A Woman, A River and Two Rorschach Monks

There is a story about obsession that an erstwhile lover is fond of mistelling.

His version goes like this:

Two Buddhist monks are on their way to an important event. They come upon a woman standing at the bank of a river who asks if they can help her across. The first monk protests that doing this will make them late, but the second sweeps her up anyway, carries her across, and returns to the first monk. They continue on their way. After an hour or so, the first monk explodes, "Why did you help that woman!? Now we are very late and will be reprimanded!" The second monk responds, "I put her down an hour ago; why are you still carrying her?"

My friend recounts this tale nearly every time he is in mixed company, such is its import to him; but I have always found it to be somewhat lacking in meaningful wisdom.

Yes, I suppose it's a good thing to remind ourselves to do a kindness for others, even at our inconvenience; and that if we do so, we should accept the consequences of our actions, which the second monk did. But the first monk kind of had a point:  He had his own legitimate desire to get to the event on time, and he had every right to protest the actions of the second monk, compassion be damned.

So... Is the lesson that the first monk should have spoken up sooner and had it out with the second monk right after the incident occurred? And doesn't the first monk have just as legitimate a lesson to be told: Is it necessary to go fawning over every damsel in distress?  Isn't "selfishness" sometimes warranted?

After my falling out with this friend, I realized that his grasp of reality was somewhat--uh--creative, so I went searching for the real story. It goes like this:

Two monks, going to a neighbouring monastery, walked side by side in silence. They arrived at a river they had to cross. That season, waters were higher than usual. On the bank, a young woman was hesitating and asked the younger of the two monks for help. He exclaimed, 'Don't you see that I am a monk, that I took a vow of chastity?'

'I require nothing from you that could impede your vow, but simply to help me to cross the river,' replied the young woman with a little smile.

'I...can not...I can...do nothing for you,' said the embarrassed young monk.

'It doesn't matter,' said the elderly monk. 'Climb on my back and we will cross together.'

Having reached the other bank, the old monk put down the young woman who, in return, thanked him with a broad smile. She left their side and both monks continued their route in silence. Close to the monastery, the young monk could not stand it anymore and said, 'You shouldn't have carried that person on your back. It's against our rules.'

'This young woman needed help and I put her down on the other bank. You didn't carry her at all, but she is still on your back,' replied the older monk.

As it turns out, there are many alternate versions, but most of them have these key elements in common which my friend conveniently omits:  (1) The first monk is younger, the second is older; (2) the woman is young and likely attractive; and (most importantly) (3) the first monk protests that they should not help the woman because it is against their vows of chastity to ever touch a woman. (My friend fabricated the issue of their being late; this does not exist in any version and I believe my friend invented it to more easily impose (albeit unconsciously) his own meaning on the story.)

In the real story, the youth's protracted silence makes complete sense.

I imagine his entire world being turned upside-down by the elder's actions. First he is scandalized by the latter's blithe disregard for their order's rules about touching women. Second, he is in the uncomfortable position of questioning the elder's actions. Third, he is put to wonder whether it would have been all right for him to carry the woman, and what such an action would have meant for him.

And all of these elements are perfect ingredients to any obsession, which is the human foible this parable is meant to address.

As we negotiate the urgings of our bodies, which can often contradict social dictates, we are left wrestling with the appropriateness of these urgings and (hopefully) questioning the wisdom society has handed us in telling us to deny them.

Although there are many interpretations of what this parable is trying to tell us, I read it like this:

The elder monk acted in compassion, rather than via the dictates of his religious order, which was appropriate for him. Being older, wiser and perhaps with a tamer "heyday in the blood," he was not tempted by the woman's touch. To him, she was a person in need of help, not a sexual being who would lure him from his vows.

The younger monk, perhaps having not yet internalized the wisdom of his religion, and perhaps still struggling to contain a wilder cacophony of desire within him, was only able to see the woman as a sexual object -- further evidenced by his continuous thought of her after the elder had set her down. Indeed, it probably would not have been appropriate for him to pick her up, as she might have swept him up as swiftly as the river's current.

So what is the lesson?

Know where you are in your life and act appropriately; also note where others are, and realize that what is right and appropriate for them might not be for you. And, most importantly, take note of anything that consumes your thoughts; it will surely point to some area of development that needs attention.

There are a few other nice lessons in there about compassion and following the spirit of the law rather than the letter of the law, and maybe even a thought about seeing women as people not as sex objects -- but to me, humble self-awareness is the key.

And, sadly, this quality is what my former friend so sorely lacks.

How could he then do anything other than impose his own meaning onto this story, indeed changing the story itself to do so?  In his version, the lesson is more like:  If someone does something you don't like, let it go.

Or, more accurately, if my friend does something you don't like, well too bad -- that's your problem. You should let it go and stop bothering him about it. (Truly, any complaint about his actions is invariably met with a sanctimonious, "You gotta let that go.")

In other words, the parable was one big Rorschach test, and through it he had told me -- indeed been telling me all along -- who he really was.

