Curious Times - part 3
Harmonic Convergence
Grand Opening of Curious Times bookstore, early 1987. Storm is on my right.
At that moment in time – the camera catching my intense and earnest look – I was wagering the biggest bet of my lifetime, which included a big chunk of change my daddy gifted me when he passed a year and a half earlier. The bet also was composed of close friendships that melted away, a loving partner I walked away from, family members who grew more distant, and this heart of mine that broke a few times and then some.
Blame the bet I was wagering on limerence, an unfamiliar locution in the lesbian world back then but a word that’s developed quite a reputation these days. Limerence is defined as a state of being, the one I found myself in after meeting Storm. In literature, I’d be referred to as a “limerent object,” the one who has a burning desire to strike up an intensely passionate (romantic or not) affair with another – which is not always reciprocated. But, when romantic and requited? Well, a response in kind is one of those “Katie, Bar the Door” sort of deals. And that’s what Storm and I shared – limerence-induced heady times. Those were the days, my friends! We thought they’d never end.
One evening, less than a year after we had been together, Storm whispered in my ear. “Wanna go to the Harmonic Convergence with me?”
“Hmmm. What’s that?” I didn’t know for sure, but the two words tickled my fancy and had me grinning. “Does it have anything to do with a harmonica? Or harmonious coming together stuff?”
She smiled slightly. “An extraterrestrial experience for us terrestrial folks. It’s scheduled for next weekend,” Storm said before taking a hit off the joint I’d just handed her. She leaned in, and with a sweet deftness, directed a breath of smoke across the soft space between my lips. I breathed it in, her lips barely touching mine, leaving room for tiny sparks to fly. She planted a feathery but electric kiss, stirred by the high that came in the soft breath of smoke she shared, as intoxicating as her whisper in my ear.
“The Harmonic Convergence is about a rare alignment of planets,” Storm explained. “It’s about bringing in peace and harmony. It will unify souls like us who have purpose.” What she said felt spiritual, even though when I met Storm I didn’t understand myself as a spiritual being. The more time we spent together during this limerence phase of our relationship, the more I absorbed the otherworldly aspect of life.
As a youngster I was agnostic – had never heard the word agnostic, but understood the meaning through feelings or something similar. When we were young my sister and I regularly accompanied my grandmother – we called her Nana – to the Methodist church in downtown Brownsville. On those Sundays I put a quarter Nana had given me in the collection plate, sang songs from the hymnal and politely listened to the sermon.
Being purposeful and embracing spirituality became part of many conversations Storm and I had during those early days. We were unhesitating and spirited in our plans to nurture Curious Times – creating a safe and affirming space for lesbians and giving me and Storm full-time jobs that allowed us to lobby for lesbian visibility, and acquire chairs around political tables.
Another aspect of our conversations and inquiry was a steadfast search for spirit – Great Spirit and spirit guides. Attunement to Mother Nature. Camping. In tents. Canoeing the Guadalupe River bare-breasted. Cleansing spaces with copal smoke. Conferring with Animal Cards. I was smitten with the spirit scene Storm had immersed herself in long before I came around and which she introduced me to – this search for the soul, the spiritual aspect of us humans and connection with the natural world resonated with me in a way that organized religion never did.
The Harmonic Convergence was scheduled around what was reported as a “significant celestial alignment” in our solar system involving six planets, the moon and the sun. The convergence was celebrated as a “global peace meditation,” a world-wide array of events hosted at Mount Fuji, Stonehenge, and the Great Pyramid of Egypt, to name a few stand-outs.
Drumming and dancing lent energy to the swath of happenings, according to news reports. Chanting furnished focus for meditations held at hundreds of sites in the U.S., including Sedona, Arizona, and New Mexico’s Chaco Canyon. Storm and I stayed close to home to celebrate our own convergence and take in the exhilaration of the harmony we felt at the time.
