"I remember the time I knew what happiness was ...
Let the memory live again" -- Cats
I've been doing some Googling on this quote from the musical Cats, trying to make sure I got it right -- Is it "I remember a time...", or "I remember the time..."? Every source online seems to say "the time".
There's a seemingly subtle but nevertheless substantial difference between the two. "A time" refers back to a pleasant moment past. "The time" refers to a pleasant moment past in the face of a less pleasant present. If I were to say, "I remember the time I was happy", it indicates that there is a part of my life that no longer exists today - a happy part.
Last night I watched the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for the first time. Despite its stoner-esque title, the concept behind the story is pretty intriguing -- What if we could delete someone from our memory ... completely?
Ultimately this boils down to erasing someone from our memory who has hurt us deeply. The ironic twist is that this person is probably the same one who has brought us a lot of happiness ... at one time.
I think there are two categories of "pain"; the kind that we would rather be without, and the kind that we tolerate because we have no choice. For example, it's painful losing your mother ... but you would never want to completely zap her from your memory, right? However you might consider zapping an ex-boy/girlfriend who gave you the pink slip in a harsh way?
One difference between the two kinds is mere accusation. My mom dying was not her decision, but a breakup or fight between friends carries "blame". Another difference is emotional "loitering" ... mom is gone, but ex's still cross paths.
The characters in Spotless Mind chose memory deletion as a way to endure, as if their lives weren't worth living with those memories in tow. I don't want to live like that.
I'd rather approach both kinds of pain in the same way- remember them both for what they have brought me, taught me, and ultimately how they have led me to where I am today. Which is to say, inevitably- very happy ...
So can I look back positively on ex-roommates-gone-psycho, ex-boyfriends-gone-stale, and ex-best-friends-gone-sour ... ? I guess that's what life is all about- wanting the sunshine, and putting up with the shadows that consequently stand out.
Occasional Cloudiness of the Polka-dotted Mind ... sounds like an absolute blockbuster :-)
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Hands moving in church
Hands moving in church?!? Not for Twitter-checking, and not for altar boys. Whenever my hands are moving in church- rather, whenever my hands are even IN a church building, it has to do with interpreting and sign language. And, oddly enough, it is generally for an audience that has no friggin' clue what I'm saying.
I could stand in front of a congregation and sign "sodomy feels awesome" to the hymn "He Touched Me", and half of the people would ooh and ahh at the grace that is American Sign Language.
Of course that would be highly unprofessional, unethical, and it could put me in an uncomfortable position. *cough*
Two weeks ago I had the opportunity to interpret a few songs for a high school church choir at a Methodist church west of DC. The church had all the required features needed to sustain its Methodist status: food, lots of old people, and clapping to music that is about as exciting as a dog panting.
The kids were pretty damn good considering the surge of hormones constantly yanking at their vocal chords. And it was somewhat haunting to hear songs that instantaneously transported me back to my 8-year-old self. It reminded me of my family's weekly trek to church ... the ceremony, the (ir)reverence, and the anthems sung and played by my mom and dad.
My aunt (mom's sister) was the choir director and also accompanied the kids during the concert. I looked over at my aunt and thought about how she knew my mom in a way I never would (growing up together). It felt lonely. Then I stood up and waved my arms around to a bunch of people who wouldn't know the difference between real sign language and lewd gestures in another culture. And that felt lonely, too.
I stepped outside to get some fresh air after the concert. Congregants inside were wrapping up in truly Methodist style (like watching grass grow in a pitch-black room) and the cool night air was perfect for some pensive reflection about my family. And then the pastor strolled up ...
"Hey there! Friday night at church, huh? Usually I go down to Dupont Circle."
Hmmm ....
"You looked sooooo beautiful in there, you've got such long fingers- perfect for graceful signing."
Hmmm ....
"Your beard looks amazing, it's so short! How'd you get it like that? I use a number 2 on my trimmer- what do you do???"
Oh my hell ....
Well, I didn't stick around long enough to see what kind of tithing he wanted to put in my offering plate ... but I did start to think about this (potentially) gay priest and what kind of life he was living.
Perhaps this priest, quite like myself, stands before groups of people who don't really understand him at all. I wonder if that makes him feel lonely, too?