There was a hint of this (or some might say a HUGE RED FLAG) when we first began our affair at a yoga retreat a few years ago. Although we had been sleeping together much of that week, at the final night's party, while he chatted with another friend who was complaining about her difficulties meeting someone she liked on Match.com -- right in front of me -- he said, "Oh yeah... it's so hard to meet people!"

"Um.." I thought, "Have we been banging boots without meeting??"

The truth is -- we had never really met. I was never a real person to him, and perhaps he was not to me, although the reality of who he was certainly pressed itself into relief that evening. When I put my disgruntlement to him, he said, "Well, we live in different cities! Of course this won't continue."

Yes. Of course.

Of course, I realized, it was all about control. He had decided what was happening with me, who I was to him, and he would pick me up and put me down as it suited him.

(And the irony this was not lost on me: How could someone so devoted to Zen-like "freedom" and "being in the moment" be such a bleeping control freak? I have wondered if his attraction to Zen was a way to deal with his controlling nature -- again, unconsciously, because he does not  see himself as controllling -- or if was just a means by which to project his control-freakiness on others, whom he frequently accused of trying to control him in a most un-Zen-like way.)

As the reality of his nature dawned on me, and also realizing that I pretty much liked him anyway as a person, we continued to be friends for the next few years -- until our falling out.

When I wrote the blog entry about that last year, I had assumed that he had pushed me away because he had begun to see someone new. But even then that didn't quite feel kosher to me. Because we had been friends with no hint of romantic connection for about two years at that point, so why should he suddenly decide to push me away so fully?

I thought about our last conversation, our brunch near where he lived.

He went on at length about how all we are is a collection of "stories," and that we can change the story as it suits us (i.e. be in complete control of our emotional state). "Like a guy cut me off on the highway, and I started to get mad," he buzzed in a near frenzy, "And I said to myself, 'I don't want to be that guy -- that guy who gets mad.' And so I decided that that was not going to be my story!" Ah yes! Problem solved. Only not really.

"Well..." I grimaced, "Um... actually, if you are cut off in traffic and you get mad... I hate to tell you ... you are that guy."

His big eyes held me steadily.

"Not that that's a bad thing..." I added, "I mean, that doesn't mean you can't change... but don't you think it's important to recognize that that's what's happening inside you, and maybe look at why rather than just trying to .. um... rewrite your experience?"

"No," he snapped, "I don't think that's necessary."

And in that moment, I believe, he turned...

In true Titanic form, the emotions I'd hit in him -- indeed a nerve that undermined essential elements of the life he had been trying to create for himself -- were so large that they were slow to turn, but turn they did.

I felt this slightly in that moment, but denied it myself. I did not want to believe that he was so incapable of his own distress, or that he could reject me so completely for pointing out an inconvenient truth.

But perhaps we cling to denial -- even its various self-helpy masks -- for reasons that are often deep beyond our fathoming.

What is most sad here, though, is that I did try to offer a compromise between his view of "changing the story" and my view of accepting the story.

Consistent with Tony Schwartz' recent HuffPo article about this, we must feel free to ask the question, and know that we are not constrained by the answer. He writes:

[I ask] myself the following question any time I feel triggered by someone or something: "What's the story I'm telling myself here and how could I tell a more hopeful and empowering story about this same set of facts?"

If we let ourselves know our triggers, our obsessions and compulsions, then we acknowledge what we wish to be, and whom we fear we might be -- and so are closer to knowing who we are. And it is only from the standpoint of knowing who we are that we can grow and perhaps change "the story" of what we might be.

But this is a complicated, humbling process which can't be accomplished with the swift finality of a delete key.

Purity and Maturity -- Coming of Age on Our Own Terms and in Our Own Time

This past Saturday, I went to the adult Bat Mitzvah of a dear friend, Liz Free, who had struggled in her youth with faith, community, identity, and belonging, and therefore had foregone the traditional Jewish rite of passage at the time her body first was changing.

A few years ago, as her body once again began to transform, and feeling a wholeness of experience that might better guide her choices, she looked once again to the religion of her birth. But this time, it was through a lens informed by a fuller understanding of her sexuality and the divine feminine -- and in the company of a group that could see through to the more essential levels of her being, which was vital as she does not conform to many of the traditional values held by those who practice her faith.

At the service, she gave a moving presentation, which referenced the "purification" procedures in Leviticus 13, meant to exclude and (hopefully) reintegrate those whom society has seen fit to cast out. Here is the full text of her speech:

What is this Parsha talking about? 

As most of what Leviticus talks about, it describes the Priest’s responsibility to discern pure from impure for the health and safety of the community, and of the sacred places and of the sacred rituals associated with them.   Cleanliness was very important back then considering the climate of that region and how it dictated how to live in a self-contained community that did not have air conditioning. It was the Priest’s responsibility along with the “afflicted person” to discern if they were healthy enough to remain in the community or if the “afflicted person” needed to be quarantined for an amount of time in order for the “affliction” to heal. 

