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.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Equal Time
So My Therapist Says (in response to the entry "Boundaries"),
There's a little function thingamajig on this blog that lets the self-indulgent author decide whether or not to allow any given comment to be posted. It helps keep the KKK-style stuff off the pages and helps us limit the less healthy engagements that anonymity can sometimes encourage. I've received a couple of comments on various entries - nothing to write home about. One man related to a childhood sexual introduction. One lady encouraged me in the quest to stop smoking. One or two responses I've deleted because I wasn't sure they furthered anything. One alluded to being glad he wasn't "the only crazy person on the internet", which I thought was either demeaning of us both or insufficiently humorous. I would have "approved" My Therapist's comment, except that in doing so, his full name would have attached to the comment, thus destroying his anonymity, which I don't feel entitled to compromise. I've copied it verbatim above.
My Therapist and I have had the understanding that this forum exists for quite some time. I know he says he's read parts of it. I've read parts to him in our sessions. It doesn't much matter to me whether he - or anyone else - pays it much mind. It's always been for and about me and I'd be shocked to learn that anyone else gave a shit. Then comes today's commentary.
I am not gifted in the Passive/Aggressive arts, so I may be a bit clumsy at this. If I had the man's email address, most of this would have blazed a hole in his inbox. Absent that option, I am responding here, in the forum where he a) encouraged me to "go home and write 3 blog entries about this" and b) left snarky commentary about how I undertook what he presumed to assign. First the facts, ma'am.
Everything I wrote in the entry "Boundaries" is as true as I recall it to be and nothing is disputable in any material way. I did, in fact, call and cancel my next two appointments with nary a hint at rescheduling. I have a standing appointment on Fridays at 4 p.m. I made the (incorrect) assumption that if I cancel one (or two), we pick up in the same slot later. My error. He has cancelled appointments in the past and the assumption was that we were on for the following week in the same space. I should not have presumed that the person holding the Magical Boundary Checkbook has the same scheduling prerogative. But to answer the question: Yes, it does have everything to do with canceling the next two appointments to put some distance between me and that unsettling session and allow me to really understand what I think about it. In the past when I've shrunk from things he said, I fairly quickly came around to see the wisdom of what was suggested. Not so this time. And since when do I have to give any hint of rescheduling when I cancel? That's some nerve. That's a little like the restaurant getting its back up because you won't be lunching at your usual time for a couple of weeks.
I frankly don't care to keep score with My Therapist. Whether anyone wins or loses any given battle is, admittedly, outside the parameters of why I'm there. That said, it is not nearly so far outside the parameters of why I'm there as the suggestion that we develop a "...romantic, erotic relationship". I am not angry, as asserted above. I am incredulous and highly suspicious of this methodology. While I am there to figure out why I am routinely unsuccessful at relationships, I am not interested in his offer of romantic surrogacy. The thought makes my skin crawl - and not because he's unattractive. He isn't. It's creepy because I pay the man money. I am not going to pay somebody to make me feel like I'm having a relationship with them for 50 minutes once a week. THAT makes me feel pathetic and desperate, a condition I have avoided more successfully than most.
It is inconceivable that I am the only person who thinks this is a little nuts. And, for the record, if you have my phone number, you don't need to leave notes on the blog. I always pick up. And I'm not afraid to have the conversation. Then again, it's probably a lot less profitable to talk long distance when one could do it for $110 an hour and profit from the argument. Even when it's apparently a little personal. So much for settling into "blithe and glib". I'm guessing we're not getting there anytime soon.
I know this much: If that Lady Pastor suggests anything resembling a romantic, erotic relationship, I'm taking two weeks off from church, too.
And no, I won't hint at rescheduling with her, either.
"You certainly were moved (albeit angrily) by our last session... hmmm... I think I won the final round. Does all of this have anything to do with your canceling the next two appointments without nary a hint of rescheduling them? Can you say "RESISTANCE"? Looking forward to round 5 or whichever one we are on now."
There's a little function thingamajig on this blog that lets the self-indulgent author decide whether or not to allow any given comment to be posted. It helps keep the KKK-style stuff off the pages and helps us limit the less healthy engagements that anonymity can sometimes encourage. I've received a couple of comments on various entries - nothing to write home about. One man related to a childhood sexual introduction. One lady encouraged me in the quest to stop smoking. One or two responses I've deleted because I wasn't sure they furthered anything. One alluded to being glad he wasn't "the only crazy person on the internet", which I thought was either demeaning of us both or insufficiently humorous. I would have "approved" My Therapist's comment, except that in doing so, his full name would have attached to the comment, thus destroying his anonymity, which I don't feel entitled to compromise. I've copied it verbatim above.
My Therapist and I have had the understanding that this forum exists for quite some time. I know he says he's read parts of it. I've read parts to him in our sessions. It doesn't much matter to me whether he - or anyone else - pays it much mind. It's always been for and about me and I'd be shocked to learn that anyone else gave a shit. Then comes today's commentary.
I am not gifted in the Passive/Aggressive arts, so I may be a bit clumsy at this. If I had the man's email address, most of this would have blazed a hole in his inbox. Absent that option, I am responding here, in the forum where he a) encouraged me to "go home and write 3 blog entries about this" and b) left snarky commentary about how I undertook what he presumed to assign. First the facts, ma'am.
Everything I wrote in the entry "Boundaries" is as true as I recall it to be and nothing is disputable in any material way. I did, in fact, call and cancel my next two appointments with nary a hint at rescheduling. I have a standing appointment on Fridays at 4 p.m. I made the (incorrect) assumption that if I cancel one (or two), we pick up in the same slot later. My error. He has cancelled appointments in the past and the assumption was that we were on for the following week in the same space. I should not have presumed that the person holding the Magical Boundary Checkbook has the same scheduling prerogative. But to answer the question: Yes, it does have everything to do with canceling the next two appointments to put some distance between me and that unsettling session and allow me to really understand what I think about it. In the past when I've shrunk from things he said, I fairly quickly came around to see the wisdom of what was suggested. Not so this time. And since when do I have to give any hint of rescheduling when I cancel? That's some nerve. That's a little like the restaurant getting its back up because you won't be lunching at your usual time for a couple of weeks.
I frankly don't care to keep score with My Therapist. Whether anyone wins or loses any given battle is, admittedly, outside the parameters of why I'm there. That said, it is not nearly so far outside the parameters of why I'm there as the suggestion that we develop a "...romantic, erotic relationship". I am not angry, as asserted above. I am incredulous and highly suspicious of this methodology. While I am there to figure out why I am routinely unsuccessful at relationships, I am not interested in his offer of romantic surrogacy. The thought makes my skin crawl - and not because he's unattractive. He isn't. It's creepy because I pay the man money. I am not going to pay somebody to make me feel like I'm having a relationship with them for 50 minutes once a week. THAT makes me feel pathetic and desperate, a condition I have avoided more successfully than most.
It is inconceivable that I am the only person who thinks this is a little nuts. And, for the record, if you have my phone number, you don't need to leave notes on the blog. I always pick up. And I'm not afraid to have the conversation. Then again, it's probably a lot less profitable to talk long distance when one could do it for $110 an hour and profit from the argument. Even when it's apparently a little personal. So much for settling into "blithe and glib". I'm guessing we're not getting there anytime soon.
I know this much: If that Lady Pastor suggests anything resembling a romantic, erotic relationship, I'm taking two weeks off from church, too.
And no, I won't hint at rescheduling with her, either.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
To Me At 18
Dear Tommy at 18,
You have about 10 minutes to be really, really angry about how things have panned out in your heart until now. Get it out of your system in a hurry because you are about to become who you will always be. Whatever you have in your pockets in the days, weeks, and months to come will stay with you for the rest of your life, in one way or another.
You're going to be invited to travel the world and sing. Grasp the opportunity with both hands. Run to it. College waits. When they ask you to sign the deal for the second year, say yes. This is what you will regret not having done. College waits. Living your dreams does not wait. You get a couple of shots at the perfect road and then it vanishes into a second-best trip...at best. Stay on the road until they make you go home. You were born to this, whether you believe it or not.
You are better than you think. You are not as good as you can be, but you are the last one to realize your gifts. You will not be first on the list in anyone's memory, but be happy to be happy using what you have to its fullest expression. Sing like nobody ever told you that you shouldn't. Sing until they make you stop. You're about to be able to play the piano, too. Surprise! Pound the life out of every keyboard you see until they tell you to stop. Be happy! Be happy! Be happy!
You are gifted in a rare way when it comes to speaking. The voice that emanates from your face is not the one people will expect when they see you. You channel a source that is articulate beyond your own ability to comprehend. Just open your mouth and it will be there. You will never have anxiety about what to say when called upon to speak. There will be times you are called upon at a moment's notice. Just smile and say "Yes". The words will be there.
Be true to your gifting at every turn. No amount of money or security will ever erase the inscription on your forehead to do what you know to do.
You will not love in a way that is convenient or easy. You will love hard. You will be hard to love. Don't despair. Always hope. You will not marry at 22 or 30 or 40. You will not have children and picket fences and family times at the table or around the tree. You can, however, be fulfilled. Your love and your calling will be the ultimate conflict. How you resolve that conflict will define you at every moment of your life. You can swing from one to the other, you can hide one under the other, or you can stand whole before the One who made you and do what you were gifted and called to do.
No one will understand. Everyone will demand your allegiance and few will offer you their mercy and compassion. You will inspire judgment and be prone to it yourself. Close your eyes and hear your heart. You are singularly equipped for this. Never take the easy road. Your voice will often be a decade out of step with your surroundings. Don't be cowed. Keep speaking. Keep speaking even when you mis-speak. Perfection has not been visited upon you any more than it has the next fool. You will all arrive at the same destination, only you will share the road with those who can endure hard traveling. Embrace those who travel by your side with compassion. They are not there to be your constant companions, but are there for a season. Give them what they need and take what you need from them. This is not a zero-sum game. You can give without receiving and not feel cheated. You can receive when you have nothing to give without feeling guilty. Sometimes it just works out that way.
Your heart is correct. Your head is the suspect one. When you have to choose, ignore the reasoning and embrace the feeling. If you don't, you will always regret having ignored your spirit.
You're OK, kid. Take off the windbreaker. This is about to get interesting. Now go out there and live life in the center of the room.
Love,
Tom at 41
You have about 10 minutes to be really, really angry about how things have panned out in your heart until now. Get it out of your system in a hurry because you are about to become who you will always be. Whatever you have in your pockets in the days, weeks, and months to come will stay with you for the rest of your life, in one way or another.
You're going to be invited to travel the world and sing. Grasp the opportunity with both hands. Run to it. College waits. When they ask you to sign the deal for the second year, say yes. This is what you will regret not having done. College waits. Living your dreams does not wait. You get a couple of shots at the perfect road and then it vanishes into a second-best trip...at best. Stay on the road until they make you go home. You were born to this, whether you believe it or not.
You are better than you think. You are not as good as you can be, but you are the last one to realize your gifts. You will not be first on the list in anyone's memory, but be happy to be happy using what you have to its fullest expression. Sing like nobody ever told you that you shouldn't. Sing until they make you stop. You're about to be able to play the piano, too. Surprise! Pound the life out of every keyboard you see until they tell you to stop. Be happy! Be happy! Be happy!
You are gifted in a rare way when it comes to speaking. The voice that emanates from your face is not the one people will expect when they see you. You channel a source that is articulate beyond your own ability to comprehend. Just open your mouth and it will be there. You will never have anxiety about what to say when called upon to speak. There will be times you are called upon at a moment's notice. Just smile and say "Yes". The words will be there.
