Blossoming Ghazal

I sometimes sit and look inside myself, oberving the universe as it blooms.
Each new event is inscribed on the petals of the universe as it blooms.

The castle of experience is filled with hallways, in one of which I have rooms:
A den, with walls of poems and a window to watch the universe as it blooms,

The sewing room is as far as any strangers are invited, in which are looms
Where I, the Lady of Shalott, weave tapestries of the universe as it blooms.

Those who wish to see my inner sanctum are led to a theater filled with tombs
Of loved ones who once watched me perform ablutions to the universe as it blooms.

There’s a parlor, in which to receive lovers and friends, with footmen, butlers and grooms.
But alone in the den I watch nearby petals of the universe as it blooms.

As an armillary spins around me--one of the forms the universe assumes--
I polish the glass, watering my daylilies and the universe as it blooms.

Every day, at dawn, the ritual of polishing and observation resumes,
And the sapphire at the center of the universe is revealed as it blooms.

* * *

Pushkin is right; the creation of poetry is "the rhyming search for truth" (Eugene Onegin, 4.L). It's no wonder that I have been producing as much poetry as prose lately.

Mancies for Nancies

I happen to subscibe to the Puritan theory of typology, namely that everything we witness is a symbol of some larger truth. It only makes sense that, as the invisible, atomic patterns of existence are a model of the larger, astronomical patterns, so we who inhabit the levels between the two are also subject to the same rules. We are, of course, often unaware of the patterns due to proximity, but this does not negate their existence. I do not tend to take it quite as far as the Puritans did, namely to the level of seeing our own futures in the migration of ants, but this is not due to disbelief, but rather due to distrust of my interpretation.

I tend to see a medium for meditation in the books and music that the universe sends my way. For example, my Ipod just randomly played Purcell's I Was Glad as performed by Chanticleer, to remind me of my involvement in the First Colorado Springs Gay Men's Chorus. It is a pity that a city of nearly 1,000,000 people does not have such an institution, and a dozen of my friends and I have just this week had our first rehearsal to remedy that deficiency. The Ipod is what you might call my equivalent of a Magic Eight Ball. And I put even more stock in Bibliomancy, the assumption that we are led to read that which most serves us. Case in point: I started to read Gene stratton Porter's Freckles while I was in the hospital, but was unable to finish it for some reason. I learned recently that I was meant to read it, for obvious reasons, after my amputation.

Which leads me to what I am reading today:

"You'll love again, but you must teach
your heart some self-control; for each
and every man won't understand it
as I have . . . learn from my belief
that inexperience leads to grief" (Pushkin, Eugene Onegin, 4.XVI).

As a recently out gay man, I find myself going through phases of learning through which I should have gone in Middle School. A variety of circumstances conspired, in my youth, to keep me from learning the mechanics of dating, not the least of which was my youthful marriage to the first woman I ever dated in the hope of becoming straight. I am finding now that there is a set of lessons that must be learned, in order, to master the intricacies of finding a relationship. Pushkin has spoken to me from beyond to clarify the lesson which is in front of me right now.

You see, I give my heart and undivided attention far too easily. I become obsessed with men whom I find interesting quite quickly, and this is not a functional approach to relationships. It is, rather, akin to the boyish crushes one might form during puberty. Like Tatyana in Onegin, I find it far too easy to form attachments, even as she does to Eugene after a single meeting. I officially apologize to Micah and Nathan for pinning any interest on them without real grounds. I need to learn, as the narrator of Onegin suggests,

"Just let yourself be your whole care,
your loved one, honourable reader!
Deserving object: there can be
nothing more lovable than he" (4.XXII).

I am SUCH a Bad Songwriter.

My Friend Jenny and I agreed to write and perform a song in church. This is a great idea in principle--both of us are creative, musical English majors--but there turn out to be two catches. Firstly, I have never written a song in my life, and I turn out to be bad at it. Secondly, Jenny is a folk song in Bminor played on a 12-string guitar, whereas I am trance music written in diminished fifths and played on a Hammond B3 Organ. I am Crack Cocaine; Jenny is Quaaludes. Our writing process turned into a battle between disjunct, soaring vocals (I) and legatissimo Mary Chapin Carpenter guitar (she). At least the finished product will make the congregation smile contendedly, even though I wanted them to get the holy ghost and roll around in their pews. Here are the lyrics; please believe that they work better sung than written:

(verse 1)
I've never been one of the pretty people, and I used to wonder why.
Their lives worked and mine just didn't no matter how hard I'd try.
I'd try so hard to live life better, and always end up worse--
Alone, without a purpose in the uuuuuuuuniverse.

(chorus)
I used to think that I was broken;
I used to think I was sick, bad and wrong.
I'd pray at night for God to fix me,
to make me healthy whole and strong.
So bless you for knowing, God above,
I didn't need fixed. all I needed was loooooove.

(verse 2)
I'd beat myself up and try to suffer for all my awful sins.
But all I'd get for my devotion were black and blue marks on my shins.
Till finally I gave up trying; I ceased to even care.
And that turned out to be the answer to my praaaaayer.

Cheesy, I know, but effective. And I love that our song has semicolons. Although I can't write songs, I write a hell of an essay.

