Thursday, April 30, 2015

Prayers and Light for Baltimore (and Beyond)



Written to my Meeting.

Dear Friends,
 
I write to you for many reasons, but mostly for the sake of my mother. She and I spoke over the phone at length this morning. Trying to be the dutiful, responsible son, I tried to put her anxieties aside, but I'm not sure I succeeded. She is very afraid, fearful that the riots that have recently raged in Baltimore will spread and grow in intensity. And, as she shared with me, part of her concern harkens back to a very different era. It is one I do not understand because I was not alive back then. I may have read the history and seen the images on a television, but the emotions and grief that our entire country felt back then are merely abstractions to me.    
 
Like some of you reading this, my mother remembers the chaos of 1968 and the numerous riots that broke out following the assassination of MLK, Jr. She remembers the riots in Chicago during the Democratic National Convention, which transpired later that same year. These violent events in tandem, along with the assassinations of RFK and MLK, left a mark upon her, one I see now that in some ways resembles the symptoms of PTSD. It is not an exaggeration to say that many who were alive then still bear scars from those tragedies and can be rightfully considered to be the walking wounded.
 
This city in which we live (Washington, DC) has arguably never fully recovered from its own riots, including several impoverished sections of the District. And this is true for other cities and other people, too. Even if some like my mother weren't there in person and only experienced the upheaval on live television or the nightly news, the images were nevertheless indelible, searing themselves into the consciousness of everyone alive during those times.
 
I would like to ask, if you are willing and feel so led, to hold my mother in the Light. But I would also ask the same for every person in her situation, every person alive in those times who now fear for the worst in Baltimore and beyond. We see different things within this problematic situation. Some of us see a call to action. Some of us lament a country still divided by race and income inequality.

Others see the excitement of a new cause and the promise of long-denied change. But we must also recognize that riots and civil unrest of a different era produced victims whose wounds may be invisible, but they are very real and they have persisted for a lifetime. It is for this reason that I pray for peace and restraint, even as I understand the powerlessness that has led some to loot, burn, and pillage.

In the Light,
 
Kevin.

Sources

X

The faithful drudging child...
the child at the oak desk whose penmanship,
hard work, style will win her prizes
becomes the woman with a mission, not to win prizes
but to change the laws of history.
 

How she gets this mission
is not clear, how the boundaries of perfection
explode, leaving her cheekbones grey with smoke
a piece of her hair singed off, her shirt
spattered with earth...Say that she grew up in a house
with talk of books, ideal societies--
she is gripped by a blue, a foreign air,
a desert absolute: dragged by the roots of her own will
into another scene of choices.


"Sources" by Adrienne Rich

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

The Truth about Publication Odds



Yesterday, I was rejected for publication in a literary magazine. So were, as it turns out, 173 others. I wasn't supposed to know this, but due to a clerical error, the e-mail address of every single one of those who had been turned down was plainly visible. The more professional approach would have been to conceal the identities of those who didn't make it in, therefore making the publication's boilerplate rationale for rejection a bit more plausible.

We were told there wasn't room enough to include everyone's entry, which is technically true, but mostly good public relations. It makes me realize again that the odds are stacked against me and everyone else from the beginning. Six writers got in, leaving nearly 200 of us on the outside. How does one even begin to know how to compete? How does one grab the attention of an editor or editorial staff who has around 175 other worthy contenders to consider?

I don't know the answer and neither does anyone else. Many aspiring writers I know, seeking a strategy and a comprehensible plan to work, pursue the professional approach. They listen to or read glorified advice columns drafted by those who have had some success themselves and think they've worked out a sensible rationale that works for everyone. Though many people swear by the wisdom of these columns, I'm skeptical of their effectiveness. In other publications, especially the writing contests which promise prize money, twice as many people have competed with me for inclusion and to place.

This post is not meant to discourage anyone from working on the craft of writing, or one day being recognized for it. I suppose I'm speaking mainly to those who may have, like me, done quite well in a college creative writing program and been a bit of a rock star inside and outside of workshop. When it comes time to cast one's lot with everyone else, the experience can be a very humbling one. For a time, I received regular, frequent praise from my professors and fellow students. Since then, what I mainly receive is silence.

It is the goal of many to write a novel or to enshrine one's name in print in any form. In the apartment complex where I live, I've met a woman who has saved up enough money so that she doesn't have to work for a year. She can instead devote her time exclusively to writing. I don't have the heart to tell that her plans are romantic, but grandiose. In movies and in real life an archetype exists of the struggling writer or novelist who comes out of nowhere to have a book published. Effort and talent alone, according to this myth, produces success.

I spoke with an older man, about my father's age, last week about a variety of topics. One of his friends pursued the same course that I have, an approach nearly everyone without substantial name recognition has to manage first. He submitted short stories to small publications and journals over the course of twenty years. Slowly, he began to be published sporadically here and there. His publication history came in a trickle, not a flood. After a decade's worth of work, the stories he'd written were compiled into an anthology, which eventually won a prize. But it took a total of twenty years solid before his personal goals came to fruition.

And that is the point I'm seeking to make, both for myself and for others. Don't quit your day job. Don't chain yourself to a computer for months writing the Great American Novel. Everyone wants to write the Great American Novel. That's the problem. A wiser strategy, in my opinion, would be to work steadily on weekends, lunch breaks, or holidays from work. Think of publication as applying for a job in a competitive market. No matter how professional your resume or how solid your references, you're still going into the same stack as everyone else with a professional resume and solid references.

Maybe someone will see value in your work. Maybe you'll fit the needs of the company or the publication. But what is different with creative writing of any kind is that your words alone will have to suffice for a personal interview. You will not have the right to plead your case. You will not be given an idea of what the publication gods are requesting of all applicants. As long as you understand that going in, you will experience a minimum of hurt feelings and angst.

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Dry Drunk, Part 5

Part 4 of Dry Drunk is posted here. This is part 5.

A work of fiction.

I often wake up with this strange reoccurring dream in my head. I've snuck back into my childhood home, a place that was sold to new owners years ago. I am no longer privy to this place, and yet I want to go back there like nobody's business. After waiting for the current occupants to leave the residence, I roam around the backyard, now without the storage shed my father bought from Sears. The same trees are there, the ones that served as second and third base during childhood baseball games.

