Anxiety

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From How God Became King (2012)

  What’s more, as we shall see, some people, not least some Christians, appear allergic to the very idea of God becoming, or being, “king.” “Isn’t God as king triumphalist? Doesn’t that lead us toward that dreaded word ‘theocracy’? And isn’t that one of the problems of our day, not one of the solutions?” Questions like that are important. But even if the gospel writers had heard us asking them, they would not have backed off from the claim they were making. To discover why not and to see what they might have said in reply to such comments, we have to take a deep breath and go back to the beginning. The book proceeds in four parts, or stages. Part I introduces the problem as I see it and attempts to sharpen it up, so that readers come to see that there really is a problem that demands some fresh work and, if possible, some fresh attempts at a solution. The second part explores four dimensions of the canonical gospels that, again, have normally been screened out in modern Western readings and that we need to recover if we are to allow the gospels to tell us the story they intend to tell. Then, in Part III, we reach what is really the heart of the picture. Using the four dimensions set out in the second part, I try to show how the two vital themes so often separated, the kingdom and the cross, come together in the gospels, knock sparks off one another, and reinforce each other in setting out a claim that today’s church has all but forgotten, a claim as much in what we call the political as in what we call the religious or spiritual sphere. That central combination of kingdom and cross then leads to further considerations about the meaning of these themes in the light of the gospels’ story of Jesus’s resurrection and ascension. Then, in the final part, I come back to the great creeds and suggest that, though we have indeed allowed them to lull us into a frame of mind in which it’s all too easy to screen out the central message of the gospels, it is just as possible, once we realize that mistake, to say or sing them as rich affirmations of that full message. This will generate some suggestions about how we should rethink our basic traditions of teaching and practice, so as to be more faithful to the documents that are, after all, at the heart of the Christian faith. It may be worth pointing out at this introductory stage that this book is not primarily about Jesus himself. I have written plenty on Jesus within his historical context, including a recent short book, Simply Jesus. * I intend to go on working at that subject, but that isn’t what this present book is about.

• From I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969)

  I've told you many times, ‘Can't do is like Don't Care.’ Neither of them have a home.” Translated, that meant there was nothing a person can't do, and there should be nothing a human being didn't care about. It was the most positive encouragement I could have hoped for. In the offices of the Market Street Railway Company, the receptionist seemed as surprised to see me there as I was surprised to find the interior dingy and the décor drab. Somehow I had expected waxed surfaces and carpeted floors. If I had met no resistance, I might have decided against working for such a poor-mouth-looking concern. As it was, I explained that I had come to see about a job. She asked, was I sent by an agency, and when I replied that I was not, she told me they were only accepting applicants from agencies. The classified pages of the morning papers had listed advertisements for motorettes and conductorettes and I reminded her of that. She gave me a face full of astonishment that my suspicious nature would not accept. “I am applying for the job listed in this morning's Chronicle and I'd like to be presented to your personnel manager.” While I spoke in supercilious accents, and looked at the room as if I had an oil well in my own backyard, my armpits were being pricked by millions of hot pointed needles. She saw her escape and dived into it. “He's out. He's out for the day. You might call tomorrow and if he's in, I'm sure you can see him.” Then she swiveled her chair around on its rusty screws and with that I was supposed to be dismissed . “May I ask his name?” She half turned, acting surprised to find me still there. “His name? Whose name?” “Your personnel manager.” We were firmly joined in the hypocrisy to play out the scene. “The personnel manager? Oh, he's Mr. Cooper, but I'm not sure you'll find him here tomorrow. He's … Oh, but you can try.” “Thank you.” “You're welcome.” And I was out of the musty room and into the even mustier lobby. In the street I saw the receptionist and myself going faithfully through paces that were stale with familiarity, although I had never encountered that kind of situation before and, probably, neither had she. We were like actors who, knowing the play by heart, were still able to cry afresh over the old tragedies and laugh spontaneously at the comic situations. The miserable little encounter had nothing to do with me, the me of me, any more than it had to do with that silly clerk. The incident was a recurring dream, concocted years before by stupid whites and it eternally came back to haunt us all. The secretary and I were like Hamlet and Laertes in the final scene, where, because of harm done by one ancestor to another, we were bound to duel to the death.

• From How to Read the Bible and Still Be a Christian (2015)

