Sunday, February 12, 2023

The Book Of Love

 



"Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within." -James Baldwin

Weddings don't really celebrate marriage, per say. I suspect that is by design because, if they did, nobody would want to go to them. Marriage, as a stand-alone, is not something to be celebrated--it is something to be endured, tolerated, survived, and re-created, over and over again. Weddings, I propose, celebrate the couple, and the accomplishment that they got this far without killing one another. 

Incidentally, I am getting married in a little over a year, and we intend to have a wedding. We have made it this far, after all, without killing one another.

Weddings should be spectacular! Marriages, on the other hand, can be pleasant, but they are primarily not spectacular, overall. Surprisingly, this should be one of the reasons they appeal to us, though we don't usually know that at the beginning of them. At the beginning, we think they will be something else entirely, something extraordinary. Sex will always be hot and we will both spontaneously want it at the same time, beauty will never fade and neither will our desire for each other. Look how far we are above the huddled masses who have yet to find their person! Young married couples have an intoxicating yet relatable arrogance about them that springs from the sincere belief that they have it all figured out. You can see it in the way they hold hands while walking on the sidewalk, seeing only each other, claiming space for themselves that belongs to everyone.

But then they start living their marriage. One to five years later is when they usually first come to see me in my office for help.

***

There is a theory suggesting that we have a natural tendency to "get used to" something over time as it goes from unfamiliar to familiar. As I understand it, our brains need to conserve energy and direct attention to things that could be a threat, so we pay less attention to things that feel safe. The familiar is seldom a threat, whereas the new and novel can be, at least until we assess the danger. This is one of the reasons that dating someone new is so exciting--it has elements of danger to it. Danger and threat turn up our attention in the moment, bringing us into the present. This is where the spark of life is, and it can be a heady feeling, which is why we love to be with our new lovers as much as possible. 

We love to be in love, don't we? The anticipation, the sexual tension, the excitement of getting to know someone new, the feeling that we are "special". Love makes the world go 'round, isn't that what they say? But the reality is that all of these feelings are in the service of an essential human bonding process, without which we would not continue to survive. The biology of this is functional and not very romantic, so we have assigned meaning to it elevating it to something profound and sacred, and we call it Love.

Big mistake. 

As intoxicating as it can be to have sex with someone new who we feel attracted to and connected with, it ain't love. As much as we are sure that we have found our soulmate because they seem interested in everything we say, it ain't love. As much as we share similar values, as much as we love the same foods, as much as we both want the same number of children, as much as it feels unlike any other feeling we have ever had, it ain't love

But it is something

It is the start of a process that builds trust, safety, and security. It is the start of what may end up being the best friendship you have ever had. It is the beginning of a foundation for raising children (or dogs, let's face it). It is the start of a journey of ins and outs that maybe, if you know what you are doing, lead to real love. Unfortunately, most couples have not yet arrived there on the day they celebrate their wedding. 

***

I always find it amusing when stand-up comedians get applause before they do their set--it's as if the audience is already celebrating a great show, even before it happens. Isn't this what we do at weddings? We talk about how great the couple is together, how it was "meant to be", how happy they will make each other, how their love for one another is immense--sometimes before they have had the chance to actually be a couple for very long. 

In the wonderful book, Wedding Toasts I'll Never Give, Ada Calhoun gives the reason why she does not offer toasts at weddings: "...because I'd probably end up saying that even good marriages sometimes involve flinging a remote control at the wall". How can you both celebrate a couple joining together and remind them that at times they won't be able to get away from each other fast enough? You don't, at least not at their wedding. But these are the things that can be most helpful to hear, rather than the cliched platitudes of loving one another forever or always having each others backs (you will, and you won't). 

You might think that I am not a romantic, but you would be wrong. To me, there is nothing more romantic than recognizing that as much as you love someone, that love will not be enough to keep you together. What is romantic to me is recognizing that there will be days when I won't want to be with my partner, and yet I will keep my promise to him and stay. What is romantic is knowing that there will be times when he will not like me, and yet he will keep his promise to me and stay. What is romantic is acknowledging that he is just as interesting to me when he is boring as when he is captivating. 

Romance does not negate duality, it acknowledges, accepts, and celebrates it. It is the decision to embrace all of it, even parts you don't like or agree with, because that is what it looks like to have someone's back. It is thinking they are sexy even though they just farted, it is seeing them as strong even though they have just broken down in tears, it is seeing them as your best friend even though they have just taken the last piece of bacon. 

Real love does not live only where it feels good, it lives in being interested in another's well-being, at all times; real love lives in putting your relationship first, at all times; real love lives in the feeling that even though you may fail with your partner a thousand times in one day, you wake up the next morning wanting to do better, at all times. Real love means that you both win, not one or the other. It means that when you are at your worst, the value you get from the relationship pushes you to be your best, or at the very least, vulnerable. Real love means that boredom with your partner is not a sign that you have lost interest, just a reminder that you may not be paying attention. Real love means that even though sex may change or diminish, affection does not have to. Real love means that, barring dangerous circumstances, you stay. Not because it feels good all the time, but because you promised to; and though it doesn't always feel good, these experiences can increase the closeness you feel to each other. 

***

I am fond of telling people that "on paper", my fiancĂ©e and I should not work. I like saying this because they know we are very different people and may wonder why we choose each other. But my love for him is not the result of all my relationship boxes being checked. Though some of the boxes are indeed checked, my love for him is primarily based upon the realization that he gives me purpose, he allows me to focus my significant skills of care-taking upon him--not because he can't take care of himself, but because I help him do it better sometimes, and I love to do this. He allows me to practice with him the kindness, patience, and acceptance I have struggled for years to practice with myself, with the result being that I continue to get better--with both of us. My caring for him heals my hurts; my protection of him brings me joy and pride, knowing that I am sparing him even a portion of the pain the world can inflict. 

I am committed to him not because we love the same things, but because he eats the food I make, even when it is unfamiliar to him, being respectful when he needs to decline something. His innocence reminds me of myself when I was younger, before I felt betrayed by the world and those who were supposed to love and protect me, and his silliness invites me to explore what innocence might look like now, as a 60 year-old. 

***

He has asked that we use the song The Book of Love, by Stephin Merritt, as our first dance at the wedding. I will be honest with you, the thought of slow dancing under the gaze of our guests is something that makes me want to run screaming from the room, not because I can't dance, but because I am so private these days. But when I heard this song, or more specifically Peter Gabriel's interpretation of it, I knew we had found the song that I would not only want to be our first dance, but also that I would want to be witnessed by cherished friends and family.  

The book of love is long and boringNo one can lift the damn thingIt's full of charts and facts, and figuresAnd instructions for dancing
But II love it when you read to me.And youYou can read me anything.

It is not your usual love song, because it is about real love, not romantic love. It is a song that celebrates the in-betweens, the quiets, the stillnesses, the sheer dumbness of relationship. What elevates it above all the romantic songs I have ever heard is the way it takes these very ordinary moments, then describes how they transform into something extraordinary when experienced between people who love one another. Real love can be loud, but it is loveliest in the silent moments--your partner sleeping, missing them when they are away, the lull of remorse and repair after a fight, the sharing of sadness, the hushed tingle of a shared secret. It is less about finding someone you can talk with and more about finding someone you can be quiet with. Real love make silence transcendent. Those silences help a marriage thrive. 

The book of love has music in itIn fact that's where music comes fromSome of it's just transcendentalSome of it's just really dumb
But II love it when you sing to meAnd youYou can sing me anything

Our wedding next year will be a celebration of the ordinariness of marriage, it will be a toast to the quiet in-betweens. These are the spaces where we stepped into love, where we risked vulnerability, and where we learned that we could be still together. We have been together for nearly eight years, and though the fire is cooler, the coals keep us plenty warm. Our first dance together as a married couple will be an homage to what made us commit to one another--the gradual realization that we are better together, and our intention and commitment to continue in that direction. 

