Debates Will Select a President

Save the date. October 3, 2012, will decide the Presidential election. At the University of Denver in Denver, Colorado, President Obama and Republican challenger Mitt Romney will face off in the first of three debates. Most voters only watch the first debate, so the pressure will be on to make a good initial impression. Neither candidate is at ease with the format, but each cannot afford to flub a line or have an off-night.

The election is two months away and yet neither Obama, nor Romney have really defined themselves. The person in the street cannot recite from memory the kind of bland, frequent sloganeering that Presidential campaigns usually produce. Twenty years ago, the oft-heard refrain was "it's the economy, stupid". Sixteen years ago, President Clinton spoke over and over about "building a bridge to the 21st Century".

In what has been a spectacularly boring election cycle, a former President made a more effective case for re-election than the candidate himself. Usually, the public is aware of what most of the time are very basic opening arguments well before early September. Rarely, if ever, does it take the pomp and circumstance, plus the visual saturation of a convention to build a case for the American people. Incongruously, the GOP and the Democratic party have waited as long as humanely possible to take off the gloves.

Candidate Obama, four years ago, was at first an uninspiring debater. Early in the primary season, he tended to drone on monotonously and get lost in his own rhetoric. John Edwards, prior to his disgrace, reached out to the future President during a brief commercial break at one early debate. Edwards implored Obama to focus. Of course, back then, the junior Senator from Illinois was thirty percentage points down and a longshot at best.

A unexpected and grueling primary fight with Hillary Clinton gave Obama several opportunities to improve his form. While he clearly made substantial progress, the eventual President could never be confused as a natural verbal jouster. In thirty day's time, we'll see how Professor Obama matches up against Mitt Romney, whose strong suit is most certainly not extemporaneous public speaking.

Presidential elections prior to now have been decided by face-to-face matchups. President Gerald Ford came all the way back from almost certain defeat in 1976, only to stubbornly insist in a debate that there was no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe. The gaffe and his refusal to admit that he goofed may well have done in his bid to win a full term.

Four years later, history often does not report just how close the Carter/Reagan race was until its bitter end. A majority of voters wanted to cast their ballots for the former California governor, but weren't entirely sure about it until right at the end. The debates shored up support for the Republican challenger, leading Americans to desert the unpopular Carter in droves. All they needed was assurance, in their minds, that they were making the right decision.

Now, in 2012, voters are confused about the wisdom of changing horses in midstream. That being said, Carter comparisons are only useful to a degree, for anyone's cause. A race that has been fairly tight for months will likely stay this way until Election Day. The impressions the American people will form of both President Obama and Governor Romney, podium to podium, will stay with them all the way to the ballot box.

Alcohol Amnesia

Another unedited excerpt of Wrecking Ball
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Alcohol Amnesia

My bouts of devil-may-care destruction were usually episodic, much like the construction of this book. For a time, they were a regular part of my life. Barely old enough to buy alcohol, I found a drinking buddy who was a friend of a friend. Before I realized how dangerous the combination was, I took a tranquilizer prescribed to me for anxiety and mixed it with alcohol. Within ten minutes, I lost consciousness.

I was told later that I’d collapsed in the bathroom. But that wasn’t all. In my stupor, I’d managed to kick out several panes of glass installed in the door to the outside. This was severely out of character for me. I wasn’t violent by nature. If anything, I was too passive for my own good. I’ve been in two fights in my life, both of which were spectacularly unexciting.

I can’t throw a punch to save my life and about all I can really do is kick. For someone my size, I really don’t know my own strength. A few years back, I was told by doctors to institute a regular exercise routine, including lifting weights. Now, I am even more physically imposing, though I rarely think to use it for my own benefit, in matters like self-defense. In my mind, I see myself as small of stature, more feminine than masculine.

Fights require the ability to hold significant anger for a long while. Anyone who knows me realizes that while I can have fits of temper, they pass after a few minutes and do not return. I’m wired more like my father that way. My mother quietly seethes, nursing a lengthy grudge for days on end. Should I be upset, I vent my anger, project it into the open, then move on to something else.

One of my first experiences with alcohol could have been much more destructive than it was. My childhood best friend had enrolled at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa. I visited him one weekend, as I often did. Still in high school, I was several years underage. Part of a carload of young men, we, with great purpose and solemnity, entered the parking lot of a liquor store. I think I had $20 or $30 in cash on me at the time.

The oldest member of our group was purchasing alcohol for everyone, provided they could put up the money for it. I eagerly handed over the money. When asked what I wanted, I reflexively said vodka. I’m not even sure I had ever consumed the stuff before. I had never consumed hard liquor prior to that moment, most definitely.

Knowing me, I had likely gotten the whole vodka idea from a book or a movie. Perhaps I thought the taste would be less oppressive than other varieties. Whatever the case may have been, I surely wasn’t aware of how to drink in proportion. Liquor cannot be consumed as freely as beer, which sounds like an obvious statement. I wish I had known beforehand.

Dropped off back home, late in the evening, I concealed the large bottle of 100% rotgut in a backpack. I entered my room with great excitement. Breaking the seal, I began to drink it straight. This, the cheapest stuff of all was often advertised in the liquor store as “Alabama’s Most Popular”. I was never sure if this was because it was cheap or the other residents of my state had no conception of taste. The truth, I'm sure, lies somewhere along a spectrum of perception.

I wasn’t yet aware that minimizing the strength by diluting it with other liquids was a popularly desired outcome. Nor was I aware that these combinations had descriptive, specific names that kept bartenders in business. I learned with the first few chugs that I was no fan of the taste. My body seemed to repel it, throwing it back up into my mouth. But, like always, I was stubborn and resolutely swallowed it back. It stayed down this time.

I would have concealed the bottle had I’d known what I was about to experience. Instead, it sat perched on one of the speakers to my stereo system, out in the open. I was proud of it. An expensive CD player was incorporated into a vintage amplifier with two large speakers. The older portions had been inherited from my father. Due to their size and sturdiness, they served as a temporary space for the social dandruff of my life, most often the latest contents of my pockets.

The presence of the vodka bottle at least later informed my father as to precisely what was wrong with me. In those days, many culprits were suspect. This could have been viewed as an impetuous suicide attempt. Before long, the contents of half the bottle were now in my system. Getting that much down must have required a heroic effort. Before I knew it, I blacked out.

I didn’t really come to for a couple days later. My father told me that I passed out in the bathtub, then vomited all over myself. Downstairs watching television, he must have heard the weight of my body collide with the bathtub. Or, he could have simply been checking on me as he’d begun doing, especially since the first couple of hospital stays. Much later, I remember my father leaning over me. Do you know what happened to you?

I may never know how and why I ended up in the bathtub. The result, regardless, was a severe case of alcohol poisoning. It was worsened by the fact that I had yet to develop a tolerance, any tolerance. Afterwards, I lay on a black portable mattress on the floor, naked, but covered by a thick blanket. It took three days to fully recover.

