"We all could use a change of scene..."
-- Pippin
In Washington DC I am pretty much your typical run-of-the-mill guy-- white, average height and build, decently groomed and modestly dressed.
But in exotic ports of call like Ho Chi Minh City, this average daisy morphs into a budding bird of paradise. Suddenly I am a towering, pale, hairy beast that inspires either fear or fascination in children and adults alike. Blue eyed, a little on the chunky side, and hilariously flamboyant all reconfigure themselves in my chrysalis of transformation. A change of "seen" influences self-appraisal ... and worth ...
And my chin-strap beard is the stuff of legends ...
My face became like a pregnant woman's belly -- magnetizing people's attention, prompting profuse compliments and celebratory gestures, and the conversion of private to public property while grown men casually caressed my face like languidly stroking an idle cat.
Oh- and arm hair. Like a barbarian emerging from an isolated swampland, children stood transfixed and adults politely darted their gaze to and fro. While eating dinner one night, an unabashed little girl turned my left arm into her personal unconventional doll, tousling my hair and giving a good yank to ensure the stitching was intact.
Despite the initial awkwardness of unraveling this cocoon, I slowly began to flap my compressed wings and engage the "new" me. Unsettled, foreign, still a little on the chunky side- and downright PASTY white.
Pale skin is prized by some women in Vietnam. It is not uncommon to see a woman riding a motorbike in full-blown winter-time regalia, seemingly an ice princess escaping some brutal blizzard of the Arctic. Gloves, long-sleeved hoodies, scarves and face masks (not to mention stylish shades) could easily be mistaken for Muslim garb. Still, this does not seem to distract their epic pursuit of fair skin while being chased by 95 degree temperatures and 80% humidity.
In Cambodia, my height, weight, and skin tone are readily equated with wealth and lavish spending habits. As I flutter-by the shops and market stalls, my appearance elicits tirelessly rehearsed promises of amazing quality and great deals. I generously pollinate my American dollars from bud to bud, indulging in inflated prices and drinking the sweet nectar of a country so different from my own.
And indulging in a persona that is so different from my own ...
One evening at the Cambodian market (a late-night parade of carnival games and food carts - and unfrequented by tourists), my unusual presence drew a small crowd. I was attempting to unsettle a small stack of tin cans with a lightweight baseball ... and to the disappointment of the Cambodian public, this butterfly is ironically inept at handling balls. Appearances can be deceiving.
Being irrefutably unable to "fit in" is a mixed bag ... entangled in historically-woven stereotypes, uninhibited by the expectations and responsibilities of "normal" society, and exuding an air of mystery despite my admitted ordinariness. Nothing could be so wonderfully confusing and paradoxically coherent.
And so, just like the life cycle of a literal butterfly, this proverbial flight of fancy came to an end after 14 days of flitting, floating, and fleeing the gravity of every day life. It was, truly, a vacation from myself into myself.
And I had such a damn good time ... :-)
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Mal di S(ch)iena
"Chi va piano, va sano, e va lontano"
---Those who take it easy live long and healthy.
Well, I should heed any Italian proverb that rhymes.
A series of back-straining activities, which sadly do not relate to my libido, had me taxi-delivered straight to the Italian emergency room this week (the "pronto soccorso", literally "ready relief").
Sure ... "relief" ... like the relief of explaining in another language what your pain is, how it got there, and why you're uncomfortable injecting yourself with medicine in your butt.
Do whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? Lemme back up and explain...
Emergency rooms in Italy are (un)remarkably similar to American ERs ... people milling about with ambiguous maladies, TVs blasting poorly delivered soap operas (even if you can't understand them, you can still identify a lapse in creative dialogue writing), and hurried medical personnel who do not have time for your condition (and, more importantly, your lack of comprehension in Italian).
Still, there were the stereotypes of the culture that had to be represented in this thin slice of the Italian populace. There's the old lady dishing out sandwiches and pizza to her precious and helpless son (well, he is 40 after all), the young couple decked out in Italy's newest fashion trends (which exhaustively involve the color purple, and I find myself for the first time unintentionally ahead of the fashion curve ... oh, and Timberlands are REALLY huge here, as well), and the old couple sitting arm-in-arm heatedly discussing something that seems to merit grandiose gestures and sudden peaks in volume (probably the price of tomatoes, god only knows).
After checking in with the front desk and giving a run-down of my symptoms (which basically was an uncoordinated mishmash of broken Italian and wild gesturing that looked like an interpretive dance of The Passion of the Christ), I had to sit and wait for my name .... "Brrrrrrruuuus-eh, Dah-veed Weel-ee-ehm-ma" ... and the eyes of the pronto soccorso fixated themselves on a rather tragic figure-- all alone, no family, struggling to bend over and fetch his own coat.
Bless ... Italians can't miss a good show. They stare at you the same way children do in America- with unabashed curiosity. Only in this country there aren't fussy adults to remind them of their impertinence.
The doctor greeted me using formal Italian (which is somewhat surprising, considering my age with respect to hers ... perhaps she was merely pitying my condition as I painstakingly eased myself into a chair). In a flurry of verbose medicinal Italian, I eventually gathered she wanted to know what happened, and how she could help.
Before I knew it, I had my pants around my knees, laying face-down on a cot, with some random nurse injecting something into my ass. If the nurse had been male this could have been a very lovely Italian-fantasy, something complete with Nutella-flavored medicine and a dark, handsome doctor intent on getting to the bottom of this (wink), but alas ... I was scared shitless.
Off to X-Ray!!! Oh, it's a university hospital! Yay ... so the youngin-doctors probably had their first impromptu Charades challenge with me ... and I quickly interpreted that they were miming for me to disrobe and lay down sans pants underneath a machine that was older than both the students' and my age put together. Great.
It was one of those moments where all you really want is your mother. You suddenly realize that being 29, head-strong, and presumably independent boil down to nothing ... and you are 5-years-old again, needing a gentile head rub, and your mom's soothing reassurance. I got a little teary...
X-Ray was negative, so back to the first doctor I went.
The office was sterile and poorly lit, concrete with shades of light green and a lonely crucifix hanging on the wall. The doctor sat solemnly behind a small desk, and typed notes slowly into the computer with her left-index and right-middle fingers. She indicated that I would have to continue with the injections for the next four days.
"Wait ... what?? Is this something I can do myself? Like ... inject ... myself ...???"
The doctor said that this would be difficult. In fact, with someone's help, it was very easy to do. Just ask someone to give you a little poke on the top muscular part of the buttocks, and you're right as rain. She seemed confused that I didn't have this "someone" readily available.
The same puzzled look had come over the nurse's face when she originally called me back from the waiting room.
"Um ... Who else is here with you?"
"No one ... I'm here by myself..."
And so ... armed with syringes and tiny vials of god-knows-what for an aching back and tattered ego, what's a man supposed to do???
Simple- in this country, you would just ask your mother.
---Those who take it easy live long and healthy.
Well, I should heed any Italian proverb that rhymes.
A series of back-straining activities, which sadly do not relate to my libido, had me taxi-delivered straight to the Italian emergency room this week (the "pronto soccorso", literally "ready relief").
Sure ... "relief" ... like the relief of explaining in another language what your pain is, how it got there, and why you're uncomfortable injecting yourself with medicine in your butt.
Do whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? Lemme back up and explain...
Emergency rooms in Italy are (un)remarkably similar to American ERs ... people milling about with ambiguous maladies, TVs blasting poorly delivered soap operas (even if you can't understand them, you can still identify a lapse in creative dialogue writing), and hurried medical personnel who do not have time for your condition (and, more importantly, your lack of comprehension in Italian).
