So my old buddy who razzes me weekly (and who I firmly believe is hitting on me, bless his heart) had himself some palpitations at The Bingo Hall last night.
Since this is Mayberry and everybody knows everybody - or at the very least knows somebody who can make something up about somebody - it just so happened that the lady who was waiting to get her hair cut after me Chez My One Drunk Friend caught my eye last night at Bingo and alerted me to the palpitating problem during Bingo Intermission. Ol' Paul is in his late 60's and double my size, but informed me that he had swallowed four nitro pills and was still having angina. I only knew what to do because I sat with one of The Boys during the bypass surgery of late while we watched a video of what to do when you take the 4th Nitro Pill (Answer: Call 911.)
I quickly alerted the Nurse-in-Training and figured she could at least act Nursish while all I could do is fix my hair and hope the paramedics were cute. (Just because you can't help doesn't excuse you from looking your best, I figure.) I helped him ease his way outdoors and into a chair and stayed long enough for the paramedics to get a good look at me. They whisked him off after doing all the things paramedics do when they're not taking note of the well-groomed bystanders.
Back inside, having noticed her grab Ol' Paul's wrist once he was seated, I asked the Nurse in Training (across My Mama):
Me: "Did you feel a pulse?"
Mama: "Well, of course he had a pulse."
Me: "Were you able to feel his pulse?"
Mama: "Well, OF COURSE HE HAD A PULSE!"
Me: "I KNOW HE HAD A PULSE! HE WAS ALIVE! LIVING PEOPLE HAVE PULSES! THAT WASN'T MY QUESTION!"
Mama: "You always get that way."
Me: "Was it fast or weak?"
Mama: (NOTE: Still no opportunity for the Nurse-in-Training to respond thus far.) "Don't talk to me!"
Me: "I HAVEN'T BEEN TALKING TO YOU! I'M TALKING TO THE NURSE-IN-TRAINING!"
Mama: (Sit down for this one.) "Fuck you."
Me: (Lie down for this one.) "Fuck YOU!"
(Pause...Mama will pout for the remainder of Bingo.)
Me: "So, were you able to feel his pulse?"
N-I-T: (Finally) "Yes, it was strong and a little fast."
Me: "Well, that's good, I suppose."
Now...that might have been concluded in the matter of two lines without a single Fuck You. But nooooo.....That's My Mama.
I had a mystery number on my Caller ID from here in town that made me curious, so I called down the block to see if they knew who it was. I related the abbreviated portion of the swapped Fuck Yous - more as a warning than anything - and got, "You two....."
"US TWO?" I gasped. I refrained from heaving a Fuck You in his general direction fearing that might confirm the label to which I'd already been assigned. Again, this morning, when the Nurse-In-Training and I recounted the events so that I could be sure I hadn't dementedly twisted them to suit my own agenda, she said, "We're going to have to seat the two of you at opposite ends of the table!"
"ME?!" I gasped. Now how the hell do you figure I'm the bad guy in this - or even marginally culpable, I wondered? As I told her, I might be among the 5 or 6 people on this planet to whom she should never utter a Fuck You. But I am the only one of those half dozen or so people who will absolutely, guaran-damn-teedly return it even harder than it was served up. I don't play. You talk nice or don't talk. And if you want to get in the gutter and roll around, you'd best know I have spent more time there than most. And I know allllll the words. My only role, if I have one, in what transpired at Bingo is that I didn't bow my head and take my "Fuck You" like a poor wounded lamb. Well, this is what she raised me to be. Now she can enjoy it.
And to top it all off, I didn't even win.
Bingo, that is.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
You Just Have To Wonder
Every once in a while you see something pass by the TV screen that seems plausible at the moment. As it germinates in the back of your consciousness, though, it evolves into something patently ludicrous. Take this inane and wholly unsubstantiated example: (All names have been left intact to preserve the name-dropping effect.)
In day two of my fevered state (102.1 at its top, so no records broken), I caught part of Oprah and forced myself to remain conscious because the lovely and talented Nate Berkus (interior designer extraordinaire) was on the couch. I have loved Nate from afar since first I laid eyes on him - right there on Oprah's couch. I love the nice remodeling jobs he's done for both poor folk and rich folk alike. I loved when he made the Out Magazine's "Out 100" of openly gay people. I had weeks-long fantasies about Nate rummaging around in Jerry O'Connell's bedroom during that make-over, courtesy of Oprah. I was heart broken for him when he lost his partner in the tsunami. And I wept openly from the gut when I saw him insist that they would rescue a man's dogs from New Orleans in the hours following Katrina.
I believe Nate Berkus may be one of the finest looking humanitarians on our planet. This should be a lesson to future Mother Theresa types. You do not have to look like a Shar-pei puppy to be a good human being. That said, what I saw of Nate on Oprah yesterday made me giggle a little...but not until today.
Nate was having control problems with his two dogs who gave every appearance of having been bred for the dog-fight rings of rural Alabama. Enter The Dog Whisperer, as Oprah calls him. This very nice Hispanic man has made his nickel by walking into Bad Dog situations and leaving Good Dogs behind. He's a Super Nanny for those of us who don't choose real children. Within minutes, by the magic of editing, Nate's dogs were as well-behaved as though they attended Her Majesty, Elizabeth II, The Queen of England, herself. The diagnosis of the problem made perfect sense to me, as a dog owner.
Mr. Dog Whisperer said that Nate was not viewed by the two canines as the Pack Leader. He was not the dominant one in the relationship. No top, he, to put it in words we might use in our own little ghetto. I feverishly made mental notes on how to display my dominance to my own occasional terror (Yorkshire Terror, that is) without actually using a weapon or raising my voice.
Not until today, however, when I recounted the episode on the phone did it occur to me that these dogs may have known full-well all along that they were dealing with a hoity-toity interior decorator: a breed more known for their bark than their bite. I think the dogs knew something we didn't. I giggled a little when I thought about the dogs now being made to act cowed by a man who hauls around paint chips and fabric swatches for people who have people that wash their underthings. Sometimes our true characteristics are more on display to those around us than we care to believe - even to the dogs.
You Just Have To Wonder why more of us don't know that.
In day two of my fevered state (102.1 at its top, so no records broken), I caught part of Oprah and forced myself to remain conscious because the lovely and talented Nate Berkus (interior designer extraordinaire) was on the couch. I have loved Nate from afar since first I laid eyes on him - right there on Oprah's couch. I love the nice remodeling jobs he's done for both poor folk and rich folk alike. I loved when he made the Out Magazine's "Out 100" of openly gay people. I had weeks-long fantasies about Nate rummaging around in Jerry O'Connell's bedroom during that make-over, courtesy of Oprah. I was heart broken for him when he lost his partner in the tsunami. And I wept openly from the gut when I saw him insist that they would rescue a man's dogs from New Orleans in the hours following Katrina.
