Reflect What You Are, In Case You Don't Know

I'll be your mirror
reflect what you are, in case you don't know
I'll be the wind, the rain, and the sunset
the light on your door to show that you're home

When you think the night has seen your mind
that inside you're twisted and unkind
Let me stand to show that you are blind
Please put down your hands
'cause I see you

I find it hard
to believe you don't know, the beauty you are
But if you don't, let me be your eyes
a hand to your darkness, so you won't be afraid

When you think the night has seen your mind
that inside you're twisted and unkind
Let me stand to show that you are blind
Please put down your hands
'cause I see you

I'll be your mirror (reflect what you are)
I'll be your mirror (reflect what you are)
I'll be your mirror (reflect what you are)
I'll be your mirror (reflect what you are)
I'll be your mirror (reflect what you are)

When Someone You Love is Republican

While I've been recovering from surgery, I've had a lot of time to think. We live in a world that regularly oversimplifies conflict for lots of reasons. Motives aren't necessarily always insidious or deliberately injurious. My partner is always good to regularly remind me of Hanlon's Razor, which states that we ought never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity. I would add to Hanlon that we also ought not to attribute to malice what can also be explained by simple, unthinking prejudice.

Malice implies some deliberate effort to cause pain in another person, and, achieving that, taking pleasure in their own misery. Most people never bother to take the time to concoct elaborate schemes to cause anyone harm. And should they do so, the irony is that they are probably responding out of hurt to something we did or they think we did directly to them. Along those lines, Oscar Wilde said that true friends always stab from the front.

One of my father’s good friends was a conservative Republican. There are even pictures of him affectionately holding me in his lap when I was a toddler. A few years later, he was extremely kind and helpful to my grieving mother when her father died. She still speaks highly of him for the reason to this day. Mom was only a couple years older than me when Grandfather died. I can’t imagine losing a parent now.

A very religious, right-wing Christian, in the early 1970’s he was an instrumental leader who also helped set in place a denominational split. The larger, national denomination made a decision to allow women to be ordained as ministers and to institute more progressive reforms, which included inclusive language and practice towards those openly LGBT. Unwilling to adopt these “liberal” reforms, many Southern churches broke away completely and formed their own association. The arrangement is in place to this day. To them, “gay” is just a lifestyle choice and women are accepted, so long as they don’t preach.

Life is often full of the profoundest of ironies. A secret harbored by one of my father’s friends was that one of the man's sons was gay. Once the son came out, he was essentially disowned and cast away. Because of this decision, he was forbidden to live anywhere near his father, so to not flaunt his gay lifestyle. Apparently the son and the son’s partner never quite moved far enough away for the Father's liking. My father’s friend, who, as I’ve mentioned was also father of a queer child, came to my own father about that same time for help and support. I can only imagine what was said, but I’m pretty sure that the phrase “love him for the way he is” was likely never uttered. I only know about this anecdote because it was invoked, rather angrily, when I myself confessed that I was bisexual years later. And to conclude, it wasn’t until my father’s friend was dying, due to a failing heart, that father and son even began to repair their broken relationship. I’m still not sure the old man ever quite reached more than grudging acceptance.

Enter the complications. This is the same man who encouraged me to always succeed, even when in my teens I developed that regrettable liberal Democrat stance I still hold today. This is the same man who possessed a gentleness and a convivial spirit that taught me that men don’t have to be vicious and angry. The brutality of the playground with its pecking order and emphasis on brute strength and unforgiving conquest shaped my own conception of masculinity. It repulsed me, but one could either retreat to the sidelines as a coward, or fight back and win the respect of one’s fellows. Through his example, I knew I had no need to resort to violence, and it shaped my own nascent pacifism. This is also the same man who, upon his death, I cried for hours.

But had he known my true position on any number of issues, I am fairly certain his attitude towards me would have been very different. And this is the same man that, had he known my sexual orientation, would have likely avoided me from then on, perhaps even with a few concluding hurtful, hateful words. I’m still not sure I understand.

These tragedies, then, wound deeply, not because they are so uncommon, but because they are so ordinary. And it is often impossible to separate completely the person from the idea or concept which we find so objectionable. Should we contemplate the statements of a stranger on this same subject, I find we do not have this same internal debate. We never need reminding of who our enemies are, nor who our allies are. If we did, would we be so eager to strike, to wound, to injure? If we were this emotionally invested in someone else, could diplomacy proceed smoothly, not with mutual fears grounded in paranoid? How would we achieve this world without absolutes?

Back to the ER

This is getting really old. I tell you, I have no luck these days.

Yesterday afternoon, while in the middle of doing something else, I felt the beginnings of a hypertensive crisis. But why? My lunch consisted of items proven to not be problematic in times past. This was clearly not a reaction to food. Instead, it was more likely that the crisis was a result of an interaction with other medications in my system, the most likely culprit being Percocet. My annoyance gave way to fear and I knew I had to call 911.

The dispatcher over the phone initially had to talk me into sending the paramedics. I had no desire to return to a hospital so soon again if I could help it. Then my situation worsened to the point that I conceded I had no choice. The paramedics arrived for the second time in two months. This episode was gratefully not as severe as the previous one. I was able to walk, weakly, into the back of the ambulance. What made it awkward somewhat is that I had to lie on my side to avoid putting too much pressure on the incision site. Shortly before we left for the hospital, my pulse rate was measured as high as 125 bpm and blood pressure got as high as 150/90.

A hypertensive crisis caused by medication comes in waves. Heart rate and blood pressure surges briefly, then slacks off, then surges again. It's a sickening sensation, but one has no choice but to ride it out. Though it is highly unlikely one will die from a crisis, the feeling comes with such abject panic that one fully expects to die from the results of it. At the back of the mind with me is always the fear that my heart is going to explode. It's not a rational fear, but the sensation does not exactly encourage rationality.

It's astonishing where you'll encounter sexism. While seated on a gurney at the rear of the ambulance, one of the male EMTs asked me why the female dispatcher had noted that I was having an allergic reaction on her report. I said, I explained to her that this isn't technically an allergic reaction, but I think this is how she wished to note it.

He shook his head in disgust. Women are stupid. They don't know nothing, man.

What should I have said? I so rarely hear flagrant comments like that. If I had spoken up, I was afraid my quality of care would have suffered. This was the person responsible for monitoring my blood pressure, pulse rate, and then handing me off to someone in the Emergency Room. I didn't want to make him angry.

I spent two and a half hours in the ER being monitored. With time, my blood pressure and pulse rate slowly declined. I was given a medication through IV to lower both of them while there, plus a prescription to do the same at home. Since Perocet seems to be the issue, I'm going to need to watch my condition until the last of it leaves my system. As I write this, it's been 24 hours or so since the last pill, so I think I'm reaching a point where it's just about out. I suppose after Percocet reaches a high enough concentration in my system, it then ends up becoming this problematic. I wish MAOIs weren't this sensitive.

Now, I have no means of keeping pain away besides Tylenol, but I guess I'll just have to deal with it. I hope this is the last time for a long while. In roughly two years, I've had three of these reactions, but the last two have been only a couple months apart.

My Thoughts on Health Food

People Look Well in the Dark

I managed to find a way to sit for an extended period of time in semi-comfort. Long enough to record this song, at any rate. This is a favorite of mine and should you be a regular reader, you'll recognize that I've posted YouTubes of the original version and my cover version at least once before. Now I decided it was time for a fuller, multitrack recording of same.