Still, there were the stereotypes of the culture that had to be represented in this thin slice of the Italian populace. There's the old lady dishing out sandwiches and pizza to her precious and helpless son (well, he is 40 after all), the young couple decked out in Italy's newest fashion trends (which exhaustively involve the color purple, and I find myself for the first time unintentionally ahead of the fashion curve ... oh, and Timberlands are REALLY huge here, as well), and the old couple sitting arm-in-arm heatedly discussing something that seems to merit grandiose gestures and sudden peaks in volume (probably the price of tomatoes, god only knows).
After checking in with the front desk and giving a run-down of my symptoms (which basically was an uncoordinated mishmash of broken Italian and wild gesturing that looked like an interpretive dance of The Passion of the Christ), I had to sit and wait for my name .... "Brrrrrrruuuus-eh, Dah-veed Weel-ee-ehm-ma" ... and the eyes of the pronto soccorso fixated themselves on a rather tragic figure-- all alone, no family, struggling to bend over and fetch his own coat.
Bless ... Italians can't miss a good show. They stare at you the same way children do in America- with unabashed curiosity. Only in this country there aren't fussy adults to remind them of their impertinence.
The doctor greeted me using formal Italian (which is somewhat surprising, considering my age with respect to hers ... perhaps she was merely pitying my condition as I painstakingly eased myself into a chair). In a flurry of verbose medicinal Italian, I eventually gathered she wanted to know what happened, and how she could help.
Before I knew it, I had my pants around my knees, laying face-down on a cot, with some random nurse injecting something into my ass. If the nurse had been male this could have been a very lovely Italian-fantasy, something complete with Nutella-flavored medicine and a dark, handsome doctor intent on getting to the bottom of this (wink), but alas ... I was scared shitless.
Off to X-Ray!!! Oh, it's a university hospital! Yay ... so the youngin-doctors probably had their first impromptu Charades challenge with me ... and I quickly interpreted that they were miming for me to disrobe and lay down sans pants underneath a machine that was older than both the students' and my age put together. Great.
It was one of those moments where all you really want is your mother. You suddenly realize that being 29, head-strong, and presumably independent boil down to nothing ... and you are 5-years-old again, needing a gentile head rub, and your mom's soothing reassurance. I got a little teary...
X-Ray was negative, so back to the first doctor I went.
The office was sterile and poorly lit, concrete with shades of light green and a lonely crucifix hanging on the wall. The doctor sat solemnly behind a small desk, and typed notes slowly into the computer with her left-index and right-middle fingers. She indicated that I would have to continue with the injections for the next four days.
"Wait ... what?? Is this something I can do myself? Like ... inject ... myself ...???"
The doctor said that this would be difficult. In fact, with someone's help, it was very easy to do. Just ask someone to give you a little poke on the top muscular part of the buttocks, and you're right as rain. She seemed confused that I didn't have this "someone" readily available.
The same puzzled look had come over the nurse's face when she originally called me back from the waiting room.
"Um ... Who else is here with you?"
"No one ... I'm here by myself..."
And so ... armed with syringes and tiny vials of god-knows-what for an aching back and tattered ego, what's a man supposed to do???
Simple- in this country, you would just ask your mother.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
In a New York Day
I boarded the BoltBus Friday morning in DC, equipped with the recently unleashed 2nd album from Glee. What better way to approach the Big Apple than with the auto-tuned show-stopping numbers that practically stupefy gay boys into taser-like submission. So I sat, cradled in Rachel's voice and heated by Puck's face as the crazed Bolt driver yelled her "fuck you's!" and "this bus waits for no one!" to the terrified peons of the roadway.
There are lots of ways to describe New York City. There's the 'energy', the 'buzz', the 'sights and smells'. Within 5 minutes I had observed: a man puking gratuitously into a street receptacle, a number of rats scattered across the rails of the subway, and a public service announcement over the loudspeaker, "A crowded subway is no excuse for sexual misconduct." Ahh ... the city !!!
Well ... vomit, vermin, and perverts aside, there is still plenty enough in NYC left to keep this gay happy like a kid in Candyland. Namely food, alcohol, and musical theater.
Rice to Riches is my go-to pit stop for dessert and amusement- dozens of cleverly named rice pudding flavors and quirky/bitchy signs that encourage gluttonous behavior without regard to calories or common decency (there's even a sign that says "no skinny bitches"). Though tempted by the "Sumo" size, my thighs and humility drove me to share the medium size with a friend- pumpkin and pecan pie, scraping of the bowl required.
Alcohol-- like any tempting vice, it's never in short supply. Half a carafe of vino rosso in Little Italy had me singing show tunes, photographing anything that moved, and lamenting failed romances with a mutually buzzed friend.
Cut to Act II at the Duplex for Mostly Sondheim, where several rounds of vodka and diet (a drink named, oddly enough, the "skinny bitch") helped amplify the never-auto-tuned voices of professionals and amateurs alike. They took to the open-mic with live accompaniment and let wail a surge of belted Broadway that covered every inch of a room in perfect bliss.
It was special. It felt like what any Broadway show should feel like- it is only performed once, for your audience. Everything is fresh, everything is new, and you were just damn lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.
The encore to an already fabulous weekend was Next to Normal, a modern musical highlighting the triumphs and failures of psychopharmocology, and the multiple routes toward stable mental health. What's more (and deliciously ironic), I saw Dr. Ruth at the Will-Call window after the matinee-- yeah, she really is that short! No wonder she knows so much about genitalia, they're at her eye-level 24-7 !!!
Hurtling back to DC on the Bolt, I chuckle at how 24 hours can be so short but end up so great. Armed with the Next to Normal soundtrack being downloaded while I'm typing, the show's moral ammunition is tucked safely into its holster-- "happiness" and "normal" are about to be redefined...
And I'm the one writing the dictionary. Thank you NYC :-)
There are lots of ways to describe New York City. There's the 'energy', the 'buzz', the 'sights and smells'. Within 5 minutes I had observed: a man puking gratuitously into a street receptacle, a number of rats scattered across the rails of the subway, and a public service announcement over the loudspeaker, "A crowded subway is no excuse for sexual misconduct." Ahh ... the city !!!
Well ... vomit, vermin, and perverts aside, there is still plenty enough in NYC left to keep this gay happy like a kid in Candyland. Namely food, alcohol, and musical theater.
Rice to Riches is my go-to pit stop for dessert and amusement- dozens of cleverly named rice pudding flavors and quirky/bitchy signs that encourage gluttonous behavior without regard to calories or common decency (there's even a sign that says "no skinny bitches"). Though tempted by the "Sumo" size, my thighs and humility drove me to share the medium size with a friend- pumpkin and pecan pie, scraping of the bowl required.
Alcohol-- like any tempting vice, it's never in short supply. Half a carafe of vino rosso in Little Italy had me singing show tunes, photographing anything that moved, and lamenting failed romances with a mutually buzzed friend.
Cut to Act II at the Duplex for Mostly Sondheim, where several rounds of vodka and diet (a drink named, oddly enough, the "skinny bitch") helped amplify the never-auto-tuned voices of professionals and amateurs alike. They took to the open-mic with live accompaniment and let wail a surge of belted Broadway that covered every inch of a room in perfect bliss.
It was special. It felt like what any Broadway show should feel like- it is only performed once, for your audience. Everything is fresh, everything is new, and you were just damn lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.
The encore to an already fabulous weekend was Next to Normal, a modern musical highlighting the triumphs and failures of psychopharmocology, and the multiple routes toward stable mental health. What's more (and deliciously ironic), I saw Dr. Ruth at the Will-Call window after the matinee-- yeah, she really is that short! No wonder she knows so much about genitalia, they're at her eye-level 24-7 !!!