I believe Nate Berkus may be one of the finest looking humanitarians on our planet. This should be a lesson to future Mother Theresa types. You do not have to look like a Shar-pei puppy to be a good human being. That said, what I saw of Nate on Oprah yesterday made me giggle a little...but not until today.
Nate was having control problems with his two dogs who gave every appearance of having been bred for the dog-fight rings of rural Alabama. Enter The Dog Whisperer, as Oprah calls him. This very nice Hispanic man has made his nickel by walking into Bad Dog situations and leaving Good Dogs behind. He's a Super Nanny for those of us who don't choose real children. Within minutes, by the magic of editing, Nate's dogs were as well-behaved as though they attended Her Majesty, Elizabeth II, The Queen of England, herself. The diagnosis of the problem made perfect sense to me, as a dog owner.
Mr. Dog Whisperer said that Nate was not viewed by the two canines as the Pack Leader. He was not the dominant one in the relationship. No top, he, to put it in words we might use in our own little ghetto. I feverishly made mental notes on how to display my dominance to my own occasional terror (Yorkshire Terror, that is) without actually using a weapon or raising my voice.
Not until today, however, when I recounted the episode on the phone did it occur to me that these dogs may have known full-well all along that they were dealing with a hoity-toity interior decorator: a breed more known for their bark than their bite. I think the dogs knew something we didn't. I giggled a little when I thought about the dogs now being made to act cowed by a man who hauls around paint chips and fabric swatches for people who have people that wash their underthings. Sometimes our true characteristics are more on display to those around us than we care to believe - even to the dogs.
You Just Have To Wonder why more of us don't know that.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
The Right Hand of Fellowship
The phrase comes from Galatians in the New Testament. I got it today...the right hand, that is. I stood before God and my fellow Assemblians of God and was accepted into membership at the Mayberry Assembly of God. It's not the first time I've done so. I was a member at my church in Omaha, Nebraska once upon a very long time ago. I also joined the Nazarene church to spite my grandpa right out of college.
The brief, rote ceremony was touching this morning. The Lady Pastor had a few kind words to say and then every-single-person in the church got up and walked past..extending that right hand of fellowship to me as a new member of their congregation. It was nice. There's still a lot of revelation to be had between us all, but as starts go, it was a good one. I had pressed and starched my best white shirt, put on my only suit pants that are now at least a size too small, donned a tie and dug out the tie clip that belonged to my Great-Grandfather (my Pappy's father). It was a symbolic gesture, obviously. My Great Grandpa and my Pappy had both been in the front row of the Assembly of God church in about 1969 when I first embraced Christianity as my own. I was five. They were convinced. Who was I to argue?
I had gone earlier than usual this morning to catch Sunday School. I hadn't been to Sunday School in eons. I mean decades. Even during my revived days over the last many years, Sunday School was never on the agenda. I had a great time sitting and pontificating with the handful of us around the table. I listened closely as one-by-one, the mostly older folks laid out their struggles in being true to their hearts on a daily basis. That was encouraging. I felt a real sense of peace and was prompted in my innards that the point is not perfection, it's the process. It's the striving toward, not the achieving. There are no untroubled waters. But there are expert navigators who don't get rattled when the waves get testy. I walked away from Sunday School with something I hadn't expected. That seems to happen a lot lately.
I was asked to help take up the offering - twice. One was the usual offering for the support of the church and then there was the once-a-month missions offering. THen I stood at the front of the church and greeted every person in the sanctuary. Then I sat through church - in the same place I've always sat: second pew, first seat on the center aisle, right side. I think the combination of activity was too much or the duration was too long. My body began rebelling against the basic requests I put on it by service's end. Someone noted, "You're really hurting, aren't you?" And they weren't talking about my spirit. My hips, knees, ankles, wrists, shoulders, elbows and fingers were all starting to lock up and throb. I just wanted to get home.
I didn't slip onto the piano bench at the end of the service as I'd been prone to do lately. I was afraid my hands wouldn't respond. I was hot, very hot. I got into the car and had to shake the cobwebs out of my head to make sense of the 4 or 5 blocks home. I got home and disrobed down to shorts and a t-shirt and was immediately freezing. I put on a sweatshirt and got under 2 afghans on the couch with the dog on my chest for added warmth. Three hours later, I awoke a little worse for the wear and was reminded that I am no longer a man of boundless energy and ability. I have limits. Just like the older folks in Sunday School had coughed up their own, mine manifested against my will at the least convenient of times.
I became a member of my church and had my first "Aidsy" day, as we call it, all at the same time. I hadn't had an Aidsy day in quite a while. The timing was unfortunate. I was glad, however, to have an extra right hand to help steady my way home.
I'm still sweating eight hours later and I don't feel all that well. But I have high hopes that this third hand will be a reliable and helpful one as things unfold. Who couldn't use an extra hand?
In 1969, I took my grandpas' hands and walked to the altar to accept the Lord. Today I walked on my own and took a stranger's hand. I made the experience my own today. Thirty-seven years and a lot of water under - and over - the bridge came together today. It might not pan out in the end. But it was nice today. And that's enough...for today.
The brief, rote ceremony was touching this morning. The Lady Pastor had a few kind words to say and then every-single-person in the church got up and walked past..extending that right hand of fellowship to me as a new member of their congregation. It was nice. There's still a lot of revelation to be had between us all, but as starts go, it was a good one. I had pressed and starched my best white shirt, put on my only suit pants that are now at least a size too small, donned a tie and dug out the tie clip that belonged to my Great-Grandfather (my Pappy's father). It was a symbolic gesture, obviously. My Great Grandpa and my Pappy had both been in the front row of the Assembly of God church in about 1969 when I first embraced Christianity as my own. I was five. They were convinced. Who was I to argue?
I had gone earlier than usual this morning to catch Sunday School. I hadn't been to Sunday School in eons. I mean decades. Even during my revived days over the last many years, Sunday School was never on the agenda. I had a great time sitting and pontificating with the handful of us around the table. I listened closely as one-by-one, the mostly older folks laid out their struggles in being true to their hearts on a daily basis. That was encouraging. I felt a real sense of peace and was prompted in my innards that the point is not perfection, it's the process. It's the striving toward, not the achieving. There are no untroubled waters. But there are expert navigators who don't get rattled when the waves get testy. I walked away from Sunday School with something I hadn't expected. That seems to happen a lot lately.
I was asked to help take up the offering - twice. One was the usual offering for the support of the church and then there was the once-a-month missions offering. THen I stood at the front of the church and greeted every person in the sanctuary. Then I sat through church - in the same place I've always sat: second pew, first seat on the center aisle, right side. I think the combination of activity was too much or the duration was too long. My body began rebelling against the basic requests I put on it by service's end. Someone noted, "You're really hurting, aren't you?" And they weren't talking about my spirit. My hips, knees, ankles, wrists, shoulders, elbows and fingers were all starting to lock up and throb. I just wanted to get home.
