(**Note: I know this isn't timely. I wrote it a while back, and I've just been too lazy to post it.)
Hey, there. Thanks for stopping by. I’d like to introduce you to my friend. Let’s call him…Cecil. Where is Cecil? Why, he’s standing right in front of you. Of course you can’t see him, silly. Cecil is invisible, but he’s there – mark my words. Can I see him? Of course I can’t. Like I said, he’s invisible. How do I know he’s there? Why, I just know. Like George Michael said, "I gotta have faith."
Imagine, if you will, an adult with an invisible friend. Close your eyes and think of someone you know. It doesn’t matter who you picture. Maybe it’s someone you’re close to. Maybe it’s just an acquaintance. Maybe it’s the guy a few offices down with that horrible phlegm problem. No matter who it is, just keep your eyes closed and picture having the above conversation with them. Got it? Great. Now we’re going to talk about Prop 8. (Trust me – it all comes together.)
I don’t live in California. There was a time I really, really wanted to live in California. In retrospect I’m glad it didn’t work out. Subsequent visits to the golden state have shown it to be, in my estimation, largely vacuous and devoid of a soul, but that’s a discussion for another time. Despite not living in California, I feel like I have something at stake in the debate over Prop 8.
Before I go any further, I should probably spell out Prop 8 quickly in case you’re unaware. Prop 8 was essentially an attempt to change the California State Constitution to define "marriage" as being solely between a man and a woman, thus eliminating same-sex marriage. It was put to a vote November 4th, and the measure was accepted by a majority of Californians. The aftermath of Prop 8 has been a great degree of protesting, finger-pointing and name-calling.
I’m vehemently opposed to Prop 8. I find it ironic that while we celebrated the election of a black president, a huge leap forward in the saga of civil rights, a majority of Californians also voted to restrict the rights of homosexuals. Strange, but hey – that’s America for you. I don’t believe in discrimination of any stripe. I fail to see how the marriage of Joe and Mike or Cindy and Sally has any negative bearing on my life. Two people love each other? Fantastic. Best of luck to you both. The more love and happiness we can propagate on this fucked up rock, the better. Of course, not everyone stood up against Prop 8. It passed, so it obviously has its supporters. These supporters are myriad, and their reasons for backing this measure are many. However, when one analyzes the numbers, it’s clear who the biggest opponents of Prop 8 were. Which brings me back to Cecil.
(Note : here’s a link to the Prop 8 Wikipedia page, in case you care to argue about my conclusions regarding voter demographics. While Wikipedia is not a reliable source in and of itself, there are a ton of links to jump from. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/California_Proposition_8_(2008) )
That person you pictured earlier, the one with the invisible friend named Cecil, let’s get back to them. You can’t see Cecil. Every ounce of common sense you possess tells you that Cecil isn’t real. Cecil is, to put it bluntly, a figment of this person’s imagination. However, this person refuses to swallow your argument. They believe so strongly that Cecil exists, against all evidence, that it’s clear their mind will not be changed. If I were in this situation, this would be the point where I would make the following statement: "Friend, it’s obvious that your relationship with Cecil is very important to you. I respect that. I, on the other hand, do not share your view and ask you to respect me in kind." That should be the end of the story, right? Your friend goes his way, murmuring to Cecil under his breath, and you go yours. Case closed. Except when it isn’t. Imagine now that your friend isn’t content with this outcome. He produces for you a ream of paper, scribbled with doctrines and edicts and a litany of rules covering everything from hygiene to genealogy to an afterlife. You begin to read this manuscript, and proceed to have a conversation that goes something like this:
You – "Dude, what is this?"
Friend – "Cecil wrote it. It’s a book of laws."
You – "You totally wrote this."
Friend – "No, I didn’t."
You – "Yes, you did. It’s in your handwriting."
Friend – "Cecil worked through me. He works in mysterious ways."
You – "I’m only a few pages in, but I can already see that you’ve overused the word ‘begat’".
Friend – "You really need to follow these rules."
You – "No, I don’t."
Friend – "Yes, you do. Cecil demands it."
You – "Cecil isn’t real."
Friend – "Yes he is. I have proof."
You – "What proof?"
Friend – "It says he’s real right there in Cecil’s book of laws."
You – "Are you kidding me?"
Friend – "Do you really think I overused ‘begat’?"
You – "The book is wrong. Not to mention it was you who wrote it."
Friend – "The book is never wrong. I have proof."
You – "What proof?"
Friend – "The book says it’s never wrong. So there you have it. It’s all very airtight."
So now this person you pictured has this great relationship with an invisible friend named Cecil, who apparently has a thing for illogical and convoluted rules. In addition, this person now thinks that Cecil’s rules are so fantastic everyone should follow them, whether they want to or not. Imagine being forced to live your life according to the weird rules and baseless, circular logic of someone else’s invisible friend. Welcome to the United States of America in the year 2008.
I’m going to get a few things off my chest right now. I’m not providing links to back this stuff up, because frankly I’m lazy. If you disagree with something, look it up and prove me wrong. First of all, this is not a Christian nation. It never was, and it was never intended to be. Many of the founding fathers were deists. A few, Jefferson especially, took great pains to point out their distaste for Christianity. Christians don’t have a patent on the word "God". Second, your values are not the measuring stick you imagine them to be. For examples I point you to Fred Phelps, Larry Craig and any evangelist you see on television. Third, the bible is a book. So is The Cat in the Hat and Bleak House. I don’t ask you to live your life according to Dickens, so don’t ask me to live my life according to your fiction of choice. I’m done now. Yes, I feel much better.
