The first time "gay" really became an issue was near the end of high school. I was pretty confident in my choice to accept homosexuality, and thanks to my parents I never looked at it being wrong. I did, however understand that being gay was not popular, and that it could be very dangerous around the wrong kind of people. I learned ways to hide it and mask it and use it to amuse all while skipping gaily around from school to school and therapist to therapist.
In my junior year I was hanging out with my neighbor Melissa in her spa with another girlfriend from drama class (Mariah?), when the ever wandering teenage minds led inevitably to the wonderful game of truth or dare... and yeah... it was my first truth... thanks Mellisa, you get the honor of being the first person I ever came out to. And (Maya?) your... uh... second.
My first crush that I ever came out to was a jock on the football team named Kevin Chapin. Oh god, even now, I think of him and that amazing square jaw, piercing eyes, a body that knew nothing of gravity and seemed to ripple with muscle as he bounced around. Yeah, I had it bad. I started getting to know him because I was (for some unexplainable teaching torture) the sports writer for the school paper. So I needed someone to explain what the rules were... and what you call that one thing... and whats with all the numbers your supposed to remember... bleh, football, I still dont get it.
Well during one of these phone call bull sessions it somehow came up that he had defended my heterosexuality to a couple of his team mates. Probably because I couldnt see his face I suddenly felt bold enough to say "thanks, that was decent of you man. But I am gay." I waited for what seemed like forever in my gay teen universe until he says "...oh yeah? You been cornholed yet?"
As any budding gay will tell you, we are nothing if not witty and quick on our feet... So my brilliant responce was "uhh.. yeah. well, um... actually yeah, I lost my virginity when I was twelve. To both the male and the female variety... no, not at the same time." He responded with a sentence that I have never forgotten because of how much it summed him and that entire friendship up "I'm not gay. I ask because I want you to know that my mind goes a lot further than my body ever will."
I saw him again at the 10 year reunion, he still had that spark. That little twinkle in his eye. He had gotten stocky and was a high school teacher in Flagstaff, Arizona. He married a beautiful and amazingly charming and conscience girl and they seemed happy. I wish him well and said lets keep in touch, but after two or three un-returned emails I gave up and chose to put that crush away.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
My misspent youth of folly; part 1
I came to understand what "gay" was pretty early on in life.
I remember having crushes on the boys in class as early as second grade. The only "first crush" that I can really remember to this day was a boy in my junior high school named Jake Crouch. He was on the wrestling team with my brother. I remember talking to him and both of us were so shy and quiet that it was amazing we got more than a few words out. Just when I thought I might be making my very first friend/crush the family moved away to California... I wrote him several letters, but I never heard from him again.
I was pretty lucky when it comes to the whole "gay" thing and my family. When I was three or four a therapist that my mom had taken me to, took her to the side and told her that he suspected that I might have homosexual tendencies and that he was going to work out a program for her to follow to try and dissuade me from becoming an active homosexual.
My mom looked at him with that look, and then she turned to me, playing with the toys on the floor and said "Shane, get your coat on sweetie, we're going to get some ice cream now." I of course was over joyed... I was three. The therapist tried to grasp what was going on, but my mom cut him short by saying "Thank you for your time, but we wont be returning. I love my son, just as he is, gay or not, and I wont expose him to you again. Good night." And out we went to the fabled 31 flavors, where I had my cone of pink bubblegum and was none the wiser.
So growing up, my parents always knew that I was gay. It wasnt a good/bad right/wrong fix/cure kind of conversation for them. It was an IS. Shane IS gay. Now, adjust our way of thinking so that we can be happy and raise him with love. Yeah... total hippies. Yes, we went to the John Lennon memorial at Red Rocks, yes, I remember it. Free from religion, yet still somehow learned all the moral lessons of life. Looking back, it was a pretty great way to grow up.
The "gay" issue never really was an issue for me in school early on because I changed schools so often. Following around the special ed program with my "emotional issues" meant that I had to go to a different school every year. I formed no childhood bonds. I had my family and my brother. Makes sense now that I always got along better with my mom and dads friends than anyone my age. It was who was around to talk to and learn from.
I remember having crushes on the boys in class as early as second grade. The only "first crush" that I can really remember to this day was a boy in my junior high school named Jake Crouch. He was on the wrestling team with my brother. I remember talking to him and both of us were so shy and quiet that it was amazing we got more than a few words out. Just when I thought I might be making my very first friend/crush the family moved away to California... I wrote him several letters, but I never heard from him again.
I was pretty lucky when it comes to the whole "gay" thing and my family. When I was three or four a therapist that my mom had taken me to, took her to the side and told her that he suspected that I might have homosexual tendencies and that he was going to work out a program for her to follow to try and dissuade me from becoming an active homosexual.
My mom looked at him with that look, and then she turned to me, playing with the toys on the floor and said "Shane, get your coat on sweetie, we're going to get some ice cream now." I of course was over joyed... I was three. The therapist tried to grasp what was going on, but my mom cut him short by saying "Thank you for your time, but we wont be returning. I love my son, just as he is, gay or not, and I wont expose him to you again. Good night." And out we went to the fabled 31 flavors, where I had my cone of pink bubblegum and was none the wiser.
So growing up, my parents always knew that I was gay. It wasnt a good/bad right/wrong fix/cure kind of conversation for them. It was an IS. Shane IS gay. Now, adjust our way of thinking so that we can be happy and raise him with love. Yeah... total hippies. Yes, we went to the John Lennon memorial at Red Rocks, yes, I remember it. Free from religion, yet still somehow learned all the moral lessons of life. Looking back, it was a pretty great way to grow up.
The "gay" issue never really was an issue for me in school early on because I changed schools so often. Following around the special ed program with my "emotional issues" meant that I had to go to a different school every year. I formed no childhood bonds. I had my family and my brother. Makes sense now that I always got along better with my mom and dads friends than anyone my age. It was who was around to talk to and learn from.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
My weekends ecstacy...
I was out doing my least favorite thing this weekend (shopping for clothes for myself), and I was trying to find some cool looking black comfortable shoes that I could wear with business clothes at work...
I had been to Macy's a couple weeks earlier and seemed to remember a cool looking set of Puma's that I wouldn't pay that much for... so I thought I would go back and see if they had anything on sale.
I found the shoes that I wanted the last time, and they had been marked down so much that I was able to buy both the black shoes and the white shoes for the price of one!!
I don't know about the rest of you, but I love what this recession is doing to retail prices!! I can finally shop at the froo froo shii shii stores without feeling snooty!!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Taxed for the Nose
During my time in the navy I had access to more medical attention than at any point previously in my life. I took advantage of the free medical benefits several times over my time in the service.
In boot camp, even though it didn't need to be done, I allowed them to remove all four of my wisdom teeth. I don't really remember it that well because as is usually the case, they had some damn fine drugs!
I remember their off the wall reason for wanting to remove my wisdom teeth despite the fact that none of them were impacted and they would have had plenty of room to come in due to the rather large gaps between all my front teeth. "There wont be any dentists in the field, and if you get stationed on a small ship it could be months between available dentists." So they took them out in boot camp on the off chance that they might have to come out eventually. Love it. Well, at least it got me four days in bed during one of the roughest weeks of boot camp... score!
I eventually got the dentist on base in San Diego to fix all those gaps with a bit of bonding... Always drove me crazy having all those gaps. Now they're gone and I didn't have to pay a cent!!
My friend Jennifer, that was stationed on base, went on leave for a couple weeks in February of 98 and when she came back I couldn't help but notice the change... While on leave she had gone from a "B" cup to a "D" cup. Being gay I thought her boobs were just fine the way they were. But when I noticed the change in her posture and body as well as in her attitudel I had to ask why.
She said that having bigger breasts has been on her mind for most of her adult life, and now that she was in the military she was finally in a position to do something about it. I asked her what she meant and so she told me about a little known rule that the military offers to its members, every member is entitled to one elective surgery.
