Alice: The End Of The Story

(There are three parts of this story that precede this post: Part One, Part Two, Part Three)

This story began with Alice, and, though not much of the middle part of the story involved Alice, it was part of her story, because her son was part of the story.  Now, at the story’s end, Alice again becomes the focus.

It’s also the part of the story that took me the longest to understand, and the part that involves the most pain.

For most of my childhood, Alice was part of my home.  She was my home.  She was there in the mornings when I got up, she was there when I came home from school.  She cleaned me, bandaged me, laughed with me, taught me, hugged me, loved me.  She was my best friend.

I was pretty quiet and shy growing up, and I didn’t make many friends.  I played with the neighbor kids, though they were mostly older than I.  The few friends I made in elementary and middle school all ended up moving away at the end of the year (our neighborhood was made up of a lot of military families).

But Alice, she was always there.  She was who I played with.  We played cards, some times for hours: Rummy, War, Go Fish.  She even taught me to play solitaire.

She read stories to me, listened to me read stories to her.

She taught me to make chili, to make excellent macaroni and cheese, to poach eggs.

She hugged me every morning when she finally got me out of bed — I hated getting up!   She hugged me when I left for school, hugged me when I got home, hugged me before she went home.

Alice was not my mother. I knew that she wasn’t.  I never pretended she was.  While I was growing up, I spent at least as much time with her as I did with my mom.  My mom was busy with work, and, when she wasn’t working, she was busy with the mountain property she and dad bought when I was 4.  My mom became obsessed with the mountain property, and building on it — specifically, moving buildings in, and completely remodeling them.  When she wasn’t working, or visiting her friends, our time was spent going to hardware stores, lumberyards, department stores, looking for materials for the mountain cabins; then, the rest of the time was spent in the mountains, doing much of the grunt work ourselves.  It seemed, to my young self, that my mom was more interested in the mountains than she was in us.

I don’t want to sound as if I idolized Alice, or that I resented my mother.  It wasn’t that way.  To be very cliched, it was what it was: my mom was my mom, Alice was Alice.  I never confused the two, I never wanted to switch one for the other.  When you’re young, you take things as they are.  The life that goes on around you is what you view as normal.  So, in my world, Alice was the one who taught me things, who I had fun with.  Mom was who worked, and who made me work.  I loved my mom, and I loved Alice.  It was that simple.

As I got older, and after my brother went back to live with his birth mother, Alice didn’t come to work as often.  I was nearly fifteen, and was able to get myself off to school.  Not that I went to school.  But, I could have, if I’d wanted to (school, and I, were not the best of friends).   She came to the house once or twice a week, and still did some cleaning.

When I finally broke down and told my mom about Alice’s son and I, I don’t know what I was expecting to happen.  I knew that I wanted him to stop threatening me.  Somehow I envisoned that we’d still be able to have sex.  But, I don’t think I went as far as thinking about consequences.

In retrospect, I think that if Alice hadn’t wanted to be around me again, I would have understood.  But, she still kept coming to work, she still treated me the same. We always managed to play a few games of cards when she was around.  Whatever had happened between her son and I had not changed anything between us.  Maybe she felt guilt?  I don’t really know.  After the story came out, after the visit by the police, the whole subject was never spoken of again.  I think that He saw a therapist for a bit, though I’m not entirely sure.  And, no charges were brought against him, for which I was glad.

(In case you are wondering — we were never allowed to be alone together again.  In fact, we hardly ever saw each other after that.  I do not believe that he was a pedophile, or a predator. And, while we never saw each other, I was aware of how his life played out, and, as I’ve been trying to keep Him from being identified, I won’t divulge any more of his story, other than to say that I’m very certain that he never did anything with someone underage again.  I think that our situation was just something that happened — an exploration, if you will.  And, I think his threats came from fear of being thought of as gay, rather than from the fact that I was young.  I spent many hours with him, and, I don’t believe that his intent was anything other than fear of being gay, or even being thought of as gay.  Alice was very religious, and, I think that fact weighed on him.  And, looking back on the whole thing, I don’t think he was gay.  I am gay.  I’ve always felt gay.  I’ve lived my life as an out gay man since I was about 15.  I’ve known a lot of gay men.  While I may not be an expert in psychology, I do have a pretty good idea of who is, and who isn’t gay.  I also have a good sense of guys who are curious about it — but, curious does not make one gay.  Even sleeping with someone of the same sex doesn’t make you gay.  Sexuality is much broader than that narrow definition.  I think being gay has more to do with who you love than it does with who you have sex with.  Being able to love, and accept love, from someone of the same gender is, I believe what defines you as gay.   I can’t say if He ever had sex with other men, but, he never formed any attachment to men.  I don’t think he formed any attachments, with anyone, really.)

Once the whole sordid tale of He and I having sex came to light, it was quickly dealt with, and then, just as quickly, ignored.

Alice, as I said, never treated me any different.

Then, one day, it all changed.

Not having had any children of my own, I have no idea what parenting is like.  I don’t really know how a parent thinks.  So, what follows is, at best, speculation.

Almost a year after The Scandal, my mom told Alice that I was gay.

The fact that her son had sex with me for nearly three years, sex that always ended with my being shoved against a wall, or thrown to the floor and pinned down, while my life was being threated if I told — that, somehow made no difference in how Alice viewed me.  As I said before, I’ve wondered if it was guilt that kept her close to me?  A sense of guilt that she hadn’t taught her son the right way, or that she was feeling guilt for her son putting me though such emotional turmoil?   When I got older, and thought about it, I tried to imagine how I would react, and, while no one can really say for sure how they’ll react to a situation (one never knows until one is actually in a situation what one’s reaction will be), we often imagine how we’d feel or react.  My thought has always been that I, as a parent, would be ashamed.  And, that sense of shame would lead to embarrassment, which would lead me to distance myself.  And, maybe she did feel ashamed, yet, her shame made her want to keep hugging me, and playing cards.  Maybe that was her way of saying she was sorry — apologies are tough to make, and most of us aren’t very good at them.  Maybe she was trying to tell me she was sorry she let her son hurt me?

Who can truly know how someone’s mind works?

So, the fact that her son had inflected what I think of as a mental molestation upon me made no difference.  But, when my mom told her that I was gay, well, that suddenly changed everything.

She stopped working for us, quite abruptly — citing health reasons.  She was getting older, and, she had health issues ever since I was a child, so, it seemed reasonable and logical.  I was busy with school — or, rather, I was busy avoiding school, and seeking out those dark, hidden places where I discovered pleasure and pain, so it was quite some time before I saw her again.  My mom continued to talk and visit with Alice.  She took Alice shopping — Alice never learned to drive.  She helped Alice get into Senior housing, as her kids were all grown and on their own, and she couldn’t keep up her house.  After Alice moved into the Senior housing, my mom offered to give her a rocking chair that lived in a spare room, a chair neither of us used.

I loaded the chair into the car, and brought it over to Alice.

When I arrived at the door, she opened it, pointed to where she wanted it, and hurried into another room.  I put the rocker where she requested, and stood waiting.  I was around seventeen then, and hadn’t seen her in a couple years.  Teenagers tend to be wrapped up in their own little world, and, sometimes are rather thoughtless.  As I stood there, I felt bad that I hadn’t come to see her before.  I was lost in a memory, when she suddenly reappeared, with a really horrible look on her face.  I thought maybe she was ill.

She didn’t look at me, but said “You can leave now.”

The tone, more than the words, startled me.  ”Oh.  Ok.  I thought maybe I’d talk you into a game of cards.  Are  you ok?”

“Please leave my house.  You’re an abomination, and I don’t want your kind in my home.”

I just stood there, unable to move.  I couldn’t quite comprehend what she was saying.  I didn’t move, but managed, I think, to say “What?”

There was silence.  I was looking at her, trying to figure out what was going on.  She wasn’t looking back at me.

We stood there for a few seconds more, in silence.  Finally, her eyes turned to me, and the look of hate directed at me was like a slap. I stepped back.  ”Abomination!” Her voice was deep, but loud. “Your sick ways are what possessed my son. He’d never have done anything to you otherwise.  He’s a good boy, and you’re an evil abomination .  Please leave.  Now!”

Her eyes and her voice were charged with such hatred, that I left, scared of what she’d do if I stood there any longer.

It was the last time I saw her.  The last memory I have of her.

I don’t think I fully realized what she had been saying to me — not until later, much later.  I’d been too hurt, and just wanted to forget it.  Obviously, her religious beliefs caused her disapproval of my being gay.  My mother’s Catholicism influenced her reaction to my homosexuality;  Alice’s more conservative religious beliefs made her even more disapproving than my mom — and, I suppose, it wasn’t surprising.  The intensity of the hate was, though.

I don’t think it was until I was in my early twenties when it finally dawned on me what she was saying that day.  That it was my being gay that had led her son to have sex with me, that it was my fault.  And, it somehow confirmed what I’d always wondered about — on that first day, that first time, when He had dropped his pants, had I somehow responded in such a way that made him want to do what he did; did I somehow seduce him?  I mean, I was twelve, and I don’t know that I knew what seduction was, but, did I have a look of yearning or desire on my face, that fueled his sexual appetite?  And, Alice’s words seemed to say that I did say or do something to encourage Him.  It was my fault.

To this day, I’ve never been entirely sure how much I am to blame.  To this day, I wonder if I hadn’t been gay, what would have happened that day in His room?  Would it just have been a look, and a touch, and that’s all?  I wish I knew.

I never told my mom what happened between Alice and I that day, but, I think Alice may have said something to my mom, because after that, they saw less and less of each other over the next decade.  None of her children ever contacted us to let us know when Alice had died.  My mom found out when she stopped by Alice’s senior housing, and discovered Alice’s apartment had a new occupant, who had moved in several months earlier, after “the lady who’d lived there had died.”  She didn’t know exactly when, just that one of the neighbors told her Alice had been sick in the hospital for several weeks, and never came home.  She was gone, and I’d never get to try, as an adult, to make amends.

Of all the names I’ve been called in my life, abomination is, without doubt, the most wounding, especially coming from Alice, my friend.  I’ve wondered if her heart ever thawed, if she ever forgave me?

Some stories have happy endings that bring the story to a close.  This story has not much of an ending, and very little closure.