My footsteps carry me away, but in my mind I'm always going home.

But I grow bolder. I try to figure out a way to get inside, starting from the basement door. Somehow I manage to force myself in, but it houses someone else's junk now. The washer and dryer unit that Mom and Dad bought in the late Seventies, both in an complimentary, but unnatural shade of light green, two appliances which lasted much longer than they had any right to do, they are no longer present. Someone else's car is parked inside, not the reliable silver Mercury Cougar that took me to piano recitals and four small children to church.

I hear noises from upstairs. I may not be alone after all. In a panic, I rush out of the door, across the lawn, and to the street. They narrowly miss me. But the next night, I do the same thing all over again. This time I enter from the front yard and the front door, picking the lock expertly until the door swings open and I walk inside. I am not sure how I managed to learn this trick. A few walls have been painted and the front parlor, which my Grandparents always occupied upon visits now has new carpets and new furniture. It is no longer powder blue.

I climb the steps to the upstairs, ducking my head slightly, because I'm much taller now than I was then. It's all so small now. I'm amazed a single bathroom was enough for four children. I enter my childhood bedroom. The Star Wars curtains that hung across the French doors from the window facing the street are gone, too. What has not been taken down is a particular decal placed at the right-hand corner of the front window, showing its age, which signals to rescuers and firefighters that a child lives in this room.

In analysis, I've learned that my dreams are fairly easy to interpret. I'm seeking to escape the pain of adulthood by retreating into childhood. The drinking, carousing, and nihilistic behavior I saw on stage and in clubs was simply another manifestation of this same phenomenon. Some take part during waking hours and business hours, and mine took place when I was occupying a very different dimension of reality. What separated me from them is that I knew what I wanted was impossible, but they believed enough alcohol, rabble rousing, and sexual conduct might somehow undo the laws of physics.

The drinking was another escape, as was the process of chasing women. But I never sought to fool myself, because the effects of the booze always wear off. Nothing is permanent. Everything is transitory in the end. Sex with a complete stranger promises a tantalizing build up that leads swiftly to fifteen minutes or less of pleasure and intensity. When glassy eyes refocus, it's time for clothes to be donned again. One must now make a slightly sheepish, awkward, but appreciative exit.

Or, at least that is how it was before I decided to settle on one and not play the field any longer. I'm not currently sure where we stand. She still takes my calls, at least. I know she loves me, but I wonder if she recognizes she has always been, at least partially, a retreat and a crutch. She's a waking distraction, a different sort of way to break into childhood and the mostly happy home I occupied with my family once upon a time.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Quote of the Week



Patient: What do I do?
Obstetrician: Nothing, dear, you're not qualified.

Saturday, April 25, 2015

Saturday Video



All through the day
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine
All through the night
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine

Now they're frightened of leaving it
Everyone's weaving it
Coming on strong all the time
All through the day, I me mine

I me me mine, I me me mine
I me me mine, I me me mine

All I can hear
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine
Even those tears
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine

No one's frightened of playing it
Everyone's saying it
Flowing more freely than wine
All through the day, I me mine

I me me mine, I me me mine
I me me mine, I me me mine

All I can hear
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine
Even those tears
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine

No one's frightened of playing it
Everyone's saying it
Flowing more freely than wine
All through your life, I me mine

Friday, April 24, 2015

Lost in Thought

 
 
I've been reading a book (by fits and starts) called Stillness Speaks, by the writer Eckhart Tolle. As coincidence would have it, it was featured on the recently released April issue of The Sun Magazine. What is to follow is pretty heady, I will caution you up front. This isn't a light read, for sure. :-) This has been a tough week for me and I simply don't have the energy for a new post.
__________

The human condition: lost in thought.
_____________

Most people spend their entire lives imprisoned within the confines of their own thoughts. They never go beyond a narrow, mind-made, personalized sense of self that is conditioned by the past.
In you, as in each human being, there is a dimension of consciousness far deeper than thought. It is the very essence of who you are. We may call it presence, awareness, the unconditioned consciousness. In the ancient teachings, it is the Christ within, or your Buddha nature.

Finding that dimension frees you and the world from the suffering you inflict on yourself when the mind-made "little me" is all you know and runs your life. Love, joy, creative expansion, and lasting inner peace cannot come into your life except through that unconditioned dimension of consciousness.

If you can recognize, even occasionally, the thoughts that go through your own mind as simple thoughts, if you can witness your own mental-emotional reactive patterns as they happen, then that dimension is already emerging in you as the awareness in which thoughts and emotions happens. This is the timeless inner space in which the content of your life unfolds.
__________

Prejudice of any kind implies that you are identified with the thinking mind. It means you don't see the other human being anymore, but only your own concept of that human being. To reduce the aliveness of another human being to a concept is already a form of violence.
____________

Dogmas, religious, political, scientific, arise out of the erroneous belief that thought can encapsulate reality or the truth. Dogmas are collective conceptual prisons. And the strange thing is that people love their prison cells because they give them a sense of security and a false sense of "I know."

Nothing has inflicted more suffering on humanity than its dogmas. It is true that every dogma crumbles sooner or later, because reality will eventually disclose its falseness; however, unless the basic delusion of it is seen for what it is, it will be replaced by others.


What is this basic delusion? Identification with thought.

Monday, April 20, 2015

An Open Letter to Activists



Enclosed is an open letter to activists and true believers alike. Continue the good work you are doing, but recognize that being a standard-bearer comes with its share of grief. If you see your role as the person who makes people a little uncomfortable from time to time, accept it gratefully, but know that your path will always be difficult. Most people don't work as hard as you do, nor do they want to work as hard as you do.

I speak from experience. My honesty and activism has threatened some who take my words not as wise guidance, but as a personal attack. No doubt you have experienced some of the same yourself. Criticism can be shockingly cruel, as is common on the internet, or it can take the form of those who talk behind your back and will not confront you to your face. I've experienced both forms, and I bet you have, too.