Hurtling back to DC on the Bolt, I chuckle at how 24 hours can be so short but end up so great. Armed with the Next to Normal soundtrack being downloaded while I'm typing, the show's moral ammunition is tucked safely into its holster-- "happiness" and "normal" are about to be redefined...
And I'm the one writing the dictionary. Thank you NYC :-)
Friday, December 11, 2009
decaf delight
"So what's the deal with decaf? How do they get the caffeine out of there, and where does it go?" -- Seinfeld
* * * * *
"But dad, seriously, it's like brown water. What's the point?"
"Someday you'll understand, son."
Bastard. His comments always come back to bite me, with that same dull panicky sensation that makes you realize you are becoming your parent regardless of how much you squirm and wriggle from the grasps of maturity. For all those caffeine-laced jabs and joists at his decaf habit, inevitably I am the one ordering a grande decaf drip and complaining that Starbucks Decaf Via is never in stock.
"Decaf" is a bit of a misnomer... your average grande still has about 25mg of caffeine, which is enough to merit a "de" when compared to the whopping 320mg of a regular Starbucks brew.
"I'm sorry, sir, we stop brewing decaf in the afternoons."
Which makes perfect sense. Because people who order decaf all go to bed by 5pm, after devouring their sodium-enriched early-bird steak down at Bob Evans (pre-chewed).
"I can make you a fresh pot. Can you stand with your walker for that long?"
Asinine. People need less caffeine in the evenings. It's like dishing out Valium at 10am.
Apparently there is a coffee bean that grows naturally un-caffeinated, but the trend hasn't caught on yet with major retailers. That's gotta be rough on the decaf coffee bean out there - probably feels like a guy with ED sitting in a room full of porn stars on Viagra.
As for my own caffeine-envy, I am all too eager to inform the less-than-25-yr-olds out there that their day is coming. "Oh my god, I can, like, drink it alllll day and go right to bed!" *shaking my head*
And so, while marching steadily towards my 30s, I recycle the wisdom of the ages that serves as a cautionary tale to the young. And I stare forever forward, trepidacious and aware that things like ED, diapers, and dentures are patiently awaiting their rotation ... and conquest.
* * * * *
"But dad, seriously, it's like brown water. What's the point?"
"Someday you'll understand, son."
Bastard. His comments always come back to bite me, with that same dull panicky sensation that makes you realize you are becoming your parent regardless of how much you squirm and wriggle from the grasps of maturity. For all those caffeine-laced jabs and joists at his decaf habit, inevitably I am the one ordering a grande decaf drip and complaining that Starbucks Decaf Via is never in stock.
"Decaf" is a bit of a misnomer... your average grande still has about 25mg of caffeine, which is enough to merit a "de" when compared to the whopping 320mg of a regular Starbucks brew.
"I'm sorry, sir, we stop brewing decaf in the afternoons."
Which makes perfect sense. Because people who order decaf all go to bed by 5pm, after devouring their sodium-enriched early-bird steak down at Bob Evans (pre-chewed).
"I can make you a fresh pot. Can you stand with your walker for that long?"
Asinine. People need less caffeine in the evenings. It's like dishing out Valium at 10am.
Apparently there is a coffee bean that grows naturally un-caffeinated, but the trend hasn't caught on yet with major retailers. That's gotta be rough on the decaf coffee bean out there - probably feels like a guy with ED sitting in a room full of porn stars on Viagra.
As for my own caffeine-envy, I am all too eager to inform the less-than-25-yr-olds out there that their day is coming. "Oh my god, I can, like, drink it alllll day and go right to bed!" *shaking my head*
And so, while marching steadily towards my 30s, I recycle the wisdom of the ages that serves as a cautionary tale to the young. And I stare forever forward, trepidacious and aware that things like ED, diapers, and dentures are patiently awaiting their rotation ... and conquest.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Air travel
“Please maintain control of your personal belongings...”
Right?!? I'd like to say the same to the crowd at Cobalt on a Friday night. Keep your baggage (package?) to yourself!!!
But in the Washington Reagan National Airport, this simply means “bitches, don't leave your shit around … how else are we gonna charge you 20 bucks for your bag???”
Woman in front of me at the ticket counter: “No, ma'am, I'm not checking any luggage today”.
US Airways attendant: “What about that mid-size elephant that is traveling with you?”
Woman: “That'll fit in the overhead bins.”
And, sure enough, people will try to jam any ginormous suitcase into impossible crevices on the plane (hell, if Catherine the Great can figure it out, why can't I?). Fortunately the airlines are now checking these bags (for free!), which only further encourages the smuggling of over-sized bags into the cabin.
All this, only to be charged for peanuts!! Now if someone uses the phrase “oh, they work for peanuts!”, we'll have to substitute “oh, they work for $5, cash appreciated”.
And first class … my god, I just don't get it. Why do they board first? Why is it considered a privilege for you to sit there while everyone else gets on board, crowding up the aisle next to you, shuffling past to the back of the plane?
First class passengers stare straight forward in the same way most people stare past beggars on the street- with eyes darting side to side.
And what about that mosquito net they put up to separate them from the coach passengers? Sometimes I want to light a citronella candle and start buzzing and prodding, just to complete the experience for them.
I always get nervous at the baggage claim. “Many items look alike” … yes, and “many items could so easily be taken it's a wonder that the gypsies haven't caught on to our ignorance”. And as those numerous, dark, seemingly-similar suitcases come wielding around the belt, it's a mystery that we are ever reunited with the exact right bag. Like penguins in a sea of hundreds, somehow we find our match.
Waiting to be picked up at the airport is like the carline at an elementary school; everyone standing impatiently with their over-sized school bags, scanning the arsenal of vehicles hoping to spot a familiar face. Security directs the soccer moms to their appropriate segment of the line, while trunks pop and slam and hugs (sometimes unwillingly) are exchanged. And if they have brought you a snack (no peanuts, please), they are superstars. “How was your day?” is replaced with “How was your flight?”, and you drive off leaving your schoolmates still fretting over “Where are they?”
So there I was, package in tow (wink), ready to start a week-long vacation in Florida and the Bahamas.
To be continued – though sadly there will be no package stories to be told ...
Right?!? I'd like to say the same to the crowd at Cobalt on a Friday night. Keep your baggage (package?) to yourself!!!
But in the Washington Reagan National Airport, this simply means “bitches, don't leave your shit around … how else are we gonna charge you 20 bucks for your bag???”
Woman in front of me at the ticket counter: “No, ma'am, I'm not checking any luggage today”.
US Airways attendant: “What about that mid-size elephant that is traveling with you?”
Woman: “That'll fit in the overhead bins.”
And, sure enough, people will try to jam any ginormous suitcase into impossible crevices on the plane (hell, if Catherine the Great can figure it out, why can't I?). Fortunately the airlines are now checking these bags (for free!), which only further encourages the smuggling of over-sized bags into the cabin.
All this, only to be charged for peanuts!! Now if someone uses the phrase “oh, they work for peanuts!”, we'll have to substitute “oh, they work for $5, cash appreciated”.
And first class … my god, I just don't get it. Why do they board first? Why is it considered a privilege for you to sit there while everyone else gets on board, crowding up the aisle next to you, shuffling past to the back of the plane?
First class passengers stare straight forward in the same way most people stare past beggars on the street- with eyes darting side to side.
And what about that mosquito net they put up to separate them from the coach passengers? Sometimes I want to light a citronella candle and start buzzing and prodding, just to complete the experience for them.
