Saturday, November 17, 2012
Saturday Video
Dear friend, what's the time?
Is this really the borderline?
Does it really mean so much to you?
Are you afraid, or is it true?
Dear friend, throw the wine.
I'm in love with a friend of mine.
Really truly, young, and newly wed.
Are you a fool, or is it true?
Friday, November 16, 2012
Sex Work
Another unedited excerpt of Wrecking Ball
_____________
Sex Work
One girl tried to steal you away from the first one who called.
A man, probably of middle age, worked the switchboard. It was him you talked to when discussing payment options and ordering the sort of girl you wanted. I’d received a call from one young woman about my age, then a second call from another ten minutes later. Later, I was told that most men who requested these sorts of services were usually middle aged and paunchy. To be with a younger man was an infrequent treat, and something coveted.
The switchboard operator apologized profusely and said that someone would soon be on her way. I’d figured that something was up, but wasn’t especially picky, all told. Partially lonely, partially seeking sex, there was something that appealed to me about the whole process. There was novelty present in having a stranger arrive at your residence, one who you had never seen before and would never see again.
A few weeks prior, one woman, best described as rode hard and put up wet, encouraged me to circumvent the system. Though we’d had relatively satisfying sex, she stood to gain more monetarily if I called in to claim that I’d changed my mind. Sympathetic to her situation, I lied over the phone so that she’d pocket three times more money than normal. She promised to return later in appreciation, but I didn’t take it seriously. When her empty promise was proven to be as I had suspected, I felt no bitterness.
One couldn’t help but be drawn into the drama a little. One woman arrived in a car with her boyfriend. He sat in the car, outside, to protect his girlfriend, should he have the need to physically intervene. Immediately after we finished up, the two pulled a power play the envy of Bonnie and Clyde. He punched the madam in the face, stealing several thousand dollars from her. The two of them quickly fled the scene.
The madam could not report the crime, as that would make her complicit in a felony offense. Though prostitution is illegal, the more upscale version is shrouded in plausibility denial and euphemism. Escorts are advertised openly in the Yellow Pages, and the police are not stupid. By contrast, the commonplace streetwalker advertising services on a street corner makes no pretenses about what he or she is doing.
I never paid for a male escort. I always saw those as vanity purchases, for those who wanted brief company with a beautiful man. Most of the time, I could usually find sex with a man when I wanted it. I was seen as a tough guy, very masculine, fulfilling the desires of many who had once felt the impossible attraction to a heterosexual man. This was not the case with women.
The one service I used kept me constantly aware of class distinctions. No one I’d have known in school or in town would have ended up in my bed. Or, at least not this way. These were working class country girls, usually, with the occasional wandering out-of-towner passing through. I was honest with them and they were honest with me. Some had drug habits, both past and present. Most had some history of childhood sexual abuse.
One woman told me that the same thing had happened to her five-year-old child. She shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, I tried. I can’t imagine what her current living arrangements were like. I imagine they were dangerous and noxious, but that she had long believed that these were the risks one took. She’d been roaming the country since her teens and had rarely stayed in one place for very long.
She was a kept woman in many ways. Her most frequent customers paid for new clothes and other presents. Once she called me from a department store, where a client had insisted she drop several hundred dollars to please him. She liked the way that expensive clothes made her feel and never seemed to register any impatience with the demands of her clientele.
Keep calling me, she said.
I kept our phone conversation going for months afterwards. She was never annoyed if I called several times a day, in the hopes of finding her at an odd moment. That sort of persistence was necessary because of the nature of her profession. Forever rushing from one place to another during the day and early evening, we had to find time whenever it was available. We might only have five minutes to ourselves every day, but she always seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say.
Why do you do it?
She answered that the money was good and the work easy enough, once you got used to it. Previously a heroin addict, she was forever seeking funds. Now that she had put that aside, she still enjoyed the substantial cash flow and all that it bought. In her mind, the service she performed was no different than a psychologist. She genuinely felt sympathy for all of her johns and sought to please them.
We conversed for several months. One day, her cell number was mysteriously out of service. It remained out of service for days at a time. That’s where I lost touch with her completely. Fearing for the worst, I nonetheless hoped that there was a perfectly plausible explanation. We never spoke again and I hope she is still alive.
_____________
Sex Work
One girl tried to steal you away from the first one who called.
A man, probably of middle age, worked the switchboard. It was him you talked to when discussing payment options and ordering the sort of girl you wanted. I’d received a call from one young woman about my age, then a second call from another ten minutes later. Later, I was told that most men who requested these sorts of services were usually middle aged and paunchy. To be with a younger man was an infrequent treat, and something coveted.
The switchboard operator apologized profusely and said that someone would soon be on her way. I’d figured that something was up, but wasn’t especially picky, all told. Partially lonely, partially seeking sex, there was something that appealed to me about the whole process. There was novelty present in having a stranger arrive at your residence, one who you had never seen before and would never see again.
A few weeks prior, one woman, best described as rode hard and put up wet, encouraged me to circumvent the system. Though we’d had relatively satisfying sex, she stood to gain more monetarily if I called in to claim that I’d changed my mind. Sympathetic to her situation, I lied over the phone so that she’d pocket three times more money than normal. She promised to return later in appreciation, but I didn’t take it seriously. When her empty promise was proven to be as I had suspected, I felt no bitterness.
One couldn’t help but be drawn into the drama a little. One woman arrived in a car with her boyfriend. He sat in the car, outside, to protect his girlfriend, should he have the need to physically intervene. Immediately after we finished up, the two pulled a power play the envy of Bonnie and Clyde. He punched the madam in the face, stealing several thousand dollars from her. The two of them quickly fled the scene.
