7TH EPISODE!!!

FLYING: CONFESSIONS OF A FREE WOMAN
wants you to...
Make Your 7th Episode!

$500 Grand Prize to the person who creates the 7th Episode!

In FLYING: CONFESSIONS OF A FREE WOMAN, Jennifer Fox lays bare her own life to penetrate what it means to be a free woman today. In six episodes, Fox travels around the world to understand how she fits into the greater female experience.

But the first six episodes are only one woman's experience.

FLYING doesn't tell every story.
We want your unique perspective!
Tell us your story!
Show us your life, your friends, your world...
Create your "7th Episode" in the intimate style of FLYING.

All those brave enough to share their story will receive a free DVD copy of FLYING!

The winning 7th Episode will be featured on the FLYING website and have the opportunity to be broadcast on the Sundance Channel website. The 7th Episode may also screen theatrically with FLYING: CONFESSIONS OF A FREE WOMAN and appear as an extra feature on the Deluxe DVD Edition of the film!

The runner up will receive $250. Honorable mention winners will receive $100. All prizewinners will be featured on the FLYING website.

HERE'S WHAT YOU DO:

We are looking for a short, finished project that explores the issues important to you.

• Your film should be a 3 to 15 minute documentary about your life.


• Use FLYING as your inspiration. Try our new technique "PASSING THE CAMERA."


• To view samples of "pass the camera" or the FLYING trailer, visit the FLYING website.


• Once you've created your 7th Episode, upload your film for submission:

Go to the FLYING website to submit




Scroll down to the bottom of the page and fill out the submission form. In bio please state that this is a 7TH EPISODE SUBMISSION.




All entries must be submitted no later than April 30th.

Haven't seen FLYING but still want to get involved? Sign up for a House Party and see the first two episodes of the film with your friends at home! Or, check out the film's theatrical schedule to see when FLYING will be in a town near you!

"Breasts" - New York

I just want to talk about breasts for a minute.

Last week, I just saw this amazing film called “ABSOLUTELY SAFE”, by Carol Ciancuti Levy, about breast implant safety. It is a film I Executive Produced, so I’ve been viewing it over the years. But it just had it’s premiere screening in New York and watching it finished in the darken theater, I was horror struck again. It made me think about what has happened to us in our culture. How is it that we as women have somehow gotten brainwashed about how we think about our bodies to the point that we willingly mutilate them in the name of beauty…?

When I was a kid I remember loving my body. Not my face – I thought I was ugly for a long time – but I thought my body was perfect because it was well proportioned and thin. That is until I was about 11-years-old and I realized that my breasts weren’t growing. My older brother started to tease me mercilessly about this and it just became fodder for another one of our many fights. Indeed, it seemed like all my girlfriends were growing something beneath their shirts, and I was growing nothing…

My mother was always small breasted, and during my childhood my dad often made remarks or innuendos about how tiny she was. Sometimes he’d even tease her about how when he married her he got cheated in the breast department. Unbeknownst to him, she had worn falsies and, when he finally got his hand inside the bra, there was nothing there.

So, of course, when my time came around, I was very sensitive to the issue. And my bother, having picked up on my father, really took the opportunity to get back at me big time.

I remember when I first started to be sexual, thinking things like – “Well since I don’t have breasts, I have to ‘go further’ with the guy to make-up for my lack thereof…”

By the time I was 16 or 17, I was dying to have my breasts “fixed.” It was only 1977, but I already wanted breast implants. I don’t even know where I read about them or how I found out about them because that was so early in the popularization of implants. But somehow they were already well imbedded in the culture of women’s magazines that I read voraciously. I talked about it so much that my mom agreed to take me to see a plastic surgeon when I was about 19.

I remember she took me on the train to New York from Philly where we lived, and we went to the doctor’s office. As we sat in the waiting room, I looked at a brochure he had on the table with photos of various headless women ‘after surgery’ – and how I wanted the ‘after’ so badly.

When we finally enter the examining room he made me take off my shirt and looked at my chest. He kind of smiled and said, “Why you have beautiful breasts, you don’t need implants at all, let me show a picture of women who is flat chested who I would suggest implants for….” And he took out a book of pictures of other women and indeed they were completely flat, whereas I had these little round mounds. He told me that I should think about it for a few years, and if I still wanted them to come back and see him, and he would discuss it with me again.

