Written 24 April 2015
I was challenged by my (then) wife about the "real reason" I wanted a divorce. I realized years ago it did no good to respond to these accusations with honesty, as honest answers are complicated, take a lot of time, and usually weren't listened to/believed anyway. So I wrote this in response for my own edification/exploration
* * * * *
The real reason is that I am a flawed and broken person. There are so many things I have failed at, so many things I want (especially from you) that I don't know how to get, so much I've screwed up, so many times I've hurt people, especially you... And this has been unacceptable. You haven't approved of who I am in all these years. Sure, you tell me how attractive I am and how much you love me, but when it matters most, when I am at my lowest, you don't want me the way I am really am, you would rather have a version of me that will never exist. Not that I haven't struggled and beat myself up our entire marriage to become that man... But I never will. And what I've learned over 20 years of trying is that I am okay the way I am. But you won't take me this way, and it's unfair and unreasonable for me to expect you to change, and you really do deserve that man you've been looking for (regrettably, in me) all these years. And that is the real reason.
Showing posts with label backpost. Show all posts
Showing posts with label backpost. Show all posts
Thursday, April 14, 2016
On Bullies
Written 21 August 2015, in response to a friend's Facebook video posting. I love this man dearly, but he's a tough guy: from a rough neighborhood, minority, now a United States Marine. I know the culture that teaches the best way for someone downtrodden is to get tough and push their way out, but it's not always that answer. I did not post this response to his video, but I wouldn't hesitate to tell him this over a beer in his Bronx neighborhood.
* * * * *
Its not this simple, and it never will be. If you've never been bullied, you can't possibly know this. Bullying is about abuse of power, plain and simple. Bullying is not ever going to be solved by making some kids tougher, because for bullied kids it's not only about size or strength. It's also about confidence and what they believe themselves capable of. For kids, both those factors have a lot to do with family and social environment. I knew plenty of kids who were capable of flattening their bullies with one swipe, but for them, power wasn't about size. I knew other kids who were scrawny the bullies never once would have considered picking on because of that kid's projected self image. If you simply make every kid able to defend him/herself without addressing the issues of power abuse, you will just make more bullies who can do more damage.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Grandmother's Eulogy
19 May 2013
Good morning. I'd like to tell you about my Grama, Minnie Mae Hobgood.
Whether you called her Friend, Sister, Mother, Aunt Minnie, Grama Hobgood, or any of those things with a Great- (or Great-Great) in front of them, everyone here knows what a special lady she was in her lifetime.
To me, she was Grama. She brought me to church as far back as I can remember. She was an amazing combination of patience and urgency whenever Chuck and I would be talking during sermon and she'd look back at us. Even twenty pews away, she was NOT to be ignored. Like many of us cousins, I practically grew up in her back yard, and I actually believed in the much talked about 'ugly stick' until I was about fourteen. Not to say Grama was a mean lady--she just had so many of us lambs to mind. My most enduring memory of those days are of a woman feared as and rumored to be strict and stern, who did occasionally show it, but was never angry more than a moment, always forgiving, and constantly filled with the kind of love that still forms the core of my religious beliefs, and still cements my faith when it falters.
That's just been my own personal experience, and between 4 siblings, 1 spouse, 7 children, 26 grandchildren, and 65 great grandchildren, it represents literally less than 1% of what kind of person she actually was.
She meant something special to each of us. How many of us have slept in her house because we had nowhere safer to go? How many of us have eaten only because we knew she'd offer freely without judgment? How many of us found love and sanctuary in her care when they were needed most? And then, once we were helped gently back onto our feet, how many people in our own lives have benefited because we were nourished and comforted by her unprejudiced kindness?
She touched so many in such countless ways; the amount of Good she did in this world can never be measured, but I know if God is keeping score, He called home a winner this week.
What I ultimately learned from her is that life is an open system based on love, and it is not self-sustaining. We need to feed into it by taking care of each other, and being responsible for who and what we bring into this sometimes cruel world. Through her example, I learned that the greatest help we can sometimes offer another human being is remaining true to that person we've grown into ourselves, and directing our own lives not away from, but toward those we love. This is how she touched me; this was the gift I received.
What gifts did she give you?
Of course, after a while, I wasn't a very good grandchild. Like everyone eventually does, I became an adult focused on myself: my stuff, my work, and eventually my family. I formed my own bubble and floated away, seemingly having forgotten Grama's lessons. Now I do know that that's how it's supposed to work--of all people, Grama would know this after raising seven children. I know I'm not alone in having drifted away, and I doubt I'm alone in having been reminded by her declining health how important our family bonds are. As we slowly gathered at her bedside, or included her in our prayers, we tried to return the favors of love and kindness we'd all been given for so long. In this way, she gave us one more gift.
If you loved Minnie Mae Hobgood, honor her last gift by continuing her legacy. Continue her work to make the world better through unsolicited acts of kindness. Hold dear the connections you share with those who sit here today to remember her. Today it's easier than ever to send a message or text, or even a simple Facebook poke, just to let others know you're there, and you care about them. Whether blood kin or a friend, Minnie made us all Family through her love. Let's make sure she is always remembered by never letting that go.
Good morning. I'd like to tell you about my Grama, Minnie Mae Hobgood.
Whether you called her Friend, Sister, Mother, Aunt Minnie, Grama Hobgood, or any of those things with a Great- (or Great-Great) in front of them, everyone here knows what a special lady she was in her lifetime.
To me, she was Grama. She brought me to church as far back as I can remember. She was an amazing combination of patience and urgency whenever Chuck and I would be talking during sermon and she'd look back at us. Even twenty pews away, she was NOT to be ignored. Like many of us cousins, I practically grew up in her back yard, and I actually believed in the much talked about 'ugly stick' until I was about fourteen. Not to say Grama was a mean lady--she just had so many of us lambs to mind. My most enduring memory of those days are of a woman feared as and rumored to be strict and stern, who did occasionally show it, but was never angry more than a moment, always forgiving, and constantly filled with the kind of love that still forms the core of my religious beliefs, and still cements my faith when it falters.
That's just been my own personal experience, and between 4 siblings, 1 spouse, 7 children, 26 grandchildren, and 65 great grandchildren, it represents literally less than 1% of what kind of person she actually was.