Be true to your gifting at every turn. No amount of money or security will ever erase the inscription on your forehead to do what you know to do.
You will not love in a way that is convenient or easy. You will love hard. You will be hard to love. Don't despair. Always hope. You will not marry at 22 or 30 or 40. You will not have children and picket fences and family times at the table or around the tree. You can, however, be fulfilled. Your love and your calling will be the ultimate conflict. How you resolve that conflict will define you at every moment of your life. You can swing from one to the other, you can hide one under the other, or you can stand whole before the One who made you and do what you were gifted and called to do.
No one will understand. Everyone will demand your allegiance and few will offer you their mercy and compassion. You will inspire judgment and be prone to it yourself. Close your eyes and hear your heart. You are singularly equipped for this. Never take the easy road. Your voice will often be a decade out of step with your surroundings. Don't be cowed. Keep speaking. Keep speaking even when you mis-speak. Perfection has not been visited upon you any more than it has the next fool. You will all arrive at the same destination, only you will share the road with those who can endure hard traveling. Embrace those who travel by your side with compassion. They are not there to be your constant companions, but are there for a season. Give them what they need and take what you need from them. This is not a zero-sum game. You can give without receiving and not feel cheated. You can receive when you have nothing to give without feeling guilty. Sometimes it just works out that way.
Your heart is correct. Your head is the suspect one. When you have to choose, ignore the reasoning and embrace the feeling. If you don't, you will always regret having ignored your spirit.
You're OK, kid. Take off the windbreaker. This is about to get interesting. Now go out there and live life in the center of the room.
Love,
Tom at 41
Monday, April 24, 2006
That's Not My Axe Head
I owe that lady preacher an apology. She preached herself clean out of her shoes on Sunday morning. Worse yet, she hit me right where I sat. I hadn't put myself in a position for that to happen in years. No. I mean years. Years.
She preached out of II Kings 6 - the story of Elisha making an iron axe head float. The story goes that a young man was chopping wood and the head of the axe, which he had borrowed, flew into the water. The young man pointed out to Elisha, the prophet, where the axe head went into the water. Then the prophet chopped off a stick from the tree, put it in the water and the axe head floated. He told the young man to pick it up.
Even as allegory goes, that's a lot to take in. But as preached, it was, as we say, convicting. Madame Pastor preached that we sometimes have borrowed gifts that we lose along the way. Most frequently, she says, we know full well where we "lost" them. Even if someone can bring it back to the surface and make it easy for us to take up again, it's still incumbent on us to do the taking-up. I nodded that way we do when we feel "like somebody's been reading my mail", as they say down home. I thought about how long it had been since I'd played the piano or sang in church - aside from bellowing along with the congregation. But I caught myself when I remembered that the experience doesn't come cheap. And it's soooo not free. There is a price to pay for taking up that borrowed axe head again.
It's the price of disclosure. When you get up on the podium and do your schtick and it becomes obvious that you've probably done this before - a lot - and that you have at least a knack, if not a talent, for it...you get questions. They want to know you. It's instant celebrity in a very small and insignificant fishbowl. Some of the curiosity is genuine and awe-inspired. But a little bit of it is born of jealousy and that perverse desire some have to lay low anything that gets raised up.
I got quizzed on the way out of church Sunday morning as to what I planned to sing Sunday night and I laughed - politely. I didn't say no, exactly. But I was hearing Pappy in the back of my head, "Know those who labour among you," he'd quote. And it made me think less of the ones who were asking. Because they don't know me. But if they knew me - really knew me - they wouldn't ask. Then I couldn't do it. And I wanted to do it. So I laughed. But I didn't say no. I just went home. And played. And played. And found a song I would sing if I was going to sing, but I wasn't going to sing. And they wouldn't ask anyway. That's just my ego talking.
The song I found was written about a step and a half higher than I would prefer - if I was going to sing it, which I wasn't. But I sat at the piano and transcribed it in about 15 minutes into a lower key and played it through several times just to make sure the highest notes were in my "hollerin' range" as the ladies used to call it back in the day. I laid the music book down on the copy machine and ran a copy - because walking into church with a fat music book would look like I had plans, which I didn't. And it would only encourage them, which I didn't want to do. But I darkened some of the transcription on the page after it printed and placed it in the back of my Bible such that it wouldn't bend the wrong way and refuse to stand up on the piano later - if necessary. But it wouldn't be necessary. This was just crazy. I'd bought my own publicity. Nice thought, though.
I got to church Sunday night and every single person I met asked me what I was singing. I laughed. I joked about having missed the conspiracy meeting. I joked about knowing not what you ask for. I laughed. I laughed right up until the end of the Song Service when that Lady Pastor looked down from the pulpit (Pool Pit, as we say) and asked, "Are you gonna sing?"
"Really?" I squeaked.
"Yes, " she said. "Really."
I pulled the paper out of my Bible as the pianist slipped off the bench. I motioned for the other musicians to stay put, in case they wanted to play along. I apologized in advance for whatever sound might emit from my years-dormant voice and my trembling hands. I asked them, half-jokingly, to give me a moment to introduce myself to that piano.
"Hi, my name is Jonah. It's good to be in Nineveh," I riffed. Everybody in the house got the joke - and that it wasn't such a big joke. But none of them knew the whole story. I thanked the lady pastor who sat across the podium from me and appeared to gulp when I thanked her for showing me where I'd lost my axe head. And then I played and sang this little song...
It was about 10 years after the last time I'd sung in public. I remember the last time like it was yesterday. It was my cousin Jim's wedding. I thought I had laryngitis. I downed a bottle of Real Lemon during the wedding to trick my vocal chords into the right degree of tension to get me through. It was right before I went to the doctor and got The Diagnosis. Not Laryngitis. That was the last time I'd sung in public. Ten years and twice that much history washed over me as I sang...
She preached out of II Kings 6 - the story of Elisha making an iron axe head float. The story goes that a young man was chopping wood and the head of the axe, which he had borrowed, flew into the water. The young man pointed out to Elisha, the prophet, where the axe head went into the water. Then the prophet chopped off a stick from the tree, put it in the water and the axe head floated. He told the young man to pick it up.
Even as allegory goes, that's a lot to take in. But as preached, it was, as we say, convicting. Madame Pastor preached that we sometimes have borrowed gifts that we lose along the way. Most frequently, she says, we know full well where we "lost" them. Even if someone can bring it back to the surface and make it easy for us to take up again, it's still incumbent on us to do the taking-up. I nodded that way we do when we feel "like somebody's been reading my mail", as they say down home. I thought about how long it had been since I'd played the piano or sang in church - aside from bellowing along with the congregation. But I caught myself when I remembered that the experience doesn't come cheap. And it's soooo not free. There is a price to pay for taking up that borrowed axe head again.
It's the price of disclosure. When you get up on the podium and do your schtick and it becomes obvious that you've probably done this before - a lot - and that you have at least a knack, if not a talent, for it...you get questions. They want to know you. It's instant celebrity in a very small and insignificant fishbowl. Some of the curiosity is genuine and awe-inspired. But a little bit of it is born of jealousy and that perverse desire some have to lay low anything that gets raised up.
I got quizzed on the way out of church Sunday morning as to what I planned to sing Sunday night and I laughed - politely. I didn't say no, exactly. But I was hearing Pappy in the back of my head, "Know those who labour among you," he'd quote. And it made me think less of the ones who were asking. Because they don't know me. But if they knew me - really knew me - they wouldn't ask. Then I couldn't do it. And I wanted to do it. So I laughed. But I didn't say no. I just went home. And played. And played. And found a song I would sing if I was going to sing, but I wasn't going to sing. And they wouldn't ask anyway. That's just my ego talking.
The song I found was written about a step and a half higher than I would prefer - if I was going to sing it, which I wasn't. But I sat at the piano and transcribed it in about 15 minutes into a lower key and played it through several times just to make sure the highest notes were in my "hollerin' range" as the ladies used to call it back in the day. I laid the music book down on the copy machine and ran a copy - because walking into church with a fat music book would look like I had plans, which I didn't. And it would only encourage them, which I didn't want to do. But I darkened some of the transcription on the page after it printed and placed it in the back of my Bible such that it wouldn't bend the wrong way and refuse to stand up on the piano later - if necessary. But it wouldn't be necessary. This was just crazy. I'd bought my own publicity. Nice thought, though.
I got to church Sunday night and every single person I met asked me what I was singing. I laughed. I joked about having missed the conspiracy meeting. I joked about knowing not what you ask for. I laughed. I laughed right up until the end of the Song Service when that Lady Pastor looked down from the pulpit (Pool Pit, as we say) and asked, "Are you gonna sing?"
"Really?" I squeaked.
"Yes, " she said. "Really."
I pulled the paper out of my Bible as the pianist slipped off the bench. I motioned for the other musicians to stay put, in case they wanted to play along. I apologized in advance for whatever sound might emit from my years-dormant voice and my trembling hands. I asked them, half-jokingly, to give me a moment to introduce myself to that piano.
"Hi, my name is Jonah. It's good to be in Nineveh," I riffed. Everybody in the house got the joke - and that it wasn't such a big joke. But none of them knew the whole story. I thanked the lady pastor who sat across the podium from me and appeared to gulp when I thanked her for showing me where I'd lost my axe head. And then I played and sang this little song...
It was about 10 years after the last time I'd sung in public. I remember the last time like it was yesterday. It was my cousin Jim's wedding. I thought I had laryngitis. I downed a bottle of Real Lemon during the wedding to trick my vocal chords into the right degree of tension to get me through. It was right before I went to the doctor and got The Diagnosis. Not Laryngitis. That was the last time I'd sung in public. Ten years and twice that much history washed over me as I sang...
"When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
When our strength has failed ere the day is half done,
When we've reached the end of our hoarded resources,
Our Father's full giving has only begun."
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Nothing Personal
So My Therapist Says that when two people fail to make a connection, it's Nothing Personal. I had a good friend from South Africa once who used to occasionally use a native phrase that I find helpful from time to time: "Bullshit."
Nothing Personal? I do not choose you, a person, to be my marginally wedded spouse. I do not choose you, a person, to take to dinner. I do not choose you, a person, to bed, wed or be fed. How, in the name of all that makes sense, do we figure that's Nothing Personal? It is absolutely personal! And there's nothing wrong with that. Why do we make up the little lie - and then repeat it so frequently - that when I reject you (or you reject me) as a person that we must euphemize it into meaninglessness? There are people who should be rejected. That's personal. And it should be. Those are not good persons.
I have hired and fired untold numbers of people in my day. Every one of them was personal. I was firing a person. How could it not be about the person? It was about their performance, qualifications, execution, attitude, comparative worth in the workplace. If that ain't personal, I don't understand personal.
There are a couple of men I've met who keep one toe in my water (on the off-chance they run out of other options, I firmly believe). They are always VERY busy. I have known members of Congress who were not as busy as these men. I have known paramedics who had fewer unexpected emergencies to which to tend. These are guys who make it a point to touch base once every couple weeks to keep their connection valid under the assumption that I will never have anything better to do and will be more than willing to go belly-up (or down) for them at a moment's notice. The frequent backing-out of all-too-tentative plans to maybe make a call to potentially set up a possible dinner or drink - maybe - are usually ignored without comment or explained away with increasingly tortured and amazing convergences of bad timing, fate, karma and automotive/immunological miracles of bad luck. But it's always Nothing Personal.
I'd rather be told, if the truth were told, that I'm not their type. I could stomach being told that if I were the last person on earth, I'd be the first person they'd date - but not until then. I have turned down and been turned down the average number of times for a person of a certain age, I would imagine. But Jesus Tits (as one of my favorite teachers used to exclaim), can we just tell the truth for a change? It's personal. Get over it.