This song is dedicated in particular to a painfully shy Friend. As someone who once used to be similarly uncomfortable in social situations, my heart goes out to her.




one, two, three
If you close the door
Leave the sunshine out
and say hello to never

All the people are dancing
and they're having such fun
I wish it could happen to me

But if you close the door
I'd never have to see the day again

If you close the door
the night could last forever
Leave the wine-glass out
and drink a toast to never

Oh, someday I know
someone will look into my eyes
And say hello
you're my very special one

But if you close the door
I'd never have to see the day again

Dark party bars, shiny Cadillac cars
and the people on subways and trains
Looking gray in the rain, as they stand disarrayed
oh, but people look well in the dark

And if you close the door
the night could last forever
Leave the sunshine out
and say hello to never

All the people are dancing
and they're having such fun
I wish it could happen to me

Cause if you close the door
I'd never have to see the day again
I'd never have to see the day again, once more
I'd never have to see the day again

Taking Stock of Myself

In my grand bucket list of health problems, I have finally crossed one of them off completely. Shortly before the procedure, a dear Friend reminded me of that very fact. I had to agree. Pilonidal cyst, removed. Next up is hypogonadism, thyroid disease, and an unexplained illness yet to be determined. Now, sewn up neatly as I am, I deal with the discomfort of itching in crucial places that can never be scratched. This is a good sign. A scab means healing is in process.

I don't want to have surgery again for a very long time. It's a hassle. In addition to being an emotional drain, it's a time drain. Lots of paperwork. Lots of waiting. In an ideal world, I wouldn't have to worry about medical carelessness, but being on a medication that has major side effects with certain drugs used in anesthesia, nothing can be left to chance. These days, I'm so scared reading about all of those stories regarding surgical accidents and doctor neglect that even the thought of something going wrong stresses me. I should probably buy a medical bracelet specifying the medication I'm on, should I have to have emergency surgery for any reason. I've also thought about leaving a list of medications in my wallet for the same reason.

My partner helps me with household chores for the time being. I can't stoop or bend at the knees, because the stitches must remain in place until it is time for them to be removed. Still, I'm used to loading the dishwasher and cleaning the kitchen. And there other things I can't do, things that make me feel productive, like laundry and vacuuming. She also has to help me take a shower, since my backside doesn't need to get wet and/or soapy. I'm a pretty independent person, so I feel annoyed at how much I can't do myself. But I am lucky to have her. She's happy to do it, and I'm glad she's willing to help, but I still would rather her not have to go out of her way. At her request, I keep her largely off my blog and out of my writing, but I've recognized in the past several days exactly how much I love her. I wish it didn't take something extreme like this to lead me to that conclusion, but I appreciate the reminder in any case.

My days recently consist of staring at walls, watching middlebrow television, and monitoring my Facebook page. Half the time I'm completely drugged up and unnaturally calm on painkillers. I see the appeal of opiates. It is nice to not have to worry about much of anything, though my productivity has not been particularly high. I have written a little bit, even though I've been told specifically to rest and not worry about anything serious for a while. Doctor's orders. I suppose I can't help myself. Any writer will tell you that, after a time, writing becomes both reflexive and addictive. However, the only way I can write anything coherent is let the latest pill wear off to the point that I begin to feel pain. I suppose I'm perversely devoted to the craft enough that I will risk almost anything to get a piece completed. After all, it's not like William Faulkner and O.Henry didn't write in alcoholic stupors half the time.

Quote of the Week

"Cry if you can, but don't complain. Your path chose you. And you shall say thank you."- Dag Hammarskjöld

Geraldine Ferraro's Mixed Legacy

I begin this essay keenly aware of the fact that, before the end, I am probably going to strike a nerve with someone. A part of me feels that I ought to keep some of these thoughts to myself out of respect for the recently deceased. In ordinary circumstances, I would. But in today’s news cycle, sandwiched as the story is between a war in Libya and a nuclear disaster in Japan, if I don’t speak my mind now, I’ll likely not get a second chance. So I might as well say my peace.

The traditional print media pattern after someone famous has died is first to lionize them for their crowning achievements. A day or so later, extended biographical sketches begin to emerge, and a few opinionated columnists chime in to either bury him or her or to praise him or her. Here then is my own perspective, for what it’s worth. By all means, celebrate Geraldine Ferraro for how history will likely always remember her, as the first female Vice-Presidential candidate of a major party. The first female politician to be plucked from relative obscurity to round out a ticket, one could easily argue that without Geraldine Ferraro there would have been no Hillary Clinton, or, for that matter, Sarah Palin. She herself would have agreed with that sentiment and did during her lifetime.

It is also true that Ferraro, like Clinton and Palin, found herself the frequent target of unfounded sexist, patriarchal criticism during the Presidential campaign. The proudly Italian-American Representative from Queens, New York, often overshadowed the man running at the head of the ticket, soft-spoken Walter Mondale of Minnesota. She was put on the spot in television interviews, even asked point-blank whether or not any woman was tough enough to be Vice-President. One question even suggested that the Soviet Union might somehow take advantage of the very existence of a female Vice-President, which also questioned her strength and mettle.

Most of these questions would now no longer be voiced to any female candidate, regardless of office. Allegations regarding her husband’s finances, for whatever reason they may have been brought up, nonetheless damaged the strength of the Democratic ticket, and muted whatever bounce in the polls might have been otherwise achieved. In fairness, though, defeating a popular incumbent President named Ronald Reagan would have been difficult in any circumstance, if not altogether impossible.

Beyond her glass ceiling-shattering achievement, the former Congresswoman’s legacy will always be scarred and dubious to many, myself included. Extremely ill-timed and offensive comments made during the 2008 Democratic Presidential Primary revealed a bitterness prevalent among some older women, feminists, and Hillary Clinton supporters. The more extreme elements resurfaced by the end of the primary as PUMA’s, but Ferraro’s views were more common than any fringe media curiosity. To them, Barack Obama’s skin color gave him a pass in the media, the election, and the court of public opinion. These statements and her unrepentant interviews afterwards will always make it difficult for me to give her the benefit of the doubt, even in death.

The borderline racist, resentful sentiment behind the remarks are only part of the story. To me, they are highly indicative of the kind of entitled, navel-gazing, smug, self-congratulatory attitudes that too often are found in Second-Wave Feminism. A movement that accomplished much for women’s rights and gender equality, and deserves all the credit in the world for the achievement, still contained and still contains some notable and glaring blind spots. It never truly looked beyond the perspectives of educated, affluent white women.

Gender inequality is not merely a problem for the white, the middle class, the educated, and the heterosexual. I fault it primarily for completely ignoring the valid concerns and input of women of color, the poor, and the working class. Had it done so, offensive remarks like Ferraro’s would have never been uttered, and efforts to transform the Obama/Clinton race into the Oppression Olympics would never been attempted in the first place.

Still, no one would ever doubt Ferraro for her toughness. Her life as a groundbreaking female politician is proof of that and even I grant her that much. This is also true as concerns her personal life. Geraldine Ferraro beat all expectations, living with blood cancer for over a decade when initially expected to perish within three to five years. Though her political career was quixotic, ultimately full of spectacular defeats and few victories, she gave it all that she had.

And if recent history is any indication, a woman will sooner than later head the ticket of a major political party’s candidate for President of the United States. Whomever she is, she will owe a notable debt to Geraldine Ferraro. And as one column draws to a close, in the same fashion as the life it summarizes, one hopes we can all learn from our stars, in both their successes and their shortcomings.

Dedicated to All The Mothers Out There

(Click to embiggen)

Saturday Video

Not Recommended for the Squeamish

I modified the photo a bit to give it that nice late Seventies look, but this is what I look like, post cyst removal. I wish I could put it under a cut for those who might not wish to have this pop up on their reader of choice. As always, click directly on the image to embiggen it.

Success!

