Addressing Meeting Discipline

It is often said that Friends have short fuses around politics and long fuses around people. Should something highly ideological and politically loaded be mentioned during Meeting for Worship, intense passions have at times led to tense moments. On the other hand, should a member of the Meeting behave inappropriately and in a consistent fashion, they are often given the benefit of the doubt. Many Friends came from religious traditions where discipline was punitive; this may be why an over-correction is in place. However, there does come a time when setting consequences is not only necessary, it is essential.

To briefly state the reason why I write, a member of my Meeting has, of late, shown a regrettable behavior pattern.  He has been verbally abusive to others. The Friend in question is a prickly person even in the best of times. I regret to say that this past First Day is not the first time he has directly insulted me. Many other Friends have received the same treatment.  At no point has he ever felt a need to apologize. However, his behavior did momentarily improve for a time, but only after I called him out on his attitude towards me. It took an open letter to the entire Meeting to achieve that desired result, but my decision did prove very effective.

I recognize that he is severely mentally ill and I am not unsympathetic towards that fact. But regardless of his disability, his behavior crossed the line a long time ago. One never knows whether such people are capable of controlling themselves, or are choosing not to do so. My personal opinion, based on my previous plea for disciplinary action, is that no one is keeping him accountable for his abusive tongue.  I'm not sure whether a system is in place for situations like these, but if there is not, one needs to be developed.

There is no reason to go into specifics. At any rate, this is probably not the proper venue for them.  After Worship yesterday, suffice to say that he twisted the meaning of my vocal ministry, perhaps deliberately. He then sought to accost me for my supposed rhetorical inconsistencies, this in front of dozens of witnesses. Attendance was high due to a Meeting-wide project that is a long standing holiday tradition.

The Friend regularly resorts to straw man arguments, these intended to put a person immediately on the defensive. Startled by the harshness of his tone, I yelled back for a few seconds and then decided to immediately leave the Meetinghouse.  Because his conduct has only gotten worse recently, I was angrier than I would have been otherwise. To calm myself, I took a long walk as I processed what had just happened.

I’m not sure whether he intends to merely provoke or to win an argument.  As I noted, I’m not sure about his cognitive functionality. If I had to posit a guess though, I think he’s far more in control of himself than many believe. Before I say this, my intention is never to infantilize anyone, especially the severely mentally ill.  But I will say that recently he has of late been acting like a bratty little boy. What I don’t understand, in particular, is why I have consistently been his chosen target. If I felt I was capable of receiving a coherent answer, I would ask him myself.  By now, I know I would not receive it and could quite possibly only spark another pointless, high volume argument. 

My Meeting tends to soft-pedal these sorts of issues, and I think that the decision does more harm than good.  Prior consistent offenders have been taken out for coffee, not severely cautioned. I should add that not a single one of these problematic Friends was ever required to recant publicly, which I think would have gone a long way towards restoring Meeting health. A heartfelt apology goes a very long way. Those who lack basic impulse control and choose not to pursue self-restraint for any reason must have boundaries clearly defined for them. In this, my example, I have a pretty good reason of why this Friend is acting out, one that for privacy’s sake I will keep to myself.  Still, knowledge of a problem is not the same as implementing solutions.

An article I read before writing this post summarizes my thoughts quite succiently.

The outcry against discipline in the modern church is, "We are not supposed to judge another." Such an assertion can only be made by people who have an inadequate knowledge of Scripture concerning the matter. The fact of the matter is that if guilt is clearly established (as is always essential), then the person has judged himself.

A persistently contentious matter today concerns the presence of Elders. The word itself seems to invoke an unsmiling scold intent on policing the Meeting with a heavy hand. This more modern definition entirely misses the mark. Quakers are not the only people of faith for whom disciplining its own is a problem. We often view the past as cruel and unforgiving and see no value in it. In seeking not to return to a less evolved time, we have removed discipline from its rightful place. Discipline should always be conducted in a spirit of love, not hatred.

As I conclude, I recognize that as one person, I am limited in the decision-making process. It is entirely possible that it will take more blatant outbursts before he is ever effectively told to stop. Living together in Beloved Community among Friends with strong opinions already thoroughly strains those bonds. Though it may be distasteful, we must resort to corrective actions when no other option remains. Should the offending Friend see the light and reverse course, we should be the first to extend open arms, this in a spirit of forgiveness.

EDIT:  A Friend informs me that the correct term is "Overseer", not "Elder".  Many Quakers no longer use the phrase because it is closely associated in the modern mind with slavery.  

Ward stories

I don’t usually write about a particular time in my life for a reason. Open as I am, some memories are too much like shards of glass. Broken glass describes how I felt about my life at that time, a metaphor that invokes fragility, or an easy way to cut oneself. Unlike some I knew, the cuts made to my body were psychological, not physical. I did not feel any sense of control, nor any modicum of power should I choose to damage myself. Instead, I felt helpless in those trying times. They are, gratefully, part of my past, not my present.

I’ve chosen to write on this topic to discuss the interaction between men and women as I observed it. Feminism, as I’ve understood it, often exists where both sexes meet, or to be more exact, in the interplay of the gender spectrum. In a more-or-less controlled environment like a psychiatric ward in a hospital, new and different combinations are produced. I observed a little of everything over time. I would be lying if I said I didn’t observe sexist attitudes and callous misogyny among some, but I also witnessed gender equality in surprising places.

We were patients. We were all generally miserable, hoping that this hospitalization was the last one. We felt an allegiance in pain, a comradeship where most other separating qualifiers were not as important. Race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, gender—none of these mattered much in the fellowship of emotional distress. Group therapy encouraged vulnerability, and the stories shared were humanizing. They were also frequently horrifying, but sometimes horror is the first step towards health. Regardless of how we defined ourselves, it was easy to view the parallels from person to person.

It wasn't all good feeling and group growth. From time to time there were always men who made frequent, sexist comments to female patients. They usually just wanted attention, even negative attention. I always found that these sorts of men comprised only a small fraction of patients. They were the sort that usually had few real friends. Loners in life and in the ward, their over-the-top antics usually isolated them from others. Their childishness made them easy to control and also easy to ignore. I have long wondered if I could have learned anything else especially helpful from the behavior of these men, who I saw as pathetic more than threatening.

The fellowship of emotional distress produced not-entirely-unwelcome distractions, too. I always fell hard for the sullen girls, the sardonic, sarcastic ones. They were the types most likely to wear black alternative band t-shirts, their hair dyed some shade of macabre. They were also usually the cutters, bearing scars across all parts of their body, especially their wrists. These women were part of a whole typology of ward patients, a whole sub-genre, bearing its own similarities. I knew the authors of the books they read, the song lyrics they quoted as gospel, their consistent views on life and love. Though they would not open up enough for me to truly understand them, I knew well the front they presented to the world.

Everyone, male or female, had ward crushes. Though romantic and sexual relationships between patients were explicitly forbidden in every hospital where I was a patient, attraction still developed. It was an effect a little like being a counselor at a camp. Apparently, or so I’ve been told, everyone on staff in camp sleeps together. The constant, close proximity was like kindling for fire. If feelings were mutual, it was torturous preserving the façade of platonic interest. The temptation to push the envelope revealed just how powerful sexual desire really is.