I never did go back, and the desire disappeared. Thinking back, I don’t know if my mom had called ahead and told him what to say or exactly why the doctor had been so altruistic to turn me away, but the pictures he showed me helped my self-image a lot.

Over the years, I can’t say I’ve always loved my breasts. They are small, and I now wear a padded bra, which is another discussion in itself. But now that I am older, I am so grateful I didn’t cut them open to put plastic in them to make them bigger. I would have lost so much that I love about my breasts – like the sensation of softness, the sensitivity in my nipples, the very nature of what they are….

I remember, when I was very young, how my mom replied to one of my dad’s wisecracks about how small she was by saying, “Breasts have a function, they are made for nursing children, they are not for show…” Now, I think back and realize how wise my mother was, but I didn’t know it then. I wish I had.

I’d love to know what other women think about their breasts and how they related to their changing bodies growing up? I am really curious how each woman finds self-acceptance and even love of our “oh so imperfect but oh so very perfect forms” in a world that makes us believe that perfection can be created by man. Please write me back.

"Talking in Scandinavia" Part II - Sweden

Now that I was in Scandinavia, surely male-female relationships were different here? This was the region of gender equality. The Swedes and the Fins could finally teach me how to do this, they could help me with my failing relationship, if only I could take notes.

But then the strangest thing happened. Interview after interview each journalist asked me the same question I was asking myself – why was it that men and woman communicate so differently? And they didn’t ask me abstractly or objectively! They asked me with exasperation in their eyes and disappointment in their face. I could see they – like I – were desperate. They hoped that I might provide them with some clue to resolving this painful dilemma. One shy looking journalist in his thirties with glasses, began to give me some clues:

“I have to admit watching FLYING made me jealous!” He sighed heavily. “Why are women able to have such intimate conversations?” I could see he was a little embarrassed admitting this to a stranger. “I don’t know how you do it. I try to be intimate, but then I just run out of steam — after a while I just don’t have anything left to say! Whereas women can go on forever…”

It was such a relief to hear a man admitting what he couldn’t do, but also strange because despite my hopes that this was just a problem with my boyfriend, (yes I was still trying to deny gender!) I had to face the realization that this issue divided the world in two. Men and woman had different languages; the fight I was having with my boyfriend was so very typical. And even now, in the millennium, the cause of this gender division still wasn’t clear to any of us:

“But tell me,” he asked with a kind of desperation. “Why do you think it is so?”

I knew I was supposed to be an expert on gender issues because of FLYING — and certainly I had thought about it a lot — but I still felt lost in the proverbial woods.

“I think,” I began tentatively, “that there is or must be a biological component…. as well as a learned component…. You know that feelings just weren’t useful when you went into the woods to hunt animals to eat. Of course, the men must have been afraid –terrified — but to talk about it would only make it worse. So there grew up a culture of male pride. Probably the men who didn’t talk survived better, so then there was a genetic change….”

“Oh,” he said; his eyes excited. “You know here in Sweden bringing biology up around gender differences is just not politically correct. You can’t do it, people get angry at you….”

“I guess it make sense that if you want to talk about change, it is easy to use biology as an excuse.” I agreed and I saw him nod, “But honestly biology is just following our repetitive actions, so I am sure even biology could be changed if talking became a preferred trait for men over generations, don’t you think…?”

Just then, the SVT press agent, Brita, knocked on our door that it was time to stop. I was on a strict schedule and we had to say goodbye. It was sad because we both could have talked a long time. Before leaving the journalist said:

“If it wasn’t for my wife, I would be completely hopeless, but she has taught me a lot…”

As he left, I thought how lovely it was for a man to admit openly that a woman — his wife – could influence him like that. I think a lot of time men don’t allow themselves to change because they are afraid of seeming weak and giving their power away to women.

The day continued. There were five more interviews all by women – but amazingly all asked me the same golden question about male-female language. And I’m afraid for the most part none of us had much insight on the matter.