Alice: The Second Half Of The Middle Of The Story

(There are already two parts written in this series, click the link to read Part One, and Part Two)

One thing I’ve learned is that when you say that you are part of a group, and speak of your experience as part of that group of people, you’re not necessarily speaking for all people in that group.  If you’re a recovering alcoholic, and you speak of your days of drinking, and your days of sobriety, you’re only speaking for yourself, based on your own experience.  Whether you’re a rape victim, a cancer survivor, or a young person coming out, you may be part of a group of people with shared experiences, but, your experience is unique to you, and your story may be very different from other people facing the same challenges.  When I write about being molested, about my thoughts and deeds, I speak only from my own experience — my story is reflective of my life, and not meant to imply that all victims of molestation think and feel the same way.

_________________________

I was twelve-years-old when I was molested, though, in all honesty, I didn’t know I was molested until the whole story came out, and I was told that’s what happened to me.

I’d had an experience when I was ten, with another boy my age, that, involved the two of us being naked and engaging in what I suppose could be considered sex, at least sex as ten-year-old boys in the mid-1970s understood sex.  Perhaps today ten-year-old boys know more about sex than we did.  But, in 1976, we were just two boys who discovered that rubbing our bodies together was a pleasurable experience.  I cannot truly speak for Bobby, my ten-year-old compatriot, but, I don’t believe that either of us had any ulterior motives, or any mean-spiritedness;  there was nothing predatory in how we connected, and there were no threats or coercion.  What we did was something that simply happened one day, the probable result of childhood curiosity about someone else’s body, and it developed into a strange sort of affair: it was something we continued to do for a few months, until Bobby’s father had to suddenly move the family away, because of his job.

me at 12

When I was twelve, I again found myself in a situation that began in much the same way, though, unlike Bobby, who was the same age as I, He (the boy who molested me), was seventeen.

While I don’t remember how Bobby and I first ended up in an “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours” sort of game, I distinctly remember the day it started with Him.  We were at his house, in his bedroom, with the door closed, something that had happened many times before.  His mother, Alice, worked for my parents, provided daycare, housecleaning, some cooking, and, a few evenings a week, my brother and I went to stay at Alice’s house while my parents worked their second jobs.  Being alone in His room had happened many times before.  Sometimes my brother was there, sometimes he’d be with one of His’ sisters.  I’m assuming that’s where my brother was that night.

I mentioned in the previous post that when things started with Bobby and I, it was my first sexual realization that I was gay.  I’d always known and felt different than the boys around me, but, it wasn’t until seeing Bobby with his pants down, and my instant erection that I realized, in my own, ten-year-old way, that I found naked men sexually attractive.  I didn’t yet know what being gay meant, in technical terms, but, in that moment, I understood it on a very basic level: the sight of another male’s penis was a powerfully pleasurable thing.

When He initiated the “show me yours, show you mine” game, I can’t say that I felt any sort of objection.  It was as seemingly natural as it had been with Bobby.  When it happened with Bobby, I honestly do not remember how our conversation started, and who suggested showing their penis first.  But, with Him, as I said, I distinctly remember the entire scene — and, perhaps, not for the reasons you’d might expect.

We were in his room, door closed (later, I’d learn that he had always locked the door), and he’d been showing me some of his new model airplanes, and telling me all about what kind of planes they were, and the history of the real plane.  At one point, he reached down and touched his crotch, I think he was just adjusting himself, or maybe scratching, but, my eyes had automatically followed his hand down to his crotch, and watched the movement it made.

I still wonder if there was some sort of look on my face, as I watched him touch himself.  Did my face betray some kind of interest?  Or, was it simply that I watched too long, when I probably should have looked away?  Or, did he simply just decide to make an innocent comment, “Sometimes it seems like there is never enough room in my underwear. Sometimes they just seem to get too tight.”  And, having had similar thoughts myself, I agreed.  Men’s underwear is truly an uncomfortable article of clothing, bunching up when you move, twisting your penis painfully if you shift the wrong way in a seat.  His remark seemed perfectly natural.  Then he stood up, and said he was going to get rid of the underwear.  He pulled his pants down, underwear and all.  At that point, I think that my face probably had some sort of look that betrayed my interest.  He was five years older, after all, and, at seventeen, he’d already experienced puberty — his penis had hair around it, something mine did not, and, unlike my prepubescent penis, his was quite a bit larger than mine.  ”If you’re going to look at mine, I think it’s only fair that you show me yours.”  Again, this seemed reasonable and unthreatening.  So, I obliged.

When I’d first seen Bobby’s penis, my own penis grew instantly erect, much to my embarrassment.  I was only embarrassed until Bobby reached out, touched mine, and I saw his penis grow erect.  With Him, the situation was nearly the opposite.  When I took off my pants, I watched his already large penis grow hard, and grow much longer.  Yes, there was a surge of sexual energy that coursed through me, but, I was also rather detached, and curious: I had no idea that a penis could be that big.  I even said so. “Your’s is bigger than mine.”  He assured me that when he hit puberty, his had grown, that he’d once been smaller, like me.  It was a very reassuring thing to say, as I had been feeling concerned that there might be something wrong with me, having such a small penis, when his was so large.

Again, I still wonder if it was something in how I looked at him, that made him say “Do you want to touch it?”

Indeed I did.

And, so I did.

The details of what we did aren’t important.  What is important is that I enjoyed it.   It was pleasurable, like things had been with Bobby, though it was much more involved than anything Bobby and I had done, and the intenseness of the pleasure is why I remember every single detail of that night. I think it’s fair to say that I loved what we had done, and hoped that we would do it again.  As I was getting dressed, my illusions were abruptly shattered.  He grabbed my arm, pushed me up against the wall, his arm across my throat, pressing, hard, saying “Don’t you say a thing about this.  If you do, I’ll kill you.”  He let me go, and, once we were both fully dressed, he left the room.  I remember walking out into the living room, sitting on the couch, silently, looking at the tv, but not paying any attention to it.  My life had just been threatened, and my insides trembled.

It was the following week, when it happened again.  This time, the approach was direct “Do you want to do what we did last time?”  I’d seen him once since the first time, though we’d not been alone together, and I was slightly relieved.  The threat had scared me, even though it hadn’t done anything to change my desire for it to happen again.  So, when he asked if I wanted to do it again, my fear fled, and I eagerly submitted.  The threat, when it came,  wasn’t as surprising as it had been the first time, though it still stung and frightened me.

The cycle of sex, submission, and threats would continue for nearly three years — sometimes the threats were to my life, a few were made towards my parents.

During this time, my father died, and my brother was sent away.   I think it was the grief of losing two people I loved, losing them within seven months of each other, that led to my finally telling my mother what was happening between Him and I.

In the years that have passed, thirtysomething of them, I’ve thought long and hard about what happened between He and I.  I think I’ve finally made some sense of it all, made some peace with it, but, it still haunts me.

I have a tough time believing that I was molested sexually — being molested shouldn’t have been so immediately pleasurable.  I still think that there must have been a look, or a reaction from me, to his nakedness, that lead him to initiate sex with me.  And, even if there was no look, or reaction on my part, I did, in fact, want to touch his penis.  The rest of what happened was eye-opening, and I learned many things during our sexual encounters.  It had started out, in my mind, in much the same way things with Bobby had.  And, while I think Bobby and I both had no intention of telling anyone what we were doing, we also never said “Don’t tell”, never threatened each other.  In the end, what I feel is that the molesting was more of my mind, than of my body.  Being threatened not to reveal something obviously means that what you are doing is wrong.  I’d never thought of it as wrong.  Maybe I should have.  But, until I was repeatedly pinned against a wall, or pinned to the floor, a small amount of pain being inflicted while having my life threatened, what had seemed natural and pleasurable began to seem more and more of something to be dreaded and feared.  And, the desire to have sex again began to become mingled with the thoughts of the moments of pain and fear I felt when it was over: pleasure and pain became one.

So, while my body responded to the pleasure, it was my mind that was assaulted — something that seemed and felt right, something that had seemed and felt right with Bobby, was now becoming something loathsome and disgusting.  And, it was the self-loathing that finally got to me.  While I cannot say with one hundred percent certainty that I never would have revealed the sexual activity He and I had, I believe that I wouldn’t have revealed it.  But, the threats to my life ate away at me.  I was pretty certain I’d never intentionally say anything, but, what if I accidentally let something slip?  The fear of His wrath eventually was the undoing of it all.  In fact, when I finally did tell, it was to say that He was threatening to kill me, not that he was doing sexual things to me.

When the story finally tumbled out is when I learned that I’d been molested.  Raped even.  By the time the truth came out, He was almost twenty, of legal age, and I, not much past my fifteenth birthday was a minor.  It didn’t matter that I consented, though, in all honesty, I never said I’d agreed to any of it.  I never said he forced me either.  Just that I’d been threatened with death after each encounter.  But, molested was the word everyone around me used.  My sexual pleasure, my sexual awakening was really something bad, something so bad there was even a word to describe it: molestation.

I still feel a sense of shame for never having said that I’d never been forced into anything, that He had never done anything that hurt me (other than the threats).  I still feel deeply ashamed and mortified that in my heart I only wanted the threats to stop, not the sex.  I’m deeply ashamed that in all the hours of therapy I’ve had over the years (most of the therapy had little to do with this episode), I never once admitted to how much I enjoyed it.  I’ve never said aloud, until now, that I’d wanted the sex to continue, that, for me, with the exceptions of the threats, it had been an enormously pleasurable experience.  I can remember, during those dark months after my father died, while my mom was still wrapped in grief, anxiety and depression, how much I looked forward to having a chance to be with Him again, because the pleasure He gave me made me forget, for awhile, my own grief and loss. I also remember feeling guilty for experiencing so much pleasure when I should be mourning the loss of my father …. then the loss of my brother.

Because His mother worked for us, because there had been a family friendship for years, my mom never pressed charges — I think, partially, because she was still locked in her grief and anxieties from my father’s death.  She did call the police right at the beginning.  They came to our house, two men in blue uniforms: one younger, thinner, dark-haired; the other older, heavy set, thinning grey hair.  The younger one took notes, and looked embarrassed.  The older one asked vague questions that he didn’t really want to know the answers to.  I know the police talked to Him also, and, that he had to do some sort of community service.  But, there were no charges brought against him.

I’ve never hated him for touching my body.  I have only hated him for the threats, which turned something that felt good into something dirty, something that needed to be hidden.  I spent a good many years afterwards seeking out sex in dirty, hidden places, learning about the dark, painful aspects of pleasure — almost as a way to punish myself.  I’d come out as gay around this time, but, it would be a long time before I’d come out of the dark, painful sexual dungeons.

