Contentment

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

  It’s easy for them to pretend it isn’t happening or doesn’t exist, but when your parents are single and dating, you don’t have much of a choice but to accept that in all likelihood, sex is involved. I have never been bashful about intimate topics with my kids, openly discussing puberty, masturbation and birth control while they squirm and plead with me to stop talking. I don’t shy away from their burgeoning sexuality – I want them to take the subject of sex in stride, knowing it can be different things at different times, a sign of love and intimacy, or playful and fun. Recently, I told Daisy’s friends that I was their age when I started dating Michael and their jaws fell open – the concept of settling down anytime soon was unthinkable to them. “Don’t do what I did!” I admonished them. “Sleep with lots of people, find out what you like and always use a condom.” Some of the girls said they’d like to get married someday, and Daisy admitted she was interested in marriage mostly for the cake tasting during the wedding planning. I told her I would get her all the cake tastings she wanted and she could take her sweet time figuring herself out before she committed to another person. My kids may choose to read this book despite my forewarning not to, and I can’t stop them if curiosity gets the best of them. I hope they will take solace that I am whole, and maybe, just maybe, someday I can serve as a role model to them. My living life on my own terms and then publishing a book about it might be disquieting for them in this moment of time, but when they’re older and less easily embarrassed by me, they might be able to see that, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I turned the most devastating period of my life into the richest one. It wasn’t an easy trick to pull off and involved a veritable SWAT team: girlfriends with the patience of saints and the enthusiasm of cheerleaders, my mother whose profound wisdom and unconditional love kept me safe, men who enticed me to come alive again sexually, therapists who helped me find my way to a path I had no faith even existed. I hope that witnessing my transformation from a front-row vantage point is a reminder to my kids that there will inevitably be major bumps and dark tunnels throughout their lives, but they have what they need inside themselves to pull through and know how to supplement whatever they can’t locate inside with the love and guidance of other people, just like their mom did. * As I write this afterword, sitting on the porch of a Victorian inn at the Jersey shore on a stormy August day with #6 at my side, I feel content.

• From In Search of Paul: How Jesus's Apostle Opposed Rome's Empire with God's Kingdom (2005)

  The city of Aphrodisias, left free and independent by Rome, was not coerced into setting up that magnificent building. But since the relationship between Rome and Aphrodisias was mutually beneficial, it is no surprise that the civic council endorsed the Sebasteion’s construction and that it was financed by two wealthy Aphrodisian families. Two brothers, Menander and Eusebes, paid for the monumental gate and northern gallery, which were restored by Eusebes’s wife, Apphias, and her daughter Tata after an earthquake. The temple and southern gallery were built by two other brothers, Diogenes and Attalus, but since Diogenes died in the planning stages, it was completed by his wife, Attalis Apphion, and then restored after the earthquake by his son Tiberius Claudius Diogenes, who had a Roman name and presumably Roman citizenship. Those citizens were certainly attracted to the imperial favors that inevitably followed imperial honors, including of course Roman citizenship, and they understood the material blessings that accompanied Augustan and Julio-Claudian rule for those who positioned themselves appropriately. Those blessings extended beyond the elites, as the vast figural program on the Sebasteion makes clear. The number of masons, craftsmen, and sculptors necessary for this enormous enterprise was substantial, and most workshops in the city received commissions. The sudden demand for skilled labor led to the hasty promotion of marble cutters to figural sculptors. Many a new apprentice took up mallet and chisel for on-the-job training, as is apparent from the uneven quality of carving. Designers and foremen disguised that fact from viewers by having novices cut the panel’s lower portions, which were less visible from the plaza, and having experts work the upper and more visible portions, especially the imperial portraits. Roman imperial rule energized Aphrodisias’s sculptural workshops and was a boon to the local economy. Any potential criticism of the elite’s attraction to the Roman imperial family would certainly be muted by those many prospering shops and increased incomes. The construction of a Sebasteion with a temple for the Roman imperial cult was a seductive proposition for any city, and its attraction is easily explained. “Victory and conquest were felt to be an important justification of imperial rule,” as R. R. R. Smith, the city’s current excavator, notes in his article “The Imperial Reliefs from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias,” but “it is always victory over barbarians of various kinds: Britons, Armenians, and the like. The conquest of the Greeks is long forgotten. That was before the emperors. The Greeks were now partners, not subjugated recalcitrants” (98). He concludes,