I didn't slip onto the piano bench at the end of the service as I'd been prone to do lately. I was afraid my hands wouldn't respond. I was hot, very hot. I got into the car and had to shake the cobwebs out of my head to make sense of the 4 or 5 blocks home. I got home and disrobed down to shorts and a t-shirt and was immediately freezing. I put on a sweatshirt and got under 2 afghans on the couch with the dog on my chest for added warmth. Three hours later, I awoke a little worse for the wear and was reminded that I am no longer a man of boundless energy and ability. I have limits. Just like the older folks in Sunday School had coughed up their own, mine manifested against my will at the least convenient of times.
I became a member of my church and had my first "Aidsy" day, as we call it, all at the same time. I hadn't had an Aidsy day in quite a while. The timing was unfortunate. I was glad, however, to have an extra right hand to help steady my way home.
I'm still sweating eight hours later and I don't feel all that well. But I have high hopes that this third hand will be a reliable and helpful one as things unfold. Who couldn't use an extra hand?
In 1969, I took my grandpas' hands and walked to the altar to accept the Lord. Today I walked on my own and took a stranger's hand. I made the experience my own today. Thirty-seven years and a lot of water under - and over - the bridge came together today. It might not pan out in the end. But it was nice today. And that's enough...for today.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Thanks, But....
I turned down an offer last night. Go figure. Five months of therapy and God only knows how much prescription medication and I finally got an invitation. I said, "No." What am I gonna do with me?
I think it's progress, truthfully. I wasn't interested. It was merely convenient and I was a little off my game (to be polite)...and yet I still declined. I demured, in fact. I didn't just defer, I deflected and dismissed the very notion. I came home at an appropriate hour and alone. All this...and more...without the benefit of a paid professional. I couldn't be prouder. I think.
Tomorrow I'll be received in to membership at the Mayberry Assembly of God. I figure I've touched their piano enough and complimented the ladies appropriately, so in I go. No questions asked, interestingly enough. I did have a spill-the-beans conversation with one of the other pianists, however. In Dairy Queen. How 1950's is that? She related that the evidence of her imperfection was running around us in a little pink outfit with bright red hair. I thought that was nice of her to offer. She also offered this...
When she discovered that she was pregnant (and un-wed), she went to the pastor of our church a few years ago to lay her cards on the table. The pastor, to my horror, had her get up in front of the congregation on a Sunday morning and tell the story. I almost threw up right there in Dairy Queen. The story continues, though, that the Lady Pastor then picked up a box of rocks from behind the pulpit and made her way through the pews offering one to everyone with the instruction that Jesus had given in the New Testament: "Let you who are without sin cast the first stone." She said she's never heard another word about it since.
Of course, having babies isn't the same as sodomy when we talk about church circles. We all know that. For all our protestant protestation that there is no one sin greater than another, we very quickly turn our nose up at - and our back on - some sinners more quickly and completely than others. We all know who tops that list. And it's not the murderers. It's the mo's.
Sister Piano Player advised to be judicious about sharing The Story. I took that as a warning shot across the bow...in the nicest possible way, of course. I wonder if they'll do the "If anyone has objections to the acceptance of these persons into membership..." sorts of things. I might cause a commotion. Folks might jump over pews to be the first to tell this old, old story. Nothing like a little competition to get the saints out of their seats, you know. I'm not worried. If they don't do right by me, I'll leave. I've done it before. I know the way out like the back of my hand.
But for now, it's sooo good to be there. I feel like I'm contributing what I have and helping out in a way that was needed. The fit feels good. I know what they say about All Good Things, but I'm sticking with the 12-steppers on this one: One Day At A Time. If it's good today, I'm good. I don't know if that's the disease or the years talking. Maybe it's both. I don't care for the building drama beneath the surface of this experience. And I don't think I'd survive the whole Throwing Stones object lesson. But for right now, I like it very, very much.
(Notes to Various Readers:
Dear Pittsburg...If you only read the Proust entry repeatedly, you run the risk of looking exceedingly odd...if only to me. I appreciate your voyeuristic interest, but that entry is among the least interesting of the Blog. I'm thinking of taking it down just to see what you might read in its place. Still...thanks for visiting...so often...daily...)
I think it's progress, truthfully. I wasn't interested. It was merely convenient and I was a little off my game (to be polite)...and yet I still declined. I demured, in fact. I didn't just defer, I deflected and dismissed the very notion. I came home at an appropriate hour and alone. All this...and more...without the benefit of a paid professional. I couldn't be prouder. I think.
Tomorrow I'll be received in to membership at the Mayberry Assembly of God. I figure I've touched their piano enough and complimented the ladies appropriately, so in I go. No questions asked, interestingly enough. I did have a spill-the-beans conversation with one of the other pianists, however. In Dairy Queen. How 1950's is that? She related that the evidence of her imperfection was running around us in a little pink outfit with bright red hair. I thought that was nice of her to offer. She also offered this...
When she discovered that she was pregnant (and un-wed), she went to the pastor of our church a few years ago to lay her cards on the table. The pastor, to my horror, had her get up in front of the congregation on a Sunday morning and tell the story. I almost threw up right there in Dairy Queen. The story continues, though, that the Lady Pastor then picked up a box of rocks from behind the pulpit and made her way through the pews offering one to everyone with the instruction that Jesus had given in the New Testament: "Let you who are without sin cast the first stone." She said she's never heard another word about it since.
Of course, having babies isn't the same as sodomy when we talk about church circles. We all know that. For all our protestant protestation that there is no one sin greater than another, we very quickly turn our nose up at - and our back on - some sinners more quickly and completely than others. We all know who tops that list. And it's not the murderers. It's the mo's.
Sister Piano Player advised to be judicious about sharing The Story. I took that as a warning shot across the bow...in the nicest possible way, of course. I wonder if they'll do the "If anyone has objections to the acceptance of these persons into membership..." sorts of things. I might cause a commotion. Folks might jump over pews to be the first to tell this old, old story. Nothing like a little competition to get the saints out of their seats, you know. I'm not worried. If they don't do right by me, I'll leave. I've done it before. I know the way out like the back of my hand.
But for now, it's sooo good to be there. I feel like I'm contributing what I have and helping out in a way that was needed. The fit feels good. I know what they say about All Good Things, but I'm sticking with the 12-steppers on this one: One Day At A Time. If it's good today, I'm good. I don't know if that's the disease or the years talking. Maybe it's both. I don't care for the building drama beneath the surface of this experience. And I don't think I'd survive the whole Throwing Stones object lesson. But for right now, I like it very, very much.
