The Greigh Area

14 May 2024

It may be just as well. I’m more apt to be looked upon as a plague rat than as an actual “friend” or as an unfortunate blood kin.

14 January 2021 — Father of the Whom?  
It has been suggested that I suffer from a persecution complex, and that the exclusions or ejections from fruitful relationships are imaginary.  AND that I have brought them upon myself.  Well then, which is it?  If there were actually something for me to bring upon myself, wouldn’t it be real?
I’m generally willing to concede the possibility, and sometimes even the likelihood, that I am the author of most of my troubles.  I am emotionally retarded and so can be a rather difficult case for people who might otherwise care about me.  In fact, I’ve spent much of the past week or so exploring these debilities, in a series of essays that I’ve reproduced from fragmented notes, and augmented, and posted (now under the umbrella title of “Counterpoint Confessional.”)  Unfortunately, the posting of these genuine suspicions have been read (again) as assaults on others rather than as an exposure and exploration of my own failures.  Just as no good deeds seem to go unpunished, few confessions escape being read as denials.
It is not imaginary (unless I am more delusional than had been suspected) that I have been ejected from two marriages, and recently, from a probable third – well not quite “marriage” – but close enough to hurt as much. The aggrieved are real people and they seem to have had their fill of me. I also recognize that the common factor in all three of these failures is me.
The following is also not imaginary.
Years ago, I attended my son’s wedding.  It was a gay festive affair AND a sobering revelation.  The world is free to review the photographic evidence.  During and before the event there were many portraits staged to commemorate both the day and the raveling relationships.  Many of course of the happy couple, the bride and her entourage, the groom and his, the proud and beaming mothers of the pair, the newlywed bride’s dance with her Daddy, and… Well, that’s about it. Oh, there were also plenty of candid shots at the reception, with eyes half closed or mouths half open, or eating or drinking or dancing and the rest of the revelry.

Okeh, THAT’s about it.  Other than an apparently unfortunate and unmistakable physical resemblance of a couple of fellas in the crowd, there was no affirmative evidence that the groom’s nativity was other than parthenogenic.

17 April 2024 — On Short Circuiting the Next Dismissal
B:
I regret that I will not be attending your wedding this summer.  Though there are a multitude of factors drawing me to Ecotopia – your and Wupdjuluf‘s nuptials, my fiftieth year High School class reunion (Spartan High, class of 1974), the spectacular coast, beautiful greenery, and of course your mom, your brother, my siblings, and other kin.  However, I am daunted by rather more than just the expense and inconvenience of travel to the Left Coast this time.  Since the murder of my mother (by house arrest) and the defilement of my grandson (“Misogynist in the White House!  Girl Power!  Machismo Bullshit!  Strong Independent Woman!  Loathsome Patriarchy!”), it has become increasingly clear to me that neither the State of Ecotopia nor the Peoples’ Democrat Party (just two heads of the same hideous Hydra) will protect our lives and liberty.  In fact, they may be the greatest of threats. 

Am I being cowardly or am I simply misinformed?  Maybe.  It bothers me enough already that so many for whom I care are still within (and embracing!) that dystopian nightmare.  But I cannot help or protect any of you from inside The Enchanted Forest if it is repurposed as a re-education camp for the unrepentant unwoke, unmasked, unvaxxed, and unafraid. 

I CAN, however, offer ya’ll safe refuge in New Aztlan, if and when you’ve escaped that particular madness. 

Meanwhile, I wish you and Wupdjuluf every happiness, as well as continuing good wishes for Dez-Low, Lukoz-Udob, and Rygez-Kikoby.

I love you and miss you.
Work hard, rest easy, laugh often, and love endlessly.

cc:  Julgovau Mymojut, Dprijv Ovagz, Jefhlif Ilud, Bdihf Pdieov

8 February 2024

This story is not about talking or corresponding with those from whom I have been divorced or otherwise dismissed, though it does kind of involve them as exemplars. I am content with being thought a coward or a fool, but I am no quitter. If it had been up to me, I’d likely still be married to Early Riser (ex1), but since I am a female chauvinist, it was always up to them. I’m no quitter, but I will respect the new borders erected by former liaisons.

I am very sad and very upset, but I intend to behave myself.
I am not the tantrum sort.

So, I rarely communicate with my exes, because one is dead, and the others don’t seem to like me all that much. What they share, in addition to having been “fooled by me” for years, is that they all divorced or dismissed me because I didn’t do what I said I wouldn’t, or I did what I said I would.