Only once did I deliberately and blatantly break the rules. I was sixteen, lonely, and feeling impulsive. The woman in whom I was interested had a boyfriend already, or this is what other patients had said. But it must not have been that serious, because the attention I received was constant. Waiting for the attention of the nurses and staff to be distracted by something else, I entered her room. She welcomed me, but urged me to be quick about it. Suffice it to say that I knew I only had a minute or two before I’d be caught. I achieved what I was after and then fled down the hallway back to my room. It was a heavy risk to take, but I felt like it merited the potential discipline.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl she was not. She was no one's fantasy, least of all mine. The reality was too raw to be smoothed out. We were both equally brooding, equally conflicted, unshowered, heavily sleep deprived. If you've ever seriously contemplated your own mortality, it's easy to grab for a momentary thrill. A verboten kiss on an uncomfortable hospital bed puts a spin into a worried mind. For that moment, the future may well not exist. Prior entanglements simply did not apply.

I could add many more anecdotes to those I’ve told already. The ward could feel like a parallel universe. It’s easy to form kinship around a chronic illness. What patients do not have in common is much less important than what they do. Some may claim that what is felt is a false kind of intimacy, one held by people who are pushed together for the ease of treatment, each in the middle of a crisis situation. If this unity is little more than a basic biological response, then perhaps it is, but it is also an egalitarian expression of common sympathy. Sometimes the best in people, not the worst, shows itself in times of trial.

$240 Worth of Pudding

Something silly.

Oh yeah...

MTV Shows

Quote of Week

"All human beings should try to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why."- James Thurber

Saturday Video

This would classify as schmaltz, but I guess that's my mood today. "Pennies from Heaven" became a jazz standard in 1936. As an aside, I much enjoyed talking with the son of one of the songwriters some years ago. I was told many stories about Bing Crosby, for whom this song was originally penned. Few of them were especially complementary.



Every time it rains,
it rains pennies from heaven

Don'tcha know each cloud
contains pennies from heaven?
You'll find your fortune
fallin' all over town

Be sure that your umbrella
Is upside down

Trade them for a package
of sunshine and flowers

If you want the things you love,
you must have showers
So when you hear it thunder
Don't run under a tree

There'll be pennies from heaven
for you and me

Every time it rains, it rains
Pennies from heaven
Don'tcha know each cloud contains
Pennies from heaven?

You'll find you fortune fallin'
All over town
Be sure that your umbrella
Is upside down

Trade them for a package
of sunshine and flowers
If you want the things
you love you must have showers

So when you hear it thunder
Don't run under a tree
There'll be pennies from heaven
for you and for me

Writers I Have Known

There have been times in my life where I have wondered if anyone fits the dictionary definition of stability. Admittedly, I have asked these questions when witnessing the self-destruction of yet another artist. When I've known them personally, the shock takes on even more sorrow and melancholy. Based on multiple conversations with others over the years, I know the stories I am about to share occur over and over again.

My own worst days are now gratefully beyond me. One of the more difficult life lessons I've learned came by directly observing a couple of my professors. They were as instructive as teachers as they were disconcerting as human beings. In my early twenties, I came to understand, perhaps earlier than some, that some people never mature. Or, it could be said that some areas of their lives are gaping wounds, while other aspects are more or less sufficiently evolved. The best I can reckon is that some don't actively work on themselves in order to make improvement. Call it immaturity of a lack of self-realization, the effect is still the same.

My mentor in college was a published poet. Prior to college, poetry was a discipline I had only occasionally explored. I was inquisitive, eager to learn more, and by nature of my respect for him, I took several of his poetry writing workshops. He was well-known for being utterly devoted to his students. It wasn't unusual for him to work overtime with a student to personally and thoroughly revise poems, line by line. Eventually, I'd sit down with him twice a week to work on the same piece. In a few short months, my output greatly improved in technique and everyone in class noted my progress from poem to poem.

These were in the good days. The cracks were just beginning to show, but I didn't realize at the time how serious the situation really was. A protracted tenure fight just beginning to rage quickly took on a very ugly dimension. Overnight, seemingly, the happy-go-lucky person I once knew became perpetually bitter and angry. I'd ask if there was anything going on, or whether or not I could help, but he'd never say a thing beyond a polite, but firm denial. By the end, it seems he was a little more than a pale shadow of his former self.

This was years after I graduated, but a friend in the department filled me in on the blow-by-blow. His final class as a faculty member was memorable for all the wrong reasons. Aware by then that he had not made tenure, every gathering of students was either an extended rant against the English Department or abject incoherence. I was told that he was often so drunk that a graduate assistant had to finish up the hour. When our heroes disappoint us, we can be devastated or recognize that we all share flaws and a common mortality. I was a little of each.

Another teacher was equally well-known for her inappropriate classroom remarks and complete lack of healthy boundaries. During the first class, she asked if anyone was on a particular anti-depressant. She was seeking feedback, she said, because she had recently been placed on it. Her honesty was so matter-of-fact and unashamed that some people didn't catch on to what it revealed about her mental health. Our first assignment, I recall, was to write about something that scared us. Those were the guidelines, as defined by the syllabus. As rendered, the papers submitted and topics chosen took on a quality of group therapy. I was not exactly sure that this was a good way to structure a workshop.

Eventually, enough people complained and she was no longer allowed to teach. Aware of her reputation, other colleges and universities in the area showed no interest in hiring her. A recovered alcoholic, she became a virtual recluse, rarely leaving the house. Her writing output, which had once consisted of a series of several regionally popular novels, slacked off to almost nothing. With time, her addictions overpowered her as they had before. She developed a heavy dependency on pain pills, an affliction still prominent the last I had heard.

I cite both of these examples, in part, to measure how far I've come. And, I write to state the difficult reality. Artistic, creative people often badly manage the very sensitivity that serves them well and drives their work. Even with all of the mitigating circumstances of my life, I have pushed through the worst of them. Unlike many, I have not let my demons overtake me.

Fears and anxieties have momentarily gotten the best of me sometimes, but they have not dominated my life. People have viewed me in the midst of a panic or two, true. But I have pushed through my pain, not run for a chemical tranquilizer, nor justified my own dysfunctional behavior. In time, these folks will see me in greater contrast, in higher focus. I have faith in my ability to improve my quality of life.

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see only an indistinct image in a mirror, but then we will be face to face. Now what I know is incomplete, but then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.

Putting on the Breaks

I have quickly learned that around this time of year, everything beings to grind down. One editor has already told me that he is now on vacation. Another is probably preparing as well. Such is the life of the freelance writer. Those of you who are my readers and engaged in similar pursuits have likely realized this for yourselves as well.

Perhaps I need to take a break myself, for once. I remember, back in the days where I was new to blogging, a nurturing spirit gave me a piece of advice. It was this. "It's okay if I don't write today". Should you find it helpful to your situation, I impart to you the very same words.

I'll be departing next week for the traditional Christmas family gathering. Yesterday, I went to a holiday potluck dinner and much enjoyed myself. The writer's life is often solitary. It is an altogether healthy thing to give voice to the ideas churning inside one's head. And in addition to having these thoughts validated, others can do the very same thing. Or, in other words, one might explain this as the reason why a good conversation can be healing.

Coming out in middle school

A school district in Utah is defending its decision to report a middle school student's sexual orientation to his parents. The student deliberately self-disclosed his homosexuality during a written activity. He had been open about being gay in other ways, as well. His parents were eventually informed, according to the school district, because of efforts in place to reducing bullying. LGBT groups have gone on record to state that, despite the good intentions of this action, removing anyone's right to out himself or herself is not appropriate. While I favor the view of the latter, I do also understand the motives of the school district.