Kneading a New Perspective

It is always a moment of epiphany to catch oneself living in the rut of a prerecorded, mental dialogue. For instance, at breakfast with Val today, I recited what has become my mantra, an automatically spoken summary of my life: "I need a job; I need a leg; I need a car; and I need . . ." here my voice trailed off as I almost said, "I need a man." But I realized in the saying that such was no longer the case. In fact, I'm not even sure I want a man anymore. Don't get me wrong; if somebody open, honest, committed and brave came along, I would definitely put bubbles in his jacuzzi. It's just that I am not searching desperately any longer. In fact, it almost seems that a man would just be a matter of convenience, something to cross off my list so that I could stop ogling.

Which made me think about other recordings I play in my mind. After all,

words are magic.

So often the speaking of a thing makes it true or concrete. The very simplest example of this is right before your eyes: my blog. Frequently, I don't know how I feel about a topic until I get going (as now) and the concise, clear truth spills out onto the screen. A more profound example of this magic is the actual speaking of words with the intent to influence reality--a declaration of intent, for instance. This is why the tradition of so-called magic spells nearly always involves incantation, and why preces and response is such an effective part of group worship. In fact, one can discern much about a congregation--even about the leader of a congregation--by the unity with which they recite whatever portion of their ceremony requires spoken participation.

The most fascinating discussion of words as magic, however, is surely in the Bible: The Word, the incarnation of God, was not only the first thing created--and created through the very speaking--but was also necessary to all subsequent creation: "God said, 'let there be light,' and there was light," for example (Gen 1:3). Although there is a serious question in my mind about whether this word has an identity (Jesus? Seems unlikely . . .), it is this power which I desire to tap.

I have personally experienced the same phenomenon described in Genesis. I have experienced a shiver running through the universe at the speaking of magic words like a wind running across the surface of the Earth. I don't know what I tapped into on those occasions, but my experience was that the entire room cracked open, and people shifted immediately. The power of the profound jolt which rings through me like electricity when I speak from my spirit may be unfamiliar due to your removal from the experience, dear reader, but take my description for it: there is a powerful, physical sensation that accompanies real words. I am confident that this is the source of what is commonly called magic.

It is therfore imperative that I record over the unhealthy tape loops that I catch myself repeating: I am unhappy, nobody loves me, I am a bad man, etc.. Not only are they baldly false; they work themselves into existence with each repetition. Which brings me to the healthy declarations I (try to) make regularly; imagine me saying these aloud as you read them:

My contract with myself (a spell to ground myself in my being):
I am a brilliant, insighful, emotional, spiritual man.

My contract with the universe (a spell to retrieve myself from materialism):
I am a child of God, and I am sustained by the light of the universe. I forfeit all other claims.

My Mission Statement (a spell to clarify decisions):
Through my loving, powerful spirit, I drive fear out of the hearts of children and awaken the child in the hearts of adults

Words are magic, dear reader. You and I can alter existence through writing, and even more through committed, charged, and connected speech.

Tracing-Paperwhite Narcissus

I am confident that all of my acquaintances would agree: I am less concerned than most with the opinions of the hoi polloi. This is especially evident when it comes to my increasingly shameless antics. For instance, celebrating Guy Fawkes' Day by dragging an effigy around town, asking people, "Penny for the old Guy?" and allowing them to kick the Catholic. In fact, my brother and I are already planning a series of short films chronicling my ambush-theatrical antics as an amputee. Current ideas for prosthetic props include: a mop, with which to clean the floors at a supermarket, warning passersby to watch their step; a unicycle, with which to offer pedestrians rides; and a foam rubber leg, which bears no weight, but upon which I try to walk anyway. Clearly, the comedic possibilities are endless.

You would think, dear reader, that one who exhibits such a committment to shamelessness--and I actually do these things; ask around--would also be immune to the body/fashion nazis that run our culture. But I secretly care. My sister chastised me for it today, after I admitted to posting a pic on www.Hotornot.com. While the post was made largely in jest, I really was crushed when my rating sunk and exalted when it rose. It is no revelation to me that I am narcissistic. I sometimes, in fact, read back over sections of this blog and think to myself, "If somebody else wrote this, I would love them--no questions asked." This is narcissism in the very truest sense: being obsessed with one's own image, as though transfixed by a reflection. The question, therefore, is not whether I am narcissistic, but whether to be ashamed of it and slowly work it out of my character, or not.

On the side of modesty, one finds the argument that we are all alike in the image of the divine. I'm not certain I buy it, though. To do justice to the divine we must, to be sure, look for his presence everywhere--even in the ignorant bucolic. At the same time, however, we must also exult in ourselves as the instrument and aspect of God. Modesty, therefore, is a two-edged sword: it tends to set our accomplishments in perspective, true, but it also prevents us from considering ourselves whole and holy in our path. I choose, therefore, what most people call self-hatred but I call realism. I choose to embrace my faults as part of my path and, therefore, wholly necessary. I am not shy about decrying praise of my accomplishments, but I don't do so out of deprecation. To refuse unearned praise is not hatred but love. I love my being, faults and all, and to accept innaccurate laudation is to honor falsehood rather than myself.

By the same token, it is not unhealthily narcissistic to bask in my writing, my voice, or other gifts, so long as I am clear and vocal about my corresponding shortcomings: impetuousness, lack of focus and hedonism. And what harm does it do me if a jury of my peers currently gives me an 8.1 on www.hotornot.com?

