyway, Mark is off. Mixed feelings. Not wanting to assume the worst, or to give the impression that he is, or to have his mental image of his mother replaced with a sick person, or to get her so excited she has a heart attack, or to become impatient for her to die and get the suspense over with. But feeling that this is an important time and that he should be there.

Tonight Mark and I went to visit Anne and Claire for pizza and a video.

The pizza was exactly what I expected of pizza and I was pleased.

The movie (”Sugar Sweet”) was exactly what I would have expected of an out lesbian’s first feature commissioned for $40k by a straight Japanese porn channel, and I was pleased. It was funny; featured smart and attractive characters that resembled people I know; presented a utopia of lesbian community in Japan that the director explicitly stated does *not* exist; was intercut with hot sex scenes whether or not they bore any relation to plot; the screen was entirely devoted to asians, most of whom were lesbians; and was followed by the filmmakers interviewing each other. I was pleased.

What’s not to like about pizza and cheese?

Mark didn’t like it; he thought it was like a student film. Whatever: I don’t see any relationship between the two observations. Besides, in my experience student films are much shorter. In the interview the filmmakers had been quite straightforward that straight men watching their movie appeared to be less than enthusiastic; they thought this was funny but not unexpected. Mark fit right in with the crowd in this respect. He’s certainly entitled: I fit right in with the crowd myself often enough. (Note that the possession of a penis is not the only impediment to the enjoyment of Sugar Sweet. Anne and Claire didn’t like it either. I was entirely alone in my delight tonight.)

Mark went on to inform me that I only liked it because I thought it was ideologically correct. Which comment I was so furious at him for that he isn’t coming home tonight. I don’t know what he plans to do instead and I don’t care. (Anne and Claire refrained from telling me what I thought. Anne often tells me what she thinks, and I listen, but she has never told me what I think. Claire is more discreet, preferring to listen and learn. We parted with kisses and hugs and promises of more movies.)

***

SUGAR SWEET
http://www.seattlequeerfilm.com/02/films/sugar.html

Desiree Lim, the first out queer filmmaker in Japan to direct a lesbian feature, turns in a delightfully sassy, saucy and sexy feature debut. Naomi is an aspiring TV director who pays the bills by directing lesbian porn. Her callous male bosses deride her work for its unsuitability for male viewers, and her lesbian friends see her as a sellout. Her only confidante is “Sugar,” a secret chat-room friend on the Internet. When Naomi gets a chance to direct an episode of a popular “matchmaking” TV show, she casts her friend Azusa, who’s experiencing lesbian bed death with her long-term girlfriend and looking to spice up her life. Romantic sparks fly on the set - scorching even Naomi! Can she keep her job, her dreams and Sugar - especially Sugar - online? Delightful and whimsical, SUGAR SWEET creates a fascinating, fun girl world of sex toys, gossip and romance.

***

Oh, and yesterday Mark was really angry with me for finding the link below distasteful (”It’s culture”; culture is immutable, constant, unchanging; because culture is entirely resistant to thought in general and Dutch culture is resistant to my thought in particular, I am wrong to find buffoons in blackface distasteful; by persisting in my wrongness when instructed to immediately desist, I am demonstrating a profound lack of education and intellectual depth and honesty). And no, I didn’t say “This is gross” or “Dutch people suck” or “Holland is a racist country.” I said “I find this distasteful.”

http://portal.omroep.nl/sinterklaas2003?0FlashV=6

I need help.

[originally transmitted by e-mail November 30, 2003]

Hmm, this one seems to have hit some sort of sensitive nerve out there. I’ve gotten lots of helpful responses from people who seem to understand the place that properly done laundry has in a satisfying life.

So far:

***
Too much information/oversharing: three votes (including one cast vigourously by Mark).

While over the past years I have recounted amourous and occasionally unorthodox adventures and admitted dark urges to smash my chihuahua’s head open against a wall, these confessions are apparently a normal part of the public sphere or at least entertaining enough that their trespass into the public sphere was tolerated without comment.