Surgery went as well as could be expected. I was quite relieved. And I was even more relieved that I was able to talk directly with the anesthesiologist. He and I discussed potential interactions between the anesthesia and drugs I was already taking for other health conditions. He assured me that precautions were being taken, which greatly diminished my fears shortly before the procedure was performed. That, more than anything, is what had me anxious leading up to the day of the procedure.

Arriving early, I filled out paperwork, submitted insurance information, and then waited. I was, after not too long, called back to prepare for surgery. After languishing in a hospital gown, cap, and socks for nearly an hour, various members of the surgical team came to visit me. When it was finally my turn, they wheeled me into the operating room. I was told that I was being given something through the IV that would help with anxiety. Within a minute or so I found myself growing drowsy. Just as I was wondering how they would lift me from the bed, which was on floor level to the elevated operating table, I lost consciousness.

I came to an hour and a half later, groggy, but relatively coherent. As the last effects of the anesthesia wore off, I carried on a conversation with a nurse about theology, believe it or not. My partner was by my side the whole time, minus the actual surgery, and after it was time for me to leave, arranged for a taxi to take us back to the apartment. She then got pain meds and an antibiotic filled for me at the drug store as I rested in bed. The first day, my throat was sore and hoarse from having an oxygen tube inserted into it during the procedure. The site of the incision itself was completely numbed up and packed with gauze. Some very odd mesh, disposable underwear had been put onto me at some point immediately after surgery, while I was still under.

Since then, I've been taking it easy, trying not to do too much. There are lots of things forbidden to me for the time being. Showering has been a challenge, because I can't get the incision site wet. I'm also afraid of doing much of anything that would cause additional pain. I've had to find creative ways to sit. I can't lie on my back when sleeping; I have to lie on my side, instead. I'm not to sit on hard surfaces or to apply direct pressure to the site. In two weeks, the stitches will be removed. I'm wondering what my scar will look like.

Provocative Journalism or Borderline Irresponsible?

I shouldn't even be writing right now, but I rise from my sickbed long enough to draft a response to this column. I hope that it wasn't written as a way to insult organized religion, but if it is, I'm surprised MSNBC agreed to publish it on its website. The construction is clever enough to not read like a hit piece, but the way it starts out seems snide enough to reveal its true sentiments.

Most people are respectful of the fact that I am a person of faith. I never ask for any special consideration, only to be left alone to worship as I choose. The same goes for many other people I know. And, rest assured, I am just as disgusted as anyone to read or hear about instances where organized religion has damaged lives. But the article above isn't content merely to treat religious expression with a backhanded sneer, it also links the practice to obesity. If that wasn't so offensive, it would be an interesting juxtaposition of a sort. Sometimes people who are religious are treated by the rest of society the same as if they were overweight.

Still, this is a ridiculous premise. At its face, the article seems to imply that not being involved in a religious gathering is somehow healthier. Though it is qualified somewhat by the conclusion, the blaring headlines say otherwise. I'm sure that some people who take this piece seriously might even reconsider being actively involved for fear of gaining weight. The question of obesity in American life is a contentious one that I will avoid for the most part, but a secondary argument appears to be that keeping healthy involves avoiding temptation to overeat.

Observe the headline below.

Praise the lard? Religion linked to obesity in young adults

Weekly church activities boost obesity 50 percent by middle age, 18-year study shows

The article never explains how data was gathered and analyzed. Nor does it tell us which denominations, religions, churches, or branches contributed. Nor are we told what regions of the country were surveyed. Instead we are to take its facts and figures at face value. I'm also not exactly sure what conclusions I am to draw from it, besides a swipe at religious gatherings designed for young adults. The Young Adult functions I help organize are usually pretty healthy, food wise. With so many dietary restrictions among us, what is served often trends towards the bland more than the rich. And we do usually try to eat healthy.

“Our main finding was that people with a high frequency of religious participation in young adulthood were 50 percent more likely to become obese by middle age than those with no religious participation in young adulthood,” says Matthew Feinstein, the study’s lead investigator and a fourth-year medical student at Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine.

By the end, the article does put a more positive face on church membership and religious affiliation, but I still fail to see how this qualifies as "news". Throughout the day, we have ample opportunity to overeat. Work-related conferences and gatherings are often awash in fattening food. Assuming we are at least semi-affluent, we have the ability to purchase cheap, unhealthy products on almost every corner. The problem here is not a religious one. Rather, it is a question of living in a culture of abundance. But that's a different subject altogether.

The article does conclude on an upbeat note, though only as a kind of apology for how it started out.

Feinstein says while obesity appears to be an issue for religious people, previous studies have shown that the faithful tend to live longer, be less likely to smoke, and to have better mental status.

If this entire column was meant to counter-balance earlier findings, that's one thing, but it could have been put together so much better. I wonder if the offensiveness and heavy-handedness I'm picking up on reflects the author's bias or a desire to be controversial enough to garner attention. In any case, I couldn't let it go unchallenged.

It Does Take a Village After All

I've often been interested in genealogy, and have recently discovered that I have some first generation Quaker relatives. A Friend from my Meeting recently asked about my family history after worship, so I thought I might provide that which I know. The people described here all hail from from a village named Hunsdon, which is in Hertsfordshire, north of London. If you need a point of reference, Hunsdon is in the East of England, roughly 25 miles north of London.

Before I begin, I would like to note that history is important, but to me, what I do with my own life is more important. This information is provided purely for interest's sake, and also to note how Friends as a faith group have changed over the years. What I find most interesting and inspiring are how deeply committed these people were to their faith, so much so that they would put up with constant harassment. It is a testament to their lives and their struggles that we all can express our beliefs and worship as we choose. Even if we are not Quaker, we can still see evidence of their devotion and desire to practice as they wished.

Some of these stories are amusing. The history notes that Henry Feast, a grocer, deliberately disturbed an Anglican rector before he was to begin his sermon. "Feast stood up and in a loud voice said, 'The prayer of the wicked is an abomination to the Lord!' When the rector asked if the Friend was applying the scripture to him, the Quaker's reply was inaudible by reason of the tumult in the church." It seems that several Hunsdon Convinced Friends (converts) were resorting to similar tactics, in so doing probably emulating the example of George Fox. Fox, an English separatist, was the founder of the Religious Society of Friends.

Most Hunsdon Quakers refused to pay taxes to the Church of England, which meant excommunication, frequent court appearance, and time spent in jail. Excommunication was a strong penalty in those days. Many refused to attend church service, which was itself unlawful at that time. Some were summoned to court for establishing a Friends school, others for not having their children baptized in the parish church. Many faced regular fines. One unfortunate Friend, a farmer, had his entire crop confiscated to pay outstanding taxes, a ruinous development for any small yeoman planter. He later died not long after.

And here's where my ancestor enters the picture.

Edward Camp is perhaps the most well known Hunsdon Quaker through his numerous court appearances over a period of ten years. His stubborn determination to adhere to his Quaker principles in spite of constant harassment by the magistrates and court officials has shown him to be a man of strong personality. It was probably through him that the Quaker movement spread so quickly and extensively in Hunsdon. His house and blacksmith's shop stood in the centre of the village near the pump, or in his day, the village well.

Camp held conventicles, or secret religious meetings. They were illegal under the law at that time. That he was able to manage this for as long as he did in a small village suggests that he had the full support and help of neighbors and other Friends. For this offense, he eventually spent a year in gaol (jail). Without the support of his sons, at least two of which were also Friends themselves, his blacksmith shop would have completely gone bankrupt. The cooperation between Quakers in this village was undeniably strong. Without this unity, they would have undoubtedly suffered more.

And as I retell this story, I am humbled and grateful to be his descendant, hoping always to emulate his example. I will not lie. When I read this history for the first time, I was understandably proud, but also wondered whether I could have been similarly courageous. He and other Friends risked everything they had for an uncertain future. But, it seems that they also had the great privilege to observe firsthand the eventual progress and reforms they had crafted with their own hands, within their own lifetimes.

