Morning Visualization

I woke up mid-dream this morning with a clear and relevant image in my mind. I don't know the dream context of the image, but at the time my alarm went off I was waiting for an audience with an incredibly important person in a cavernous atrium with pillars of beautiful marble supporting arches hundreds of feet in the air.

The image is not as relevant as the sensation it inspired. Faced with a space of such scale and beauty, I suddenly felt inadequate and intimidated. I then woke up, and realized that the day ahead of me was precisely what I had pictured: huge, beautiful, and scary. So here I go. Saint Genevieve be with me . . .

My First Jack-O-Lantern

Model: Erik's lovely wife Diane.

As a recovering Jehovah's Witness, this will be the first year I have bothered to do anything for Halloween. I was supposed to join my sister last year, but got uninterested at the last minute. This year, I suppose I'll give it a shot, even though I'm really more looking forward to April 6, which I plan to turn into international sonnet day. 25 bonus points if you can figure out the significance of the date, dear reader. Anyway, I am rather proud of my inaugural try. Feel free to agree with me.

Being I Beed Today

Always seeking depth,
A stone, sinking in water,
It is good to strive downward.

And moving forward
In time as I do in space,
I can be slowed but not stopped.

Gratitude to Hermann Hesse

Museum Tanka

Lyrebirds line up
To select the prettiest;

Men in a club lek,
Admiring rows of statues,

But statues too cold to kiss.

Doing I Did Today:

Exercise! Yay! I broke a sweat putting my shoes on today, so I suppose I need to start training if I'm going to go up the Peak with Sherri, Ted and Jake. What have I gotten myself into?

Delivered a dozen singing telegrams on my lunch break. Some to friends, some to complete strangers in restaurants. I must say, I looked rather dashing in my tuxedo with my false moustache.

Narrowed my poetry down to a dozen of my best, and selected three reputable journals to submit to. I will divide them up and send them off, and I will have kept my promise to myself.

Dinnered with Pat, Cindy, and Mary-K, in honor of Pat's birthday. These girls are super-fabulous. The best thing--well, the second best thing about being gay is uncomplicated friendships with women. It sounds trite to say that these three would walk through fire for me, but they have actually done it. Literally.

Sang at church for a Taize service. Taize is a contemplative form of worship, wherein a reading is followed by a chant and a period of silence. No sermon. No offertory. Just distilled presence.

Chatted with Cem for an hour. It's cool that we are each others heroes.

New Life's Resolutions

In January, I resolved to hike up Pike's Peak and to go skydiving this year. Sherri just drew my attention to the fact that it would be chicken to use my leg as an excuse not to do these things. So here I go, diving into life again. Not only will I go skydiving and hike the Peak this year, I will get published in a reputable literary journal. Well, I will submit this year. I may not actually get published until the print editions come out in the Spring. It's nice to be taking on my life full-throttle.

Happy St. Crispian's Day!

Christmas doesn't do anything for me. For most people there is either a religious or familiar significance to it, but not for me. I don't know where I stand with the whole Jesus thing, and don't feel like getting wrapped up in something that, in my opinion, is a mish-mash of bizarre iconographies. As for the family aspect, as a recovering Jehovah's Witness I never celebrated Christmas in my childhood, so there is no sentiment attached. And my family still doesn't celebrate it, so there is no comradeship to be had.

But I like the idea of holidays, of a sequence of seasonal events that people celebrate as a society. So I have come up with my own liturgical calendar of events to observe. Today: Saint Crispian's Day! I delivered gaudy second-hand shoes to all my former English teachers with the following sonnet attached:

In honor of St. Crispian, patron saint
Of cobblers, I offer you this shoe.
It came from Goodwill and may have a taint;
I wouldn’t put it on if I were you.
Instead, go find the owner of its mate
And talk to them of bloody battles won,
And of what makes your band of brothers great.
Discuss the jerks whose papers aren’t done,
Evaluations lab’ling you a bore,
And students who mid-class answer their pagers.
“Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more,
Or close the wall up with our English Majors!”
With red pens drawn, advance on plagiarism,
And incomplete work!