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

  It is serene and imperturbable here, and I’m grateful my kids knew to drag me here despite my wanting to be left alone like a sloth with my book. When I finally lift my head, I see Blaze standing in the shallow end, watching me. I raise my hand to acknowledge him, and he is still standing there a few minutes later when we all swim back in. I linger for a moment as Michael and the kids run ahead to return the snorkeling gear and ready the next activity, a Sunfish. “Did you have a good time last night?” he asks me quietly. I smile and nod, so he asks if we can do it again. I demur, saying I’m not sure I can get away. The kids are gesturing to me so that they can take me for a sail, so I tell Blaze that I better go and that I will come back to talk to him after the sailing excursion. Hudson is excited to show us his sailing skills, and we let him zoom through the water with the wind at our backs. By the time we arrive back at the beach after capsizing and bobbing in the water, waiting for the resort’s motorboat to rescue us, Blaze is long gone for the day. I am both disappointed and relieved, as I still hadn’t decided if I had the energy to have another go with him. I love the attention from him, but I had my adventure and think I’m done now. CHAPTER 47AuthorshipLate afternoon is my favorite time of vacation days – a cooler breeze moving in, the crowds packed up and gone. Georgia and I stroll along the beach, holding hands and splashing the water with our feet. “I don’t want to leave here. I wish we could stay forever,” she says wistfully. “I know, me too. It’s such a special place. Just think, someday you can come back here when you’re all grown up with your own kids,” I say. “But I won’t be able to afford it!” “Marry well,” I say, and am instantly horrified that these words have come from my empowered, feminist mouth. “Wait, pretend you didn’t hear that, I take it back. Make your own money, then you can take your husband here someday.”

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

  It became more and more difficult for me to see the point in identifying outside of the male/female binary when I was so regularly being targeted for discrimination and harassment because I was a woman, when I so frequently had to stand up for myself as a woman in order to make sure that other people did not get away with it. After a couple of years living in the world as female, I eventually came to embrace the identity of “woman.” Thinking of myself as a woman simply began to make sense; it resonated with my lived experiences. Before my transition, I was hesitant about calling myself a woman, mostly because I had no desire to live up to the societal expectations and ideals that others often project onto that identity. I used to fear that embracing that identity would be tantamount to cramming myself into some predetermined box, restricting my possibilities and potential. But I now realize that no matter how I act or what I do or say, I remain a woman—both in the eyes of the world and, more importantly, in the way that I experience myself. While I used to view the word “woman” as limiting, I now find it both empowering and limitless. Together, all of the changes I’ve experienced since my transition—in my body feelings, in my interactions with other people, and in my growing life history as a woman—have led to me becoming a somewhat different person than I was before. Granted, my personality, habits, opinions, sense of humor, etc., are mostly still the same, but my life itself has taken on a different shape. While I can think back to before my transition and imagine how I looked and acted, I find that my memories of how it felt to be in my body—to be physically male—are becoming increasingly vague with time. It’s not dissimilar to how I feel when I think back to high school—recalling all of the things that I thought, said, and did, yet feeling almost as if I were reminiscing about another person. I now look back on my years as an adult male, remembering how I acted and interacted with others, but having some difficulty relating to the person I was back then. My life has very much been reshaped by the experiences of being and feeling physically female and having other people react to me as such. People often squabble over what defines a person as a woman or a man—whether it should be based on their chromosomes, assigned sex, genitals, or other factors—but such reductionist views deny our indisputably holistic gendered realities. For all of us, gender is first and foremost an individual experience, an amalgamation of our own unique combinations of gender inclinations, social interactions, body feelings, and lived experiences. While our experiential gender is often shaped or influenced by our perceived gender (the gender others assume us to be), one does not necessarily follow from the other.

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

  And while I have lost the significant benefits of male and heterosexual privilege, I still consider my transition to be well worth it. Because for the first time in my life, I now regularly experience what I consider to be the most important gender privilege of all: feeling at home in my own sexed body. Rather than living with gender dissonance, I now experience gender concordance. Many cissexual people seem to have a hard time accepting the idea that they too have a subconscious sex—a deep-rooted understanding of what sex their bodies should be. I suppose that when a person feels right in the sex they were born into, they are never forced to locate or question their subconscious sex, to differentiate it from their physical sex. In other words, their subconscious sex exists, but it is hidden from their view. They have a blind spot. I do believe that it is possible for cissexuals to catch a glimpse of their subconscious sex. When I do presentations on trans issues, I try to accomplish this by asking the audience a question: “If I offered you ten million dollars under the condition that you live as the other sex for the rest of your life, would you take me up on the offer?” While there is often some wiseass in the audience who will say “Yes,” the vast majority of people shake their heads to indicate “No.” Their responses clearly have nothing to do with gender privileges, because both women and men, queers and straights insist that they wouldn’t be willing to make that change. When I ask individuals why they answered no, they usually get a bit flustered at first, as if they are at a loss for words. Eventually, they end up saying something like, “Because I just am a woman (or man),” or, “It just wouldn’t be right. ” Let’s face it: If cissexuals didn’t have a subconscious sex, then sex reassignment would be far more common than it is. Women who wanted to succeed in the male-dominated business world would simply transition to male. Lesbians and gay men who were ashamed of their queerness would simply transition to the other sex. Gender studies grad students would transition for a few years to gather data for their theses. Actors playing transsexuals would go on hormones for a few months in order to make their portrayals more authentic. Criminals and spies would physically transition as a way of going undercover. And contestants on reality shows would be willing to change their sex in the hope of achieving fifteen minutes of fame. Of course, such scenarios seem absolutely ridiculous to us.