There is good news at the end of this story. In time, roughly that of forty years or so, excommunication was a punishment meted out only occasionally. By then, so many of the village's households had become Quaker, or at least non-conformist, that even a Friend was elected as churchwarden. That would have been unthinkable only a few decades earlier. The villagers' hard work in spreading their faith ensured that subsequent generations would not face these same difficult challenges. Quaker or non-Quaker, religious or non-religious, I, for one, hope we can use their example for everyone's greater gain.

These villagers kept in mind at all times this scriptural passage.

For I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home. I was naked, and you gave me clothing. I was sick, and you cared for me. I was in prison, and you visited me.'

"And the King will say, 'I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!'

P.S. Should anyone wish to read the entire history, it is here: http://www.tomcamp.org/misc%20docs/The%20Hunsdon%20Quakers.pdf

Surgery Day

Three hours from now, I will be at the hospital, being prepared for surgery. After filling out the requisite paperwork and providing documentation of insurance, the process of preparing for the procedure will begin. If I said I wasn't nervous about it, I'd totally be lying, but this needs to be done. At the risk of sounding gross, the cyst has begun to bleed more frequently and is more painful. It must be removed and removed soon.

But it is also time for me to give the higher power his/her due. Many people are holding me in the Light today. I am thankful for the fact that I have them in my life, when many times before I had almost no one. God truly has blessed me with such good Friends. My life began to turn around when I moved to DC. I could never take it all for granted. I have formed so many supportive connections with others and it's times like these that I fully recognize them.

And for my readers out there, know that I care for each of you, too.

The Degrees of Stepping Out

I’m about to take a risk. I’ve submitted an essay to a magazine that has just started up. In it, I step a little bit farther out of the closet, speaking openly about being bisexual. If you knew me personally you'd recognize that being acknowledged as queer makes me feel utterly naked and defenseless in front of the world. Once, at a previous job, I told one co-worker (herself a lesbian) my sexual orientation, only to find that it fast became the subject of rapacious interoffice gossip. When my boss at the time confirmed to me what everyone knew by then, I flushed with embarrassment. I still can think of no greater feeling of complete torment.

What makes this worse is that it will be featured in a new Quaker Young Adult publication, likely confirming for at least some what has been previously rumored or speculated. Many other LGBT Friends know, because I deliberately sought them out to talk about my own struggles, knowing I would be talking to those who understood. Now it will be publicly known among the people with whom I regularly interact and work, and in time, I’m sure the news will filter its way into my own Meeting. Not that it will be much of a surprise, really. Those particularly perceptive and attuned have likely already figured it out themselves, or at least have their suspicions. And me? Well, I am still having mixed feelings.

In my nightmares, the moment I exit the closet resembles a darkly lit set, a spotlight pointed directly at me, TV cameras focused like a laser beam. An announcer intones, You admit that you’re queer? The shame and guilt burn within me as I gaze into the packed studio audience and the flashbulbs of a thousand cameras, and I manage to stammer out, Well, yes...but

This anxiety is mostly about me. Coming out, regardless of identity, seems to be so much easier these days. This doesn’t mean that it isn’t daunting or difficult, but we’re quickly reaching a time where the response to the news from most people might someday be no more than a shrug. Even so, I don’t want to be treated differently now that I’m more out than I was before. This is not to be confused for as out as I could ever possible be. That’s for later. Maybe. Bisexuality to me has always been incredibly confusing. I don’t fit neatly into either the heterosexuality box or the homosexuality one. I never have and never will. But in keeping with my general fears, I’ve incorporated or at least acknowledged publicly very subtle aspects of queer identity. Yet, I’ve also never felt a desire to take on the skin of conventional heterosexuality, finding it offensive at worst, and inauthentic at best.

Most people will be completely accepting and affirming. I don’t worry about that. This is a publication geared towards Liberal Friends. To be sure, there are certain people in more conservative branches of Quakerism to whom I would never reveal my sexual orientation. I can pass for straight quite competently, and ducking back into the closet temporarily has never been difficult for me. I suppose I take a pragmatic approach. The high femme lesbian Friend I know who makes no apologies for who she partners with has been the subject of some awful homophobic remarks. She too could pass, and does, most of the time, until she reveals otherwise. We both benefit in similar ways. But where I would keep silent, she does not. I admire her courage, but I am not ready yet.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever be ready yet.

Like a Cross of Himself and a Fox

Only one exact portion of the lyrics are problematic to me. I have always interpreted "unforeseen danger" as meaning that the protagonist of this tale knows secrets based on observation. This would be confirmed by the following line, "keeper of the key to the locks". There are slightly sinister elements here, but I get the feeling that The Loner mainly just wants to be left alone. He may know what station you usually depart, but that's merely his own private curiosity. He seems to be still healing from a breakup. Is it the way the words are arranged against themselves that is the issue here, or their basic meaning?


He's a perfect stranger,
Like a cross
of himself and a fox.

He's a feeling arranger
And a changer
of the ways he talks.

He's the unforeseen danger
The keeper of
the key to the locks.

Know when you see him,
Nothing can free him.
Step aside, open wide,
It's the loner.

If you see him in the subway,
He'll be down
at the end of the car.

Watching you move
Until he knows
he knows who you are.

When you get off
at your station alone,
He'll know that you are.

Know when you see him,
Nothing can free him.
Step aside, open wide,
It's the loner.

There was a woman he knew
About a year or so ago.

She had something
that he needed
And he pleaded
with her not to go.

On the day that she left,
He died,
but it did not show.

Know when you see him,
Nothing can free him.
Step aside, open wide,
It's the loner.

Here Comes Your 19th Nervous Breakdown

Ordinarily at this time I'd be hard at work on something substantive. However, I am too distracted and preoccupied with my own worries to manage it. Wednesday's surgery should be a routine affair. Yet, due to the presence other medications already in my bloodstream, medicines I have taken long term to treat existing illnesses, there's a possibility of interaction with the anesthesia. The phrase "surgical complications" in any context makes my blood run cold. In an ideal setting, I'd have been given the ability to taper off of one particularly troublesome medication for at least two full weeks.

The issue with that process, however, is that I am sensitive to titration, and would have gone into severe withdrawal had I stopped that quickly. I only knew about the date of surgery a week ago. Should I ever need to come off of the problematic drug Parnate altogether, it would likely take two months to curb withdrawal symptoms altogether. And there are other potential problems. Should, for example, the painkiller Demerol be accidentally administered, it is highly likely I would die on the operating table. I have done my part in informing the surgeon's assistant, who has then informed the anesthesiologist, but I'm still not feeling very comfortable.

This whole week is going to be touch-and-go. Spaced out on Percocet, my concentration and focus will not be the best for several days. If I can update following surgery, I will, but these will likely not be too detailed. Then there comes the troublesome issue of being able to sit for extended periods of time, or at all. You'll recall the cyst being removed sits on my tailbone. I'm trying to get as much done in the next two days as I can manage. The plan today was to try to get at least one top notch post completed, but that seems to not be in the cards. And, I don't really have anything terribly unique to say about Libya or the anniversary of the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire. Both are terrible, but there's nothing much I can expound upon beyond the echo chamber.

Quote of the Week

"Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be."- Clementine Paddleford

People Take Pictures

Saturday Video

You Heard the Original

Now hear my version.

Truly I Do

Today I'm once again pressed for time, so I thought I'd submit this post instead. The lyrics are so minimal but say an incredible amount.

Find more artists like The Sweater Set at Myspace Music

My hair turns grey
At the shock of your kiss
And I'd never admit
That I love you
or miss you

But truly I do
Truly I do

The salt of your face
That I smell
That I taste

Your smoky embrace
And the riddle of your pain
Truly I do
Truly I do

Truly
Truly

Truly I do.