* * *

Next month: Guy Fawke's Day! Prepare for flaming effigies, O Colorado Springs . . .

Fucking Shit

I just realized: it has now been precisely six months since my crash.

Leg Foo Young

Help me out here, 'cause I am in a bit of a quandary. I have come to terms with a lot of the changes in my life since the accident. I am okay with the decreased mobility, the pain, and the weird looks from kids. I am okay with the fact that it takes me twice as long to get dressed, and I can't fit into a booth at the restauarant. And I thought I was okay with the fact that I am no longer what you might call a physically stunning specimen. I mean, how many guys are complete enough not to be turned off by the sight of my huge and jagged scars, let alone by Stumpy?

So there I am at a party tonight, spinning music, hiding behind the table because Peggy's acting irritable and I can't really stand up. So this amazing guy, with whom I have only a passing acquaintance, works his way behind the table--thirty feet away from the dance floor--and starts dancing next to me. I thought he just wanted to say hi, but instead he says, "I just wanted to dance by you. You seemed lonely."

Well, if I was a rational man, I would have taken that as an opportunity to let my charm and sparkle out, right? Instead, irrational man that I am, I freak out. I vault over the table and say, "You're right, I should go dance!" and proceed to cut a rug on my already painfully chafed stump. What, was I afraid the guy had leprosy? What possessed me to run away from a romantic prospect so instinctively and so violently? Imagine me leaping over the table on rebellious Peggy and almost re-maiming myself to avoid talking to him. And not because he was unattractive. Oooooh no. Beautiful throughout.

Clearly, I am not as okay with my disfigurement as I had thought.

Phaedrus

"The one who walks in front
guards his friend.
The one who knows the way
safeguards his companion."
I want an Enkidu,
An opposite,
An other half.

"Very pleasant have you been to me.
Your love to me
Was wonderful,
Passing the love of women."
I want a Jonathan,
A lover to recline with
And sing all night.

"My lyre shall celebrate thee,
My song shall tell thy fate.
And thou shalt become a flower
Inscribed with my regrets."
I want a Hyacinthus,
A natural man,
To write poems for.

"Behold, how good
And how pleasant it is
For Brethren to dwell
Together in Unity."
I want a Sergius,
With whom to worship
And to die
As one.

Bored With Thinking, Time For Doing

Doing for today:

One-legged Dance Dance Revolution. I got the strangest looks hopping around the arcade with Peggy in one hand.

Milkshakes and doodling with Erik, Gus, Sherri and Cosmo. Gus, 5, insisted that I draw a spotted velicoraptor on the oversized chalkboard. "He needs more spots on his head," the little cherub editorialized at one point.

Coffee with Scott. Nothing looks gayer than a man wearing clear nail polish. He is in stark raving love with Jake. I wish Jake cared.

Musical Spheres

So, you might have noticed that I have been all about me on this blog lately, and that gets to shift. I really get to be about the bigger picture starting now. Narcissism was fun, but it doesn't work. All I do when I'm in that space is get all constipated about what I'm doing wrong. So here are my new circles of energy, which I visualize as concentric spheres radiating from my solar plexus:

Me: Since I'm at the center of all this, here's how I get to shift. I get to let go of all this "I'm not big enough" ca-ca, and win big.

Family: I am, for once in a position to give to these people who have given so much to me. Fortunately, they are already in a pretty good energy, so I don't have to do it for them, but I am keeping a finger on each of their pulses.

Friends: I can't fight everybody's battles, but there are a select few whom, I am certain, I am meant to support and hold in a space of living their dreams. They know who they are, so I won't list them here. I will tell you this right now, though: I am not about pulling Susi or John through the keyhole anymore. I can't bring their committment to the table. In short, if you're going to be in my spcae, you get to live your dreams. Period.