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

  This is amazing, like someone is holding my heart just so it can beat with a little more ease, the warmth of his body spreading into mine. I have so much to learn about intimacy, I am like an infant learning language. I thought I was unaffectionate and didn’t like being touched – Michael always used to marvel at how affectionate I was with our kids when I seemed to physically recoil from everyone else around me – but I do like it, in fact I feel a kind of unexpected peace and comfort wash over me. As #4 hugs me, I can feel him growing hard against me. We don’t attempt small talk, he simply takes my hand and together we walk up the stairs to his room. He nods toward the bed, telling me he washed his bedding in anticipation of my arrival. I love that he considered this, overcoming his bachelor ways to present me with a clean duvet. He takes his robe off and underneath it his body ripples with finely tuned muscles that thrill me all over again. I am wearing a maxi dress with a halter top that miraculously does not require a bra, so I simply roll it from the top all the way down my body, revealing that all I have on underneath is a pale pink lace thong, which I step out of. “Cool dress,” he says. “Easy access,” I say. “You’ve had a tough couple of weeks,” he says. “You need some TLC. Roll over.” I do as instructed, settling on my stomach and hoping my bare ass is smooth and not sporting the unsightly bumpy rashes I often get from the Peloton bike that is otherwise keeping my ass in tip-top shape. He straddles my legs while his strong hands knead my shoulders and work their way down my back. A good massage may be the only physical pleasure that I still think is better than sex, and I allow my body to sink down under the pressure of his hands. He takes his time, rubbing and pressing my muscles all the way down to my feet and then working his way back up again, the movements turning into strokes as his hands arrive between my legs. He teases me, touching my upper thighs and getting close to my lips and then pulling away again. My breath turns shallow, and finally, when I think I may come just like this, I wriggle myself forward until I can flip over and then tell him that I need him inside of me right away. When he enters me, I dig my nails into his butt cheeks, pulling him into me as deeply as he can go, and I sigh with gratitude that my urgent need to be filled up has been met. We come together and I am in awe that we can get our timing just right. He slides to the side of me and we lie holding each other.

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

  If all else fails at least we can spend some time going down memory lane together. When I pull up to his house half an hour later, I feel like I’ve just entered Dr. Dolittle’s yard. Ducks are waddling down the driveway, cats are purring on the back porch and the chocolate Lab is barking from inside the door. Now that I can fully see the house in daylight, its many charms are fully exposed, and what’s more charming about an old farmhouse than a little decay? Paint is peeling, weeds are flourishing, creaky uneven wooden floorboards lead to the back door and I am thoroughly captivated by every detail. I shout hello and he yells for me to come in, the rickety screen door banging shut behind me. I find him busily puttering around his rustic kitchen, surrounded by piles of greens and fruit, bread and olives, a tall vase of wildflowers holding command at the center. The kitchen has a fresh, yeasty smell and I notice a bread machine on the floor, an appliance I haven’t seen in at least 25 years since the one my mother bought me when I was newly married and my entire kitchen was the size of the bread machine. I’m enchanted. If there is an antidote to the ferocity of my emotions of late, I’m certain it may well be found right here in this kitchen with its freshly baked bread and just-picked flowers. I am not sure how to greet him. We are too new for perfunctory kisses hello, but it seems cold and slightly absurd at this point to keep my physical distance. I approach him and he bends down to give me a quick kiss on the lips. It gives me a stabbing pang of sadness, this kiss – the informality and ease of it a reminder of my marriage that I hadn’t realized I missed. The acknowledgement of familiarity embedded in this greeting jars me from my revelry: do I even want this level of ease with a man? It feels too much like it should be happening with Michael instead. My recent forays have been all about sex, but this one is embarking on new territory: intimacy. To mask my confused feelings, I pull out my treasure trove of yearbooks and fan them out for him to see. His face lights up and he grins, pulling me into the living room where we sit on the loveseat and start with the first yearbook, when I was in second grade and he was in fifth. We find my photo first, pint-sized and smiling broadly with a mouth of crooked teeth and a head of unruly curly hair; then we find him, tall, grinning mischievously. We are delighted to find ourselves in the same yearbook from 1979, 39 years earlier. What are the odds?

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

  For example, some male-bodied crossdressers spend much of their lives wishing they were actually female, while others see their crossdressing as simply a way to express a feminine side of their personalities. While many drag artists view themselves primarily as entertainers or enjoy performing and parodying gender stereotypes, some trans people gravitate toward drag because it provides them with a rare opportunity to express aspects of their subconscious sex in a socially sanctioned setting. And while many trans people identify as genderqueer because it helps them make sense of their own experiences of living in a world where their understanding of themselves differs so greatly from the way they are perceived by society, other people identify as genderqueer because, on a purely intellectual level, they question the validity of the binary gender system. Thus, not only do transgender people vary in their perspectives and experiences, but individuals within the same transgender subcategory (whether it be crossdresser, drag artist, genderqueer, etc.) may also differ greatly in what drives them to embrace that identity. And while this book primarily focuses on transsexuality, and more specifically on trans women (as that is my experience and perspective), it is not because I believe that transgender people who are not transsexual are any less important or legitimate; their expressions of gender are just as valid as mine and the discrimination they may face as a result of those expressions is just as real. It is also crucial for us to recognize that it is equally valid for a trans person to decide to transition and live as the other sex as it is for them to instead choose to blur gender boundaries and identify themselves outside the gender binary. There is no one right way to be trans. Each of us simply needs to figure out what works best for us and what allows us to best express who we feel we are. When discussing transsexuals, it is often necessary to distinguish between those who transition from male to female—who are commonly referred to as trans women —and those who transition from female to male — who are called trans men . I prefer these terms over others because they acknowledge the lived and self-identified gender of the trans person (i.e., woman or man), while adding the adjective “trans” as a way to describe one particular aspect of that person’s life experience. In other words, “trans woman” and “trans man” function in a way similar to the phrases “Catholic woman” or “Asian man.” Because many trans people choose to relieve their gender dissonance in ways other than transitioning, I will often use the phrases male-to-female (MTF) spectrum and female-to-male (FTM) spectrum to describe all trans people (regardless of whether they are genderqueer, transsexual, crossdresser, etc.) who experience their gender as being different from or more complex than the gender they were assigned at birth.