The book of love is long and boringAnd written very long agoIt's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxesAnd things we're all too young to know
But II love it when you give me thingsAnd youYou ought to give me wedding rings
And II love it when you give me thingsAnd youYou ought to give me wedding rings
You ought to give meWedding rings

Fair warning for those who will be at our wedding: our first dance may be boring to watch. At my age, I would rather not put on a show. It will just be two men, softly holding one another, moving and swaying to a gentle rhythm. There will not be any surprise choreography, no backup dancers, no cartwheels, no remakes of Bollywood musical numbers. Our first dance will represent the best part of our relationship: the quiet interdependence, trust, respect, and mutual reliance we have between us. The subtle movements will be an expression of how these qualities are constantly shifting, never static, and that they require a bit of vigilance and care to keep from toppling over; that love, like most of life, is a never-ending dance, where one shifts around on their feet searching for balance and trusting they will find it. 

You may notice me leading him a bit more than he is leading me, but don't worry, he regularly leads me back to my best self. That is how we are writing our book of love. 



Sunday, January 29, 2023

The New Age


What is a new age? 

I turned 60 on August 21, 2022. As I begin to write this I have now been in my sixties for one week. So far, so good, This time last year, right after turning 59, it was significantly less than so far, so good. I had just recovered from a mild case of COVID, my partner and I had just moved from a situation that was not sustainable. I had a new two-bedroom apartment to put together, and I had discovered that I had an inguinal hernia that fortunately was not painful, but was bothersome and unsightly nonetheless. 

Fast forward to now: the apartment is nicely set up and we love the space, the hernia has been repaired with surgery, and I have been able to avoid getting another case of COVID. 

And now I am in my sixties. 

What is a new age? The word "new" usually refers to anything that has, until recently, not been in our possession or has been unfamiliar to us. It can also apply to experiences and people. It may not actually be new, but it may be new to us. The word "age" can refer to how young or old something or someone is, but it can also apply to a period of time, as in "The Golden Age of Movies". 

The new age I speak of is this period of time (my sixties) that has, until recently, been unfamiliar to me. To be honest, it is still unfamiliar, in the same way a new home or frock could remain unfamiliar after only a week. But here is what I know about it so far:

  • It is better than the first week of being 59. 
  • It feels very much like the last week of being 59. 
  • I prefer being at the beginning of a decade rather than at the end, because I get to make a "10 year plan". 
  • It is more obvious now that I am 30 years older than my boyfriend, who is 30. 
  • There are some changes to my body that I have absolutely no control over. 
***
What is a new age?

I was at a pool party in the summer with men "around my age", and I observed how some are faring better than others, whatever that means. In Los Angeles, aging well means only that you look good, that you are aging well on the outside (but not necessarily on the inside). Of course, it is reasonable to conclude that the outside reflects the inside, yes? At least when the outside has not been, uh, repaired cosmetically. 

Some of it is, of course, genetics. For instance, George Clooney and Brad Pitt will look good as they continue to age--becoming burnished versions of their younger selves. This is quite different from someone like Al Pacino, who is barely recognizable from his handsome younger self. 

For some of us, the environment and our behavior factor into how we age more than genetics. The world can take a toll on a person's face and body! But so can sugar, alcohol, drugs, lack of exercise, and bad relationships. Stress can take a toll. So can racism, homophobia, isolation, poverty, sun-tanning, and war. 

At this pool party, I observed how men of my age behaved together. I don't think any of us, myself included, "acted our age": we ate foods that we should not eat, drank more alcohol than we should drink, in some cases wore swimsuits we should not be wearing (or took them off completely). None of these behaviors were crimes, but it did start me wondering what behaviors I might want to review for myself, as a 60 year-old. For instance, is it, perhaps, time to get rid of some of my speedos? 

When we are young, we don't think about age because we usually don't have to. It is something that is so far in the future that we don't regularly make decisions based on how they will impact our golden years. Youth is one of those things that deceives us; and perhaps unintentionally sells us on the durability of smooth flesh and hard muscles. When we are young and strong, we can't imagine not being young and strong--that is how ignorant we are! But it would be helpful to imagine it, and even to care about it. Because there is a difference between not caring about when the Earth will be swallowed by the Sun (billions of years from now) and not caring about 40 years from now in our lives and bodies. For 20 year-olds, 40 years might as well be a billion. 

***
What is a new age?

Today, in my new age, I am definitely thinking about the next 40 years. I am also thinking about the next 5 years, and I am even thinking about tomorrow. That is the main difference--when I was young, I thought about the current moment more than the future--today it is reversed. But don't make the mistake of thinking that I don't enjoy today because my head is in tomorrow. My tomorrow is influenced by how I think about today--the two are connected now, not separate; my thinking of the future affects not only the choices I make today, but also how I experience those choices. I may choose to drink less so that I avoid a hangover, but that allows me to focus more on conversation with others who may be sharing the space around me. 

In the new age, my priorities are health, relationship, work, peace of mind, and community. I read once that, as we get older, priorities shift from status to connection to security. That makes sense. At 60. I don't have as much time to repair things in my life if I fuck up. Security provides a buffer against the inevitable threats that come with age, ensuring that I can respond with as many resources as possible. 

As I continue into this decade, I will no doubt experiment with different ways of expressing myself in the world (less Speedos?), hopefully settling somewhere that makes sense to both me and to others in my life. And while I navigate this road, I will also no doubt be thinking about turning 70. But I might be better off thinking less about how I want to be and more about just being. My hesitation with that is the concern that I am less likely to succeed at spontaneous expression now than I was as a younger man. 

Spontaneity, when young, is cool. It is sexy. It is hip. It inspires. In old age, spontaneity can look sloppy, inspiring ridicule. Why is that? Maybe older bodies don't move as smoothly as younger ones, but does that mean they should not move? 

Perhaps the path forward, for me, is to pay attention to the world and the people who surround me during the day, and let that stimulate my response. If I am paying attention, would my response not be both spontaneous and authentic? Authenticity does not age since it is of the moment, and I suspect that my attention to the moment, and what it offers, will shift the conversation from what is appropriate to what is authentic, and what is authentic is rarely ever inappropriate. 

I really don't want to be laughed at. 

***
What is a new age? 

There is no one template for me to follow regarding being 60. Everybody is doing it differently, it seems to me (not all of them are doing it "well"). Some are accepting the effects of age, as well as both the new limitations and opportunities, by making necessary adjustments, while others are denying the same with every dollar in their wallet. Shouldn't we feel good about reaching 60, or any age for that matter? I do, so far. But more and more it seems that the markers of age: wrinkles and wisdom, insight and patience, silence and contemplation, humor and compassion, are rarely seen, valued, or respected. Respect is at times a response to respectful behaviors--is it not? Are older folks behaving "respectfully" these days?

If you are wondering how I define respect, I lean towards a Kantian view of it: respect means not treating yourself or any other as a means, only as an end. Translation: you don't use yourself or others as a way to get something else. 

If one wonders why nobody values old folks, you might tell them it is because nobody values being old. There is little value today in being older because young people do not want what older folks have to offer, at least that is what I notice in Los Angeles. Wisdom? No thank you! Money is valued more. Patience? Fuck that! I want what I want and I want it now (it doesn't help that we can usually get it right away). Insight? Too painful, expensive, and time-consuming--why spend time in therapy when we can instead do ayahuasca and feel more enlightened the next morning?

There used to be purpose in growing older--we were the "elders", guiding the youth, caring for the young while the parents hunted or worked in the village. It is so different now, obviously, because we are no longer hunter-gatherers as we once were, at least most of us are not. We now hunt and gather money, and since youth is where the money is, that is valued more. Experienced folks are seen as "out-of-date", with nothing to offer. 

If only they knew what we had to offer. 

***
In my psychotherapy practice, clients come to me for what I have to offer them, and I am grateful to have chosen a career that grows in value with my age. And yet, I am still figuring out what value my age has for me, even though I suspect I may be going about it the wrong way. I would like my new age to be similar to David Byrne's life, who, at the age of 70, still rides his bicycle around Manhattan and performs music with younger musicians in a way that lifts the spirit. (I highly encourage you to watch "American Utopia" on Netflix if you have not already done so.) This demonstrates that as people get older, they can "be authentic" to their age and continue to be vital; inspire and be inspired by younger generations, being true to oneself AND being influenced by what is new. 

Many of the elders I admire are (or were, some are gone now) musicians or actors, mostly because they are the most visible: Annie Lennox, Bruce Springsteen, Bonnie Raitt, David Bowie, Barack and Michelle Obama, Lenny Kravitz, Pema Chodron, the 14th Dalai Lama, Jimmy Carter, and so on. I admire folks who have not just kept themselves healthy and fit as they age, but also those who remain engaged with the world in meaningful ways--you could say that they have an enduring curiosity about life. 