Mood Swing

While skipping, barefoot, through my mind,
Light-hearted, clear, content,
I felt a squish, and looked to find
I’d stepped in excrement.
As messy, brown emotion ran
Between my toes, I cursed
The selfish laziness of man
And asked aloud, “Who durst
To let their puppy shit in here?
This is a sacred space!”
But in reflection, cruelly clear,
I saw the culprits face.

I had forgotten: I alone
Had access to the field.
And I don’t own a puppy.

60 Minutes: Special Edition

Barbara Walters: So, Mr. Payne--
Brandon Payne: Please, call me Sugarlump.
BW: Errr. . . how about Brandon?
BP: Sounds fair, Barbie-kins.
BW: Right. Anyway, I understand you were initially concerned about your personal attractiveness after the amputation.
BP: That's right Babs--
BW: Barbara--
BP: Whatever. Anyway, I was laboring under the misconception that people are fundamentally shallow and stupid. My faith in humanity has been bolstered by the discovery that people really don't care about leftie here (gesturing to stump).
BW: I see. And what has led you to this conclusion?
BP: Zum teufel! Men have been crawling out of the woodwork! (Andre Breton bursts in on the interview).
Andre Breton: Purple Flang Zoological Effluent Mardi Gras Zoink (singing) Don't sleep in the subway, darlin' . . . Eluent Umbrella Avoirdupois (AB is ushered out by security).
BW: I see what you mean! (visibly aroused) Tell me about the irons currently in the fire, won't you?
BP: Oh, I don't know. I made the impetuous and narcissistic mistake of giving some of them access to this blog . . .
BW: What blog?
BP: Never mind. Anyway, I'm not sure I should. What if it comes back to bite me on my nice little heinie?
BW: (Not impressed with heinie) Don't you think our audience has a right to know the truth about the personal life of one of America's foremost celebrities?
BP: (Sucker for flattery) Well, since you put it that way, alright. About whom would you like to know first? There are four interesting anecdotes.
BW: Who would you like to tell me about?
BP: Don't end sentences in prepositions, honey. Pick a number between one and five.
BW: Five?
BP: Five it is: Oh wait, I said four didn't I? Four, then (in no particular order): Micah.
BW: Oooh, nice name.
BP: I agree. And apologies in advance, mein herr. I know you might be reading this. But I take solace in the fact that I don't say anything in private I wouldn't say in public, and loudly at that. Micah is an organist in Denver whom I chatted with online months ago. Then, while I was in Kentucky I noticed that he had bookmarked me and decided to drop him a line. There's not much to do in Owensboro, you understand.
BW: Yes, the town isn't even in Rutger's.
BP: Quite so. Who would be caught living in such an armpit of a town? Moving on, Micah and I have been emailing back and forth in anticipation of a meeting in person. Unless he's just being polite, but he did bookmark me.
BW: So you haven't even met this person?
BP: Hey, don't judge!
BW: Well, I hardly think that counts as a lead.
BP: (getting up in a huff) Well, I just don't think I want to be interviewed if you're going to editorialize.
BW: (desperately) Wait! I mean, way to go after what you want! That's not at all obsessive thinking!
BP: (Buying it) Oh, well I suppose I could answer a few more questions . . .
BW: Well, despite the fact that you haven't met Micah (biting tongue), tell me about him.
BP: Well, (giggling childishly) he's an Organist (Walters rolls eyes). He sings, he's tall, he has a blog that reveals a tender heart, and I guess that's all I know. Still, I am interested. As you might know, Barbaloo, from reading my autobiography--(scowling) you did read it didn't you?
BW: You mean the prize-winning, "The Way To My Heart Is Through My Ears?"
BP: Ah, you did your homework. Yes, as I was saying, as you might have read, I have a soft spot for musicians, and expecially for singers. And, if his pics are to be believed (blushing slightly), he's handsome. And that's all I have to say on that topic, I guess.
BW: So, tell me about number two.
BP: Ron. A Ron is a very sexy man.
BW: That's the one you were flirting with shamelessly at the Lavender Film Festival? (BP is stunned at BW's journalistic acumen). Don't be surprised. We have been following you with hidden cameras for weeks.
BP: (Unnerved) Well, I had lunch with him Friday, and he seems worth getting to know. My instinct is that he's a bit of a player, though. I hope he doesn't expect me to give it up right away.
BW: Like you did with--
BP: (Interrupting) SO, moving right along . . .
BW: Yes. You said there were four anecdotes?
BP: Right. It's the weirdest thing! Today, out of the blue, two different gorgeous, literate, funny men IMed me out of the blue!
BW: You go boy!
BP: Please, Bubbles, that is so 2002.
BW: (pouting) You don't know me.
BP: Anyway, I chatted with them for about an hour apiece, and it didn't go further than that, but Merde! It does reassure one to chat on equal terms with such eligible men as Sean and Robert! (Young Robert, that is. Not the other one; I think that has cooled off.)
BW: Well, it sounds like there is no question about your leg hindering your social life.
BP: Oh, yeah, the leg. I suppose I should take this opportunity to mention that I had my left leg amputated a month ago. I don't think I mentioned it in conversation with Robert, and he might be reading this.
BW: Reading what?
BP: Never mind. So what else do you want to know about?
BW: Well, our cameras have revealed footage of Luke giving you the look of love.
BP: Right. Luke is a sweetheart, but my instinct is that we would make a messy couple. I think I might break him.
BW: And Ben?
BP: Yeah, that is odd for Ben to show up twice in one week isn't it? But he's young and still in his slutty phase, so no thanks.
BW: Which reminds me, Adrian Brody told me to ask why you haven't been returning his calls.
BP: Oh, right. (Offhandedly) I suppose I should give him a call . . .
BW: Yes you should! He's a work of art! WOOF! He could fill my prescription any day!
BP: Right. Anyway, I think its time for me to go. I have an opening at the Guggenheim to attend (gets up to leave).
BW: Well thank you for your time, Brandon. (Suggestively) Perhaps we could, talk in private sometime . . .
BP: Sorry Barbarella. I prefer sausage to taco. Later!