Now, I'm sure the only reason this rule exists at all is because NO ONE knows about it. Well, and for this one very specific reason: They want their soldiers to be confident, and sometimes (as in Jennifer's' case) what it takes to build a soldiers confidence is a little change, be it mental or physical. So in short, Jennifer got her breast enlargement because the Navy Doctors thought it would help with her self confidence.
Well, regardless of the boobs, Jennifer was a very beautiful girl. So I secretly wondered if her looks, and not this hidden rule, had gotten her male Doctors to approve her surgery. So I figured, what the hell, I've got nothing to lose by trying!!
My nose had always been a bit of a bother through my adolescence and young adulthood. It was slightly crooked. I snored badly because of my inability to breath through my nose. I had a deviated septum, some loose floating cartilage deforming part of my lip. If you looked up the nostrils you could see the cartilage that was supposed to be attached to the skin but wasn't.
But the absolute worst thing about my nose, which pissed me off anytime anyone mentioned it, or made fun of it, was that if you tilted your head slightly, the bulbous curve of the nose combined with the cleft that ran down through the button of the nose looked to many people like the head of a penis. So yeah, I wanted to ask the doctor about fixing my cock-nose, and no, it didn't actually help me sniff out the cock, thanks for asking, and no you weren't the first.
So I went to Doctor number one and said "Doctor, I'm having trouble breathing through my nose." He looked at it and sent me on to Doctor number two who also looked and then conversed with Doctor number one, who then came back to me and said "we're going to have you go see an ENT Doctor over at the main hospital. So they made me an appointment and away I went.
Doctor David Bloom can only be described as a younger, better looking Anderson Cooper. Yeah... ponder that for a moment... just to see if it's possible to get a younger cuter Anderson Cooper. I could barley breath let alone talk to him, he was just sooooooooo dreamy. God, I still get butterflies thinking about how hot he was.
Ok, where was I... Oh, so Doctor Bloom asked me what the problem was, and I looked into his ice water blue eyes and said "Doctor, I'm having trouble breathing through my nose." He then touched my face for about 15 minutes while I tried every trick I could think of not to get aroused. Finally in his soft southern voice he says (whatever it was, I was too busy watching his lips to listen to him thoroughly), "...we'll get you into surgery next week and you will need two weeks off from the boat for recovery."
The day of the surgery rolled around and my bestie Stacey drove down from MV to bring me home to my parents house for the two weeks of recovery. I remember very little of the surgery except that I was conscience and talking to the surgeon. When it was all over they wheeled me into the reception room so Stacey could take me home, and Dr Bloom knelt down and gave me my prescription for the pain and some instructions on how to take care of my nose in the mean time...
Right after surgery when the patient is cracked out of his gourd on the anesthetic drugs is probably NOT the best time to give a person detailed instructions. So when my two weeks had gone by and I went back to Dr. Bloom for my check up he chided me in that cute southern voice that I didn't heed his instructions... to which I replied, "what instructions?"
After he had removed the splints from my nose and it fell into it's permanent position, there was a knock on the door and in came the surgeon that had actually done my nose. Another good looking man, boy did I get stationed at the wrong place!! He came in looked at my nose, and then took a seat so I could look him right in the face. Then he said "I don't normally do the follow up interview, but I had to come and talk to you when you were sober."
Instantly panic started going through my head... This was why I didn't drink, I had to remain in control of my mouth, Don't ask, Don't tell was a new law and I had no idea what I had said under the influence of all those drugs... God I hoped I hadn't said anything incriminating, because although they were Doctors, they were also Military Officers and if I had come out or hit on them while I was under... well, you can see where my mind wanted to go...
But he looked at me and continued "I had to come and talk to you sober, because I'm telling you, I have never laughed so hard in all my life." I stared at him with a blank look of confusion, so he went on "You don't remember any of it? Man, we gave you that local anesthetic and normally that makes people zone out, but you, man you were in it every step of the way... Eyes open, talking, telling jokes, man, you made me laugh so hard I almost botched your nose... TWICE!!"
In boot camp, even though it didn't need to be done, I allowed them to remove all four of my wisdom teeth. I don't really remember it that well because as is usually the case, they had some damn fine drugs!
I remember their off the wall reason for wanting to remove my wisdom teeth despite the fact that none of them were impacted and they would have had plenty of room to come in due to the rather large gaps between all my front teeth. "There wont be any dentists in the field, and if you get stationed on a small ship it could be months between available dentists." So they took them out in boot camp on the off chance that they might have to come out eventually. Love it. Well, at least it got me four days in bed during one of the roughest weeks of boot camp... score!
I eventually got the dentist on base in San Diego to fix all those gaps with a bit of bonding... Always drove me crazy having all those gaps. Now they're gone and I didn't have to pay a cent!!
My friend Jennifer, that was stationed on base, went on leave for a couple weeks in February of 98 and when she came back I couldn't help but notice the change... While on leave she had gone from a "B" cup to a "D" cup. Being gay I thought her boobs were just fine the way they were. But when I noticed the change in her posture and body as well as in her attitudel I had to ask why.
She said that having bigger breasts has been on her mind for most of her adult life, and now that she was in the military she was finally in a position to do something about it. I asked her what she meant and so she told me about a little known rule that the military offers to its members, every member is entitled to one elective surgery.
Now, I'm sure the only reason this rule exists at all is because NO ONE knows about it. Well, and for this one very specific reason: They want their soldiers to be confident, and sometimes (as in Jennifer's' case) what it takes to build a soldiers confidence is a little change, be it mental or physical. So in short, Jennifer got her breast enlargement because the Navy Doctors thought it would help with her self confidence.
Well, regardless of the boobs, Jennifer was a very beautiful girl. So I secretly wondered if her looks, and not this hidden rule, had gotten her male Doctors to approve her surgery. So I figured, what the hell, I've got nothing to lose by trying!!
My nose had always been a bit of a bother through my adolescence and young adulthood. It was slightly crooked. I snored badly because of my inability to breath through my nose. I had a deviated septum, some loose floating cartilage deforming part of my lip. If you looked up the nostrils you could see the cartilage that was supposed to be attached to the skin but wasn't.
But the absolute worst thing about my nose, which pissed me off anytime anyone mentioned it, or made fun of it, was that if you tilted your head slightly, the bulbous curve of the nose combined with the cleft that ran down through the button of the nose looked to many people like the head of a penis. So yeah, I wanted to ask the doctor about fixing my cock-nose, and no, it didn't actually help me sniff out the cock, thanks for asking, and no you weren't the first.
So I went to Doctor number one and said "Doctor, I'm having trouble breathing through my nose." He looked at it and sent me on to Doctor number two who also looked and then conversed with Doctor number one, who then came back to me and said "we're going to have you go see an ENT Doctor over at the main hospital. So they made me an appointment and away I went.
Doctor David Bloom can only be described as a younger, better looking Anderson Cooper. Yeah... ponder that for a moment... just to see if it's possible to get a younger cuter Anderson Cooper. I could barley breath let alone talk to him, he was just sooooooooo dreamy. God, I still get butterflies thinking about how hot he was.
Ok, where was I... Oh, so Doctor Bloom asked me what the problem was, and I looked into his ice water blue eyes and said "Doctor, I'm having trouble breathing through my nose." He then touched my face for about 15 minutes while I tried every trick I could think of not to get aroused. Finally in his soft southern voice he says (whatever it was, I was too busy watching his lips to listen to him thoroughly), "...we'll get you into surgery next week and you will need two weeks off from the boat for recovery."
The day of the surgery rolled around and my bestie Stacey drove down from MV to bring me home to my parents house for the two weeks of recovery. I remember very little of the surgery except that I was conscience and talking to the surgeon. When it was all over they wheeled me into the reception room so Stacey could take me home, and Dr Bloom knelt down and gave me my prescription for the pain and some instructions on how to take care of my nose in the mean time...