She meant something special to each of us. How many of us have slept in her house because we had nowhere safer to go? How many of us have eaten only because we knew she'd offer freely without judgment? How many of us found love and sanctuary in her care when they were needed most? And then, once we were helped gently back onto our feet, how many people in our own lives have benefited because we were nourished and comforted by her unprejudiced kindness?
She touched so many in such countless ways; the amount of Good she did in this world can never be measured, but I know if God is keeping score, He called home a winner this week.
What I ultimately learned from her is that life is an open system based on love, and it is not self-sustaining. We need to feed into it by taking care of each other, and being responsible for who and what we bring into this sometimes cruel world. Through her example, I learned that the greatest help we can sometimes offer another human being is remaining true to that person we've grown into ourselves, and directing our own lives not away from, but toward those we love. This is how she touched me; this was the gift I received.
What gifts did she give you?
Of course, after a while, I wasn't a very good grandchild. Like everyone eventually does, I became an adult focused on myself: my stuff, my work, and eventually my family. I formed my own bubble and floated away, seemingly having forgotten Grama's lessons. Now I do know that that's how it's supposed to work--of all people, Grama would know this after raising seven children. I know I'm not alone in having drifted away, and I doubt I'm alone in having been reminded by her declining health how important our family bonds are. As we slowly gathered at her bedside, or included her in our prayers, we tried to return the favors of love and kindness we'd all been given for so long. In this way, she gave us one more gift.
If you loved Minnie Mae Hobgood, honor her last gift by continuing her legacy. Continue her work to make the world better through unsolicited acts of kindness. Hold dear the connections you share with those who sit here today to remember her. Today it's easier than ever to send a message or text, or even a simple Facebook poke, just to let others know you're there, and you care about them. Whether blood kin or a friend, Minnie made us all Family through her love. Let's make sure she is always remembered by never letting that go.
Adult Lives
10 July 2014
My whole life, I've watched adults, living their adult lives. Even after I was grown, I watched as adults... not just adults, /other/ adults... did things with their lives I had never imagined I'd do: start businesses, educate themselves, date casually, drink responsibly (and otherwise, without being judged for it), initiate and end intimate relationships, tell uncomfortable truths because they believed in themselves despite their bad decisions, make investments, have disagreements but not fights, express anger without yelling, disapprove of another's actions without disapproving of the person himself, make hard choices with money and live happily anyway. And other healthy adult things.
I had occasionally seen these behaviours on TV, but not often, and with too little information to learn them. Given my literature choices, a select few of these were demonstrated, and of course only under ideal and/or unrealistic circumstances. More often than not, however, with my media influences and adult role models, these commonplace adult actions were completely foreign to me, even as I grew into physical adulthood myself. And as that happened, and my youth (even adult youth) slowly became less and less of an excuse for my irresponsible behaviours and bad habits, I became more and more confused.
(emotional immaturity)
And if you haven't experienced this yourself, let me assure you: being a physically grown yet emotionally immature adult in a healthy (or at least functioning) adult world is terrifying. Going into a coffee shop and watching two people discuss business, I wonder at the idea that neither of them depends on an employer for their livlihood, and how that can not paralyze them with fear. Trying to finish school, I watch as young 20-somethings make their way confidently from class to class to (minimum wage) job to (sometimes their own) homes without trying to pad their daily existence with the approval of other people that so often depends on frivolously spending time and money. Being nerdy made engaging in hobbies like gaming easier, but I wondered how so many young men, some married professionals, could engage in twelve-hour long sessions of anything without somehow alleviating their wives' or girlfriends' (when they had them) disapproval.
[unfinished]
My whole life, I've watched adults, living their adult lives. Even after I was grown, I watched as adults... not just adults, /other/ adults... did things with their lives I had never imagined I'd do: start businesses, educate themselves, date casually, drink responsibly (and otherwise, without being judged for it), initiate and end intimate relationships, tell uncomfortable truths because they believed in themselves despite their bad decisions, make investments, have disagreements but not fights, express anger without yelling, disapprove of another's actions without disapproving of the person himself, make hard choices with money and live happily anyway. And other healthy adult things.
I had occasionally seen these behaviours on TV, but not often, and with too little information to learn them. Given my literature choices, a select few of these were demonstrated, and of course only under ideal and/or unrealistic circumstances. More often than not, however, with my media influences and adult role models, these commonplace adult actions were completely foreign to me, even as I grew into physical adulthood myself. And as that happened, and my youth (even adult youth) slowly became less and less of an excuse for my irresponsible behaviours and bad habits, I became more and more confused.
(emotional immaturity)
And if you haven't experienced this yourself, let me assure you: being a physically grown yet emotionally immature adult in a healthy (or at least functioning) adult world is terrifying. Going into a coffee shop and watching two people discuss business, I wonder at the idea that neither of them depends on an employer for their livlihood, and how that can not paralyze them with fear. Trying to finish school, I watch as young 20-somethings make their way confidently from class to class to (minimum wage) job to (sometimes their own) homes without trying to pad their daily existence with the approval of other people that so often depends on frivolously spending time and money. Being nerdy made engaging in hobbies like gaming easier, but I wondered how so many young men, some married professionals, could engage in twelve-hour long sessions of anything without somehow alleviating their wives' or girlfriends' (when they had them) disapproval.
[unfinished]
Anniversary Card 2012
12 November 2012
To My Dear Wife,
(Notes)
Today, our 18th wedding anniversary, will very likely come and go just like most of the other 6,500+ days we've been married: we'll go to work and meet our responsibilities to others and try to find time to remember how important each other is.
Every year on our anniversary
We have been through so much together. I have days when I am amazed at our resilience, days when I truly never want to even imagine a life without you, and of course other kinds of days too.
The truth is wherever you and I end up in our lives, w
and that we both have a lot of learning to do about our own selves,
Even after all we've been through, and despite our worst fears, t
(Written)
I am an imperfect husband, and you've always deserved better than I could provide. You've shown a divine grace in your acceptance of my faults and forgiveness of my missteps. I have spent most of my adult life wishing to be the man of your dreams, and I still hope I can get there one day.
I know we have uncertain times ahead, but I believe we can make it. Just like 1 Corinthians says, love is patient, and kind, and other stuff, but in our case it is also stubborn. We have lasted 18 years because parts of each of us refuse to give up. I'm counting on those parts to see us through.