I felt terrible. I’d never had a hangover before then, but this was far worse than a heavy night’s drinking. I assume my father had stripped off my clothes and had cleaned me up. Because of this experience, it was years before I ever drank hard liquor again. I stuck to beer from then on, but my youthful indiscretions were only moderately chastened.

I would later be known to consume an entire case of beer by the end of a party. Though I pushed my body farther than I would now, I always consoled myself by noting that I wasn’t the most self-destructive person at the party, or around the table. We formulate many self-serving rationalizations in such situations. Most people I've encountered can relate at least somewhat.

Alcohol consumption did not become a daily routine. I usually drank to escape myself and my worries, but only on weekends. The link between bipolar and alcoholism is strong, but this was one problem I thankfully skirted. I lived for parties and the possibility of available drugs in those days because they provided numerous opportunities for conversation and hooking up. This was a normal part of my development and maturation, as it is for most at that age.

Booze has been forever associated in my mind with depression. Like many, I drank to lower my inhibitions, and express myself without fear of social censure. My associations are now overwhelmingly negative. Alcohol is a depressant, after all. Pot made me euphoric and talkative. Amphetamines encouraged hyperactive and highly social behavior. Psychedelic mushrooms turned my life into one hugely amusing joke.

Later in life, I drank most heavily when I’d have to return once more to my parents’ house. Usually, another job had fizzled out and almost assuredly with it a previously promising relationship. I’m sure that sounds familiar by now. This is the leitmotif of much of my early to mid-twenties. I drowned my sorrows often because I didn’t know what else to do. I haven’t touched a drop in probably five years, because three of my medications specify that alcohol consumption is forbidden. But in those days, I ignored sound medical advice.

I don’t write about depression as much as I do mania because it doesn’t make for compelling reading. What is there to say, really, about a dishearteningly consistent inability to bathe, dress oneself, and even prepare food? The preliminary stages usually involve solitary wanderings, both physical and intellectual, seeking to escape oneself and one's lot in life. By the end, the bare minimum of daily living is all one can do.

Mania is always different and exciting. There’s nothing especially interesting about lying in bed, begging for death. The milder forms had me reaching out for sympathy and attention. I was the typically creative, melancholy teenager who randomly asks others to read his self-pitying poetry. I was seeking confirmation of myself as worthwhile, mostly.

During football season, many a game was spent alone in the same room. I’d have driven myself to the convenience store down the road beforehand, purchasing my typical case of cheap beer. Drinking for the buzz, not the taste, I would soon grow so numb I could barely watch the action. Friends were few during these lonely times and I was grieving another false start. Each time, I swore I’d never inflate my hopes that high again. It had been my fault for daring to dream I'd finally make it.

Afterwards, my father would count empty glass bottles, expressing strict, but genuine concern for my well-being. I learned to throw them away at once, concealing them under garbage in the large grey trash container the city gave every resident for routine waste disposal. These were my dark times, where I was reaching out for ballast wherever I could find it. Extended periods of isolation have a way of strongly changing perceptions of other people.

Though it didn’t seem like it at the time, I was going to find a way out of my blue funk.

For My Feminist Audience

An excerpt of a larger post, Confessions of an accidental feminist

It wasn’t a formal feminist education that taught me to be frustrated with gender stereotypes. It was all the women’s Bible studies that focused on domesticity, motherhood, sweetness, and submission, and that thrust upon me flower-speckled books that turned Proverbs 31 into a job description befitting June Cleaver rather than a poem of celebration befitting an ancient Near Eastern royal wife. 

It wasn’t a formal feminist education that taught me about rape culture. It was the preachers and evangelists who insinuated that girls who dressed immodestly were “asking for it.” And it wasn’t a formal feminist education that taught me about victim-shaming. It was the response of evangelical leaders who, when confronted by abuse survivors about troubling language regarding submission and sex, dismissed their concerns as silly, chastising them as “bedwetting feminists,” stirring up division.

It wasn’t a formal feminist education that introduced me to the whole virgin/whore dichotomy. It was Sunday school teachers who said that girls who had sex before marriage were “broken,” that no self-respecting Christian man would ever want them after that, and it was the Christian books and conferences that consistently portrayed good Christian girls as helpless princesses in need of rescue. 

Coming Clean

Another unedited excerpt of Wrecking Ball
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Coming Clean

Those who have known me over the course of my life may be surprised at this account. To them, I may be nothing more than a severely shy, introverted young man who stood on the sidelines, rather than actively participate. Following high school, I was described by a former classmate as “the kid who no one really knew.” I was hellbent on getting past my limitations, once I had my sea legs underneath me.

People who remember me as a child or a teenager know a very different person. Everything changed when I hit 21 or 22. Mania, as has been reinforced multiple times in this account, reorganized my entire personality. For a few months at a time, I knew something of what it is like to be extroverted, feeding constantly on stimulation. It was exhilarating. I believed I’d managed to perfect myself. I believed I was all-powerful, almost Godlike.

Because we live in a world where being outgoing and not especially introspective is heavily valued, I’m not surprised at the initial responses I received from others. I was hyperactive and fearless, viewed as a person worth following and emulating. It is a little scary to contemplate how immediate suggestion and instant decisiveness dramatically affects others in our immediate environment.

If I was bold enough to push through boundaries, even though this might have been bullheaded, many people followed my lead. Those with whom I formed intimate relationships were especially susceptible to the insistent energy. For a while, I gave off an air of being almost superhuman. After reaching this apex, I believed I was at the height of my influence and creative output.

Whether I intended to do it or not, drama and heavy gossip followed me wherever I went. One older girlfriend constantly talked up my supposed prowess in bed among mutual friends. A lunchtime outing to a restaurant proved that women are not necessarily less potty-mouthed, descriptive, and kiss-and-tell than men. I found the attention overwhelming, when in my fantasies I saw myself very differently. Being the topic of constant conversation was a lot less fun than I ever thought it would be.

And yet, though I would never wish to experience another manic episode, I remember the authority I seemed to wield with others. It’s fun pursuing and being pursued, to a degree. It felt freeing when I was longer being held in check by crippling anxiety and social unsteadiness. If only these periods of brain chemical confidence would remain at a manageable state, before all the virtues became distorted, sanity steadily giving way to irrationality and incoherence.

Once, while in the hospital, I was given an IQ test. Because I had no fear of failure, I managed to complete and master whole sections that had earlier been impossible. When scored, my result would have easily provided me the ability to pursue MENSA membership; It was even higher than I ever expected. This outcome makes me wonder how much of our failings are a result not of ignorance, but rather of self-doubt and of being generally unsure of ourselves.

Should I be pleased with myself or appalled? The end result wasn’t healthy, I’ll concede, but I got to be the person I’d always wanted for a time. Or, at least that’s how I viewed it. I’d had the courage to stare down my opposition and flex my muscles. I successfully courted those who I wanted, though our relationship usually self-destructed before long. Like eating cotton-candy, each of these pairings were short lived and over much too soon.

The hospital always gave me ample time to figure out where everything went wrong. I realized that I’d always built a rich fantasy life around myself. Within it, I could live my dreams at least on some plane, never believing I’d ever have the opportunity to give life to them. Wonder of wonders, those secret ambitions became real, for a while. Better to have had an experience or two than to lamely speculate about what could have been.