The madam could not report the crime, as that would make her complicit in a felony offense. Though prostitution is illegal, the more upscale version is shrouded in plausibility denial and euphemism. Escorts are advertised openly in the Yellow Pages, and the police are not stupid. By contrast, the commonplace streetwalker advertising services on a street corner makes no pretenses about what he or she is doing.
I never paid for a male escort. I always saw those as vanity purchases, for those who wanted brief company with a beautiful man. Most of the time, I could usually find sex with a man when I wanted it. I was seen as a tough guy, very masculine, fulfilling the desires of many who had once felt the impossible attraction to a heterosexual man. This was not the case with women.
The one service I used kept me constantly aware of class distinctions. No one I’d have known in school or in town would have ended up in my bed. Or, at least not this way. These were working class country girls, usually, with the occasional wandering out-of-towner passing through. I was honest with them and they were honest with me. Some had drug habits, both past and present. Most had some history of childhood sexual abuse.
One woman told me that the same thing had happened to her five-year-old child. She shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, I tried. I can’t imagine what her current living arrangements were like. I imagine they were dangerous and noxious, but that she had long believed that these were the risks one took. She’d been roaming the country since her teens and had rarely stayed in one place for very long.
She was a kept woman in many ways. Her most frequent customers paid for new clothes and other presents. Once she called me from a department store, where a client had insisted she drop several hundred dollars to please him. She liked the way that expensive clothes made her feel and never seemed to register any impatience with the demands of her clientele.
Keep calling me, she said.
I kept our phone conversation going for months afterwards. She was never annoyed if I called several times a day, in the hopes of finding her at an odd moment. That sort of persistence was necessary because of the nature of her profession. Forever rushing from one place to another during the day and early evening, we had to find time whenever it was available. We might only have five minutes to ourselves every day, but she always seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say.
Why do you do it?
She answered that the money was good and the work easy enough, once you got used to it. Previously a heroin addict, she was forever seeking funds. Now that she had put that aside, she still enjoyed the substantial cash flow and all that it bought. In her mind, the service she performed was no different than a psychologist. She genuinely felt sympathy for all of her johns and sought to please them.
We conversed for several months. One day, her cell number was mysteriously out of service. It remained out of service for days at a time. That’s where I lost touch with her completely. Fearing for the worst, I nonetheless hoped that there was a perfectly plausible explanation. We never spoke again and I hope she is still alive.
Single Pigeon
Single pigeon through the railing, did she throw you out?
Sunday morning fight about Saturday night.
Single seagull gliding over Regent's Park Canal.
Do you need a pal for a minute or two, you do?
Me too, me too, me too, I'm a lot like you.
Me too, me too, me too, I'm a lot like you.
Did she turf you out in the cold morning rain again.
Me too, me too, me too, I'm a lot like you.
Me too, me too, me too, I'm a lot like you.
Sunday morning fight about Saturday night.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Health Update
The waiting game grows weary without much prompting. Other tests for thyroid antibodies are likely to follow, to establish whether or not an autoimmune disorder is to blame (very likely). I'm not getting what I need right now, so my energy level is extremely low. I feel very discouraged.
My goal was to be healthy by Thanksgiving, but that doesn't seem feasible now. I haven't been to the gym in a month and wonder when I'll be able to return. The body wants me to slow down, but I fight against that impulse as long as there is strength left.
That is to say, I've had to accept a slower pace for writing the book. Memoir usually runs around 200-225 pages. I'm nearly there. Even if I don't have the energy for writing new sections, I've been editing and embellishing previously written chapters. Some need considerable effort, others are more or less fine the way they are now. Be patient with me these next few weeks.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
From The End of Memory
From The End of Memory: Remembering Rightly in a Violent World, by Miroslav Volf
I will draw on answers grounded in the Christian faith. And what are the core convictions of that faith? Consider the following five propositions.
1. First, we don’t happen to be in the world as products of chance or necessity; the God of love created each one of us, together with our world.
2. Second, we are not in this world just to fend for ourselves while pursuing lives with as little pain and as much pleasure as possible; God has created us to live with God and one another in a communion of justice and love.
3. Third, humanity has not been left by itself to deal with the divisive results of our deadly failures to love God and neighbor—a fissure of antagonism and suffering that taints all human history and scars individual lives.
4. Fourth, notwithstanding all appearance, rapacious time will not swallow us into nothingness. At the end of history, God, who took on our finitude in Jesus Christ, will make our fragile flesh imperishable and restore true life to the redeemed, so that forever we may enjoy God, and each other in God.
5. Fifth, the irreversibility of time will not chisel the wrongs we have suffered into the unchangeable reality of our past. The evildoer will not ultimately triumph over the victim. Suffering will not have the final word. God will expose the truth about wrong, condemn each evil deed, and redeem both the repentant perpetrators and their victims, thus reconciling them to God and each other.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Monday, November 12, 2012
Girlfriend
Another unedited excerpt of Wrecking Ball
_____________
Girlfriend
The first substantial relationship of my life was first conducted from a distance of some 2,000 miles. We’d found ourselves quite by random, which was usual for teenagers in the time of the still-emergent internet. I don’t even remember the website, or if it is even in existence today. What I do remember is writing a profile that revealed me to be two years older than I actually was.
As I recall, she responded to my post shortly thereafter. Her first words, meant in jest at the time, would prove to be prescient.
I think I’m in love with you.
The attraction was instantaneous. Though I was all of sixteen, here was the deep, meaningful relationship I had been seeking all along. Most people my age were dating for fun, or to find themselves. In time, they would eventually catch up with me, but as was often true in my younger days, I was ahead of the curve.
Before long, we began exchanging telephone calls that sometimes stretched as long as six or seven hours. My parents gritted their teeth and paid the long distance bills. Unable to consummate our relationship in person, phone sex had to suffice. At that time, I was in many ways sexually naive, as is I suppose true for everyone at that age. These marathon conversations allowed me to spread my wings and expand my consciousness as a sexual being.
