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

Health Update

Life for me requires constant tinkering and modification. That's how it goes. At times, I feel like a perpetually malfunctioning machine. This is why I pause for a brief moment to provide an update.

Bladder surgery has been a success, for the most part. I seem to have completely healed from the incisions and the implantation of the pacemaker device. The constant irritation that necessitated surgery still shows up every now and again. Usually, it subsides with time, but sometimes it hangs around longer than I'd ever want. My urologist wanted me to cut a medication I'd been taking in half, but I found that I needed it at full strength. Within five days, the familiar burning sensation returned, almost as strong as it had been prior to surgery.

Due to the fact that my Testosterone levels were confirmed to be too high by a series of tests, I've been placed on a lower strength. I'm not sure if this decreased dose is going to be sufficient. My energy level is down, as is my sex drive. The only way to prove this to the endocrinologist is to submit lab work showing conclusively that my T levels are lower than the therapeutic threshold. I am willing to do this, even though I have a long time to wait to see any change. My next appointment is a month and a half away.

I'm thankful for the effective work of my therapist. We've built a strong relationship anchored on trust. She and I have met more or less weekly for the past two years. By now, she knows me and is able to hone in precisely into the most effective aspects of my thoughts and feelings. I appreciate being understood., taken seriously, and valued as a human being. Our sessions are playful, sometimes even fun, even in the midst of the heaviness that is part and parcel of the process.

Prior to her, I went through a few sessions with a Russian therapist. I did not like his approach. He was an old school Freudian with an ancient reclining couch in his office. Patients once must have lay down upon it as they spoke. Before my arrival, I wasn't even sure Freudian psychoanalysis was still being practiced. I found the process of talking for an entire hour without being answered even once hollow and isolating. I appreciate the give and take of a very different approach.

Psychiatry has been stable for several months. My main problems there have been squabbling with insurance companies, doctor's offices, and pharmacies trying to get particular prescriptions covered. As a means of saving money, insurance companies require Prior Authorizations from time to time before medications will be covered. They require extra effort from everyone and are a major pain to everyone actively involved. The insurance company hopes that the prescribing doctor's office won't want to put up with the hassle and will prescribe instead a drug that is usually cheaper for them.

Often, there seems to be no logic in what is covered and not covered. Prior to a generic alternative being developed, one of my medications cost over $1,000 a bottle. No prior authorization was ever required in that circumstance. Now, I've been told that a medication that millions of Americans use as a sleep aid requires a Prior Authorization, even though my total cost if I had to buy it out of pocket would be less than $40. No one ever bothers to explain why, though I suppose it must be serving someone's bottom line.

I'm sure that other people who cope with chronic illness have variations of this same story. My Rolodex will forever be full of appointments to make, pills to take, medical advice to take under consideration, and worries about drug-to-drug interaction. I counted it up the other day. I've visited seven separate specialists since I moved here to DC full-time in September of 2009. I've been placed on nine separate medications, which I take daily.

My response to this is mostly a shrug of the shoulders. This is the way it is. This is the way it always will be. 

Sad Songs and Waltzes

I'm writing a song all about you
A true song as real as my tears
But you've no need to fear it
'Cause no one will hear it

'Cause sad songs and waltzes
Aren't selling this year

I'll tell all about how you cheated
I'd like to the whole world to hear
I'd like to get even with you
'Cause you're leavin'

And songs and waltzes
Aren't selling this year

It's a good thing that I'm not a star
You don't know how lucky you are
Though my record may say it
No one will play it

'Cause sad songs and waltzes
Aren't selling this year

Well it's a good thing that I'm not a star
You don't know how lucky you are

Though my record may say it
No one will play it
'Cause sad songs and waltzes
Aren't selling this year

Eldering in Practice

“Friend, can I speak to you outside about something?”

He was amiable enough to that. Worship had concluded with the traditional shaking of hands. I’d deliberately chosen a seat next to him at a new location across the Meetingroom from where I normally sit. He leaves immediately after Worship, avoiding coffee hour and conversation. He has never involved himself in the work of any committee or task force of which I know. This is what has complicated this endeavor. Finding time to talk would be much easier that way.

The Friend shares vocal ministry too frequently. He has spoken, at last count, every First Day for the past three months. It is the custom of my Meeting that God ought to be allowed to speak through others during Worship, rather than be the domain of any designated minister. If we truly believe in the Priesthood of all Friends, then constant vocal ministry by one speaker belies what we say we are as Quakers. If we share too regularly, then frequent speakers more or less take the place of a called minister.

Truth be told, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d rehearsed a speech in my head for days. I wanted to do this properly, but I didn’t want to sound punitive and scolding. When I made the request that he space out his vocal ministry henceforth, he told me that he felt as though I was the Meeting police. I wasn't entirely surprised with the response. Liberal Friends often have a negative relationship with authority in any form. A recent article in Friends Journal suggested that the unofficial motto of Liberal unprogrammed Friends ought to be, “You ain’t the boss of me.”

Never was this more in effect here. He said he strongly disagreed with my assessment and the assessment of my committee. I hope this means that he will nonetheless heed my request, but I'll see in the future if this is borne out by his conduct. I understand why Eldering isn't done more frequently, because it routinely makes people defensive, regardless of how tactful one seeks to be at the outset. Regardless, I believe my approach to be better than the way I was Eldered for the same reason, with a snide and caustic comment.

A committee member suggested that, following my request, I offer him the ability to participate in committee service. This was a good idea. I fully intended to make the request, but the progression of our conversation never allowed me the opportunity to pose it to him. He said that my approach didn’t allow him the ability to speak his mind. After only a few minutes of conversation, he wanted to part ways, and hastily left my company.