Mania is more physically damaging to the brain than depression. Each episode upped the ante, increasing the effect a little bit more and a little bit more. The next one, should it ever happen, fills me with fear. I know that I’ve had at least four manic periods and several hypomanic (near-manic) episodes prior to the current day

Psychiatrists misunderstood my illness for years. An antidepressant, though it successfully treated my depression, eventually threw me into mania. I now take a hefty daily dose of Lithium, which is an effective mood stabilizer for me. Its effect as an anti-manic has been very successful. Though there are side effects, I can tolerate than more easily than the alternative.

It would be tempting to see my manic-depressive life only as a series of interesting anecdotes. I’m not completely sure what to make of it, truthfully. Person after person has floated through, though some stuck around longer than others. I’ve pulled out a few lessons here and there. For a while, I thought that stability was a pipe dream and that I’d be lucky to live to be 25. Now, at 32, I’m amazed I’ve made it this long.

Describing how I felt back then to those without mental illness is challenging. The manic experience is probably better understood by the chemically addicted, not the sober. The way it transforms daily routine into a fast-motion blur, or even prevents memory from being stored, is difficult to transcribe. Asking any patient with a chronic illness to discuss the most debilitating times will probably provoke annoyance.

I just flat out don’t remember several hospitalizations. Electroshock therapy is designed to wipe out troublesome memories, usually of a short-term variety. Many of those recollections will never return. But what I did not expect was how many of my long-term memories would disappear as a result. Much of my childhood disappeared, then has slowly come back to me, but not all of it.

After electroshock, the weirdest side effect was that I could finally safely and completely entertain homosexual desire. How strange that many men were given the identical course of treatment to supposedly wipe away their feelings of same-sex attraction. Much about my bisexuality is a mystery to me and may always be.

Prior to the age of 17, I could never even dare to go there. The cultural homophobia into which I was born was a strong deterrent and even now I feel its effects. After sleeping with a man, I’ve always felt dirty and ashamed, as though I have fulfilled an obligation or transaction, not necessarily taken part for my own sake. I’m sure the sexual abuse in childhood is layered over my more prominent fear of homosexuality.

As I’ve alluded to earlier, mania is much like being on a drug. What the shock treatments didn’t manage to rearrange, drug use scrambled even further. For years, my memories are scattered and sporadic. I remember a few of the stronger ones here and there, the most prominent, but I don’t recall everything. It used to enrage me that induced amnesia had deprived me of much of my past, but I’ve reached a sort of peace with it.

I’m sure that a detailed story here or there will eventually trickle out, told by someone from my past. I may or may not be able to remember it. I can’t account for what I don’t remember. My reliance on marijuana jumbled things up even more. Pot always made me confused, but I think that’s part of the experience for everyone. Now, I wonder if I’ve done my already fragile brain even more damage.

Every life has its baggage and its skeletons in the closet. As Quakers say, I intend only to speak to my own condition. Though I have bared my soul, I have no retributive agenda to advance, nor chip on my shoulder. We all have sensitive spots here and there, but my primary intention is to share the story of someone who has gone nineteen rounds with mental illness. And won.

I know that much of my life story is not uplifting, but it doesn’t end a tragedy. I could have ended up dead on numerous occasions, but God saw fit to keep me alive. Today, I understand that I was needed to do his work, though the pacing and the scheduling were his, and not mine. In my participation within my Meeting and in writings that reach Friends across the country, I am fulfilling a greater purpose.

Flying High Again

We can make it like we never met
Keep in mind that you'll never hear the end of it
It went okay, so far so good I guess
At least until all the people get out of it

Flying high again
Flying high again

Said so long well it's sad to hear
Right or wrong you know we'll never disappear
We're flying high against all denial
And some people think we're crazy

Flying high again
Flying high again

High School, Part Two

Another unedited excerpt of Wrecking Ball
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High School, Part Two

You may have recognized by now that I’ve avoided identifying details whenever possible. In most of what I write, I eschew using names to prevent libel. Yet, I’m fairly sure that people can pick themselves out by the way I’ve described them. A life is surprisingly full of other human beings. Within the first fifty pages of the manuscript, I bet I could count fifty separate individuals that have had a part in forming its bulk.

Contacting them all, personally, is impossible. I’ve forgotten names and don’t know how to even begin a dialogue. Should this book reach a large audience, I wonder how many will appear out of the woodwork. Everyone will have his or her own reasons for piping up or staying silent. I don’t want to hurt feelings, but I do have my own strongly held convictions. This is my story, but I do want to seem fair; I am not intending to be sensational to win readers.

The story I am about to share requires some careful footwork. Because I worked among minors, I’m going to leave them out as best I can. It’s almost impossible to entirely eliminate speaking about high school students in a high school. I kept company with the greatly outnumbered adults on staff. We served as a notable contrast among the thousand or so enrolled. They were not quite adults, and not entirely children.

The principal who hired me was a good old boy and former football coach. A professional he was not, but taking into account the nature of many small city school systems, it wasn’t surprising that he’d been given the position. These systems often promote from within. If they’d really wanted to look after the best interest of the kids, in my honest opinion, they’ve have broadened their scope regarding hiring practices and standards.

I was woefully unsuited for the role as special education teacher’s assistant. Having never enjoyed high school much the first time around, I disliked being back among smelly bathrooms and strict social hierarchy. I had to chaperone the kids as they made their way to each class. Half the time was spent trying not to fall asleep. The other half of each school day was supervising the whole group of special ed students, in their own individual classroom downstairs.

I found myself on the opposite side of the desk this time, but felt it distasteful. In addition, I couldn’t help but absorb some of the hormonal behavior I observed every day. I was involved in the personal lives of multiple students, whether I wanted to be or not. One couldn’t help but be somewhat emotionally invested in their struggles and their successes. Every workplace has its own quirks and with time, I learned much.

The Family and Consumer Sciences teacher had a short fuse. She’d expressed consternation at a particularly vocal and at times disruptive disabled student and at the severely mentally challenged kids. In her words, she didn’t want to deal with the ones who “drooled.” The position would normally have been filled by a good-natured southern belle, but she was neither sweet-natured, nor especially genial.

She was instead hard-edged and gave the impression of being not from around here. Her accent was nondescript, not syrupy southern. Regularly, in front of her students, she talked about an inability to lose weight now that she was not as young as she had once been. Unlike many of the teachers I encountered, she seemed real and genuine, even with her especially tactless streak.

As before, antidepressant-induced mania was building. Flirtatious by nature, I began to engage socially with teachers and other assistants. The Family and Consumer Science teacher mentioned above was dealing with something of a midlife crisis. An attractive woman, she feared losing her looks and her figure. I often gravitated to women like this when my inhibitions were substantially suppressed.