The only time it's Nothing Personal is when you're dealing with an animal, vegetable or mineral. It's Nothing Personal when you choose this blouse over that one. It's Nothing Personal when you (rightly) pick Coke over Pepsi. It's Nothing Personal when you like lilacs and not daffodils. It's Fucking Personal when I don't want to go out with you - or stand you up - or criticize your existence - or trash the way you screw. It's Way Personal when I do go out with you - and screw you - and think about what might be if things go well and the planets align. And it's Absolutely Personal when there's some aftermath to that and you think an explanation is beneath you. (Insert Primal Scream here)
There. Thanks for listening.
It was Nothing Personal.
Nothing Personal? I do not choose you, a person, to be my marginally wedded spouse. I do not choose you, a person, to take to dinner. I do not choose you, a person, to bed, wed or be fed. How, in the name of all that makes sense, do we figure that's Nothing Personal? It is absolutely personal! And there's nothing wrong with that. Why do we make up the little lie - and then repeat it so frequently - that when I reject you (or you reject me) as a person that we must euphemize it into meaninglessness? There are people who should be rejected. That's personal. And it should be. Those are not good persons.
I have hired and fired untold numbers of people in my day. Every one of them was personal. I was firing a person. How could it not be about the person? It was about their performance, qualifications, execution, attitude, comparative worth in the workplace. If that ain't personal, I don't understand personal.
There are a couple of men I've met who keep one toe in my water (on the off-chance they run out of other options, I firmly believe). They are always VERY busy. I have known members of Congress who were not as busy as these men. I have known paramedics who had fewer unexpected emergencies to which to tend. These are guys who make it a point to touch base once every couple weeks to keep their connection valid under the assumption that I will never have anything better to do and will be more than willing to go belly-up (or down) for them at a moment's notice. The frequent backing-out of all-too-tentative plans to maybe make a call to potentially set up a possible dinner or drink - maybe - are usually ignored without comment or explained away with increasingly tortured and amazing convergences of bad timing, fate, karma and automotive/immunological miracles of bad luck. But it's always Nothing Personal.
I'd rather be told, if the truth were told, that I'm not their type. I could stomach being told that if I were the last person on earth, I'd be the first person they'd date - but not until then. I have turned down and been turned down the average number of times for a person of a certain age, I would imagine. But Jesus Tits (as one of my favorite teachers used to exclaim), can we just tell the truth for a change? It's personal. Get over it.
The only time it's Nothing Personal is when you're dealing with an animal, vegetable or mineral. It's Nothing Personal when you choose this blouse over that one. It's Nothing Personal when you (rightly) pick Coke over Pepsi. It's Nothing Personal when you like lilacs and not daffodils. It's Fucking Personal when I don't want to go out with you - or stand you up - or criticize your existence - or trash the way you screw. It's Way Personal when I do go out with you - and screw you - and think about what might be if things go well and the planets align. And it's Absolutely Personal when there's some aftermath to that and you think an explanation is beneath you. (Insert Primal Scream here)
There. Thanks for listening.
It was Nothing Personal.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Boundaries
So My Therapist Says we should be developing a relationship: a psychological, emotional, erotic, romantic relationship that I can use as a learning tool to improve my chances in the outside world. A seldom used French phrase heard only in the provinces leapt immediately to mind: "Est-ce que vous êtes out of your fucking mind?"
I explained that while I appreciated the theory behind his suggestion, I was not inclined to "let go" and indulge in a pseudo-relationship for $110 an hour that included neither dinner nor an orgasm. I think I called him a whore. I'm sure I called him a whore. I definitely called him a whore. "What in God's name would make you think," I asked aloud, "that I'm going to go down that road with you and then turn it all off when the little clock dings and I write my check?"
"Oh the money," My Therapist Says, "...that's just a boundary." I laughed - and not politely.
"You only ever hear that line from the person taking the money," I said - virtually obliterating the entire psychoanalytic profession in one derisive swipe. I might also have said, "Boundary, my ass." I'm sure I said that. I definitely said that. "Just like you only hear ugly people say 'Beauty is only skin deep' and only rich people say 'Money is no object'," I added. The money is just a boundary. Fall in love for 50 minutes once a week. Indeed.
He tried to bait me by suggesting that he was more than happy to keep things blithe and glib. "Like 90% of my patients", he said. Now, I am bright, but I confess I am not the sharpest tack in the drawer. More than once, however, I have found it helpful to take the advice of the 90% and leave the 10% swingin' in the wind. This is one of those rare occasions where I can find some small solace among the majority. And it's likely to stay that way.
Until I can wrap my apparently resistant brain around the notion that I am to all but fall in love with My Therapist for 50 minutes and $110 a week, we are going to continue to enjoy one another's glib and blithe presence or we will not enjoy one another at all. I finally just asked, "Are you hitting on me?" He dismissed the question out of hand. I am no egotist (although I think I was called a narcissist at least once today), but I think I'm onto something here. The lady on the Sopranos never tried to get Tony to fall in love with her. I either mis-heard something or we have what the Portuguese call "un failure to communicate". Either way, I am not having anything approaching an erotic or romantic relationship with anyone who is taking my money and setting the timer to 50 minutes. Not as long as I'm ambulatory, leastwise. The very notion. I was not raised among parasols and juleps, but I do have my notions of propriety. That suggestion breached every lovin' last one of them.
He said something about me trying to protect my mother. I gasped and laughed at the same time, which will send the fluid in your throat directly into your sinus cavity and is not fun. It was out of the blue and apropos of nothing and caught me so off guard that I did minor bodily harm to myself just reacting. I was still in the throes of "romantic, erotic relationship" when he heaved that one at me. I thought one of the two of us had gone off the deep end and I knew I was still standing on dry land. He talked about the perfect connection we all look to mamas for as infants. I added that nobody gets that. He concurred and suggested we continue to look for it in life, which is reasonable, but classic Freud and not this year's news. Plus, it's debatable as to its relevance - especially among gay males. I do not long for a titty because I did not get one. I promise. And I have references.
I mentioned that I consciously seek out men who I perceive to be obviously "flawed" in some way because I can feel some camaraderie among the imperfect of this world. That's where I got the label "narcissist". And I thought I was just being reasonable in dating chubby guys and maximizing my chances for a date on any given Friday night. I'm "narcissistic", the contention goes, because I look for men to whom I can feel superior, he misinterpreted. Actually, I just look for guys who are bigger than me because, while I'm being concerned about how large my nose looks in profile, they're likely aware that their abs are tucked away under 20 years of Doritos and Budweiser. And that's OK. I'm imperfect, you're imperfect. Now we can have sex - or a relationship - or whatever and just have all the physical imperfections balanced out up front. It's not about feeling better than them. It's about feeling equal to them. But if it makes him happy to hang "narcissist" around my neck, that's OK by me. I am still not being goaded into a "romantic, erotic" relationship with this man for as long as I am paying him.
I do admit that were there no money and no 50-minute timer involved, I would go out with the guy - at least once. He seemed offended that I laughed at the notion. That strikes me as odd if I'm in the 90% who apparently prefer blithe and glib to playing house for money. I'm guessing I'm not the first one to decline this particular offer. Psychoanalysis be damned. I am not letting some man in my head to toy with my love buttons - let alone go down the erotic path - and then send me back out into society to pine about it for 6 days and 23 hours. How desperate do I seem to him, anyway? The very nerve.
He also insisted that I was in love with The Rooster. Now THAT'S offensive. Just because I remain marginally pissed over how that shook out does not mean I was, ergo, in love with him. I get this mad without being in love. Ask anybody who ever worked for me. Ask anybody I ever worked for. Ask anybody who ever knew me. I can get - and stay - this mad for a very long time without ever having been in like, let alone love. I told him that The Rooster owes me an explanation - not because of any commitments involved - but because I am an adult (whether the Rooster so-identifies or not).
So all in all, we went a few rounds today. I like to think I won at least 2 out of 3. "The money is just a boundary." I told him I was going to write that one down. And I did.
Three times.
Hear the cock crow?
I explained that while I appreciated the theory behind his suggestion, I was not inclined to "let go" and indulge in a pseudo-relationship for $110 an hour that included neither dinner nor an orgasm. I think I called him a whore. I'm sure I called him a whore. I definitely called him a whore. "What in God's name would make you think," I asked aloud, "that I'm going to go down that road with you and then turn it all off when the little clock dings and I write my check?"
"Oh the money," My Therapist Says, "...that's just a boundary." I laughed - and not politely.
"You only ever hear that line from the person taking the money," I said - virtually obliterating the entire psychoanalytic profession in one derisive swipe. I might also have said, "Boundary, my ass." I'm sure I said that. I definitely said that. "Just like you only hear ugly people say 'Beauty is only skin deep' and only rich people say 'Money is no object'," I added. The money is just a boundary. Fall in love for 50 minutes once a week. Indeed.
He tried to bait me by suggesting that he was more than happy to keep things blithe and glib. "Like 90% of my patients", he said. Now, I am bright, but I confess I am not the sharpest tack in the drawer. More than once, however, I have found it helpful to take the advice of the 90% and leave the 10% swingin' in the wind. This is one of those rare occasions where I can find some small solace among the majority. And it's likely to stay that way.
Until I can wrap my apparently resistant brain around the notion that I am to all but fall in love with My Therapist for 50 minutes and $110 a week, we are going to continue to enjoy one another's glib and blithe presence or we will not enjoy one another at all. I finally just asked, "Are you hitting on me?" He dismissed the question out of hand. I am no egotist (although I think I was called a narcissist at least once today), but I think I'm onto something here. The lady on the Sopranos never tried to get Tony to fall in love with her. I either mis-heard something or we have what the Portuguese call "un failure to communicate". Either way, I am not having anything approaching an erotic or romantic relationship with anyone who is taking my money and setting the timer to 50 minutes. Not as long as I'm ambulatory, leastwise. The very notion. I was not raised among parasols and juleps, but I do have my notions of propriety. That suggestion breached every lovin' last one of them.
He said something about me trying to protect my mother. I gasped and laughed at the same time, which will send the fluid in your throat directly into your sinus cavity and is not fun. It was out of the blue and apropos of nothing and caught me so off guard that I did minor bodily harm to myself just reacting. I was still in the throes of "romantic, erotic relationship" when he heaved that one at me. I thought one of the two of us had gone off the deep end and I knew I was still standing on dry land. He talked about the perfect connection we all look to mamas for as infants. I added that nobody gets that. He concurred and suggested we continue to look for it in life, which is reasonable, but classic Freud and not this year's news. Plus, it's debatable as to its relevance - especially among gay males. I do not long for a titty because I did not get one. I promise. And I have references.
I mentioned that I consciously seek out men who I perceive to be obviously "flawed" in some way because I can feel some camaraderie among the imperfect of this world. That's where I got the label "narcissist". And I thought I was just being reasonable in dating chubby guys and maximizing my chances for a date on any given Friday night. I'm "narcissistic", the contention goes, because I look for men to whom I can feel superior, he misinterpreted. Actually, I just look for guys who are bigger than me because, while I'm being concerned about how large my nose looks in profile, they're likely aware that their abs are tucked away under 20 years of Doritos and Budweiser. And that's OK. I'm imperfect, you're imperfect. Now we can have sex - or a relationship - or whatever and just have all the physical imperfections balanced out up front. It's not about feeling better than them. It's about feeling equal to them. But if it makes him happy to hang "narcissist" around my neck, that's OK by me. I am still not being goaded into a "romantic, erotic" relationship with this man for as long as I am paying him.