Right after surgery when the patient is cracked out of his gourd on the anesthetic drugs is probably NOT the best time to give a person detailed instructions. So when my two weeks had gone by and I went back to Dr. Bloom for my check up he chided me in that cute southern voice that I didn't heed his instructions... to which I replied, "what instructions?"
After he had removed the splints from my nose and it fell into it's permanent position, there was a knock on the door and in came the surgeon that had actually done my nose. Another good looking man, boy did I get stationed at the wrong place!! He came in looked at my nose, and then took a seat so I could look him right in the face. Then he said "I don't normally do the follow up interview, but I had to come and talk to you when you were sober."
Instantly panic started going through my head... This was why I didn't drink, I had to remain in control of my mouth, Don't ask, Don't tell was a new law and I had no idea what I had said under the influence of all those drugs... God I hoped I hadn't said anything incriminating, because although they were Doctors, they were also Military Officers and if I had come out or hit on them while I was under... well, you can see where my mind wanted to go...
But he looked at me and continued "I had to come and talk to you sober, because I'm telling you, I have never laughed so hard in all my life." I stared at him with a blank look of confusion, so he went on "You don't remember any of it? Man, we gave you that local anesthetic and normally that makes people zone out, but you, man you were in it every step of the way... Eyes open, talking, telling jokes, man, you made me laugh so hard I almost botched your nose... TWICE!!"
The three of us had a few more laughs as he recounted my altered wit and finished checking my nose. The floating cartilage that had always given me such a perfect ability to imitate the Elvis upper lip had been removed so my lips now worked perfectly and my nose became very Roman (or so people have told me ever since). The absolute best part of this experience... well other than the two beautiful doctors, was the fact that I didn't have to pay a single cent for my nose and teeth. You did.
So, I guess I should take this opportunity to say Thank you to all of you who were paying your taxes in 1998, not only did you pay my salary, but you also paid for my teeth and my fabulous new nose, not to mention Jenn's big boobs!
Haha, Isn't life just the most interesting trip??
So, I guess I should take this opportunity to say Thank you to all of you who were paying your taxes in 1998, not only did you pay my salary, but you also paid for my teeth and my fabulous new nose, not to mention Jenn's big boobs!
Haha, Isn't life just the most interesting trip??
30 Minute fly by...
This evening as I was lounging about the house I got a knock on the door and in walked two divas. Fresh from the salon and on the way to many fabulous parties, the two divas (to be named later) popped in to drop off their purses and have a shot of liquid courage... It takes a lot to be so glamorous!
They looked so fabulous I couldn't help but to grab the camera and snap away...
I love nights with random surprises...
Now... the task remains... what do we call these diva? No proper drag queen goes by a name she gave herself... it takes a community. So, all you Queens out there, lets name these girls!! Leave them on the comments!
Monday, July 20, 2009
Mom's Inspired Punishments
To say I was an unruly boy would sadly, be putting it mildly.
I spent my youth pushing every envelope I could find. I had mastered the art of manipulation, and learned to work both my parents and the "way things were".
My parents, although hippies, were not against spanking with a belt. And there were countless times when we asked for it just as hard as we got it. Two boys need to be shown limits and discipline. The other favorite punishment method for my parents was to make us stand in the corner.
While this started all loose and easy with a stool facing a wall, with my inventiveness and devious nature, putting me in the corner became a spectator sport. It started by them taking the stool away because I would just go to the corner and nap. Then it became them literally putting my nose in the corner til I could reach out my tongue and touch it. That came about because I would watch tv and only put my face toward the corner when they turned to look at me.
Then came the mirrors. I would always find a way to sneak one to the corner with me. Or grab one when they let me use the bathroom. I would watch tv while facing the corner and they were none the wiser for a while... always just for a while. I think the corner punishment stopped somewhere around the same time that I started doing headstands with my nose in the corner. How can you stay mad at that???
There was also the "you cant come out of your room til it's clean" punishment. Never worked very well on me either. The one thing my dad said he always admired me for was my commitment. When he told me not to come out til it was clean, I didn't come out. I stayed in my room for weeks... only coming out for food and the bathroom. I would just go off in my head and play with my toys. Weeks of a dirty room would go by until finally they would just hang their heads and accept that I was going to live in a dirty bedroom.
Chuck would come up and sit down and give me a lecture about cleaning ones room and doing what your told and all. I would roll my eyes and leave the room as soon as he was done. I would run outside and play, go downstairs to watch tv, go play in the downstairs bedroom... but when I went to bed that night, I would clean my room. It would usually take me about twenty minutes, and I would go to bed after. I can still remember how they had chuckled the next morning about how stubborn I was.
But twice, my mom concocted what can only be described as the most diabolically clever punishments to punish me and teach me my lesson.
The first was more of a physical punishment. When I was in the fifth grade I was the very first stop on a very long bus ride through the mountains to school. Josh always went to a different school than me, so he never missed his bus. There were several mornings when I accidentally missed the bus and then a few mornings when I "accidentally" missed the bus. Mom worked down in Denver so she left before we had to be at the bus.
On those days that I missed the bus, I would call Mom at work and let her know. Mom would do one of two things. She would come home on her lunch and drive me to school, or she would yell at me and then tell me that she would be checking my schoolwork when she got home. I would then spend the entire day playing and watching tv. Then I would pass off old schoolwork as the stuff I had spent the day doing. I told you... sneaky little boy!!
Missing the bus got to be a bit too much of a habit so my mom though of a perfect way to make me stop. One random morning I didn't feel like going to school, and so when Josh and I left for the bus, he went in one direction toward his stop, and I went a little way toward my stop and then walked right back to the front door when he had gone over the hill.
I took off my clothes and got into my pj's. Had a bowl of cereal, turned the tv on, got my breath going and my emotion up, and dialed Mom's work number. She picked up the phone and since I had been holding my breath I let out a breathless story about how I had run after the bus for a good ways, but she never saw me... And how sorry I was, and I wouldn't let it happen again and yadda yadda yadda... Mom wouldn't give up this time though. She just kept saying you better start walking. She played the usual disapproving parent, scolded me and told me that I need to start walking to school and that she was going to check with the school to see what time I got there. I reminded her that while I was ten and kinda smart, I only knew the bus route to school and that drive took almost 30 minutes alone, and I surely would get lost. I told her I knew what they would be covering in school and that she could check my work when she got home. She said she had to go and I hung up the phone and settled in for a nice relaxing day.
About forty minutes later I'm sitting in the living room eating a second bowl of cereal, when I pause. I thought I heard something familiar. The approach of an engine, the parking and slamming of a car door. I got up and rushed to the window overlooking the garage, there parked in front of the garage was Mom's car. I rushed back into the living room just in time to see the front door swing open and Mom storming in, her face all flushed.
"Why aren't you walking?" She spoke very loudly.
"I told you, I didn't know the way..."
"This is going to end now. Put your shoes and coat on, and grab your bag. You are going to school today, and to make sure you never miss the bus again, you are going to walk the entire way!!"
View Larger Map
Seven miles.
It doesn't sound so bad when you just say it. But when faced with the prospect of walking those seven miles through the mountains just so you can be at school at the end... Well, needless to say I threw my tantrums long before I started the walk.
Mom would not be moved. I was always rather impressed with how long she held out on my begging that day. But she had her way eventually, and I started walking. She had her usual collection of books with her and the entire morning off. She read through at least one of those books that morning. I walked through mud and snow and slush and ice and gravel, uphill, being humiliated by all the drivers who pointed to me on the side of the road as I walked.
It was as if each of them knew, and they were pointing to their passengers, possibly misbehaving children too, and say: "See... that's what happens to children who misbehave! That's what will happen to you if you talk back to me while I'm driving!!" Oh yes, the psychological trauma was very well played in this revenge.