The feelings of desolation that follow domestic disagreements with a legally bonded mate apparently enjoy no such license. Either they are too personal and not to be displayed because they are too boring (like nose-picking, tooth-brushing and breast-feeding); too personal and not to be displayed because they are too important (like how much money one makes); or occasion too much uncomfortable echo in the reader; or are simply not funny.

Whatever, I have been advised that by discussing laundry in public I went too far.

***
Separating laundry is an important aspect of clothing care: five votes.

Five friends seized upon the occasion to share their personal approaches to laundry, happy to share hard-won expertise with someone needing their help.

All are strongly in favour of separating, though the importance they attribute to different categories differs. Some separate icky from sweet; others, lint-generating from lint-collecting; sturdy from fragile; light from dark; large from small.

***
This probably doesn’t have much to do with laundry at all: three votes.

***
Laundry is not important enough to get that worked up about: two votes.

***
The bourgeois lifestyle is inherently violent: one intriguing vote.

Actual quote: “The bourgeois life is a violent life, it restructures all of everything into the space of consumerism & then isolates it. I think this re-channeling of desires from open-ended to the very concrete, with its limits but reassurances, is what you are going through. It’s the politics of capitalism in everyday life, not easy for any of us, and always in flux.”

When pressed for clarification, “bourgeois” was defined as middle-class with a separation of public and private spheres. “Yes, absolutely, it is much more convenient to do your laundry in your own machine in your own home. No question! But then you don’t leave the house.”

***
What I’ve settled with:

1) Domestic disputes are much scarier when you’re living together and legally married. Especially as Mark and I took the old-fashioned route of courting first, then marrying, then moving in together. Highly stressful.

2) Front-loaders do in fact require a different approach to laundry than top-loaders. You have to do a full load every time or else the machine gets unbalanced during the spin cycle. For our machine this isn’t fatal: it stops spinning, shakes the clothes around a bit, then tries again. But if the load is too small it will just keep trying forever and never really spin right. So it takes a bit of teeth-gritting to put things together that you wouldn’t have combined in a top-loader. Repeating to oneself that front-loaders are much gentler on clothes than top-loaders helps, as does viewing the washing process through the porthole and watching the machine toss your garments tenderly like an organic baby lettuce salad with raspberry-mustard dressing.

3) I’m still not combining mops and underwear. So there!

Hugs again to all!

[originally transmitted by e-mail September 28, 2003]

Ok, I haven’t been writing my usual e-mails lately and people have been sending somewhat worried queries as to the sympathy of married life.

Hard to say. We were married July 1st and Mark left for the Netherlands July 11th. The he arrived 15 days ago as a landed immigrant, entitled to live, work, breathe, travel but not vote. Yippee!

So that makes a total of 25 days of connubial bliss to report on. As someone with scientific training I can tell you that’s a very small n. But we have visited family in Ottawa, Mark has taken the dogs to the vet, everything seems kind of normal and couple-like. Except that we’re both terrified and are acting kind of stiff and awkward. (Though Mark stole my heart all over again when he introduced himself to someone as my friend last weekend. Yes!)

Tuesday was particularly stressful as Mark slated three major appliances (washer, dryer, refrigerator) for the St Vincent de Paul society and replaced them with shiny new energy-efficient ones that *work.* Yuppie!

Apparently too stressful for our meagre resources. We had our first married fight last night over the washing machine. It turns out that he’s not going to let me use it unless I wash clothes his way: everything together in one load, no separating, and the hottest water possible. He thinks he’s educating me on the use of superior front-loading machines and raising my consciousness about energy use. I think he’s being weird (I think I should be allowed to wash t-shirts and underpants separately from floor mops, and in cold water).

I am having nasty flashbacks to my ex, who wouldn’t let me use the radio or play music. I suppose I should be delighted to find myself married to someone who won’t let me do laundry, but I don’t take well to being forbidden. And I *like* doing laundry.

Hmm… I am thinking something about suffering and privation being good for creative expression. I think there must be something to that.

Hugs all, and if you don’t hear from me soon, that just means we kissed and made up!

[originally transmitted by e-mail September 26, 2003]