I do admit that were there no money and no 50-minute timer involved, I would go out with the guy - at least once. He seemed offended that I laughed at the notion. That strikes me as odd if I'm in the 90% who apparently prefer blithe and glib to playing house for money. I'm guessing I'm not the first one to decline this particular offer. Psychoanalysis be damned. I am not letting some man in my head to toy with my love buttons - let alone go down the erotic path - and then send me back out into society to pine about it for 6 days and 23 hours. How desperate do I seem to him, anyway? The very nerve.
He also insisted that I was in love with The Rooster. Now THAT'S offensive. Just because I remain marginally pissed over how that shook out does not mean I was, ergo, in love with him. I get this mad without being in love. Ask anybody who ever worked for me. Ask anybody I ever worked for. Ask anybody who ever knew me. I can get - and stay - this mad for a very long time without ever having been in like, let alone love. I told him that The Rooster owes me an explanation - not because of any commitments involved - but because I am an adult (whether the Rooster so-identifies or not).
So all in all, we went a few rounds today. I like to think I won at least 2 out of 3. "The money is just a boundary." I told him I was going to write that one down. And I did.
Three times.
Hear the cock crow?
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Playing on Easter
I did not make it to church Sunday morning. Even when I was a regular, back in the day, I didn't much care for the "S'posed To's".
I must have led the worship service ("song service" as we simple folk called it) for three years or so at Pappy's church and always caused a commotion come the holidays. I did not think we needed to sing the same 8 songs that had always been sung on the holidays. I like "He Arose" just as much as the next guy born in 1923, but it gets a little clichéd by the 73rd Easter or so. The Church of My Choice had a sunrise service at 6:30 a.m. this Easter. I explained to someone that I would not love the Lord less at 11 a.m. than I might at 6:30 a.m., so the sun would rise without me, not upon me. I have paid my dues where sunrise services are concerned. I think they're mostly attended by masochists, insomniacs and people with too much time on their hands, anyway.
I drove an hour and a half to have Easter lunch with my grandma, Pappy (who looked very, very thin and old), my aunts, uncles and many cousins (who have procreated profusely). Mom and dad were there. We have a barometer for these occasions: how many of the 10 of us in my generation actually appear. This was an 8. Not bad. My generation hid eggs for the next one. Three groups of searchers this year: "I Can Almost Tell An Egg By Its Shape", "I Know This Game and Will Knock You Down To Get An Egg" and "Pick It Up and Shake It. If It Has Money, Keep It, If Not, Leave It." I hid eggs for the latter.
We informed the older (9 to 13 year-old money grubbers) that when WE were children, the only thing inside our egg was...well....egg. You had two choices; eat it or pitch it. Now, the eggs they find contain coins or candy. They looked at us like we'd come over in covered wagons. I like being this old. I know things. I cheated on behalf of the less aggressive boy, a son of my cousin. I would not-very-surreptitiously point out the general vicinity of eggs I spied after the other monsters had left the vicinity. This year's eggs were plastic, as they have been for a while now. Some of the kids colored eggs, I learned, but they weren't among what we hid. I thought that was missing the point of the Easter Egg Hunt: Pagan Ritual meets Christian Crucifixion Fixation, Results in Sulfur Smell by May. But what do I know?
I got home in time to catch Sunday Evening service at church: a dicey proposal. But I went anyway. Far fewer folks go to church on Sunday night, so you're practically committing to a conversation just by showing up. It was nice. Their drummer hadn't shown up, for whatever reason, so the pastor looked down from her perch and asked of me, "Do you play drums?" Out of shock and respect, I answered - too completely. "NO, ma'am! I play piano." I could have left the second half out and saved myself a world of interaction that followed.
I was invited on the spot to prove it, basically. I declined. No sense touching their pretties and then being I.D.'d as the fag who tickled their ivories. Not yet, anyway. Two of the "band" invited me to Dairy Queen and it didn't feel like the lead-up to an inquisition, so I went. I had a banana split and didn't offer anymore than "nothing" when asked, yet again, what I "do". They invited me back to their home for a jam session that they routinely have following Sunday night church. We used to have one of those years ago. All of the musicians would get together, run to Taco Bell and then gather somewhere to take out all of our musical frustrations that were pent up after the 173rd playing of "He Arose". It was therapy.
The older lady who plays bass guitar at this church hosted Sunday night's session. Her husband was at home, having refused to go to church that evening. He has Alzheimer's and has just gotten to the persnickety stage. She's not quite sure what he might say when or to whom, so it's just as well, she advised. I played piano, she harmonized and her male friend played mandolin (he helps care for her mister). We made our way through most of the 30 year-old songs they knew by heart and her husband sang along half-heartedly on a few. Half-heartedly....until I hit the first 3 bars of "Have a Little Talk WIth Jesus". I thought he'd come unglued, as we say. His face lit up. Every memory connection in his head was suddenly eloquent with recollection, it seemed. He didn't even look at the page for the words. He knew it by heart. And this time, his heart hadn't failed him.
I hadn't met the man before, but I recognized that he had found a spot of lucidity that is getting rarer for him by the day. I played the last few times through the chorus with wet cheeks and watered eyes. It's a good thing I can play by ear. I'd have never seen the notes. And I don't even like that song that much. It's certainly not one of the ones that tug at my heart. But that old man and his moment... But for a slip of the tongue when the lady asked me if I drummed, I'd have missed it.
That was worth playing on Easter.
I must have led the worship service ("song service" as we simple folk called it) for three years or so at Pappy's church and always caused a commotion come the holidays. I did not think we needed to sing the same 8 songs that had always been sung on the holidays. I like "He Arose" just as much as the next guy born in 1923, but it gets a little clichéd by the 73rd Easter or so. The Church of My Choice had a sunrise service at 6:30 a.m. this Easter. I explained to someone that I would not love the Lord less at 11 a.m. than I might at 6:30 a.m., so the sun would rise without me, not upon me. I have paid my dues where sunrise services are concerned. I think they're mostly attended by masochists, insomniacs and people with too much time on their hands, anyway.
I drove an hour and a half to have Easter lunch with my grandma, Pappy (who looked very, very thin and old), my aunts, uncles and many cousins (who have procreated profusely). Mom and dad were there. We have a barometer for these occasions: how many of the 10 of us in my generation actually appear. This was an 8. Not bad. My generation hid eggs for the next one. Three groups of searchers this year: "I Can Almost Tell An Egg By Its Shape", "I Know This Game and Will Knock You Down To Get An Egg" and "Pick It Up and Shake It. If It Has Money, Keep It, If Not, Leave It." I hid eggs for the latter.
We informed the older (9 to 13 year-old money grubbers) that when WE were children, the only thing inside our egg was...well....egg. You had two choices; eat it or pitch it. Now, the eggs they find contain coins or candy. They looked at us like we'd come over in covered wagons. I like being this old. I know things. I cheated on behalf of the less aggressive boy, a son of my cousin. I would not-very-surreptitiously point out the general vicinity of eggs I spied after the other monsters had left the vicinity. This year's eggs were plastic, as they have been for a while now. Some of the kids colored eggs, I learned, but they weren't among what we hid. I thought that was missing the point of the Easter Egg Hunt: Pagan Ritual meets Christian Crucifixion Fixation, Results in Sulfur Smell by May. But what do I know?
I got home in time to catch Sunday Evening service at church: a dicey proposal. But I went anyway. Far fewer folks go to church on Sunday night, so you're practically committing to a conversation just by showing up. It was nice. Their drummer hadn't shown up, for whatever reason, so the pastor looked down from her perch and asked of me, "Do you play drums?" Out of shock and respect, I answered - too completely. "NO, ma'am! I play piano." I could have left the second half out and saved myself a world of interaction that followed.
I was invited on the spot to prove it, basically. I declined. No sense touching their pretties and then being I.D.'d as the fag who tickled their ivories. Not yet, anyway. Two of the "band" invited me to Dairy Queen and it didn't feel like the lead-up to an inquisition, so I went. I had a banana split and didn't offer anymore than "nothing" when asked, yet again, what I "do". They invited me back to their home for a jam session that they routinely have following Sunday night church. We used to have one of those years ago. All of the musicians would get together, run to Taco Bell and then gather somewhere to take out all of our musical frustrations that were pent up after the 173rd playing of "He Arose". It was therapy.
The older lady who plays bass guitar at this church hosted Sunday night's session. Her husband was at home, having refused to go to church that evening. He has Alzheimer's and has just gotten to the persnickety stage. She's not quite sure what he might say when or to whom, so it's just as well, she advised. I played piano, she harmonized and her male friend played mandolin (he helps care for her mister). We made our way through most of the 30 year-old songs they knew by heart and her husband sang along half-heartedly on a few. Half-heartedly....until I hit the first 3 bars of "Have a Little Talk WIth Jesus". I thought he'd come unglued, as we say. His face lit up. Every memory connection in his head was suddenly eloquent with recollection, it seemed. He didn't even look at the page for the words. He knew it by heart. And this time, his heart hadn't failed him.
Let us have a little talk with Jesus.
Let us tell him all about our troubles.
He will hear our faintest cry and
He will answer by and by...
I hadn't met the man before, but I recognized that he had found a spot of lucidity that is getting rarer for him by the day. I played the last few times through the chorus with wet cheeks and watered eyes. It's a good thing I can play by ear. I'd have never seen the notes. And I don't even like that song that much. It's certainly not one of the ones that tug at my heart. But that old man and his moment... But for a slip of the tongue when the lady asked me if I drummed, I'd have missed it.
That was worth playing on Easter.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Second
I gave in. I turned on the Air Conditioner. But I only did it after I learned that Mom & Dad had turned theirs on first. I already wear the Holiday Weenie Sash for perpetually being the first one to erect my Christmas Tree. I don't need the Heat Wimp Tiara to go with it.
Second is fine by me. Always has been. I remember at my last (and by that, I mean final) employer, the question arose "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I answered without hesitation, "Second-in-command". Think about it - elbow-deep in power and influence, a heartbeat away from a lifetime of ulcers, but none of the Ultimate Responsibility that rests with The One At The Top. I ain't as dumb as I look. I got every job I applied for at that company - and a couple I hadn't applied for. I think I'd have made it to second, if I'd had time.
Second is good when you're going into uncharted waters, too. I do not have pride in discovery and unique adventures never before known to man. I'm very much OK to let someone else work out the kinks and then try it myself. My name won't go in any history books, but I'll take some of the same rides as those that do. In no lifetime could I imagine being the person at the front of the cavalry or first in line to go through the swamp...none of that. Cowardly? Fine. Call it what you will. I think it's the wisdom of The Second.
My buddy Joe showed up at our Friday Night Dinner last night with his partner - two weeks to the day after having his breastbone cracked like a walnut for multiple bypasses. He described in too great detail what he perceived when he awoke after surgery. I remembered when they'd called me during The Tour in 1983 to tell me that my father had a massive heart attack and may not make it until - or through - surgery. I got on a roach-infested Greyhound bus near Gatlinburg, TN and made it to Kansas City in time to tell his sedated and unconscious form - before surgery - that I really didn't like him very much. When he made it through, he became a different person. We were given a second chance, as the cliche-lobbers would call it. I knew it was none of my business whether Joe had any of those second-chance thoughts. But I wondered anyway.
It's hard to be first anymore. It's almost all been done. Someone quizzed me last night about the details of my last dating experience. It was nice to have someone affirm that they'd been down that very road. They had the same story to tell. I knew I wasn't the first one to make that mistake. But it was sure nice hearing it from somebody who really knew what it was like. I wasn't even the first one in that little room. I was second.