You might think this was very dangerous for a ten year old boy to walk seven miles through mountain roads to get to school, and my ten year old self would have said, I KNOW!!! But my Mom was never actually that far away. And that may have been the worst part of the whole ordeal.
I walked, thirsty and humiliated, while she drove around me, parked read her book and waiting till I was out of sight again, drive past me park and resume her book. Three hours it took to walk those seven miles. Three painful hours of humiliation at the hand of my Mom, and the worst just became apparent.
As I walked up the long one lane road that held my school at the far end of it, I could see all the buses parked in the lot. I hoped that my bud driver wasn't there to see my shame (She was, asked me about it the next day). As I got closer to the school it became obvious that I would arrive at the height of recess. Which meant that every student of the school was going to get to see being walked to school like a bad little boy. I walked over to the passenger window of the car and begged her not to make me walk in front of the playground. I cant remember all the different tactics that I used to regain entry into the car, but I can remember the one that did the trick in the end. I simply looked at her and said with my biggest weepy eyes, "these kids already have enough reasons to hate me and make fun of me, please don't give them another!"
Totally got it... hook line and sinker!! She drove me what would amount to the length of two city blocks to the front door. I opened my door and she took my arm. When I turned to look at her she said "what did we learn today, Shane?"
"Not to miss the bus, Mom."
"Good, now go to school."
I never missed the bus again... That walk was a bitch!!! The greatest punishment ever devised by my Mom, however, was made on the spur of the moment, and it still rings in my head...
We were celebrating something for my brother... Maybe it was when he made the wrestling team (or I'm just looking for an excuse to post this pic of him), but more likely it was a hot July night and we were celebrating his birthday. I don't know what I did. I'm not denying that I misbehaved, but I cant remember the specific offence that sparked my punishment, the details have long been out shadowed by the shocking punishment that resulted.
We were already halfway through my brothers birthday night when the offence occurred. My Mom, trying not to let my behaviour ruin my brothers birthday decided on the spot that we would continue on to the main event of the night; Superman 4: The Quest for Peace, at the drive-in with all the treats. Oh what do you want, we were twelve and thirteen!! And yes, I had a secret crush on Dolf Lundgren... what of it!!
Anyway... my Mom devised a most clever way to both give my brother what he was promised, and punish me at the same time. We pulled into a spot at the drive-in and positioned the earphones at both windows. Mom and Chuck exchanged a glance and he got out and took Josh with him to get whatever he wanted at the concession stand.
Mom, stayed quiet in the front seat for a couple minutes while I waited for the other shoe to drop in the back.
"Shane, you have to learn when to control both your mouth and your energy. You are going to be punished tonight for your behaviour. Your punishment is that you do not get to watch the movie. I want you to turn around with you back to Chucks seat and keep your eyes out the back window."
"This is your brothers birthday, and you have already tried to ruin it. If you still want to go to Eliches on your birthday, you will sit quietly facing the back of the car through this movie."
At that, the hatchback opened and Chuck grabbed the pillows and blankets that were back there. He laid them across the roof and threw the pillows up too. He then lifted Josh up on the car roof where he watched the entire movie with his Milk Duds and bucket of popcorn.
I meanwhile, sat hunched in the foot well behind the drivers seat stewing and waiting. I was so mad that I was actually being punished, and couldn't imagine what was taking her so long to realize that I was being good now and should be allowed to watch. The longer I sat there the angrier I got. But not being bold enough to actually start more trouble and risk my birthday fun, I instead made hurumphing noises from the back seat. you know what I mean... when a kid wants to make sounds but doesn't want to say any particular words he goes... guhh.... uhh... jeeez... gah...hmph... But no matter what sounds I made they didn't acknowledge me.
They kept their eyes forward and focused on Josh, although I knew my Mom had at least one eye in my direction... I tried a couple times to position myself so I could see pieces of the screen, and inevitably she would look back and give me the "quit-it" eye and I would settle back down.
And that is how I watched one of the most anticipated movies of my 12th summer, hunched in a foot-well not being able to see anything, but being able to hear every single horrible written line. It was sublime torture. It was years before I actually got to watch that movie. And when I did, Mom walked through the room and said "Oh I remember that movie... Isn't it awful!"
"Not nearly as awful as the first time I sat through it... with only the sound..."
"What do you mean dear, what was wrong with the tv the first time you watched it?"
"You don't remember??? You used this movie to torture me!!! And you don't even remember!?!?!"
"When was this? Were you misbehaving?"
Sigh... my Mom... Such a clever woman.
I spent my youth pushing every envelope I could find. I had mastered the art of manipulation, and learned to work both my parents and the "way things were".
My parents, although hippies, were not against spanking with a belt. And there were countless times when we asked for it just as hard as we got it. Two boys need to be shown limits and discipline. The other favorite punishment method for my parents was to make us stand in the corner.
While this started all loose and easy with a stool facing a wall, with my inventiveness and devious nature, putting me in the corner became a spectator sport. It started by them taking the stool away because I would just go to the corner and nap. Then it became them literally putting my nose in the corner til I could reach out my tongue and touch it. That came about because I would watch tv and only put my face toward the corner when they turned to look at me.
Then came the mirrors. I would always find a way to sneak one to the corner with me. Or grab one when they let me use the bathroom. I would watch tv while facing the corner and they were none the wiser for a while... always just for a while. I think the corner punishment stopped somewhere around the same time that I started doing headstands with my nose in the corner. How can you stay mad at that???
There was also the "you cant come out of your room til it's clean" punishment. Never worked very well on me either. The one thing my dad said he always admired me for was my commitment. When he told me not to come out til it was clean, I didn't come out. I stayed in my room for weeks... only coming out for food and the bathroom. I would just go off in my head and play with my toys. Weeks of a dirty room would go by until finally they would just hang their heads and accept that I was going to live in a dirty bedroom.
Chuck would come up and sit down and give me a lecture about cleaning ones room and doing what your told and all. I would roll my eyes and leave the room as soon as he was done. I would run outside and play, go downstairs to watch tv, go play in the downstairs bedroom... but when I went to bed that night, I would clean my room. It would usually take me about twenty minutes, and I would go to bed after. I can still remember how they had chuckled the next morning about how stubborn I was.
But twice, my mom concocted what can only be described as the most diabolically clever punishments to punish me and teach me my lesson.
The first was more of a physical punishment. When I was in the fifth grade I was the very first stop on a very long bus ride through the mountains to school. Josh always went to a different school than me, so he never missed his bus. There were several mornings when I accidentally missed the bus and then a few mornings when I "accidentally" missed the bus. Mom worked down in Denver so she left before we had to be at the bus.
On those days that I missed the bus, I would call Mom at work and let her know. Mom would do one of two things. She would come home on her lunch and drive me to school, or she would yell at me and then tell me that she would be checking my schoolwork when she got home. I would then spend the entire day playing and watching tv. Then I would pass off old schoolwork as the stuff I had spent the day doing. I told you... sneaky little boy!!
Missing the bus got to be a bit too much of a habit so my mom though of a perfect way to make me stop. One random morning I didn't feel like going to school, and so when Josh and I left for the bus, he went in one direction toward his stop, and I went a little way toward my stop and then walked right back to the front door when he had gone over the hill.
I took off my clothes and got into my pj's. Had a bowl of cereal, turned the tv on, got my breath going and my emotion up, and dialed Mom's work number. She picked up the phone and since I had been holding my breath I let out a breathless story about how I had run after the bus for a good ways, but she never saw me... And how sorry I was, and I wouldn't let it happen again and yadda yadda yadda... Mom wouldn't give up this time though. She just kept saying you better start walking. She played the usual disapproving parent, scolded me and told me that I need to start walking to school and that she was going to check with the school to see what time I got there. I reminded her that while I was ten and kinda smart, I only knew the bus route to school and that drive took almost 30 minutes alone, and I surely would get lost. I told her I knew what they would be covering in school and that she could check my work when she got home. She said she had to go and I hung up the phone and settled in for a nice relaxing day.