A visit in person would seem to be in order, but she delayed it as long as possible. Her issues with body acceptance were to blame, though I wouldn’t figure that out for much longer. I adored her, but recognized eventually that my affections alone could not assuage her insecurities. An effusive personality barely disguised an extreme (and largely unconfronted) issue with self-esteem. Though she was very funny and ingratiating, I knew it to be compensation for the way she felt about herself.
Overweight and self-loathing, she desperately wanted to be thin. I witnessed how she abused her body with drugs to bring down her weight. The effects would eventually catch up to her. The constant chemical abuse would cause her hair to fall out. It never regained its natural thickness. She hid this from me, as she hid so many other parts of herself.
Even with the flaws, I loved her. In those days, I used drugs recreationally myself, sometimes heavily, but not in the same proportions. Though I smoked too much pot and drank too much, I largely avoided the harder stuff. I felt that I had no room to judge. She was the first relationship partner I’d ever had who bothered to truly get to know me. She’ll always have an understanding of me that few others will.
When she was present, everyone around us thought we were perfectly matched. But that devotion, as I soon learned, was limited. My most substantial criticism of her is what I see to be a kind of cowardice. I frequently felt betrayed.
Her means of coping with stress was to disappear. Phone calls and e-mails would suddenly go unanswered. In my absence, she sought the company of her friends. I did not approve of most of them, who I saw as bad influences. Her best friend was rude and obnoxious, and vocal about his drug usage and sexual escapades with random men. She was a fag hag and something appealed to her about the seedy underbelly of queer culture.
I never tried to push her apart from any of her friends. She’d made it clear to me that ultimatums would only backfire. If I wanted her, I had to accept her on her own terms. She had an exasperating way of embracing toxic environments that were well beneath anyone’s basic standards of decency. One word for it is slumming.
She found many things gorgeously trashy. These included dive bars in rough neighborhoods and conventions of people who found it sexually arousing to dress up like stuffed animals. Along with the spectacle, these were all pursued with the intention of eventually being writing material. Though her talent was undeniable, her self-discipline was lacking. Successful writing requires time, effort, patience, and copious editing.
Still, she always had a way of keeping me laughing. Her sense of humor was a strong suit, though at times she overplayed her hand. I sometimes heard the same anecdote three or four times. A performer by nature, everyone she met she felt needed to be impressed and entertained. When I was lucky enough to be in her presence, I fell in love with her all over again.
Years after the fact, I was directed to a very revealing blog post. In it, she revealed many of the reason for her periods of distance. Her drug use had been worse than I could have ever dreamed. In part, her pushing away from me, in her mind, had been to spare me.
You’re the most stable person I have ever dated, I’d said earlier.
Her reply was immediate. I’m so sorry!
At times, she sought distance because I happened to be suffering from a severe episode of either depression or mania. Her father was severely mentally ill and terrorized the family. His illness, which he had never sought fit to properly treat, had traumatized her starting from a young age. If she picked up even the mildest similarity between the two of us, she couldn’t get away fast enough.
I will always retain a fondness for her, but I recognize now we are better parted. She was my first love and first loves do not entirely fade from memory. Even with the problems we had, she formed part of who I am today. I did the same for her. Her advice and guidance was often accurate and helpful. But we are better parted and I see that now.
_____________
Girlfriend
The first substantial relationship of my life was first conducted from a distance of some 2,000 miles. We’d found ourselves quite by random, which was usual for teenagers in the time of the still-emergent internet. I don’t even remember the website, or if it is even in existence today. What I do remember is writing a profile that revealed me to be two years older than I actually was.
As I recall, she responded to my post shortly thereafter. Her first words, meant in jest at the time, would prove to be prescient.
I think I’m in love with you.
The attraction was instantaneous. Though I was all of sixteen, here was the deep, meaningful relationship I had been seeking all along. Most people my age were dating for fun, or to find themselves. In time, they would eventually catch up with me, but as was often true in my younger days, I was ahead of the curve.
Before long, we began exchanging telephone calls that sometimes stretched as long as six or seven hours. My parents gritted their teeth and paid the long distance bills. Unable to consummate our relationship in person, phone sex had to suffice. At that time, I was in many ways sexually naive, as is I suppose true for everyone at that age. These marathon conversations allowed me to spread my wings and expand my consciousness as a sexual being.
A visit in person would seem to be in order, but she delayed it as long as possible. Her issues with body acceptance were to blame, though I wouldn’t figure that out for much longer. I adored her, but recognized eventually that my affections alone could not assuage her insecurities. An effusive personality barely disguised an extreme (and largely unconfronted) issue with self-esteem. Though she was very funny and ingratiating, I knew it to be compensation for the way she felt about herself.
Overweight and self-loathing, she desperately wanted to be thin. I witnessed how she abused her body with drugs to bring down her weight. The effects would eventually catch up to her. The constant chemical abuse would cause her hair to fall out. It never regained its natural thickness. She hid this from me, as she hid so many other parts of herself.
Even with the flaws, I loved her. In those days, I used drugs recreationally myself, sometimes heavily, but not in the same proportions. Though I smoked too much pot and drank too much, I largely avoided the harder stuff. I felt that I had no room to judge. She was the first relationship partner I’d ever had who bothered to truly get to know me. She’ll always have an understanding of me that few others will.
When she was present, everyone around us thought we were perfectly matched. But that devotion, as I soon learned, was limited. My most substantial criticism of her is what I see to be a kind of cowardice. I frequently felt betrayed.
Her means of coping with stress was to disappear. Phone calls and e-mails would suddenly go unanswered. In my absence, she sought the company of her friends. I did not approve of most of them, who I saw as bad influences. Her best friend was rude and obnoxious, and vocal about his drug usage and sexual escapades with random men. She was a fag hag and something appealed to her about the seedy underbelly of queer culture.