Second is Pretty Damn Good without the press conference. It's still a ribbon, just of a different hue. It's all the self-satisfaction along with someone to vilify or worship, depending on how you tilt, all rolled up in one. Second is better than damn near everybody and the one exception could have been a fluke. Second has possibility and aspirations built into it. Second is anonymous through all of time except to himself. First is just first. It's great, but so much less textured.
Second, though... Second is next. By its definition, almost, it is more of an anticipation than a failure. It's less shortcoming than modesty. It's where I'm comfortable. In second.
Just a second.
Second is fine by me. Always has been. I remember at my last (and by that, I mean final) employer, the question arose "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I answered without hesitation, "Second-in-command". Think about it - elbow-deep in power and influence, a heartbeat away from a lifetime of ulcers, but none of the Ultimate Responsibility that rests with The One At The Top. I ain't as dumb as I look. I got every job I applied for at that company - and a couple I hadn't applied for. I think I'd have made it to second, if I'd had time.
Second is good when you're going into uncharted waters, too. I do not have pride in discovery and unique adventures never before known to man. I'm very much OK to let someone else work out the kinks and then try it myself. My name won't go in any history books, but I'll take some of the same rides as those that do. In no lifetime could I imagine being the person at the front of the cavalry or first in line to go through the swamp...none of that. Cowardly? Fine. Call it what you will. I think it's the wisdom of The Second.
My buddy Joe showed up at our Friday Night Dinner last night with his partner - two weeks to the day after having his breastbone cracked like a walnut for multiple bypasses. He described in too great detail what he perceived when he awoke after surgery. I remembered when they'd called me during The Tour in 1983 to tell me that my father had a massive heart attack and may not make it until - or through - surgery. I got on a roach-infested Greyhound bus near Gatlinburg, TN and made it to Kansas City in time to tell his sedated and unconscious form - before surgery - that I really didn't like him very much. When he made it through, he became a different person. We were given a second chance, as the cliche-lobbers would call it. I knew it was none of my business whether Joe had any of those second-chance thoughts. But I wondered anyway.
It's hard to be first anymore. It's almost all been done. Someone quizzed me last night about the details of my last dating experience. It was nice to have someone affirm that they'd been down that very road. They had the same story to tell. I knew I wasn't the first one to make that mistake. But it was sure nice hearing it from somebody who really knew what it was like. I wasn't even the first one in that little room. I was second.
Second is Pretty Damn Good without the press conference. It's still a ribbon, just of a different hue. It's all the self-satisfaction along with someone to vilify or worship, depending on how you tilt, all rolled up in one. Second is better than damn near everybody and the one exception could have been a fluke. Second has possibility and aspirations built into it. Second is anonymous through all of time except to himself. First is just first. It's great, but so much less textured.
Second, though... Second is next. By its definition, almost, it is more of an anticipation than a failure. It's less shortcoming than modesty. It's where I'm comfortable. In second.
Just a second.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Last One In
"....is a ROTTEN EGG," we used to say.
I phoned Mama this morning (6 blocks away) to coordinate Holy Weekend details. I did not mention that mine would likely begin with a little Herbal Homage. The High-Churchers have their incense, I have mine. Don't judge. It's helped me add 50 pounds and distinctly improves my demeanor - if only temporarily.
Speaking of demeanor and bad eggs, Mama tossed out this bon mot today when asked if she was taking the half-Catholic grandchildren to church on Holy Friday:
"If MY grandchildren don't want to go to church on Holy Friday, fuck it!"
I thought that summarized My Mama fairly succinctly. Anybody who can work Holy Friday, grandchildren, and "fuck it" into the same sentence without spending days on end working it out is all right by me. And so we begin the Passion. Today we will bury one another repeatedly under a load of orders and recriminations for past Easters gone bad. Hams will be forgotten and blame will be laid. Pies will be mis-made and names will be called. Someone will head to the in-laws instead and be badmouthed as though they'd driven the nails into Our Lord And Savior Jesus Christ themselves.
Too few Easter baskets will have too little candy. Too few eggs will have been colored to be hidden for the too few great-grandchildren who still look for eggs. Too few of those eggs will be found and will become May's Mystery Odor in someone's guttering.
I will make my now-standard cameo appearance at the Y'all Come. I'm bringing 7-Cup Salad, a staple from my childhood that is ambrosia-like, except that my grandma always told us it was NOT ambrosia. So it's 7-Cup Salad (that may resemble, in part, the ambrosia of your memory):
7-Cup Salad
Fruit Cocktail - drained
Mandarin Oranges - drained
Pineapple Bits (not chunks, as they are too large and not crushed, as it is too wet)
Cool-Whip
Marshmallows (The little ones - and not the colored ones. That's just un-natural.)
Coconut
The proportions are indeterminate and sort of tailored to your tastes. We like ours very fruity yet very cool-whippy, also. A couple of the cousins profess an aversion to coconut. They can leave it out when they make it - which has been something of an issue on recent holidays. Somewhere along the line, 7-Cup Salad got dropped off the menu and I find this unacceptable. Traditions do not get born every day and they should not be allowed to die simply because someone does not think of bringing the salad. Whoever used to make it should have very specifically handed off the responsibility to someone else. That is all I have to say about that.
The temperatures reached 88 degrees yesterday here on the prairie. The indoor temperature reached 86. I made a pact with myself (and the devil, it would appear) that I was not turning on the air conditioner. I knew it was going to be 65 degrees eventually and I am increasingly resentful of throwing money at energy companies. So I slept with the windows open and now I think I'm dying. I have a tonsil the size of a golf ball, leakage from my ear, nose and throat and that very special dry-mouth that only Sudafed can give.
I talked to Christi last night and all but dared her to turn on her A/C so I could go sit where it's cool. No dice. She has more stamina by far than I do. When I called Mama this morning, the first thing I said was, "First one to turn on their A/C is a rotten egg!" Her response:
"Can you smell me now?"
And so Easter begins.
I phoned Mama this morning (6 blocks away) to coordinate Holy Weekend details. I did not mention that mine would likely begin with a little Herbal Homage. The High-Churchers have their incense, I have mine. Don't judge. It's helped me add 50 pounds and distinctly improves my demeanor - if only temporarily.
Speaking of demeanor and bad eggs, Mama tossed out this bon mot today when asked if she was taking the half-Catholic grandchildren to church on Holy Friday:
"If MY grandchildren don't want to go to church on Holy Friday, fuck it!"
I thought that summarized My Mama fairly succinctly. Anybody who can work Holy Friday, grandchildren, and "fuck it" into the same sentence without spending days on end working it out is all right by me. And so we begin the Passion. Today we will bury one another repeatedly under a load of orders and recriminations for past Easters gone bad. Hams will be forgotten and blame will be laid. Pies will be mis-made and names will be called. Someone will head to the in-laws instead and be badmouthed as though they'd driven the nails into Our Lord And Savior Jesus Christ themselves.
Too few Easter baskets will have too little candy. Too few eggs will have been colored to be hidden for the too few great-grandchildren who still look for eggs. Too few of those eggs will be found and will become May's Mystery Odor in someone's guttering.
I will make my now-standard cameo appearance at the Y'all Come. I'm bringing 7-Cup Salad, a staple from my childhood that is ambrosia-like, except that my grandma always told us it was NOT ambrosia. So it's 7-Cup Salad (that may resemble, in part, the ambrosia of your memory):
7-Cup Salad
Fruit Cocktail - drained
Mandarin Oranges - drained
Pineapple Bits (not chunks, as they are too large and not crushed, as it is too wet)
Cool-Whip
Marshmallows (The little ones - and not the colored ones. That's just un-natural.)
Coconut
The proportions are indeterminate and sort of tailored to your tastes. We like ours very fruity yet very cool-whippy, also. A couple of the cousins profess an aversion to coconut. They can leave it out when they make it - which has been something of an issue on recent holidays. Somewhere along the line, 7-Cup Salad got dropped off the menu and I find this unacceptable. Traditions do not get born every day and they should not be allowed to die simply because someone does not think of bringing the salad. Whoever used to make it should have very specifically handed off the responsibility to someone else. That is all I have to say about that.
The temperatures reached 88 degrees yesterday here on the prairie. The indoor temperature reached 86. I made a pact with myself (and the devil, it would appear) that I was not turning on the air conditioner. I knew it was going to be 65 degrees eventually and I am increasingly resentful of throwing money at energy companies. So I slept with the windows open and now I think I'm dying. I have a tonsil the size of a golf ball, leakage from my ear, nose and throat and that very special dry-mouth that only Sudafed can give.
I talked to Christi last night and all but dared her to turn on her A/C so I could go sit where it's cool. No dice. She has more stamina by far than I do. When I called Mama this morning, the first thing I said was, "First one to turn on their A/C is a rotten egg!" Her response:
"Can you smell me now?"
And so Easter begins.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Church Lady
No, not that one.
Sunday I made my second consecutive trip to our local Assembly of God. I know, I know. I always say that if you go, you should go big. Why bother trying to hide among the Episcopals when you could cause a stir among the Pentecostals? It's where I'm from, it's what I know. It's what I think of when I think of church.
When you hit twice in a row, you invite closer scrutiny. It's not unlike the waiter who notices the same couple seated in his section two nights in a row. It's something remarked upon, most likely. Conversations begin. People talk. That sort of thing. In many church circles, I understand, if there is an object aside from worship it is the art of being noticed. Simply arriving and staying with some degree of style is the point of many church outings, I gather. Not so in most Pentecostal circles. The point of attendance in our churches is to show up, show off, and show your Bible.
If you arrive at a Pentecostal church without a Bible in hand, we know you either didn't mean to come to church or you are a heathen in need of churching - and a Bible, most likely. The Bible itself says much about you. In no few buildings, anything other than a King James Bible will earn you the label of "heretic", which is a nice way of saying that you're too lazy or too stupid to muddle through King James English. The obvious inference is also that God Hisself uses the King James Bible so why can't you? The proportions of your Bible also say a lot about who you are. Size matters. Very large means you mean it. Extremely small may mean you already know it so well you don't need the full-sized version. In-between sized makes you suspect as somebody who only dusts it off for Sunday morning.
The real proof is in how many notations you've made within its covers, though. If you are an inveterate note-taker in the margins, you must surely be a Christian. A smart person will notate a new Bible with their old notes before hauling it to church, just so no one gets the wrong idea. It's a lot like breaking in a new baseball glove. Once when I was in church, the Pastor invited everyone to open their Bibles to the Book of (X) Chapter (Y) Verse (#). He graciously noted that if you did not have your own Bible, you could look on with the person to your left or right. After he located the passage himself, he paused and instructed the congregation that "if someone is looking on with you because they have no Bible... ask them where they thought they were going when they left the house."
We also watch for whether you know the choreography. Do you know when and how to raise your hands? Do you dance appropriately, but not lustfully, if you choose to dance? Do you know the Pentecostal Stomp? Do you know the art of the well-placed "Amen"? And do you know that real Christians pronounce that word "A Man"? These are the things we evaluate when newcomers enter our midst. This is also why we get few newcomers in our midst.
This is how we have church.
So Sunday, I began the gauntlet that will stretch until I spill my guts or they are spilled for me by way of ritual disembowelment - in the nicest possible way, of course. I escaped the first week with a cursory nod and pleasant, though brief, exchange with Pastor Judy. That's heresy in 90% of Pentecostal circles - the woman pastor. But there you go. Progress everywhere. In week two I was commandeered in my pew by an as-yet-unnamed assailant who approached with a smile and an outstretched hand - the way they do.