Prop 8 is nothing but an attempt to legislate an archaic and vulgar morality. I don’t see how you make the leap from, "judge not, lest you be judged" to passing moral judgement on thousands of your fellow human beings. I don’t understand how you can hold up a bible as a moral compass, when that compass is filled with subjugation, murder, genocide, rape, slavery and a multitude of "sins" which appear to be sanctioned as long as they’re committed in god’s name. I know the idea of "respecting" people’s religion is in vogue, but it’s a game I no longer like to play. I respect an individual’s right to practice whatever religion they choose, or not practice religion at all for that matter. What I don’t have to do is respect the tenants of their belief.
Let me tell you a quick story. I was talking to a devout Christian not long ago, and she was talking at length about the "oppression" of Christian missionaries in predominantly Muslim countries. She was appalled that this Muslim majority would attempt to impose its values on these poor Christians. This same person later commented on Prop 8 that America has a Christian majority, and that Americans should live according to the prevailing Christian values. When I asked her if she saw anything glaringly hypocritical in these two statements, she had no idea what I was alluding to.
Why Christians? I hear this question a lot. Truth be told, I don’t believe in any religion. I think they’re all equal in their lack of logic and the utter ridiculousness of their claims. I pick on Christianity because that’s what I have experience with. I’ve never had a Jew or Muslim try to tell me how to live my life. I’ve never had a Buddhist tell me I was destined for a mythical land of fire to suffer for eternity. A Hindu has never told me that my gay friends are somehow less of a human being than they are. In a nutshell, that’s "Why Christians".
I need to wrap this up before tangents beget (giggle) tangents.
In conclusion, I judge people by the people that they are. I judge people by the goodness, or lack of goodness, in their hearts. I have many Christian friends. I don’t want to give the wrong impression of myself. I respect their right to their belief, and they respect mine. Most of these people don’t use their faith to prop up their own bigotry, and maybe this is why we get along. Let’s face it, using the bible to condemn homosexuals is just that – giving your own hatred a sense of legitimacy. "But the Bible says…" is a cop out. Do you stone your child to death if they’re disobedient? You should. (It’s in there, look it up – Deuteronomy.) These Christian friends don’t jam their beliefs down my throat and we get along like gangbusters. That’s how it should be, really - everyone judging each other on their merits. Sadly, many see the world through a clouded lens of racism passed down through generations, or long held tenants of dated and hateful religious dogma. This is our world, and we change it slowly and incrementally as we progress and evolve (yeah, I said it) as a species. Remember that in our not too distant past, women and minorities were denied the right to vote, mixed-race marriages were forbidden and we bought and sold our fellow man. We’ve come a long way, and it’s clear we still have a long way to go. We won’t get there by embracing a culture of fear, ignorance and hate. Hopefully I’ll be around to see those last vestiges of ancient ignorance fall by the wayside.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Wet Streets and Yellow Leaves
Let's turn back the clock, shall we? I'd like to give you an exact date, but I can't. My best guess will have to do, and that guess is November, about eleven years ago.
My life was at a proverbial cross-roads. I was living in a moment that just seemed so vivid, so important. At times like those, you think that the moment you're in is defining. Defining in a conclusive, put-a-period-on-it way. At times like those you can't see that life amounts to a string of defining moments. Each exists on its own, a microcosm, but all part of that endless string that ends at the grave. You can't see at that moment that no one is any more or less important than the one before it or the one to come. Hindsight casts a light uniquely its own.
It was a Saturday. The rain was falling steadily and the air was chilly. New Hampshire hadn't yet succumbed to the kung-fu grip of winter, but autumn had begun its slide into not-too-distant memory. The streets were strewn with a litter of bright red and yellow leaves, the rain pattering on them in a muffled symphony. The air was clean and smelled damp and fresh, the perfume of earth and the acrid smell of chimney smoke that associates itself with the coming months of cold.
I sat on the porch with a cigarette, the exhaled smoke mixing liquidly with my own hot breath and rising on the cool air. I felt miles removed from myself for the first time in what seemed like forever. I could feel the moment seem to grow, expand, becoming almost more than itself. I could almost taste the importance. Some defining moments pass unnoticed, exposed only by the scrubbing winds of time. This moment revealed itself suddenly, exposed by those steady fall rains.
I remember this moment now as if it were yesterday. I can still smell that wet, cleansing New Hampshire air. I can still remember the gears in my head turning, my perspective shifting to the rythm of the rain on wet leaves. This moment shaped me in myriad ways. You don't forget moments of such pure and utter awareness.
Later that evening it was a parade of people and beer and noise. We listened to The Vaselines and drank Newcastle. I remember talking to a Russian girl who I couldn't understand, partially due to her thick accent, but mostly due to the fact that she was insanely drunk. I remember being tipsy and walking in the woods, fumbling through the dark and laughing, trying to reach the top of a muddy hill so we could look down on the town. I remember lights twinkling through the mist. I remember there wasn't a shred of moon, and I often wonder how we navigated those woods in the dark.
I remember an otherwise unremarkable day that changed me in remarkable ways. That day defined New England for me in my own mind. I'll always associate it with the chilly rain on the leaves, the smell of smoke and the redemptive power of an unexpected moment that became something more.
My life was at a proverbial cross-roads. I was living in a moment that just seemed so vivid, so important. At times like those, you think that the moment you're in is defining. Defining in a conclusive, put-a-period-on-it way. At times like those you can't see that life amounts to a string of defining moments. Each exists on its own, a microcosm, but all part of that endless string that ends at the grave. You can't see at that moment that no one is any more or less important than the one before it or the one to come. Hindsight casts a light uniquely its own.
It was a Saturday. The rain was falling steadily and the air was chilly. New Hampshire hadn't yet succumbed to the kung-fu grip of winter, but autumn had begun its slide into not-too-distant memory. The streets were strewn with a litter of bright red and yellow leaves, the rain pattering on them in a muffled symphony. The air was clean and smelled damp and fresh, the perfume of earth and the acrid smell of chimney smoke that associates itself with the coming months of cold.
