With many apologies for being away from the blog for some time now, I thought I might explain why. As some of you who read this blog on a regular basis (by some I really do mean all six of you) know, I have another side project. When I have had a chance to write lately, I've focused on my Unborn Child. Now fully three-quarters the way through, (the farthest I've ever reached), I'm getting labor pains.
I've toiled over this thing for so long now, I have a hard time remembering much about this story in its original form. Eighty percent of the work I've done on it has been pondering, rethinking, re-plotting, and pondering some more. Very little of this time has actually been spent writing, until this past year.
As I've fleshed it out, it's evolved. You see, something happens when I sit down to write. I find myself completely immersed in the story. My laptop screen becomes a window through which I can dive into a different world. Outside noises either escape my notice, or, when they do, send me a foot in the air when they startle me. It's quite the zone - characters seem to act of their own accord, events happen that I didn't outline, and events that were outlined suddenly don't make sense as they unfold, so I let the story evolve itself. And then I close my laptop after a two or three-hour session, and reflect on the characters and the day's writing, and end up jotting notes right before I get into bed on what should be different. I spend the last few minutes of each night outside pondering it some more. I think about it on the way home from work. And then I sit down again, and these characters, who I think I know so well, go and do something completely out of character and I go back to the drawing board. It always seems as if they're in conflict with the outlines in my notebook.
But here's the thing - I don't actually think it's that good. I think I may have over-complicated it, over-thought it. I mean, it has its merits, it has its moments, but I've been working in it for too damn long. I'm now finishing it simply to see it through. And while I don't really think it's that great, it's still very important to me. I no longer have any intention of trying to publish it, at least in the traditional sense - if I were a visual artist, I wouldn't want to sell my first painting.
And let me be frank - this is a fantasy. It's not the wizard-fire dragon-breath kingdoms and swords type of fantasy, as it takes place pretty much in the here and now - but it's still fantasy. I refuse to make much use of the word magic, but there's plenty of magic. I didn't want there to be castles and dragons, but there are towers and creatures. I didn't want there to be monsters, but it has demons. I didn't want it to be a preachy morality tale, but it does have themes. I didn't want to approach my views of spirituality and let them influence the story, but if I'm to be honest, it's all about my views on spirituality. This is a collage of sorts of all my lives since those lost years in Columbia. I'm really not convinced I want to write fantasy after this, but when I started it that was what I wanted to do.
Jamie, David, Seamus, Marissa, and Nora; Marlan, Nikola, Amantha, Nikolas and Roia; Simon, Marcus, David, Patricia and Conroy - these characters have been with me for so long now I'm ready to let them go and live their lives on some page that does not exist in my brain. A few, such as Jamie, David, Michael and James have been in my head since the beginning. Others have jumped on the train as it hobbled along on broken tracks through the years. I'm ready to give them wings, as my Mom has said of my sister and me.
As I said, I have no real intention of publishing this, as it would need so much work as to be completely rewritten. But it will always be my first child. So how do I plan to give my baby wings? I'm going to blog her.
My goal is to have this done in October. To do that, my friends and family will have to understand that for a while, my child will come before trivia. I am going full steam ahead now, lungeing for the end of the tunnel. Once I think it's done, and then when I can finally declare it done, once and for all, I will create a separate blog for it. Once a week I'll post another segment. You can comment all you like, or you can remain silent and simply either enjoy it or laugh at it for the disjointed mess that I think it may have become. I'm okay with either, because this is my child, and even if it has a face only a father can love, it will always be mine.
Once it's over, I plan to begin writing seriously. I've discovered that this is what I want to do more than anything else in life. I can create a world and live in it freely and fully, even if only vicariously through my keyboard. But this work has given me more fulfillment than any job that generates a paycheck.
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
The Church and Me
Greetings from the 'sphere! I'm sorry to have been absent for so long - I've experienced a renewed focus in my Unborn Child and have decided once and for all to get this thing out of me. I'm nearly a third of the way through, due in part to my self-imposed deadlines to get chunks of the story to a good friend for review, (and soon another good friend for literary critique - though he doesn't know it yet).
I've barely logged into Facebook, I haven't posted a Tweet for days, and even had a week off of my story this week to focus on my other love - trivia. But by tomorrow night I will be a third of the way through it - or at least the skeleton.
This story is largely about faith - the desire for faith, the need to believe, the rationalization of the equally terrible and wonderful aspects of life - not faith in any one specific direction, but a study on faith itself, and what it can create for us. And as this allegory exits my brain and orders itself on paper, it has started teaching me as well, as I look at this thing that's been in my head from an outsider's perspective.
This story has brought to the surface all the vastly opposing, contradictory feelings I have for the Church. And while I say Church as a single entity here, I know I'm making an enormous generalization - but Church is far easier to type repeatedly than the sterile term "organized religion."
The Church and I run hot and cold - we have had our differences, but periodically I find myself returning to it. It's always a new experience, sometimes boring, sometimes insightful, sometimes refreshing - but it's never the same experience twice, probably because what you get out of it depends on what you put into it. (There are those very faithful that will stalwartly tell you otherwise, but that's another blog).
Some of my earliest memories of having a religious experience occurred at Lutheridge. This is a Lutheran Summer camp that I attended from around 8 years old through high school. It was at this mountain retreat in North Carolina that I first learned to equate the Devine with nature. We were taught to see Holiness in sunsets and sunrises, in the freezing cold creeks of the Appalachian mountains to the white water of the French Broad River, to the simple hikes to our meals. We were taught to find love and warmth in song and dance, and to appreciate those feelings as a gift. Because of Lutheridge, I understood the idea of divinity manifesting itself to us all the time if we just stop and listen, as at sunset Vespers and Morning Watch in the cold, dewy grass of this mountain refuge.
This feeling of harmony with nature, this finding of God in that harmony was a stark contrast to Sunday church services with my Grandmother. There you were to stand when you were told to stand, sit when you were told to sit, sing when you were told to sing. During Sunday School we would make crosses out of popsicle sticks and hear stories of Jesus' miracles. There was no spirituality here, only what had always been done.
Then there were those times I was on my own, walking through the woods, playing in the Saluda River, biking for hours with nothing but me and my thoughts and the world around me seeming at a distance. It was during these times that I could sometimes stop for a moment and recall those feelings at Morning Watch - there was divinity in the air around me. This was always a passing feeling, and only a few times in my life has it completely overwhelmed me as it seems to do to so many every Sunday. But it is a joyous feeling, this communion with the spiritual. It can't be brought on, but it happens from time to time.
And yet, for sixth and seventh grade I attended a Southern Baptist private school. Here I was taught that other religions were wrong, and that we were to either try to convince them to join the "correct path" or to pity them for their looming trip to eternal fire and brimstone. As a child who was searching for something - anything - I was easily swayed by revival weeks and prayer corners with school officials. My desire to fit in and believe overwhelmed my fear of telling anyone I was raised Lutheran. I even remember how one day in class the Science teacher was briefly touching on the world's religions. The subject of Lutheranism was raised, and a student asked "What do Lutherans believe?" The teacher actually told her that she didn't really know. I am not going to get into the birth of protestantism and why they are called "Lutherans" - but let's just say that the exchange between the Baptist teacher and student was at least a little ironic.
But discovering around the end of my seventh grade year that I was likely gay, I knew that if I told anyone I would either be expelled, told there was no hope for me, or prayed with for hours on end - likely all three. God loves everyone, as long as you are born attracted to the opposite sex, was my stance as I got older.
I swung from near Zealot to near completely anti-church within a year. I was disgusted by the fact that I was gay, felt tremendous guilt over it, but simultaneously hated the church for furthering myths about who I was. I saw the church as a hateful, judgmental establishment, aimed at growing membership - as long as those people fit into their societies. (Why are there still "black" churches and "white" churches? This astounds me).
It was a few years later that I discovered the predominantly-gay Metropolitan Community Church. If I didn't fit into the "straight" churches, I surely didn't fit in here. I went to three sermons and backed out. This is another story for another blog.
It was shortly after my brief run-in with the MCC that I began going off and on to the Unitarian Church. For years this seemed to fulfill my spiritual needs - all was okay here, all was accepted, we were all on our paths to find God as we saw Him or Her. I went back and forth to the Unitarian church for years, until I came to the conclusion that it was like drinking non-alcoholic beer. It filled a need for community, but spirituality was reduced to intellectual exercise. To me, this is just as bad as dissecting the divine with bureaucratic Dogma.
Now, as the ELCA has decreed it okay for non-celibate, monogamous gay men and women to serve as pastors, I'm raising an eyebrow once again to the Lutheran church. I'm tipping my toes in those waters once more, and may even go to church soon. I have no desire to mold my spiritual beliefs to fit a system. Like any relationship, this will have to happen organically.
One question I haven't directly addressed here is this - do I believe in God? Without going into my explanation (which is my own and no one else's) I say yes, I do. I firmly believe in a divine presence. There is no doubt here.
I do not have this belief because I need it. I have it because I believe it. But I don't feel the need to justify it to anyone else. I don't feel the need to justify it with myself. I don't need to point out the perfection that is nature, that is our majestic universe, to illustrate logic or illogic in any direction. Logic is as pliable as faith. They can work with each other or against each other, and they can negate each other. So where spirituality is concerned I choose to throw them both out the window, and simply believe. Anything beyond that is simply filling in the blanks, and we're all quite adept at filling in those blanks.
The Church and I have some mending to do in our relationship. But with faith, all things are possible.
I've barely logged into Facebook, I haven't posted a Tweet for days, and even had a week off of my story this week to focus on my other love - trivia. But by tomorrow night I will be a third of the way through it - or at least the skeleton.
This story is largely about faith - the desire for faith, the need to believe, the rationalization of the equally terrible and wonderful aspects of life - not faith in any one specific direction, but a study on faith itself, and what it can create for us. And as this allegory exits my brain and orders itself on paper, it has started teaching me as well, as I look at this thing that's been in my head from an outsider's perspective.
This story has brought to the surface all the vastly opposing, contradictory feelings I have for the Church. And while I say Church as a single entity here, I know I'm making an enormous generalization - but Church is far easier to type repeatedly than the sterile term "organized religion."
The Church and I run hot and cold - we have had our differences, but periodically I find myself returning to it. It's always a new experience, sometimes boring, sometimes insightful, sometimes refreshing - but it's never the same experience twice, probably because what you get out of it depends on what you put into it. (There are those very faithful that will stalwartly tell you otherwise, but that's another blog).
Some of my earliest memories of having a religious experience occurred at Lutheridge. This is a Lutheran Summer camp that I attended from around 8 years old through high school. It was at this mountain retreat in North Carolina that I first learned to equate the Devine with nature. We were taught to see Holiness in sunsets and sunrises, in the freezing cold creeks of the Appalachian mountains to the white water of the French Broad River, to the simple hikes to our meals. We were taught to find love and warmth in song and dance, and to appreciate those feelings as a gift. Because of Lutheridge, I understood the idea of divinity manifesting itself to us all the time if we just stop and listen, as at sunset Vespers and Morning Watch in the cold, dewy grass of this mountain refuge.
This feeling of harmony with nature, this finding of God in that harmony was a stark contrast to Sunday church services with my Grandmother. There you were to stand when you were told to stand, sit when you were told to sit, sing when you were told to sing. During Sunday School we would make crosses out of popsicle sticks and hear stories of Jesus' miracles. There was no spirituality here, only what had always been done.
Then there were those times I was on my own, walking through the woods, playing in the Saluda River, biking for hours with nothing but me and my thoughts and the world around me seeming at a distance. It was during these times that I could sometimes stop for a moment and recall those feelings at Morning Watch - there was divinity in the air around me. This was always a passing feeling, and only a few times in my life has it completely overwhelmed me as it seems to do to so many every Sunday. But it is a joyous feeling, this communion with the spiritual. It can't be brought on, but it happens from time to time.
And yet, for sixth and seventh grade I attended a Southern Baptist private school. Here I was taught that other religions were wrong, and that we were to either try to convince them to join the "correct path" or to pity them for their looming trip to eternal fire and brimstone. As a child who was searching for something - anything - I was easily swayed by revival weeks and prayer corners with school officials. My desire to fit in and believe overwhelmed my fear of telling anyone I was raised Lutheran. I even remember how one day in class the Science teacher was briefly touching on the world's religions. The subject of Lutheranism was raised, and a student asked "What do Lutherans believe?" The teacher actually told her that she didn't really know. I am not going to get into the birth of protestantism and why they are called "Lutherans" - but let's just say that the exchange between the Baptist teacher and student was at least a little ironic.
