Paul and his new found friend...
Saturday, April 30, 2005
I Now Know Why the Caged Bird Sings...
Yesterday I was unpacking some of the boxes filled with treasures that my grandmother left me. It was a bittersweet reckoning of a lifetime of memories to sort through.
I was in the living room when I began to hear a clatter coming from inside the woodstove. Looking through the glass door of the stove, I saw a small bird struggling to get out. I have no idea how a bird that large was able to fly down the chimney and into the stove, but stranger things have happened.
Watching the bird struggling to break free, yet trapped by imaginary walls, my roommate Paul and I came up with a plan to rescue the frightened bird. I opened the front door to the house while he slowly opened the glass door of the stove. Capturing the fluttering and frantic winged creature, Paul cupped the small bird in his hands.
Unfortunately the bird escaped his grasp and began flying into the windows, the ceiling and other assorted objects. Finally coming to rest perched on a house plant, Paul recaptured the bird and we released it outside.
Within seconds the bird vanished, disappearing into the bright sky.
I guess this is the best example I can think of that illustrates that sometimes it takes a friend or loved one to help us get beyond the invisible barriers that threaten to hold us back, trap us, or keep us from realizing our greatest potential.
As I unpacked yesterday's memories, more than a few instances came to mind of times when my grandparents rushed to my rescue and saved me from various self created disasters. More than anything, I hope that my rush toward the freedom of second chances will be as inspirational to them- and I believe they are still watching out for me, as yesterday's moment of grace was to me. I know that wherever they are, they took as much joy in that small bird's flight as I did.
~For you web surfers...read all about the controversy brewing in our backyard....
This might be a local issue but...in ithat it involves the behavior of one of the World's largest corporations, it affects everyone. Here's more on the fallout over Microsoft pulling their support for a Washington State Bill banning discrimination against gays. The bill lost by one vote in the state senate after receiving overwhelming support from the state house and the governor's office.
http://www.thestranger.com/2005-04-28/city1.html
NYTimes coverage ...
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/04/27/national/27microsoft.html
More indepth coverage from the blog o sphere....
http://www.americablog.org/
A history of these types of skirmishes...
http://www.splcenter.org/intel/intelreport/article.jsp?aid=523
I was in the living room when I began to hear a clatter coming from inside the woodstove. Looking through the glass door of the stove, I saw a small bird struggling to get out. I have no idea how a bird that large was able to fly down the chimney and into the stove, but stranger things have happened.
Watching the bird struggling to break free, yet trapped by imaginary walls, my roommate Paul and I came up with a plan to rescue the frightened bird. I opened the front door to the house while he slowly opened the glass door of the stove. Capturing the fluttering and frantic winged creature, Paul cupped the small bird in his hands.
Unfortunately the bird escaped his grasp and began flying into the windows, the ceiling and other assorted objects. Finally coming to rest perched on a house plant, Paul recaptured the bird and we released it outside.
Within seconds the bird vanished, disappearing into the bright sky.
I guess this is the best example I can think of that illustrates that sometimes it takes a friend or loved one to help us get beyond the invisible barriers that threaten to hold us back, trap us, or keep us from realizing our greatest potential.
As I unpacked yesterday's memories, more than a few instances came to mind of times when my grandparents rushed to my rescue and saved me from various self created disasters. More than anything, I hope that my rush toward the freedom of second chances will be as inspirational to them- and I believe they are still watching out for me, as yesterday's moment of grace was to me. I know that wherever they are, they took as much joy in that small bird's flight as I did.
~For you web surfers...read all about the controversy brewing in our backyard....
This might be a local issue but...in ithat it involves the behavior of one of the World's largest corporations, it affects everyone. Here's more on the fallout over Microsoft pulling their support for a Washington State Bill banning discrimination against gays. The bill lost by one vote in the state senate after receiving overwhelming support from the state house and the governor's office.
http://www.thestranger.com/2005-04-28/city1.html
NYTimes coverage ...
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/04/27/national/27microsoft.html
More indepth coverage from the blog o sphere....
http://www.americablog.org/
A history of these types of skirmishes...
http://www.splcenter.org/intel/intelreport/article.jsp?aid=523
Friday, April 29, 2005
The best sex I've had in a long time...
With myself.
That's the only way I can describe Wednesday's turbulent flight. I'm still riding the wave.
I'm finally back home, embracing the quiet, that the mud and snow are distant memories replaced by the understated pace of being in the familiar, aka the home twenty. Spring is really working hard at emerging. We are one of the last regions in the nation to enjoy spring, and the grass is just beginning to take off. This weekend is Bloomsday, one of the funner experiences known to man. Or at least Spokane folk.
I am still playing catch up, so about the only deep thought I can muster is it's amazing how many trees gave their lives so that I could find my PO Box stuffed to the gills.
Brad Steele continues to recover and we thank God he survived that near miss. WE love you Brad!
More later~
~ For a link to Bloomsday go here: http://www.bloomsday.org
That's the only way I can describe Wednesday's turbulent flight. I'm still riding the wave.
I'm finally back home, embracing the quiet, that the mud and snow are distant memories replaced by the understated pace of being in the familiar, aka the home twenty. Spring is really working hard at emerging. We are one of the last regions in the nation to enjoy spring, and the grass is just beginning to take off. This weekend is Bloomsday, one of the funner experiences known to man. Or at least Spokane folk.
I am still playing catch up, so about the only deep thought I can muster is it's amazing how many trees gave their lives so that I could find my PO Box stuffed to the gills.
Brad Steele continues to recover and we thank God he survived that near miss. WE love you Brad!
More later~
~ For a link to Bloomsday go here: http://www.bloomsday.org
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Spring Run Off...Winter Melt Down...and Leaving on a Jet Plane...
Well it's over- my time in Seattle.
It seemed appropriate that when I left my parents house for the airport everything called out like a Marco Polo swim game..."Here- Here- Marco! Polo! Find me..."
Fog, souped up and thick , ladled out like Clam Chowder, blanketed everything. Lost in the gray, surrounded by obscurity, I accepted that this was a good a place to move on from. Taxiing to the end of the runway, I awaited the ramp up of the jet engines. The thrust, the push your back against the seat, bear down like you're about to get fucked really hard, and then let gravity have its way with your stomach. Sorry mom, but that is exactly how lift off feels. Maybe it's best that we don't go into what landing feels like.
And take off is nothing compared to turbulence.
As soon as we flew above the clouds, I looked out the window and the sun shown down on me and the mountains appeared. Mt Rainier, Adams, and St Helens on my right and Mt. Baker and the North Cascades beckoned from the left a good morning hello. The Cascade Mountains fell away, bringing up the rear and the desert and the Columbia Plateau took their place. Already I could see the Bitterroots, the Blues, the Kettle River Range and the Sekirks- guarding this high desert as if they were protecting a sacred, vulnerable, dried up heart in need of healing, restoration, and a protected safe space in which to recover. I put on my sunglasses and waited. I paused letting everything from the last four months, all the sadness, the upheaval, and the disappointment lift. Expectedly the sun warmed my face and I relaxed as all that heavy stress I felt on my shoulders disappeared.