Mid-afternoon of the convergence day, Storm and I packed a few beers in the cooler, stowed it in the backseat, and drove off in my pea green Subaru four-door to Lake Texoma, a reservoir straddling the Red River, the Texas border with Oklahoma.
Storm directed me to her favorite spot — she’d spent a good chunk of time there while living in nearby Denton. “When I was there, I needed this solitude,” she reminded me. “It got me away from the commotion of drugs, sex, rockin’ music,” she elaborated with a stunted laugh, then smiled. Whether the music scene of which Storm was a part, or the legends of gals attending Texas Woman’s University – Denton had its own vibrant lesbian milieu at the time.
We found a lush spot of grass near a stand of mesquite trees – the seclusion framed with an inlet and its soft rinse of water. I spread a blanket on the grass in the midst of an orangish rust-colored Texas sundown. It was mystical, magical, and wholly erotic. Storm lit one of the joints she rolled before we left Dallas and took a hit, walking towards me. “Here,” she said slowly with a drip of honeyed hoarseness, handing over the doobie. “Take a little hit.” She unbuttoned the front of my soft denim shirt – its long sleeves cut off long ago – and I waded into the inlet for a skinny dip. Storm was close behind me.
After the splashing of water, laughter, kissing, and a pinnacle of sex we went to lay down on the blanket. Sipping on the beer we brought with us, we talked about Curious Times and some of the next steps we were taking – participation in an upcoming coming-out march in Washington, D.C., and a first-ever state-wide lesbian conference. Storm and I agreed that night of the Harmonic Convergence that we were making herstory in harmony!
The following day, we were back at work in the shop, as we often referred to Curious Times. I was most likely stocking bookshelves with spiritual lit, feminist lit, coming out struggles, lesbian romance novels. Titles included Herotica, Macho Sluts, The Joy of Lesbian Sex, The Well of Loneliness, Curious Wine, Beyond Acceptance. In addition to books, my tasks included ordering incense, candles, gems, and crystals.
Storm probably spent time at her jewelry bench that day. A custom jeweler, she developed a reputation with our clientele for fabricating rings and bracelets that would “meet the moment” relationship-wise, as a customer once observed. A gal whose girlfriend gifted them a piece of custom jewelry knew it was uniquely their own – whether a specific gemstone or type of metal. Gals liked that.
Storm crafted several beautiful pieces of jewelry for me that I liked. My favorite was the nipple ring with its malachite bead, a green-colored stone signifying the divine feminine, transformation, and positive change — a good mix of stuff that felt very appropriate for my life journey. My knowledge of nipple rings was not quite nil when I left the closet for full-out lesbian stature. So, when I started spending full-time at Curious Times on Cedar Springs (called The Strip by the gays), I learned a whole lot more about nipple rings. Cedar Springs was abuzz in all sorts of queerness – personal, professional, political. An area where gay men loved their nipple rings and always delighted in showing you theirs.
It wasn’t long before I wanted a ring in my nipple really bad. I thought about it off and on for several weeks and imagined what feelings might come alive. I trusted it would strengthen my resilience in becoming more of who I was while thumbing my nose at the patriarchy. Ultimately, the decision to pierce my sensitive left nipple was mine and mine alone. I was sweet on that piercing. It had me feeling sexy. And then there was the empowerment that it channeled. The impetus for the nipple piercing had taken place several months earlier. At Storm’s insistence I got inked on my left ankle – a beach scene with a palm tree (my idea). The tattoo broke cultural rules and my never-ending lack of ladylike-ness always worked my mother’s nerves. When she first saw the tattoo, Mozelle was wordless until she found the right ones. “You always liked the beach,” she said.
For a good while, my partnership with Storm – both romantically and professionally – felt like a good fit. We brought complementary skills to our shared life and livelihood. I had direct connections with the news media, having been a high profile investigative TV reporter in Dallas for many years before coming out. As a custom jeweler, Storm had established a presence in the gayborhood, on the Strip. For a year or so, her jewelry shop had been located inside Crossroads Market, with its mix of gay male oriented offerings, from books to cards to sex videos. When she moved her shop into Curious Times, her male clientele and their expendable incomes came with.