I sat on the porch with a cigarette, the exhaled smoke mixing liquidly with my own hot breath and rising on the cool air. I felt miles removed from myself for the first time in what seemed like forever. I could feel the moment seem to grow, expand, becoming almost more than itself. I could almost taste the importance. Some defining moments pass unnoticed, exposed only by the scrubbing winds of time. This moment revealed itself suddenly, exposed by those steady fall rains.
I remember this moment now as if it were yesterday. I can still smell that wet, cleansing New Hampshire air. I can still remember the gears in my head turning, my perspective shifting to the rythm of the rain on wet leaves. This moment shaped me in myriad ways. You don't forget moments of such pure and utter awareness.
Later that evening it was a parade of people and beer and noise. We listened to The Vaselines and drank Newcastle. I remember talking to a Russian girl who I couldn't understand, partially due to her thick accent, but mostly due to the fact that she was insanely drunk. I remember being tipsy and walking in the woods, fumbling through the dark and laughing, trying to reach the top of a muddy hill so we could look down on the town. I remember lights twinkling through the mist. I remember there wasn't a shred of moon, and I often wonder how we navigated those woods in the dark.
I remember an otherwise unremarkable day that changed me in remarkable ways. That day defined New England for me in my own mind. I'll always associate it with the chilly rain on the leaves, the smell of smoke and the redemptive power of an unexpected moment that became something more.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
A Certain Grosse Pointe Blank-ness
"Someone has come to me out of the past..." - Debi, Grosse Pointe Blank
I have a deep, abiding love for the film Grosse Pointe Blank. My first viewing of Grosse Pointe Blank was the one and only time I ever watched a movie, rewound the tape (this being back in the neolithic period of VCRs) and watched it all over again.
The past week, I've had cause to reflect on a certain Grosse Point Blank-ness that has emerged in my life. I have to attribute that quote, Grosse Pointe Blank-ness, to my old friend 'Suya (one of my recent re-connectees). She used it in an email and it inspired this line of thought. The past has been unearthed, so to speak. The sleeping dogs awoken.
I signed up for Facebook. Nothing spectacular there, right? Millions of people have done it. What I didn't expect was this overwhelming flood of faces from my past. I guess the true irony of it all was the timing. Not long ago, a relationship I was in skidded to a halt. I thought that this pairing might have potential, and when the train jumped the tracks it left me feeling a little punch-drunk. I'm going to be 40 years old next year. I think when you approach that milestone, you can't help but reflecting on exactly where the winding road you're on is leading. God knows I did. From being depressed to angry to sad to hopeful to right back where you started. Quite the ride on life's sick, little carousel. I guess in the end I just stood back to take stock and thought, "where the hell do I start?"
Enter Facebook. Rewind 20 years into the past. In a lovely bit of serendipity, I was given the perfect place to start - the beginning of my adult life.
There I sat, staring at the computer screen. In front of me were pictures of people I'd forgotten. Pictures of people I thought of fairly often. A litany of faces so familiar, but blurred around the edges by time. There in front of me was my past in all its glory. To some, this revisiting of not-so-ancient history may be a non-event. For me, this was almost like a cosmic nudge. After turning my back on the past for so long, I was given a window to look back.
"Everybody's coming back to take stock of their lives. You know what I say? Leave your livestock alone." - Debi, Grosse Pointe Blank
There's a certain wisdom in letting the past be the past. To "leave your livestock alone". Our past shapes us, whether we want it to or not. Sometimes it works on us for the good, while other times it just roughs us up and leaves scars. I guess when dealing with the past you need to walk that delicate line between learning and dwelling. Sometimes you need to let that water flow under the bridge. You need to put things in the rear-view and watch them fade into oblivion. However, I've learned that you need to make sure you don't forget. Forgetting leads to mistakes being repeated ad-nauseum. I have to admit, there are things from my past that I'd forgotten (intentionally, I believe) that have bitten me a few times over the years. What can you do but make a mental note, file under "don't be a fucking idiot" and move forward.
"As a graduate of the class of 1986, you are someone special. Remember, there's nowhere you can go that you haven't learned how to go in time. Whatever the hell that means." - Marcella, Grosse Pointe Blank
I never went to any of my reuinions. I'll admit right here that I was just incredibly ambivalent about the whole experience. Why would I want to see these people that had disappeared from my life many years ago? What would be the point? My thought process had relegated the past obsolete, I think now, in order for myself to avoid reflection. I desperately wanted to not look back, for reasons I don't know if I'll ever fully understand. Now? Now I've sat and exchanged messages with some of these people, and it makes me incredibly happy to have reconnected. I peek into these tiny windows into their lives, and I see glimpses of who they've become. I find that I want to sit down with some of them, as has been discussed, and I want to talk about then and now and everything in between. I want to embrace everything and look back and I want to stop pretending that chunks of my life didn't exist. That and I want to talk shit about people.
I sat the other night, twenty years later, and looked at pictures of the first girl I was ever really, truly in love with. Memories just came flooding back, good and bad. I realized how much I had swept under my mental rug. In addition to being my first real love, she was the first girl who ever broke my heart. Now, looking back, that fateful heart-breaking wasn't close to being the thing I remembered most about our relationship. There were so many other memories that overwhelmed that one. I think that's the perfect metaphor for looking back on things you've cast aside - you often diminsh so much good by trying to dispel a little bad. I was amazed when I realized I could remember exactly what the inside of her house looked like. I could remember exactly what we did on our first date. I could remember the moment when I realized I loved her. In burying the past to avoid refection, I'd accidentally buried memories like this. This is why these recent re-connections have been such a revelation to me.
