I've Been Waiting for You

I've been looking for a woman

to save my life 

Not to beg or to borrow 

A woman with the feeling 

of losing once or twice 

Who knows how could it be tomorrow? 

I've been waiting for you 

And you've been coming to me 

For such a long time now 

Such a long time now. 

I've been waiting for you 

And you've been coming to me 

For such a long time now 

Such a long time now.

The Generational Divide

In whatever position of authority I have attained, I've often felt like the token young adult. I have always been precocious and serious, a quality that was recognized in me at a very young age. As a child, I kept company mostly with adults. A few months from turning 33, I finally feel a sense of perspective and the passage of time in a way I never did before. It is the first taste of impending middle age.

Though I am still young, I concede, I am beginning to recognize now how quickly one's lifetime passes. We only have a finite amount of time on this Earth. Only hindsight can show us the proper perspective we seek in the present. It has only been in the recent past that I have been able to use life experience, enthusiasm, and a crusading spirit in tandem to guide me effectively. As many of us wish for ourselves, I have begun to come into my own and make a name for myself. 

When it comes to leadership roles, most of my associations and routine dealings are with people several years older than me. Most often, this does not present a problem for me or anyone else, but occasionally it does. Recently, I made an unorthodox decision, sharing online the results of committee deliberations, though I took care to not name names or provide many identifying details. It got me into hot water, but I stood firm. Anyone who wants to shake things up ought to expect to be challenged. 

This is a leadership and authority matter, but it is also reveals a sharp generational distinction. Those with whom I work alongside are usually my parents' age and they have a very different attitude towards information sharing. They're at times uncomfortable with how casual members of Generation X and Generation Y are in immediately opening up to total strangers. They often see such behavior as reckless or irresponsible and even wholly incomprehensible. In their way of thinking, one is not to air one's dirty laundry for any reason.  

The Baby Boomer mantra of live and let live is true to an extent, but sometimes it is possible to observe crevices and cracks in the foundation. They are a product of their environment and of their time, as we are a product of our own. The majority of baby boomers were raised in the conservative 1950's and, though they sought to cast it off completely with their own new way of doing things, their early life experience was highly formative. We cannot escape our upbringing entirely. Reconciling how we were raised with the new identity we've formed for ourselves is a life's work.

I don't mean to paint the distinction with too broad a brushstroke. Exceptions can always be found and there are no hard and fast rules. But I think it's a safe statement to state that later generations feel less of a need to keep things to themselves, in ways both good and bad. A new radical openness is on display today. The events of daily life, regardless of how ordinary they may be, seem to be confirmed as real only if they are first posted to Facebook. 

I've often viewed this approach in a more positive light than in a negative one. Every so often, a media-driven moral panic descends about the amount of personal information shared online by young people. I will concede that some folks, of every age, forget that nothing online is anonymous and that, once posted, it never goes away. I could dwell on the consequences, but I'd have to overlook the ways that being truthful and bravely trusting have enriched my life. 

To return from where I started, I've chosen to confront this topic because of recent events in my own life. In short, I made a decision to opt for sunshine rather than the cloakroom. A particular member of the committee, who is my father's age, asserted that I had overstepped my authority. 

If stealthy secrecy had been effective prior to the current day, we'd know it to be a policy worth continuing. The old way of doing things has, however, malfunctioned spectacularly. The situation demands reform. Past efforts did little but to kick the can down the road. In doing this we've opted for another unresolved deliberation in the future, one that continues the process of delay.

It may the fate of every generation to dig in and resist reform. In a few decades I may feel the same way myself. My elders have put together, for the most part, a mostly functioning framework. Sooner than later, leaders of government and leaders in every imaginable organization and group will take their own positions of authority, hoping to leave a mark. 

With their ascent will be a very different way of conducting business and exchanging ideas. What has never been functional must be cast aside to make way for the new. I wonder if my generation will hold fast to its radical honesty when it is our turn to call the shots.       

From the Vaults

Standin' on a corner
Suitcase in my hand
Jack's in his corset, Jane is in her vest
and me I'm in a rock 'n' roll band. Huh.

Riding a Stutz Bear Cat, Jim
ya know, those were different times
all the poets studied rules of verse
and those ladies they rolled their eyes

Sweet Jane
Sweet Jane
Sweet Jane

Now Jack, he is a banker
and Jane, she's a clerk
and both of them save their monies
when they get home from work
sittin' down by the fire

Ooo, the radio does play
the classical music there, Jim
The March of the Wooden Soldiers
All you protest kids
you can hear Jack say

Sweet Jane
Sweet Jane
Sweet Jane

Some people they like to go out dancin'
and other people they have to work. Just watch me now
and there's even some evil mothers

Well they're gonna tell you that everything is just dirt
you know that women never really faint
and that villians always blink their eyes
that children are the only ones who blush
and that life is just to die

But anyone who ever had a heart
they wouldn't turn around and break it
and anyone who ever played a part
They wouldn't turn around and hate it
Sweet Jane, Sweet Sweet Jane

Steps for Buying a Hooker

Something I wrote ages ago. I doubt I could write anything this raw now. There was a time when I was young and impulsive, though this piece is simply satire.

Steps for Buying A Hooker

1. Look in the Yellow Pages.

2. Find the "E" section, then find "Escort".

3. "Escort", contrary to what you might think, doesn't mean someone who shuttles you safely from one destination to another. In actuality, "Escort" is one of those euphemisms we use to mean a person of the night, or, to put it bluntly, a prostitute.

4. You have many options from which to choose. You will find, rather quickly, that the biggest chains accept credit cards and are actually cleverly networked together by a series of disjointed phone lines.