Then I made the mistake of looking down and realized that huge dust storms were forming across the scab lands below, trailing for miles like a witches finger. I'd remembered a weather segment I'd seen back at the airport terminal, something about late spring snow falling throughout the Idaho panhandle and northwest Montana. A strong, die hard cold front now spilled west, gaining speed across the high arid plateaus. This weather front would serve as our welcome.
The pilot came over the intercom and informed the flight attendants that things were about to get really bumpy, to take their seats and prepare for some fun as we descended into Spokane. Sustained 40 mph winds, with higher gusts, coming straight out of the east stood ready to greet us. I anticipated an embrace that I knew most observers would probably mistake for spousal abuse.
About the time the pilot finished his announcement was about the time our aircraft became God's Cat Toy. Descending toward the ground, our aircraft became engaged in a good round of make up sex with gravity. We pitched, we rolled, we dosey doed. The guy sitting across the aisle from me turned white. I smiled at him, pulling down my black felt Cowboy Hat real low while putting my let hand on the seat in front of me, and extending my right hand up into the air. Riding the seat bullrider style, as if I was going for an eight second ride, I added a "yahoo!" for effect. The man weakly returned a smile just as the plane dropped. The act of relaxing his mouth relaxed his stomach and next thing I knew he bent over and I thought, "Oh no- please not now, that's so not necessary."
We kept rocking and rolling, and I never saw the guys face minus the paper bag again. Landing was more like a determined reclamation of earth, as we bounced like a playground ball down across the runway. After three years of flying in small twin engine aircraft, I thanked God that I was safely in a larger plane as I watched debris flying by me during our taxi to the gate.
My sometimes roommate Paul met me at the airport in his beat to shit ancient Isuzu trooper "Elvis". The reality that I was closer to home than I'd been in six weeks reminded me that as much as I'd just ridden ma nature and came out with a high score, I had many unresolved issues waiting for me up at the ranch. The ride was far from over.
So here I sit. The mail is piled on the dining room table. The answering machine is full up of messages. The new spring growth is started. And in today's calm, my flags are all tattered and shredded from the spring storms, the relentless winds and the ravages of the last few months. As I look those torn and lifelessly spent stars and stripes, I can empathize.
I know just how they feel.
It seemed appropriate that when I left my parents house for the airport everything called out like a Marco Polo swim game..."Here- Here- Marco! Polo! Find me..."
Fog, souped up and thick , ladled out like Clam Chowder, blanketed everything. Lost in the gray, surrounded by obscurity, I accepted that this was a good a place to move on from. Taxiing to the end of the runway, I awaited the ramp up of the jet engines. The thrust, the push your back against the seat, bear down like you're about to get fucked really hard, and then let gravity have its way with your stomach. Sorry mom, but that is exactly how lift off feels. Maybe it's best that we don't go into what landing feels like.
And take off is nothing compared to turbulence.
As soon as we flew above the clouds, I looked out the window and the sun shown down on me and the mountains appeared. Mt Rainier, Adams, and St Helens on my right and Mt. Baker and the North Cascades beckoned from the left a good morning hello. The Cascade Mountains fell away, bringing up the rear and the desert and the Columbia Plateau took their place. Already I could see the Bitterroots, the Blues, the Kettle River Range and the Sekirks- guarding this high desert as if they were protecting a sacred, vulnerable, dried up heart in need of healing, restoration, and a protected safe space in which to recover. I put on my sunglasses and waited. I paused letting everything from the last four months, all the sadness, the upheaval, and the disappointment lift. Expectedly the sun warmed my face and I relaxed as all that heavy stress I felt on my shoulders disappeared.
Then I made the mistake of looking down and realized that huge dust storms were forming across the scab lands below, trailing for miles like a witches finger. I'd remembered a weather segment I'd seen back at the airport terminal, something about late spring snow falling throughout the Idaho panhandle and northwest Montana. A strong, die hard cold front now spilled west, gaining speed across the high arid plateaus. This weather front would serve as our welcome.
The pilot came over the intercom and informed the flight attendants that things were about to get really bumpy, to take their seats and prepare for some fun as we descended into Spokane. Sustained 40 mph winds, with higher gusts, coming straight out of the east stood ready to greet us. I anticipated an embrace that I knew most observers would probably mistake for spousal abuse.
About the time the pilot finished his announcement was about the time our aircraft became God's Cat Toy. Descending toward the ground, our aircraft became engaged in a good round of make up sex with gravity. We pitched, we rolled, we dosey doed. The guy sitting across the aisle from me turned white. I smiled at him, pulling down my black felt Cowboy Hat real low while putting my let hand on the seat in front of me, and extending my right hand up into the air. Riding the seat bullrider style, as if I was going for an eight second ride, I added a "yahoo!" for effect. The man weakly returned a smile just as the plane dropped. The act of relaxing his mouth relaxed his stomach and next thing I knew he bent over and I thought, "Oh no- please not now, that's so not necessary."
We kept rocking and rolling, and I never saw the guys face minus the paper bag again. Landing was more like a determined reclamation of earth, as we bounced like a playground ball down across the runway. After three years of flying in small twin engine aircraft, I thanked God that I was safely in a larger plane as I watched debris flying by me during our taxi to the gate.
My sometimes roommate Paul met me at the airport in his beat to shit ancient Isuzu trooper "Elvis". The reality that I was closer to home than I'd been in six weeks reminded me that as much as I'd just ridden ma nature and came out with a high score, I had many unresolved issues waiting for me up at the ranch. The ride was far from over.
So here I sit. The mail is piled on the dining room table. The answering machine is full up of messages. The new spring growth is started. And in today's calm, my flags are all tattered and shredded from the spring storms, the relentless winds and the ravages of the last few months. As I look those torn and lifelessly spent stars and stripes, I can empathize.
I know just how they feel.
The Monroe Street Bridge, now under renovation. My Father used to ride his bike across the railing of this bridge. He's also been known to fly upside down under other bridges and my mom got so pissed at him she made sure that his pilot's license expired. He still loves to fly- and I have to wonder if all those years back when he was a kid if he didn't wonder what it would be like to just ride his bike off the edge of that railing...and soar.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Careening through "Career Day"
Recent and not so recent events in my life have served to focus my thoughts and energies on the reality that I am in transition-Transition in affairs of the heart. Possibly location. Most definitely in the arena of life experience and perspective. And more frightening, I am embracing transition in the aspect of career.