One woman who ran a feminist Internet site also asked. I decided to try my theory tentatively again with her, even though I had been told by the male journalist that it was politically incorrect. So I told her that I thought it was both biological and learned behavior:

“…Yet all culture turns into biology at some point, no?” I said. “If the genetic code is being created by us then even not talking can be both hard wired and supported by cultural practice…” But I really wasn’t sure. “What do you think?” I asked frustrated.

“I think it has something to do with being oppressed.” She said, “When there is no ability to act, you learn to talk. Not just women but all oppressed people….” She looked me straight in the eye: ‘I mean, if you have no agency in the world, you have nothing but talking…”

A light bulb went off in my head. When I was growing up the most communicative and open person I ever met was an Afro-American man named Cola who was the housekeeper for my family. We lived in the suburbs and because we had so many kids, my mother and him would split the driving. He used to drive us everywhere and when he drove we would talk, but he talked about everything openly – his feelings, his desires, his problems — and he talked to me as an equal. Cola was the son of southern sharecroppers and he had moved east to find work. He didn’t even have a high school education. There is no one more oppressed in America than the Afro-American male….

When you are oppressed, the only way you can let off steam is by talking. The women in my family did nothing but talk and express their feelings (to the degree that I often wanted them to hold some back but they definitely knew how to express). My father couldn’t express his emotions at all – except anger, which is the one male emotion. He went out in the world and ‘acted’. All his energy was consumed by action. No wonder he didn’t need to learn the language of feelings. That language of feelings had no place in the marketplace, where showing you’re feelings, tipping your hand so to speak, could actually make you loose your job…

… The interview went on, and of course there wasn’t enough time to say everything we wanted, since there were others waiting. Through the course of the day, there were so many things said and shared with my new Swedish friends. Because even thought this was a professional setting, FLYING had opened up the subject and provided a frame for us to talk in an honest way about who we really are as women and as men. So, after hours and hours of talking with the Swedish press I felt better, and though I hadn’t made huge inroads into the dilemma I was having with my boyfriend, I felt like I had some new thoughts to chew on. And that is all I need to feel better in the world. Sharing ideas and feelings. It is what feeds me – and that is oh so female.

"Talking in Scandinavia" Part I - Finland

I was having another fight with my boyfriend – only now I was in a hotel room in Finland. The locations changed, but the subject always remained the same.

I was here to do press for the TV launch of FLYING on Finnish television, YLE, beginning Thursday, November 1, and Swedish Television, SVT, beginning Sunday, October 28. Both countries were going to air the film in a weekly one hour evening slot, like a real series. I was thrilled. They had asked me to come to help with the press and also to do master classes in both countries about the film. In Finland I would do a seminar for the DOCPOINT with my editor Niels Pagh Anderson who was in Finland to edit a new film by John Walker (and also because his girlfriend is Finnish), and in Sweden I would screen the film at a festival called MDOX and run a master class there.

The film was having a fantastic reception. It seemed like there was a kind of love fest with the journalist here. I have never seen reporters ‘get’ FLYING like those in Scandinavia. I had already been to Denmark to launch the film on DR-2 there, and the reception and ratings had also been phenomenal. Somehow this film was just made for the region. But now, underlying all the excitement was the conflict with my boyfriend.

I was fine till I got back to my hotel room at night and then found myself unable to sleep – with the excuse of jet lag – except I had never seen jet lag like this before! I was averaging two hours a night and going down hill quickly. We had both reached a breaking point. We were having the same fight we had since early in our relationship – and I think we were reaching that point where — we just couldn’t do it anymore.

Our fight was about a seemingly simple topic: talking. I wanted to talk more; he wanted to talk less. I needed to talk about feelings, worries, and dramas in my family life or with friends. He found these things uncomfortable or even tiresome, tried to solve them quickly, and move on. I never wanted things solved; I wanted them explored; and if left to my own devises, I could explore them for hours. He felt I never got to “the point” and was impatient for me to hurry up in my story-telling; I wanted to tell him all the odd details that occurred so he would be able to get a true picture. Synopsizing was against my religion.