But discovering around the end of my seventh grade year that I was likely gay, I knew that if I told anyone I would either be expelled, told there was no hope for me, or prayed with for hours on end - likely all three. God loves everyone, as long as you are born attracted to the opposite sex, was my stance as I got older.
I swung from near Zealot to near completely anti-church within a year. I was disgusted by the fact that I was gay, felt tremendous guilt over it, but simultaneously hated the church for furthering myths about who I was. I saw the church as a hateful, judgmental establishment, aimed at growing membership - as long as those people fit into their societies. (Why are there still "black" churches and "white" churches? This astounds me).
It was a few years later that I discovered the predominantly-gay Metropolitan Community Church. If I didn't fit into the "straight" churches, I surely didn't fit in here. I went to three sermons and backed out. This is another story for another blog.
It was shortly after my brief run-in with the MCC that I began going off and on to the Unitarian Church. For years this seemed to fulfill my spiritual needs - all was okay here, all was accepted, we were all on our paths to find God as we saw Him or Her. I went back and forth to the Unitarian church for years, until I came to the conclusion that it was like drinking non-alcoholic beer. It filled a need for community, but spirituality was reduced to intellectual exercise. To me, this is just as bad as dissecting the divine with bureaucratic Dogma.
Now, as the ELCA has decreed it okay for non-celibate, monogamous gay men and women to serve as pastors, I'm raising an eyebrow once again to the Lutheran church. I'm tipping my toes in those waters once more, and may even go to church soon. I have no desire to mold my spiritual beliefs to fit a system. Like any relationship, this will have to happen organically.
One question I haven't directly addressed here is this - do I believe in God? Without going into my explanation (which is my own and no one else's) I say yes, I do. I firmly believe in a divine presence. There is no doubt here.
I do not have this belief because I need it. I have it because I believe it. But I don't feel the need to justify it to anyone else. I don't feel the need to justify it with myself. I don't need to point out the perfection that is nature, that is our majestic universe, to illustrate logic or illogic in any direction. Logic is as pliable as faith. They can work with each other or against each other, and they can negate each other. So where spirituality is concerned I choose to throw them both out the window, and simply believe. Anything beyond that is simply filling in the blanks, and we're all quite adept at filling in those blanks.
The Church and I have some mending to do in our relationship. But with faith, all things are possible.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Queer
Part One: My Lifestyle
I've danced around this topic numerous times, and while I don't want this blog go the way of the Ellen sitcom, (as I mentioned in a previous entry), I think it's time I tackle this one head on, and then be done with it. I was inspired by a fellow blogger I follow. You should really pay him a visit, his blog is both interesting and entertaining, as well as insightful and well-written. I intend this to be my part of a conversation I would like to start with him.
To some, and especially to those who don't know me, this might sound like a pity-party, a woe-is-me, my-life-is-harder-than-yours sorrow piece. It's not. I had a hard time growing up, but many children have had far harder. I experienced pain, but I also had a loving family who tried to help. Not everyone has that much. I also know be grateful for running water, heat, air conditioning, and a roof over my head. I didn't want for much, so I'm not looking for anybody to feel sorry for me. I sure has hell don't. So as I write about whatever struggles I may have had, please know that I realize how much better I had it than the majority of the world.
I'm not doing this to prove a point, but rather to disprove a few. I'm probably not going to say anything you haven't heard before, but maybe I will. I hope just to say it from the perspective of someone who grew up gay, and who spent the majority of his adult life convincing himself that it was not an affliction, not a curse, and not a thing over which I should feel guilty.
I'm going to write this in three parts. This first entry is about the notion that homosexuality is a lifestyle - or worse, a lifestyle choice. In my second part I'll discuss my thoughts on gay marriage, and lastly I'll discuss my stance on homosexuals raising children. I feel that each of these topics lends itself to the next. I intend to point out how in the desires to live a productive life, get married, and finally to pass on one's knowledge and experience on to offspring are not desires that exist solely within those who find the opposite sex attractive. To think otherwise is nothing short of dehumanizing.
With that said, let's begin with this lifestyle I've chosen.
Let's begin with the assumption this was my choice, my decision to make. I was a male growing up in the South, who spent two years in a Southern Baptist school, and heard derogatory gay jokes from my closest family and friends on a regular basis. What would my reaction be? Logically, I would chose a gay lifestyle, right? Surely this wouldn't affect (or cause me to fear an effect on) my relationships with everyone I love. No, of course not - I could expect this thing happening to me that doesn't appear to be happening to anyone else around me to be understood and accepted immediately and universally. Why not chose this? It's fun to be different!
Unfortunately, no. I was years and years away from discovering that my being gay was for no one else to accept but me. The desire to fit in to society and be accepted is a basic human need. For some of us, the painful illusion is that acceptance will be denied us by everyone we hold dear. We believe our family may disown us and our friends may disappear. Sadly enough, for many it's not at all an illusion. I've known more than one gay person who has lost nearly everyone he or she has loved because they did not approve of their "lifestyle choice." For them, the unimaginably difficult, noble act of self-acceptance and honesty earned them the pain and isolation of late-onset orphanage.
I've lived with depression my entire life, and have learned to not let it interfere, not let it drag me back into those dark places I knew growing up. I've learned to stay above the water, and I've become an adept swimmer. But I wasn't born with those skills. As a teenager, I had no idea how to cope. I was learning to live with that nagging fear and doubt that seems to infest everything you do or think, that doubt that anyone who has lived with depression truly understands. I also had to struggle with the dread of one day telling my family that I would never get married, I would never have children, that I was a faggot. (While I believe marriage and children are a possibility, I didn't believe so at the time). I wondered for many years if I would simply remain single, let the truth remain unspoken, even though most would suspect. I thought that might just be easier and less painful for all involved.
At the age of 13 I was hospitalized for depression. I knew at this point that I was attracted to members of the same sex. I knew I was queer. And while wrestling with wondering why I was even put on this earth, I had the added weight of knowing that the basic animal function of reproduction was denied me. I can't fully describe here the feeling of believing you are a walking aberration, an accident, a flamboyant lispy "oops" of nature.
I was asked in the hospital if I was gay. Of course I said no. I was trying to learn to be happy, and if that meant putting this struggle on a shelf in the back of a dank closet somewhere, I was more than willing to do so.
Part of my learning to be happy was learning to embrace the inner freak. This was part of what lead me to self-acceptance later in life. I pierced my face, I dyed my hair, I sought out music that was different than everyone else's. Had I known swishing gay man during those formative years, I may have become one of the walking stereotypes I strain not to loathe. (As I know they're people too - and while I take no issue with effeminate men, if that is truly who they are, I do take issue with those who have adopted a persona in order to fit in to something - anything - while alienating others and making life more difficult for the quiet minority). I want to stress that people should be who they are, that gender and sexual preference are often mutually exclusive - but to pretend you're someone you're not helps no one - isn't that the point? I digress.
Embracing other subcultures and casting out anything top-40 or carrying the label as trendy enabled me to feel better about being different. I met other gay friends, I even helped a few come out, though I was not out to my family and lived under the flimsy but common guise of "bisexual." Bisexuality is easier to claim, because those who know you as bisexual believe that one day you may settle into a more mainstream life - marriage, with children. Through their eyes, you find comfort in that idea, you experience vicariously the possibility of normalcy. But it's just another lie.
In my late teens became a far left-wing liberal. (I'm a liberal still, but with a marked conservative streak). I embraced anything that would embrace me, and discarded anything that wouldn't. I avoided the church. I laughed at the notion of 2.3 kids and a lawn. Secretly, it was a thing that I wanted, but didn't think I could ever have, and therefore cast aside.
As I got older I was exposed to the gay clubs, drag shows and pink culture that for a while threatened to send me back into the closet with a baseball bat and an NRA membership. I once again wore the badge of "bi" as a defense mechanism. I didn't know who I was, but I was pretty sure by then I knew what I didn't want to be.
While I was in England I found a people who were far more accepting of gays and lesbians. It was simply a non-issue. It was then that I began to find peace with my - "lifestyle choice." When I came back to the U.S. I was on the road to not only accepting, but embracing who I was. No, I did not choose this. I fought it most of my life. And now I'm paying for it, in years lost and wasted in denying myself the experience of living life openly and freely. No one denied it for me but me. I wish I'd learned that when I was younger, but I was too busy wallowing in self-pity to realize I was wallowing in self-pity.
So this entry was supposed to be about my lifestyle. Why was that not the focus? Because there is no gay lifestyle. It does not exist. Just as there is no lifestyle for blonde people, or a lifestyle for people who like pork shops. There is no more gay lifetsyle than there is a single gay community or some clandestine gay agenda I keep hearing about. If there is one, I've been excluded. Maybe I should check my secret decoder ring.
We have those, you know.
I've danced around this topic numerous times, and while I don't want this blog go the way of the Ellen sitcom, (as I mentioned in a previous entry), I think it's time I tackle this one head on, and then be done with it. I was inspired by a fellow blogger I follow. You should really pay him a visit, his blog is both interesting and entertaining, as well as insightful and well-written. I intend this to be my part of a conversation I would like to start with him.
To some, and especially to those who don't know me, this might sound like a pity-party, a woe-is-me, my-life-is-harder-than-yours sorrow piece. It's not. I had a hard time growing up, but many children have had far harder. I experienced pain, but I also had a loving family who tried to help. Not everyone has that much. I also know be grateful for running water, heat, air conditioning, and a roof over my head. I didn't want for much, so I'm not looking for anybody to feel sorry for me. I sure has hell don't. So as I write about whatever struggles I may have had, please know that I realize how much better I had it than the majority of the world.
I'm not doing this to prove a point, but rather to disprove a few. I'm probably not going to say anything you haven't heard before, but maybe I will. I hope just to say it from the perspective of someone who grew up gay, and who spent the majority of his adult life convincing himself that it was not an affliction, not a curse, and not a thing over which I should feel guilty.
I'm going to write this in three parts. This first entry is about the notion that homosexuality is a lifestyle - or worse, a lifestyle choice. In my second part I'll discuss my thoughts on gay marriage, and lastly I'll discuss my stance on homosexuals raising children. I feel that each of these topics lends itself to the next. I intend to point out how in the desires to live a productive life, get married, and finally to pass on one's knowledge and experience on to offspring are not desires that exist solely within those who find the opposite sex attractive. To think otherwise is nothing short of dehumanizing.
With that said, let's begin with this lifestyle I've chosen.
Let's begin with the assumption this was my choice, my decision to make. I was a male growing up in the South, who spent two years in a Southern Baptist school, and heard derogatory gay jokes from my closest family and friends on a regular basis. What would my reaction be? Logically, I would chose a gay lifestyle, right? Surely this wouldn't affect (or cause me to fear an effect on) my relationships with everyone I love. No, of course not - I could expect this thing happening to me that doesn't appear to be happening to anyone else around me to be understood and accepted immediately and universally. Why not chose this? It's fun to be different!
Unfortunately, no. I was years and years away from discovering that my being gay was for no one else to accept but me. The desire to fit in to society and be accepted is a basic human need. For some of us, the painful illusion is that acceptance will be denied us by everyone we hold dear. We believe our family may disown us and our friends may disappear. Sadly enough, for many it's not at all an illusion. I've known more than one gay person who has lost nearly everyone he or she has loved because they did not approve of their "lifestyle choice." For them, the unimaginably difficult, noble act of self-acceptance and honesty earned them the pain and isolation of late-onset orphanage.
I've lived with depression my entire life, and have learned to not let it interfere, not let it drag me back into those dark places I knew growing up. I've learned to stay above the water, and I've become an adept swimmer. But I wasn't born with those skills. As a teenager, I had no idea how to cope. I was learning to live with that nagging fear and doubt that seems to infest everything you do or think, that doubt that anyone who has lived with depression truly understands. I also had to struggle with the dread of one day telling my family that I would never get married, I would never have children, that I was a faggot. (While I believe marriage and children are a possibility, I didn't believe so at the time). I wondered for many years if I would simply remain single, let the truth remain unspoken, even though most would suspect. I thought that might just be easier and less painful for all involved.