How was this determined? Who gave the Priests this kind of authority and where and how did they obtain the knowledge to judge this? Right back to Leviticus we go, and what do we find? A whole slew of do’s and don’ts--mostly don’ts. For what purpose? As it is stated in the essay by Jay Michaelson, “It’s the Purity Stupid”: Back in the Biblical times it seems there was lengthy "team" meeting that took place between Moses, Aaron and Aaron’s remaining sons, in which rules were set forth for regulating priestly behavior in order to maintain the purity of the Israelite nation, and to guard against assimilation to the "pagan" influence.

Leviticus 13 verse six states: “He shall be impure as long as the disease is on him. Being impure, he shall dwell apart; his dwelling shall be outside the camp.” In the commentary, from Etz Haym, Torah and Commentary, it states, from verse 45: He shall call out “Impure” --"Impure” according to the Talmud. One does this not only to warn others of the contagion but also to elicit compassion and prayers on one’s behalf. It is the responsibility of an afflicted person to recognize the illness and ask for help; and it is the responsibility of the community to offer support and prayer rather than shun or ignore the afflicted.

So how long does this self-appointed quarantined last? According to Leviticus 14, about 7 to 14 days give or take, then the priest travels outside the camp and examines the afflicted person. If the afflicted person is found to be healed then a ritual of purification takes place before the person can rejoin the community. These rituals included animal sacrifice along with a mikvah bath.

I can’t help but compare this to what took place in the 80's when Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome made its dent in the community. How devastating was that, the way society at large shunned those “afflicted”, the isolation that took place for the “good of the society at large” -- and not just AIDS, but cancer, mental illness, addictions. Society at large shuns those who are deemed to be “impure” either physically or mentally. It seems that anybody that is labeled “different than the standard set” is then set apart.

I have felt apart and isolated at times. Not due to any physical affliction but just because there was something different. When I attended Jewish summer camp it was the first time I experienced Shabbos services, but not being able to read or comprehend Hebrew while all the other campers did, made me feel left out and alienated. I recall one of my fellow campers asking me if I was really Jewish because I didn’t know how to read Hebrew.

Identifying as Bisexual has at times been a challenge, as people question my identity, asking me to choose, or they make assumptions because I wear nail polish, or berate me for my choices.

So, how then can those persons who have been labeled as “outcast” rejoin society? How do we welcome back in a person who has gone through chemo or radiation, or a twelve-step program?

With today’s modern medications and treatments available, the first step is to acknowledge something is wrong and then, because we don’t have the “priestly caste” anymore the next step is to go to what would substitute as that priest -- a doctor, therapist, Rabbi -- and obtain treatment for the “affliction”. OK fine, but that is only a part of the healing. What about society’s role in the healing? Where are the compassion and the support? Where is the ritual that helps make the impure pure again? Since we no longer have a high priest to assure us that this shall pass with sacrifices and prayer, we have our so called experts who ease our troubled minds and assure us that you can’t get “that” from a toilet seat or by shaking hands. Do we have a ritual of purification? Since we don’t practice animal sacrifice anymore what do we “do”? Is mikvah immersion enough? Ok that’s a start, but what else?

Trying to find a warm and welcoming environment with no judgment where we can be ourselves -- all of ourselves -- with no fear of recrimination, only unconditional support. Is it that hard? Look around you -- here we are, as if we didn’t know; open door policy is a fine sentiment, what happens when we step out the door? Is it still there, in our hearts and in our minds? What is the text of Leviticus telling us? That the priestly role which is now taken over by seeking out “professional” assistance is good but just a part of the process; the community has a role as well, to reach out and support each other, and if not here then where? If not now then when? If not us then who?

A Tale of Two Men

I have been thinking about two men who have been important to me... one is John, an actor, director, and cabaret singer from my old theater company who had a way of finding hidden meaning in plays (sometimes to the chagrin of the playwright) that astounded me.

John had lived most of his life hand-to-mouth and suffered an horrific gay-beating which demolished his smile (as well as his career potential, in spite of a spellbinding voice and riveting stage presence), but he lived fully and somewhat foolishly at times, in spite of his finances.

And then there was Bill -- hyper-rational, intellectual (IQ somewhere in the 170s, he said) -- an odd duck, but I adored him. We met through a mutual friend when Bill was looking to sell his modem (remember those?) back in the mid-90s. He wanted $20 for a 1200 baud... He had just purchased a 14K and bragged, "What I have now is TWELVE times faster than this one..." -- the one he was selling me at that moment -- and for which he still demanded $20 though he gleefully bragged he'd only paid $30 for it new.

Looking back, this first interaction set a pattern for our relationship. In that moment, he mocked, even degraded me for my accepting his sale (and ultimately his friendship), and yet for reasons which only became apparent years later I chose to ignore this.....

That evening -- before this remark -- we'd had a sparkly conversation about Star Trek and other science fiction stuff and I was enraptured with him, even flattered that he held my intelligence commensurate with his own (or so it seemed).

We connected on many levels -- at least on the levels that I thought were important to me at the time (i.e. mostly intellectual) -- and became each other's go-to friend for many activities.

Within a few years, we moved in together and often talked late into the night about any number of life's fascinations. Some of my friends thought he was strange, possibly because he had a touch of Asperger's (I think), but I would defend him: "Love me, love my Bill!"