My time as a trucker seems to be over. 17 years is a long time in which to grow comfortable with a way of life and a pursuit. Yet my commitment to the trucking industry continues. Even as this threat of change looms, I've jumped off that comfortable familiar cliff toward accepting this change. I now hurdle downward toward the rocks of reality. Although I remain convinced that at the last minute a wave will rush in and gently cushion such an uncertain fall, I cling to a comfortable denial regarding a few inconvenient circumstances surrounding my dive.
The fact I'm a non swimmer, and that my rescuing wave is the temporary residence of a great white shark who hasn't eaten since he went on the Adkins diet should be of concern, but it isn't. There is only so much a person can stand to accept in the midst of a life changing dive and the other details simply must remain unimportant in this allegory.
Yesterday I was thinking about careers and for some reason a very unpleasant memory stood out of the recesses of my mind, reclaiming my attention. Cringing, I willed the memory out of my mind. But as is the way with suppressed horrible and disturbing memories, once rekindled they like to stay around for awhile and enjoy the light and do further damage. As much as I tried to exercise this most ghastly event, I could only acknowledge the truth found within: That from an early age, my gay card has always had serious flaws.
The memory involved elementary school.
I was once a proud member of Mrs. Larsens third grade class, attending Lake Burien Elementary School in a suburb of Seattle. A school that I should add has since been leveled, probably in response to the story that I'm about to relay. If memory serves correctly I was my class President, I was popular, and I was, even at that early age, very good at acquiring surprisingly creative head injuries. It's a gift that continues unimpeded to this day.
My teacher, Mrs Larsen exemplified a hip, total empowerment chic. She idealistically believed that the bright shining little munchkins under her charge could be anything we wanted to be. Sadly Mrs. Larsen made the mistake of putting her theory into practice. She devised a life changing event simply known as "Career Day". This event would seriously influence and ultimately affect her own career.
I still remember the excitement leading up to "Career Day". Our flyered class event was all the talk of the playground and promised to be way better than filmstrip day or even more motivating than those highly anticipated get-out-of-class early, "snow" days. "Career Day" included the typical standard elements of instruction but even better, offered real-live, hands-on opportunities to explore the various career paths so breathlessly laid out before us. This was long before the whole trendy "life coach" thing started, and Mrs Larsen bravely ventured into what was essentially uncharted primary education territory.
In the world of elementary school academia, Mrs Larsen was a trailblazer.
Her "thinking outside the box" approach to a third grader's education was all very, very exciting and groundbreaking stuff. Other educators observed us, gathering in the back of the room, taking notes. This was going to be the highlight of Mrs. Larsens teaching career.
Remarkably some of the parents also shared Mrs. Larsen's vision. They excitedly volunteered to share their job skills. Demonstrating what occupation they performed day in and day out, these volunteers plied their trade before a very friendly and appreciative audience. Standing in the front of our class, nervously performing their occupational pursuits to a sympathetic and easily impressed audience was the affirmation stuff that parental units dream of. Here was where some of there parents could finally resolve their own long buried, unappreciated show and tell issues. Unfortunately, such dreams can easily become nightmares under the right third grade inspiration.
Now for the record, my gay card has always seemed quite primitive. When I look around and compare myself against the occupational skill sets of my fellow gay and lesbian friends, the math isn't right. I have never felt the attraction, competence, or intrigue of pursuing a job as a professional hair stylist, model, or department store/retail manager. I've never felt talented enough to pursue a career as an interior designer, nor have I been all that accomplished in the kitchen. I didn't even take my first flight in a jet plane until well into my thirties-a fact which obviously demonstrated a very real disinterest in becoming a flight attendant.
My friends worry and sometimes speculate that I might not be gay. If I am, how did it come to be that I have gayboi version 1.1? Especially when they boast personally tailored advanced Home Good uploads, offering dizzying recipe computations and the most fabulous and flawless fashion sense.
I've wondered all of this myself. Yesterday while watching my friend Kevin cooking in the kitchen, an explanation finally came to me.
I can blame all of my gay incompetence on Mrs. Larsen's "Career Day'. Specifically my enthusiastic and eager participation in the hair styling segment.
The details remain a bit foggy as I've tried to remember them. Thankfully the human mind has an ability to erase or obscure the more particularly devastating and disastrous moments of our youth. I do remember that my partner for this particular "learning unit" of "Career Day" was a brave and tough girl named Kirsten.
Because both of our last names began with early letters in the alphabet, seating charts kept Kirsten and I in close proximity to one another for the majority of our grade school career. Up to this point, this had been a good thing and Kirsten and I were chummy enough playground friends.
Paired up, Kirsten and I listened in fascination as a woman who was not related to any of our classmates introduced us to the wide-open, exciting world of hairstyling. The woman standing before us wore a white lab coat and I recall that she worked at one of the big department stores in downtown Seattle. The woman announced that she made heaps of money, which immediately impressed the class. She told us that she'd gone to beauty school and that she met all sorts of interesting people in her occupation. We were spell bound.
Now, the beautiful thing about "Career Day" was getting to do the "hands-on" part of each "learning unit". This occurred at the conclusion of each speaker's speech. The demonstrator would stand before us and actually demonstrate a particular skill set. Then we'd get to try performing the same activity as the professional while they walked around and supervised.
These skill sets were very basic. Because of this, I really don't think even the most skeptical or overtly cautious educator could have foreseen what happened next, because most people just don't imagine that sort of disaster. Prior to that day, I don't believe anyone ever considered a "Hair Combing" "Learning Unit" could become life threatening.
After her speech the hairstylist woman in the white lab coat grabbed a large plastic tray and began passing out plastic combs to the entire class. We were told to wait until she was ready and then she called Mrs Larsen to the front of the class. The hairstylist began showing us how she combed out a clients hair. It seemed very easy and very fun.
I looked at my partner Kirsten. She smiled, "Do me first Tim."
She turned her back to me and I began to run the comb through her long glowing hair just like the stylist was doing to Mrs. Larsen. Kirsten's extensive beautiful hair was actually much thicker than it appeared and I encountered difficulty making a complete pass all the way through her locks. Sometimes the comb snagged and Kirsten screamed, "Ouch! Not so hard!"
I decided that it would be easier if rather than just making long gentle strokes all the way down her head to the small of Kirsten's back, I would just make shorter, more rapid strokes closer to her head. This seemed to work far better and Kirsten leaned her head back toward me. I did not remove the comb from her hair as I worked, and as I combed I began to dance around and make exaggerated movements which made Kirsten laugh, and even some of our fellow classmates thought it was funny.
Yet as I worked, I began to notice that the strokes seemed increasingly impeded and that the comb wouldn't travel as far through her hair. In fact, the comb seemed somewhat caught. Each movement became shorter and shorter. I pulled back on the comb to start over but I couldn't seem to get the comb free. Drawing closer to Kirsten, I examined my work as I sped up the combing motions. The hair just seemed to withdraw like one of those Barbie dolls where you push a button and all Barbie's hair just instantly evaporates into nothing. Within a few more strokes, absolutely no play was left in the comb. I pulled gently as a test.