"Welcome! I hope you enjoy church this morning. Our pastor is wonderful!"
"Thank you!" (I've been here twice and she's sincere but so-so and you clearly overuse superlatives.)
"So are you visiting Mayberry or do you live here?"
"Oh, I live here!" (But now you're edging up on nosy because that's really none of your business if you're neither assessing property taxes nor taking my ballot.)
"Where in Mayberry do you live?"
"Near the First Church Of The Holy Haymaker." (This question is intended to elicit a more specific response so they can verify you aren't lying about your residency - an evident sign of perdition - and so that they can drive by to see if you smoke. Really.)
"What do you do?"
This question means something entirely different in gay circles and is one of those times where you have to check your environs before you answer. I almost used my standard, "What don't I do?" with a wink. Her bun would have fallen clean off her head. Instead, I went with,
"Nothing."
"Well," she spat and drew herself up as high as osteoporosis and 60-some years of farm life would allow, "THAT can't be very profitable!!"
"You'd be surprised, " I said.
She just sort of wandered off the way you do when you've seen your cat evaporated by a lightning bolt or when you whack your forehead on the monkey bars in grade school. She'll be back. She's taking the week to both spread the intriguing news and to gather more Socratic ammunition to ferret out the truth that underlies my story.
Now I have two reasons to go back. One is legit - I was truly blessed by being in service on Sunday. I felt like I got what I went after. But the other one is purely maniacal: How long can I hold off Churl-lock Holmes and the Holy Beehives before they nail me as a Sinner Saved By Grace? And how long before we have the discussion about how some sin is a LOT more icky (if not a LOT more sinful) than other sin. Like I said before, that script is already written and just needs a little dusting off to be ready.
Bring on the Church Lady.
Sunday I made my second consecutive trip to our local Assembly of God. I know, I know. I always say that if you go, you should go big. Why bother trying to hide among the Episcopals when you could cause a stir among the Pentecostals? It's where I'm from, it's what I know. It's what I think of when I think of church.
When you hit twice in a row, you invite closer scrutiny. It's not unlike the waiter who notices the same couple seated in his section two nights in a row. It's something remarked upon, most likely. Conversations begin. People talk. That sort of thing. In many church circles, I understand, if there is an object aside from worship it is the art of being noticed. Simply arriving and staying with some degree of style is the point of many church outings, I gather. Not so in most Pentecostal circles. The point of attendance in our churches is to show up, show off, and show your Bible.
If you arrive at a Pentecostal church without a Bible in hand, we know you either didn't mean to come to church or you are a heathen in need of churching - and a Bible, most likely. The Bible itself says much about you. In no few buildings, anything other than a King James Bible will earn you the label of "heretic", which is a nice way of saying that you're too lazy or too stupid to muddle through King James English. The obvious inference is also that God Hisself uses the King James Bible so why can't you? The proportions of your Bible also say a lot about who you are. Size matters. Very large means you mean it. Extremely small may mean you already know it so well you don't need the full-sized version. In-between sized makes you suspect as somebody who only dusts it off for Sunday morning.
The real proof is in how many notations you've made within its covers, though. If you are an inveterate note-taker in the margins, you must surely be a Christian. A smart person will notate a new Bible with their old notes before hauling it to church, just so no one gets the wrong idea. It's a lot like breaking in a new baseball glove. Once when I was in church, the Pastor invited everyone to open their Bibles to the Book of (X) Chapter (Y) Verse (#). He graciously noted that if you did not have your own Bible, you could look on with the person to your left or right. After he located the passage himself, he paused and instructed the congregation that "if someone is looking on with you because they have no Bible... ask them where they thought they were going when they left the house."
We also watch for whether you know the choreography. Do you know when and how to raise your hands? Do you dance appropriately, but not lustfully, if you choose to dance? Do you know the Pentecostal Stomp? Do you know the art of the well-placed "Amen"? And do you know that real Christians pronounce that word "A Man"? These are the things we evaluate when newcomers enter our midst. This is also why we get few newcomers in our midst.
This is how we have church.
So Sunday, I began the gauntlet that will stretch until I spill my guts or they are spilled for me by way of ritual disembowelment - in the nicest possible way, of course. I escaped the first week with a cursory nod and pleasant, though brief, exchange with Pastor Judy. That's heresy in 90% of Pentecostal circles - the woman pastor. But there you go. Progress everywhere. In week two I was commandeered in my pew by an as-yet-unnamed assailant who approached with a smile and an outstretched hand - the way they do.
"Welcome! I hope you enjoy church this morning. Our pastor is wonderful!"
"Thank you!" (I've been here twice and she's sincere but so-so and you clearly overuse superlatives.)
"So are you visiting Mayberry or do you live here?"
"Oh, I live here!" (But now you're edging up on nosy because that's really none of your business if you're neither assessing property taxes nor taking my ballot.)
"Where in Mayberry do you live?"
"Near the First Church Of The Holy Haymaker." (This question is intended to elicit a more specific response so they can verify you aren't lying about your residency - an evident sign of perdition - and so that they can drive by to see if you smoke. Really.)
"What do you do?"
This question means something entirely different in gay circles and is one of those times where you have to check your environs before you answer. I almost used my standard, "What don't I do?" with a wink. Her bun would have fallen clean off her head. Instead, I went with,
"Nothing."
"Well," she spat and drew herself up as high as osteoporosis and 60-some years of farm life would allow, "THAT can't be very profitable!!"
"You'd be surprised, " I said.
She just sort of wandered off the way you do when you've seen your cat evaporated by a lightning bolt or when you whack your forehead on the monkey bars in grade school. She'll be back. She's taking the week to both spread the intriguing news and to gather more Socratic ammunition to ferret out the truth that underlies my story.
Now I have two reasons to go back. One is legit - I was truly blessed by being in service on Sunday. I felt like I got what I went after. But the other one is purely maniacal: How long can I hold off Churl-lock Holmes and the Holy Beehives before they nail me as a Sinner Saved By Grace? And how long before we have the discussion about how some sin is a LOT more icky (if not a LOT more sinful) than other sin. Like I said before, that script is already written and just needs a little dusting off to be ready.
Bring on the Church Lady.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Talk
The Man On The Radio said that our culture has lost the value of dependability. He alleges that kids no longer think of Dad as the person who will always be there, no matter what. Spouses no longer assume that they'll have the honor and fidelity of their mates 'til death do they part. Employees don't count on the loyalty of their employer and vice-versa. That got me thinking.
I believe that when two people get together and pursue the possibility of long-term survival as a pair, it's Circle The Wagons Time. I get that from my family, I think. I always knew that come hell, high water or tramp in hot pants, my father and my grandfathers and my uncles were bound by cords of honor to their wives. I always knew that when you say you love, you don't get to take that back absent some MAJOR intervening circumstance. There hasn't been a divorce on my father's side of the family tree in all of recorded time. We have a history of Meaning It.
So what happens when someone who Circles The Wagons to incubate a relationship meets someone who is the product of broken honor, empty promises, and fleeing family? What happens when a narcissistic (My Therapist's word, not mine) sonofabitch (my word, not My Therapist's) meets up with someone looking for honor and fidelity and a chance to make it work? Disaster, evidently. But how do you know in advance? And how do you let yourself off the hook if you had every reason to know in advance - yet did it anyway?
I saw The Rooster today which is why The Man On The Radio caught my attention, I think. I don't miss him anymore. I do still feel a reaction, though, that is 3 parts anger to 1 part pity. Radio Man said he wakes up as a father and a husband wondering not what he'll do to satisfy himself on any given day, but focused on what his family needs from him. Two possibilities exist: He's a pathological liar with a radio program (no shortage of those) or he's telling the truth and there are people like that. Do we call people like that martyrs or are they simply honorable in a world that no longer honors honor? Are they devoid of self-worth or simply selfless in the best sense of that word? And how do you know the difference? How do you find those guys?
Is it, as they would have us believe, impossible for a man to find a man with appreciation for the old-fashioned, some might say "biblical", values of honor, fidelity, and worth? I don't buy it. I think they're out there. I believe that there are men who honor one another and put each other's good above their own. I believe that there are men who commit and Mean It. I believe that. I have to. There is no reason to wake up otherwise.
This week alone, I've been invited to have sex with a stranger in a public restroom in a park at a lake. Scenic, to be sure, but SO twenty years ago for me. I said yes out of being flattered but will call him back and cancel. In the last week, I watched 20 minutes of a silent video that was an Asian man with an enema bag. It was train-wreck riveting. In the last week, I stood in church and raised my hands and could not stop my eyes from welling up as we sang, "Holy, Holy, Holy". Half in and half out. Neither hot nor cold. Dedicated to more than one direction.
I know what my faith says about these things. I know what my culture says, too. I wonder if either of those voices in my head are my own. I know that my heart connected with the lyrics to Sunday's song that I'd never heard:
Nothing else is connecting like that is nowadays. I wish I had someone with whom to go on this part of the journey. The spirit trip is the hardest one to take alone, I think. I manage the day-to-day of this world pretty well - better than most, probably. But the song of the heart, the soul, the spirit, the mind - whatever your paradigm allows... That's the hardest solo to sing.
I can remember being here before. It's a life path déjà-vu. The confusion becomes too great and I bail out before I can achieve reconciliation (which presumes it can be had). One gets thrown overboard and one gets inflated beyond its reasonable role. This isn't new. Talking about it, though..... That's new. I wonder if it changes things. I wonder if it changes things for the better.
Can we talk?
I believe that when two people get together and pursue the possibility of long-term survival as a pair, it's Circle The Wagons Time. I get that from my family, I think. I always knew that come hell, high water or tramp in hot pants, my father and my grandfathers and my uncles were bound by cords of honor to their wives. I always knew that when you say you love, you don't get to take that back absent some MAJOR intervening circumstance. There hasn't been a divorce on my father's side of the family tree in all of recorded time. We have a history of Meaning It.
So what happens when someone who Circles The Wagons to incubate a relationship meets someone who is the product of broken honor, empty promises, and fleeing family? What happens when a narcissistic (My Therapist's word, not mine) sonofabitch (my word, not My Therapist's) meets up with someone looking for honor and fidelity and a chance to make it work? Disaster, evidently. But how do you know in advance? And how do you let yourself off the hook if you had every reason to know in advance - yet did it anyway?
I saw The Rooster today which is why The Man On The Radio caught my attention, I think. I don't miss him anymore. I do still feel a reaction, though, that is 3 parts anger to 1 part pity. Radio Man said he wakes up as a father and a husband wondering not what he'll do to satisfy himself on any given day, but focused on what his family needs from him. Two possibilities exist: He's a pathological liar with a radio program (no shortage of those) or he's telling the truth and there are people like that. Do we call people like that martyrs or are they simply honorable in a world that no longer honors honor? Are they devoid of self-worth or simply selfless in the best sense of that word? And how do you know the difference? How do you find those guys?
Is it, as they would have us believe, impossible for a man to find a man with appreciation for the old-fashioned, some might say "biblical", values of honor, fidelity, and worth? I don't buy it. I think they're out there. I believe that there are men who honor one another and put each other's good above their own. I believe that there are men who commit and Mean It. I believe that. I have to. There is no reason to wake up otherwise.
This week alone, I've been invited to have sex with a stranger in a public restroom in a park at a lake. Scenic, to be sure, but SO twenty years ago for me. I said yes out of being flattered but will call him back and cancel. In the last week, I watched 20 minutes of a silent video that was an Asian man with an enema bag. It was train-wreck riveting. In the last week, I stood in church and raised my hands and could not stop my eyes from welling up as we sang, "Holy, Holy, Holy". Half in and half out. Neither hot nor cold. Dedicated to more than one direction.