Church: Since I have made the decision for Colorado Springs to be my city, there is no reason not to become an official member. Which means I can take an active hand on the Open and Affirming commitee, in the Gay Men's Chorus, and perhaps ushing or some other additional thing.

City: I have already declared that I am about lighting fires within people here, so I'll leave it at that.

State, Country: I shall take an active hand in Colorado and national politics.

World: I shall make a move toward a global culture, wherein each specific culture is treasured, but all humans are born free and equal in rights and dignity.

A really cool guy emailed me from out of the blue yesterday, and after chatting for a bit, he sent me an awesome poem, which included the line, 'Today I become a grinning maniac." So be it. A bit scary, isn't it?

Anonymous Sonnet

At a concert last year, part of the performance was to pass notes back and forth anonymously between the cast and the audience by means of a court page. In keeping with my habit of not doing anything by half measure, I composed several original sonnets and calligraphed them ahead of time, passing them out during the show. I composed the following one with the intention of delivering it anonymously to some cute guy in the audience, but everyone that night was yucky, so it never got delivered. Now might be the time to give it away . . .

* * *
Pray, what sort of divinity art thou
That I may make a fitting sacrifice?
Like Jove, would you prefer a fatted cow,
Or, like Apollo, find a poem nice?

Thy gorgeous limbs were made from Vulcan's fire,
Thy grace and dignity invoke Dian,
Thy coral lips are Neptune's own attire,
And Venus claims thee as the perfect man.

Both all and none of these describe thee best,
And so I choose to call you something new:
To worship thee, discarding all the rest,
And find a fitting offering to you.

Therefore, instead of sacrifices grand,
I offer you my heart in trembling hand.

Memènto, Quia Pulvis Est

Civilization,
a gift from the seven sages,
Is not measured in art,
Music, government, or scholarship,
None of the ways you might think.
Most have these,
And remain savages.

You might suppose that each of the seven—
Like the muses, the graces, the fates—
Is responsible for a facet of the world,
A particular civilized institution.
It is tempting to assign architecture to Solomon,
Religion to Melchizedek,
But it is not so.

Just as the Seven Pillars of Wisdom,
Support one building,
Instead of seven different gifts
Each Sage gives the same awareness:
“Craft your name well, O man.
For, unlike the animals, you are cursed
With the knowledge that you will pass.”


So thank Utnapishtim,
Sequoyah, Lao Tze,
Siddhartha and Confucius,
Or whoever gives you this message:
“Live your entire life this very second,
For it is your first and your last,
And it has already flown past.”

Man Of My Dreams

Someone has been watching me from the margins of my consciousness. I don't mean a character in my dreams whom I have invented out of my natural creativity. I mean someone real, whom I have never met. He doesn't interact with the other people about whom I dream, including myself. He doesn't look at me the character, he looks at me the author, the one dreaming. And it seems like he is looking into my literal eyes, even though they are closed.

I almost feel schizophrenic. I don't mean that I suffer from multiple personality disorder; that is a common misconflation. The two diseases are not the same. Schizophrenics do not have other personalities, they hear and see things that are not real. That's how I feel: as though I hear a real voice that isn't there (which I don't, but it's the same creepy feeling, I'm sure).

He wears a grey sweater and a blue and white ballcap with a large "A" on the front. Dee-Dee says the A stands for "Angel," that he is my guardian spirit. I don't really buy that, but I can't discount it altogether either. It would be nice to know that there is somebody looking out for me. In fact, what would be really nice is a significant other whom I could trust to catch me if I stumbled. It doesn't feel like I'm allowed to stumble right now; there is no cushion, nobody upon to whom to lean. I had a date with a guy whom I think is pretty awesome last week, and I decided to really let him have the full experience of me in all my intensity and passion. I don't mean that we got jiggy, I simply mean that I decided not to ease him into the experience of Brandon, but to let him have the whole three-ring circus. Now he won't return my calls.

