I Was a Teenage Crone From Outer Space

While I do think there’s no better way to age-out in this life than to become an “old witch,” I do wish someone had warned me that this time of life is as confusing (if not more so) than adolescence! I feel like a teenager again: confused about sex and my changing body, experiencing weird hormonal shifts, pissed at the way society dismisses me, concerned about my economic prospects, the way people act around me, my place in the world…

I talk with my friends about how weird this is. We’ve not yet reached the point where we’re dying off (yet), but we’ve entered the realm of “near-death” experiences even as we consider a life on social security. What I mean by “near-death” in this case is the momento mori nature of becoming gradually more invisible to those who still exist, apparently, in The Land of the Obtuse Living. We who are visibly aging beyond what is fashionable no longer matter as we once thought we did, no matter what our accomplishments. We are pushed ever more to the margins of all human consideration–familial, economic, artistic, social…

A long-time friend called me a couple of weeks ago. It’s been about five years since we talked. She and her husband recently moved. They had an economic need to downsize and that meant leaving the city where she lived for so long, moving to a town on the outskirts. She’s socially isolated as a result. I was commiserating with her (yes, I feel that too) until she mentioned an 80-year old neighbor across the street who was friendly, but then she said something to the effect that this neighbor “won’t be around for very long so why bother?”

OMFG. When even the younger old can be this callous toward the older old, who are we as human beings?

I’m also preparing to move. I’ll be saying good-bye to this lake and those mountains sometime this spring. I’ll be moving closer to a real city, closer to people in general, nearer to some friends and medical care. I need to be in a place where I can access things like food and care if illness and infirmity strike. Here the nearest bookstore is twenty-two miles away. I’d like a situation that’s more walkable.

I moved to Lake County to be as near to my adult children as I could afford (150 miles away from the SF Bay Area). But after two years here, and not much in the way of visits, I have no hope of much attention from my children, so it no longer matters how far away I live from them. It’s difficult enough just to get an appointment to FaceTime with them once or twice a month. I can’t blame them, really. They are attempting to navigate the hell that is young adult life in a world of accelerating climate change, citizens of a fascist country that is greedily genocidal. (We elders are costly–I presume we’re among the “disposable.”)

I am bewildered. This is not what I thought would happen to me at this age. I thought I would be cherished a little. And though I remain interested in so much (and interesting too, I hope), and long to participate in many of the exciting movements and resurgences that are going on right now, I realize my role can only be as a quaint onlooker unless I galvanize a bunch of other pissed off older witches, artists, writers, and musicians to Do Some Stuff and Kick Some Ass. I’ve always been quietly audacious. I now find myself wanting to throw my aging back in everyone’s face much as I used to want to throw my youth. Here’s the story of (some of) my life:

“You want a pregnancy test? I’ll do it. You want punk rock vinyl fashion? I’m making it happen. You want a feminist space group? Already done. You want a sexologist for a wife or a girlfriend? Watch me! (Oh, you didn’t want that after all? Too bad!) You want a three-part fantasy novel? I’ve got one in the works! You’re expecting fierce commentary about what it means to age in the 21st century? I’m so fucking on it!“

And so I find myself saying it still, the same thing I’ve said for at least fifty years: “World, don’t you dare underestimate me, not even now. Just watch what I’ll do next!” The funny part about all this, of course, is that no one much cares and I know it. But I really have no choice. It’s an all-out, bat-shit old lady thing.

What has kicked off this melancholy musing? A combination of things, really. Looking around at all the things I’ll either pack or give away. The boxes of family photos no one seems to want. Stuff I’ve collected, written, drawn. Business records and “archives.” More fine china than I actually need… It’s not that I feel I live in a museum (yet) but I’m still ravenous for dynamic interactions and transformations. And so I blog, leaving wordy breadcrumbs for the “children” (who may not be mine) who may teleport into my fragrance-free witch’s lair, filled with cats, books, art, and talk of sex and magic over tea.

I’m not done with this world yet. But it seems to be done with me. If the margins are all that’s left, that’s where I’ll be. Actually, it’s pretty much where I’ve always been. I’ve always drawn sustenance from the outer limits. I just didn’t know that life here could feel so diminished. It’s up to me, as a bat-shit old witch, to serve this up with fire and fury.

Baba_Yaga_by_I.Bilibin_(priv.coll) ####

Loki: Acceleration on a Curve

A learning curve, that is. Though I’ve been tempted lately to think of Loki as having a gentler approach to the “lifespan development issues” faced by us older folks, that’s an illusion. In reality, he’s tossing us about just as much as the twenty- and thirty- somethings. In many ways, our existence is as precarious as the millennials leaving their teens: poverty, lack of affordable housing, lack of employment, relationship and family issues, lack of respect…

However, I greatly appreciate his rapid-fire, “toss it all at the ceiling and see what sticks” approach. These days people show their qualities very quickly and as painful as that is in the moment, it’s actually great for a woman who has less and less time to waste on pointless drama and toxic relationships.