In other words, it was like we were married, except there was no sex. So it was like we were married.

Yet even as I delighted in his company, there was, in retrospect, always a subtle undercurrent of mockery. He, it turned out, was one of these people who always needed to hold himself superior to all others, regardless of whether his high self-esteem proved justified.

In particular, he liked to mock my mystical side and my curiosity for Tarot, Astrology, and Psi phenomena in general. He also liked to mock the unusual beliefs and practices of some of my friends.

John was a favorite target.

Springing eternally with hope, amidst misfortunes Bill and I could only wonder at, John was an avid Lotto player. He conjured a series of numbers based on his prior addresses and played religiously each week.

He built a shrine to The Ticket and would ask visitors to bless that week's gamble.

"He's basically buying a fantasy!" Bill would rail. He liked to chide his mother about this too. "Why don't you play '1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6'," he liked to tell her in mixed company. "Oh, that would NEVER come up!" was her inevitable response, much to Bill's superior delight.

But the hyper-rational side of my own mind had to agree: "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6" had as good a chance of "coming up" as any other number series -- extremely unlikely, but possible.

At some point in the friendship, Bill became convinced that I believed I had psychic powers. I do not believe this about myself, by the way, although I must admit to some strange experiences which have convinced me there is more in heaven and earth...

To wit, one booze-soaked night, Bill devised a plan to "test" my "powers." "Oh, come on," he chided, "you said yourself you're not psychic so what do you have to lose?"

Grudgingly, I agreed to the "test."

He disappeared into his room for several minutes and emerged with a deck of cards. "I'm going to pull from the top, and you say whether it's red or black. Red cards go on the right, black cards go on the left."

I rolled my eyes and said, "Red... black... red ... black.." He put each of the cards face down in two columns. "No, come on," he urged, "really try to guess!"

I took a breath. "OK. Black ... black... black ..." He laid out the cards. "That's weird," I said, "I'm getting black, black, black, black... that can't be..."

"Just go with your gut," he said with effusive sincerity.

I threw in a red or two, but went back to "black, black, black, black..." We went back and forth like this for a while... with me occasionally switching to "red, black, red, black" figuring the law of averages demanded a red card show up, but I kept feeling pulled into a steady stream of black cards.

Then Bill turned over both sets -- all black on the left, all red on the right.

"See!" he chirped, "You're psychic!"

"Holy shit!" my jaw dropped. "That is not possible."

He exploded in laughter. "It is completely possible. I split the deck!!!"

I took the cards... on top were all black cards, reds were on the bottom. With sleight-of-hand, he had pulled from the top or bottom depending on which color I chose.

And he laughed and laughed. And when he stopped laughing, I said, "Wait a minute... but wasn't I saying, 'Black, black, black ...' I mean... doesn't that count for something?"

And he said -- I kid you not -- "Well I think at that point they were all red."

Of course, even in my stupor I knew this was a bunch of bullshit -- there was not nor could there have been any change in the way the cards were stacked in the deck -- yet I lacked the backbone to defend myself and did not argue further. I had let him define the situation; and in his definition, he was Top Dog, and I was a mealy-minded gullible fool.

Over the following year, our relationship deteriorated as I began to realize that he held little true affection for me and appreciated my presence merely as a means to feel better about himself.

Finally, I threw him out of the apartment.

And John's Lotto numbers won $45 million dollars.

Good Things Come

When I was maybe five years old, my parents took us to a cozy farmhouse-cum-resort in the Poconos called Daniels Top-O-The-Poconos Family Resort (which, I am heartened to learn, is still thriving!)

Too young to be critical of much, I and my more discerning sister Liz attended its family-friendly (though admittedly somewhat lame) roster of activities with gusto... which included thrill-a-minute affairs such as "Snipe Hunting" (yes, really), and "Deer Feeding."

Liz was quick to call shenanigans on the Snipe affair, but the Deer situation ... well, that I'm sure was seen as just as ridiculous to most if not everyone else... but to us, it resonates even today.

You see, these were wild deer we were to feed.

And this required standing statue-still in a high-grass field with an open palm of doughy deer food, while the deer slowly edged their noses from the forest beyond. There were maybe ten or twenty of us to start ... And one by one, they all quit, hurling the pasty bits into the grass.

I have vague memories of our parents suggesting that we throw in the towel as well. But we didn't.

When they saw our determination, they were inspired to stick it out too.

My mother recalls we were there for at least a half an hour, though at that age I had no sense of time. I don't even recall my arm feeling tired, though I suppose it must have been.

The only thing I recall is the rough, gently slithery tongue of the deer as it slurped the food from my palm while it let me touch it's feathery ear with my other hand. A second deer gingerly lapped up my sister's offering before both sped back to the forest.

Over the years, as insecurities, doubts and anxieties crept into my personality, this level of patience began to desert me as that deer might have if I hadn't kept quietly still, stalwart in my belief that it would trust me. If, say, I'd rushed towards it, demanding it accept my gift -- as I have found myself doing in too many other situations -- I would have ended the day with a frightened deer and faithless disappointment in myself.