Surprisingly, that is A-OK with me. If he can't take even one date's worth of Brandon, surely he would be reduced to rubble after a week. It's not that I am high-maintenance or dramatic, it's just that I have so much energy and momentum, and I live life on such a huge scale, that men are intimidated. The question in the back of my mind is, naturally, "Should I hold back? Should I make myself a gradual experience instead of a sudden one?" And for now the answer is no. The mode of being which I have chosen works wonderfully on every level but the romantic. I have a huge, gratifying life all of a sudden, and startlingly fortuitous things happen to me every day. If men can't take that, it is a small price to pay.

Me with Peggy (He is the one on the left).

Ганымид

Our spirits are all six years old,
No matter what our age.
So why should I be frightened by
A man who's twenty-one?

It's true that I'm old for my age;
My spirit is weary.
But I'm young for my age as well.
I'll run you ragged, and
I'll dance you under the table.

So why not let him in?
After all, I might be old, but

See if you can keep up.

I'm an old fart with a young heart.
So form a line, you boys.

Giving Chase

I speak, move, think
As quickly as Atalanta.
The question is:
Are you Meleager
Or Hippomenes?

Give up now on catching me.
All challengers are met, defeated,
And summarily dispatched.
Feat and feet alike avail you naught.
I am swifter than you,
My arrows are more piercing,
And your brand is burning.

But it seems to me
That you could drop
An adorable smirk
Or a well-placed truth
In my path, and I might
Slow down
To pick
It up.

* * *
I wrote this for Kyle. Don't get the wrong idea; I write poems for everybody. Still, he is as cute as a box of puppies. . .

My New Office

One of the most wonderful things about my new job is that I have a space that is authentically mine. I love my parents, and I am grateful for their support since the accident, but I am well now. I have my new leg (whom I have named Peggy), a new job, and a healthy body. It is time for them to go back to Kentucky; we all are becoming cramped.

But my office is mine. It has me all over it. Here are some of the things I'm moving into it:

A big gong, to represent plangent, authentic communication.

A print of Vermeer's, "Woman Holding a Balance," for obvious reasons.

A twenty-foot long rainbow banner. Cuz I like color (and inclusivity).

My mission statement: On a Pollocky, 8'x3' canvas: Through my Love and Spirit, I drive fear out of the haerts [sic] of children, and awaken the child in the heart of A(ki)dults. It is so me. I'll get a picture and post it here.

All the posters from all the shows I've ever been in, each signed by the entire cast. Cuz it's MY office, dammit.

One of my crutches (which I no longer need) with a sign that says "If you need a crutch, use this one."

Mayakovksy's poem, Необычайное приключение. With the word, "светить" in foot high letters.

It feels so good to spread myself across a physical space with a wide brush. And I can already feel you thinking something dirty . . .

Being Right After Being Left

I find that most gay men consider it the pinnacle of self-control to wait until the third date to have sex. To me, this does not really carry the aura of committment. Am I doomed? Is it vain to hope to have sex with only a man to whom I am first committed, and intimate with only as a result of that committment?

I am reminded of one of the first men with whom I was involved, whom I shall call Albuquerque for sake of clarity rather than anonymity. He shares a name with someone who is in my life, and I don't wish anyone to get the wrong idea. I was first coming out, and craving intimate experiences. Al was my same age, but more experienced (and slightly broken), so he was, naturally, more cautious about intimacy. I found it frustrating and peculiar that all he wanted to do was hold each other and cuddle. I knew for a fact that he had a libido, for I knew other men with whom he had been. So it wasn't a case of prudery or lack of drive. In looking back, I think he knew something I am only coming to realize, namely that sex stunts the growth of a relationship. I think he was interested in more than my body, and wanted to develop something more meaningful than a spree of passionate hoochie-koo.