I never tried to push her apart from any of her friends. She’d made it clear to me that ultimatums would only backfire. If I wanted her, I had to accept her on her own terms. She had an exasperating way of embracing toxic environments that were well beneath anyone’s basic standards of decency. One word for it is slumming.
She found many things gorgeously trashy. These included dive bars in rough neighborhoods and conventions of people who found it sexually arousing to dress up like stuffed animals. Along with the spectacle, these were all pursued with the intention of eventually being writing material. Though her talent was undeniable, her self-discipline was lacking. Successful writing requires time, effort, patience, and copious editing.
Still, she always had a way of keeping me laughing. Her sense of humor was a strong suit, though at times she overplayed her hand. I sometimes heard the same anecdote three or four times. A performer by nature, everyone she met she felt needed to be impressed and entertained. When I was lucky enough to be in her presence, I fell in love with her all over again.
Years after the fact, I was directed to a very revealing blog post. In it, she revealed many of the reason for her periods of distance. Her drug use had been worse than I could have ever dreamed. In part, her pushing away from me, in her mind, had been to spare me.
You’re the most stable person I have ever dated, I’d said earlier.
Her reply was immediate. I’m so sorry!
At times, she sought distance because I happened to be suffering from a severe episode of either depression or mania. Her father was severely mentally ill and terrorized the family. His illness, which he had never sought fit to properly treat, had traumatized her starting from a young age. If she picked up even the mildest similarity between the two of us, she couldn’t get away fast enough.
I will always retain a fondness for her, but I recognize now we are better parted. She was my first love and first loves do not entirely fade from memory. Even with the problems we had, she formed part of who I am today. I did the same for her. Her advice and guidance was often accurate and helpful. But we are better parted and I see that now.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Quote of the Week
"I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain."- James Baldwin
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Saturday Video
It could all be so simple
But you'd rather make it hard
Loving you is like a battle
And we both end up with scars
Tell me, who I have to be
To get some reciprocity
No one loves you more than me
And no one ever will
Is this just a silly game
That forces you to act this way?
Forces you to scream my name
Then pretend that you can't stay
Tell me, who I have to be
To get some reciprocity
No one loves you more than me
And no one ever will
No matter how I think we grow
You always seem to let me know
It ain't workin', It ain't workin' (No, it ain't workin')
And when I try to walk away
You'd hurt yourself to make me stay
This is crazy, this is crazy (This is crazy, uh-huh!)
I keep letting you back in
How can I explain myself?
As painful as this thing has been
I just can't be with no one else
See I know what we've got to do
You let go, and I'll let go too
'Cause no one's hurt me more than you
And no one ever will
No matter how I think we grow
You always seem to let me know
It ain't workin', It ain't workin' (It ain't workin')
And when I try to walk away
You'd hurt yourself to make me stay
This is crazy, this is crazy
Care for me, care for me!
I know you care for me!
There for me, there for me!
Said you'd be there for me!
Cry for me, cry for me!
You said you'd die for me!
Give to me, give to me!
Why won't you live for me?
Friday, November 09, 2012
Sea of Madness
How can I bring you
to the Sea of Madness?
I love you so much
It's gonna bring me sadness
I've never seen you
Through these eyes before
Now I don't believe it
I think I'll take it or leave it.
All I need
Is your sweet sweet loving
Fill my life with happiness
All I want is your heart
Every time I think of you
Mine falls apart.
I went to heaven
And I stood at the crossroads
I'll love you tomorrow
As sure as the wind blows
Silver rain
on the mountain clover
Washes away
Until the music is over.
Medical Studies
 |
| My life, in pictures. Click to embiggen. This is what a Thyroid Uptake and Scan test looks like. The butterfly shaped impressions are visual representations of the Thyroid gland. |
Wednesday, November 07, 2012
Changing Times Call for Changing Strategies
Primarily for my Quaker audience.
The election season now mercifully over, we can next draw some conclusions.
Obama won, in large part, due to changing demographics. Regardless of other theories dangled by the media in front of the American people, a very simple rationale is in force. Populations have shifted away from the Rust Belt in the north to the Sun Belt in the south. The long promised power of the Latino vote is now a reality. Plainly put, the United States is a much more ethnically diverse country. What we experienced last night is only the beginning of a trend.
Now to Quakers. How will Friends adapt to these inevitable changes? A still-predominately white, increasingly gray-headed Society of Friends must stay pertinent if it wishes to survive. Much as the Republican Party can no longer rely on white men and white women to carry it to victory, we can no longer depend upon our own tried-and-true constituency. Voices have been telling us to take this path for years, but we have been either unwilling or unable to do so.
How will we reach out to the world beyond the four walls of the Meetinghouse? Will it take us growing dangerously close to obsolescence first? A radical rethinking of a sort would seem in order.
Our regional enclaves are in the Mid-Atlantic states and New England. These areas have had a sustained Friendly presence for centuries. But even they have shed membership over time. Scattered throughout the rest of the United States are pockets of Quakers here and there. Do we want to only retain what we have, or are we willing to extend our message to Friends who may not look, act, or talk as Quakers as supposed to do?
For years, we've been discussing the inevitable. And now, Friends, the inevitable has arrived. How do we stay pertinent and on the cutting edge? One branch which calls itself Quaker believes deeply in mission work, some of it in Africa, some in Latin America. Those who find the practice distasteful when conducted overseas need to do some of it here at home.
The mission work we need most is here in America. Fears of proselytizing must be put aside. Discomfort with organized religion must be shelved. We have a compelling message to share with the world.
In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus teaches,
We may have confused light with darkness. Reevaluating ourselves is the first step towards greater illumination. If we want to survive, we cannot rest on our haunches. It is possible to get too comfortable with the status quo. The one variable that has been the nemesis of many Friends is time itself. Time sneaks up on us because of its plodding, incremental pace, but sooner or later, we wake from our daydreaming to find that it is here in front of us.