Not long after the Harmonic Convergence, Storm and I planned a trip to San Antonio for a visit with politically active lesbians there. She and I were in the midst of building a state-wide lesbian community in order to make a state-wide lesbian conference happen in Dallas in early ‘88. The two of us were still having some fun in what remained of our harmonic bubble – moving and shaking, expanding our community, making new connections both in our own little hub and traveling to meet new lesbians as well.
The next thing on the agenda was our trip to Washington, D.C., for the March on Washington in October of 1987. By this time, I was persona non grata with some of the gals in my close social circle. They were not happy that I hooked up with Storm and left my partner heartbroken. When word of the bookstore spread, there may also have been a perception that I was moving into political territory that some gals believed was more fitting for them – politics at play, with a lesbian flavor.
The march in D.C. was an awkward affair. While Storm and I purposefully booked a room in a different hotel from my small cohort of former friends – including my ex – we still had some social maneuvering to attend to. However, in the spirit of unity, grudges appeared to be at least set aside as we congregated on the National Mall in D.C., sporting a united front. Getting the boot from my close friends was uncomfortable – maybe icky is a more appropriate word. And I felt isolated. Storm and I bypassed talk of those feelings of mine. Maybe I didn’t even bring them up. Or perhaps she picked up on it energetically, but didn’t think about it much. Afterall, she was complicit in the affair. The consonance we felt in and around our harmonic convergence was dissipating, in part due to the upsetting of social circles and friendships.
As soon as the march wrapped, we returned home to Dallas and Curious Times. There was plenty to keep us busy. Our customer base was growing, what with the number of lesbians taking a leap of faith and coming to the gayborhood. The Strip was a safe space to learn how to be comfortable in our skin and practice the art of coming out in our very own enclave. While more and more lesbians were showing up to check out Curious Times, the gay guys were also showing an interest.
In addition to the custom jewelry Storm fabricated, the guys also took to our collection of semi-precious stones and crystals, like amethyst, quartz, and obsidian. The on-going AIDS epidemic was one big motivating factor. Through the ages, these and other stones and crystals were believed by some to promote the good flow of energy in the body, ridding it of negative influences and interferences, offering healing powers throughout the body, soul, and mind. At the time, the guys were looking for all sorts of hope in all sorts of places. AIDS was running rampant in gay male communities throughout the country, and sadly, the epidemic went mostly unchecked, as President Ronald Reagan and his homophobic administration ignored the reality of the disease long enough for hundreds of thousands of gay men to die, decimating gay male Baby Boomers in the prime of their sexual lives.
Lesbian Baby Boomers played a huge role during these times, whether delivering hot meals to the guys or keeping watch over them in hospital beds. To this day, gay men who survived the AIDS epidemic cannot say enough good things about lesbians who were on the front lines. Sadly, during those awful times, gay men in positions of political power in gay communities around the country regularly refused to use the word “lesbian,” whether in sound bites, written quotes, or the name of an organization (for example, the Dallas Gay Alliance). We had been lobbying the DGA board to add lesbian, but to no avail. Board members told us they were too busy with AIDS and couldn’t be bothered.
Storm and I both had personal friends we lost to AIDS. We also befriended many of the guys who were positive and would routinely come to The Strip to pick up groceries at a food pantry, its shelves stocked with donations from the gay and lesbian community. Before heading to the pantry, the guys would often walk around on Cedar Springs to take in the gayness of it all before going home. That walk had them dropping in to Curious Times for a book, a crystal, an ear piercing or to just hangout, talk awhile.