(Notes to Various Readers:
Dear Pittsburg...If you only read the Proust entry repeatedly, you run the risk of looking exceedingly odd...if only to me. I appreciate your voyeuristic interest, but that entry is among the least interesting of the Blog. I'm thinking of taking it down just to see what you might read in its place. Still...thanks for visiting...so often...daily...)
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Sham on Me
No, that's not a typo. I think 75% of the last session with My Therapist was a sham. As my decreasingly photographic memory continues to call up details of the eventful denouement of our psychoanalytical moment in time, I am increasingly of the opinion that my Free and Final Session was rife with ulterior motives.
As I left the office, I noticed a device in his chair. Perhaps it was a cell phone. Perhaps it was a small tape recorder. Perhaps it's paranoia, but I don't think so. I think the entire Final Fifty may have been for the sole purpose of absolving himself of any professional consequences, should I have chosen to raise Homo Hell beyond these humble pages about what I perceived to be an inappropriate advance in the guise of psychoanalysis. I think it's entirely plausible that the device was a tape recorder semi-concealed so as to capture my granting of absolution and thereby indemnify himself against any possible future consequences.
It wouldn't be the first time someone had mistaken a doctor's intentions and rushed off to the courthouse to have their new pool financed by someone's malpractice insurance. And I spent enough time in law school to know that it wouldn't be the first time someone had invited the possibly-aggrieved to a sit-down (free!) while wearing a wire or otherwise taping the exchange that would grant them immunity in perpetuity (they hope).
I'd like to think that none of this is true. I'd like for it not to cross my mind. But it did. And that, dear reader, is what I meant when I told him that "the sanctity of this office and this experience has been cracked for me." Even after the Final Fifty, I'm questioning the authenticity of what went down. I know full well I'd never, ever be able to open up unedited again. I'd be looking around the proverbial corner for the hidden motivation to make itself manifest. It's bad enough that I think I may have been taped without my knowledge or consent. (I probably signed some sort of waiver allowing the taping when I first agreed to be seen. Not that it matters. Legal action was never even close to making my list of responses. And in retrospect, it would have been wholly inappropriate, not to mention ineffectual, if it had crossed my mind...which it didn't.)
I insisted that he understand just how demeaning it felt to be offered a one-sided romantic, erotic relationship in which I would portray for him all of my boyfriend tendencies and he would parrot nice things back to me at arm's length...all for the low, low price of $110 per 50 minutes. The money, I noted, isn't just a boundary. It's a Deluxe-printed, bank-processed insult of mammoth proportions when you couple it with the offer of a pseudo-relationship. And let's not forget, I ranted, the whole point to my being there was that I was prone to one-sided relationships. So now My Therapist was doing exactly what all the others had done.
The light bulb went on - for him. Or so it seemed. He acknowledged that I was so good ("star patient") that I had sucked him in both against his will and without his knowledge. Sucked him into my "drama", he said. My drama. He suggests what he suggested and I sucked him into my drama. Now that, my good people, is what the Texans call "chutzpah". I asked for clarification on just what an "erotic relationship" within the bounds of appropriate psychoanalytic practice looks like. He explained that I would have sexual dreams about him, as most patients do (!). Then I would share them with him (!!). I would also daydream about him sexually (!!!). I'd share that, too (!!!!). He would, in turn, say nice things to me and remind me that time is up and that I owe him money. (My self-serving paraphrase, not his exact words.)
It does not escape me that I phoned a therapist I'd met and asked for a recommendation to one of his colleagues specifically because I'd already had the dreams, daydreams, etc. about him. I strongly suspect that if it had been him who'd made the same therapeutic suggestion: an Almost Relationship for 50 minutes once a week for the low, low price of $110 a shot, I'd have said OK. I'm pretty sure I'd have jumped at the chance to enjoy 50 minutes of fantasy with someone who should not, could not, would not reciprocate it. Not really, anyway...and not fully. And I'd have written my check and started counting the minutes to the next time. And I wouldn't have felt demeaned in the least.
Even though it would have been a complete sham.
As I left the office, I noticed a device in his chair. Perhaps it was a cell phone. Perhaps it was a small tape recorder. Perhaps it's paranoia, but I don't think so. I think the entire Final Fifty may have been for the sole purpose of absolving himself of any professional consequences, should I have chosen to raise Homo Hell beyond these humble pages about what I perceived to be an inappropriate advance in the guise of psychoanalysis. I think it's entirely plausible that the device was a tape recorder semi-concealed so as to capture my granting of absolution and thereby indemnify himself against any possible future consequences.
It wouldn't be the first time someone had mistaken a doctor's intentions and rushed off to the courthouse to have their new pool financed by someone's malpractice insurance. And I spent enough time in law school to know that it wouldn't be the first time someone had invited the possibly-aggrieved to a sit-down (free!) while wearing a wire or otherwise taping the exchange that would grant them immunity in perpetuity (they hope).
I'd like to think that none of this is true. I'd like for it not to cross my mind. But it did. And that, dear reader, is what I meant when I told him that "the sanctity of this office and this experience has been cracked for me." Even after the Final Fifty, I'm questioning the authenticity of what went down. I know full well I'd never, ever be able to open up unedited again. I'd be looking around the proverbial corner for the hidden motivation to make itself manifest. It's bad enough that I think I may have been taped without my knowledge or consent. (I probably signed some sort of waiver allowing the taping when I first agreed to be seen. Not that it matters. Legal action was never even close to making my list of responses. And in retrospect, it would have been wholly inappropriate, not to mention ineffectual, if it had crossed my mind...which it didn't.)
I insisted that he understand just how demeaning it felt to be offered a one-sided romantic, erotic relationship in which I would portray for him all of my boyfriend tendencies and he would parrot nice things back to me at arm's length...all for the low, low price of $110 per 50 minutes. The money, I noted, isn't just a boundary. It's a Deluxe-printed, bank-processed insult of mammoth proportions when you couple it with the offer of a pseudo-relationship. And let's not forget, I ranted, the whole point to my being there was that I was prone to one-sided relationships. So now My Therapist was doing exactly what all the others had done.
The light bulb went on - for him. Or so it seemed. He acknowledged that I was so good ("star patient") that I had sucked him in both against his will and without his knowledge. Sucked him into my "drama", he said. My drama. He suggests what he suggested and I sucked him into my drama. Now that, my good people, is what the Texans call "chutzpah". I asked for clarification on just what an "erotic relationship" within the bounds of appropriate psychoanalytic practice looks like. He explained that I would have sexual dreams about him, as most patients do (!). Then I would share them with him (!!). I would also daydream about him sexually (!!!). I'd share that, too (!!!!). He would, in turn, say nice things to me and remind me that time is up and that I owe him money. (My self-serving paraphrase, not his exact words.)