The reason for this subterfuge is because you're about to do something illegal. If, the first few times you call, you are hung up on without the person on the end of the line saying as much as a hello, this is to be expected. They merely believe that you are an undercover vice agent eager to bust their whole operation.

5. If, by chance, you connect to someone, you will find these operations are run either by one of two types of people: a Madam, who calls everyone, regardless of gender and age, "baby" and is nastily impatient with you due to her rampant cocaine addiction, or a man who answers the phone gruffly. You picture him hunched over a vast switchboard, chain smoking, inside a grimy room lit only by one overhead lightbulb that hangs downward from a chain.

6. The price is then agreed upon. Tips are the ways in which you cull special favors like oral sex, anal sex, and intercourse.

7. The women that characterize the occupation are ordinarily working-class sorts with provincial accents. They're usually from the countryside. Often they will want to show off their Wal-Mart lingerie. Occasionally they will have stretch-marks.

8. They will mutter all kinds of down-home commentary like oh baby, take me now, ah like fuckin' best of all, and you gonna need to cum now cause you last long'r than a sixty-year-old man who can't get it up and ah got places to go

9. The instant you ejaculate, they will whisk their clothes back on, decline your offer of a shower, and head back into their cars. Pimps and madams are vicious sorts, always obsessed with profits, which normally go towards their substance abuse problems. Some of the girls work for two days solid without a break.

10. Don't ever fall in love with an escort girl. You'll probably find some hooker with a heart of gold who is foolish enough to not be able to separate business from pleasure.

Oh Delay

This week is full of doctor's appointments. Tomorrow's post will arrive late in the day. In the meantime, I am taking today's holiday as a day of rest.

Quote of the Week

"During the long lane of the history yet to be written, America knows that this world of ours, ever growing smaller, must avoid becoming a community of dreadful fear and hate, and be, instead, a proud confederation of mutual trust and respect. Such a confederation must be one of equals."- Dwight Eisenhower

Saturday Video

Anything you can do,
I can do better.
I can do anything
Better than you.

No, you can't.
Yes, I can. No, you can't.
Yes, I can. No, you can't.
Yes, I can,
Yes, I can!

Anything you can be
I can be greater.
Sooner or later,
I'm greater than you.

No, you're not. Yes, I am.
No, you're not. Yes, I am.
No, you're NOT!. Yes, I am.
Yes, I am!

I can shoot a partridge
With a single cartridge.
I can get a sparrow
With a bow and arrow.

I can live on bread and cheese.
And only on that?
Yes.
So can a rat!

Any note you can reach
I can go higher.
I can sing anything
Higher than you.
No, you can't. (High)
Yes, I can. (Higher) No, you can't. (Higher)
Yes, I can. (Higher) No, you can't. (Higher)
Yes, I can. (Higher) No, you can't. (Higher)
Yes, I can. (Higher) No, you can't. (Higher)
Yes, I CAN! (Highest)

Anything you can buy
I can buy cheaper.
I can buy anything
Cheaper than you.

Fifty cents?
Forty cents! Thirty cents?
Twenty cents! No, you can't!
Yes, I can,
Yes, I can!

Anything you can say
I can say softer.
I can say anything
Softer than you.
No, you can't. (Softly)
Yes, I can. (Softer) No, you can't. (Softer)
Yes, I can. (Softer) No, you can't. (Softer)
Yes, I can. (Softer)
YES, I CAN! (Full volume)

I can drink my liquor
Faster than a flicker.
I can drink it quicker
And get even sicker!

I can open any safe.
Without bein' caught?
Sure.
That's what I thought--
you crook!

Any note you can hold
I can hold longer.
I can hold any note
Longer than you.

No, you can't.
Yes, I can No, you can't.
Yes, I can No, you can't.
Yes, I can
Yes, I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I No, you C-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-N'T--
CA-A-A-A-N! (Cough, cough!)
Yes, you ca-a-a-an!

Anything you can wear
I can wear better.
In what you wear
I'd look better than you.

In my coat?
In your vest! In my shoes?
In your hat! No, you can't!
Yes, I can
Yes, I CAN!

Anything you say
I can say faster.
I can say anything
Faster than you.
No, you can't. (Fast)
Yes, I can. (Faster) No, you can't. (Faster)
Yes, I can. (Faster) Noyoucan't. (Faster)
YesIcan! (Fastest)

I can jump a hurdle.
I can wear a girdle.
I can knit a sweater.
I can fill it better!
I can do most anything!
Can you bake a pie? No.
Neither can I.

Anything you can sing
I can sing sweeter.
I can sing anything
Sweeter than you.
No, you can't. (Sweetly)
Yes, I can. (Sweeter) No, you can't. (Sweeter)
Yes, I can. (Sweeter) No, you can't. (Sweeter)
Yes, I can. (Sweeter) No, you can't, can't, can't (sweeter)
Yes, I can, can, can (Sugary)

Yes, I can! No, you can't!

A Pacifist Memorial Day

For most of us, Memorial Day is a joyous occasion. We may think of idyllic, lazy summer days of childhood, whole months away from school. Our greatest concern might well be the inevitable traffic jams created when large groups of people head for the same destination at the same time. This holiday is intended to commemorate the service and bravery of those Americans who have served in combat. My own religious convictions speak against war. Friends are, as we are taught, to live in the virtue of that life and power that takes away the occasion of all wars. It forms the basis of the Peace Testimony.

Five years after its original airing, I recently watched the Ken Burns documentary about World War II. It was a particularly memorable experience for me because I saw the stories of my grandparents and great-uncles illustrated by miles of newsreel footage, shaky handheld cameras set up at the front, and succinct commentary. The final conclusion of that series is that the Second World War was a just conflict. The atrocities inflicted and experienced, ghastly as they were, could not have been avoided. While I disagree, I do not let theology blind me to the human realities, especially those inherent in my own family.