If, indeed, I had behaved that way, I would have revealed that even in giving, I would have been taking; that the desired interaction would have been for my sake, and not for the sake of the creature, or for the joy of our momentary interaction.

Now... at this time in my life, when many of my most deeply cherished dreams are starting to come true ... I recall that five-year-old self ... who knew how to place herself exactly where she needed to be, whose little foot rested steadfastly on the deepest, purest conviction in knowing that all she had to do ... is wait.

Projection Reflection

In yet another discussion about my recent "Projection" entries -- my Adventures in Projection and Projection Flashback -- a friend suggested that Alice (of the latter entry) was jumping to conclusions rather than projecting.

Which made me ponder: What is the difference between jumping to conclusions and psychological projection?

They are both related, as both create a full, defined image of a person or situation based on very little actual data. And in Alice's case, I would say she certainly engaged in "Mind Reading" (per the Wikipedia entry) as she decided she knew my intentions, when of course she didn't and couldn't have.

So, yes, her conclusions were jumpily unwarranted.

But the intensity of her anger towards me and the ridiculous scope of her accusation indicated something more at work than merely a conclusion, which is more a mental process: You take a small amount of data and fill in the rest with data from your bank of personal belief and experience.

Now, yes, emotion may play a role here, but it's secondary to thought. And if given convincing contrary data, that thought process can be adjusted to a more accurate conclusion. (One hopes).

But I've found that two key elements of psychological projection are (1) strong emotion; and (2) a vigorous refusal to see anything other than the projection. Indeed, any contrary data is either ignored altogether, or mindbendingly woven into the projection. (In other words, if you are someone's screen o'projection, you will be damned if you do and damned if you don't -- everything will be used against you in their court of craziness to shore up their image of you).

According to Jung, the refusal to let the projection fall is tied to the projector's need to deny in him/herself the very qualities he/she is projecting.

So denial of one's own qualities is the third key element to projection.

The projector NEEDS to project the qualities away from him/herself, to create a scapegoat to be sent off into the desert. This has a dual purpose: (1) it deflects attention of the projector's unwanted qualities onto another (as though others aren't smart enough to realize "whoever smelt it dealt it"), and (2) it creates the illusion that the projector can rid him/herself of those qualities simply by destroying the object of projection -- which is exactly what Alice did. Great for everything from teen cliques to genocide. Yay humanity.

In Alice's case, it turned out that she, in fact, was very destructive to the relationships of the people around her. Most likely, her sister's fight with her financé was caused by something she herself had said or done. But of course, she was not able to consider that possibility, especially when it was so much fun to verbally beat the crap out of a naïve teenager.

Of course, I can look back now and say, "Oh yes... of course I was completely innocent. How could I have thought otherwise?"

Easily.

Because when one is the object of projection -- especially in the midst of it, without the perspective of years and self-knowledge -- it is very difficult to tease out the real self from the projected image precisely because the projection often contains a hint of truth about the object.

As another friend noted, when he read the story about Alice:

"The same thing has happened to me more than once. Nothing I really care to share with the public but... yeah. I can relate!"

In the case of Alice, and from the vantage point of many years' growth and introspection, it is very clear that I was innocent. Although I didn't feel that way at the time... for weeks I believed I was exactly what she told me I was. Or worse, I didn't know what I was...

Usually in these situations, there is always the specter of: "Are they RIGHT?" Because a lot of the time the other person will be a tiny fraction right ... but they make it their entire vision of us.

As Jung observed: "Something that strikes [the projector] about [an] object [of projection] may very well be a real property of that object. …it frequently happens that the object offers a hook to the projection, and even lures it out. This is generally the case when the object himself (or herself) is not conscious of the quality in question."

And this is a curious thing...

If Jung is to be believed, Alice had in fact seen a part of me of which I was unaware, and which was calling both my and her attention to bring it into consciousness.

So what was this part of me? I believe it was related to sexuality -- or at least what sexuality represented to me at that time, in terms of being "grown up."

Although I was a "precocious" teen (as the Older Men who hit on me liked to say), I was extremely young psychologically and emotionally. Ironically, I had spent the bulk of my childhood intently focused on Being Mature -- to join the utopic World of Adults as soon as possible -- so in many ways I prevented myself from growing up.

I was very unpopular with boys my age (well, with just about everyone my age), but as I got tall and womanly, I seemed at least 10 years older than I was. And there is no shortage of Older Male fish looking for a taste of jailbait...

I think part of me must have sensed the negative aspects of sexuality -- that it is used destructively, to control, manipulate, even injure -- but I did not want to deal with that part at all.

I wanted the good part:  affection and attention. Because affection feels so good, and attention looks an awful lot like love, because when we love a thing, we give it our full, adoring, undivided attention. Unfortunately, the reverse is rarely the case....

And this is the truth that was burrowing its way into my awareness, and which I was desperately suppressing: Sexuality is attractive, and it seems to bring love and connection, but it can also very often do the opposite, injuring and exploiting both parties.