The clock is ticking.
Obama won, in large part, due to changing demographics. Regardless of other theories dangled by the media in front of the American people, a very simple rationale is in force. Populations have shifted away from the Rust Belt in the north to the Sun Belt in the south. The long promised power of the Latino vote is now a reality. Plainly put, the United States is a much more ethnically diverse country. What we experienced last night is only the beginning of a trend.
Now to Quakers. How will Friends adapt to these inevitable changes? A still-predominately white, increasingly gray-headed Society of Friends must stay pertinent if it wishes to survive. Much as the Republican Party can no longer rely on white men and white women to carry it to victory, we can no longer depend upon our own tried-and-true constituency. Voices have been telling us to take this path for years, but we have been either unwilling or unable to do so.
How will we reach out to the world beyond the four walls of the Meetinghouse? Will it take us growing dangerously close to obsolescence first? A radical rethinking of a sort would seem in order.
Our regional enclaves are in the Mid-Atlantic states and New England. These areas have had a sustained Friendly presence for centuries. But even they have shed membership over time. Scattered throughout the rest of the United States are pockets of Quakers here and there. Do we want to only retain what we have, or are we willing to extend our message to Friends who may not look, act, or talk as Quakers as supposed to do?
For years, we've been discussing the inevitable. And now, Friends, the inevitable has arrived. How do we stay pertinent and on the cutting edge? One branch which calls itself Quaker believes deeply in mission work, some of it in Africa, some in Latin America. Those who find the practice distasteful when conducted overseas need to do some of it here at home.
The mission work we need most is here in America. Fears of proselytizing must be put aside. Discomfort with organized religion must be shelved. We have a compelling message to share with the world.
In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus teaches,
"Your eye is the lamp of your body. When your eyes are good, your whole body also is full of light. But when they are bad, your body also is full of darkness. Make sure that the light you think you have is not actually darkness. If you are filled with light, with no dark corners, then your whole life will be radiant, as though a floodlight were filling you with light."
We may have confused light with darkness. Reevaluating ourselves is the first step towards greater illumination. If we want to survive, we cannot rest on our haunches. It is possible to get too comfortable with the status quo. The one variable that has been the nemesis of many Friends is time itself. Time sneaks up on us because of its plodding, incremental pace, but sooner or later, we wake from our daydreaming to find that it is here in front of us.
The clock is ticking.
Conclusion
At evening's end
exaggerations
caricature
remain when all fact and truth
has long passed away
Conversation competition
cleverest victory can
short-circuit the social hierarchy
Age and experience
often trumps youth's insecurity
Humor—
the wild card
The catalyst
for social mobility
Older party-goers
establish the rules
Remember similar
defeats
Interpretation
Reflects intention
exaggerations
caricature
remain when all fact and truth
has long passed away
Conversation competition
cleverest victory can
short-circuit the social hierarchy
Age and experience
often trumps youth's insecurity
Humor—
the wild card
The catalyst
for social mobility
Older party-goers
establish the rules
Remember similar
defeats
Interpretation
Reflects intention
Tuesday, November 06, 2012
Hope and Change, Take Two
Almost four years ago today, I proudly cast my ballot for Barack Obama. Like many others I knew, the then Senator from Illinois appeared to be exactly what we had dreamed would someday arrive. And, for the first time in my life, I actively volunteered to help a Presidential candidate. I was not compensated for my time, but never asked to be. I was so thrilled to be a part that I didn't mind.
I canvassed neighborhoods, knocking on door after door. It's tough work. Soliciting the public for votes puts you on your feet in the elements for hours at a time. I worked a rope line at a speech Obama gave at the Atlanta Convention Center. At least there you get to be indoors, but it feels a bit like a combination of herding cattle and directing traffic.
Today, I am headed out the door for the polls the instant I finish this post. My dreams are much more realistic this time around. I was highly critical at the time of people who expected revolutionary changes in American life from one man. Even so, I myself entertained the Obama glow for a while, though it faded slowly but surely when economic problems persisted and needed reforms never came to pass. We were all giddy for three months. Now we're weary.
The candidate I met in person nearly four and a half years ago was in a bad mood. In all fairness, there could have been any number of reasons for this. I sought to shake his hand individually, rather than packed together as part of the group to whom I had been assigned. Obama coldly ignored my request and my outstretched hand. Motioning with his eyes, he directed me to cram into the middle of others. I caught the top of his very large hand and nothing more. Shortly after that he moved on down the line.
Everyone's entitled to a bad day every now and again. But it did provide a jarring disconnect. Minutes before, I'd been awed by Obama's soaring oratory. The person I viewed now was entirely human and even a little rude. His curt behavior continued towards his handlers, while he reached the back of the adjacent room. They methodically guided him across the length of the hall as he complained about one thing or the other.
I suppose he might be forgiven to be so crabby. His campaign was just beginning to gain traction, and I believe that then he was still trailing substantially in the polls to Hillary Clinton. The Obama we've gotten to know over the past four years is still very much an enigma. I wonder if, should be be re-elected, that we will know the President beyond his eloquence and apparent political centrism.
A part of me believes that I ought never cast a vote again for a Presidential candidate without he or she first having substantial experience in Washington, DC. Electing Hillary Clinton might, in hindsight, have been a better decision. But this is merely a hypothetical, and hypothetical scenarios have limitations.
Of course, now that past really doesn't matter, except for the recent past of economic suffering and general uncertainty. I once set my sights high, and now I just hope Obama does as little harm as possible. True political leaders are few and far between now, on both sides of the aisle. I don't expect a savior to rescue us from ourselves, but our health as a country will be determined by the success or failure of his policies.
Obama was the anti-Bush and that's what we wanted then. Now, we're not sure what we need or what will succeed.
