APOCOLYPSE NOW

There is a special thrill for people who go to a mid-night premiere of a new movie, they expect something special, they expect to be thrilled, they are recalled by the innocence any new fun experience brings, they do not expect chaos and death. Early this morning in the city of Aurora, Colorado at a movie theatre in a nice area of this town nestled within the metro Denver area a man in a gas mask and bullet proof vest, armed with a rifle and handgun tossed a smoke bomb or tear gas canister into a crowded theatre and began shooting. What was it like? Twenty-two year old Jennifer Seeger was the first person the shooter (James Holmes) saw, she survived; this is some of her account:

“He came in and he threw in the gas can and then I knew it was real," Seeger told NBC News. "Then he shot the ceiling. Right after he shot the ceiling he pointed the gun right at me. At that point I drove into the aisle and I got lucky because he didn't shoot me.

Then he started to shoot people behind me and the bullets were falling on my head. It was burning my head it was so fresh. I could smell gunpowder. At that point he went up the stairs.”

Hot shells, ejected, burning, pelting her head. The smell of cordite so strong she could easily distinguish it from the thick smoke filling the theatre from the thrown canister. How was she able to act so quickly to save her life? Thank God she did.
Another witness to this horror said:

"I'm with coworkers and we're on the floor praying to God we don't get shot, and the gunshots continue on and on, and when the sound finally stopped, we started to get up and people were just bleeding."

No matter how much cartoon violence we see on screens large and small, no matter how gory a movie gets, the sight of true blood whether yours or someone else’s is startling, unique to be in the presence of this intimate fluid that should remain internal, unseen, sustaining life. So many reports on the radio of people shot, of friends helping wounded and bleeding friends from the theatre. One of the wounded was a 3 month old child (who takes a baby to a midnight showing of a PG13-rated movie?), fortunately this child was treated and released, unclaimed by the reaper in its midst.

James Holmes, the “suspect” in custody, is reported to be Caucasian and educated – he was a former grad student of Neuroscience. His mother lives in San Diego, and when police there went to her, she was apparently unsurprised by her son’s actions.

She had awoken unaware of the news of the shooting and had not been contacted by authorities. She immediately expressed concern that her son may have been involved.

"You have the right person," she said.

"I need to call the police," she added. "I need to fly out to Colorado."

Upon arrest, Holmes told police something about explosives or bomb making supplies at his apartment. Police, Fire Department, bomb squads, FBI, and ATF converged on the building and evacuated it. From a perch atop a Fire Department ladder truck, an agent sited through the third floor window explosive substances and booby traps set to prevent entry. Who is this man? What motivates him? What internal time bomb makes him a mass murderer, killer of men, women, and children? What makes him a monster?
They are questions with no answers. In the coming days, weeks, months, and years these questions and others will be posed, probed in an attempt to fit the jagged, irregular pieces of this puzzle together. It is a puzzle without a box to provide clues as to the order of pieces, it is a puzzle without smooth borders to define edges, it is a puzzle that may form a picture that sane minds will be unable to process. No one knows.

Ultimately in the wake of senseless death and terror is unreasoning fear. As I drove to work, glued to my radio listening to 850 KOA out of Denver, I worried for my friend Ben and his family who went to a midnight showing of the movie, praying that they were alright, even though Ben lives more than half a continent away from the massacre. No sane reason for me to fear, but that was one of my first thoughts. Shaking this thought, I recalled that less than three months ago, our eldest daughter and our grandson were living in Denver, what if they had been involved? Thoughts and worries cascaded, our son is only a week away from moving back from South Carolina to his house in Denver, what if he had been there? We have many friends in the Denver area, are they safe? My heart races, my head pounds, my eyes moisten and my fingers strain to work on this as these thoughts renew, replay.

I do not know what is going on with the world. I have always known it to be violent and polarized, but this kind of horror is a gut punch that leaves me breathless and gasping on my knees. The killing did not come from a known enemy who might have been caught through webs of intelligence, murmured hints at some evil to strike. This was an act of mass random violence, unpredictable, one that could approach us out of the corner of our eye at any time in any place and for no reason. It is the kind of act that leaves us feeling insecure and unprotected.

We will follow the investigation intently, as we did with Columbine. We will hang on each word and speculation. We will incorporate what they learn from this crime into our shields, and we will lie to ourselves that we are now safer for the experience so that we may sleep easier believing the world is a sane place. I know that prayers will flood to the victims and the dead as naturally as the rising of the moon, and all I can do for those I know and love is hope they are safe.