If there is one common denominator between all of these people I have named, it is that nobody is laughing at them. That is my gauge. 

I don't want anyone to ever look at me, as an older man in the world, and laugh at how I am acting or presenting myself. And while this may seem to be an objective gauge, measured by an outside observer, I would counter that the gauge is also internal--that I will know way before an outside observer will if I am being ridiculous. How will I know when I am acting/talking/dressing in a way that is laughable? Well, I will have to listen to my intuition, and pay attention when it signals that I am being inauthentic. 

There are a lot of people who talk to me about their desire to be "authentic". That can be a tricky ambition if they define authentic as a goal. In reality, it is a value, not a goal, meaning that it is a direction in which to head rather than a destination to get to. Let's break it down. Here is a list of descriptors--see if you can guess which ones are associated with authenticity and which are not:
  • ridiculous
  • silly
  • mindful
  • genuine
  • deceptive
  • attentive
  • irrational
  • judgmental
  • compassionate
  • curious
I won't bother to tell you which is which because it is better to sit with your own process of examination, but you may notice that the states you associate with authenticity all require a degree of mindfulness. In my view, mindfulness is not just being aware of what is happening inside of you, but also noticing what is happening outside of you--it is your inside world paying attention to the outside world and then noticing how the inside world feels about that--it is a response rather than a reaction, it is about the moment rather than the unknown future, it requires attention rather than distraction. Authenticity is less about who you are and more about who you are in the moment that you are in.

True authenticity is rarely, if ever, laughed at. And this is my goal. 

***

In many ways, my entire life has been both extraordinary and commonplace. When I think about it, getting married for the first time in my 60's could be extraordinary. Or commonplace. I am not sure which--what elements distinguish those categories? Maybe it depends not on how I look at it, but instead how others look at it. To me, the decision to get married now feels natural--there is nothing impulsive or spontaneous about it, but I can understand why others might look at me and think: Why now? Why him? Whereas I think, if you love someone that much: Why not?

Remember that poster you would see with poem about the lady who will wear purple everyday once she gets old? I am not even sure it was purple she wanted to wear, but that is how I remember it. The poster seemed to be saying that, ideally, you stop giving a fuck when you get old--you can do what you feel like doing and not care what others think (like wearing purple!). Sounds a little like becoming a child again, but without the supervision or carelessness. Think Ruth Gordon in Harold and Maude, and you will get the picture. She was free. She was even free to choose when she died. 

But remember that even with Maude's freedom, she choose to enter into a relationship with Harold, loving him dearly. Her relationship was not a cage, it was not a trap, it was an extension of the way she lived her life, an expression of her freedom to choose. True freedom does not mean that you go around doing whatever you want whenever you want, it means that you have the ability, resources, access, and willingness to make your own choices, whether it is to get an abortion, live alone in the woods, get married at 60, or wear purple when you are old, while also accepting responsibility for the effect and consequences of those choices on yourself and others. 

It means that you find authenticity in attention to the moment--noticing not only what is happening around you, but also what is happening inside you, and then responding to that--or not. True freedom cannot exist for me without interdependence on others, because true freedom requires outside support and mutual reliance. I am not sure what freedom will look like for me in my new age, but I can know a bit about what it will look like today, so maybe I will just start there. This is how I want to do my 60's.

This is my new age. 

Sunday, October 10, 2021

Leaving Hudson Avenue, in Five Parts, With Some Pictures


This essay, which I expect few to have interest in, is a compilation of the thoughts that went through my head as I prepared to move from an apartment I have been in for 20 years. Initially I was going to publish each part separately, but then I decided to join them together. What the hell. Ultimately, this is a piece about change. I wrote it to sort thoughts in my head, but if it resonates with you then I am very glad.

Part 1: Madonna Released

June 2021

I am moving.

I have not moved in 20 years, so I don't remember much about how to move. I know that "moving" is involved, but what else other than that? How does one actually move?  

The funny thing is that the move is less than a mile away from where I am now. So maybe I am really "budging" instead of moving. Nevertheless, something is happening that I have not done in a long time. 

The other day, in preparation for the move, I gave away a large bin containing magazines with Madonna on the cover that I have been collecting for nearly 30 years, starting around 1985. I think I stopped doing so about 5 years ago, mostly because Madonna is on fewer magazine covers these days, but also because I think I care less than I used to. 

In 1985, however, pretty much all I cared about was Madonna, and the magazines were a way to track her ascension in pop culture and as an influence in my life. In 1985, I was 23 years old, and I badly wanted what she had: looks, confidence, style, attitude, sex, talent. Who didn't? As a gay man navigating my identity and manhood amidst the collage of templates in 80's culture, Madonna offered the whole package, and then some. In fact she created many of the templates herself. I cared very much about all of that back then.

But in 2021, at 59 years of age, not so much. 

If you happen to be over 50 yourself, I wonder if you notice your priorities shifting? I have with mine--not all at once--but slowly over time, like sand dunes manipulated by a gentle wind. Things that I used to care very much about don't mean so much to me anymore, and things that I did not value so much as a younger man are becoming more important. My Madonna magazines reside in the first category. 

***

When I started collecting the covers, I was very much influenced, like many young folk, by pop culture. When Madonna hit, she was both in and out, hot and cold, master and servant, slut and virgin. With her as inspiration, I realized that I didn't have to settle for just one way of presenting, or experiencing, myself. She helped me to reconcile, accept, and ultimately celebrate the dualities within myself.  

She offered so many variations of herself that it was dizzying at the time, but they were all pretty damn perfect and so believable that every time she morphed I would question whether the previous incarnation were in fact a false version the whole time. Magazines documented all of it, with great lighting, and I would buy and keep them as a sort of record, I suppose, of something happening during my time that had not happened before (and has not happened since, I would argue). She graced so many magazines, because Madonna on the cover guaranteed an audience. She was a goddess in our midst. She was both one of us, and above us, a much more appealing example of the divine than the catholic god I had grown up with (who was not one of us at all, despite, you know, Jesus). 

***

The other day, a man who found my ad on Craigslist showed up in a truck and took the whole lot from me. It was over and done with in minutes--30 years of carting that bin everywhere I moved, and now they are in the custody of someone else, to be offered to those who currently care more than I do. And that is okay. I no longer need them to anchor or guide my identity. Let them go to those who do.


Part 2: Letting Go Of The Shoeboxes

In Part 1, I wrote about letting go of my collection of magazines that feature Madonna on the cover. If you read that part, you may have come to the conclusion (understandably) that it is "easy" for me to let things go. You would be wrong, of course, but don't feel badly--I think most would come to the same conclusion. Truth is, it's as difficult for me to let go of things as it is for many people. So when I need to do this, I simply extract the emotional component from the decision and allow myself to be guided by practicality and rationale. 

We all do this whether we realize it or not. It's a crude example, but every time you flush the toilet you are letting go of something that was very recently a part of you. Most of us never even think about it, nor do we question the decision. It leads me to suspect that when it is difficult to let go of something, it has less to do with the something, and more to do with the meaning we have assigned to it. 

***

I was talking with someone the other day who was had been going through old letters and pictures, deciding what to keep and what to toss. This person does not have children, which adds a particular emphasis to the deciding process. He was concerned that if he tossed something out, the memory might be lost forever. I think he may be right. If we discard our past or there is nobody to whom we can pass on the record of it, does it disappear? And if it disappears during our lifetime, what impact does that have on present-day us? In other words, how much of our present-day self is reliant on our past self? 

Do you ever think back to a year of your childhood and wonder how much of it is lost to memory? We forget much of our lives, because there is really no reason to remember that much of it. Journaling or keeping a diary is no guarantee we will hold a memory, because I have read some of the journals from the past and cannot remember living through what I wrote about. This makes me wonder something else: is memory what makes a life, or is it something altogether different? 

***

When I was in my 20's, I was trying rather hard to not be gay, or at least not to be thought of as gay, and a female friend of mine tried to help me with this doomed project. We decided that it would be best to discard any written evidence of the gay in my life: cards, letters, correspondence from men I had gone out with that I had kept as mementos (I think I wanted evidence of being loved). We gathered many of them up and threw them out a dressing room window in the dance studio where we both studied ballet (I know, right?). The window emptied into an alley that was closed off from the street. Anything that fell into that alley would probably stay there for eternity. 

