I’m editing lots of photos. Lots. To keep you entertained until they are done, here’s a great video that my lovely Amber sent me last fall. I loved it. I love it now for very different reasons, and watch it weekly because, well, cause Jpeg likes to leave the sponge in the sink. :)

Hope you enjoy. Amazing photos soon!

Last August, I was disappointed by men. A number of them. The number of trashy guy stories I was experiencing and hearing about from friends was astounding. When I went to the UK, I visited some old friends, met some new, and saw some great guys and relationships in real time. It was heartening. And so instead of focusing on bad eggs, I decided to write the good ones. I saw five great relationships in all, but will focus on this one. Things have shifted considerably since then, thank heavens, and I no longer need evidence that most men aren’t self-absorbed, self-ignorant slags.

In 1995, I met Ilona and Narimantas in Kaunas, Lithuania. They’d met a month before at a bar in the Old Town called the Blue Orange (B.O.). Narimantas, bald and tattooed, was at the bar and saw Ilona with another guy. He said to her, “That guy you’re with, is he important to you? If not, come with me.”

Ilona, in the summer before her last year of uni, was intrigued by Narimantas’s manner and fuck-all attitude. Even upon meeting, he struck her as someone who didn’t care about the stupid things most people concern themselves with, and she liked.

She replied, “Not really.” She wasn’t particularly into the guy she was with. They were friends, really. Maybe a little more.

“Then come with me,” he repeated.

“Well, I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it,” she answered, taken aback.

“Don’t think too long or we’ll be pissed [drunk],” said Narimantas.

And so she went. I met them a few weeks later, and they were already thick as thieves. Weeks later, I took photos of Narimantas giving Ilona her first tattoo, over 16 years ago.

Then I lost them. After Ilona finished university, they left for the UK. Lithuania wasn’t in the EU yet, so they made their way in under the radar. Because unpleasant guys in track suits were interested in Narimantas’s whereabouts, they also left under the radar and I couldn’t track them, though I finally heard a rumor that they’d left for the UK. Narimantas found work as a tattoo artist and Ilona did all sorts of things. Seven years later, she became a tattoo artist as well.

They moved from London to Brighton and last year, to Worthing, where they opened their own shop, Mantas Tattoo. I visited in September, and it was fun to see them together (married), sixteen years later. Although much had changed, not much had changed. They are comfortable with each other, proud of each other, and don’t seem bored in the least. They both have their own interests and habits and they give each other that space. Ilona does more of the tattooing now than Mantas, and they both only work when they want to work.

They’ve set themselves up in a home in Worthing, and walk to their shop, which is right next to the train station. Their home is suburban and comfortable, decorated with Narimantas’s paintings and interesting skulls and skeletons. The top floor is a little cove-like hideout, with a computer for gaming, pillows on the floor, and other creature comforts (there’s a cat, too). While they’re both involved in different online communities, they don’t go out much, the way urban artists might, preferring the comfort and entertainments of home during non-working hours. I found this inspiring, as some Americans like to insult suburban life on principle, though they live totally uncreative, conformist lives in small, dreary, overpriced urban apartments. Narimantas and Ilona have definitely found a way for themselves and live lives they enjoy on their own terms. Not many people can say that—especially first generation immigrants.

Looking back, none of the friends I visited in the UK have traditional 9-5s. Alys and her boyfriend are photographers, Angela and Karen are yoga teachers and studio owners, and Andrew owns a bike repair shop. I can’t help but wonder if people feel more free to venture into their own businesses in the UK because they don’t have to worry about/pay for health insurance, living without a “real” job. A chat I had years ago with an economist friend lends weight to this argument—that our sickening medical industrial complex stifles creativity and small business in the US. And you can bet the corporate giants like it that way.

Marked Eternal is the name of Ilona’s blog.

Narimantas & Ilona in Druskininkai, Lithuania

Jpeg is back Monday, thank god. I missed him, but in a nice way. He’s classy enough to call regularly, not use the “ah, oh, yeah, there’s no internet here” line on days we don’t speak, and didn’t need to pick up a Russian prostitute to keep him company on his travels. Respect, gentlemen. That’s all we ask.