It is acceptable and understandable to be hurt. A rejection of any message is difficult for those who see the world as it could be. Daring to challenge others is in some ways a lonely task. Charges of zealotry will often follow, but we can help ourselves if we leave room for levity and even criticize ourselves when necessary. Too many worthwhile movements have collapsed when paranoia and wounded feelings have been turned inward.

When this subject is raised, I often return to a passage in Martin Luther King's "Letter from Birmingham Jail."
There was a time when the church was very powerful. It was during that period that the early Christians rejoiced when they were deemed worthy to suffer for what they believed. In those days the church was not merely a thermometer that recorded the ideas and principles of popular opinion; it was the thermostat that transformed the mores of society.
Wherever the early Christians entered a town the power structure got disturbed and immediately sought to convict them for being "disturbers of the peace" and "outside agitators." But they went on with the conviction that they were "a colony of heaven" and had to obey God rather than man. They were small in number but big in commitment. They were too God-intoxicated to be "astronomically intimidated." They brought an end to such ancient evils as infanticide and gladiatorial contest.
If we are the early Christians of today, we must balance our expectations. With much effort, we might wipe away the stain of today's evils. But we should also expect personal suffering to result from it. This doesn't mean that it is acceptable for us to receive anonymous threats from small-minded bullies. But what it does mean is that, until our stated crusade concludes, we're going to be someone's target. And, though I hate to say it, crusades take a very long time.

What I'm talking about is mostly keeping our purpose in perspective. My constant refrain is to point back to who and what we are. If I say that we are flawed creatures, this is not to excuse inappropriate or injurious behavior. The reason many of us return time and time again to houses of worship is to be reminded of our imperfections.

As I have said, this vocation is necessary but promises pain. We can't speak to everyone, as much as we wish we could. We may never know precisely what impact we make towards others. If only our allies and friends would make their opinions known in the same direct, instantaneous way as our enemies. This is why perspective is crucial, else we burn ourselves out or grow bitter.

Find a strategy to preserve your sanity and never deviate from it. I know many people who have done noble, enviable tasks, but are left thin-skinned from years of persecution. One has to take stock of people like this with grudging praise, even when they are difficult personalities. Burning out like this is not the way I personally would go about it.

Go where your heart leads you. Never forget why you took up the mantle you did, and where that reflects upon you. Go deeper than that. Examine your motives from a psychological perspective. Knowing yourself will serve you well when it comes time to put your boxing gloves on again. And it will help you deal with the enemies that you'll always encounter along the way. Stay strong.

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Quote of the Week



"The very moment a workingman begins to do his thinking he understands the paramount issue, parts company with the capitalist politician and falls in line with his own class on the political battlefield."- Eugene Debs

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Saturday Video




They tried to make me go to rehab
I said, "no, no, no"
Yes, I been black
But when I come back, you'll know, know, know

I ain't got the time
And if my daddy thinks I'm fine
He's tried to make me go to rehab
I won't go, go, go

I'd rather be at home with Ray
I ain't got seventy days
'Cause there's nothing, there's nothing you can teach me
That I can't learn from Mr. Hathaway

I didn't get a lot in class
But I know we don't come in a shot glass

The man said, "why do you think you here?"
I said, "I got no idea."
I'm gonna, I'm gonna lose my baby

So I always keep a bottle near
He said, "I just think you're depressed."
This, me, yeah, baby, and the rest

They tried to make me go to rehab
But I said, "no, no, no"
Yes, I been black
But when I come back, you'll know, know, know

I don't ever want to drink again
I just, oh, I just need a friend
I'm not gonna spend ten weeks
Have everyone think I'm on the mend

And it's not just my pride
It's just till these tears have dried

Thursday, April 16, 2015

Grief


 

Today, a close friend of mine would have turned 34. He died two years ago from a severe, and rare form of brain cancer. He developed a large tumor behind the optic nerve of the right eye, which as it grew and swelled in size, eventually rendered him partially blind. Chemotherapy was nominally helpful. Though it did shrink the tumor to a fraction of its original size, sadly, the disease was too powerful, too greedy, and it eventually took his life.

His family has chosen to keep his Facebook page active and, like a kind of shrine, I have visited today to pay my respects. The icon has been changed to a majestic image of a rainbow. It’s an appropriate choice of visuals, I have to say. Though I wasn’t quite sure what to say, I’ve left a comment for him in any case. 

I wonder, in terribly 21st Century fashion, if you can read comments posted to your Wall after you die. I wonder if they restrict Instagram or Twitter in heaven, but allow Facebook on a conditional basis. I wonder if you're able to reach back into your physical life, before you became soul and spirit, or if there are far nobler tasks to perform.

I may have a bit of survivor’s guilt. The two of us both suffered from bipolar disorder. I sought treatment, he largely did not. When I was a senior in high school, the depression hit hard and did not let up. I spent three months in the hospital receiving the treatment of last resort, periodic shock therapy. At the time, I was a heavy cigarette smoker, and my friend arrived at visiting hours every day with company and a fresh pack.

Minus the cigarettes, my parents were touched by the gesture. No one else had bothered to visit, but in honesty, I had not exactly advertised my location. Before my own series of intense treatments, which eventually rendered me nearly catatonic and my speech nonsensical, I had been too ashamed to reveal where I was. The news eventually got out, as news always does, but my classmates were uniformly supportive and sympathetic, much to my surprise.

My continued existence was miraculous. Had I not been hospitalized when I was, I likely would have died by my own hand. I was already making plans to end my own life and a failed attempt had gotten me where I’d been. Bipolar disorder and depression is a genetic condition, a product of bad luck, not self-abuse. I was not taking risks with street drugs or feeding an addiction. Though causes don’t exactly matter anymore, as for my friend, no one is entirely sure.  

The news about my friend’s cancer spread with the same swift speed. By then, we’d largely grown apart. I’d started a new life elsewhere. Out of the blue I got a call from my sister, who stressed the severity of the condition and that the diagnosis was terminal, at which point I began to see if could resume contact. I found him eventually, learning that he’d been on his own search to find me. By then, the cancer had already taken hold. Brain cancer causes the sufferer to be forgetful, confused, a little like Alzheimer’s. He couldn’t remember my last name but had kept trying.