It does not escape me that I phoned a therapist I'd met and asked for a recommendation to one of his colleagues specifically because I'd already had the dreams, daydreams, etc. about him. I strongly suspect that if it had been him who'd made the same therapeutic suggestion: an Almost Relationship for 50 minutes once a week for the low, low price of $110 a shot, I'd have said OK. I'm pretty sure I'd have jumped at the chance to enjoy 50 minutes of fantasy with someone who should not, could not, would not reciprocate it. Not really, anyway...and not fully. And I'd have written my check and started counting the minutes to the next time. And I wouldn't have felt demeaned in the least.
Even though it would have been a complete sham.
Appomattox
If you don't know from Appomattox, go look it up. And never admit to anyone that you didn't know from Appomattox.
So My Therapist and I met in his office (free...still 50 minutes) to discuss the events of our previous session in which I heard him offer an invitation to develop a "....romantic, erotic relationship" with him (for 50 minutes, once a week at the rate of $110 per 50 minutes). To be fair, he would point out that this was in the interest of "transference", a psychological term of fluctuating definition, evidently. The afore-mentioned invitation was, in his words, issued to invite me to lavish upon him all of my romantic, erotic (short of sexual...go figure) behaviors and tendencies and he would, in return, affirm me as lovable, kind and good. This would, admittedly, be a switch from past dating scenarios. Then again, they didn't cost me $110 per 50 minutes.
During this free session, My Therapist offered an apology for having freaked me out. (I tried writing that sentence three different ways so that it wouldn't end in a preposition. It reminds me of the old joke:)
A Yankee lady and a Southern Belle met on an elevator. The Yankee asked the Belle, "From where are you visiting?" The Belle responded, "Mobile, thanks for asking!" A moment of silence passed and the Belle inquired, "Where are y'all from?"
The Yankee huffed, "Where I'm from, we don't end sentences with prepositions." The Belle didn't miss a beat and rejoined, "I'm so sorry. 'Where are y'all from....bitch?"
My Therapist also noted that I am SO good at being a therapeutic patient that he was unwittingly and against his will "sucked into your(my) drama"...degrees and all. Never let it be rumored that I lack suction. I am so good at getting men to treat me poorly, the explanation goes, that I accidentally got HIM to treat me badly without him even noticing it! It took me a cocktail afterwards to realize that I had just been blamed for his having freaked me out - apology notwithstanding. Once again, I'm too good for my own good. I'm too good at being screwed up to get a pretty good therapist to help me without sucking them down into my own dysfunctional abyss, evidently. If I'd known I had that kind of power, the things I might have accomplished over the last 25 years...
My Therapist complimented me and said that he, perhaps, was so narcissistic in his pride at having such a "star patient" that he pushed too far in the psychoanalytic vein. For this, too, he apologized (and later blamed me, I think).
I understood his professional explanations and am no longer 100% convinced that there was an inappropriate advance made in the name of mental health. I explained, however, that The Relationship Thing is sacred, hallowed ground for me and I don't go there lightly (certainly not for 50 minutes once a week and $110). So it is inconceivable that I would play house, in whatever sense, for all but 6 days, 23 hours and 10 minutes a week. He got my point. I got his. And I'm still taking the summer off. I'll decide in August whether to resume the practice.
He asked me what I thought about a patient who, for 15 years or more, had been in psychoanalysis four days a week. I said, out loud, that I thought that was ludicrous, self-perpetuating and clearly lucrative...for someone. Privately, I thought "That's crazy." But even inside my head, I knew that the humor would be lost in this setting.
I asked, "What, exactly, does this 'erotic' relationship look like?" He said that I would have sex dreams about him, for example and then tell him about them. Or that I would find myself fantasizing about him, sexually, at various times of the day....and tell him about them. I thought that sounded on the outer limits of narcissism. I said, aloud...again, "That's just creepy." I also noted, for the record that I'm not sure is kept, that I have not ever had a sex dream about him. I added that if I'd had one, I would not ever have told him so. (Again, for the record, I haven't.) I did, however, have a dream about one of my doctors in California the first time I was given Vicodin in the hospital. I also once had a dream about Matt Damon the first time I took Sustiva as part of my AIDS cocktail. So I am capable and prone to erotically-tinged dreams about people. But none about him.
I thanked him for the progress and the skills I thought I'd acquired in our time together. We settled up the bill, I wrote the final check, and we shook hands.
I had read, in June's O Magazine in the waiting room, that an anthropologist had held forth on the history of loneliness. His theory was that loneliness had survived a Darwinian-like challenge of existence to be passed through to today's man. The logic goes that it was loneliness that called the Neolithic hunter-gatherer back to the cave where they would share companionship and their meager possessions. The man who was not prone to loneliness, kept going up the mountain and was discovered a jillion years later, caked in ice, and on his way to the Smithsonian for thawing and probing.
I'm done with thawing and probing for the summer, at least. I'm heading back to the cave with my meager possessions and we'll see what the autumn brings. In the meantime, I'll continue to write for my own enjoyment and that of the bewildering number of folks who keep coming back here to gawk. (I'm happy to have you gawk, don't get me wrong. It just amazes me that anyone finds it of interest.)
After Appomattox, I'm sure even Grant took time off to decompress.
So My Therapist and I met in his office (free...still 50 minutes) to discuss the events of our previous session in which I heard him offer an invitation to develop a "....romantic, erotic relationship" with him (for 50 minutes, once a week at the rate of $110 per 50 minutes). To be fair, he would point out that this was in the interest of "transference", a psychological term of fluctuating definition, evidently. The afore-mentioned invitation was, in his words, issued to invite me to lavish upon him all of my romantic, erotic (short of sexual...go figure) behaviors and tendencies and he would, in return, affirm me as lovable, kind and good. This would, admittedly, be a switch from past dating scenarios. Then again, they didn't cost me $110 per 50 minutes.
During this free session, My Therapist offered an apology for having freaked me out. (I tried writing that sentence three different ways so that it wouldn't end in a preposition. It reminds me of the old joke:)
A Yankee lady and a Southern Belle met on an elevator. The Yankee asked the Belle, "From where are you visiting?" The Belle responded, "Mobile, thanks for asking!" A moment of silence passed and the Belle inquired, "Where are y'all from?"
The Yankee huffed, "Where I'm from, we don't end sentences with prepositions." The Belle didn't miss a beat and rejoined, "I'm so sorry. 'Where are y'all from....bitch?"
My Therapist also noted that I am SO good at being a therapeutic patient that he was unwittingly and against his will "sucked into your(my) drama"...degrees and all. Never let it be rumored that I lack suction. I am so good at getting men to treat me poorly, the explanation goes, that I accidentally got HIM to treat me badly without him even noticing it! It took me a cocktail afterwards to realize that I had just been blamed for his having freaked me out - apology notwithstanding. Once again, I'm too good for my own good. I'm too good at being screwed up to get a pretty good therapist to help me without sucking them down into my own dysfunctional abyss, evidently. If I'd known I had that kind of power, the things I might have accomplished over the last 25 years...