At the age of 13 I was hospitalized for depression. I knew at this point that I was attracted to members of the same sex. I knew I was queer. And while wrestling with wondering why I was even put on this earth, I had the added weight of knowing that the basic animal function of reproduction was denied me. I can't fully describe here the feeling of believing you are a walking aberration, an accident, a flamboyant lispy "oops" of nature.
I was asked in the hospital if I was gay. Of course I said no. I was trying to learn to be happy, and if that meant putting this struggle on a shelf in the back of a dank closet somewhere, I was more than willing to do so.
Part of my learning to be happy was learning to embrace the inner freak. This was part of what lead me to self-acceptance later in life. I pierced my face, I dyed my hair, I sought out music that was different than everyone else's. Had I known swishing gay man during those formative years, I may have become one of the walking stereotypes I strain not to loathe. (As I know they're people too - and while I take no issue with effeminate men, if that is truly who they are, I do take issue with those who have adopted a persona in order to fit in to something - anything - while alienating others and making life more difficult for the quiet minority). I want to stress that people should be who they are, that gender and sexual preference are often mutually exclusive - but to pretend you're someone you're not helps no one - isn't that the point? I digress.
Embracing other subcultures and casting out anything top-40 or carrying the label as trendy enabled me to feel better about being different. I met other gay friends, I even helped a few come out, though I was not out to my family and lived under the flimsy but common guise of "bisexual." Bisexuality is easier to claim, because those who know you as bisexual believe that one day you may settle into a more mainstream life - marriage, with children. Through their eyes, you find comfort in that idea, you experience vicariously the possibility of normalcy. But it's just another lie.
In my late teens became a far left-wing liberal. (I'm a liberal still, but with a marked conservative streak). I embraced anything that would embrace me, and discarded anything that wouldn't. I avoided the church. I laughed at the notion of 2.3 kids and a lawn. Secretly, it was a thing that I wanted, but didn't think I could ever have, and therefore cast aside.
As I got older I was exposed to the gay clubs, drag shows and pink culture that for a while threatened to send me back into the closet with a baseball bat and an NRA membership. I once again wore the badge of "bi" as a defense mechanism. I didn't know who I was, but I was pretty sure by then I knew what I didn't want to be.
While I was in England I found a people who were far more accepting of gays and lesbians. It was simply a non-issue. It was then that I began to find peace with my - "lifestyle choice." When I came back to the U.S. I was on the road to not only accepting, but embracing who I was. No, I did not choose this. I fought it most of my life. And now I'm paying for it, in years lost and wasted in denying myself the experience of living life openly and freely. No one denied it for me but me. I wish I'd learned that when I was younger, but I was too busy wallowing in self-pity to realize I was wallowing in self-pity.
So this entry was supposed to be about my lifestyle. Why was that not the focus? Because there is no gay lifestyle. It does not exist. Just as there is no lifestyle for blonde people, or a lifestyle for people who like pork shops. There is no more gay lifetsyle than there is a single gay community or some clandestine gay agenda I keep hearing about. If there is one, I've been excluded. Maybe I should check my secret decoder ring.
We have those, you know.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Writer's Block?
I wasn't going to post tonight. But it's Tuesday. I post every night except Monday and Friday. Last week when I neglected to do so, I had the same feeling each day that you might get if you don't check your work email, forget to brush your teeth at night, or accidentally put on odd socks and realize it after you get to work. (Okay, maybe the last part is just me). But it feels like you forgot to do the one thing that you really should have done, consequence or not.
This blog has become compulsory. I realize that now. So at around 9:30, when I finally gave up my fight to have a night off, I couldn't settle on what to write about. I was going to rant about Andre Bauer, but I think there's enough of that already. Besides, he's been providing Sandlappers with water cooler jokes and eye-rolling quotes for years now - I don't think he's even begin to build his crescendo of absent-minded, asinine, thoughtless quibbles. I'll wait until he spews a really, REALLY good one - because he will.
So then I was going to lash Scott Brown. But then I kind of played those chips in Facebook earlier, and I'm not in the mood to rehash my rant. Besides, I have no desire to turn my laptop and this blog into a political soapbox - at least not every day.
Of course, eventually I'm going to write about being gay - I mean an entire entry, as I have some things I'd like to get off my chest. But then, I'm not keen on this blog being steered in the direction of the Ellen sitcom. I'll save it for another time.
But I couldn't not blog. I just couldn't. A friend of mind once made an analogy (though not referring to blogging) about biting into a golden apple and having your teeth caught in place. It feels like that. It's a nagging sensation that you can't escape.
Is it writer's block? I couldn't settle on a subject tonight, and every time I did, I shot down the idea before the first sentence was typed. Sure, I have plenty to argue about, plenty to rant about, but I'm not in a ranting mood. Besides, nobody wants to hear me gripe yet again.
My Unborn Child, (hereafter referred to as the D.F. - for Devil's Footprints) on the other hand, has begun to kick. It kicks hard. I'm waiting for several hours of alone time with which I can really start cranking it out, (as I need alone time to really write). But I've been squeezing some things in here and there. By here and there, I mean that at the end of each night, I've been pumping out ten to twenty pages. But I want hours - and hours - to really devote to it. The longer I write continuously, the better I'm able to put ideas into words. It's like when you haven't typed in weeks, but after a few hours, you're up to seventy or eighty words per minute.
So I thought about putting some of it on here. No, and huh uh. I started to, but for some reason I feel far more exposed when someone reads my fiction than I do as I write this blog. Somehow, I can put out in the internets what I was feeling when I lost a parent, or how I struggle with my identity - but when it comes to writing what Jamie Riley, David Easterly, and Nora Ramsey (three main characters in the D.F.) are up to, I clam up.
Maybe the D.F. is still incubating. Maybe I'm afraid that if I expose it to the world before it's ready, it will die, drowned in my self-consciousness. So why do I not mind writing about political situations of which I am only half-aware, about feelings that I wouldn't necessarily openly divulge to my closest friends without the application of much Chardonnay, and yet - I don't want to share a made-up story?
I'm not sure if this is writer's block, or my brain telling me that I need to focus on the D.F. and get it out of my head for good. I'm not sure if I get more out of writing fiction than non-fiction. I have no idea why I feel so much more vulnerable having anyone else read the D.F. than a personal blog I put out there for all to see.
I don't imagine I'll answer any of these questions soon, but one thing is certain: For all the catharsis and emotional release I get from writing five blog entries, I get twice as much from writing a single page of fiction. After a few hours of writing I feel immensely better, as if I've just had a marathon workout.
But I'll continue this blog. I'll write it five times per week as often as I can, and hope that eventually, maybe as I get better at it - I'll start to get the same release here.
Thanks for listening. I'm hoping my "block" is cured by tomorrow.
This blog has become compulsory. I realize that now. So at around 9:30, when I finally gave up my fight to have a night off, I couldn't settle on what to write about. I was going to rant about Andre Bauer, but I think there's enough of that already. Besides, he's been providing Sandlappers with water cooler jokes and eye-rolling quotes for years now - I don't think he's even begin to build his crescendo of absent-minded, asinine, thoughtless quibbles. I'll wait until he spews a really, REALLY good one - because he will.
So then I was going to lash Scott Brown. But then I kind of played those chips in Facebook earlier, and I'm not in the mood to rehash my rant. Besides, I have no desire to turn my laptop and this blog into a political soapbox - at least not every day.
Of course, eventually I'm going to write about being gay - I mean an entire entry, as I have some things I'd like to get off my chest. But then, I'm not keen on this blog being steered in the direction of the Ellen sitcom. I'll save it for another time.
But I couldn't not blog. I just couldn't. A friend of mind once made an analogy (though not referring to blogging) about biting into a golden apple and having your teeth caught in place. It feels like that. It's a nagging sensation that you can't escape.
Is it writer's block? I couldn't settle on a subject tonight, and every time I did, I shot down the idea before the first sentence was typed. Sure, I have plenty to argue about, plenty to rant about, but I'm not in a ranting mood. Besides, nobody wants to hear me gripe yet again.
My Unborn Child, (hereafter referred to as the D.F. - for Devil's Footprints) on the other hand, has begun to kick. It kicks hard. I'm waiting for several hours of alone time with which I can really start cranking it out, (as I need alone time to really write). But I've been squeezing some things in here and there. By here and there, I mean that at the end of each night, I've been pumping out ten to twenty pages. But I want hours - and hours - to really devote to it. The longer I write continuously, the better I'm able to put ideas into words. It's like when you haven't typed in weeks, but after a few hours, you're up to seventy or eighty words per minute.
So I thought about putting some of it on here. No, and huh uh. I started to, but for some reason I feel far more exposed when someone reads my fiction than I do as I write this blog. Somehow, I can put out in the internets what I was feeling when I lost a parent, or how I struggle with my identity - but when it comes to writing what Jamie Riley, David Easterly, and Nora Ramsey (three main characters in the D.F.) are up to, I clam up.
Maybe the D.F. is still incubating. Maybe I'm afraid that if I expose it to the world before it's ready, it will die, drowned in my self-consciousness. So why do I not mind writing about political situations of which I am only half-aware, about feelings that I wouldn't necessarily openly divulge to my closest friends without the application of much Chardonnay, and yet - I don't want to share a made-up story?
I'm not sure if this is writer's block, or my brain telling me that I need to focus on the D.F. and get it out of my head for good. I'm not sure if I get more out of writing fiction than non-fiction. I have no idea why I feel so much more vulnerable having anyone else read the D.F. than a personal blog I put out there for all to see.
I don't imagine I'll answer any of these questions soon, but one thing is certain: For all the catharsis and emotional release I get from writing five blog entries, I get twice as much from writing a single page of fiction. After a few hours of writing I feel immensely better, as if I've just had a marathon workout.
But I'll continue this blog. I'll write it five times per week as often as I can, and hope that eventually, maybe as I get better at it - I'll start to get the same release here.
Thanks for listening. I'm hoping my "block" is cured by tomorrow.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Shhh...
I like Green Day.
I really liked Crystal Pepsi. And Velveeta. I claim to be a foodie, but I love a slice of cold Velveeta.
I like video games, I love going to the movies by myself, and I sing along to my iPod on road trips. Sometimes I turn the volume down a little to see how I sound. I don't care if the car beside me can see it - if they laugh, then I've made somebody smile. Go me.
I love little more than sitting on the sofa with a Jack and Coke in hand, a bowl of chips with some salsa in front of me and a set of Battlestae Galactica DVD's.
Sometimes I rock out to the Statler Brothers. I haven't quit smoking yet because I still enjoy smoking. I used to groan when Eric wanted to watch his soaps, but I got into a few of them. Actually, I started looking forward to a few of them. Even now I'll check the covers of the soap magazines while I'm in line at the supermarket just to see what's going on.
Yes, I have secrets, and the above are a few I don't mind sharing. Everybody has secrets. It's a part of life, a fact of the human condition. But when recently I discovered a blog entitled "Everyone Blogs," I had decidedly mixed feelings. This is a blog where, essentially, anonymous contributors publish secrets. Sometimes they're confessions, sometimes they're venting, sometimes they're lashing out. But nearly all of them have one thing in common - they're depressing as hell.
I read one or two entries, deciding that I would rather file this one away as a sad place to discuss sad situations. But I found it addictive, in that guilty way that one watches an automobile accident from the side of the road (and later lambastes the "rubberneckers). I found I could relate all too well to a few of these anonymous bloggers, and they reminded me of things I'd rather not think about, situations not entirely alien to me. I actually almost cried once, one post seemed so familiar. That was when I stopped reading and went on to view something else.
But later on I realized something - this is what writing is supposed to do. It's supposed to speak to us, not just on the surface but to those aspects of ourselves we'd rather not think about. It's supposed to lay all these troubles out, on the table for us to relish, to ponder. Good writing does this in the guise of characters, takes unsightly character flaws and paints them eloquently onto a canvass for you to look at long enough to not turn away when you realize you're staring into a mirror.
The writers on this blog were blogging anonymously, but they were still brave - brave enough to bring these secrets to the surface for others to see. They know that once something has been said it can't be unsaid, that once something has been seen, it can't be unseen. I suppose this is healthy - it's a way of dealing with these issues, a way of acknowledging the stigma of their mistakes without attaching the stigma to their person.
