Jon-El Williams fell fully into the Triciasphere today.
That could be a good thing because I've gained some insight into how connecting certain points on my personal time line throws me directly onto the Road to Beaumont. Bob Hope is nowhere in sight.
I'm afraid that I've insulted and/or offended Mr. Williams with something I said. It's important to remember that in all the years I was growing up, I never got popped for anything I did. I got popped in the chops because of something I said. So it's no surprise that there are times when I keep my thoughts to myself - at least until there's a safe distance between me and the other party. Generally, it's not safe to be in the same room because even when they can't reach you, people will throw things when they get pissed. The Man chucked his car keys at me once, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't aiming for me since they hit the wall a few feet from my head. The Dr. Pepper my mother threw at me missed my head, too, but I think she was aiming at me and just missed. I can't even remember what I said to my father that got him up off the couch and chasing me with the vacuum cleaner that happened to be between us. Sometimes I just say things that set people off. Other times all I do is cry so hard it feels like my eyelids are fixing to turn inside out - and I prefer to avoid that too.
Maybe if I could learn to tone it down a little, I could feel safe having substantive personal conversations with people who are in the same room. It's easy for me to manage substantive conversations at work, or with readers and writers at KGB - but not so easy with someone with whom I'm in the process of becoming intimate. Intimacy is tricky for everyone, I suspect.
I hope Mr. Williams hasn't decided I'm a damaged lunatic prone to theatrics. I suppose I'd have to accept that characterization as accurate, but it takes a certain kind of trigger for me to land on the road to Beaumont. I refuse to think of it as "making a drama" because that phrase suggests mountains out of molehills in places like The Jersey Shore. I doubt there's ever any real tragedy involved in the piss ant little tantrums that pass as drama on soap operas. Once you're in a land of trauma and tragedy, I'd say the story is big enough to include a few musical numbers - which brings us again to one of my favorite intersections of Imagination and Real Life, Sondheim's Into the Woods.
Careful the things you say,
Children will listen.
Careful the things you do,
Children will see.
My family comes from Beaumont. We moved to Houston in when I was two because my dad got a job with the phone company, but we went back to my grandparents' house all the time. That picture up in the side bar, the one with me and Granny the Ho, was taken in Beaumont. Even though Granny was certainly a character, her house was safe. She wasn't living out some Tennessee Williams play. Tennessee Williams might as well have lifted my grandparents' house and dropped it into some gothic psychodrama much like Dorothy's house was lifted straight out of Kansas. We didn't have the kind of money Big Daddy had in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but we did have some issues with Mendacity.
These days, months and months can pass without me even remembering the place. As it happens, one of the first things Jon-El learned about me is that I was from Beaumont. He'd known one other woman who came from Beaumont, and she didn't like talking about it either. I wonder if she knew my uncle or my grandfather, or if she had uncles, stepfathers and grandfathers of her own. Most likely. That shit happens everywhere, but there's something about all that Spanish moss hanging from the live oak trees that makes it all seem just a little more twisted. I expect that's why True Blood is set in Louisiana.
Speaking as someone from the Texas side of the Sabine River, I have to say that I fully believe the folks are more twisted on the Louisiana side. They may be meaner in Texas. One thing's for sure, Boudreaux and Bubba cause trouble no matter where they show up. Just ask the people in the 9th Ward after Katrina.
Years ago, Jon-El was in the Congo for work, and before he could go into some remote area, he had to meet the local medicine woman. She threw some bones on the dirt floor of her home and told him he had to leave in thirty days. He did, but his crew stayed behind for another week and wound up with the encephalitis that fucks up your brain but the symptoms didn't show up until after the crew had landed in Haiti. And that was back during the Duvailers and all the necklacing. I figure if he has been through that shit he can handle the road to Beaumont. I can't imagine why anyone would want to handle it, however.
I can't exactly identify what the trigger was last week, but I've been struggling with feeling like a Booty Call. Jon-El apparently loses track of time when he's working hard, and although he generally responded if I sent a text, I initiated all the communication except for the time he called me on Friday evening, a little tipsy, wanting to come over the next day. It was kind of cute the first time, but when it was looking like the same thing was fixing to happen, I was feeling like Jon-El and I had reached a point where, according to the Code of the West, my dad would be asking the man to state his intentions toward his daughter. When a woman is my age, she's got to ask the question her own self.
Maybe I do turn into a damaged lunatic who is prone to theatrics, but there is a bright, shiny little girl who still lives inside me, and she deserves protection in a world where it can be hard to tell the good guys from the bad ones. We all have that child archetype. According to Carolyn Myss, the Child is one of our survival archetypes, and it has subcategories - Wounded, Orphaned, Magical and Nature. Carolyn Myss is an intuitive healer who often works with archetype and story. And if real life were a story, I'd be the one in the red cape right now watching out for that Big Bad Wolf just like my mother and my grandmother told me. My mom and my Granny had uncles, stepfathers and grandfathers too.
The Patriarchy is a drag.
From a metaphysical perspective, it looks like I had a survival reaction to some First Chakra energy that was activated when I met Jon-El Williams. Gwen was saying something about first chakra stuff being especially major this year on account of some 26,000 year cycle. She talks about all kinds of energies on Thursdays now at Here Be Monsters when the focus is the Consciousness Shift as seen in Occupy!
The good news is that I learned Jon-El Williams is not the big bad wolf. He would be the kindly woodsman who killed the wolf with his axe because Mr. Williams is a 100% honorable man who actually listens, has astute insight and even when he's firm, it feels fundamentally kind. I know this because in real life, his head might have been exploding once he read my email, but his response was restrained, focused and well written. Once he sent it, he finally came over to the blog.
Him finding his way over here was a big relief for me, but I can see how it might be disconcerting for a person to be confronted with a character he has become in some theatrical lunatic's blog. I sure like his character, though, and some people think it's kind of cool to find yourself in the middle of an unfolding story. Maybe it's a little twisted, too, like the families in some mythical southern town, fallen into genteel decline, with mildew spreading along the white sides of the houses and moss dripping from the trees. It gets pretty steamy.
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