  If, therefore, you agree with this book that there are no divine punishments but only human consequences (apart, of course, from natural disasters and random accidents), then the challenge to our species is clear. Governed not by chemical instinct but by moral conscience, can we control escalatory violence before it destroys us? Can we abandon violence as civilization’s drug of choice? Can we opt deliberately for peace gained through justice and abandon, as a fatally bankrupt option, that mantric chant of peace gained through victory? I come back one final time to this book’s title. I ask ultimately, with that third metaphor established and Biblical Iconic Focus directed on the historical Jesus, what it means to Still Be a Christian? How now is that historical Jesus the norm of your Christian faith? This book has talked repeatedly of the biblical tradition’s emphasis on distributive justice: that is, on justice as primarily about the fair and equitable distribution of God’s world for all God’s people. But that God is both a “God of justice” (Isaiah 30:18) and a “God of Love” (1 John 4:8, 16), so to be a Christian must involve both justice and love. But how exactly do justice and love correlate with one another? I begin with an immediate negative, which I hope is quite unnecessary at this stage. I reject absolutely any response claiming that the Old Testament depicts a God of justice as vengeance and the New Testament one of love as mercy. As you know by now, that works well as long as you do not make the mistake of actually reading the Christian Bible all the way to its climactic violence in the book of Revelation. What, then, is the positive relationship between justice and love in the Christian Bible? We live within a world of visible externals and invisible internals. (If I were sure enough of what Albert Einstein meant by the terms, I might say a world of “mass” and “energy.”) From the tiny ant to the expanding universe, everything has, let us say, a visible outside and an invisible inside. Take, for example, our human self. We are body and soul, flesh and spirit. But when they are separated from one another, we do not get both—we get neither; we get a physical corpse. So it is with justice and love. Justice is the body of love, and love is the soul of justice. Separate them and you do not get both—you get neither; you get a moral corpse. Justice is the flesh of love, and love is the spirit of justice. Think about this for a moment. Why, on one hand, do individuals or groups who set out with the highest ideals of distributive justice so often end up in bloody slaughter—especially of “the unjust”?

• From I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969)

  Mothers had called in their children from the group games, and fading sounds of “Yah … Yah … you didn't catch me” still hung and floated into the Store. Uncle Willie said, “Sister, better light the light.” On Saturdays we used the electric lights so that last-minute shoppers could look down the hill and see if the Store was open. Momma hadn't told me to turn them on because she didn't want to believe that night had fallen hard and Bailey was still out in the ungodly dark. Her apprehension was evident in the hurried movements around the kitchen and in her lonely fearing eyes. The Black woman in the South who raises sons, grandsons and nephews had her heartstrings tied to a hanging noose. Any break from routine may herald for them unbearable news. For this reason, Southern Blacks until the present generation could be counted among America's arch conservatives. Like most self-pitying people, I had very little pity for my relatives' anxiety. If something indeed had happened to Bailey, Uncle Willie would always have Momma, and Momma had the Store. Then, after all, we weren't their children. But I would be the major loser if Bailey turned up dead. For he was all I claimed, if not all I had. The bath water was steaming on the cooking stove, but Momma was scrubbing the kitchen table for the umpteenth time. “Momma,” Uncle Willie called and she jumped. “Momma.” I waited in the bright lights of the Store, jealous that someone had come along and told these strangers something about my brother and I would be the last to know . “Momma, why don't you and Sister walk down to meet him?” To my knowledge Bailey's name hadn't been mentioned for hours, but we all knew whom he meant. Of course. Why didn't that occur to me? I wanted to be gone. Momma said, “Wait a minute, little lady. Go get your sweater, and bring me my shawl.” It was darker in the road than I'd thought it would be. Momma swung the flashlight's arc over the path and weeds and scary tree trunks. The night suddenly became enemy territory, and I knew that if my brother was lost in this land he was forever lost. He was eleven and very smart, that I granted, but after all he was so small. The Bluebeards and tigers and Rippers could eat him up before he could scream for help. Momma told me to take the light and she reached for my hand. Her voice came from a high hill above me and in the dark my hand was enclosed in hers. I loved her with a rush. She said nothing—no “Don't worry” or “Don't get tender-hearted.” Just the gentle pressure of her rough hand conveyed her own concern and assurance to me. We passed houses which I knew well by daylight but couldn't recollect in the swarthy gloom. “Evening, Miz Jenkins.” Walking and pulling me along. “Sister Henderson?

• From How God Became King (2012)

  Why are there still tsunamis? Why are there still tyranny, genocide, child abuse, and massive economic corruption?” What’s more, as we shall see, some people, not least some Christians, appear allergic to the very idea of God becoming, or being, “king.” “Isn’t God as king triumphalist? Doesn’t that lead us toward that dreaded word ‘theocracy’? And isn’t that one of the problems of our day, not one of the solutions?” Questions like that are important. But even if the gospel writers had heard us asking them, they would not have backed off from the claim they were making. To discover why not and to see what they might have said in reply to such comments, we have to take a deep breath and go back to the beginning. The book proceeds in four parts, or stages. Part I introduces the problem as I see it and attempts to sharpen it up, so that readers come to see that there really is a problem that demands some fresh work and, if possible, some fresh attempts at a solution. The second part explores four dimensions of the canonical gospels that, again, have normally been screened out in modern Western readings and that we need to recover if we are to allow the gospels to tell us the story they intend to tell. Then, in Part III, we reach what is really the heart of the picture. Using the four dimensions set out in the second part, I try to show how the two vital themes so often separated, the kingdom and the cross, come together in the gospels, knock sparks off one another, and reinforce each other in setting out a claim that today’s church has all but forgotten, a claim as much in what we call the political as in what we call the religious or spiritual sphere. That central combination of kingdom and cross then leads to further considerations about the meaning of these themes in the light of the gospels’ story of Jesus’s resurrection and ascension. Then, in the final part, I come back to the great creeds and suggest that, though we have indeed allowed them to lull us into a frame of mind in which it’s all too easy to screen out the central message of the gospels, it is just as possible, once we realize that mistake, to say or sing them as rich affirmations of that full message. This will generate some suggestions about how we should rethink our basic traditions of teaching and practice, so as to be more faithful to the documents that are, after all, at the heart of the Christian faith.