"They all have husbands and wives and children and houses and dogs, and, you know, they've all made themselves a part of something and they can talk about what they do. What am I gonna say? 'I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork. How've you been?'" - Martin, Grosse Pointe Blank
I've had to admit something to myself the past few days. What really freaks me out isn't the unearthing of the past or these people, but how I've had to look at myself through this new lens. I have to put myself into the context of these narratives, and it's forced me to trace my own arc through life. I have to admit, I've looked at things in ways I haven't before. This is a mixed blessing. This new-found view has opened my eyes to a lot of bad patterns. On the flip side? It has opened my eyes to a lot of bad patterns. Someone may read this and think, "Wow, the level of this guy's emotional baggage is astounding!" That may well be, but I'm learning that when you keep that baggage where you can see it, you can slowly whittle it down and not forget it. I'm slowly learning the importance of this. After all, I am stubborn in my insistence that I learn things the hard way. It's refreshing, that quirk. No matter how aware I am of it, I just can't seem to change it. So, I have that going for me in the consistency department.
"I just find it amusing that you came from somewhere." - Marcella, Grosse Pointe Blank
I had an old friend from high school who moved away. He stopped admitting where he came from years ago. When asked, he'll just name other places in Pennsylvania that seem more...cosmopolitan than Camp Hill. This makes me equal parts angry and sad. His casting aside diminishes everything we shared when we were younger. His refusal to admit who he is and was is like a slap on the face. Also, I've come to realize, it shows me that in small ways I've turned my back on my past as well.
Maybe some would think I'm making a mountain out of a mole hill here. "What's the big deal? Lots of people lose touch and re-connect." For me it's just not that simple. This has pried open windows i'd painted shut years ago, and now the fresh air is a bit overwhelming. Welcome, but overwhelming.
I have a deep, abiding love for the film Grosse Pointe Blank. My first viewing of Grosse Pointe Blank was the one and only time I ever watched a movie, rewound the tape (this being back in the neolithic period of VCRs) and watched it all over again.
The past week, I've had cause to reflect on a certain Grosse Point Blank-ness that has emerged in my life. I have to attribute that quote, Grosse Pointe Blank-ness, to my old friend 'Suya (one of my recent re-connectees). She used it in an email and it inspired this line of thought. The past has been unearthed, so to speak. The sleeping dogs awoken.
I signed up for Facebook. Nothing spectacular there, right? Millions of people have done it. What I didn't expect was this overwhelming flood of faces from my past. I guess the true irony of it all was the timing. Not long ago, a relationship I was in skidded to a halt. I thought that this pairing might have potential, and when the train jumped the tracks it left me feeling a little punch-drunk. I'm going to be 40 years old next year. I think when you approach that milestone, you can't help but reflecting on exactly where the winding road you're on is leading. God knows I did. From being depressed to angry to sad to hopeful to right back where you started. Quite the ride on life's sick, little carousel. I guess in the end I just stood back to take stock and thought, "where the hell do I start?"
Enter Facebook. Rewind 20 years into the past. In a lovely bit of serendipity, I was given the perfect place to start - the beginning of my adult life.
There I sat, staring at the computer screen. In front of me were pictures of people I'd forgotten. Pictures of people I thought of fairly often. A litany of faces so familiar, but blurred around the edges by time. There in front of me was my past in all its glory. To some, this revisiting of not-so-ancient history may be a non-event. For me, this was almost like a cosmic nudge. After turning my back on the past for so long, I was given a window to look back.
"Everybody's coming back to take stock of their lives. You know what I say? Leave your livestock alone." - Debi, Grosse Pointe Blank
There's a certain wisdom in letting the past be the past. To "leave your livestock alone". Our past shapes us, whether we want it to or not. Sometimes it works on us for the good, while other times it just roughs us up and leaves scars. I guess when dealing with the past you need to walk that delicate line between learning and dwelling. Sometimes you need to let that water flow under the bridge. You need to put things in the rear-view and watch them fade into oblivion. However, I've learned that you need to make sure you don't forget. Forgetting leads to mistakes being repeated ad-nauseum. I have to admit, there are things from my past that I'd forgotten (intentionally, I believe) that have bitten me a few times over the years. What can you do but make a mental note, file under "don't be a fucking idiot" and move forward.
"As a graduate of the class of 1986, you are someone special. Remember, there's nowhere you can go that you haven't learned how to go in time. Whatever the hell that means." - Marcella, Grosse Pointe Blank
I never went to any of my reuinions. I'll admit right here that I was just incredibly ambivalent about the whole experience. Why would I want to see these people that had disappeared from my life many years ago? What would be the point? My thought process had relegated the past obsolete, I think now, in order for myself to avoid reflection. I desperately wanted to not look back, for reasons I don't know if I'll ever fully understand. Now? Now I've sat and exchanged messages with some of these people, and it makes me incredibly happy to have reconnected. I peek into these tiny windows into their lives, and I see glimpses of who they've become. I find that I want to sit down with some of them, as has been discussed, and I want to talk about then and now and everything in between. I want to embrace everything and look back and I want to stop pretending that chunks of my life didn't exist. That and I want to talk shit about people.
I sat the other night, twenty years later, and looked at pictures of the first girl I was ever really, truly in love with. Memories just came flooding back, good and bad. I realized how much I had swept under my mental rug. In addition to being my first real love, she was the first girl who ever broke my heart. Now, looking back, that fateful heart-breaking wasn't close to being the thing I remembered most about our relationship. There were so many other memories that overwhelmed that one. I think that's the perfect metaphor for looking back on things you've cast aside - you often diminsh so much good by trying to dispel a little bad. I was amazed when I realized I could remember exactly what the inside of her house looked like. I could remember exactly what we did on our first date. I could remember the moment when I realized I loved her. In burying the past to avoid refection, I'd accidentally buried memories like this. This is why these recent re-connections have been such a revelation to me.