Take Me to the River

Life is a river that you are baptized in, anointed in its holy waters from the cradle to the grave. It teaches you first to learn, and then to teach before you simply melt away and become part of its flow, part of its fertile silt. It is a lonely river if you never have any one to pass your knowledge of shoals, rapids, falls, calms, pools, and life on to. With each step into it, with each inch towards its relentlessly speeding current, you find out more about yourself and the river, even if that next step is on your tip toes. When you are younger, time moves slowly because you are at the rivers edge, as you get older it moves more quickly because you are further out into its currents. At fifty, I can still see the shore but I can also feel the rivers strong pull as I round this bend and look towards the next.

At birth, I was dipped in playfully at the bank by my parents, as I grew older they held my hand as I tottered into water muddied by my awkward foot falls to investigate eddies, and pools with crayfish in them. They watched as I took my first solo steps and wound up plopping down butt first in the water, sometimes crying sometimes laughing. These were my early years, where my parents were with, by me, looking over me, allowing me to drink at the rivers edge, but were careful not to let me slip in, not to let time run away with me too quickly.

Growing older, I waded further into the river but always with my parents’ knowledge of where I was going, where I would be. The river flowed a little faster for me, the pull of it a little stronger. I saw fish swimming about my feet in the shallows. I felt invincible as I flew over the sun splashed water on a rope swing, laughing and howling with friends, both scared and exhilarated. Life passed about, or we passed through it, sometimes it is impossible to tell. In the hubris of my youth, I believed the river was my own and that I would know it from headwaters to sea.

Knowledge of mind grew, comfort with body gained, insecurities of whom I was and what I would do with my life churned and swirled not unlike the river itself. The river had broadened and its current strengthened. I went off to college, feeling only a tenuous life line to home as I waded out further still with toes blindly groping for safe foot falls. I made friends, I established identity, the river for the moment did not seem so frightening, and my life line slowly rotted in the stream as all such lines must.

The river took me from my home, and gave me to the mountains and to the west. My parents and family were still strong within me, but I was chest deep and heading for rapids, my life was my own and I had to learn to swim or sink on my own. As my first brief marriage tumbled through white water and rocks ending in divorce, my hand grasped reflexively for my mommy’s and daddy’s grip at he waters edge. They were there in spirit and gave me all the love and encouragement I could want, but ultimately I had to keep myself afloat.

The rapids changed into a long meandering stretch where I could rest myself, cool in the waters, and bask in the sun. Far from family, bounded by far reaching prairie to the east and ragged mountains to the west, I was the better off for what I had been through, I found more of myself. I found likes and dislikes; I found life in friends, and life in people I could help (which in turn helped me).

The river only began to speed again when I met Jean-Marie, and her three incredible children. No longer was I alone in the river, Jean-Marie floated beside me. We watched over the children as they took their own tentative steps from the banks, their own daring dives from tire swings. The river seemed easier to manage with love and companionship, held less fear of self when there are children to watch over and guide on their own river’s journey.

It has not been a lazy river since then, friends and family have passed, children have gone through rough patches, the marriage itself has gone through rapids, but with each other to cling to there was less of a chance of drowning and with each mishap and heartache and insult to our lives, having each other has kept us from sinking. I don’t mean to say that there were no slow spots, because there have been many, there will be many more. I will enjoy the ease of floating down them, hugging my wife to me as we smile and laugh.

When I look to the bank now, I see our children wading into the deeper faster water, I see our grandchildren look for fish and play on the tire swing. I am both joyous and afraid. I know some of what the river can do, some of what it can bring. I cannot change its course, I can only go with it and watch out for the one’s I love as best I can ultimately knowing how they handle the rapids and the white water is up to them.

Turning fifty has not been the plunge over the falls that some have warned me of, but it is humbling to go back and look at the winding river, to see its length and breadth and know that I am only looking at a tiny part of a bigger picture, a world river, a flow of time and souls that began longer ago than my memory can process, and will not reach its end at the sea until a time my imagination cannot conceive of.

Cross-Dressing Cuttlefish

I once was blind but now I see – thanks to the cuttlefish. A battle has long been raging between evolution and creationism, a battle to be forever personified by the Scopes Monkey Trial, a battle in which I have sided with Darwin. Darwin built a cogent logical argument for how animals developed on earth from the simplest of foundations to the most complex of creatures, man. Creationism has its scientists too, but so often creationism comes across with the weaker “Then a miracle happened!” argument. Now, because of the cuttlefish, I am leaning away from Darwin and closer to God.