All of this would have never even been an issue a few short years ago. Though I am now in my early thirties, my experiences were extremely different. It seems almost inconceivable to me that anyone would willingly come out before the end of high school. Where I grew up, at fourteen, LGBT kids might acknowledge the fact within themselves, but never dare to so publicly announce it. In the South, queer culture existed quietly alongside the dominant heterosexual one, always present, but never directly expressed. It would have been seen as a violation of existing social coterie to be that brazenly honest with oneself. Gay people were never to speak or to call attention to themselves as they were.

Among my peers, many had their suspicions early on about a few of their classmates. Sometimes gossip was borne out by fact, when the parties in question came out of the closet. Although inevitable for most, this final step proceeded years later. The more permissive attitudes and freedom present in college usually granted queer kids the confidence to be fully honest with themselves. Those old barriers like constant parental surveillance no longer in place, most opened the closet door wide and left it behind forever. I suppose I always assumed that it was supposed to work this way.

This is why I still have a hard time understanding how anyone would dare to be openly gay in Middle School. Bullying is most intense then, of course, regardless of sexual orientation. And in prior generations, the stigma itself was so intense that coming out was a decision delayed as long as possible.

"Taking away the choice for a LGBT student to come out on their own terms opens the door to significant risks, including harassment at school and family rejection," she said.

Andy Thayer, co-founder of the Gay Liberation Network, said family rejection is a real risk, and some young gay teens have found themselves homeless as a result.

The school "could very well have worsened that situation considerably," he said.

Among a few trusted friends, this at the end of high school, I confessed my bisexuality. But I wasn't anywhere close to emotionally ready to begin to explore that part of myself. In fact, I didn't really explore homosexual relationships and sexuality until my freshman year of college. My parents were left deliberately not informed because I knew they wouldn't approve. Both were openly hostile to the very thought, worried I'd get AIDS or some other gay disease.

My mother had gay friends, but couldn't handle the thought of having a gay child. When I confronted her with who I was she told me that I was only "that way" because I "couldn't get women". These her exact words. It was a ridiculous statement to make since I'd had a few girlfriends by then. But I knew I wasn't speaking to someone in a rational state of mind. Her anxieties and worries had overtaken her judgment, which showed me the source of her intolerance. Fear. I tried to be understanding, but the sting of her words was much too painful.

My father was not much better. He was short-tempered, invalidating, and completely unsympathetic. I was told a story, instead. A very conservative friend of his apparently had a son who was gay. The son had been given, to spare the father's shame, no choice but to move far away. Apparently, the son chose not to do this, instead "flaunting" his "lifestyle choice" in plain view. Accepting and tolerant an anecdote this was not. These statements had almost everything to do with my parents, and nothing to do with me. It was their fears and neuroses that were on display. My side of the story never even merited contemplation.

If I wanted to be treated with basic kindness I knew I'd need to go elsewhere. Though I did not articulate it then, what I wanted was their approval, then a few words of advice. I had to walk a very lonely path myself and searched far and wide seeking guidance. Sometimes I found it, but often I had to learn my lessons alone.

I could have stayed closeted, but I made a conscious decision not to be. The fourteen-year-old Utah student here is extremely lucky. He lives in a time where homophobic bullying is being taken much more seriously. A school district, to say nothing of a society that treats LGBT students as invisible makes no steps to protect them from harm. The news report doesn't indicate one way or another, but I hope his parents have accepted their son as he is. The most important people in his life, their rejection or acceptance will dramatically influence how he sees himself for years and years.

Stay

Pink Floyd keyboard player Rick Wright wrote several songs about the uneasy relationship between musician and groupie. One gets the feeling that he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. In lyrical form he is tentative, conflicted, even repulsed by the new sexual freedom. He doesn't seem to enjoy it much, in any case.

To process his reservations, he wrote songs like "Stay", which follows below.




Stay and help me to end the day.
And if you don’t mind,
We’ll break a bottle of wine.

Stick around and maybe we’ll put one down,
Because I wanna find what lies behind those eyes.

Midnight blue burning gold.
A yellow moon is growing cold.

I rise, looking through my morning eyes,
Surprised to find you by my side.
Rack my brain to try to remember your name
To find the words to tell you goodbye.

Morning dues.
Newborn day.
A yellow moon turned to gray.

Midnight blue, burning gold.
Midnight blue is growing cold.

Health Update

Haven't posted one of these in a while, have I?

Today I visited the Primary Care Physician. I've had multiple colds in a short period of time and sought to understand precisely why. What I have is actually a lung infection that has likely lain dormant for months. It has never been adequately treated, nor completely out of my system, which would explain why it hung around for so long. Fortunately, a course of strong antibiotics should get rid of the infection within a week or so.

I also have a condition called Cheliosis. This is a vitamin/nutritional deficiency. What I thought were cold sores were cracks at the sides of my lips, due to malnutrition, essentially. My body doesn't have enough riboflavin or iron in its system right now. I'm supposed to start taking a multivitamin and to force myself to eat more balanced meals.

With time, Testosterone Replacement Therapy and the Aromatase Inhibitor caused my appetite to plunge. Or, at least that's the only likely cause of which I can think. I've found in the last several months that I just wasn't hungry, or that when I did eat, I ate mostly carbohydrates and sugars. Sometimes in seeking to fix one problem, another is created in its place.

Short Story Continuation

For a time, I thought all of these disparate short story pieces should be eventually conjoined together. Now I believe they stand out by themselves best, individually, as vignettes. I haven't quite decided yet. The best strategy may be to compile them together thematically, or even to be so bold as to write a screenplay someday.

Today's post explores a major area of my life I don't easily confront. I fought with myself in the course of writing, conscious that I shouldn't self-censor to the detriment of the piece. Someday, I hope I can talk about such things without discomfort.

____________________

As I enter, I notice the progression of grey throughout your hair and mine. Mine is only beginning, confined mostly to my temples for the duration. Yours is much more plentiful now. After embracing you, I gather that you still subtly apply patchouli. The chest hair that billows out of your shirt has begun to turn as well. You’ve gained back the forty pounds you’d recently lost when last we met, three years ago. Food always was your torment. Sometimes you'd pour dish soap on food you'd thrown in the trash hours before, so that you wouldn't fish it out and eat it during the night.

You eye me up and down, rapidly and greedily. It embarrasses me now. Once I would have invited your glances. Now you look like a tired old man with a never-ending stack of essays to grade. The last few years have proclaimed your age in front of the world. There was always a kind of defeated, lonely look to you, which I always assigned to your alcoholic mother and overbearing army corporal father. I see how you will be soon, a nice, slightly haunted old man who tips well at local restaurants.

In many ways, I will forever be in your debt. You taught me how to be queer, or at least how to understand it. I rushed into your arms in full freak out mode, eighteen years old and scared absolutely senseless. You were sympathetic, of course. But you didn’t vouch for the fact that I would seduce you. Safe enough, I thought. For a time, you resisted, but neither did you exactly discourage. It wasn’t long before we were lovers. This narrative progression, I gather, is not especially novel or even that out of the ordinary. I just called it the beginning.

Everyone for whom heterosexuality is not an option, or like me, a confusing counterweight, goes through a similar process. First one learns the language, the vernacular, the terminology. Then one applies it to an active life. I was another one of your students, learning from our interplay as much as the unwritten code that opened up before me, bit by bit. Loving mystery, I applied myself well and excelled in symbolic comprehension. Publically, I was fascinated. Privately, I was incredibly tormented.