I always get nervous at the baggage claim. “Many items look alike” … yes, and “many items could so easily be taken it's a wonder that the gypsies haven't caught on to our ignorance”. And as those numerous, dark, seemingly-similar suitcases come wielding around the belt, it's a mystery that we are ever reunited with the exact right bag. Like penguins in a sea of hundreds, somehow we find our match.
Waiting to be picked up at the airport is like the carline at an elementary school; everyone standing impatiently with their over-sized school bags, scanning the arsenal of vehicles hoping to spot a familiar face. Security directs the soccer moms to their appropriate segment of the line, while trunks pop and slam and hugs (sometimes unwillingly) are exchanged. And if they have brought you a snack (no peanuts, please), they are superstars. “How was your day?” is replaced with “How was your flight?”, and you drive off leaving your schoolmates still fretting over “Where are they?”
So there I was, package in tow (wink), ready to start a week-long vacation in Florida and the Bahamas.
To be continued – though sadly there will be no package stories to be told ...
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Spotless Minds
"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 :-)
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 :-)
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.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Grieving, Super Heroes, & Obama
"Seize the day, boys,
Make your lives extraordinary"
-Dead Poets Society
For serious, Dead Poets Society appeals to any budding queen in his teenage years- what could be better than a bunch of men sittin' round a cave reading poetry to each other?!? Just add a sauna with some towels and we are in business! (I'm such a poser, that doesn't actually appeal to me at all ... I think ...)
Today I was looking through some pictures of Obama and his family on election night (click) and I delighted in the fly-on-the-wall candidness of the photographs. Here is a family just like the millions of others across the world, and yet a family that is so completely extraordinary in the most fantastic way imaginable.
Obama reminds me of Superman in these photos ... one minute your average man, the next minute a superhero. And only he decides when it's his moment to shine. It was humbling to watch him sitting so serenely on a hotel room couch, the direction of his life guided only by the glow of a TV screen. And it seemed, regardless of the outcome, that he and his family knew that they would be alright.
But Obama is not unique in his ability to change from average-Joe to renowned-hero ... we all have a Batman or WonderWoman lurking just below the surface, and we can show our extraordinary sides even when everything seems to be Gotham-y (Gotham separated is 'got' + 'ham', that's weird).
Losing my mom has been very Got-ham-like for my entire family, and with only 3 months into this race we are not out of the woods yet. In fact, it really is like a hurdling race; some obstacles you clear without a scratch, and others, while presumptuously just like the rest of the hurdles, bring you crashing down. Only the clock never stops ticking, and you have to get your momentum back quick to clear the next challenge.
But in my immediate family I can already see the superheroes struggling to the surface. My dad is still going to choir practice faithfully, and he is even considering buying some cologne (which he hasn't worn in years because it always effected my mom). My sister has uprooted herself and replanted in Atlanta, surrounding herself with close friends and a solid support structure.
And while the finish line of this race doesn't even exist, at least we are all still on the track together ... with plenty of friends on the sidelines cheering, first-aid kits ready and all.
As for me, I'm still looking for my inner extraordinary, my personal SpiderMan or Storm or Wolverine. All that seems to pop up is the Joker, as I try to laugh my worries all the way to the bat cave.
Maybe I should sit quietly, like Obama, and stare at the TV watching my life unfold before me. Patient, reserved, and comforted by the knowledge that no matter what happens ... everything will be alright.
Make your lives extraordinary"
-Dead Poets Society
For serious, Dead Poets Society appeals to any budding queen in his teenage years- what could be better than a bunch of men sittin' round a cave reading poetry to each other?!? Just add a sauna with some towels and we are in business! (I'm such a poser, that doesn't actually appeal to me at all ... I think ...)
Today I was looking through some pictures of Obama and his family on election night (click) and I delighted in the fly-on-the-wall candidness of the photographs. Here is a family just like the millions of others across the world, and yet a family that is so completely extraordinary in the most fantastic way imaginable.
Obama reminds me of Superman in these photos ... one minute your average man, the next minute a superhero. And only he decides when it's his moment to shine. It was humbling to watch him sitting so serenely on a hotel room couch, the direction of his life guided only by the glow of a TV screen. And it seemed, regardless of the outcome, that he and his family knew that they would be alright.
But Obama is not unique in his ability to change from average-Joe to renowned-hero ... we all have a Batman or WonderWoman lurking just below the surface, and we can show our extraordinary sides even when everything seems to be Gotham-y (Gotham separated is 'got' + 'ham', that's weird).
Losing my mom has been very Got-ham-like for my entire family, and with only 3 months into this race we are not out of the woods yet. In fact, it really is like a hurdling race; some obstacles you clear without a scratch, and others, while presumptuously just like the rest of the hurdles, bring you crashing down. Only the clock never stops ticking, and you have to get your momentum back quick to clear the next challenge.
But in my immediate family I can already see the superheroes struggling to the surface. My dad is still going to choir practice faithfully, and he is even considering buying some cologne (which he hasn't worn in years because it always effected my mom). My sister has uprooted herself and replanted in Atlanta, surrounding herself with close friends and a solid support structure.
And while the finish line of this race doesn't even exist, at least we are all still on the track together ... with plenty of friends on the sidelines cheering, first-aid kits ready and all.
As for me, I'm still looking for my inner extraordinary, my personal SpiderMan or Storm or Wolverine. All that seems to pop up is the Joker, as I try to laugh my worries all the way to the bat cave.
Maybe I should sit quietly, like Obama, and stare at the TV watching my life unfold before me. Patient, reserved, and comforted by the knowledge that no matter what happens ... everything will be alright.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Creation Museum
Science versus religion, a tireless debate that is argued most intently by those who can only see things as either black or white, comes to a dramatic flourish of biblical proportions at the Creation Museum in Petersburg, Kentucky.
Dear lord ... there's so much to mock, I'm not entirely sure where to begin.
The Museum is home to a fascinating collection of facts drawn from a mistranslated book full of contradictions and a supreme being who enjoys torturing people just because they like to get frisky every now and then.
"Let the Rain Come" is an all-live new musical put on a few times per month for those who enjoy the thought of drowning the entire planet and then repopulating it by means of incest (which, apparently, is totally cool with the Creator ... see below). The show is chocked full of special effects (CGI would definitely be needed to squeeze all those damn dinosaurs on board, lucky God has a degree in graphic design), refreshing music, plus some surprises ("Look, kids, this is how I'm going to get my own daughter pregnant!!!" ... crowd: "ooooooh .... ahhhhh .....").
What kind of music would you put to accompany the complete annihilation of our world??? "Our God is an awesome God -- it rains from heaven above -- to kill, drown and destroy our lives -- our God is an awesome God..." *faint applause from the audience and the sound of children vomiting at the mercilessness of the Creator*
After all this talk of flooding, I definitely need a drink. Oh, how about I head down to Noah's Cafe and experience old world treats like Cincinnati-style chili and pizza. Perhaps they could explain how Noah's family was able to feed the entire population of the Ark without the dinosaurs devouring anything that moved.
"Be prepared to experience history in an unprecedented way."
"Children play and dinosaurs roam near Eden's rivers."
"Walk through the Cave of Sorrows and see the horrific effects of the Fall of man. Sounds of a sin-ravaged world echo through the room."
To which I add -- "Take your children to therapy immediately for PTSD and the ill-effects of being completely lied to by pseudo-science."
Let's get back to that pesky, pesky topic of incest. Answers in Genesis, the brains (sic) and brawn behind the Museum, have an "Answers Department" that spends its time randomly quoting scripture and uses circular reasoning to back up its preposterous claims.