Kirsten screamed again. "Ouch!"
I let go of the comb. The comb did not fall to the ground but now stood perpendicular and suspended tight against Kirsten's head. I stared in disbelief. I'd never seen a comb do that before and being a guy and having a perpetual buzz cut, I simply could not believe my eyes. I pulled on the comb once again hoping to break this most awful spell. Kirsten yelled. "Tim! Stop it!"
The comb remained stuck. It stood completely tight against Kirsten's head. It would not budge. I looked around to see if anyone else noticed. Nope, they were all combing away on each other as if their lives depended on it. Then Kirsten just had to do it. She just had to reach around to the back of her head and feel the comb.
She screamed.
Not just any scream but a really loud, horrible, awful, worst moment of your entire life scream.
Mrs. Larsen and the hairstylist immediately rushed toward us. Kirsten was already sobbing. The class stared at this "Learning Unit" spectacle as they gathered closer. The people at the back of the room were no longer taking notes and the other parents had these knowing expressions of horror on their faces.
The stylist asked Mrs Larsen where her scissors were, saying something about there was only one way to fix this and that she'd never seen a more tangled mess in her whole life. Mrs Larsen motioned toward the desk, in a silent gesture that seemed more like shock than anything. The stylist found the scissors and we all watched fascinated as she began to cut the comb out of Kirsten's hair. It took a very long time.
Mrs Larsen told me that I should go sit in the principal's office, that I wasn't in trouble but that when Kirsten's parents got there they might not want to see me. I left class thinking that career day was turning out to be a total gyp.
The next day Kirsten appeared back in our class. Everything was different about her hair. Now she sported a bob cut with a large bald area on the back of her head. She wouldn't look at me. During recess she got a bunch of sixth grade girls to chase me and several other boys around the playground and we pretended to be really, really scared even though we really weren't.
Post "Career Day" my friendship with Kirsten was forever altered. I faced Kirsten's hostility for the remainder of third grade. The sixth graders only hated us for a couple days, then they admitted that actually they thought it was pretty funny. Over time, Kirsten's hair grew back, she healed, and the bald spot began to blend. I felt horrible and the scars remain. That was my last year at Lake Burien Elementary School and my family moved me to exile in Oregon. I never did get a chance to patch up my relationship with Kirsten.
I did not know it at the time but this would become the first of many examples in my life where I've learned just how long it can take a woman to forgive a man. Especially when a bad hairstyle is involved.
Now as I think back on "Career Day", "Learning Units" and bald spots, its probably a good thing that I haven't pursued many of those infamous gay occupations. People are way more lawsuit happy these days, and because God has this habit of going "all justice is mine sayeth the lord", I think its best to just lie low and leave the creative stuff to the professionals. I have this sense that if I ever do venture into the world of traditional gay pursuits, Kirsten will wind up as one of my clients.
That kind of karma is probably best left unserved.
~An update on Brad Steele...
Yesterday we reported that IGRA Cowboy Brad Steele was hospitalized with a serious Staph infection. This morning we are happy to report that although Steele isn't totally out of the woods, the hospital did remove the IV and that he is at home comfortable and in recovery from his bought with this serious infection. He appreciates everyone's prayers and asks that you continue to keep him in your thoughts and lift him up in your prayers that the infection does not reoccur.
My time as a trucker seems to be over. 17 years is a long time in which to grow comfortable with a way of life and a pursuit. Yet my commitment to the trucking industry continues. Even as this threat of change looms, I've jumped off that comfortable familiar cliff toward accepting this change. I now hurdle downward toward the rocks of reality. Although I remain convinced that at the last minute a wave will rush in and gently cushion such an uncertain fall, I cling to a comfortable denial regarding a few inconvenient circumstances surrounding my dive.
The fact I'm a non swimmer, and that my rescuing wave is the temporary residence of a great white shark who hasn't eaten since he went on the Adkins diet should be of concern, but it isn't. There is only so much a person can stand to accept in the midst of a life changing dive and the other details simply must remain unimportant in this allegory.
Yesterday I was thinking about careers and for some reason a very unpleasant memory stood out of the recesses of my mind, reclaiming my attention. Cringing, I willed the memory out of my mind. But as is the way with suppressed horrible and disturbing memories, once rekindled they like to stay around for awhile and enjoy the light and do further damage. As much as I tried to exercise this most ghastly event, I could only acknowledge the truth found within: That from an early age, my gay card has always had serious flaws.
The memory involved elementary school.
I was once a proud member of Mrs. Larsens third grade class, attending Lake Burien Elementary School in a suburb of Seattle. A school that I should add has since been leveled, probably in response to the story that I'm about to relay. If memory serves correctly I was my class President, I was popular, and I was, even at that early age, very good at acquiring surprisingly creative head injuries. It's a gift that continues unimpeded to this day.
My teacher, Mrs Larsen exemplified a hip, total empowerment chic. She idealistically believed that the bright shining little munchkins under her charge could be anything we wanted to be. Sadly Mrs. Larsen made the mistake of putting her theory into practice. She devised a life changing event simply known as "Career Day". This event would seriously influence and ultimately affect her own career.
I still remember the excitement leading up to "Career Day". Our flyered class event was all the talk of the playground and promised to be way better than filmstrip day or even more motivating than those highly anticipated get-out-of-class early, "snow" days. "Career Day" included the typical standard elements of instruction but even better, offered real-live, hands-on opportunities to explore the various career paths so breathlessly laid out before us. This was long before the whole trendy "life coach" thing started, and Mrs Larsen bravely ventured into what was essentially uncharted primary education territory.
In the world of elementary school academia, Mrs Larsen was a trailblazer.
Her "thinking outside the box" approach to a third grader's education was all very, very exciting and groundbreaking stuff. Other educators observed us, gathering in the back of the room, taking notes. This was going to be the highlight of Mrs. Larsens teaching career.
Remarkably some of the parents also shared Mrs. Larsen's vision. They excitedly volunteered to share their job skills. Demonstrating what occupation they performed day in and day out, these volunteers plied their trade before a very friendly and appreciative audience. Standing in the front of our class, nervously performing their occupational pursuits to a sympathetic and easily impressed audience was the affirmation stuff that parental units dream of. Here was where some of there parents could finally resolve their own long buried, unappreciated show and tell issues. Unfortunately, such dreams can easily become nightmares under the right third grade inspiration.