Regularly locking myself in my room at night, I processed a day spent with you. And I asked myself the same questions. Those who always told me that being attracted to other men was perfectly normal always set off a fresh bout of angst. In all that I saw and felt, nothing felt the slightest bit normal or average. Yet, if I doubted the validity of what I felt, you were always around to prove it. In your arms, I felt momentarily serene. Today, I remember some of that feeling, the hollow, residual sensations we reserve for old lovers.

You understood me. Every Sunday you asked the priest for absolution from sin for homosexuality. The request was always denied. He said the same thing, week in and week out. Don’t act on it. For a time you’d followed his advice. Until well into your twenties you’d remained celibate, chaste, and pure. The phrase you used to describe yourself in those, your salad days was asexual. I tried to explain that asexuality wasn’t necessarily a developmental step. I’m still not certain you understood entirely.

After reversing course, you met someone. The two of you had three wonderful years together until the diagnosis. In those days, AIDS was a death sentence. In an instant you were thrust into the role of caretaker. For five years afterwards, you watched the disease progress, took temperatures, observed night sweats, scheduled doctor’s visits, and then buried him with no one’s assistance but your own. In the course of a long evening, you told me this story, wholly without emotion. There had been pain once, but your voice never showed it. You spoke as though this were a story long told, long memorized.

For a while afterward, I always needed confirmation. Even now, my mind goes strange places. I sometimes doubt what I felt for you, then. If I could deny it, then I could deny who I am, what I am, what this was. The sensation was primal, passionate, and completely affectionate. But unlike how you felt about me, I was never in love with you. I would never allow myself to go that far. You provided me every opportunity to do it, always bringing up the sizable gap in our ages. If you were pushing your heart away, even gently, then I supposed I was allowed to do the very same.

Back in town for a day or so, I thought I might find you at your normal hangout. It shouldn’t matter that you were actively ogling me with unchaste eyes the whole time I was there. We had enough of a history to justify that. I was mostly afraid, like always, that others would pick up on it. Count me as one of those who enjoyed the security and relative anonymity of the clubs and the bars. I knew my place. I knew where I fit into the prevailing culture. Closeted. Even if people disapproved, they still covered for me. They knew why I was there and I never made any pretense otherwise.

We said our goodbyes and you returned to your familiar corner. Blue book essays neatly piled six and seven deep, in coordinated piles stacked on the tabletop. This was your system and I think you alone were the only person to make sense of it. The pedagogical aspect of your life was never especially interesting to me, so I never made inquiries. And you never felt it worthy of a discussion. I only observed the visible products and the observable results. Now, I am only awkward in your presence, the way I imagine all of us feel around an ex.

The Real Palestine

Last week, GOP Presidential front runner Newt Gingrich raised eyebrows by claiming that the Palestinians were, in his words, an “invented” people. When given an opportunity to qualify or walk back the statement during the most recent Republican debate, Gingrich stood his ground. It is possible to follow the former Speaker’s logic, on some level. However, the remark is also another in a long chain of unapologetic, inflammatory comments Gingrich has made over time. What we see is mostly Newt being Newt. One might as well get used to it.

Other Presidential hopefuls were given an opportunity by the moderator to respond to the comment. Most of them were highly critical of the latest candidate to hold first place, but only Ron Paul told the full truth about Gingrich’s comment. Paul noted that while the former Speaker’s pronouncement might have been factually correct, at least technically, it was a construction of language only designed to make trouble. Beyond forceful and predictable Pro-Israel pandering, it does beg to reopen the debate and challenge our notions of history.

It has often been believed that the Palestinians of today were the Philistines of the Bible. The Arabic language does not contain a hard “P” sound. Instead, the word as properly rendered would sound more like “Ph”, as in Phonetic. Reaching for explanations beyond the most basic can grow extremely heated in a fraction of a second. Indeed, it is difficult to separate facts from strongly held ideological views, both pro-Israel and pro-Palestinian, and both based routinely in hatred. Gingrich surely must have known the danger present in igniting this powder keg once again. But, as is typical, he was more concerned with stirring up controversy than being sensible and reasonable.

Some sources state that Arab settlers, seeking legitimacy, took on the phrase of an ancient, memorable tribe. In some ways, it was a curious selection. Though many of us rarely read the Bible anymore, we are still familiar with the story of David and Goliath. In the account, found in the Old Testament book of 1 Samuel, Goliath is a Philistine and David, his seemingly overmatched challenger, is Hebrew.

Goliath stood and shouted a taunt across to the Israelites. "Why are you all coming out to fight?" he called. "I am the Philistine champion, but you are only the servants of Saul. Choose one man to come down here and fight me! If he kills me, then we will be your slaves. But if I kill him, you will be our slaves! I defy the armies of Israel today! Send me a man who will fight me!"

It is, as we know, the eventual King David who defeats the nine-foot-tall Goliath by way of a slingshot and stones. Palestinians in the 21st Century may resemble David in stature far more than their presumptive ancestor. At the time of the Middle Ages, Philistinism also became a pejorative. The phrase refers to an anti-intellectual, prudish, or otherwise aesthetically resistant person who is smugly indifferent, even openly hostile to cultural pursuits. A particular vein of conservative thought often speaks to this state of willing ignorance, one that often leaves strong political statements unchallenged.

In Western culture, the whole of Judeo-Christian civilization could be viewed as invented. The original text and resulting traditions were adopted quite deliberately by a Roman Emperor who sought to harness Christianity for his own selfish desires. Had he not, then the religion and its observance may have remained small and never left the Middle East. Before Constantine the Great, Christians were heavily persecuted, sometimes infamously thrown to lions. Due to the grand scale and great influence of the Empire, the religion was spread by missionaries to Western Europe, then eventually the New World.

One might say that, much like Israelis and Palestinians both, Christianity is a kind of deliberate transplant. It is strange to consider how profoundly massive our roots are in a small corner of the Earth. Our cultural identity, along with a large source of crude oil are centered there. Conservatives like to play up their cred by expressing their unyielding loyalty to the state of Israel, but if they truly understood, they might think before speaking. I doubt most people, including some of our elected leaders, really understand the Middle East and all its nuances.

Furthermore, Palestinians often are descended from Israelis by blood. In some ways, a particularly persistent Civil War is being waged. Palestinians have been a people without a homeland for a long time, even with their vast amount of diversity in cultural and genetic identification. If they are somehow a construct of politics and imagination, they are far from the only people for whom this is the case. Americans are arranged similarly, since most are transplants from elsewhere. Everywhere that mass migration has taken place, for any reason, one could utter the charge of “invented”. The comparison invites definitions of authenticity that are entirely subjective.

Newt Gingrich hasn’t changed one iota. He’ll still play up hair-splitting points that keep him in the headlines. Many of his supporters will see these characterizations as some kind of courageous fact, when they are half-truths at best. Gingrich is willing to bend the truth, showing himself to be the opposite of mealy-mouthed flip-floppers like Mitt Romney. But what Gingrich backers fail to understand is that, unlike what their hero practices, speaking the complete truth really does take guts. Confronting a world with complex issues that do not invite simple solutions cannot be reconciled by bomb-throwing, either in rhetoric or in military policy.

Quote of the Week

An old Quaker had retired for the night. He heard a noise downstairs. Rising, he took his hunting shotgun from the wall, and tiptoed very quietly down the steps. Sure enough, there was a burglar looting the family silverware.

