Jeez, I noticed I was getting a little heavy handed. Like maybe I think too much. I’m a blonde for crying out loud... I should know how to lighten up.

So, every year at Halloween I hang the talking skull on a window crank under the window next to the front door. Just when the sunlight hits him right, he talks to me – actually, he YELLS at me: Where are you going? And, I jump a foot into the air and grab at my heart. Every year, I feel like an idiot, because he got me again! I never fail to answer him just to calm my nerves: “I’m going to the fucking grocery store, okay?”

It’s like some scene from an annual family gathering with the grandpa or uncle with the bad jokes and usual lines:

“What d’ya know?”

“Not much.”

“They don’t teach you much in school, do they?”

or

"Grandpa! This is a one way!"

"I'm only going one way, aren't I?"

Every year the same predictable conversations, only I couldn’t use the “f” word like I can with skullie.

What worries me is the unnatural attachment I develop by the time it is time to take him down and put up the Christmas decorations. He is endearing and I place him tenderly into the storage box and explain that I will see him next year, as though turning his button to off means that I am pulling the plug. Maybe I should buy a talking Santa to replace him or decorate the skull with a red hat and white beard and call him the Skullie of Christmas past. But then, enough time needs to pass for him to surprise me again, because if I left him up, maybe I would come to ignore him or take him for granted, like a sad marriage. And so, the relationship begins again – year after year. For now, skullie is watching me, wide-eyed, waiting for me to come just close enough to yell at me.

I have been suffering a certain “Angst;” that inexplicable anxiety that is not only compassion for, or identification with, the world’s collective Angst (Weltschmerz?), but also related to a feeling as though I am a panther in a cage. I remember watching the panthers in too small cages at the zoo (they have since substantially expanded the feline exhibit in Denver). I wonder if the panther I saw is the one who ate the zoo keeper last year. Anyway, watching the cat’s eyes, and his panting and snarling, I knew that I had discovered the mirror for the feeling in my heart. It is why I could not stay married (ok even though I was married 18 years!). It had nothing to do with wanting another or different man; it had to do with seeking places within myself I could only find by living my life outside of marriage – and the feeling was so intense that to stay would have destroyed me or turned me into a religious fanatic of some sort. As it is, seven years later, I am much happier alone wondering if I will ever marry again, but the roving Angst remains.

Maybe there’s nothing to it, but because of some reading I did a few years ago, I decided to explore the simian line that runs across my right hand a little further. A simian line replaces the head and heart lines and is the only line that runs straight across the upper half of the palm with no indication of another line attached to it (essentially the head and heart line are one). Only about 4% of Caucasians exhibit it on one hand and up to 13% of Asians, so it is uncommon but not rare. If a person possesses a simian line they are prone to an “incredible intensity of nature, [and] a strong tendency to rush into all things without thinking them through” (HumanHand.com). Oh, did I mention that if a person had this line it was considered a sign that they may be more prone (than people without the line) to murder someone? This is largely because it is a head and heart line connected so that reason and emotion are indistinguishable. I have known to be rash and possessed a vicious temper in my 20’s (my poor poor exhusband!), but now I am relatively mellow and all that remains is this Angst.

While half of they who are afflicted with Down’s Syndrome have simian lines, (and apes and monkey also have it), according to Larry Rodrigues of Handanalysis.com, it has also been attributed to some great thinkers and talented people like John Steinbeck, Henry Miller, former Russian president Nikita Krushchev, and Tony Blair (who has them on both hands - only 1% have it on both). He goes on to say that “people with simian lines generally live their life differently than most other people who do not have simian lines. Not necessarily living better or worse, just living more intensely, with an undercurrent of uneasiness.”

Both sites recommend meditation, which I do. Therapy helped me most –and a spiritual path (Amen!). Anyway, I feel more grounded than ever, but keenly aware of this Angst that drives me to be the best that I can be as a professional dancer and writer. It drives me to turn over every rock and to say things many people would be afraid to say. I feel with an intensity that often overwhelms me - whether it be love or admiration for the rainbow bubbles in my mineral water. But, it is not a yo-yo experience – the feelings coexist... happiness remains the main melody, but even while being grounded in joy and gratitude, I feel rejection and sadness and anger to the core.

While I have many friends, I am alone much of my time. I do not have close friends, per se – ones that call me everyday. I am deeply grateful to have my sister and brothers in my life, because if I really need to cry on a shoulder, they would be the people whom I would call. Part of the reason I do not have close friends, however, is related to the panther quality – a desire to be free, to never get too close in case I get chained down. On one hand, I cannot tolerate drama because of the intensity with which I absorb feelings and because I have little tolerance for people who want to mull around in their stuff. I’m not saying this is good or bad – it just is and I’m beginning to think it is reflected by (or perhaps even related to) my Simian Line. It is only by turning the mirror upon myself that I will understand in order to make choices and change my life where I want it changed. HumanHand.com affirms that “the Simian Line shows incredible strength of will and determination to succeed,” going on to say that “altering reality is far easier for bearers of the Simian Line than for others” because thought creates reality. In that case, I hope there’s a pizza waiting in the kitchen because after all this contemplating, I’m hungry!