Leaving the lunch table for the restroom, we crossed paths. I smiled broadly at her. Flattered and appreciative, her eyes shyly headed to the floor. It was as if she’d shed twenty years in an instant. After that, she made a great show of parading herself in front of me on the way to her classroom, every day. It usually happened in the morning, when I was helping the kids stock and arrange the cafeteria.

Principals who do not enforce discipline among faculty and staff ensure that teachers get away with anything. The flagrant dalliance between myself and someone else on payroll would never have been allowed with a steadier, more responsible hand at the tiller. I imagine everyone knew. How could they not? I was too manic to care by then. As always, it made me bolder than I would have been had I been healthy.

She was married, but may have needed an additional boost of self-esteem. Contrary to what some may have thought, we never became physically involved. For one, I didn’t have the confidence, and to her, it may have been only about the attention. She was the type to push things further by her own initiation, not sit back and wait for me to intercede. But what I will say is that, in all our interaction, she never once mentioned her husband.

I didn’t last very long. The special ed teacher I was to help didn’t prepare daily assignments. The students just sat there, implacably, reading a magazine or staring out into space. If I only wanted to earn a paycheck, I would have allowed the system to go unchallenged. It seemed wrong to me to imply that these kids were too defective to really learn anything or to have a structured learning environment in place.

A room over, the atmosphere could not be more different. A fanatical parent had threatened to sue if her severely autistic child was not schooled in how to function in society. A teacher worked with him one-on-one and had produced a system of communication involving pictures. The mother wanted her son to be able to, at minimum, roll silverware at a restaurant, which would seem to be a sensible expectation.

Some people come unhinged where their kids are concerned, and this woman easily fit that description. Consultants were hired to monitor the learning environment and note the smallest of possible problems. When a consultant was making rounds, teachers and assistants felt like they were being examined under a magnifying glass. This put undo pressure on everyone.

I left the job entirely frustrated and disillusioned with the state of public education. Too much deadweight was retained, then drew a pension after retirement. Too many teachers were only marking time until retirement, burned out and disinclined to break a sweat. I felt stifled creatively and entirely alone. The school itself had been built without many windows and every day it felt as though I was an inhabitant of a concrete-walled jail.

I did not have much rapport with my co-workers. When in high school myself, years before, I’d desired friendship with some of my teachers. At a young age, I’d associated regularly with adults. The same was true here. My efforts mostly produced disappointment. What I discovered back then is that I could not understand most of my teachers, nor most of my classmates.

While a student, I remember unintentionally intimidating at least one teacher who was wowed by my recall of information and general intellectual precocity. I retained fond feelings for three of my former instructors, whose influence was spread unevenly over the course of four years. Now a teaching assistant, I struck up an singular acquaintance with the art teacher, who was close to my age. It was not a perfect friendship, but neither was it a hopeless one, either.

In a different work environment, I might have been content. But the stuffiness and claustrophobia of a more-or-less closed community did not suit me. A Woody Allen phrase kept coming to mind. Those who can’t do, teach, and those who can’t teach, teach gym.

Quote of the Week

Apologies for the delay. My computer's being repaired.
____________

"You ever notice that everyone who believes in creationism looks really unevolved? Eyes real close together, big furry hands and feet. 'I believe God created me in one day.' Yeah, looks like he rushed it." - Bill Hicks

Saturday Video

Sweet wonderful you,
You make me happy with the things you do,
Oh, can it be so,
This feeling follows me wherever I go.

I never did believe in miracles,
But I've a feeling it's time to try.
I never did believe in the ways of magic,
But I'm beginning to wonder why.

I never did believe in miracles,
But I've a feeling it's time to try.
I never did believe in the ways of magic,
But I'm beginning to wonder why.

Don't, don't break the spell,
It would be different and you know it will,
You, you make loving fun,
And I don't have to tell you but you're the only one.

You, you make loving fun
It's all I want to do
You, you make loving fun
It's all I want to do
You, you make loving fun
It's all I want to do
You, you make loving fun
It's all I want to do

A Little Historical Context

Sound familiar?

A Case (Or Three) of Car Trouble

Another unedited excerpt of Wrecking Ball
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A Case (Or Three) of Car Trouble

I’ll be the first to admit that mechanized vehicles confound me. The spatial logic and reasoning skills needed to operate an automobile have always mystified me. I learned bit by bit how to drive. While I know how to manage a powerful but short-lived summer downpour, I cannot parallel park. Much to the consternation of my father, I know little to nothing about what makes cars run.

Are you some kind of feminine man? This was his disgusted synopsis after a particularly exhausting effort to teach me how to change a tire. Now, I can manage it barely without the need of assistance, but that took years and some especially dismal failures to take hold. Dad was quite the handyman and could often perform home maintenance by himself. I was followed him around as a child, fully intending to commit to memory whatever it was he was fixing.

I shouldn’t have even bothered.

In the course of my life, I have totaled three cars. I remember well the first. One drizzly, overcast November morning, I took my place behind other cars on a four-lane highway with many traffic lights. The roadway was moderately busy, but morning commuters, in a hurry to get to work, were riding the bumpers of the car in front of them. This meant abrupt braking which required far more stopping distance, made worse with the wet roadway.

The most hazardous road conditions occur when rain has only just begun to fall. The oily residue of constant traffic combines with falling precipitation, making slick spots. Until enough rain water has washed away the residue, the combination can be very problematic. My car had an unfortunate tendency to hydroplane already, as it was deliberately lightweight and designed to get better gas milage.

I applied the brake in desperation as the silver Jaguar ahead of me ground to a halt. No such luck. The force of impact folded up the hood of the car like an accordion. The Jaguar escaped without a scratch. In my car, the airbag deflated, though I would have been perfectly fine had it not.

A device designed to keep me safe instead left a lifelong injury. My left thumb was dislocated, caught in the path of the rapidly inflating airbag. I thought at first that it must be broken. In any case, it has never been the same since then.

I’ll fully take the blame for the second time it happened. I was driving in downtown Birmingham in the middle of a rainstorm. Stoned, I pulled out in front of a truck, but didn’t give the driver behind me adequate space to adjust. Though he tried to avoid the outcome, he couldn’t avoid hitting me from behind. The force of impact spun the car hard to the left, into a side road. My back end now rested in a ditch.

It must have looked worse than it turned out to be. Unfazed but slightly dazed, I exited the car. Employees of a small business had heard the commotion and went outside to observe. One of them was smoking a cigarette and I, not missing a beat, I bummed a cigarette off of her. I wasn’t sure what else to do.

The driver who had hit me looked very concerned. He had obviously been afraid that I might have been seriously hurt. The rain continued, so he suggested I sit in the cab of the truck until the police got there.

The accident was ruled to be my fault, which it was. The right-side back brake light in my car was destroyed, crushed by the force of the impact. The light looked like a huge gloved fist had punched it. As from that, the rest of the car was undamaged. I drove it for the next six months, until the engine sounded like it was popping corn, not powering the rest of the car.

The third altercation took place during the infamous and disastrous trip to St. Cloud, Minnesota. After my wreck in Chicago, the car was essentially totaled. What completely did it in was a deer. The animal ran out in front of me. I was returning back to the hotel around two o’clock in the morning, and encountered a herd of the creatures making their way across the roadway back to the woods.