So ... maybe the next time I find myself in a sanctuary without sanctuary, I'll try to remember this priest and the commitment he has made- faithfully putting himself out there, knowing that hopefully, maybe maybe *fingers crossed*, someone in the crowd will get it.
In the meantime, I'll just keep signing "stripper's pole" instead of "cross", and wait until I hear an audible *GASP*.
I could stand in front of a congregation and sign "sodomy feels awesome" to the hymn "He Touched Me", and half of the people would ooh and ahh at the grace that is American Sign Language.
Of course that would be highly unprofessional, unethical, and it could put me in an uncomfortable position. *cough*
Two weeks ago I had the opportunity to interpret a few songs for a high school church choir at a Methodist church west of DC. The church had all the required features needed to sustain its Methodist status: food, lots of old people, and clapping to music that is about as exciting as a dog panting.
The kids were pretty damn good considering the surge of hormones constantly yanking at their vocal chords. And it was somewhat haunting to hear songs that instantaneously transported me back to my 8-year-old self. It reminded me of my family's weekly trek to church ... the ceremony, the (ir)reverence, and the anthems sung and played by my mom and dad.
My aunt (mom's sister) was the choir director and also accompanied the kids during the concert. I looked over at my aunt and thought about how she knew my mom in a way I never would (growing up together). It felt lonely. Then I stood up and waved my arms around to a bunch of people who wouldn't know the difference between real sign language and lewd gestures in another culture. And that felt lonely, too.
I stepped outside to get some fresh air after the concert. Congregants inside were wrapping up in truly Methodist style (like watching grass grow in a pitch-black room) and the cool night air was perfect for some pensive reflection about my family. And then the pastor strolled up ...
"Hey there! Friday night at church, huh? Usually I go down to Dupont Circle."
Hmmm ....
"You looked sooooo beautiful in there, you've got such long fingers- perfect for graceful signing."
Hmmm ....
"Your beard looks amazing, it's so short! How'd you get it like that? I use a number 2 on my trimmer- what do you do???"
Oh my hell ....
Well, I didn't stick around long enough to see what kind of tithing he wanted to put in my offering plate ... but I did start to think about this (potentially) gay priest and what kind of life he was living.
Perhaps this priest, quite like myself, stands before groups of people who don't really understand him at all. I wonder if that makes him feel lonely, too?
So ... maybe the next time I find myself in a sanctuary without sanctuary, I'll try to remember this priest and the commitment he has made- faithfully putting himself out there, knowing that hopefully, maybe maybe *fingers crossed*, someone in the crowd will get it.
In the meantime, I'll just keep signing "stripper's pole" instead of "cross", and wait until I hear an audible *GASP*.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Bitten by Twilight?
Twilight. I've seen it. Now I understand what the hype is all about.
Or do I … ???
I'm not really sure how to classify this movie- definitely not a romantic comedy, or a dark romantic comedy. It's somewhere between a sci-fi/drama/wtf/oh-hell-I-
Vampire lovin', had me a blast. Vampire lovin', sucked me so fast …
For some reason Bella reminded me a lot of Neve Campbell in the Scream movies. She's somewhere between casually emo and curiously mysterious, leaning more towards the emo side only with a better sense of non-drab style. Her ability to stutter and then utter passionate phrases like “It's ok if you like to penetrate the jugular, I trust you'll be gentle with the hymen...” (swoons!) rivals that of Neve hands down.
And of course Edward (swoons again!), an oddly-named vampire who sacrifices flesh for tofu on a regular (shouldn't it be the other way around?), is the heartthrob of the film that sends girls and gays alike into a feverish frenzy. Those eyes, his chiseled jaw, and that electric-shock therapy hair … sigh …
In the movie Edward cannot go out in the sunlight for fear of melanin production, and the possibility that a human may see his shimmering skin. Whatever … if he walked around in broad daylight in the Castro or Dupont Circle everyone would just think he was a glitter-painted drag queen with an appetite for meat. Seems about as normal as you can get.
SO! The question on everyone's mind … If Bella and Edward get it on vampire-style, how can they ensure she won't get infected by his … well … (cough), his … venom? I mean, if a little hickey on the neck spells certain doom for humans, what happens when his fanged semen runs rabid on her lady insides?