Though I resisted at first, I knew I needed to say my goodbyes. Much to her credit, my mother browbeat me into a final meeting during a visit home. It was a five minute drive from my parents' house, where I grew up, to his parents' house, where he grew up. I knew the route by heart, expecting a familiar black Labrador retriever to bound from inside the residence. Lamentably, I was told she had passed on a few years earlier.

He was a wreck. By then, he couldn’t walk without the aid of a cane and could only make his way up and down stairs with assistance from someone else. Words seemed to spill out of the side of his mouth, rather than project crisply into the air. He knew he was going to die and had coined a largely incoherent rationale for it, part theological, part pop psychology, one I was grateful I misunderstood. So long as we were talking about music and pop culture, I could pretend that we were a couple of kids back in school.  

I stayed an hour, spoke briefly with his parents, updated them with my progress, and drove away. Four months later, he died. That day, I lost my greatest champion. A true friend is someone who keeps you from getting your ass kicked. Years earlier, I’d run up against a jealous boyfriend with a gorgeous model for a girlfriend, and his paranoia nearly led to blows. My friend had defused the situation neatly and it was never an issue again.

Friendship evolve over time. We had been inseparable once, then I went in one direction and he chose another. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood/And sorry I could not travel both  He’d needed me more than I’d needed him. I’d recognized that we were growing apart before he did. Maybe he never recognized, even to the end.

He was my biggest fan. But any of us who have cultivated admirers and well-wishers know that who we are, really, is rarely what someone else sees. At the beginning of a relationship, our lover is perfect, unsullied, unflawed in every way. Some of us see the cracks and the fissures earlier. He idealized me because he saw dysfunction everywhere in his own life, in his own family. I was a buffer between constant conflict with every issue brushed under the rug. Or at least that’s what I choose to believe.

I have no confirmation now. In the weeks and days before his death, we spoke by phone and text on a regular basis. He confirmed many of my earlier suspicions: the alcoholic father, the dismissive, self-absorbed older brother, the mother desperately trying to hold it together in a typically Midwestern sense of stoicism. It is the story of many and it explained why he stuck to me like a burr to a woolen sock. Though I could not bear to correct him, I wish I was the person he thought I was.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Dry Drunk (Part 4)

Part 3 of "Dry Drunk" is posted here. This is Part 4.

A work of fiction

Back in high school, my eccentric, but nevertheless lovable English teacher tried to diagnose me, to explain away why her star pupil had stopped making superlative grades and had plunged downward towards a confusing mediocrity. My problems had become well-known among the faculty, and I think one-by-one they were trying to find a way to keep me alive. She employed a French phrase I have forgotten, but I remember the translation well. Look for the woman.

I am tempted to dismiss that notion as quaint, until I realize how true it is. Or at least how true it was for me. With me, there’s always been a woman in the mix. A born pursuer like me always knows his options and carefully weighs action with chance. I’m a strange combination of smooth and awkward, a skill set that has served me remarkably well. If I really wanted something, I could make it happen, and in her case, it didn’t take me long. Even with my best days past me, it was nice to know I hadn’t lost everything.

She self-consciously cocked her head to the side frequently, as if she didn’t believe me. Tall and lanky, she admitted she was the in-bed-at-ten type usually, but had tried something different for once. At a glance, I could tell she’d once been an athlete, either a basketball player or a volleyball player or both. She pulled her perfectly straight hair downward, around her face, with a few strategic hairpins and a lot of willpower.

She was a working class girl from a small town and never got caught up in the professional scene. It would have never occurred to her. Instead, she was a manager in a grocery store, proud of her efficiency, supportive of those who worked one rung down, employer of a few stock phrases to be dusted off for small talk. I won’t lie. I wanted her from the minute I saw her. What I saw was home, personified, and for some reason, after running from it for years, home is exactly what appealed to me most.

I’d been coaxed to play a set by a friend, along with some other nefarious characters, which I saw for the most part as an old timer’s game, full of out of shape athletes chucking air balls well past their prime. Oddly enough, when it was my turn at the mic, some of those old rhythms came back, and with it a few starstruck admirers lingered, like the old days. I saw her saunter my way, all elbows, knees, and shoulders, and I hoped she wasn’t inquiring about the location of the bathroom or any number of inane and demoralizing requests.

She was a gentle soul, and after a few shyly delivered inquiries from both sides she told me her age. Forty years old and never been married. A life story in a sentence. By then I was only a few years younger myself. Though downplayed slightly, there was purpose to her talk. She wasn’t an appreciative but glancing blow, the sort I used to get all the time from women being blown every direction at once, like chaff in the middle of a windstorm.

Her was the reason I was here. Her was where I was belonged, despite my efforts to trade up and redeem my starting point through hard work. In the end, we were tired of being alone. We’d both come from places where the default was to get married at twenty-two and have three kids by the time thirty came calling. That approach clearly never worked for either of us. And though she never vocalized it, I could sense loneliness acutely, like sonar. Her hair was thin, her complexion was pale, and I only hoped I was the proper antidote.

I hid it from her for a long time. I even kept it mostly under control, but my job had me travel and I went on benders when she wasn’t there. I didn’t call when I was too drunk, too thick-tongued, and at first she thought I was avoiding her, until she realized I was too embarrassed to subject her to relative incoherence.

Mostly I thought about her the whole time I had to be away. I craved that skinny, lean, freckled body. The more perplexed she was that I wanted her, the more it motivated me to ask for more. It kept me awake at night when I was away, remembering the calm logic she used when forming her thoughts, so familiar, such a strange tranquilizer. I loved her, loved staring those tender brown eyes full in the face. In my prime, it would have been seen as incomprehensible if I’d fallen hard for the girl-next-door, but times were different now.

Monday, April 13, 2015

Leaving Room for Novices and Good Intentions



Much of my life these days has me stationed inside of hospitals and doctor's offices. Part of treating a recent medical problem has involved lengthy phone consultations with a doctor. Much to her credit, she is helpful, knowledgeable of her field, and clearly loves her job. One of the things I've been adjusting to as I've continued to age is that, increasingly, some of those who treat me are now my age and some are even a little younger than that. This is the case with my gastroenterologist, a woman about my age who clearly sees me as a contemporary, else I know she would pick her words much differently.

