Forever Aquarius (#idealism #compassion #magic)

Copyright: varka / 123RF Stock Photo

By Lisabet Sarai

Harmony and understanding,

Sympathy and trust abounding,

No more falsehoods or derisions,

Golden living dreams of visions,

Mystic crystal revelation,

And the mind’s true liberation...

“Age of Aquarius” by James Rado and Jerome Ragni

From Hair: The American Tribal Love-Rock Musical (1967)

I was born on January 31^st, smack in the middle of the period for the sun-sign Aquarius. Although I’ve never put much stock in astrology—I find it difficult to believe that remote stars and planets could influence our personalities or our fates—I have to admit that my character fits the classic description of the Water Bearer amazingly well. Aquarians are supposed to be independent dreamers, intellectuals, humanitarians and idealists. Sometimes they are contrary and rebellious against authority when it conflicts with their visions. Compared to some other signs, Aquarians may seem emotionally remote; they live in their heads more than their bodies.

Recognize me? I do.

I was also born in the mid-nineteen fifties, so I came of age in the sixties and seventies. Songs from the musical “Hair” were my anthems as a teen. I was convinced that a new dawn truly was on its way, that “the times they are a-changing”, in the words of another icon of those years. Compassion and love would overcome hatred. Justice would vanquish oppression. Peace would reign. Creativity would flourish. A new openness and mutual respect would liberate us from the societal prohibitions and taboos about sexuality, leading to greater happiness and satisfaction for all.

What a dreamer, right? Look around you. Disasters, violence, famine. Ignorant, selfish materialism. Global warning. Nuclear proliferation. Rape and other atrocities. Millions of human beings worldwide forced from their homes, struggling to survive in strange lands where they are demonized and distrusted.

Surely I must be disillusioned.

Not really.

If you do the math, you’ll figure out that I’m now in my sixties. And after more than six decades on earth, I still believe in the power of love and compassion. I’ve seen the magic of kindness work wonders on a personal level. I’ve observed first hand the beauty of community, the power of people working together for good. And I’m totally convinced of the truth of karma, which also happens to be a foundational principle of magic: what we sow, we reap.

I have seen how violence breeds violence, how the oppressed can easily become oppressors. I question whether there’s such a thing as a “just war”. When I read about a terrorist or a white supremacist, about gay people beaten or murdered by homophobic gangs, about Buddhists slaughtering Muslims in Myanmar, Israelis attacking Palestinians and vice versa, Sunnis and Shias trading bombs, I try to remember that each of these individuals is a human being—more like me than different.

We all want and need certain things: food, shelter, family, security, status, a level of comfort. Love. Much of the horror we see around us stems from fear on the part of the part of the perpetrators: fear of scarcity, of losing resources or power or status, and fear of the Other. Politicians and governments deliberately stoke these fears for their own benefit. Take away the fear and maybe the opponents will see that they are not so different.

I’m not traditionally religious, but I believe in John 4:18:

There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.

I believe in the basic goodness of humanity and the overall upward trend of society. Furthermore, statistics support my beliefs.

World hunger statistics show that the number of hungry has dropped twenty percent since the nineties: http://www.fao.org/news/story/en/item/288229/icode/

Worldwide, violence has declined dramatically or time:

https://www.edge.org/conversation/mc2011-history-violence-pinker

Meanwhile other positive indicators, like literacy, educational level and political freedom, have improved:

https://ourworldindata.org/slides/war-and-violence/#/title-slide

The educational, economic, social and health status of women relative to men continues to get better, though major inequalities still exist:

https://www.imf.org/external/pubs/ft/wp/2016/wp1621.pdf

Impressive progress has been made toward fulfilling the United Nations’ ambitious Millenium Development Goals (MDG), though there is still much to do:

http://datatopics.worldbank.org/mdgs/

So why does it seem that we’re living in the most violent, heartless, miserable, insecure period in history? The media have a great deal to do with this. Stories about conflict, crime, disasters and atrocities attract more attention and sell more advertising than those about harmonious communities or successful mediation. The instant availability of news from anywhere, plus the fact that such news is more likely to be negative than positive, lead us to the perception that the world has never been in worse shape and is going to straight to hell.

Do we face serious challenges? Of course we do. From what I can see, though, taking a negative perspective exacerbates these problems, instead pushing us to solve them. Anger is not a reliable long-term motivator. It may catalyze dramatic, sudden action, but is unlikely to contribute to analytic thinking. Despair saps the will completely. Negativism fuels amoral selfishness; if the world’s about to end, why shouldn’t I do what I feel like and damn the social consequences?

Many readers may be shaking their heads. “She’s a deluded optimist,” they’re saying. “A soft-headed pacifist. We’ve got to fight 45, fight the Nazis, fight the North Koreans, fight the Islamic terrorists, fight the male chauvinists, fight for equality, fight for a decent wage, fight for our piece of the pie...”