I remember watching the letters and cards of my love life float down to the ground, and wondering if I were making a mistake by throwing away my (gay) history, the written memories of my romances. At the time I (we) thought we were doing the right thing. Today, I can say in hindsight that it was a mistake, because those cards and letters would have meaning to me now--they were a record of my emotional and sexual past, a roadmap to my adulthood. At the time, they were a record of a past I was trying to forget. 

The Madonna magazines were less a record of my past and more of a record of the past--a past that is accessible anywhere on the internet today. So letting go of them was really only letting go of a physical record. I can look up any of those magazine covers online at anytime. The magazines themselves have lost meaning to me--my identity is no longer influenced by how Madonna lives her life--I find meaning elsewhere these days. 

***

My partner has more trouble than I with letting go of things. In preparation for our move, I told him that I would go through his closet and toss anything "unnecessary". Not things he needs and wants, mind you, but items such as empty shoeboxes, for example. He objected to this proposal, telling me that "You never know when you are going to need a shoebox." While this may be true, I responded, "When you need one, I am sure we can find one." Today I threw out several of them while he was out of the apartment, sparing him witnessing the carnage. I also changed out his mismatched clothes hangers for ones that match, because if there is one thing I can control, it is whether or not the clothes hangers match. 

I take my wins where I can get them. 

His challenge with letting go of things seems to be different than mine. He is less concerned with losing memories, and perhaps more worried about having future regrets. In this regard we are certainly cut from different cloths--I have confidence in my ability to pivot in the future. He would rather make the right decision in the present moment. I feel that my skill is more useful for the world we live in today, but of course I am biased...and also right. Fortunately, there is room for two perspectives in our household. 

As long as I get to throw out the shoeboxes.  


Part 3: Keeping the IKEA shit

Who has not bought IKEA furniture? The trick to doing so successfully is to know what to get, and what not to get. Trust me, there is more of the latter, so perhaps that is more important to know. Over the years I have purchased items from the store, but not too many. I am one of those people who can walk into IKEA, take a carry basket rather than a care, and not actually fill it up. But of course I can't completely live without their products. I currently have some furniture items from IKEA that have been in my apartment for 20 years, and they still hold up, perhaps better than I. 

As my boyfriend and I prepare to move 3/4 of a mile away to a new and larger apartment, I decided that I would be taking the IKEA furniture I currently have with me: a large cube bookcase, and a dining room table with extensions and chairs. I decided that I want these items to last through one more apartment before I let them go. Our plan is to stay in this new place for a couple of years, then hopefully buy something in either San Diego or Portland. 

I don't know if this is a rule or not, but I will not be taking the IKEA shit to the place we buy. 

***

I know someone who has a few million dollars. Actually, I know a few people who have a few million dollars, but this is Los Angeles, so that is not unexpected. Anyway, one of the people I know who has a few million dollars told me that when he moves to his new home, he will not be furnishing it with anything from Pottery Barn. According to him, you cannot get good furniture at Pottery Barn, or at least not furniture good enough for a million-plus dollar home. If you want good furniture, you have to buy if from a custom store or from Europe. 

I see his point.

I wonder what he would think of my IKEA cube bookshelf and dining table with extensions? I wonder what he would think of my desk made with pressed wood, the one where the pressed wood is already peeling on the edges? 

I don't know what he would think about them, but I know what I think about them. They are what you buy when you don't have millions of dollars. They are what you buy when you are in an apartment instead of a million dollar house. 

I don't take great pride in the furniture I have, but I did take some pride in it back when I first purchased it, because it was mine, and I bought it new as opposed to getting it at a thrift store. Buying new furniture, at one time, was as important to me perhaps as it is to some people to buy quality pieces from Europe. I don't blame either of us one bit, not one bit. Don't we all do our best to make ourselves feel good in our homes? And we do it within our means. 

I am not ashamed of my long-lived IKEA pieces, because they represent the best I could do at the time, and they have served me well, and will continue to do so through one more apartment. Once we buy a place, I cannot promise that I will buy European furniture--I may in fact take a look at Pottery Barn, but you never know. What I do know is that it won't be a million dollar place, but that is just fine. For me, it is the same as I suspect it is with those who have a few million: we are both interested not in what it costs, but rather how well it will fit. 

It would, however, be nice to have a desk that does not peel on the edges.

***

For the apartment we are going to, I am keeping the IKEA shit. In my book, IKEA is fine for an apartment, but not for a home. I am aware that it may be different in your book, and I respect that. We are all entitled to have our own books. 


Part 4: Goodbye, cunt!

Have you ever wanted to call someone a cunt? If you have, I would imagine that you thought very carefully about doing so, because once you call someone a cunt, you cannot take it back. There is no way to "accidentally" call someone a cunt--it is an intentional affront in every instance of usage. I have thought about calling others cunt much more than I have actually done so, which is a good sign or a bad one. I am undecided. But I do wonder what it says about my life that there are people I consider to be cunts, without a sliver of doubt, in my world. 

What exactly makes someone a cunt? Well, they must be mean, and by mean I mean they don't care much about how others feel. But wait, there's more! To be a cunt, one must not only be mean, they must also feel justified in being so; in other words, they can't see their cuntiness because they are too busy playing victim. For these people there is no turning back from cuntitude, because they have already decided that they are right and the other is wrong, end of story

I like this passage  by Hannah Croft from this page that defines cunt compared to other words used to describe female genitalia: 

"While vagina describes part of the interior sexual organ, and vulva describes the exterior, the word cunt encompasses the whole thing – it’s the only word that describes the whole shebang. More than this, vagina literally means “sword sheath”, in other words, a “dick-passage”, so you could say cunt is actually the nicer and more anatomically correct word to use.

Semantically speaking cunt is simply the female equivalent of dick, as both are signifies for a sexual organ, and when you look at it like that the whole hoo-hah surrounding the use of cunt in conversation does seem somewhat strange."

It does seem strange, doesn't it?  

What's the difference between calling someone a "dick" and calling someone a "cunt"? I guess it depends on what country you are in. In the UK, cunt is used more frequently, mostly to indicate that someone is being a jerk, whereas in the U.S. the word is seen as reprehensible and offensive primarily to women. Perhaps, beyond the meaning ascribed by the receiver, the aggressiveness is because of the hard "c", which practically begs the user to spit out the word. Americans have a hard time with hard consonants, I notice. They generally prefer soft consonants, words like prayer, flower, and lasagna. The one exception is the word God, which is practically all hard consonants, but that does not seem to bother the fussybutts. Strange. I suspect that the hard consonants are the reason that so many scream out "Oh God!" during sex--it is a primal utterance! 

"Dick" has a hard "c", and is more acceptable in society, still I find it odd that so many insults are about labeling others as sexual organs. 

***

My "neighbor soon to be ex-neighbor", who is also a "tenant soon to be ex-tenant", is definitely a cunt extremis. She is mean to the core, and only cares about others feelings when she is being treated well, or when she is playing with other cunt-victims like herself. When she is not getting what she wants, she turns on you, fast. And when you call her on this, she feigns shock, as though her wonky brain cannot fathom her own bad behavior. She is a cunt. 

She has been a cunt, off and on, for the 20 years I have known her. When I first started managing this building, I remember she came over and knocked on the door, and demanded that I unlock the electric meter panel for the power company. I asked her why this needed to be done, and she replied, "You don't need to know, just do it!" I laughed at her and slammed the door. And there you have the root of cuntiness: entitlement. Entitlement is always, always, a coping mechanism enlisted in the task of protecting one against a fear of loss.

A couple years after the electric panel incident, the police were called on her when she dragged her then-boyfriend down the street a bit as he held onto the door of her car. He wisely flew the coop, never to be seen again. 

The sad part is that, for much of the time, the cunt and I were able to achieve a sort of dĂ©tente in our interactions. We greeted one another with pleasant words, and I did her favors like taking her packages in when she was away. But the civility was, in hindsight, condescending of her. She tolerated me because it worked for her to do so, until it didn't. 