My mother's mother had, in many ways, a tragic life. She lost both parents, for all intents and purposes, before she was even a teenager. Her father died unexpectedly when she was ten. Her mother, overburdened by raising four children by herself in the middle of the Depression, was then lost to insanity. My great-grandmother spent the rest of her life in an lunatic asylum. My maternal grandmother was largely raised by three older brothers, each of which dutifully served in combat once the war began.

One served in the European theater. A member of the Army Corps of Engineers, he was one of the first soldiers to come ashore on D-Day. Another hopped from island to island in the Pacific, fighting the Japanese tooth and nail. Beyond my blood relatives, I came to know others who had taken part. A family friend served in the Navy on an aircraft carrier, dodging Japanese kamikaze attacks. An older man I befriended had a front row seat to the horrors of the surprise German counterattack at the Battle of the Bulge. The experience affected him profoundly, as was the case for many American soldiers. He never returned to Europe again, even in peacetime, even as a tourist.

I see now why these servicemen often avoided speaking about their wartime experiences. The trauma, violent visuals, and resulting combined emotional impact drove some men mad. It led others to find their own means of coping with the constant fear of death. Their memories and recollections challenge me to remove the occasion for all war in my own time. I do not expect to find easy solutions to a practice as old as humanity itself. We have, gradually, embraced more civilized ways of resolving conflicts, and in some ways pushed away from the barbarism and carnage of a different epoch.

My dreams and aspirations are yet incomplete. In this country, we know of war now in a very different context. American casualties in recent wars have been minimal compared to those of especially bloody conflicts like World War II. Technology has taken over for boots on the ground, in an effort to minimize casualties. Yet, in many countries across the world, the brutality and slaughter persists, as does the lust for blood revenge. I cannot reconcile within myself that this must be somehow necessary, a means of population control or a consequence of irreconcilable differences.

At times, I admit I do feel disappointed and discouraged. Every time war is declared, pacifist faith groups protest heartily, with words and often out in the streets as part of peace vigils. We are ignored once again, completely marginalized when war fever grips the country once more, our opinion a minority view. I try to take the long view, believing that diplomacy will eventually overtake armed struggle as a means of resolving differences. I concede I may not see it in my lifetime, but I look back across the centuries, and that perspective gives me comfort.  

Health Update

What follows is another in a series of Life With a Chronic Illness.™

Bladder surgery was a success, I am glad to say. I healed up quite nicely and now bear only a small scar on my lower back. The device implanted underneath the skin was placed at a part of my body without much fat to serve as cushioning. This means that I've had to be vigilant about making sure the implanted pacemaker device doesn't shift inside or, worse yet, burst through the skin of my lower back.

Though my condition has improved, I still experiences periods of bladder irritation, which two specific medications and a surgical procedure have never fully corrected. The pacemaker device regulates the electrical signaling between the spine and the bladder by emitting an electric current. Initially set at a low level, I upped the power slightly following surgery. I was warned by the urologist who performed the surgery that I was not to set it too high. Doing so would jeopardize battery life. The battery is supposed to last five years, after which a brand new one will be inserted in similar fashion.

I've begun my typical early summer depressive episode. Fortunately, up to now, it has been mild. People with bipolar are often sensitive to shifts in season. It's been postulated that increased or deceased sunlight is the culprit. I find myself more likely to be manic in the wintertime and depressed in the summer. Accordingly, I've increased my Lithium dosage and will up the level of an augmenting antidepressant as needed. Around this time of year, I find myself holding my breath a little wondering what to expect next. If only depression were more predictable and easier to treat.

The endocrine disorder has been the most problematic condition of all in the past several days. It is a difficult balancing act to make sure my body doesn't transform testosterone into estradiol. Every biological man has some estrogen present within his system. Too much of it, however, is a problem. In my case, high estradiol makes me physically tired and weak. This imbalance can be addressed with aromatase inhibitors, originally designed to stop breast cancer in biological women, but specialists are reluctant to prescribe it for men. For some reason, my body produces more Estrogen than is average, a fact that does not especially surprise me.

Only bloodwork can determine my precise hormonal levels. In a couple of weeks, it will be time again to have testosterone and estradiol checked, along with thyroid. Speaking of thyroid, I've been on Synthroid for three months. My thyroid levels were too low, so now I take a pill in the morning to make up the difference. In addition to other less interesting side effects, my fingernail and toenails now grow twice as fast. The same is true for the hair on my head.

If I take too much time to fixate upon everything that must be researched, completed, and swallowed, I begin to feel overwhelmed. This is why I try to live in the moment as best I can. My problems are not unique only to me. Regularly, I speak to people whose symptoms are worse than my own. The biggest concern for me is the early onset of these problems. I'm still in my early thirties and worry that the intensity of my medical problems will eventually overwhelm me completely.

Are the Gospels Mythical?

The article from which I have pulled excerpts is very lengthy and also very dense. Should you wish to read it, take it in slowly. The article can be accessed in full here. I've included some of the main ideas below. The author is René Girard.

From the earliest days of Christianity, the Gospels' resemblance to certain myths has been used as an argument against Christian faith. When pagan apologists for the official pantheism of the Roman empire denied that the death-and-resurrection myth of Jesus differed in any significant way from the myths of Dionysus, Osiris, Adonis, Attis, etc., they failed to stem the rising Christian tide.