The cuttlefish is small and squid-like in appearance and is known for being able to change skin color and pattern in the blink of an eye. This ability is well documented, but there is a very special aspect of this camouflage talent which has just come to light. In observing the mating rituals of cuttlefish, scientist noted that when more than one male was in the presence of a single female, the male in closer proximity showed male skin patterns to the female, but the side facing the other males was patterned after the female! This makes the cuttlefish, the first non-human species on the planet to have adopted the social behavior of cross-dressing.

Scientist currently interpret this behavior (which occurred thirty-nine percent of the time during observed courtships) as an attempt on the part of the cross-dressing male to avoid conflict with other male cuttlefish, thus raising his procreation chances with the female of interest. Since cross-dressing in the human population is often conceived as a deviation by fundamentalists, there can be no reasonable explanation for the cuttlefish evolving a supposed socially unacceptable behavior. Therefore, cross-dressing in cuttlefish can only have been achieved by God’s plan, and if something can be considered a gift from God in a lower species, how can it not be celebrated as such in humans.

The ramifications of this are enormous, earth-shattering, of universal importance. Think of it, God created cross-dressing, therefore cross-dressing is acceptable. Since cross-dressing has been for quite some time associated (though not exclusively) with the gay community, there now exists both scientific and religious proof that homosexuality is both a knowing creation of God and socially acceptable.

Think of the relief that will sweep across the fundamentalist and extremist communities. Finally there is a hate to cross off their list. These people so strongly opposed to so many things will wake up tomorrow or the next day with a considerably lighter heart, and perhaps the things remaining for them to hate will seem just a little bit less important.

With this revelation, I cannot shake the image of the lion now lying with the lamb or in this case Pat Robertson lying with the drag queen. I can almost hear the pen scampering to the paper to re-write next Sunday’s sermons. With creationism now behind the gay community, trumpets will blow and walls will crumble. To hell with gay unions, gay marriage will easily become the order of the day.

As farcical as this argument seems, it is far more farcical that we treat same-sex couples as anything less than complete people by denying them the same rights and privileges as heterosexual couples. Laws pass and are struck down out of religious zeal much more so than any substantive legal argument. To me this denial seems to violate the constitutional rights of religious freedom and free speech as-well-as the constitutional separation of church and state.

On the religious side of the coin I have always been drawn to the Matthew 22:36-40 :

36 “Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”

37 Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’[a] 38 This is the first and greatest commandment. 39 And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’[b] 40 All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”

The second greatest commandment and the one that guides us in how we treat all those around us, demands of us to treat our fellow man as we ourselves wish to be treated. Christ does not say love only those that think like you do. In fact, God and the Declaration of Independence seem to me of one mind on this matter as one of this country’s founding principles is that all men are created equal.

I admit that I am often angered at the fight over gay marriage which seems to me to have such a self-evident answer. It seems if you believe in God’s love and the word of Christ then you must come to the conclusion that an adult couple is an adult couple and should be granted the sacrament of marriage. It also seems if you prefer to think like an American, then you believe all men are created equal and you must come to the conclusion that an adult couple is an adult couple and should be given the legal right of marriage. My life and the lives of my family have been too deeply touched by gay couples who define love and commitment for us. I must contain my temper on this issue, because I am called to “love my neighbor as I love myself” even if that neighbor may be closed minded and more homophobic than God-fearing.

Wrestling with the Past

I was raised to love reading, enjoy classical music and the arts, open doors for women, and to use a cloth napkin. One would never guess that beneath the refined shell of this Renaissance man beats the heart of an old school professional wrestling fan. I am not talking about the hyper-thyroidal muscle bound monsters that perform in mega-stadiums with jumbotrons and fireworks. I am talking about wrestling as it was when I was growing up. Before the WWE, wrestling was much less global and each region of the country had its own regional promoter-owned wrestling alliances. It had a local feel that made wrestling not only fun to watch, but for me it became a bonding experience with my two brothers and my father.