In quiet tones, the Quaker addressed the burglar: "My friend, I would not harm thee for the world, but thee is standing where I am about to shoot."- An old joke.

Tuscaloosa Pictures

Georgia Southern Football Game, a set on Flickr.

19 November 2011. Alabama vs. Georgia Southern.

New Pictures

My recently married sister and her husband.

Me, November 2011.

Saturday Video

This song is a favorite of mine. In particular, I love the drum break into the chorus. Though I cannot play a full set well at all, I play air drums along with the recording, every time.



Well, I'm standing here, freezing,
inside your golden garden
I've got my ladder, leaned up against your wall

Tonight's the night we planned
to run away together
Come on Dolly Mae, there's no time to stall
But now you're telling me...

I think we better wait till tomorrow
Yeah, yeah, yeah
(I think we better wait till tomorrow)

Girl, what 'chu talkin' 'bout ?
(I think we better wait till tomorrow)
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Got to make sure it's right,
so until tomorrow, goodnight.

Oh, what a drag.

Oh, Dolly Mae, how can you hang
me up this way ?
Oh, on the phone you said you wanted
to run off with me today

Now I'm standing here like some
turned down serenading fool
Hearing strange words stutter
from the mixed mind of you

And you keep tellin' me that ah...

I think we better wait till tomorrow
What are you talkin' 'bout ?
(I think we better wait till tomorrow)

No, can't wait that long
(I think we better wait till tomorrow)
Oh, no
Got to make sure it's right,
until tomorrow, goodnight, oh.

Let's see if I can talk to
this girl a little bit here...

Ow! Dolly Mae, girl, you must be insane
So unsure of yourself leaning
from your unsure window pane

Do I see a silhouette of somebody
pointing something from a tree?
Click bang, what a hang,
your daddy just shot poor me

And I hear you say, as I fade away...

We don't have to wait till tomorrow
Hey!
We don't have to wait till tomorrow
What you say?
(We don't have to wait till tomorrow)

It must not have been right, so forever,
goodnight, listen at 'cha.
(We don't have to wait till tomorrow)

Ah! Do I have to wait? Don't have to wait
(We don't have to wait till tomorrow)
It's a drag on my part

We don't have to wait till tomorrow)
Don't have to wait, uh, hmm ! Ah, no !
(We don't have to wait till tomorrow)
Don't have to wait, don't have to wait, yeah !

(We don't have to wait till tomorrow)
Don't have to wait, don't have to wait
(We don't have to wait till tomorrow)
Oh, oh

I won't be around tomorrow, yeah!
(We don't have to wait till tomorrow)
Don't have to wait
(We don't have to wait till tomorrow)

Goodbye, bye bye!
(We don't have to wait till tomorrow)
Oh, what a mix up
Oh, you gotta be crazy, hey, ow!
Don't have to wait till tomorrow.

Two of Us

Timing is of the utmost importance in this song. Should you listen to it, you'll hear that the timing goes a little astray in the last half. The rhythm guitar track decided to get distorted, meaning that I had to record another to fill out the song.

I decided to leave the imperfections in, because I thought I'd try to replicate what a live recording might sound like. Live in the Studio isn't always an oxymoron. Still, the harmonies are strong.



Two of us riding nowhere
Spending someone's hard earned pay,
You and me Sunday driving,
Not arriving on our way back home.

We're on our way home,
We're on our way home,
We're going home.

Two of us sending postcards
Writing letters on my wall.
You and me burning matches,
Lifting latches on our way back home.

We're on our way home,
We're on our way home,
We're going home.

You and I have memories
Longer than the road that stretches out ahead

Two of us wearing raincoats
Standing solo in the sun.
You and me chasing paper,
Getting nowhere on our way back home.

We're on our way home,
We're on our way home,
We're on our way home.

You and I have memories
Longer than the road that stretches out ahead

Two of us riding nowhere
Spending someone's hard earned pay.
You and me Sunday driving
Not arriving on our way back home.

We're on our way home,
We're on our way home

We're going home.

EMDR

My eyes follow the motion of two fingers all the way to the end
then back again like a typewriter’s carriage return
to and fro a v-shaped pointer and middle finger

Focus on an image
Focus
Focus

lurid
still photography

out of sequence
variations on a theme

follow follow follow
hold the image

holding

the next click
of the viewfinder
the next frame

what do you see what do you see

the insertion of
a finger

don’t make me say
what it is don’t make me

take a deep breath take a deep breath

click

where am I where is this
what is this

pulling out
leaving behind

click

what do you feel what do you feel
where do you feel it

pain in the bowels
lower stomach

enough for today enough

time for leaving time to go goodbye

tightness in the chest
pulse racing

doctor’s office
just a moment

are you okay
are you okay

downstairs
into the rain

calm
calm
calm

An infamous date, seventy years later

On this anniversary, Japan attacked the United States at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Despite my own private reservations, I cannot hear Franklin Roosevelt's eloquent address without being caught up in the moment. At the end of dramatically intoned sentences, the entire room breaks into patriotic, thunderous applause. In direct violation of my own beliefs, I feel a desire to let out a cheer as the short, but powerful speech crescendos. Pacifism in any form now seems out of step and unnecessary.

A day which was observed with solemn reverence for the entire country holds a very different meaning for Friends. Charles Lindbergh and his boy-next-door delivery as spokesman for the Anti-War movement was rendered redundant in an instant. Those who still believed that the United States ought to beware of foreign entanglements now became a small minority. Some, usually stating religious reasons, refused to serve in the military. But they were regularly treated like traitors or turncoats. Some were even thrown into jail. This 2006 article in Friends Journal summarizes a variety of stated offenses and solutions for non-participation. Much of this ignoble aspect of our history is simply not discussed.

Conscientious objectors were often persecuted for their efforts in World War II. John F. Kennedy acknowledged this when he said, "War will exist until that distant day when the conscientious objector enjoys the same reputation and prestige that the warrior does today." World War II COs endured verbal abuse and vandalism of their homes, were refused service in restaurants, had to witness being hung in effigy, dealt with efforts to prevent them from voting, and were socially ostracized.

Conscientious objectors and their families also suffered economically. When the men of the family were in CPS [Civilian Public Service], they were not paid. Many COs went on strike, and some called the workcamps "American Slave Camps." Families relied on the women to provide financial support. Also, families had to pay for COs to go into the CPS (about $35 a month). Finally, there were fewer job opportunities for the family members of COs because most of them would not accept employment that included working in war industries, and some employers refused to hire family members of COs.

Many CO families were separated while family members served in the workcamps or on farms. Some families disagreed with COs and were ashamed of what their relatives believed. In some instances, parents and spouses even threatened to commit suicide. The worry over persecution, loss of pay, and separation took over the lives of many COs' families.

In a different time, enlisting for battle was an automatic action by many. Stories are told of men who, while driving in a car towards some destination, heard of the Pearl Harbor attacks by way of the car radio. Many immediately turned around, regardless of previous plans, and proceeded directly to sign up for military service. An older man I talked with some years ago told fascinating stories. He spoke about how, having turned eighteen, he proudly enlisted for the army. Not only was it expected, it reinforced ideas of acceptable masculine behavior. And, it also made one popular with the girls.