I have tried to adapt over the years: I have learned to sensor most of my inner life from my partner. I have stopped sharing many of my thoughts, feelings, and even creative ideas with him. I have learned to talk about the weather, what I did that day, what I ate, and what is in the newspaper. We call each other up each day and ‘report’. I have learned to avoid the frustration of asking him for some deeper conversation – and getting the response that he doesn’t have anything deep to share and – why am I always criticizing him. I feel I have changed and to be fair, he feels he has changed too. But since this is my rant, I get to tell my side of the story.

You see, no matter how hard he thinks he is trying, I end up feeling like I am living in silence. So once in a while I try to share something that is bugging me — because I have to let it out. I am a bit like a pressure cooker with feelings – eventually I’ve got to blow.

For example, I’d just had a big revelation that day when talking to one of my girlfriends, Paula, about my fears about having children that stretches back to when I was a child. As we chatted, I had suddenly realized that I was afraid to be happy. To me having children looked like the most hopeful thing in the world. What if you loved them and something bad happened? What if they got hurt or died? And then it hit me: I had been shocked when my middle brother, who I adored, was hospitalized twice before he was a year and a half old. I remember my mother rushing out of the house with him naked in her arms, screaming in fear. The second time, they threw him in the bath to bring his temperature down and then the police came to whisk her and him away. I stood at the window as the police car pulled away with its siren blaring, thinking I might never see him again. And indeed he had to have a huge operation and almost died.

Now as strange as this might sound, it suddenly came to me that I probably was traumatized by this event and my own fear and the fear of my mother. So honestly when I look at families today – I think, wow you guys are really courageous to take those risks. People think I am courageous to make films, but that is nothing compared with having children!

I was all excited to tell my boyfriend all this; it seemed like a big revelation that if I could get my head around, might actually help me to move forward with the adoption we’d been thinking about for so long. So I ran to the phone to call him, believing also that it would help him understand me better, which would lead to a better relationship. He answered the phone and I laid out my brilliant insight and traced the whole problem back to my childhood. I cried on the phone and felt really exposed. This was what relationship was about, I thought exultantly.

But on the line, his voice was irritated with that tone – oh no, here we go again with the deep stuff. He asked many tense questions and then changed the subject. “Well,” he said, “I don’t think you are willing to change your life enough to have children anyway.” And inside of me, I sunk. I was not talking about the practical side of child rearing but the inner ghosts preventing me from even beginning the process. I began to think maybe I hadn’t explained it right? Maybe he didn’t understand what I had told him? But he claimed he did. I tried to stay calm and not jump on him, tried to understand where he was coming from, tried to get a reaction to the story I had told him – you know connection, commiseration, compassion — but he didn’t have anything to say. Nothing.

I got off the phone feeling lost. It took me till the next day to react – after a long flight to Finland – I realized I was really angry. So once I arrived in the hotel and did my first two interviews, I called him on the phone and told him I was really upset. Of course, we got into the same spiral. He cannot talk more; I don’t accept him the way he is, I am always criticizing him. To me, asking to have a conversation about feelings isn’t criticism but expressing a need, a need that I can’t live without. And therein lies the difference between him and me. He can live with out talking and I can’t.

And of course, you are thinking: for a woman who just made a film about gender differences, this person is pretty stupid! Doesn’t she know by now that men and women are different? Of course I do know, but it is still hard for me to accept…

"Den Pobedi" Guest Blog - Moscow, Russia

Life on the road leaves me little time to do some of the things I love to do, like writing this blog. Fortunately, my good friend, Lisa, has her own idea of what life as a free woman entails. When I heard she was on her way to Russia, I saw an opportunity. I thought it might be refreshing to get a different perspective so I invited her to act as a guest blogger for this latest entry. I know you’ll enjoy her story as much as I do.

Love,
Jen

Before I tell this tale, there are three essential things you must know about me: 1) My entire family is involved in the boxing business and my mother runs a successful boxing promotion company; 2) I studied Russian in college and I lived and studied in St. Petersburg for a year; 3) I am prone to tangents and asides, so bear with me. I promise it will all come together.