As for Alice, where was she, and what does she have to do with this part of the story?  This series has her name in the title after all ….

Stay tuned…

(To be concluded tomorrow….)

Doing The Instagram

Reblogged from NoonTime Photography:

I started to do the Instagram thing last year, but then there was all the controversy about who owned the photos, and what they were going to do with them.

Well, now that the controversy is over, I figured I'd go ahead and try it again, especially since I discovered that I didn't have to use the Instagram app to take the photo, and that I can add photos taken with other apps.  

Read more… 189 more words

Catch me on Instagram, if you dare.... :-) No, no naughty photos. Instagram: noontimeone

Alice: The First Half Of The Middle Of The Story

(The Beginning of the story can be read here)

Words usually come easy to me.  I may not always write them down right away.  Sometimes the words need to ferment into coherent thoughts — word kimchi.

However, this story seems to be quite different.  It’s as if I’m having to pull every little word out of the quicksand in my mind.  Each word weighs a ton, and each sentence requires the greatest of efforts to complete.

I can’t promise that this will be the most coherent of posts; I won’t promise that the prose will be my best.  All I can promise is that the words are true.

_________________________

I was twelve.  He was seventeen.

He taught me the meaning of the word molest.

We had grown up together, He and I.  I’ll call him He, rather than name him — not out of hate, or fear of his name, but, because I don’t think his actual name is important to the story.

We had grown up together.  He was Alice’s son, the youngest of her four children, the only boy.  He was five years older than me.  When I was young, the five years made a difference.  What ten year old wants to play with a five year old?  We got along, though I’d not say we were friends.  We just were.  His mother was my babysitter, our housekeeper, our cook.  (That makes us sound rich, or upper-class.  We weren’t.  We were middle-class, back when middle-class meant that you didn’t live from paycheck to paycheck.  Though, at the time, I’ll be honest, and admit that no one else I knew had a babysitter/housekeeper/cook, so it made me feel like we were rich.)

He and I knew each other because his mom took care of me.  A few nights a week my brother and I would go to Alice’s house, while my mom and dad worked at their second jobs, so, I knew him because I spent time in his house.  But, I didn’t know him in any detailed way.  I knew he liked building model planes.  I knew his favorite meal was “bah-sketti and meatballs”.  I knew, that like his mother, he was “slow” (as they called it then.)  Though, unlike his mother, who graduated from school when there was no such thing as Special Ed, He was in the Special Education program at school.  Like his mother, his learning disability was not immediately obvious; you’d only notice it after being around him for awhile.

Growing up, I always heard how he was ‘slow’ or “in Special Ed”, and, somehow, even now, that seems to define him, though, I don’t think that it really has much to do with the story.  As kids, we listen to the talk around us, we let the grown-ups define things for us.  It’s not until we are older and more experienced in life that we begin to define things on our own.  So, my mental image of him as “slow” is something I heard often, and, while it set up the definition in my young head, I don’t think I ever really understood it, or really cared.  He seemed like just about everyone else I knew, though if he were reading something out-loud, he struggled with it.  I was five years younger, and could read aloud much better.  Mostly, though, He just was who he was.  His mental capacity never really registered with me as anything other than the definitions others used about him.  I’m not sure it’s even relevant to the story, unless one wanted to build an argument around whether he knew right from wrong.  But, really, that’s not my argument to make.  I’m not trained in psychology, or law, or ethics, or morals, so I can’t say if he knew right and wrong.  I just know that as the years have gone by, I’ve thought often of how many times I’d heard him called “slow”, I’ve thought of how those words created a part of his identity in my head, and I’ve thought about how it doesn’t really matter to me.  To me, He is just another person that has acted in the scenes of my life.

I’ve also spent a great many hours over the years thinking about how others defined the word “molest” for me.  As a kid, it’s not a word you come across often.  Maybe now it’s a word seen on tv more often, in the news, on television shows.  But, thirty-five years ago, it was not a word one knew unless one was molested.

Stick with me as I work this through.

As a kid, I didn’t know what being molested meant, until I told my parents that He’d touched me.  I don’t even know that I knew if what he did was right or wrong.  I knew that it was something that we shouldn’t be doing, because He told me not to tell, He threatened me with death if I told.  So, in my twelve year old mind, what we were doing was only wrong because He told me not to tell, because we’d be in trouble if I told.  He was the one who was telling me it was wrong — so, then, I guess that means he did know right from wrong.  I only knew it was wrong because I was told it was wrong — so maybe I didn’t know right from wrong.  He didn’t need to be told it was wrong.  He knew it was wrong.  I had to be told it was wrong, because I didn’t know it was wrong. Maybe I was the one who was “slow”.

He was not the first male who’d touched me.

me at 10

When I was about ten, and in fifth grade, there was a boy who lived in my neighborhood, who was my age, and was in my class.  I’ll call him Bobby, to distinguish him from He, though Bobby is not his name.  His real name isn’t really relevant to the story either.  Bobby was one of the few friends I had growing up — in fact, I think until high school, he was the only friend who’s house I ever went to.  He lived close. We didn’t play much.  We both just liked to talk.  We’d breathlessly tell each other stories, in that way that excited kids do.  I’m not sure either of us listened to the other’s stories, we were just having fun talking.  We’d walk around his backyard, then around the front yard, chattering away.  Then we’d make our way behind the big lilac bush in the backyard.  He and his dad had built a little fort back behind the bush, so between the wooden fence around his yard, the bush, and the fort, it was a perfect place to get away from Bobby’s little brother.

I don’t really remember how the whole thing started.  Probably an “I”ll show you mine, if you show me yours” scenario.  I do, however, know that it was at that moment that I knew I was gay.  Not in so many words.  Ten year olds, in 1976, didn’t know what being gay was.  Who talked about it back then?  No one in my world, that’s for certain.  But, in that moment, seeing another boy naked stirred some very strange, yet very good feelings in me.  I ended up standing there, looking at Bobby’s penis (that was the only term I knew to call it, back when I was ten — now that I’m 47, I know many, many other slang words for it, but we’ll stick with the childhood term), and the sight of Bobby’s penis made my penis stand at attention.  I was rather embarrassed that I had an erection, because it seemed that showing an erection was not the same as showing a soft penis.  I was, however, abruptly relieved of my embarrassment when Bobby reached out, touched my erect penis, and, instantly got an erection of his own.

For a few weeks, Bobby and I spend a great deal of time in his fort behind the lilac bush.  We didn’t have sex, as I’m not sure that either of us knew what sex was.  But, we were both boys, and we both knew that our penis was a source of pleasure.

Yes, ladies, boys know all about the pleasure of their cocks from a very, very early age.

Somehow things progressed to the point where we’d pull our pants down, Bobby would lay on top of me, and we’d press our bodies together, our erect penises (penii?) would rub together as we moved.  We even kissed.  I think that was the part I liked the most.

Things ended when Bobby had to move away.  I was, I think, a little heart-broken, but, whether it was for Bobby, or for no longer having someone to kiss, I’m not sure.

I am, however, sure that I still love the scent of lilacs.

By the time that He touched me, one could say that I wasn’t pure and untouched.

Things with Him started in much the same way: show me yours, show you mine. It was his idea.  And, much to my surprise, he was the one with the erection first.

If it had just been that one day, that one time, maybe things wouldn’t have gotten complicated.

(To be continued…)

Alice: In The Beginning

image via Geo Sans

If you’ve followed me for any length of time, you’ll know that I have little trouble writing long posts.  (If you’ve only just started following, scroll around, you’ll find a great many long-winded posts from me.)  There are times when the post may take me a few days to start writing, as my writing process usually involves a few days of letting the thoughts converge and mingle in my brain, before setting them out on paper.  But, even then, with a few days of percolating thoughts, the words eventually flow … and flow.

I find myself in a strange situation at the moment.  I’ve got a post I want to write.  I sort of know what I want to say, but, I can’t seem to find the beginning of the thread.  The story needs an opening, and, I’m just not finding it.  This particular story does have all the elements of a story — a beginning, a middle, an end.  There’s a certain amount of plot.  There’s a point.  It’s all there.  Even some sorrow and pain.  And, if you’ve followed along with me for any length of time, you’ll know that I don’t have a problem with sharing information about myself.  I mean, I’ve got an entire blog devoted to Me.  My name is even in the blog title: John.  So, it’s not that I’m unsure of how to reveal my thoughts, story, feelings.

Maybe it’s that I’m worried about revealing too much.

No, that’s not it.

Maybe it’s that there is no distinct beginning — there’s no definite Let’s Start Here point to the story.  And, maybe, it’s because it’s a story I’ve rarely told anyone in full.  Usually, the tale is told in bits and pieces, tossed off as a passing reference.  So, attempting to recreate memory as a complete story, when it’s a story I’ve spent a long time trying to forget pieces of, is not as easy as I thought it would be.

The story does start with a person, so maybe an introduction to her is the best place to start.

Introducing you to Alice calls to mind the beginning of the bible, “In the beginning there was….”

In this case, in the beginning, there was Alice.  I don’t know that I can that I can recall an early memory of a time when Alice wasn’t there.

Growing up, Alice took care of us.  She was sort of like Alice on The Brady Bunch, but without the uniform.  Our Alice was caretaker, nanny, cook, housekeeper.  She was friend, family, teacher.  She was also the mother of the boy who molested me.

My parents knew Alice long before I was born.  They’d met in Hawaii, when my dad, and Alice’s husband were stationed there, in the early 1950s.  Like many friendships that form in the military, they survive through being sent to different duty stations, they survive through time.  Ultimately, my mom and dad, and, Alice and her husband, all ended up in Colorado.

I don’t know much of Alice’s beginnings.  She came from Philadelphia.  She had several sisters older than her, and, I think one that one younger.  Alice was the black sheep of her family, though not because she was the wild, free spirit.  No.  Alice was more of a black mark, than a black sheep.  Alice was, to use the terminology of the day: slow.  It seems that there was a time, not that long ago (and, maybe not a time we’ve moved far from) when children who “weren’t quite right” were seen as a stigma on the family.  Somehow, because Alice was a bit slow, logic of the day implied that there was something wrong with Alice’s family.  She was close to two of her sisters, but, I think most of the older ones had little to do with her for most of her life.