I lost a job for the same reason. In June of 2020 management of the QuikkStopp told me that I must wear a muzzle at work as most ‘Mericans were keen on pretending that we were all surgeons (or they thought that a chain-link fence would be a good barrier against mosquitos.) In August, however, after continuing to work faithfully and consistently with my pre-hire agreement for most of the summer, management returned and “reminded” me that they’d wanted me to embrace the masquerade, so I repeated my position that that would not be happening. I was shown the door… for not doing what I’d not been originally hired to do and for what I’d said I wouldn’t. The shop manager himself had repeatedly expressed his pleasure at my reliability and work ethic, but I guess he finally got too much heat from the mindless martinets of middle management (and of course I [sarcasm] mean every last middle manager without exception, but especially the eagerly aggrieved.) So be it. It wasn’t my shop, and the employment was the typical “at will” arrangement. QuikkStopp upper or middle management decided that superior performance and courteous service were no longer retail priorities. Weirdly, this dismissal became part of the argument for a later dismissal, though, retrospectively, those seeds seem to have been sown around July of 2019. . .

I always look to blaming me first (contra my many detractors), so I COULD have received and acknowledged the allegedly timely “all hands” notice about Tech Week. This seems plausible though doubtful. I know how unreliable memory can be; that’s one of the reasons that I am about as likely to leave the house without pants as without a pen (and a knife and a lighter and a little silver). When someone hits me with important data, I WRITE IT DOWN. I also have to wonder if the alleged message was buried in one or more of the many “multi media messages” that my primitive phone cannot digest. For quite some time I have been beset by mysterious “texts” on my phone telling me that some vendor or another had sent me yet another solicitation that I can’t read. By way of clearing out meaningless clutter, I would of course delete without reading them, because I could not read them. Repetition will eventually out, and I’ll begin to recognize certain numerical sequences. It now occurs to me (too late of course) that those may have been the phone numbers of The Rector or The Bishop sending me (and the rest of the congregation) scheduling updates. So if they sent it, I still didn’t get it.

Off both feed and sleep… Because no one else seems to be offering to pay my rent, I continue to work. Tuesday morning, after getting home, I checked my phone and found many messages, boiling down to stating that I was through with The Mass of the Outlander (ejected from the company!) for missing rehearsals, and that they would continue to celebrate without me. The Bishop‘s messages were perfunctory and merciless. The Rector‘s were more conciliatory. He observed that I “seemed so involved at first” and then wondered what might have “happened.”

The answer to “what happened” is “nothing.” I showed up early and often as I had designated myself as The Amphibian‘s backup. No one else seemed to have been assigned to it, and I did not believe that Gomid (who serves as The Amphibian) was invulnerable to harm or disease. So, I committed myself to learning his catechism, just in case. In fact, because Gom had identified a scheduling conflict for the 19th, and The Rector had decreed that the congregation must be “off book” by the 22nd, I applied myself to Gom‘s part. I showed up on the 19th, ready to fill in as needed, and saw that Gom had actually managed to clear up whatever conflict had been plaguing him. So much the better; The Rector had assigned him those duties, and I show up in church to support it and not to tear it down.

My opportunity to stun the congregation with my command of the catechism was not to be. Good. Better that the assigned celebrant gets sufficient practice than that I show off. So, I serenely sat through his struggles with the hopes that additional drill would sink those words as deeply into Gom‘s head as they were already in mine. But it was painful. Truly terribly painful. I would hear certain prompts, and immediately The Amphibian‘s response would start playing in my head, to be interrupted by Gom‘s actual struggles to paraphrase and rewrite and edit.

I may have been indiscrete. When an actor is struggling to pull the line out of his head, to find that associative path between the blocking, the character’s motivations, the plot, and the action to find his next line, he must learn his own way. If someone puts it in his ear before he can find it in his head, he doesn’t learn how to find it in his head. Of course, once he realizes that he’s not making any headway and decides to get along with things, he’ll ASK for his line. Which of course Brother Gom did many times through the rehearsal. Maybe he wore out the prompter, or she was otherwise distracted, or I don’t know what else. After he’d asked a couple of times, and was met with lingering silence, the line fell out of my face instead. That got me a gentle reprimand from the The Rector, which did manage to silence me without further fuss. No big deal. I offered help. It was declined.