He would later be wounded during the Battle of the Bulge, this during a particularly traumatic and violent German offensive. But that is later. A still isolationist nation had not entertained frequent invasions or a total war, and this is why it rushed to armed combat under the sway of an extensive propaganda machine. It would soon recognize that war wasn't nearly as glamorous as it had been led to believe. Even with technicolor or the support of Hollywood's most popular matinee idols, war was still hell.

The impact of this anniversary has faded with time. Once remembered by all, the number of those who were even alive back then has steadily decreased. Soon, it may be remembered only by history, recorded and passed down by those who were themselves not present. History must inevitably rely upon the reflections of primary sources for any truthful retelling. Still, what makes any momentous event real and tangible are personal narratives. One of my Grandmother's brothers came ashore on D-Day. Due to prior written correspondence with him, she knew he would be there. She never talked about the grandiloquence of that event, just that she cried all day and night, fearful that her brother might be among the casualties. These anecdotes summarize the reality of war, not the speeches, not the pomposity.

The Testimony of Community

The enclosed is a rough draft of a new submission. By the time the editor gets hold of it, it probably won't look like this. Still, I share the content with you, hoping it will resonate with my readers. For those of you who spend much time organizing, planning, and otherwise pondering how to build lasting, strong groups of people, I direct this post specifically to you. I doubt our experiences are that uncommon, if you set the name and concept aside.

____________

Community is often one of the forgotten Testimonies. As Friends, our calling card to the rest of the world is usually Peace. Accordingly, the Peace Testimony often receives a disproportionate amount of our attention. Though there will always be wars and rumors of wars, it is also important that we focus on ourselves as a Beloved Community. Despite the advent of the internet and the prevalence of electronic communication, face to face interaction with other Friends has never ceased to be important. To me, the most meaningful aspects of being Quaker are the interpersonal relationships I have formed with other Friends.

Here in Washington, DC, the need for real Community is palpable and perceptible. A city of hard working, overachieving transplants, everyone a person encounters seems to hail from somewhere else. This often means that cliques or in-crowds are in shorter supply than might be true in other cities. Without years for people to establish long-term friendships and relationships, social networks are tenuous and often fragmentary. After an often-exhausting workweek, sharing an hour or two with Friends keeps the focus on what really matters. Due to the prevalent culture, drawing that distinction can be more challenging here than in any other city in the country.

DC Friends often find it hard to strike the proper balance between spiritual life and vocational demands. Washington is a highly competitive place full of the highly driven and highly intelligent. The lessons taught are often in contradiction to basic virtues like humility, cooperation, and servant-led leadership. Criticism aside, Washington is very different from the way it is often portrayed in the media or by others in the rest of the country. Its flaws are well documented, but its strengths are not always given full weight. As is often the case, the truth lies somewhere in the middle.

DC is also a very transient city. Many view it as simply another stopover on a lengthy career journey. Young Adult Friends living in Washington have often lived in several other cities before reaching the age of 30. Community is complicated by the difficulty in retaining membership and participation. Maintaining continuity is one of the foremost challenges towards leadership and congregational stability. Washington can be a revolving door of sorts, and one either embraces that reality or laments it. Coordinating schedules and attracting Friends to activities even after an exhausting workday complicates fellowship.

Young Adult Friends in DC can be a contradiction in terms. Desiring Community the most, they are often the least able to sustain it in practice. While the entire area is transient enough by itself, young adults are even more inclined to move and relocate. One simply has to get used to it. Devising successful strategies to pull Young Adult Friends together requires a sense of dexterity and a willingness to experiment. It also means listening to others and taking into account their suggestions. Eventually, everyone manages to end up on the same page. No one ever said Community was easy.

Community is quite a bit of work regardless of where one lives. In increasingly individualistic times, finding commonality between diverse interests and differing life experiences is difficult. Some Friends have embraced Quakerism after a long search. This was my particular experience as well. Some are still processing and unpacking prior negative experiences of Community. Others are classic seekers, skeptics at heart, listening for a reason to really believe. The Spirit guides for those willing to surrender to God. Our journeys differ, but our needs are similar.

Sometimes we form Community organically, without a stated intent. While in the moment, our hearts join together as one. Should we share a laugh or a meaningful Worship, we are reminded of what Jesus reminded us. “This is my commandment: Love each other in the same way I have loved you.” In those times, where we work, where we might be in two years, the sum total of our fears and reservations, our best intentions, and our expectations of Community are subordinate. These are moments of sublime beauty and grace.

I have discovered that the fear of failure, rather than any other stumbling block is the most common obstacle to forming Community. God tests us to spread our wings and realize our full potential. However, ultimately, should our hearts and intentions be pure, his ways succeed. Embracing the mystery without understanding the final resolution typifies our relationship with the Divine. This routinely runs contrary to how we believe and comprehend as individuals. In building a common vision, trusting God cannot be underemphasized. Amazing, profound, miraculous things take shape then.

A Reminder

Then Jesus told this story to some who had great confidence in their own righteousness and scorned everyone else: "Two men went to the Temple to pray. One was a Pharisee, and the other was a despised tax collector. The Pharisee stood up and prayed about himself: 'God, I thank you that I am not like other men--robbers, evildoers, adulterers--or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week, and I give you a tenth of my income.'

"But the tax collector stood at a distance and dared not even lift his eyes to heaven as he prayed. Instead, he beat his chest in sorrow, saying, 'O God, be merciful to me, for I am a sinner.' I tell you, this sinner, not the Pharisee, returned home justified before God. For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted."

Occupy Skepticism

At the conclusion of Quaker Worship yesterday, it was announced, with much dramatic emphasis, that police had surrounded the McPherson Square Occupy DC protesters. Seeking solidarity with the besieged and to make their own voices heard, roughly half the Meeting headed immediately down to the site. I allowed the emotion of the moment to lead me to contemplate particularly dire conclusions. My first thought was that the police presence was now intent on breaking up the demonstration. The lump in my throat was genuine as was my sense of worry.

It turns out that nothing of the sort transpired yesterday. This is why I continue to retain some skepticism regarding the entire Occupy movement. What I observed from instantaneous internet feeds and correspondence with people who were there was very different. For one, police brutality and acts of violence the likes of which have typified other protests was nowhere to be found. The National Park Service, which has jurisdiction over the site, is well-versed in precisely how to perform arrests. This is particularly because DC is the country’s most favored protest spot. Hyperbole aside, this was not Occupy Oakland or the street protests in the UK earlier in the year.

I’m not trying to sound dismissive. People want to be part of a movement. They want to contribute to a cause greater than themselves. These by themselves are laudable goals. But when grandiose intentions become linked to even more irrational and cloying persecution narratives, then that which is produced is ridiculous and comes close to self-parody. Or, let me say it another way. Thirty-one people were arrested yesterday for failing to leave a makeshift plywood structure. Despite the protest’s self-serving spin, that was the whole of the conflict.

The issue does underscore a more significant issue. Occupy DC’s numbers hold steady but do not make significant gains going into the dead of winter. Late December and January are the coldest times of year in Washington, DC. The cold persists through February and usually ends by early March. Although far enough South that snowfall is not especially consistent, DC finds itself regularly on the back end of a Nor’easter or two. Given the right conditions, accumulation can run as high as a foot or more. I can understand why the structure was built. However, Occupy DC is likely going to have to take account for the weather and concede that twenty-four hour occupation may no longer be an option.

