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I’d been searching for a while for a succinct way to describe the essence of this blog, when I mentioned it to my friend Bill Lutz (author of The Shark Tank).  Personal impressions, contemplations, general stuff of life, and of course, the music is its vehicle, but it needs to speak to all those who travel the in-betweens – those not necessarily gay or straight, black or white, of one particular gender – those who skate easily through spiritual paths and feel integrated through the journey.  I talked for a while about life other than the culture of either/or.  Bill cut to the center of my concepts with “Welcome to Tweenerworld.”  I like it.  I think this recasting of “tweener” could be to blended and both/and culture what queer is to the growing alphabet soup of alternative sexualities.  The Dream Between may have a moving target of a tagline for a while and might not really use “Tweenerworld,” but I have to thank Bill for getting to the point.  Not a bad summation.

Sara Parks of Great Balancing Act (“It’s no secret I love that band”) recently posted a Facebook status regarding feminine hygiene and caught some flak from guys who thought it was not only TMI, but actually inappropriate.  In response I was duly inspired to show my support for frank conversation and the demystification of women’s (and everybody’s) bodies by reporting this “tweener” moment:

So there I am at the routine gynecologist appointment last month.  The nurse practitioner goes through the basic questions.  No new medications, no surgeries, nothing particularly new happening.  Breast exam.  No problems indicated.  I mention that as a matter of routine I like to have all the STI tests.  She makes a mental note to send me down the hall for blood work.  Then she asks me to lie back for the rest of the exam.  Just when the speculum hits, I look up and see a picture taped to the ceiling.  It is someone who looks very much like this guy:



What the heck?  I was stuck in a processing loop.  I can at least now begin to sort out what was wrong with that picture.

Here are a few of the assumptions in operation:  It assumed that the woman having the exam is straight.  It assumed that this particular masculine expression is a universal turn-on to women.  It assumed that the woman having the exam is uncomfortable with the exam and in need of a distraction.  It assumed that nudity and genital touch in a clinical context is conflated with erotic or sexual feelings.

All I could think, after the disconcertion brain delay, was – Wait, why did you think I wanted to see that guy?  Was I supposed to be having a sexual moment?  Personally, I had been feeling neither nervous nor sexual about having a PAP smear.

I get the humor.  At least I think whoever decorated that office figured a hunk on the ceiling would be funny.  The surrealist in me finds it more and more amusing.

It also tells me that they weren’t expecting me in that office.  No one imagined a queer-identified bi woman who prefers feminine to androgynous or interestingly gender blended people.  No one imagined a person who prefers not to be asked psychologically to feel aroused in the middle of a simple exam.  It was invisibility in living color.

Being one who naturally falls on the in betweens means it’s rarely ever you who people expect to show up.  They’ve mostly prepared a place for someone else.  But surfing through and between the spaces where others see hard lines drawn is a sweet, layered source of creativity and the place where I find the deepest expressions of love.  I would never trade it.

It has been unbelievably quiet here.  I am not complaining.  Mornings begin around dawn and I land my butt on the meditation cushion before the monkey mind gets too busy.  Exercise has been mostly swimming and yoga, though I hope my body will like the weight training once again before too long.  My body has reflected the break from health and happiness I took this summer.  It feels good to be back, present, and ready to rock, as it were. 

 My personal ashram is coming along nicely.  Oppressing myself with ultra strict time constraints has not felt useful.  The intention is what’s important, and that is sticking.  I am awake hours earlier.  I find center.  I work with diligence and new shows for 2011 are beginning to get booked, which promotes a sense of accomplishment that keeps an entrepreneur going. 

I open up time to clean and organize.  It is hard to explain how a freshly polished dresser in the bathroom (“The Amber Lounge,” as I like to call it) that was once my Grandmother’s translates to a mind at ease, but it does just that.  Seeing that the basement will soon be ready to receive much-needed repainting is exciting. 