After another intensive telephone discussion, she surprised me by breaking character, concluding our talk with a single question. Will you buy me some shoes? This was said with an impish flair and she immediately let me know she was jesting, but I have to admit that this mostly harmless gesture made me a little mad. It presumed that I was the default stereotype, the flaming queen. It left no room for other identities and iterations. Earlier, I had confided in her my sexual orientation, mostly because the nature of the ailment made prior sexual contact with other men an almost complete certainty.

I know from much past experience any number of men attracted to men who come across as masculine as I do. From gatherings of others who are LGBT, I've seen a dizzying array of presentations and personal fashion statements, each of which seeks to capture a set of complex feelings and identities that are not easy to define visually. It was never especially important for me to take much interest in handbags or accessories. That said, I do appreciate men who can let that part of who they are shine and don't mind mugging for the camera along the way.

Some of us have the same peculiar affliction, presenting in ways that do not preserve, nor validate the stereotype. And, if we are fair, the same is true for many women, especially those who aren't especially girly by society's standards. They too may be roped into discussions about shoes and fashion, subjects about which they are largely ignorant or apathetic. Advertisements and media continue to push a one-size-fits-all model of femininity, a belief that is sold and packaged as something that is the sole interest of women, and yes, some men.

I have learned quite a bit about these so-called women's issues over the course of the past several years. With enough self-study and observation, I've learned to see the frustration that has been present for many women long before I showed up to the party. It has become my own cross to bear, as I see how little really changes over time, and how real gender equality requires a kind of robust participation and mass realization that is not easily managed. The idealistic part of me has been confronted by the challenges I view and I am, hopefully, more tolerant of the frustrations of the women writers and activists whose words set me along this journey.

If I am to be entirely honest, I do sometimes envy people who fit narrowly defined parameters that are supposed to suffice for everyone. It explains why I left home in the Deep South. I was tired of not thinking or behaving just like those who never once seemed to worry about who they were. If I were to catch them at an unguarded moment, would they prove me wrong? Would my feelings of being different be revealed to be only a mirage? I know I'll never be able to answer those questions, but I think the answer to that set of rhetorical questions is probably yes. Some will live their entire lives never having any reason to ask themselves such things.

But to return to the beginning, part of me is grateful that an unintentionally offensive attempt at humor did not take the form of insult. She deliberately broke the fourth wall, pushing beyond the usually very businesslike, dull, perfunctory manner in which doctors interact with their patients. It was, in one sense, nice knowing that a real person existed underneath. I can't say I really know half of those doctors and specialists assigned to my care, as they are either too overburdened with work or too uncomfortable with introducing pleasantries.

My whole life I've been tugging madly on a metaphorical suit of clothes that doesn't quite fit. Now I have to decide whether to correct someone who, out of pure ignorance, misinterpreted who I was. This will not be the last time and I know it. I have learned to pick my battles, because I do not always have the energy to confront every inaccuracy about me. When my parents flipped out after I'd told them I was bisexual, I realized that they were only now recognizing a part of me that I'd been dealing with for years. And it is for this reason that I try to leave room for novices and those who mean well, while not giving up who I am as I am in the process.

Sunday, April 12, 2015

Quote of the Week



"When we are incapable of recognizing the laws of necessity, we believe ourselves to be free."-Ludwig Börne

Saturday, April 11, 2015

Saturday Video




Baby don't scold me
You see I'm not old enough
To recognize all the signs you might find
if you just told me!

From now on it would be wise to spill it
when you, baby you, you've got eyes.

Bet you just like me - you dream of what might be
But when it comes to the words
They sound absurd taken lightly.

From now on it would be wise to spill it
when you, baby you, you've got eyes.

When you see the sun
You don't have to run
Stand and watch it
Not an extra moment will it last.

If you need me, you don't have to plead me
Baby just let me feel something real
And if you'll heed me

From now on it would be wise to spill it
when you, baby you, you've got eyes.

When you see the sun
You don't have to run
Stand and watch it
Not an extra moment will it last.

If you need me, you don't have to plead me
Baby just let me feel something real
And if you'll heed me

From now on it would be wise to spill it
when you, baby you, you've got eyes.

Friday, April 10, 2015

How Far We Really Want to Go



I won't pretend to say that I understand the African-American experience as regards law enforcement, or any of it, really. But what I will say, as a white man, is likely to offend some. I've never particularly been fond of officers of the peace. This is mostly because of the hyper-masculine, macho ways I've observed myself and the priorities many hold, as though through brute force and a lack of emotion one could somehow conclusively prove oneself a man. Their stock in trade is fear, and I think that fear is a highly overrated emotion. But like many (white) people, I am always quick to couch my criticisms in terms of being grateful that someone out there is willing to tussle with legitimate criminals.

White liberals like me have always have mixed feelings about the police, for reasons I have just mentioned and others. But we stay quiet and as long as we're not the target, we can live with the reality. Like many white Americans, I grew up in the bland suburbs of green lawns and chain stores that were almost exclusively Caucasian in racial makeup. The few black kids with whom I associated at school and around town were usually moved into the area quite deliberately because of their prowess at sports.

I am, in many ways, the very definition of white privilege. Though usually a good kid who rarely got in trouble, for a time I fell in with a sketchy group of other young men during high school. Most people would consider our crimes, possession and routine purchase of marijuana, as not particularly extreme. They were, however, illegal, and after the fact I learned that I'd had a secret ally the whole time, my father. My father was friends with the local police chief. Dad used his political connections to make sure I wasn't arrested, even supplying information to the cops that would eventually send my friends to jail.

I never saw law enforcement as benevolent keepers of the peace, but with time this sentiment grew stronger. This was partially because I'd learned to fear the police, recognizing that what I was doing was against the law. But neither did I worry about losing my life or being roughed up in the act of being apprehended. Law enforcement had a shadowy presence to it for me. I knew they were there and they knew I was there, of course. But they were never a truly malevolent threat, one that I knew of innately. They were almost an abstraction, never experienced regularly through my own experiences or the experiences of those in my neighborhood.