Danchik likes to analyze why I stop speaking to people, just cut them out completely. It’s not that I’m angry or upset. It’s that I’m done being angry and upset. After I’ve explained that certain behaviors aren’t acceptable (e.g. lies and inconsistency), not once but ad nauseam, and it’s clear he’s incapable of basic civility, I lose all respect. A line is crossed and I am done. I never really know where this line is or when it will appear, which is perhaps what causes confusion (“she put up with it before. What’s the problem now?”). Sooner or later, clarity descends and the person’s little world seems both toxic and boring. I’m no longer able to look past the trite and unnecessary excuses and lies, justifying them because of the person’s obvious pain. I finally see my own behavior as aiding and abetting, and I’m done. Danchik doesn’t get the respect thing, and he doesn’t get why I haven’t cut him off, a self-proclaimed asshole.

“You’ve always been good to me. Well, maybe there was a short time you weren’t, but you were a baby and I let it go.” Behavior that is understandable at 19 is not acceptable at 25, and definitely not at 49. And that’s the issue. The bottom line is that Danchik is good to me. We have a history. As Bij would say, “He’s family.” I can’t say that for those I can no longer be bothered with. (No, I’m not talking specifically about you. You are typical. You are one of many. And that is, actually, the bottom line. It’s not all about you).

There was some time to think about this with Jpeg out of town. I say it because I’m relieved I broke a 5-year string of bad luck (disingenuous, selfish men) but also because bad behavior seems to be a dating trend in both women and men. I own my misery—it wasn’t bad luck. I let poor behavior continue, and chose to ignore the reality for what I’d hoped was there. Or put up with bad behavior because I felt sorry for the guy. It’s fucking hard to be close to someone, and I’m sure I will always fear it. But I will no longer choose men with whom closeness is impossible—for recreation or relationship. It causes dreadful problems and more pain than simply facing my fear of intimacy and the hurt behind it. But it’s familiar. And easier. Easier to look outward to solve problems than within. Not just for me, but for many.

Take this depressing blog, “Uptown-Lowdown,” about a young woman’s adventures on the dating site OkCupid. My gawd. She started off genuine and endearing, but then somehow got wrapped up in the need to exude freedom and cool, and she lost her voice in the process. It reads now as if having deep feelings for someone and risking vulnerability is wildly unhip for either gender. “Women can be douchebags, too!” Wow. I think most of us got that awhile ago. The need for young women to flaunt it seems to indicate just how far we haven’t come. Or just how scared we all are. Better to justify excitement about a guy in his FULLYPAID invite to Jamaica than to admit vulnerability and excitement the person himself. Sad times. Sad times.

Further, it is amazing how poorly behaved people are willing to be, in writing, in an age that such behavior can be published at large on the internet (and I’m not talking about a dating blog). It’s especially shocking when such people have PR as their first and only concern. But then, in an age of narcissism, nothing should come as a surprise.

While there are a few bad eggs only out for their own interests (1%), they’re easy to spot, and easy to avoid. The miserable little man who claims everyone else is an idiot, whose idea of conversation is talking at people who can’t escape, the disingenuous woman with painted-on smile and seething eyes, scratching madly at everyone, terrified her incompetence will be caught out—they deserve our sympathy, if not our time. There are so many amazing, loving people out there, it’s quite easy not to dwell on these creatures. Don’t.

Just as I started to write, M sent me a link to a Friedman column. Though I think Friedman’s a wanker (“Where does a guy whose family bulldozed 2.1 million square feet of pristine Hawaiian wilderness to put a Gap, an Old Navy, a Sears, an Abercrombie and even a motherfucking Foot Locker in paradise get off preaching to the rest of us about the need for a ‘Green Revolution’?”—Matt Taibii), I did like this line:

“The days of leading countries or companies via a one-way conversation are over,” says Dov Seidman, the CEO of LRN and author of the book How. “The old system of ‘command and control’ – using carrots and sticks – to exert power over people is fast being replaced by ‘connect and collaborate’ – to generate power through people.” Leaders and managers cannot just impose their will, adds Seidman. “Now you have to have a two-way conversation that connects deeply with your citizens or customers or employees.”

Oh, I guess it’s all a Dov Seidman quote. That’s why. Yes, connect and collaborate. Finally, it’s happening.