A Favorite of Mine

Treatment Update

After a wait of nearly a week and a half, the surgical procedure has been scheduled. It will be performed a week from yesterday, next Wednesday afternoon. I'll be put fully under for 45 minutes to an hour, then drowsily and gingerly make my way home. The pain is supposed to be intense, so I'll be placed on Percocet almost immediately. I'm not necessarily looking forward to this, but I mainly just want to get the thing over and done.

The first two weeks will be the worst, after which point stitching will be removed. Total healing time will be 6-8 weeks in totality. I expect a lot of discomfort in sitting and wearing of sweatpants in place of actual trousers.

The Decline and Near Fall of the Mainstream Media Empire

Finally confirming a trend that many have long noted, the Los Angeles Times on Monday concluded that yes, more people now get their news from the internet than from newspapers. To bloggers and purveyors of New Media alike, this should come as no surprise whatsoever. Prior to this announcement, newspapers often closely guarded inside secrets like declining circulation, decreases in advertising revenue, forced buy-outs within individual papers, and an overall drop in quality of reporting. I suppose that now, even mulish, intractable newspapers are having to concede that the handwriting has been on the wall for years.

The Times article references a Pew Research Center report titled State of the New Media 2011. Perhaps the most interesting conclusion drawn from this report is one that describes the turbulence in the industry itself, and the influential role of the blogosphere within it.

Beneath all this, however, a more fundamental challenge to journalism became clearer in the last year. The biggest issue ahead may not be lack of audience or even lack of new revenue experiments. It may be that in the digital realm the news industry is no longer in control of its own destiny.(Italics mine)

News organizations -- old and new -- still produce most of the content audiences consume. But each technological advance has added a new layer of complexity -- and a new set of players -- in connecting that content to consumers and advertisers.

With established chain of command and the information gathering process turned upside down, the mainstream movers and shakers have had to increasing rely on blogs and aggregators to best channel a message. Some are still reluctant to concede the need for cooperation, while other have long accepted that survival is much more important. The report notes that most areas of print media have begun to return to solvency, with the notable exception of print dailies. If these are to survive, they will have to concede that up-to-date information about current events can be updated in seconds online, whereas a newspaper is already old news by the time it is printed. As the report points out, this is a problem that has confounded newspaper publishers for fifteen years, and they still have formulated no satisfactory solution.

Only television surpasses the internet when it comes down to news dispersal and viewership. And this, too, shows evidence of a generational divide that is quickly closing. The report concludes that the media is growing younger and more innovative, primarily because it has no choice not to be. Unlike older models, now technology is the engine driving all of this. Once upon a time, the news media were the kingmakers. Now, technological advances like Google, Facebook, and Twitter set the pace and continue to complicate an already complex, confusing, and fragmented media landscape. Future innovations are sure to be developed and instituted with time, which will muddy the waters even more.

The result is a news ecology full of experimentation and excitement, but also one that is uneven, has uncertain financial underpinning and some clear holes in coverage. Even in Seattle, one of the most vibrant places for new media, "some vitally important stories are less likely to be covered," said Diane Douglas who runs a local civic group and considers the decentralization of media voices a healthy change. "It's very frightening to think of those gaps and all the more insidious because you don't know what you don't know." Some also worry that with lower pay, more demands for speed, less training, and more volunteer work, there is a general devaluing and even what scholar Robert Picard has called a "de-skilling" of the profession.

On the subject of blind spots in coverage, blogs and aggregators have been serving as seeing eye dogs for the conventional media for a while. Trends, for example, tend to catch fire online more quickly, usually faster than the mainstream media's ability to pick up on them. Coverage gaps are inevitable in a world far more interconnected than it ever has been before. While it is true to some extent that industry decline decreases reporting quality, this overlooks the fact that many bloggers and those in the independent media produce work along the same lines as its formally high standards. What is needed now is a means of showcasing the work of those outside the mainstream, particularly the massive number of commentators and columnists who are more than competent in what they do. Technology seeks and has sought to do this, but with so much fragmentation, sometimes the process can be not unlike looking for a needle in a haystack. With time, this issue may be solved, though some fear increased fragmentation, not less of it.

If anything, the metrics of online news have become more confused, not less. Many believe that the economics of the web, and particularly online news, cannot really progress until the industry settles on how to measure audience. There is no consensus on what is the most useful measure of online traffic. Different rating agencies do not even agree on how to define a "unique visitor." Does that denote different people or does the same person visiting a site from different computers get counted more than once? The numbers from one top rating agency, comScore, are in some cases double and even triple those of another, Nielsen. More audience research data exist about each user than ever before. Yet in addition to confusion about what it means, it is almost impossible get a full sense of consumer behavior -- across sites, platforms, and devices. That leaves potential advertisers at a loss about how to connect the dots.

Those of us who have our own private blogs know this all too well. Speaking about myself, personally, I have no clue how to even conservatively estimate exactly how many people read me on a daily basis. Daily Kos does not provide me the ability to see hit count on my diaries. My own website tracker only lists those who directly access my page, leaving out those who have included me on Google Reader, Technorati, or some related system. Should I cross-post a particular essay to another site, as I often do, I am rarely granted the ability to really be able to judge exact readership numbers. So, instead, groping about in the dark, noticing only the most obvious trends has to suffice. Imagine if I were a corporation or agency trying to develop a strategy to produce a steady stream of revenue! Anarchic wildernesses are fine for pioneers clearing underbrush, but they're not the most financially reliable of environments.

An additional metric may surprise you.

The bailout of the car industry helped with the media's modest recovery in 2010. One overlooked dimension in the year past: A key source of renewed revenue in news in 2010 was the recovery in the car industry, aided by the decision to lend federal money to save U.S. carmakers. Auto advertising jumped 77% in local television, 22% in radio and 17% in magazines. The other benefactor of the news industry, say experts, was the U.S. Supreme Court: Its Citizens United decision allowing corporations and unions to buy political ads for candidates helped boost political advertising spent on local television to an estimated $2.2 billion, a new high for a midterm campaign year.

This, then, is a bit of a mixed bag. Regardless of your position on the bailout of the auto industry or the mainstream media, it did also help revive the latter somewhat. However, inundating the American people with car commercials for a time can only go so far, particularly if it causes decreased intelligence skills and cognitive ability. And as unpopular as is the Citizens United decision with certain segments of the electorate, it did at least prop up the mainstream media for a time. Taking ideologically pure position statements is a laudable sentiment, but on occasion one has to bargain with the devil. It's a popular sentiment to speak out against conventional media, but our fates seem to be increasingly intertwined. They certainly need us, and we need them too, more than we might think. This partnership of convenience might become a long-term marriage, or quickly end in divorce, but for the time being, we're both at the altar.

On the Subject of Overcompensation

I hesitate to even write about this subject, fearful it will unnecessarily hurt friends and allies who mean well and have always been supportive. Before I write another word, I want to briefly note how much I appreciate the tea and sympathy granted me by those who read my posts, the vast majority of whom I have never and may never meet in person. Believing fully that the personal is always political, I have often talked about myself and my own life in unflinching detail. Aside from a few stray trolls that are always present with anyone who dares to put themselves out there to any degree, comments and commentary have been gratifying and helpful.

Sometimes these remarks, affirming as they are, show an slightly obsessive degree of conveying acceptance and tolerance. Not always, but on occasion. Sometimes they amuse me. For example, should I reveal that I am bisexual, feedback often takes this course. You’re bisexual! I know someone who is bisexual! You know it’s okay to be bisexual! Lots of people are bisexual! Did you know that (insert name of famous person) was also bisexual? I affirm your right to be openly bisexual! I often wondered if I was bisexual!