• From How God Became King (2012)

  In the middle of all this, more and more scholars, particularly in America and among its left-leaning thinkers, have rediscovered the New Testament as a book full of political philosophy, of subversive critique of empire. That’s fine; this really is the case. But, as often happens when a long-sustained vacuum suddenly implodes, a lot of explosive hot air is emitted, and often (to my mind) in the wrong direction. In particular, there is a danger of anachronism. As an example, in Pauline studies we are now used to the claim, whether or not we agree with it, that the sixteenth-century Reformers read Paul as though he were addressing the problems of the late fifteenth century, whereas in fact he was addressing the significantly different problems of the mid-first century. That debate is still rumbling on. I am anxious lest, in our own new eagerness for political relevance, we assume that the early Christians were addressing the sociopolitical problems of the late twentieth century, whereas in fact they were addressing the significantly different sociopolitical problems of the mid-first century. In the first case, the Reformers assumed that when Paul talked of “justification” and “salvation,” he meant what a late-medieval theologian might have meant by those terms and was giving a new answer (“justification by faith” in the Lutheran or Reformed sense). But when we read Paul in his proper first-century setting, we get to keep all the liberating power of that doctrine, but within a quite different framework. In the second case, today’s would-be “political” readers of the New Testament often assume that when the gospels, Paul, and Revelation, speak of “power,” “empire,” “lordship,” and things like that, they meant what we mean by them today. (This then divides into various debates: for some, it’s a matter of the rather obvious global economic empire of the early twenty-first century; for others, it’s thought of in relation to the Continental debates about politics and the state that have recently done their best to revive elements of the teaching of Friedrich Nietzsche, on the one hand, and Carl Schmitt, on the other.)

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  On the phone, I decide to ignore his heavy Brooklyn accent tinged with a nasal quality, opting instead to focus on the fact that he is smart and funny. We set a date for me to go to the residential neighborhood where he lives in Brooklyn. He will meet me at the subway station and we can walk to a café from there. I tell him I know my way around the area and can meet him somewhere, but he says it’ll be easier to pick me up at the station. I will soon learn a valuable lesson: meet on neutral ground and have a plan so you don’t have to make decisions on the fly, especially when you’re someone like me who often resorts to being polite first and self-protective second. Climbing up the stairs of the subway station on a beautiful blue-sky September day, I spot Kevin waiting at the top. He looks like his pictures – bald, gleaming head, muscular, a bit thicker and more solid than I had pictured him. He leans in for a quick hug and then points me in the direction we will walk in, which I know is where the main street is, with lots of cafés where we can perch for an hour or two. He asks if I want to grab cups of coffee that we can take to the park, which I immediately agree to – going for a walk seems less intimidating than sitting face to face. A few blocks later, he says, “Actually, we can make coffee at my place to take to the park, my apartment is right here.” “Oh,” I say, pausing. “Um, no, you don’t have to bother, we can just pick it up.” “It’ll just take a minute and we’re here already,” he says, pointing to a street-level door at the base of a brownstone. I reluctantly agree. This is my first Tinder date and he seems so self-assured that I try to ignore the red flag being waved directly in front of me. I don’t want to seem nervous or suspicious as that would be a huge turn-off, but entering his apartment seems like a frankly bad idea. I feel trapped and unsure what to do, still more concerned with how I appear than with my own safety, but I try to exude nonchalance, following him as he slides the key into the iron gate leading to the front door. Inside, the apartment is dark and drab – the natural light is dim and his room-length bookshelves are filled with bulky hardcovers, CDs and DVDs. There is an abundance of art and cumbersome sculptural objects hanging on the wall. The kitchen is an open area between the living room and the bedrooms in the back, and true to his promise, he starts filling the coffee pot and dumping scoops of coffee from a huge tub of Folgers into the filter.

• From How God Became King (2012)

  But, as often happens when a long-sustained vacuum suddenly implodes, a lot of explosive hot air is emitted, and often (to my mind) in the wrong direction. In particular, there is a danger of anachronism. As an example, in Pauline studies we are now used to the claim, whether or not we agree with it, that the sixteenth-century Reformers read Paul as though he were addressing the problems of the late fifteenth century, whereas in fact he was addressing the significantly different problems of the mid-first century. That debate is still rumbling on. I am anxious lest, in our own new eagerness for political relevance, we assume that the early Christians were addressing the sociopolitical problems of the late twentieth century, whereas in fact they were addressing the significantly different sociopolitical problems of the mid- first century. In the first case, the Reformers assumed that when Paul talked of “justification” and “salvation,” he meant what a late-medieval theologian might have meant by those terms and was giving a new answer (“justification by faith” in the Lutheran or Reformed sense). But when we read Paul in his proper first- century setting, we get to keep all the liberating power of that doctrine, but within a quite different framework. In the second case, today’s would-be “political” readers of the New Testament often assume that when the gospels, Paul, and Revelation, speak of “power,” “empire,” “lordship,” and things like that, they meant what we mean by them today.