Shortly before heading back inside the Meetingroom, he mentioned an incident between us that occurred well over a year ago. Following Worship, on my way home from Meeting, he approached me for conversation at the bus stop. He rambled on for several minutes, though I sought to understand his meaning. I departed his company after a few minutes of fruitless communication that never really congealed. Since then, he has held fast to the memory of this false start, not recognizing the reasons why it failed.

I’m the clerk of Ministry and Worship. This responsibility falls upon me. Though Quakers seek to avoid hierarchy and champion equality for all, the buck stops here for me and for everyone who serves the Meeting. Years and years of unchallenged Meeting dysfunction have created a climate where habitual line-steppers know that they will never be confronted. I’m not even sure where to begin sometimes, but I’ve now made it clear that this sort of behavior will not be tolerated. I do not take pleasure in being confrontational, but I know that every effort towards reform has to begin somewhere.

Meeting discipline has challenged believers since the beginning of the Religious Society of Friends. For Christians, problems like these necessitated the writing of Paul’s numerous Epistles to fledgling churches spread out over the Roman Empire. Each had its own challenges and needed gentle correction, though some churches had greater problems than others. Jesus proposed a particular methodology in his ministry that I’ve kept in mind in the midst of this entire process.

"If your brother or sister sins, go and point out their fault, just between the two of you. If they listen to you, you have won them over. But if you are unsuccessful, take one or two others with you and go back again, so that everything you say may be confirmed by two or three witnesses. If they still refuse to listen, tell it to the church; and if they refuse to listen even to the church, treat them as you would a pagan or a tax collector.

The last lines may be harsh to some but they are certainly not wavering. I will continue to intercede in matters like these as frequently as they are needed. Eldering has not been done at Friends Meeting of Washington, and I know that other people are resistant to it. One needs a strong stomach and a thick skin in these matters. Perhaps it even takes a particular kind of specific set of personality traits to Elder successfully. I went into this with my eyes open. I fully expected at the outset to receive significant push back, often coupled with a kind of low-grade hostility best described as nasty nice.

I am not seeking to make the Meeting over in my own image. Instead, my foremost desire is to make sure that Friends are faithful to what and who they say they are. We should live our Testimonies are surely as we espouse them. We should respect Faith & Practice and not be afraid to use it as an authoritative text. My undertaking this past First Day began with a series of small steps like these. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Quote of the Week

"Always do right. This will gratify some people and astonish the rest."- Mark Twain

Saturday Video

A supremely silly song.

Nestle in my boobies
Nestle in my boobies
Nestle in my boobies
It's so comfortable

Nestle in my boobies
Nestle in my boobies
Nestle in my boobies
It's so comfortable

Spread 'em out
Push 'em up
Put your head right in 'em
Scoop 'em
Squeeze 'em
Boy, you gotta please 'em

Nestle in my boobies
Nestle in my boobies
Nestle in my boobies
It's so comfortable

Nestle in my boobies
Nestle in my boobies
Nestle in my boobies
It's so comfortable

Bite 'em
Lick 'em
Give that nip a tug
Grab 'em
Shake 'em
Show them titties love

Nestle in my boobies
Nestle in my boobies
Nestle in my boobies
It's so comfortable

Nestle in my boobies
Nestle in my boobies
Nestle in my boobies
It's so comfortable

Bite 'em
Lick 'em
Give that nip a tug
Grab 'em
Shake 'em
Show them titties love

Nestle in my boobies
Nestle in my boobies
Nestle in my boobies
It's so comfortable

Show them titties love
And nestle in my ru

Sissyneck

I don't need no wheels
I don't need no gasoline
'Cause the wind that is blowing
Is blowing like a smoke machine

If I said to you
That I was looking for a place to get to
'Cause my neck is broken
And my pants ain't getting no bigger

I got a stolen wife
And a rhinestone life
And some good ol' boys

I'm writing my will
On a three dollar bill
In the evening time

All my friends
Tell me something is getting together
I got a beard that would disappear
If I'm dressed in leather

Now let me tell you about my baby
She was born in Arizona
Sitting in the jailhouse
Trying to learn some good manners

Matchsticks strike
When I'm riding my bike to the depot
'Cause everybody knows my name
At the recreation center

If I could only find a nickel
I would pay myself off tonight
'Cause nobody knows
When he good times have passed out cold

Don't talk to me
If you're looking for somebody to cry on
Don't talk to me
If you're looking for somebody to cry on

Changing the "Me" to "We"

This column is written by Benjamin Lloyd and is featured in the April 2013 edition of Friends Journal.

If you read the minutes of Quaker meetings past, you will see that the disturbances caused by Friends’ behavior have been a sore spot for meetings since meetings began. Even before there were “meetings” as we know them today, one of George Fox’s closest followers, James Nayler, created a crisis for the fledgling religion by riding naked on a donkey into Bristol, England, in imitation of Jesus’s arrival in Jerusalem.

It was that event that convinced Fox and Margaret Fell to create collective structures of Friends that would hold individuals accountable. Since the misbehavior of Friends has been vexing us for almost 400 years, it should be comforting for us to know that our struggle to balance the individual and the community is nothing new.

Yet I believe we have a unique set of challenges in our intensely secular and individualistic twenty-first century America. A dear Friend I know in my yearly meeting jokes that the T-shirt we sell at annual sessions should read “You’re Not The Boss Of Me.” We have made a fetish of individuality in our Quaker meetings, and it has cost us our collective identity and safety. We have become a school with no teachers, a team with no coaches, a community with no leaders.