I have this thing called “Den Pobedi.” It’s a term that I took from Russian. It means “Day of Victory.” In Russian, it refers to May 9th, the day Russians celebrate the victory over the Nazi’s during the Great Fatherland War, aka WWII. There is a corresponding war anthem, called none other than “Den Pobedi.” I became acquainted with the phrase through the song. I applied my own meaning, which has nothing to do with Nazis.

To me, “Den Pobedi” is when you win the worst kind of relationship game. Some relationships I leave feeling satisfied. I walk away knowing that it was for the best that it ended. More often than not, however, I leave with a distinct “What the FUCK?!” feeling. The partner decides - before I do - that we are headed for a dead end. I’m suddenly not as interesting as I previously seemed. I’m not as exciting. I’m clingy. I whine constantly. I’ve run out of cute underwear. I don’t know what happens. Because when it does, there is very little explanation. In fact, there is usually no explanation at all and I end up believing that I am still in the relationship well after it ends. It’s similar to when a phone call gets dropped and you keep on talking to dead air like an idiot. This sort of end to a relationship is nasty and ugly. Whereas I try to end most relationships on a good foot, the WTF relationships end on a noticeably crazier foot. That is to say, after I realize that I’ve been talking to dead air, I get angry and I want answers. I can’t help myself. I push the other person to tell me what has happened. What crime have I committed? Aren’t I still cute? Aren’t I still charming? Aren’t I still witty? Was I ever? What the FUCK?? I do not remain calm. I come off as a crazy woman. I’m not proud of it. But I’m aware of it. And I can’t help it. It is a sickness. My albatross.

But do not pity me, reader! A magical thing can happen. And in my experience, it ALWAYS happens. I am given a second chance. After some time, I will see the unlucky victim of my angry unrequited love, and shock-of-all-shocks!, I’m not the crazy faced woman they remember. I’ve matured, perhaps? I’m older. I’m wiser. My hair is longer. My boobs are bigger. I wasn’t crazy! I was passionate. They remember the good times and they want to experience them again. This is my Day of Victory. Maybe I lost a couple battles but, God damn it, I’ve won the war. They want me! They have been thinking about me. It was their fault, not mine. I was wonderful. What a fool they’ve been. They were young then. They are different now. Now they recognize me for the Goddess that I am. I’m an effing CATCH! Would I like to go to dinner? Of course, I would. I turn on the charm and I can leave them a satisfied woman because I can walk away from the relationship on top, on my own terms. They no longer seem so terrible. I’ve tamed the beast. Look at them scrambling to win back my affections! What did I ever see in them in the first place? I don’t have any use for them anymore. They were right all along. So long, lover… we’re done. “Eto Den Pobedi!”

I ended up in Moscow for a boxing match my mother’s company was co-promoting. Since I speak Russian, Mom thought it would be useful to bring me along and help the company navigate the cold post-soviet streets. Unfortunately, I could only be there for a couple days. My mother and her crew were there longer than I and they needed someone to help them around town. Enter: my ex-boyfriend. I’ll call him Michael. He was a fellow Slavophile. He had been in Moscow for a couple months and he was the only person I knew who was living there at the time. I put him and my mother in contact with each other then stayed out of it.

Michael and I had definitely left off on the crazy foot. One of the craziest feet I’ve ever put forward. I won’t go into details, but needless to say, I was nervous to see him. Michael was one of the few guys that really got under my skin. We were not together for that long. And it was never official. But, in my own emotionally stunted way, I think I really cared about him and felt that we had real potential as a couple. He’s what you call “the whole package;” smart, funny, charming, sexy, ambitious, talented… womanizing. I can’t shake the feeling that somehow he duped me. Hoodwinked! He was the one how followed me around like a puppy, trying to woo me. He worshipped me. So how the hell did I end up sore? I felt, at the beginning of the relationship, we entered into an unspoken contract that I would be the one doing the heart breaking. Michael had other plans.

When I did see him in Moscow, it was not what I expected. He was so sweet and so warm and actually wanted to see me! I was thrilled. I kept it inside. And what a surprise, I started hearing those familiar lines. Michael, not you, too! Did he really find me as charming as I found him? Did he really miss me? Did he really still think about me? Please, please, no lines… no bullshit. I admit, we were both a little drunk. But those were still the words I wanted to hear and thought I’d never hear. It was happening and I allowed myself to enjoy it. Victory!