 I have been eating moderately and well, loving cooking once again.  I tend not to cook when I am living in a space that is somehow energetically off.  Rediscovering the process and simple enjoyment of making fresh, vegetarian meals is one joy of no-housemates that I had forgotten would re-emerge.  In the evenings, I’ve been making sure there is leisure time.  I mostly catch up with my friend Brian, and I’ve been reading the brilliant book by Heidi Durrow, The Girl Who Fell From the Sky.”  Heidi Durrow along with Fanchen Cox are the hosts of Mixed Chicks Chat, a podcast where I have found an emotional home and sense of cultural identity in so many ways.  Lights out has been purposeful and a bit earlier on its own accord.  No more falling asleep trying to make one more connection or watch one more thing on You Tube.  There is a tomorrow for that. 

 All this personal ashraming is absolutely positive.  I am also aware of it as a state of preparation.  The mind is rediscovering focus for the pursuit of spiritual awareness and wisdom.  The stability of quiet joy that is emerging will be the bedrock that allows the new songs to come through – the ones that hold all the anger and feelings of loss that I’ve been avoiding.  I am preparing for the inevitable birth of those, and the light that comes after. 

 I am preparing for family.  What I said about the wighead knowing more about her family than I do is true.  She is certain that she wants the man and the woman who she loves to form a poly triad.  I would love such a scenario, though the partners are not evident.  For me, three doesn’t have to be the magic number.  All need not be lovers.  All need not live together.  I do believe that my friend Brian is one of us. 

The polyamorous family of my dreams has an unequivocal heart connection.  We are friends and partners who know in our deepest selves that love and freedom are not incongruent.  Queerness and gender fluidity weave a wide swath of our tapestry.  We explore the divine, creativity, and intellect.  We give each other space.  We have each others’ backs.          

Last Samhain, a woman who came to my ritual asked me if I wanted a family.  I didn’t have a short answer for her, sensing her likely cavalcade of assumptions.  Yes, I really do want a family.  And today, I am enjoying incredible near silence. 

 How will I find enough singlehood and enough togetherness?  It is one of my lifelong quests to find and stay in this balance.  The living room will soon ring with my current favorite sound of OM.  Today, I am happy and serene.  There is no need to chase after answers.

I am not sure why wigheads are my usual canvas.  Maybe it stems from the new wave aesthetic that is so imprinted on me.  I find them strangely beautiful, sometimes eerie, and when I work with them it feels like sculpting.

 I wrote a novella in 1993.  That was the first time I discovered a phenomenon that I’ve heard fiction writers talk about frequently since— Characters take on lives of their own.  This new wighead has definitely done that. “She Dreams the Triad” portrays one woman’s jumbled musings of love and desire and her ultimate clarity about pursuing partnership with a man and a woman.  Creating her was peaceful in moments, and also an emotional challenge.  I, too, am seeking poly family.  I believe she is more certain than I of the people who will be together and the structure of the tribe.  Here is a look into her mind.


The images click along like an old school slide show.   They make trails as they shift through brainwaves.   She follows. 

She thinks of him, and for a moment he is red-splattered.   She is shocked to envision him bloody—Could her anger be so great inside this many-layered romance?   Then her cheek flushes red with wanting him and thick desire outruns all turbulence.   Another image flashes.   It is her closest friend— punky, blonde, intellectual, more social than she.   Yes, she loves her, but she is startled that snapshots of her have erupted so suddenly into her raw passion fantasy.  

The slide show click click clicks.  She sees herself.  Who am I now?  She sees her; she sees him.  What would he say? Sure, he could have a romp with them, but could he love them both?  She sees them all wildly distorted as if they’ve fallen into a kaleidoscopic abyss of color and dreamscape and alchemy.  Then they return in a picture clearer than any before. 

They are stylized and static, yet their emotions seep through in spite of themselves.  Her third eye shines with the knowing of what they could be, and her throat is jeweled just where she will form the words to speak her truth.  She knows that soon there will be the messiness and sublime potential of words and flesh.

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