All of this is appreciated, but I sometimes can’t help but laugh at the slightly manic enthusiasm discomfort creates. Should you wish, laugh along with me and know that my laughter is light-hearted and warm, not mirthful or accusatory. I think perhaps if my parents had been accepting and not homophobic, this could have been their own response. It’s a much healthier variety, certainly, than that of my own personal experience. Overcompensation is a step on the road to greater understanding and comprehension. It is much more advanced than bigotry or prejudice, for sure.

But it still connotes a sense of difference, of perceiving ways we are not alike rather than similar. Peaceful co-existence is a laudable enough goal, and I much prefer it to hatred and fear. Still, and this is the religious side of me talking, I believe in a world where love unites all of us together. Idealistic though it is, I would not work so hard at what I do, or write, or regularly propose if I believed it was a lost cause. It may be bigger than me, but I know I have a role in the proceedings. This realization begins when we see common humanity instead of race, skin color, sexual orientation, gender identification, political allegiance, religious affiliation, or any dividing or isolating factor. We will always have superficial points of divergence, but seeking that which lies inside of our hearts is where our attention should be focused most of all.

I carry with me every day a particular verse to which I frequently refer, should I be struggling with self-doubt or disillusion.

Because all of you are one in the Messiah Jesus, a person is no longer a Jew or a Greek, a slave or a free person, a male or a female.

This is the ideal. This is the standard. Remove the reference to Jesus, and, though I may not necessarily be writing to a religious audience, few would disagree with the sentiment. And yet look at how many people over the years have claimed to speak in Jesus’ name, only to pervert and adulterate the message. This is unavoidable, I’m afraid. So long as there is money to be made or power to be gained, the truth we’ve spoken always runs the risk of being twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, as Kipling wrote. Know this much. Keep speaking truth anyway. Never confuse the messenger with the message, in whatever belief or cause you hold dear.

Many of our arguments quibble over little things, because this approach is less potentially painful than actually confronting the larger issues underneath them. Seek the real source and you’ll find humanity in all its vulnerable, fragile, beautiful, confounding, contradictory glory. The human condition, as I may have mentioned before, is itself a massive book full of personal anecdotes, each about the lives of people struggling to overcome adversity. In all that we do and say and act, we are steadily contributing our own chapter to that book. And as you write your own, take comfort that everyone else out there is doing the same thing you are. Separation is merely an illusion.

So Beyond Me

I concluded the song acapella to emphasize the final stanza.

Yet another thing that I didn't know
Why is it seemingly so
Beyond me?

I feel that we're on a roll
So now I feel it's time to rock
Now that we're out of the hole
We're only running down the clock

You know that every so often
It so happens the planets align
The paper said my moon's in Venus
So I'm taking it as a sign

I for one feel that this is the time
Let's return to the scene of the crime
Rock and roll is alive and alright
Let them know vis a vis classifieds

It should be understated
But don't make it oversimplified
Like your eulogy related
How I lived and then I died

Yet another thing that I didn't know
Why is it seemingly so
Beyond me?

Why is it seemingly so
Beyond me?

Dance with the creeps and the queens
The kings have all gone home to bed
Gone is the American dream
That would have gone right to my head

'Cause we couldn't get accustomed
And we couldn't find a thing to wear
You underestimate us
You can hate us for all I care

Yet another thing that I didn't know
Why is it seemingly so...

I put a quarter in the record machine
I thought I'd dedicated one to Jolene
But it was full of records I'd never seen
The times change and it's so beyond me

Quote of the Week

"There is always time to speak a word, but never time to unspeak it."- Unknown

For Those of You Who Love Yoga

(Click to embiggen)

Check out Reply All, now syndicated in actual newspapers! Seriously!

Femme Fatale

I really wrestled with myself and my conscience before posting this song. My main concern was whether it was anti-feminist or misogynist in some way. But as for the general sentiment, I think we all can relate on some level. Plainly put, there are certain people to whom we are intensely attracted who are unhealthy for us. And yet, the attraction never dies, no matter what happens and no matter how much space we put between us. This I think is the most infuriating element of all.

A recent encounter with one such person inspired this cover. I really got frustrated with myself because of her ability to effortlessly motivate me to shed my best intentions. She's a snake charmer, but I know enough now to have figured out how to properly distance myself. I recognize that there's a long tradition of men blaming women for their own misdeeds, and then claiming no sense of personal responsibility. Honestly, speaking for myself, this isn't the same thing. It's mostly just a recognition that, male or female, certain people know exactly how to push past our defenses. Unless we really watch ourselves, we can find ourselves ignoring red flags and not acting in our best interest.



Here she comes,
you better watch your step

She's going to break your heart in two, it's true
It's not hard to realize
Just look into her false colored eyes

She'll build you up to just put you down, what a clown
'Cause everybody knows
(She's a femme fatale)

The things she does to please
(She's a femme fatale)
She's just a little tease
(She's a femme fatale)

See the way she walks
Hear the way she talks

You're written in her book
You're number 37, have a look
She's going to smile to make you frown, what a clown

Little boy, she's from the street
Before you start, you're already beat
She's gonna play you for a fool, yes, it's true

'Cause everybody knows
(She's a femme fatale)
The things she does to please
(She's a femme fatale)
She's just a little tease
(She's a femme fatale)

See the way she walks
Hear the way she talks

'Cause everybody knows
(She's a femme fatale)
Oh oh oh
(She's a femme fatale)
Oh oh oh
(She's a femme fatale)

Saturday Video

The Comforters: A Review

I think I read the first ten pages of the late fifties UK classic The Comforters about ten times over before I really got it. As it turns out, my reaction was not uncommon. The reader is supposed to be initially confused. Spark’s novel deliberately scorns omniscient narration, opting instead for a grand experiment in Bretchtian allegory. We learn about each character, each interaction, and each conversation as though we were observing it all passively, with no foreknowledge, like some persistent fly on the wall. As the novel progresses, a basic skeletal framework gradually develops into something grander, and within the concise space of two-hundred pages, Muriel Spark’s book reaches its conclusion.

The main character is Caroline Rose, a young, educated woman of around thirty. A writer, she is also a recent convert to Catholicism. As the novel opens, we realize she’s still very much on the mend from a nervous breakdown. A free spirit decades ahead of her time, she flaunts social conventions of the day, living unmarried with her boyfriend, Laurence. Conscious of the scandal produced, the two do at least keep separate bedrooms. Laurence believes that the conversion will do her much good, but eventually begins to have his own doubts, albeit influenced by the fact that he is a lapsed Catholic himself. Returning to the flat they share for the time being, it is here that the primary plot device of the entire work is set in motion.

Late one night, Caroline notices that her typewriter seems to be eloquently narrating her thoughts, daily activities, and even more disturbingly, future events. In time, sometimes disembodied voices serve the same purpose. Caroline dutifully dictates what is being said, while sometimes taking license with its insistence at resolutely setting unchangeable future before her. The notes and typewritten pages, when complied, grow to become a manuscript for her as-yet-unnamed new novel. To her frequent discomfort, she becomes author, active participant, and unwilling bystander in one. Feeling at times a little spiteful at the voices and Typewriter Ghost, as she puts it, Caroline feels compelled sometimes to deliberately sabotage the direction of her life, or rather her book. By now, it’s impossible to separate the two.