Black men, even to this day, can make me very afraid. Like many white people, I learned this particular phobia at a young age and would prefer to cast my fear aside, but it is very ingrained within me. When we combine this fear of the unknown with a cast of toughs who see themselves as a virtuous presence, cleaning up filth, problems arise. These problems are not new and fixing them will require a vast shift in perception, not just by police officers, but by society as a whole. I would argue that the most pressing problem is how we outsource our dirty work instead of getting to know our neighbors, ensuring that we protect everyone's kids like our very own.

I recognize that some of what I've said has been echoed by President Obama. But rhetoric alone, no matter how many people say it, words are insufficient to action. And though the paralysis in which we live has been pushed and shoved towards mild strides towards real progress, we still live on opposite sides of the city, separate and definitely unequal. I think any change has to begin with an honest analysis of why we place so much emphasis upon and grant incredible power to a group of people whose motives at the outset may well be intensely flawed.

I like to dream as much as the next person, but I'm also a pragmatist at heart. No amount of talking and good intentions is going to solve a problem this big or this complicated. I'd sooner we examine the nature of law enforcement and investigate the investigators. And in the process, we're going to need to challenge certain long-held beliefs, namely that black men are inherently violent and that they will remain this way forever. As our country grows bigger and more diverse, it will be tempting to reach for easy strategies like building fences around our country, but this impulse must not win the day.

When it comes to matters of social justice and reform, most people fall into one of three categories. Some people have such strong convictions that they are even willing to suffer for them. Sometimes this means spending time in jail or even giving their very lives for some grand cause they hold dear. We can see evidence of that across the surface of the world and at times in our own history. Other people would prefer a different path in which they personally prosper, unwilling to rock the boat, and certainly unwilling to make sacrifices. A third group seeks to find a middle ground between these two extremes and finds itself continually frustrated.

I cast my lot with the first group. The irony is that even those unwilling to fight still see a need to preserve the legacy and history of a rougher, grittier, more active time. The issue is that they define it in their own terms, forgetting the real story. In the minds of many, I see a pervasive need to preserve the Civil Rights Movement, even if we forget the stints in jail, the clubs, and the real pain experienced by many. This nation must decide whether it wants to play it safe, take risks, or find some unsatisfying middle path, which in many ways is what we're doing this very moment. But this is the human condition personified, though at least we know the choices that lay before us today.      

Wednesday, April 08, 2015

Dry Drunk (Part 3)

Part 2 of "Dry Drunk" is posted here. This is Part 3.

A work of fiction.

I don't care much to reveal the tricks of the trade. I knew what it took to start a solid booze habit, so I did it, repeatedly. Some people have a trigger, some kind of reason why they started. Mine is pretty banal.

I was a struggling musician, being paid more by the audience in alcohol than the venue. This flashy businessmen always reimbursed me in Jägermeister at the end of each set. It didn't take long for my tolerance to take off. I was already annoyed at the audience, who had different priorities than to listen to me play. Sometimes I let my anger take the form of a loud energy, and if everything came together in the right way, they'd shut up and listen to me.

I always got more recognition from the bar than from the manager of the club I was playing. That's why I knew I was good. You've given them a positive charge and they want to pay you back for it. Consequently, I drank a lot. It wasn't about misery, it was mostly resentment that I slaved away for a few hundred dollars a night. And in the meantime, I found myself surrounded by the perpetually adolescent, who filled the tables and drank the beer.

I drank because I hated them, if you want to be totally honest about it. I was tired of the same man who offered everyone free pot, until his wife arrived and the two of them ended up in a pointless fight that ended up taking four times longer than originally advertised. He called her The Wicked Witch of the West and I never disliked her, only that she got in my way. This was my cue to leave, to collect, to walk two blocks downhill where my car was parked.

Three or four years later I abandoned live music, but I retained my heavy drinking ways. At least this was a semi-original booze story, one that isn't an immediate panacea as seems to be the case for so many. Drinking wasn't the solution to my problems. It only took the edge off my worries, the eternal job searches for rock clubs, making rent, rationalizing why I wasn't making it, wondering at what point I'd take an office job somewhere like everyone else.

Not to brag, but I am talented. Naturally, talent means nothing without connections, which is why I took whatever I could could get. The city has its own tastes, but if you go too far outside, you find yourself needing to brush up on your Hank Williams. I could do it because I had to do it, but I never affected the twang. The twang was what I'd deliberately lost, endearing to some, obnoxious to more. It's not all gone, but most of it is.

Country girls are all the same, but at least their consistency made my work easier. I never stayed long there. I had too much contempt for my audience, but pretended otherwise. Back in the beginning, it was all country girls. Then I moved to a big city, then another one, then another one. Anyone older than 30 who stays out past 3 am on some dull Wednesday is mostly the same. By then I was too drunk to care.

Sometimes I got so drunk I could barely sit on the barstool, but I somehow managed to hit the right notes and not blow out my vocal chords in the process. I didn't take chances like I used to do. I didn't challenge myself with a new song that put me out of my comfort zone. There was no need. Not with this audience. They set the bar nice and low for me, and I saw no need to try what would likely be ignored anyway. They only wanted to drink and talk and flirt and I had ceased to care.

Tuesday, April 07, 2015

When There Is No There There in a House of Worship



This past Easter Sunday I decided to skip Quaker Meeting and attend a high church Episcopal service instead. My religious past was low church Protestant, as is true for most of the American South. I was raised in a very humble Methodist church with a few ornate trappings here and there, most of which followed the colors of the Christian season, but no holy relics present and a modest, wooden baptismal font. So you might say there’s something exotic about the incense, the Holy Eucharist, the big booming organ, ornate music, and the layer upon layer of liturgy. It is, you might say, the very opposite of Quakerism.

The eccentric, but memorable author Gertrude Stein coined a famous quotation. Following the end of a lengthy speaking tour in the 1930’s, Stein found herself once again in California, intending to visit her childhood home. She discovered, much to her disappointment, she could not find it. In a subsequent book, Stein noted the incident by saying that “there’s no there there.” The quotation has always stuck with me because it has fit so many applications in my life over the passage of time, and for the lives of others as well.