There is no longer human authority in our Quaker meetings, no longer a group of people that the meeting has put in a position of power and authority to pass judgment on individual behavior that Friends might find impossible to deal with in other ways. Meetings used to have these groups; they were usually called the Meeting of Ministers and Elders, a group within the meeting composed of Friends of great collective experience and spiritual gravitas who dealt with the thorny issues of bullying, lying, name-calling and other behavior outside the bounds of our testimonies. This behavior is part and parcel of any spiritual community; indeed, it is part of being human.

The entire post is here.

Medicare for All? It's Not That Simple

Every Tuesday afternoon for the past two years, I've met with a trauma therapist. Pursuing a course of more specialized treatment was a option suggested to me by another psychologist, one who knew she had done all that she could with me. Before I began the process of finding a new provider, I felt that the search wouldn't be nearly as challenging as it turned out to be. My number one problem at the outset was finding a qualified specialist who took insurance, any insurance. Increasingly these days, specialists in certain fields have been insisting that all fees ought to paid out of pocket.

It does bother me immensely that some psychotherapists in the Washington, DC, area are charging as much per hour as lawyers. One thing I have learned about this city is that there is an overabundance of vocations present, psychologist and attorney being only two of them. This practice is highly exclusionary, even though I recognize that competition for business is heavy. The problems I've observed are not felt across the board, but the fact that they are present anywhere gives reason for concern.

There was a time, you may recall, where several of us unapologetic progressives wanted a single-payer health care system, or Medicare for everyone. From discussions with doctors and specialists, I've learned that Medicare as currently configured has some substantial problems. Psychologists and psychiatrists usually don't take Medicare because the rates of reimbursement are too low for them to stay in business. The amount of paperwork required is extensive and regularly too complicated to justify the time spent. Medicare is highly profitable for surgeons, however, because the surgeons' lobby is strong.

In examining the itemized statements that arrive one-by-one in my mailbox, the amount of money paid out to doctors is at times somewhere between incredible and obscene. My psychiatrist might charge $150 an hour, but a relatively simplistic surgical procedure to remove a pilonidal cyst costs $11,000 from start to finish. The surgeon must be paid, the anesthesiologist compensated, the drugs given to put me under covered in full, and more, even down to the IV put into my arm prior to surgery.

When we are still debating and coming to grips with the vast amount of avoidable violence that comes from mental illness + a firearm, we would do well to provide mental health providers their fair share of payment. Our tax dollars compensate their hard work. It is they who are on the front lines, providing an extremely necessary service to the community and to each of us. If we valued them more, we might not have to worry about a Congress too constipated to pass even basic safety and protection for every American.  

The Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act will not be fully in effect until January 1 of next year. Because I'll still have chronic illnesses in need of treatment, I know I'll be able to observe firsthand the new changes. Some doctors I've talked to are privately nervous about any change whatsoever, not sure exactly what to expect. If I've learned anything about politics, it's that one never knows quite what one will receive until it is in force. Political promises are a dime a dozen. I support health care reform, for myself and for others. But I foresee some bumps and jostling along the way that will require periodic legislative overhaul.

Lest my meaning be misconstrued, the quality of care I have received has been excellent, most of the time. When partnered with hospital systems or other large self-contained systems, Medicare and Medicaid provide a sufficient means of treatment. Small practices, however, rarely take either of them.

Collective mindset can be another hurdle. Mental health providers are often too focused on saving the world than to partner together to lobby for competitive rates of pay. Legislation might seek to be the great leveler, but in the end, the politically well-connected will always be in first place. As much as I may distrust the profession and find lobbying distasteful, it might be worth every American getting one of his or her own.   

Lord Only Knows

You only got one finger left
And it's pointing at the door
And you're taking for granted
What the Lord's laid on the floor

So I'm picking up the pieces
And I'm putting them up for sale
Throw your meal ticket out the window
Put your skeletons in jail

'Cause Lord only knows it's getting late
Your senses are gone so don't you hesitate
To give yourself a call let your bottom dollars fall
Throwing your two bit cares down the drain

Invite me to the seven seas like some seasick man
You will do whatever you please and I'll do whatever I can
Titanic, fare thee well, my eyes are turning pink
Don't call us when the new age gets old enough to drink '

Cause Lord only knows it's getting late
Your senses are gone so don't you hesitate
Move on up the hill there's nothing dead left to kill
Throwing your two bit cares down the drain

Aurele, aurele, aurele, aurele
Aurele, aurele
Just passing through
Aurele, aurele, aurele, aurele

Quote of the Week

From "The Blue Flannel Suit"
by Ted Hughes

You waited,
Knowing yourself helpless in the tweezers
Of the life that judges you, and I saw
The flayed nerve, the unhealable face-wound
Which was all you had for courage.
I saw that what you gripped, as you sipped,
Were terrors that killed you once already.
Now I see, I saw, sitting, the lonely
Girl who was going to die.

That blue suit,
A mad, execution uniform,
Survived your sentence. But then I sat, stilled,
Unable to fathom what stilled you
As I looked at you, as I am stilled
Permanently now, permanently
Bending so briefly at your open coffin.