My biological clock is ticking–and it’s not a baby I’m expecting. Momento mori.

I’m in the process of jettisoning things right now: outmoded concepts of who I was; books and objects I’m not in love with anymore; acquaintances and colleagues who’ve been hanging around in my “Facebook friends” list but who never communicate (I just purged my list today); papers and crap I’ve been holding onto as “archives…” Who, really, will care? Except for my cats, and a few books, artwork, and family photos, I could actually travel lighter than I have in the past.

Only trouble is, there are far fewer safe (non-toxic) places I could land. But for now, I’m enjoying where I live, with clean indoor air and a degree of comfort not afforded to most of the world’s people. Do I know how lucky I am? Yes, I do.

Back to people and their qualities, though. And back to Loki.

He won’t let me stagnate. He won’t let me put my trust in people who are deceptive, competitive, dishonest, or otherwise toxic. It’s as if he’s an enzyme or a catalyst (“just add Loki!”). In his presence, the alchemies of personality and conflict boil, bubble, and froth. Perhaps what results will be palatable, perhaps not. Whatever happens will be the opposite of comfy or stale.

Understand, I give offerings to this god daily: cinnamon tea with honey in the morning (kind of like when I used to get up first in the morning and make coffee for my then-husband, bringing it to him while he stayed in bed), poems and prayers, conversation, and frequent sweets. I have a degree of trust in this patron deity that exceeds what I feel for almost everyone and everything (except my cats), but I also know that my trust cannot lead to complacency.

And so I ponder the latest fracas–an unexpectedly ugly outburst from another, and my own feelings of frustration, shame, anger, and the mental fluctuations of “what do I want to do about this, if anything?” My first impulse is always to simply leave–remove myself from the situation–but this time I think I’m being challenged to stay, and to also state my terms for doing so.

In the past I’ve fled abusive bosses and narcissistic lovers, and avoided personality disordered friends. I’ve left a hula halau (hula school) after an alaka’i (assistant teacher) yanked my arm without warning, while I was trying to learn some steps. She’d previously poked fun at my “duck feet” in class, in front of everyone. I walked off the dance floor and never returned. I’ve been “mean-girled” and “man-splained” and worse, and though I have a certain level of tolerance for human failings (even, sometimes, my own), I do draw the line at accepting insulting or abusive behavior. Or rather, my gut draws the line even if my mind wants to excuse or rationalize the person’s actions. There’s a very definite feeling from my enteric nervous system that says “no more.” It’s very final.

Armouring, warding… recuperating, reviving… these are important activities in my life. Sometimes they take all I’ve got. But with Loki’s help, I seem to cycle through my emotional reactions faster, arriving at whatever strategic measures I have to take to prevent a repeat occurence.

Loki can be a “pick your battles” kind of god, exits are okay but he can also urge a full-on confrontation, the scorched earth kind. Even “best served cold” can be fine with him. I am free to choose but it has to be a conscious choice. I have to confront my own feelings and failings, no matter what. It’s a liberating way to live even at this age. And yet there’s never a definitive answer to the existential question: “are we there yet?”

We Lokeans never arrive at a final destination. We are, in so many ways, forever in transit. We are always accelerating on the curve.

Hail Loki! We wouldn’t have it any other way.

Loki's_flight_to_Jötunheim.jpg

####

The Fey Divorcee

I’ve been wanting to write a blog post with this title for quite some time, ’cause… puns! I give my readers notice that this will be one of those “talk story” blogs (Bio Hazard category) in which I, your sexegenarian polytheist Lokean sexologist, attempt to please no one but myself.

When Loki entered my life and my daily devotions, I naturally gravitated toward online communities and blogs where I could learn more. I can’t tell you how many times I have read the words “Loki saved my life” from so many different people. This is truly a being who has made it a point to gather up (and often productively shake up) people who feel broken and outcast. And here I’m gonna testify myself: “Yeah, Loki saved mine too.”

It was during a period of intense, soul-killing shame. The shame was so great I did not think I could bear it. The shame was triggered by a really ridiculous, almost romantic encounter (completely unlooked for and unsought) in which someone figuratively fell at my feet, practically begging for a certain kind of relationship, declaring himself to be wild with interest and capable of profound devotion. It was a peculiar form of “love bombing” I suppose, though it wasn’t love exactly that was on the table. So I (being unutterably lonely at the time and reeling from the consequences of divorce and another bad break-up) frakkin’ fell for it.