"They all have husbands and wives and children and houses and dogs, and, you know, they've all made themselves a part of something and they can talk about what they do. What am I gonna say? 'I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork. How've you been?'" - Martin, Grosse Pointe Blank
I've had to admit something to myself the past few days. What really freaks me out isn't the unearthing of the past or these people, but how I've had to look at myself through this new lens. I have to put myself into the context of these narratives, and it's forced me to trace my own arc through life. I have to admit, I've looked at things in ways I haven't before. This is a mixed blessing. This new-found view has opened my eyes to a lot of bad patterns. On the flip side? It has opened my eyes to a lot of bad patterns. Someone may read this and think, "Wow, the level of this guy's emotional baggage is astounding!" That may well be, but I'm learning that when you keep that baggage where you can see it, you can slowly whittle it down and not forget it. I'm slowly learning the importance of this. After all, I am stubborn in my insistence that I learn things the hard way. It's refreshing, that quirk. No matter how aware I am of it, I just can't seem to change it. So, I have that going for me in the consistency department.
"I just find it amusing that you came from somewhere." - Marcella, Grosse Pointe Blank
I had an old friend from high school who moved away. He stopped admitting where he came from years ago. When asked, he'll just name other places in Pennsylvania that seem more...cosmopolitan than Camp Hill. This makes me equal parts angry and sad. His casting aside diminishes everything we shared when we were younger. His refusal to admit who he is and was is like a slap on the face. Also, I've come to realize, it shows me that in small ways I've turned my back on my past as well.
Maybe some would think I'm making a mountain out of a mole hill here. "What's the big deal? Lots of people lose touch and re-connect." For me it's just not that simple. This has pried open windows i'd painted shut years ago, and now the fresh air is a bit overwhelming. Welcome, but overwhelming.
Friday, October 24, 2008
A Permanence Problem
I have a problem with permanence. Actually, if you want to split hairs, I have a problem with what seems to be an overall lack of permanence.
I'm not here to tout the virtues of all things permanent. Hell, I think a great chunk of life shouldn't be permanent. In many ways, permanence breeds complacency and laziness and a general withering of one's desire to seek out the new and exciting. If not exciting, at least just different for different's sake. That being said, I think there are a few areas of this life we're born tethered to that are best served by a little permanence.
I guess my problem primarily lies in a lack of permanence in regards to people. Relationships. Loves. Friends. Family. I guess my problem is that I labor under a childish, naive idea that some relationships are so strong that time cannot cast them asunder. The idea that you can depend on people. Even as I write this sentence, I realize the sheer stupidity of my thought process in this regard.
The old saying goes something like, "you can't pick your family, you can't pick who you fall in love with - the only thing you can pick are your friends."
I don't have a lot of real, true, "call them to help me bury a body" friends. I have a lot of "casual" friends, and I don't intend to belittle them. But I think everyone knows what I mean when I talk about those true friends. I think their value rises as you age, because time has the nasty tendency to strip away friends like brittle, dying leaves in an October wind. You have those deep friendships, simply put, because of that "stripping away". The friends you have when you're older are the friends who have stood the test. Weathered the storms. It's friendship by attrition, and sometimes you just have to sit back and say, "God damn, I'm glad I picked that guy/girl." In the realm of the friend, it's easy to dismiss the losses and the friends that fell by the wayside because those constants are always there. Even in the face of a failed friendship, you're still anchored by those people that have been there for you time and time again. Failure doesn't look so bad when it's placed in the immense shadow of success.
Family is another beast. Ask a random sampling, and get them to answer honestly, and I'll bet at least half would say what I say about a large portion of my family - "If I wasn't related to them, I'd want nothing to do with them." I'm sure judging has begun. For some reason, a large portion of the populace is deeply troubled when they hear you don't get along with your family. Somehow that's a poor reflection on you. Honestly? I think most of these people despise their family - they just don't have the balls to admit it. Don't get me wrong, I have some family members that I love. However, there's a big chunk of them that are selfish, unthinking, uncaring and self-centered. I've been lashed out at, shunned, judged and just plain shit on by these people regularly and often over the years. I guess the philosophy I've adopted is that I don't care if we share blood. The bottom line is, an asshole is an asshole is an asshole. I'm not giving any more free passes just because someone shares my last name. This bothers me, make no mistake. I have romantic notions of family, and I get downright wistful during movies where large families full of quirky characters gather for Holidays or weddings. I want that. Thing is, I don't have it. The best I can do is keep the amazing relationship I have with my daughter and go from there. She'll probably get married some day, and I might eventually find someone who sticks around - so there's hope we can build something big and fun and funky down the road.
I guess the area that hits me the hardest is love. It hits me much harder than disappearing friends and self-absorbed family. I think this is the case because these people get into our lives so deeply. In order for love to work, you have to let them in...all the way in. I don't need to tell you how dangerous that game is. They get in there and they get comfortable and then you get comfortable. Next thing you know they're rampaging around in there like the running of the bulls and then they're just...gone. They're gone, and they leave this huge hole behind. This is where I have the proble, really. I'm not just talking about that temporary hole that everyone gets post-relationship-collapse. I'm talking about the one that stays. The one that years later makes me sit and think, "This person was ingrained in my life for years. Now? Just gone." This lack of permanence depresses me, even if on damn near every other level I know that this person being ancient history is the best thing for me.
I need therapy.
So what of permanence? There are things in life that I'll probably always enjoy and, on the flip-side, not enjoy. There are things in life that are fluid, and will constantly shift and change. This is as it should be. New horizons. Change is good, my friends. Shake the shit out of those doldrums. I get that, and I embrace it. I still can't shake that feeling of deep sadness when someone slips out of your life after being in there long enough to have left their mark.
I'm not here to tout the virtues of all things permanent. Hell, I think a great chunk of life shouldn't be permanent. In many ways, permanence breeds complacency and laziness and a general withering of one's desire to seek out the new and exciting. If not exciting, at least just different for different's sake. That being said, I think there are a few areas of this life we're born tethered to that are best served by a little permanence.