The first few years after opening Curious Times, Storm and I stayed beyond busy. Our focus had always been keeping the bookstore up and running, which we did with the assistance of a most wonderful and special gay man. Steve Frawley was his name and he was the best, all ‘round, especially with his built-in gay-friendly customer service. At the time, Storm and I lived in a rented house in Oak Cliff, across the Trinity River, with a full view of the downtown skyline as we drove to work. We were rarely not together. The anxiety and constant demands of the relationship were taking a toll. We had been goin’ ninety to nothing and be assured the light and glimmer of limerence had long been invisible in the rear view mirror. That’s what happens with the doggone limerence — it vaporizes into nothingness.
Our personal relationship took a backseat to our business and queer politics. We courageously put ourselves in front of TV news cameras, protesting at Dallas City Council meetings in an effort to push back on police department rules against hiring homosexuals — in this case a young gal, Mica England, who bravely revealed her lesbian status on her application. The times – they were homophobic.
An interview Storm and I did for a Dallas Times Herald newspaper article on the second annual National Coming Out Day in 1989, included a picture of us sitting very close together with our arms around each other. The story put a bee in the bonnet of our homophobic neighbor, who began further harassing us, most prominently by standing in his front yard with a rifle pointed in our direction. It was stressful what was happening in our neighborhood, where we wanted to be safe in our bed, or kitchen.
We were juggling full-time politics – both public and private. These were intense times. Like oh-so-many other lesbians, neither I nor Storm knew how to be in a relationship. Few of us had models, save the terrible examples from the stilted era of the 1950s set by our heterosexual parents and the culture at large. Lesbians were having to figure out their roles. Who cooks? Who mows the lawn? Who changes the flat tire? Lesbians were clueless until the issue worked itself out. Most importantly, many of us lacked the skills for exploratory conversations – unable to positively navigate our anger, our jealousies, our suspicions.
Storm and I had morphed into a power couple, which led to power struggles within our relationship, including tension over the few customers who liked to flirt with whichever one of us was their favorite. That part was fun for a time and then wore thin for me. Storm and I didn’t broach the topic until it became personal. (That’s a story coming soon.)
In the meantime, thank goodness she and I were willing to welcome the advent of lesbian talk therapy in hopes of figuring out what to do about our “stuff.” And we weren’t alone, by any measure. During the late 1980s, lesbian couples flocked to therapy, both individually and together. There were a good number of us lesbians back then who paid for and dedicated an hour every couple of weeks to spend time sitting across from a licensed therapist fresh out of university and just coming out herself – all in all, quite a combo of skills, the lack there-of, and learning curves every which way. It might not have been the perfect situation, but it gave lesbians an opportunity to explore therapy as a way to navigate the very act of coming out while also developing relationship and personal skills for women loving women.
During one of my sessions, the therapist suggested I ask Storm to give me a word that best described our unwell relationship – one nagged by jealousy, absent of affection, and chock full of disconcertment. My therapist suggested I ask the question after I told her I was expressly troubled over an argument Storm and I had a week earlier at home. I forget the exact topic, or topics. But I clearly remember the intensity of my anger. We were yelling, each jacking up the fury. I was standing in the kitchen alongside the table where we shared meals. I don’t recall the title of the thick and heavy book resting on the tabletop. But I do recall grabbing it, a hand on each side, and squeezing tight. Lifting the book above my head, I slammed that book down hard. “God damnit,” I said in the same loud voice I had spewed out a few minutes earlier. The slam quelled Storm’s yelling or screaming or whatever it was.
I was alarmed at my behavior, and the pent up fury lurking inside me that triggered the blow to the table. I did not occur to me to hit Storm with that book. I just wanted to release pent up rage and fury which first began dogging me in high school, many years earlier when a river of anger towards my stepfather ran through me. I had never encountered patriarchal privilege so up close and personal. My stepfather, Bill, was the first adult man I had ever shared a household with, except for my grandfather in my early years. My father, Curtis, never lived with us. My mother, Mozelle, sent him packing when he failed to hold down a job or two or three. She soon met Bill and married him shortly thereafter and we all went to live in Salina, Kansas. (Another story coming soon.)