My Therapist complimented me and said that he, perhaps, was so narcissistic in his pride at having such a "star patient" that he pushed too far in the psychoanalytic vein. For this, too, he apologized (and later blamed me, I think).
I understood his professional explanations and am no longer 100% convinced that there was an inappropriate advance made in the name of mental health. I explained, however, that The Relationship Thing is sacred, hallowed ground for me and I don't go there lightly (certainly not for 50 minutes once a week and $110). So it is inconceivable that I would play house, in whatever sense, for all but 6 days, 23 hours and 10 minutes a week. He got my point. I got his. And I'm still taking the summer off. I'll decide in August whether to resume the practice.
He asked me what I thought about a patient who, for 15 years or more, had been in psychoanalysis four days a week. I said, out loud, that I thought that was ludicrous, self-perpetuating and clearly lucrative...for someone. Privately, I thought "That's crazy." But even inside my head, I knew that the humor would be lost in this setting.
I asked, "What, exactly, does this 'erotic' relationship look like?" He said that I would have sex dreams about him, for example and then tell him about them. Or that I would find myself fantasizing about him, sexually, at various times of the day....and tell him about them. I thought that sounded on the outer limits of narcissism. I said, aloud...again, "That's just creepy." I also noted, for the record that I'm not sure is kept, that I have not ever had a sex dream about him. I added that if I'd had one, I would not ever have told him so. (Again, for the record, I haven't.) I did, however, have a dream about one of my doctors in California the first time I was given Vicodin in the hospital. I also once had a dream about Matt Damon the first time I took Sustiva as part of my AIDS cocktail. So I am capable and prone to erotically-tinged dreams about people. But none about him.
I thanked him for the progress and the skills I thought I'd acquired in our time together. We settled up the bill, I wrote the final check, and we shook hands.
I had read, in June's O Magazine in the waiting room, that an anthropologist had held forth on the history of loneliness. His theory was that loneliness had survived a Darwinian-like challenge of existence to be passed through to today's man. The logic goes that it was loneliness that called the Neolithic hunter-gatherer back to the cave where they would share companionship and their meager possessions. The man who was not prone to loneliness, kept going up the mountain and was discovered a jillion years later, caked in ice, and on his way to the Smithsonian for thawing and probing.
I'm done with thawing and probing for the summer, at least. I'm heading back to the cave with my meager possessions and we'll see what the autumn brings. In the meantime, I'll continue to write for my own enjoyment and that of the bewildering number of folks who keep coming back here to gawk. (I'm happy to have you gawk, don't get me wrong. It just amazes me that anyone finds it of interest.)
After Appomattox, I'm sure even Grant took time off to decompress.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Quelle Surprise!!
So My Therapist Says (when he phoned this morning) that he would like to meet - no charge - to wrap things up.
I said I would check my calendar and walked from the bedroom, where I'd been folding clothes and had the phone next to me, to the kitchen (where the calendar hangs on the wall). He asked, "Are you just being glib? Or are you really checking your calendar?" I thought I had issues. I assured him I was, in fact, making the trek to the kitchen to check the physical calendar hanging on the wall. I also explained that this is Forensics season and that I sometimes have obligations related to judging that make Fridays a little dicey. That was a lot of explanation for "Let me check my calendar", I think. It sounds a lot like most of the break-up conversations I've had, in fact. Everyone is one jab shy of unleashing a lifetime of pent-up recriminations and analyzes every sigh and crossing of the legs for signs of a fight. Oy gevalt! I was checking the friggin' calendar already!
He also asked whether I had received his reply to the entry "Boundaries". I did. See the entry "Equal Time". I explained the moderating function for comments on the site and that I did not allow it to attach to the entry that tweaked him enough to reply. I explained my reason: That his anonymity would have been fully compromised. I also noted that I copied and pasted it verbatim in an ensuing entry so that he would be "heard". He was marginally horrified. He said it was For My Eyes Only. I think that rather defeats the purpose of replying to a Blog on a Blog. But there you go.
He asked if I could take down his commentary. I said that I would, but that it formed the basis for a subsequent entry - verbatim. He sighed, "Oh god..." and had to run right off to be with a patient. So we're on at my regular time this Friday at 4. I think it will be interesting. I'm going to do a little meditation avant-therapy to open all my chakras and be able to receive everything with an open mind. Who knows? I may yet decide that getting pseudo-schtupped for $110 an hour (fifty minutes, if you've been paying attention) is a great idea.
God knows no one else has offered.
I said I would check my calendar and walked from the bedroom, where I'd been folding clothes and had the phone next to me, to the kitchen (where the calendar hangs on the wall). He asked, "Are you just being glib? Or are you really checking your calendar?" I thought I had issues. I assured him I was, in fact, making the trek to the kitchen to check the physical calendar hanging on the wall. I also explained that this is Forensics season and that I sometimes have obligations related to judging that make Fridays a little dicey. That was a lot of explanation for "Let me check my calendar", I think. It sounds a lot like most of the break-up conversations I've had, in fact. Everyone is one jab shy of unleashing a lifetime of pent-up recriminations and analyzes every sigh and crossing of the legs for signs of a fight. Oy gevalt! I was checking the friggin' calendar already!
He also asked whether I had received his reply to the entry "Boundaries". I did. See the entry "Equal Time". I explained the moderating function for comments on the site and that I did not allow it to attach to the entry that tweaked him enough to reply. I explained my reason: That his anonymity would have been fully compromised. I also noted that I copied and pasted it verbatim in an ensuing entry so that he would be "heard". He was marginally horrified. He said it was For My Eyes Only. I think that rather defeats the purpose of replying to a Blog on a Blog. But there you go.
He asked if I could take down his commentary. I said that I would, but that it formed the basis for a subsequent entry - verbatim. He sighed, "Oh god..." and had to run right off to be with a patient. So we're on at my regular time this Friday at 4. I think it will be interesting. I'm going to do a little meditation avant-therapy to open all my chakras and be able to receive everything with an open mind. Who knows? I may yet decide that getting pseudo-schtupped for $110 an hour (fifty minutes, if you've been paying attention) is a great idea.
God knows no one else has offered.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Done
I'm done. My Therapist will say no more. (Mostly because I have no plans to return to therapy at this time.) I will make the call on Monday to remove myself from the patient roster, at least for the summer.
I plan to continue writing for my own titillation, enjoyment and edification, but it will no longer hew closely to the blog's title. That's unfortunate. But c'est la guerre, as the French say. There are a few reasons for my impending holiday from psychology. They are not mysterious, but they're all true. I'll leave the weighting of them to each one's mind as a Rorschach Test of my own design.