From the website itself: "We’re not told when Cain married or many of the details of other marriages and children, but we can say for certain that Cain’s wife was either his sister or a close relative."
What ... the ... fuck ... ???
There's even a diagram depicting how genetic mutations increase over time until God decides to outlaw incest. Seriously, Creator, this is not some 5-year-old make-up-the-rules-as-we-go infantile game! We are talking about brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews making babies together! *more vomiting*
Seriously -- why not just cut the crap and say it? ... "Hmm, maybe incest just ain't cool, and we shouldn't take this thing so literally, after all" ...
It isn't rocket science, now is it ???
http://www.creationmuseum.org/
http://www.answersingenesis.org/articles/nab/who-was-cains-wife
Dear lord ... there's so much to mock, I'm not entirely sure where to begin.
The Museum is home to a fascinating collection of facts drawn from a mistranslated book full of contradictions and a supreme being who enjoys torturing people just because they like to get frisky every now and then.
"Let the Rain Come" is an all-live new musical put on a few times per month for those who enjoy the thought of drowning the entire planet and then repopulating it by means of incest (which, apparently, is totally cool with the Creator ... see below). The show is chocked full of special effects (CGI would definitely be needed to squeeze all those damn dinosaurs on board, lucky God has a degree in graphic design), refreshing music, plus some surprises ("Look, kids, this is how I'm going to get my own daughter pregnant!!!" ... crowd: "ooooooh .... ahhhhh .....").
What kind of music would you put to accompany the complete annihilation of our world??? "Our God is an awesome God -- it rains from heaven above -- to kill, drown and destroy our lives -- our God is an awesome God..." *faint applause from the audience and the sound of children vomiting at the mercilessness of the Creator*
After all this talk of flooding, I definitely need a drink. Oh, how about I head down to Noah's Cafe and experience old world treats like Cincinnati-style chili and pizza. Perhaps they could explain how Noah's family was able to feed the entire population of the Ark without the dinosaurs devouring anything that moved.
"Be prepared to experience history in an unprecedented way."
"Children play and dinosaurs roam near Eden's rivers."
"Walk through the Cave of Sorrows and see the horrific effects of the Fall of man. Sounds of a sin-ravaged world echo through the room."
To which I add -- "Take your children to therapy immediately for PTSD and the ill-effects of being completely lied to by pseudo-science."
Let's get back to that pesky, pesky topic of incest. Answers in Genesis, the brains (sic) and brawn behind the Museum, have an "Answers Department" that spends its time randomly quoting scripture and uses circular reasoning to back up its preposterous claims.
From the website itself: "We’re not told when Cain married or many of the details of other marriages and children, but we can say for certain that Cain’s wife was either his sister or a close relative."
What ... the ... fuck ... ???
There's even a diagram depicting how genetic mutations increase over time until God decides to outlaw incest. Seriously, Creator, this is not some 5-year-old make-up-the-rules-as-we-go infantile game! We are talking about brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews making babies together! *more vomiting*
Seriously -- why not just cut the crap and say it? ... "Hmm, maybe incest just ain't cool, and we shouldn't take this thing so literally, after all" ...
It isn't rocket science, now is it ???
http://www.creationmuseum.org/
http://www.answersingenesis.org/articles/nab/who-was-cains-wife
Monday, September 22, 2008
Health Care (sic .... or sick?)
The following is a meddlesome dialogue between myself and the insurance company, taken almost verbatim from a conversation a while back:
**********************
Automated British lady: Thank you for calling United HealthCare. How may I mis-direct your call?
Me: Um ... 'benefits' (with emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) gastro-bypass surgery. Is that correct?
Me: Grrr ... 'BE-NI-FITS' (loads of emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time. Is that correct?
Me: Sigh ... 'representative'.
AB lady: Hold your horses, you little bitch. You gotta tell me who you want to speak to and then I'll transfer your sick ass.
(after much negotiating, a live person answers the line)
Live Person: Thank you for calling United HealthCare, how can I waste your time today?
Me: Yes. OK here's the deal. I tried to go to a walk-in clinic yesterday, one that was listed on your website as covered in your network. When I got there they said they wouldn't take my kind of UHC. WTF, UHC?
Live Person: Well, sir, let me explain it to you as if you were 5 years old and have recently suffered a severe trauma to the head. You don't have United HealthCare, you have MDIPA, which is a subsidiary company of UHC. However, since you have MDIPA preferred, you still have access to that specific clinic for urgent care.
Me: Oh. So, I don't have the United HealthCare that's printed on my card here?
Live Person: No, you don't.
Me: And you are a customer service representative for ...
Live Person: United HealthCare.
Me: Then ... shouldn't I speak to someone from MDIPA?
Live Person: No, you dumbass. MDIPA falls under the umbrella of UHC, but not all parts of the umbrella are covered.
Me: OK ... so I can go to this clinic, right?
Live Person: Yes ... but only for urgent care. And you'll need a referral from your primary care physician.
Me: I haven't set up my PCP yet.
Live Person: *tsk tsk* What kind of idiot hasn't set up his PCP yet? UHC and MDIPA are not liable for consumers' ignorance.
Me: So I need a referral from a doctor to see a doctor in urgent care? Doesn't that seem a little redundant and silly considering the fact it's called 'urgent'?
Live Person: Sir, your incompetence is petulant. We are a business, and too busy to mettle with petty matters such as patients' care.
Me: Could you call the clinic and verify that my insurance will cover the visit?
Live Person: Oh, absolutely sir. I could also come to your house and clean it from top to bottom, scrub all the floors with a toothbrush, and, for good measure, personally and affectionately wash your skanky feet. I could, but I'm not going to.
Me: I see. Well, is there anything else you can not do for me today?
Live Person: The list is longer than you can possibly imagine. Have a lovely day and thank you for choosing United HealthCare!
Me: My absolute pleasure. Seems I'll be under the weather for quite a while. Fortunately, though, I have your silly umbrella to keep me dry.
**********************
Automated British lady: Thank you for calling United HealthCare. How may I mis-direct your call?
Me: Um ... 'benefits' (with emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) gastro-bypass surgery. Is that correct?
Me: Grrr ... 'BE-NI-FITS' (loads of emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time. Is that correct?
Me: Sigh ... 'representative'.
AB lady: Hold your horses, you little bitch. You gotta tell me who you want to speak to and then I'll transfer your sick ass.
(after much negotiating, a live person answers the line)
Live Person: Thank you for calling United HealthCare, how can I waste your time today?
Me: Yes. OK here's the deal. I tried to go to a walk-in clinic yesterday, one that was listed on your website as covered in your network. When I got there they said they wouldn't take my kind of UHC. WTF, UHC?
Live Person: Well, sir, let me explain it to you as if you were 5 years old and have recently suffered a severe trauma to the head. You don't have United HealthCare, you have MDIPA, which is a subsidiary company of UHC. However, since you have MDIPA preferred, you still have access to that specific clinic for urgent care.
Me: Oh. So, I don't have the United HealthCare that's printed on my card here?
Live Person: No, you don't.
Me: And you are a customer service representative for ...
Live Person: United HealthCare.
Me: Then ... shouldn't I speak to someone from MDIPA?
Live Person: No, you dumbass. MDIPA falls under the umbrella of UHC, but not all parts of the umbrella are covered.
Me: OK ... so I can go to this clinic, right?
Live Person: Yes ... but only for urgent care. And you'll need a referral from your primary care physician.
Me: I haven't set up my PCP yet.
Live Person: *tsk tsk* What kind of idiot hasn't set up his PCP yet? UHC and MDIPA are not liable for consumers' ignorance.