About forty minutes later I'm sitting in the living room eating a second bowl of cereal, when I pause. I thought I heard something familiar. The approach of an engine, the parking and slamming of a car door. I got up and rushed to the window overlooking the garage, there parked in front of the garage was Mom's car. I rushed back into the living room just in time to see the front door swing open and Mom storming in, her face all flushed.
"Why aren't you walking?" She spoke very loudly.
"I told you, I didn't know the way..."
"This is going to end now. Put your shoes and coat on, and grab your bag. You are going to school today, and to make sure you never miss the bus again, you are going to walk the entire way!!"
View Larger Map
Seven miles.
It doesn't sound so bad when you just say it. But when faced with the prospect of walking those seven miles through the mountains just so you can be at school at the end... Well, needless to say I threw my tantrums long before I started the walk.
Mom would not be moved. I was always rather impressed with how long she held out on my begging that day. But she had her way eventually, and I started walking. She had her usual collection of books with her and the entire morning off. She read through at least one of those books that morning. I walked through mud and snow and slush and ice and gravel, uphill, being humiliated by all the drivers who pointed to me on the side of the road as I walked.
It was as if each of them knew, and they were pointing to their passengers, possibly misbehaving children too, and say: "See... that's what happens to children who misbehave! That's what will happen to you if you talk back to me while I'm driving!!" Oh yes, the psychological trauma was very well played in this revenge.
You might think this was very dangerous for a ten year old boy to walk seven miles through mountain roads to get to school, and my ten year old self would have said, I KNOW!!! But my Mom was never actually that far away. And that may have been the worst part of the whole ordeal.
I walked, thirsty and humiliated, while she drove around me, parked read her book and waiting till I was out of sight again, drive past me park and resume her book. Three hours it took to walk those seven miles. Three painful hours of humiliation at the hand of my Mom, and the worst just became apparent.
As I walked up the long one lane road that held my school at the far end of it, I could see all the buses parked in the lot. I hoped that my bud driver wasn't there to see my shame (She was, asked me about it the next day). As I got closer to the school it became obvious that I would arrive at the height of recess. Which meant that every student of the school was going to get to see being walked to school like a bad little boy. I walked over to the passenger window of the car and begged her not to make me walk in front of the playground. I cant remember all the different tactics that I used to regain entry into the car, but I can remember the one that did the trick in the end. I simply looked at her and said with my biggest weepy eyes, "these kids already have enough reasons to hate me and make fun of me, please don't give them another!"
Totally got it... hook line and sinker!! She drove me what would amount to the length of two city blocks to the front door. I opened my door and she took my arm. When I turned to look at her she said "what did we learn today, Shane?"
"Not to miss the bus, Mom."
"Good, now go to school."
I never missed the bus again... That walk was a bitch!!! The greatest punishment ever devised by my Mom, however, was made on the spur of the moment, and it still rings in my head...
We were celebrating something for my brother... Maybe it was when he made the wrestling team (or I'm just looking for an excuse to post this pic of him), but more likely it was a hot July night and we were celebrating his birthday. I don't know what I did. I'm not denying that I misbehaved, but I cant remember the specific offence that sparked my punishment, the details have long been out shadowed by the shocking punishment that resulted.
We were already halfway through my brothers birthday night when the offence occurred. My Mom, trying not to let my behaviour ruin my brothers birthday decided on the spot that we would continue on to the main event of the night; Superman 4: The Quest for Peace, at the drive-in with all the treats. Oh what do you want, we were twelve and thirteen!! And yes, I had a secret crush on Dolf Lundgren... what of it!!
Anyway... my Mom devised a most clever way to both give my brother what he was promised, and punish me at the same time. We pulled into a spot at the drive-in and positioned the earphones at both windows. Mom and Chuck exchanged a glance and he got out and took Josh with him to get whatever he wanted at the concession stand.
Mom, stayed quiet in the front seat for a couple minutes while I waited for the other shoe to drop in the back.
"Shane, you have to learn when to control both your mouth and your energy. You are going to be punished tonight for your behaviour. Your punishment is that you do not get to watch the movie. I want you to turn around with you back to Chucks seat and keep your eyes out the back window."
"This is your brothers birthday, and you have already tried to ruin it. If you still want to go to Eliches on your birthday, you will sit quietly facing the back of the car through this movie."
At that, the hatchback opened and Chuck grabbed the pillows and blankets that were back there. He laid them across the roof and threw the pillows up too. He then lifted Josh up on the car roof where he watched the entire movie with his Milk Duds and bucket of popcorn.
I meanwhile, sat hunched in the foot well behind the drivers seat stewing and waiting. I was so mad that I was actually being punished, and couldn't imagine what was taking her so long to realize that I was being good now and should be allowed to watch. The longer I sat there the angrier I got. But not being bold enough to actually start more trouble and risk my birthday fun, I instead made hurumphing noises from the back seat. you know what I mean... when a kid wants to make sounds but doesn't want to say any particular words he goes... guhh.... uhh... jeeez... gah...hmph... But no matter what sounds I made they didn't acknowledge me.
They kept their eyes forward and focused on Josh, although I knew my Mom had at least one eye in my direction... I tried a couple times to position myself so I could see pieces of the screen, and inevitably she would look back and give me the "quit-it" eye and I would settle back down.
And that is how I watched one of the most anticipated movies of my 12th summer, hunched in a foot-well not being able to see anything, but being able to hear every single horrible written line. It was sublime torture. It was years before I actually got to watch that movie. And when I did, Mom walked through the room and said "Oh I remember that movie... Isn't it awful!"
"Not nearly as awful as the first time I sat through it... with only the sound..."
"What do you mean dear, what was wrong with the tv the first time you watched it?"
"You don't remember??? You used this movie to torture me!!! And you don't even remember!?!?!"
"When was this? Were you misbehaving?"
Sigh... my Mom... Such a clever woman.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
The days my brother died... Day 1: The Damn or the Drop
Growing up as latchkey kids in a mountain town with less than 700 people, my brother and I had some very strange adventures growing up. Luckily for both of us, we were always together, so if something bad happened, we could get help for the other.
There were five times in my memory that stand out as days that my brother could have very easily died, and very nearly did, but for luck and a little bit of intuition.
On a white winter morning on christmas break, the great blizzard of '82 was taking a pause and my brother and I decided it was the perfect moment to have an outdoor trek. It was our first winter in the duplex, and this was our first time being snowbound. We just had to explore the now foreign territory again.
We walked down to the general store and got penny candy and supplies for mom. On the way back, Josh suggested we take the forbidden road home. Forbidden because the family who lived at the end of it had a very mean dad who yelled at anyone who got too close to his house. We walked up that road until we could see two things, the lights of the grinch's house and the dam to the left that connected at the end of the two roads.
In the summer, this dam held what could barely be described as a lake, more of a pond really... You could walk across it if you were careful and good with balance, but if you lost your balance you had to try to fall in the water, because the other option was about a 20 foot fall to the forest floor below.
As we took a left, away from the house, towards the dam, I wondered if the lake was frozen over, or if we would have to do that precarious balancing act in the snow. Sadly, it turned out to be the latter. The ice was brittle around the edges of the lake and impossible to pass on. The lake was big enough that it was too much to ask for us to go around... plus... there was the danger factor.
As any boys would have, we decided to take the scary balancing act way across and back over to our street. We shuffled slowly across, Josh taking the lead. The lip of the damn was about a foot across and when we got to the middle we had to leap the two foot gap that allowed the spillover. Josh jumped over sure footed and turned to help me. When I lept, my foot slipped a bit on the ice and Josh grabbed me and guided me to safety. My slip had, however, thrown him off balance and once I regained mine, he started to wobble.
Thinking that he was going to go over the bad edge of the damn, I gave him a shove backward and he plunged into the frozen lake, breaking right through the ice.