My shattered headlight shined light lower than normal. This blinded one of the does, immobilizing her in front of me. My malfunctioning back brakes were no help. I recall the hollow thud of contact, how a red spray of blood and guts was flung against the windshield. The deer made a horrifying cry of panic shortly before impact.

Due to sleep deprivation and marijuana, I was beginning to hallucinate, seeing tiny glints of light everywhere. This development added a level of surrealism to what had already been a very strange trip.

The engine began to overheat. Remembering high school Driver’s Ed, I recalled that by turning on the heat, some of the excess temperature from the engine could be siphoned away. In my case, this meant that the deer guts coating the inside now began to cook.

The smell was beyond disgusting, but I had no other choice. I was a couple miles away from where I needed to be, and wasn’t strong enough to walk the rest of the way.

The Definition of Discipline: Religious and Secular

I rewrote what I posted yesterday afternoon for a broader audience. It is posted below.

____________

For a long while, I’ve been contemplating the notion of group discipline and how it has evolved over time. What form does it take today? Discipline seems to vary considerably depending on membership in a group, be it secular or religious.

An example I routinely use is as follows: around a century and a half ago, Quakers were read out (excommunicated, roughly) of their Meeting for simply daring to marry non-Friends. Punishment had a very different context back then, one that was, it appears, frequently backed up with action.

In a religious context, some people of faith fear being punitive and confrontational. We shy away from the process of what would be known to Friends as "eldering". Some definition is necessary. In the old days, Overseers were appointed to oversee the whole flock, to have a concern for the spiritual condition of all members of the Meeting, and to speak with Friends who were considered disorderly walkers.

Due to the potentially offensive connotations of the term, many Friends do not use it these days. But in any case, that description is what most Friends today seem to mean by the infinitive, "to elder" and the act of "eldering." Or, to put it another way, eldering is something to be feared, rather than accepted as as a necessary responsibility.

In our current view, political or religious, an Elder would be little more than a humorless scold. He or she would wound and injure with words and deeds, many times without first examining the consequences. Liberals often fear being excluded, and the phobia is not entirely without just cause. A few of us may have had negative experiences a time or two before on our religious journey, making us fearful of interceding where it is needed. Yet, when a need shows itself, we must not hesitate.

As we all do, I hold different identities in addition to that of Quaker. My religious life is important, but it's not the end all, be all of my existence. Several of my own causes come to mind as I write. Feminist groups, to cite one example, often manage their own gatherings in a particular, distinct, and no-nonsense manner.

For one, they regularly enforce zero tolerance policies. These are in place for desired attendees who have perpetrated sexual assault, in any form. This is to say, those convicted of these offenses are, more often than not, prevented from attending, regardless of how contrite they claim to be. No apologies necessary.

Taking into account the fact that most rapes and sexual assaults go unreported, these feminist activists believe that it is up to them to loudly and frequently vocalize the severity of the problem. Forgiveness is often perceived as a coerced measure, an insulting gesture that lets guilty men go free, over and over again. They are darkly suspicious of anything that might remove agency from women, when many are intimidated and bullied into silence.

Though I understand the logic, I’ve never felt that this attitude was entirely fair. What we have before us is a classic example of how secular and religious concerns sometimes violently contradict each other. In houses of worship, I think we should practice love and compassion to those who desire a Spiritual community, that is, if they are not repeatedly disruptive or antagonistic. Should they be, there are other avenues.

This doesn’t mean we ought to be immune from wielding discipline when it is needed, but rather that we should strive, as a statement of purpose, to see that of God in everyone. In secular groups, there is no God on high, no system of Divine morality to regulate responses and reactions. One might see them as much tougher and more inflexible than we are. Lock-’em-up and throw-away-the-key. That’s their philosophy, more often than not. To believe otherwise is to be naive and overly permissive.

I don’t tell this story much, but I’d like to share for the sake of advancing the narrative. I chose to leave the Unitarian Universalist Church some years ago because of the unforgiving, caustic, suspicious attitudes of a particular minister. To make a very tedious story short, a member of the congregation and I ended up having to go to court over a private, but hotly contested matter.

She had given more money to the Church than I had and, over time, won the sympathetic ear of the minister. Because of this, she was allowed to stay and I was told to keep my distance for six months. Money and influence were more important than basic fairness and equanimity. I was bitter for a long time, but now I can address the matter without letting hurt feelings compromise the integrity of my account.

The Corinthian Church of the First Century A.D. was a textbook example of dysfunction. Church leadership was fragmented among three specific preachers, members were divided about what to believe and how to worship, a man was having an open affair with his mother, and no one knew quite what to do about any of it.

The outside world of the city of Corinth was a constant bad influence, considered a wicked place. The city's corrupting effects often tainted the best intentions of many believers. It was a large and diverse church, and both characteristics created problem after problem.

To some extent, when we speak of discipline, we are having an extended discussion about acceptable boundaries. Where do we draw the line? In a world of noise, confusion, and relentless pressures, we long for Peace. Tranquility seems to be our foremost ambition, though we may differ in how we get there.

If we don’t define Peace for ourselves, than outside forces will do it for us. It is not impossible to actualize the concept, but it requires all hands on deck. We need everyone's help and everyone's participation. Do we want justice or do we want a loving community? It seems to me that we can't have it both ways.

There is a difference between having opposing viewpoints and being divisive. Our Meeting still seeks to find that balance, though I pray that it will, someday. Liberals struggle with the very same discourse, especially in articulating their political beliefs. Believing that we are not heard can sometimes become a self-fulfilling prophecy in the minds of many.

Harmonious relations will end the need for Eldering, though one must necessarily follow the other. Eldering should be done out of love, not out of vengeance. In saying this, I admit that I have lost my temper a time or two before and have crossed the line from one to the other. It's easy to adopt a guise of vengeance, after all.

When I fall short, I ask for forgiveness (here’s that word again) and resolve to do better next time. It’s easy to believe that a person should always and forever be defined by his or her past problems. It’s also easy to resort to anger in place of God’s purpose for us and our work. God's hand in our life is present, but it is also rarely spelled out for us.

No one ought to run roughshod over anyone else, but discipline should not be avoided when it is required. Our mortal selves and our belief in God will be tested. No one said that faith was supposed to be easy. In fact, it's much easier to not believe. Those who live in a secular universe have the fortune of inhabiting a much more black and white, cut and dried reality.

Mary-Anne with the Shaky Hands

 
This one is a little bawdy. Tell me if you figure it out.

