Beyond The Blog (1)

May I invite you to check out this super write-up about me, our family, and others, at the 'Polyamory In The News' site? 
The whole site is excellent and deserves bookmarking.

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Regarding The Artist

I fear that I haven't introduced you to the illustrator of this blog: our son Edwin (8). Each piece he does is his own work, although I usually give him a brief idea of what I want. He is excellent, when he brings me a draft, at taking the odd bit of editorial comment and guidance. Vee and Terisa will vouch for this: they are very pleased by his attitude and artwork (for which I am paying him, by the way). And, yes, Vee is his mother and Terisa his 'other mother': but I assure you that neither woman -- both creative professionals themselves -- is particularly easy to impress when it comes to art. Generally speaking, V and T observe; they chew the lip; they might croak out the occasional "Adequate work, bubba" from the corner of their mouths, like a Manhattan theater critic of the old school.

Also, I get the sense that followers think that the quality of Edwin's pictures outshines that of the writing they accompany. If I'm right, this merely confirms the good judgment of my blog's readers. :-)

Behind The Counter

Remember my wee anecdote about the colleague (let's call her Emily) who asked about the family photos at my desk? What I didn't say was that, although Emily really HAD been joking, we both cracked up when I explained that I bloomin' well HADN'T. And I hasten to add that she has been acceptance and graciousness personified, ever since.
But it reminds me of something similar that happened on the very last day of shooting Family. The evening before, I'd had a fight with Terisa (what a freakin' surprise: her moments of Italian-blooded zealousness do not always amble hand in hand, in perfect peace, next to my stubborn English thermostats of justice and proportion). I'd even stormed out, which feels rummy whenever I do it because I always expect a director to say "Aaand... cut!" once I've slammed the door and stomped a few steps into the night. 
Anyway, next morning my closest advisers suggested I buy her flowers and take them to the shoot. So off I trotted to the grocery store: I'll buy Vee some, too, I thought.
As the florist wrapped one bunch, she asked whether it was for my wife. Indeed, I replied. She smiled, pointing at the other bouquet. "And these are for your girlfriend?" Might as well be honest, I thought: "Yes. But it might not be quite what you think. I'm not a rogue. Honest!" She didn't miss a beat: just kept smiling and continued working on the flowers. "It's fine," she said. "You are a man."

Around The Clock

There's one criticism of polyamory that I find maybe the most puzzling and the most complimentary. It's the one that goes: "Who can have more than one relationship?! Too hard to schedule!"
It puzzles me because it seems to put actualizing one's love for a human being on the level of whether to rent a DVD boxed set ("Well, it's nice in theory, but I'd never get round to watching it in time...")
But the compliment is in the comment's tacit nod to the reality that polyamory is about far more than just sex. Let's face it: 'speak-for-yourself-Matt' laugh though the following claim will no doubt get, nobody really spends that much time -- as a percentage of their week -- rolling in the hay. Even the hours spent commuting, or trying to make up your mind as to whether farmers' markets delight you or irritate the crap out of you, dwarf the hours spent having sex.

I do have another favorite point I like to make about poly time management:
Terisa and I are decidedly part-time partners. I have a wife; Terisa has two main chaps with whom she lives. So our time together, though regular, is often rationed. But far from being a problem for the health of our relationship, that sparsity helps. We tend to savor our time with each other, even if it's spent working on a script or grocery shopping. It also gives us enforced buffers of air and retreat if, for example, we have a fight and need to cool off. So, neither of us feels really deprived.
Yep. Surrendering -- over time -- to the schedule one will realistically get with a given partner, is anything but surrender. Because far from bringing matters to a halt, it will more likely keep them going.