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

  In those intervening years, my skin has become much softer, my center of gravity has totally shifted, my metabolism has changed, clothing fits my body differently, heavy objects seem to have become much heavier, and room temperature seems to have dropped about two or three degrees. The changes in the shape of my body and in my muscle/fat distribution have significantly altered the way I walk, run, dance, hold my body, and move in general. Simply put, my body no longer feels male to me; rather, it feels female.Of course, body feelings are not the only facet of my being that has contributed to my identity as a woman. As I alluded to earlier, the changes in my social gender—how other people relate to and interact with me—were at least as dramatic as (if not more so than) the physical changes to my body. While being treated as a woman felt foreign to me at first, over time it simply became my everyday life. My identity as a woman grew out of positive experiences, such as feeling comfortable with my own female body. Yet it also arose out of negative ones, such as the regularity with which other people placed unsolicited attention upon my body, whether it was the catcalls and sexual innuendos strangers would sometimes hurl at me or the occasional comments people started to make insinuating that I could stand to lose a little weight (even though I weighed the same as I did before my transition, and nobody saw my weight as a problem back then). My identity as a woman grew out of my frustration over being called a “bitch” any time I stood up for myself, or having others make remarks about my hormone levels any time I became legitimately upset or angry about something. My identity as a woman grew out of my experiences at parties and other social occasions when I would come across a group of men talking and laughing, and witness them suddenly fall silent when I approached. My identity evolved out of a million tiny social exchanges where others made it very clear to me that my status in the world—my class, if you will—was that of a woman and not a man.Not surprisingly, no aspect of my social transition has been more difficult for me to adjust to than the way I am treated by some (but certainly not all) men. Granted, this was not entirely unexpected. Before my transition, I had often asked my female friends about their experiences living as women in a male-centered world.

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

  She marks her life by what she has, not by what she’s lost. I realize that I’ve got resilience in my DNA – hopefully my kids do, too. * A few days later, I drop Hudson at the airport for his trip to a camp in Israel and I am child-free again for the next four days. I head straight from the airport to the Jersey Shore, where my friend Lauren and I have planned a few days together at her condo on the beach. She is my most ardent cheerleader; I am relieved that I won’t have to pull myself together to be with her as she is not skittish around my pain. Our first morning, we bike to a yoga studio to take a class and then to a nearby restaurant for a late breakfast. I had told Lauren I didn’t want to ride a bike – I’m an extremely nervous bike rider – but she had insisted I try her beach cruiser and now as I coast along the wooden slats of the boardwalk, weaving around families toting red wagons filled with sand toys, I don’t know if I’ve ever been more content. Construction workers whistle as we fly by and I wave back cheerfully. I tell Lauren that I’ll take any attention I can get and she laughs and eggs me on, saying, “OK, keep waving to all your new friends, you’re making them very happy.” I feel young and free with a sense of liberty I haven’t known since my 20s. My kids are at camp, they’re settled and busy, and I have no one to take care of aside from myself for the next few days. The utter lack of restraint and responsibility make me giddy. We are lounging with green smoothies and English muffins at an outdoor café when two men park themselves at a table near ours. They’re at least twenty years older than us, excessively tanned and lizard-like. Lauren and I are easily distracted by people around us even when the conversations we’re eavesdropping in on aren’t all that interesting, but this one is a doozy. “I don’t know what’s with Gina. She spent all her money on fake tits and now all she does is complain that she has no money. She was in no position to get them in the first place,” says one. “Well, the cancer,” says the other mournfully. “Sure, it’s not her fault she had to get a double mastectomy but still, if you can’t afford fake tits, you shouldn’t get them.” “You wouldn’t be saying this if it was Marla.” “That’s true, that’s true. I had a lot more patience for Marla.” “You wouldn’t even take Gina out to P.F. Chang’s and a comedy club! You never took her out.” Lauren and I have been rolling our eyes during this conversation, but now I’m looking at her in terror.

