pantoum's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- FREAK 221. Diane Arbus was a fashion photographer for twenty-some-odd years. Then, in the late 1950s, she turned away from models and began photographing freaks (her term)�transvestites, midgets, Down syndrome patients, carnies, and whoever else fit her category on any given day. What made her turn away from conventional beauty, change her lens? What made her ingest barbiturates and slit her own wrists twenty years later? And what makes me fail to put on sunblock when I go out into the sun? I have just rolled in after three stormy days at the beach, where the chorus board held our annual retreat. Sunset Beach, N,C is like the South Cackylacky beaches where I grew up�deep, long beaches of hard, packed sand with dunes far removed from the water, an orchard of reeds between the dunes and the first row of houses, and deep green marshlands that harbor amazing birds. Your feet barely scrunch down into the hard, packed sand on those nearly shell-free beaches. The other NC beaches I�ve visited were all much closer to the water, and structures sat very close to the water. And the sand on them is deep and loose and packed with colorful shell fragments. I understand that Duke University's Olin Pinkney can explain exactly why the Carolina coasts differ so much, but I suspect either hurricanes washed away more of the NC beaches or developers built too close to the water and the resulting erosion washed away some of the beaches. There were palmetto trees all over Sunset Beach too�a sure sign that South Cackylacky wasn�t far away. � I discovered on Friday night that Operagrrl and I were placed in same front bedroom that we shared last year, when I was making a decision to go home a day early and catch the Ginger in the act. This is alo the room where, just a year ago, I talked with the Ginger on the phone and she talked about how much she was enjoying her "alone time," and then I tossed and turned and stayed awake all night, absorbing the fact that I could no longer tell myself that she was telling me the truth. Board members were sleeping on the sofa last year, so I stared at the bedroom ceiling till sunrise and experienced the longest night of my soul. I know my temper and so stared at the ceiling and imagined every possible scenario, gave myself permission to punch Dickboy but not kill him, and decided it would be worth the possible assault charge to do so. Then the sun finally came up and I drove home a day early to see if what I heard in the Ginger's voice was accurate. (And anyone who reads my blog knows the rest of this story.....) So this past Friday night, I told Operagrrl that we had to at least change sides of the bed.... and then, at a conscious level at least, I pushed aside this memory and just went about the weekend�giving my input on the five-year plan, studying the financial records, cooking omelets to order for everyone, and that kind of thing. I�ve realized since returning home, however, that I am unable to feel anything. There�s a blank hole inside me where feelings were last night and I have moats around my fortresses again. The Ginger's betrayal was the deepest emotion wound I�ve ever received�more damaging and soul-penetrating than my mother shooting herself even. (Um, well maybe. I don't have PTSD flashbacks from our break-up and I sure do from that day, so maybe I'm wrong on this one.) Anyway, I guess all I'm saying is that I really shouldn�t be surprised by tonight�s reaction. What I brushed off as an expected urge toward introversion is actually numbness, an absence of connection to anyone or anything. This is Bird, shut down. And it feels very, very lonely. � So let�s work backwards. On Saturday night, nine of us went to a seafood restaurant that sits a few yards away from the one-way bridge to Sunset Beach. There was a half-hour wait, so we grabbed drinks and stood outside on the porch and listened to our stomachs growl. The rotating bridge was closed to allow boats to pass through on the intracoastal waterway and cars lined the road beside the restaurant, waiting. (And please, please, please never let developers turn this bridge into a super-efficient high-suspension bridge where people never have to just sit and absorb the world around them or be inconvenienced by the realities of their landscape.) Operagrrl and Computergrrl and some others were talking about show tunes and then suddenly burst into song! They were having a blast and sounded really good, but were also loud and some people were glaring at us, which made me a little self-conscious and made me long for that New York City anonymity that FIlmgrrl loves so much, for a place where I could be a dyke in a party of dykes and never turn a head and where well-pitched women singing show tunes don�t cause even a single person to bat an eye. Several people waiting at the bridge hung out of their car windows and cheered after my pals finished their songs though, which was really cool. Our thirty-minute wait turned into one-and-a-half hours, so we didn't even get our salads till 10:15 PM. My calabash-style combo platter did eventually revive me though. Then we returned to the condos about 11:30 and most people went straight to bed, but Operagrrl and tow other board members and I decided to brave the alligators by the lake and go for a late-night swim in the pool. We eventually wound up in the hot tub, where we drank and smoked and laughed too loudly for people who were trespassing after hours. Then the fifth or sixth fierce downpour of the weekend hit with a vengeance and it looked and felt so cool! Huge raindrops bounced off our heads and the sidewalks, where fog rose in creepy Werewolf-in-Londonlike walls of mist. The rain stung our faces, but we were otherwise toasty warm and happy, so we decided to stay in the hot tub until we heard thunder or saw lightning. So we covered up our cigarettes with towels and stood in the rain talking through three such deluges before finally climbing into bed about 2 AM. What a beautiful memory of the weekend. Then, this afternoon, to close the retreat, we shared one thing we bring to the chorus and one thing we need from the chorus, and this wound up being a very emotional moment. I�ve been a member since 1991, served as president for several years and on the board for most of those years, and it still amazes me what a group of common women (some of whom have no formal musical training) can produce musically. When we sing, it is evident that we share a lot of love for each other. And I don�t know if it�s because we have a strong social component, if our insistence on check-in (when members share what�s going on in their lives) keeps us connected, or what, but we have somehow managed to form a family, a tight community of loving, incredible women. And that's a beautiful thing. �
Finally I must ask, since we have a new board member who comes from a corporate background and is well-used to (and enjoys) advising boards, do people who use the term �think out of the box� actually believe that they are thinking outside the box or is this just another example of corporatese lingo? Maybe it�s time for a new lens.... 9:05 a.m. - 2005-08-08 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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