There hasn't been a moment in the last twenty years that I haven't loved you, and no matter what happens there will never be a day for as long as I live that I won't keep loving you with my whole heart and soul.
Eighteen years ago today, we said our vows and lit those candles, and they went out, and we lit them again... and again. We have a bond that can never be broken, no matter what our hearts or heads may say, no matter how far we may grow from one another. You will always be my forever partner.
To My Dear Wife,
(Notes)
Today, our 18th wedding anniversary, will very likely come and go just like most of the other 6,500+ days we've been married: we'll go to work and meet our responsibilities to others and try to find time to remember how important each other is.
Every year on our anniversary
We have been through so much together. I have days when I am amazed at our resilience, days when I truly never want to even imagine a life without you, and of course other kinds of days too.
The truth is wherever you and I end up in our lives, w
and that we both have a lot of learning to do about our own selves,
Even after all we've been through, and despite our worst fears, t
(Written)
I am an imperfect husband, and you've always deserved better than I could provide. You've shown a divine grace in your acceptance of my faults and forgiveness of my missteps. I have spent most of my adult life wishing to be the man of your dreams, and I still hope I can get there one day.
I know we have uncertain times ahead, but I believe we can make it. Just like 1 Corinthians says, love is patient, and kind, and other stuff, but in our case it is also stubborn. We have lasted 18 years because parts of each of us refuse to give up. I'm counting on those parts to see us through.
There hasn't been a moment in the last twenty years that I haven't loved you, and no matter what happens there will never be a day for as long as I live that I won't keep loving you with my whole heart and soul.
Eighteen years ago today, we said our vows and lit those candles, and they went out, and we lit them again... and again. We have a bond that can never be broken, no matter what our hearts or heads may say, no matter how far we may grow from one another. You will always be my forever partner.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Innocent Fantasy
Written November 2006.
* * * * *
There's a new girl named Missy. She's tall and blonde, with long wavy hair and hips that are sloppy but not overly large. She's pretty in an imperfect way, and her smile is genuine. With other professionals around, she matches suit, but face to face she's adoringly shy.
I couldn't tell Missy liked me right away, but I did like her. We did our business and shook hands. We met later for an appointment, and we were alone. She only occasionally met my gaze. Her almost flirty nature, that one I'd become so comfortable with before, was gone. Her voice was quieter, and her smile more girlish. It was only then I detected an attraction.
Some of her appeal was gone, but only that part that goes with forward women that aren't afraid of anyone. In its place, something new took over. It felt like a secret that only her and I shared, and that made it sweet. Soon I will go to her office and steal glances at her over a magazine, knowing she will steal them at me via the mirror.
* * * * *
There's a new girl named Missy. She's tall and blonde, with long wavy hair and hips that are sloppy but not overly large. She's pretty in an imperfect way, and her smile is genuine. With other professionals around, she matches suit, but face to face she's adoringly shy.
I couldn't tell Missy liked me right away, but I did like her. We did our business and shook hands. We met later for an appointment, and we were alone. She only occasionally met my gaze. Her almost flirty nature, that one I'd become so comfortable with before, was gone. Her voice was quieter, and her smile more girlish. It was only then I detected an attraction.
Some of her appeal was gone, but only that part that goes with forward women that aren't afraid of anyone. In its place, something new took over. It felt like a secret that only her and I shared, and that made it sweet. Soon I will go to her office and steal glances at her over a magazine, knowing she will steal them at me via the mirror.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Untitled Nonsense
Love is a many-fendered thing
With red shoes and a fro
A splendid fish up-ends itself
With drywall screws to sow.
It rides along the jeweled street
And pulls a wagon train
Tomatoes laugh as it goes by
And revel in the rain.
A jolly driver ho-ho-hos
As little children wail
He stepped his fat ass off the thing
And landed on my tail.
"Good day for nonsense!" he loudly cried,
"And scanning lettered stamps."
I never heard his paper crays
Nor sliver'd to his lamp.
May 2nd, 2006
Monday, October 17, 2011
reality
20 February 2006
to fuck
is to feel.
to rend the delicate fabric of gentleness
is to need
to shatter the innocence of naivete
to crush the hand of generosity
to pull the fragrant hair of beauty
to scream in the face of piety
is to LIVE
A life without beauty is only half lived.
To live--
Within that fabric of gentleness
Innocent and naive
Extending the generous hand
Inhaling the scent of beauty
Striving to understand God
is to LOVE
to fuck
is to feel.
to rend the delicate fabric of gentleness
is to need
to shatter the innocence of naivete
to crush the hand of generosity
to pull the fragrant hair of beauty
to scream in the face of piety
is to LIVE
A life without beauty is only half lived.
To live--
Within that fabric of gentleness
Innocent and naive
Extending the generous hand
Inhaling the scent of beauty
Striving to understand God
is to LOVE
Friday, March 18, 2011
Poem: To My Love
6 January 2006
When I'm with you, I find
All the things in my mind
That would tear me apart cease to be.
When your smile comes my way
All my nights turn to day.
All the Joy in the world is for me.
When with you, Bliss wakes
And my fearless hands shake
Afraid that I'll say the wrong thing.
When your eyes meet mine
There is no other time
That I feel happiness dawning.
With you in the room
My mirthless heart blooms
All my world turns from darkness to light.
And when you have gone
I'm completely alone
My poor heart aches cold in the night.
When I'm with you, I find
All the things in my mind
That would tear me apart cease to be.
When your smile comes my way
All my nights turn to day.
All the Joy in the world is for me.
When with you, Bliss wakes
And my fearless hands shake
Afraid that I'll say the wrong thing.
When your eyes meet mine
There is no other time
That I feel happiness dawning.
With you in the room
My mirthless heart blooms
All my world turns from darkness to light.
And when you have gone
I'm completely alone
My poor heart aches cold in the night.
Bereavement
21 February 2006
Family is a mirror you keep covered. Relatives you never see, whether you'd choose to or not, do not know you. They remember the newborn, the toddler, the awkward teen. There are always a few from the wedding and baby showers, but still you're not a real person to them; after all those times are about being a couple or parent.
Changes you make, real changes, to your soul and to your life, go unnoticed, unless they make trouble. Big events like death or divorce are heard about and taken notice of like an accident on the highway. Feel bad, move on, and forget about it, but never take into consideration that someone else's life could be completely ruined, at least for the moment.