All my hibernating capacities for intimate, human contact roared to life. (I’d been smashing them into dust out of self-preservation. Just thinking about being with another person again had been inconceivable!) And then this feckless, self-centered man had his little crisis of “feeling scared” and withdrew after our first video conversation. Well, I think I know why. I do know why. I was “too old.”

brassaï-la-môme-bijou,-bar-de-la-lune,-montmartre,-paris — I was a teenager when I first saw this portrait of La Môme Bijou, bar de la Lune, Montmartre, Paris , 1932, by Brassaï (French, 1899–1984).

I’d never misrepresented my age. And, frankly, I’m not “into” people who are much younger than I am. Given a choice between Gandalf and Legolas, I’m more likely to pick Gandalf. My last two important relationships have been with people 16-18 years older than I am. But this strange “last chance” for another kind of intimacy seemed so surprising, so much of what the doctor might have ordered (if the doctor had been Charles Moser!), that I tried to overlook the difference in age. Yes, I’m hinting at something a bit kinky here, so why not come out and say it? The fellow in question was interested in what’s called a “female-led relationship.” Calling the shots, being the boss: what could be better for an aging woman, especially one as emotionally leery and battle worn as I was?

The upshot of this sudden withdrawal, this squirrely-ness on the part of my formerly ardent suitor, was that I saw myself through another set of eyes. The vision was…unkind. Every single stabby phrase of Colette’s, aimed at old courtesans who “prey” on younger men (read Cheri and The Last of Cheri), flooded my mind. I saw myself grotesque and self-deluded. I remembered scenes from Entertaining Mr. Sloane. Oh, I beat myself up but good, even though I was the injured and innocent party, hardly the “predator.”

Yes, how dare I–divorced, dismissed, disrespected, and old–aspire to another, a new form of love? One of Colette’s quotes is “You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiam.” Well, you can only wear that one well if you’re young(er). (She, however, did find happiness in her third and final marriage, with a much younger man!).

e5ac77e1ac3d03cd05f6b333c837e966 — The author Colette and her third husband, Maurice Goudeket.

This bizarre roller-coaster ride happened not once, but twice! More fool I! Though wary, I was gulled by contrite behavior, excuses, accounts of his genuine life crises (if I am to believe anything he said), further expressions of interest. And so even though I know to believe actions, not words, I sat back as if to watch and see what would happen next, with just the tiniest dollop of hope.

But I knew what would happen.

More shilly-shallying.

Excuses.

Nothing.

And because I was giving this polite fiction less and less energy, whatever energy “it” had has gradually dwindled to just about nothing. Which is more than fine, I assure you. These many months I have watched the trajectory of this man’s diminishing communications with a sceptic’s eye. The discrepancy between what he says and doesn’t do no longer hurts me. I no longer care.

But back to Loki and his life-saving mercy, which is much more interesting to me.

You see, even as I was filled with shame and self-loathing for being so “stupid, stupid, stupid!” I was redeemed (yep, using that word deliberately) by the unexpected attention of a cosmic “god,” a being so awesomely compassionate and yet so iconoclastic that he could rescue me–poor, shattered me–and help me put myself back together again with equal parts of tough love and world-breaking humor.

Loki doesn’t do it for you. He loves you as you do it for yourself. Therein lies the appeal.

I can barely even recall now how all the Loki signals came flooding in, but it was precisely at the worst moments of the first crisis that I became aware of him running up all kinds of “signal flags” in the forms of pop culture references, books, images, you name it. The signal flags arrived with a sense of a presence just as I was contemplating how good it would feel to not be alive. That’s one thing about me, interesting phenomena can always capture my attention. Loki’s strategy worked.

Yes, I believe in doing “foolish things” with enthusiasm. Before I knew it, I was Loki’s own. Devoted, oathed, and quite happily embarked on the adventure of a life-time–well, what’s left of it, anyhow.

Loki likes all kinds of humans. He’ll like me even as I come to resemble La Môme Bijou. (And why shouldn’t I too deck my aging flesh with rhinestones and artificial pearls?) And if I occasionally feel myself to be grotesquely hopeful about one day meeting someone who will love me (A Gandalf? A Maurice?), I can offer that up to my patron god and he’ll accept it (along with the sweets and cinnamon tea that are his usual lot). Though I’ve got major “trust issues” with mortal men, I have complete confidence in my patron god. Though a trickster, he’s never cruel. He now makes sure that people show their true selves to me–quickly and without artifice. He knows I have little time to waste and he saved me from cutting that time short.

Colette once wrote about the “absurd courage of girls.” The absurd courage of aging women is even more astounding. My patron god grants hope that causes no shame.

Hail Loki!

####