After a few weeks, I finally prevailed upon Al to give it up, and was surprised when our, for lack of a better word, relationship suddenly turned weird. I realized, after the growing distance between us became too obvious, that we wanted different things, but was convinced that I was on the right side of the issue. Al was, in my mind, simply not ready for a relationship. How ironic to realize, two years later, that it was I who was behaving uncommittedly. He just wanted to be convinced that I wasn't just another itinerant boyfriend before he let me near his deepest places.

Now here I am, wanting far more than a man's body, wanting someone with whom to curl up so tightly that we become indistinguishable. I am currently holding a figurative candle in each hand, one for Micah and one for Kyle. Who knows why either of them entered my space--maybe to teach me something, maybe to learn something, maybe to unite. But I am quite clear: committment first, sex second. I haven't decided what committment looks like yet, but I don't think it means to get married in Canada, buy a house together, or otherwise pursue traditional expressions of unity. These come third in the sequence. It does occur to me that a declaration of committment and the exchange of some kind of token would be appropriate.

I realize that this takes me off of the interest list for 99% percent of men, but I am absolutely okay with that. It is apodictic that he is steadily drawing closer, and we are on the same path. I know that, whoever he is, he feels the same way. I am not okay with being a rental with the option to buy. And I will say it again: I am something new. Get used to it.

Perspective

A finger passing through
The surface of water
Appears to be
A growing circle
To the eye
Of anyone flat.

The sphere
Growing outward
From my solar plexus
Must be
A finger passing through
My flowing surfaces.

But whose?

Power Haiku

The sword rusts away.
But light cannot, so a lens
Is the best weapon.

* * *

I think I am bilingual. Although some things can be translated, comprehensible in either poetry or essay, others are only cogent in one or the other language. Not both. I wish I spoke fiction, but I find it difficult to pronounce the uvular R.

Something Different

In reflecting on the stand I've taken to shift my city, I have given some consideration to what is not working, on the premise that if something isn't working, the only choice is to do something different. Interestingly, it has occured to me lately that I am something different, a new species. I don't know yet whether I am simply a part of a generation coming into their own, or whether I am genuinely on a unique path, but my instinct is that there is a whole species of people my age who are becoming about shift in the world.

It is incumbent upon us, therefore, to look at our methods and see whether they are functional. We cannot simply rely on the tactics of previous generations of social warriors, for those maneuvers are obsolete. In fact, the warrior paradigm may be obsolete altogether. What has been bred by the warrior mentality is a destructive system of mutual blame between the right and the left. Rather than a stand for growth, members of each side take a stand against the other side, and spend time blaming and fighting each other. This does not work for me. I once felt it to be a character flaw that I was not a warrior, a determined, unstoppable sword-wielding man, around whom things just get done. In realizing that fighting does not work, I have come to be grateful that I am not of that sort. Instead of the warrior archetype, I find myself becoming a priest, a stand for unity and connection. Instead of the sword, my tool is the lens, through which I magnify and focus the cleansing light of the universe.

Which means that, instead of adopting a left or right wing identity, and especially instead of a party affiliation, I become a force for consensus and synthesis of positions. Perhaps through the balanced blending of both extreme positions, we as a city, a generation, and a country can come up with answers to some of the dilemmas of our society. At the very least, we will have done and been something different.

Getting a Leg Up

This is a day of firsts. The first snowfall of the season. My first day at the new job. My first day with a prosthesis. And who knows what else? The day is not over, after all.

The new leg is one of those experiences which is too big to fit into my consciousness all at once. All the people in my life are simply agog with excitement, but to me it doesn't feel like anything worth getting worked up over. The whole package--the accident, the amputation, the prosthesis--has slammed forcefully into the consciousness of everyone around me. But it is simply to big for me to let in the front door. If I were to experience the whole thing at once, it would no doubt damage my figurative doorjambs, so it's being lowered in carefully through the skylight.