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

  I liked that life – it was predictable, safe, secure and cozy. It was enough, more than enough. In fact, I had so much that it would have been unseemly to have wanted more. It never crossed my mind to want something else, and yet – and yet – now that it’s gone, I don’t want it back, not if it means giving up this incredible freedom, this not knowing what comes next. “So you probably need to go pick up your daughter,” #8 says, interrupting my internal dialogue. I glance at my watch and shake my head, saying that my mother is in fact picking Georgia up at this very moment. He is silent, and I realize he wasn’t saying that out of concern for my schedule, he is simply ready for me to leave. I pick through the pile of tangled blankets and sheets for my clothes. How quickly we can put ourselves back in order , I think. In the living room, I see my plate on the small foldout table, a few thin spears of asparagus lying dejectedly next to half a ball of hardened crab cake. He offers to pack the food up for me to take home and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing – I have never been shown the door with more urgency. When he opens the front door to the brownstone, an older woman walking by pauses to look up at us. She shouts out a cheery hello and we wave back, for a fleeting moment the very picture of domestic bliss, then he bends down to give me a quick kiss and I am off. I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket and when I look, there are several missed calls and texts from Lauren. I call her back immediately. “Oh thank God! I’ve been panicking. I thought I would have heard from you by now,” she says. “OK, nervous Nellie. I’m fine, heading home,” I say. “Can I just say how stupid we are? I thought I was on the ball keeping track of you but you didn’t give me his address or phone number – not even his name – so I was trying to figure out how I was going to find you, call the police and say I’m looking for my girlfriend who is with #8 somewhere in Harlem? Next time I want an address,” she says. “Amateur hour,” I say, laughing. “You’d think we would be a little better at this by now.” And with that, I hop on the subway, heading back downtown. CHAPTER 41G-spotFor all the ways in which I’m getting a crash course in sexuality at this unexpected juncture in my life, I remain in the dark about why the G-spot is so elusive. It appears to me from women’s magazines that having your G-spot activated is like reaching the top of Mount Everest, a rare and inarguably lifelong achievement.