As recently noted, I am not comfortable with the suggestion that My Therapist and I develop an "intellectual, emotional, romantic, erotic relationship" at the rate of $110 per 50 minutes once a week. That conversation actually began with my questioning the efficacy of the process - which was thinly veiled code for "I think this stopped being helpful and just became entertaining." And there's nothing wrong with that. I just have lots of people I can talk to for free when it comes to knocking the rough edges off of life from time to time.
Therapy was a lark, in a way. And I didn't have anyone else around me objective enough to talk me through the whole Rooster thing. I thought I might be crazy, or worse. Therapy got me over that hump, and for that I'm eternally grateful. I don't expect that it will ever take me over the next hump - finding a Forever Somebody. Mostly, I'm not sure Somebody exists. Partly, I'm not sure I'm well-suited to the Forever thing.
Summer is fast-approaching. I'm enjoying my time with The Boys in the cool of the evening on Friday nights. Going to town 3 hours early for the doctor's appointment meant leaving town 3 hours early to get home before I crashed and burned 80-some miles from home. I passed up a lot of quality time with people I need in order to do the doctor thing. That's not a trade-off I'm happy making any longer.
I would like to buy myself a new car and pay cash for it come Christmas. That's a possibility if I pare back a little here and there and buy one of those micro-mini roller skates with a hood that get 45 mpg. Therapy alone will save me a few hundred dollars a month. Between now and Christmas, that's $2,000 - about 20% of what I expect to pay. So there's a financial incentive to telling my troubles to a tipsy friend instead of a bona fide doctor.
Would I have made this leap without having reacted so negatively to My Therapist's suggestion? Probably not as soon, although the thought had begun to percolate. So everyone can think what they will. If you're given to name-calling, now is the time to do it because I intend to pay little mind to this topic beyond the next few days.
I wish him well, My Therapist. He did me no small amount of good when I needed some good done. I had hoped that over the course of a couple weeks, a romantic, erotic relationship that I pay for - literally - might have become an attractive option. It didn't. And it's not going to become one. So on we go. As the wise man said,
"Regrets? I have a few. But then again, too few to mention."
We're just done.
I plan to continue writing for my own titillation, enjoyment and edification, but it will no longer hew closely to the blog's title. That's unfortunate. But c'est la guerre, as the French say. There are a few reasons for my impending holiday from psychology. They are not mysterious, but they're all true. I'll leave the weighting of them to each one's mind as a Rorschach Test of my own design.
As recently noted, I am not comfortable with the suggestion that My Therapist and I develop an "intellectual, emotional, romantic, erotic relationship" at the rate of $110 per 50 minutes once a week. That conversation actually began with my questioning the efficacy of the process - which was thinly veiled code for "I think this stopped being helpful and just became entertaining." And there's nothing wrong with that. I just have lots of people I can talk to for free when it comes to knocking the rough edges off of life from time to time.
Therapy was a lark, in a way. And I didn't have anyone else around me objective enough to talk me through the whole Rooster thing. I thought I might be crazy, or worse. Therapy got me over that hump, and for that I'm eternally grateful. I don't expect that it will ever take me over the next hump - finding a Forever Somebody. Mostly, I'm not sure Somebody exists. Partly, I'm not sure I'm well-suited to the Forever thing.
Summer is fast-approaching. I'm enjoying my time with The Boys in the cool of the evening on Friday nights. Going to town 3 hours early for the doctor's appointment meant leaving town 3 hours early to get home before I crashed and burned 80-some miles from home. I passed up a lot of quality time with people I need in order to do the doctor thing. That's not a trade-off I'm happy making any longer.
I would like to buy myself a new car and pay cash for it come Christmas. That's a possibility if I pare back a little here and there and buy one of those micro-mini roller skates with a hood that get 45 mpg. Therapy alone will save me a few hundred dollars a month. Between now and Christmas, that's $2,000 - about 20% of what I expect to pay. So there's a financial incentive to telling my troubles to a tipsy friend instead of a bona fide doctor.
Would I have made this leap without having reacted so negatively to My Therapist's suggestion? Probably not as soon, although the thought had begun to percolate. So everyone can think what they will. If you're given to name-calling, now is the time to do it because I intend to pay little mind to this topic beyond the next few days.
I wish him well, My Therapist. He did me no small amount of good when I needed some good done. I had hoped that over the course of a couple weeks, a romantic, erotic relationship that I pay for - literally - might have become an attractive option. It didn't. And it's not going to become one. So on we go. As the wise man said,
"Regrets? I have a few. But then again, too few to mention."
We're just done.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Carts and Horses
I live in a very small town in Kansas and while we've evolved past widespread use of horse and buggy, here in "Mayberry", we have a noticeable Amish and Mennonite community who still saddle up as a matter of daily transportation. One is given to a giggle the first time one sees a buggy parked at Dairy Queen, or trying to manage the car-hop environment of Sonic. But the Mennonites laugh hardest when we pass them on the highway with our $3.00/gallon gas guzzlers. Hay is, relatively speaking, cheap.
The point I'm making is that I have a near-daily opportunity to remember the object lesson from kindergarten of not putting the cart before the horse. I ended up at a city-wide gospel sing last night and was encouraged to jump up and do a song for the gathered Methodists, Brethren, Baptists and Pentecostals. My initial inclination to re-enter this game with a low profile was losing steam fast. I declined, politely, but was flattered by the attention.
I heard a bell choir for the first time in decades and it was, surprisingly, moving. I'd been working at home on a song I'd heard on a video and was able to scratch out a passable arrangement on the piano. I had tucked it in my briefcase along with my Bible and a songbook. When I arrived, one of the ladies asked if I was moving in. I told her, good-naturedly, that if she'd ever been to church with My Pappy, she'd carry a suitcase into church, too.
I learned years ago that if you're given to the speaking, singing, playing of anything among Pentecostals, you need to be ready on a moment's notice to get up and do your thing or suffer the slings and arrows of having missed the Spirit's (and the sisterhood's) wooing. My Pappy and his train of pastors thought nothing of turning to me pre-, mid- or post-service and saying, "Tommy! Sing something!" On many occasions, one of the pastors would collar me on the way into church and explain that "The Lord told me you had a word today." That's Pente-speak for "You're preaching and I hope you prepared." I got to like the spontaneity of the opportunities and thrived on being blindsided. So...I don't go anywhere without one passable sermon, one good song and a book of options.