I don’t know what modern phrase would describe Alice.  She was smart enough to finish school, back in the days when there were no Special Education programs.  She was smart enough to enter the Army during World War II, and was trained and served as a nurse’s aid.  ”Slow” which seems sort of antiquated, is rather an apt word, though I don’t really like it.  So, maybe we shouldn’t try and distill it down to just one word.  Alice was more complex than a one word definition would imply.  She was smart.  She was well read.  It just took her a little longer to grasp the meaning of something, took her just a bit longer to read a sentence.  It was nothing that was immediately obvious.  I think you had to know her for awhile before you knew that she had a bit of a learning disability.

While Alice was in the Army, she met, and married Joe.  Joe, sadly, was an alcoholic.  A not very nice alcoholic by all accounts.

Alice had four children by Joe, three girls, and finally, a son — all born before they settled in Colorado.

By the time my memories begin to form, Alice was a single mom, having thrown out the abusive, alcoholic Joe — though they were never officially divorced.  She had worked as a nurse’s aid after leaving the Army, but, she developed some health issues — phlebitis, seems to be the only one I remember, but, the result of them was that she couldn’t stand for long periods, and suffered shortness of breath with too much activity.  So, she found herself having a family to support, a husband who never gave her any financial assistance, and health problems, and a slight learning disability  that kept her from finding suitable employment.

me: the official preschool photo

It so happened, that my mom and dad had needed daycare for me — I was just starting preschool, for half a day, and they wanted someone to be at home when I was done.  The preschool offered all day care, but, my parents wanted me to be able to be at home when school was over.  It was a perfect job for Alice. She was good with kids, experienced with kids, having four of her own, and, she didn’t need to be on her feet all day.  Her daughters were old enough to be on their own — one was already married, and the other two were in high school, and old enough to get their little brother off to school.

My mom or dad would go pick up Alice, and bring her to our house before they left in the morning.  Alice would then wake me, get me ready for school, and walk me to the preschool, which was only about three short blocks away.  During the day she’d do housecleaning, and, would often get a meal started before my parents took her home at the end of the day: a meatloaf, a roasted chicken, chili, and they’d be nearly done by the time my parents got home; and while one parent was taking Alice home, the other parent would finish making the rest of the meal– salad, veggies, potatoes.

During the hours I was home from school (and, before my brother was old enough to do more than play in the playpen), Alice taught me how to play Rummy.  She also taught me how to not be a sore loser.  She never intentionally let me win.  We always played fairly.  But, when we first played, I’d get mad and pout if I lost.  So, Alice would stop playing, telling me that people can’t win all the time, and that sometimes we have to lose, in order to appreciate our winnings.  I’d get the little lecture, said very calmly, very nicely, and, while she was saying it, she’d pack the cards away, telling me that we were done playing for the day, because being a sore loser wasn’t good, and that being pouty and mad was even worse.  She’d say that I couldn’t be like that when I grew up, because I’d lose friends and jobs if I couldn’t lose graciously.

It all seemed so idyllic, this life with Alice.  She’d wake me up — and, she hated that part, because (even now) I hate getting up.  She’d send me and my brother off to school.  She was there when we got home — the house usually smelled like a mixture of furniture polish and whatever was baking in the oven, or simmering on the stove.  Coming home was something to look forward to.

During those years, I saw more of Alice than I saw of my parents. In those days, my parents worked two jobs.  A few years after they bought our house, they made an addition, which doubled the size of the house.  The contractor took off with the $10,000, leaving only a rough frame built onto the side of the house, so my parents worked more in order to pay to have the house completed (in those days, one did not file for bankruptcy, because it was too shameful).  My dad did most of the working, though, my mom taught at night school two nights a week, and, on those nights, my brother and I would go home with Alice, and mom would pick us up when class was over.

In a weird way, it seemed more like I was a part of Alice’s family, that Alice was my parent, and that these other people, who were really my parents, were the babysitters, being around only at the times when Alice wasn’t there.  I knew the difference — I knew that Alice wasn’t my mom, but, emotionally, there was an attachment, since she was the one who was there the most, who helped me with homework, who read stories to me, who taught me to play cards.  My mom was Mom, in a technical sense, but, Alice was my mom in a very emotional sense, because she was often the one who bandaged my scrapes and cuts, who comforted me when I came home from school crying because the older boys picked on me, teased me, bullied me on the way home from school.  We often called her Our Second Mother, or Our Other Mother.

Idyllic. Yes.  It was.  But, if life has taught me anything, it’s that idyllic is usually a word that ends up being followed by something being brutally shattered.

(To be continued ….)

Phone Calls From Mom

The part of this post that is in regular type, is a post I wrote two years ago, on my old blog.  The paragraphs at the end that are in italics, are a new addition to the tale.

Backstory 1:

I walked into the living room. Mom was sitting in her chair.
Says I: “We are heading out for a bit.”
Says She: “Where are you going?”
I: “We are going to go get my new glasses, and then run to Kohl’s to return some things. We’ll be back in awhile. Maybe an hour-and-a-half?”
She: “Ok.”

Story 1:

We have arrived at the optical store, which is about a 5 minute drive from the house.
I think we’d only been at the store less than 10 minutes when the phone rang. It was mom.
I: “Hi mom”
She: “Will you bring me a danish and some tea.”
I: “I can’t right now.”
She: “Why not?”
I: “Because I’m not home.”
She: “Where are you?”
I: “Did you forget that I told you we were going to get my glasses and then to Kohl’s?”
She: “Yeah. I guess I did forget.”
I: “I’ll be home soon, and get your tea and danish.”
She: “Ok. Bye.”

As I hang up the phone, I am annoyed with myself that I said “Did you forget?” Obviously she had. I didn’t really need to point it out. Seems rather mean of me to have said that.  Mostly, I think, it’s that thing we do when we get scared, like a parent yelling at a child for running out into the street, then giving them a big hug.  My mentioning she forgot seems to be the same: an expression of fear, but not knowing how to express it in any other way.  Does that make any sense?  Maybe that’s a poor analogy.

_______________________________________________________________________

Backstory 2:

I walked into the living room. Mom was sitting in her chair.
Says I: “We are heading out. I’m going to the grocery store to pick up a couple things for dinner.”
Says She: “Ok. You won’t be gone long?”
I: “Shouldn’t be. Just need to run in and out. We’ll be gone half hour, forty-five minutes maybe.”
She: “Ok.”

Story 2:

We are at the grocery store, which is less than a ten minute drive from home.
We’ve been at the store no more than 15 minutes. Maybe only 10.I picked up some produce, onion rolls, pork chops, chips, soda and diet tonic water. So, it couldn’t have taken all that long. Then, we walked right up to the check-out; there was no line. We checked out, paid, and just as I was walking out to the car, the phone rang.
I: “Hi mom.”
She: “I have some mail for you to put out on the box before the postman comes.”
I: “Ok. I’ll put it out when I get home.”
She: (short pause) “Where are you.”
I: “The grocery store. Picking up the stuff I need to make for dinner.”
She: (long pause) “You’re not back yet?”
I: “No. We are just leaving now.”
She: “Oh.”
I: “I’ll be home soon, ok?”
She: “I’ll go put it out. See you. Bye.”

So, I’m not annoyed with myself, as I didn’t mention that she forgot. What doesn’t translate in the story is that she did forget — the pause and her tone of voice, along with the hesitant way she said “You’re not back yet?” all gave me reason to believe she forgot. At least I didn’t point it out this time.

___________________________________________________________________________

These calls happened today and yesterday. Though they aren’t the first calls of their kind, each one brings pain to my heart. She’s 87, so I know that there’s a certain amount of age-related memory-loss to expect. It doesn’t make it any easier. I’ve always thought of my mom as one of the smartest people I know. She was never one to forget things — even the most trivial of things were things to be remembered.

To see those trivial things forgotten just breaks my heart.

___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

Time moves on, as time does.  We experience life. Hopefully, we learn a thing or two along the way.

Sometimes we notice our mistakes, and try to change them, as I tried to do when answering one of mom’s phone calls when we were  out and about — trying not to say “don’t you remember I told you….?”

Two years, and a couple of months have passed since I wrote that blog post, and I noticed my mistake.  I wish I could make the claim that I’ve been perfect, that I’ve not made that mistake again.  But, no.  I can’t claim perfection.  Mom still calls when I’m out, and I’ve asked “…but don’t’ you remember I told you….?”  The words fly out — no thought involved.  And, as soon as the words have flown from my tongue, I’m left standing there, wanting to rip my tongue out, throw it on the floor, and stamp it dead in the same freaked out way I stamp out a big, ugly bug crawling rapidly in my direction.  I’m left wondering why it was important for me to say “….don’t you remember?”  It’s not as if saying it makes a difference.  Obviously she didn’t remember, or she wouldn’t be calling, so why the need for me to point it out? 

If this were happening with a friend, or a roommate, or even my partner, I might feel a little sorry that I questioned their memory, but, I don’t think any of us would really be bothered by it.  We might even laugh it off with a “Well, you know, the memory is the first thing to go.”

But, when it’s my mom, who is fast approaching her 90th birthday, it’s different.  It’s not easily dismissed, or even laughed off.  Ok, I’ll admit, I laugh a little about it, that she gets so focused on what she needs, that she forgets I’m gone.  But, this need to point it out to her.  No, no, I don’t say it every time.  I’ve gotten better.  But, sometimes I still ask, “…don’t you remember?”  Sometimes, there’s even a tone in my voice, an exasperation in my voice, a tone that reminds me of an exchange between a parent and child: “…don’t you remember I told you that we were going to Aunt Sally’s tonight?  You’ll just have to tell your friends you can’t go to the movies.”  And, then the plaintive wail, “But mom….”

When I use that tone with my mom, there’s no “But mom…” wail from her.  Usually just silence, as she remembers that yes, I had told her I was out, and that, yes, she had forgotten.  And, in that moment when she’s silent, the pain wells up inside me, then the accusing guilt: why am I so stupid? why am I so thoughtless? why does it even matter?

Finally, I’ve realized why it matters, why I call out her forgetfulness, or why I sound exasperated.  It’s because I need her not to forget.  I need her to remember.  Not just that I’ve left the house for awhile.  That’s not really the issue, is it?  Forgetting I’m gone is trivial.  But, if she forgets that, what else is she going to start forgetting?   She’s already forgotten stories, mixing them up, adding people into stories who weren’t actually a part of the story, leaving people out of other stories, placing them in the wrong time and place.  Is the time going to come when she forgets where she is? Forgets who I am?  Forgets who she is?