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

  It’s pouring with rain as I walk through a deserted Washington Square Park to meet him. I am the only person standing by the fountain in the center as the park’s street lamps flicker on. As I pause to take in the moment I feel a sense of peace descend on me; in the past I would not have slowed down long enough to experience this lovely stillness, the darkening sky, the rhythmic sound of the rain beating on the pavement. I am aware that I am present in a way I have not been in the past, but now I relish these moments of beauty and serenity. Let the world stand still for a few breaths , I think. A few minutes later, I see #6 waiting for me in the lobby, tickets in hand. He is so unlike Michael that sometimes I fret I’m attracted to him solely for the ways in which he meets those of my needs that Michael couldn’t: he’s always on time, is organized and prepared for every potential scenario – like a Boy Scout, he likes to say. Next to him, I’m a slacker, an odd and new experience for me but not entirely unpleasant, giving me the feeling that I’m laid-back and easy-going, two qualities no one has ever assigned to me. If I were to add up all the hours I had spent waiting for Michael, I would probably get back entire months of my life. Time was a fluid concept to him, whereas for #6 it is fixed and one has to be accountable for it. After the movie, we debate what to do next. We aren’t intimate enough yet that we understand intuitively what the other wants, so it’s a bit of a dance. We set off into the rainy night, pressing against each other under the big umbrella he’s thoughtfully brought for us to share. We walk west to Hudson Street and peer into restaurants that beguile with their warmth and festive decor. The city feels like the park did a few hours ago, eerily quiet, and we are amongst the few who ventured out for a stroll. We pause outside of Red Farm, where there is usually an hours-long wait for a table, but tonight we see empty seats and agree this is just what we want – shrimp dumplings, crisp-skinned chicken, a cocktail for me. Tucked into a cozy booth for two, I let #6 do the ordering, appreciating the way he orders food – expansively and generously, making sure there is enough of an assortment for us to share. Michael and I used to share food too, but he was notorious for absentmindedly eating both my share and his, so I always eyed him suspiciously as he ate to make sure there would be enough left for me. #6 is the opposite, serving me first and always saving the last bites for me too.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I’ll be back for a week before Burning Man and we can hang out. And I’ll pay you double what you would make at the library to watch Dominic. I would be paying someone anyway.” “I’m not doing the group,” I said. “And I’m not taking your money. But maybe I can come out there. I have to check with the library.” “Do you want them to press charges?” she said. “If not, you’ll go to therapy. Also, I’m paying you, so stop.” I didn’t protest any further. I needed the money and Annika had it. Tons of money. In the late ’90s she’d gotten into the yoga studio scene in Santa Monica, designed a line of mats made of bamboo. The mats were featured in Yoga Journal in a three-page profile about their biodegradable properties and rich texture for asana. Two days later she received a call. It was Hain Celestial. They wanted to buy the patent. Then Native Foods came calling. A bidding war ensued, and the patent was bought by Hain Celestial for $3.1 million, which she used to get into the tech and innovator conferences during the first dot-com bubble. That’s where she met Steve, a Jewish hippie investor deep in Silicon Valley 1.0. She got him into kombucha, taught him how to relax (sort of), and they got married in Sonoma. Then she moved him down to Venice Beach, used his money to build a giant glass-and-metal cube of a house right on Ocean Front Walk. Later they got Dominic: a purebred foxhound who became their child. Annika hadn’t practiced Ashtanga or Vinyasa yoga in years—only Hatha and restorative—and was fat now. Steve loved her ass and was always squeezing it. He tried to grow what remained of his hair long like Kenny G and casually ran an investment firm with offices in Century City. He wore linen shorts to work. They joined a hippie synagogue in Malibu and were happy. Now they complained about the newest wave of gentrification though, what the real-estate agents called “Silicon Beach,” taking over Venice. A new kind of yuppie, shiny like the young ass-cheeks couple. The clothes they sold on Abbot Kinney and Main Street still had some boho vibes, but now they cost thousands of dollars. Rich hippies. That didn’t bother Annika as much as the chain stores that were moving in, upscale and soulless. “They’re turning this place into a MILF mall,” she said. “Soon it will basically be Phoenix.” But Venice would never look like Phoenix, because of all the bums. Phoenix would never allow a homeless community so bustling. Instead they shipped them all to L.A. If you were a homeless person and you weren’t living in Venice, then you were doing something wrong. Venice was the place to be. They lined the lawn between the beach and Ocean Front Walk: camps of them sprawled out in the sun.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  He instinctively turned to her in such things, but never, in spite of their friendship, to Stephen. Yet now he and Stephen were always together, he was staying on and on at the hotel in Upton; ostensibly staying because of the hunting; in reality staying because of Stephen who was filling a niche in his life long empty, the niche reserved for the perfect companion. A queer, sensitive fellow this Martin Hallam, with his strange love of trees and primitive forests—not a man to make many intimate friends, and in consequence a man to be lonely. He knew little about books and had been a slack student, but Stephen and he had other things in common; he rode well, and he cared for and understood horses; he fenced well and would quite often now fence with Stephen; nor did he appear to resent it when she beat him; indeed he seemed to accept it as natural, and would merely laugh at his own lack of skill. Out hunting these two would keep close to each other, and would ride home together as far as Upton; or perhaps he would go on to Morton with her for Anna was always glad to see Martin. Sir Philip gave him the freedom of the stables, and even old Williams forbore to grumble: ‘ ’E be trusty, that’s what ’e be,’ declared Williams, ‘and the horses knows it and acts accordin’.’ But sport was not all that drew Stephen to Martin, for his mind, like hers, was responsive to beauty, and she taught him the country-side that she loved, from Upton to Castle Morton common—the common that lies at the foot of the hills. But far beyond Castle Morton she took him. They would ride down the winding lane to Bromsberrow, then crossing the small stream at Clincher’s Mill, jog home through the bare winter woods of Eastnor. And she taught him the hills whose plentiful bosoms had made Anna think of green-girdled mothers, mothers of sons, as she sat and watched them, great with the child who should have been her son. They climbed the venerable Worcestershire Beacon that stands guardian of all the seven Malverns, or wandered across the hills of the Wells to the old British Camp above the Wye Valley. The Valley would lie half in light, half in shadow, and beyond would be Wales and the dim Black Mountains.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  ‘ ’Old on!’ bellowed Williams, ‘What the ’ell be you doin’? Quick, shorten ’is bridle, yer not in a circus!’ And then seeing Stephen: ‘Beg pardon, Miss Stephen, but it be a fair crime not to lead that horse close, and ’im all corned up until ’e’s fair dancin’!’ They stood watching Raftery skip through the gates, then old Williams said softly: ‘ ’E do be a wonder—more nor fifty odd years ’ave I worked in the stables, and never no beast ’ave I loved like Raftery. But ’e’s no common horse, ’e be some sort of Christian, and a better one too than a good few I knows on—’ And Stephen answered: ‘Perhaps he’s a poet like his namesake; I think if he could write he’d write verses. They say all the Irish are poets at heart, so perhaps they pass on the gift to their horses.’ Then the two of them smiled, each a little embarrassed, but their eyes held great friendship the one for the other, a friendship of years now cemented by Raftery whom they loved—and small wonder, for assuredly never did more gallant or courteous horse step out of stable. ‘Oh, well,’ sighed Williams, ‘I be gettin’ that old—and Raftery, ’e do be comin’ eleven, but ’e don’t feel it yet in ’is limbs the way I does—me rheumatics ’as troubled me awful this winter.’ She stayed on a little while, comforting Williams, then made her way back to the house, very slowly. ‘Poor Williams,’ she thought, ‘he is getting old, but thank the Lord nothing’s the matter with Raftery.’ The house lay full in a great slant of sunshine; it looked as though it was sunning its shoulders. Glancing up, she came eye to eye with the house, and she fancied that Morton was thinking about her, for its windows seemed to be beckoning, inviting: ‘Come home, come home, come inside quickly, Stephen!’ And as though they had spoken, she answered: ‘I’m coming,’ and she quickened her lagging steps to a run, in response to this most compassionate kindness. Yes, she actually ran through the heavy white doorway under the semi-circular fanlight, and on up the staircase that led from the hall in which hung the funny old portraits of Gordons—men long dead and gone but still wonderfully living, since their thoughts had fashioned the comeliness of Morton; since their loves had made children from father to son—from father to son until the advent of Stephen. 2That evening she went to her father’s study, and when he looked up she thought she was expected. She said: ‘I want to talk to you, Father.’ And he answered: ‘I know—sit close to me, Stephen.’