I couldn’t wait for the weekends when we would sit down and watch Mid-Atlantic Championship Wrestling (a Jim Crocket Production) and Georgia Championship Wrestling (hosted by legendary announcer Gordon Solely – renowned for inventing the names of muscle groups being tortured in the squared circle). To me, this was the hay day of the “sport.” Physique was not as important as mic skills and the ability to “sell” both moves and personas. The other thing was that not everyone was a superstar. Many of the wrestlers were “jobbers.” Jobbers were there to lose on the TV shows, get crushed by the main eventers. The fans loved watching these hapless men beat pillar to post, but even some of the jobbers had their own following. What aficionado of the sport could ever forget the Mulkey Brothers? They were malnourished looking twin toe heads who were so bad that the fans became consumed by “Mulkey Mania” (a term coined by wrestling manager Jim Cornet). Unlike today, the stars mainly battled at the halls and auditoriums where the customers paid to see the action.

While my father was never glued to the TV shows like Chris and I were, he was a fan and would tell us tales of watching wrestling when he was a boy, of seeing legends like Lou Thez. More importantly he actually took us to a few live events. Event is a term that I use loosely, because when wrestling came to my area they weren’t even staged in a large gymnasium. We would drive the fifty miles to the big city of Columbia to watch the matches at the Township Auditorium (advanced tickets could be purchased at the Taylor Street Pharmacy). I remember one show we attended, there was an elderly black man with white hair and few teeth sitting near us and he kept predicting the winners, cackling, and providing a lively commentary that kept me in smiles and stitches. The main event that night was Rick Flair (still wrestling now in his sixties!) against Rufus R. “Freight Train” Jones. You would have had to have seen Rufus to really appreciate him. He was a fan favorite and a son of South Carolina. He was large, overweight and as with so many black wrestlers of the time his main weapon was the head butt. Not politically correct; I know, but it was after all the seventies. The match had an hour time limit, and as I recall most of that time Rufus kept Rick Flair in a headlock (a classic “rest” hold). Still it was great match, with Flair retaining his title and the fans happily booing the outcome.

Chris and I enjoyed wrestling so much we started the Handal Wrestling Alliance (HWA). When our little brother Greg (seven years my junior) was old enough he joined in the fray as well. We made belts from poster board for the HWA Champion, and the TV Champion, but we also had the Sofa Champion and the Hall Champion for when matches were held in those portions of the house. Chris and I knew that wrestling was staged and therefore we never applied full strength to our fights, however we faked with amazing gusto! We became masters of the figure four leg lock, the spinning toe hold, the sleeper, and the highly illegal pile driver (a cause for instant disqualification). This bit showmanship escaped our little brother who thought our matches were real, so Chris and I endured some bit of pummeling from Greg because we didn’t want to ruin it for him.

My enthusiasm for this pastime amongst the three of us (which continued through our early twenties) led me at times to assume a wrestling alter ego. I gathered scraps of cloth from my mother’s sewing room and fashioned a mask for myself with the uneven bits of cloth crudely stitched together in a Frankenstein’s monster jigsaw fashion. I would leave a room as Teever and return as the Crusher! The Crusher while never really involved in matches was primarily a purveyor of the sneak attack, to leave my brother Chris in a confused heap. After each attack, the Crusher would disappear as mysteriously as he had arrived.

I could go on for pages reliving favorite matches (those between my brothers and those we watched on TV and read about in magazines), but I realize my passions are not everyone’s. Watching wrestling, reading the fan magazines, and fighting in the living room, on sofas, in hallways and any other place the mood struck were some of the happiest times I spent as a young man. Forever in my memory, I will recall the names of the greats: Jack Brisco, Mr. Wrestling I & II, Dusty Rhodes, Ernie “the Cat” Ladd, Ox Baker, Ricky Steamboat (brother of the legendary Sam Steamboat), Paul Jones, Wahoo McDaniels, Andre the Giant, Gene and Ole Anderson (the Minnesota Wrecking Crew), and so many others.

The only bitter memory I hold is the night in 1986 when I was the reigning Handal champion and lost the title to my brother Chris. It was the night before his wedding, in a hotel room, alcohol was involved, and the title changed hands in an impromptu bed match. I appealed the board of directors but justice was not to be mine, they upheld the decision. It was a travesty as anyone present would tell. My shoulder clearly lifted from the mattress before the count of three.

Hundreds Lost

A wildfire prowls just three miles from our home, hungry and searching. For the past five days the smell of smoke has been as constant as the fear in the collective belly of Colorado Springs. Channel 11 has been on the fire 24/7 since it began, providing much needed news and information, and telling me some things I never wanted to hear.