But my life is no one else's (this much I have been painfully aware of) and I have lived my life without serious regard to how most of these relatives have existed day to day. Why should I be so surprised to discover that they, too, have done the same?
Maybe this means I don't know who I am yet, to be so upset that when I walk into a room full of people who have supposedly known me all my life and find that they really know nothing about me. Of course there are lots of people I don't know, attached to people who were probably newborns or toddlers I can remember, but do not recognize now. And babies have been born that I might hear the names of, and people have married, and divorced, and died. And I feel bad and move on. And forget. Because the kids need to get their dinner, or there was a fight and bitterness lingers, because the kitchen needs picking up or the groceries need putting away. Because my life is happening right now, right in my face, and the people whose lives are ruined, even if only for that moment, and despite their status as 'family', are just other people, like so many faces I pass on the road during the commute every day.
The tragedy of it all is astounding. As children we all grew up together playing in Grandma's backyard, or sneaking out during a sleepover, or getting someone to buy us cigarettes. Now things like this are only distant memories, and the cousins you did them with are like characters in a book you read years ago. These things will never happen again, and the people you did them with are just other commuters, other homeowners, other people with kids you might pass in the store. No matter how fond those distant memories are, the things that make you who you are, the things that make you unique and interesting, will never be shared with or understood by anyone except...yourself.
Exceptions apply, but I do not speak in ideals here. That is for the Good One. The things that make ME unique will only ever be understood by ME. And now I've become bitter.
There will be another episode to pull the cover down, the main event as it were. I will make I am neatly groomed and my tie is pleasant to glance at, knowing that these are the only things people will see when they look at me and think of who I am. And then they'll go about their lives once more, remembering that the newborn I was, the carefree toddler I was, the pain-riddled teen I was, has grown into a man who has a nice haircut and seems to have turned out just fine.
It is selfish of me to think this is important; it is arrogant of me to even pass judgment on them for doing it.
Family is a mirror you keep covered. Relatives you never see, whether you'd choose to or not, do not know you. They remember the newborn, the toddler, the awkward teen. There are always a few from the wedding and baby showers, but still you're not a real person to them; after all those times are about being a couple or parent.
Changes you make, real changes, to your soul and to your life, go unnoticed, unless they make trouble. Big events like death or divorce are heard about and taken notice of like an accident on the highway. Feel bad, move on, and forget about it, but never take into consideration that someone else's life could be completely ruined, at least for the moment.
But my life is no one else's (this much I have been painfully aware of) and I have lived my life without serious regard to how most of these relatives have existed day to day. Why should I be so surprised to discover that they, too, have done the same?
Maybe this means I don't know who I am yet, to be so upset that when I walk into a room full of people who have supposedly known me all my life and find that they really know nothing about me. Of course there are lots of people I don't know, attached to people who were probably newborns or toddlers I can remember, but do not recognize now. And babies have been born that I might hear the names of, and people have married, and divorced, and died. And I feel bad and move on. And forget. Because the kids need to get their dinner, or there was a fight and bitterness lingers, because the kitchen needs picking up or the groceries need putting away. Because my life is happening right now, right in my face, and the people whose lives are ruined, even if only for that moment, and despite their status as 'family', are just other people, like so many faces I pass on the road during the commute every day.
The tragedy of it all is astounding. As children we all grew up together playing in Grandma's backyard, or sneaking out during a sleepover, or getting someone to buy us cigarettes. Now things like this are only distant memories, and the cousins you did them with are like characters in a book you read years ago. These things will never happen again, and the people you did them with are just other commuters, other homeowners, other people with kids you might pass in the store. No matter how fond those distant memories are, the things that make you who you are, the things that make you unique and interesting, will never be shared with or understood by anyone except...yourself.
Exceptions apply, but I do not speak in ideals here. That is for the Good One. The things that make ME unique will only ever be understood by ME. And now I've become bitter.
There will be another episode to pull the cover down, the main event as it were. I will make I am neatly groomed and my tie is pleasant to glance at, knowing that these are the only things people will see when they look at me and think of who I am. And then they'll go about their lives once more, remembering that the newborn I was, the carefree toddler I was, the pain-riddled teen I was, has grown into a man who has a nice haircut and seems to have turned out just fine.
It is selfish of me to think this is important; it is arrogant of me to even pass judgment on them for doing it.
Untitled Poem
3 March 2006
When I sit quietly
My life opens up
Like so many pages of a book
The pages do not fit
From here to there
But I know they are all mine.
Some are boldly writ' upon
In brightly colored ink
While most are simply penciled in
Crossed out, erased or written over
Though some thoughts may be
None are ever truly changed, or forgotten
Though things of beauty all around
May be, they are never to be seen.
My self denial censors all true goodness.
When I sit quietly
My life opens up
Like so many pages of a book
The pages do not fit
From here to there
But I know they are all mine.
Some are boldly writ' upon
In brightly colored ink
While most are simply penciled in
Crossed out, erased or written over
Though some thoughts may be
None are ever truly changed, or forgotten
Though things of beauty all around
May be, they are never to be seen.
My self denial censors all true goodness.
down
15 March 15 2006
Days like this I don't even know why I'm here.
Of course I know why I'm *here*, but I mean why I keep going the way I do. Why I stay in this spot. I can't remember why I'm supposed to feel good or happy, or when I think of "good" reasons, why they apply to me.
Today I am an empty shell.
Days like this I don't even know why I'm here.
Of course I know why I'm *here*, but I mean why I keep going the way I do. Why I stay in this spot. I can't remember why I'm supposed to feel good or happy, or when I think of "good" reasons, why they apply to me.
Today I am an empty shell.
Inner Child
16 March 2006
Boy am I a project. Mind is blank but I feel like something is BANGING on the walls to get out. I know the screaming person in the closet. I know this terrified child.
I look in the mirror each morning and watch myself fall. I age, and I will look dignified, but I will still be a child. A small, scared face looks back at me every day. I have learned to love this child, but I know not how to bring him out, to heal him. I know his name, but his heart is a mystery.
Every day he tells me how he feels, and I know not how to listen. Though sometimes I allow him to react for me. Sometimes, it's easier, at least for the moment. Sometimes, I allow him to feel, because I do not know how.