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The gist of the paschal controversy was, whether the Jewish paschal-day (be it a Friday or not), or the Christian Sunday, should control the idea and time of the entire festival. The Johannean practice of Asia represented here the spirit of adhesion to historical precedent, and had the advantage of an immovable Easter, without being Judaizing in anything but the observance of a fixed day of the month. The Roman custom represented the principle of freedom and discretionary change, and the independence of the Christian festival system. Dogmatically stated, the difference would be, that in the former case the chief stress was laid on the Lord’s death; in the latter, on his resurrection. But the leading interest of the question for the early Church was not the astronomical, nor the dogmatical, but the ritualistic. The main object was to secure uniformity of observance, and to assert the originality of the Christian festive cycle, and its independence of Judaism; for both reasons the Roman usage at last triumphed even in the East. Hence Easter became a movable festival whose date varies from the end of March to the latter part of April. The history of the controversy divides itself into three acts. 1. The difference came into discussion first on a visit of Polycarp, bishop of Smyrna, to Anicetus, bishop of Rome, between A.D. 150 and 155.336 It was not settled; yet the two bishops parted in peace, after the latter had charged his venerable guest to celebrate the holy communion in his church. We have a brief, but interesting account of this dispute by Irenaeus, a pupil of Polycarp, which is as follows:337 "When the blessed Polycarp sojourned at Rome in the days of Anicetus, and they had some little difference of opinion likewise with regard to other points,338 they forthwith came to a peaceable understanding on this head [the observance of Easter], having no love for mutual disputes. For neither could Anicetus persuade Polycarp not to observe339 inasmuch as he [Pol.] had always observed with John, the disciple of our Lord, and the other apostles, with whom he had associated; nor did Polycarp persuade Anicetus to observe Gr. (threi’n) who said that he was bound to maintain the custom of the presbyters (= bishops) before him. These things being so, they communed together; and in the church Anicetus yielded to Polycarp, out of respect no doubt, the

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I wanted no more belongings. On the second-story deck of the beach house I escaped the hell of my own smelly bathrobe, wearing one of the silk kimonos my sister had left behind. I fell asleep out there every night, tipsy on white wine, under the Venice stars, with my feet tucked under Dominic’s gut, belonging to nothing familiar. I felt no pressure to fall asleep, and so, after nine months of insomnia, I was finally able to drift off easily every night. Then at three a.m. I would wake gently and traipse to the bed with the Egyptian cotton sheets, kicking my legs all over them in celebration, rolling around and touching my own skin as though I were a stranger touching someone foreign, or cradling the big back of the dog to my front to die to the world for another eight hours. I might have even been happy. — And yet, walking on Abbot Kinney Boulevard one night at the end of my first week there, passing the windows of the yuppie shops—each their own white cube gallery—I saw two people, a man and a woman, early twenties maybe, definitely on a first or second date, and I knew I still wasn’t okay. They were discussing intently where they should go to eat and drink, as though it really mattered. He had an accent, German, I think, and was handsome and fuckable: hair close-cropped and boyish, strong arms, an Adam’s apple that protruded and made me think of sucking on it. The woman was, as the undergrads at the Arizona university where I worked as a librarian might say, a butterface. For nine years I had been at Southwest State in the dual lit and classics PhD program. Somehow, miraculously, despite having not yet turned in my thesis, they hadn’t withdrawn my funding. In exchange for thirty hours of work per week in the library, I was housed in a below-market-rent apartment off-campus and received a yearly stipend of $25,000. I was supposed to be working on a book-length project entitled “The Accentual Gap: Sappho’s Spaces as Essence.” This year, as a result of my tardiness, I’d been appointed a new advisory committee, comprised of both the classics and English department chairpersons, and I was no longer flying under the radar. In March, I had met with them at a Panera Bread, where they delivered the news over paninis—Napa almond chicken salad for the English chair in her coffee-stained Easter sweater and tuna salad for the classics chair, his nose swollen with rosacea—that I was to have a full draft completed by the fall semester or my funding would be pulled and I would be out.