I know what my faith says about these things. I know what my culture says, too. I wonder if either of those voices in my head are my own. I know that my heart connected with the lyrics to Sunday's song that I'd never heard:
We fall down
We lay our crowns
At the feet of Jesus
The greatness of
Mercy and love
At the feet of Jesus
We cry holy, holy, holy
We cry holy, holy, holy
We cry holy, holy, holy
Is the lamb (By Chris Tomlin)
Nothing else is connecting like that is nowadays. I wish I had someone with whom to go on this part of the journey. The spirit trip is the hardest one to take alone, I think. I manage the day-to-day of this world pretty well - better than most, probably. But the song of the heart, the soul, the spirit, the mind - whatever your paradigm allows... That's the hardest solo to sing.
I can remember being here before. It's a life path déjà-vu. The confusion becomes too great and I bail out before I can achieve reconciliation (which presumes it can be had). One gets thrown overboard and one gets inflated beyond its reasonable role. This isn't new. Talking about it, though..... That's new. I wonder if it changes things. I wonder if it changes things for the better.
Can we talk?
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Making My Bed
I sat this evening mesmerized by the sparks of a bonfire as they took flight toward the sky. The moon was in its place and I was surrounded by friends and the sound of children's laughter as they ran in the dark among the horses and dogs. Goats complained in the background. I stared into the fire and heard my grandfather's repeated advice that "hedge burns hotter", whatever that means.
My bathroom is quite nearly remodeled. My therapist is more enlightened by me than I am by him some days, I think. For $110 an hour, I think I'm highly entertaining. We may be reaching the end of its usefulness. I had recorded a program that I had yet to watch on TV so I tuned it in after returning from the bonfire in the country. Among the singing was a Psalm, delivered in its historical context. It wasn't written for me and yet I think it was written for all of us. I came home from the party with such a sense of peace and contentment - in spite of everything that contraindicates those things. The psalm rang especially true for me who has made a lot of beds in which I'm now sleeping. It helped me bring my halves together.
My bathroom is quite nearly remodeled. My therapist is more enlightened by me than I am by him some days, I think. For $110 an hour, I think I'm highly entertaining. We may be reaching the end of its usefulness. I had recorded a program that I had yet to watch on TV so I tuned it in after returning from the bonfire in the country. Among the singing was a Psalm, delivered in its historical context. It wasn't written for me and yet I think it was written for all of us. I came home from the party with such a sense of peace and contentment - in spite of everything that contraindicates those things. The psalm rang especially true for me who has made a lot of beds in which I'm now sleeping. It helped me bring my halves together.
For Everyone Who Ever Questioned or Wondered
For Anyone Who Ever Faltered or Wandered
For Me and For The Rest Of Us Who Sometimes Don't Fit
"To
The Chief Musician:
Psalm 139
1. O Lord, you have searched me and
you know me.
2. You know when I sit and when I rise, you perceive my
thoughts from afar.
3. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are
familiar with all my ways.
4. Before a word is on my tongue you know it
completely, O Lord.
5. You hem me in - and behind and before; you have laid
your hand upon me.
6. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for
me to attain.
7. Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your
presence?
8. If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in
the depths, you are there.
9. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I
settle on the far side of the sea,
10. even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
11. If I say, "Surely the darkness will
hide me and the light become night around me, "
12. even the darkness will
not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light
to you.
13. For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my
mother's womb.
14. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful, I know that full well.
15. My frame was not hidden
from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the
depths of the earth,
16. your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days
ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.
17.
How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!
18. Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of the sand. When
I awake, I am still with you...
23. Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my anxious thoughts.
24. See if there is any offensive way
in me, and lead me in the way everlasting."
May we all have peace in the beds we've made.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Fifty and One
I think I failed to mention, amidst the tangle of plumbing and sheetrock and new bathroom thingamabobs, that I made it to church on Sunday.
I sat among the Fifty who attended and enjoyed myself and the practice of my faith immensely. When you sit among the Fifty, you are most definitely identified as The One. Most of The Fifty want to meet The One and find out who he is, where he's from, how he's doing, why he's there, will he be back and, ultimately, Does He Know The Lord? I attempted a quick slip out the door before the predictable onslaught could occur, but the 65 year old lady pastor was faster than I had given her credit for being and I held the last note of Blessed Assurance a little longer than I should have and I was caught.
Since I don't hear well, especially with background chatter, I thought she asked me how I was doing and I answered, "Fine, thanks!" She repeated, "Who do we have with us today?" I assumed it wasn't a pop quiz on the names of The Fifty, so I coughed up my first name, figuring she would have an arduous task of narrowing me down in the phone book that way. She is serious and dour in that friendly way that pastors are supposed to be. I think that's to encourage you to impose on them with your troubles while at the same time making sure you don't impose willy-nilly for the little things. That's a skill worth perfecting, I think.
I was grinning throughout the service as she preached on II Corinthians I, Paul's second (presumably) letter to the church at Corinth. I've been thinking a lot about the man with whom I've made contact - the one who is locked in the church for a variety of reasons and struggling to make sense out of and peace with his sexual orientation and his faith. I thought of him, me and so many others when Paul wrote in verse 3 of "The Father of Mercies and The God of All Comfort".
Ms. Pastor read on through verse 4 where Paul wrote that The God of All Comfort does his comforting "SO THAT we may be able to comfort them who are in any trouble. (5) As sufferings abound, so our consolation also abounds..."
I grinned because I had been drawn back to that song from my childhood, "He Giveth More Grace" in the previous week. And there I sat listening about the Father of All Mercies and the purpose for our having been offered comfort - to offer it to others. And I thought a little of helping my friends who had just been through the nightmare of open-heart surgery. I felt good about myself and realized there was a larger context for such not-so-random acts of kindness.
Ms. Pastor shared her story of beginning in ministry at age 14 and how she had endured a "proving" of the ministry, as we call it. My thoughts skipped to the 23rd Psalm, so beloved and well-known by even the unchurched. And it occurred to me, in the spirit of "proving", that there is a distinct and important difference between what King David wrote "Yea, though I walk through The Valley Of The Shadow Of Death..." and being able to say "Hey, now I've walked through The Valley Of The Shadow Of Death..." That's what we call a "proving". And I smiled again because I felt like I sat there as a proven man of faith, not an interloper.
None of the emotions and fears that I'd anticipated materialized. They shook my hand and sang some of my favorite songs. They even sang a hymn written by Ira Stanphill, who I never met, but whose daughter was my pastor's wife in Omaha, Nebraska for a number of years. Good people, they. I'm glad I made it this week. I think I'll be back again. In the great equalizing of the cosmos that some call Karma and some call Faith, I love leaving with this promise:
"As sufferings abound, so our consolation abounds." II Cor. 1:5
Consoled am I. Amen.
I sat among the Fifty who attended and enjoyed myself and the practice of my faith immensely. When you sit among the Fifty, you are most definitely identified as The One. Most of The Fifty want to meet The One and find out who he is, where he's from, how he's doing, why he's there, will he be back and, ultimately, Does He Know The Lord? I attempted a quick slip out the door before the predictable onslaught could occur, but the 65 year old lady pastor was faster than I had given her credit for being and I held the last note of Blessed Assurance a little longer than I should have and I was caught.
Since I don't hear well, especially with background chatter, I thought she asked me how I was doing and I answered, "Fine, thanks!" She repeated, "Who do we have with us today?" I assumed it wasn't a pop quiz on the names of The Fifty, so I coughed up my first name, figuring she would have an arduous task of narrowing me down in the phone book that way. She is serious and dour in that friendly way that pastors are supposed to be. I think that's to encourage you to impose on them with your troubles while at the same time making sure you don't impose willy-nilly for the little things. That's a skill worth perfecting, I think.
I was grinning throughout the service as she preached on II Corinthians I, Paul's second (presumably) letter to the church at Corinth. I've been thinking a lot about the man with whom I've made contact - the one who is locked in the church for a variety of reasons and struggling to make sense out of and peace with his sexual orientation and his faith. I thought of him, me and so many others when Paul wrote in verse 3 of "The Father of Mercies and The God of All Comfort".
Ms. Pastor read on through verse 4 where Paul wrote that The God of All Comfort does his comforting "SO THAT we may be able to comfort them who are in any trouble. (5) As sufferings abound, so our consolation also abounds..."
I grinned because I had been drawn back to that song from my childhood, "He Giveth More Grace" in the previous week. And there I sat listening about the Father of All Mercies and the purpose for our having been offered comfort - to offer it to others. And I thought a little of helping my friends who had just been through the nightmare of open-heart surgery. I felt good about myself and realized there was a larger context for such not-so-random acts of kindness.
Ms. Pastor shared her story of beginning in ministry at age 14 and how she had endured a "proving" of the ministry, as we call it. My thoughts skipped to the 23rd Psalm, so beloved and well-known by even the unchurched. And it occurred to me, in the spirit of "proving", that there is a distinct and important difference between what King David wrote "Yea, though I walk through The Valley Of The Shadow Of Death..." and being able to say "Hey, now I've walked through The Valley Of The Shadow Of Death..." That's what we call a "proving". And I smiled again because I felt like I sat there as a proven man of faith, not an interloper.
None of the emotions and fears that I'd anticipated materialized. They shook my hand and sang some of my favorite songs. They even sang a hymn written by Ira Stanphill, who I never met, but whose daughter was my pastor's wife in Omaha, Nebraska for a number of years. Good people, they. I'm glad I made it this week. I think I'll be back again. In the great equalizing of the cosmos that some call Karma and some call Faith, I love leaving with this promise:
"As sufferings abound, so our consolation abounds." II Cor. 1:5
Consoled am I. Amen.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
M.I.A.
Just a brief note to assure the few who asked: I am not dead. I am enduring what the ancient Greeks called "Bathroom Remodeling". Since the computer sits against a wall shared with the bathroom, it has been largely unused since the demolition began.
I am stealing a moment before the workers arrive to commence reconstructing what will be a real tub and shower in my formerly sub-par loo.
I did not win at Bingo, though Mama did. I went for a walk with My One Drunk Friend and think I broke something in the sole of my foot. I discovered how easy it is to take down plaster and lath (which all of my walls seem to be) and have evil designs on the rest of my exterior walls - none of which appear to be insulated in the least. I am thrilled at the prospect of a do-it-yourself project that I may actually have the stamina to do. I know nothing of hanging sheetrock, so that will be a "I'll cook if you hang, tape and mud" trade-off with some of the neighbors who know about such things. Then I'll bat my eyes at my sister for the painting.
My buddy is out of the hospital and recuperating at home from 4 bypasses, not six as anticipated. That's a relief. I don't like all that many people and I'm a little sick of losing the ones I can stomach. So bullet averted. I hope he slows down and enjoys things a little more. He's neat to have around.
Thank you all for the kind words and expressions while I've been on this brief hiatus. Contrary to popular opinion, I was not mourning The Death of Evening News As We Know It over the Katie Couric announcement. I only ever watched CBS News to see if Bob Schieffer would actually meet his maker on the air. I wonder if they'll use the Mary Tyler Moore show theme song as the CBS Evening News soundtrack when Katie takes the chair:
To hell with Mrs. Robinson, where have you gone Arthur Kent, Stone Phillips, David Bloom, and Peter Jennings? Brian Williams is wonderful, to be sure. And I realize Stone Phillips is largely among the living still. But Arthur, David and Peter...those were men who made you aware of just how much manliness was left out of your DNA. They were someone to aspire to...if not as role-models then as carnal fantasies. Nobody ever said that about Connie Chung.
