Thinking outloud – Jaunty-Rabbit

It

It maybe about that time. I have been thinking about it for some time now. I’m not getting any younger, and I begin to wonder if this is it. Maybe this is it, maybe there’s more than this. I don’t know. It’s about taking risks I guess. Either sitting still and watching it all go by or getting off my ass and doing something to bring it closer to me, whatever it is. Funny, whatever “it” is… but I know that this is not “it”, even though I don’t know what “it” is. How is that possible?

Maybe if it hit me along side the head I wouldn’t know it, maybe I would. Hard to say. Maybe I’m just lazy and don’t want to make the effort to find it. Or maybe it doesn’t even exist at all. I know it is different for me than for anyone else, or for that matter, what it used to be for me. Time does that, changes it. But time also takes it away from me too. I turn around and a week has gone by, then a month, then a year, then my life. Wow. Where did it go? I went bed and I was 22, then I woke up and I am 52. What the hell?!

A life that could have been led turned out to be something else instead. Not entirely by choice either, more than half by being lazy and going along with the ride. Rather than standing up and taking a chance. Taking a risk. What happens now? Do I just keep on going on the train that I’m on, or do I jump off and try my luck? It’s like the old movies, where the hobo jumps onto a train, and rides it to wherever it’s going because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Same thing. How did it become about the destination rather than the journey? It has eluded me. The rationale behind has eluded me as well.

Maybe there was no rationale to begin with, maybe it was just entirely luck of the draw. So many mistakes, so many screw ups, how did anything work out right? For that matter, is anything right? What is the comparison? It eludes me, still. Or have I eluded it? Interesting choice of words. Amazing how one can project one’s faults and shortcomings on a nebulas “it”. Yet still I sit here, not doing anything, riding that damned train. Avoiding it altogether. I wonder what happens when the train stops, will that force me to do something, or will I just continue to sit and wait for it to start again? What if it doesn’t? What if it can’t? What if I can’t?

I mean don’t get me wrong, this isn’t about self-pity. If anything it is to inspire me to find “it”. To get off the damned train even if it means taking a risk. OK, ready set, JUMP! … JUMP! … Come on dammit! JUMP!!! Why can’t I get off my ass? It’s like I’m glued to the bottom of the box car. OK, I’ll sit for a while, maybe it’s courage that I lack. Maybe “it” is courage. To face what’s next, to face something new, to face something, anything. Maybe I’m not lazy, just not courageous. Maybe I need to find my courage, to face what’s next, to face myself. Maybe that’s it.

The Writer

He sat at the small table, laptop in front of him, pack of Camel Blues to his right, focused intently on the screen of the small Thinkpad. Ryan Adams played softly in the background as his fingers stroked the keypad. He leaned forward as if to see the type better. His black hair hung over his brow as it furrowed. His right hand went to the top of the keyboard, his index finger stretched out as if pointing to some casualty by the roadside. It landed firmly and squarely on the Delete key. He pressed it, keeping his finger poised on the key. The cursor moved backwards across the screen, first a few letters, then a word, then more words, backing through his thoughts, his emotions until the entire paragraph was gone.

“hrmmph.” The only sound he made. He looked up from the keyboard at the screen, then his gaze extended beyond the screen, focusing somewhere between his mind and the eternal sky. He sat like this for a while. His brow raising occasionally, deep in his world, immersed in the lives and goings on of the characters on the page, as if he was watching them in front of him, just beyond his reach. He watched. Waiting for what was to happen next. He laughed to himself as if he just played witness to a good joke. He woke from his trance, fingers poised on the keys, he types, slowly at first, picking up speed as the story he just witnessed races through his mind. His fingers trying to catch it before it disappears again. He leans into the laptop as his fingers now hit their stride. First a few letters, then a word, then more words, then a paragraph. Then another.