In this context, I’m talking about the failings of unprogrammed Quaker Worship and the people seated in the benches who comprise it. Without priests, without hymns, and without recitations of faith, to name but a few, we are expected to fill in the gaps ourselves. It is an awesome, holy responsibility, one that can never be taken lightly. We are Radical Protestants, and our bloodline runs back to the super-serious Puritans of the 17th Century, whose desire to purify the church took it in a variety of directions, even into Civil War itself. Indeed, our founder, George Fox, was raised in a Puritan household and those strains of his upbringing are often evident in his words and deeds.

History is one thing, but today’s responsibilities are ours. If we don’t take the time to listen closely to the Holy Spirit, we are as Paul wrote, little more than sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal. Or, similarly, we are as Jesus said, babbling like pagans, for we think we will be heard because of our many words. If we saw vocal ministry as a reverent responsibility rather than an automatic reflex, we might understand our duty better.

We may have removed the there there on one level, no longer Anglicans, but in reality, we are called to be that of eternal substance and presence. It may take different forms than what we might call programmed worship, but much as we know, silence is deceptively meaningless to the newcomer. The words we add to Worship are not written down beforehand on a piece of paper or memorized ritual to be recited at some point in a service.

Personally, I think vocal ministry should be delivered with sincerity and without ego. Some of the very best messages I have heard were given by those who were clearly unaccustomed to the practice and very uncomfortable speaking in front of an audience. The right to speak during Meeting for Worship is a right given to each of us. I wish I heard more from others, but some Meetings resemble their earlier incarnations, centuries ago, with a core of seasoned ministers who share ministry regularly.

As I sat and listened quietly, I imagined the church where I spent my Sunday morning being interrupted loudly by George Fox or some other rabble-rousing Quaker. The practice would have seemed rude, as it would have wiped the smiles off of the faces of happy worshipers eager to celebrate the risen Christ. But we must not forget that we are the children of that sort of conduct, believers in true worship, unforgiving of those who we deem as missing the point. What we practice now in unprogrammed worship was defined “Primitive Christianity Revived,” as a later convert named William Penn put it.

In recent decades, we have de-emphasized a strict observance of purity. We’ve become a religious group that seeks to keep its marching shoes well-prepared for use and are eager to follow peace activism. A previous epoch in Quakerism could be harsh, and perhaps we went too far. When, as a strict pacifist faith group, we read out (disowned) those who fought in the Civil War, or read out those who married a non-Quaker, we may have gone too far. But it could be argued that we removed our compass in the process of over-correction, a lacking of compass that sometimes renders messages in Worship a rehash of NPR stories or an activist's koan.

Taking ourselves too seriously is a problem every house of worship must confront. We may not take our Worship too seriously, but sometimes our private causes are often given the status of idolatry, substituted in place of God. Whether we prefer it to be this way or not, Quakerism is a complicated faith that demands much of us. In truth, it always did, even as we've softened some of the harshest bits. Some might see our faith as ridiculous, to think that a group of laypeople without even a single seminary class could convey the majesty of God. Done well, we can prove our doubters wrong. Done poorly, they have a point.

Sunday, April 05, 2015

Quote of the Week



"When a subject is highly controversial — and any question about sex is that — one cannot hope to tell the truth. One can only show how one came to hold whatever opinion one does hold. One can only give one's audience the chance of drawing their own conclusions as they observe the limitations, the prejudices, the idiosyncrasies of the speaker."-Virginia Woolfe

Saturday, April 04, 2015

Saturday Video




When I first saw you
Something stirred within me
You were standing sultry in the rain
If I could've held you
I would've held you
Rip it up and start again

Rip it up and start again
Rip it up and start again
I hope to God you're not
as dumb as you make out

I hope to God
I hope to God

And I hope to God
I'm not as numb as you make out
I hope to God
I hope to God

And when I next saw you
My heart reached out for you
But my arms stuck like glue to my sides

If I could've held you
I would've held you
But I'd choke rather than swallow my pride
Rip it up and start again

Rip it up and start again
Rip it up and start again
I hope to God you're not
as dumb as you make out

I hope to God
I hope to God

And I hope to God
I'm not as numb as you make out
I hope to God
I hope to God

And there was times I'd take my pen
And feel obliged to start again
I do profess

That there are things in life
That one can't quite express
You know me I'm acting dumb-dumb
You know this scene is very humdrum
And my favourite song's entitled 'boredom'

Rip it up and start again
I said rip it up and start again
I said rip it up and rip it up and rip it up
and rip it up and rip it up and start again

Friday, April 03, 2015

Dry Drunk (Part 2)

Part 1 of "Dry Drunk" is posted here. This is Part 2.

A work of fiction.

You know you're out of control when everyone holds a combined sense of revulsion and pity around you. This could never be confused as genuine compassion. It is more fear than anything else, and a fervent prayer that the affliction does not someday affect them. That is how I was pushed out of a dentist's office, or rather without much politeness, escorted to the hallway and dropped there. A week or so later I ended up here.

I used to give a few of my things out in the beginning, but not anymore, she said. Her diagnosis was psychoaffective disorder, a mild form of schizophrenia that never really got better for anyone. I only remember the horrible state of her teeth, as though she'd gone ten years solid without brushing a single one. She was somewhat friendly, but guarded, and mostly kept to herself.

Throwing together the addicts and the psych cases was a bad idea, but it was done anyway for budgetary reasons. The two were like oil and water. Neither liked, nor trusted the other. My roommate had learned that, especially in dangerous circumstances, nothing spooked a potentially violent adversary than playing crazy. The 'hood lent itself to paranoia easily without the need for mental illness, and he'd picked a pretty successful coping mechanism.

But he never felt comfortable switching it off, and it often set off the addicts, who were already raw enough themselves from withdrawal. And legitimate, not feigned crazy could also be said to be an issue as well, especially when he danced in the day room between mealtimes with a cloth napkin on top of his head. Some of the other addicts weren't nearly as sympathetic as I was, even though I knew the guy really only wanted attention for himself.

During group, I was a talker, who won the attention of a tiny young woman who pulled me out a chair over for protection's sake. We were pulled from all social strata in that one freezing room, from an interpreter who spoke fluent French whose company was paying for this entire rehab stint, to a fireman who had lost a brother and sister-in-law in a horrific car accident and gained a son in the process, the sole survivor. He'd taken to the bottle to cope.