I canvassed neighborhoods, knocking on door after door. It's tough work. Soliciting the public for votes puts you on your feet in the elements for hours at a time. I worked a rope line at a speech Obama gave at the Atlanta Convention Center. At least there you get to be indoors, but it feels a bit like a combination of herding cattle and directing traffic.
Today, I am headed out the door for the polls the instant I finish this post. My dreams are much more realistic this time around. I was highly critical at the time of people who expected revolutionary changes in American life from one man. Even so, I myself entertained the Obama glow for a while, though it faded slowly but surely when economic problems persisted and needed reforms never came to pass. We were all giddy for three months. Now we're weary.
The candidate I met in person nearly four and a half years ago was in a bad mood. In all fairness, there could have been any number of reasons for this. I sought to shake his hand individually, rather than packed together as part of the group to whom I had been assigned. Obama coldly ignored my request and my outstretched hand. Motioning with his eyes, he directed me to cram into the middle of others. I caught the top of his very large hand and nothing more. Shortly after that he moved on down the line.
Everyone's entitled to a bad day every now and again. But it did provide a jarring disconnect. Minutes before, I'd been awed by Obama's soaring oratory. The person I viewed now was entirely human and even a little rude. His curt behavior continued towards his handlers, while he reached the back of the adjacent room. They methodically guided him across the length of the hall as he complained about one thing or the other.
I suppose he might be forgiven to be so crabby. His campaign was just beginning to gain traction, and I believe that then he was still trailing substantially in the polls to Hillary Clinton. The Obama we've gotten to know over the past four years is still very much an enigma. I wonder if, should be be re-elected, that we will know the President beyond his eloquence and apparent political centrism.
A part of me believes that I ought never cast a vote again for a Presidential candidate without he or she first having substantial experience in Washington, DC. Electing Hillary Clinton might, in hindsight, have been a better decision. But this is merely a hypothetical, and hypothetical scenarios have limitations.
Of course, now that past really doesn't matter, except for the recent past of economic suffering and general uncertainty. I once set my sights high, and now I just hope Obama does as little harm as possible. True political leaders are few and far between now, on both sides of the aisle. I don't expect a savior to rescue us from ourselves, but our health as a country will be determined by the success or failure of his policies.
Obama was the anti-Bush and that's what we wanted then. Now, we're not sure what we need or what will succeed.
Monday, November 05, 2012
Sunday, November 04, 2012
Quote of the Week
"Opinions have caused more ills than the plague or earthquakes on this little globe of ours."- Voltaire
Saturday, November 03, 2012
The Winner
Winner
(Shel Silverstein)
The hulk of a man with a beer in his hand looked like a drunk old fool,
And I knew that if I hit him right, I could knock him off that stool.
But everybody said, "Watch out -- that's Tiger Man McCool.
He's had a whole lot of fights, and he always comes out the winner.
Yeah, he's a winner."
But I'd had myself about five too many, and I walked up tall and proud,
I faced his back and I faced the fact that he'd never stooped or bowed.
I said, "Tiger Man, you're a pussycat," and a hush fell on the crowd,
I said, "Let's you and me go outside and see who's the winner"...
Well, he gripped the bar with one big hairy hand and he braced against the
wall,
He slowly looked up from his beer -- my God, that man was tall.
He said, "Boy, I see you're a scrapper, so just before you fall,
I'm gonna tell you just a little what a means to be a winner."
He said, "You see these bright white smilin' teeth, you know they ain't my own.
Mine rolled away like Chiclets down a street in San Antone.
But I left that person cursin', nursin' seven broken bones.
And he only broke three of mine, and that make me a winner."
He said, "Behind this grin, I got a steel pin that holds my jaw in place.
A trophy of my most successful motorcycle race.
And every mornin' when I wake and touch this scar across my face,
It reminds me of all I got by bein' a winner.
Now my broken back was the dyin' act of handsome Harry Clay
That sticky Cincinnati night I stole his wife away.
But that woman, she gets uglier and meaner every day.
But I got her, boy, and that's what makes me a winner.
You gotta speak loud when you challenge me, son, 'cause it's hard for me
to hear
With this twisted neck and these migraine pains and this cauliflower ear.
'N' if it weren't for this glass eye of mine, I'd shed a happy tear
To think of all you'll get by bein' a winner.
I got arthritic elbows, boy, I got dislocated knees,
From pickin' fights with thunderstorms and chargin' into trees.
And my nose been broke so often I might lose it if I sneeze.
And, son, you say you still wanna be a winner?
My spine is short three vertebrae and my hip is screwed together.
My ankles warn me every time there'll be a change in weather.
Guess I kicked too many asses, and when the kicks all get together,
They sure can slow you down when you're a winner.
My knuckles are so swollen I can hardly make a fist.
Who would have thought old Charlie had a blade taped to his wrist?
And my blind eye's where he cut me, and my good eye's where he missed.
Yeah, you lose a couple of things when you're a winner.
My head is just a bunch of clumps and lumps and bumps and scars
From chargin' broken bottles and buttin' crowded bars.
And this hernia -- well, it only proves a man can't lift a car.
But you're expected to do it all when you're a winner.
Got a steel plate inside my skull, underneath this store-bought hair.
My pelvis is aluminum from takin' ladies' dares.
And if you had a magnet, son, you could lift me off my chair.
I'm a man of steel, but I'm rustin' -- what a winner.
I got a perforated ulcer, I got strictures and incisions.
My prostate's barely holdin' up from those all-night collisions.
And I'll have to fight two of you because of my double vision.
You're lookin' sick, son -- that ain't right for a winner.
Winnin' that last stock-car race cost me my favorite toes.
Winnin' that factory foreman's job, it browned and broke my nose.
And these hemorrhoids come from winnin' all them goddamn rodeos.
