Dress Him Up

Posted on June 3, 2005 by Garnet David

Why do men never wear dresses or skirts? Why do men always wear pants? And women get to choose? It seems to be a cultural norm in most human societies. Perhaps pants facilitate movement of the legs. I can understand how pants are useful for jobs like construction. Are men anatomically “suited” to wearing pant? Is there some gene that predisposes human men to decorate themselves a certain way, different from women? What about other cultures’ acceptance of certain skirt like outfits, like kilts? (That link has some hilarious photos revealing the limitations, or one could say, overexposure, of kilts. Beware.) Or what about Dhoti’s from India? Or perhaps sarongs from Indonesia? (I found this cute site with the proper way to tie a sarong, and some fun suggestions for this versatile skirt)

Perhaps men haven’t found the right designer to accentuate the leaner lines of a man’s body. Men’s bodies are shaped differently, with narrower hips. I’m sure if the interest were there, a designer would accommodate. I seem to remember some trendy version of kilts showing up on fashion runways for a few years, but it never caught on. Here’s a site where skirts for men are sold. Men in Skirts.

I have worn dresses and skirts. I once found a $50 bill in my dresser drawer, and decided to do something out of the ordinary. I went out and bought a black sweater dress. I am very tall, slim, with no hips, no chest, and pretty broad shoulders. I had a female friend in my orchestra who liked to wear tuxes to work. She was straight, and very fun and cool. She looked great in a tux. I looked pretty good in the dress. We decided to gender bend a little.

So we decked out in the opposite sex outfits, me in my dress (no makeup, just a man in a dress) and her in her tux (with long flowing hair and big boobs) And, on New Year’s Eve we joined the masses of wealthy, upper class revelers at the Kennedy Center. We waltzed (I can’t remember who led) through the grandiose atrium hallway, floating across the royal red carpet, the crowd parting magically before us. We had a blast. (However, my PMS ruined the mood and I slapped her for looking at another woman. Or was it a man? No, actually the dress constricted my movement, and prevented me from doing my finale, a full split at the end of the dance.) In fact, nothing dramatic happened. We just had fun, and lots of champagne.

Another time I wore a skirt with a T-shirt and very large hiking boots to a dance bar in DC. I danced my ass off. It was comfortable and freeing. Though I still didn’t do splits. I’d skip the boots next time around, though. I had blisters for days.

At other times I’ve worn loose skirts. Now that’s comfortable!! Especially with no underwear in the middle of summer. AHHHH! (No problem with the splits, either.) I prefer those ubiquitous Indian wrap around skirts. They come in a fun variety of rich patterns and colors. And one size fits all. Never bunch up in the crotch.

I’ve been to a couple of Faerie gatherings, where men wear anything they want, or nothing at all. Some faeries wore 2 or 3 different dresses a day. Like a mood ring, only with dresses to express the mood. At first it was almost offensive that men, sometimes fat and hairy men, would prance around in wedding dresses. I was intimidated by their audacious freedom. I was paralyzed by my own judgments of them, and the implied judgments of myself. “I would never do something so, so…” So what? Free? Random? Different? But after meeting several of them, who usually turned out to be articulate and sensible men, I realized I was the one with the problem. I met doctors and lawyers who just wanted to let their hair down, so to speak. Soon I was enjoying every rule shredding moment, sifting the bogus chaff from the real seed, the playful core of my self. I didn’t wear any wedding dresses, but then again, I didn’t come with my own wardrobe, either.

Except those times, I’ve almost never ventured away from pants. I feel it would go against the accepted behavior for men. My rebellious days are over. It would attract too much attention. It would be considered weird, freaky, comical. What a shame.

I imagine a society where difference is really accepted. Where I can swish around in a park on a summer day wearing a loose skirt and a T-shirt and perhaps see someone else doing the same.

Dresses are comfortable, and freeing, both for the body and the spirit. I don’t think women should be the only ones with that freedom (or choice of fabulous wardrobe elements).

Ephemeral Joy

Posted on May 31, 2005 by Garnet David

Is there any other kind? What kind of joy can you bottle? Except maybe wine. I often sit on the sidelines at social gatherings, happily, in fact, watching others laugh their hearts out, wondering what it’s all about. Laughter, is as vital as air, but elusive to me. Observing, learning, recording, dissecting. But with time, patience, perseverance, and a kind of envious exhaustion, I’ve learned the just stay with the mood, let it happen, even if I still have no idea what or why "it" is.

"It" is this– Tonight was a petal of a blossom of the cherry tree of life, fluttering elusively, flipping, dipping, slowly, inevitable to the ground. But I was on that magic carpet, riding the soft, contented pink cushion of the petal, curving, zipping, dizzy with glee as it floated joyfully to it’s fruition, and perfect demise- the end of the evening.

I had dinner with some very good friends. One in particular, accompanies me on many fantastic forays into aesthetic Disneyland; food, wine, poetry, beauty, music. Joe is he. He and I are co-conspirators, floating side by side, guiding each other deeper into ourselves. The other two are neighbors, but oh so much more. Serendipitously, they fell into my life, at least that’s the way I see it, when they bought the house next door 8 years ago.

Summer is approaching, the pressures of time give in a bit, the wine waits for our attention. So, I threw together a meal to accompany a special bottle of wine, a 2000 Turley Zinfandel. I really did throw it together. Serendipity. I like it that way, the accidental perfection for which I can take no credit. I went for a reliable standby: grilled beef fillet mignon, Mache (an heirloom salad green, nutty) and Watercress salad (with a garlicky sweet, nutty dressing), sauteed Portabella mushrooms and Vidallia onions and a hearty loaf of sourdough bread. Some wine and food were meant to meet their consummation in tandem.