Now for the record, my gay card has always seemed quite primitive. When I look around and compare myself against the occupational skill sets of my fellow gay and lesbian friends, the math isn't right. I have never felt the attraction, competence, or intrigue of pursuing a job as a professional hair stylist, model, or department store/retail manager. I've never felt talented enough to pursue a career as an interior designer, nor have I been all that accomplished in the kitchen. I didn't even take my first flight in a jet plane until well into my thirties-a fact which obviously demonstrated a very real disinterest in becoming a flight attendant.
My friends worry and sometimes speculate that I might not be gay. If I am, how did it come to be that I have gayboi version 1.1? Especially when they boast personally tailored advanced Home Good uploads, offering dizzying recipe computations and the most fabulous and flawless fashion sense.
I've wondered all of this myself. Yesterday while watching my friend Kevin cooking in the kitchen, an explanation finally came to me.
I can blame all of my gay incompetence on Mrs. Larsen's "Career Day'. Specifically my enthusiastic and eager participation in the hair styling segment.
The details remain a bit foggy as I've tried to remember them. Thankfully the human mind has an ability to erase or obscure the more particularly devastating and disastrous moments of our youth. I do remember that my partner for this particular "learning unit" of "Career Day" was a brave and tough girl named Kirsten.
Because both of our last names began with early letters in the alphabet, seating charts kept Kirsten and I in close proximity to one another for the majority of our grade school career. Up to this point, this had been a good thing and Kirsten and I were chummy enough playground friends.
Paired up, Kirsten and I listened in fascination as a woman who was not related to any of our classmates introduced us to the wide-open, exciting world of hairstyling. The woman standing before us wore a white lab coat and I recall that she worked at one of the big department stores in downtown Seattle. The woman announced that she made heaps of money, which immediately impressed the class. She told us that she'd gone to beauty school and that she met all sorts of interesting people in her occupation. We were spell bound.
Now, the beautiful thing about "Career Day" was getting to do the "hands-on" part of each "learning unit". This occurred at the conclusion of each speaker's speech. The demonstrator would stand before us and actually demonstrate a particular skill set. Then we'd get to try performing the same activity as the professional while they walked around and supervised.
These skill sets were very basic. Because of this, I really don't think even the most skeptical or overtly cautious educator could have foreseen what happened next, because most people just don't imagine that sort of disaster. Prior to that day, I don't believe anyone ever considered a "Hair Combing" "Learning Unit" could become life threatening.
After her speech the hairstylist woman in the white lab coat grabbed a large plastic tray and began passing out plastic combs to the entire class. We were told to wait until she was ready and then she called Mrs Larsen to the front of the class. The hairstylist began showing us how she combed out a clients hair. It seemed very easy and very fun.
I looked at my partner Kirsten. She smiled, "Do me first Tim."
She turned her back to me and I began to run the comb through her long glowing hair just like the stylist was doing to Mrs. Larsen. Kirsten's extensive beautiful hair was actually much thicker than it appeared and I encountered difficulty making a complete pass all the way through her locks. Sometimes the comb snagged and Kirsten screamed, "Ouch! Not so hard!"
I decided that it would be easier if rather than just making long gentle strokes all the way down her head to the small of Kirsten's back, I would just make shorter, more rapid strokes closer to her head. This seemed to work far better and Kirsten leaned her head back toward me. I did not remove the comb from her hair as I worked, and as I combed I began to dance around and make exaggerated movements which made Kirsten laugh, and even some of our fellow classmates thought it was funny.
Yet as I worked, I began to notice that the strokes seemed increasingly impeded and that the comb wouldn't travel as far through her hair. In fact, the comb seemed somewhat caught. Each movement became shorter and shorter. I pulled back on the comb to start over but I couldn't seem to get the comb free. Drawing closer to Kirsten, I examined my work as I sped up the combing motions. The hair just seemed to withdraw like one of those Barbie dolls where you push a button and all Barbie's hair just instantly evaporates into nothing. Within a few more strokes, absolutely no play was left in the comb. I pulled gently as a test.
Kirsten screamed again. "Ouch!"
I let go of the comb. The comb did not fall to the ground but now stood perpendicular and suspended tight against Kirsten's head. I stared in disbelief. I'd never seen a comb do that before and being a guy and having a perpetual buzz cut, I simply could not believe my eyes. I pulled on the comb once again hoping to break this most awful spell. Kirsten yelled. "Tim! Stop it!"
The comb remained stuck. It stood completely tight against Kirsten's head. It would not budge. I looked around to see if anyone else noticed. Nope, they were all combing away on each other as if their lives depended on it. Then Kirsten just had to do it. She just had to reach around to the back of her head and feel the comb.
She screamed.
Not just any scream but a really loud, horrible, awful, worst moment of your entire life scream.
Mrs. Larsen and the hairstylist immediately rushed toward us. Kirsten was already sobbing. The class stared at this "Learning Unit" spectacle as they gathered closer. The people at the back of the room were no longer taking notes and the other parents had these knowing expressions of horror on their faces.
The stylist asked Mrs Larsen where her scissors were, saying something about there was only one way to fix this and that she'd never seen a more tangled mess in her whole life. Mrs Larsen motioned toward the desk, in a silent gesture that seemed more like shock than anything. The stylist found the scissors and we all watched fascinated as she began to cut the comb out of Kirsten's hair. It took a very long time.
Mrs Larsen told me that I should go sit in the principal's office, that I wasn't in trouble but that when Kirsten's parents got there they might not want to see me. I left class thinking that career day was turning out to be a total gyp.
The next day Kirsten appeared back in our class. Everything was different about her hair. Now she sported a bob cut with a large bald area on the back of her head. She wouldn't look at me. During recess she got a bunch of sixth grade girls to chase me and several other boys around the playground and we pretended to be really, really scared even though we really weren't.
Post "Career Day" my friendship with Kirsten was forever altered. I faced Kirsten's hostility for the remainder of third grade. The sixth graders only hated us for a couple days, then they admitted that actually they thought it was pretty funny. Over time, Kirsten's hair grew back, she healed, and the bald spot began to blend. I felt horrible and the scars remain. That was my last year at Lake Burien Elementary School and my family moved me to exile in Oregon. I never did get a chance to patch up my relationship with Kirsten.
I did not know it at the time but this would become the first of many examples in my life where I've learned just how long it can take a woman to forgive a man. Especially when a bad hairstyle is involved.
Now as I think back on "Career Day", "Learning Units" and bald spots, its probably a good thing that I haven't pursued many of those infamous gay occupations. People are way more lawsuit happy these days, and because God has this habit of going "all justice is mine sayeth the lord", I think its best to just lie low and leave the creative stuff to the professionals. I have this sense that if I ever do venture into the world of traditional gay pursuits, Kirsten will wind up as one of my clients.
That kind of karma is probably best left unserved.
~An update on Brad Steele...