Something else I’ve always known but truly learned this year: Avoid people who put you down, want to keep you down, take you for granted, treat you poorly, or are generally negative or selfish. Even if they are funny. Even if you’re crazy attached. You know, deeply, that it will affect you. It rubs off and the end result is never pretty. Stand up for yourself, your friends, and your beliefs. Value yourself, your talents, your work, your community, and others will, too. It’s cliche and we hear it often, but live it. You’ll be in good company.

Oh shut up. Whatever. So I wanted to write them in August but I’m still getting to the stories, still waxing on about this addiction-to-lust meme, and not even consistently. You should be used to that by now. I’ve been wanting to write the next bit forever, but this, then that, then that, and more that came up and in the course if it, changed what I have to say.

The fabulous news is that I’m almost up to date with my digital photo archives, a project I started in January of 2009. I’ve selected from over 20,000 photos, tagged over 10,000, and put over 5,000 online. I’ve finally reached this summer in the archives, and once I’m through the UK pics, I’ll be up to date. And I only need four more birthdays to have all 366.

I am happily shocked that things are coming together. Ten years ago I was troubled by the fact that my photos seemed to tell one story, and my words another. Though I was tour guiding abroad, where you’d think it’d be pretty easy to illustrate a story with travel snaps, my photos didn’t mesh with my writing. They were saying different things. Shortly after, my acupuncturist told me that my yin and my yang were not in sync. In other words, my masculine and feminine energies? “Not on speaking terms,” he said. They didn’t come together. Not a subtle metaphor, is it. While masculine and feminine dichotomy seems a bit cliché, there is truth to it. But more than that, we have so many identities and stories within. How do they mesh? Do they harmonize? Fight? Or not even communicate?  Maybe that is (they are) part of what inspired me to organize my photos into a tagged archive, so that I can pull up a shot that illustrates my words, and bring together different parts of my life and self. Even the little flickr plugin (in the column at right, which pulls from the archive) charms me with its collection of different moments in my life, different parts of me, all true and sharp and real, thrown together at once.

My original intent with the love stories was to share some happy tales I came across when I visited the UK in August. The last few posts introducing the topic were more about post-modern confusion between lust and love than the successful romance and love that these stories convey, but they brought up some interesting conversations.

I went to see Sam’s spectacular play last week at Ars Nova. It made me laugh. And it made me wonder if some of the pretty hilarious dating stories I have from the last few years shouldn’t be shared. Sam advised, “I think you should definitely write the narcissism-&-modern-lust stories; so many people would relate, and appreciate, and it would be a Great Good to the world.”

Yes, maybe, Sam. A Great Good indeed (what more love and encouragement can a girl ask for, right?) But I’m not sure if I want to dwell in them. You know, the negativity. Nor I do want to jinx something so lovely and nice and new that I don’t dare mention it. Nor do I like the profound irritation of knowing that people read what they want to read—even though the text is write there in front of them for reference. Some just see what they want to see and make it all about themselves instead of stopping for three minutes and considering what another has to say. Generally annoying, sure, but even more aggravating when it comes to matters of the heart. But, unlike the corporate-minded, I will not punish the majority for the transgressions of the few. At least, if I don’t write the narcissism-&-modern-lust stories, it won’t be for that reason. I promise.

A final note: I’m moving my site over to another server, so it might be up and down in the coming weeks as I fix stuff. Just come back later if you can’t get through.

So, what’s the alternative? It’s infinitely harder than the next bauble in your match.com lineup, but infinitely more creative. You step out of the fantasy of romantic love and have a real relationship with your beloved—through your brokenheartedness. That’s right. You reach out through your vulnerability and meet your beloved on real terms. This is Simmer-Brown paraphrased, but it’s exactly my attitude toward love. For better or worse, though I adore romance, I have little trust in it. Maybe it’s because of loss early on my life, but I need my beloved to see the whole me and love her. With romantic love, especially the sort that grows too fast, I don’t feel seen at all. It feels inflated and unreal. Unsurprisingly, I’m not sure how my mean, ugly and needy parts will be tolerated. But there’s also an uneasy feeling that my sweet, beautiful, strong, and nurturing parts aren’t seen either. Instead, as the object of romantic infatuation, I just feel like a giant screen for another’s projection. It’s not a great feeling at all, though sure, the attention and roses sure are nice.