Disagreeing with the novel as to what means of transportation to take on her way elsewhere, she deliberately does the opposite of what has been commanded/predicted. Spitefully, the forces guiding the book’s construction cause Caroline and Lawrence to be involved in a terrifying car accident. The accident fractures Caroline’s leg, forcing her to undergo a lengthy period of convalescence. She narrowly escapes more serious injury. Lawrence has to spend a few days in hospital, but fortunately avoids the worst of it. And, observable to us, the reader, the book itself breaks neatly in two at this point, ending Part One, beginning Part Two. As the latter half of the novel starts out, the physical trauma creates psychological damage, driving a neat wedge between the two of them. The separation and distance created by the wreck has not yet healed by the end of the novel, something the author must have intended.

Muriel Spark deliberately never explains what these voices and all-knowing forces truly are. However, in an novel with its title taken from the Book of Job and crammed full of Catholic mysticism and references, a religious interpretation would seem to be invited. The Comforters, literally rendered, are people who, while purporting to give sympathy, succeed only in adding to distress. Job, stricken with a variety of unexplained illnesses, is finally granted the ability to have a exceedingly rare face-to-face dialogue with God in the end of the book. The puzzling entity Caroline struggles with might be the Holy Spirit itself, or a manifestation of Divine Providence. That its basic nature is impish, demanding, and sometimes even pettily punitive puts it more in line with the nature of the Old Testament Yahweh than the God of the New Testament. And, assuming it is, we are asked to question the nature of free will, God’s direct intercession in our lives, and whether or not every step we take is itself fully preordained.

A plot that competes fully with this one concerns the nature of whether there really is any such thing as a secret or a remark made in confidence. An elaborate network of amateur diamond smuggling sweeps up several people Caroline knows, many of whom are upper class, idly rich, and entirely bored with their humdrum lives. Several of them are also Catholic, though their devotion to the Faith is of an exceptionally superficial quality. If there is any common denominator uniting them, it exists in their fondness for elaborate games of secrecy. Each of these is paradoxically, and rather reliably defeated by the fact that none of them can ever manage to keep anything told to them in strict confidence. What becomes the intense interpersonal drama of brazen perfidy creates, at times, a confusing network of who said what to whom at what time. This is precisely the effect Spark intends to convey, since most of this portion is heavily loaded down with dialogue, with only the barest minimum of anything else, itself only put down to keep everything from being utterly incoherent to the reader.

The Comforters calls us to examine the distinction between objectivity and subjectivity, a construct that usually separates our conception of self from other. How much of what we think is really unique to us? Is it possible that we are part of some greater consciousness beyond ourselves? We have, over time, assigned different names to this sense that our perception stretches beyond the limits of our physical self. Some of them are religious, some more spiritual, and some scientific. Beyond individual preference and choice, something may well watch over us. It may determine the course of ultimate reality beyond our poor power to add or detract. We may all be writing our own novels, for all we know.

O Lucky Man!

As you can see, this is right at the top of my range. It was either going to be this take or nothing, hence the roughness of this rendering.

This song is dedicated to myself partially, I think, but also to a Friend. But the meaning can be for you too. Modify the gendered pronouns, if you wish.



If you have a Friend on whom you think
you can rely - You are a lucky man!
If you've found the reason to live on and
not to die - You are a lucky man!

Preachers and poets and scholars don't know it,
S'temples and statues and steeples won't show it,
If you've got the secret then try not to blow
it - Stay a lucky man!

If you've found the meaning of the Truth
in this old world- You are a lucky man!
If knowledge hangs around your neck like
pearls instead of chains - You are a lucky man!

Takers and fakers and talkers won't tell you.
Teachers and preachers will just buy and sell you.
When no one can tempt you with heaven or hell-
You're a lucky man!

You'll be better by far
To be just be who you are
You can be what you want
if you are what you are

and that's a lucky man!

The Many Levels and Forms of Attraction

Allow me, if you please, to open this post in a rather unorthodox manner. Displaying wounded pride in a public forum requires courage. This is to say, due to side effects caused by a variety of medications to treat a variety of ailments, my libido has never been anything I could take for granted. For a time, this was a reality that left me continually frustrated and discouraged. Among the myths our society propagates, masculine virility is a particularly prominent one. Years later, this matter is still problematic, but I’ve been seeking a way to live with it. The precise reason I raise this subject is to speak about the concept of romantic attraction and whether there is any truly valid reason to view it differently based completely on strict gender distinctions.

When I am in love, my most immediate response is that of strong emotional attachment. There is always a sexual component present as well, but it is far less prominent in the grand scheme. Supposedly, as a male, I’m to be forever seeking the next intimate encounter, but this process seems somehow to short-circuit that basic need. I know I’m in love when my enthusiasm to flirt with others or to engage in the eternal game most of us play with those we find attractive is simply no longer there. Whomever I happen to be infatuated with at that moment takes precedent in my decisions as well as my thoughts. The familiar feeling we call a “crush” or the state of being “in love” might seem vulgar and cheapened if it were viewed merely as an extension of carnal lust. Should biological urge take center stage, as I have always been told and always have read, then established theory may need to be swiftly revised.

At the times where sexual desire has not registered at normal levels, it has allowed me the ability to recognize the strong emotional component of attraction, infatuation, but also desire itself. I suppose it’s a bit of a blessing in disguise. Saying this, I will then concede, albeit reluctantly, that it is likely true that men have a basic default lens, that of unfettered sexual desire. However, age and time has allowed me the ability to acknowledge that drive, separate it from the rest of my thoughts and impulses, and see what lies frequently unexpressed. When I was younger, I found it more difficult to peer beyond one track. Much had to be learned and experienced first. And I’ve also acknowledged, based on direct observation and honest reflection with others, that a blend between the sexual and the emotional on the subject of attraction is always almost present.

Whomever chose to separate the two, to ascribe one form exclusively to one gender, and one form entirely to another did us all a grave disservice. Men often are confused and uncertain about how to deal with emotional attachment in relationships, and women are frequently unsure of how to best express sexual thoughts and feelings. I have known men who try to live a life of sexual conquests and shallow relationships, cutting messy ties when base desire begins to develop into something more complex. And, I have known women who are so afraid of their own sexuality that they channel it in “safe” directions, to express them symbolically rather than overtly, or embrace a kind of deliberate primness to cope with feelings they consider inappropriate, unfeminine, or both. I would argue that women have made more progress on this issue than have men, but I also concede that many of the friends with whom I spend most of my time are also Feminists or at least have Feminist sympathies. I am quite likely shortchanging men in this assumption, since I have noticed major generational differences between acceptable masculine behavior. I just want to see more progress made.

It would seem, then, from my observations, that each individual, if not every romantic pairing, contains a slightly different dynamic. Some past relationships of mine began with an insistent, persistent, strong emotional bond. Some were no less emotional in nature, but felt sexually charged almost from the start. We wouldn’t assume that every relationship was similar, so why do we assume that all men and all women react and think as one monolithic entity?

Tender

These have not been the easiest of times for me. But rather than wallow in self-pity, I suppose I'll sing about it.



Tender is the night
Lying by your side

Tender is the touch
Of someone that you love too much

Tender is the day
The demons go away

Lord, I need to find
Someone who can heal my mind

Come on, Come on, Come on
Get through it
Come on, Come on, Come on

Love's the greatest thing
Come on, Come on, Come on
Get through it

Come on, Come on, Come on
Love's the greatest thing
That we have

I'm waiting for that feeling
Waiting for that feeling to come

Oh my baby
Oh my baby

Oh why
Oh my

Tender is the ghost
The ghost I love the most

Hiding from the sun
Waiting for the night to come

Tender is my heart
I'm screwing up my life

Lord, I need to find
Someone who can heal my mind

Come on, Come on, Come on
Get through it

Come on, Come on, Come on
Love's the greatest thing

Come on, Come on, Come on
Get through it

Come on, Come on, Come on
Love's the greatest thing
That we have

I'm waiting for that feeling
Waiting for that feeling to come

Oh my baby
Oh my baby

Oh why
Oh my

Tender is the night
Lying by your side

Tender is the touch
Of someone that you love too much

Tender is the day
The demons go away

Oh Lord, I need to find
Someone who can heal my mind

Come on, Come on, Come on
Get through it

Come on, Come on, Come on

Love's the greatest thing
Come on, Come on, Come on
Get through it

Come on, Come on, Come on
Love's the greatest thing
That we have

I'm waiting for that feeling
Waiting for that feeling to come

Posting Delay

Posting will be later than normal today, because I'm being forced to vacate the apartment in an hour and a half. I have few qualms with this place, beyond the minuscule size of the kitchen, but a large one is how frequently the entire building must be sprayed for cockroaches.