Me: So I need a referral from a doctor to see a doctor in urgent care? Doesn't that seem a little redundant and silly considering the fact it's called 'urgent'?
Live Person: Sir, your incompetence is petulant. We are a business, and too busy to mettle with petty matters such as patients' care.
Me: Could you call the clinic and verify that my insurance will cover the visit?
Live Person: Oh, absolutely sir. I could also come to your house and clean it from top to bottom, scrub all the floors with a toothbrush, and, for good measure, personally and affectionately wash your skanky feet. I could, but I'm not going to.
Me: I see. Well, is there anything else you can not do for me today?
Live Person: The list is longer than you can possibly imagine. Have a lovely day and thank you for choosing United HealthCare!
Me: My absolute pleasure. Seems I'll be under the weather for quite a while. Fortunately, though, I have your silly umbrella to keep me dry.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Consolation Prizes
Sometimes people don't know what to say when they try and comfort a person who has experienced a loss. Over the past month I have been the unwilling recipient of consolation prizes dished out by the bucketful from those eager to express their condolences.
Some strike a tender chord, harmonizing with my sadness. Others strike me angrily, like a 5-year-old banging on a piano.
Some of my least favorites include: “She’s rejoicing with her Lord now”. “She’s making great music in heaven”. “God has taken her home”.
The audacity of help …
For some of the prize-givers, little or no thought is given to how inappropriate or insensitive their remarks may be. Take, for example, my position on religion. It’s quite presumptuous to automatically assume my mother and I shared the same religion, or that I would be comforted by talk of heaven, and Jesus, and God’s plan to pluck people in their prime.
Personally, I lie somewhere in between the grey mix of agnosticism, atheism, and Unitarianism.
Can you imagine me going up to someone at their relative’s funeral and saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. Hopefully it will be of some comfort to know that your relative was merely a complex biological organism that has stopped functioning and will never exist again.” … or … “I hope it brings you peace to know that your relative is now part of some nondescript comprehensive epistemological existence that cannot be truly named or identified.”
Can you imagine?
The Wednesday after my mom died her school had their regular chapel meeting, only this time they devoted the service to my mom and they invited my family to attend. There were children everywhere- some performed songs, rang handbells, or walked about the sanctuary singing “Butterfly” and flapping their arms. It was all really touching …
… until one of the pastors got up and delivered his message.
“Boys and girls, I know without a doubt, if Mrs. Bruce were here today and she only had one thing she could tell you all … it would be that she loved Jesus and wants you to tell everyone you know about Jesus.”
My jaw hit the floor. My left eyebrow etched itself like a mountain peak jabbing into my forehead. I sat, transfixed in anger, while the pastor went on to further use my mother’s death to promote his personal agenda. He quite literally turned her passing into a springboard to catapult his religious propaganda into the impressionable minds of young children.
Way not cool …. Waaaaaaaaaay not cool.
She never would have said that. Instead, she would have said "I love all you children so much, and I'm really going to miss being your teacher. Keep practicing, be nice to your teachers, and eat a lot of coffee ice cream".
Sadly, none of these non-consoling consolation prizes come with a return receipt for me to exchange them. But, if they did, I know exactly what I would exchange them for- and in abundance:
a hug,
a smile,
a promise of support,
“my thoughts are with you”,
“she was such a kind and caring woman”, and
“when all the sadness passes what will be left are the amazing qualities she had that are still alive in you”.
The last one still makes me cry … these are the prizes that win first place.
Some strike a tender chord, harmonizing with my sadness. Others strike me angrily, like a 5-year-old banging on a piano.
Some of my least favorites include: “She’s rejoicing with her Lord now”. “She’s making great music in heaven”. “God has taken her home”.
The audacity of help …
For some of the prize-givers, little or no thought is given to how inappropriate or insensitive their remarks may be. Take, for example, my position on religion. It’s quite presumptuous to automatically assume my mother and I shared the same religion, or that I would be comforted by talk of heaven, and Jesus, and God’s plan to pluck people in their prime.
Personally, I lie somewhere in between the grey mix of agnosticism, atheism, and Unitarianism.
Can you imagine me going up to someone at their relative’s funeral and saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. Hopefully it will be of some comfort to know that your relative was merely a complex biological organism that has stopped functioning and will never exist again.” … or … “I hope it brings you peace to know that your relative is now part of some nondescript comprehensive epistemological existence that cannot be truly named or identified.”
Can you imagine?
The Wednesday after my mom died her school had their regular chapel meeting, only this time they devoted the service to my mom and they invited my family to attend. There were children everywhere- some performed songs, rang handbells, or walked about the sanctuary singing “Butterfly” and flapping their arms. It was all really touching …
… until one of the pastors got up and delivered his message.
“Boys and girls, I know without a doubt, if Mrs. Bruce were here today and she only had one thing she could tell you all … it would be that she loved Jesus and wants you to tell everyone you know about Jesus.”
My jaw hit the floor. My left eyebrow etched itself like a mountain peak jabbing into my forehead. I sat, transfixed in anger, while the pastor went on to further use my mother’s death to promote his personal agenda. He quite literally turned her passing into a springboard to catapult his religious propaganda into the impressionable minds of young children.
Way not cool …. Waaaaaaaaaay not cool.
She never would have said that. Instead, she would have said "I love all you children so much, and I'm really going to miss being your teacher. Keep practicing, be nice to your teachers, and eat a lot of coffee ice cream".
Sadly, none of these non-consoling consolation prizes come with a return receipt for me to exchange them. But, if they did, I know exactly what I would exchange them for- and in abundance:
a hug,
a smile,
a promise of support,
“my thoughts are with you”,
“she was such a kind and caring woman”, and
“when all the sadness passes what will be left are the amazing qualities she had that are still alive in you”.
The last one still makes me cry … these are the prizes that win first place.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
BE-ing blunt about BE Bar
The DC gay nightlife is peppered with bars and clubs for every niche of the gay male community (sorry ladies, we got the lion's share on this deal ... irony ... a lion is just a big pussy-cat). Leather at the Eagle, cowboys at Remington's, sports at Nellie's ... and, my personal favorite (insert sarcasm), the skinny young bitches at Be Bar.
Upon entering Be Bar, the last thing you can think of is simply Be-ing ... which for me is a young guy with a beard and a healthy weight (shaking-body-in-front-of-mirror flab test is showing improvement). Rather, when confronted with the clientele of Be, I am suddenly more conscious about my age ... my weight ... my man-beard ... and my lack of fashion.
At the front door you are carded by a prepubescent boy who is in dire need of a sandwich. Inside you are forever waiting for a bar tender who doesn't serve people who can actually shave. Feeling like a giant among insects, people can't seem to help but spill beer all over your jeans ("but the bearded man's just SO big, I couldn't avoid his mammoth-leg!").
And you're going to charge me a five dollar cover? On a weekday?
In a somewhat narrow space that never seems big enough to fit its patrons, despite their delicate proportions, Be Bar has a chic dance floor where you can watch the exertion of anorexia in action. Their limber bodies, clad in admittedly well put together attire, shake fervently to the beat of deafening music in order to burn off the square of cheese they scarfed down for "dinner". And, most conveniently, the bathrooms are located near the front door so you can purge and polish before stepping out into the night air.
Once outside, completely deaf and a little weary, you're greeted by a wall of smoke that resembles a tear-gas raid by police. Apparently a little lung cancer goes well with a Ghandi-like physique. But hey! They're dressed up to the nines and look absolutely hip.