I still get the nagging feeling, though, that My Pappy's years of admonition to "Know those who labour among you" is in play here. No one has called on me yet - at home. That will come. I have the autobiographies of each Clinton on my mantle, flanking Al & Tipper Gore's book. I have a framed photo of Bill and Al at the 1996 Victory Night celebration with a form-letter thank you note attached at the bottom, including my name, for helping with the campaign. Armistead Maupin's complete works are on the bookshelf, along with most of Rita Mae Brown's writings and an autographed copy of The Front Runner. The piano is laden down with gospel music. The bookshelf is a Stonewall memorial. There's a small wine rack next to the piano. This will all be taken in when The Visit occurs.
At Sunday night's sing, I had gone without the intention of contributing, but was prepared, as I'd learned to be. I had learned the song "He Saw It All", which I'd first heard sung by The Booth Brothers a few days earlier on a CD. It was cocked and loaded, but my powder wasn't quite dry, as we say. I sat through several enjoyable contributions of talent and felt more and more comfortable in my environment. I thought the lyrics of the song I'd been preparing would fit the scene. The song tells the story of a man who bumps into someone who just witnessed the healing of the lame man, the mute man and the deaf girl. It's catchy - and meaningful.
I sat on my hands, figuratively speaking, for an hour or more until a lady got up and played a song on the cassette player. I wasn't sure you could still get cassettes - and that's not being funny. She is a shy woman who lit up like a Christmas tree as she signed (American Sign Language) and ran around the podium to the Cathedrals' "Standing At The River". Next up was a young blind man who sang a song that I can't recall. I can't recall because I had a muscles spasm in the back of my head that felt like I'd been hit. I figured if a deaf girl, a blind man and a slap on the back of the head weren't enough of a sign to get up and sing the durned song, I probably didn't need to be playing church. So I sang.
I got invited to join the Methodist, the Baptist and the Church of the Brethren congregations after the service. That was nice of them. And it was affirming. But again, I had the nagging feeling that we were moving quickly down the road of minor celebrity without anyone having uncovered or spilled the beans yet. And I know that changes things. We haven't come THAT far, baby. So I tempered my excitement and was silently grateful for one more chance to indulge myself in what I've missed so desperately for so long. I felt a little more whole afterwards.
And I thought that the two-week hiatus from My Therapist was a little short-sighted. I'm thinking that I may take the summer off instead. I haven't felt the need to completely subordinate myself to this experience in church like I did in the past. Not yet, anyway. The incorporation is going rather nicely. Maybe that's maturity. Then again, maybe it's willful and inexcusable naivete. Time will tell.
That's where I come from. That's part of who I am. I'm cleaning the closet all the way out this time.
I may need a cart and a horse.
The point I'm making is that I have a near-daily opportunity to remember the object lesson from kindergarten of not putting the cart before the horse. I ended up at a city-wide gospel sing last night and was encouraged to jump up and do a song for the gathered Methodists, Brethren, Baptists and Pentecostals. My initial inclination to re-enter this game with a low profile was losing steam fast. I declined, politely, but was flattered by the attention.
I heard a bell choir for the first time in decades and it was, surprisingly, moving. I'd been working at home on a song I'd heard on a video and was able to scratch out a passable arrangement on the piano. I had tucked it in my briefcase along with my Bible and a songbook. When I arrived, one of the ladies asked if I was moving in. I told her, good-naturedly, that if she'd ever been to church with My Pappy, she'd carry a suitcase into church, too.
I learned years ago that if you're given to the speaking, singing, playing of anything among Pentecostals, you need to be ready on a moment's notice to get up and do your thing or suffer the slings and arrows of having missed the Spirit's (and the sisterhood's) wooing. My Pappy and his train of pastors thought nothing of turning to me pre-, mid- or post-service and saying, "Tommy! Sing something!" On many occasions, one of the pastors would collar me on the way into church and explain that "The Lord told me you had a word today." That's Pente-speak for "You're preaching and I hope you prepared." I got to like the spontaneity of the opportunities and thrived on being blindsided. So...I don't go anywhere without one passable sermon, one good song and a book of options.
I still get the nagging feeling, though, that My Pappy's years of admonition to "Know those who labour among you" is in play here. No one has called on me yet - at home. That will come. I have the autobiographies of each Clinton on my mantle, flanking Al & Tipper Gore's book. I have a framed photo of Bill and Al at the 1996 Victory Night celebration with a form-letter thank you note attached at the bottom, including my name, for helping with the campaign. Armistead Maupin's complete works are on the bookshelf, along with most of Rita Mae Brown's writings and an autographed copy of The Front Runner. The piano is laden down with gospel music. The bookshelf is a Stonewall memorial. There's a small wine rack next to the piano. This will all be taken in when The Visit occurs.
At Sunday night's sing, I had gone without the intention of contributing, but was prepared, as I'd learned to be. I had learned the song "He Saw It All", which I'd first heard sung by The Booth Brothers a few days earlier on a CD. It was cocked and loaded, but my powder wasn't quite dry, as we say. I sat through several enjoyable contributions of talent and felt more and more comfortable in my environment. I thought the lyrics of the song I'd been preparing would fit the scene. The song tells the story of a man who bumps into someone who just witnessed the healing of the lame man, the mute man and the deaf girl. It's catchy - and meaningful.
I sat on my hands, figuratively speaking, for an hour or more until a lady got up and played a song on the cassette player. I wasn't sure you could still get cassettes - and that's not being funny. She is a shy woman who lit up like a Christmas tree as she signed (American Sign Language) and ran around the podium to the Cathedrals' "Standing At The River". Next up was a young blind man who sang a song that I can't recall. I can't recall because I had a muscles spasm in the back of my head that felt like I'd been hit. I figured if a deaf girl, a blind man and a slap on the back of the head weren't enough of a sign to get up and sing the durned song, I probably didn't need to be playing church. So I sang.
I got invited to join the Methodist, the Baptist and the Church of the Brethren congregations after the service. That was nice of them. And it was affirming. But again, I had the nagging feeling that we were moving quickly down the road of minor celebrity without anyone having uncovered or spilled the beans yet. And I know that changes things. We haven't come THAT far, baby. So I tempered my excitement and was silently grateful for one more chance to indulge myself in what I've missed so desperately for so long. I felt a little more whole afterwards.
And I thought that the two-week hiatus from My Therapist was a little short-sighted. I'm thinking that I may take the summer off instead. I haven't felt the need to completely subordinate myself to this experience in church like I did in the past. Not yet, anyway. The incorporation is going rather nicely. Maybe that's maturity. Then again, maybe it's willful and inexcusable naivete. Time will tell.
"My friend, if the burdens and struggles you carry
Are heavy and dragging you down.
You've tried everything you can possibly think of,
But there's no relief to be found.
That very same Jesus who altered the future
Of the blind man, the deaf and the lame;
Is still reaching out in your hour of trouble,
One touch and you're never the same." -- He Saw It All, by Daryl Mosley
That's where I come from. That's part of who I am. I'm cleaning the closet all the way out this time.
I may need a cart and a horse.
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