And I was right about the new job: it's easier to grow in freefall; there are no ceilings.

Central Figure

He stood on the ridge,
Facing the storm
As the green sky churned
And formed a spiral around him.

Intensely present,
He held his back to us
As we ran away
From the lightning
And the falling branches.

He was Perseus
And Siddhartha.
His face: the finger of God,
His blown hair: Aegis,
Both with the power
To transfix.

And I hold him driven
Through my memory
At that moment,
Like a pin in the center
Of a butterfly,
Or an abyss at the heart
Of a whirlpool.

* * *

This memory is from years ago. Erik is the most beautiful, inspiring man I have ever known. I will always love him.

My City

I took a stand this week. I am sick of telling people I am from Colorado Springs and having them respond, "Oh, I'm sorry." The Springs is admittedly a dysfunctional town; everything is a battle of blame and distrust. This atmosphere of "It's their fault" is not limited to the Focus on the Family crowd; my more liberal circle of acquaintances is equally guilty. I have been tempted, like so many others, to escape--to move to Denver if not to Canada.

But every time I leave with the intention never to return, I am drawn back under mysterious circumstances. It is as though greater forces are conspiring to keep me here, and I can only assume that they do it with a purpose for me in mind. So here I am. A Colorado Springs native, and this is My City. I take a stand to nudge it into a new vector; it doesn't take much force to change the course of an asteroid, after all.

And so I start with a new job. This is the big one, the one I have been running away from, terrified, for years. I seem to be the only one left who doesn't think I can do it, however, and I have surrounded myself with clear, honest people who know me well, so I choose to trust them and go for it. And I choose to trust my own experience: a risk is most scary when you are standing on the line deciding to jump, but there is no effort to the actual fall. Once I am in mid-stretch, power flows freely through me and breakthrough comes unexpectedly.

The stretch lies in my fixed belief that I have one chief character flaw left to exorcise from my personality: weakness. I have many virtues: honesty, wisdom, intuition, and unconditional love. But fortitude and determination have never been part of my self-perception. Which changes now. It is the last step in this cycle of refinement to establish a connection with my power. It is simply a blind spot to believe that power always looks like a roaring lioness springing from her den. My power comes from my intense, torrential emotion, not from iron will. And perhaps, just a little, from my innate shamelessness.

So here I go. I allow myself two years living abroad (before I become to old), and then I shall settle down in MY CITY and make it work. In the mean time, I shall be lighting fires under peoples asses.

Missing Haiku

A dangling bookmark.
A pile of unused left shoes.
An empty pant leg.

God of Man / Manly God

Isaiahs, Ledas, Ganymedes
Have met a certain Deity,
The one whose righteous anger feeds
On blood, and whose impiety,
Admits no justice and who heeds
None but his own divinity.

This Jove was worshipped once by man,
But not by such as me.
JEHOVAH/BEING, rather than
So low a deity,
I’ll serve--whose manly justice can
Support his sovereignty.

He pours into me like a course
Of gold, such as Danæ
And Jeremiah felt the force
Of, and even today
Inspires in my breast the source
Of each small praise I say.

* * *

This is clearly a departure from my usual topic and style. Bullfinch's Mythology threw itself to the floor with a thud to make me write it--and at 900 pages, it was a noticeable comment. I thought it fitting, considering the topic, to adopt the tone of Moore and Pope, and I recognize Pushkin's meter and rhyming habit in the structure. You will notice: Jove's lines have feminine endings, JEHOVAH's masculine. And, if you have been paying attention, you will recignize my invention: Brandonesian Heptameter. By Sonia Heine's tutu, this post sounds arrogant in review. I'm really asking for it . . .

Straight Forward

I can’t blame you for being cautious.
Anyone who has been burnt by a man
Is likely to tread gingerly,
Breathe incompletely,
Expect a sudden gunshot.