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

  She marks her life by what she has, not by what she’s lost. I realize that I’ve got resilience in my DNA – hopefully my kids do, too. * A few days later, I drop Hudson at the airport for his trip to a camp in Israel and I am child-free again for the next four days. I head straight from the airport to the Jersey Shore, where my friend Lauren and I have planned a few days together at her condo on the beach. She is my most ardent cheerleader; I am relieved that I won’t have to pull myself together to be with her as she is not skittish around my pain. Our first morning, we bike to a yoga studio to take a class and then to a nearby restaurant for a late breakfast. I had told Lauren I didn’t want to ride a bike – I’m an extremely nervous bike rider – but she had insisted I try her beach cruiser and now as I coast along the wooden slats of the boardwalk, weaving around families toting red wagons filled with sand toys, I don’t know if I’ve ever been more content. Construction workers whistle as we fly by and I wave back cheerfully. I tell Lauren that I’ll take any attention I can get and she laughs and eggs me on, saying, “OK, keep waving to all your new friends, you’re making them very happy.” I feel young and free with a sense of liberty I haven’t known since my 20s. My kids are at camp, they’re settled and busy, and I have no one to take care of aside from myself for the next few days. The utter lack of restraint and responsibility make me giddy. We are lounging with green smoothies and English muffins at an outdoor café when two men park themselves at a table near ours. They’re at least twenty years older than us, excessively tanned and lizard-like. Lauren and I are easily distracted by people around us even when the conversations we’re eavesdropping in on aren’t all that interesting, but this one is a doozy. “I don’t know what’s with Gina. She spent all her money on fake tits and now all she does is complain that she has no money. She was in no position to get them in the first place,” says one. “Well, the cancer,” says the other mournfully. “Sure, it’s not her fault she had to get a double mastectomy but still, if you can’t afford fake tits, you shouldn’t get them.” “You wouldn’t be saying this if it was Marla.” “That’s true, that’s true. I had a lot more patience for Marla.” “You wouldn’t even take Gina out to P.F. Chang’s and a comedy club! You never took her out.” Lauren and I have been rolling our eyes during this conversation, but now I’m looking at her in terror.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  ‘I did, Miss Gordon. I remember quite well his showing me a miniature of Lady Anna—I remember his words. He said: “She’s so pure that only the purest stones are fit to touch her finger.” You see, he’d known me ever since he was at Eton, that’s why he spoke of your mother to me—I felt deeply honoured. Ah, yes—dear, dear—your father was young then and very much in love. . . .’ She said suddenly: ‘Is this pearl as pure as those diamonds?’ And he answered: ‘It’s without a blemish.’ Then she found her cheque book and he gave her his pen with which to write out the very large cheque. ‘Wouldn’t you like some reference?’ she inquired, as she glanced at the sum for which he must trust her. But at this he laughed: ‘Your face is your reference, if I may be allowed to say so, Miss Gordon.’ They shook hands because he had known her father, and she left the shop with the ring in her pocket. As she walked down the street she was lost in thought, so that if people stared she no longer noticed. In her ears kept sounding those words from the past, those words of her father’s when long, long ago he too had been a young lover: ‘She’s so pure that only the purest stones are fit to touch her finger.’ CHAPTER 221W hen they got back to Morton there was Puddle in the hall, with that warm smile of hers, always just a little mocking yet pitiful too, that queer composite smile that made her face so arresting. And the sight of this faithful little grey woman brought home to Stephen the fact that she had missed her. She had missed her, she found, out of all proportion to the size of the creature, which seemed to have diminished. Coming back to it after those weeks of absence, Puddle’s smallness seemed to be even smaller, and Stephen could not help laughing as she hugged her. Then she suddenly lifted her right off her feet with as much ease as though she had been a baby. Morton smelt good with its log fires burning, and Morton looked good with the goodness of home. Stephen sighed with something very like contentment: ‘Lord! I’m so glad to be back again, Puddle. I must have been a cat in my last incarnation; I hate strange places—especially Cornwall.’ Puddle smiled grimly. She thought that she knew why Stephen had hated Cornwall. After tea Stephen wandered about the house, touching first this, then that, with affectionate fingers. But presently she went off to the stables with sugar for Collins and carrots for Raftery; and there in his spacious, hay-scented loose box, Raftery was waiting for Stephen. He made a queer little sound in his throat, and his soft Irish eyes said: ‘You’re home, home, home. I’ve grown tired with waiting, and with wishing you home.’ And she answered: ‘Yes, I’ve come back to you, Raftery.’

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Martin V. proved himself to be a capable and judicious ruler, with courage enough when the exigency arose. He left Constance May 16, 1418. Sigismund, who took his departure the following week, offered him as his papal residence Basel, Strassburg, or Frankfurt. France pressed the claims of Avignon, but a Colonna could think of no other city than Rome, and proceeding by the way of Bern, Geneva, Mantua, and Florence, he entered the Eternal city Sept. 28, 1420.322 The delay was due to the struggle being carried on for its possession by the forces of Joanna of Naples under Sforza, and the bold chieftain Braccio.323 Martin secured the withdrawal of Joanna’s claims by recognizing that princess as queen of Naples, and pacified by investing him with Assisi, Perugia, Jesi, and Todi. Rome was in a desolate condition when Martin reached it, the prey of robbers, its streets filled with refuse and stagnant water, its bridges decayed, and many of its churches without roofs. Cattle and sheep were herded in the spaces of St. Paul’s. Wolves attacked the inhabitants within the walls.324 With Martin’s arrival a new era was opened. This pope rid the city of robbers, so that persons carrying gold might go with safety even beyond the walls. He restored the Lateran, and had it floored with a new pavement. He repaired the porch of St. Peter’s, and provided it with a new roof at a cost of 50,000 gold gulden. Revolutions within the city ceased. Martin deserves to be honored as one of Rome’s leading benefactors. His pontificate was an era of peace after years of constant strife and bloodshed due to factions within the walls and invaders from without. With him its mediaeval history closes, and an age of restoration and progress begins. The inscription on Martin’s tomb in the Lateran, "the Felicity of his Times,"—temporum suorum felicitas,—expresses the debt Rome owes to him. Among the signs of Martin’s interest in religion was his order securing the transfer to Rome of some of the bones of Monica, the mother of Augustine, and his bull canonizing her. On their reception, Martin made a public address in which he said, "Since we possess St. Augustine, what do we care for the shrewdness of Aristotle, the eloquence of Plato, the reputation of Pythagoras? These men we do not need. Augustine is enough. If we want to know the truth, learning, and religion, where shall we find one more wise, learned, and holy than St. Augustine?"