And what about the children??? They come out of the womb teeth first, and the babies are fiercely disappointed every time mommy brings them up to the girls to nurse for milk. Bella would need to get a neck-pump to fill up baby bottles and keep her infants satiated. And their pacifiers would end up being little neck chew-toys … Bloody hell …
Back to the movie … So Bella starts getting chased by other hungry non-tofu vampires (who apparently can smell her miles away … reminds me of ... well, me after chickpeas and broccoli). Lots of screaming, running, biting, and lastly an impromptu dialysis session between the two love birds that would make anyone feel faint.
The story has appeal – two people from opposite ends of the tracks coming together to defy the world (like The Little Mermaid, Romeo and Juliet, and Will & Grace … wait …). It's definitely worth a look, and apparently the books are dynamite.
Fortunately, I know that if Edward were ever close enough to my neck he wouldn't be able to infect me. All the blood would have left my neck, and rushed elsewhere.
(giggle and swoon, repeat)
Monday, February 23, 2009
Baggage
“I'm looking for baggage that goes with mine.” – Rent
You can pull it, carry it, push, roll, slide, shove and schlep it – luggage is the mainstay of any jet-setter who can't part with their possessions.
Similarly, we tug the emotional baggage of our lives along with us wherever we go. Like a hermit crab, we encase all of our mushy gooey-ness into a thick shell … the messy interior beneath a sturdy facade.
We roll up our emotional essentials and tuck them into psychological suitcases. Sometimes we pack too much, dragging along an aching anchor that slows our pace. And sometimes we pack too little, leaving us completely unprepared for our future destinations.
At the Reagan Airport the recorded message instructs - “Please maintain control of your personal belongings” - which leads me to guess that someone once had an unruly suitcase that airport security had to settle with a taser gun.
But do we maintain control of our personal belongings? Our emotional baggage? Do we drag the suitcase, or does it drag us?
Baggage, with all its variety in multiple compartments, pockets, and sleek designs, generally has the same basic components: zippers, handles, and locks. Zippers to help keep everything inside, and locks to keep them secure. Sometimes we give people the combination, and sometimes people simply break the lock and spill our contents into messy piles. And then the handles are there to … well, “handle” our baggage.
You know that feeling of relief you get when a friend picks you up at the airport? Someone is there to lighten the load, to help you get settled with all your heavy baggage. Close friends offer to help with extended hand and hearty smile, regardless of their own hefty belongings.
At the end of the day while unpacking my mental luggage, I am amazed at how I got everything to fit inside it so neatly. Everything I need to survive is stuffed into one giant suitcase. These are all of the personal possessions that I need to live a bountiful life …
“Still when I'm a mess, still put on a vest with an -S- on my chest, oh yes...” - Alicia Keys
Glad I keep remembering to pack that vest ...
You can pull it, carry it, push, roll, slide, shove and schlep it – luggage is the mainstay of any jet-setter who can't part with their possessions.
Similarly, we tug the emotional baggage of our lives along with us wherever we go. Like a hermit crab, we encase all of our mushy gooey-ness into a thick shell … the messy interior beneath a sturdy facade.
We roll up our emotional essentials and tuck them into psychological suitcases. Sometimes we pack too much, dragging along an aching anchor that slows our pace. And sometimes we pack too little, leaving us completely unprepared for our future destinations.
At the Reagan Airport the recorded message instructs - “Please maintain control of your personal belongings” - which leads me to guess that someone once had an unruly suitcase that airport security had to settle with a taser gun.
But do we maintain control of our personal belongings? Our emotional baggage? Do we drag the suitcase, or does it drag us?
Baggage, with all its variety in multiple compartments, pockets, and sleek designs, generally has the same basic components: zippers, handles, and locks. Zippers to help keep everything inside, and locks to keep them secure. Sometimes we give people the combination, and sometimes people simply break the lock and spill our contents into messy piles. And then the handles are there to … well, “handle” our baggage.
You know that feeling of relief you get when a friend picks you up at the airport? Someone is there to lighten the load, to help you get settled with all your heavy baggage. Close friends offer to help with extended hand and hearty smile, regardless of their own hefty belongings.