I believe that if you view your life as a fight, it will become one.

I’ll work for the things I believe, but I’m not going to cast that activity as a war, because I don’t want to think of my fellow humans as enemies (difficult as it may be to avoid this).

Seriously, I believe that our minds control our experiences. I am convinced that so-called reality is malleable, shifting as we change how we think about it.

And I’m working to make the Age of Aquarius more than just a song.

Channeling Rapunzel (#longhair #freedom #sex)

By Lisabet Sarai

During the past year, I’ve reclaimed a part of my identity.

After nearly a decade of keeping my hair no longer than than my shoulders, I’ve let it grow. It reaches halfway down my back now, at least when it’s wet. As it dries, it frizzes and kinks, looking far less luxuriant (and less well-groomed) but I still get a little shiver of pleasure when I look at myself in the mirror these days.

I have to admit that my newly extended locks present an incongruous contrast to my age-creased, sagging face. Senior citizens don’t normally sprout wild, hippie-like crops of hair like mine. But you know, at some level I really don’t care. That’s one solace to growing older. You start to realize you’re free to spurn conventional standards when they don’t suit you.

Free. That’s how my new hairstyle (if you can call this disordered frenzy a “style”) makes me feel. Despite the steamy climate in my adopted country, I love the feeling of it swinging back and forth behind me. Running my fingers through the tight curls makes me smile. I’ve tried braiding it, with limited success, and I enjoy pulling it into a ponytail. It’s almost as if I had a new toy.

I’ve always appreciated long hair, on both men and women. The hero in my first novel has a black ponytail reaching almost to his waist; the heroine, a mop of ginger-hued curls. Undoubtedly I’ve been influenced by the mythos of the sixties and seventies. I was in high school when the “American tribal love-rock musical” burst on the scene and hair became a symbol of youth and rebellion. Peace, love, sex and hair became inextricably entwined in my psyche.

In fact, I've had long hair for much of my life (see, for instance, my author photo, taken when I was in my twenties). When I started regular salon visits to erase the increasingly prominent gray from my hair, however, I also started getting it trimmed. I discovered that my natural curl was easier to tame when my hair was short. I looked (slightly) more professional and proper. 

 

My DH kept bugging me to stop the cutting. (Like me, he’s a product of the sixties. Indeed, he lived through the Summer of Love, while I just watched from the sidelines.) For some reason, I resisted.

So what has changed? I’m really not sure. It might be that I’m trying to recapture my youth. It might be I just got bored with my short hair. In any case, I’ve found the process rewarding. Even empowering.

I’d love to have hair down to my waist, or longer. It’s not going to happen; I gather that the maximum length of a person’s hair is genetically determined. Mine is probably pretty close to its limit. Nevertheless, I fantasize about being Rapunzel.

In fact, here’s a few paragraphs from “Shorn”, a re-telling of that classic which I wrote for Kristina Wright’s 2010 anthology Fairy Tale Lust. I think it will give you a sense of my feelings about my own hair.

* * * *

Do not believe what you hear of me. It was not to preserve my chastity that I was imprisoned here, in this amusingly phallic tower with its sealed entrance and single window. I have not been a virgin for years; even my father knows that. In the cesspit of hypocrisy that is his court, no one cares what goes on behind closed doors. Only appearances matter.

And appearances are what landed me here in this unorthodox prison. I'm confined to this aerie because despite all blandishments and threats, I refused to cut my hair.

In a society like ours, valuing external neatness and order above else, my wild auburn locks are an offense to public decency, or so my royal parents would like me to believe. My father's crown rests upon a bald pate, shaved daily. My mother and sisters wear pale helmets of curls that are clipped back whenever they grow beyond the earlobes. Every proper citizen plucks, trims, waxes and shaves to eliminate any hint of the hirsute.

Not I. I love my hair, not just the luxurious tresses that flow over my shoulders and down to the floor, but the rest, too: my unfashionably bushy eyebrows, the soft tufts gracing my armpits, the wiry tangle that hides my sex. My hair is a source of my power. My father suspects as much. An ancient prophecy says the kingdom shall one day be lost to a red-haired sorceress and he fears I am the fulfillment of that promise.

* * * *

In the end, Rapunzel gives up her hair for love of her prince. However, she knows it will grow back.

Psychedelic Noir

By Lisabet Sarai

For the next two weeks, the denizens here at the Grip will be talking about our recent reading. I'm thrilled. Back at beginning of February, I finished Thomas Pyncheon's wonderful and bizarre novel Inherent Vice, but I just haven't had the time to write the review it deserves. Now I have additional motivation, although I doubt I can thoroughly convey the sheer brilliance of this literary gem.

Despite his stellar reputation, I am not in general a fan of Pynchon's work. On my husband's enthusiastic recommendation, I struggled through The Crying of Lot 49. I still can't tell you what the book is about, except that it has something to do with postal stamps. I tried to read Gravity's Rainbow and gave up. Pynchon's lengthy sentences and stream of consciousness style gave me a headache. The feeling that I'm too stupid to understand a book really ruins my reading pleasure.