Saturday Video

Trip to heave and ho, up down, to and fro
You have no word
Trip, trip to a dream dragon
Hide your wings in a ghost tower
Sails crackling at ev'ry plate we break

Cracked by scattered needles
Little minute gong
Coughs and clears his throat
Madam you see before you stand
Hey ho, never be still
The old original favoritism gran
Grasshoppers green herbarian band
And the tune they play in us confide

So trip to heave and ho, up down, to and fro'
You have no word

Please leave us here
Close our eyes to the octopus ride!

Isn't it good to be lost in the wood
Isn't it bad so quiet there, in the wood
Twenty even less to me than I thought
With a honey plough of yellow prickly seeds
Clover honey pots and mystic shining feed

Well, the madcap laughed at the man on the border
Hey ho, huff the talbot
Cheetah he cried shouted kangaroo
So through their tree they cried

Please leave us here
Close our eyes to the octopus ride!

The madcap laughed at the man on the border
Hey ho, huff the talbot
The winds they blew and the leaves did wag
And they'll never put me in their bag
The seas will reach and always see
So high you go, so low you creep

The winds it blows in tropical heat
The drones they throng on mossy seats
The squeaking door will always creep
Two up, two down we'll never meet
So merrily trip for good my side

Please leave us here
Close our eyes to the octopus ride!

The Art of Belonging

At a Young Adult Friend gathering last night, I listened for some time to the lengthy concerns of a Friend. I was not expecting such an aggressive and passionate display, else I might have thought twice about sharing what I did. Her energetic concerns were prompted by what I thought was be a fairly harmless announcement on my part. It regarded a particular point of Meeting business.

I mentioned that the decision had been made to elder a regular attender because of the frequency of his vocal ministry. The custom in my Meeting is that frequent speakers ought to allow the ability during Meeting for Worship for God to speak through others and stand aside from time to time. At my last count, he has given ministry every week for the past three months. What he shares is almost always helpful and Spirit-led, but I intend to make a request of him following Worship to space out his vocal ministry henceforth.

In this situation, it might be easy for me to seem like a hypocrite. Not aware of this unwritten rule, when I arrived four years ago, I gave vocal ministry every week until I was rudely told to stop. The small Meeting in which I'd become Convinced never minded my verbosity. I still feel hurt when I think about the form that Eldering took when it was my turn, but since then, I've resolved that I'd do it differently when it came my opportunity.

Returning to my Friend, she still bears scars and no doubt emotional wounds from being very different from the statistical norm. The small Southern town where she spent many of her formative years left her feeling distanced, misunderstood, and set apart. She routinely speaks about herself as an outlier. Any dialogue that involves drawing boundaries, regardless of their extent or stated purpose is automatically suspect, perhaps even malicious to her.

Routine offenders aren't being given an adequate chance to speak in their own defense, as she believes. While I understand her inner conflict, it is attitudes like these that have broken down Meeting discipline and allowed transgressors to continue in flagrant violation of Faith and Practice. Here, she is speaking without knowing the full story and does not particularly want to hear it.

In this situation, she is projecting her own sense of exclusion and alienation onto a very different set of circumstances. I myself felt different and out-of-step earlier in life, but I took a very different path than she did. It would have been very easy to internalize the shame of not being a popular or especially well-regarded kid, or to regret that I didn't have the ability to win a cult of personality of my very own during high school. In fairness, I never really wanted to belong to most established groups and clubs when I was an adolescent, since to me they always seemed pointless, dull, and silly.

Friends sometimes want to complain, but don't want to make any structural changes, either. I don't like this, but I'm too busy to devote the time. This is an especially defeatist perspective and makes one wonder why anyone's concern was shared in the first place. Complaining without being willing to step into the breach is entirely worthless.

I vote for the Democratic Party
They want the U.N. to be strong
I go to all the Pete Seeger concerts
He sure gets me singing those songs

I'll send all the money you ask for
But don't ask me to come on along
So love me, love me, love me, I'm a liberal

-Phil Ochs, "Love Me, I'm a Liberal"

There's another level to this discussion present, too. Culturally, it is expected that we should seek adulthood and eventually accept adulthood with open arms. A while back, I spoke to a long-time Friend who is a psychotherapist by trade. During our talk, he shared something very interesting with me. In his learned judgment, many people he treats seek first to run from adulthood, not run towards it. They’d rather live in a state of suspended adolescence than adopt the roles intended that we would all adopt, once we reach a particular age.

But how shall I liken this generation? The people of that age, the stubborn and perverse; who were pleased with nothing, with no one's ministry, neither with John's, nor with Christ's, but found fault with whatever they heard, or saw done.

We seem to be confusing authoritative with authoritarian. Maturation, from a physical, psychological, and religious context arrives at different times for each of us. You can't be taken seriously, to use a sports analogy, unless you first play ball. I think there is a middle ground between respecting a person's spiritual journey and holding them accountable when they cross a line. We've been too individualistic in speaking first from our own hurt, and, over time, it's done nothing but damage the Religious Society of Friends.

In a recent column published in the April 2013 edition of Friends Journal, Benjamin Lloyd writes,

We no longer have formally identified elders in our monthly meetings who are granted authority as an acknowledgement of a particular skill-set, much in the way meetings acknowledge the gifts of other Friends—accountants, teachers, gardeners. How tragic, that a religious movement based on the valiant strivings of leaders like Fox, Penington, Penn, Mott, Fry, Hicks, and Jones should be rendered so passive by a nearly hysterical mistrust of authority. [bold mine]

We can't let our religious past dictate how we feel about religion today. I know that the very word "church" causes some regular attenders and members to wince. This reaction is entirely avoidable and can be removed from our psyche, if we're willing to let go of the seductive, addictive power of past hurts. We can let down our guard and find ways to resolve the tender parts. The boundaries we've drawn to ward against pain and sorrow have locked us inside instead.