We spent the rest of our time together enjoying each other’s company, flirting, reminiscing. These are the times when stupid pop songs take on an unusual dimension of profundity. I get very foolish in the face of love. I’m not one to be trusted in romantic situations. The old familiar feeling often gets me into trouble and this time was no different.

On my last night in Moskva, the entire group was assembled together: a mix of school buddies, boxing professionals and ex-boyfriends. Yes, there was actually more than one there (that’s what you get for studying something as absurd as Russian: a nearly useless skill and a bunch of pale ex-boyfriends). We were in mourning. Our guy lost the fight. And as they say, “When in Rome…” drink your ass off. We did just that. So I was high on two drugs: the thrill of victoriously rekindled romance and vodka. Lots and lots of vodka. I had a plane to catch early the next morning. I needed to go to bed early. But somehow, at the end of the night, I ended up with a key to an extra room and Michael. What ELSE were we going to do? We spent the night together and accidentally fell asleep without setting any alarms, without packing any bags, without telling anyone where we were.

In the morning, my mother was hysterical. She couldn’t find me and WE HAD A PLANE TO CATCH! Damn it, Lisa, why do you always do this? I had gone missing. Now, my mother is no dummy, she knew who I was with. She called Michael’s cell phone frantically. She called Michael’s friend’s cell phone frantically. She checked in my friends’ rooms frantically. She checked down in the lobby, back in our suite. Where the fuck was I?

The extra room!

She assembled a rescue committee and had a maid open the door with a passkey. And there she found us: in bed… passed out … and naked, very, very naked. “LISA!” Her shrill howl, the shock and disgust in that single cry, still resounds in my mind. It bounces around like an echo. At times, it grows faint, faint enough not to hear it, to forget it. And then, back it comes, to the forefront. It grows so loud that I am sure my ears are now serving their reverse function. I no longer use them to process sound, but to project it. The entire room can hear my mother’s disappointment and they know my shame.

Now, I’m not the kind of girl that pretends to be innocent. I’ve never claimed virginity. In fact, I had no problem announcing it to my mother when I had sex for the first time. Although, it was much to her horror; the woman is Catholic. But I’ve just always been like that: unashamed. I never understood what the fuss is about. Valuing female virginity has always seemed repressive and outdated to me. But there’s being open about one’s sexuality and then there’s putting it on display… to one’s own mother no less! This is an entirely different beast. One I am not proud to have encountered.

I got ready and packed in a hurry only to come down to the lobby and realize that not only did I embarrass myself in front of my mother, but also the ENTIRE fight crew. Everyone: people who watched me grow up, people who are like aunts and uncles to me, my mother’s business associates, corner men, EVERYONE knew what I had been doing the night before. I was the laughing stock of the trip! The trip slut! And I endured all the ensuing torture - the laughs, the snide comments, the sarcastic questions, the smirks - all the way home. I doubt I’ll ever live this down. At least not for another 20 years or so. Maybe this error in judgment will finally stop following me around once they are all dead. God, if you are a merciful God, bring on sweet death. It’s either them or me.

As I sit, reliving, writing, revolted, I find it difficult to conclude. On top of everything, something is still nagging at me. My “Den Pobedi” does not feel right. Maybe the residual shame of my mother discovering us passed out naked and exposing my little secret ruined it. Maybe the group’s amusement cheapened my tryst. I know I heard the lines. I know I got the right looks. But, I don’t feel victorious. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe I’m questioning Michael’s sincerity. Did he trick me again? In the mad rush to recover my clothes and my dignity, I forgot to say goodbye. It wasn’t until we touched down on American soil that I recognized I still wasn’t satisfied. I got him to admit defeat, but I don’t want him defeated. Whatever the reason, I’ve got Moscow on my mind. And I don’t feel like a winner at all.

"The FLYING Conversation" - Winnipeg, Canada

I just flew in from the Vancouver Film Festival where the film was presented (more on that to come) to Winnipeg where it is opening at the Cinemateque here. On the telephone tonight, a girlfriend of mine back in New York told me about a discussion she had recently with her boyfriend:

“….We had the flying conversation…. You know…. And we both decided we couldn’t do it….”