Partly I want to see a positive entry - and there are a few, though they usually involve sex. I suppose that is just another facet of the human condition, and an area of peoples' lives they don't feel comfortable sharing with everyone in an open fashion.
In this, maybe this blog is a healthy outlet for some. But there's another side to it. I like my secrets. I like having parts of myself that are mine, and mine alone. They're secrets because I keep them that way. Once I tell someone a secret, it's no longer a secret. Yes, there are some people I share some secrets with, and other people I share other secrets with. But, I know of no one in my life, past or present, that has been privy to absolutely everything. And I'm very comfortable with that. In fact, it makes me feel safe, guarded. Maybe one day I'll let the entire guard down for one person, but then - I think having these things inside of me makes me in part who I am.
So what are the reasons people keep secrets? They may be afraid of changing others' perceptions of them, but this is innately odd, since no one really knows what others' perceptions of them are. There's the protection of those around them from experiencing some negative emotions they'd rather no one else face, but that just assumes the other party is empathetic. Some people are far more empathetic than they're given credit for, and others far, far less. There's really no way to know, not really. Some people keep secrets for selfish reasons, the need to have that last bargaining chip in their back pocket. Some secrets are kept because of a promise made, to a brave soul who let one out in an act of honesty and trust.
Why do I keep mine? Again, quite simply - I like them. I like having them. I keep others' secrets as closely as I keep my own. Maybe this is selfish - in some respects it is. Are any of my secrets kept due to the reasons in the above paragraph? Maybe one or two. But if I told you that, then I might as well tell you everything, right?
But I'm not. My friends, my family, trust that I am who I say I am - and they're right to do so. One does not need to examine every piece of a puzzle to determine the picture. And as long as there isn't a completely different picture beneath the puzzle, one in which people can see through the missing pieces, then you are doing nothing wrong.
Here are a few more secrets. I'm putting them here because if I'm going to tell any secrets, it's these - and I'm going to do it with my face plastered on my profile picture.
Sometimes baking and cooking is pure therapy for me. Sometimes I do it to please people. I love pleasing people for several reasons - one is that I was picked on mercilessly as a small child, and crave the acceptance. Don't feel sorry for me - I don't. Just enjoy that cake, or be glad I've helped you out in some task or another. I spent much of my life turning myself into a freak - in this I gave people something to pick on, I claimed the freak for myself. I knew I was gay by the time my hair turned purple, and it was easier for me to be picked on for that reason - because I did it on purpose. I relished being different, or being different would have made me a hermit. I'm attracted to men, and pretty much only men, but I was in love with a woman once. Sometimes I'm afraid to tell my family that, or they might have false hope that I'll end up with a woman. Sometimes it hurts to know that is how some people in my family would rather see me - with a woman, or with no one at all - though they'd never tell me that, and I know ultimately they want me to be happy. Most of them don't care how I go about doing that. Sometimes I still hate myself a little for being gay, but I'm getting over it.
Okay, enough of that. And let me tell you that none of those things are complaints. They're not pleas for help. They are what they are. I am who I am. And secrets are a part of that. If you want to hear somebody whine, check out the above blog. Me, I'm done with whining, I have been for some time. But those are the secrets I want to share, and have no problem sharing. Maybe I'll vent a few more here and there, from time to time, but not all at once.
As my coworker and friend said to me in her first week, "I'm just acting normal so you won't think I'm completely out there. I like to dole out the crazy over time."
This was when I knew we'd be friends.
I really liked Crystal Pepsi. And Velveeta. I claim to be a foodie, but I love a slice of cold Velveeta.
I like video games, I love going to the movies by myself, and I sing along to my iPod on road trips. Sometimes I turn the volume down a little to see how I sound. I don't care if the car beside me can see it - if they laugh, then I've made somebody smile. Go me.
I love little more than sitting on the sofa with a Jack and Coke in hand, a bowl of chips with some salsa in front of me and a set of Battlestae Galactica DVD's.
Sometimes I rock out to the Statler Brothers. I haven't quit smoking yet because I still enjoy smoking. I used to groan when Eric wanted to watch his soaps, but I got into a few of them. Actually, I started looking forward to a few of them. Even now I'll check the covers of the soap magazines while I'm in line at the supermarket just to see what's going on.
Yes, I have secrets, and the above are a few I don't mind sharing. Everybody has secrets. It's a part of life, a fact of the human condition. But when recently I discovered a blog entitled "Everyone Blogs," I had decidedly mixed feelings. This is a blog where, essentially, anonymous contributors publish secrets. Sometimes they're confessions, sometimes they're venting, sometimes they're lashing out. But nearly all of them have one thing in common - they're depressing as hell.
I read one or two entries, deciding that I would rather file this one away as a sad place to discuss sad situations. But I found it addictive, in that guilty way that one watches an automobile accident from the side of the road (and later lambastes the "rubberneckers). I found I could relate all too well to a few of these anonymous bloggers, and they reminded me of things I'd rather not think about, situations not entirely alien to me. I actually almost cried once, one post seemed so familiar. That was when I stopped reading and went on to view something else.
But later on I realized something - this is what writing is supposed to do. It's supposed to speak to us, not just on the surface but to those aspects of ourselves we'd rather not think about. It's supposed to lay all these troubles out, on the table for us to relish, to ponder. Good writing does this in the guise of characters, takes unsightly character flaws and paints them eloquently onto a canvass for you to look at long enough to not turn away when you realize you're staring into a mirror.
The writers on this blog were blogging anonymously, but they were still brave - brave enough to bring these secrets to the surface for others to see. They know that once something has been said it can't be unsaid, that once something has been seen, it can't be unseen. I suppose this is healthy - it's a way of dealing with these issues, a way of acknowledging the stigma of their mistakes without attaching the stigma to their person.
Partly I want to see a positive entry - and there are a few, though they usually involve sex. I suppose that is just another facet of the human condition, and an area of peoples' lives they don't feel comfortable sharing with everyone in an open fashion.
In this, maybe this blog is a healthy outlet for some. But there's another side to it. I like my secrets. I like having parts of myself that are mine, and mine alone. They're secrets because I keep them that way. Once I tell someone a secret, it's no longer a secret. Yes, there are some people I share some secrets with, and other people I share other secrets with. But, I know of no one in my life, past or present, that has been privy to absolutely everything. And I'm very comfortable with that. In fact, it makes me feel safe, guarded. Maybe one day I'll let the entire guard down for one person, but then - I think having these things inside of me makes me in part who I am.
So what are the reasons people keep secrets? They may be afraid of changing others' perceptions of them, but this is innately odd, since no one really knows what others' perceptions of them are. There's the protection of those around them from experiencing some negative emotions they'd rather no one else face, but that just assumes the other party is empathetic. Some people are far more empathetic than they're given credit for, and others far, far less. There's really no way to know, not really. Some people keep secrets for selfish reasons, the need to have that last bargaining chip in their back pocket. Some secrets are kept because of a promise made, to a brave soul who let one out in an act of honesty and trust.
Why do I keep mine? Again, quite simply - I like them. I like having them. I keep others' secrets as closely as I keep my own. Maybe this is selfish - in some respects it is. Are any of my secrets kept due to the reasons in the above paragraph? Maybe one or two. But if I told you that, then I might as well tell you everything, right?
But I'm not. My friends, my family, trust that I am who I say I am - and they're right to do so. One does not need to examine every piece of a puzzle to determine the picture. And as long as there isn't a completely different picture beneath the puzzle, one in which people can see through the missing pieces, then you are doing nothing wrong.
Here are a few more secrets. I'm putting them here because if I'm going to tell any secrets, it's these - and I'm going to do it with my face plastered on my profile picture.
Sometimes baking and cooking is pure therapy for me. Sometimes I do it to please people. I love pleasing people for several reasons - one is that I was picked on mercilessly as a small child, and crave the acceptance. Don't feel sorry for me - I don't. Just enjoy that cake, or be glad I've helped you out in some task or another. I spent much of my life turning myself into a freak - in this I gave people something to pick on, I claimed the freak for myself. I knew I was gay by the time my hair turned purple, and it was easier for me to be picked on for that reason - because I did it on purpose. I relished being different, or being different would have made me a hermit. I'm attracted to men, and pretty much only men, but I was in love with a woman once. Sometimes I'm afraid to tell my family that, or they might have false hope that I'll end up with a woman. Sometimes it hurts to know that is how some people in my family would rather see me - with a woman, or with no one at all - though they'd never tell me that, and I know ultimately they want me to be happy. Most of them don't care how I go about doing that. Sometimes I still hate myself a little for being gay, but I'm getting over it.
Okay, enough of that. And let me tell you that none of those things are complaints. They're not pleas for help. They are what they are. I am who I am. And secrets are a part of that. If you want to hear somebody whine, check out the above blog. Me, I'm done with whining, I have been for some time. But those are the secrets I want to share, and have no problem sharing. Maybe I'll vent a few more here and there, from time to time, but not all at once.
As my coworker and friend said to me in her first week, "I'm just acting normal so you won't think I'm completely out there. I like to dole out the crazy over time."
This was when I knew we'd be friends.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Structure Might Be A Good Thing
So I've decided to give this blog a sort of fluid structure. Fluid in that I may change it after a few weeks, but structured so that I might write more frequently. I found that when I was doing my five rants of the new year, I made myself sit down at the end of the day and write.
If my unborn child ever sees the light of day, it will be because I'm in practice.
So, here's how I'm going to start - I've picked the five days I'm most likely to write, and five topics that I think I can actually stick to. ("To" being a preposition. I'm letting it go).
Tuesdays - "Not Qualified To Review This"
I'm going to review things. It could be a movie, a book, or a blog. Or it might be a city I've visited, or an airline. It might be a restaurant, or a wine. It could be anything - and likely I am not qualified to give a full review, though I'm going to do it anyway.
Wednesdays - "Wild Card"
Here is my "out" to write anything that doesn't fall into the other categories.
Thursdays - "Almost-Fridays." Remember what I said about being determined to be more positive in 2010? Well I will be, for at least one day a week. Or at least for the amount of time it will take me to conceive and write out Thursday's blog. This is going to essentially be something I'm happy about. I'm going to be very careful not to turn it into an exercise in sarcasm. It will be something for which I'm grateful, pleased, amused - something that brings a smile to my face, and hopefully yours.
Saturdays - "Sometimes I Think I Can Cook"
I'm going to attempt put out a recipe every Saturday. I'll start with the five or six things I do really well, family favorites (i.e. Spice Cake, Drunken Taramisu Cake, Spinach and Goat Cheese Quiche, etc...) These are established recipes into which I've put my own spin. These can be food or cocktail recipes, sauces and dressings, whatever. I love, love, love food, so this one should be really easy to keep up.
Sundays - "*"
This is going to be about something that caught my attention that I think deserves a closer look, maybe a buried news story or an peculiar website.
Okay, here we go. If one or more of these busts, I'll replace it with something else. I think the point is now just to make myself write and write some more. I hope to at the very least be some decent entertainment - a time-killer worthy of killing time.
Enjoy!
If my unborn child ever sees the light of day, it will be because I'm in practice.
So, here's how I'm going to start - I've picked the five days I'm most likely to write, and five topics that I think I can actually stick to. ("To" being a preposition. I'm letting it go).
Tuesdays - "Not Qualified To Review This"
I'm going to review things. It could be a movie, a book, or a blog. Or it might be a city I've visited, or an airline. It might be a restaurant, or a wine. It could be anything - and likely I am not qualified to give a full review, though I'm going to do it anyway.
Wednesdays - "Wild Card"
Here is my "out" to write anything that doesn't fall into the other categories.
Thursdays - "Almost-Fridays." Remember what I said about being determined to be more positive in 2010? Well I will be, for at least one day a week. Or at least for the amount of time it will take me to conceive and write out Thursday's blog. This is going to essentially be something I'm happy about. I'm going to be very careful not to turn it into an exercise in sarcasm. It will be something for which I'm grateful, pleased, amused - something that brings a smile to my face, and hopefully yours.
Saturdays - "Sometimes I Think I Can Cook"
I'm going to attempt put out a recipe every Saturday. I'll start with the five or six things I do really well, family favorites (i.e. Spice Cake, Drunken Taramisu Cake, Spinach and Goat Cheese Quiche, etc...) These are established recipes into which I've put my own spin. These can be food or cocktail recipes, sauces and dressings, whatever. I love, love, love food, so this one should be really easy to keep up.