But I am something new.
Scientists haven’t even
Genussed and specied me.
I’ve defied labeling,
So be on notice:

You will never be my fallback position
Or my greener grass.
I won’t expect or resent,
Withhold or edit,
Put on any face—especially a brave one.

So relax. I love you.
People are more resilient
Than you give them credit for.
And truth withstands
The burden of trust.

Special Del-iva-ry.

I am reminded of a sonnet I wrote for the amAHzing Victoria last year:

* * *
My Diva’s eyes are not as dark as Cher’s,
And if compared to Whitney or Celine,
Her wardrobe’s not as fabulous as theirs.
Nor are her bodyguards so awful mean.
Aretha has more soul, by troth, than she.
And if I were to measure by Mariah,
Although my Diva hits a mighty C,
Ms. Carey, I would warrant, can sing higher.
O, Dolly Parton has a nicer rack,
And Barbra’s more dramatic from the start.
But yet, for all my Diva seems to lack,
It’s she alone who’s laid claim to my heart.
And so I think her beauty twice as rare
As Whitney, Bette, Celine, or even Cher.

* * *

Apologies to William Shakespeare.

Brilliant Idea

While I have time on my foot, I see no harm in brainstorming an idea I have for the FCSGMC (First Colorado Springs Gay Men's Chorus. Suggestions for more concise names welcome). I have the notion that gay men have their own Zodiac, which roughly corresponds to the diva to whom they are devoted. A whole concert could be devoted to this theory, singing signature songs in order of appearance in the sky. The diva-sign of any particular man does not necessarily correspond to his sun-sign, but it is equally revealing. If a man's sign is Cher, you can tell much about him just from that: he is traditional and secretly queeny. Britneys, by contrast, are trouble: unstable and lots of fun (this is a theory in progress, and not mean to be authoritative--yet). Please take some time to offer your feedback on the following model:

Aries: Donna Summer. Intense, dramatic, and determined.
Taurus: Celine Dion. Stable, loyal, and giving.
Gemini: Whitney Houston. Communicative, flighty, and honest.
Cancer: Etta James. Calmly sensual, insightful, and inscrutable.
Leo: Barbra Stresiand. Forward, opinionated, and masterful.
Virgo: Gladys Knight. Physical, classy, and perfectionistic.
Libra: Bette Midler. Balanced, friendly, and outspoken.
Scorpio: Billie Holiday. Deep, profound, and meaningful.
Sagittarius: Dolly Parton. Popular, engaging, and bodily gifted.
Capricorn: Cher (whatever her last name is). Consistent, ageless, and material.
Aquarius: Britney Spears. Outgoing, flashy, and overrated (that's an editorial).
Pisces: Mariah Carey. Trendsetting, impulsive, and unstable.

Did I miss anybody? I know all you Shakiras and Christina Aguileras out there are going to feel left out, but I'm sure you can find a place in this arrangement. You need to develop some taste anyway. I'm a Whitney with Etta rising, in case you wondered.

Deus Ex Cathedra

It's a source of amazement to me that I have become the most devoutly religious person in my family. I don't mean to imply that I am the most spiritual; I am in no position to judge that, and if I was I would give the award to my Mom. I mean that, when it comes to the outward displays of devotion that one might call religion, I am far more conscientious than the other members of my family. This is especially a surprise to me because when I was trying to be a fundamentalist I was really bad at it. I didn't read the recommended daily allowance of Bible; I didn't take studious notes on the sermons--in fact I was more likely to take studious naps; and I had to force myself to pray at all, let alone regularly.

Now, I find myself reading the Bible straight through for the first time in my life; it appears that the only thing keeping me from it was the feeling of compulsion. I go out of my way--and make others go out of their way--to attend church every week. And I daily look skyawrd and say "thank you" for no reason other than that it seemed fitting. So what has caused this shift? Could it be that a period of alienation from JEHOVAH has actually put me in touch with my spirtuality? If you asked me two years ago what sort of a man I was, I would have replied instinctively: "I am a brilliant, insightful, unique, emotional man." But I have recently recognized that description as not quite accurate, and re-recorded my self-definition: "I am a brilliant, insightful, emotional, spiritual man." I'm like a rebellious child who says huffily, "I'll do it because I want to, not because you tell me to!" It is not that when religion was compulsory I resisted it; it simply didn't work. Now that religion is optional, I can't imagine doing without it.