I guess my problem primarily lies in a lack of permanence in regards to people. Relationships. Loves. Friends. Family. I guess my problem is that I labor under a childish, naive idea that some relationships are so strong that time cannot cast them asunder. The idea that you can depend on people. Even as I write this sentence, I realize the sheer stupidity of my thought process in this regard.
The old saying goes something like, "you can't pick your family, you can't pick who you fall in love with - the only thing you can pick are your friends."
I don't have a lot of real, true, "call them to help me bury a body" friends. I have a lot of "casual" friends, and I don't intend to belittle them. But I think everyone knows what I mean when I talk about those true friends. I think their value rises as you age, because time has the nasty tendency to strip away friends like brittle, dying leaves in an October wind. You have those deep friendships, simply put, because of that "stripping away". The friends you have when you're older are the friends who have stood the test. Weathered the storms. It's friendship by attrition, and sometimes you just have to sit back and say, "God damn, I'm glad I picked that guy/girl." In the realm of the friend, it's easy to dismiss the losses and the friends that fell by the wayside because those constants are always there. Even in the face of a failed friendship, you're still anchored by those people that have been there for you time and time again. Failure doesn't look so bad when it's placed in the immense shadow of success.
Family is another beast. Ask a random sampling, and get them to answer honestly, and I'll bet at least half would say what I say about a large portion of my family - "If I wasn't related to them, I'd want nothing to do with them." I'm sure judging has begun. For some reason, a large portion of the populace is deeply troubled when they hear you don't get along with your family. Somehow that's a poor reflection on you. Honestly? I think most of these people despise their family - they just don't have the balls to admit it. Don't get me wrong, I have some family members that I love. However, there's a big chunk of them that are selfish, unthinking, uncaring and self-centered. I've been lashed out at, shunned, judged and just plain shit on by these people regularly and often over the years. I guess the philosophy I've adopted is that I don't care if we share blood. The bottom line is, an asshole is an asshole is an asshole. I'm not giving any more free passes just because someone shares my last name. This bothers me, make no mistake. I have romantic notions of family, and I get downright wistful during movies where large families full of quirky characters gather for Holidays or weddings. I want that. Thing is, I don't have it. The best I can do is keep the amazing relationship I have with my daughter and go from there. She'll probably get married some day, and I might eventually find someone who sticks around - so there's hope we can build something big and fun and funky down the road.
I guess the area that hits me the hardest is love. It hits me much harder than disappearing friends and self-absorbed family. I think this is the case because these people get into our lives so deeply. In order for love to work, you have to let them in...all the way in. I don't need to tell you how dangerous that game is. They get in there and they get comfortable and then you get comfortable. Next thing you know they're rampaging around in there like the running of the bulls and then they're just...gone. They're gone, and they leave this huge hole behind. This is where I have the proble, really. I'm not just talking about that temporary hole that everyone gets post-relationship-collapse. I'm talking about the one that stays. The one that years later makes me sit and think, "This person was ingrained in my life for years. Now? Just gone." This lack of permanence depresses me, even if on damn near every other level I know that this person being ancient history is the best thing for me.
I need therapy.
So what of permanence? There are things in life that I'll probably always enjoy and, on the flip-side, not enjoy. There are things in life that are fluid, and will constantly shift and change. This is as it should be. New horizons. Change is good, my friends. Shake the shit out of those doldrums. I get that, and I embrace it. I still can't shake that feeling of deep sadness when someone slips out of your life after being in there long enough to have left their mark.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Pennsyl-Bama
I live in South/Central Pennsylvania. Yeah...you thought you had it rough.
Democratic strategist James Carville aptly summed up Pennsylvania with the following quote: "It's Philadelphia in the east, Pittsburgh in the west and Alabama in the middle."
Trust me when I say that Mr. Carville hit that nail squarely on the head.
I live in a fairly blue-collar neighborhood, consisting of mostly small, ranch-style homes. When I walk my dog, I'm astounded by the number of McCain/Palin signs I see. Back during the 2004 election there were only two houses in the neighborhood with Kerry/Edwards yard signs - mine and the house belonging to the 70-something gay hairdresser up the street. This election? More of the same. But don't take my neighborhood for it. Drive anywhere around here (with the exception of the Harrisburg city limits) and you'll see more of the same. This great swath of PA between the state's two biggest cities is truly neo-con country.
Barack Obama got himself into a bit-o-the-trouble a ways back when he remarked about a certain cross-section of the American populace clinging to "religion and guns". This quote caused an uproar amongst the McCain-ites. Those of us with a more liberal mind set simply shrugged and said, "Yeah...and your point is?"
The only part of that quote I really take umbrage with is the word "clinging". I don't know that "clinging" is really the best way to describe the mind-set of these folks. For this sample of the population, guns and religion are a deeply-woven part of the fabric of daily life. I don't think they "cling" as much as they simply put undue emphasis on these things. I think about the people I know and debate politics with, and i've never heard guns come up. Note that some of these people are Republicans, and some of them hunters. The bottom line is they know that if Obama is elected, he's not going to send the liberal secret police out to collect their deer rifles. They know that Obama isn't going to burn down churches the day he's sworn in and make Islam the national religion. Thinking people know this.
Maybe I'm being simplistic or, god forbid, "elitist", but I think education plays a crucial role in these mind-sets. More to the point, a lack of education. When I say education, I don't necessarily mean schooling. Just because you have a college degree doesn't mean you're necessarily educated. I went to college with plenty of folks who could barely tie their own shoes, yet they breezed through with a 2.5 and graduated. When I say "educated" I mean educated on the issues. Reading multiple news sources (note I said reading, not watching) to get multiple takes on an issue and then forming an opinion based on the knowledge you gather. Researching an issue to get to why it's happening, rather than just taking a sound bite at face value. Mitigating factors. Historical context. Basically, looking at what lies beneath an issue to get a complete understanding.