In the last two hundred years, however, as anthropologists have discovered all over the world foundational myths that similarly resemble Jesus' Passion and Resurrection, the notion of Christianity as a myth seems at last to have taken hold—even among Christian believers.

Beginning with some violent cosmic or social crisis, and culminating in the suffering of a mysterious victim (often at the hands of a furious mob), all these myths conclude with the triumphal return of the sufferer, thereby revealed as a divinity. The evangelists see something very simple and fundamental that we ourselves should see. As soon as we become reconciled to the similarities between violence in the Bible and myths, we can understand how the Bible is not mythical—how the reaction to violence recorded in the Bible radically differs from the reaction recorded in myth.

This counterforce is, I believe, the mythological scapegoat—the sacrificial victim of myth. When scandals proliferate, human beings become so obsessed with their rivals that they lose sight of the objects for which they compete and begin to focus angrily on one another.

Peter spectacularly illustrates this mimetic contagion. When surrounded by people hostile to Jesus, he imitates their hostility. He obeys the same mimetic force, ultimately, as Pilate and Herod. Even the thieves crucified with Jesus obey that force and feel compelled to join the crowd. And yet, I think, the Gospels do not seek to stigmatize Peter, or the thieves, or the crowd as a whole, or the Jews as a people, but to reveal the enormous power of mimetic contagion—a revelation valid for the entire chain of murders stretching from the Passion back to “the foundation of the world.” The Gospels have an immensely powerful reason for their constant reference to these murders, and it concerns two essential and yet strangely neglected words, skandalon and Satan.

The traditional English translation of stumbling block is far superior to timid recent translations, for the Greek skandalon designates an unavoidable obstacle that somehow becomes more attractive (as well as repulsive) each time we stumble against it. The first time Jesus predicts his violent death (Matthew 16:21-23), his resignation appalls Peter, who tries to instill some worldly ambition in his master: Instead of imitating Jesus, Peter wants Jesus to imitate him. If two friends imitate each other's desire, they both desire the same object.

And if they cannot share this object, they will compete for it, each becoming simultaneously a model and an obstacle to the other. The competing desires intensify as model and obstacle reinforce each other, and an escalation of mimetic rivalry follows; admiration gives way to indignation, jealousy, envy, hatred, and, at last, violence and vengeance. Had Jesus imitated Peter's ambition, the two thereby would have begun competing for the leadership of some politicized “Jesus movement.” Sensing the danger, Jesus vehemently interrupts Peter: “Get behind me, Satan, you are a skandalon to me.”

If we choose Jesus as our model, we simultaneously choose his own model, God the Father. Having no appropriative desire, Jesus proclaims the possibility of freedom from scandal. But if we choose possessive models we find ourselves in endless scandals, for our real model is Satan. A seductive tempter who suggests to us the desires most likely to generate rivalries, Satan prevents us from reaching whatever he simultaneously incites us to desire. He turns into a diabolos (another word that designates the obstacle/model of mimetic rivalry). Satan is skandalon personified, as Jesus makes explicit in his rebuke of Peter.

We hear nowadays that, behind every text and every event, there are an infinite number of interpretations, all more or less equivalent. Mimetic victimization makes the absurdity of this view manifest. Only two possible reactions to the mimetic contagion exist, and they make an enormous difference. Either we surrender and join the persecuting crowd, or we resist and stand alone. The first way is the unanimous self- deception we call mythology. Instead of blaming victimization on the victims, the Gospels blame it on the victimizers. What the myths systematically hide, the Bible reveals.

Summertime

This seems seasonal enough.



It's summertime and the living is easy
The fish are jumping and the cotton is high
Your daddy's rich and your mama's good looking
Won't you hush, pretty baby, don't you cry

One of these mornings you're going to wake up singing
Then you're going to spread your wings and take to the sky
But 'till that morning ain't nothing, nothing going to harm you
With your mommy and daddy there standing by

It's summertime and the living is easy
Fish are jumping and the cotton is high
Your daddy's rich and your mama's good looking
Won't you hush, pretty baby, don't you cry

Confronting Mental Illness

Today, I meet with a representative of NAMI, the National Alliance on Mental Illness. The nature of my visit is to see what resources they, as an organization, can share with us, the Meeting. A previously established program of theirs exists to educate houses of worship on these sorts of issues. The unique particulars of unprogrammed Quaker Worship and our ways of doing things must first be taken into account. The existing curriculum will need to be modified.

In a nutshell, here lies the problem. A very vocal minority of our regular attenders and members suffer from severe mental illness. Often they refuse to take medication, despite the fact that seeking treatment would help them substantially. Due to their illness, they routinely act out in a multitude of ways, most of which we have learned to anticipate over the years.

One Friend is perpetually rude and turns Worship into a private soapbox. Another hijacked a committee meeting to harangue Friends about an entirely nonsensical concern. This Friend alternates between deference and respect to accusatory and confrontational behavior. A third refuses to bathe regularly, assuring that others will sit as far away from him as possible. These are only the worst offenders, the ones whose mental illness shows as plainly as an eye of the face.

In the midst of these are Friends whose behavior and general conduct is often erratic. Often, they have never sought formal diagnosis and treatment for reasons entirely their own. Instead, they suffer alone, and the rest of the Meeting takes silent count of their eccentricities and trigger points. The outgoing clerk of the committee I have recently taken under my care noted that, to her, "all Quakers are a little nuts." I'm not entirely sure I agree with her conclusions, but I do respect her insight.

These problems are not limited to one Quaker Meeting or one city on the map. The mentally ill continue to be some of the most stigmatized members of society. Often, they find the Religious Society of Friends out of a desperate desire to belong to and be accepted by anyone. Routinely, they are the most diligent in learning our terminology and ways of doing things, memorizing routine, the most obscure bits of procedure. They would be model Friends, if their periods of acute illness did not create friction and hostility among those with whom they worship.