His gaze is at the screen but not reading the words that are appearing on the white background, his mind is still in the land when he witnessed the story unfold. Soon his fingers slow, he stares at the screen, his right hand reaching for the pack of Camels, like a scene rehearsed a thousand times before, he pulls out one. His hands so familiar with this routine that he doesn’t take his eyes from the screen. He places the cigarette between his lips, then reaches for the lighter, automatically lighting it as it approaches the tip of the small white cylinder held tightly between his lips. His hands stops at the appropriate distance, he breathes in the flame through the tobacco, inhaling the first wisps of smoke. His hand places the lighter back next to the pack of Camels on the table. His eyes never leave the screen.

He leans back in his chair, keeping his gaze focused on the words before him, leaning back in the chair, he pulls the cigarette from his mouth. As he does his lips close except for at the sides of his mouth, he breathes in through the small openings in his lips. A small sound of rushing air emanates, like a gentle whisper to a friend. His hand finds the ashtray, he taps the ash from the burning cigarette.

Manning Place

It was a nice little cottage style house, located in West LA, more fitting for Santa Monica Beach but nonetheless, land locked by the Mormon Temple to the west, apartments on the east and high rises to the north. It sat quietly unobtrusive behind a swath of evergreens and azaleas on the top of the hill. Surrounded by California pepper trees, it seemed out of place for the neighborhood. Just off Santa Monica Boulevard, it was conveniently close for the crowd that it beckoned, writers, artists, musicians. Bohemian souls all. Much like the soul of the house.

The garden played host to many days and nights of soft music, good friends, and good times. The barbeque more oft grilling delectable dishes than stationary, the old sofa nestled snuggly against the white washed wall covered in candle sconces. An over-stuffed papisan calling comfort amongst the jasmine and gardenias, ready for a fragrant nap on a mid summers day. On quiet nights the house rested, silent in its warming welcome to all those who lay within. When asked, the various visitors would surely comment the same, it is home.

The occupants enjoyed the solitude the home provided from the city, the only intrusion; the occasional truck rumbling by on Manning. The evergreens belied the truths laying just beyond their reach, keeping the spirit of the home contained for its chosen guests. The occupants, an unlikely pair, from different generations, different cultures and different views of life, but brought together by one common bond, their love for each other. A love they shared with their guests and their visitors. Jonah had the experience of a lifetime, at 45 years, he was well versed in the ways of the world. Living life at various times, in various countries of the world, and in different classes and means. From being down trodden to living affluence in the arms of royalty. Teo a mere twenty three, just out of college, an English major who had led a somewhat sheltered life until the beginning of his college career.

Jonah and Teo met by course, such that Jonah had barely noticed, and had it not been for Teo’s persistence, Manning Place would not have been. Jonah spent much of his time in the garden or puttering: placing a new string of lights on the patio, or installing the solar tea lights for ambience. Teo would observe Jonah as he putzed, watching silently – smiling to himself. He loved to watch Jonah work. For a man of forty-five, Jonah had kept himself in shape, except for the smoking. Jonah would hum or sing along to the music that was a constant at Manning as he worked. Teo had introduced Jonah to the Bohemian Lifestyle quite accidently, not even realizing his own Bohemian-ness, until Jonah identified it as they laid quietly in each other’s arms after one of the informal music gatherings. The guests all nestled throughout the house, leaving Jonah and Teo time to enjoy the quiet pre-dawn hours.

A writer and a photographer in a life lived many years prior, Jonah counseled Teo on the elements of Bohemia. The fundamentals of the principals and the beliefs held by those true to the faith, Teo listened intently, knowingly, acceptingly. The conversation continued as the first rays of the new day slowly crept through the slats in the bamboo fence surrounding the patio. The golden hue slowly rose across Teo’s face, giving his Vietnamese skin a soft golden pallor. Jonah watched as the rising sun transformed the intimacy of the night into another day of lazing. He would let his kids slumber for now, the kids of his Bohemian enclave. He had grown to love each in their own manner, as a father loves his own children, admiring their qualities, accepting their faults. He would protect each as his own, and counsel each in their separate ways. This time they would carry with them for the rest of their lives, this time that would shape their existence, and their very being. None realized the subtle formations being shaped by the guru of Manning Place, but each would feel it in their own time, much as Teo had felt it in the years he had grown to know Jonah. Teo knew this as well, as Jonah would counsel or reprimand one of the guests, he would watch as the guest listened intently, smiling to himself with the recognition that one only gains from personal experience.