• From Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity (2007)

  For example, when ordering drinks at bars, I found that if I looked around the room while waiting for my drink (as I always unconsciously had prior to transitioning), men started hitting on me because they assumed I was signaling my availability (when I was perceived as male, the same action was likely to be interpreted simply as me scoping out the room). And in supermarket checkout lines, when the child in the cart ahead of me started smiling and talking to me, I found that I could interact with them without their mother becoming suspicious or fearful (which is what often happened in similar situations when I was perceived as male).During the first year of my transition, I experienced hundreds of little moments like that, where other people interpreted my words and actions differently based solely on the change in my perceived sex. And it was not merely my behaviors that were interpreted differently, it was my body as well: the way people approached me, spoke to me, the assumptions they made about me, the lack of deference and respect I often received, the way others often sexualized my body. All of these changes occurred without my having to say or do a thing.I would argue that social gender is not produced and propagated because of the way we as individuals “perform” or “do” our genders; it lies in the perceptions and interpretations of others. I can modify my own gender all I want, but it won’t change the fact that other people will continue to compulsively assign a gender to me and to view me through the distorted lenses of cissexual and heterosexual assumption.While no gendered expression can subvert the gender system as we know it, we are nevertheless still capable of instituting change in that system. However, such change will not come by managing the way we “do” our own gender, but by dismantling our own gender entitlement. If we truly want to bring an end to all gender-based oppression, then we must begin by taking responsibility for our own perceptions and presumptions. The most radical thing that any of us can do is to stop projecting our beliefs about gender onto other people’s behaviors and bodies.9Ungendering in Art and AcademiaPeople use books on gender to invisibilize transsexuals.—Kate Bornstein1 Sometimes I think they just don’t want to hear the real stories.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  After a few moments of awkward silence, I start looking under his quilt for my clothes, both to make a statement and because I have to get home. He asks if I can stay for a late lunch but I look at my watch and shake my head. He laments that he never properly feeds me, asking if I can come over for dinner and spend the night, that he’s dying to cook for me and have a whole night with me. I am noncommittal, saying I don’t have many chances to be out for the whole night, but it’ll happen eventually. Fortuitously (or, as it turns out, unfortunately), the next week Hudson asks if he can go with a friend to his country house for the weekend and I ask Michael if he can take Georgia for an extra night. I have become maximally efficient with my windows of free time, so I offer #7 Friday night for the dinner and sleepover he has requested and save my Saturday night for #6. All week, #7 texts me with updates to his menu, verifying what I like to eat and what wine I would like with it and telling me how excited he is. On Friday afternoon, he texts me as he counts down the hours until my arrival, telling me he’s at the butcher asking for a special cut of meat for a special date and at the wine store asking for a special bottle of wine. I am both touched by his extravagant preparations and put off by his enthusiasm. I want to be wanted, but this feels too easy, like there’s no chase at all. Also, I’m perplexed, wondering if he really likes me or just likes the idea of me, needing someone special in his life at all times. I ask him where his daughter will be for the night and he tells me she’s going to hang out with a friend and will be home very late. I worry that she will feel uncomfortable with my staying over, as I wouldn’t dare do the reverse and have a man stay in my home with my kids around, but he insists she’s fine with it, that she hated his ex-wife and thinks I’m really sweet. I admire his openness with his daughter but also wish he would protect her from having to know so much about his private life. Also, there’s a level of investment he’s putting into my sticking around that is starting to make me feel like a cornered animal. When I arrive at his apartment that evening, he opens the door with a broad smile and instructs me to sit at the small kitchen table and pour myself a glass of wine while he finishes cooking. He bustles from the stove to the refrigerator, explaining he’s not quite used to this kitchen yet. Finally, he presents me with a plate of sliced steak with grilled mushrooms, roasted potatoes and steamed asparagus.

• From Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity (2007)