Being only seven years old, I did the only thing I could think of. I ran the rest of the way off the damn, ran down the road, up the driveway, around the stairs through the front door and hollered at the top of my lungs "JOSH FELL IN THE LAKE!!! HELP!!! JOSH IS IN THE LAKE!!!"
Mom and Chuck were up and out the door quicker than I had ever seen them move, they ran down the driveway all while trying to put their coats and hats and gloves on... I ran alongside crying in shame that I had left him there. We got to the bottom of the driveway and turned up toward the damn, Josh was walking slowly towards us. Shivering and dripping wet, Mom grabbed him and wrapped her jacket around him.
After a very long hot bath for both of us, mom made some chicken noodle soup with mashed potatoes in it and we all sat around the fire. Despite how easy it is for kids to hurt themselves on these adventures, somehow, miraculously, we always lived to do it again...
There were five times in my memory that stand out as days that my brother could have very easily died, and very nearly did, but for luck and a little bit of intuition.
On a white winter morning on christmas break, the great blizzard of '82 was taking a pause and my brother and I decided it was the perfect moment to have an outdoor trek. It was our first winter in the duplex, and this was our first time being snowbound. We just had to explore the now foreign territory again.
We walked down to the general store and got penny candy and supplies for mom. On the way back, Josh suggested we take the forbidden road home. Forbidden because the family who lived at the end of it had a very mean dad who yelled at anyone who got too close to his house. We walked up that road until we could see two things, the lights of the grinch's house and the dam to the left that connected at the end of the two roads.
In the summer, this dam held what could barely be described as a lake, more of a pond really... You could walk across it if you were careful and good with balance, but if you lost your balance you had to try to fall in the water, because the other option was about a 20 foot fall to the forest floor below.
As we took a left, away from the house, towards the dam, I wondered if the lake was frozen over, or if we would have to do that precarious balancing act in the snow. Sadly, it turned out to be the latter. The ice was brittle around the edges of the lake and impossible to pass on. The lake was big enough that it was too much to ask for us to go around... plus... there was the danger factor.
As any boys would have, we decided to take the scary balancing act way across and back over to our street. We shuffled slowly across, Josh taking the lead. The lip of the damn was about a foot across and when we got to the middle we had to leap the two foot gap that allowed the spillover. Josh jumped over sure footed and turned to help me. When I lept, my foot slipped a bit on the ice and Josh grabbed me and guided me to safety. My slip had, however, thrown him off balance and once I regained mine, he started to wobble.
Thinking that he was going to go over the bad edge of the damn, I gave him a shove backward and he plunged into the frozen lake, breaking right through the ice.
Being only seven years old, I did the only thing I could think of. I ran the rest of the way off the damn, ran down the road, up the driveway, around the stairs through the front door and hollered at the top of my lungs "JOSH FELL IN THE LAKE!!! HELP!!! JOSH IS IN THE LAKE!!!"
Mom and Chuck were up and out the door quicker than I had ever seen them move, they ran down the driveway all while trying to put their coats and hats and gloves on... I ran alongside crying in shame that I had left him there. We got to the bottom of the driveway and turned up toward the damn, Josh was walking slowly towards us. Shivering and dripping wet, Mom grabbed him and wrapped her jacket around him.
After a very long hot bath for both of us, mom made some chicken noodle soup with mashed potatoes in it and we all sat around the fire. Despite how easy it is for kids to hurt themselves on these adventures, somehow, miraculously, we always lived to do it again...
The first time I heard the music, or Canon in D
I was in the fifth grade. Marshdale elementry school in Bergin county deep in the Colorado rockies the first time that I understood how music can move the soul.
That should come to quite a shock to some of my readers, well... Mom and Dad mostly. I was raised by two cool hippies that were in rock bands and came from musical families. That is to say, since birth I was constantly surrounded by music. And it instilled in me an appreciation for the craft of making music and truly mastering an instrument.
So, why should I not be moved so deeply by music until well into my 10th year? I'm not sure if I can answer that question. All I can do is tell you what happened, and where I was. And maybe you can tell me.
I was ten years old in the special education program that moved from school to school every year. Third grade was Wilmont Elementary, I don't remember where fourth grade was, but Fifth grade I remember vividly. You will read more stories from fifth grade later.
Marshdale Elementry School was a stark building made mostly of cement and glass that stood like a discarded box among the surrounding mountains and forrests. There were only two other things of interest on the street that are worth note, the school bus terminal on the left hand side right before you got to the school building and a large field on the right side of the street that was home to a herd of about a hundred or so American Buffalo.
I remember many of my childhood classrooms vividly, this one had a large box in the back corner opposite the door. On the side of this large box, there was a door. This was a time-out room. Padded walls and floor. Practically sound proof. And much to the dismay of my teachers, one of my favorite places. I can remember playing many games by myself in that room. I even like to think it helped me develop my imagination.
Like a lot of special education classrooms, there was no one consistent theme in the room. There was the typical math art of times tables and short division, but you could also find the other two "R"s. As well as arts and crafts, balls and jump ropes... like most schools the special ed class rolled all the general education into one classroom. So you had maybe two teachers to teach you all the subjects. While the "normal" kids went from classroom to classroom. When I got to junior high the idea of home rooms was completely foreign to me.
There was one other thing in that room, and it is that item that first moved my soul with music. In a cubical on the side of the room next to the arts and crafts, sat a small white tapedeck and a pair of earphones. There were only five or six tapes to choose from, but I can only ever remember listening to one. Song one, side A: Pachabel's Canon in D.
My experience of music consisted of music made by bands of drummers (my dad), guitarists, bass players, lead singers, and stellar back up guitarist and singer (my mom). And while we listened to a lot of different music through my youth, somehow classical never really caught on... well with two exceptions. This one, and when my brother and I caught chicken pox we rented, and watched a hundred times, the movie Amadeus.
Every day when the teachers would allow us free time, I would rush right over to that little tape deck and stick the tape in and press play... I can remember gripping the earphones and holding them as close as I could to my head so I could hear all those low notes in the beginning...
And then that violin comes in with that string of notes, which is just a quite simple progression up the scale... But something about it strikes hope into me. And I listen to the swells and crescendos. I can remember holding my breath. The tightening of the brow muscles during the high notes. The way it seems without a word to emote feeling. It felt like being injected through the ear with pure joy.
I would sit there with my hands cupped around my ears and while my teachers watched with a curious fascination, I would disappear into another world. There was nothing but the sound. The perfect sounds, and all those different instruments... At the time I was still very ignorant about orchestra's and I couldn't fathom how someone had managed to make something so perfect sounding. The song would end, my eyes would open, the rewind button was pressed and then I would listen again. Then again.
That was the moment. I cant pinpoint any one day specifically. I cant tell you why it drew me day after day. There was something magic in the intricacies and the blend of all the different notes and sounds and instruments. And the way they played with volume... That series of moments with that one song has stuck with me through the rest of my life. When I think of my favorite songs, I always pick musicians that have mastered their instruments. And singers who can write lyrics that move me or speak to me in some way.
If I was ever asked to name the most perfect song ever written, I would say this one. Not because of it's association to weddings, or any ties that it has to modern pop culture. I would pick this song because when it is played there is the same reaction in every listener. Beauty, symmetry, unison, happiness, peace. We all feel the catch in our breath at moments, and the way our heads lilt ever so slightly upward as if these notes could only be made by angels.
The epiphany I had when I was ten years old clutching the earphones to my head was this: It is possible with music to inspire, and create joy and happiness without ever saying a word.
That should come to quite a shock to some of my readers, well... Mom and Dad mostly. I was raised by two cool hippies that were in rock bands and came from musical families. That is to say, since birth I was constantly surrounded by music. And it instilled in me an appreciation for the craft of making music and truly mastering an instrument.
So, why should I not be moved so deeply by music until well into my 10th year? I'm not sure if I can answer that question. All I can do is tell you what happened, and where I was. And maybe you can tell me.