So, you see, the questioning, the tone — they are not directed at her.  They are directed at time, at age, at the erosion of our mind and body.  At the cycle of life.  

photo by Philip Bitnar

I think I can honestly claim that I’ve never expected my mother to be immortal — my father dying when I was fourteen taught me that lesson.  And, I’ve seen enough people age, grow less vital, begin to lose memories and thoughts.  I’ve never denied that those times were coming. I’ve watched the calendar turn its pages, from day, to month, to year, another year, and another.

I knew that this time was coming, these days that are often politely called The Twilight Years.  I had no starry-eyed illusions that it would be easy to watch.

What I had no idea of was how angry and hopeless it makes me feel to watch the vital, active woman who was my mother slowly fade away.  No, I’m not burying her just yet.  She’s still got life left in her.  But, there are the forgotten things, her being easily tired by spending an hour or two taking a friend shopping (my mom could, once upon a time, when we were working on all the mountain property, spend a Saturday running from hardware store, to lumber yard, to department store, then still have the energy to go to dinner and a play with friends); now, and hour of driving her friend to the store, riding around on an electric cart, and taking her friend home, is enough to tire her out. 

I need her to remember because she’s the only family I have left.  My dad is gone.  My brother is gone.  She knows stories about them, stories I’ve still not learned.  She cannot forget, because then I’m left being the only one who’ll remember the stories of my family.  I try to write them down, but, how can you capture the stories of the lives of three people, and still try to hold onto your own story?  

How can I carry the weight of the stories of my mom, my dad, my brother?  I haven’t gotten the stories all stitched into my brain yet.  I need her to at least remember until I’ve finished sewing the quilt of their stories into the fabric of my soul.

I’m weaving their tales as fast as I can.  But, I cannot stop time from moving on.

The Invisible Thing

Reblogged from Poetically Versed:

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The Invisible Thing

©2013 Poetically Versed/John Nooney

Read more… 3 more words

My most recent poem, from my Poetry Blog...

Poem: Five A.M.

Reblogged from Poetically Versed:

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©2013 Poetically Versed/John Nooney

Read more… 3 more words

My most recent poem -- originally posted on my Poetry Blog

Functional But Not Quite Right

Reblogged from Broken Light: A Photography Collective:

Photo taken by contributor John Nooney, a 47-year-old gay man from a suburb of Denver, Colorado, who has been HIV+ since 1989. John has dealt with mental illness for most of his life, including chronic depression and severe anxiety attacks. His first bout of depression occurred when he was 14, though it wasn’t until he was 22 that someone finally told him what his “horrible, black episodes” were.  

Read more… 348 more words

This morning, another of my photos was published on the Broken Light Photography website. I thank them for that... and, for what they are trying to do with their blog, If you have yet to check out their blog, I highly recommend it!

The Depression Demons: Post The First

I’ve written before about my battles with depression, here, on this blog, and, also on my no-longer existent blogs.  I write about it, not because I find it therapeutic (I don’t), but, because depression and other mental illnesses are still misunderstood by many people who don’t suffer from mental illness (or don’t know someone who does).  For many, depression is thought of as that feeling you have after not getting the promotion you wanted, or those few weeks after the break-up of a relationship.  Yes, these are depressions, and one usually knows why they are depressed, they can trace it back to it’s trigger (i.e. the break-up, the missed promotion, etc.).  And, these depressions are often short in duration, and don’t return.

There is another kind of depression though — one that seems as if it’s always been there, and as if it will always be there, a cradle-to-grave depression, if you will.  It’s a kind of depression that even when it’s not wrapped around you like a suffocating, black cloak, its existence is still there — no matter how well you feel, no matter if you’re feeling happy, even if you’re really drugged up on anti-depressants, the presence of the depression is there.  Its an awareness, almost separate from you, but, still a part of you.  It’s the Lurker In The Woods, the Uninvited Guest, the Monster Under The Bed.  There is no escape from it, just temporary cycles of relief, like a brief rainstorm in the desert.

I refer to my depression as The Depression Demons, not just because the depression torments me, but, because, like demons, unless you’ve encountered one, you don’t believe in its existence.

So, I’d like to start a new, ongoing series of posts about life with The Depression Demons.  There won’t be posts every day, or on any particular schedule.  They’ll just appear, like my depression, out of nowhere.  I don’t often write about my depression when I’m not feeling depressed because it is much easier to describe the thoughts, feelings, emotions when the demons have ahold of my mind.  When I’m not depressed, it’s harder to conjure up the dark words to describe it, and, because the days without depression sometimes feel few and far between, I don’t like to think about the darkness, because I know it will return soon enough, so I might as well enjoy the days of light while their happening.

My intent in writing this series of posts is not to seek sympathy or pity — I don’t require you to feel those emotions for me, nor are they helpful to me in anyway.   I write about The Depression Demons in hope that people who don’t know someone who is mentally ill, or who doesn’t suffer from depression, will have a better understanding of what depression is, what it’s like to live with, and to understand that its not something that you can tell someone to “just get over it.”

If it were that easy, I’d have gotten over it a long time ago…

Depression is not a choice.  It happens.  And, those of us who suffer from it try to deal with it as best we can (even if we sometimes deal with it badly).

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Assumptions can be made about certain times of the year.  For example, it is the beginning of June.  One can sfaely assume that in this part of the world, an early June day is probably going to be warm, sunny, and spring-like — perhaps even summer-like.  There might be some clouds or rain, but, here in Denver, more often than not, a day in the early part of June is a day that makes you yearn to be outside doing something, anything.

Some assumptions require elaborate math equations, and years of scientific research to prove.  Other assumptions are based on something happening so often that it’s likely to happen again, like the sun rising every morning in the east.  And, some assumptions require very little thought or effort to be proven.

Recently, I tested my early-June day assumption in the easiest way possible: I opened the door and stepped outside.  The bright sunlight made me squint, and it felt warm on my skin.  I was wearing a t-shirt and shorts, and felt almost as if I were dressed too warmly.  It seemed, based on observation, and a small amount of testing, that all was in accordance with my assumption that it is, indeed, the beginning of June, a day that says Summer is not far off.

I decided to make one more test, just to be sure.  I looked at my iPhone.  And, barring some glitch in the cellphone network’s circuitry, my calendar informed me, that yes, this is one of the first few days of June.

Logically, based on the observed evidence of the warm, sunny day, and the technological evidence of my phone’s calendar, I have no choice but to accept the evidence as true: it’s the beginning of June.

Emotionally — I could care less.  Late December, early June — makes no difference to me.  One day is much the same as any other.  Looking outside and seeing the bright, sunshine-filled day, my eyes are registering the fact, yet no other part of me registers this.  My brain sees a day, another day — a day like yesterday and the day before, and a day that will probably be much like tomorrow — dark, empty.  A void.  A day that passes but leaves no impression on me, other than a visual record of what I did.  Emotionally, the day is just the a black hole on my calendar — today will be a day like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, a day like tomorrow, and the day after that: they’ll just be days that disappear into the black hole, leaving no trace of my presence, and leaving no impression of their presence upon me.

It’s Depression time in the Rockies.  At least for me.  Another cycle has started, though it doesn’t feel like it will be as desperate and dark as some of the cycles can be.  After more than thirty years of cycling through depression after depression, I’ve learned to spot, earlier in the cycle, the presence of The Depression Demons.  I’ve learned how to sense their intent: sometimes their intention is vile and evil, and it tells me that they aren’t going to play nice, that the depression cycle with be neither easy or painless; other times, their intention feels more like a reminder, as it does now: a reminder that they’ve not left on a journey to find another residence.  No, this cycle that seems to be starting is just The Depression Demons peeking out from the dark shadows of my mind, letting me know that they haven’t forgotten me.  Sometimes, it feels as if the demons are just taunting and tormenting me, making me fear that the cycle is going to be one of the bad ones, but then laughing and saying “We’re just kidding.  We’ll let you off easy this time.  But, maybe next time we won’t be so nice.”  They’re like mobsters, gangsters who aren’t necessarily prone to violence, who sometimes just enjoy the power of The Threat.  They’re willing to play dirty when they have to, or when they want to — but, often it’s just a power trip for them, letting me know that while I may think I’m in charge, I’m not really.  They are the ones in control.

The Depression Demons that are roaming the highways and byways of my brain right now are just shadowy images of themselves, as if they somehow don’t have the strength to fully materialize, but are feeling the need to roam around, reminding me that they’re not gone, that they’ll come again, fully materialized.

When The Depression Demons aren’t at the full height of their power, their presence is more wounding than crippling.  When they appear to me in the fullness of Their Glory, life becomes nearly impossible: getting out of bed seems to be the toughest thing I’ve ever done, taking a shower and getting dressed feels like I’ve just climbed Mount Everest in a day.  Breathing seems a chore.  Life is a burden.  Death seems to be the only bright beacon at the end of the proverbial tunnel — a light that feels welcoming and easy to slide into, and the light is horribly difficult to resist.

Those are the days I dread.

They are the days The Depression demons like to remind me of, even when they’re only vague shadows floating around. Even if they do nothing but drift slowly around my mind, in their  diminished, ghostly shapes, they terrify me in the way that the scary music in horror films terrifies: the music lets you know Something Bad Is Going To Happen, but you don’t know when.  These diminished demons are like the fake-frights in horror movies, like in a scene where someone is wandering alone, in a dark hall or wood, knowing something is there, and, as the creepy music is reaching its crescendo,  the fright finally  happens, but it’s just a dog trapped in the closet; your heart races, thinking this is going to be the Big Fright, but it’s not, so after you’ve jumped a little at the fake fright, you relax for a moment, but, you still know that there’s going to be a Big Fright at any moment.

The days the shadowy Depression Demons roam my mind are days where I seem to be lost in a nightmarish mist.  Nothing is clear.  Nothing registers.  I go through my day, sometimes doing the things required of me (taking mom to a doctor appointment, making sure she has eaten, has taken pills), but, the rest of the day is like being stuck, alone, in a cottage on the beach in the midst of a a storm: there’s nothing to do, the lights have gone out, the storm is too heavy and rough to go out of doors, the cold and damp seep through the walls, and seeps into my bones, my soul.  My body aches, there seems to be nothing fun or joyful about anything, even trying to think of what to eat seems to be a decision that weighs almost more than I can lift.