The fillet, with mushrooms, onions and horseradish sauce, and the Turley, were made for each other. Turley Zinfandel, a limited release, subscription only wine, is audacious, muscular and carelessly voluptuous on the tongue. As for the meat, the creature form which we stole it blessed our bodies tonight with it’s life. It was succulent and full flavored. The food was wonderful, the wine spectacularly memorable. But the real chemistry was in the company.

Paul is a story teller, with countless hilarious accounts of his life. He’s cute, engineer smart (in a boyish way), wise, sexy, and married to Mary, who is brilliant, wry, artistic and a perfect balance for Paul, in humor and life. He and Mary will finish each other’s sentences, and also contradict each other.

It’s even fun to watch them garden together over the fence. Her:"What the heck are you doin’? I told you ta put it over there!" Him:"I thought you said the rose over there and this hosta over here!" Her:"No, you dufus, I told you three times, the rose over here! How may times do I have to say it before you get it through your head. Roses don’t grow in shade." and on. Or, he’ll start up his "power tool" "weed wacker" and start edging the grass, then I’ll hear Her:"NOOOO, not my creeping thyme garden, that’s not grass!!!" Him:"Oh, OK, but they look the same…". Such lighthearted banter, mixed with bird song and wind chimes, is the background music to my gardening. I guess you have to be there. But they’re genuine, good hearted, very cultured, well traveled, and also lover’s of food and wine, and laughter.

Joe is a debonair, free spirit, who has taught me the ornate passions of food and wine, among other things. Though I enjoy good food, I tend toward functional nourishment, and consider "haute cuisine" delightful, if a bit decadent. Not Joe. He dives in, head first. And why not? What are we saving it for?? Really? What do we really gain by starving, parsing just to look like a photo? What’s the use of living long, is we only skim the surface? (My philosophy is "everything in moderation, including moderation")

So, we ate, we talked, we laughed and laughed. What did we laugh about? Everything, and nothing, a word, a story. It’s all gone, the food, the laughter, the words, the stories, evaporated, a puff of steam, released into the ether. During dinner I thought, wistfully, "This is as good as it gets!" I’m on the magic carpet, the fluttering petal. This is the only heaven I’ll ever need. When it’s over, it’s still ours, because it was shared. Otherwise, it’s added to the memory banks of eternity. Thank you Joe, Paul and Mary.

The Hills are Alive

Posted on May 28, 2005 by Garnet David

Nature is not something you can hurry. Planning for weather or flowers usually fails. I went to Hocking Hills yesterday with Joe to get away from Columbus, and hopefully to find some Lady Slipper orchids. We didn’t see any, but it didn’t matter. The whole experience was still very healing, at least after I started relaxing.

I always forget how alluring natural beauty can be. Hocking Hills is only an hour away, but I still don’t go down there often enough. Each time, I promise to return frequently, but only go a few times a year. This time I even had the "been there" attitude. I had trouble shedding my daily thick skin. I had trouble letting nature in. It’s hard to believe when you see these photos. But I felt clogged, at least at first.

Moss and ferns prevailed in the shade and cool moisture of this gorge. There were numerous shades of green which contrasted with red, rusty pools.

This next photo really looks like a liquid spirit slithering across the rock surface. What does this say to me? My attention was drawn to all the tentacled roots, often dramatically bunched. The micro climate in this gorge is very protective and moist, so these exposed roots can survive. Many trees can be found growing over rocks, like molasses pouring very, very slowly.

We’re so used to filtering most things out so we can function in the chaos of daily life. I barely listen to birds anymore, or hear the wind whispering through the trees. At one point, we sat on a hill, and when the breeze rustled the hemlock branches above, we could hear the light tapping of needles clicking against the leaf covered ground. It sounded like sleet falling, tapping a message I couldn’t understand.

We came upon this fungus growing out of last Fall’s leaf cover. I have never seen anything like them. They look like pine cones, but they’re soft like mushrooms. If anybody reading this knows what these are, let me know.

After an hour of walking and chatting, Joe and I reminisced about how much each of us used to hike, and how beneficial it is to spirit and body. It takes it’s time, presents itself modestly, even in its glory. It’s our responsibility to give our attention. The incessant inner voice, the monkey mind, chatters to me and through me, babbling about the past, the future, problems, solutions, resolutions, shoulds, won’ts. All the while, this glorious symphony of smells, gentle sounds and sights played before me.

I listened, opened my eyes, breathed into it. And, sporadically, I felt little messages getting through. All this is changing. It’s dying and being born, ruthlessly, peacefully, inevitably. This scene is ultimately temporary. Even the rocks, like the ones in the above photo, are moving. They erode and fall. I wonder what it is like to be around when one of those behemoths shivers, groans, and roars off the cliff above into the ravine below.

Even this tree has it’s story. Growing off the edge of the ledge, it’s glorious reign is all the more regal for its tenacity.

Joe and I trekked 6 miles round trip from Old Man’s Cave to Cedar Falls. I wish it could have been 16 miles. Near the end I felt all the more aware of my crusty shell and what glorious anthems I barely heard or saw. But I knew that message would alway be there, anytime I was ready to open to it.

Ohio Zen.JPG