And I have other reservations, nagging concerns shared by many. The demographic makeup of McPherson Square’s protesters is quite consistent. They are Caucasian, middle class, educated, often raised in liberal households, and predominately young. Others before me have been critical that people of color and other minorities are not found in larger quantities. Strategies implemented to address this discrepancy have thus far not been enacted. Of course, this problem cannot be laid squarely at the feet of a few hundred people congregated together in a square, living lives of running commentary. Confronting issues of privilege and class would, in my estimation, be worthwhile topics for discussion should Occupy DC wish to gain serious respect. The movement needs legitimacy before others will close ranks behind it.

Instead, what I’ve seen upon other direct visits to the site are nice white kids who generally did what their parents asked and ate their vegetables. Before I seem too critical, I place myself in with that distinction. The Occupy protesters and their devotion to non-violence are touching, as is their ramshackle creative flair. Still, last night I admit I found it hard to take them very seriously. In this era of immediate documented communication, I monitored the situation through regularly updated Tweets and live stream video. After several hours, I concluded that the fears of many, including my own, were much ado about nothing. Occupy will continue. The crisis that never was is over.

What will continue being a point of contention is the matter of long-term camping. The National Park Service has left notes on tents specifying clearly that sleeping on-site is illegal. They seem willing to accommodate almost everything else. Protesters know that they are being tolerated for now and that just being there is illegal. In future, the movement will need to decide next how far they wish to press their luck. If they dig in their heels and seek to construct another structure for a similar function, the cumulative effect might get the entire Occupy DC group kicked out.

The idea of leaderless movements is a compelling one, but I simply do not think we are ready yet as a race of people for it. Quakerism, for example, as a religious group, speaks deliberately against hierarchy. However, leaders still assert themselves, even if they do not adopt formal titles. I am cautious just as they of too much power concentrated in the hands of a few people, the very issue driving Occupy movements across the country. Even so, there is still a vast amount of middle ground between plutocracy and formless anarchy, which the movement would be wise to seriously take under consideration. Commentators, columnists, and others should be equally cautious before they use the movement to further their own ends.

An Individual's Definition of Marriage and Equality

My sister just got married. This only proves that the way life shakes out is often nothing like we imagine. What makes this unusual is that she long believed she would never tie the knot. I, for one, believed her. It was instead thought that the oldest child, that being me, would end up the first to betrothal. Instead, the rebellious middle child found herself in the middle of a whirlwind courtship. Four months after meeting him, she was engaged. First comes love, then comes marriage, as they say. But, true to form, she did it her way and no one else’s.

Never one for anyone’s ritual, she and her now-husband headed directly to the courthouse. Believing the no-frills approach was best, the two said their vows in the most minimalist possible way. This is how she always said it would be, if it ever happened. That much was expected. What really surprised me, however, was my sister’s decision to take her husband’s name. It seemed a little odd coming from the woman who personally founded and single-handedly led a feminist group on campus. And yet as it turns out she had a traditional streak, one that none of us who knew her best could have ever foreseen.

When I asked about it, she put the decision rather simply. She and her husband, possessing the same last name, were now on the same team. The symbolism involved in having a surname in common reinforced the level of emotional commitment between the two of them. Far be it for me to object. How she chooses to structure her marriage or her married name is none of my business.

It’s not how I would do it, though. Not at all. Should marriage be in my future, I know I’ll expect my wife to retain her maiden name. The likelihood I will partner with a woman for the long term is considerably high. I’ve never known for same-sex couples, regardless of gender, to exchange one name for another. What has appealed to me, I must admit, is just being one more typically liberal couple. You could call it fitting in, if you wish. Nothing appeals to me more than puttering around with a partner at Trader Joe’s on Sunday afternoons. When I’ve never felt ordinary in most aspects of my life, a little conformity isn’t so bad.

In the end, it comes down to how we define equality in relationships. I’ve known some feminists whose immediate discomfort with the very idea of marriage, and all the baggage retained therein have led them to decide it will never be for them. Regardless of our primary views, it may be useful to think about the whole of the thoughts and reflections we hold about this tradition. What are our motivations in marriage? Do we find that the fantasy conforms to the reality? If my sister’s example is pertinent, when it does happen, I’m sure it will be nothing like anyone’s bridal magazine or reality television show.

Quote of the Week

"A child of five would understand this. Send someone to fetch a child of five."- Groucho Marx

Holiday and Holy Days: An Open Letter

Periodically, I write open letters to my Meeting on its listserve. This particular correspondence was sparked by an article I read in a monthly Quaker periodical. In the beginning, Friends did not celebrate Christmas, believing it to be a tradition foist upon them, and one in contradiction to their beliefs. They faced fines for daring to keep their shops open on Christmas Day. Vandals sometimes broke windows and damaged Quaker-owned businesses. Friends believed that Christmas was a festival of unrestrained frivolity and drunkenness, which is a large reason why they didn't celebrate it.

The non-observance of the Christmas holiday persisted until around the time of the Civil War and is held today only by a few.

For the sake of greater comprehension, I'll identify some esoteric references. FUM stands for Friends United Meeting, a Quaker organization based in Richmond, Indiana, which is solidly Christian. First Day is Sunday. Early Friends replaced the names of days of the week, this because their original names were said to be Pagan in origin. For example, Wednesday is Fourth Day and Friday is Sixth Day. A query is an open-ended, often rhetorical question posed to everyone. It is meant to facilitate contemplation and deepen spiritual understanding.

________________

Hello Friends,

The latest edition of Quaker Life magazine has arrived in my inbox. One section, mostly in jest, asks us how we might choose to celebrate (or not celebrate) Christmas. Or, as it was known to earlier Friends, "that day called Christmas". I imagine the phrase being pronounced with a particular emphasis on sharp, unyielding disdain. We are, after all, descendants of Puritans.

As I've understood it, Friends do not celebrate holidays, at least during Meeting for Worship. I've been told that this is because Quakers believe that no First Day is any more or any less special or holy. The Christian holidays and resulting color schemes of my boyhood are nowhere to be seen. I still sometimes half expect us to be celebrating Advent right now. But if we are to be in this world, not of this world, we may have made an exception for Christmas. I think it a good idea to contemplate the rampant consumerism omnipresent to the holiday. It has recently showed itself in the behavior of some overzealous shoppers on Black Friday.

Friends paid quite a price once upon a time for their lack of observance. This was true both monetarily and otherwise. Should we return to those days, much to the disappointment of children and the uncomprehending stares of friends and coworkers? Quaker Life, the FUM publication it is, encourages us to remember whose day the 25th of December really is. And they don't mean Santa Claus. Though Christmas Day may not be the precise, historical twenty-four hour period that Jesus of Nazareth was born, I still think it necessary to commemorate his life and his ministry. The man hasn't exactly had a moderate impact throughout the course of history and throughout the world even today.

Friends may differ in how they view Jesus and I respect their beliefs. At minimum, I hope we recognize that this day of observance, Quakerly or not, has a meaning beyond the mad dash to accumulate more things, more stuff. In an ideal world, our reverence would fall equally upon every calendar day. If there are truly no need for holidays, then we see no difference between the sacred and the prosaic. But how we love Christmas and how we conform to its unstated rules! The negative is commingled along with the positive, as is so often the case in human expression. We may always feel the nagging urge to commemorate particular days for particular events. We may not be quite evolved enough to avoid reaching for this distinction.