He is a beautiful boy in a rust-colored knit sweater, with a lopsided smile, delicate cheekbones, an angled jaw, and thick blonde-brown hair. He smiles innocently and boldly and it is not a nice smile. But it is genuine. His eyes are eager to please, and eager to achieve. And for a while, he will do both. But it will cost him his innocence, his courage, his genuineness, his smile. It will cost him the ability to see what's before his eyes and name it. He will pay the rest of his life for what he has, and it will never be enough, and he'll never know why.
This boy is with me. He finally has someone to love him, even though I'm still figuring it all out. Gentleness, humor, love, and respect. And I, for one, will never leave him.
Boy am I a project. Mind is blank but I feel like something is BANGING on the walls to get out. I know the screaming person in the closet. I know this terrified child.
I look in the mirror each morning and watch myself fall. I age, and I will look dignified, but I will still be a child. A small, scared face looks back at me every day. I have learned to love this child, but I know not how to bring him out, to heal him. I know his name, but his heart is a mystery.
Every day he tells me how he feels, and I know not how to listen. Though sometimes I allow him to react for me. Sometimes, it's easier, at least for the moment. Sometimes, I allow him to feel, because I do not know how.
He is a beautiful boy in a rust-colored knit sweater, with a lopsided smile, delicate cheekbones, an angled jaw, and thick blonde-brown hair. He smiles innocently and boldly and it is not a nice smile. But it is genuine. His eyes are eager to please, and eager to achieve. And for a while, he will do both. But it will cost him his innocence, his courage, his genuineness, his smile. It will cost him the ability to see what's before his eyes and name it. He will pay the rest of his life for what he has, and it will never be enough, and he'll never know why.
This boy is with me. He finally has someone to love him, even though I'm still figuring it all out. Gentleness, humor, love, and respect. And I, for one, will never leave him.
Hey Hey, My My
The first "she" and the second "she" are different "she"s.
* * * * *
7 April 2006
"Rock and Roll will never die. That's what Neil says." He's right, dearie.
My oldest friend is in trouble and I can't do anything about it. I can't support her because I can barely support myself and my own. I can't see her because she lives in a blue-collar armpit city, which I also love, but is far away. I can't hug her and tell her how I miss her wit, her humor, her endless compassion.
She is a brilliant, beautiful, proud woman whom I have never properly known. We meet in tangents of our lives during special events, then we once again part ways. Her life and her passions are a mystery to me, as mine no doubt are to her. My relationship with this friend is a perfect example of how many of my friendships conduct themselves. Fortunately, I am intimately connected with this woman, and she will not fade away like others have. Still, although she is always somewhere on this earth, and I take great comfort in that, she will not always be here, and our time together should be appreciated. I need to show my love more.
* *
She was adamant last night, and I reluctantly accepted. I regret this. Despite my body's participation, my head was somewhere else. It was behind the wall. What shape would I be if I were 2-dimensional? Circular (but not a perfectly round one; more like the one Spongebob drew after Squidward berated him in art class), with my heart somewhere in the center, separatred from everyone else. My life cycle keeps on repeating, always following the same familiar contours. I occasionally hammer out a new niche, but then I come to rely on it so much that it becomes part of the same daily business. So that's where I was. And she said she had a good time, and that's great, I really truly am happy about that part, but I never got mine. I never got mine.
Out of the blue and into the black.
I have so many thoughts to uncollect and drudgingly express to no one. An hundred indecisions, Visions and revisions. What a train wreck. I may be a bit fustian but my point stands: I have not taken care of myself these last several days, and I have not taken the time to properly address it.
I'm not being completely fair. I did start something I needed to do. I did make that appointment. I have kept the kitchen counter clean, and the office. Posts are up to date. I am not a train wreck. But it's just me that isn't. Outside my circle, my perception fades. Maybe "wreck" is just the wrong word.
I read about Hawking's brane theory last night. I wonder how much work I really have to do. I thought I knew once; I didn't really, but I could get my head around the kinds of things I needed to accomplish, and had faith that once I did them, I'd be ready for what's next...but now I can't say either is the case. Maybe it's the antibiotics. On top of heartburn and that yucky taste in my mouth, I have felt energetically odd since I started on them. Maybe it was the bite, though I doubt it because trust was retored almost immediately. Maybe it's sex, but again I doubt this because I've learned to cope well without jeopardizing outside issues. But I always suspect sex anyway, because it's a natural enemy.
I am rambling with thoughts of Prufock, monomer injections, and strawberry summers. I am not safe from myself today. A pot of tea, flannel pants, Harry Potter, and my fuzzy blanket are a perfect prescription, with intermittent naps and ball-tossings with the dog. I should have taken the rain as my first clue. Take two o' dese and call me in da mo'nin.
* * * * *
7 April 2006
"Rock and Roll will never die. That's what Neil says." He's right, dearie.
My oldest friend is in trouble and I can't do anything about it. I can't support her because I can barely support myself and my own. I can't see her because she lives in a blue-collar armpit city, which I also love, but is far away. I can't hug her and tell her how I miss her wit, her humor, her endless compassion.
She is a brilliant, beautiful, proud woman whom I have never properly known. We meet in tangents of our lives during special events, then we once again part ways. Her life and her passions are a mystery to me, as mine no doubt are to her. My relationship with this friend is a perfect example of how many of my friendships conduct themselves. Fortunately, I am intimately connected with this woman, and she will not fade away like others have. Still, although she is always somewhere on this earth, and I take great comfort in that, she will not always be here, and our time together should be appreciated. I need to show my love more.
* *
She was adamant last night, and I reluctantly accepted. I regret this. Despite my body's participation, my head was somewhere else. It was behind the wall. What shape would I be if I were 2-dimensional? Circular (but not a perfectly round one; more like the one Spongebob drew after Squidward berated him in art class), with my heart somewhere in the center, separatred from everyone else. My life cycle keeps on repeating, always following the same familiar contours. I occasionally hammer out a new niche, but then I come to rely on it so much that it becomes part of the same daily business. So that's where I was. And she said she had a good time, and that's great, I really truly am happy about that part, but I never got mine. I never got mine.
Out of the blue and into the black.
I have so many thoughts to uncollect and drudgingly express to no one. An hundred indecisions, Visions and revisions. What a train wreck. I may be a bit fustian but my point stands: I have not taken care of myself these last several days, and I have not taken the time to properly address it.