Fortunately, I will never have to see her again after I leave Hudson, and hopefully I will think of her less and less. There are too many people like her out there, the funcional mentally disordered, who act like toddlers throwing tantrums but in fact are far more dangerous. The neighbor hides her cuntiness behind the veil of "social justice warrior", which justifies her meanness, because, after all, she is fighting for the oppressed! The problem is, I don't think she really cares about anyone but herself. I suspect she only helps the oppressed as a way to validate her cunty ways. 

There are so many things I would like to tell her, but I won't, because I am invested in my peace of mind at the moment more than I am invested in disturbing hers. But if I did tell her things, I most certainly would tell her that she is a cunt. The cuntiest of cunts. The Cunt Queen. Cuntilia of Cuntsville. A cunt through and through.

I am moving away and moving on. She will have to wake up to the reality of herself for the rest of her days, and I can't imagine that makes for many pleasant mornings. No matter. I am leaving Hudson, and her, behind. 

Goodbye, cunt.


Part 5: Hello Mansfield


The grass is rarely "greener" on the other side, but one could not be faulted for hoping it is at least green. That is all I want with this move. Anything more will be "gravy", as they say. Green gravy. 

The other day I had to speak with the manager of our new apartment because the electricity had not yet been turned on. A technician from the power company was there, and the manager called to assure me that all was good. But wait. He then handed the phone to the technician so that I could speak with him. "Hello", I said, "do we have juice?" (I was trying to sound cool.) He responded that there would be juice in about two minutes. 

But wait. The manager got back on and asked if they could go into the apartment to "test" the lights. I agreed to this plan. But wait. He called me back from inside the apartment and assured me that the lights were, in fact, now working when turned on. He then wanted to put me back on the phone with the technician to "thank him again". In the background, I heard the technician say, "Tell him that all is good and to have a nice weekend." That poor technician! 

But wait. The manager then proceeded to reiterate why it was the right decision for me to take the apartment, because with him as manager, I will be "safe" there. He then told me for the millionth time that he trusts me and I am a good guy and a "gentleman". He continued on until it started to wear on me, and I finally had to say to him that I had to go.

But wait. Earlier in the week, I got a text from him that said, "Do you miss me?" I assumed he was thinking he had texted another person, but it concerned me nonetheless since it came to my phone. I responded, "Excuse me?", after which he then called me to profusely apologize for sending it by mistake. I tried to ease his discomfort by joking, "You probably thought you were texting your girlfriend!", and we both had a good laugh. Ha ha ha!

New street, new apartment, new nonsense. At least the nonsense at the new place amuses me. I prefer amusement to annoyance.

***

I have never been a fan of "starting over". While I understand the romance of thinking that way, it's a fool's illusion. We can't start over! But we can change directions and head toward a new destination. Though I am only moving 3/4 mile away, I am hoping that it will be a huge change in direction for me. In fact, I am counting on it. There is no way I would have put myself though the difficulty of moving if I thought it would be otherwise. 

One thing that eased the difficulty of the move was when I just pretended that instead of moving, I was  doing a "deep cleaning". 

***

I have always had a certain confidence about changing directions. I feel very fortunate in this regard. I have read that some people, especially those with certain types of Attention Deficit Disorder, have no confidence in changing directions. Where I see fresh possibilities and the ability to adjust course if needed, they often see only negative outcomes and the potential for regret. Had I been born with a mind that worked this way, there is little chance I would have had the life I've had, because my life has been all about changing directions with confidence. 

Wherever I go, I find a way to make it work. And wherever I am, I will stay as long as I can make it work. Hudson has not been working for me for a long time. Mansfield Ave., you're up. 

***

It is perfectly okay to walk away from a situation that is not serving you anymore. But walking away is only half of the action--walking toward is the other half. I have walked away from stress, walked away from judgement, from guilt, from disrespect, walked away from being treated as a means rather than an ends. I have walked toward peace of mind and greater control over who takes up my time. And all it took was three months of hard fucking work and a shift 3/4 of a mile northwest. 

Sometimes the biggest moves are just 3/4 of a mile away. 

I wonder, at times, if my desire to keep moving in some way is caused by a fear of death or a zest for life. As I write that, I realize that a true zest for life can only spring from a healthy fear of death. Fear of death does not have to mean a literal fear of dying--it could mean a fear of not living anymore. The difference is that the former is about avoidance, and likely rooted in the future, while the latter is about embracement, and rooted in the present moment. 

When one is embracing the present, regardless of what is happening, why would you want life to end? Even in painful moments, there is an aliveness to present experience when experienced in the present. This cannot be done when one is dead, obviously. 

Perhaps my desire to move from Hudson is a little bit of both fear and zest. Perhaps. Now that I think about it, maybe saying goodbye is always both fear and zest. Maybe. I don't mind a bit of fear as long as there is some zest in the mix. 

Saying goodbye. I have done this before, and I will likely do it again. I have said goodbye to the Naval Academy, Starbucks, my brother Mark, my niece Summer, my cousin Patty, and others. It is perfectly okay to say goodbye when you are not treated well. Goodbye, Hudson. Goodbye, Madonna magazines. Goodbye, cunt. 

Hello, Mansfield. 

ANTIDOTES TO FEAR OF DEATH
by Rebecca Elson

Sometimes as an antidote
To fear of death,
I eat the stars.

Those nights, lying on my back,
I suck them from the quenching dark
Til they are all, all inside me,
Pepper hot and sharp.

Sometimes, instead, I stir myself
Into a universe still young,
Still warm as blood:

No outer space, just space,
The light of all the not yet stars
Drifting like a bright mist,
And all of us, and everything
Already there
But unconstrained by form.

And sometime it’s enough
To lie down here on earth
Beside our long ancestral bones:

To walk across the cobble fields
Of our discarded skulls,
Each like a treasure, like a chrysalis,
Thinking: whatever left these husks
Flew off on bright wings.

A Dining Room fit for dinner parties

Home.


Sunday, May 2, 2021

Time After Time


In 1983, I was 22 years old, and living in San Diego, CA. I often think about times in the last century when I would have liked to have been 22 other than the time when I actually was 22, and it usually narrows down to the following years: 1922, 1950, 1960, and 1979. I have selected years where, at the age of 22, I would have avoided the drafts for wars that were occurring around those times, while still enjoying major cultural shifts. The exception to this of course is 1979 and the War with AIDS. There is no way to have reveled in the glorious glow of the Sexual Revolution/Gay Rights Movement/Disco Era without intersecting with that crisis, but I think, I think, that it would have been worth it. With COVID-19, most people who die have little to show for their suffering, whereas if you succumbed to AIDS in the early 80's, you could at least say that you had danced like a motherfucker

1983 would have definitely been on the list even if I had not been 22 at the time. It was simply a banner year in many ways. For one thing, it was a bit easier to avoid AIDS in 1983 as a 22 year-old because I came of age late enough to adjust my sexual behavior in response to the horrors around me. Had I been born just a few years sooner, I doubt this would have been the case. 

For this essay though, the main reason it was a banner year is because of the music that was released. In 1983 we enjoyed first albums by Madonna, REM, and Cyndi Lauper. I could stop right there, but in addition there were superb new albums by David Bowie, U2, R.E.M., The Police, The Talking Heads, Eurythmics, and so many more. The previous year, 1982, was when pop music embraced New Wave so much that many feel that the 80's, at least how we think of them musically, did not actually begin until 1982. Though both disco and New Wave were danceable, the latter emerged from the punk scene of the 70's, while disco came from the black, gay, and European underground dance club scene. 

While I was enamored by Madonna at the time (like everyone else), one could not ignore the impact and raw talent of Cyndi Lauper, who released her debut album She's So Unusual. Unlike Madonna, who was sexy and confident, Lauper played the other side of the hipness coin: the freaky outsider. She played it to perfection because she was not playing. Madonna was a freaky outsider as well, but her beauty and fashion sense won her entrance into the accepted crowd, so much so that she took over the room, changed it, and ruled it, whereas Lauper was forever the one screaming her head off in the parking lot. Her saving grace is that she screamed really, really well, so well that she drew a crowd, and along the way she showed them that she could also whisper. That whisper is well utilized on the ending of her iconic song "Time After Time", which became Lauper's very first number-one single. 

Since 1983, "Time After Time" has never truly left pop culture, or the culture in general. A song added as an afterthought to the album has since become unforgettable, recognized all over the world as a soulful expression of patience, the yearning cry of one who has no choice but to watch their lover struggle, recognizing that the struggle is not theirs. What greater love is there than to attend to another's pain despite the pain one feels themselves? 