Days or weeks would pass, sometimes months, the guest would return with the elements of the lecture firmly in place, understanding the meaning and placing in practice the purpose. They would come, some acknowledging, some not understanding, but they would return. Teo would watch these interactions, taking the lessons to heart and practicing the forms and principals. Jonah acted and spoke not with superiority or malice, only as observations. He understood that the guests would take what they needed and leave the rest for others. He spoke from love and care, this the guests knew, and accepted his platitudes. Having lived his life, successfully at times, but more oft, unsuccessfully and with great struggle, Jonah did not judge, instead he nudged and showed paths.

As Teo and Jonah sat on the old sofa, gazing at the sky as it transformed from black to navy then to a pale blue, George made his way through the open glass doors. Teo’s eyes were closed in a soft slumber, George smiled as Jonah acknowledged him with a nod. He looked down at Teo laying in Jonah’s lap, “ I love it here, I never want to leave.”

“Thanks.” Was the only response Jonah would offer. Both knew that George would leave in a few hours for another long absence as he studied dentistry in San Francisco. “I’ll fix you breakfast in a bit.”

George gleamed, this was an unspoken tradition of Manning Place; the old sage would always send his charges into the world with a full fete, whether it be breakfast or supper. George’s preference was breakfast. Jonah loved to provide this service to his guests, especially to George. Of all the guests, George had a special place, mostly due to his closeness to Teo, and thus, Jonah treated him with a regard shared by no others.

gay American

I am gay. I am an American. I contributed to President Obama’s campaign, I get emails from him everyday, telling me what he is doing, how he is changing the world. How much better things are going to be for us all. But he never mentions me, or the millions like me.

I read in the morning paper that a man’s property taxes went up from $1700 per year to over $10,000 a year. Just because his partner of 37 years passed away. Because they did not share the same rights that straight people enjoy. He is something less than an American. He is a gay American. Not even capitalized. Something to be loathed, laughed at, put down, beat up, picked on, killed. Something to be ignored. I read where a young boy committed suicide because his faith told him he was wicked. I read how another young man was beaten to death because he was different.

I have news for you, I send your kids to school, I pay for the roadways you drive on, the bus you sit in, the welfare you collect, the salary you get, the fire and police protection you deserve. I write your story, I act it out, I create the clothes you wear, I teach your kids, I take care of you when you get sick. I drive you to the store, I operate the crane that builds your towns, the highways you drive. I feed you when you are hungry, let you rest when you are weary, caress you when you are lonely, support you when you can’t make it alone. I am your friend, your neighbor, your son, your daughter, mother and father. I am you. But I am less because you don’t acknowledge me. I am more than you think, more than you want, more than you know. I am you. Acknowledge me. I do exist. I am.

I feel pain, I bleed, I get envious, jealous, mad and happy. I am confident, secure, pensive, weak, strong and sweet. I am blonde, brunette, red haired, blue eyed, green eyed and sometimes red eyed. I have dogs, cats, fish, snakes, spider and no pets. I drive a Honda, Chevy, Toyota, Jeep, Mercedes, Rolls. I live in Malibu, Watts, Topeka, St. Louis, Louisville, Grand Rapids and everywhere in between, above, below and next to. I am successful, down and out, average, middle class and broke. I am army, navy, air force and marines, and I am civilian. I am a scientist, a doctor, a file clerk, a musician, and actor. I am a car salesman, and an IRS agent. I can work for you, take care of you, feed you, be your boss, be your congressman, judge, jury and executioner. I am in every corner of your life, every nook and cranny, every day in day out connection. I walk with you, talk with you, consul you, advise you, laugh with you, cry with you, die with you. I am Catholic, Mormon, Jewish, Muslim, Agnostic, and Buddhist. I am you. Acknowledge me. I do exist. I am.