I was ten years old in the special education program that moved from school to school every year. Third grade was Wilmont Elementary, I don't remember where fourth grade was, but Fifth grade I remember vividly. You will read more stories from fifth grade later.
Marshdale Elementry School was a stark building made mostly of cement and glass that stood like a discarded box among the surrounding mountains and forrests. There were only two other things of interest on the street that are worth note, the school bus terminal on the left hand side right before you got to the school building and a large field on the right side of the street that was home to a herd of about a hundred or so American Buffalo.
I remember many of my childhood classrooms vividly, this one had a large box in the back corner opposite the door. On the side of this large box, there was a door. This was a time-out room. Padded walls and floor. Practically sound proof. And much to the dismay of my teachers, one of my favorite places. I can remember playing many games by myself in that room. I even like to think it helped me develop my imagination.
Like a lot of special education classrooms, there was no one consistent theme in the room. There was the typical math art of times tables and short division, but you could also find the other two "R"s. As well as arts and crafts, balls and jump ropes... like most schools the special ed class rolled all the general education into one classroom. So you had maybe two teachers to teach you all the subjects. While the "normal" kids went from classroom to classroom. When I got to junior high the idea of home rooms was completely foreign to me.
There was one other thing in that room, and it is that item that first moved my soul with music. In a cubical on the side of the room next to the arts and crafts, sat a small white tapedeck and a pair of earphones. There were only five or six tapes to choose from, but I can only ever remember listening to one. Song one, side A: Pachabel's Canon in D.
My experience of music consisted of music made by bands of drummers (my dad), guitarists, bass players, lead singers, and stellar back up guitarist and singer (my mom). And while we listened to a lot of different music through my youth, somehow classical never really caught on... well with two exceptions. This one, and when my brother and I caught chicken pox we rented, and watched a hundred times, the movie Amadeus.
Every day when the teachers would allow us free time, I would rush right over to that little tape deck and stick the tape in and press play... I can remember gripping the earphones and holding them as close as I could to my head so I could hear all those low notes in the beginning...
And then that violin comes in with that string of notes, which is just a quite simple progression up the scale... But something about it strikes hope into me. And I listen to the swells and crescendos. I can remember holding my breath. The tightening of the brow muscles during the high notes. The way it seems without a word to emote feeling. It felt like being injected through the ear with pure joy.
I would sit there with my hands cupped around my ears and while my teachers watched with a curious fascination, I would disappear into another world. There was nothing but the sound. The perfect sounds, and all those different instruments... At the time I was still very ignorant about orchestra's and I couldn't fathom how someone had managed to make something so perfect sounding. The song would end, my eyes would open, the rewind button was pressed and then I would listen again. Then again.
That was the moment. I cant pinpoint any one day specifically. I cant tell you why it drew me day after day. There was something magic in the intricacies and the blend of all the different notes and sounds and instruments. And the way they played with volume... That series of moments with that one song has stuck with me through the rest of my life. When I think of my favorite songs, I always pick musicians that have mastered their instruments. And singers who can write lyrics that move me or speak to me in some way.
If I was ever asked to name the most perfect song ever written, I would say this one. Not because of it's association to weddings, or any ties that it has to modern pop culture. I would pick this song because when it is played there is the same reaction in every listener. Beauty, symmetry, unison, happiness, peace. We all feel the catch in our breath at moments, and the way our heads lilt ever so slightly upward as if these notes could only be made by angels.
The epiphany I had when I was ten years old clutching the earphones to my head was this: It is possible with music to inspire, and create joy and happiness without ever saying a word.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Oh Pure and Radiant Heart
As an avid reader, it is seldom that I come across a book that moves my soul and my way of thinking... and even rarer still is a book like that a work of fiction. This book now holds a special place on my shelves, and it has been dogeared and highlighted to no end... Needless to say, I don't lend this copy out.
The first time I heard of this book was in a review in EW magazine, I read the review in which the journalist used the following quote from the book. I was so moved by it that for the first and only time in my life, I put that magazine down and rushed right out to the store and bought the book.
"Even if there were dangers, even if the rivers and seas and the fish that swam them were flowing with mercury, forests were being felled and deserts turned into strip mines, there was nothing to do but to trust. If she had been given a choice before she was conceived , say to exist in chaos or not to exist at all: Chaos, she would have said. She would have said, not without sadness of course, still: let me come. Let me watch as all things fall apart."
The story is a fascinating look at today's American Society through the eyes of the mysteriously alive again fathers of the Atom Bomb. The research alone that must have gone into this book is staggering to think about. Covering such fascinating subjects as WWII, nuclear development, history, chemical engineering, psychology, botany, counter culture, government politicking, resurrection, military hit squads, corporate security forces for rent, the search for truth, atonement, love, hatred, fear and of course the Christian Coalition.
But it is not the subject matter that spoke to me the most... it was the beauty of the language. Rarely have I read a book so many times and still felt my breath catch at the cadence and the prose, at times, it feels almost like the most beautiful poetry I have ever read.
Let the observations and snippets of non-essential dialogue from the book speak for themselves... What? You know I said it was highlighted for a reason... you knew this was coming...
" Also they know that many of the customs and rituals with which we fill out time are just that. So many routine acts seem invented to use up the day."
"What astounds me is the blindness of you people now. A civilization that is blind to itself. I mean BLIND. In my day there was ignorance too: ignorance is timeless. But at least we were ashamed of it."
"Reality shows, which he claimed reminded him of the circus freak shows of yesteryear. They took place of the Siamese twins and deformed fetuses in pickle jars that had long been outlawed."
"The government talks in words that make horror trivial. But the people talk in words that make the trivial horrible."
"Joy, maybe when you don't have it yourself, when you don't have the grace, you look for it to shine out of someone nearby... We're so many, we're so hard to distinguish from each other, but we long to be distinguished... We want to be dear to the leaves and the sky. I know what it is to long, we say across the air of time, I know what feeling is. We want to think we will be there, always with the others that were and will be. We want to glow in the dark."
"In the end, saying that happiness is superior to pleasure is an insult to the body. Also, it assumes the mind and body are separate."
"The tendency of the culture to pathologize is so compulsive and so chronic that it might itself be described as a pathology. In other words, the culture is pathologically prone to pathologize, that is, as it were, pathologically pathological."
"Was there a difference between waiting for enlightenment and waiting to be entertained?"
"Instead of reason anymore there was only movement. It was the movement of crowds, to whom faith substitutes for education, to whom facts were only a competing myth and the subject of mockery. It was the movement of those who believed."
" Choice could be taken away, and then you became an object: but far from being dangerous that moment when choice disappeared was when danger also vanished, and there was nothing you could do but submit... For after all it was not ego or a conviction of your own importance that made life worth living but whether you could see how perfect the world had always been without you. It was not to despair at this though, not to run, not to fear, not to fight; it was if, instead of running or fighting, out of the overwhelming nearness of the world, your could finally make something that could be glimpsed from afar."
The particulars of the story are so absurd that they make perfect sense. Scientists at the height of the A-bomb testing are transported to New Mexico 2004. After reading about the rest of their lives that they hadn't yet lived, they all began to understand where the world had taken their work. And so they embark on a global nuclear disarmament journey that takes them from the site of the Trinity test in New Mexico to Okinawa to Washington DC and many fascinating and utterly horrifying places in between.
The culmination of the book is so fantastical and sublime that I can barely summon the words to describe how it made me feel... It was magical and inexplicable and so completing, that when I picked the book up for the second time, I could barely remember anything about the end, other than it was undefinable, unanswering and right. When I reached the end again, I was moved for entirely new reasons. And again, it was perfect.
The book is written with as much fact as fiction. Thrown together they create a clash between what could be and what is, between what it means to have faith and what it means to have logic. The whole idea that any person that comes back to life is, without a doubt, the messiah, and the utter unwillingness of the most holy to lose control of the faithful. With such creatively directed social commentary, factual historical information, and the most fascinating grasp of the English language of any contemporary writer I've read, Oh Pure and Radiant Heart, by Lydia Millet is without question, the best book written so far this century. Read it.