This morning we were listening on the car radio to the morning press conference from the base of operations just over the hill from our home. The worst news was spoken first and tears welled in my already burning eyes. The number of homes lost to Tuesday night’s blitzkrieg from a wind maddened blaze was in the hundreds. We have been shown some aerial views of evacuated neighborhoods with some houses standing, some nothing more than a mound of ashes, but we had no idea the loss was so great.

At a distance, deep in the mountains, threatening some other community, I worry over fires but can stay detached, can live my life, can do my work. Now it is at my doorstep, I taste the acrid air, see the grey ash of former trees in my yard, and I have seen the flames leap and taunt. Like some voracious wolf pack stalking unsuspecting sheep, the fire suddenly raced to the outer limits of homes and culled what it needed, what it longed for before being driven back into the hills by firefighters.

All day since hearing the damage estimate, I can’t help the images that creep about in my head. I see a home alone in the dark, not only without power, but powerless against a monstrous predator. So much is the beast’s advantage that it needs no stealth to takes its victim. Brutally gaining entry by primal raw power. In moves about the house, consuming all in its path melting what it can’t burn, feeding its endless hunger on belongings and memories.

I can’t keep these thoughts from my head. Even though we ourselves have not been touched, friends of ours have been evacuated, some may even have had their homes destroyed. We feel the violation of our town by wanton fire. Most of us can only weep out of fear and out of our own impotence at being unable to do anything.

Helpless I watch as the Air Force strafes the frontiers of the flames with slurry to impede its spread. Helpless I pace as in the dark of night, brave firemen in command of their fear make a stand along Highway 24, in our neighborhoods, in the wilds of the national forest. They only give ground grudgingly, and attack when able. Helpless I listen to the litany spewing from talking heads, fire officials, and politicians of the preparations, plans, victories, and defeats.

A close friend, Susan, and her dog Smokey were forced to evacuate and she came to stay with us. After two nights with us, she has moved to her sister’s place up in south Denver for the long wait until she can return to her home which is still standing for now. Another friend, a different Susan, opened her home to mutual friends who live among the foothills close to the mountains. To our knowledge they are still with Susan, and to their best guess they have lost their house.
We can be thankful to God that no lives have yet been lost. We can see silver linings in how the community has come forward in active support of the firefighters and the displaced. We talk to our children, friends, and family daily about what is happening, giving and receiving love in the contact, but until the fire is contained, until the only smoke left are the snaking tendrils of its dying breath rising from the scorched earth, we are still threatened and are still afraid. When this fire is gone, the ground will not be the only thing scarred, and as with many insults the wounds will take much longer to heal than the time they took to inflict.

Moving Memories

When I close my eyes I smell the scent of dryness and salty sweat, lately this scent comes to me readily and smells like the Atlantic with a stale undercurrent. It is not unpleasant, just familiar. This smell that has locked my senses these past few weeks comes from the efforts of moving from where we were to where we are.

Moving is an emotional and physical task whether you are going to another state, across town, or simply out the front door without a safety net. We move to take new jobs, to follow our children, to find more favorable climes, to reduce expenses, to improve status, and at times because we have no choice. The act of packing and unpacking our things stirs the memories and affects the heart. It is an act that forces us to relive times both good and bad, and forces us to consolidate our memories, putting some in storage, sending others off to Goodwill.

There is a story attached to most things I lift, load, and transport. Even more so since my wife is seventh generation Memphian. This means that much of our furniture can be traced back at least three of those generations. I never tire of touching a table and hearing that it belonged to her Great Grandmother, or looking at a black and white photograph of some starched relative long since settled back into the haze of time. Even though I am a first generation Southerner (second if you follow my momma’s tracks), the Southerner in me instinctively imprints my thoughts, hopes, dreams, and history on the objects I have accumulated.

I never knew how much I missed my books until I pulled them out of the attic (box after overloaded box). I bent over them, inhaled the aroma of dust, paper, and cloth and sighed audibly. I reached out to stroke dust jackets and covers, their familiar textures alive beneath the graze of my finger tips. I saw books that belonged to my Father. I was particularly drawn to a history of the Panama Canal, and found myself a child/young man (memories are foggy shifting things and I cannot place my age) listening to my father tell me of the courage of the men who connected two oceans. I found the journals of my paternal Grandfather, they are in Arabic, he was from Bethlehem. He is a man I never knew, he having died some time before I was born and I believe someplace far away. I flipped pages as I would with any book and catch myself. It is in Arabic, he wrote these (from my anglo-perspective) in reverse. Reverently, I flipped the now fragile volume in my hands and turn through pages “properly” – back to front, scanning right to left. Part of me wants to get these mysterious epistles of my father’s father translated. Part of me thinks that they are too personal to leave to a third party and I need to learn Arabic and translate them myself. Part of me is simply content with having a sense of connectedness to a man I have only visited in the tales my father told me.