My committee routinely oversees behavior problems, ones where the usual suspects are to blame. One fire is put out only to have a new blaze rage in its place. Quakers are uneasily confrontational in the best of circumstances. What is meant to be love, patience, and tolerance becomes instead enabling and co-dependent. Established stable and successful precedent, in this context, can be safely deemed an unqualified failure.

I want to educate the Meeting, to find healthier solutions for everyone, mentally ill or not. As I've disclosed several times publicly before, I have bipolar disorder. What has saved me from the same fate as the Friends I've pointed out earlier in this post is my willingness to seek medical help. I take nine different medications a day, and five of them are exclusively for psychiatric medical conditions. Though I experience a few hiccups here and there, I can carry on a largely normal life with only a few impediments standing in my way.

That is to say, I know the potential for greater health that exists. And, if I wish to pull up those painful memories, I know what it's like to be held at arm's length for being mentally ill. As I observe the vocal ministry and behavior of some Friends, I see a partially deformed image of the predominant cultural mindset staring back at me. They want to be activists, proclaiming the grave seriousness of their chosen cause. Mostly, they want to be heard and taken seriously, but their illness removes any veracity and authority they might have otherwise sought.

Action is what is needed now. We have hesitated long enough and if delay were sufficient in and of itself, we would have surely found a solution by now. We need to reexamine ourselves and our priorities. We have the means and the wherewithal, but we cannot justify or allow dysfunction any longer. We may not have created this mess, but we're the only ones who can clean it up.

Quote of the Week

"Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen can passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath."- William Shakespeare

Saturday Video

Pull the string and I'll wink at you,
I'm your puppet
I'll do funny things if you want me to,
I'm your puppet

I'm yours to have and to hold
Darling, you've got full control of your puppet

Pull another string and I'll kiss your lips,
I'm your puppet
Snap your finger and I'll turn you some flips,
I'm your puppet

Your every wish is my command
All you gotta do is wiggle your little hand
I'm your puppet, I'm your puppet

I'm just a toy, just a funny boy
That makes you laugh when you're blue

I'll be wonderful, do just what I'm told
I'll do anything for you
I'm your puppet, I'm your puppet

Pull them little strings
and I'll sing you a song, I'm your puppet
Make me do right or make me do wrong,
I'm your puppet

Treat me good and I'll do anything
I'm just a puppet
and you hold my string, I'm your puppet

Walking, talking, living, loving puppet
I'm hanging on a string, I'll do anything now

I'm a walking, talking, living, loving puppet,
and I love you

Breakthrough

I've helped organize a long-running group of Young Adult Quakers here in DC. Last night around ten of us met to first have a meal and then to participate in Worship Sharing. By now, most of us who have been around for a few years know each other by name and greatly value each other's company. One Friend shared her concern that we live in what can be a lonely city, one with very different priorities to our own. 

Most of us are crammed into desk jobs and offices with super-serious people. We're lucky to have employment, assuming we do. Most of us deal with financial uncertainty in an expensive city on a regular basis. Many of us have undergone lengthy periods of unemployment. Some of us have had to move home to live with parents until jobs arrived. It's no wonder we often feel confused and alone.

Quaker gatherings regardless of the average age of the participant seem appeal more to women than to men. Female attenders, if in a heterosexual relationship, usually arrive for the first few events with their spouse or significant other in tow. The other relationship partner rarely stays around much longer than that. But I suppose this phenomenon might not be true only for heterosexuals. Many couples try to find activities they can do together, as a unit, and Quaker activities are rarely one of them. 

In any case, men are a minority. For a while, that fact was a comfort to me. It meant I had fewer people to avoid and fewer feelings to hurt. The fear I feel towards other men has kept me from forming close friendships or even acquaintances. I am pleased to report that I have finally managed to move forward towards greater health. Last night, I tried to be more spontaneous and found I was too actively involved in the moment to be fearful or anxious.

Though it is still not especially easy, I was able to put aside some of my long-standing conundrums and existential crises. For once, I found myself seeking out other men to converse with, not side-step. This inner work is slow and deliberate, but I rejoice for the small victories. Next time, I hope I keep making progress. I don't want to be disappointed if I stagnate in fetid waters for a time.

I call my father on the phone ever week. Often, the first thing he asks is whether or not I've made friendships with men. The usually disappointed tone I hear in my ear is not an unfamiliar one. When I was hospitalized for mania, years ago, I was allowed to bring my guitar into the dining area and sing for fellow patients. I started out by playing Johnny Cash for him. He beamed ear to ear, carrying on a conversation with a group of visitors seated only a short distance away. They were also enjoying the performance.

When I decided to sing Vietnam War-era protest songs, my father's attention immediately drifted. My performance was equally competent to what came before, but his definition of what constituted "good" music appeared to be very limited. The hyper-masculine old school country he favors is only a fraction of what I like to play. In some respects, my desire to limit male company is to avoid being boxed in like this. I wonder if Dad ever questions his own masculinity, or has any understanding of gender and binary thinking.

I've learned a lot from deconstructing myself and my internalized beliefs, but sometimes I wonder how to encourage others to look within themselves. I want to help people and heal people, but I've often adopted a pessimistic attitude that many people will not change, regardless of the circumstances. In the meantime, I continue to push myself into uncomfortable situations, which is the only way I know how to win out in the end. I'm proud of myself for the progress. 

Bad Fog of Loneliness

EDIT:  I redid the video. When I sang the first version, my voice wasn't warmed up yet and I couldn't hit the notes properly.