So perhaps many women are completely unaware of these negative aspects, and so they don't form a compelling shadow that attracts the kind of projection that I was receiving; or they have no problem embracing the negative side and gleefully cock-tease their way towards ego fulfillment.

And maybe it works for them... I have seen many romantically successful women get away with all kinds of crap that would make me want to crawl into a sewer. And their men put up with it... dare I say, even want it. (Hence books like Why Men Marry Bitches).

Hell, my own grandmother's "feminist" advice was to marry a rich man, then divorce him and take all his money.

Ugh.

But that's not what I'm about.

And even at that age, as I was becoming aware of these negative aspects, I was also at deeper levels realizing that I did NOT want to be a part of that dynamic. Yes, I wanted attention and affection, but I wanted it to be real, to be personal -- not the result of a biological response, and not to be exploited for material gain.

And I suppose it took Alice's telephonic witch-burning to cast the first light on what I truly did want.

Projection Flashback

Discussing yesterday's Adventure in Projection with a friend, he remarked: "I would argue that projecting of a view onto others is not a male trait but a human one."

And I would agree.

In fact, my very first traumatic experience of being slammed with another's projection came at the hands of a woman.

The summer before I entered college, I met a graduate student of my new university whom I will call Alice, because that was her name.

Big-eyed, frizzy-haired and barely five feet tall, Alice was a good friend of a DJ at the radio station where I was an intern and took an immediate shine to me. I had not yet learned to be wary of immediate shines and, as a socially awkward and less-than-popular teen who craved any kind of friendly attention, I shined right back.

She asked if I wanted to go clubbing that weekend and, even though I was four years under age, I was six feet tall and looked 25, so I eagerly accepted her invitation. We traipsed through the then-hot spots like Limelight and The Tunnel and finished off at some gay bar in the West Village where I was mistaken for a transvestite. (I cleared the matter by putting my suitor's hand on my crotch; he recoiled in horror.)

Alice squealed with delight at my ballsy ball-lessness and asked if I wanted to go for a nightcap in her neighborhood. We got in a cab and emerged somewhere in Sunnyside. After a few more beers, we decided it was too late and too far for me to make it home to Brooklyn so she invited me to crash at her spacious one-bedroom.

"So the bathroom's there, and here's the sofa bed," she smiled warmly, "It's pulled out because the leg of my bed is busted so I've been sleeping out here. We can just crash together.... if that's OK...?"

"Um... sure..."

I bathed quickly, put on a long T shirt and passed out the moment my body hit the bed. I woke up only a few hours later to find her staring down at me.

"I was watching your eyes as you slept," she cooed, "I was wondering what you were dreaming about."

"I... I don't remember."

Now, to you, dear readers, I'm sure it's very clear what was happening here.

And even I, at that time, was dimly aware at an intuitive level. But my "rational" (or "rationalizing") side had Olympic-strength powers of denial. I vigorously argued down nearly every soul-saving impulse I had: "How can you judge her? She hasn't touched you or made any suggestive remarks. She just wants to be your friend!"

So we went to breakfast; she asked me to call her when I got home. I did.

She called me nearly every day for the next week or so. When was I available? Would I like to get together for this or that?

She belonged to a little poetry group in Park Slope and asked if I'd like to share some of my work. I agreed, and arrived the next Saturday at a prim Brownstone near Sixth Avenue. It belonged to a young sober but artsy couple, both decidedly diminutive.

There were a few others in that mould ... formless cotton dresses, colored khakis and polo shirts, but also tasteful, unique silver jewelry on both the men and women. (Can you say "Trust Fund"??)

We went around the circle reading our various poetical offerings. I was the only one who wrote in rhyme.

At the end of the session, I ran to the bathroom to evacuate the considerable amount of jasmine green tea I'd consumed. When I opened the door, the apartment was dark and the male half of the apartment's native couple stood in front of me.

"Are you OK?" he asked

"Sure ... uh ... sorry. Did I take too long?"

"Well, everyone's already gone."

"Oh. OK. Well, I guess I'll see you later."

I grabbed my bag and skipped down the long stoop.

Alice called the next day and asked if I wanted to come to her birthday party. "Sure!" I said, now fully enjoying the social life her friendship was bringing me.

The party was a lively chatterbox of even cooler artsy types. And Alice, apparently, had a new boyfriend -- a tall Bill Murray handsome-ish guy in a silky button-down that looked faintly creepy to me.  Whew, I thought; she was straight after all.

More radio people showed -- including her friend the DJ whom I'd secretly been crushing on. There were actors and graphic artists, writers and sculptors, all seemed charmingly humble and even geeky.

My favorite conversation compared the original Star Trek with the then-new Next Generation. This playful argument dwindled to include only me and a young man who insisted that no bald, stiff-backed Bard-head could hold a candle to his James Tiberius.

Finally the man was pulled away by a woman whom I later heard crying and yelling in the hallway. I shrugged and went back to the beer table.

In retrospect, there was something very wrong with the party from around that moment on (and probably before). But my denial-side rationalized: People get silly and crazy at parties, so some emotion is floating around. So what. And it has nothing to do with me, anyway....