Since childhood I have not reneged on debts nor commitments. On the other hand, when the exes said “get out” I got out. That wasn’t me bailing on my commitments. That was my commitments bailing on me. Well, it’s happened again, but this time from my Church and not my wife. The Bishop, with or without The Rector‘s endorsement, has ejected me from the current Mass of The Outlander. I’ve also learned, post hoc, that The Bishop has also stripped me of the privilege of access to the Celebrants’ Book of Face, which was where, previously, I had gathered updates and data pertinent to church activity. At auditions, scheduling conflicts, like working for a living or getting to class on time, are discussed in advance so there are no surprises later. Naturally I shared mine, pledged fealty to the dress rehearsal and performance nights, and averred that any other night could be arrange two weeks in advance. Around the middle of December, the cast list and January’s schedule were made known to me. I never saw a schedule for February, but I already knew in advance the performance dates. As we commenced, I showed up several times when I wasn’t specifically requested, because I wanted to begin associating The Amphibian‘s verbal cues with his lines. And also because I love this stuff and nurture great hopes of future friendships to blossom. Near the end of January I was notified of a required appearance of the entire cast “next Wednesday,” including Unnamed Extras and Designated Understudies (I was never actually designated, my efforts were in response to what appeared to be neglect or overconfidence in assigning none for The Amphibian.) Well, “next Wednesday” doesn’t always work among courteous people who give their employers two weeks notification of schedule changes. Which I told The Rector‘s Clark at my first opportunity. She acknowledged that datum, said little about it, and we went about the rest of that rehearsal. The next week, having missed that particular event, I actually arrived as and when promised the very next day, whereupon I was quickly shunted into the studio to be photographed. The rest of the week’s rehearsals went about as smoothly as we could manage and concluded with at least me feeling confident enough to pick it up again for dress after all the techies had done their stuff. But apparently tech rehearsals aren’t just for techies. In this Diocese they’re a Sacrament. If only I’d known…

One of the great disadvantages of being an idiot savant is that most people only see the savant side, so when the idiot emerges, people assume that you’re doing it on purpose. When you don’t know what “everybody knows” or at least what “everybody should know” many will assume that you are lying, and they will express their displeasure with anger, revulsion, resentment, and sometimes violence.

Having been dismissed it seemed imprudent to actually attend, but the great aching emptiness inside me seemed a little less empty just outside of the chapel. I knew it was going on in there without me, as will the world in due time. I am glad they’re carrying on, even as I’m sad I’m excluded. Of course I got to the parking lot on time (as agreed), but I did not go inside. I spent some time picking up litter around the lot. I walked around downtown a little, always carrying my phone, just in case Gom broke his leg or The Rector &/or The Bishop came to their senses. But mostly I sat, sometimes half-dozing, in my car. It’s now about three o’clock the next morning. I’ll go back for opening night tonight, BECAUSE I SAID I WOULD, and EVERY night or afternoon already agreed upon. As much as it hurts to have been ejected, it would hurt more not to keep my end of the agreement, even if some believe I’ve already breached it. This is very painful, but for the record, not as painful as having been thrown out by the wives and girlfriends. But it’s fresher, and unique. Many women have shown me the gate, but this is the first time I’ve ever been booted from a show.

To paraphrase The Amphibian, “I never [back down from a commitment], if I can ‘elp it.”

I’m going to dress rehearsal, I’ll be there right on time.
I’ve had my costume fitting, and I know all my lines.
The blocking’s really simple, I could do it in my sleep,
But wiser heads do not believe, so I must be a creep!

(&c…)

Moral 1: Whether thou portrayest the lead or carryest the spear, thou shalt remember the sanctity of “Tech Week” and keep it wholly.
Moral 2: If it is too cold in the chapel, thou canst pray outside.

(depicted above: Yoapf Koiggum, a scribe of relevant significance)

This essay is a mess. Obviously to be continued…

10 February 2024

See? Toldja!

I indulged in Opening Night last night (about six hours ago now) and met The Bishop in the lobby. She was very sweet and sympathetic (and maybe a little too conciliatory for my tastes, but that’s not her fault) and seemed saddened when I told her the truth, that I was sad and angry and bitter, but appeared to take comfort in my assurances that I was upset with the circumstances and not with anyone in particular (well… except me, of course) and that in addition to knowing the shape of my learning curve, I also know the shape of my recovery curve. I assured her that, though I am presently in pain, I am confident that I’ll get better, but for the near future I’ll likely be foul company. Undeterred by my dour mood, she asked if we could sit together for the show and of course I was delighted for the company. It took a bit, but she did buoy my spirits. As did the show itself.

As for the show….
Well, obviously it’s hard to be objective about emotional matters. For you Earth people! I have little trouble at all. As with many amateur productions, the results were mixed. There were some fine and compelling performances, of particular note being The Ingenue and The Sidekick. I also could not help but love The Host and loathe The Villains, but cringed a little at some of the line-struggling, and most especially at the overbroad mugging better suited to a slapstick farce than to this intelligent piece. Nothing makes perfect, but practice makes improvement, so I am willing to endorse and recommend this event.

I’ll be back tonight, and for every other showing, but I don’t know that I’ll go inside again. It depends on what I think would be less painful. Like a divorce or a death, it still hurts, and I know it’s gonna hurt for a while. I’m just gonna hafta muscle on through.

25 October 2023

Did I misremember you newly invented pronouns?
Did I not endorse your body positivity or moral relativism?
Did it hurt way down deep in the feels?
Can you literally not even?

Golly, I’m sorry (strictly sympathetically) to learn of it.
Maybe you could try, to paraphrase Benjamin Segal’s (possibly apocryphal and likely misinformed) unfortunate adversary, sucking an apology out of my lesbian penis.