(Camera blackout)

Happy Stump!

 

Pentameter is Really Not My Thing.

Pentameter just bubbles from my lips. I write in it subconsciously, sometimes. But when it comes to poetry, my line does not quite fit the pentametric mold. I find that, when I write subconsciously, that is to say when verse occurs to me full-formed and in the middle of the night, it happens with a heptametric line. And furthermore a specific type of heptameter (and that line feels so natural, I'll bet it slipped by you): a line of eight, a line of six, with little or no thought to trochees, spondees, and especially not to iams. If iams are "ti-tum", I wonder if there is a word for feet that read "ti-ti." I think I need to invent it:

I hereby define the undee:
A metric foot that reads
With no stressed syllable at all.
*and the* verse I write is
Brandonesian Heptameter.
I like being unique;
It makes me think my niche is filled
And my contribution
To the universe after death
(If I'm allowed to die)
Will be remembered after all,
And that's a nice feeling.

* * *
I had to put some work into this post, which makes me think it's not quite accurate.

Expelling Fragments

I can't believe I'm still shedding glass. I kicked out another shard today, this one from my leg. I suppose this is in line with my general impression, namely that I am nearly done processing the accident (physically , at least). It is just the funniest thing, dear reader, to find that what you thought was a pimple was really a little piece of broken glass slowly working its way out through your pores. And it is appropriate, while I'm evicting tiny pieces of windshield, to let a few incomplete thoughts out as well:
* * *
Fragment:
Where the hell is Susi? Both of her phones are disconnected, and she doesn't respond to emails. I am on the verge of driving up to Minnesota to check on her. Of course, I know that when I get there, I'll simply find that she has become overwhelmed in her life and withdrawn from the very people who are most able to help her--namely Sherri and I. Unacceptable.

And, while I'm at it, where is the brother of my soul, John? I wish he knew how much I love him, and how much energy I put into wishing the best for him.

Fragment:
I'm listening to my Ipod as I write this, and I think it may be trying to tell me something. I have it on random play (I love random sequences of song) and two songs in a row have set off little flags in my consciousness. For one, I have always felt that, for some reason, when the one is about to appear, I will hear the song "There Won't be Trumpets" from Anyone Can Whistle. That very song just popped up out of 2,237 songs, which itself is enough to make me pay attention. Then, on its heels, came "Please Send Me Someone to Love" by George Michael, also anticipating the approach of someone wonderful. And now, even as I write, Puccini sings to me, "In poverta mia lieta scialo da gran signore rime ed inni d'amore . . . Talor dal mio forziere ruban tutti i gioelli due ladri gli occhi belli!" I leave it to those of you who speak Italian to figure out why that is perfect.

Fragment:
I have, for some time, been trying to find some appropriate way to address the divine. To simply pray to "God" or "Lord," as though he was an anonymous title, seems to disavow her personality and his investment in our lives. To pray to "Jesus," on the other hand, is inaccurate as well; Christ is only one reflection of the Divine, as clear and as inspiring as that reflection is. Emerson faced a similar dilemma, and his thoughts are revealing:

"Fortune, Minerva, Holy Ghost,--these are quaint names, too narrow to cover this unbounded substance. The baffled intellect must still kneel before this cause, which refuses to be named,--ineffable cause, which every fine genius has essayed to represent by some emphatic symbol, as Thales, by water, Anaximenes by air, Anaxagoras by thought, Zoroaster by fire, Jesus and the moderns by love; and the metaphor of each has become a national religion . . . In our more correct writing we give to this generalization the name of Being, and thereby confess that we have arrived as far as we can go" (Experience).

But Ralph is only partly right. The dilemma, as he and I both understand, is to combine the universal with the personal without creating a fatuous paradox, to blend "Tao" with "Allah" and thereby express the impossible truth that I am existence even though I worship it as though it was outside myself. It turns out that I have a leg up on Ralph here, for I was from my youth taught that God has a personal name, and that it is JEHOVAH. I am almost tempted, in deference to my personal baggage, to resist the usage of this name and substitute, instead, YAHWEH. But I choose to embrace the power the name JEHOVAH has over me, never failing to make me shiver when spoken. And here is the inexpressible beauty: JEHOVAH is Hebrew for exactly that which Emerson felt was the ultimate expression of God: Being. In fact, some scholars think that JEHOVAH means "I AM," "I WAS," and "I SHALL CAUSE TO BE" simultaneously, depending on the (now lost to time) pronunciation. JEHOVAH is, therefore, the perfect blending of the universal and the personal, of the nature of Being. Take that, Ralph. I've finally got one up on you.