At the end of the day while unpacking my mental luggage, I am amazed at how I got everything to fit inside it so neatly. Everything I need to survive is stuffed into one giant suitcase. These are all of the personal possessions that I need to live a bountiful life …
“Still when I'm a mess, still put on a vest with an -S- on my chest, oh yes...” - Alicia Keys
Glad I keep remembering to pack that vest ...
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Donations gladly accepted, only if ...
Here's an excerpt from a classified ad in this week's Express:
"Our dream Donor is 21-31, Caucasian, intelligent, well-rounded, with an excellent personal and family health history. Northern European ancestry, blue or green eyes, and fair complexion preferred."
Well aside from the eerily-similar-to-Nazi-eugenics selection criteria, "Creative Family Connections" doesn't seem to be all that 'creative'. Why can't the couple just come out and say it: "We want white-bred eggs, because anything else would fall short of the 'dream' ".
WTF?
For more discriminatory artificial insemination practices, let's turn now to sperm (every one is sacred) at the Sperm Bank of California.
Let's face it - eggs aren't funny, but sperm makes ya giggle. But if you're shorter than 5'7", your donation is no laughing matter. Also, no illegal aliens can provide the baby batter, and you better be between the ripe ages of 18-40 while the sperm flagella are still a-flappin' up to speed.
"When you visit our lab, you will provide a semen sample by masturbating alone in a comfortable, private room" (story of my naturally-conceived life). The Sperm Bank of California reimburses your deposit with a deposit to the tune of $100 "for every ejaculate that meets our minimum sperm count".
Your contract requires a weekly visit (at least - could be more!) for at least 6 months, which means over $4800 per year for something that happens (twice?) in every male's bedroom across the world on a nightly basis.
This seems unfair that some guys are getting paid a load for blowing their own into a plastic cup! It's like I'm getting screwed or something ... or not screwed. Regardless, my "donation time" always seems to leave me empty handed ... *cough*
Once collected, inspected, and verified for virility, these pricey commodities can be FedEx-ed anywhere around the world (one sperm says to another "Hey what the hell! I thought we only had to travel less than one foot? Rude ...).
While looking through the donor catalog, I can't help but feel like I'm skimming the want ads in the Blade. Status (such as "awaiting first release" ... oh, honey, I can promise it ain't the first one), ethnicity, complexion (fair, rosy ... sperm?), hair color and texture, eye color, height, weight, and blood type.
And lookey here! There's only ONE donor on the list who is temporarily sold out (he must be in high demand, I wonder what his supply's like?). African-American, Native American, German and Yugoslavian ethnicity.
Take that, white bred.
"Our dream Donor is 21-31, Caucasian, intelligent, well-rounded, with an excellent personal and family health history. Northern European ancestry, blue or green eyes, and fair complexion preferred."
Well aside from the eerily-similar-to-Nazi-eugenics selection criteria, "Creative Family Connections" doesn't seem to be all that 'creative'. Why can't the couple just come out and say it: "We want white-bred eggs, because anything else would fall short of the 'dream' ".
WTF?
For more discriminatory artificial insemination practices, let's turn now to sperm (every one is sacred) at the Sperm Bank of California.
Let's face it - eggs aren't funny, but sperm makes ya giggle. But if you're shorter than 5'7", your donation is no laughing matter. Also, no illegal aliens can provide the baby batter, and you better be between the ripe ages of 18-40 while the sperm flagella are still a-flappin' up to speed.
"When you visit our lab, you will provide a semen sample by masturbating alone in a comfortable, private room" (story of my naturally-conceived life). The Sperm Bank of California reimburses your deposit with a deposit to the tune of $100 "for every ejaculate that meets our minimum sperm count".
Your contract requires a weekly visit (at least - could be more!) for at least 6 months, which means over $4800 per year for something that happens (twice?) in every male's bedroom across the world on a nightly basis.
This seems unfair that some guys are getting paid a load for blowing their own into a plastic cup! It's like I'm getting screwed or something ... or not screwed. Regardless, my "donation time" always seems to leave me empty handed ... *cough*
Once collected, inspected, and verified for virility, these pricey commodities can be FedEx-ed anywhere around the world (one sperm says to another "Hey what the hell! I thought we only had to travel less than one foot? Rude ...).