Sundays - "*"
This is going to be about something that caught my attention that I think deserves a closer look, maybe a buried news story or an peculiar website.
Okay, here we go. If one or more of these busts, I'll replace it with something else. I think the point is now just to make myself write and write some more. I hope to at the very least be some decent entertainment - a time-killer worthy of killing time.
Enjoy!
Sunday, January 3, 2010
My Unborn Child
Eleven years ago I sat down in front of my room mate's computer and began conceiving a story. I even wrote about fifty pages, writing every night, only to forget about it when I moved to England. While I was there, my friend Mark let me borrow his old 386 after a drunk evening when I remembered the story, and told him about it. So once again I sat down to the story, and rewrote what I remembered of it, and added some things. It began to grow, to my surprise.
It was at this point that the story took on a name: The Devil's Footprints.
For the rest of my time in England I would go back to the story, drop it, then come back to it. The characters, though remaining the same in name, began to grow and take on lives of their own. It was while I was in England that for the first time something amazing and unexpected occurred - the story was changing as I was writing it. The characters almost seemed to act of their own accord.
It was at this point that I began reading the Dune series. I couldn't hep but think how wonderful it must have been for Frank Herbert to imagine, conceive, then give birth to his own universe. I enjoy the books surrounding the original series written by his son and a collaborator, but as entertaining as they are they lack the scope and vision of the originals. The depth they do contain was founded on the original idea. But I digress (as I do). The point is, I kept thinking of The Devil's Footprints as I read these books. So envious and enamored I was with Frank Herbert's sweeping vision, a world at once completely apart and exactly the same as ours. It was a funhouse mirror on our universe, one seen from a distance that puts our world in a new perspective by placing it 10,000 years in the future. I was then determined that one day I would let my own little universe out to let somebody else see it.
Fast forward a few years, and I was in Summerville, South Carolina working night audit at a plantation inn. The night audit would be done by midnight, leaving me with seven dark, quiet, lonely hours in the woods to essentially just be there if I were needed. I never was. So once again I picked up The Devil's Footprints right where I had left off. But this time I decided to begin outlining. I thought that by outlining, the synapses in my brain that represent each of these characters would stop veering off-path.
I began writing from the outline, and in each session the story seemed to take on its own life as I wrote it. More turmoil occurred in my life, and I set it down again, letting it collect dust in the back of my mind. I would never have suspected that it was still growing, becoming something of an unborn child.
Once I moved to DC, I began outlining again. I would walk around the monuments at night, go to the Smithsonian, wander, and think of the story - sometimes ending the day in a bar with a notebook and pen. Outlining was often the last thing I did before I went to sleep. At this point it was conceiving the story that became the fun part. It was as escapist as reading any novel ever had been.
So once again I set about writing it out. I've lost so many versions of the beginning of this story, that writing the first fifty pages had at this point been more clerical than creative. But here again, my life was uprooted and I found myself in Rhode Island.
In Rhode Island, Eric and I rented a house near Providence. This house had a back deck, and quickly I bought a table and some chairs, knowing that I had found a refuge for The Devil's Footprints to grow.
I spent so many hours those two and half years out there outlining, developing characters, creating maps (for my own use, to keep a consistent vision as this world grew). I made family trees, even wrote a few journal entries from the perspective of the main character. I have three notebooks in a box somewhere with the original outlines, and two or three binders still in Rhode Island with further outlines. (However, at this point I'm pretty much fine without them, I know the thing so well).
By my second year in Rhode Island I felt like it had become an obsession. I was writing as well as outlining, and probably wrote (if you include everything I ever deleted), around 350 pages, maybe more.
I find myself back in South Carolina now, dancing around the story, and still thinking about it all the time. I have ideas in mind for other stories, including one surrounding Summerville, stories that are not nearly as outlandish, and take place in the world as we know it, in the here and now. But as I sat down the other day to try to begin the story about Summerville, (after having done some light research), I realized that I couldn't write anything else until The Devil's Footprints is done.
It's become my favorite pet, this monkey sitting on my back. I hate it bitterly but love it. I can't write anything else until it's done, I realize that now.
As far as what I might do with it - who knows? At this point I don't care as much about that as I do completing this thing. I want to let it run its course and get the hell out of my system!
Sure, I have a few pipe dreams of publishing, but if I'm writing this for that, I think I might cheat myself, and the story. I need to let The Devil's Footprints unfold as it always has - on its own, my fingers the vessels.
Maybe I'll let my nephew Zach have it one day, (as my nieces are likely not as apt to enjoy this type of story. Aside from being a fantasy, it can at times get a little violent. Abby didn't even like the opening scene of Bolt). Maybe I should write it for him, and think only of his enjoyment when he gets older. In that I likely won't be as self-conscious and will love the process for what it is.
The Devil's Footprints is my unborn child. Only instead of nine months, I've been carrying this kicking, punching baby inside of me for eleven years. I think it's time to finally let it come on out.
I may ask some of you to help with the delivery. I might paste a few pages here from time to time and let you tell me what you think. Or I might ask your opinions, and maybe even ask for you to help in research. Though I don't think I need much in that respect, as I pretty much know the damn story from start to finish.
And it's grown. It's grown in scope, in number of characters, and in plot. I'm not even sure how I'm going to squeeze some of it in there, but there are things that must be squeezed in.
So here we go - here is my final new year's resolution - I am going to finish this damn thing, if for no other reason than so I can move onto other stories. It may give me the practice I need, and maybe I'll go back to it once and a while to polish it, help the child become an adult. And maybe then he will be ready for Zach.
As I close this post, I'm getting ready to start the process. No more hours and hours of outlining. It's time to start. Again. And finish.
Happy New Year everyone. Wish me luck.
It was at this point that the story took on a name: The Devil's Footprints.
For the rest of my time in England I would go back to the story, drop it, then come back to it. The characters, though remaining the same in name, began to grow and take on lives of their own. It was while I was in England that for the first time something amazing and unexpected occurred - the story was changing as I was writing it. The characters almost seemed to act of their own accord.
It was at this point that I began reading the Dune series. I couldn't hep but think how wonderful it must have been for Frank Herbert to imagine, conceive, then give birth to his own universe. I enjoy the books surrounding the original series written by his son and a collaborator, but as entertaining as they are they lack the scope and vision of the originals. The depth they do contain was founded on the original idea. But I digress (as I do). The point is, I kept thinking of The Devil's Footprints as I read these books. So envious and enamored I was with Frank Herbert's sweeping vision, a world at once completely apart and exactly the same as ours. It was a funhouse mirror on our universe, one seen from a distance that puts our world in a new perspective by placing it 10,000 years in the future. I was then determined that one day I would let my own little universe out to let somebody else see it.
Fast forward a few years, and I was in Summerville, South Carolina working night audit at a plantation inn. The night audit would be done by midnight, leaving me with seven dark, quiet, lonely hours in the woods to essentially just be there if I were needed. I never was. So once again I picked up The Devil's Footprints right where I had left off. But this time I decided to begin outlining. I thought that by outlining, the synapses in my brain that represent each of these characters would stop veering off-path.
I began writing from the outline, and in each session the story seemed to take on its own life as I wrote it. More turmoil occurred in my life, and I set it down again, letting it collect dust in the back of my mind. I would never have suspected that it was still growing, becoming something of an unborn child.
Once I moved to DC, I began outlining again. I would walk around the monuments at night, go to the Smithsonian, wander, and think of the story - sometimes ending the day in a bar with a notebook and pen. Outlining was often the last thing I did before I went to sleep. At this point it was conceiving the story that became the fun part. It was as escapist as reading any novel ever had been.
So once again I set about writing it out. I've lost so many versions of the beginning of this story, that writing the first fifty pages had at this point been more clerical than creative. But here again, my life was uprooted and I found myself in Rhode Island.
In Rhode Island, Eric and I rented a house near Providence. This house had a back deck, and quickly I bought a table and some chairs, knowing that I had found a refuge for The Devil's Footprints to grow.
I spent so many hours those two and half years out there outlining, developing characters, creating maps (for my own use, to keep a consistent vision as this world grew). I made family trees, even wrote a few journal entries from the perspective of the main character. I have three notebooks in a box somewhere with the original outlines, and two or three binders still in Rhode Island with further outlines. (However, at this point I'm pretty much fine without them, I know the thing so well).
By my second year in Rhode Island I felt like it had become an obsession. I was writing as well as outlining, and probably wrote (if you include everything I ever deleted), around 350 pages, maybe more.
I find myself back in South Carolina now, dancing around the story, and still thinking about it all the time. I have ideas in mind for other stories, including one surrounding Summerville, stories that are not nearly as outlandish, and take place in the world as we know it, in the here and now. But as I sat down the other day to try to begin the story about Summerville, (after having done some light research), I realized that I couldn't write anything else until The Devil's Footprints is done.
It's become my favorite pet, this monkey sitting on my back. I hate it bitterly but love it. I can't write anything else until it's done, I realize that now.
As far as what I might do with it - who knows? At this point I don't care as much about that as I do completing this thing. I want to let it run its course and get the hell out of my system!
Sure, I have a few pipe dreams of publishing, but if I'm writing this for that, I think I might cheat myself, and the story. I need to let The Devil's Footprints unfold as it always has - on its own, my fingers the vessels.
Maybe I'll let my nephew Zach have it one day, (as my nieces are likely not as apt to enjoy this type of story. Aside from being a fantasy, it can at times get a little violent. Abby didn't even like the opening scene of Bolt). Maybe I should write it for him, and think only of his enjoyment when he gets older. In that I likely won't be as self-conscious and will love the process for what it is.
The Devil's Footprints is my unborn child. Only instead of nine months, I've been carrying this kicking, punching baby inside of me for eleven years. I think it's time to finally let it come on out.
I may ask some of you to help with the delivery. I might paste a few pages here from time to time and let you tell me what you think. Or I might ask your opinions, and maybe even ask for you to help in research. Though I don't think I need much in that respect, as I pretty much know the damn story from start to finish.
And it's grown. It's grown in scope, in number of characters, and in plot. I'm not even sure how I'm going to squeeze some of it in there, but there are things that must be squeezed in.
So here we go - here is my final new year's resolution - I am going to finish this damn thing, if for no other reason than so I can move onto other stories. It may give me the practice I need, and maybe I'll go back to it once and a while to polish it, help the child become an adult. And maybe then he will be ready for Zach.
As I close this post, I'm getting ready to start the process. No more hours and hours of outlining. It's time to start. Again. And finish.
Happy New Year everyone. Wish me luck.
Friday, December 25, 2009
About Face
Usually I think very hard about what I'm going to write. I diagram, outline, brainstorm, and lay my thoughts and feelings out on paper to organize and make coherent before funneling them onto the monitor. But something is always lost in translation. Some nuance of emotion can never quite be translated and strung into a meaningful sentence. So I decided this time I would simply write what I'm thinking, as I think it, and hope that maybe what I'm feeling will take form in the written word. And maybe then I can look at it and figure it out for myself. Because I'm not exactly sure what I'm feeling.
My sister and my mother wrote two beautiful, but very different blogs today. Mandy wrote about what was lost and her reminders of last Christmas - when we knew our Dad would not be around for this one. She wrote about the last time we were able to really drink and laugh together, on her porch, freezing but letting the laughter and alcohol warm us. It was a welcome but fleeting relief, when we forgot about the chemo, the weight loss, the event we knew that would come, just didn't know it would be the following April.
She wrote about the mockingbird, the animal that's become a family symbol of the man we love so dearly and miss so terribly.
My mother however, wrote about looking forward, about how Christmases will still come as people come and go. She wrote about how life gives us the gifts we need to accept death.
I had a hard time reading my sister's latest entry, maybe because it just hits so close to home with me. It must have taken so much out of her to write it, so honest it was. Maybe it was so hard because I've still, no matter how hard I try not to, have been dealing with this the best way I know how - through distraction.
The last time I visited my Dad's grave, I sat in the grass and talked to him until the dam burst and my grief came rushing out. I thought I would never get back off the ground, and doubted I had the strength strength to do so. Couple this with the fact that I have left who I still think may have been the love of my life - or at least the first person I was ever truly in love with, and one moment I'm full of life, the next I feel numb. One moment I'm grateful for what I have, the next I'm staring off into space thinking about Rhode Island or England.