  And while physically transitioning and living in my identified sex has allowed me to finally overcome my gender dissonance, I still struggle with an intense hypersensitivity to gender (and more specifically to gendering). Having never had an opportunity to learn to experience my gender as being unquestionable or second-nature (as my friend had), I still sometimes feel an awkward jolt whenever people refer to me as “she” (even though that pronoun is preferable to me). When I look at photos or videos of myself, I still can’t help but see the “boy” in my face or hear it in the sound of my voice, even though I haven’t had anyone call me “sir” in over five years. I feel assaulted and get extraordinarily upset whenever I’m watching TV or a movie and I’m blindsided by a joke or ignorant comment that dismisses trans people’s identified sex or refers to them in their assigned sex. And although I experience gender concordance these days, I still constantly dwell on gender, which, while helpful when writing a book on the subject, can often be unhealthy and exhausting. My gender hypersensitivity reminds me of what a friend once told me about her relationship with money. She grew up in a family where money was scarce, and where fights regularly stemmed from the financial strain they were under. This irrevocably altered the way my friend relates to money. While most of us who have had a middle-class upbringing see money as simply a means to get the things that we want or need, for my friend it also carries an added emotional element. Even though she is now on more solid ground financially, she still feels undeserving when she receives money and guilty every time she spends it. It still preoccupies her and fills her with anxiety because she doesn’t feel like she can ever take it for granted—she understands that it can be taken away from her at any time. My friend’s relationship with money reminds me of my own continuing insecurity regarding gender. Even though I have finally reached a point where I feel comfortable living in my own body, I often feel undeserving and guilty about it. And while everyone else around me seems to feel entitled to their gender to the point where they take it for granted, I always feel like mine can be taken away from me at any minute. And in a sense, it can (and often is) whenever somebody attempts to wield cissexual privilege over me. Distinguishing Between Transphobia and Cissexual Privilege The fact that transsexuals have survived a childhood of constantly being misgendered creates major differences in the ways that we and other queers react to public expressions of gender anxiety.

• From Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity (2007)

  It is a subgroup within the greater LGBTIQ community that is composed mostly of folks in their twenties and thirties who are more likely to refer to themselves as “dykes,” “queer,” and/or “trans” than “lesbian” or “gay.” While diverse in a number of ways, this subpopulation tends to predominantly inhabit urban and academic settings, and is skewed toward those who are white and/or from middle-class backgrounds. In many ways, the queer/trans community is best described as a sort of marriage of the transgender movement’s call to “shatter the gender binary” and the lesbian community’s pro-sex, pro-kink backlash to 1980s-era Andrea Dworkinism. Its politics are generally anti-assimilationist, particularly with regard to gender and sexual expression. This apparent limitlessness and lack of boundaries lead many to believe that “queer/trans” represents the vanguard of today’s gender and sexual revolution. However, over the last four years in which I’ve been a part of this community, I’ve become increasingly troubled by a trend that, while not applicable to all queer/trans folks, seems to be becoming a dominant belief in this community, one that threatens to restrict its gender and sexual diversity. I call this trend subversivism. Subversivism is the practice of extolling certain gender and sexual expressions and identities simply because they are unconventional or nonconforming. In the parlance of subversivism, these atypical genders and sexualities are “good” because they “transgress” or “subvert” oppressive binary gender norms. 1 The justification for the practice of subversivism has evolved out of a particular reading (although some would call it a misreading) of the work of various influential queer theorists over the last decade and a half. To briefly summarize this popularized account: All forms of sexism arise from the binary gender system. Since this binary gender system is everywhere—in our thoughts, language, traditions, behaviors, etc.—the only way we can overturn it is to actively undermine the system from within. Thus, in order to challenge sexism, people must “perform” their genders in ways that bend, break, and blur all of the imaginary distinctions that exist between male and female, heterosexual and homosexual, and so on, presumably leading to a systemwide binary meltdown. According to the principles of subversivism, drag is inherently “subversive,” as it reveals that our society’s binary notions of maleness and femaleness are not natural, but rather are actively “constructed” and “performed” by all of us. Another way that one can be “transgressively gendered” is by identifying as genderqueer or genderfluid—i.e., refusing to identify fully as either woman or man. The notion that certain gender identities and expressions are inherently “subversive” or “transgressive” can be seen throughout the queer/trans community, where drag and gender-bending are routinely celebrated, where binary-confounding identities such as “boy-identified-dyke” and “pansexual trannyfag” have become rather commonplace.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  There was a lot of meth and heroin, young people nodding out, barefoot, army surplus–clad and dirt-encrusted. Others had been there longer, hardened, as though the dirt had completely melded with their skin, reeking of piss, fighting with one another, cranky junkies. They pitched tents and got into brawls, held hands and talked to themselves. At night they walked from the beach to Third Street and formed a tent city two blocks long, leaving the street lined with trash, shit, and sleeping bags in the morning. No one disturbed them. — The first time I came to Venice I thought it was weird, all of these millionaires living among the bums. If you moved here in the past decade, you either had a million-dollar home or you slept on the sidewalk in front of one. That visit had been a disaster. Annika and I rarely ever saw each other, although I had promised for many years to take a trip to the beach. I couldn’t get Jamie’s and my schedules to align, couldn’t get him interested, and I was afraid to go alone—to be intimate with her—without him as a buffer. I didn’t want to be seen too closely or I might have to look at me too. “Just come by yourself,” she would say. “I don’t care about him, it’s you I want to see.” This was easy for her to say from the comfort of couplehood. Her independence, even though it had been real once upon a time, was now a performance. How could she judge me for waiting for Jamie when she had Steve following her ass around like a Sherpa? I felt judged, even if she wasn’t judging. So I delayed for years. Then, finally, when Jamie was shooting a special on Joshua Tree, we decided I would come out to Venice at the end of his trip and he would take the Airstream out and meet me there. I was so nervous the afternoon I flew to see her that I got drunk on the plane. I couldn’t tell if she or Steve could smell it on me when I landed, although he looked at me funny. I was sitting in the backseat of their Prius and watching him gently rub her neck when the call came in. Jamie’s shoot had been extended and he was not going to be able to come. I spoke to him calmly and tried to contain my anger. I didn’t want Annika, or especially Steve, to see that I had any rage. If I could fool them then maybe I wouldn’t have to feel it myself. But that night I got so drunk on white wine that I puked all over Annika’s guest bed.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I tell him that I am impressed and appreciative and he beams. Having a man cook me a meal with such care, being taken care of by being served dinner – that will never grow old for me. As we eat, he tells me that he’s made plans for us for the night. A salsa band will be playing at a bar he frequents with his friends and he’s excited for me to meet his gang. I murmur that it sounds like fun, but truthfully, it doesn’t. I don’t know him well enough to meet his friends and being with them at a noisy neighborhood bar sounds like the nights in college that were my least favorite. He is brimming with enthusiasm though and tells me that his friends are excited to meet me, so I smile and go along with it. We walk a block to the bar and he greets his friend Jay, who is standing outside smoking a cigarette. Jay wraps me in a hug, telling me that #7 has told him so much about me. The bar is fairly empty and the band doesn’t start for an hour, so #7 tells Jay we will return in a bit and we walk a few doors down to another, smaller bar, where he orders himself a tequila on the rocks. At his place we drank the entire bottle of red wine and started a second bottle with dinner and I’m not sure how many glasses I drank, so I order a club soda. We chat with a few people he introduces me to at the bar until he suggests we head back to the first bar, where the band will play. Bar hopping is another activity I haven’t done since my college days and I still don’t get what about it is supposed to be fun. When we return to the first bar, it is packed. We have to squeeze through a throng of people to reach his friend Abby, an attractive brunette around my age, who is waiting for us. #7 orders another tequila and I order another club soda. He leaves me with Abby while he talks to a small group of people nearby, saying he really wants me to get to know her. Abby is friendly but seems wary of me. He’s mentioned her to me frequently and told me she’s his absolute closest friend, but now she’s telling me that she moved here from the West Coast a few years ago and I am surprised to learn they haven’t known each other very long. I ask Abby as many questions as I can come up with to keep the conversation going while she remains fairly uninterested in me, and I am relieved when #7 returns to us. I see him catch her eye but can’t interpret the meaning of the look that passes between them. Have I just been approved or rejected?