Living in a section of town where one is surrounded by restaurants means that food and food residue is everywhere. It's unavoidable, much like the sound of used wine bottles being tossed into dumpsters around 9 pm every day, which make a resolute clinking and crushing sound. However, it also means that the entire contents of the kitchen must be loaded into boxes and moved into the living room on a regular basis. They can't spray counters, floors, and cabinets otherwise. I am not exactly a fan of the labor that goes into this, especially not once every two weeks, which is one of the drawbacks of approaching warm weather. I'm a big proponent of minimal bugs, which is one of the reasons I have ambivalent attitudes towards Spring.

Quakering Today

Putting one's money where one's mouth is requires active participation. In this instance, it means that my writing skills and energies will be channeled in Friendly directions today. I'm a member of my Meeting's Ministry and Worship committee, which produces a Spiritual State of the Meeting Report every year. Essentially, it is a summary of how individuals and the greater gathering perceive of almost every conceivable facet of the Meeting. Once completed, it will be formally presented at an upcoming Meeting with Concern for Business.

It is very difficult to draft any report that speaks for the individual concerns of hundreds of people, while still taking into account the general sense of the gathering. This year, an online survey was conducted, which provided a wealth of information, so much so that even going through it all proved to be an immense challenge. As I write, I find myself in tension. How should I take into account the large amount of negative criticism recorded, while still conceding that many areas were pronounced healthy, or at least favorable?

Quote of the Week

Regarding the English adventuress who broke her leg in the middle of her divorce trial: “She probably did it sliding down a barrister.”- Dorothy Parker

Fit for Freedom, Not for Friendship: A Review

I no longer call you slaves, because a master doesn't confide in his slaves. Now you are my friends, since I have told you everything the Father told me. John 15:15, NLT.

For white liberals of a certain generation, the Civil Rights Movement will always be front and center. A struggle for racial equality made significant progress regarding relations between whites and blacks. Though a success, though by no means was it a landslide victory. Nonetheless, many apply a coat or two of heavy gloss, choosing to remember the successes alone, while overlooking the multitude of eyesores that still tarnish our cultural landscape. Every gathering and, indeed, every person must continually resist and overcome. A famous passage, also in the Gospel of John, proclaims that it is Truth that will set us free, not nostalgia.

The Religious Society of Friends, usually known as Quakers, owe their name to the biblical verse above. Among the first groups, religious or otherwise, to champion emancipation and embrace abolition, Quakers did nonetheless far short of full equality. Accordingly, a recent book entitled, Fit for Freedom, Not for Friendship: Quakers, African-Americans, and the Myth of Racial Justice explores the gaps between best intentions and subtle, lingering prejudices. The book's authors are Donna McDaniel and Vanessa Julye. Scholarship of this nature is needed from now going forward if we are to have honest conversation with each other. As the saying goes, one is entitled to one’s own opinion, but not to one’s own “facts”.

The Civil War was not merely a destructive force to the United States, it was a particularly injurious one to Friends. Their staunchly pacifist stance often put them in between a rock and a hard place as both North and South prepared for war. Some reluctantly agreed that the moral evil of slavery could only be brought to a conclusion through war. Many disagreed. But even those who did not fight were actively involved in the clean-up efforts, so to speak.

Friends were harassed for their refusal to support war, yet their spiritual and emotional resources were called upon soon after the fighting began, and Quakers became involved in efforts to provide for the immediate needs of newly freed people. By the end of the war, the steady stream of relief goods and teachers to open schools had become a river, if not a flood. Inadequate and sometimes misguided government assistance, coupled with European Americans’ unrealistic expectations of formerly enslaved people, combined to hamper the benevolent postwar efforts of Quakers and others who offered aid.

Over a century and a half later, I could well be talking about Hurricane Katrina or the destructive Haitian earthquake of last year. Now, as then, Friends were among the first to mobilize, to offer their time and open their checkbook. But it’s one thing to know about basic need on a purely cerebral level. It’s quite another to be on the ground, observing significant challenges and devising strategies to best harness the altruism of others. Both are needed, but neither can function without its complement.

About the time when the Civil Rights Movement was beginning to a take a radical direction, noted historian C. Vann Woodward wrote an essay he titled "What Happened to the Civil Rights Movement". In an excerpt, Woodward explains that

[t]he picture was further complicated by the exalted roles white romantics assigned their black partners. In effect, they turned the tables of racial dogma and opted for Negro supremacy. But it was a dubious brand of supremacy, and the flattery, as Robert Penn Warren has pointed out, was shot through with the condescension implicit in the Eighteenth Century adoration of the Noble Savage. The savage was extravagantly praised and admired, but admired for very particular kinds of virtues. These were the virtues attributed to the natural man, the simple child of nature, untainted by the malaise of civilization, and untrammeled by its inhibitions, its compromises, and its intellectual deprivations. The Modern Negro, like the Noble Savage, was endowed with the compensatory graces of simplicity, naturalness, and an uninhibited sexuality.

Even allies are not immune from projecting their desires, fears, ambitions, and hopes onto those they mean to help. Many people I come in contact with on a daily basis have worked overseas for a time, particularly in countries with underdeveloped economies and galling poverty. They have done so intending to help and to broaden their understanding of the world. But at times I do see a kind of modern day, smiley-faced adoration of the Noble Savage that makes me uncomfortable. 150 years ago, in Northern, pre-war literature, Quakers are often portrayed as well-intentioned but naïve, peace-loving, but toothless. The comparison may be unfair, but beyond caricature, its stinging critique is not entirely false.

The entirely opposite view of the Adoration of the Savage is best expressed by Charles Dickens in an 1854 essay.

To come to the point at once, I beg to say that I have not the least belief in the Noble Savage. I consider him a prodigious nuisance and an enormous superstition. ... I don't care what he calls me. I call him a savage, and I call a savage a something highly desirable to be civilized off the face of the earth.... The noble savage sets a king to reign over him, to whom he submits his life and limbs without a murmur or question and whose whole life is passed chin deep in a lake of blood; but who, after killing incessantly, is in his turn killed by his relations and friends the moment a gray hair appears on his head. All the noble savage's wars with his fellow-savages (and he takes no pleasure in anything else) are wars of extermination – which is the best thing I know of him, and the most comfortable to my mind when I look at him. He has no moral feelings of any kind, sort, or description; and his "mission" may be summed up as simply diabolical.

It is this strain of racism and fear which informs everything from racial profiling by police to the current trend of Islamophobia. But it should be noted that neither view is correct, nor inoffensive, nor unselfish. Believers and non-believers in the Noble Savage are speaking only about themselves. What passes for dialogue does not extend beyond the ego and the id. A conversation centered around real equality pushes aside such preconceived notions. Both views, in this instance, are inconsistent with the truth, except that one is less culturally offensive. And, as I conclude, freedom from bondage and the whip is merely one step towards authentic equality. We are caught halfway between where we have been and where we need to be. Until we stop projecting our images and begin actively listening, many more will be Fit for Freedom, Not for Friendship.