I find in the basement my catchers mitt. The leather smells of baseball, and summer. It is well broken in, my hand flexes it with ease. I slip into a typical kid’s reverie, of being a big league player crouching behind a plate, smelling the groomed dirt, the chalk marking the boundaries of play, and grass that could only have come from heaven. I purchased this glove just a decade and half ago. I got it because our son pitched in high school and wanted to play in college more than anything (which he would do). I recall buying a home plate and a pitching rubber for home. I built a mound (10 ½ inches above home plate – no more, no less), and placed home plate exactly sixty feet six inches from the rubber (a sacred distance). We wouldn’t just play catch, I was the target where he first honed his skills. He threw much harder than I ever did or will, and I quickly had to invest in full catchers garb for my own protection, and still I came away with some bruises. The last time I remember a game of catch with him was a time he came home from college. He asked me to go to the park with him and toss the ball around. With no small swelling of pride, I grabbed my regular mitt, and drove with him to a nearby softball field. It was approaching dusk, and on his first throw to me, I lost the ball in the half light and caught it with my eye. We packed it up while laughing and have never really played catch sense.

In a load of clothing I brought downstairs, there was a translucent plastic garment bag in which a light blue dress was just visible. My wife’s wedding gown was inside. In that instant, the instant of seeing that lovely dress, I was transported sixteen years in time to our wedding. There I stood at the alter, looking up the aisle, and having my breath stolen at the sight of her. She was and is the most beautiful woman in the world. Her (now our) two daughters were the bridesmaids looking lovely in their own right. Her (now our) son gave her away as our gathered friends looked on. After an eternity and no time at all, she was in my arms before friends and family, we were married and kissing in the softly lit church in a world that belonged to just her and I. Afterwards, we stood outside the lovely and intimate Holy Rosary Chapel in Cascade with a rainbow at our backs, greeting each of our friends with hugs and smiles. Sadly as I write this, Holy Rosary is being threatened by the raging Waldo Canyon fire – I pray she makes it.

It is two weeks since the move across town; we are still packing up the old house and setting up the new house. My fingers are stained with and smell of newsprint from unwrapping dishes and glasses. My muscles ache making me wish I was a younger, stronger man, but the past is set in concrete, and that young man is unreachable. However, the memories of him and his experiences can still bring a smile, still move me.

Reflections I Shut My Eyes To

There was a poem prompt I found as a member of WritersDigest.com. Poetry fascinates, the way men like Robert Frost and James Dickey can use words that make one really think, feel, cry, laugh. I have written poems with rarity to my wife, and I have written them only a little bit more frequently while journalling. This is my first public offering, to which I only ask (as I do with all my efforts) honesty in response.

Reflections I Shut My Eyes To

The border between wake and sleep
Continues to dull and fade with each cycle
As words written in sand kissed by the inching surf.
Thoughts in grey roll on steel rimmed wheels
Relentlessly on deeply rutted pathways,
Fed by my stress-weakened psyche.

Every night I walk the dream of the night before
Should sleep take me wine-numbed in the dark hours.
It is not terror but self-doubt that claims
My unconscious wanderings.
Dreams repeated only in context but never content.

Impotent self railing against my reflection.
Impotent self naked and exposed.
Impotent self moving in quicksand as the world passes.
Impotent self constantly pissing and never getting relief.
Impotent self unable to consummate much less to fuck.
Impotent self cowering in subconscious shadows as morning shakes my shoulder.

Suffer the Little Children

I was planning on writing something completely different today until I saw the online headlines of the Sandusky trial. It is the horrific case of Jerry Sandusky’s sexual assault of young men under his care over at least a fifteen year period. I will not go into the details, the gore is splattered all over print, television, and internet to whatever graphic detail we may wish to feast upon like ghouls bent over a rotting corpse.

My stomach turns as I write and I want to give into tremors of disgust. I was sickened and appalled when these allegations first came to light, but I blocked out these outrages while the case was awaiting trial. I was able to go about my normal days, with their normal aches and pains, with the things I considered to be difficult. I retreated into my own problems because there was suffering going on that had nothing to do with me.