I isolate myself even more during the Demon Sightings, whether they’re ghostly or full-bodied.  Other people’s joy and laughter offends me during these days, as my own joy and sense of humor have hidden themselves away, awaiting a safer time to return.  Depression makes it nearly impossible to turn outward, to be interested in what others have to say; it takes too much strength to muster enough interest to be interested in what someone has to say, to muster empathy for their problem, to muster sympathy for their drama.  Depression plays its sick joke during these days: making the outer world too painful to bear, so it makes you turn inward, away from the pain of the outer world, and all you discover in your turn inward is an even deeper pain that you cannot escape.  Sometimes the pain leaps up and surrounds you, making you feel as if you’re wallowing, reveling in the pain.  But you’re not.  You’re just a prisoner of it, a slave to its demonic mastery of your mind.

Depression allows no assumptions, at least for me.  I’ve learned some of the signs, and am aware that it is happening a bit sooner than I once was.  Though, I’m not entirely sure that awareness is good.  I’m aware of it sooner, so now I have more time to dread it’s arrival; in my younger days, when I first was dealing with depressions, I’d just suddenly wake from a fog, and realize I was right in the center of the Circle of Hell Dante forgot to mention: depression.  I cannot make assumptions about my depression, because each cycle is different.  I may know the demons are approaching, but, I don’t know what their shape will be, or how much strength they have until they arrive.  I can make no assumptions about the length of their visit: some times it’s like they’ve taken a quick, three-day weekend holiday; other times, they plan on staying long enough that they sign a lease.

On reflection, I realize that there is one assumption that The Depression Demons always seem to allow me to make: Death.  Whether they are weak or strong, whether they stay for a few days, or for many months, they always promise one permanent solution to their extermination from my mind : my own extermination.

Happy 400!

A few days after Thanksgiving 2011, I opened this blog.

Actually,  I opened it in June of 2011, with the same name, but with the goal of having a food blog.  I had an idea that I wanted to be a foodie.  I wanted to create recipes, take food photos, share tips about the best way to scramble an egg, and to just chew the fat about All Things Food.

It soon came to pass that I’m not really a foodie.  I’m just someone who really, really loves to eat.  I’m a good cook, and, I’m still learning about vegetarian cooking, and I’m, still trying to figure out how to make a good pot of beans at high-altitude.

I’m an eater, not a foodie.  And, I’m a stress-eater.  Hence the 50 pounds I’ve put on in the past few years.  So, I admitted the truth to myself:  I’d rather eat the food than write about it.  So, I deleted the two-or-three-dozen food posts, and started over in November 2011.

Since that time, I’ve made 399 posts.

This is my 400th post!

I’ve been trying to think of something special for my 400th post, but, came up with no stellar ideas.  Then, it occured to me, that this really isn’t my 400th post.  It’s my 400th on this blog, but, I’ve actually run a blog of some sort or other since the fall of 2004.

I began blogging on LiveJournal, because some people I worked with wrote FanFiction there, and I thought I’d check it out.  I had no FanFiction to offer, but, it was a good place to do Dear Diary kinds of writing.  It was a good way to start — to practice writing more, and, to share my writing with others.  I’d written many things on paper, typed many things in whatever the word processing software of the moment was, but, I’d never shared it with anyone.  So, taking that first step, writing something, knowing that it would be read by someone else, was both frightening and exhilarating.

My early blog posts were of two kinds: The Dear Diary, and the Whatever Is In My Head.

I’ve gone back, from time to time, to reread some of my old posts.  Some make me cringe (mostly the Dear Diary posts, whining about how much I hated my job), and, some of them make me laugh. I thought I’d share a bit of humorous writing, something I posted on December 23, 2004.  The post was titled “Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna Nicole” (The words to the Anna Nicole Smith reality TV show):

Whether she is skinny with big tits, or a plus size with big tits, Anna Nicole is proof of the following:

1. Some people have all the luck.
2. Big tits really do rule the world.
3. A mind is a terrible thing.
4. Some people need to be trained that unless their mouth is engaged in eating or sucking, their mouth should remain unengaged.
5. Money does not equal happiness.
6. Income earning potential increases in direct proportion to increases in cup size.
7. That contrary to popular belief, one can indeed be too stuipd.
8. That the media does a horrible job.  The list of things the average American could tell you about Anna Nicole is probably much longer than the list of things the average American could tell you about the history of their country.
9. That being a part of the animal kingdom might not be a bad thing.  At least in the animal kingdom the amount of stupid animals that reach adulthood is very small.

Not the most eloquent bit of writing, but, it still makes me giggle.  I actually wrote several posts about the late Anna Nicole.  She was an easy target for jokes.

By the time I got to this blog, after a stop on Blogger, and my first WP blog, called Phases of The Noon, I’d realized a few things about blogging.  The most important thing I’ve learned is that blogging is not as easy as it looks — especially if you’re trying to write a blog regularly.  I learned that I’m not a niche blogger.  I’ve got too many things that I find interesting to limit myself to one topic on a blog.  The two things that most interest me, I now have blogs for — a blog showcasing my photography (and, a place to shop for prints of my photos — shameless plug), and a poetry blog, where I’m learning about poetry, writing about it, reading some, writing some of my own.  Other than that, I’m not someone who could crank out funny posts several days per week.  I don’t have advice to hand out every day.  I’ve tried, but, ultimately am not really interested, in writing opinion pieces about current events.  So, what was I going to write about, and, would anyone care to read my posts?

Turns out, that once I began to write about the things going on in my life — not in a Dear Diary way, but, in a more meaningful way, people began following.  Granted, with all the weird blogs around here now, I suspect half (at least) of my followers are fake, robotic “bloggers”, but, that’s not what it’s about for me.  I’d thought for awhile that I wanted to have thousands of readers all the time.  But, that doesn’t matter much to me any more.  Sure, I like getting new followers — especially ones who interact and comment, but it’s not about numbers for me.  I’d rather have ten followers who ‘talk’ to me in the comment section, than 1,000 who don’t.

It’s become a sort of therapy for me.  Sometimes I write about serious things.  Sometimes I post odd snippets because I’m not in a good place, and, the funny cartoon is posted to make me laugh as much as it is posted to make you, hopefully, laugh too.  And, I post music.  Music is therapy.  It takes me places.  I’d once dreamed of being a professional singer, but never had the confidence to give it a try.  I still sing, when I’m by myself, though that’s not often, so the voice has gone wobbly.  But, music still touches a place deep inside, and can lift the darkness from my mind.

One could say that I blog to be niche-less.

I don’t want to be a part of the ‘in crowd’.  I never was part of that crowd growing up, though I longed to be.  Age, however, makes me appreciate not being a part of the in-crowd, of not following the herd-mentality.  I think that I’ve learned to Just Be Me, here on my blog.  I’m not a satirist, I’m not a self-help guru, I’m not a life-coach, or someone who wants to help you plan your next adventure.

What I am is:

• A 47 year old man, who is gay,  and, who is still madly in love with my partner, even after almost 13 years.
• I’m a man who lives with my partner, and we live with my almost 90 year old mother.  I’m a man who stopped working, in order to be able to be with my mom, to help her out, to care for her.
• I also happen to be a man who has been HIV+ for almost 25 years.
• I’m a man who’s suffered from depression since I was 14, and anxieties since my early twenties.
• I’m more of a loner, than a social butterfly, though I do appreciate good conversation.
• I am a reformed cigarette smoker.
• I’m an atheist.
• I’ve dealt with sexual addiction, gambling addiction, and, until recently, alcohol addiction.
• I’m a guy who loves his dogs just a little more than he loves ice cream.
•  I’m a guy who has nearly 1,600 books in my house, and several hundred more on my Kindle.
• I sit at a desk, covered by my much loved clutter.
• I love pencils, notebooks, sharp cheddar cheese, Korean food, sunflower seeds, chewing gum, black tea, all things British, and many more things that would bore you to tears.
• I’m a man who hates crowds, phonies, narcissists (though, I suppose as someone who writes about himself as often as I do, I’ve got a bit of a narcissistic streak, I suppose), and ignorance.
• I’m a man who is easily fascinated by something, and who can just as quickly lose interest in it.
• I’m a dreamer.
• I am a procrastinator.  I’m prone to laziness.  I
• love taking long walks, though, somehow never manage to actually take one.
• I was molested when I was 12, my father died when I was 14. I snore.
•  I’ve been known to pick my nose, and to fart.
• I swear a lot (though I try to not say fuck too often when I write.)
• I’m a man who cries every fucking time he watches this:

• I still think this is one of the funniest commercials ever (say it with me:  Svim-vear!):

And, I write this blog.

Once I learned that it was ok to write about my own little world, the writing became a bit easier.

With nearly 1,300 blog posts in my other blogging lives, I learned how to Be My Self on paper (ok, the blog isn’t paper, but you get the idea).

In between the music, and the cartoons, the writing on this blog is more authentically me than any other writing I’ve done.  And, here I am, 400 posts later, with one or two followers who actually read my posts, and, I couldn’t be happier.

To those who’ve been here since the beginning: thanks for sticking around for so long, and those who’ve only recently signed on: thank you, and, hopefully I’ll not bore you too quickly.

Who I Remember and Give Thanks To on Memorial Day

This Memorial Day, I’d like to share a post I wrote for Memorial Day 2010, and have reposted each Memorial Day since.  I’m grateful, and thankful, to all the men and women who have served our country.  And, I am especially proud and thankful to all those in my family who have served.

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Though I was not an “Army Brat,” moving from base to base, state to state, country to country, I am a child of the Army. Much of my life has been shaped by the military, and by the people who’ve served our country. It would be thoughtless of me to let this Memorial Day go by without mentioning (and thanking) those special people.

My mom joined the Women’s Army Corps (WAC) on her 21st birthday. The year was 1944, and, at that time, for her to join, she had to be 21. She enlisted for “the duration of the war, plus 6-months.” At the time, no one knew how long the war was going to last. During the war, my mom worked on the bombing range, working with the surveyors, working to make the bombs more accurate in striking their targets. The war lasted less than a year after she enlisted. Perhaps, if she hadn’t met my father, she might have done more Active Duty time. Instead, she did 20 years as a Reserve Officer. Because my dad was the one who was Active Duty, my mom had to go from base to base, and, thus, her time in the Reserves was varied, taking whatever duty she could at the local post.