In writing this, I have no view to advance, no ax to grind. My intention is to get people thinking, much like an effective query. Why are we officially against ritual though we find that ritual seeks to assert itself anyway? Why would we have no day be more or less reverent than others, while acknowledging that this is not a desire quite so easy to follow? Like many faith groups, we were established based on idealistic standards of purity. Yet we are still human and still possessed of shortcomings. I hope then that we might take account for our flaws as we hold ourselves to a higher standard. The Christmas season is supposed to remind us that goodwill, kindness, and cooperation are more important than selfishness. If holidays must persist, I can think of no better message to be reinforced, year in and year out.

In the Light,

Kevin.

Hilarious

Saturday Video

Years ago, I first posted this as the Saturday Video. Once upon a time, there was a television channel named MTV. It played this video constantly, along with many other videos, which is exactly where I first learned to love it. I still get nostalgic for the early 90's. The lyrics seem throwaway, but were apparently inspired by the Marquis de Sade.

Check check check

Spitting in a wishing well

Blown to hell crash

I'm the last splash

I know you little libertine

I know you're a real coo coo

Want you, coo coo

Cannonball

Want you, coo coo

Cannonball

In the shade, in the shade

In the shade, in the shade

I'll be your whatever you want

The bong in this reggae song

In the shade, in the shade

Want you, coo coo

Cannonball

Spitting in a wishing well

Blown to hell

Crash

I'm the last splash

I'll be your whatever you want

The bong in this reggae song

Want you, coo coo

Cannonball

Want you, coo coo

Cannonball

In the shade, in the shade

In the shade, in the shade

2012: A Vote of Confidence or No-Confidence

I will vote for Barack Obama. I will vote for him in the primaries, though I doubt any other name will be printed on the ballot next to his. I will vote for him in November. This distinction is made deliberately should some believe I intend to desert the President and his Party. By now, I know the consequences. My criticisms of the current Administration may tangentially have a few aspects in common with current GOP arguments, but that is as deep as they will ever go. I never was very comfortable in sharing my bed with my opposition for any reason.

What troubles me is that I will not be voting for a person this next election cycle, rather I will be voting for the Democratic Party. This is not a concept unique only to me. Like many, I want to swing the balance of power in the Supreme Court of the United States. Or, if that is not possible, I submit my vote as a safeguard to prevent further erosion of progressive ideals. I will pull the lever to Obama to keep Roe v. Wade the law of the land. I strongly desire four more years of Democratic judges and assorted appointees, the ones that even an obstructionist Republican cannot block. I’ll show up at the polls to ensure a steady stream of legislative minutia and stump speech bullet points that, combined together, one calls a Presidential legacy.

My voting history is not as extensive as some, but it does contain a discernible paper trail. In the past, I’ve left a heavy, dark mark next to names like Gore and Kerry. On a state level, I can recall several other Democrats who won my vote. The common denominator between all of these ballots is that of motivation. I never really expected any single person to reform the system. Rather, I expected predictable forward progress lumped between politically expedient posturing. One could say I never held politicians to much of a standard, lowering the bar so that I could be pleasantly surprised at the good things they produced.

The exception to that rule was 2008. I think we’re all processing the aftermath. This forthcoming election will be a referendum of sorts on that subject, both for Democrats and Republicans. For the moment, our system of governance might as well be Parliamentary. Voters know they are selecting the end products of a legislative majority more than a Chief Executive. To be honest, Americans have always had mixed feelings about Presidential power. Too much of it, and people are fearful of the consequences. Too little of it, and the People’s designated representative seems impotent and superfluous. Be careful of what you ask for. You just might get it. Concerns like these are as old as the Republic itself. Who should be responsible for the changing, us, or those who we consistently elect?

At times Americans hold some peculiarly contradictory beliefs. We have become far more ideologically rigid with time, even though we hold to notions of Centrism and moderation. Public confidence in Congress has almost always been far lower than that of any President. Yet, that body is supposedly far less partisan, this because its members are pulled almost exclusively from two competing parties. The paradox here underlines a very important distinction to make. The President is the leader of his or her own Party, true. He or she is supposed to serve that role alone while managing to represent the entire country.

On placards and in conversation, I've heard over and over the same phrase. "Obama is not my President". And, I myself never believed that George W. Bush was my President, either. Our notion of Presidential Authority is equally split. If we want to spare subsequent confusion, we might well concede that the real powers of the office of President of the United States are always in flux. We want Presidential consistency sometimes, but that runs contrary to its function. Other times, we want the office to hold the agency and willingness to make needed changes.

But we cannot have it both ways. That we turn to a living human rather than a deliberative body that is usually faceless reveals much. People can be forgiven. Legislative bureaucracies are rarely granted a second chance by anyone. If we really were governed a Parliamentary system, votes of no-confidence might well have been already proposed within the body itself. As for us, the way it stands now, 2012 will ask us to come to our own conclusions. We will cast our own vote of no-confidence, however we may perceive it.

The Return of the Short Story

Editor's Note:

I tried, in the beginning, to write in an strict, numerical order while compiling this ongoing short story in progress. Now, I think it may be easier if I document specific anecdotes first, then link them together later as they fit. For those inclined to read these segments, perhaps one can see the creative process at work.

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I remember the happy times spent together. The night-long rainstorm we meandered through, in no hurry, while walking in downtown. Our hands brushed against long-forgotten markers and metal plaques. These denoted the construction of buildings or exact sites of historical events. Names of a forgotten age, local politicians lost to memory. Often these were obscured from discovery by newness. New additions, new expressways, new means of transportation.

You said to me: Touch, feel. I complied, reluctantly at first. What was the appeal? Then I understood you, surrendering, my comprehension growing with each stop.

By night’s end, we had arrived at the terminus. Peering over the railings, we spied where Northside meets Southside, watching a train hauling coal chugging steadily away from town. The division once meant much more than it does today. It may as well be its own living historical monument, active, but still a place where prior designation is more important than current value.

Speculation aside, simple pleasures are difficult to understate. Returning soaked to the apartment, I threw layer after layer of clothing to the hardwood floor in the foyer. Each created a heavy, slapping sound as it made contact with the ground. I probably should have bothered to wring out most of the rainwater into the old porcelain sink in the kitchen, but I was weary of the additional weight and tired from the journey. The sensation of complete liquid saturation only can be tolerated for a while. One eventually feels a strong inclination to escape, to push aside for later.

We huddled together under an itchy wool blanket that provided necessary warmth. Regarding a replacement, an additional expense or need always depleted our bank account, delaying the purchase of something better for the occasion. Some would have nagged us before departure, as we had impulsively chosen a day not especially hospitable to those who voluntarily eschew umbrellas. We had ignored periods of heavy rain, not merely a constant light drizzle.

I looked to my right, peering underneath the blanket. Her pale skin flushed scarlet, her legs pulled up underneath her, shivering.

It was totally worth it. I had to agree, though a compendium of old wives’ tales had me worried about particular maladies now in the process of gestation. She embraced me. The introduction of cold, clammy skin made me flinch. Still, I knew in time this momentary reflex of mine would subside. Warmth increases when two people huddle together. This isn't an especially profound truth, at least not on its surface. It’s an act that may save your life in the Arctic or spare your sanity in other situations. You see, these sorts of excursions of ours were frequent and instructive.

Never stop being spontaneous. Never push aside the simple joy of being present in the moment. Even the familiar holds interest if you stop rushing by it. Romance is present without dry clothes and a constant refrain of hackneyed parental warnings. I promise you this. Your feet will not freeze off. You will not catch your death of cold.