I left my partner back in February to come home to take care of our Dad while he was sick. I thought the separation would be temporary. When I first moved up to Rhode Island to be with my him, I was escaping. I was escaping a horrible job in DC - and into the arms of someone who loved me. Before that, I went to DC to escape a stagnant life in Charleston. Prior to Charleston I was in England, a place where I rushed to escape a similar stagnation in Columbia.
I've been obsessed with changing who I was at any given point in life. My hair has been black, blonde red, and every color in the spectrum in between. My face has been pierced, then left to heal. I've had glasses, then contacts, then glasses. I've gained weight, lost it, gained it, and lost it again. I've always been obsessed with being different - not from anyone around me, but from whomever I chose to be previously. I've left jobs as I've been promoted, left relationships undeveloped, left friendships when my friends needed me the most, never bringing anything to completion. I think I've always been so terrified of losing anything, I've let it go before I could experience what it was to really have it. Maybe the distance I've put between my family and me at times is a symptom of that. And now I hold them closer than ever because I cannot handle losing anything else, while I learn to live with the loss I've had this year.
So here I am, home because I chose to be home last Winter, to face my Dad's illness with him, and help my family take care of him. I did this after running further and further north, partly to escape coming out to my family, which proved to be at once easier than I thought and harder than I could imagine. I came out to them knowing I would not have the wife and kids my parents deserved after putting up with such an arrogant, rebellious child.
But when my Dad died, try as I may, everything I had ever run from seemed to come crashing into my backside as his death brought my life - and my running - to a sudden halt.
So now, this first Christmas without him, I find myself dealing with learning to live life while exorcising all the ghosts that seem to continue to catch up to me. I'm doing this while consciously leaving the person with whom I promised to spend the rest of my life. And my knee-jerk reaction? I'm thinking about a rooming list I need to get from a client, prospecting I need to do to make my goals. I'm thinking about my trip to DC to visit a couple of dear friends in late January. I'm thinking about everything but what needs to be dealt with - as I've always done.
So as I force myself to turn about face and close my eyes and let it come at me - all the things from which I've run - I'm finding the impact reshaping who I am. But it's forcing me to stop shutting it all out. I've opened the floodgates and let the waves crash into me, head on.
I had the opportunity to once again take a position in DC. I didn't pursue it. I've made the decision to stay home for once. I'll wait for it all to catch up to me, and I'll deal with it all, one item at a time.
Eventually I'll be able to call Rhode Island without crying - I'll have to. I owe him at the very least that much. As much as I don't believe my partner and I are right for each other, at least not right now, (and as I write that without the conviction I think should have, given my decision), I so badly want him in my life. I will call his beautiful family and maintain a relationship with them. I will visit my Dad's grave more often. I will pay off my debts, and I will stop running.
I have been at perhaps the lowest point in my life this year. What I've felt has not compared to anything I've ever experienced. It's as if I've stopped running long enough for the sand storm to catch up and scour my skin raw to the bone.
But what I've learned this year is not that despite the painful parts of life, I want to live. I've learned that I want to live.
I don't want to miss anything. I have so much to do yet. I have two nieces and a nephew to watch grow up. I have to make more money so I can spoil them as an uncle should. I want my own children. I want them to know their brilliant cousins and incredible, fiercely loving family. I want them to feel as lucky as I do, despite it what life throws their way. I want to teach them to turn about face and not make the mistakes I've made.
This year, as broke as I might be, I went a little overboard with the shopping. Because of what I've lost, I have a new appreciation for what I have. Any shopper's remorse I might have will be cured by huge blue eyes smiling through torn Christmas paper. It'll reinforce why I'm here, in South Carolina.
I love my job. Yep - I love it. It's been a very long time since I could really say that. I have amazing bosses and incredible coworkers. Yes, hospitality and I are going through a very extended, very messy divorce - but we're learning to live with each other for a while before it's finalized.
This Christmas my Dad's absence will be heavy. When we're all smiling, laughing, opening gifts and enjoying each others' company, it will be the elephant not in the room. I'll also wake up tomorrow morning thinking about someone in Rhode Island, and I'll go to bed tomorrow night thinking about him. I'll probably spend every day for a very long time wondering if I made the right decision.
But I'll also think about who's here. I'll hug my nieces and nephew a little tighter. I'll hug my Mom and sister and Bio-Dad a little more often. I will embrace what's here, because now more than ever I would love to realize how much I love something while I can still reach out and touch it.
For once I want to stop having one foot in Rhode Island and another foot in England, while admiring the world in front of me from a comfortable distance. It's what I've always done, and I think it's time to live and act here and now. It's time to end the permanent detour. If my Dad left me nothing else, if he never taught me anything else, it's just that - his last gift to me on the first Christmas without him.
Merry Christmas everyone. Hug your family. Love what you have.
My sister and my mother wrote two beautiful, but very different blogs today. Mandy wrote about what was lost and her reminders of last Christmas - when we knew our Dad would not be around for this one. She wrote about the last time we were able to really drink and laugh together, on her porch, freezing but letting the laughter and alcohol warm us. It was a welcome but fleeting relief, when we forgot about the chemo, the weight loss, the event we knew that would come, just didn't know it would be the following April.
She wrote about the mockingbird, the animal that's become a family symbol of the man we love so dearly and miss so terribly.
My mother however, wrote about looking forward, about how Christmases will still come as people come and go. She wrote about how life gives us the gifts we need to accept death.
I had a hard time reading my sister's latest entry, maybe because it just hits so close to home with me. It must have taken so much out of her to write it, so honest it was. Maybe it was so hard because I've still, no matter how hard I try not to, have been dealing with this the best way I know how - through distraction.
The last time I visited my Dad's grave, I sat in the grass and talked to him until the dam burst and my grief came rushing out. I thought I would never get back off the ground, and doubted I had the strength strength to do so. Couple this with the fact that I have left who I still think may have been the love of my life - or at least the first person I was ever truly in love with, and one moment I'm full of life, the next I feel numb. One moment I'm grateful for what I have, the next I'm staring off into space thinking about Rhode Island or England.
I left my partner back in February to come home to take care of our Dad while he was sick. I thought the separation would be temporary. When I first moved up to Rhode Island to be with my him, I was escaping. I was escaping a horrible job in DC - and into the arms of someone who loved me. Before that, I went to DC to escape a stagnant life in Charleston. Prior to Charleston I was in England, a place where I rushed to escape a similar stagnation in Columbia.
I've been obsessed with changing who I was at any given point in life. My hair has been black, blonde red, and every color in the spectrum in between. My face has been pierced, then left to heal. I've had glasses, then contacts, then glasses. I've gained weight, lost it, gained it, and lost it again. I've always been obsessed with being different - not from anyone around me, but from whomever I chose to be previously. I've left jobs as I've been promoted, left relationships undeveloped, left friendships when my friends needed me the most, never bringing anything to completion. I think I've always been so terrified of losing anything, I've let it go before I could experience what it was to really have it. Maybe the distance I've put between my family and me at times is a symptom of that. And now I hold them closer than ever because I cannot handle losing anything else, while I learn to live with the loss I've had this year.
So here I am, home because I chose to be home last Winter, to face my Dad's illness with him, and help my family take care of him. I did this after running further and further north, partly to escape coming out to my family, which proved to be at once easier than I thought and harder than I could imagine. I came out to them knowing I would not have the wife and kids my parents deserved after putting up with such an arrogant, rebellious child.
But when my Dad died, try as I may, everything I had ever run from seemed to come crashing into my backside as his death brought my life - and my running - to a sudden halt.
So now, this first Christmas without him, I find myself dealing with learning to live life while exorcising all the ghosts that seem to continue to catch up to me. I'm doing this while consciously leaving the person with whom I promised to spend the rest of my life. And my knee-jerk reaction? I'm thinking about a rooming list I need to get from a client, prospecting I need to do to make my goals. I'm thinking about my trip to DC to visit a couple of dear friends in late January. I'm thinking about everything but what needs to be dealt with - as I've always done.
So as I force myself to turn about face and close my eyes and let it come at me - all the things from which I've run - I'm finding the impact reshaping who I am. But it's forcing me to stop shutting it all out. I've opened the floodgates and let the waves crash into me, head on.
I had the opportunity to once again take a position in DC. I didn't pursue it. I've made the decision to stay home for once. I'll wait for it all to catch up to me, and I'll deal with it all, one item at a time.
Eventually I'll be able to call Rhode Island without crying - I'll have to. I owe him at the very least that much. As much as I don't believe my partner and I are right for each other, at least not right now, (and as I write that without the conviction I think should have, given my decision), I so badly want him in my life. I will call his beautiful family and maintain a relationship with them. I will visit my Dad's grave more often. I will pay off my debts, and I will stop running.
I have been at perhaps the lowest point in my life this year. What I've felt has not compared to anything I've ever experienced. It's as if I've stopped running long enough for the sand storm to catch up and scour my skin raw to the bone.
But what I've learned this year is not that despite the painful parts of life, I want to live. I've learned that I want to live.
I don't want to miss anything. I have so much to do yet. I have two nieces and a nephew to watch grow up. I have to make more money so I can spoil them as an uncle should. I want my own children. I want them to know their brilliant cousins and incredible, fiercely loving family. I want them to feel as lucky as I do, despite it what life throws their way. I want to teach them to turn about face and not make the mistakes I've made.
This year, as broke as I might be, I went a little overboard with the shopping. Because of what I've lost, I have a new appreciation for what I have. Any shopper's remorse I might have will be cured by huge blue eyes smiling through torn Christmas paper. It'll reinforce why I'm here, in South Carolina.
I love my job. Yep - I love it. It's been a very long time since I could really say that. I have amazing bosses and incredible coworkers. Yes, hospitality and I are going through a very extended, very messy divorce - but we're learning to live with each other for a while before it's finalized.
This Christmas my Dad's absence will be heavy. When we're all smiling, laughing, opening gifts and enjoying each others' company, it will be the elephant not in the room. I'll also wake up tomorrow morning thinking about someone in Rhode Island, and I'll go to bed tomorrow night thinking about him. I'll probably spend every day for a very long time wondering if I made the right decision.
But I'll also think about who's here. I'll hug my nieces and nephew a little tighter. I'll hug my Mom and sister and Bio-Dad a little more often. I will embrace what's here, because now more than ever I would love to realize how much I love something while I can still reach out and touch it.
For once I want to stop having one foot in Rhode Island and another foot in England, while admiring the world in front of me from a comfortable distance. It's what I've always done, and I think it's time to live and act here and now. It's time to end the permanent detour. If my Dad left me nothing else, if he never taught me anything else, it's just that - his last gift to me on the first Christmas without him.
Merry Christmas everyone. Hug your family. Love what you have.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Something Wicked This Way Comes
The paranormal, the mysteries of life and the things that go "bump" have been known to keep me up at night. I know I'm not the only one, and while during the daylight hours I always think I was being silly the night before, the wee hours of the morning, when I've had little sleep, have a way of amplifying my fear while suspending my logic.
I knew I would want to tackle this subject eventually, and I thought that with Halloween looming, this would be as good a time as any.
I was married in Salem, Massachusetts. And though the historic witch trials only took up fifteen months of the city's nearly 384-year history, you would think it was all that had ever happened there. (Actually, the trials took place in neighboring town of Danvers). Don't get me wrong, there are a few museums and landmarks in Salem not devoted to the trials, (The House of the Seven Gables, Maritime Center, Pirate Museum, Peabody-Essex Museum), the town seems to be dedicated to the dark spot on its resume.
We were married in Salem mostly because it's a beautiful, surprisingly friendly (given its proximity to Boston) and liberal town. A gay marriage ceremony in the town square did not bring protests, or even a batted eyelid. But the place is dotted with magic shops, witch museums, haunted houses, ghost walks, and a statue of Elizabeth Montgomery in the town square. There's even a museum dedicated to Lizzie Bordon, which is odd, since the infamous ax murders took place in Fall River, 70 miles to the South. But these are things that bring in the money. These tourist traps are what make Salem a Halloween Mecca and a trip to Salem a veritable Hajj for Wiccans and their ilk.