Cymbaline

The path you tread is narrow
And the drop is sheer and very high
The ravens all are watching
From a vantage point nearby

Apprehension creeping
Like a tube train up your spine
Will the tightrope reach the end?
Will the final couplet rhyme?

And it's high time Cymbaline
It's high time Cymbaline
Please wake me

A butterfly with broken wings
Is falling by your side
The ravens all are closing in
There's nowhere you can hide

Your manager and agent
Are both busy on the phone
Selling coloured photographs
To magazines back home

And it's high time Cymbaline
It's high time Cymbaline
Please wake me

The lines converging where you stand
They must have moved the picture plane
The leaves are heavy round your feet
You hear the thunder of the train

Suddenly it strikes you
That they're moving into range
And Doctor Strange
Is always changing size

And it's high time Cymbaline
It's high time Cymbaline
Please wake me

And it's high time Cymbaline
It's high time Cymbaline
Please wake me

Father

I haven't written a poem in a while.

___________

Father

Earlier in life he
was always afraid of
unseen forces that wished him great harm

These formed the basis
of numerous sermons
given in the comfort of the holy living room
against the backdrop of the television

Now with the dementia
everyone, it seems, wants to
cheat, swindle, and manipulate him

He sees conspiracies everywhere

This is especially evident
during breakfast where he
shakes salt onto his eggs

Forgets immediately that he’s done it
adds more and then curses

The cook (my mother) who
has deliberately and maliciously
ruined his meal.

High and Dry

Two jumps in a week,
I bet you think that’s pretty clever, don’t you boy?
Flying on your motorcycle,
watching all the ground beneath you drop

You’d kill yourself for recognition,
kill yourself to never, ever stop
You broke another mirror,
you’re turning into something you are not

Don’t leave me high, don’t leave me dry
Don’t leave me high, don’t leave me dry

Drying up in conversation,
you’ll be the one who cannot talk
All your insides fall to pieces,
you just sit there wishing you could still make love

They’re the ones who’ll hate you
when you think you’ve got the world all sussed out
They’re the ones who’ll spit on you,
you’ll be the one screaming out

Don’t leave me high, don’t leave me dry
Don’t leave me high, don’t leave me dry

Oh, it’s the best thing that you ever had,
the best thing that you ever, ever had.
It’s the best thing that you ever had,
the best thing you have had has gone away.

Don’t leave me high, don’t leave me dry
Don’t leave me high, don’t leave me dry
Don’t leave me high,
Don’t leave me high, don’t leave me dry

The Road Not Taken

This weekend, I decided to try my hand at erotica. At first, I expected only a few hits here and there. The story has been posted since Monday morning and as of now, it has received 11,140 views. This is beyond my wildest expectations. I'm not sure whether this is because erotica appeals to a very different audience or if I have some skill with the genre.

I'm not posting it here for lots of reasons, privacy mostly. The story was written under a pseudonym I coined specifically for the occasion. Comments have been respectful and appreciative.

When We Are All the Rich Young Man

The story of the rich young man is found in all three of the earliest Gospels. The event must have made a great impression upon those who witnessed the life and ministry of Jesus. Indeed, it challenges us into the present day. Money represents power, authority, and success in this culture. Because of this, it is often difficult for wealthy people to realize that they are powerless to save themselves.

And as [Jesus] was setting out on his journey, a man ran up and knelt before him and asked him, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” And Jesus, looking at him, loved him, and said to him, “You lack one thing: go, sell all that you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.” Disheartened by the saying, he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions.

Every day, we are bombarded by messages that teach us that we have a right to be self-important and self-involved. Advertisement reinforces the idea that we’re the center of our own private universe. Today, we have more choices than ever before, as though an abundance of material things can cure all that ails us. Even now, when our economy is still relatively weak, our list of distractions is nevertheless vast.

It is difficult for anyone with privilege, we are told, to get into the Kingdom of God. The greater the privilege, the more challenging are the circumstances. But we're not off the hook, either. Those of us raised middle class and well-educated can easily fall into this same pit. We have most of our basic physical needs met. We believe we are entirely capable of being self-reliant. When we feel empty, we can always buy something new to dull the pain. Abundance can become damaging.

Some theologians have proposed that pain is supposed to drive us to God. Assuming this is the truth, the primary idol that pulls us away from the Divine is our single-minded devotion to things and possessions. Some people I know have resorted to a kind of hip aestheticism, seeking to live more simply. I count Peace Corps alumni among my friends. Others make a conscious effort to shop only at thrift stores in their own individual protest against materialism. It’s quite trendy these days to make do with less.

Without meaning to demean the selfless service of those I’ve mentioned, I need to draw a severe distinction here. Regardless of what we believe, we cannot save ourselves through good deeds alone. I live in Washington, DC, surrounded by the rank and file believers in an expansive network of non-profits and government agencies. They are indebted to the twin virtues of hard work and big ideas. It’s easy for me to be cynical that effort alone will never be enough. In a bureaucratic city, The Law of Rules is in charge. Its believers, like the Pharisees before them, must satisfy a thousand requirements great and small.

As it is written, some of these blind guides are careful to strain out a tiny gnat, but they swallow a camel instead. Small sins and transgressions are magnified, but the major offenses go unchecked and unchallenged. A separate form might need to be filled out perfectly before the gears begin to turn, but the systemic problems underlying it are never fixed. That is the paradox of working within the system. One either finds a way to live with it, or leaves in protest.    