Bad fog of loneliness

Put a cloud on my single-mindedness 

I dream of sweet caress 

From you. 

What makes tomorrow guess? 

What makes me take from me, 

and put aside the rest? 

I dream of sweet caress 

From you. 

So long woman I am gone 

So much pain to go through 

Come back maybe I was wrong 

Bad fog of loneliness 

Put a cloud on my single-mindedness 

I dream of sweet caress 

From you.

Everyone is Someone's Immediate Family

Everyone is someone's immediate family.  Everyone is someone's sister, mother, brother, father, son, daughter, uncle, aunt, niece, nephew, and so on.

We often say things like these after a national tragedy or during war. Some variation of the phrase is used when the rights of women are suppressed or when men are the sole keepers of autonomy over women's own bodies. Every woman is someone's someone. The list continues. We can argue about the effectiveness of this pitch and how it frames an argument but it remains a pervasive psychological device. Its effectiveness rests, of course, only if someone personalizes the core intention of the message.

Slogans, regardless of how cleverly constructed, are empty without an emotional connection to the individual.

In this situation, I offer myself as the test subject. Quite by accident, I stumbled across a lengthy set of nude pictures that featured a close family member. I suppose I could lie and say I wasn't looking for pornography, but I have no desire to insult your intelligence. Usually, my forays into meaningless self-gratification do not cause ethical quandaries. I still hold a sex-positive view, but the discomfort I feel now has complicated what before was more an instinctual exercise, not an especially intellectual one.

Depersonalization short-circuits a particular part of our reasoning and ability to relate to others. The emotions I feel and project upon a stranger I cannot feel for a family member. While I continue to process and analyze, I want to make a few things clear to you, my audience. I don't seek to take away her agency and control, putting my will in place of her own. This decision was entirely her right, and my thoughts are mostly applicable only to me. The decision to pose nude was a decision made of her own free will and I'm sure she was compensated monetarily for it.

Where do I, erstwhile male ally, fit into this situation? I suppose you could say that my thoughts are evolving. If we were speaking in Quaker terms, I'd say that my viewpoint is seasoning, that is to say, maturing with the passage of thought and further contemplation. At first, my mind produces some well-meaning paternalistic platitudes about how nothing posted to the internet ever goes away. Following that, my usually reliable moral compass is stuck and unhelpful.  

Thankfully, the collection is posted under a pseudonym. I can tell that these photos are several years old, taken at a very different time in her life. For a while, she wanted a clean break with her family, and the new-found freedom these photos provide are proof of that. There's a back story here that I will never learn. Though I may speculate from now until eternity, I feel complicit with a secret. Her secret is now my own.

In my early twenties, I made equally impulsive decisions, though fortunately most of mine are not documented. The stories of youthful indiscretion I have told later in life proceed at my own pace, with me as the primary narrator. I'm not sure she has the same control over her image as I do with my memories. Reading through lusty comments left behind on the website, albeit respectful, make me even more uncomfortable than I already am.     

I wish I could provide some neatly tied-up conclusion about my discovery. I feel like I'm wrestling with my logic and my emotions in equal proportions. I'll continue to ruminate about this concern for a while longer.  

Hunt You Down

While I'm dealing with something else more pressing today, I'd like to share with you a recently released song. Written by Sara Curtin of the DC-based folk/pop group The Sweater Set, this is Sara's love letter to dating in NYC.

Some months ago, I posted about the difficulties for straight women in finding available men in large cities. For those who may have disagreed with my conclusions, this song is my answer.

Click this link to hear the song. You'll have to download it first to listen. All credit due to Sara and The Sweater Set.

If you don't
Return my phone call
If I don't hear
That ringing sound

Then get to end this
like it needs to be ended, baby

I will hunt you down
I'll hunt you down

I know you see my
Chef knife collection

Hanging along my kitchen wall
I heard it's not that hard to get
a 9 millimeter, baby

We live in New York City
After all

And you should have seen it coming
When you started seeing me

A single girl
Can turn in an instant
From a butterfly
to a bee

Holed up in my jail cell
I'll be laughing

Thinking about what I've done

And how you could have
easily avoided it, baby

If you had just picked up
the goddamn phone.  

Happy Mother's Day

Quote of the Week

"I really thought that love would save us all."- John Lennon

Saturday Video

Doctor, my eyes have seen the years  
And the slow parade of fears without crying 
Now I want to understand  

I have done all that I could 
To see the evil and the good without hiding 
You must help me if you can
 
Doctor, my eyes, tell me what is wrong 
Was I unwise to leave them open for so long?
 
'Cause I have wandered through this world 
And as each moment has unfurled 
I've been waiting to awaken from these dreams  

People go just where they will 
I never noticed them until I got this feeling  
That it's later than it seems
 
Doctor, my eyes, tell me what you see 
I hear their cries, just say if it's too late for me

Doctor, my eyes, cannot see the sky 
Is this the price for having learned how not to cry?

Confronting the Weaker Brother or Sister

One of the most difficult tasks for each of us is properly discerning the intellectual, internal development of another person. Opinions and criticisms that sound destructive at first listen may only be evidence of a weaker brother or sister. I recognize that the term “weaker” might first come across as condescending, as though it is some sort of value judgment about a person. In actuality, it is anything but.

Accept other believers who are weak in faith, and don't argue with them about what they think is right or wrong. So why do you condemn another believer? Why do you look down on another believer? So let's stop condemning each other. Decide instead to live in such a way that you will not cause another believer to stumble and fall.