* * *

I feel better now that I've passed those thought-fragments out of my system and on to you. Enjoy!

Amazing

Life is a labyrinth within
A labyrinth.
Just as you find
What you thought was the exit,
You are in the next, higher level
Of your life. And there,
In the margins of the fractal,
Are the people
You thought had left you behind.

And suddenly, you see her
On the beach, or sitting,
Knowingly,
At a sidewalk café. Or maybe
She’s not even a person anymore,
But an unmistakable presence,
Drawing you forward
Into the corridors
Of your own spirit.

* * *
I didn't write this for myself; I wrote it as a parting commission. What applies to Anthony for a girl, however, applies to me for my Gramma, whom I continue to miss.

Stepping Out

Sitting, listening to Stevie Wonder,
I realized I didn't feel my hands.
As often as I'd tried to leave this plane,
I'd done it in the middle of the day.

It's easier than I had thought before--
No meditating, simply letting go.
I hovered, feeling suddenly complete,
And knew that I had come into my own
(The world is meant for people who can walk,
The universe for people who can fly).

A while back, I heard my spirit say
"You're not allowed to die." And now I know
Just what he meant. When I release my life
I'll simply open my third eye and see
The way things really are. They're right who say
El Amor es Ciego, but there's more
Than sight with which a person can percieve.

Love, though blind, is in itself a sense.
And when I learn to use it, you will look
For me and I'll have disappeared--

Processing Trauma

I noticed today that my fingernails all have a little transvere ridge running across them. Each of the nails have the anomaly at the same point and are pushing it out of my fingers at the same rate. I can't help but compare myself to a tree, whose traumas are reflected in rings. If the rate of growth is to be believed, the ridge would have developed on my fingers at the time of the accident and is just now being expelled from my system.

This is appropriate. I am graduating from a set of health problems to a whole new set of anxieties. I need a job; I need a car. I need a leg especially. And my coping mechanism needs to adapt; I need to become tenacious and aggressive instead of cheerfully resigned. And it is a familiar feeling. I feel burdened (although what I have experienced is nothing extraordinary) and find myself curled up on the bed, whimpering like an abused dog. This is the same spot I was in before the accident; check my blog and see for yourself. I need, therefore, to surpass this life, but not by passing into the next one. After all, I'm not allowed to die. No, I get to make this life fit me, in all my reflective splendor, and let it stand as a testament to the healing and completing power of God.

The Tenth Muse

Erato and Calliope
have no allure for me.
I can't write epic poetry,
nor Romance.
Tragedy,
though closer, isn't quite the thing,
and so Melpomene
can keep on screwing writers who
her palsied virtues sing.
No self-respecting writer would
waste any precious time
with muses who require them
to write their verse in rhyme.

I dally with Urania,
flirt with Terpsichore,
and I would Marry Thalia
if she would marry me
(not for the sex, but for the laughs.
she's decent company).
I'm just friends with Euterpe,
and Polyhymnia
can find another lover.
Me,
I think she's just a bitch.

I short I wouldn't stoop to swyve
with any of these nine.
I need to find another muse,
a virile incubus
of literary merit, whose
specialty is longing,
not heroes or romance.

And so, I shall promote
young Ganymede to muse.
I'll let
him kiss me on the throat
and lay reclining on my breast.
I'll stroke his slender flanks--
but I had better stop at that.
If I write any more,
I'll owe Erato something which
she's seldom had before.

Greener Grass

I had the most fascinating conversation with an acquaintance yesterday. I only know Pete third hand, but we talked briefly at my sister's party last night. As it happens (whenever I am in alignment with the universe), he and I are in the same shoe, podiatrically speaking. Like me, he had an accident which ruined his foot. Like me, he faced whether or not to keep it, minimally useful as it was. Unlike me, he made the other choice. He went through the hard work and battles involved in saving his limb, and retains it to this day. And even as he was saying, "I wish I was in your situation," I was wishing to be in his. As hindering as an unresponsive foot would be, I can't help but wish I had one.

I was thinking today that, although generally insecure about my appearance, I was always proud of my legs. I had sculpted calves, stout, muscular thighs, and gorgeous ankles. In the shower yesterday, I looked down at my remaining leg and then at my stump and came to some agreement with them. I decided to like them equally, like two children. As I sat contemplating on the shower bench, I rubbed my stump and said to it, "I love you too." Don Miguel Ruiz, whom I generally wouldn't bother to quote, wrote one thing that applies to my leg:

"I make everything a ritual, and I always do my best. Taking a shower is a ritual for me, and with that action I tell my body how much I love it. I feel and enjoy the water on my body. I do my best to fulfill the needs of my body. I do my best to give to my body and to recieve what my body gives to me" (The Four Agreements).

As a temple of the divine, physical and otherwise, I am compelled to revere myself as a representative of God. Even my stump. Which is appropriate, because I can't help but view it metaphorically that my leg became so infected it was better to lose it than to fight it for the rest of my life. "And if your foot causes you to stumble," it is written, "cut it off" (Mark 9:47). I feel that, along with the literal infection, the infected, sinister, black part of my soul was cut out of me with my left foot. What remains of me is more whole, more healthy, than what I was before the crash. And I am never going to set foot in that black pit of desperate, gangrenous spirit again.