• From The Pisces (2018)

  But in taking this risk, this angry set of words, one sentence, I had lost control of my own narrative. Now he owned the power. I was at his mercy. I thought the only way to get it back would be to continue testing him. Play it cool, don’t panic. “Okay,” I said. “If that’s what you want.” He didn’t want that, he said. But he wasn’t sure what to do. He said he felt that he had not been able to satisfy me in the relationship for a long time. “Satisfy me or satisfy yourself?” “Well, maybe a little of both,” he said. The AAA man arrived. Jamie did most of the talking. I could hear what the man was saying but I couldn’t really take it in because I was processing what had just happened. I should have kept my mouth shut, I thought. But in another way, I felt that I had been true to myself, I just wasn’t sure to which self. The self that wanted to shake things up so as to receive attention and doting? The self that needed to be shaken up, because the ache of living in a body was so fucking dull? Some higher self that said he wasn’t right for me? The 22 percent of me that was an asshole? “Let’s sleep on it,” said Jamie, after the spare had been put on my wheel. “We don’t have to decide anything right away.” “Together or separate?” I asked. Together or separate was always a big question for us. He wanted no more than two nights a week together. I pushed for four. When I was in my apartment alone, I longed to be in his fold. I hinted and alluded to having free time. I got drunk on white wine, then begged. I wanted the access, the invitation, to feel that I was always welcome. It was a need based on his absence of need. So I pushed for more togetherness. But once I was with him, the closeness was never what I wanted it to be. I suffocated in his presence. When he wasn’t pushing me away, the closeness was cloying. “Maybe separate would be better for tonight. Tomorrow and Tuesday too? Maybe for the week. I have a lot of work and it would be good to maybe just try this on, the space, see how it feels?” “Sure,” I said, though I was scared. He kissed me on the forehead. “I love you,” he said. “Yeah, okay,” I said. “Oh, come on, Lucy,” he said. He opened my car door, climbed out, and slammed it shut. “I’m sorry!” I said, my voice trailing after him. 3. That night I called him. “So we aren’t really taking a break, are we?” I asked. “I actually think it’s a good idea,” he said. “I know you were the one who brought it up, but I’d actually like to.” “But what does that mean? For how long?