I'm not being completely fair. I did start something I needed to do. I did make that appointment. I have kept the kitchen counter clean, and the office. Posts are up to date. I am not a train wreck. But it's just me that isn't. Outside my circle, my perception fades. Maybe "wreck" is just the wrong word.
I read about Hawking's brane theory last night. I wonder how much work I really have to do. I thought I knew once; I didn't really, but I could get my head around the kinds of things I needed to accomplish, and had faith that once I did them, I'd be ready for what's next...but now I can't say either is the case. Maybe it's the antibiotics. On top of heartburn and that yucky taste in my mouth, I have felt energetically odd since I started on them. Maybe it was the bite, though I doubt it because trust was retored almost immediately. Maybe it's sex, but again I doubt this because I've learned to cope well without jeopardizing outside issues. But I always suspect sex anyway, because it's a natural enemy.
I am rambling with thoughts of Prufock, monomer injections, and strawberry summers. I am not safe from myself today. A pot of tea, flannel pants, Harry Potter, and my fuzzy blanket are a perfect prescription, with intermittent naps and ball-tossings with the dog. I should have taken the rain as my first clue. Take two o' dese and call me in da mo'nin.
On Nerdery
This was very obviously written before it was cool, even desirable, to be a nerd...let alone proudly label yourself one.
* * * * *
13 April 2006
This morning at the gas station I saw someone who caught my eye. It was a young man, very light build, and dressed too conservatively. He had shorter hair and glasses. He was a classic nerd*. And right then I recognized myself, ten, maybe five years ago. And today. I watched him closely, and noticed something very important. It wasn't his appearance that made him so...well, nerdy. It was his awkwardness, his stance, the way he carried himself and looked nervously around, wondering who may be near him, judging. I felt this way only...hell, I still feel this way. But I was also aware of the vast physical difference between myself now and myself then. I am 40 pounds heavier than I was ten years ago (only four inches bigger around the waist), and still considered light/average build. I don't necessarily wear my hair any different, I'm still wearing glasses, and still have no sense of fashion, but I see myself very differently, more confidently, now than I did then. More than that person at the gas station.
* [For the record, I have always hated the word "nerd". I was called that name incessantly from grade 6 on, and vehemently defend anyone else to whom the moniker is assigned. I'm not condoning the use of the word at all, but I have to start with some frame of reference. These thoughts have to come out.]
There have been years of experiences to account for this change of self-opinion. I have earned my place in my self-designed social template. And I know that my own standards for myself are still higher than those around me. So other people like me, think I'm funny, good looking, interesting, even sexy. How did I become this way?
I cannot quantify what the experiences were or did. I know there has been heartbreak, betrayal, denial, sacrifice, and exploration. I know that I have been on my knees begging for understanding and forgiveness. I know that I would never live the last 10 years of my life the same way again, ever. Maybe the gas station guy will go through that, too. The way his eyes searched for approval in the faces of others, the way his half smile waited for a positive response. I know these eyes and that smile. I still cast them around, waiting for others to answer. And I still close up when I perceive that they will not approve. I retract the smile I just offered, wishing I'd never tried. Wishing I could just disappear. Some days, I am still just that nerdy, awkward young man, who does not know how to talk to other humans, how to act in public, how to like himself.
I'm going to ramble now, dear audience, so be prepared.
But I do like myself. That's the bottom line. That's what my dad always says in his three-quarter drunken fits, when he's still barely rational enough to put sentences together and hold his opinion at the same time. "The bottom line is..." and I catch myself using it at select times. Maybe just to prove to myself that something is true. Like because I heard it used in his context, I can justify what I don't quite believe by adding it as a tagline.
But I do like myself. It's not something I don't quite believe, it's a real truth. Of course there are days I don't, but they number few compared to my normal, and what I have believed to be healthy, state of mind. I am worth the effort to get to know. I am worth improving. I deserve the best. I have much to share with this world and my fellow humans, and I regularly try to do so. I am practical and decently intelligent, I'm compassionate and mostly humble. I enjoy the outdoors, fine arts, and a well-crafted wooden thing. I can install junction boxes and change oil, and also map out the rhyme scheme of a poem. I can recite Jabberwocky, Prufrock, and the first lines of Moby Dick and The Hobbit. Children and dogs like me, and I can communicate with both. I take decent care of myself physically. I am a good kisser and a generous lover.
None of these things are invented by me to make myself feel better; they are all truths I'd tell anyone, and verifiable by people I know. Yet why do I constantly shoot myself (my recovery, my success, my education, my productive days, etc) in the foot with doubt and/or self-destructive behavior? What is it that I fear? How can I be so critical of what I am not, when the list of things I am should be enough to make anyone happy?
* * * * *
13 April 2006
This morning at the gas station I saw someone who caught my eye. It was a young man, very light build, and dressed too conservatively. He had shorter hair and glasses. He was a classic nerd*. And right then I recognized myself, ten, maybe five years ago. And today. I watched him closely, and noticed something very important. It wasn't his appearance that made him so...well, nerdy. It was his awkwardness, his stance, the way he carried himself and looked nervously around, wondering who may be near him, judging. I felt this way only...hell, I still feel this way. But I was also aware of the vast physical difference between myself now and myself then. I am 40 pounds heavier than I was ten years ago (only four inches bigger around the waist), and still considered light/average build. I don't necessarily wear my hair any different, I'm still wearing glasses, and still have no sense of fashion, but I see myself very differently, more confidently, now than I did then. More than that person at the gas station.
* [For the record, I have always hated the word "nerd". I was called that name incessantly from grade 6 on, and vehemently defend anyone else to whom the moniker is assigned. I'm not condoning the use of the word at all, but I have to start with some frame of reference. These thoughts have to come out.]
There have been years of experiences to account for this change of self-opinion. I have earned my place in my self-designed social template. And I know that my own standards for myself are still higher than those around me. So other people like me, think I'm funny, good looking, interesting, even sexy. How did I become this way?
I cannot quantify what the experiences were or did. I know there has been heartbreak, betrayal, denial, sacrifice, and exploration. I know that I have been on my knees begging for understanding and forgiveness. I know that I would never live the last 10 years of my life the same way again, ever. Maybe the gas station guy will go through that, too. The way his eyes searched for approval in the faces of others, the way his half smile waited for a positive response. I know these eyes and that smile. I still cast them around, waiting for others to answer. And I still close up when I perceive that they will not approve. I retract the smile I just offered, wishing I'd never tried. Wishing I could just disappear. Some days, I am still just that nerdy, awkward young man, who does not know how to talk to other humans, how to act in public, how to like himself.