Bill and I tolerated each other. He never liked me, barking at me many times that I talked too much. On one occasion, he hit me with his belt on the backside of my legs. He was mad because I had backtalked him. These privileges of the patriarchy shocked me. I juggled my situation by playing nice as much as possible, and not provoking him, but simultaneously building up anger inside. My sister, Starr, accused me of kissing Bill’s ass. “At least I get to go out on the weekends,” was my retort. “You always get yourself grounded,” I explained.
My focus at this time was graduating high school and leaving the state, headed for an institution of higher learning.
Here’s the story about me fearlessly pushing back on Bill the Asshole’s male privilege.
Home for the holidays – first semester at Southern Methodist University behind me – I was fixing dinner one evening. Tacos, my favorite food to make and eat. My two sisters and my mother were sitting at the table, politely waiting. Mozelle was a heavy drinker at the time and was limp to standing up for me in Bill’s presence. The thick tension in the air was about me being back in the house after going off to SMU. Bill – who did not like educated women and often poked fun at my mother over her higher education – was sitting close by in his Lazy Boy recliner reading TV Guide, his favorite magazine. “The tacos are ready,” I said, turning my head in his direction.
My mother and sisters sat perfectly still – staring at me then staring at Bill, who kept reading. The asshole took a drag from his cigarette.
Louder than the first time I said, “The tacos are ready.” Bill did not flinch, ratcheting up the palpable tension.
I turned towards him, picked up a half full can of Schlitz beer that I was sipping from and held it tight as I turned towards the asshole and stared at him, still reading his fucking magazine.
“I said… the tacos are ready.” A touch of defiance accompanied my words, even louder this third time around.
“What did you say?” He turned his head my way.
“I…said…THE GOD DAMN TACOS ARE READY.”
The asshole got out of his Lazy Boy and came after me. That’s when I darted towards a nearby door that opened into a two-car garage. As I opened that door and stepped onto the first of two concrete steps, Bill, who was now behind me, grabbed my arm. I lost my balance and fell into the concrete steps
My mother turned to my sister. “Starr, call the police. Now.” Her steady voice was neither soft nor loud.
When the cop arrived, he had Bill step outside. The incident was deemed no big deal. The next day, I learned I suffered a cracked rib falling into the steps.
That evening in the kitchen of our split-level house with the family at the dinner table and as Kansas winds blew across the plains, I took the reins. Driven by the sacredness of anger, I headed out of town and back to Dallas and SMU, knowing but not really knowing that my strengths would push back on patriarchal manipulation and control going forward. And they did.
The anger I felt the night I made those tacos was from the same rage I felt when I slammed that book down on the dinner table to catch Storm’s attention. The intensity of my anger was born of my experiences with Bill, followed by a testosterone-filled professional work world that was exhausting. Women have long been shamed for mouthing off, being too aggressive, talking too much, seething with rage. That stuff really gets to us, anger gets pent up – generation after generation women have been told to stuff it, which we all know often leads to out-in-the open fury on occasion.
Storm and I thought a therapist could help us find our way back to the good times. It was a huge bet that I had wagered on our partnership – both the personal and the business side – and while I was growing weary of the arrangement, I felt I would lose way too much if it didn't work out.
So, circling back to the question my therapist suggested I pose to Storm – asking her what word she would use to describe our relationship.
The day following the therapy session, the two of us were in Storm’s car on the way to Curious Times. I posed the question. Storm was driving, both hands on the wheel, looking straight ahead. She turned in my direction and smiled. “Loving,” she said. I stared her down quizzically for several long seconds.
“What do you think is a good word?” she asked, as if I should respond with a “ditto”.
“Tumultuous (a sentence unto itself, I thought) is the word I would use,” I said, my expression deadpan.
In today’s world, the word gaslighting might be used to define Storm’s response.
Thank you for reading my work. Go to the archives for more of my stories.