Damn! This blog is a perfect example of how my personal insecurities are projected as bitchiness! Maybe I should shutup, remember that thin is in and muscles are on their way out, drink a bit more, admire the fashion, and not be so damn "old".
Thank you, Be Bar, for letting me just Be me ... which is to say, uncomfortable.
Upon entering Be Bar, the last thing you can think of is simply Be-ing ... which for me is a young guy with a beard and a healthy weight (shaking-body-in-front-of-mirror flab test is showing improvement). Rather, when confronted with the clientele of Be, I am suddenly more conscious about my age ... my weight ... my man-beard ... and my lack of fashion.
At the front door you are carded by a prepubescent boy who is in dire need of a sandwich. Inside you are forever waiting for a bar tender who doesn't serve people who can actually shave. Feeling like a giant among insects, people can't seem to help but spill beer all over your jeans ("but the bearded man's just SO big, I couldn't avoid his mammoth-leg!").
And you're going to charge me a five dollar cover? On a weekday?
In a somewhat narrow space that never seems big enough to fit its patrons, despite their delicate proportions, Be Bar has a chic dance floor where you can watch the exertion of anorexia in action. Their limber bodies, clad in admittedly well put together attire, shake fervently to the beat of deafening music in order to burn off the square of cheese they scarfed down for "dinner". And, most conveniently, the bathrooms are located near the front door so you can purge and polish before stepping out into the night air.
Once outside, completely deaf and a little weary, you're greeted by a wall of smoke that resembles a tear-gas raid by police. Apparently a little lung cancer goes well with a Ghandi-like physique. But hey! They're dressed up to the nines and look absolutely hip.
Damn! This blog is a perfect example of how my personal insecurities are projected as bitchiness! Maybe I should shutup, remember that thin is in and muscles are on their way out, drink a bit more, admire the fashion, and not be so damn "old".
Thank you, Be Bar, for letting me just Be me ... which is to say, uncomfortable.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Death is a matter of life
It's hard to believe that just one week ago I was wearing my black cherry boots and prepping my sister for her inaugural visit to Remington's for linedancing lessons.
And then there was a phone call that sent everything spinning in an endless whirl of tears, friends, family, cards, flowers, condolences, food, more food, and much more food.
I knew something was wrong when I called my mom's cell phone back after a missed call- and a man answered the phone.
15 minutes later I was sitting silently on my couch, repeating over and over in my mind "I can't do this ... I can't do this" while my sister's bright blue eyeliner was running down her face like hot fudge on a sundae.
We rode to the airport, seemingly typical DC-ites with our cell phones burning minutes and our responses to the cab driver curt and emotionless. We sailed to Dulles, the sun serenely setting on what shall always be remembered as the day I unexpectedly lost my mother to death- August 20th, 2008.
Within hours I stood collapsed in my father's arms ... the kind of hug where you become weightless and immediately fatigued ... while he stood and stared straightforward with the most eerily vacant expression on his face.
Weightless is probably the best adjective to describe the past week. I feel like I've been coasting directionless out in space, while the "should-s" and "have to-s" and "supposed to-s" have been suspended around me just out of reach ... mindless and delicately spiraling around my body- perfectly in sight, and absolutely nothing I can do to manipulate them. I don't have to do anything. I'm not supposed to be anything.
But for some reason I feel like I do. I have to be strong, organized, attentive to life insurance policies and bills due and clothing that needs to be donated and lunch boxes that remain unpacked and jewelry that stays untouched and photos that need to be sorted and- a life that needs to be lamented.
My family has been inundated by a flood of support via letters, cards, emails, messages, flowers, and food; welcome distractions, and luxurious burdens.
And the grieving is so completely unique to everyone who expresses it. My father has lost 6 pounds in as many days, and I have probably gained just as much or more. My father cries more in the morning, my sister and I more at night.
We are paradoxically helped and helpless- a wealth of support from the richness of ample friends and family, but a cold silence continues to fall upon the house once the pomp and circumstance of grieving has marched itself out the door. Thankful to all those who have shouldered the boulder that is our loss, our emotions are left to clean up the pieces of broken rock that was the cornerstone of our family- my dear sweet mother, rest and bless her soul.
There's so much more to say. I guess that will come in time.
A heartfelt thanks to all of my friends and family who have blossomed in love and support during a time where sunlight is still struggling to find its way through the overcast sky of life's circumstances. You cannot know how much it means to me.
Morale of the story- life matters.
And then there was a phone call that sent everything spinning in an endless whirl of tears, friends, family, cards, flowers, condolences, food, more food, and much more food.
I knew something was wrong when I called my mom's cell phone back after a missed call- and a man answered the phone.
15 minutes later I was sitting silently on my couch, repeating over and over in my mind "I can't do this ... I can't do this" while my sister's bright blue eyeliner was running down her face like hot fudge on a sundae.
We rode to the airport, seemingly typical DC-ites with our cell phones burning minutes and our responses to the cab driver curt and emotionless. We sailed to Dulles, the sun serenely setting on what shall always be remembered as the day I unexpectedly lost my mother to death- August 20th, 2008.
Within hours I stood collapsed in my father's arms ... the kind of hug where you become weightless and immediately fatigued ... while he stood and stared straightforward with the most eerily vacant expression on his face.
Weightless is probably the best adjective to describe the past week. I feel like I've been coasting directionless out in space, while the "should-s" and "have to-s" and "supposed to-s" have been suspended around me just out of reach ... mindless and delicately spiraling around my body- perfectly in sight, and absolutely nothing I can do to manipulate them. I don't have to do anything. I'm not supposed to be anything.
But for some reason I feel like I do. I have to be strong, organized, attentive to life insurance policies and bills due and clothing that needs to be donated and lunch boxes that remain unpacked and jewelry that stays untouched and photos that need to be sorted and- a life that needs to be lamented.
My family has been inundated by a flood of support via letters, cards, emails, messages, flowers, and food; welcome distractions, and luxurious burdens.
And the grieving is so completely unique to everyone who expresses it. My father has lost 6 pounds in as many days, and I have probably gained just as much or more. My father cries more in the morning, my sister and I more at night.
We are paradoxically helped and helpless- a wealth of support from the richness of ample friends and family, but a cold silence continues to fall upon the house once the pomp and circumstance of grieving has marched itself out the door. Thankful to all those who have shouldered the boulder that is our loss, our emotions are left to clean up the pieces of broken rock that was the cornerstone of our family- my dear sweet mother, rest and bless her soul.
There's so much more to say. I guess that will come in time.
A heartfelt thanks to all of my friends and family who have blossomed in love and support during a time where sunlight is still struggling to find its way through the overcast sky of life's circumstances. You cannot know how much it means to me.
Morale of the story- life matters.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
I'll remember my Pride
This past weekend was my 3rd experience of DC's annual Gay Pride celebration (well, not just Gay -- really it was the Pride of the GLBTQQA community ... I'm proposing we add the acronym 'WTHE' to the long string of letters, signifying "Who The Hell Else?"). And although I have been a member of the GLBTQQAWTHE community for a short 4 years, this small amount of time really accounts for the bulk of my 'life'; the previous 24 seeming like a forgotten dream.
Yes that's right, I said it -- FOUR years ago. I was 24 when I officially came out -- and I took my sweet-assed time doing it, too. Circumstances being what they were growing up, there was no fertile ground in which to tend this delicate flower. But hell -- listening to Christina Auguilera's "I Am Beautiful" enough times can compel anyone to come to bizarre and dramatic revelations ... and disclosures.
So now, 4 years into my personal renaissance, I feel that the myriad of gay experiences packed into my brief history has brought me full circle; I have come back to analyze that previous thrust of pride in myself that was necessary to finally come out of the closet.