Obligatory Retrospective Episode

I drew a line today. I decided that any cards I recieve henceforth are not "get well" cards, but "I like you" cards. I assume that anybody who is still bothering to send me cards is concerned with my welfare irrespective of my accident. So I took the big stack of "get well" cards I have accumulated and counted them. 105. And I stacked them up and put them in a little box marked "2005," wherein I have been storing memorabilia since January 1. It took some trigonometry to fit all the cards into the box; I was not expecting 2005 to be quite so memorable. So I took everything out and rearranged it to fit. I thought it might be nice to share some of the contents with you.

One cardboard sword marked "Beware the Ides of March. On March 15th this year, my sister and I donned togas and ran around downtown, attacking people in the name of Liberty. "Freedom!" we would cry exultantly after each kill, "Tyranny is dead!"

One pill bottle containing a single pill of Depakote. To remind me that it is not shameful to need a little balancing help. I never am going to go back there again. If you have been there, you know what I mean.

One black ballcap, marked "Prima Donna." At work, we were required to wear hats marked, "Prima Della." I picked the ELL off mine and replaced it with ONN. I don't think my boss ever did notice.

One twelve-inch metal rod. Which they took out of my leg as they amputated it. Nice of them to let me keep it, don't you think?

A small terracotta soldier, which belongd to my late, great aunt, Peppy. A memento mori.

An Anakin Skywalker action figure. A gift From Shawn, as I lay in the hospital. I never have figured out why we lost touch. We could have been great friends. I could have lent him some bravery, and he could have told me when a haircut was overdue. Alas, I see that the action figure has lightsaber action. . .

Crumpled stage directions from Die Dreigroschen Oper. These were evidently retrieved from the wreckage of my car. I have it on good authority that, as I lay semi-coherent in intensive care, I threatened in my delerium to sue the hospital if they didn't let me go perform in the opera. I even had to be restrained, as I was tearing the IV tubes out of my arms. I had an obligation, after all.

In my handwriting, the lyrics from Habanera. Also in my car at the time of the crash. It turns out that La vie, like L'amour, et un oiseau rebelle . . . Tu ne l'attend plus, il est la.

I Caught Myself Wanting Again Today

It lately hasn't bothered me as much
That I will never have a gorgeous man,
Tall, blonde, athletic, muscular and tan,
The sort that perfect strangers want to touch.

The energy approaches, sure but slow,
Of someone quiet, musical and kind,
A man whom I can trust to speak his mind
Whom I will fall in love with at "Hello."

"Bei gott im himmel, you're him, you're the one!"
I'll say, for Truth withstands the test of speech.
And, though he may not say the thing out loud,
He'll think it, and no man will be allowed
To break us or our virtue to impeach.
It's then my life, at last, will have begun.

* * *

Grasping for that which is meant to be does no good. Still, the waiting is driving me stark-raving, hay-chewing, cuckoobananas. >sigh<

Choosing My Experience

I wonder if I'm unique in experiencing conflicting emotions simultaneously. For instance, right now, I have an aura of radiant warmth and contentment about my life. At the same time, I feel melancholy and lonely. It is as though my emotions are running on alternating current, going back and forth so quickly as to give the illusion of simultaneity. One cannot perceive the flickering of lights that run on AC. By the same token, it seems to others like I'm glowing all the time; only I can feel the dissatisfaction.

Which is why it serves me to write my experiences down in this blog, even though I don't have anything profound to say right now. It is difficult to pin one's emotions down when they are flickering madly. If I write what I'm feeling, I can look at my emotions like a menu and pick a suitable one. Here are today's selections:

* * *

Amuse-Bouche-
*Amusement that Doug thinks I'm too young for him.
*Satisfaction at performing in the choir again.
*Contentment to have such trustworthy friends as Richard and Sherri.

Entrees-
*Loneliness. Intense loneliness.
*Frustration at the slow progress of my recovery.
*Empowerment at the realization that Truth withstands the burden of trust.
*Interest in Micah.

Entremets-
*Confusion with what's up with Robert.
*Excitement at the prospect of teaching.

* * *

Now that I look at it, there's rather a nice balance of experiences--mostly positive, but not so rich as to cause indigestion. I think I'll try them all.

Not My Best Poem. So Sue Me.

I’m sick of brittle men
Who kiss like birds
With timid, darting tongues.

My torrential love
Would erode most men,
Into smooth, featureless
Shapes without corners
(and the corners are the best part).

It takes confidence
To stick around long enough
For peccadilloes to become tolerable,
And then to become familiar,
And invisible in turn
Until your name turns into an adverb,
And instead of dramatically or obsessively
I simply do things Brandonly
And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

When I fall,
It will be from such a height
That only you can catch me

(Whomever you are).

Inspired by Ralph. Again.

As I read through a collection of Emerson's essays, I am abashed by the familiarity of his thought. I had considered myself the first to ever think certain things, and, while I suppose the fact that I came up with Emersonian thoughts independently is affirming, I can't help but feel less than original.