Yesterday we reported that IGRA Cowboy Brad Steele was hospitalized with a serious Staph infection. This morning we are happy to report that although Steele isn't totally out of the woods, the hospital did remove the IV and that he is at home comfortable and in recovery from his bought with this serious infection. He appreciates everyone's prayers and asks that you continue to keep him in your thoughts and lift him up in your prayers that the infection does not reoccur.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Prayer Requests....
Hey there everyone...
I received word earlier today that IGRA Cowboy Brad Steele is facing a very serious Staph infection. Steele is one of six cowboys who have competed under the HMR brand. He was released from a Toronto Canada hospital to rest at home today but he remains on a full time IV and has been on an IV since late Friday afternoon. This infection could have very well been life threatening, and even now Steele is far from out of the woods. Please lift him up in your prayers.
In speaking with him this morning, the hospital is currently awaiting lab results to determine if the infection is responding to antibiotics. Steele said that he nicked himself and got a small cut while moving patio furniture for his folks, and that he didn't realize how serious his infection was until late Friday afternoon.
WE all wish Brad the best!
I received word earlier today that IGRA Cowboy Brad Steele is facing a very serious Staph infection. Steele is one of six cowboys who have competed under the HMR brand. He was released from a Toronto Canada hospital to rest at home today but he remains on a full time IV and has been on an IV since late Friday afternoon. This infection could have very well been life threatening, and even now Steele is far from out of the woods. Please lift him up in your prayers.
In speaking with him this morning, the hospital is currently awaiting lab results to determine if the infection is responding to antibiotics. Steele said that he nicked himself and got a small cut while moving patio furniture for his folks, and that he didn't realize how serious his infection was until late Friday afternoon.
WE all wish Brad the best!
The reality of real men...
I've spent the last few days in race mode. Yesterday was a day to reflect.
I've been thinking about what a drag life is. Literally.
I've recently learned that some guys I didn't really know all that well were worried that I wouldn't want to hang out with them because they weren't butch enough. That I would reject them because they didn't meet up with some sort of moving target and allusive masculinity standard. I was very sad to learn this.
The word "real" comes to mind here. Everywhere I look, especially in hyped urban areas where there are just so many people competing for attention, real seems based on first impressions rather than experience. Folks seem to define and seek out "real" not based upon what's on the inside but by ever changing standards. "Real Men" love Jesus. "Real Men" drive pick up trucks. "Real Men work in construction" or "drive trains" or whatever.
"Real Men" don't wear dresses. They don't sing, they don't dance, they don't express themselves and they certainly don't wear foundation. I keep trying to understand this. I have always chased my own pursuits not because I got butch points for such endeavors but because those were my genuine interests. I never once gave any thought to what sort of reflection this was to my masculinity but I was simply trying to be true to myself.
As a kid my gay brother loved, no he excelled at cooking and fashion and even figure skating. He still does- well maybe not the figure skating bit, but he remains an amazing cook. He is tuned in to where fashion is going, what should be on the wine list and what shouldn't. He is also true to himself and I have always seen him as a real man. He has guts, he was and is a tough, loyal and dedicated friend. I've respected him because of this and I still do. I never wanted him to be like me. I always celebrated him most when he was himself.
These days he is very comfortable in his skin. Yeah, he cringes at my fashion sense, with good reason. He howls at the ghastly things that sometimes emerge from my kitchen. He giggles at the fact his gay brother proudly lives in a triple wide and has an addiction to fine mobile home architecture. I don't think either of us would ever be able to say with a straight face that the other wasn't "real".
But sadly there are more than a few folks who would not define my brother as a real man. And isn't that ironic, because I don't think as an adult he's ever worn a dress in public.
I have though.
I've worn dresses at rodeo grounds. In freeway medians. On ski hill chair lifts. All done to make people laugh and in the broader sense, mess with convention. Mess with the status quo. Make people rethink what makes up a real man. Which brings me back to Saturday night and the fact that a few guys were worried that I might be embarrassed to be seen with them.
I don't usually spend much time in the bars, but Saturday night not only did I find myself in a drag bar, but I would eventually find myself up on stage. Twice. I think the performers surrounding me would have been shocked to know about my character, the Pendleton Round Up Rodeo Princess, 12th runner up out of a field of six. From Echo. Upon first impression, I am the last person anyone would suspect as having worn dresses. In public.
My face still hurts from the horror of getting called up on stage, the laughter, the embarrassment, and the sheepish moments. I mean, I'm usually an outspoken guy who is not easily intimidated. I'm not a guy who is often at a loss for words. Its a bit troubling the power one drag queen can have over a formerly well adjusted and confident man. I now know the definition of deer in the headlights and I have a whole new take on stage fright.
I also know that there are many men who have big issues with drag. They internalize drag, combine it with their own issues and interpret it as an assault on their masculinity. Cowering in fear that somehow make up and big hair might rub off on them or reflect and somehow touch their manhood, I find it interesting- almost like the whole gays in the military debate. I mean you'd think drag has the potential to derail gay, real man, "unit cohesion"- especially from the aggressive way people try to distance themselves from it.
...Ok, so yeah, so maybe its not your deal. Maybe you have never played with Barbies or had an EZ bake Oven or even wanted to learn how to figure skate. I know these pursuits never really rocked my boat either. Not as a kid, nor as an adult. But seriously, as much as some guys distance themselves from drag, the flashing camera's at pride focusing on dykes on bikes, drag queens and leather boys, what sort of alternative do they offer? Drag is as much about performance and acting and creativity as it is a statement about gender. So why are so many folks threatened by a little non traditional performance art?
Recently, I've wondered if drag really has that much power to influence public discourse, put the fear of god into mankind, and change identity. If so we really fucked up in Iraq. Rather than sending over the troops, we should have just sent a contingent of big hair, big heels, and well, "big" girls to the middle east. With big weapons.
The world of "real men" has become mighty transparent and affected these days. Carhartts jackets do not make the man anymore than a maxed out Nordstrom's card makes the drag queen. Especially when you dissect the hyper influenced "got issues?" collision that is gay.com or bigmusclebear or whatever the "real men" site of the day is. As a guy who hates boundaries, who finds humor in any excess, I wonder how one human can so easily threaten the serenity of another person, and more importantly, I wonder how we get beyond this. I mean if the gay community has a broken record, this must be it.
It isn't the drag queens or the leather queens that keep men from coming out of the closet. It isn't the FAB five or the Will and Grace, Queer as Folk crowd. It's fear.
I'll be honest, I don't really identify with these scenes or TV shows and I get very frustrated that Hollywood seems so content to continually represent us in the same old tired ways, but the truth is we only have ourselves to blame. While those shows, those lifestyles don't represent mine, that isn't to say that they threaten me either. I've earned the right to complain that there are other views not because I distance myself from the sequined, designed to the nines set but because I stand proudly beside them, as an openly gay man.