I WAS WRONG. There is no suffering that a child goes through that does not concern all adults. Too readily we turn our heads at child abuse/child assault. The Sandusky case is a typical example in that suspicions were raised and sent up the chain of command like a hot potato no one wished to touch, only to disperse as so much insubstantial smoke from a stack when it reached the top.

What is the mindset? Is it too much trouble to get one’s hands dirty over? Is the sanctity of the institution discovering the perversion (be it Penn State or the Catholic Church) more important than that of a victimized child? Or is it simply a case of “Not my problem”?

When allegations are made, the white hot interrogation light often first blinds the innocent eyes of the child. “These are serious charges, are you sure? This is a person’s life we are talking about?” As if misplaced shame isn’t burden enough, at these times the child is made to feel more offensive than the offender. The initial investigation into the perpetrator will often find, “He is too kind to have ever done that”, “He’s a good man, you must be mistaken”, “Look at all he has done”. Why is it a surprise that evil and pathological predators are proficient in the art of camouflage so to appear as people of authority and trust? Not all animals have sloped brows, dark stares, and slavering mouths.

The boogieman walks among us in our clothes, feigning our customs, pretending to eat what we eat, and to think what we think. When an enemy looks different than we look, and lives differently than we live, it is easy for us to defend ourselves. We don’t know what to do when the enemy could be smiling to us from across the table.

All too often these predators come to light only after multiple premeditated assaults on multiple children, leaving a blood red scar that swells hotly across generations. Each time a priest, or coach, or teacher is found guilty of this perversion we ask how could this have happen. We ask, we shrug, and we block it out and go about our lives until it happens again.

The Sandusky tragedy should not end when the trial ends, we must continue to ask why, and this time we must look for answers. Sandusky is a dark spirit that went so far as to start a foundation that would give him easy access to his prey to feed his grim unspeakable appetites. I am in favor of whatever judgment which will rush Sandusky into the judgment of a higher power. However, we cannot forget those that aided him by turning away. We cannot forget about men cowed into submission because they did not want to dirty their hands in the matter, wanted to pass the buck, and did not want to sully a revered institution. How many boys would have been spared had Sandusky been held accountable the first time he was caught “wrestling” in the shower with a young boy? We cannot just wait for things to improve, we need to push the system, scream to it, demand of it that children be protected, that the pedophiles that pursue them be more aggressively prosecuted, and that their support system, the people who see and pretend not to see share in the blame and punishment.

A Love Letter

Last night we received some news that left our hearts in pieces, our souls ragged and frayed. Our dear friend Marc called us and told us that Dennis (his partner and love who has inoperable lung cancer) was showing no improvement from chemo and that his tumor was impinging on both his aorta and bronchial passage. The doctors are already starting radiation, but give him a 10% chance of surviving.

Ten percent, a slight chance but a chance, a small hope but reason to hope, but we are human and cannot help but despair as well. Marc and Den have been in our lives for twenty years. Over that time, friendship grew to realms of closeness and intimacy that are impossible to describe. When they laughed we laughed, when they smiled we smiled, we shared each others highs and lows and middle ground.

This is not a love letter to Dennis or to Marc, it is to them both. They are my definition of the sum of the parts being greater than the whole. In and of their individual selves, they are role models, men of giving natures and social conscience, but together the strength of one complements the other’s weakness, they complete each other. Their love and belief in each other is not only shared between them, but with everyone around them. Not long after first meeting them, they were the couple that best defined caring, giving, and unconditional love for me.

I first noticed our closeness with them when we went through a stretch of not being able to be with them socially for more than 2 or 3 times in a year, and yet when we got together there was no awkwardness or formality; we met as if we had last seen each other yesterday. This elevated to the point where when we had good news we wanted to share it with them, when we were doing something they were first on our list to invite.

We embraced them, and they embraced not only us, but our children as well. They have developed distinct and deep relationships with each of them. Marc and Den are so dearly held by us all that they are Godparents to our grandson (and more attentive and loving Godparents no one could ask for).

Our lives have become entwined with theirs. We have taken vacations together; celebrated holidays together, all but lived together. We could feel no closer to anyone than we do to Marc and Den.

The years we have known each other have brought many changes in our lives, some good, and some bad, the same as for everyone. The years have also separated us by more than half a continent but still no more than a heart beat away. They live in Charleston, SC, and we still live in Colorado Springs. We miss them greatly and see each other whenever we can.