While looking through the donor catalog, I can't help but feel like I'm skimming the want ads in the Blade. Status (such as "awaiting first release" ... oh, honey, I can promise it ain't the first one), ethnicity, complexion (fair, rosy ... sperm?), hair color and texture, eye color, height, weight, and blood type.
And lookey here! There's only ONE donor on the list who is temporarily sold out (he must be in high demand, I wonder what his supply's like?). African-American, Native American, German and Yugoslavian ethnicity.
Take that, white bred.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
the great 2008
It's December 31st. I'm sitting at work, looking at my webcam reflection on the video screen, and thinking rather inquisitively about New Year's and all the metamorphic promises we make to ourselves. While peering ominously at myself, I can't help but wonder ... "How am I different from last year at this time?"
It was a rough, odd, and amazing year. So I don't know how to answer the question.
Can you be optimistic, happy, and cynical all at the same time?
In 2008 I lived in DC for the first time as a non-student ... a real resident. I lived in 3 different places, started my first full-time job (and then quit, and did something better), took up line dancing and got hooked (or lassoed), and spent many happy hours with friends at Nooshi, Kramer's, Starbucks, and La Bomba. There were several trips to NYC for shows, plenty of dancing in Philly, Baltimore, and Houston's country western bars, and a week-long cruise that showed how incredible gay families are.
But this year will always be slightly stained by the memory of my mom. Sometimes I wonder - am I grumpy because I'm sad, or am I sad because I'm grumpy?
I don't feel so different. In 2007 I experienced a lot of radical changes ... triumphs, mostly. 2008 had a few more tears, and not nearly as much growth.
Maybe that's the deal with getting older. You know how birthdays are the end all and be all when you're young? But the more of these milestones we experience, the weaker their impact and fanfare.
What if personal growth is the same? Are we more oblivious to it, or does it just matter less and less to us? When does the anti-monotony of childhood give way to a plateaued life?
Even the word "resolution", the New Year's promise in a resolute society, can be somewhat ambiguous. Is it a beginning (a resolution to change), or an end (a resolution to a problem)? Does a resolution look forward, determined, or backwards, concluded?
Is it hopeful that things will change, or hopeful that things will stay the same? I get whiplashed just looking back-and-forth from the future to the past. Where is the "present" in resolution?
In the bulb there is a flower
In a seed an apple tree
In cocoons a hidden promise
Butterflies will soon be free
Those are words from a song played at mom's memorial service ... I guess it reminds me that where one resolution ends, another begins.
So ... what will be my resolve in 2009?
It was a rough, odd, and amazing year. So I don't know how to answer the question.
Can you be optimistic, happy, and cynical all at the same time?
In 2008 I lived in DC for the first time as a non-student ... a real resident. I lived in 3 different places, started my first full-time job (and then quit, and did something better), took up line dancing and got hooked (or lassoed), and spent many happy hours with friends at Nooshi, Kramer's, Starbucks, and La Bomba. There were several trips to NYC for shows, plenty of dancing in Philly, Baltimore, and Houston's country western bars, and a week-long cruise that showed how incredible gay families are.
But this year will always be slightly stained by the memory of my mom. Sometimes I wonder - am I grumpy because I'm sad, or am I sad because I'm grumpy?
I don't feel so different. In 2007 I experienced a lot of radical changes ... triumphs, mostly. 2008 had a few more tears, and not nearly as much growth.
Maybe that's the deal with getting older. You know how birthdays are the end all and be all when you're young? But the more of these milestones we experience, the weaker their impact and fanfare.
What if personal growth is the same? Are we more oblivious to it, or does it just matter less and less to us? When does the anti-monotony of childhood give way to a plateaued life?
Even the word "resolution", the New Year's promise in a resolute society, can be somewhat ambiguous. Is it a beginning (a resolution to change), or an end (a resolution to a problem)? Does a resolution look forward, determined, or backwards, concluded?
Is it hopeful that things will change, or hopeful that things will stay the same? I get whiplashed just looking back-and-forth from the future to the past. Where is the "present" in resolution?
In the bulb there is a flower
In a seed an apple tree
In cocoons a hidden promise
Butterflies will soon be free
Those are words from a song played at mom's memorial service ... I guess it reminds me that where one resolution ends, another begins.
So ... what will be my resolve in 2009?