Sometimes it's a pain in the butt to be a winner.
In the war, I got the Purple Heart, that's why my nerves are gone.
And I ruined my liver in drinkin' contests, which I always won.
And I should be retired now, rockin' on my lawn,
But you losers keep comin' on -- makin' me a winner.
When I walk, you can hear my pelvis rattle, creak and crack
From my great Olympic Hump-Off with that nymphomaniac,
After which I spent the next six weeks in traction on my back,
While she walked off smilin' -- leavin' me the winner.
Now, as I kick in your family jewels, you'll notice my left leg drags,
And this jacket's kinda padded up where my right shoulder sags,
And there's a special part of me I keep in this paper bag,
And I'll show it to you -- if you want to see all of the winner.
So I never play the violin and I seldom dance or ski.
They say there never was a hero brave and strong as me.
But when you're this year's hero, son, you're next year's used-to-be.
And that's the facts of life -- when you're a winner.
Now, you remind me a lot of my younger days with your knuckles clenchin' white.
But, boy, I'm gonna sit right here and sip this beer all night.
And if there's somethin' you gotta prove by winnin' some silly fight,
Well, OK, I quit, I lose, son, you're the winner."
So I stumbled from that barroom not so tall and not so proud,
And behind me I could hear the hoots of laughter from the crowd.
But my eyes still see and my nose still works and my teeth are
still in my mouth.
And y'know...I guess that makes me...a winner.
Saturday Video
I've watched you go through changes
That no man should face alone
Take to heel or tame the horse
The choice is still your own
But arm yourself against the pain
A wounded bird can give
And in the end remember
It's with you you have to live
And in the end remember
It's with you you have to live
Stand your ground I think you've got
The guts it takes to win
But you must learn to turn the key
Before she'll let you in
And understand the problems
Of the girl you want so near
Or you'll wear the coats of questions
Till the answer hat is here
You'll wear the coat of questions
Till the answer hat is here
Serenade your Angel with
A love song from your eyes
Grow a little taller
Even though your age defies
Feel a little smaller
And in stature you will rise
A hobo or a poet
Must kill dragons for a bride
And humble pie is always
Hard to swallow with your pride
Thursday, November 01, 2012
Death
Another unedited excerpt of Wrecking Ball
_____________
Death
I do not remember my Grandfather, my mother’s father, as much as I would like. Of my two sisters, I’m probably the only child old enough to retain any trace of him. He died when I was nearly seven. I have faint memories of him being well, but I mostly know him when he was in a terminally ill state. At times, I have wished that I was born years earlier and could have developed a real rapport with him.
He doted upon me and my mother. She was his youngest child by far. Sixteen years separate my oldest uncle and my mother. My mother does not remember her brother living at home. Grandfather was forty-five when my mother was born. Mom was no doubt influenced by the fact that her parents were much older than those of most of the kids her age. My father had been raised in similar circumstances, and I imagine that often drew them together.
The cancer had taken its toll. It was terminal and progressed swiftly. My parents believed that his gaunt, haggard appearance would only upset myself and my two sisters. We were never allowed to see him at his sickbed. My parents inexplicably changed their minds one day. I’d been eager to see him after months apart and leapt at the opportunity.
I saw a weak, pale figure propped up on pillows. He had just enough strength left in his body to address me. Grandfather often quizzed me informally on topics of history. He knew I had an interest in it and enjoyed teaching me new facts and ideas.
Did Harry Truman go to college?
His voice was little more than a resigned, sad whisper by then. My first instinct was to say no, but then I changed my mind. He looked disappointed at my response.
No, he did not.
I felt as though I’d failed him somehow. I was quickly ushered from the room, a place I would never again return. It was clear that my parents had arranged only a momentary visit and that I would not tarry there long. He passed away a couple months later.
Now to the matter of the question asked of me. Intelligent beyond my years, older people seemed to always want to ask me trivia. I acted the part of the boy genius, often providing the correct answer. About the same time, an elderly man offered me ten dollars if I could recite the alphabet backwards in his presence. My mind does not work in such a fashion, but ten dollars was a lot of money in those days.
With my Grandfather, there were different motives for this game of teacher and pupil. To him, I was not a novelty. This line of questioning about Presidents and colleges was due to my Grandfather’s own upbringing. Though more than capable enough intellectually for college, the Great Depression left his family without the money to afford it.
The whole of his life, he felt inferior to those who’d had the opportunity to go. He was an autodidact with an amazing recall and had taught himself as much as any professor could, but still the deficiency nagged away at him. Education was important to him. He read the newspaper front to cover every day, sometimes two or three.
It is a stock cliche of a sort to introduce the specter of death at a young age. Still, the pomp and circumstance of dearly departed does make a powerful impression upon a child. I recall the slow procession of black cars pulling alongside the roadway of the cemetery. I remember taking shade under the tree he’d planted years before with his own hands. The family plot was a reverent destination we would visit for years afterwards.
I think the dead deserve our respect. Not only do they remind us that someday we ourselves will die, but we ought to take time from our busy lives to remember the memory of those who influenced us. Every time I visited the gravesite I was always struck by a sense of loss. I felt that he’d been taken from me prematurely, but I trust that God had a greater purpose for him. If I get to Heaven, I hope I get a chance to speak at length to him.
My mother was, quite understandably, utterly devastated. At thirty, she was younger than I am today when she lost her father. I remember she entered into a period of deep grieving that lasted for over a year. My Grandfather’s name could not be mentioned in her company, or she would begin sobbing. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose a parent, though I know I will experience this same feeling eventually. That eventuality beckons sooner than I feel comfortable contemplating.
The death didn’t haunt me the way it could have, if I’d been a little older. There were a few scary moments here and there, but I was deliberately insulated from most of them. My Grandparents moved to a retirement community in Birmingham from the family home so that Grandfather could be closer to his doctors. One day, playing quietly by myself on the carpeted floor, I remember the paramedics being called.