My father joined the Navy during WWII, though he eventually switched to the Army. You could say that my dad gave his life for his country, though not in the typical “on the field of battle” way. My dad was a medic, and was on one of the medial frigates during the testing of the Atomic Bomb, at Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands. At the time, it was assumed they were a safe distance from the site of the explosion, but, in later years, as more and more was learned about radiation and it’s effects, they were indeed in harm’s way. On my dad’s ship, they all stood on deck and watched the explosion, in just their uniforms; no special equipment protected them. As the years went by, more and more of the men on those ships died of cancer and other diseases which, it was later determined, were all caused by the exposure to the radiation. My dad died of brain cancer, in 1980, at the age of 55.

Both of my parents were done with their military service by the time I came around (my mom was 42, dad 41, when I was born) so I missed out on the life of a military child. Which, perhaps, might be a good thing. I was painfully shy as a kid, and had a tough enough time making friends living in the same place all my life. Moving around every few years might have been even worse, though, maybe it might have helped my shyness. I guess I’ll never know.

The military was an important part of both my parent’s families. My father was one of 5 boys, and my mom (who was an only child), grew up with her 4 cousins, and they all felt like they were brothers and sisters. Out of the 10 then, 9 were in the military. All 4 of my dad’s brothers served: two in the navy and two in the army (and my dad, who was in both branches.) On my mom’s side, of the 3 who served, they were all army. I’m quite proud of all of them.

There’s quite a history among them all. My mom was among the early number of women who were allowed to serve, helping to pave the way for women to serve in the capacities they do today. My dad, as I said, was at the Atomic Bomb testing. I have an uncle who was among those who landed on the beaches of Normandy, another landed at Iwo Jima. I have an uncle who served under General George Patton. I have an uncle who won two purple hearts. Two of my uncles were in the Infantry.

Of course, growing up with a military family, one becomes friends with other military families. My mom’s two best friends were military wives, one’s husband was in the 10th Mountain Division during WWII, and the other served two tours of duty in Vietnam. A non-family member (though he’s quite dear to me) was wounded on the landing at Iwo Jima. And, then there are the children and their children, and I know veterans of Korea, Vietnam, Desert Shield, Desert Storm.

My parents were never pushing for me to join the military. Of course, I was 14 when my father died, so I don’t think I was ever old enough for him to encourage to join. My mom, while never pressuring me, did like to mention that it was a good place to learn new skills, and find out who you are. There was a time when I had thought about it, though, being gay makes you think even more seriously about it (especially back in the 80s, before being gay was fashionable.) Then, of couse, there is my bad eye, with it’s blind spot and 20/200 vision which may have kept me out (or at least away from a gun) and, then, when I was 22 I found out that I was HIV+, and, in the early days of AIDS, we weren’t accepted most places. So, any thought I had about the military pretty much ended. I would like to have joined, to continue a family tradition, and to make my parents proud. She’s never actually said so, but, I think, mom’s a bit disappointed that I didn’t join (though, in her own way, she understands about my being gay and the HIV thing keeping me out.)

It was probably for the best that I didn’t join. I’m not sure I’m military material. I am, however, very proud, and very thankful to be surrounded by so many who have been in the military. I am humbled and honored to know so many people who have served in our country’s military. For those in my family, for those friends, and for those soldiers I don’t even know, on this Memorial Day, I offer my sincerest thanks for all that you do.

Scenes From Restaurants At Dinnertime

Reblogged from Poetically Versed:

Scenes From Restaurants At Dinnertime

1

The booth across the way:
a young mother and her son, who is perhaps eight or nine,
are seated, and contemplate their menus
until the waitress takes their order.
The woman, the mother, slides her smartphone from her purse,
pushes a few buttons,
then returns the phone to her purse, zips it shut,
and pushes the purse away from her.

Read more… 294 more words

From my poetry blog -- a poem I wrote

Breaking The Bottle: Finding Belief In My Self

I’m beginning to think that there really aren’t enough hours in the day. At least, not enough hours to do what I want to do.

Perhaps, if I procrastinated less, that I might find more time.

Interesting thought.

Will have to pursue it later.

I’ve been trying to write more regularly, which is good. Writing is like any other habit: it has to be done repeatedly and regularly in order to become a habit.

I’ve tried journaling many times over the years, but, it’s not a practice I’ve been able to turn into a habit. I’ll stick with it for awhile, but, writing over and over on the same theme (“Well, I should write something, fill up the page, but I don’t know what to say.”) gets old. I have had more luck with making notes in a notebook — writing down quotes I hear, thoughts that pop into my head, various beginnings to pieces I want to write; I’ll write a sentence here, a paragraph there, rather than trying to force myself to write 3-5 pages in a journal everyday. Journaling brings out the rebellious streak in me: “Ha! Here’s one page, that’s all you’re getting from me!” Notes are better. There’s no forced time, no forced length. I get the thoughts out of my brain as they happen, rather than trying to remember something until I’m able to write it down. And, I can flip through my notebooks — yes, this is why they are called notebooks! — when I need inspiration for something to write about.

I’m finding it easier to write without listening to that inner-critic voice. It’s tough sometimes, because it’s always there, wanting to correct what’s just been written, or saying “yeah, right, who’s going to want to read this?” But, I’m discovering that it’s easier to ignore it than it used to be. (Though, to be perfectly honest, this may have to do with the anxiety medication, since the critic voice is often the anxious part of you, worrying about if you and your writing (or whatever art) are good enough. The anxiety medication seems to have silenced that Critical Voice. However, I don’t recommend them as an option to writer’s block. Mental health medications have enough other side-effects that one good side-effect doesn’t make it a wonder drug.)

My problem is that I want it to be perfect the first time through. Which I’ve always thought was interesting, because I’m not a total perfectionist. It’s a selective thing. I think there’s a fine line between perfectionism and being anal. I’m too sloppy to be anal. I think the perfectionist thing relates to things I’ll be accountable for. Like work. I want everything to be done perfectly as I do it. Same with writing. It’s got to be perfect as soon as it hits the page. But, it’s selective enough to not worry about the clutter on my desk, or the fact that I don’t alphabetize my spice rack.

When I was in school, all my papers were thought about ahead of time, and usually written the day before they were due. The thoughts and ideas had been floating around in my head for days, and when I finally sat down to write, I knew what I wanted to say. I wrote it from beginning to end, proof-read it for spelling and grammar (just in case), and that was it. I never, ever rewrote a paper. Rarely would I change anything about it other than spelling or punctuation. And, I got A’s on every paper I wrote in college. It’s the writing from the heart and soul that’s tough, the creative, or the thoughtful seem to require a ton of effort for each and every word that makes it to the page. It’s like each word weighs some incredible amount, and your mind struggles and pushes and pulls to get it out through your fingers and onto the paper. I’m not sure writing is ever effortless, but, I like to think that it can get a little easier with practice.

The best part of writing though is filling up a page. Regardless of whether it is good or not, there is an almost Olympic Medal Winning thrill every time I fill up another page with writing. It’s the victory over the blank page. Sometimes that empty piece of paper just sits there and stares at me, challenging me, daring me to fill it up with words. With each and every page I manage to fill up and turn, I feel as if I’m throwing my head back and maniacally laughing at it “Ha Ha! You thought you could defeat me and stay blank. Well… I showed you who’s the daddy, didn’t I?!?!” It’s a wonderful moment each time, then it’s followed by a heady crash to the ground as the next page is then empty, issuing forth the same challenge to be filled. I really do understand why so many writers become depressed, suicidal alcoholics.

When I was drinking, I wrote, and when the writing was good, I felt that it was because the alcohol relaxed me, made my mind more open and creative. When I quit drinking, I stopped writing — I chose to stop drinking, I didn’t choose to stop writing: the words just stopped coming. I began to fear that if I was sober, I’d have to give up my dream of being a writer, because I couldn’t write without drinking. I didn’t want to go back to drinking.

After the first week of sobriety, I began to think of things to write about, and I found that I could write for a few minutes at a time. It was a reassuring feeling. After a month or so, I was able to write a few pages. As I dried out, my brain started feeling clearer than it had in a long time. The creative part of my brain, at least. The depression didn’t go away, and, the sobriety made the anxieties resurface — those parts of my brain didn’t feel better. But, creatively, my thoughts feel much more energetic than they have in years. It’s why I started focusing on a blog for my photography, why I started a poetry blog, why I make myself try to post something on each blog every day. That’s why I have been making an effort to write more. The posts may not be the most interesting thing ever, but, it reassures me, it lets me know that I don’t need a drink to write, or to take a photograph. And, getting the instant feedback a blog provides, having people click a button saying they like the post, or writing a note to say they liked it, gives me even more reassurance that drinking is not the key to creativity. (Almost the opposite, really — in the six months I’ve been sober, I’ve made more blog posts than I did in the last six months of drinking — so, that illusion of being a writing genius is just that: an illusion.)

I’ve wanted to be a writer for many, many, many years. I have finally come to the realization that unless I physically put words onto paper, whether it’s typing them, or handwriting them, they aren’t going to show up. If I were a self-help guru, I’d say something like, “For the words to show up on the page, you have to show up at the page.”  But, I’m not a self-help guru.  I’m just a guy, who loves — and struggles — to write.

I learned long ago that reading about writing is not that helpful, because all you really learn is that there is no right or wrong way to write (and I use ‘write’ in the action sense, not in the grammar, style sense). Every writer has a way that works for them. Some outline plots, some use note cards, some use legal pads, some use notebooks, some use pencil, others have an expensive pen — it almost becomes superstitious, like having a lucky bowling shirt, or playing the same lottery numbers over and over; using a Cross pen, filled with blue ink, and a yellow, lined, legal pad becomes your mantra, and the belief becomes “I cannot write with black ink on white paper.” Writing, or any other art really, is about belief in yourself — and, if it takes a yellow legal pad to do so, well, so be it. Holding onto a belief that you need a yellow pad to write is a much better belief than thinking you need a couple glasses of Scotch in order to write.

After years of trying to decide between loose-leaf paper, a three-ring binder, and blue pens; or spiral notebooks and pencils; or WordPerfect or Word; my laptop or my iMac, I’ve decided that what I need to choose is belief in myself. Not in the paper, or the pencil. Not in college or wide ruled paper.

Belief in myself. Believe in My Self.

I love watching words appear on the page, and now I am at a place where I am beginning to make writing a habit, where I know and believe that the words are not going to magically appear one night while I am sleeping. It takes action — from me, to get the words on paper.