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
3 steps forward, 2 waves back, 6 feet under
Returning to DC was a comforting experience after spending almost 3 weeks in conservative central Florida for my mom's funeral et al. My friend picked me up from Dulles, and immediately I could feel myself ooze with the presence of feeling like "David" again. Like dunking a hard, brittle biscotti into some inviting hot chocolate, I could feel the staleness of my emotions crumble away into the welcoming mug of the city.
When I got back to my house I was greeted with 3 weeks' worth of mail. The most prominent envelopes were the super-red Netflix DVDs. Within them were my first requests on the queue: Season 1 of Six Feet Under.
Some people hesitate when they hear I've watched the entire series- was that a good idea? wasn't it morbid? did you cry a lot?
Well ... defining "morbid" is a bit of a challenge to me now ... unhealthy, diseased, and gruesome come to mind. And that's precisely what death is ... but it's also normal, ubiquitous, and -- paradoxically, a fact of life.
I guess my conclusion is that discussions in and around death are morbid solely because they are difficult. And things that are difficult become unhealthy and gruesome when we want to avoid pain.
Six Feet Under impresses me with its ability to take death and, with all of its messiness and entangled emotions, poignantly put it right in your face:
Here it is. It's real. It sucks. It's not going away ... ever.
And it's by accepting these things that you start to get through it.
Death is like stepping on a splattering of gum on the sidewalk. At first it's really sticky, and annoying as all get out. You walk and walk, the gum pulling at your every step and distracting you from everything else. But eventually the gum settles in and gets covered up by dirt and other debris from the street. So while it never goes away, you inevitably get used to it ... and keep walking.
Watching Six Feet Under was difficult, but very therapeutic. I remember, with striking clarity, some intense moments laying on the couch watching the show. I could feel this tide of emotions ... mainly sadness ... wash me over, feeling like the waves were literally rocking me backwards, forwards, and sideways all at once.
And it felt good.
Even though the rip tide threatens to drag you out into open and dangerous waters, swimming against it will only make the situation worse. But if you swim through it, parallel to shore -- not struggling, not fearing, and not fighting -- you'll eventually be safe.
So ... during the holidays I expect the ebb and flow of the tides will be particularly ripping *grin* ... and I'm not really looking forward to it.
But, luckily, my friends and family will throw me the lifesaver I need when my body can't hold out anymore.
When I got back to my house I was greeted with 3 weeks' worth of mail. The most prominent envelopes were the super-red Netflix DVDs. Within them were my first requests on the queue: Season 1 of Six Feet Under.
Some people hesitate when they hear I've watched the entire series- was that a good idea? wasn't it morbid? did you cry a lot?
Well ... defining "morbid" is a bit of a challenge to me now ... unhealthy, diseased, and gruesome come to mind. And that's precisely what death is ... but it's also normal, ubiquitous, and -- paradoxically, a fact of life.
I guess my conclusion is that discussions in and around death are morbid solely because they are difficult. And things that are difficult become unhealthy and gruesome when we want to avoid pain.
Six Feet Under impresses me with its ability to take death and, with all of its messiness and entangled emotions, poignantly put it right in your face:
Here it is. It's real. It sucks. It's not going away ... ever.
And it's by accepting these things that you start to get through it.
Death is like stepping on a splattering of gum on the sidewalk. At first it's really sticky, and annoying as all get out. You walk and walk, the gum pulling at your every step and distracting you from everything else. But eventually the gum settles in and gets covered up by dirt and other debris from the street. So while it never goes away, you inevitably get used to it ... and keep walking.
Watching Six Feet Under was difficult, but very therapeutic. I remember, with striking clarity, some intense moments laying on the couch watching the show. I could feel this tide of emotions ... mainly sadness ... wash me over, feeling like the waves were literally rocking me backwards, forwards, and sideways all at once.
And it felt good.
Even though the rip tide threatens to drag you out into open and dangerous waters, swimming against it will only make the situation worse. But if you swim through it, parallel to shore -- not struggling, not fearing, and not fighting -- you'll eventually be safe.
So ... during the holidays I expect the ebb and flow of the tides will be particularly ripping *grin* ... and I'm not really looking forward to it.
But, luckily, my friends and family will throw me the lifesaver I need when my body can't hold out anymore.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)