• From The Pisces (2018)

  Chickenhorse had been forced to move back in with her parents, which was traumatizing for her. Actually, she said it was “retraumatizing” and calling up trauma from earlier in life. “My mother doesn’t accept my pit bulls. Or, she accepts them, but she doesn’t like them. Which is exactly the way she was about me as a child. She just tolerated me. But she didn’t think I was special. Also, now that I’m living at home I obviously can’t start conscious-dating anytime soon.” “Your feelings are certainly understandable. But with regard to the conscious dating, I don’t know if that’s necessarily true,” said Dr. Jude. “Of course it’s true!” neighed Chickenhorse. “You don’t know my mother. She has no boundaries. She’ll want to know exactly what’s going on, who I’m with, what family he is from, and then she’ll find some way to involve herself. So, sorry, now that I’m homeless we will have to put off dating again.” Brianne’s dating life was going no better. “Things have gone a little south with the man from OkCupid,” she murmured, adjusting one knee sock. “He sent me an email the other day letting me know that he couldn’t return to the States yet, because he was waiting for a business deal to close and temporarily was out of funds. Then he asked if I could loan him some funds.” The group gasped in unison. “I’m not sure what to do. One of the items I put on my vision board is that I want a man who is financially stable. I don’t want to compromise my vision board. I’m supposed to be manifesting. My life is simply too abundant to take on someone who is living a life of lack. But at the same time, because of that abundance, I can’t help but think that it might be the kind thing to help him out—especially if it will allow us to go on our date.” “Mmmmmm,” said Dr. Jude. “I would strongly suggest setting a boundary with him.” “Do not send the money,” said Chickenhorse. “He’s probably a catfish!” “A what?” asked Brianne. “A catfish. Like, a scammer. Someone who pretends to be someone he isn’t.” “Oh no, he’s not a scammer. I know that he is who he says he is. We’re very close.” “How long have you known him again?” I asked. “About six days,” said Brianne. We all looked at her. “It’s been a rich and rewarding six days.” Sara looked at her quizzically over the pomegranate she was peeling. But she was in no position to judge. Having almost reached her ninety days of no contact with Stan, she had had a slip. A big one. Now not only were they in contact again but they’d been seeing each other.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  But there were no private journals with any confessionals, no secret passageways or locked boxes. Their relationship was like her ample ass: out in the open, giving no fucks, proudly just there. It was what it was. The trench made me feel petite and Hepburn-esque. Garrett texted to say that he was running late. I got nervous. It felt like my vagina and butthole were sweating. I went into one of the bathrooms in the lobby. It was big, like its own little room, with a marble floor and sink. It smelled like geraniums and I noticed an expensive candle burning. For some reason I thought about stealing it. I decided to hide in the bathroom until Garrett arrived. I stripped down out of the coat and wiped down my vagina and ass with soap. Each had now been scrubbed multiple times. Then I looked in the mirror. I really did look cute. The light in there was dim and I took a few pictures of myself: hand on hip, ass out, from the back and side. Garrett texted to say that he was waiting in the lobby. I decided I would make him wait a few minutes, not text back, but just appear. When I came out to the lobby he was checking his phone. “Hey,” I said. “Oh hey,” he said. He rose and looked me in the eyes. My body felt all needle-y. “Do you want to get a drink first?” he asked. “Sure,” I said. I wondered why we couldn’t just get drinks in the room. I had a vision involving Champagne. Also, my ass was starting to sweat again. We went to the bar and sat around drinking cocktails. It was dark and tropical in there, with black palm-tree wallpaper like the Beverly Hills Hotel on opium. This time we really didn’t have anything to say to each other. I guess he didn’t feel like talking about graphic design anymore and I wasn’t going to bring up fonts. He still didn’t ask me anything about me. It wasn’t awkward, though. The silence was thick with knowing that I would be kissing him soon, and other things. I imagined his tongue in my pussy. If only he would look me in the eye again. “All right,” he said as I took the last sip of my vodka and pineapple juice. “This is how I think we should do it. I’m going to go in first. You should wait here. Then in about five minutes or so you come back and knock on all four of them. I will let you into the one I am in.” “All four of what?” I asked. “The bathroom doors,” he said. “Wait,” I said. “I don’t understand. Why are we going to the bathroom?” “To fuck.”