I and the other stragglers crashed on the couch, chairs or floor. As we groggily pulled ourselves up in the morning, it seemed there was a move towards a group breakfast.

"No," Alice said, "There isn't."

I got my stuff and left.

I didn't hear from Alice for a while after that.

On a Saturday morning, over an hour before I was supposed to be up for a Shakespeare class, the phone rang. My mother woke me urgently -- something she would never have done unless she had been told it was an absolute emergency.

It was Alice.

"I just wanted to tell you that you're a horrible person and I never want to see or speak to you again."

"Uh.. huh...  Whaaa??"

"I invited you into my circle of friends because I thought you were nice and pretty and smart and I liked you. And all you have done is try to destroy my friendships and hurt the people who are important to me."

"What..??? What are you talking about...?" (I'm actually not sure I was articulate enough to say even this ... but the dumbfounded question repeated endlessly through my mind.)

"At the poetry circle you KNEW my friend and her husband were having troubles, and you stayed behind after everyone had left so you could hit on him, and they almost divorced! And at the party, my sister got in a HUGE FIGHT with her fiancé because of something you said!! And then you kept coming on to MY BOYFRIEND?"

Whaa..?? The creepy guy in the disco shirt?? Really???  Did I? Had I...?

"So I just want you to know I know what you're all about and I'm DONE with you!!"

And she slammed the phone down.

The back of my throat burned as tears surged down my face. I couldn't wrap my mind around it. Was I that person?? Was I some vicious, destructive femme fatale? A fledgling Marquise de Merteuil determined to control and exploit everyone around me?

Um. No.

I was an insecure, earnest 17-year-old desperate to be loved and accepted.

But I didn't know myself well enough to be able to stand against her definition of me. For days and weeks I cried buckets, barely able function, feeling as though my innards had been ripped out and stomped on. How could my perceptions be so completely different from the story she was telling me...?? It made no sense....

If, indeed, I had had any self-awareness at all at that time, any ability to unpack that stinking load of horseshit she had dumped on my virgin ears, it would have been very clear:

She kept saying, "you knew" and "all your fault" -- about people and situations where I did not and could not have had any knowledge -- as she repeated, "I know all about you" and "I know who you really are"...

Of course she didn't; she didn't know me at all. Nor was she capable of doing so.

But such is the case with projections. To a narcissist, everyone and everything is a extension of themselves with no perspective or even life of its own. They believe the world sees and knows as they know, so in her mind of course I "knew all about" her, when the real me hadn't a clue.

Something inside of her was undermining her life, perhaps damaging her relationships. For all I know, there was no real damage in the relationships of her friends and her sister, but she was likely projecting her own inner state onto them too. And since she clearly could not bear to hold herself accountable for any of this discord -- real or imagined -- she needed a scapegoat:

Me.

"She wanted you and couldn't have you," observed my psych-major pal, "So she had to destroy you. Simple as that."

Years later, I came to know a mutual friend who confirmed that, in fact, Alice's life had been out of control, as she grasped towards unavailable people and things in her field of aspiration -- just as I had been doing, actually -- which is perhaps the similarity that had really brought us together.

But I was 17 and she was 23.

My friend described her as being sexually confused: occasionally bisexual, dating men, but in frequent pursuit of straight women. He told me about one in particular whom she deemed her "best friend," and whom she would manipulate with carefully doled out praise and criticism.

Many, many years later, visiting the psychiatric wing of St. Vincent's Hospital, I saw her. She smiled at me sheepishly, and turned away quickly. I wondered if she had realized the damage she had done to me...

Part of me wanted to scream, "You crazy fucking bitch! Do you realize you fucking traumatized me when I was a kid?!?"

But I didn't. I imagined she was probably there for treatment of some sort, so perhaps she was fixing whatever had been wrong in her life. And if she was, then she may have had some awareness of the pain she'd caused me and others.

And if she didn't, then my attacking her wasn't going to change anything.  All it would do was confirm her projection of me.

And I knew: That's not who I was.

Assault by Projection, and Other Weird Adventures in the New Year

Last night I went to the birthday party of a musician who is an especially beloved member of the bellydance community.

The place was packed with dancers and musicians (some of whom had seen my solo show show the Sunday before), so there were a few discussions about it and I handed out flyers here and there to friends and friends of friends.

I also laid about 10 flyers on the counter near the bar (which is where people usually put promotional stuff), and three on the bar itself.

But most of the time, I was dancing along with everyone else. At one point, I picked up a votive candle and began dancing with it in my palm. Since the candle was little more than wick in oil, it was tricky to balance it perfectly to keep the flame from going out -- which it finally did.

I went to find a match, but a shortish young guy in a white button-down shirt gave me a freshly lit one. “Thank you!” I grinned, and returned to the floor.

About an hour later, a man from the table where I’d first taken the candle complimented me on my dancing and raved about how much they liked the woman who had performed professionally that night. He loved that, although she was “older,” she was truly ageless when she danced... The group was dumbfounded by her beauty and grace, because they did not know what to expect from a bellydance event (the guy I was talking to had met the birthday boy casually a few weeks before and agreed to swing by).