I'm going to ramble now, dear audience, so be prepared.
But I do like myself. That's the bottom line. That's what my dad always says in his three-quarter drunken fits, when he's still barely rational enough to put sentences together and hold his opinion at the same time. "The bottom line is..." and I catch myself using it at select times. Maybe just to prove to myself that something is true. Like because I heard it used in his context, I can justify what I don't quite believe by adding it as a tagline.
But I do like myself. It's not something I don't quite believe, it's a real truth. Of course there are days I don't, but they number few compared to my normal, and what I have believed to be healthy, state of mind. I am worth the effort to get to know. I am worth improving. I deserve the best. I have much to share with this world and my fellow humans, and I regularly try to do so. I am practical and decently intelligent, I'm compassionate and mostly humble. I enjoy the outdoors, fine arts, and a well-crafted wooden thing. I can install junction boxes and change oil, and also map out the rhyme scheme of a poem. I can recite Jabberwocky, Prufrock, and the first lines of Moby Dick and The Hobbit. Children and dogs like me, and I can communicate with both. I take decent care of myself physically. I am a good kisser and a generous lover.
None of these things are invented by me to make myself feel better; they are all truths I'd tell anyone, and verifiable by people I know. Yet why do I constantly shoot myself (my recovery, my success, my education, my productive days, etc) in the foot with doubt and/or self-destructive behavior? What is it that I fear? How can I be so critical of what I am not, when the list of things I am should be enough to make anyone happy?
A Message to My Male Coworkers
Written long ago, but this message will never lose its relevance. (Edited for content.)
* * * * *
July 14th, 2006
Turns out they were right. Your mothers, sisters, wives and girlfriends all did know what they were talking about when they told you to put up the seat. Leaving your pee all over the place where someone else may have to sit (even you, imagine that) is nasty. NASTY. Even worse? Having to wipe up someone else's pee before placing your bare butt (up until then possibly the cleanest part of your body, provided you stayed dressed that day) on the seat of a communal toilet.
Big news: there's a urinal in the same room. On the off chance someone's using it when you walk in, and you can't wait, go right ahead and pee in the toilet. But don't be nasty: either prevent the mess or clean it up!
Guys, we all have to work together in the same building. Occasionally, we have to share the bathroom. Between two urinals and four toilets, there's plenty of capacity for everyone to do their business. Believe it or not, you aren't entitled to an easier bathroom experience than any of the the rest of us. Let's all take responsibility for our own business.
Thanks.
PS- Also, to all you gross individuals who don't wash their hands after peeing, I know who you are. You think you're alone because I don't make much noise behind the partition. But you're not. I recognize your shoes. Even you, Mr. Big Man Manager who sits near me and sneers at everyone with less experience and education than yourself...yes, you know who you are...you can wash your damn hands. Everone uses the same handle on their way out, and none of us (I'm wagering even you) want to get another man's germs and microscopic pee splatters on our hands on the way out. So find your way next to Godliness. Please. And don't make faces at me when I won't shake your hand; it's not me who's being rude.
* * * * *
July 14th, 2006
Turns out they were right. Your mothers, sisters, wives and girlfriends all did know what they were talking about when they told you to put up the seat. Leaving your pee all over the place where someone else may have to sit (even you, imagine that) is nasty. NASTY. Even worse? Having to wipe up someone else's pee before placing your bare butt (up until then possibly the cleanest part of your body, provided you stayed dressed that day) on the seat of a communal toilet.
Big news: there's a urinal in the same room. On the off chance someone's using it when you walk in, and you can't wait, go right ahead and pee in the toilet. But don't be nasty: either prevent the mess or clean it up!
Guys, we all have to work together in the same building. Occasionally, we have to share the bathroom. Between two urinals and four toilets, there's plenty of capacity for everyone to do their business. Believe it or not, you aren't entitled to an easier bathroom experience than any of the the rest of us. Let's all take responsibility for our own business.
Thanks.
PS- Also, to all you gross individuals who don't wash their hands after peeing, I know who you are. You think you're alone because I don't make much noise behind the partition. But you're not. I recognize your shoes. Even you, Mr. Big Man Manager who sits near me and sneers at everyone with less experience and education than yourself...yes, you know who you are...you can wash your damn hands. Everone uses the same handle on their way out, and none of us (I'm wagering even you) want to get another man's germs and microscopic pee splatters on our hands on the way out. So find your way next to Godliness. Please. And don't make faces at me when I won't shake your hand; it's not me who's being rude.
Hope?
No longer current news, but still very relevant thoughts.
* * * * *
6 October 2006
A few days ago I discovered I was only 5 degrees of separation from Emily Keyes, the 16 year old girl who was killed by the school shooter in Colorado last week.
This doesn't increase my reaction to the tragedy, or the reaction to any of the recent others, but it brings it closer to home. How soon will it be before someone I know personally has an experience like this? What if it happens to my family? What if it happens to me?
Millions of people have asked themselves that same question recently, and all have likely come to the same conclusion: I can do nothing to stop it.
As big a fan as I am of the idea that one person can change the world through positive energy and action, my ability to affect my fellow human beings is limited to those I can reach with my hands and, to some degree, my voice. But this certainly does not constitute control. If someone next to me on the bus kills everyone in a convenience store later that night over $20, I cannot blame myself.
This is a human plight. We have a need to take responsibility; we tell ourselves that a few kind words may have altered the mood or eased some pain, and XYZ tragedy could have been avoided. When we say this to ourselves...we are probably right in some cases. But we live in such fear that our personal bubble will pop or become polluted by contact with a stranger, or even with someone not so strange, that we talk ourselves out of reaching out. We are so afraid of each other that we dare not interfere. Or is it fear of exposure, and potential disapproval? Regardless of the reason, the result is the same: isolation and all its children: prejudice, fear, greed.
We all need safe places...physically, emotionally, etc., but wouldn't it be nice if we helped contribute a bit more? Jeez I'm starting to sound like John Lennon. (What, don't flatter myself? Fine...) But...just think about it a little. One day, it might all pay off, on that day when someone else decides the course of the rest of your days on this earth.