I danced with Linda
I danced with Jean
I danced with Cindy
Then I suddenly see

Mary-Anne with the shaky hands
What they've done to her man
Those shaky hands

Mary is so pretty
The prettiest in the land
Guys come from every city
Just to shake her shaky hands

Linda can cook
Jean reads books
Cindy can sew
But I'd rather know

Mary-Anne with the shaky hands
What they've done to her man
Those shaky hands

Mary-Anne with the shaky hands
What they've done to her man
Those shaky hands

Mary-Anne with the shaky hands
What they've done to her man
Those shaky hands

Don't Fade on Me

Another unedited excerpt of Wrecking Ball
___________________

Don’t Fade on Me

If someone goes two days without calling me, I’m convinced that I’ll never hear from them again. It wasn’t until I first got involved in therapy that I learned the proper label to describe my symptoms. These are fears of abandonment. Establishing an indisputable reason why was difficult at first, but  I held myself up to enough scrutiny to find the proper answers.

In the times before feminism and greater empowerment, women found their own fates hopelessly linked with that of their boyfriend or husband. Their dreams were his dreams. Her life was his life. For them, being cast aside was a fate worse than death. For me, being discarded for any reason created pain on par with nothing else. Regardless of how separation was intended, I believed I had been rejected once more.

In addition to having a difficult infancy, separation anxiety persisted beyond birth into early childhood. Mom literally dragged me to preschool day after day. When it was time for class to begin, I pitched a fit, every morning. Clinging bodily to her, I had to be forced to disengage and head inside the building, to immediately take my place at my desk. I became less clingy and fearful with time, but the same basic anxiety remained.

Once I called my preschool teacher “mother” by accident. She found the slip-up cute, but I found it horrifying. I remember running to the center of the room, instantly in tears. My confused and sympathetic classmates circled around me. They meant well, but I had now become the center of attention. Having every eye in the room on me was the very last thing I ever wanted.

Years later, these anxieties kept me from being much of a baseball player. Being able to hit is what separates the average from the skilled, and I never developed the ability. With every eye on me, from the outfield to the dugout, the pressure was simply too much. I could field, but that was a solitary pursuit I performed by myself. I had no time to ruminate, only to react. For a time, I hated myself for not performing as I thought I should, but now I know that introverts like myself work much better in isolation.  

We return to the present day. I was seeing someone again. She stayed in almost continual contact. I might receive seven phone calls every day, each for a different reason. For a while, I didn’t mind. I saw a reflection of myself in her behavior and didn’t want to be hypocritical. I even found this attention blitz endearing. I craved being needed, being wanted. In love, I was a giver, but had learned to be careful of how I sought to heal and enlighten others. This world has no shortage of takers.

My relationships with women weren’t always dark and dysfunctional. Periods of sweetness and romance existed alongside the more trying times. I remember the comforting silence and contentment of a lengthy embrace. I recall hours cuddled in bed, thinking of nothing else but how I enjoyed her company. The more dramatic and dynamic experiences tend to rise to the surface more easily. Tragedy wins an audience with ease.

Some people aren’t the relationship kind, or at least not the marrying sort. My dating history and the people who comprised it never truly reflected my intentions. Life had been challenging in many aspects. Basic interpersonal communication had come at a price. I suppose I never believed that anything would come without sufficient exertion. I stumbled through the dark for years, as if blindfolded. Did I learn more from insight, or from the process of elimination? Who knows.

She had to be constantly reassured. I went with her once to a gathering of her friends; I left realizing how different she was from all of them. She hadn’t given herself the opportunity to form any sort of intense bond, preferring the role of impassive observer. But at the same time, I knew how much she needed membership in some group to which she could belong. She treated friends the same way I often responded to relationship partners; even if they weren’t a good fit, they were at least something.

I knew she was lost and incredibly self-doubting. A lassiez-faire, brooding acceptance in her fate made her appear defeated, beat down by life. Her situation made my own problems seem minuscule in comparison, and without meaning to, she boosted my own self-confidence. I loved her but could not intervene; if I did, she only pushed me away.

If only her faith in herself had been more prominent. When she left me, the fears of being cruelly jettisoned once more were proven true. Had our ending concluded with harsh words and raised voices, my worries might have been justified. Instead, our parting was sad and bittersweet. She wanted to stay together, noting that I’d pushed her to finally take control of her life. I couldn’t be angry, but I could surely feel hollow and rejected.

Later she came to me in nervous gratitude. I’d gotten her out of her parent’s house and into a better job. If only I’d been able to observe these breakthroughs myself, instead of hearing about them secondhand. I have nothing but spleen for several people I’ve dated, but not for her. She tried, though I wish she had not given up at the end, immobilized by doubt.

Though I practiced serial monogamy, I was after a soulmate. When most people were finding themselves and dating around, I wanted something permanent and lasting. I was always out of step with my peers, or at least years ahead of schedule. I had a vague notion of what I wanted, but  eventually recognized that my offers of healing were sometimes insufficient, sometimes unwanted.

I always had the opportunity to turn around and start over afresh. Relationships ended and another episode entered, keeping me single for a little while until I recovered. The one-two punch of demoralizing mental illness and relationship collapse threw me back against the ropes. In the midst of a catastrophic life, one is afforded no time to mourn, no time for lamentations. Would this new person, he or she, be the one for me?    

Quote of the Week

“I worry that there are people who are put in positions of authority because they're good talkers, but they don't have good ideas. It's so easy to confuse schmoozing ability with talent. Someone seems like a good presenter, easy to get along with, and those traits are rewarded.

Well, why is that? They're valuable traits, but we put too much of a premium on presenting and not enough on substance and critical thinking.” - Susan Cain

Saturday Video

Tell ya man
I'm stuck on this lovely girl
Of course to me she mean all the world

But then
She like another guy
I fall down dead
She never see the tears I cry

So please please please
Do not go

Please please please
Do not go

Please please please
Do not go

How long can the days go on
When my love is so strong?
And I know I cannot tell a lie
I want to see him go bye

Goodbye bye goodbye
bye bye bye bye bye bye

Now I wonder, I wonder what she would say
If I told her, If I told her I felt this way

You know it might make her turn
Might make her turn, might make her turn
Either way

So all I can do is patiently pray pray
pray pray pray

So please please please
Do not go
Please please please
Do not go
Please please please
Do not go

How long can the days go on
When my love is so strong?
And I know I cannot tell a lie

I wanna see him go bye
Goodbye bye
goodbye bye bye bye bye bye bye

I'll tell you man I'm stuck
I'm stuck, I'm stuck on this lovely girl
And y'know I'd travel,
I could travel over the whole world

And you know what she does
She turn around and like another guy
I fall down dead
She never see the tears I cry

Please please please
Do not go
Please please please
Do not go

Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200

Another unedited excerpt of Wrecking Ball
___________________

Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200

Am I under arrest? 

Yes, technically, said the officer.

His partner had forcefully placed me in the back of a squad car minutes prior, in handcuffs. My destination was the psychiatric ward. Due to the effects of a new, very powerful antidepressant, I’d been accidentally thrown into a severe state of mania. Every patient's case is different and this unwelcome development had been entirely beyond the skill of my psychiatrist.

Intended or not, one still needed to pick up the pieces. Mania fractures many things, with all its awful power. My psychiatrist had even tentatively toyed with the notion of amending my diagnosis. Instead of bipolar disorder, I was temporarily labeled as having schizoaffective disorder, a mild form of schizophrenia. A month later, the psychosis abetted, revealing thankfully that I had only mania and was not more or less permanently delusional.