At The Barre

Up some thin stairs in a converted London church, there used to live the office of a dance magazine. On the floors below, a dance college squeaked and thrummed along. I was working in the former, Vee studying in the latter. It was weeks before a mutual pal introduced us. Vee had seen me before but she -- like the several thousand other fine young women in musky leotards alongside her -- had assumed I was gay. We married the following summer.
14 years later, in Seattle, one of the first things I found out about Terisa was that she is also a ballet chick. She and Vee still do class together from time to time: once it was in Terisa's dining room until, during a pirouette, they gave the chandelier a hefty one-two punch, sending crystals down for the count.
As a bloke more usually associated with pot pies, ale, and soccer, I love being around dancers and dancing. Why? Now, let's not get too earthy and Parisian: let's not mutter excessively about adding tutus to tutus and coming up with four. Because it's about a bit more than that. A bit.
Thing is, I've always spent a lot of time shoving words onto a page, listening to comedy, and the like. But Sadler's Wells, snowflakes, and Chacotts? Not so much. So as a lad I decided to make sure I was in on a bit of the magic: I bought two-quid seats at Festival Hall or Covent Garden, interviewed dancers and directors , then wrote and sold articles about it. This suited me fine.
These days, I can get that flavor at home. As long as I duck the odd chunk of chandelier.

By The Oven

If you're going to make bread by hand, squire, what you want is a recipe that will chain you to the kitchen for hours -- half a day, even -- sipping a beer and letting old music wend around the rooms.
That's what I find. I like kicking off a day's baking, knowing that it will act as a pleasant, low-security jailor until late afternoon. If Vee and Edwin want me to join them at the library for a few minutes, or if I need to have a half-hour script consult with Terisa about whether "lady district" is amusing enough a euphemism for the female pudendum, I can. But no agonizing about whether to take a trip downtown or to the mighty Yangtze River, because the dough tugs me back.
Besides, much as I love being around the others, it's rather nice to start, on my own, a process that will result in food that everyone can share. And I like that, while I am busy, the ladies are hanging out with their other partners or just doing their own thing.
Indeed, baking keeps me by the oven. This has its benefits.

On The Chin

So my finger's poised on the safety cap of the razor. I have a few days' facial growth.
Thing is: my wife Vee likes me to shave. My girlfriend Terisa prefers me hirsute.
I don't want your off-color laughs about the motives behind their views: please leave all that for when you watch the unlabeled, fourth-generation DVDs that are tucked under the attic rug. Instead, you might care to boil me a calming tea, and sympathize. After all, shaving is the central dilemma of the non-monogamous male. Probably.
As it happens, my schedule and my laziness turn out to be joint heroes. I'll probably see Terisa in the next day or two, so the stubble stays put for now. At the start of next week I'll shave for Vee, the day job, and St. George.
----~~----
This is a fine example of how living polyamorously -- with any degree of success -- is like the trick behind viewing those autostereo Magic Eye books. Stop focusing so bloody much, blur your eyes a bit, and order will emerge.

In The Frame

Oh, golly, I thought. Here we go again:
Up to this point, you see, my new colleague and I had been getting on famously. But now she had spotted the wee display of family photos at my desk. She leaned forward. "So this is your lovely wife?" Yes. "Nice. And your little boy, of course." Of course. (Pause. Here it comes.) "So who's this other lady?"
This was where I had to tell her something that could get any reaction, from disgust or dismay right through to the northwards-shooting eyebrows and accompanying saxophone. 
I took a breath.
But then, miracle of miracles, she went on: "Is she your girlfriend?" 
Gosh! I was off the hook. She not only knew about polyamory, but she had taken it in her stride without blinking. I was so grateful that I virtually fell on her neck:
"Thanks for making that so easy for me! Yes, she is my girlfriend, but I usually have to explain it. And that can be excruciating, believe me. Again, thank you!"
She gave me a look.
"Actually," she said, "I was just kidding."
 ---- ~~ ----
True story, that. Welcome to my site. I'm a bloke who shares time with my wife Vee, our little boy, and with my girlfriend Terisa who lives nearby with her two primary partners. We're kinda known for it. This blog is where I'll bring you scenes from the pond-like tranquility of our family. Why are you snickering?