The first time I heard of this book was in a review in EW magazine, I read the review in which the journalist used the following quote from the book. I was so moved by it that for the first and only time in my life, I put that magazine down and rushed right out to the store and bought the book.
"Even if there were dangers, even if the rivers and seas and the fish that swam them were flowing with mercury, forests were being felled and deserts turned into strip mines, there was nothing to do but to trust. If she had been given a choice before she was conceived , say to exist in chaos or not to exist at all: Chaos, she would have said. She would have said, not without sadness of course, still: let me come. Let me watch as all things fall apart."
The story is a fascinating look at today's American Society through the eyes of the mysteriously alive again fathers of the Atom Bomb. The research alone that must have gone into this book is staggering to think about. Covering such fascinating subjects as WWII, nuclear development, history, chemical engineering, psychology, botany, counter culture, government politicking, resurrection, military hit squads, corporate security forces for rent, the search for truth, atonement, love, hatred, fear and of course the Christian Coalition.
But it is not the subject matter that spoke to me the most... it was the beauty of the language. Rarely have I read a book so many times and still felt my breath catch at the cadence and the prose, at times, it feels almost like the most beautiful poetry I have ever read.
Let the observations and snippets of non-essential dialogue from the book speak for themselves... What? You know I said it was highlighted for a reason... you knew this was coming...
" Also they know that many of the customs and rituals with which we fill out time are just that. So many routine acts seem invented to use up the day."
"What astounds me is the blindness of you people now. A civilization that is blind to itself. I mean BLIND. In my day there was ignorance too: ignorance is timeless. But at least we were ashamed of it."
"Reality shows, which he claimed reminded him of the circus freak shows of yesteryear. They took place of the Siamese twins and deformed fetuses in pickle jars that had long been outlawed."
"The government talks in words that make horror trivial. But the people talk in words that make the trivial horrible."
"Joy, maybe when you don't have it yourself, when you don't have the grace, you look for it to shine out of someone nearby... We're so many, we're so hard to distinguish from each other, but we long to be distinguished... We want to be dear to the leaves and the sky. I know what it is to long, we say across the air of time, I know what feeling is. We want to think we will be there, always with the others that were and will be. We want to glow in the dark."
"In the end, saying that happiness is superior to pleasure is an insult to the body. Also, it assumes the mind and body are separate."
"The tendency of the culture to pathologize is so compulsive and so chronic that it might itself be described as a pathology. In other words, the culture is pathologically prone to pathologize, that is, as it were, pathologically pathological."
"Was there a difference between waiting for enlightenment and waiting to be entertained?"
"Instead of reason anymore there was only movement. It was the movement of crowds, to whom faith substitutes for education, to whom facts were only a competing myth and the subject of mockery. It was the movement of those who believed."
" Choice could be taken away, and then you became an object: but far from being dangerous that moment when choice disappeared was when danger also vanished, and there was nothing you could do but submit... For after all it was not ego or a conviction of your own importance that made life worth living but whether you could see how perfect the world had always been without you. It was not to despair at this though, not to run, not to fear, not to fight; it was if, instead of running or fighting, out of the overwhelming nearness of the world, your could finally make something that could be glimpsed from afar."
The particulars of the story are so absurd that they make perfect sense. Scientists at the height of the A-bomb testing are transported to New Mexico 2004. After reading about the rest of their lives that they hadn't yet lived, they all began to understand where the world had taken their work. And so they embark on a global nuclear disarmament journey that takes them from the site of the Trinity test in New Mexico to Okinawa to Washington DC and many fascinating and utterly horrifying places in between.
The culmination of the book is so fantastical and sublime that I can barely summon the words to describe how it made me feel... It was magical and inexplicable and so completing, that when I picked the book up for the second time, I could barely remember anything about the end, other than it was undefinable, unanswering and right. When I reached the end again, I was moved for entirely new reasons. And again, it was perfect.
The book is written with as much fact as fiction. Thrown together they create a clash between what could be and what is, between what it means to have faith and what it means to have logic. The whole idea that any person that comes back to life is, without a doubt, the messiah, and the utter unwillingness of the most holy to lose control of the faithful. With such creatively directed social commentary, factual historical information, and the most fascinating grasp of the English language of any contemporary writer I've read, Oh Pure and Radiant Heart, by Lydia Millet is without question, the best book written so far this century. Read it.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The Death of a King?
This is going to be a post of an unpopular opinion, be forewarned.
Today reports that Michael Jackson has died have surfaced on every news station available. I would feel sad about such news, except that Michael Jackson died for me many years ago.
Like many people, the album "Thriller" helped define my childhood. It was the first (and only) vinyl record that my brother ever bought. And we played that thing for what seemed like eternity. I still know all the words twenty years later. His "Bad" and "Dangerous" albums seemed to carry my thorough my teen years and fascinated me with amazing dancing and storytelling mini-movies. It wouldn't be unfair in saying that he helped me develop an appreciation for the visual art in music.
Then he lost it, and he lost me.
It was the one two punch of the child molesting charges (twice, mind you), and the inexplicable drive to physically dissect himself and create a monster with the voice of an angel. I stopped buying his music around the time of his 12th nose job/face lift. I just couldn't find any logic in giving money to a man who was only going to use it to hurt himself.
I am not opposed to plastic surgery in any way, but here was a clear case of a man who hated himself so much that he physically couldn't stand his own face for the majority of his adult life. What bothers me most about that is that no one stopped him. It was an obvious cry for help, and we did nothing but watch. Because he had money he was able to sidestep any and all concerns that his doctors had. He butchered himself and we bought it for $14.99 and some cellophane.
Then we have the child molestation charges. I don't know whether or not I think he was innocent. The logical side of me says that he did it. The child in me says he didn't. We may never know the truth, but here is what I do know. He consistently chose to put himself into situations where child molesting could occur. He chose to act like a child. He chose to have inappropriate relationships with children. No one forced him into a room alone with a child, those were his decisions, and while we may never know if he was guilty we can without a single doubt know that he was responsible for creating the situation.
The fact that he never saw anything wrong with that, well it just makes me think he was trying to hide something. And then it happened again. And that was it for me. After going through that horror trial the first time any innocent man would have taken care to avoid putting himself in the same situations again. So, there it is, I guess I do believe he was a child molester. He just had the money to get away with it.
Which brings me to my last point, his children. While it is horrible that they have lost their father, I sadly believe that with him gone, they may actually have a shot at a semi-normal life now. I never trusted him with them. From the moment he announced that he was having kids, I was afraid for them. He was just so mentally messed up from both his own childhood and from decades of people catering to him and bowing to his every whim that I felt any children exposed to him for long durations of time would be equally as messed up.
My secret theory about him is that his father Joe castrated him at a young age ensuring that the money making voice of an angel would never fade. While I have no proof or evidence for this theory the physical pieces seem to fit. Castrated boys voices never drop, like Micheal's. Castrated boys remain lithe and sinewy like a pre-teen for the rest of their lives due to the removal of the testies and the testosterone they provide. Castrated boys never learn how to fully operate sexually due to the obvious lack of parts. Castrated boys historically segregated themselves from the rest of the population and spent most of their time with other eunichs (ie: young boys who are not sexually developed). Again, this is simply my theory to explain how Michael Jackson could have come to be the man he was.
Regardless of all the problems he had, he was without question one of the most brilliant musicians of the last century. His voice, his rythms, and most of all his songs have spoken to each generation, and I have a feeling that they will continue speaking to generations for many years to come. So, I do feel sadness in his passing. Sadness at what could have been prevented, sadness at the loss of the music yet to come, but most of all I feel the sadness for the boy who wanted so desperatly to entertain us all and this tear is for that boy, who we lost many years ago.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