Regardless of how much time and energy we give, the end point will be the same. Would we be less frantic to achieve if we knew that every life, no matter what we do, is full of great successes and great failures? Our reliance upon God could show us how to make crucial distinctions. Looks, as the saying goes, can be deceiving. Centering ourselves on a very different standard altogether will provide a badly needed perspective. Without it, we struggle to find the Light, taking twists and turns down lonely, dark paths. God provides us eternal company much as the eternal life that rich young man wanted so desperately.

No Reply

This happened once before
When I came to your door
No reply

They said it wasn't you
But I saw you peep through
Your window

I saw the light
I saw the light

I know that you saw me
'Cause I looked up to see
Your face

I tried to telephone
They said you were not home
That's a lie
'Cause I know where you've been
And I saw you walk in
Your door

I nearly died
I nearly died
'Cause you walked hand in hand
With another man
In my place

If I were you, I'd realize that I
Love you more than any other guy
And I'll forgive the lies that I
Heard before when you gave me no reply

I tried to telephone
They said you were not home
That's a lie

'Cause I know where you've been
And I saw her walk in
Your door

I nearly died
I nearly died

'Cause you walked hand in hand
With another man
In my place

No reply

Quote of the Week

"Self-culture has been loudly and boastfully proclaimed as sufficient for all our ideals of perfection. But if we listen to the best men and women everywhere … they will say that science may have found a cure for most evils; but it has found no remedy for the worst of them all — the apathy of human beings"- Helen Keller

Saturday Video

I walk the line for you
Each and everyday
And there's a bullet with my name on it
At least that's what they say

You take me for granted
And it's such a cryin' shame
Because I would gladly give my life for you
Each and everyday

It's been a long time coming
It took a long time to get to me

It doesn't matter which side I'm on
I always feel like I'm in the wrong
It doesn't matter which side I'm on
It just keeps losing

I walk the line for you
Each and everyday

It doesn't matter which side I'm on
I always feel like I'm in the wrong
It doesn't matter which side I'm on
It just keeps losing

It's been a long time coming
It took a long time to get to me
It's been a long time coming
It took a long time to get to me
It's been a long time coming
Long time, long time coming
Long time, long time coming

Black Star

I get home from work
and you’re still standing in your dressing gown
Well what am I to do?

I know all the things around your head
and what they do to you.
What are we coming to?
What are we gonna do?

Blame it on the black star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite that beams me home.

The troubled words of a troubled mind
I try to understand what is eating you.

I try to stay awake but its 58 hours
Since that I last slept with you.
What are we coming to?
I just don’t know anymore.

I get on the train
and I just stand about
Now that I don’t think of you.
I keep falling over
I keep passing out when I see a face like you.

What am I coming to?
I’m gonna melt down

What I Woke Up to This Morning

Transcription: There is a giant ROACH under here! He deserves a slow, painful death.

Cymbaline

The path you tread is narrow
And the drop is shear and very high
The ravens all are watching
From a vantage point nearby
Apprehension creeping
Like a tube-train up your spine

Will the tightrope reach the end?
Will the final couplet rhyme?

And it's high time
Cymbaline
It's high time
Cymbaline
Please wake me

A butterfly with broken wings
Is falling by your side
The ravens all are closing in
And there's nowhere you can hide

Your manager and agent
Are both busy on the phone
Selling coloured photographs
To magazines back home

And it's high time
Cymbaline
It's high time
Cymbaline
Please wake me

The lines converging where you stand
They must have moved the picture plane
The leaves are heavy around your feet
You hear the thunder of the train

And suddenly it strikes you
That they're moving into range
Doctor Strange is always changing size

And it's high time
Cymbaline
It's high time
Cymbaline
Please wake me

And it's high time
Cymbaline
It's high time
Cymbaline
Please wake me

When God is Least Expected

Manic episodes are fearsome things. In the beginning, they are deceptively seductive. It feels satisfying to think one is performing at the fullest level of functionality and productivity. Now is the time to write the epic novel of one’s dreams or start a small business on a wild hair without much in the way of start-up funds. For a time, spending eight hours a day on the same task is addictive and gratifying, not a hindrance. Each day, the illness builds upon itself, and before long what was once thought to be a blessing eventually invites fear and misunderstanding in others. 

Even with the consequences, which were substantial, it is through mania that I experienced a mature understanding of God. I’d always been a believer, but when others talked about taking on a particular calling or a leading, I sometimes thought they were deceiving themselves. Throughout my life, I’d had religious experiences, but they were too few and far between for my liking. It took almost thirty years for way to open, as Quakers often put it.

A look backwards through history will show that religions and faith traditions are often started by serious young men. Visions and supernatural perceptions, the impetus, are experienced at entirely unexpected times. God makes his presence known in mysterious and curious ways. George Fox, the founder of Quakerism, scaled Pendle Hill in northwest England early in his life. During the journey, he felt the undeniable presence of the Holy Spirit.

Fox is thought to have had bipolar disorder by some modern scholars. If he did indeed suffer from what used to be called manic depression, it would explain Fox’s compelling need to shut himself up in his room for days at a time. Mental illness would also point to his desire at the age of 29 to wander around the countryside in search of wisdom and guidance. The modern medical mind could diagnose this behavior as symptomatic of depression.   

What complicated my illness was the presence of what are known as ideas of reference. As defined by science, these are delusional patterns of thought and belief. In my worst times, I was guilty of this sort of incorrect, but highly persuasive thinking. Below are a few examples of what happens when illness takes over and reasoning abilities are suppressed.