Which makes it unfortunate that my Brother and parents look on me so condescendingly--as though my life is just another phase. If they were devoutly devoted to their chosen religion, I would understand their stance. But they are not. They rarely go to church--especially my Brother, for whom religious meetings take a back seat to mindless evenings of video games. I don't feel judged so much as condescended to, as though they are on a higher plane than I am because they belong to a more austere denomination.

I don't know, doctrinally, what I believe or what denomination is the best fit for me. I simply know that my experience of the church I currently attend is that there is something bigger than myself vibrating furiously within the members of the congregation. And when I go back to my parent's church--which I do about once a year as a sort of reality check--I feel like I'm treading on the heads of dispassionate zombies worshipping in a dead church. This is not because my church is the sort where people catch the holy ghost and throw themselves to their knees in repentance; it's quite ceremonious and traditional, in fact. But I know that, when I'm there, I am not just looking blankly into the sky, asking fruitlessly for answers.

It's Not About Me, And

It's not about him (any him) either. I am exactly who and where I am meant to be.

In compiling my life, I have discovered an error in syntax. I have, for almost two years, been troubled by a disconnect in my social life. You see, I am an overall great guy. I know it, and everyone who meets me knows it (surely, dear reader, if you have been paying attention you are used to my lack of dissimulation, and will not mistake it for arrogance). It is confusing, therefore, that I have not, so far, attracted an equally great guy. This has been my pattern of thought: I meet men who are absolutely beautiful, through and through, and wonder what it is about me that fails to attract them. I then remember that I am actually quite a catch, and wonder what it is about him that fails to be attracted to me. Usually, this pattern ends at the bottom of bag of jellybeans. Here's the error in syntax: I am clear that it is not about me, but it does not necessarily follow that it is about him. If by it I mean the functioning of the universe, it is not about anybody, but rather about how the whole of existence spins around in a complicated pattern to create the happiness of every individual.

If a man to whom I am attracted is not attracted to me, it is likely through no fault of his own. I have been on both sides of this equation: Jerome is a world-class man. Really. I wish I were attracted to him, but I am not. It is not because I am picky or because he is ineligible in some way. It is not about either of us. Our rings in the armillary bloom of the universe are simply not spinning together. By the same token, I think I have been clear that Nathan absolutely puts dynamite under my bridge. It is no discredit to me that I do not do the same for him, just as it is no discredit to Jerome. It is an error to wonder why a particular man is not drawn to me. It is not because I am unattractive, needy, or intense. It is not about me at all, and it is fruitless to try and alter my character to attract him. It will never happen.

It will happen that the man whose disc is linked to mine will click into place and we will spin as one. My one remaining regret about my marriage to Jeung is that her family, whom I admire greatly, now hate me. Sunny is a pillar of a woman. Ho Dong and Ho Ryong are among the most real men I have ever met, and their respective wives are equally sterling. I only bring this up because I am reminded of something the speaker at Ho Dong and Rita's wedding said during the ceremony. "Often, it is said of a marrying couple that 'their paths have met,' but such is not true in the case of these two. What has been revealed is that they have, all along, travelled not on two paths that intersect, but on the same path. It is a blessing that they have noticed their fellow traveller and united with each other." I know this is true. It is fruitless to try and attract any particular man if we are not on the same path. Even if, through dissimulation or compromise, another man and I were able to force ourselves into a relationship, it would not only end, but do so badly. What a blessing to be free to pursue only the one who is travelling beside me, but whom I have not yet noticed.