Why does this otherwise beautiful town need to focus on a piece of history that could be considered shameful and embarrassing? Again - money talks. And why does the the lure of the supernatural draw so many visitors?
I've had my fair share of odd experiences, unexplainable events. I'm a jinx around electronics. Recently my password to our reservations system at work was expiring every hour or so, for no good reason. I didn't think much about it at the time, but the same thing has happened to my email accounts at work, my voice mail, and even the desktop to my computer. Coupled with my experiences of what some in the old south call a "hagging" (though I never saw the thing, as it really just consisted of my being awake but unable to move, and have since read up on many reasonable explanations), dreams that seem to come true during the day in one form or another, (though always in hindsight, and anything is open to interpretation) and just general weirdness that seems to surround me, I tend to raise an eyebrow when anything out of the ordinary occurs. My life has always been full of odd coincidences, feelings of not being alone, (again scientifically explainable), and just about a weekly bout of serious deja vu. But I don't obsess over them. Obsessing over these things will not solve their collective mystery. I've never found a reason for any of these things, and I likely never will. I'm not worried about it in the slightest. I kind of like not knowing when it comes to these things, at least not concretely.
But it's still fun to ponder the unexplainable from time to time. Why?
It's widely known that during times of strife and unrest people flock to the movies more often. Television programs like Heroes, Lost and Smallville do very well. More interestingly, programs that more closely resemble our lives, (relatively speaking of course) like Desperate Housewives, House, Brothers & Sisters, etc.. do equally well, if not better. They require less effort to engage, less suspension of reality. They allow escapism to be easy, make light work of taking us to another universe, just one that doesn't happen to be populated by aliens or ghosts, unless they choose to "jump the shark." We can escape into others' lives, and not feel like we're watching fantasy - though we are.
Is this a healthy outlet? It could be that by allowing ourselves to become absorbed in these very-recognizable universes such as Wisteria Lane, we subconsciously find solutions to our own real-life problems, as they're extrapolated into a preposterous situation in our 42" worlds. We crave the catharsis, the reaching of a conclusion to an impossible situation in an hour. We can easily become addicted to that catharsis when in life we haven't reached those solutions ourselves.
Some likely think their lives are too boring, or more seriously may be afraid to examine their own lives more closely. Dangerously, television can fill that gap nicely, if you let it.
What does this have to do with the obsession by some in the paranormal? Absolutely everything.
By focusing on life's mysteries, we suspend our own realities. Sci-fi, horror, fantasy, to some is what drinking is to others - holding the clutches of the real world at arm's length just long enough to get some sweet escapist relief. Eventually though, the movie ends and the lights come back on. You can buy another ticket and go back in for another feature, but the theater will have to eventually close.
This isn't always the case - there are countless aspiring Fox Mulders out in the world who really do wish to find the truth of these seemingly other-worldly events through observation, experimentation and analysis. Their motives may not be escapism, but then again, their motives may be no less than to reel their projected fantasy world into reality by using logic. Just a thought.
So why does all this hold my interest? Into which category to I belong? I think I need to know that there is more going on. This is by no means an uncommon need.
The incidents I mentioned in my life above, and maybe a little more, are enough to tell me that there is in fact much more to life than what we see. Maybe those bumps we hear in the night are knocks on our doors. Maybe if there are unknown intelligences 'out there,' our mere suspicion of their existence keeps some of us going through the darkest times of our lives.
I'm not going to delve into my personal belief system here, but when there are events in life that can't be explained, you can do one of three things: You can ignore and dismiss them, you can obsess over them and lose sleep over research, or you can simply go with your gut. The third option is where I fall. To me this makes the most sense - answer the questions of life's outer mysteries with your own inner ones. Isn't this why human intuition exists, to fill the gaps logic can't?
It's a pretty big world out there, and it's arrogance to believe we've done more than just begin to scratch the surface. Last week a mysterious ribbon of particles were discovered at the edge of our solar system, http://www.universetoday.com/2009/10/15/spacecraft-detects-mysterious-ribbon-at-edge-of-solar-system/heliosphere-2/which by the way, like the rest of the universe, is full of matter that we also can't explain or even identify http://imagine.gsfc.nasa.gov/docs/science/know_l1/dark_matter.html ). We can't even fully explain gravity. We haven't yet begun.
Bumps in the night should not surprise us.
Maybe that bump in the night is a knock at the door. Maybe it's a knock that comes late at night, in the darkest hour before the sun illuminates the real world in the morning. Maybe you answer the knock, and nobody is there.
And maybe the one who knocked just wanted to know if you were paying attention.
Happy Halloween!
I knew I would want to tackle this subject eventually, and I thought that with Halloween looming, this would be as good a time as any.
I was married in Salem, Massachusetts. And though the historic witch trials only took up fifteen months of the city's nearly 384-year history, you would think it was all that had ever happened there. (Actually, the trials took place in neighboring town of Danvers). Don't get me wrong, there are a few museums and landmarks in Salem not devoted to the trials, (The House of the Seven Gables, Maritime Center, Pirate Museum, Peabody-Essex Museum), the town seems to be dedicated to the dark spot on its resume.
We were married in Salem mostly because it's a beautiful, surprisingly friendly (given its proximity to Boston) and liberal town. A gay marriage ceremony in the town square did not bring protests, or even a batted eyelid. But the place is dotted with magic shops, witch museums, haunted houses, ghost walks, and a statue of Elizabeth Montgomery in the town square. There's even a museum dedicated to Lizzie Bordon, which is odd, since the infamous ax murders took place in Fall River, 70 miles to the South. But these are things that bring in the money. These tourist traps are what make Salem a Halloween Mecca and a trip to Salem a veritable Hajj for Wiccans and their ilk.
Why does this otherwise beautiful town need to focus on a piece of history that could be considered shameful and embarrassing? Again - money talks. And why does the the lure of the supernatural draw so many visitors?
I've had my fair share of odd experiences, unexplainable events. I'm a jinx around electronics. Recently my password to our reservations system at work was expiring every hour or so, for no good reason. I didn't think much about it at the time, but the same thing has happened to my email accounts at work, my voice mail, and even the desktop to my computer. Coupled with my experiences of what some in the old south call a "hagging" (though I never saw the thing, as it really just consisted of my being awake but unable to move, and have since read up on many reasonable explanations), dreams that seem to come true during the day in one form or another, (though always in hindsight, and anything is open to interpretation) and just general weirdness that seems to surround me, I tend to raise an eyebrow when anything out of the ordinary occurs. My life has always been full of odd coincidences, feelings of not being alone, (again scientifically explainable), and just about a weekly bout of serious deja vu. But I don't obsess over them. Obsessing over these things will not solve their collective mystery. I've never found a reason for any of these things, and I likely never will. I'm not worried about it in the slightest. I kind of like not knowing when it comes to these things, at least not concretely.
But it's still fun to ponder the unexplainable from time to time. Why?
It's widely known that during times of strife and unrest people flock to the movies more often. Television programs like Heroes, Lost and Smallville do very well. More interestingly, programs that more closely resemble our lives, (relatively speaking of course) like Desperate Housewives, House, Brothers & Sisters, etc.. do equally well, if not better. They require less effort to engage, less suspension of reality. They allow escapism to be easy, make light work of taking us to another universe, just one that doesn't happen to be populated by aliens or ghosts, unless they choose to "jump the shark." We can escape into others' lives, and not feel like we're watching fantasy - though we are.
Is this a healthy outlet? It could be that by allowing ourselves to become absorbed in these very-recognizable universes such as Wisteria Lane, we subconsciously find solutions to our own real-life problems, as they're extrapolated into a preposterous situation in our 42" worlds. We crave the catharsis, the reaching of a conclusion to an impossible situation in an hour. We can easily become addicted to that catharsis when in life we haven't reached those solutions ourselves.
Some likely think their lives are too boring, or more seriously may be afraid to examine their own lives more closely. Dangerously, television can fill that gap nicely, if you let it.
What does this have to do with the obsession by some in the paranormal? Absolutely everything.
By focusing on life's mysteries, we suspend our own realities. Sci-fi, horror, fantasy, to some is what drinking is to others - holding the clutches of the real world at arm's length just long enough to get some sweet escapist relief. Eventually though, the movie ends and the lights come back on. You can buy another ticket and go back in for another feature, but the theater will have to eventually close.
This isn't always the case - there are countless aspiring Fox Mulders out in the world who really do wish to find the truth of these seemingly other-worldly events through observation, experimentation and analysis. Their motives may not be escapism, but then again, their motives may be no less than to reel their projected fantasy world into reality by using logic. Just a thought.
So why does all this hold my interest? Into which category to I belong? I think I need to know that there is more going on. This is by no means an uncommon need.
The incidents I mentioned in my life above, and maybe a little more, are enough to tell me that there is in fact much more to life than what we see. Maybe those bumps we hear in the night are knocks on our doors. Maybe if there are unknown intelligences 'out there,' our mere suspicion of their existence keeps some of us going through the darkest times of our lives.
I'm not going to delve into my personal belief system here, but when there are events in life that can't be explained, you can do one of three things: You can ignore and dismiss them, you can obsess over them and lose sleep over research, or you can simply go with your gut. The third option is where I fall. To me this makes the most sense - answer the questions of life's outer mysteries with your own inner ones. Isn't this why human intuition exists, to fill the gaps logic can't?
It's a pretty big world out there, and it's arrogance to believe we've done more than just begin to scratch the surface. Last week a mysterious ribbon of particles were discovered at the edge of our solar system, http://www.universetoday.com/2009/10/15/spacecraft-detects-mysterious-ribbon-at-edge-of-solar-system/heliosphere-2/which by the way, like the rest of the universe, is full of matter that we also can't explain or even identify http://imagine.gsfc.nasa.gov/docs/science/know_l1/dark_matter.html ). We can't even fully explain gravity. We haven't yet begun.
Bumps in the night should not surprise us.
Maybe that bump in the night is a knock at the door. Maybe it's a knock that comes late at night, in the darkest hour before the sun illuminates the real world in the morning. Maybe you answer the knock, and nobody is there.
And maybe the one who knocked just wanted to know if you were paying attention.
Happy Halloween!
Friday, October 2, 2009
Fifteen Minutes Through Columbia, At The Other Side of the Fence
"And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself - well...how did I get here?"
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself - well...how did I get here?"
-David Byrne, Talking heads
Once In A Lifetime
I try not to get too wrapped up in nostalgia. Don’t get me wrong, it has its place. If we don’t reflect on our experiences, we can't grow from them. But reflection can be a slippery slope, getting so wrapped up in your past that you forget to experience the present. New experiences give way to the previous. You can get so involved in the past that as the world moves on around you, it leaves you behind in a self-reflective feedback loop. That might be an extreme example, but we've all seen it happen. Maybe we’ve even experienced it once or twice, getting lost in photo albums for maybe a little too long, or dwelling alone over a bottle of wine and dusty yet dangerous should-haves. I know I have more than my fair share of should-haves, longing for a means to correct and reroute what’s already been done. But I’ve learned not to focus on who I was, but rather who I could be. Maybe I’ve learned that a little later in life than I should have, but then if I’d taken the time to reflect on the present at a younger age, I wouldn’t have that problem now.
See how easy it is to get caught up?
Last night I made my weekly ritual commute from Greenville to Summerville. If there’s any stretch of road in this country I know, it’s I-26 in South Carolina. I know it’s a 34 minute stretch from I-385 at I-85 to I-26. I know that in five minutes I’ll pass Joanna, ten more minutes, Jalapa. I know that Newberry is fifteen minutes to Dreher Island, and another ten minutes to the outskirts of Columbia. Then from the Ballantine/White Rock exit, what I consider the boundary, it’s fifteen minutes to the Zeus plant near the Dixiana exit. There are four St. Matthews exits, three Orangeburg exits. One of the St. Matthews exits is also an Orangeburg exit, and it has some colorful rocks displaying a smiley-face to your right.
Thirty-eight minutes later and you’re at I-95. Past I-95, the scenery takes on a decidedly low country appearance. Spanish Moss appears on the live oaks and the wetlands seem to be threatening to take over the interstate the moment they're allowed, if the cars would just stop for five minutes. The road soon flattens out. It’s the home stretch. The smell of low tide and paper mill creeps in over the smell of pine trees. This happens right around Summerville.