As long as the majority of the "real man" Carhartts crowd is only content to surface in late night gay.com chat sessions or from the safety of a leather bar or only when its "safe" to from the middle of a gay neighborhood, there's no room to complain. Cowering in the corner, all feared up that a guy in a dress is going to be the only image society has to identify them with, the real men can't fault the drag queens. The blame rests with those scared miserable guys in the corner, the ones who so easily blend in and who live their hidden, fearful dual lives. The very same tough guys who spend so much time crafting their butch image have no idea the transparency of such folly, how obviously afraid they appear that those sequins are going to rub off on them. If you're not going to come out and be yourself, you don't have the right to complain about those who have.
I don't live and breathe drag. But I have tremendous respect for anyone who is a performer. Anyone who takes us out of our own miserable moment and who transforms themselves into a vision of something else. Anyone who can make us forget the present, help us laugh at the past, and give us a vision of the future, well, they're gold in my book. No matter what they're wearing.
OK maybe it doesn't take that much talent to lip synch or grab a dollar bill with your mouth while holding a microphone or a cigarette or an adult beverage. But it sure takes a hell of a lot of courage.
And the last time I checked, courage was one of the hallmarks of a great man, if not the truest foundation of a real man.
I've been thinking about what a drag life is. Literally.
I've recently learned that some guys I didn't really know all that well were worried that I wouldn't want to hang out with them because they weren't butch enough. That I would reject them because they didn't meet up with some sort of moving target and allusive masculinity standard. I was very sad to learn this.
The word "real" comes to mind here. Everywhere I look, especially in hyped urban areas where there are just so many people competing for attention, real seems based on first impressions rather than experience. Folks seem to define and seek out "real" not based upon what's on the inside but by ever changing standards. "Real Men" love Jesus. "Real Men" drive pick up trucks. "Real Men work in construction" or "drive trains" or whatever.
"Real Men" don't wear dresses. They don't sing, they don't dance, they don't express themselves and they certainly don't wear foundation. I keep trying to understand this. I have always chased my own pursuits not because I got butch points for such endeavors but because those were my genuine interests. I never once gave any thought to what sort of reflection this was to my masculinity but I was simply trying to be true to myself.
As a kid my gay brother loved, no he excelled at cooking and fashion and even figure skating. He still does- well maybe not the figure skating bit, but he remains an amazing cook. He is tuned in to where fashion is going, what should be on the wine list and what shouldn't. He is also true to himself and I have always seen him as a real man. He has guts, he was and is a tough, loyal and dedicated friend. I've respected him because of this and I still do. I never wanted him to be like me. I always celebrated him most when he was himself.
These days he is very comfortable in his skin. Yeah, he cringes at my fashion sense, with good reason. He howls at the ghastly things that sometimes emerge from my kitchen. He giggles at the fact his gay brother proudly lives in a triple wide and has an addiction to fine mobile home architecture. I don't think either of us would ever be able to say with a straight face that the other wasn't "real".
But sadly there are more than a few folks who would not define my brother as a real man. And isn't that ironic, because I don't think as an adult he's ever worn a dress in public.
I have though.
I've worn dresses at rodeo grounds. In freeway medians. On ski hill chair lifts. All done to make people laugh and in the broader sense, mess with convention. Mess with the status quo. Make people rethink what makes up a real man. Which brings me back to Saturday night and the fact that a few guys were worried that I might be embarrassed to be seen with them.
I don't usually spend much time in the bars, but Saturday night not only did I find myself in a drag bar, but I would eventually find myself up on stage. Twice. I think the performers surrounding me would have been shocked to know about my character, the Pendleton Round Up Rodeo Princess, 12th runner up out of a field of six. From Echo. Upon first impression, I am the last person anyone would suspect as having worn dresses. In public.
My face still hurts from the horror of getting called up on stage, the laughter, the embarrassment, and the sheepish moments. I mean, I'm usually an outspoken guy who is not easily intimidated. I'm not a guy who is often at a loss for words. Its a bit troubling the power one drag queen can have over a formerly well adjusted and confident man. I now know the definition of deer in the headlights and I have a whole new take on stage fright.
I also know that there are many men who have big issues with drag. They internalize drag, combine it with their own issues and interpret it as an assault on their masculinity. Cowering in fear that somehow make up and big hair might rub off on them or reflect and somehow touch their manhood, I find it interesting- almost like the whole gays in the military debate. I mean you'd think drag has the potential to derail gay, real man, "unit cohesion"- especially from the aggressive way people try to distance themselves from it.
...Ok, so yeah, so maybe its not your deal. Maybe you have never played with Barbies or had an EZ bake Oven or even wanted to learn how to figure skate. I know these pursuits never really rocked my boat either. Not as a kid, nor as an adult. But seriously, as much as some guys distance themselves from drag, the flashing camera's at pride focusing on dykes on bikes, drag queens and leather boys, what sort of alternative do they offer? Drag is as much about performance and acting and creativity as it is a statement about gender. So why are so many folks threatened by a little non traditional performance art?
Recently, I've wondered if drag really has that much power to influence public discourse, put the fear of god into mankind, and change identity. If so we really fucked up in Iraq. Rather than sending over the troops, we should have just sent a contingent of big hair, big heels, and well, "big" girls to the middle east. With big weapons.
The world of "real men" has become mighty transparent and affected these days. Carhartts jackets do not make the man anymore than a maxed out Nordstrom's card makes the drag queen. Especially when you dissect the hyper influenced "got issues?" collision that is gay.com or bigmusclebear or whatever the "real men" site of the day is. As a guy who hates boundaries, who finds humor in any excess, I wonder how one human can so easily threaten the serenity of another person, and more importantly, I wonder how we get beyond this. I mean if the gay community has a broken record, this must be it.
It isn't the drag queens or the leather queens that keep men from coming out of the closet. It isn't the FAB five or the Will and Grace, Queer as Folk crowd. It's fear.
I'll be honest, I don't really identify with these scenes or TV shows and I get very frustrated that Hollywood seems so content to continually represent us in the same old tired ways, but the truth is we only have ourselves to blame. While those shows, those lifestyles don't represent mine, that isn't to say that they threaten me either. I've earned the right to complain that there are other views not because I distance myself from the sequined, designed to the nines set but because I stand proudly beside them, as an openly gay man.
As long as the majority of the "real man" Carhartts crowd is only content to surface in late night gay.com chat sessions or from the safety of a leather bar or only when its "safe" to from the middle of a gay neighborhood, there's no room to complain. Cowering in the corner, all feared up that a guy in a dress is going to be the only image society has to identify them with, the real men can't fault the drag queens. The blame rests with those scared miserable guys in the corner, the ones who so easily blend in and who live their hidden, fearful dual lives. The very same tough guys who spend so much time crafting their butch image have no idea the transparency of such folly, how obviously afraid they appear that those sequins are going to rub off on them. If you're not going to come out and be yourself, you don't have the right to complain about those who have.