Is interrupting an East coast thing, as a friend of mine proposed? Are Westerners really slower and more linear minded? It’s definitely not so black and white. I am not talking about obsessive talkers, which span the Continent and beyond. We all know the type who won’t let you walk away and when you’ve finally been totally overwhelmed by them and run out of time, they ask you about your life (because their life is so much more difficult than yours). A little intrusion is one thing; total obliteration is another (and it’s all relative!).

I grew up on the West coast but lived in New York for five years in the 1980’s which may account for my communication style. The question for a linguistics major is this: What amount of words quantifies an interruption as opposed to an interjection? And, if an interjection takes a conversation off course, maybe it will be into more interesting and unexpected territory, or perhaps it is only a digression with the full intention on the part of the interrupter to return to the main topic at hand. Actually, I compare my style to jazz music – not the totally obscure kind, but the kind where there is a melody and then the musicians riff and finally return to the main melody. Riffing is spontaneous and creative – much like brainstorming where nothing is planned or censored. Some people think that if their thought is not finished or a topic is not complete, then the two people chatting should not move on. I find linear conversation like that tedious.

On the other hand, there are times I am with my closest friends and they spend most of an hour on a topic because it rivets us both and it is loaded with genuine emotion. I consulted about six of these friends whom I have known for over 15 years and we discussed communication style. None felt that I interrupt, so there is obviously an ease in our exchange. It requires a huge effort on my part when I am with a more linear minded friend. Is one mode of communication right or wrong? I don’t think so, although it is important to communicate feelings to one another regarding the topic so that feelings don’t get hurt and each party feels heard. However, it has been my experience that the people who feel interrupted have not considered that perhaps their mode is just as demanding for the other party because there is not a kindred sense of communication. If riffers are expected to slow down and change, then perhaps the lineads could occasionally attempt to broaden their horizons and forget that they had a plan.

I’ve only been told by three people in my life that I interrupt, although it's likely there are more who feel that way. The first time was by a family member when I was about 26 years old and I took it a bit personally because I generally care about the people with whom I am conversing and there is an implication that I don’t care about what they have to say. I thought it was a unique problem, until this year (20 years later), two men told me the same thing – separately, of course. Ironically, I remembered them talking for long stretches when I was listening avidly. Perhaps I didn’t respond or maybe I was trying to identify with their story with a story of my own and did not ask the questions they hoped for, but in any case their remark caused me to ponder. Finally, I will say that I am more present in my conversation because of my linead friends. I am less prone to interject a canned story that seems so important, related to something they said a minute ago; I’m more apt to listen to what is being said in the moment, but I definitely don't beat myself up about it because ultimately I believe it is a difference in styles that is not easily resolved.

October 18, 2007

I just returned from my 30th high school reunion trip, and, by the way, my stepdad was home. His health and other circumstances prevented him from going on the car rally. I think I was sadder that he couldn’t go than when I thought I wouldn’t be seeing him. Ended up, we spent a couple days together – chatting, having lunch at the club on the beach, watching a movie together (The Lives of Others) and eating an amazing Thanksgiving (a few weeks early) meal that my mother made for us. My mom likes to say that while the disease is a curse its gift is that he is getting to know his kids. The admirable thing about him is his eternal patience with his body and others. At lunch we bump into a former neighbor: “I’m Hilda your old neighbor from down the street,” she shouts at him as though a wheel chair indicates he is deaf or experiencing dementia. Later we laugh about it. He has not lost his sense of humor! Sure, he feeds himself slowly and can’t walk easily, but his mind is active and clear. The love in his eyes is evident. He does not look away, but meets my gaze as he formulates his thoughts and expresses his experience. When we take time to listen to someone's rite of passage or altered experience, it opens the heart and helps us meet our own future challenges more gracefully.

I also had dinner with my little (15 years younger) brother. We ate sushi with saki and beer and discussed the trials and tribulations of life and love. He gives me good feedback and we have a similar take on life. I don’t think I will ever forget our dinner. The memory of every event during this particular weekend feels permanently etched on my heart.