Now the gulf of miles is keenly felt, our need to be with them in love and support palpable. We call, we talk, we cry but touching the phone is no replacement for holding a hand, hearing there words over a speaker is no replacement for seeing their faces, saying to them we love you through the ether is no replacement for a physical hug. The desire to hold them, love them, and protect them is primal within us; they are extensions of our soul.

When we talked to Marc last night, just as he told Jean-Marie the news, the sky wept for Dennis, opening up at that moment to yield a three hour torrent. It seemed the earth was just as angry at what Marc and Den were going through as she pelted down hale in fits and burst of rage over the injustice of the fates to the kindest of souls. We echo and surpass nature’s sadness and pain. We ourselves rail against the cruelty of this disease that it dare touch our friends that it dare try to part them that it dare assault the fiber of a relationship which we greedily covet in our lives.

We hope (oh how we hope!), we pray in a seemingly continuous litany of Rosary and thoughts, we send love in waves that crash and roll in their intensity to them, and my wife and I cry and hold onto each other fearing that this is what the end of the world feels like. Marc and Den, we love you. Three simple words that carry such incredible strength and meaning, but in this instance falls woefully short of being a complete expression. We send our love and prayers, we hold out hope, we support each decision you must make, and we love you as unconditionally as you love each other.

Praying on Prayers

The world sits in an economic quagmire thrust upon us by the financial uber-complex and a complicitous government. How did we arrive (or more appropriately were herded) here? It is easy to point the blame at lack of federal guidelines, this hedge fund manager or that one, or a lapse banking industry, but we sowed the seeds of our demise through our prayers for the American Dream.

The soft underbelly of our vaunted American pride has always been in our belief in the invulnerability of those things we believe to be sacred and inviolable. In the present debacle we left ourselves exposed by one of the oldest of American dreams – home ownership. Before our declaration of independence, people sailed here for a chance at success, to have their own homestead, to use that to make their own mark on the world. This desire has grown to the point where we think that to own a home is not only the American promise, but an inalienable right. As such, it took only the proper greed to allow the economic power entities to rob us blind with the help of our dream turned to lust.

It has taken a long time for the financial industry to maneuver us into position with all the skill of a gifted maestro. We were first guided to the point that buying a home was something that you earned. We were encouraged to work hard and save our pennies and someday we could have a place of our own. This goal, available to some and tantalizingly out of the reach of others, fired our imagination and gave an emblem to our concept of success. Next we were shown that our homes were building equity which we could use to finance other hopes and desires. It wasn’t long before we were convinced that the equity could fuel not only the special hopes of life, but could fuel our lifestyle as well. This is when we really turned into a credit economy, borrowing from Peter to pay Paul without realizing that they were apostles of the same god of greed and usury.

We had bitten the forbidden fruit and were granted obscene false knowledge. No longer did we want a home to establish our clans, provide us security, and give us safe refuge when our hearts were heavy and spirits weak. We now craved bigger and better to prop us up on false pedestals of our own grandeur because we were told by financial institutions that it was our right and destiny, and they were only there to help.

We were blinded by the glaring smiles that offered us the world and told us not to worry about the price. They developed new financial instruments that allowed people to reach well beyond their means for a rotted carrot on a stick dangled before us. One hand doled out money, the other artificially raised prices, and all was good with the world. And why not share the wealth, why not put some lipstick on this pig and bundle bad loans with good ones and sell them to the world as grade A quality bacon.?

Untold amounts of money were reaped by the time the bubble burst. American markets crumbled, European purchasers of the rancid packages suffered as well. People of every economic strata lost homes and hopes, crying in the street. The government leapt into action and instead of helping the people, they saved the banks and Wall Street by pumping more money from our pockets into theirs. Hands were slapped, some cards shuffled, and we were left on the island of misfit housing with upside down mortgages, and payments that our income cannot support.

So here we sit, in an economy that will still take years to recover just in terms of job creation much less return of lost wealth. Why? It is because we dared to dream. We were so sure of the sanctity of this dream we cried of it from the hilltops. We let the predators in on our greatest weakness, rolled over and exposed our bellies. It will be difficult enough to establish any kind of accountability, and little hope shaking the government into substantive action. But we cannot remain silent. We have been raped. It is just that simple and we cannot afford to hide in shame, we have to face our attackers. If we don’t, they will fatten us with more dreams then feed on our bloated carcasses. We must be strong and unrelenting because if we are not, whether we resurrect this American Dream or call forth a new one, down the road it will just be twisted and used to profit others and crush our souls again. Cherish your dreams, share them sparingly, and above all else protect them.