So I told them that this was the very topic I address in my solo show -- about how beautiful and empowering bellydance is -- that it isn't a dance of seduction (as is often portrayed) but of owning one's own strength, power and grace … They asked about my performance dates and I ran back to my bag to get some flyers and handed them to the guy and his friends.

Within seconds, the very guy who had given me the candle while I was dancing rushed up to me and barked, "I want you to stop handing out flyers! You put them all over the bar. You've been doing this all night, and you have to stop!" And he returned to the bar.

I thought about this for a minute... If I had been indiscriminately laying them on tables and forcing them on people I didn't know, then he might have a case. But I hadn't been. I was giving them only to people I knew, or people who had expressly asked for them.

I was not going to stand for being bullied and accused of doing something that I had not been doing.

So I strode up to Mr. Manager and said, "It was completely inappropriate for you to embarrass me in front of those people. I gave them the cards because they ASKED for them, and for no other reason. I have not been ‘handing them out all night.’ I have been giving them to friends only. You have no right to accuse me of doing something I wasn’t doing!! So FUCK YOU!"

I went back to my table and stuffed $40 in the billfold for a $30 check and went to the bathroom. I was in there for barely a minute when I heard a booming knock at the door.

When I got out, the manager huffed, "I want you to pay your check and leave!!"

"Excuse me??" I said.

"You are being very rude and are talking down to me and are using obscene language," he babbled, "and I want you to pay your check and leave!"

Then we went back and forth more about the flyers -- about whom I had given them to, when and why. "Well, I've removed all your flyers from the bar,” he pronounced, “They're torn up. Destroyed. Gone. They're in the trash. So pay your check and leave."

The waiter came back with my change. "Keep it," I mouthed, then turned to the manager. "I HAVE paid my check."

"Then get your things and get home safely."

"But.... " I added.

Now, even though I had planned to leave, now that this gentleman was digging in his heels and bullying me yet more, it was time for him to learn that my heels were longer and sharper.

"I am not ready to leave." I jutted my chin and went back to my table.

He bristled. “I want you to leave. So get home safely.”

"Well, I’m not going. So I guess you'll just have to call the police."

"OK!" He sniffed and went off to another area of the restaurant, presumably to call the police. I gathered my things and started making my goodbyes. But as I passed by the bar, I ran into a guy I'd been speaking to earlier who asked me to stay a little longer.

"I don't know," I grimaced, "This manager is kind of flipping out. He said he has called the police to have me thrown out."

"What?? Why?"

"For handing out flyers."

"But you know everyone here!"

"Yes.. I know. The guy's a nutcase."

"Oh come on.. the police aren't going to come. They have better things to do than indulge this fool."

And I realized, my friend was right. I wasn't being disorderly. He had no legitimate complaint against me. If the police were REALLY bored enough to show up, I would just say that the manager and I had had an affair a few weeks before, that he was bad in the sack and I had dumped him. And now he was getting his revenge.

But most likely, I knew, that would not be necessary. And it would have been kind of cruel on my part -- although not undeserved -- and I don’t like being cruel.

Anyway. It was clear he had no way to get rid of me. I knew it, and he knew it.

So when the manager finally strode up to me and said, "The police are on their way,” I responded, “Well then, I guess I'll just have to wait for them." And took off my coat.

Then I looked at him very level (or not so level since he was quite a bit shorter than me), and said, "You are a child and a fool. You need to learn how to pick your fights."

I tossed down my coat and my friend bought me a beer.

And then my friend said, "You know, I think maybe that guy likes you."

At first, this seemed quite crazy to me... but then I realized … maybe not....

This sort of thing has happened to me a lot... men find me attractive, but maybe not approachable. They assume I will reject them, or I am not the sort of woman they are usually attracted to, and so they get angry at themselves for their attraction.

And this brings out some very strange behavior in them.

It is as though they experience me -- albeit unconsciously -- as having some kind of power over them, so their response is to attempt to exert power over me. Sometimes it can be playful or not-so-playful teasing, but often enough it is vicious to the point of ruthlessness.

I thought about the evening. He had been watching me dance attentively enough to replace the candle. And he must have been watching me continuously when I was speaking to the birthday boy’s friend. I had not handed out any flyers in nearly an hour at that point, so he must have been waiting to pounce....

I looked over to where he was standing. The bartender was giving him a bear hug.

At the end of the night, having polished off my beer, I blew a kiss to this poor, sad man. "I love you!" I said, almost sincerely.

I was kind of grateful for the incident ... In the past, when I have been the object of these kinds of negative projections, I have folded. I've accepted or apologized and taken it all on myself. “Oh I’m so sorry for being the horrible person you are telling me I am (but which, actually, I am not...).”

Or worse, I've found myself living out their projections... as if their perception of me suddenly became my reality, that I could not help but live out (like when a person calls you crazy, you just end up seeming more crazy as you try to insist you are not crazy).

But now, because this ridiculous man had attacked me so strangely and inappropriately, he had given me the chance not only to stand up against the projection, but to completely disprove it in my own actions and the reactions of others.

I grabbed my bag and skipped off to the subway -- laughing all the way.