I remember that when the song was first released, I did not think that much of it. I was much more into the quirky danceability of She Bop or the melodic romance of All Through The Night. To me these were masterpieces because they spoke of masturbation and in-the-moment romance, two of my favorite pastimes in 1983. But nobody is really singing either of these songs in 2021. What did I know? 

***

Currently, my partner and I manage a small residential apartment building of 16 units. In the middle of March, one of our tenants, a kind elderly woman who has been a resident for over 30 years, committed suicide in her apartment. She turned on the gas from the stove, tied some plastic around her neck to constrict her airway, and then got into her filled bathtub, fully clothed, knowing that once she passed out from the gas she would slip under the water and quietly drown, ensuring her death. I was working offsite that day, and when alerted by another tenant that there was a smell of gas in the stairwell, I sent my partner over to investigate. He ended up breaking open the door to get past the chain lock, and that is when he and the other tenant found the body. 

She was already dead by several hours. but that did not stop my partner, who is training to be a nurse, from checking her for a pulse and trying to lift her water-logged body out of the water. He could not do so, her body was already too saturated to lift easily. Eventually, the police and paramedics arrived, and they took over, and my partner frantically messaged me about what happened--messages I received in between client sessions. 

I consoled him as best I could in the moment, put my own shock in a "container", and showed up for my clients for the rest of the day.

***

Death is never the end, at least not for those who are still living. It will be months before I, as the building manager, can even begin to deal with the apartment my tenant left behind, because I am required by law to wait until contacted by either family or an executor of her estate. In the event that neither happen, then we are required to store her belongings in the rare case that one of her family show up in the future to claim belongings. In the meantime, for the next three years I will have to inform any prospective tenants, if they ask, that someone died by suicide in the apartment. That should be a draw!

My partner, in the meantime, continues to experience the aftershocks of finding a bloated dead body in the middle of a Saturday morning right before his final exams week. I cannot even imagine what he is going through, or what it was like for him to find her cold, heavy corpse. He told me that he was glad that she was floating face down in the water so that he did not have to see her face. I would take the experience from him in a fucking second, because I have 30 years of resilience and life on him, and I would rather be the one holding the memory and the pain. But I can't do that, no matter how much I want to. He has to hold it himself, while I watch and get ready to catch him should he fall.

"If you're lost you can look and you will find me,

Time after time.

If you fall, I will catch you, I will be waiting,

Time after time."

"Time After Time" is a song about wanting to ease the suffering of a loved one. Who has not felt such a desire? It could be called "love" to take on the suffering of others, but it isn't really. It's selfish in a way--while also being a certain form of caring. Real love is about trust, and belief in the tenacity of the beloved. Real love knows that suffering is bearable because it is washed through the body by sadness: the emotion that kneads a heart into beating again. Real love holds, it does not take. Real love does not bear another's sadness, instead it bears witness. Real love has faith in the beloved's ability to move through pain; real love cushions, but does not stop, the fall. 

Death comes to us all--this is not news to anyone (except those who live in Los Angeles), and yet when it comes it often feels like a poorly planned surprise to everyone involved. Surprise: life ends! (At least for the one who has died.) While many would rather not think about such things, it is the thinking about such things that makes life worth living in my book (and in the book of Existentialists, among others). 

The concept of there being time after time seems to reference the present (time) and the past (after time). It says nothing about a future that is uncertain--merely the implication that time will continue on and on, repeating itself. But if the '80's taught me anything, it is that time rarely repeats itself; rather than time after time", more often it is "time, and new time, and more time, but different". This certainly would not make a good pop song title, and takes nothing away from Lauper's timeless tune, it simply differentiates between those who take their lives and those who choose to stay and live (and bear suffering). 

Suicide is an example of the misguided interpretation of time after time--the belief that death will somehow "catch you if you fall". Newsflash: it doesn't! Life, on the other hand, is an example of time and time: the moments that ebb and flow from suffering to joy, dark to light, despair to love. Romantic notions may lead to great pop songs where relationship breakups are seen as the Hero's Journey, but they do not, in themselves, lead to a great life. 

Suicide is a fake Hero's Journey, the false conclusion that death will somehow redeem all, when in fact it just creates a bigger fucking mess. What my partner did that day was not courage but love--he acted, I suspect, from the knowledge that once you are dead there is no getting back up. You can only do that when you are still alive. He acted hoping that he could help the old woman get back up. He was, by no fault of his own, too late, and so he suffers now. And yet if anything was to be born from this death, it is my greater love for him as a result of his actions, and the knowledge and conviction that I will live to catch him if he falls. 

Lest you think I have no compassion for the old woman, let me assure you that I do. She was always kind to me, and generous in her appreciation for what I did as building manager. I had no clue that she was suffering, if in fact she was. But I can be upset at those I care for when they do things that create a mess for me to clean up. And in case you need further proof that I am not a monster, cleaning up her mess is my continued caring for her despite my upset. 

***

Cyndi Lauper does a surprising thing in her hit song--she cuts the title phrase short--twice, uttering "Time after..." rather than all three words. On first listen it is easy to dismiss this as artistic license, until you realize that she also ends the song this way. 

As I write this essay, our world is on the verge of figuring out what the "time after" will look like, even though we are still in the suffering of a pandemic. As I said earlier, when one says "time after time", they are implying that something will repeat itself, over and over again. But in our current case, we cannot rely on this implication. The "time after" may look like nothing that has come before, so can we still call it "time after time"? 

As I get older, I have fewer time after times than when I was a young man. I realize that death, when it comes, will introduce a whole new category of "time after", altering the meaning of time after time from "over and over" to "life after life". The time after my death may indeed be more time, but it will be time without me. That never really mattered that much to me until I got into a relationship I cherish. Now I think about what my partner's time after me will look like.

My dead tenant did not seem to give much thought to "time after", so now I have to give thought to it, unfortunately. I shouldn't have to do this, because her time (life) was not mine. And yet here we are. In my life today, I am focused on making choices for the time after so that my partner benefits from his time with me in the time after me. His time after me will still have plenty of me in it, if I have any say in the matter. 

But...I am not there yet. I still have time after time, or so I suppose. I still have time. Time after...

Sunday, May 17, 2020

Milkshake


This post was written about activities and thoughts that occurred on 5/3/2020.

The boyfriend wanted to get a Cookies and Cream milkshake from Fatburger today, so that was the plan. I thought that as long as we were going there, I might as well get one too, but I decided on "Banana" flavor. Call me crazy.

These are the days when it takes just one activity to complete our "to-do" list, especially on Sundays. I will admit that, on occasion, the Sunday "to-do" list has no activities at all; this admission comes without guilt, because, well, Sunday. So this Sunday I was excited to have a activity on the list, even if that activity consisted of only one mission.

What is it about milkshakes that make them so appealing? Do I even need to explain it to you? Give me anything with ice cream and all discernment is tossed out the window. Milkshakes are a treats you can enjoy either with a meal, or on their own. If you choose to have a meal with it, the contents are not up for discussion. It must be either a hamburger or a hot dog (preferably a hamburger!), and if you respect tradition, french fries. Milkshake appeal does not migrate beyond these items for good reason--once you find the perfect match, don't fuck with it.
***
Milkshakes are often tied to one's childhood--they carry a nostalgic element in that many happy memories either began or ended with a milkshake. When I think of my childhood, milkshakes were like a kid's version of an orgasm; they were the best thing in the world at the time, and each time you had one it was like your first. Not that they were sexual, they were just perfect, every time, like a mother's hug after you fall down or running naked in a warm summer rain.

Perhaps we all have nostalgia for treats from childhood. Isn't childhood best viewed through nostalgia's lens? In reality, being a child is not that great--though we may remember it as a time of unfettered freedom, the truth is that our enjoyment was often cut off at the knees, and there wasn't a damn thing we could do about it. This is because our freedom, if you could call it that, was without responsibility--that was held by our parents. Our freedom was not free. So maybe it wasn't actually freedom at all then?