Simmer-Brown’s words were a relief to me because I ache for romantic love to crack open, for the real work and love to begin. Yes, it’s true I’ve tried to force it in the past. Not to hurt or to end the relationship, but to get into the creative work and real love of getting to know the beloved. It’s not for the faint of heart.

As Chögyam Trungpa, Simmer-Brown’s teacher, said (my paraphrase), “There’s not a lot of originality or creativity in the romantic story. Romantic love is a fantasy. Real relationships are infinitely more interesting.”

My word. Yes. I’m not saying I’m good at it. Not at all. In one relationship, my boyfriend complained I wasn’t going deep enough with him, sharing enough with him, and he needed that. “What did all my meditation and yoga give me, if not this?” he demanded. I didn’t tell him, because I couldn’t, that I was avoiding this depth, that I couldn’t share it, because if I was true to it (myself) I would end the relationship immediately. I needed a few more months to honor it, as the unhealthy attachment was strong. There were things I liked about the relationship even though it wasn’t meeting me on the deep level I wanted and needed. So, I get it. It’s hard. And I’m far from perfect myself.

“We have a fear of facing ourselves. That is the obstacle. Experiencing the innermost core of our existence is very embarrassing to a lot of people. A lot of people turn to something that they hope will liberate them without their having to face themselves. That is impossible. We can’t do that. We have to be honest with ourselves. We have to see our gut, our excrement, our most undesirable parts. We have to see them. That is the foundation of warriorship, basically speaking. Whatever is there, we have to face it, we have to look at it, study it, work with it and practice meditation with it.”  —Chögyam Trungpa

Then I read a good book. This helped, too. I’ve been wavering in my yoga practice since I came back from the UK. I’ve been sitting (seated mediation) and my 6am ashtanga practice has been ignored for a more gentle home practice. I feel guilty about that, but it also feels like what I need. Maybe. (Ashtangis will chalk it up to resistance.)

When I am uncertain about where I am, I try to do a meditation retreat. A week or two is best, but a weekend is better than nothing. It connects me to the part of myself that isn’t so much fear or ego and clarifies my situation. This is, at its core, what meditation is for me. It’s not about blissing out or enlightenment, it’s about knowing the difference between the bullshit stories that whirl around my head, the patterns I like to trap myself in, and my truth. I looked for something this weekend, but nothing really seemed appropriate and hell, I have a lot of work to do.

Then, out of the blue, Z asked me if I wanted to do some meditation this weekend. In our eight years, we’ve never meditated together, so I took it as a must-do (you know, a sign). I suggested a talk I’d come across by Judith Simmer-Brown at the Shambhala Center.

We went. The talk was excellent, funny, and validated everything I believe about modern love, and what can pass for it. It validated my take on my love affairs of the last few years (love being a loosely used term, as we know) and grounded me in where I am, and what I need now. Simmer-Brown also gave words and a framework to the point of all this, these love stories I want to tell. It was inchoate before, but now they’re screaming, ready to be told. Love Notes, the post title, was inspired by the few notes I scribbled down when I wanted to remember JSBs words.

It’s about going past the fantasy of romantic love. Blind addiction to imagined love is nothing less than the true religion of America (or pseudo-religion, as Simmer-Brown says. Semantics depend on how much you believe religion has to offer). Americans seek romantic love the way humans have traditionally sought God. It’s not just a distraction, it’s a deluded myth that romantic love with “the one” will solve all one’s problems. “There is such a theological commitment to romance that we will dump someone in a second if they challenge our fantasy,” says Simmer-Brown.

Indeed we will. With internet sirens beckoning, as soon as the facade cracks and the person you projected perfection upon turns out to be human, why face your own pain and that of your ersatz beloved when some guy or gal advertising (a) huge ____________ (insert your fancy) comes poking? My gawd, s/he knows the word for your genitals in your mother tongue, and will impress you with it before you even meet. Mmm, titillating. Now this? This will be easy.

Not refined, not subtle, no. Not even attractive, really. But that isn’t part of this game. We can ignore the obvious for now and focus on ease and fantasy. Why face pain and humanity when cranked-up delusion comes calorie-free?

Why? (If you’re really asking, you aren’t going to hear me anyway.) Because as per usual, you get what you pay for.

And so it goes. Another one bites the dust. Next time, some thoughts on real love, and some gorgeous stories for illustration.