I doubt they'll say it about Katie Couric. Sigh.
I am stealing a moment before the workers arrive to commence reconstructing what will be a real tub and shower in my formerly sub-par loo.
I did not win at Bingo, though Mama did. I went for a walk with My One Drunk Friend and think I broke something in the sole of my foot. I discovered how easy it is to take down plaster and lath (which all of my walls seem to be) and have evil designs on the rest of my exterior walls - none of which appear to be insulated in the least. I am thrilled at the prospect of a do-it-yourself project that I may actually have the stamina to do. I know nothing of hanging sheetrock, so that will be a "I'll cook if you hang, tape and mud" trade-off with some of the neighbors who know about such things. Then I'll bat my eyes at my sister for the painting.
My buddy is out of the hospital and recuperating at home from 4 bypasses, not six as anticipated. That's a relief. I don't like all that many people and I'm a little sick of losing the ones I can stomach. So bullet averted. I hope he slows down and enjoys things a little more. He's neat to have around.
Thank you all for the kind words and expressions while I've been on this brief hiatus. Contrary to popular opinion, I was not mourning The Death of Evening News As We Know It over the Katie Couric announcement. I only ever watched CBS News to see if Bob Schieffer would actually meet his maker on the air. I wonder if they'll use the Mary Tyler Moore show theme song as the CBS Evening News soundtrack when Katie takes the chair:
Who can turn the world on with her smile?
Who can take a nothing day, and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?
Well it's you girl, and you should know it
With each glance and every little movement you show it
Love is all around, no need to waste it
You can have a town, why don't you take it
You're gonna make it after all
You're gonna make it after all
How will you make it on your own?
This world is awfully big, girl this time you're all alone
But it's time you started living
It's time you let someone else do some giving
Love is all around, no need to waste it
You can have a town, why don't you take it
You're gonna make it after all
You're gonna make it after all
To hell with Mrs. Robinson, where have you gone Arthur Kent, Stone Phillips, David Bloom, and Peter Jennings? Brian Williams is wonderful, to be sure. And I realize Stone Phillips is largely among the living still. But Arthur, David and Peter...those were men who made you aware of just how much manliness was left out of your DNA. They were someone to aspire to...if not as role-models then as carnal fantasies. Nobody ever said that about Connie Chung.
I doubt they'll say it about Katie Couric. Sigh.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Grace Under Fire
Annie Johnson Flint had arthritis so bad that she clutched a pencil in her gnarled claw of a hand and scratched out lyrics on a board hung over her bed.
Orphaned as a toddler, shuttled between foster homes, and adopted by strangers, she had every claim to bitterness and hopelessness. Then came the crippling arthritis that would kill her at a young age. There weren't many easy days for Annie. At the turn of the 20th Century, there weren't many treatments, either. The lady sucked up her situation and wrote...and wrote...and wrote.
When I was a child, my grandma had a record album that was recorded by the niece of a family friend. That singer was named Kim Russell and she never achieved fame outside of my grandma's living room. When technology first advanced, in the 1970's, I begged for this one record to be put on audio cassette so I could listen to it in my bedroom at night - on low - so no one would know. Kim Russell had an alto, almost tenor, voice that matched well with my soon-to-be baritone. One song from that muffled recording worked its way into my consciousness at a very young age. I heard it a few days ago for the first time in two decades.
I also heard, in brief, the story of the writer of the song. The back story always makes the finished product so much more interesting. Since it's Sunday and I'll toy with notion of going to church again today, I give you a glimpse into the fixation of an 8 year old. I don't know where Kim Russell is today or if she ever recorded again, but her aunt, Jeannie Hayden, has been gone now for many years. Jeannie Hayden was the most glamorous woman I'd ever seen in church. She wore bright colors, her hair was dyed just so, her makeup was a Dolly Parton Paint Job - only holier and more awe-inspiring up close. More than a few times I went to church just to see Jeannie Hayden - and to see if her niece would come to church and sing That Song.
Orphaned as a toddler, shuttled between foster homes, and adopted by strangers, she had every claim to bitterness and hopelessness. Then came the crippling arthritis that would kill her at a young age. There weren't many easy days for Annie. At the turn of the 20th Century, there weren't many treatments, either. The lady sucked up her situation and wrote...and wrote...and wrote.
When I was a child, my grandma had a record album that was recorded by the niece of a family friend. That singer was named Kim Russell and she never achieved fame outside of my grandma's living room. When technology first advanced, in the 1970's, I begged for this one record to be put on audio cassette so I could listen to it in my bedroom at night - on low - so no one would know. Kim Russell had an alto, almost tenor, voice that matched well with my soon-to-be baritone. One song from that muffled recording worked its way into my consciousness at a very young age. I heard it a few days ago for the first time in two decades.
I also heard, in brief, the story of the writer of the song. The back story always makes the finished product so much more interesting. Since it's Sunday and I'll toy with notion of going to church again today, I give you a glimpse into the fixation of an 8 year old. I don't know where Kim Russell is today or if she ever recorded again, but her aunt, Jeannie Hayden, has been gone now for many years. Jeannie Hayden was the most glamorous woman I'd ever seen in church. She wore bright colors, her hair was dyed just so, her makeup was a Dolly Parton Paint Job - only holier and more awe-inspiring up close. More than a few times I went to church just to see Jeannie Hayden - and to see if her niece would come to church and sing That Song.
"He giveth more grace when the burden grows greater.
He sendeth more strength when the labors increase.
To added affliction, He addeth his mercy.
To multiplied trials, His multiplied peace.
His love has no limit.
His grace has no measure.
His power has no boundary known unto men.
For out of his infinite riches in Jesus,
He giveth and giveth and giveth again.
When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
When our strength has failed ere the day is half done,
When we've reached the end of our hoarded resources,
Our Father's full giving has only begun.
His love has no limit.
His grace has no measure.
His power has no boundary known unto men.
For out of his infinite riches in Jesus,
He giveth and giveth and giveth again."
--Annie Johnson Flint and Hubert Mitchell, 1941
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Fast Forward
So My Therapist Says, "You have no problem entertaining yourself whatsoever, do you?"
Well, no. No, I don't. But that's the very last time I go to therapy without getting a nap in first. I'd been up since Oh-Dark-Hundred Hours, sat the hospital vigil through the bypass surgery and then repaired to a friend's place for the afternoon until my appointment. When I get tired, I get a little wired, unedited and manic..ish. Then I crash. The show was worth the price of admission, I suppose.
We talked about these ramblings from the past couple of weeks, updated him on not smoking (I had a couple yesterday...sympathy cigarettes). We talked about the religion thing. I laid down the law, as I'd learned it about 1) No Graven Images 2) Mary is a nice lady - only and 3) No Praying To Dead People. We talked about how I can't do the Metropolitan Community Church thing because it's so watered-down as to be unrecognizable as Christianity, to me. And my tenure in The Church of My Choice is always limited by the first time someone takes a potshot at gays or links their political party to my faith. I noted the times I've responded to pious women who thought they were called to lecture me on homosexuality. My response begins, "Paul said women were to be silent in church. If you get to pick which ones you follow, so do I." I don't end up being welcomed back in those places with open arms, which is fine. I know I'm burning the bridge when I open my mouth.
Leaving the doctor's office, I saw a shaggy, hulking, shirtless man who was captivating in his sensuality. My mind automatically fast-forwarded through the hypothetical playing out from our meeting through the possible conclusion. It all happened in a matter of seconds - while I sat at the light. I wondered if I'm the only person who does that. Does everyone fast-forward on What If? When you meet someone, do you run the logarithm of possible outcomes and see, if through a glass darkly, the small number of possible conclusions, for better or for worse? And do you act within that hypotheticlal paradigm, responding to imagined intentions and anticipating a fictitious history that has yet to occur? I think I might. Is that odd?
I realized sitting at that stoplight, quite out of the blue and apropos of nothing whatsoever, that I pre-plan conversations, anticipate situations and script their scenes for future use. I think that may form the basis of why some people think me articulate or well-spoken. It's not that I'm quick on my feet. I just have a good memory. I've had that conversation a hundred times before it ever presented itself. Is that a psychosis? Or is it a gift? It does fill the empty spaces and, I suppose, is one way I entertain myself in my dotage.
The realization also hit me that I bring that same sense of faux-prescience to the table in relationships. I react as though things that have yet to happen are sure to happen. I bob and weave and dodge detours keeping to the script and the blocking I've already seen in my mind. Not bad...except the other person hasn't seen the script and doesn't realize it's a show. Since they're the unwitting star, I can see how that might pose a minor problem. I can see how simple impatience can be mistaken for psychic ability. Why wait for the playing out if you can blurt it out before it happens and hope that the world will turn within your own prophetically prescribed orbit?
Wanting nothing. Wanting nothing. Now there's a hook line.
Wouldn't that be nice?
Well, no. No, I don't. But that's the very last time I go to therapy without getting a nap in first. I'd been up since Oh-Dark-Hundred Hours, sat the hospital vigil through the bypass surgery and then repaired to a friend's place for the afternoon until my appointment. When I get tired, I get a little wired, unedited and manic..ish. Then I crash. The show was worth the price of admission, I suppose.
We talked about these ramblings from the past couple of weeks, updated him on not smoking (I had a couple yesterday...sympathy cigarettes). We talked about the religion thing. I laid down the law, as I'd learned it about 1) No Graven Images 2) Mary is a nice lady - only and 3) No Praying To Dead People. We talked about how I can't do the Metropolitan Community Church thing because it's so watered-down as to be unrecognizable as Christianity, to me. And my tenure in The Church of My Choice is always limited by the first time someone takes a potshot at gays or links their political party to my faith. I noted the times I've responded to pious women who thought they were called to lecture me on homosexuality. My response begins, "Paul said women were to be silent in church. If you get to pick which ones you follow, so do I." I don't end up being welcomed back in those places with open arms, which is fine. I know I'm burning the bridge when I open my mouth.
Leaving the doctor's office, I saw a shaggy, hulking, shirtless man who was captivating in his sensuality. My mind automatically fast-forwarded through the hypothetical playing out from our meeting through the possible conclusion. It all happened in a matter of seconds - while I sat at the light. I wondered if I'm the only person who does that. Does everyone fast-forward on What If? When you meet someone, do you run the logarithm of possible outcomes and see, if through a glass darkly, the small number of possible conclusions, for better or for worse? And do you act within that hypotheticlal paradigm, responding to imagined intentions and anticipating a fictitious history that has yet to occur? I think I might. Is that odd?
I realized sitting at that stoplight, quite out of the blue and apropos of nothing whatsoever, that I pre-plan conversations, anticipate situations and script their scenes for future use. I think that may form the basis of why some people think me articulate or well-spoken. It's not that I'm quick on my feet. I just have a good memory. I've had that conversation a hundred times before it ever presented itself. Is that a psychosis? Or is it a gift? It does fill the empty spaces and, I suppose, is one way I entertain myself in my dotage.
The realization also hit me that I bring that same sense of faux-prescience to the table in relationships. I react as though things that have yet to happen are sure to happen. I bob and weave and dodge detours keeping to the script and the blocking I've already seen in my mind. Not bad...except the other person hasn't seen the script and doesn't realize it's a show. Since they're the unwitting star, I can see how that might pose a minor problem. I can see how simple impatience can be mistaken for psychic ability. Why wait for the playing out if you can blurt it out before it happens and hope that the world will turn within your own prophetically prescribed orbit?
My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations;
Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience.
But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing. James 1:2-4
Wanting nothing. Wanting nothing. Now there's a hook line.
Wouldn't that be nice?
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