I wanted to escape, and I suppose if I'd wanted it badly enough, fences could have been scaled. But I did want to get better. This wasn't my first time in rehab, and my employer had told me the first two times had been on their nickel, but that this time was on me. I at least had a job to return to at the end of the month, but I was on very thin ice.

Sometimes I have to admit I never wanted a conventional life. I wanted to lie down covered by a blanket, lying on a cot, viewing the grass and footpaths of an institution for hours, doing nothing. This had been true for my great-grandmother, but was no longer the case today. There were no more sanatoriums, just filthy bus people pushing shopping carts, in and out of jails and short-term facilities. I had nothing to do except try to live in this world and maybe not end up here again.

There were too many bad examples present. That's what I didn't like about rehab. Some people built connection bases for the illegal stuff, once discharge arrived. I took the process seriously, avoiding the harder stuff whenever possible. My temptations were never far away and I'd stopped the narcotics and pills years before. And even if you didn't seek a pot dealer, you had to deal with the true believers in addiction, the ones who would never quit for any reason and saw this 28 day stint as a joke.

Some of them disguised their true intentions well, but I'd been around long enough to see who'd backslide within a few days to a week. The girl sitting next to me couldn't be anymore than one-hundred pounds and would not shock me if she was dealing with an eating disorder. I'd had a girlfriend about the same size who'd gotten beaten up after a conference, walking home nearby a deranged homeless man who physically attacked her. I saw the pictures and the paperwork of the legal proceedings. As for the boyfriends, they all looked like me. A full foot taller, big frames, broader shoulders, and big. Big guys.

Thursday, April 02, 2015

Cynthia Lennon: How We View Our Heroes



Cynthia Powell, better known by her married name of Cynthia Lennon, passed away yesterday from a swift bout of cancer. She was seventy-five years old. Powell was Beatle and rock 'n roll legend John Lennon's first wife. Shy and self-conscious, Cynthia always clung to the background and never wanted an active role in the limelight. In some ways, unfortunately, she was a bit of a doormmat, rarely inclined to stand up for herself or assert her own rights.

Much went unsaid about her side of the story until a tell-all biography detailing Cynthia's star-struck life with John Lennon was released ten years ago. It was published under the title of John and finally told her own account, demystifying a few Beatle legends along the way. It was Cynthia's assertion that John was too much like the controlling, manipulative Aunt Mimi who raised him, nurturing his worst impulses in the process, and may have indirectly set him on a collision course towards pursuing a relationship with Yoko Ono. 

In her account, Cynthia relates numerous instances of emotional abuse, neglect, and on one occasion, outright physical abuse she received at his hands. Too much of a passive soul to complain, she ignored everything that happened, politely coming along for the ride when The Beatles reached massive popularity. All the while she ignored numerous marital infidelities and John's total indifference to her towards the end of her marriage. Her words tainted the legacy and the life of a man who profoundly inspired millions of fans, but they were not enough to require a reevaluation of his character. This is not unusual.

John Lennon is guilty of emotional abuse and cruelty at minimum, and of domestic battery for throwing a punch at her during the early days of their relationship. Though she claims it only happened one time, his behavior is a literal black eye on the legacy of John Lennon, a man who forever pushed the envelope, courting controversy and fame with equal measure. I find myself conflicted, a child who combed through his mother's Beatles LPs, which served as the soundtrack for my childhood.

To this day, we continue to wonder how to view the legacy of stars whose personal lives and failings negate the positive impressions we have of them and their work. I'll let others talk about Bill Cosby or Woody Allen or Roman Polanski because those offenses are slightly different in nature, but no less reprehensible. I will never say that anyone, musical genius or not, has a right to a free pass.
But there is much here that reeks of hypocrisy. If anything, John's behavior towards Cynthia negates the peace activism he adopted conspicuously with Yoko Ono in the years following his divorce. To his credit, John did take back some of the misogynistic things he'd said in earlier life, but his deeds, in my opinion, never went far enough.

John and Cynthia were a couple of convenience from the outset. A few years into their relationship, she found herself pregnant. The two of them did what was the respectable thing to do in those days, under those circumstances, which was to get married. Cynthia, in time, gave birth to Julian, named after John's mother Julia, but one gets the feeling John was an absentee father at best, an impatient scold at worst. Mother and son remained close until the end, father and son remained distant until John's murder in 1980.

We will need to take stock of more of these tragic circumstances and the real, truthful past that came before them. As much as we don't like to think of it, there will be a time where there are no more Beatles left. We can continue to further the legend, and, rest assured, there will always be many who want to continue the fanciful legacy that has become a mythology of a sort. But if we do this, we whitewash the humanity.

We fail to understand that even those who entertain us are capable of doing terrible things on occasion. The two parties involved here are now no longer with us. We have no more first-hand accounts. But as everyone involved grows older, more of the truth becomes evident. It may do us well to dig deeper, to question our own contemporary heroes more, not in a way of trying to dig for dirt, but to view them as they are.

Wednesday, April 01, 2015

Jesus for Skeptics


  

VOICE OF JUDAS 

Every time I look at you I don't understand 
Why you let the things you did get so out of hand. 
You'd have managed better if you'd had it planned. 
Why'd you choose such a backward time in such a strange land?
 
If you'd come today you could have reached a whole nation. 
Israel in 4 BC had no mass communication. 
Don't you get me wrong. 
I only want to know.

Don't you get me wrong.
I only want to know.

CHOIR 

Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, 
Who are you? What have you sacrificed? 
Jesus Christ Superstar, 
Do you think you're what they say you are?

VOICE OF JUDAS 

Tell me what you think about your friends at the top. 
Who'd you think besides yourself is the pick of the crop? 
Buddha, was he where it's at? Is he where you are? 
Could Mohammed move a mountain, or was that just PR? 

Did you mean to die like that? Was that a mistake, or 
Did you know your messy death would be a record breaker? 
Don't you get me wrong. 
I only want to know.

Don't you get me wrong.
I only want to know.

CHOIR 

Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, 
Who are you? What have you sacrificed? 
Jesus Christ Superstar, 
Do you think you're what they say you are?

How Quakers Get It Horribly, Horribly Wrong