My gawd, I’m using an advert in the tube to illustrate “love stories.” Is that what it’s come to?

No, not at all. I do like photos in subways and metros, and if I used photos of couples that I visited while in the UK, I’m sure they would not be pleased, as I aim to tell their stories. Lots of good love stories on this trip. And though my city gets a bad rap when it comes to love (“men there treat women as if they’re mobile phones, always looking for the next toy, never appreciating what they have in front of them”), while I was away, one friend eloped and another engaged. Not that matrimony and love are synonymous, but that these women have not been mistaken for androids by the men that love them (New Yorkers all). See? You don’t have to cross the pond. ;)

But what happened with Guka is not the point. For years, I’ve wanted to explain something that happened there, when we went hiking in the mountains outside Almaty with a group of her friends. I’m not sure how many creative people feel this way, but I have so many photos sitting waiting to be edited and seen, so many stories unwritten, that I feel in some way I can’t move on creatively until they are tended. It makes me apprehensive. Apprehensive about jumping into more, though of course I have. Though in that, too, something feels unresolved, unworked through, unseen. Something I’ve wanted to process has been ignored.

And so, in February of 2009, I began to go through 100s of old CDs full of digital photos. I love to clean, organize, and get rid of things (you don’t? Call me). I organized them down to a few DVDs, then decided to send off all my negs and chromes to India to be scanned. This I documented closely, as it was an endeavor. (It’s archived in the scancafe category.) When I got them back, I started archiving and tagging them in Lightrooom. It was amazing, cathartic, and tedious as hell. I also started uploading selects to Flickr, so they can be viewed.

Why? To make them conscious. So I know what’s there. Some of those images are printed. Most of them sit in archival boxes. Many are not, particularly the chromes. They are all but impossible to look at. So, I had them scanned. Why scan 7,000 old photos? So I know what’s there. And so others can see them if they desire. So they don’t sit in boxes in the back of my mind, like stories untold.

So finally, two and a half years later, I am uploading the 2004 selects to flickr. I will shut up, sit down, and finally write the story about that day at Chimbulak. Even though in words, it seems like nothing.

Chimbulak is a ski resort outside Almaty in the Tien Shan Mountains. We went there in the August for a hike and some fresh air. There were eight of us. It was an easy hike, but we were all at different levels, and two were kids. About half way to the top, at the base of the ski lift, the Soviet-built, terrifyingly-rickety ski lift, there was a resort where we stopped for lunch and some liquid courage (vodka). It was typical Russian fare. I enjoyed myself. We laughed and had fun.

After the lift was a short climb. It wasn’t difficult, but we’d had plenty of vodka and were soon tired, but we pushed on. As we neared the top, we did something I’ve never seen in my years of hiking. Something Americans would never do. We linked hands. It wasn’t unusual to them in the least. We held hands and helped each other up the rest of the mountain. To the stubbornly independent American, it seemed not only strange, but not that helpful.

But it was. Even if you were toward the top of the chain, doing most of the work, the linking woke us up and brought us together. The last bit of the hike though the clouds was easy, coming together as one.

As we did this, my thoughts went, “What are you doing? That’s silly. This will impede everyone. What the hell? Keep your mouth shut. You are a guest here. Wait. Wait. How strange. This is nice. I’m being pulled, gently. I’m gently pulling. We are helping each other, and we are lighter, and faster, and efficient.”

Nevermind that Guka wouldn’t take my hand.

It was not the way I was used to, but it worked. Magically. And with that realization, it hit me just how different Kazakh, and Central Asian, culture is. Yes, of course I knew it, understood it conceptually. But before this, I didn’t feel it or understand it on a cellular level. I didn’t feel it to be true. I just knew it intellectually.

And perhaps this seems simple, or obvious, or like nothing, but after fifteen years of foreign travel, I finally truly understood how some cultures rely on each other much more intrinsically than we do in the U.S. We frown up on it here, to the point that so many people are alienated and alone, with no idea how to truly connect to another person. We are afraid it means we are needy or weak, or will be trapped in some sort of needy abyss (ours or another’s). But it doesn’t mean any of this.

At the top, we sprawled out in the grass for a rest.

To see all the photos from the day at Chimbulak, go to flickr.