I don’t want more, I don’t want less. I don’t want special treatment. I don’t want to be revered or feared. I don’t want you to exalt me or to shame me. I don’t want you beat me or kill me. I don’t want to rape you or molest you. I don’t want to be afraid to walk down a street or to be called names. I don’t want to make you gay or straight, or to turn your kids gay. I don’t want you to hate me because I am gay, I don’t want you to love me because I am gay. I don’t want you to fear me because I am gay. I want you to acknowledge me. I do exist. I am.

Reflecting

Holidays seem to always make one reflect on things. What was, what is and what will be. I spent Christmas with my family, it was nice. My mom and I talked for several hours about everything and anything. It was the first time we have had an in-depth discussion in a long time. Maybe too long of a time. It felt good to talk like we used to. Without inhibition or pause. I often used to say that my mom was one of my best friends. Over the years I have grown to know her not only as my mom, the fixer of all things, the warm embrace when I am hurt, the stern hand when I screw up. But I have also gotten to know her as an independent women. A person of substantial character, morals and intelligence.

As we get older, I think we get the opportunity to see our parents in a different light than when we are young. We come to the realization that they are people. Sometimes people we might not like or have anything in common with, or in my case, someone I really like. Someone I can talk to without inhibition or fear of reprisal. And someone who knows me and knows when I am bullshitting. That in of itself is a quality not often shared by other friends.

So we talked for several hours, about past loves, past tribulations, current events, future worries and wonders. I don’t think we solved the worlds problems or even our own, but we shared a time. My mom is nearly eighty and in the past few years I have grown to understand that these times will be fewer and fewer and that there will be a time when when I won’t have her to have these conversations.

One of the things we talked about is the change of perception as one gets older. When I was young, I would always look to the future, anticipating what was next. What would life bring to me, what would I find? Where would I go? What would I accomplish. As I get older, I find more of my time spent reflecting on what was. Remember old friends, old times, childhood memories. My first car. My first love. These thoughts in themselves are not bad. As someone once said, never forget your past, for it is what defines who you are. But I think it is really easy to get lost in it and forget to drive forward. My boss always tells me “keep moving”. I have come to adopt this philosophy over the years, doesn’t matter if you are moving forward or backward (well it does, but follow me on this) as long as you are moving. In the movement you will find growth, discovery. So even if you are moving backward, you still have the opportunity to learn and grow – which ultimately means you are moving forward.

I thought about past loves today, well one in particular, as I was working around the house. I began to feel a little sad at the lost time. The “should’ve, could’ve, would’ves”, what I thought my future was, back then. And how different it really is from what I imagined it to be. But I also realized that that’s ok. I am not always happy about the decisions I make, sometimes, a lot of times, I screw up. and sometimes I really screw up. I guess I could be defined by my screw ups. I think about how I should be somewhere else, further along, better off, happier. Where are these places? Where are these things? Why am I not where I thought I would be?

Reflecting: you know what? It doesn’t matter what I thought then. I told a friend that life is a journey, and that you presented with intersections on the road of life, right or left. You make a choice with the information you have when you come to those intersections. That is what I have done. I made the choices I made. Sure I can sit here and criticize every decision I have ever made. Getting lost in reflection, in the past. Being sad that I don’t have this, or didn’t do that. The last intersection I turned at took me in a direction I never expected, and that’s ok. I have something I didn’t have before. And I realize that I need to practice what I preach. I need to get out of the past and keep moving. Hopefully forward, but it’s ok if I go backwards too, as long as I keep learning. Life is a journey, not a destination.

I need to restart my journey. That’s my reflection for the holidays, not my resolution.

Care to join me?