My behavior had grown extreme and outlandish over the course of four months. Every episode takes a slightly different form, but this one was incredibly intense. Observing my behavior and fearing for my safety, my parents had headed down to the courthouse and put out a petition on me. Once put into effect, I was to be involuntarily committed. It was in my own best interest, but the act was one of the most difficult things they'd ever had to do, as I learned later.

Most of the time, patients admitted to a psych ward are what is termed “voluntary”. They can leave whenever they wish, though departing Against Medical Advice (AMA) means the cost of the stay will not be covered by insurance. An involuntary admission, however, means that one cannot leave of one’s volition. The petition in force must first be revoked, which can only be done by a social worker, a doctor, or both.

This time around, I was hospitalized for nearly a month. Mania melts away slowly, though it is still easier to treat than depression. For the first week I was there, I was given Geodon shots to be able to sleep at night. Geodon is an aytpical antipsychotic with sedative properties in high doses. I begged the nurses for relief, day after day, and fortunately they obliged me. Within five minutes of injection, the drug hit me like a ton of bricks. I blissfully snoozed, finally obtaining adequate rest.

Every night I cried myself to sleep, praying to be well. By now, I was conscious of how ill I was. Mania is deceptive, especially at first. As had been the case before, the episode had cost me another job. Afraid that I might have malicious and violent intentions, my last two paychecks had been served to me by two plain-clothed police officers. I was to be terminated immediately.

A trespassing notice was now in effect, specifying that I was to be arrested if I returned to my former place of employment. I recall that I was threatened with arrest even if I entered the parking lot. My first reaction was of indignation. Most of my co-workers really didn’t know me and never had. A large number of them were too self-obsessed, focused on selfish pursuits. They'd never accepted me as one of their own and never would.

Especially when in the grips of a severe bout of illness, returning to the scene of the crime was the very last thing I wanted. I was infuriated, sure, but wanted to air my grievance in a court of law. I even contacted a lawyer, but he wanted several thousand dollars I didn’t have. I wanted retribution and justice, but didn't have the wealth required to obtain it.  

I’d walked into the middle of a dysfunctional workplace environment, unaware of the challenges that would soon daily face me. Upper-level management knew how to attend meetings, dress up impressively, and act the part, but could not lead workers properly. It was too permissive and enabling of gossip and drama. Workers that should have been fired for incompetence or toxic attitudes were allowed to stay.

Everyone was in everyone else’s business. Never was this more evident than when I began a relationship with a woman, a co-worker. I’d previously been seeing someone, but found myself disenchanted and left it behind with the promise of someone new. Following a familiar pattern, the woman with whom I was interested was older than me by several years. After putting out tentative feelers, she soon invited me to lunch.

News of our first date spread like wildfire, whether we wanted it or not. I was cautioned, indirectly, from higher up to use strict discretion in our communication and interaction. I would visit her at her office once a day, but only for a few minutes at a time. Anything more than that was not allowed. As the relationship progressed, she began to wear black regularly, to appear as slim as possible. I thought she looked great as she was, but understood the reason for the extra effort.

As for where we both worked, I thought I’d managed to escape high school. Instead, I was thrust back into into it. No one spoke to anyone directly. Talking behind everyone else’s back was the most favored tactic for information dispersal. Direct confrontation, while it can be unsettling, is often unavoidable and necessary. Each floor, each department, had its own office politics and unwritten rules. These had never been challenged, nor dismantled, so they persisted.

Throw mania into the middle of this morass, and you can imagine why people reacted the way that they did. By the end of my tenure, I stood up to each of the regular offenders, and managed to scare the hell out of them. Making them afraid of me wasn’t exactly my intention, but mania has a way of removing fear and producing a kind of mad courage in its stead.

The upheaval did have one especially unfortunate consequence. It cost me the new relationship that had yet to fully flower. If I’d been in control of its development, the pace would have been considerably quicker. She was very measured and self-contained throughout. It was clear she'd been burned before and had no desire to repeat the process. But I know that eventually, within a few months, we’d have grown closer. I can’t fault her for wanting to proceed slowly.

One of the toughest lessons I’ve learned is that, often, a person can’t fight city hall. Had my health been stable and on an even-keel, I might have been able to make a compelling case for myself. Though I had legitimate legal grounds, my mental well-being would have been questioned by the other side, serving as an effective trump card. Many lawyers in the city wanted to take on my former employer, if for no other reason than to increase their stature. But the deck and the odds were stacked against me, and a victory would have been a tall order.

How to Drive Children and Parents Out of a House of Worship

The human body has many parts, but the many parts make up one whole body. So it is with the body of Christ. If the foot says, "I am not a part of the body because I am not a hand," that does not make it any less a part of the body. And if the ear says, "I am not part of the body because I am not an eye," would that make it any less a part of the body?
_________

A few months back, I wrote about some especially significant problems with which my Quaker Meeting was struggling. They centered around the presence of a registered sex offender who wished to worship with us. Some Friends strongly desired to incorporate him into Meeting, with the inevitable caveats in place to guarantee child safety. Many parents, however, were much more leery of his presence among their children.

Meetings, churches, and houses of worship, I have learned, can have tragic flaws. Ours comes down to a matter of communication. We don't do it especially well. Often times, the right hand doesn't know what the left is doing. Different committees, task forces, and groups simply do not speak to each other. The emotional intensity of the debate blew the lid off of multiple pressures that had been building for years.

The consequences of this entire debacle have been highly unfortunate. Within the past two or three months, parents and their children have left en masse. At last count, 14 adults and 18 children have picked up and gone elsewhere. 32 total Friends have departed for good, or at least for a while. Because of this, we may not have a First Day School (Sunday School) program starting in September. We may very well be a childless meeting from now going forward.

As I've surveyed the names of the recently departed, I find that I know few of them. Our Meeting consigns each group to its own universe, its own orbit. I report, with great regret, that I was never formally introduced to anyone, parent or child, who was involved in First Day School. Old hurts were significant and increased the desire to go elsewhere. Parents felt that they weren't supported by the Meeting and that they had to do everything themselves. I don't doubt that this was true with some.

I find it difficult to know how to be impartial in this matter. Part of me wants to be critical of Friends who are not especially welcoming, nor seem to have that inclination. Another facet of my views entertains the fact that the sex offender, who agreed without complaint to significant restrictions, was never given a chance to plead his case. Many parents believed that they were shamed and guilted into being radically inclusive. On one level, they cannot be faulted for being instantly and immediately afraid of someone who they saw as a threat to the safety of their children.

What did not help matters was when it was discovered that three other registered sex offenders were regular attenders of Meeting. Their identity had been known by some for a long time, but they were not publicly acknowledged until very recently. One of them offered to supervise and take the children out on an activity. When his past behavior was discovered, already squeamish parents began to panic. Panic turned to paranoia. Paranoia and a perceived deficiency in how concerns were respectfully addressed led people out of the Meeting.