Case in point is someone I know who shall remain nameless. He's a staunch Republican who believes everything he receives in his email in-box. You know the endless chain emails to which I refer. Truth be told, I get tired of sending him links to Snopes and Fact-Check to debunk this ridiculous garbage. I do it, though, because I desperately want him to think before he swallows something hook, line and sinker with nary a thought. Occasionally he'll try to dazzle me with a "legitimate" news piece detailing Obama's plans to burn America to the ground. Every one of them are opinion pieces from a right-wing talking head. I lower my head, pound it against my desk and sob quietly to myself. There's no thought, research or reason behind his political leanings. He swallows propoganda and then pulls the "Republican" lever in the voting booth. Case closed.
There's an ad running in Pennsylvania for John McCain. In this ad, a young guy in a camo ball cap sits with his girlfriend next to his pickup truck, gun rack clearly visible in the window. An American flag flaps from the porch. He goes on to tell us that Barack Obama is going to take away his guns and, with them, his freedoms. This is all baseless, as simple research will tell you. However, to the uneducated individual, this sound bite instills the all important kernel of fear.
What about religion, you say? Quite honestly, I could write a book about that. Let's just sum it up by saying that there's a loud segment of the American populace who would vote for Stalin if he was the anti-abortion candidate. That's their one and only issue, and to argue against it is pointless. (For the record, I always use "anti-abortion", never "pro-life". The majority of these no abortion folks support capital punishment, which is hardly a "pro-life" stance in my book.) This segment of the population thinks Anne Coulter is the bees knees and almost craves war in the Middle East, as this just gets us one step closer to Christ's return. What else can I say? They're free to think and believe as they choose, but I'd be lying if I said these people and their single-minded fanaticism didn't scare the shit out of me.
Please know that in this little area in which I live there are lots of educated, decent and free-thinking people of all political stripes. I by no means mean to paint an entire region with a broad brush. But they're out there...the judgmental non-thinkers. Out there in droves.
This is Pennsyl-Bama, ya'll.
Democratic strategist James Carville aptly summed up Pennsylvania with the following quote: "It's Philadelphia in the east, Pittsburgh in the west and Alabama in the middle."
Trust me when I say that Mr. Carville hit that nail squarely on the head.
I live in a fairly blue-collar neighborhood, consisting of mostly small, ranch-style homes. When I walk my dog, I'm astounded by the number of McCain/Palin signs I see. Back during the 2004 election there were only two houses in the neighborhood with Kerry/Edwards yard signs - mine and the house belonging to the 70-something gay hairdresser up the street. This election? More of the same. But don't take my neighborhood for it. Drive anywhere around here (with the exception of the Harrisburg city limits) and you'll see more of the same. This great swath of PA between the state's two biggest cities is truly neo-con country.
Barack Obama got himself into a bit-o-the-trouble a ways back when he remarked about a certain cross-section of the American populace clinging to "religion and guns". This quote caused an uproar amongst the McCain-ites. Those of us with a more liberal mind set simply shrugged and said, "Yeah...and your point is?"
The only part of that quote I really take umbrage with is the word "clinging". I don't know that "clinging" is really the best way to describe the mind-set of these folks. For this sample of the population, guns and religion are a deeply-woven part of the fabric of daily life. I don't think they "cling" as much as they simply put undue emphasis on these things. I think about the people I know and debate politics with, and i've never heard guns come up. Note that some of these people are Republicans, and some of them hunters. The bottom line is they know that if Obama is elected, he's not going to send the liberal secret police out to collect their deer rifles. They know that Obama isn't going to burn down churches the day he's sworn in and make Islam the national religion. Thinking people know this.
Maybe I'm being simplistic or, god forbid, "elitist", but I think education plays a crucial role in these mind-sets. More to the point, a lack of education. When I say education, I don't necessarily mean schooling. Just because you have a college degree doesn't mean you're necessarily educated. I went to college with plenty of folks who could barely tie their own shoes, yet they breezed through with a 2.5 and graduated. When I say "educated" I mean educated on the issues. Reading multiple news sources (note I said reading, not watching) to get multiple takes on an issue and then forming an opinion based on the knowledge you gather. Researching an issue to get to why it's happening, rather than just taking a sound bite at face value. Mitigating factors. Historical context. Basically, looking at what lies beneath an issue to get a complete understanding.
Case in point is someone I know who shall remain nameless. He's a staunch Republican who believes everything he receives in his email in-box. You know the endless chain emails to which I refer. Truth be told, I get tired of sending him links to Snopes and Fact-Check to debunk this ridiculous garbage. I do it, though, because I desperately want him to think before he swallows something hook, line and sinker with nary a thought. Occasionally he'll try to dazzle me with a "legitimate" news piece detailing Obama's plans to burn America to the ground. Every one of them are opinion pieces from a right-wing talking head. I lower my head, pound it against my desk and sob quietly to myself. There's no thought, research or reason behind his political leanings. He swallows propoganda and then pulls the "Republican" lever in the voting booth. Case closed.
There's an ad running in Pennsylvania for John McCain. In this ad, a young guy in a camo ball cap sits with his girlfriend next to his pickup truck, gun rack clearly visible in the window. An American flag flaps from the porch. He goes on to tell us that Barack Obama is going to take away his guns and, with them, his freedoms. This is all baseless, as simple research will tell you. However, to the uneducated individual, this sound bite instills the all important kernel of fear.