***
Freedom is a firecracker topic these days, and for good reason. I notice that many of those fighting for it have no real idea what it is. They think they do, but what they really imagine it to be is the child's version of freedom: without responsibility. This country was supposedly founded on the idea of freedom of expression, but when you read between the lines, it was more like freedom of approved expression, or freedom of my expression but not yours. We see this going on today on both the left and the right, sadly, so it is not a partisan issue.

The truth is that freedom of expression means exactly that--whether you agree with or like what is being expressed or not. As long as the expression is not threatening to anyone, the sky's the limit! I find it interesting that the only time one is held responsible for the effects of their expression is when the expression is a threat in some way--otherwise you have to clean your own wounds. The bigger problem is that the ones doing the expressing rarely take any responsibility for their words, even when threatening, while holding others responsible for theirs. Conditional freedom.

In a world where the norm is to let yourself off the hook, I have to ask myself: Why I have spent a lifetime feeling guilty?

***
The founders of the country were trying to escape tyranny, which is admirable, but there really is no perfect system of government, is there? That's because governments are created and run by people. The Constitution is a groundbreaking document is because its writers knew this about governments, and about people, and necessary checks and balances were put into place to keep any one person from having too much power. It was a bold experiment back then and continues to be so--can we let the people have personal freedom while safeguarding them with laws that limit the same?

Ideally, yes. But the problem today is that this idea assumes that the people being governed are adults, not children. Children, on the other hand, are to be governed by the adults. What could go wrong?

Here is what went wrong. The people who run the government became more interested in their own well-being than the well-being of the people, leaving the people to choose between parenting well and making a living. Children left without parenting have to parent themselves, and we all know what happens when that happens: no regulation, no limits, no boundaries, no restrictions. Children not only don't want those things, they also lack the ability to self-administer them until a certain age. And when they never get those things they grow into adults who continue to think and behave like children, wanting freedom without taking or holding responsibility for their actions.

Today, adult children are having tantrums because they want to go to the beach in Southern California, which, by the way, I do understand. The weather is gorgeous. We have been cooped up for nearly two months due to COVID-19. We are an active society here, with fitness being more important than god (as it should be!). But the truth is that we can't go to the beach yet, because it is not safe. It is not safe for those who go or for the people they then are around. It is not safe--and the science backs this up.

Adults can understand this. Adults, functional ones at least, understand that sometimes we don't get to do what we want to do, don't get to have what we want to have, don't get to say what we want to say. There are no restrictions on what you think, so go wild in that area if you want, but restrictions in the other areas are in place for one reason only: we live among others. And when you live among others, there is a shared responsibility for one another. Don't believe me? Try zipping through a red light next time you are driving and see what happens.



I have always wondered why traffic lights are one rare area where people mostly cooperate with each other, and I think the reason is because if you don't, the effects are immediate and potentially tragic. By contrast, going to the beach seems harmless, doesn't it? And yet the science of this virus tells us that a whole new cluster of COVID infections could result from just one infected person coming into contact with others on a leisurely walk on the boardwalk. It just doesn't happen in your immediate awareness, and you probably wouldn't know those who become infected. But what if the tables were turned, and you did know those who were affected by your behavior? What if they were your family? Would that be enough to make someone rethink their need to go to the beach?

It should, of course, but it shouldn't have to come to this. It should matter if other people become affected by our choices simply because they are other people. To adults, this should matter, not just because it is morally right, but because it is right right and how a civil society works. In a civil society, though there are differences in beliefs and opinions, people share responsibility for one another's well-being, since they see themselves as part of a culture, not just an individual taking what they can take. This is freedom with responsibility, and this is what the bozos wanting to go to the beach don't realize--that they are chasing a false form of freedom--a freedom that exists at the cost of others'. Sometimes, even children know that this is not a good way to behave--so what's our excuse?

The excuse is not that people don't care (though some don't), but that our culture is dysfunctional (the reason some don't care), and for many the only way to win in the short term is as a lone individual; this is understandable (but sad) because it perpetuates the dysfunction. I am not interested in winning while others lose if I can help it (though I admit that sometimes I do, because I am white, male, educated, tall, and privileged), so I make an effort, with my own choices and behavior,  to influence the culture to change. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't, but I never lose sight of the world I want to live in, or the world I want to share with others.

***
My values are solid not because they are better than yours, but because they are internally rather than externally sourced--I occasionally veer from them because they can be externally influenced. This is why it is important to surround yourself with people who support your values. One of the reasons I am with my boyfriend is because we support each other's values (mostly) and each other's vision of a more functional society (completely). We make each other better. But when it comes to milkshakes, one could debate if we are aligning with our values or veering from them. Sometimes the answer is not so clear cut!

Dairy products are controversial because of the effect of dairy farms on the environment. The plastic cups and straws our shakes came in, as well as the plastic lids, were thrown into the trashcan where they will likely go to a landfill and last forever. In this respect our choice to have milkshakes was not a responsible choice, or one we even had to be responsible for, and we knew this. We still chose to get them because we will not get milkshakes for the rest of the year, and because it is nearly impossible to not have a negative effect on something with every choice you make if you live in a city, and because we normally make sustainable choices, and, well, because we wanted them. In other words, even though we wanted a childhood treat, we choose as adults, aware of the pros and cons, accepting both, recognizing that the norm is more important than the exceptions. We tried to choose responsibly, given the choices available for those wanting milkshakes while out and about. I admit it was not perfect by a long shot.

Sometimes this is the best we can do, isn't it? And sometimes we can do better. The goal is not perfection, but awareness, effort, and conscious choice. The goal is to be a functional adult. And functional adults realize that true freedom comes with responsibility, or it ain't freedom, it ain't freedom at all.

***


This morning, on an early morning bike ride, I rode past a man in a wheelchair sweeping debris out of the curb on Figueroa Street in Highland Park. He was an older man, though I didn't get a clear look at his face, and he had a small kitchen broom and one of those handle dustpans that usually connect to the broom so that you don't lose either (or you lose both). Figueroa Street is a major artery, not a quiet residential street, and I wondered why he was "bothering" with this task. But as I passed by him I suddenly got it, or at least I think I did, and I shouted out "Looks good!" and gave him a thumbs up.

What I "got" is that he was doing what he could to create a world he prefers to live in, one where the curbs are clean and where we all pitch in to keep them that way. I also suspect that, given his disability, this was something that he could do, and that it gave him a sense of purpose and importance, both of which can be elusive for older folks with disabilities. Regardless of whether his intention was along these lines or not, he has no way of knowing that he influenced me. He reminded me that anyone can choose to act as though their choices affect others (responsibly). He reminded me that when we create purpose for ourselves, others can benefit. He reminded me that small actions add up to big change. He reminded me that sometimes a clean curb is the best we can do, but also the beginnings of a larger culture shift. He didn't have to sweep the curb, but I suspect that he did it because he still recognizes that he is a part of a shared world, a shared world that includes other people.

I rode on down Figueroa St., but could not stop thinking about the man in the wheelchair. I hope that if I ever find myself in the position of being older, possibly in a wheelchair, that I will make the choice of rolling out to the street and sweeping up the curb. I realize that the chances of that happening depend on my choosing freedom with responsibility, more often than not, starting today.

The day after the boyfriend and I drank our milkshakes, he told me that his stomach was "messed up", and that he would not be having another milkshake for at least a year. I felt badly for him, but I also admired his willingness to have the milkshake and accept responsibility for the consequences and choose accordingly rather than pretending that a creamy sugary drink would be good for his stomach. But sometimes, the upside is worth the downside, isn't it? At least if you are willing to take personal responsibility for the downside. The next time we want a milkshake, though, I think I will make them at home, in the blender, and put them in frosty glasses, sans straws. It's a start, I suppose--a start toward making sure my curb is swept clean.

Wednesday, July 3, 2019

I TAKE PRIDE


I should not be alive. The first time I should have died was when I was in the womb and only 8 months old. My four-year old sister had just tragically died of pneumonia and my mother went into shock, refusing to eat. If you don't already know this, the time to stop eating is NOT when you are eight months pregnant. It is amazing that I did not die as well at the time, leaving my family with not just one, but two horrible tragedies.

I lived, and was born, and I found a way to thrive, against all odds as they say, by learning to "take care of myself". I probably had my first chance to build this skill on the day I was born.

The second time I should have died was when I was fifteen, and I realized that I was attracted to boys and not girls. Because of my Catholic upbringing, this realization was cause for panic rather than celebration, because being gay meant sure hellfire. I suffered from a depression that I could not talk to anyone about. Music is what got me through.