Those of us who have reached a stage of greater maturity in education and opinion must take pains not to flaunt it. Age alone is often no indicator of maturity, but each of us has held beliefs in the past that we now see as less evolved. I don’t have to look very far back into the past to see evidence of my own.

Once we too were the weaker brother or sister, actively engaged in the process of learning and discerning our own identity and identities. That being said, weaker members are not exempt from their own responsibilities. They must be careful to not make up standards and rules of their own, and then insist they be followed. Some orthodoxy exists for a reason, often to make sure that we are in general sympathy as a collective body.

The new believers that are part of my faith community are a frequent challenge. Several of them are seekers, poking a cautious toe into the water first rather than jumping in headfirst. They can hardly be blamed for not understanding Quaker esoteria, or the way Friends use a particular process to resolve disputes and conduct business. Nor can they be faulted for not knowing the ins and the outs of the particular terminology that we’ve used for close to 400 years.

These Friends learn at their own pace and no one else’s. A fixer and organizer by nature, it frustrates me sometimes that new believers take such a slow, deliberate course. I fear that they will wander aimlessly forever. I see God before me, powerfully, and know the very same relationship is present for them if they will trust enough in that which they cannot observe with their five senses.

I want people to know God and to feel the presence of the Divine. I want them to have a transformative experience with organized religion, one much in the same vein as my very own. My impatience shows when people drag their feet or resist taking on the inner work that is integral for growth and maturity. My most formidable challenge is to make others feel that my ideas were theirs first. Unless a weaker brother or sister takes ownership himself or herself, my impact is blunted.  

The reverse seems to be true among other activist groups. In feminist discourse, discussions about gender and sexuality showcase feminism’s own terminology, doctrine, and dogma. What I have noticed here is how eagerly new feminists adopt the nomenclature and remarkably consistent sense of righteous indignation. I can’t help but wish that the Quakers I encounter and work with adopted the same zeal. There are no half-measures here. Everyone is firmly committed to the cause with complete solidarity in sentiment, though opinions sometimes differ.

Among liberal activist groups, the crusading spirit once present elsewhere continues most successfully in a secular context. These groups would, however, be careful not to make the same mistakes of their religious brethren. Creating isolating and limiting hierarchies based on strict adherence to rules and structure may not be anyone’s intent, but it happens frequently. Whatever is deemed necessary to learn and adopt must not be conducted by rote memorization alone. It must be related back to the individual, because only then can anyone’s good work be truly seen in its proper context.

It would be better to be thrown into the sea with a millstone hung around your neck than to cause one of these little ones to fall into sin.  

Enlightenment is not attained by winning more merit badges than your neighbor. Christianity once promised great freedom to its believers. It is this freedom that threatened the status quo, creating martyrs who died for their faith. When people treat their beliefs like a contest, then we neglect the weaker brother or sister. He or she may be finding a way towards a greater comprehension, by way of an unorthodox path. Those we might otherwise view as troublemakers or skeptics often want to believe.

the lesson of the moth

the lesson of the moth by archy (Don Marquis)

i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then to cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is to come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity

but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself

archy

Doctor My Eyes

Doctor, my eyes have seen the years  
And the slow parade of fears without crying 
Now I want to understand  

I have done all that I could 
To see the evil and the good without hiding 
You must help me if you can
 
Doctor, my eyes, tell me what is wrong 
Was I unwise to leave them open for so long?
 
'Cause I have wandered through this world 
And as each moment has unfurled 
I've been waiting to awaken from these dreams  

People go just where they will 
I never noticed them until I got this feeling  
That it's later than it seems
 
Doctor, my eyes, tell me what you see 
I hear their cries, just say if it's too late for me

Doctor, my eyes, cannot see the sky 
Is this the price for having learned how not to cry?

It's Okay If I Don't Blog Today

Broken Arrow

The lights turned on and the curtain fell down, 

And when it was over it felt like a dream, 

They stood at the stage door and begged for a scream, 

The agents had paid for the black limousine 

That waited outside in the rain. 

Did you see them, did you see them? 

Did you see them in the river? 

They were there to wave to you. 

Could you tell that the empty quivered, 

Brown skinned Indian on the banks 

That were crowded and narrow,

Held a broken arrow? 

Eighteen years of American dreams, 

He saw that his brother had sworn on the wall. 

He hung up his eyelids and ran down the hall, 

His mother had told him a trip was a fall, 

And don't mention babies at all. 

Did you see him, did you see him? 

Did you see him in the river? 

He were there to wave to you.

Could you tell that the empty quivered, 

Brown skinned Indian on the banks 

That were crowded and narrow, 

Held a broken arrow? 

The streets were lined for the wedding parade, 

The Queen wore the white gloves, the county of song, 

The black covered caisson her horses had drawn 

Protected her King from the sun rays of dawn. 

They married for peace and were gone.

Did you see them, did you see them? 

Did you see them in the river? 

They were there to wave to you. 

Could you tell that the empty quivered, 

Brown skinned Indian on the banks 

That were crowded and narrow, 

Held a broken arrow?

Bisexuality: A Little from Column A and a Little from Column B

Three years ago, Antoine Dodson became an internet celebrity, due in no small part to his flamboyant behavior. A native of Huntsville, Alabama, Dodson’s hilariously over-the-top interview with a local news reporter gave him a degree of fame. Then living in a housing project with his family, his sister was attacked by an intruder who forced his way into her bedroom. Dodson’s filmed reaction for the evening news was YouTube gold, even inspiring some intrepid fans to autotune and remix his original remarks.

Dodson decided to come out shortly thereafter, but since then has made two controversial decisions.

When, last summer, fast food chain Chick-Fil-A was under fire for comments its president made against same-sex marriage, Dodson supported the company. At the time, he said that freedom of speech applied even to people opposed to marriage equality.