Hence, when K. picked up Inherent Vice at our favorite used bookstore, I figured this was one book we wouldn't share. As he made his way through the neon-jacketed novel, snorting with amazement, chuckling with amusement and occasionally quoting outrageous passages, I changed my mind.

I'm so glad I did.

Inherent Vice, set in lurid, smoggy Los Angeles in the late sixties, follows the path of Larry “Doc” Sportello, a hippy stoner hanging out by the beach who just happens to make a living as a private eye. Doc's a hapless, big-hearted lunk with a sharp eye, even when under the influence of various pharmaceutical products, and a terrible fashion sense. One day – yes, you've got it – a lady walks into his down-at-the-heels office. The sexy femme's not a stranger, though. Shasta Fay is Larry's ex-lover and she needs his help. She's fallen in love with a married, billionaire property developer, and she suspects there's some plot against Mickey's life. Agreeing to make some pro bono inquiries for old time's sake, Doc soon finds himself enmeshed in illegal, evil and just plain weird activities involving murderous bikers, slutty stewardesses, heroin addicts, zombie rock and rollers, drug-inspired psychics, perverted dentists, kinky heiresses, gay ex-cons, crooked police and a vicious, shadowy organization called the Golden Fang. The PI navigates this maze with calm aplomb, assisted by copious amounts of marijuana and other mind-altering substances.

With dozens of characters, some straight out of an album by Diane Arbus, and a plot that blossoms and fades like some acid dream, Inherent Vice nevertheless remains comprehensible. It is simultaneously a satirical paean to the sixties, a classic noir thriller, and a meditation on the nature of reality. The book feels chaotic, the author's imagination set loose without the constraints of logic, but that's an illusion. By the last page, Pynchon ties up every loose end and hands every character his or her just desserts.

Meanwhile, every page offers new delights – absurd scenes, laugh-out-loud hilarity, crisp dialogue, wildly creative plot twists, and every now and again, passages of such beauty they stopped me cold. By the time I'd finished reading, I'd turned down at least a dozen pages to mark particularly remarkable prose. Here's an example from early in the book.

Back at his place, Doc stood for a while gazing at a velvet painting from one of the Mexican families who set up their weekend pitches along the boulevards through the green flatland where people still rode horses, between Gordita and the freeway. Out of the vans and into the calm early mornings would come sofa-width Crucifixions and Last Suppers, outlaw bikers on elaborately detailed Harleys, superhero bad asses in Special Forces gear packing M16s and so forth. This picture of Doc's showed a Southern California beach that never was – palms, bikini babes, surfboards, the works. He thought of it as a window to look out of when he couldn't deal with looking out of the traditional glass-type one in the other room. Sometimes in the shadows the view would light up, usually when he was smoking weed, as if the contrast knobs of Creation had been messed with just enough to give everything an underglow, a luminous edge, and promise that the night was about to turn epic somehow.

Long sentences, yes – I noted more than one paragraph without a single period – but nevertheless crystal clear, at least to me. I've seen those paintings. I get it, if you know what I mean.

That was a common sensation while reading Inherent Vice. The author would offer up some description, through Doc's eyes, and I'd have an immediate sense of understanding, a sense that I'd seen this myself and that I grokked the underlying meaning.

Now I did live in southern California for several years – though much later than the time period in this novel. And I will admit that I smoked some pot back in those days. Would this book resonate as strongly for someone who'd never seen Venice Beach or Griffith Park? Someone who'd never tasted good old Mary Jane? Is Pychon a sufficiently gifted writer that he could bring Doc's environment and mental state to life in a reader who had no real world experience to use as a reference?

Of course I can't answer that question. Perhaps that hypothetical reader wouldn't be interested in the book in the first place – and would end up the poorer for it.

Here's another paragraph, one of my favorites, full of imagery that will stick with me long after I've lost the details of this extremely complicated creation.

Later they went outside, where a light rain was blowing in, mixed with salt spray feathering off the surf. Shasta wandered slowly down to the beach and through the wet sand, her nape in a curve she had learned from times when back turning came into it, the charm of. Doc followed the prints of her bare feet already collapsing into rain and shadow, as if in a fool's attempt to find his way back into a past that despite them both had gone on into the future it did. The surf, only now and then visible, was hammering at his spirit, knocking things loose, some to fall into the dark and be lost forever, some to edge into the fitful light of his attention whether he wanted to see them or not. Shasta had nailed it. Forget who – what was he working for anymore?

Funny, surprising, original, insightful – a masterpiece of tongue-in-cheek social commentary, a vivid snapshot of a period lost to history, a no-holds-barred festival of the imagination – if you can handle sentences that ramble on for half a page, and you're not morally opposed to drugs, I think you'll enjoy this book.