Take this passage, for instance:
"Prayer that craves a particular commodity, anything less than all good, is vicious. Prayer is the contemplation of the facts of life from the highest point of view. It is the soliloquy if a beholding and jubilant soul . . . but prayer to effect a private means is theft" (Self-Reliance).

In other words, don't pray for anything. If it's meant for you, you'll get it. And if it isn't in your best interests to have, who are you to argue? This is precisely how I have felt for years. I was raised to pray naggingly and specifically for particular goods in life, but I always felt so stupid praying, "Please God, help this food to nourish our bodies" and the like. Seriously, what a dumb thing to pray for. In fact, my private prayers began to boil down to a single word: "Please."Even this is a bit unnecessary, but while it is true that all good things are bound our way eventually, some expression of our frustration and anxiety must be made. I chose, therefore, to express myself in the simplest way possible to avoid annoying anyone who bothers to listen. Some nights I would just rock back and forth in the fetal position and chant, "please, please, please."

After a while, though, it struck me that I was being selfish and ungrateful, so I began adding "thank you" to my mantra. It turns out that what I learned as a kid is true: please and thank you are the most important words one can learn. Nowadays, my gratitude for life and blessing has outgrown simple expressions and evolved into worshipful love. So my prayers go like this: "Please. Thank you. I love you. And I'm sorry."

Which leads me to the real question of prayer: to whom should I address it? But that's another topic altogther.

Sonnet fer Buster

Three things about him left their mark on me--
Surprising, since we only shared a day.
And even as I try to write them down,
The first--his scent--begins to fade away.
The hymn we sang--A Closer Walk With Thee--
Has also made a nest within my space,
But not to stay. As soon as I leave town
Another song is sure to take its place.
The third, and strangest, thing he let me share
Was really nothing stronger than a hint.
I started saying "thayre" instead of "there,"
As though I had developed an accent.
And this, a lovely parting gift, will pass
As soon and surely as Kentucky grass.

* * *
Why is it I can write poems for the dogs in my life, but the truly deserving escape capture (in ink and grasp)? >sigh<

By the Power of Greyskull . . .

"Let us enter the state of war and wake Thor and Woden, courage and constancy, in our Saxon breasts. This is to be done in our smooth time by speaking the truth. Check this lying hospitality and lying affection. Live no longer to the expectation of these deceived and deceiving people with whom we converse."

So writes Emerson in "Self-Reliance," and so it has proven to be. You see, the loss of my leg has liberated me in a certain sense. It has been my habit to hedge bets, to sit on the fence. But I can no longer be caught "limping upon two different opinions," for both figurative and literal reasons (1 Kings 18:21). I will never be a ballerina. I will never be a swimsuit model, an acrobat, or a Solid Gold Dancer. I can stop worrying about such things, and, though it was a source of grief initially, it is now a source of energizing relief.

I recently met a distant cousin who seemed to have everything going for him. He was successful, intelligent, sound, and in the prime of his life. And gorgeous. I was so jealous I felt my ears twitch. In retrospect, though, what is wrong with Bentley having all the advantages? More power to him; I sincerely wish him well. What I was experiencing was not bitterness at my lot, but the familiar sensation of morbid sadness upon witnessing something truly beautiful. Often, miracles of beauty--an inspiring dance, a delicate coloratura, or a flawlessly gorgeous man--leave me desperately sad instead of uplifted. I can only guess that this reaction comes from my desire to own beauty, to be and have those beautiful things instead of observing them. How fortunate for me, then, that my accident has left me with only the natural and transcendent beauty of the world-soul that resides within me like a cabochon at the center of a lotus.

I have spent so much time worrying about my persona, about keeping all of my options open, that I have withheld the truth for fear of burning bridges with people. Rececntly, however, through no virtue of my own, but through the resignation delivered to me by circumstance, I have delivered several hard truths to people and found them more resilient than I would have given them credit for. I have told several guys that I like them only as friends, and (perhaps most empowering) I told Nathan how I felt without retaining hope or expectation. To my surprise, instead of grieving I felt empowered, energized. It was as if Thor and Odin awakened in my Saxon breast. I felt like crying, "Once more into the breach dear friends, once more; or close the wall up with our English dead!"

In looking back on this post, I can't help but notice that it is a bit melodramatic, but that's me. Nothing by half-measure, beautiful or destructive as it may be.

Inheriting a Bingyamong

My great aunt Peppy was an adventurous traveller even up until the time of her death this month. She travelled all over the world, and accumulated knick-knacks from her visits to foreign countries. At the reception following her graveside service, there was a display of these tchotchkes, and each relative was encouraged to take one as a memento. Immediately, I was drawn to a miniature of a terracotta soldier.

A Chinese emperor (Qin, I think) 2,000 years ago was so influential and correspondingly vain as to have over 6,000 life-sized statues of soldiers and their horses buried with him. I once saw a travelling exhibit of them in Denver, so I recognized the artifact fom Peppy's collection. Looking at it now, I can think of no better token to take from a funeral.

You see, Peppy had no surviving children. She was indisputably a world-class woman with a fiery, elegant spirit, but she doesn't seem to have left anything behind her. Not even blood. It is a testament to her person that nieces and nephews (including myself) came from all over the country--and even from Canada--to pay tribute to her life. But as they lowered the creamy lacquer box containing her remains into the ground, I was struck by the relative insignificance of another priceless human leaving our experience--perhaps forever.