Each time I pass through Columbia I know I should stop and see Dad, or Sam, or one of my aunts, but I keep going. I just don’t want to stop. It’s not that I don’t want to see them, it’s just that I want to get home to Summerville. But last night I think I figured out from where some of my hesitation comes.
Before I left work in Greenville I had a glass of wine with my co-workers. Therefore, around the time I hit Irmo (on the outskirts of Columbia, near said Ballantine/White Rock exit) I really needed a bathroom. So I waited the fifteen minutes, and hit the rest stop just past the Zeus building.
I got out of the car, and with a deep breath took in a scent I had forgotten all about. I don’t know if anybody reading this has ever noticed, but each city, each town has a specific smell. The outskirts of West Columbia is no different. It’s a mix of pine, exhaust, grass. I couldn't tell you what it consisted of. I couldn't begin to describe it.
I made my way to the predictably lemony-scummy rest stop bathroom and came out, once again being hit by the cool air carrying that smell (mind you anything is better than urinal cakes). It was not a bad smell. On the contrary, it was really quite nice. It’s said that smell is the scent most closely linked to memory. I wandered down the sidewalk, stretching my arms and legs, and stopped to take in the nighttime Columbia skyline. From a distance it actually looks like a decent-sized city.
Columbia has a distinct culture. It might not seem so from an outsider, but Columbians have a history and even certain terms only they can interpret. For instance, unless you’re from Columbia you have no idea what I’m referring to when I say the Brown Sign with the Sowing Machine in the Corner. Or the Vomit Comet at Naked Iguana. Or Malfunction Junction, General Frontage, Cabin Fever, Mister Knowzit, Captain Telegram, Trustus, Group Therapy, the now-closed hundred year-old Capitol Restaurant, ad infinitum. It will all always be a part of me, as much as I tend to brush it aside.
I took my gaze away from the skyline and meandered over to a chain-link fence that stood blocking access to the Frontage Road (see: General Frontage – pronounced Fronn-taj). A memory hit me that threw me back fifteen years, jarring me. I walked down that road once with a backpack and a few friends, heading toward somewhere or other, likely getting up to no good. I remember approaching the fence from the other side and wondering where that rest top was. It was a sobering shock to me to see that spot again. I couldn't believe I was there again. I remember that night so well.
And here I was, fifteen or so years later, looking back from the other side. It was an odd feeling, as if I was looking back at some stranger so many years prior, with the backdrop of my home city creating a day-glow some distance behind me. I could still picture myself there, off the side of the frontage road - piercings, green hair, likely a beer in my hand. I wondered if I would have been able to picture myself looking ahead a decade and a half - in a suit, coming from Greenville, a corporate event planner. Out to the world, a partner in Rhode Island where I wanted to return. I might have spat in my own face. It would have been against my very core values.
And here I was, fifteen or so years later, looking back from the other side. It was an odd feeling, as if I was looking back at some stranger so many years prior, with the backdrop of my home city creating a day-glow some distance behind me. I could still picture myself there, off the side of the frontage road - piercings, green hair, likely a beer in my hand. I wondered if I would have been able to picture myself looking ahead a decade and a half - in a suit, coming from Greenville, a corporate event planner. Out to the world, a partner in Rhode Island where I wanted to return. I might have spat in my own face. It would have been against my very core values.
Same As It Ever Was
I sometimes miss wild nights in Columbia, wandering (stumbling) home from Five Points, shooting fireworks from the roof of Cornell Arms, climbing on rooftops, finding my way to the tops of office buildings, staring out my apartment window at Adluh…Flour…Adluhflour while waiting for our neighbors to come over so we could find something vaguely interesting to do. That was around the time I started getting bored with it all. The parties, the drinking, the punk shows, the gay bar. It just got old, stale, as the still heat stewing in a city on a hill, with few trees, surrounded by wetlands. (Columbians often say Columbia sits right over Hell).
Back then, I continued this lifestyle simply as a default. It was just what I did. We waxed philosphical in Cafe' Espresso and later continued the debate over beer and who-knows-what until we found ourselves at a show, dancing and drinking until we passed out.
Back then, I continued this lifestyle simply as a default. It was just what I did. We waxed philosphical in Cafe' Espresso and later continued the debate over beer and who-knows-what until we found ourselves at a show, dancing and drinking until we passed out.
Now the party is over, and I look back on it all and wonder what, if anything, I got out of it all. I started my life too late I think sometimes. But then, I think before I leave for Rhode Island, I want just one more wild night in Columbia, and put it all to bed for good. Maybe we'll go to the Art Bar. Maybe we'll feel pretentious enough to sit in Goatfeathers and wax political, and maybe after a few more drinks in the Library we'll head for pizza at the Village Idiot. Maybe we'll shoot fireworks from the roof of Cornell Arms. Then again, I'm not sure if I would get the same enjoyment out of it. But I still need to do it just one more time.
If I know a place in this world well, it's Columbia. It's still a part of me. But I don't feel a connection to it. I've never felt it was my home town. And I don't relate to the guy I was fifteen years ago, at the other side of the fence. But he was still me. Somehow, he was part of the road that led to who I am now. Somehow, some way, I hopped the fence. And now I just want one more taste of what it was like over there. But then, if I were there, would it still be the same? Probably not.
I slowly walked back to my car, got in, and drove the rest of the way to Summerville. I didn’t think about that experience again until I sat down to make some format changes on this blog. I know this was not supposed to be a diary, but I had to write about it. I feel a little better now. I still wonder how I got from green-haired, pierced, party boy to corporate event planner. I wonder if I lost something along the way.
If I know a place in this world well, it's Columbia. It's still a part of me. But I don't feel a connection to it. I've never felt it was my home town. And I don't relate to the guy I was fifteen years ago, at the other side of the fence. But he was still me. Somehow, he was part of the road that led to who I am now. Somehow, some way, I hopped the fence. And now I just want one more taste of what it was like over there. But then, if I were there, would it still be the same? Probably not.
I slowly walked back to my car, got in, and drove the rest of the way to Summerville. I didn’t think about that experience again until I sat down to make some format changes on this blog. I know this was not supposed to be a diary, but I had to write about it. I feel a little better now. I still wonder how I got from green-haired, pierced, party boy to corporate event planner. I wonder if I lost something along the way.
I’ll get back to less self-absorption next time I write, but thanks for listening.
"And you may ask yourself
What is that beautiful house?
And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go?
And you may ask yourself
Am I right? ...am I wrong?
And you may tell yourself
My god!...what have I done?"
What is that beautiful house?
And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go?
And you may ask yourself
Am I right? ...am I wrong?
And you may tell yourself
My god!...what have I done?"
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
In Comfort Zones, On Paper
I just threw away half a ream of paper and it got me thinking.
Why do we still use paper? Give me an example of an application that absolutely, positively requires wood pulp from trees. Surely publishers make bigger returns on digital work, surely money could have gone digital years ago. Are digital copies and backups for files not more reliable and easier to organize? I can think of a hundred means of identification more reliable than a signature. Who writes checks anymore?
I have a co worker who insists that we distribute event information in multiple places throughout the hotel. When information is revised, we distribute more pieces of paper. We have a meeting twice a week that is formatted such that we have to bring stacks and stacks of paper, roughly a ream, to be thrown away after an hour. For each group I host with rooms I distribute coversheets, group resume's, to every manager. And yet, I know mostly they go unread. All this information can be found in our systems. I admit, you can touch, see, hear, smell paper. But it's no more real than compressed data. It's just comfortable.
I'm not saying paper is only for the wasteful and those who missed the computer revolution, (you know who you are), I'm just pointing out the reason people insist on having paper as a "backup" in these situations. It's comfort. It's what they're used to.
I admit to a certian level of comfort in plucking a volume from a bookshelf and thumbing through the pages that trumps scrolling a mouse. But I think that's only because of experience using books - I'm old enough to remember life before Google. But it's unnecessary. A digital copy with a further backup will long outlast a piece of paper.
This is the same comfort zone that leads so many people into a harmful fear of change. Many people insist prayer should be in schools, but it makes no sense to the non-Christians. Are we so caught up in our own comfort zones that we're willing to sacrifice those of others if their belief system differs from ours? Couldn't one argue that this is quintissentially un-American? But then, so many parents grew up with prayer in schools, so constitution be damned. There are those who believe gay marriage is an assault on traditional marriage, but really it's an assault on their perspective on marriage. The Defense-of-Marriagers would rather sacrifice the comfort and happiness of others to remain in their unchanging world.
Many people spend their whole lives in one city, but eventually anything else escapes their comfort zone and they lose out on the perspective gained from travelling. All these things may seem unrelated to that ream of paper I just threw out, but they aren't at all.
Racism, homophobia, xenophobia, sexism, all stem from a fear of change, a fear of anything that contrasts with one's perspective, however narrow or seemingly wide.
One could argue that religion, when taken out of context can be used as the ultimate comfort zone. Ultimate forgiveness, eternal life, and the warmth of routine ingrained in every aspect of our daily lives can seem soothing to some. There's peace in ritual. But if one injects true spirituality and self-questioning into the religious mix, (regardless of the religion), you are catapulted into the wandering place, a place the Christian Bible describes a desert. No trees grow there.
So here we all are, standing at opposing sides of the wandering place, throwing rocks at each other and refusing to budge if someone from another point of view tries to butt their way in. There has to be a middle ground, but we'd all become very unformfortable before we could get there. But maybe we'd be better people for it. Maybe we'd grow a little.
And maybe we'd stop wasting so much damn paper.
Why do we still use paper? Give me an example of an application that absolutely, positively requires wood pulp from trees. Surely publishers make bigger returns on digital work, surely money could have gone digital years ago. Are digital copies and backups for files not more reliable and easier to organize? I can think of a hundred means of identification more reliable than a signature. Who writes checks anymore?
I have a co worker who insists that we distribute event information in multiple places throughout the hotel. When information is revised, we distribute more pieces of paper. We have a meeting twice a week that is formatted such that we have to bring stacks and stacks of paper, roughly a ream, to be thrown away after an hour. For each group I host with rooms I distribute coversheets, group resume's, to every manager. And yet, I know mostly they go unread. All this information can be found in our systems. I admit, you can touch, see, hear, smell paper. But it's no more real than compressed data. It's just comfortable.
I'm not saying paper is only for the wasteful and those who missed the computer revolution, (you know who you are), I'm just pointing out the reason people insist on having paper as a "backup" in these situations. It's comfort. It's what they're used to.
I admit to a certian level of comfort in plucking a volume from a bookshelf and thumbing through the pages that trumps scrolling a mouse. But I think that's only because of experience using books - I'm old enough to remember life before Google. But it's unnecessary. A digital copy with a further backup will long outlast a piece of paper.
This is the same comfort zone that leads so many people into a harmful fear of change. Many people insist prayer should be in schools, but it makes no sense to the non-Christians. Are we so caught up in our own comfort zones that we're willing to sacrifice those of others if their belief system differs from ours? Couldn't one argue that this is quintissentially un-American? But then, so many parents grew up with prayer in schools, so constitution be damned. There are those who believe gay marriage is an assault on traditional marriage, but really it's an assault on their perspective on marriage. The Defense-of-Marriagers would rather sacrifice the comfort and happiness of others to remain in their unchanging world.
Many people spend their whole lives in one city, but eventually anything else escapes their comfort zone and they lose out on the perspective gained from travelling. All these things may seem unrelated to that ream of paper I just threw out, but they aren't at all.
Racism, homophobia, xenophobia, sexism, all stem from a fear of change, a fear of anything that contrasts with one's perspective, however narrow or seemingly wide.
One could argue that religion, when taken out of context can be used as the ultimate comfort zone. Ultimate forgiveness, eternal life, and the warmth of routine ingrained in every aspect of our daily lives can seem soothing to some. There's peace in ritual. But if one injects true spirituality and self-questioning into the religious mix, (regardless of the religion), you are catapulted into the wandering place, a place the Christian Bible describes a desert. No trees grow there.
So here we all are, standing at opposing sides of the wandering place, throwing rocks at each other and refusing to budge if someone from another point of view tries to butt their way in. There has to be a middle ground, but we'd all become very unformfortable before we could get there. But maybe we'd be better people for it. Maybe we'd grow a little.
And maybe we'd stop wasting so much damn paper.
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