A belief that 'somehow everyone on a passing city bus is talking about him or her, yet they may be able to acknowledge this is unlikely'

A feeling that people on television or radio are talking about or talking directly to him or her

Believing that headlines or stories in newspapers are written especially for him or her

Believing that events (even world events) have been deliberately contrived for him or her, or have special personal significance for him or her

Believing that the lyrics of a song are specifically about him or her

Seeing objects or events as being set up deliberately to convey a special or particular meaning to himself or herself

Thinking 'that the slightest careless movement on the part of another person had great personal meaning and increased significance'

These descriptions above are similar to those cited by people who say they have had a religious, even life-changing experience. Rest assured, I’m not seeking to imply that religion is a product of diagnosed illness or a medical disorder. God may speak to us even when we are sick and ailing, often especially when we are sick and ailing.

It’s been five years since my last manic episode. I have no desire whatsoever to have another one for the rest of my life. The ways that Spirit reaches us are not limited to when we are happy and cheerfully receptive to them. In fact, my own research shows that God often arrives in our periods of greatest desperation, when we need him the most.

God, in my manner of thinking, usually speaks to us subliminally. We are given freedom of choice to believe or not to believe. If God made himself known easily and measurably by humanity, how then would we have true faith? Experiencing both individually and undeniably the hand of the Almighty at work is a possibility for everyone. As it is written, the day of the Lord will arrive unexpectedly for each of us, like a thief in the night.

Today we might prefer to use terms like synchronicity, coincidence, or chance, but I prefer to believe in a Providential deity that intervenes directly in the lives of people. I am aware that the term has been misused mightily over time, leading some to associate it with opportunists seeking cover for their own nefarious plans. That’s very different. We don’t dictate what God thinks or intends for us or for anyone. That is his role. He often challenges us to change what we believe and influences our perception to those ends.

How would we respond if God spoke to us? I was granted an extraordinary blessing, namely, the ability to know with surety that God is real. It came in the most unusual package imaginable, but I find God is always present when we least expect him. Believe what you like, but do not reject the mystery of the Divine. Your turn may be next.

See the Sky About to Rain

See the sky about to rain, broken clouds and rain.
Locomotive, pull the train, whistle blowing through my brain.
Signals curling on an open plain, rolling down the track again.
See the sky about to rain.

Some are bound for happiness, some are bound to glory
Some are bound to live with less, who can tell your story?
See the sky about to rain, broken clouds and rain.
Locomotive, pull the train, whistle blowin' through my brain.

Signals curlin' on an open plain, rollin' down the track again.
See the sky about to rain.

I was down in Dixie Land, played a silver fiddle
Played it loud and then the man
broke it down the middle.
See the sky about to rain.

Quote of the Week

there is bound to be a certain amount of
trouble running any country
if you are president the trouble happens to you
but if you are a tyrant you can arrange things so
that most of the trouble happens to other people- Don Marquis

Saturday Video

 

 

Chewing on a piece of grass
Walking down the road
Tell me, how long you gonna stay here, Joe?
Some people say this town don't look
Good in snow
You don't care, I know

Ventura Highway in the sunshine
Where the days are longer
The nights are stronger
Than moonshine
You're gonna go I know

'Cause the free wind is blowin' through
Your hair and the days surround your daylight there

Seasons crying no despair
Alligator lizards in the air

Wishin' on a falling star
Watchin' for the early train
Sorry boy, but I've been hit by
Purple rain
 

Aw, come on Joe, you can always
Change your name
Thanks a lot, son, just the same

Ventura Highway
In the sunshine
Where the days are longer
The nights are stronger
Than moonshine
You're gonna go I know

'Cause the free wind is blowin' through your hair
And the days surround your daylight there
Seasons crying no despair
Alligator lizards in the air

Drug Store Truck Driving Man

He's a drug store truck drivin' man
He's the head of the Ku Klux Klan
When summer comes rolling around
He'll be lucky if he's not in town

Well, he's got him a house on the hill
He plays country records till you've had your fill
He's a fireman's friend, he's an all night DJ
But he sure does think different from the records he plays

He's a drug store truck drivin' man
He's the head of the Ku Klux Klan
When summer rolls around
He'll be lucky if he's not in town

Well, he don't like the young folks I know
He told me one night on his radio show
He's got him a medal he won in the War
It weighs five-hundred pounds and it sleeps on his floor

He's a drug store truck drivin' man
He's the head of the Ku Klux Klan
When summer comes rolling around
He'll be lucky if he's not in town

He's been like a father to me
He's the only DJ you can hear after three
I'm an all night musician in a rock and roll band
And why he don't like me I can't understand

He's a drug store truck drivin' man
He's the head of the Ku Klux Klan
When summer comes rolling around
He'll be lucky if he's not in town

When Conflicts Arise

Here is a recent column from the April issue of Friends Journal. It acknowledges the elephant in many Meetingrooms, that of conflict. The entire column is lengthy and can be accessed here. As I read it, I found myself nodding my head up and down in agreement.
______________

Crisis or Invitation?

As Quakers, our attitudes towards conflict can be ambivalent. Some aspects of Friends testimonies suggest that we would not be prone to conflict among ourselves. We like to see ourselves as peace loving; we certainly hope to never be violent or coercive. Friends aspire to spiritual tolerance and being open to diverse views and beliefs. We hold that there is that of God in every person, and thus that each person is deserving of respect. Believing this, how could we ever hurt each other, even unintentionally?