The Qin emperor failed to recognize just how quickly we pass from this plane. He was so desperate to cling to temporal power that he now registers in history as an object lesson a la Shelley's Ozymandias. Maybe in the next phase of existence, Peppy is sitting him down to teach him a thing or two about real living.

Continued Outpouring

I went to a funeral today. My great aunt Penelope Millican left this vibratory plane on the eighth of this month and my existence is slightly poorer for it. I did not know Peppy well. I only met her a few times. I wish she was my Grandmother, though. She was a radiant, authentic person. I was surprised to find myself moved to tears during the graveside service (a state of emotion to which her sister, my grandmother, could not be moved). In a flash, I was back at my maternal Grandma's funeral, mourning all over again for her exit from my life.

You see, I miss my Grandma. My glamorous aunt Nell said today that, "every child needs somebody for whom they can do no wrong." For her, that was my Great-Grandfather Tom. For me, it was my darling, precious Grandma. I don't pretend to have known her well, and I don't believe that she ever looked too deeply into my character, but she accepted me just the way I am. I never needed to be better, nicer, or different in any way for her; there were no expectations, only lunch and bridge together on Wednesdays.

During Peppy's service, my second cousin Elizabeth--another delightful person, by the way--read a passage to the effect that all of our dead loved ones were waiting for us in the next room. I don't happen to believe in an afterlife, but it is tempting to think of my Grandma waiting for me in some plane of being with open arms, having observed the course my life has taken with no expurgation whatsoever. No questions, just that same pert mouth outlined in that same blinding shade of hot pink and the warmest, longest hug in the history of existence.

Plangent Haiku

Imagine the clang
My leg made when they dropped it
Into the Dumpster.

Metaphorical Levee

I visited my Grandfather in the care facility yesterday, and was reduced to tears. This is startling to me because he and I have never been close. In fact, I don't know that I would say I even like him. Nonetheless, the sight of him, frail, incoherent, and desperately trying to make sense of the jumble his life has become, was like pulling my finger out of a dike.

Up until this this point, I have been remarkably, even admirably optimistic about my circumstance. Before the amputation I was immobilized by despair; physical inertia had grown into mental inertia, and I didn't see the point of fighting. When I woke up from the legectomy, however, I remember thinking, "Hmmm. They took more than they said they would, but I can live with this." Ever since (nearly a month now), I have maintained a nicely balanced mix of resignation and optimism that felt too good to last. It felt like the calm before the storm, like a good, messy cry was becoming seriously overdue.

The tears that I shed for my poor, incontinent Grandfather bloomed, therefore, into a scena of operatic wailing that lasted a good fifteen minutes. It must have been startling to my parents, who have been staying with me during this trial to help me recover, but I didn't care. It was overdue, and I was glad to let it out.

And its not as though my situation is that different from my Grandfather's, after all. I thought as I overheard my father wrestling with him in the bathroom that this is what it must have been like while I was in ICU.

"NONoNONoo!"
"Dad, I'm just trying to wipe the crap off."
"NoNOnoono, NO!"
>sigh<

It Sure Would Be Nice To Have a Sweetie

Well, I 'm beginning to feel like a human again. Just this past week or so I have been up and around on my crutches in a near facsimile of functionality. I was, as you can imagine, nervous at the prospect of returning to society without a leg, but that turns out to have been my baggage, not society's. In fact, my social life has perked up considerably this week. I had two dates this week with very nice men in the general interest of building some friendships with guys. As a sidebar, I've always shied away from friendships with men, preferring the company of women. I suppose I never considered it safe to be just friends with a guy, but Richard and Jerome (not the two aforementioned dates) have proven me wrong, and it turns out to be nice to have some guys to talk to.

It's interesting, now that I think of it, that all my long-term friends are women. I was talking to Val the other day and we wondered in jest who would stand up with me if I got married. Beth would, of course, be my maid of honor, and I suppose Tosha, Val, Susi and Sherri would have to fight over the remaining spots. Is it odd that I have no male candidates? I've always thought that the ease of friendship with women was one of the nicer perks of being gay, but maybe its just me. Maybe I'm afraid of men. In fact, having just written that down, I felt a flash of inspiration. Maybe that's why I keep drawing brittle men who kiss like birds into my space (a fact of which I am sick, by the way). Maybe I'm scared of having somebody around whom I could trust to catch me if I fell.

Sherri says, while a lot of men avoid embracing their feminine side, I'm afraid of my masculine side. That rings true. It's not that I'm some queeny, mincing thing that runs around calling everyone "honey." In fact, my brother and I went through puberty around the same time, and the testosterone in the house was almost palpable. We were like two elephants in musth, constantly getting into serious fist fights. Of course, now that my brother outweighs me by fifty pounds, we don't do that anymore.

This all could be part of a general trend I feel in my perception, namely that it is time to grow up. I'm pushing thirty, and the sort of revelry that once held my attention doesn't appeal to me in the same way anymore. Don't get me wrong, Sherri and I went dancing on Saturday, and even on crutches I was cutting a serious rug. I just don't feel compelled to be the center of attention, the best at everything, anymore. And its a good thing. I feel more stable, more balanced than I have in years. This would be the perfect time for an open, honest, committed and brave man to drop into my life. Hint, hint.