Strangely, blogging has been the key. When I started a blog, back when Live Journal was the place to be (in 2004) I had no idea what I was doing. Mostly I wrote crap. Whined about work. Made fun of Anna Nicole and George W. Bush. My audience was two or three people I worked with.

I didn’t blog regularly — I’d have periods where I’d post daily, then other periods of long silence. I moved to Google’s Blogger for awhile. Finally, I migrated over here, to WordPress. (Ok — confession: it was because WP had better blog templates, and I didn’t have to mess with any kind of coding — ease of use has always been a selling point for me.)

Little by little, year after year, I began to realize that there were people out there who would read the things I wrote — especially the things that were less whiny about work, and more thoughtful and meaningful. The first time a stranger leaves you a comment, telling you that what you wrote inspired them, or touched them, the belief you feel in yourself is multiplied by a hundred, a thousand. For me, I felt as if I’d won a Pulitzer Prize.

Somewhere along the way, the alcohol began to get in the way. I could still write some things that were thoughtful and meaningful — just not often. I couldn’t find the ideas in the sea of Scotch and Whiskey that filled my head. I couldn’t find the ideas.  I couldn’t find the emotion.  I know some people become highly emotional when they drink — they become your best friend, they cry about how wonderful you are.  Not me.  I’m more stoic and silent.  At least, when drinking alone, at home.  So there was less and less writing of anything that had more than just a hint of emotion.

Sobriety is an education in seeing your world in a new way.

My demons are still here, still wailing and screeching, but, they did that even when I drank — the drink didn’t really silence them, it just made me not care what they had to say. Sobriety is teaching me that I can listen to what the demons are saying, and that I can silence them by writing about them; that my photography can silence them by letting them see the beauty that’s around me; that teaching myself about poetry, and learning to write poems helps me express my thoughts in even more ways, silencing the voices even further.

I’ve learned that giving something a voice — whether it’s through words or photos, gets it out of my mind. The whispers of the demons don’t like the light of day, and writing about them, for all the world to see, takes away much of their power, because the whispers then reside on the page, not in my head.

Being sober, letting my creative voice speak, has given me strength, after many years of feeling useless, worthless, and pretty much not good for anything. At the risk of sounding sentimentally cheesy, I want to thank each of you that’s clicked “like” on one of my photo posts, or who has written a comment on one of my long-winded posts — each like, each comment has helped me find a little more belief in My Self.

GLASS DUO: Toccata and Fugue in Glass

Reblogged from INTO THE BARDO, A BLOGAZINE:

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the work of Robert D. Rossel, Ph.D.

ANNA and ARKADIUSZ SZAFRANIEC

GLASS DUO was founded by Anna and Arkadiusz Szafraniec. They are the only glass harp music group in Poland, one of few professional ensembles worldwide. They perform both solo concerts and concerts with additional musicians. They have performed with string quartets, various chamber ensembles, even symphony orchestras. They have had several world premieres of musical works composed especially for them.

Read more… 455 more words

Simply amazing! The music is beautiful, ethereal, haunting....

Why I Prefer Pencils

I’ve mentioned before that I’m a pencil kind of guy.

I’ve got nothing against pens.  I just write better with a pencil in hand — better as in quality of writing, not quality of penmanship.

As soon as they make a keybord where I can write with a pencil, and it’s all captured in Times New Roman in my word processing program, I’ll be one deleriously happy individual.

I love writing with a pencil. Besides the sound it makes, scratching along on the paper, I think my fondness for pencils has to do with knowing that I can erase it all at any moment.  The neurotic part of my brain wants my writing to be perfect first time around, but, with a pencil, it is ok if it’s imperfect, because I can correct it with a simple erase of things, and then as long as your erasing skills are good, it appears as if the first draft is perfect.

A pen is permanent. When it’s in pen, somehow it’s official, it’s “The Final Answer”. There’s no erasing, no going back and rewording. All you can do is just cross it out, and pretend like the mistake isn’t there. But, even if you totally scribble it out, in the back corner of your brain, you know the mistake is under the scribble. You’re reminded of your imperfectness everytime you see the scribble.

So, for us neurotics, who feel the need for perfect writing in the first draft, pencil is a much mentally-safer alternative.

It’s also a more environmentally sound writing implement.  One can fill up pages with the meanest, nastiest things about someone, or fill the paper with the kinkiest, pornographic things you can think of.  When you’re done, and the writing is all out of your system…. break out a good eraser, and voila! Blank paper again!  So: Go Green, Go Pencil.

Do You Prefer Pencils or Pens?  Or, are you all high-tech, and type only on your computer?

The Major's Voice

Reblogged from Poetically Versed:

The major's voice grows gravely
Reedy? Possibly.
Raspy? Slightly.
Weak? No.
Never weak.

Commissioned in the 1960s.
An Army reservist:
A woman, in an
Army full of men.
You had to develop
The Authority Voice
In order to be heard.

You retired from the Army,
But brought the voice home
With you.
You never drilled us
To make our beds,

Read more… 18 more words

From my poetry blog ... a poem about my mother, The Major

My Newest Career Goal

I’m not known for being someone who has figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

But, I think I may have figured it out.

I shall become a D-List celebrity writer, known for my thoughtfully eccentric, yet pithy musings.  It won’t earn me big bucks, which is fine.  My needs are simple.

I’ll earn enough that Julian and I can move to England — they’ll be dying to have me as a citizen, because I’m so delightfully pity and eccentric.  We’ll buy a nice cottage in the country, and have a flat in the city.

I’ll give small, quaint dinner parties, where I serve, in equally copious amounts, fantastic vegetarian food, and wine.

In the mornings, I’ll take long walks, in order to think deep, pithy, intellectual thoughts; in the evenings, I’ll drink tall glasses of Scotch and Irish Whiskey.

Life will be simple, comfortable.  No opulence.  Just comfort and joy — all year long.

If my liver ends up giving out, I’ll quietly wade into the river, to pay Virginia Woolf a visit — an act which will add value to my thoughtful little writings, and allow Julian to live comfortably for the rest of his days.

 

I simply need to learn to be thoughtful and pithy.  I’ve already got the eccentric part down.

(Examining this, I’m thinking that with a little tweak here and there… no, not that kind of tweak, coke isn’t my thing… but, with a small bit of editing, this could acutally be a poem…  hmmm… this may end up on my poetry blog….)

 

Remembering Donna Summer: Day Seven

Donna’s follow-up to her 1980 album, The Wanderer, was entitled I’m a Rainbow.  The record company wasn’t impressed, so, after all the demo’s were recorded, the album was shelved.  It wouldn’t be released until 1996.

The album was never fine-tuned, so the tracks aren’t as high quality as they could be.

I can’t say that I’m all that enamored with the album, in fact, with all the hype, and all the rumors that swirled around in the years it was hidden away heightened expectations — mine at least.  So, when I finally got my copy, in 1996, I was rather disappointed.  There are a few decent tracks on the album.

This one, for example:

And, this one:

And, then there’s this rather interesting cover of a Broadway tune:

Even though the album languished on the shelf, a few of the tracks leaked out, and appeared elsewhere.  A track called Highway Rider made it’s way onto the Fast Times At Ridgemont High Soundtrack.

And,, then, there was this song, which became a part of one of the biggest soundtracks of the 1980s (Flashdance, in case you didn’t already know that):

In Which John Reveals His Big Bald Head

First off… don’t be scared.  My head is not quite as big as it appears in the video.

And, secondly… be forewarned ….  it is a bit lengthy.  So, you’ll need a few minutes.

Thirdly: Laughing at me is perfectly acceptable.

Zen & The Branch

Reblogged from NoonTime Photography:

Just a reminder... wander over to my photography blog to check out the latest additions, like this one.

Remembering Donna Summer: Day Two

Yesterday’s post was a look (and a listen) to a couple of songs from Donna’s first album, which was only released in The Netherlands.

In 1975, the year after her first album was released, her first U.S. album was released, and a career was launched.  The first single from the album wass the infamous Love To Love You Baby, that long song that took up the entire side one of the album, ran nearly 17-minutes in length, and featured more than twenty simulated orgasms.   There are shorter, edited versions available, remixes, remixes of remixes, and I’m sure you’ve heard the song once or twice.  Sure, it’s catchy, and fun, but, really, it’s not one of my favorites — it’s a long song, with not a lot of lyrics, which, I suppose was part of the intent.

Side Two of the album had a rather different sound, like this song, Pandora’s Box, which sounds more like the songs from her first album:

In 1976, Donna released two albums, A Love Trilogy, and Four Seasons of Love.  The Trilogy album was based on the same formula as Love to Love You Baby, with side one of the album being taken up by one long track, Try Me, I Know We Can Make It, a nearly 18-minute disco dancestravaganza, minus the orgasmic wailings.  The second side contained five songs, one of which is a disco version of a Barry Manilow song (compete with a few more orgasms), though, omitted for this performance:

I include Could It Be Magic because it’s fun, yet, also to say the following: her next album, Four Seasons of Love, sounds much like this song.  There are four songs, one for each season, telling the tale of the four seasons of a love story.  I think it’s my least favorite album, as there’s no variety to it — the songs are pretty interchangeable.  It was an album without any hits.  So, we’ll just skip right by, shall we?  (Sorry, Donna…. still LOVE you though!)

I Remember Yesterday, released in 1977 , is, probably, my favorite album of this period of her career.  It’s concept was to look at music, past, present, future.  For the past, a blend of musical stylest: one song mixes disco with a 1920s flair, and another mining disco with a 1950s beach-party music feel.  Then, there’s the ballad — the first true ballad to appear on one of her albums.   And, what a ballad:

And, then, there’s The Song.  It’s the closing song of the album, and was meant to represent the future. It’s the song that got the whole world dancing, and changed the sound of music forever.  Wikipedia provides an anecdote from David Bowie about the song:

According to David Bowie, then in the middle of recording of his Berlin Trilogy with Brian Eno, its impact on the genre’s direction was recognized early on:

One day in Berlin … Eno came running in and said, “I have heard the sound of the future.” … he puts on “I Feel Love,” by Donna Summer … He said, “This is it, look no further. This single is going to change the sound of club music for the next fifteen years.” Which was more or less right.”^[5]

It’s been covered several times, sampled endlessly.  The opening notes make it one of the most instantly recognizable songs in popular music history.  The song has held up well, and, nearly forty years on, it still sounds like the future (apologies for the video — the sound and her singing aren’t synced well, but it was the only clip I could find of this 1999 performance):