The reunion was a delight too – all the dear friends. I spent the night with my best friend whom I had not seen in years. I’m sure we won’t let so much time go by again! I was hoping to chat with a man who intrigued me in high school and I was even luckier – he asked me to dance! It was a slow dance – I can’t even remember the song because I was so surprised. We danced like middle schoolers – not too close and looking around the room as though it might rain inside. Mind you, I’m single and he’s married (like a game of tag: I’m it, he’s out), so I’m not sure if he really officially asked me to dance, but we somehow ended up on the dance floor. I didn’t even have anything to drink, but for some reason all I remember is dancing with a small group of friends and suddenly being in his arms – at a distance of course. Who knows, maybe it was some magnetic impulse that drew us together. Hmmm... I can’t analyze this too much without Karma coming over and slapping me.

So, here is my poem in honor of the event.

High School Reunion

It is raining when the plane touches down in LA.
Droplets race across my view
in jagged fits and starts,
evaporating as the next set follows suit
like waves in a marathon.

Absentmindedly I feel the ridges across my forehead:
circles of a tree trunk, marking time –
skin that once was smooth as this page;
I am reassured that love is blind to laugh lines and age,
receding hairlines, and waists grown thick.

The heart grows fonder of they who knew me
during the worst of life, the best of life,
when hormones raged
and we threw our hearts out to one another like bait.
Yet, I hid behind a veneer,
sure that if I let down my guard
I’d be eaten alive (or risk failure)
and so I arrive late (to life),
to the reunion
with my heart on a platter,
as though seeing my friends for the first time –
at once pegged, yet forever changed:
scarred and worn as only time (and children) can do,
yet more precious and beautiful than ever.

I’d like to take the hand of every friend,
and splay their palms face up across mine,
to fingertip trace a line and read a guarantee
of eternal life (or at least until next time),
because my heart takes equal pleasure and comfort
in friends reappearing like summer sunflowers
or the blue moon
or a pair of rare Inca Doves
that alight in my pine
to sing when I least expect.

So, the other day an acquaintance in town was telling me some of his problems over the produce and I got up the nerve to recommend my spiritual teacher to him. He stiffened and shook his head and changed the subject, but I wouldn’t let it go. “Why? Why won’t you call her,” I asked, baffled as to why anyone would want to remain in their pain. His lips were drawn tight and then he said, “Maybe I don’t want to know the answers.”

What a refreshing answer! I wanted to kiss him (but only in gratitude). Finally some truth! I rather have people tell me the truth than pussy foot around. Being the stubborn woman I am, I added: “But, the answers will bring you joy!” I believe that, but I don’t care what he chooses to do. I know better than to judge anyone’s timing or choices because everyone finds their own teachers in their own time, and anyway, just when you derive an ounce of healing in relationship to one issue, another rears its ugly head.

For instance, my step father has multisystem atrophy (MSA) which mimics Parkinson’s, but does not respond to the medications as readily; therefore, his body is deteriorating rapidly. His mind, on the other hand, is fully present. He is renowned in the car world. He gave me a solid boost in life and I appreciate that. He gave me wise advice as I was growing up and we shared a love for my big white cat named Enzo. But, he was not particularly emotionally available on a deeper level, or rather interested in knowing me on a deeper level. It probably stems from the fact that both of his parents did not have the emotional or spiritual capacity to support him either as a son or race car driver and that may have driven him inside of himself to a large degree. When he married my mother, he stepped outside of himself the most that he could. In other words, my brother shares more love and time with him by virtue of the fact of loving the same things. At any rate, I have digressed. I am going to visit my stepdad this weekend in conjunction with my 30th high school reunion and I was all the more excited because he and I attended the same high school. I was looking forward more to the time with my step dad even than I was to my reunion, but when I called home yesterday, my mother told me that he had decided to go on a car rally with my brother and will be away the entire time I am in town. The first thing that comes up any time we are challenged, rejected, or attacked is the ego voice: “If he loved you, he would not be doing this to you, but you are so fucking unlovable that you can’t find a date and you couldn’t even stay married... and, and he loves your brother more anyway... and probably your sister too, because you never really belonged to the family anyway.” The ego voice is meaner than mean and most of us live with it – our very own abusive relationship right inside of our heads.

To me, “knowing the answers” meant that I would have to slay my ego, which is tougher than any prince slaying a dragon or Luke slaying Darth. It meant not only knowing the truth about the other person, but the truth about myself. The knowing is initially painful, but eventually it sets you free. I want my step dad to be happy in his last months and I know it’s not personal. I know he loves me, but how many opportunities like this will he have to tool around with friends and professional associates? Probably very few. Knowing the answers has given me the capacity to step outside and see his perspective and to be grateful for what he has given me. Plus, death is no barrier. We see it as a barrier and make a big deal about someone dying and feel guilt that we didn’t do enough or see them often enough, when lo and behold we will find out that they really aren’t so far. I will make the effort to see him beginning of the 2008 and it will all unfold as it is meant to be. I hope I can continue to seek the answers, because I think that is part of healing this world, but as far as others go, the Lord’s timing is none of my business; my job is to love and accept my friends and family unconditionally.