I lived, and I found a way to thrive, because when all was said and done I didn't want to die. I liked life, I just didn't like how others were defining it for me. So I decided to define it for myself.

Today, at the age of 56, I celebrate World Pride Day and Stonewall 50 by taking pride in who I have become. But I did not become me by myself. I found my people and they lifted me up, and continue to this day. Among them are Carla Stephens, Melani Lust, Eric Rosenblatt, Barry Schwartz, Andrew Tee, David P Organisak, Teresa Onstott, Marta Garza, Zuniga Gloria, and of course Keshav Tyagi. Without them and many others I have lost touch with (Michael, Connie, that Protestant minister at the Naval Academy who understood why I needed to leave), I am not sure I would feel very proud of who I am.

So for a little boy who learned to rely on nobody for anything, I take pride in allowing others in. I take pride in opening the door to them, even if they had to knock for days sometimes. I take pride in pushing against the beliefs of my childhood in order to forge a value system that is real to me, not a relic. I take pride in not destroying the lives of those who have loved me. I take pride in completing graduate school with my own money and my own determination. I take pride in being gay in my own way, by being a man who can cry but also fight for what he believes in. I take pride in loving those who still live in fear. I take pride in surviving an epidemic. I take pride in my beautiful queer community who have offered me multiple examples of how to celebrate my differences. I take pride in loving a man today who refused to give up on me. I take pride in what I do and what I do for others.

I make things beautiful--those who know me know this. It is my way of feeling safe in the world and my way of showing love. I did get this from my mother, who, in the midst of crushing grief and guilt, was still able to create a beautiful home for her tiny queer baby boy. That is what she was capable of doing at the time. It is perhaps the greatest gift she gave me--she showed me a way to love when it seemed there was no reason to do so.

Happy World Pride, Mom. Happy World Pride, everyone. We are all a little bit queer. Fall in love with that this summer. Take pride.

Saturday, May 25, 2019

"You Ruin Everything"


"You ruin everything".

I was told this time and time again as a teenager. This accusation continues to influence my approach to life to this day.

***
In his book, The Subtle Art of Not Giving A Fuck, Mark Manson specifies that an unhealthy relationship boundary exists if one person holds another person responsible for how they feel. Conversely, it is also an unhealthy boundary if we take responsibility for another's feelings. Why might this be a cornerstone of his book? Because when there is an unhealthy boundary in a relationship, it always results in disaster. There is no more self-defeating exercise than to hold ourselves accountable for what we have little to no control over, or when we insist that another is responsible for what they have no control over. Trust me on this--I have been testing this theory over the last 40 years of my life.

Here is the thing about feelings--are you ready? We choose our goddamn feelings. Nobody can make us feeling anything, no matter how important a role they have in our lives. It looks like this: someone does something, we have a thought about it, and a feeling follows. Notice that the middle-man of the process is how we think about what happens. Our thoughts drive our feelings, unless, of course, someone punches you in the face. In that case pain drives our feelings. But the majority of the time nobody is punching us in the face. Instead, they are saying or doing things that cause us to think poorly about ourselves.

***
I was labeled "emotional" and "sensitive" as a kid. Mind you, those labels were not complimentary at the time. In my therapy practice, I see couples come in where the woman is often labeled "over-emotional", and I am quick to tell the man that a woman is NEVER over-emotional--she is in fact feeling appropriate feelings regarding what has been triggered in her. My emotionalism as a teenager was rooted in a fear of abandonment--I thought that if my parents knew who I really was (gay) they would not love me anymore. I was wrong, of course, they would always love me, but they certainly were disappointed in how I "turned out". Isn't that a laugh?

Conditional love is still love, unless the conditions are about who the other person is instead of what you can or can't live with.

As a teen, I felt lost and scared. My homosexuality went against everything I was taught about how be loved and how to get into Heaven. It went against everything I learned about how to live a good life and be a good person. I had such a hard time understanding why I was cursed with this perversion--and I had nobody to talk to about it. This led to depression and acting out--as a teenager sex with men made me feel, for a short while, like I was in fact lovable. But when my family found out that (gasp) I was attracted to men, the shit hit the fan. I was emotionally abandoned by both my parents. My father escaped into alcoholism (for which I was blamed), and my mother escaped into denial. My brother just escaped, and he continues to escape reality to this day with his embrace of Mormonism (he would not agree with this assessment, which is just another form of escape).

I specifically remember a phone conversation with my brother when I was 18 years old and in my first year at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, MD. He told me that I was to blame for the family's problems, including my father's drinking; he told me that I had ruined everything. And I believed him, because I had been taught that my desires were selfish and unnatural, evil and predatory, and that the only way to honor my family was to deny who I was (resist the Devil).

My brother was wrong about me, he was wrong about my father's drinking, and he was wrong about life.

***
Gay men like sucking dick. Sometimes they like fucking ass, or being fucked. What is the problem with that? Seriously? In this world, there is so little pleasure to be found at times--mostly because our economy depends on us feeling shitty about ourselves, so who could fault anyone for trying to feeling good? Don't you want to feel good?

The problem with religion is that it has criminalized feeling good, labeling pleasure as the "devil's work". What is wrong with wanting to feel good? Religion has flourished by turning suffering into a virtue, at the expense of, well, nearly everything. Pleasure is not the devil's work, y'all. You know what is? Fear.

Fear is what keeps us from making bad decisions at times, but it is also what keeps us from realizing our full potential as humans. I know many good people who are religious, but their goodness is limited by a forced value system that is archaic and juvenile. What is wrong with sucking a dick? I implore you to convince me of the wrongness of that. Certainly the men who are on the receiving end of a dick sucking would be hard pressed to argue against it. While we need fear, we also need to choose despite fear at times, as these choices can lead us to transformation.

When I was a teenager, I just wanted to love and be loved, but fear told me that if I acted on these impulses, I would ruin everything.

***
I was making a pizza with my boyfriend recently, using a pizza peel I had just purchased. I put flour on the peel so that the pizza would slide onto the pizza stone easily, or so I thought. But it didn't slide easily. In fact, it didn't move at all. I found myself in a panic, not knowing how to get a BBQ Chicken Pizza from the wood peel onto the stone, and I was triggered into feeling that I had "ruined everything". In other words, I started to lose it. Fortunately, my boyfriend sensed my distress and came to the rescue, helping me move the pizza onto a sheet pan where it would bake into a crunchy goodness, and I was able to return to the present moment and ease my upset.

I have to do things perfectly--many of my friends know this. Fortunately, there are many things that I do nearly perfectly, but in the rare case where I am challenged in my perfectionism, I am triggered into feeling that I have "ruined everything".

I am tired of feeling that way. I do not have the power to ruin everything. I never did.

***
My parents, as loving as they were, failed me in many ways. I never ruined things--I was simply becoming myself in a way that they were not familiar with. What was being "ruined" was the way they were brought up to think about parenting--that it is an activity undertaken to reinforce prevailing values. I got news for you--it is so not that! Parenting is a noble act in that it is an opportunity to foster a blooming individual into a world that is constantly changing.

You know what I love about tulips? You never know in what direction they are going to reach. I love putting them in a vase and watching them stretch and strive for the sun--wherever it is. Children are like that--we never know in what direction they will thrive, but with our guidance they will find their way to the sun. The role of parents is to protect and shepard, not to proscribe. Shame on you parents who proscribe! You are serving yourself and not your children!

I found my way to the sun, but not without many attempts by the world to cut me down. My parents didn't try to cut me down, they just stopped watering me. They had an unhealthy boundary with me, holding me responsible for their fear. So I found sustenance in other wayward tulips.

I am still reaching toward the sun.

***
It is time I put to bed the notion that I can ruin everything, because I want to be human in the world and with my boyfriend. I do not wish to take responsibility for how he feels, nor hold him responsible for how I feel. I want, instead, to take responsibility for my choices and feelings, with the hope that I will be motivated by respect and love, knowing that at times I will choose, appropriately, myself over him.

We will get the pizza onto the stone, together, and it will be crunchy and delicious, if not perfectly shaped. Sometimes it will stick to the peel, and that is okay. It is okay. It is okay. It will still be wonderful, not ruined at all. Even if it is not perfect.