What about religion, you say? Quite honestly, I could write a book about that. Let's just sum it up by saying that there's a loud segment of the American populace who would vote for Stalin if he was the anti-abortion candidate. That's their one and only issue, and to argue against it is pointless. (For the record, I always use "anti-abortion", never "pro-life". The majority of these no abortion folks support capital punishment, which is hardly a "pro-life" stance in my book.) This segment of the population thinks Anne Coulter is the bees knees and almost craves war in the Middle East, as this just gets us one step closer to Christ's return. What else can I say? They're free to think and believe as they choose, but I'd be lying if I said these people and their single-minded fanaticism didn't scare the shit out of me.
Please know that in this little area in which I live there are lots of educated, decent and free-thinking people of all political stripes. I by no means mean to paint an entire region with a broad brush. But they're out there...the judgmental non-thinkers. Out there in droves.
This is Pennsyl-Bama, ya'll.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
The Shot Heard 'Round the...Blog...Thingy.
I'm a lazy writer.
I'm going to repeat that, because I think it bears repeating.
I'm a lazy writer.
Ok. I've admitted it. Only eleven more steps to go, right? Is admitting something even the first step? There are twelve steps, are there not? I'm pretty sure about that. Don't I have to concede a higher power at some point? Yikes. This is getting dicey. You know what? Let's forget I ever mentioned the twelve steps.
My point is I need to get myself to write more.
I love to write. Always have. When I was a wee lad, I used to write books in my bedroom. I remember that almost all of them were about lost dogs embroiled in high adventure. You know; raging rivers to cross, wolves to battle, evil dog-catchers to thwart. Standard lost dog stuff. I would write them on notebook paper, leaving space for the illustrations I would add later. It's fair to say that these carefully rendered pictures would not cause even a mediocre illustrator to lose any sleep over perceived competition coming from my end. They weren't stick figures, but they were amorphic blobs that, depending on the day, may or may not have resembled an actual dog.
After I wove my verbal tapestry, then cheapened it with my "art", I would bind my book with about 36 staples. Nine times out of ten, you could barely open it. (This was probably best, because it spared you the full brunt of the pictures.) After I sodered that sucker shut, I then gave it to my Mom to enjoy.
My Mom never saved any of these opuses. Why I'll never know. I think that's something for my therapist and I to mull over. I'd think she'd have saved at least one in case I ever mentioned going to art school. She could whip that sucker out, pry off twelve or thirteen staples, and show me a handful of reasons why that idea was probably right up there with parachute pants and lite beer.
These days, I stick to the written word. I have forsaken any and all forms of visual expression. You're welcome.
My goal with this blog is to force myself to write more often. That and to share my bountiful pool of knowledge and endless opinions with anyone foolhardy enough to look at this and say, "Hey! Look at that! I am definitely reading this!" If you read this you'll learn that I think I know something about damn near everything. You'll learn that not only do I have an opinion on everything, but my opinion is always right. If you think it isn't right, then it's your opinion that's wrong. Please remember that. It'll save so much confusion, tears and use of language that would make Jesus cry. You'll learn that when you had to make that decision between watching "Roadhouse" on TNT and reading this blog, you made the wrong decision. I mean, have you seen Swayze's hair and chic yet rugged and casual wardrobe in that movie? It's like Adonis and Duran Duran had a baby. What the hell were you thinking when you opted out of that viewing experience?
Well, that's my plan. Enjoy my opinions, my overwrought ideas and my inane ramblings. Oh, and please try not to make Jesus cry.
I'm going to repeat that, because I think it bears repeating.
I'm a lazy writer.
Ok. I've admitted it. Only eleven more steps to go, right? Is admitting something even the first step? There are twelve steps, are there not? I'm pretty sure about that. Don't I have to concede a higher power at some point? Yikes. This is getting dicey. You know what? Let's forget I ever mentioned the twelve steps.
My point is I need to get myself to write more.
I love to write. Always have. When I was a wee lad, I used to write books in my bedroom. I remember that almost all of them were about lost dogs embroiled in high adventure. You know; raging rivers to cross, wolves to battle, evil dog-catchers to thwart. Standard lost dog stuff. I would write them on notebook paper, leaving space for the illustrations I would add later. It's fair to say that these carefully rendered pictures would not cause even a mediocre illustrator to lose any sleep over perceived competition coming from my end. They weren't stick figures, but they were amorphic blobs that, depending on the day, may or may not have resembled an actual dog.
After I wove my verbal tapestry, then cheapened it with my "art", I would bind my book with about 36 staples. Nine times out of ten, you could barely open it. (This was probably best, because it spared you the full brunt of the pictures.) After I sodered that sucker shut, I then gave it to my Mom to enjoy.
My Mom never saved any of these opuses. Why I'll never know. I think that's something for my therapist and I to mull over. I'd think she'd have saved at least one in case I ever mentioned going to art school. She could whip that sucker out, pry off twelve or thirteen staples, and show me a handful of reasons why that idea was probably right up there with parachute pants and lite beer.
These days, I stick to the written word. I have forsaken any and all forms of visual expression. You're welcome.
My goal with this blog is to force myself to write more often. That and to share my bountiful pool of knowledge and endless opinions with anyone foolhardy enough to look at this and say, "Hey! Look at that! I am definitely reading this!" If you read this you'll learn that I think I know something about damn near everything. You'll learn that not only do I have an opinion on everything, but my opinion is always right. If you think it isn't right, then it's your opinion that's wrong. Please remember that. It'll save so much confusion, tears and use of language that would make Jesus cry. You'll learn that when you had to make that decision between watching "Roadhouse" on TNT and reading this blog, you made the wrong decision. I mean, have you seen Swayze's hair and chic yet rugged and casual wardrobe in that movie? It's like Adonis and Duran Duran had a baby. What the hell were you thinking when you opted out of that viewing experience?
Well, that's my plan. Enjoy my opinions, my overwrought ideas and my inane ramblings. Oh, and please try not to make Jesus cry.
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