I learned later that my Grandfather needed to return to the hospital. There was a tense energy in the air that I picked up on, but I said nothing. I didn’t know what was going on and, in any case, everyone was too busy and preoccupied to explain it to me. It must have been close to the end by then. In my mind, the events are scattered, but I was very young. I suppose it must appears this way to any young child.
The class assignments for a new school year were posted on the outside doors to the front entrance of my elementary school. Having passed Kindergarten, First Grade now beckoned. Had Mom been less preoccupied, she would have intervened in my behalf. I was assigned to a teacher who genuinely hated children. Why she’d decided to take up the profession is beyond me. I imagine she could have been extremely burned out. Her reputation preceded her and no one looked forward to nine full months with her.
Mom made one last desperate, in-person appeal to the principal, but received a lecture instead of any sympathy. The next school year, he’d be sent to transportation, which in some public schools is the equivalent of being sent to Coventry. In the school year to follow, I would contract a severe case of chicken pox that kept me out of school for nearly a month. My teacher didn’t call even once.
_____________
Death
I do not remember my Grandfather, my mother’s father, as much as I would like. Of my two sisters, I’m probably the only child old enough to retain any trace of him. He died when I was nearly seven. I have faint memories of him being well, but I mostly know him when he was in a terminally ill state. At times, I have wished that I was born years earlier and could have developed a real rapport with him.
He doted upon me and my mother. She was his youngest child by far. Sixteen years separate my oldest uncle and my mother. My mother does not remember her brother living at home. Grandfather was forty-five when my mother was born. Mom was no doubt influenced by the fact that her parents were much older than those of most of the kids her age. My father had been raised in similar circumstances, and I imagine that often drew them together.
The cancer had taken its toll. It was terminal and progressed swiftly. My parents believed that his gaunt, haggard appearance would only upset myself and my two sisters. We were never allowed to see him at his sickbed. My parents inexplicably changed their minds one day. I’d been eager to see him after months apart and leapt at the opportunity.
I saw a weak, pale figure propped up on pillows. He had just enough strength left in his body to address me. Grandfather often quizzed me informally on topics of history. He knew I had an interest in it and enjoyed teaching me new facts and ideas.
Did Harry Truman go to college?
His voice was little more than a resigned, sad whisper by then. My first instinct was to say no, but then I changed my mind. He looked disappointed at my response.
No, he did not.
I felt as though I’d failed him somehow. I was quickly ushered from the room, a place I would never again return. It was clear that my parents had arranged only a momentary visit and that I would not tarry there long. He passed away a couple months later.
Now to the matter of the question asked of me. Intelligent beyond my years, older people seemed to always want to ask me trivia. I acted the part of the boy genius, often providing the correct answer. About the same time, an elderly man offered me ten dollars if I could recite the alphabet backwards in his presence. My mind does not work in such a fashion, but ten dollars was a lot of money in those days.
With my Grandfather, there were different motives for this game of teacher and pupil. To him, I was not a novelty. This line of questioning about Presidents and colleges was due to my Grandfather’s own upbringing. Though more than capable enough intellectually for college, the Great Depression left his family without the money to afford it.
The whole of his life, he felt inferior to those who’d had the opportunity to go. He was an autodidact with an amazing recall and had taught himself as much as any professor could, but still the deficiency nagged away at him. Education was important to him. He read the newspaper front to cover every day, sometimes two or three.
It is a stock cliche of a sort to introduce the specter of death at a young age. Still, the pomp and circumstance of dearly departed does make a powerful impression upon a child. I recall the slow procession of black cars pulling alongside the roadway of the cemetery. I remember taking shade under the tree he’d planted years before with his own hands. The family plot was a reverent destination we would visit for years afterwards.
I think the dead deserve our respect. Not only do they remind us that someday we ourselves will die, but we ought to take time from our busy lives to remember the memory of those who influenced us. Every time I visited the gravesite I was always struck by a sense of loss. I felt that he’d been taken from me prematurely, but I trust that God had a greater purpose for him. If I get to Heaven, I hope I get a chance to speak at length to him.
My mother was, quite understandably, utterly devastated. At thirty, she was younger than I am today when she lost her father. I remember she entered into a period of deep grieving that lasted for over a year. My Grandfather’s name could not be mentioned in her company, or she would begin sobbing. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose a parent, though I know I will experience this same feeling eventually. That eventuality beckons sooner than I feel comfortable contemplating.
The death didn’t haunt me the way it could have, if I’d been a little older. There were a few scary moments here and there, but I was deliberately insulated from most of them. My Grandparents moved to a retirement community in Birmingham from the family home so that Grandfather could be closer to his doctors. One day, playing quietly by myself on the carpeted floor, I remember the paramedics being called.
I learned later that my Grandfather needed to return to the hospital. There was a tense energy in the air that I picked up on, but I said nothing. I didn’t know what was going on and, in any case, everyone was too busy and preoccupied to explain it to me. It must have been close to the end by then. In my mind, the events are scattered, but I was very young. I suppose it must appears this way to any young child.
The class assignments for a new school year were posted on the outside doors to the front entrance of my elementary school. Having passed Kindergarten, First Grade now beckoned. Had Mom been less preoccupied, she would have intervened in my behalf. I was assigned to a teacher who genuinely hated children. Why she’d decided to take up the profession is beyond me. I imagine she could have been extremely burned out. Her reputation preceded her and no one looked forward to nine full months with her.
Mom made one last desperate, in-person appeal to the principal, but received a lecture instead of any sympathy. The next school year, he’d be sent to transportation, which in some public schools is the equivalent of being sent to Coventry. In the school year to follow, I would contract a severe case of chicken pox that kept me out of school for nearly a month. My teacher didn’t call even once.
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