* * * * *
6 October 2006
A few days ago I discovered I was only 5 degrees of separation from Emily Keyes, the 16 year old girl who was killed by the school shooter in Colorado last week.
This doesn't increase my reaction to the tragedy, or the reaction to any of the recent others, but it brings it closer to home. How soon will it be before someone I know personally has an experience like this? What if it happens to my family? What if it happens to me?
Millions of people have asked themselves that same question recently, and all have likely come to the same conclusion: I can do nothing to stop it.
As big a fan as I am of the idea that one person can change the world through positive energy and action, my ability to affect my fellow human beings is limited to those I can reach with my hands and, to some degree, my voice. But this certainly does not constitute control. If someone next to me on the bus kills everyone in a convenience store later that night over $20, I cannot blame myself.
This is a human plight. We have a need to take responsibility; we tell ourselves that a few kind words may have altered the mood or eased some pain, and XYZ tragedy could have been avoided. When we say this to ourselves...we are probably right in some cases. But we live in such fear that our personal bubble will pop or become polluted by contact with a stranger, or even with someone not so strange, that we talk ourselves out of reaching out. We are so afraid of each other that we dare not interfere. Or is it fear of exposure, and potential disapproval? Regardless of the reason, the result is the same: isolation and all its children: prejudice, fear, greed.
We all need safe places...physically, emotionally, etc., but wouldn't it be nice if we helped contribute a bit more? Jeez I'm starting to sound like John Lennon. (What, don't flatter myself? Fine...) But...just think about it a little. One day, it might all pay off, on that day when someone else decides the course of the rest of your days on this earth.
Addict
This post may be deleted very soon.
* * * * *
20 October 2006
I am an addict. Call me whatever you want: criminal, freak, deviant, pervert, et cetera. Neither your opinion nor your label changes what I know I am.
Would you like to know what else I am/have been? An honor roll student, a scholarship recipient and graduate of one of the country's leading college prep schools, an award-winning author, a poet, a cadet and mid-ranking adult officer in a military auxiliary youth organization, a Sunday School teacher, and a scouting volunteer. I am a good, intelligent, passionate, creative, articulate, spiritual and self-aware man.
I haven't done these things to try to hide my dysfunction, but because I think they are the right things to do. My addiction alone doesn't disqualify me from any role I choose. I have crossed lines before, and broken laws, and hurt people (adults) to meet my needs in the wrong ways. I've been selfish and childish and decietful and destructive and all manner of ugly in the way I've handled my life and my connections with fellow humans. But...
Every day I get a new chance to be a different person. Most days I make good choices, some days not so much. I move on because there is only one alternative in this world. Every day ends, whether good or bad, and a new one starts right after it. Every action I take is a tangent of the whole curve of my life, and no single one can characterize it all. Recently I choose well more often than not, and of that I'm proud.
* * * * *
20 October 2006
I am an addict. Call me whatever you want: criminal, freak, deviant, pervert, et cetera. Neither your opinion nor your label changes what I know I am.
Would you like to know what else I am/have been? An honor roll student, a scholarship recipient and graduate of one of the country's leading college prep schools, an award-winning author, a poet, a cadet and mid-ranking adult officer in a military auxiliary youth organization, a Sunday School teacher, and a scouting volunteer. I am a good, intelligent, passionate, creative, articulate, spiritual and self-aware man.
I haven't done these things to try to hide my dysfunction, but because I think they are the right things to do. My addiction alone doesn't disqualify me from any role I choose. I have crossed lines before, and broken laws, and hurt people (adults) to meet my needs in the wrong ways. I've been selfish and childish and decietful and destructive and all manner of ugly in the way I've handled my life and my connections with fellow humans. But...
Every day I get a new chance to be a different person. Most days I make good choices, some days not so much. I move on because there is only one alternative in this world. Every day ends, whether good or bad, and a new one starts right after it. Every action I take is a tangent of the whole curve of my life, and no single one can characterize it all. Recently I choose well more often than not, and of that I'm proud.
The Place I'm In
31 October 2006
The place I'm in has strings being played with screeching tones. Ambient sounds are drowned by an otherwise silent player, callously demanding my attention through his craft. I try to be polite, but I'm not really interested, even though the melody is lovely.
The place I'm in has muted sounds. The world moves around me and I am simply carried by the water. Echoes of what might be interesting and alarming and touching reach my ears and are not picked up.
The place I'm in is filled with mediocre women. Though some might be called beautiful, my own perception is that of a faceless horde intent on drowning me in their wiles. I cannot close my eyes, but I still control my mind, at least for the moment.
The place I'm in is vast and lonely. It is an empty warehouse that has not been swept; remnants of former contents, both rich and valuable, apparent all around. But now in ruins.
The place I'm in has chest-high walls. I can see over and beyond when I dare to look, but this is not often. I put the walls there to protect myself, and now I cannot recall how I might venture through. Sometimes I tell myself it's cozy here, but what I'm really protecting myself from is a healthy fear of failure.
The place I'm in smells distantly of dust and roses, like an abandoned gazebo taken over by the garden. Wafts of sunny breeze are here, somewhere, but I can't ever catch one; they're too far away.
The place I'm in has strings being played with screeching tones. Ambient sounds are drowned by an otherwise silent player, callously demanding my attention through his craft. I try to be polite, but I'm not really interested, even though the melody is lovely.
The place I'm in has muted sounds. The world moves around me and I am simply carried by the water. Echoes of what might be interesting and alarming and touching reach my ears and are not picked up.
The place I'm in is filled with mediocre women. Though some might be called beautiful, my own perception is that of a faceless horde intent on drowning me in their wiles. I cannot close my eyes, but I still control my mind, at least for the moment.
The place I'm in is vast and lonely. It is an empty warehouse that has not been swept; remnants of former contents, both rich and valuable, apparent all around. But now in ruins.
The place I'm in has chest-high walls. I can see over and beyond when I dare to look, but this is not often. I put the walls there to protect myself, and now I cannot recall how I might venture through. Sometimes I tell myself it's cozy here, but what I'm really protecting myself from is a healthy fear of failure.
The place I'm in smells distantly of dust and roses, like an abandoned gazebo taken over by the garden. Wafts of sunny breeze are here, somewhere, but I can't ever catch one; they're too far away.
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