We don’t really go that far into other people, even when we think we do. We hardly ever go in and bring them out. We just stand at the jaws of the cave, and strike a match, and quickly ask if anybody’s there.    ~Martin Amis

Where’d I leave off? Danchik? Old friends? Yes. There.

Spending the week with Georgie, okay, sorry, George. He prefers George. Not Gumby, Gum, Gumshoe, Jorge (he’s now a prof of spanish literature, though he got the nickname in HS), Georgie, or any other of the nicknames he acquired over the years. Simply George, like his dad.

After spending the week with George, and Danchik the weekend before, I realize that old friendships both comfort and confine.

I met George when we were 8 years old. I remember when I first saw him, a very tall Indian boy at his locker about 10 up from mine. He was looking down, adjusting his books. For the next ten years we were in the same classes, because kids in Ohio who can read and add all get schooled in a room together, to learn things like cursive writing and long division. We were a small group.

George gave me my first book on Buddhism when we were twelve, though he’s a Malayali Catholic, and was offended when I thought that his family had converted from Hinduism (I was twelve, okay?). “My people have been Catholic 1500 years longer than yours, you pagan!” he yelled, referring to Lithuania’s hold on paganism long past any other nation in Europe.

Fair enough.

So, we have a history. We’ve known each other a long time. He knows my family, and I know his. And yes, maybe he planted a spiritual seed back when I was a diehard pre-teen atheist. Maybe.

This is lovely and comfortable. But it’s also limiting. Not entirely, but George still sees me the way he did when we were eight. Or at least thirteen. Some of his attitudes toward me don’t reflect the person I am now, but who I was. And George knew me during some difficult times, when I was just trying my best to be tough and get through it all. I’m no longer a guarded, highly-protected teenage hardass. But because this is what he expects of me, part of me slides back and gives it to him. Because it’s familiar and comfortable, and because we are old friends.

Likewise, my ideas about him are probably outdated, too.

This isn’t a statement about George, but about people and relationship. George is one of the sweetest, kindest people I know. And frankly, these are the most difficult people to be with, because when I’m grumpy or I’m being an ass, there’s no excuse. It’s not because he’s selfish or mean. It’s because I am grumpy or being an ass. And that’s not easy to own. Usually, I have plenty of targets worthy of the projection. Haha.

And so it is with Danchik. We go back ten years. Long enough. Danchik has very different ideas about me than George, and while I do think he’s seen me change over the years, his ideas are still his ideas. Recently, we were chatting about his old friend Katya, about her recent relationships. I asked him what happened and he said, “What happened? She kirtiklised him! That’s what happened.” We both had a good laugh.

Meanwhile, our 12-year-old friend Pasha, who doesn’t know much English, said (in Russian): “What did she do? What is kirtiklised him? What does this mean?”

There’s no chance I will tell you.

Danchik and I laughed harder and Danchik said, “Molodetz!” which means, loosely, “clever boy,” or “well done.”

It was funny. But it speaks to Danchik’s ideas about me. They aren’t invalid, but they are fossilized. I don’t think he’s interested in seeing who I am past his ideas of me, which, granted, we spent a fair amount of time building up. In good ways, and bad.

It’s easier to see and perpetuate this with friends I don’t see all the time, so my ideas about them, and projections on them, aren’t challenged. Friends I see often grow along with me. As I fumble along, they challenge me to stay real, and to remember exactly what that means. It’s easy to forget. Or, to find it too hard, and seek distraction. George and Danchik keep me in line in their own way. Otherwise I’d have dumped them. Or they’d have dumped me. I’m hard to take, really, as I have no patience for those who run in bright-fast circles to numb the pain of their existence, full force against a second’s rest to actually face themselves. Once I see a person’s bullshit and she admits to no interest in facing it, I lose respect. Perhaps worse, I’m bored. I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut over the years, at least a little bit, but I don’t stick around and watch the cycle perpetuate. They seem cowardly. Or average. Or boring.

Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
~Albert Einstein

I thought it was “Stupidity: doing the same thing…” but I’ll take insanity, too.

Wisdom is about seeking truth whether or not the seeker himself is vindicated or comforted by the unveiling of that truth. This desire to know—even if some knowledge is highly uncomfortable—is what makes the quest for wisdom so courageous and challenging.
~Ethan Nichtern