"We don't all have to believe in the same things," Dodson said. "We all have our different beliefs and can still come together and still be friends and be cool with each other."

Bizarrely, Dodson has now chosen to renounce his homosexuality, stating that he wants a wife and children. This decision seems to have been made because of a religious conversion of a sort, though the details provided are vague and unclear.

In early 2012, actress Cynthia Nixon got in hot water with LGBT groups by stating that being gay was a choice. Later forced to clarify her remarks, she said she spoke in terms of her own bisexuality. With time, Nixon chose to pursue exclusively same-sex relationships, despite being attracted to both men and women.

In a Daily Beast article, she also added that "I don't pull out the 'bisexual' word because nobody likes the bisexuals," "Everybody likes to dump on the bisexuals...We get no respect."

I greatly appreciated her remarks, especially because it’s tough to define myself accurately. When in LGBT groups or at LGBT conferences, I refuse to self-identify. Many people assume I am gay, and I often allow myself to be wrongly identified to avoid conclusions being drawn about me that I would rather avoid. When among straight friends or in an explicitly straight context, I speak a different lingo and conform to a different standard. There, I am automatically assumed to be straight.

I have felt at times that I had to favor one side over the other for the benefit of other people. Should I be with a woman, I'm assumed to be straight. Should I be with a man, I'm assumed to be gay. Fearing that I was somehow promiscuous or untrustworthy, some gay men felt that I, as a bisexual, wasn’t dating material. Women I’ve dated have often feared that I was going to leave them for another man.

Most of the criticism I receive falls into the category of microaggressions. No one has ever given me an especially hard time within the community for my bisexuality, though I do wonder at times how much some understand it. Instead, it's instant reactions and incomplete conclusions that I fear most. Times are improving. One paradigm is departing and another is asserting itself. It’s almost a cliché now to state that sexual orientation falls along a continuum, but we still resort to binary thinking.

The gay world to me was full of places to go, people to see, and experiences to take in that were formed in opposition to what one observed impassively day after day. While I was part of that bubble, I felt in general sympathy with others who shared that universe, one that always felt shadowy and even a little dangerous. Outside it, I often breathed a sigh of relief, though I knew what I saw in front of me was only half of my identity. How could I honor both of them without feeling like a traitor?

I had the ability to gravitate back and forth, forever seeking the balance that suited me best. Every bisexual person I have ever met reaches the same conclusion I have, or that Cynthia Nixon has. A friend in college had a relationship with a woman, and was the only student in her dorm to refuse to conceal it. She often talked to me about her simultaneous attraction to men and how it manifested itself.

When in gay clubs or in other gatherings of LGBT folks, I feel as though I’m not a native speaker. I’ve learned the language with time, of course, but I’ll forever be learning the grammar and the syntax. Will this brave new world before us remove the need for qualifiers? Until it does, I’ll always feel like a motherless child.

I would never renounce the homosexual part of me, because I couldn’t suppress it if I tried. Antoine Dodson’s decision reinforces an idea that being gay is a choice, which is not my experience and never will be. I don’t have much energy, nor much need to criticize him for what seems to me to be an impulsive act, perhaps even a publicity stunt. I never felt much reverence for the closet door. He seems to have even less of it than I do.    

Quote of the Week

 "I have changed my definition of tragedy. I now think tragedy is not foul deeds done to a person (usually noble in some manner) but rather that tragedy is irresolvable conflict. Both sides/ideas are right."- Rita Mae Brown

Saturday Video

Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit.
Blessed is the lamb whose blood flows.
Blessed are the sat upon, spat upon, ratted on,
O Lord, why have you forsaken me?

I got no place to go,
I've walked around Soho for the last night or so.
Ah, but it doesn't matter, no.

Blessed is the land and the Kingdom.
Blessed is the man whose soul belongs to.
Blessed are the meth drinkers, pot sellers, illusion dwellers.
O Lord, why have you forsaken me?

My words trickle down, like a wound
That I have no intention to heal.

Blessed are the stained glass, window pane glass.
Blessed is the church service makes me nervous
Blessed are the penny rookers, cheap hookers, groovy lookers.

O Lord, why have you forsaken me?

I've tended my own garden
Much too long.

Erotica

The work of erotica I wrote a couple weeks ago has been deemed worthy of a second chapter. Before all was said and done, I received nearly 19,000 hits. Not bad for a first attempt. This time, I've taken into account the views of the commentariat and have extended the length of the second section by roughly 500 words.

The key with erotica is to balance exposition with the sexual details, which is, of course, why everyone reads erotica in the first place. The old writing adage of write what you know has come in handy here. I'd be a lousy erotica writer if I hadn't had some life experience. As it stands now, my main characters are a composite of at least five people I know well, including myself. My foremost wish is that the autobiographical details will make the narrative much more believable and convincing.

Starman

Didn't know what time it was, the lights were low
I leaned back on my radio
Some cat was layin' down some rock'n'roll lotta soul, he said

Then the loud sound did seem to fade
Came back like a slow voice on a wave of phase
That weren't no D.J. that was hazy cosmic jive

There's a starman waiting in the sky
He'd like to come and meet us
But he thinks he'd blow our minds
There's a starman waiting in the sky
He told us not to blow it
'Cause he knows it's all worthwhile

He told me:
Let the children lose it
Let the children use it
Let all the children boogie

I had to phone someone so I picked on you
Hey, that's far out so you heard him too!
Switch on the TV we may pick him up on channel two

Look out your window I can see his light
If we can sparkle he may land tonight
Don't tell your poppa or he'll get us locked up in fright