Coming out to friends and family requires a paradigm shift, and a braveness to stare into a vast unknown and say "Eh ... screw it, I'm moving forward!". Despite our personal doubts, and those quiet voices inside our heads that say "AH! Be careful, this might not be safe!" ... we leap ...
... and hit the ground running, a whole new world to explore. What interests me is that the personal doubts and often problematic negative self-talk do not go away with coming out; there is an entirely new set of problems that challenge how we view ourselves. Namely dating.
I find that the internal conflict which postponed my coming out is somewhat similar to my current struggle in identifying a place in the world of male relationships. Will I be rejected? Will I lose my dignity, will someone care (sing it girl)? Isn't it better to never show my feelings? Isn't it easier just to keep everything inside? Won't I avoid pain if I never connect with someone else ... again?
This pattern of thinking has led me down the slippery slope of cynicism. It is the fear that things won't turn out right in the end, and then becoming disenchanted with the dating process altogether.
In opening the closet door, gay people become vulnerable. We cannot control what others think or how they will react to us. Similarly, opening the 'relationship door' brings its own trials of dealing with people who do not treat us the way we want to be treated -- and sometimes that stings.
I've been trying to talk down that cranky cynic in my interior monologue by reinstating the pride it took to finally come out to friends and family. Coming out came with a price: stress, difficulty, some pain, and an opening of self that required a genuineness which was sometimes hard to swallow.
Relationships come with a similar price; I have to sacrifice myself to the occasional sting of the beehive to finally reach the honey. Accepting this as the way of things continues to give me the pride to open that relationship door just a bit further. It is an affirmation of self that says, "I'm a good person, even though people don't always treat me that way."
... and I'm pretty damn proud of that ...
Yes that's right, I said it -- FOUR years ago. I was 24 when I officially came out -- and I took my sweet-assed time doing it, too. Circumstances being what they were growing up, there was no fertile ground in which to tend this delicate flower. But hell -- listening to Christina Auguilera's "I Am Beautiful" enough times can compel anyone to come to bizarre and dramatic revelations ... and disclosures.
So now, 4 years into my personal renaissance, I feel that the myriad of gay experiences packed into my brief history has brought me full circle; I have come back to analyze that previous thrust of pride in myself that was necessary to finally come out of the closet.
Coming out to friends and family requires a paradigm shift, and a braveness to stare into a vast unknown and say "Eh ... screw it, I'm moving forward!". Despite our personal doubts, and those quiet voices inside our heads that say "AH! Be careful, this might not be safe!" ... we leap ...
... and hit the ground running, a whole new world to explore. What interests me is that the personal doubts and often problematic negative self-talk do not go away with coming out; there is an entirely new set of problems that challenge how we view ourselves. Namely dating.
I find that the internal conflict which postponed my coming out is somewhat similar to my current struggle in identifying a place in the world of male relationships. Will I be rejected? Will I lose my dignity, will someone care (sing it girl)? Isn't it better to never show my feelings? Isn't it easier just to keep everything inside? Won't I avoid pain if I never connect with someone else ... again?
This pattern of thinking has led me down the slippery slope of cynicism. It is the fear that things won't turn out right in the end, and then becoming disenchanted with the dating process altogether.
In opening the closet door, gay people become vulnerable. We cannot control what others think or how they will react to us. Similarly, opening the 'relationship door' brings its own trials of dealing with people who do not treat us the way we want to be treated -- and sometimes that stings.
I've been trying to talk down that cranky cynic in my interior monologue by reinstating the pride it took to finally come out to friends and family. Coming out came with a price: stress, difficulty, some pain, and an opening of self that required a genuineness which was sometimes hard to swallow.
Relationships come with a similar price; I have to sacrifice myself to the occasional sting of the beehive to finally reach the honey. Accepting this as the way of things continues to give me the pride to open that relationship door just a bit further. It is an affirmation of self that says, "I'm a good person, even though people don't always treat me that way."
... and I'm pretty damn proud of that ...
Friday, June 13, 2008
Spreading my seed
Now really, it is quite tacky to put a suggestive title on a blog just to confuse (and entice) the reader into thinking that we will be talking about sex ... but since we're on the subject, why the hell not?!?
Rest assured- this gardener has done precious little germination in months past, so the seed that I intend to spread has nothing to do with my irrigation system. Oh no friends, we are talking about love here. LOVE.
The 'heart' shape is the ubiquitous symbol of love, and its origins have been debated by historians for years (particularly because it looks nothing like a real heart). The most likely (and sinfully delicious) theory is that the shape comes from the silphium (syphilis?) plant in northern Africa, around 500 B.C.E. Used as a one-stop shop for common ailments and disease (like Windex in My Big Fat Greek Wedding), silphium was also believed to prevent undesired pregnancies. The seeds of the silphium plant are the shape we have adopted as the 'heart'.
Basically, our symbol for love is a prophylactic.
It makes sense ... love meaning we want the pleasure of sex without the pain of raising little shits. But the transition from the symbolic "no baby here" to "oh baby be mine!" is interesting, and further complicates the mysterious dynamic between emotional and physical love, sex and genuine caring. Throw "I 'heart' you mom" into the mix, and it just gets plain gruesome.
But, like many symbols, its present-day meaning has morphed from its original intent. When I see a heart-shape the last thing I think about is birth control. Instead, I think of compassion, intimacy, and sometimes vomiting in my mouth.
Apparently the need to stop popping out little brats overwhelmed the supply of silphium- it is now extinct (hence it was a commodity, quite like the sponge-worthy Seinfeld episodes). Perhaps it is time to reconsider and change this antiquated symbol of love ... why not something more modern ... like a condom?
*Cupid shoots arrow into a Trojan ... extra-large*
So the next time you're strapping on a rubber to hold back the seed, consider the jocular link between the latex and love. And for god's sake, pray that your 'heart' doesn't get broken.
Rest assured- this gardener has done precious little germination in months past, so the seed that I intend to spread has nothing to do with my irrigation system. Oh no friends, we are talking about love here. LOVE.
The 'heart' shape is the ubiquitous symbol of love, and its origins have been debated by historians for years (particularly because it looks nothing like a real heart). The most likely (and sinfully delicious) theory is that the shape comes from the silphium (syphilis?) plant in northern Africa, around 500 B.C.E. Used as a one-stop shop for common ailments and disease (like Windex in My Big Fat Greek Wedding), silphium was also believed to prevent undesired pregnancies. The seeds of the silphium plant are the shape we have adopted as the 'heart'.
Basically, our symbol for love is a prophylactic.
It makes sense ... love meaning we want the pleasure of sex without the pain of raising little shits. But the transition from the symbolic "no baby here" to "oh baby be mine!" is interesting, and further complicates the mysterious dynamic between emotional and physical love, sex and genuine caring. Throw "I 'heart' you mom" into the mix, and it just gets plain gruesome.
But, like many symbols, its present-day meaning has morphed from its original intent. When I see a heart-shape the last thing I think about is birth control. Instead, I think of compassion, intimacy, and sometimes vomiting in my mouth.
Apparently the need to stop popping out little brats overwhelmed the supply of silphium- it is now extinct (hence it was a commodity, quite like the sponge-worthy Seinfeld episodes). Perhaps it is time to reconsider and change this antiquated symbol of love ... why not something more modern ... like a condom?
*Cupid shoots arrow into a Trojan ... extra-large*
So the next time you're strapping on a rubber to hold back the seed, consider the jocular link between the latex and love. And for god's sake, pray that your 'heart' doesn't get broken.
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