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  That Sunday, as we clean up after a lunch of tuna niçoise salad at #6’s apartment, he asks if I want to walk to the international grocery store where I love to peruse the aisles and get dinner ideas for the kids. I tell him that I can’t, that I actually have to leave soon to meet a friend. He rattles off a list of my friends, asking who I am going to see: Lauren? Mara? Jessica? I shake my head. “Ah, I see. A friend,” he says slowly. “A date?” “Well, yes,” I say sheepishly. “And she’s off!” he says with a bemused smile. I give him a quick kiss goodbye before we have a chance to launch into further conversation. I feel equal parts guilty and empowered, but my honesty has prevented me from being in the uncomfortable position of having to lie. The sun is starting to go down, if it ever really came up at all – it’s one of those winter days that feels like snow is about to blanket the city. I sit at a darkly lit tapas bar, order a glass of mulled wine, and contemplate how it is that I came to be sitting at a bar in the middle of a Sunday afternoon with a glass of wine, having just left one man’s apartment to go and meet another. Where are my children? I should be home drinking hot apple cider, eating popcorn and playing an epic game of Risk with them. A year ago my life was perfectly ordinary, deceptively steady, centered around my family life that in actuality was only weeks away from combusting. Thankfully #8 dashes in before I can get totally lost in my thoughts, which will swallow me whole if I give them room to grow. I am struck again by how large his physical presence is, how much of the small room both his solid build and dazzling smile take up. He rushes over, apologizing for being late, giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek and explaining that he has to go to a party after this and couldn’t decide what to wear. I note his deep blue cashmere sweater and pressed jeans. “So this is pretty weird, but the party I’m going to is actually a sex party and I’ve never been to one so I had no idea what would be appropriate to wear,” he says. “It seems to me that if you’re going to a sex party, what you wear is totally beside the point, but OK, do tell,” I say, my eyes popping open. He admits that he is nervous about the party and not sure what to expect, but that he has been dating a woman who is in an open marriage and that she has been trying to get him to come to one of these parties she and her husband host every month.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the possible anal. My asshole was definitely not a vacant space. What was I going to do? How was his dick going to get in if there was a shit blocking the way? Would there be a shit blocking his dick? Would he get shit on his dick? In the bathtub I tried to give myself a fake enema, swishing some of the water from the bath directly into my ass. It didn’t feel like anything was giving. I wondered how far in the canal it was. So I reached my finger in my butt and felt around. There was the tip of it, not far from the entrance. Dripping wet, I went over to the toilet and sat down. Dominic looked up at me from underneath his doggy eyebrows. I squeezed and squeezed, sliding around on the toilet, but nothing came out. How did others do this all the time? Who could be expected to have a pristine butthole? I slid my finger in and dug around. I tried to pull some out, and it worked. Now there was shit on my finger, some in the toilet, but still some in the hole. I’d only broken the shit in half inside me, not gotten it all out. So I went back in. Then I squeezed again. I felt like my eyeballs were going to pop out. Eventually the rest of the piece of shit came out. I could tell that it was the end. I got back in the bathtub and ran the water again. I washed off my finger and my butt four times each with rose soap. It was a fancy tub with jets. I turned them on and put my ass up to the jets, like a bidet. My hole felt tired already and no one had even fucked it yet. But then the jet started to turn me on. I felt a feeling I had never felt before, almost like my butthole was blossoming. I wondered if my whole ass canal was full of water. I imagined it was Garrett’s dick. I didn’t come but I felt really warm inside. This was exciting. I felt a bit like a Hollywood starlet, someone with something going on. A life was happening. 18. The following night, tired of waiting, I texted Garrett. I had fun last night I waited to hear back, carrying the phone with me from room to room. There was no response. I felt like Dominic’s pile of shit. Was he really going to ignore me? I had gotten a weird feeling after our kisses, that I had suffocated him or seemed too interested. I texted him again. Would you want to hang out again? And again: Hey, sorry if I seemed too eager or something.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  He had started peeing indoors no matter how often I took him outside. I didn’t know if it was because he was sick or because he was angry at me for being away so much. I was afraid to tell Annika what was going on, but just to be safe I took him to the vet. The vet ran some blood tests and said that it was further issues related to his pancreas and kidneys, and that his blood sugar was very high. His insulin dose would have to be increased. I emailed Annika, in part to relay the news, but also because I couldn’t afford to pay the $1,300 vet bill. I was scared. Immediately my phone lit up. “Where is he? Put him on,” she said. “He’s right here,” I said, aiming the phone at his face. “Oh no, I can see it in his eyes. Something is not right.” “They gave me a higher dose of insulin to give him.” “I mean besides that. He looks depressed. Hold on, I’m looking up depression symptoms in dogs. Okay. Is he lethargic? Has he been sleeping excessively or showing signs of clinginess?” “No, that’s just me,” I said. “Lucy! I’m serious. Loss of appetite?” “Definitely not.” “Weight loss?” “No, it’s just been the peeing. That’s it. Which I think is directly related to the insulin.” “How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you tell me that something was wrong right away?” “Only a few days. And I didn’t want to worry you.” “Lucy, he is my child! You have to tell me when anything like this happens. Are you able to give him the care he needs? What did the vet say specifically? Should I come home?” “No, no, don’t come home. The vet said he is going to be totally okay as long as we adjust this insulin to the new amount. I can do that. It’s easy.” “I still think he looks depressed,” she said. “I’ll take him to group.” The vet hadn’t exactly said it would all be fine, but she didn’t seem particularly concerned either. I felt strangely jealous that Annika would come home to see the dog. After my mother died, I longed for my sister to take some time off from college to be with me. I verbalized this one time, a few days after the funeral, that maybe she might delay her return to school. She was sitting on my bed behind me, playing with my hair, which was something my mother used to do every night before I went to sleep. It was very quiet; the only sound I could hear was the gentle brush of her fingers against my scalp. “Please stay with me,” I said. “I need you.” But she told me she had exams, and while she wanted to stay with me, she had to go back or she wouldn’t complete the semester. I felt totally rejected, but I did not judge her.