This entire ignoble chapter of our Meeting's history reveals many lessons and hard truths. If we truly practiced open communication instead of our usual stuffy, distant attitudes, things may not have reached boiling point. As a member of Ministry and Worship, I have to say that I do not understand the roles and functions of many other committees and task forces. Unprogrammed Friends do not have a called minister, instead consigning tasks a minister would perform to the laity. When I have called for greater transparency within the leadership structure, it has usually been provided in a half-hearted, reluctant manner.

That this happened does not surprise me, I'm sorry to say. It was a long time coming. Chasing after people who are inclined to leave has been, in my experience, wasted energy. I am one person and I cannot reverse years of Meeting culture by myself. However, I do acknowledge that any Meeting without children has cast its fate and will eventually die a slow death. It pains me to observe how few members and regular attenders appear to have no such reservations. 

Every time I speak to someone, I learn new information and particulars, information that should have been public knowledge. I get a little bit more of a complicated context. As a Meeting, we simply haven't been talking to each other. No dialogue exists or has existed over time. The Young Adult Friend group of which I have been an active participant was initially formed because we felt ignored by the rest of the Meeting. I can understand how parents would feel the same way.

This post is, in part, my plea for change and for successful conversation. I may not be able to part the Red Sea by myself, but let this story serve as an example and a warning. For people of faith, your house of worship likely contains at least one sex offender, if we're playing the odds. If he or she is not an active member or regular attender, there is still a strong likelihood that one has worshiped with you as a visitor. How you choose to handle the situation is up to you, but I recommend you not take the same course of action. 

Act Naturally

They're gonna put me in the movies
They're gonna make a big star out of me
We'll make a film about a man that's sad and lonely
And all I got to do is act naturally

Well, I bet you I'm a gonna be a big star
Might win an Oscar you can never tell
The movie's gonna make me a big star,
'Cause I can play the part so well.

Well, I hope you come and see me in the movie
Then I'll know that you will plainly see
The biggest fool that ever hit the big time
And all I got to do is act naturally.

We'll make this film about a man that's sad and lonely
I'm begging down upon his bended knee
I'll play the part but I won't need rehearsing
All I have to do is act naturally.

Well, I bet you I'm a gonna be a big star
Might win an Oscar you can never tell
The movie's gonna make me a big star,
'Cause I can play the part so well.

Well, I hope you come and see me in the movie
Then I'll know that you will plainly see
The biggest fool that's ever hit the big time
And all I got to do is act naturally

Religious Exploration

Another unedited excerpt of Wrecking Ball
___________________

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter

T.S. Eliot, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock

Religion has been helpful with my physical and psychiatric medical problems. But then again, I’d always been a religious person, well before my first nervous breakdown. Even as a little boy, I remember attending every worship service alone during Holy Week, which begins on Palm Sunday and ends a week later on Easter.

No one else in the family felt the compulsion to be present on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. My mother would drop me off in the church parking lot. I’d quietly sit down at a back pew, participate in the service, then Mom would come by to pick me up.

My own family was not as observant as I was, though weekly attendance on Sunday was stressed and practiced. Raised a United Methodist, I did go through confirmation classes to formally join the faith, and I was baptized in the faith at the age of twelve. The day I was to be baptized, I recall I went a little heavy on the hairspray. Unlike Baptists, Methodists do not baptize by full immersion. Instead, I received a handful of water to the crown of my head.

Because of the formidable amount of hairspray present, the water did not soak into my hair. Instead, most of it was deflected by the chemical stiffness and headed directly for the floor. I remember feeling humiliated, but then again, it’s never taken much to make me feel ashamed. No one seemed to notice, fortunately, and the baptism did indeed count. My initial fear was that I'd have to do it over again.

Though I went through a period of extreme religious doubt in my teens, I never lost belief in a higher power. God has always made sense to me. Spirituality and religion have always been very important, even when I couldn’t always articulate why. I spent several years as a seeker, critical of Christianity, but never rejecting the basic precepts.

On some level, I relate to Paul of Taursus, who had been actively persecuting Christians with impunity until a powerful conversion experience. As the story goes, Jesus came to Paul in a vision and asked him why the latter was violently suppressing his people and their ability to worship in peace. This roadside conversion on the way to Damascus transformed Paul into the most influential leader and writer in the early church.

I hadn’t been sending Christians to their death, like Paul, but I had been scathingly critical of the entire belief structure. I’m not proud of some of the words I used and the attitude I adopted at the time. In his own time, as is always the case, God came to me and presented me a leading and Spiritual direction. I am grateful that I was eventually granted an ability to convene with the Spirit and know God intimately. Some people go years without that opportunity.

My own sense of timing and perspective, as a mortal being, is meaningless compared to God's sense of proportion. Why did he wait until I was twenty-eight until granting me the vision to know where I was to do his work and where to go for strength and guidance? I may never know, and it’s all irrelevant in the end. I know that the way has opened for me, and why scrutinize a blessing?

Now I am a Quaker, and very happy with my decision to become Convinced, which in Quakerspeak means converted. I’ve been deliberately vocal about the particulars of the religion to others who are likely ignorant of them. One always fears being placed in the middle of a false dichotomy. Articulating what I mean and how I worship is not merely good outreach, but it is a defense against being misunderstood and wrongly categorized.

Ideally, this would be unnecessary, but I may always be defining what I believe for the rest of my earthly existence. I've accepted this and walk cheerfully through my life, seeking that of God in everyone, in the words of our founder, George Fox, some 350 years ago.

If I admit that I’m a Christian, some people automatically think I’m a religious zealot. Others conceptualize my beliefs according to their own perception, be it negative or positive. I admit that I don’t want to be perceived wrongly as an evangelical Christian, which I am not. To many followers of Jesus, my views appear heretical and contradictory to their own.

The Southern Baptist kids where I grew up were obsessed with outward perfection, placing significant emphasis upon acting the part. I believe that this was energy wasted. Inward perfection, by Grace, not works, is where I believe my daily focus should be.

I would like to be seen as a worthwhile, moral person. And I would also like to be seen as someone faithful to God’s direction and purpose, not my own. To some, the more graphic and truthful accounts of my life contained in this book might seem offensive. Every life contains shades of dark and light. Light is an especially important concept to the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers), of which I am a proud member. We hold Light as sacred, as the Light of God and the divine.

If I were to ascribe to the school of the born-again, my past sins are wiped clean if I am truly contrite for my shortcomings, failings, and past sins. That is a very tantalizing concept. I understand why people are to go to confession in the Catholic church. And I do admit that I have several regrets, as I’m sure is true with many. I’m not sharing every story.

It’s embarrassing to be reminded of instances where mania and depression twisted my behavior. Like the actress Vivian Leigh, who similarly struggled with manic depression, she found herself humiliated when told of what she’d said or done in an episode. She retained no memory of what happened in her periods of sickness.

I have at times prayed that I might be able to go back into the past and find the right combination of meds earlier than I did. I wouldn’t have suffered as long, for one. Several people know me only as odd, eccentric, and erratic.

Martin Guitar Factory

Martin Guitar Factory, a set on Flickr.