At the same time, our commitment to truth and integrity means that Friends can be strong-minded. What we experience as the truth is the truth to those who experience it, and we can sometimes forget that none of us carries the entire truth. Like all other humans, Friends can be stubborn, accusatory, judgmental, persnickety, eccentric, dismissive, irritatingly over-buoyant, pedantic, and persistent, particularly in matters that we believe arise from the Spirit. Sometimes we behave like bumper stickers that, while sincere, are the quintessential one-way communication, affording neither an invitation nor an intention to engage in dialogue.

Our structural traditions may contribute to fostering internal conflict. Unlike most other faith communities and secular institutions, monthly meetings do not have an operational hierarchy that can be called upon to lend authority at times of internal strife. Our quarterly meetings no longer serve as enforcers of spiritual discipline, chastising Friends who “walk wayward.” Within programmed meetings, the pastor seldom has authority to correct or admonish behavior that is hurtful to the body. Meetings without pastors have Ministry and Counsel Committees, but no corporately authorized source of admonishment or adjudication in the event of misbehavior. The delicate practice of eldering has too often come to be seen as authoritarian and punitive instead of authoritative and lovingly instructive. We have no human resources department, no bishopric or Holy See or episcopacy. Quaker communities caught in self-destructive conflict have no institutional resource to which to turn for a ruling.

So what happens when conflicts do arise? How do monthly meetings respond when an attender is made uncomfortable by the physical advances shown to her by an elderly member, and is prompted to no longer attend? What happens when the treasurer cannot account for some thousands of dollars entrusted to her? What happens when during a building project to restore the meetinghouse, the advice of a long-standing and experienced member is not followed, causing profound hurt? What happens when a coldness between two Friends goes beyond ignoring each other at social hour, beyond parking lot gossip, and blossoms into a public, toxic dance, making the rest of the meeting flee? What about the Friend who preaches at length every First Day, on inscrutable topics, reading from a prepared paper?

By tolerating such dysfunction in our meetings, we end up enabling bad behavior, and realize too late that we are paying a price: our meeting shrinks; the joy disappears; and our labors become wearisome. We have abandoned the gifts of Light and Spirit.

Everybody Wants You

Everybody wants you
Everybody dies
Whenever they're around you
So it comes as no surprise
That I feel the way I do today
But I haven't got the heart to say

Got a feeling so wrong
I hope nobody hears about it
Got a feeling so strong
I hope nobody hears, hope nobody hears

Everbody wants to
Think they're understood
Or maybe understanding
Or at least I think they should
You know it wasn't supposed to be this way
I've guess I got a lot of nerve to say

Got a feeling so wrong
I hope nobody hears about it
Got a feeling so strong
I hope nobody hears about it

Got a feeling so wrong
I hope nobody hears about it
God a feeling so strong
I hope nobody hears, hope nobody hears

Got a feeling so wrong
I hope nobody hears about it
Hope nobody hears about it
Oh no

Everybody wants you
Everybody wants you
Everybody wants you
Everybody wants you

The Case for Radical Forgiveness

Easter now past us, we can take comfort in the idea of rebirth and resurrection in our own lives. Even the darkest moments of our lives can be resolved. The lingering hurt and pain can be put aside, forever, if we like. But only if we want it for ourselves. No one can make us grow and mature as human beings if we are resistant to the process.

In all fairness, we've all got baggage somewhere along the line. How we choose to deal with it in the course of our lifetime is the most important thing of all. I really wish certain people would recognize that existing in a perpetually wounded state, for any reason, is self-limiting. This is true regardless of the intensity and magnitude of the hurt that caused it in the first place. Some people I know are in love with their own resentment.

When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.

Here's an example. When I was in college, I used to crash campus bible studies. It gave me great pleasure in those days to try to cast doubt in the minds of the conservative Christian students gathered there. I saw Jesus as a fraud and wanted others to reach the same conclusion I had. Now, I regret my decision, even if my beliefs about religion are still extremely different from those I originally sought to refute.

Having now returned to the religious tradition of my past, albeit a more liberal variety, I’ve been dismayed at some of the reactions I’ve received. Among groups of feminists, I’ve often been the focal point of an intensely negative response to the whole idea of forgiveness. To them, forgiveness in any form seems coerced. The images and associations that come to mind to them are of situations where women are forced to forgive their attackers or abusers. That’s not really what I mean.

With time, I came to peace with Christianity, recognizing that what I had been taught was far removed from the reality. What I really came to peace with was myself. To this day, I see lots of LGBT religious seekers standing on a continuum of belief and doubt, somewhere out there. Many of them never become believers and never enrich their faith because their past hurt continues to bubble to the surface. They're stuck in a kind of spiritual maturation limbo and can go no further.

No one would attend a house of worship if he or she didn’t really want to belong. Holding onto anger, which in this situation is akin to holding a lengthy grudge, is not healthy. I believe that people who have been damaged in their past by large, all-encompassing systems like organized religion have a right to what they want to believe. It's everyone's choice to come out or not to come out, and it's everyone's choice to make peace with religion and religious expression, or not.

But it would make it a lot easier if we could, on both accounts. It would grow the shrinking numbers of many religious groups, which continue to decline with every passing year. And it would stop the thousand tedious arguments of insidious intent, as T.S. Eliot put it so eloquently.

We have our trigger points, each of us, regardless of how and what sets us off. But we can't see hidden landmines unless others first tell us where they are. We really can't have a collective short fuse because acting in such a fashion does no one much good at all. Nor can we feign to successfully read anyone’s mind. I openly encourage a more radical honesty and rational discussion.