She was in the middle of an idea, but I was lost, so I interrupted her: “Flying?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “We talked about flying and we decided it wasn’t for us.”

“Where were you flying to?” I asked confused.

“Nowhere….” Her voice was irritated.

“Oh…”

“You know we decided we didn’t wanted to do what Patrick did for you in flying…. Both of us felt we couldn’t stand it…”

“Stand what?” I was having a slow day.

“You know, to be with someone who was seeing someone else…”

“Oh” I said finally, all the pieces coming together.

“He was amazing….”

“Yes,’ I said. “He was…”

The conversation moved on to other things, but I kept thinking about what my friend said long after I got off the phone. I realize how unusual it is for men – or women for that matter – to stand the jealously of someone they care for loving another person. Even though Patrick did that for me, I wasn’t sure I could do that for him if the situation was reversed.

I feel I could love two people at once – I’ve done it, although it was hard. But I think I would be furious if my partner did the same. I know it sounds strange, because I have been with a married man, which means of course that I have accepted that the person I love is with another woman and me simultaneously. But being with a married man (or woman) is often different than one might think. In my case, my married lover always told me that he didn’t love his partner. He was just trapped because he didn’t want to leave his children. And I believed him. (Ok, now the Diaspora of female sisters can stop sighing and rolling their eyes – yes I admit I am a little slow….) In my mind I believed he only loved me; the other woman wasn’t a factor at all so it wasn’t about sharing his love. My acceptance of being with a married man is not the same as having your boyfriend or girlfriend, your husband or wife, actively loving you and another person at the same time and admitting that he or she can love two people at once.

But it floors me when I think that that this is so intolerable for me and for most people: Why are we so narrow as human beings? Why is possession so important? Why do we always have to be the only one to be loved?

I guess I am not capable of flying either.

"The FLYING Conversation" - Winnipeg, Canada

I just flew in from the Vancouver Film Festival where the film was presented (more on that to come) to Winnipeg where it is opening at the Cinemateque here. On the telephone tonight, a girlfriend of mine back in New York told me about a discussion she had recently with her boyfriend:

“….We had the flying conversation…. You know…. And we both decided we couldn’t do it….”

She was in the middle of an idea, but I was lost, so I interrupted her: “Flying?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “We talked about flying and we decided it wasn’t for us.”

“Where were you flying to?” I asked confused.

“Nowhere….” Her voice was irritated.

“Oh…”

“You know we decided we didn’t wanted to do what Patrick did for you in flying…. Both of us felt we couldn’t stand it…”

“Stand what?” I was having a slow day.

“You know, to be with someone who was seeing someone else…”

“Oh” I said finally, all the pieces coming together.

“He was amazing….”

“Yes,’ I said. “He was…”

The conversation moved on to other things, but I kept thinking about what my friend said long after I got off the phone. I realize how unusual it is for men – or women for that matter – to stand the jealously of someone they care for loving another person. Even though Patrick did that for me, I wasn’t sure I could do that for him if the situation was reversed.

I feel I could love two people at once – I’ve done it, although it was hard. But I think I would be furious if my partner did the same. I know it sounds strange, because I have been with a married man, which means of course that I have accepted that the person I love is with another woman and me simultaneously. But being with a married man (or woman) is often different than one might think. In my case, my married lover always told me that he didn’t love his partner. He was just trapped because he didn’t want to leave his children. And I believed him. (Ok, now the Diaspora of female sisters can stop sighing and rolling their eyes – yes I admit I am a little slow….) In my mind I believed he only loved me; the other woman wasn’t a factor at all so it wasn’t about sharing his love. My acceptance of being with a married man is not the same as having your boyfriend or girlfriend, your husband or wife, actively loving you and another person at the same time and admitting that he or she can love two people at once.

But it floors me when I think that that this is so intolerable for me and for most people: Why are we so narrow as human beings? Why is possession so important? Why do we always have to be the only one to be loved?

I guess I am not capable of flying either.