I don't live and breathe drag. But I have tremendous respect for anyone who is a performer. Anyone who takes us out of our own miserable moment and who transforms themselves into a vision of something else. Anyone who can make us forget the present, help us laugh at the past, and give us a vision of the future, well, they're gold in my book. No matter what they're wearing.
OK maybe it doesn't take that much talent to lip synch or grab a dollar bill with your mouth while holding a microphone or a cigarette or an adult beverage. But it sure takes a hell of a lot of courage.
And the last time I checked, courage was one of the hallmarks of a great man, if not the truest foundation of a real man.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Embracing time...
OK, Just so you know, this is long. As I think about everything on my mind, I don't even know where this is going... I know, I know, we've been down this "I don't know where this is going" road thing before.
I've just grabbed another cup of coffee. I'm typing while looking out the window. Trying to collect my thoughts. Here goes.
I've been exposed to all this media now that I've spent some time back in the midst of civilization. I hear themes repeated everywhere I go that the world is speeding up. People just don't have enough time in their day.
Sometimes I feel as if it, time, threatens to swallow you whole. And the universe will allow this if you let it.
Lately my life has also sped up-maybe this sense originates from spending so much time in an urban area. Maybe my awareness comes from watching all these people who are close to me face transition into the next place, wherever that might be-maybe through their last breath, or their last gentle kiss goodbye at the end of unrealized passion, or their last lingering look before they pass through airport security and catch their flight to anywhere but here.
I've done a bit of standing around, absorbing this rush forward and felt the acceleration of heartbeat and footfall and time. I've also been lingering, suspended between my own version of the present while comparing the infatuation of yesterday with the great big question of tomorrow.
Under the gaze of such a moment, time can't help but have motion. In some instances, I fight the urge to go with the flow. Or I give into the urge and run as fast I can toward this acceleration and try to leap into a state of oneness with it. I always miss. Sprawled out on the ground, I stand, dust myself off and wait for the next scheduled arrival. If I can only catch up to time, maybe I can become one with it.
I know, you think this is all crazy talk. You're thinking I am going all Aquarian on you again. Don't you dare scroll down. Breathe. Hear me out.
I haven't been doing as much babysitting lately, or spent as much energy trying to keep up with the whirlwind of activity that defines a three year old. But I have found myself in the sometimes awkward and hesitant mode of trying to offer comfort to my fellow adults. Often in the midst of situations that defy explanation and reason. Dangling precariously in the squeeze play of crisis, I've found myself trying to understand situations that seem completely devoid of human compassion.
My friend Kevin, a man who has really been there for me over the last few months, has suddenly found himself confronting the very same emotions I've been dealing with. I've struggled for the words that will ease his heartbreak, give him hope and offer an optimistic light upon which to focus. Sometimes words haven't come at all. Sometimes words are like that, escaping into the universe uncaught and the only thing to bridge the pain is silence and shared human presence. Or put into words, sharing TIME with him in the midst of his pain.
I don't have too many hero's but Kevin is one of them.
During my grandmother's last days, Kevin was really there for me, rallying other health care professionals, helping my family navigate the legalities of wrongful death and assessing the lack of professionalism that compromised Billie's health to the point of no return. Kevin rallied the Washington State Department of Health and Human Services involving investigators in the case immediately. As a result, Citations fell down like hail, even as the investigations continued.
Aside from his professionalism, he was also a very present interceder as a friend. Rapidly becoming one of those people you can say anything to, no matter how unreasonable, he watched my back. During one late night/early morning melt down after I'd witnessed Billie's most gruesome fight for breath and comfort, Kevin was there on the other end of the receiver, listening to my confusion as I begged God to just let Billie's suffering end and yet feeling guilty for thinking such things. He was there over and over and over again.
For the last several days, I've been present with Kevin through late night conversations, standing on full moon illuminated piers or shouting at one another over really tired showtunes in drag queened-up! nightclubs. We've somehow traded places. As I've found myself easing into a comfortable place, Kevin's life has gone into warp speed. There aren't many answers in the midst of such a launch, but that doesn't mean that the questions still aren't worth asking.
I think one of the things all the people in my life have been asking lately has a lot to do with faith. Where we place it. Do we have any business having faith in fellow humans, and when do you know if your faith has been well placed? When do you have certainty about interaction and the splendid knowledge that your investment was worth making? When do you know your pursuits have been worth your time.
In light of these questions, I once again find myself thinking about time, timing, and the rate at which we stumble into awareness of what gives life value. Time is the most precious gift we have, yet time is often the first and most easily discarded blessing as we rush headlong, chasing experience, riches, and enlightenment.
That's where my friend Eddy enters into the picture. He darts in and out of my life with regularity. He has this saying that drives me crazy. "There are no victims, only volunteers." Edward uses these words to describe the wreckage that sometimes results from human interaction and our inability to accept timing. If anything, serenity is as much linked to timing as it is toward taking steps and action. This is the most subtle negotiation. We do not exist in a vacuum and as much as I argue with Eddy, I can agree that he's also correct.
The Aquarian in me hates solid rules, rigidity, and definition. Yet because the conversation with Eddy is always so challenging, I find myself perplexed and feel spent for days after our discussions. Ironically, one of the most wonderful blessings of spending time with Eddy, is that our time is rarely structured.
Saturday fell open to this possibility when Eddy called me up and said he was hungry. He said he'd be by to pick me up. He announced we were doing brunch. I've written about Eddy in the past, but just to refresh, he's the handsome construction worker who is always wanting to get into theological debates with me. His eyes sparkle with this devilish delight and yet in all that amusement stands a steady serenity. We never really settle anything in our debates but the interaction itself is enough to sustain you through a week or two of introspection. If you let it.
Eddy is part angel, part devil and he can play both roles simultaneously. Eddy and I never make solid plans on where our journey is going to take us. He usually arrives, we join up, and then set off, destination unknown, abandoning any set schedule. When he's at the ranch, he often arrives bringing a chain saw or a DVD movie or his best friend to help chart the course. When I'm over here, he drives and I ride.
Yesterday we set off for Tacoma.
We were going to see the movie "Millions", a movie about faith.
But first we enjoyed brunch at the Flying J Truckstop, where our waitress became quite fascinated with my inability to read the menu, or choose what I was in the mood to eat. Yet when I finally came up with a menu choice, she objected going all passive aggressive on me, making sure I realized the truest significance of the portions involved. Other customers got involved in this brinkmanship, including the muscular young logger sitting next to us. The logger kept smiling and shaking his head, realizing that I was in over my head. The waitress toyed with me, I under her spell, flustered, until I threw up my hands in exasperation. Finally, she ordered for me, her domination complete.
When you partake of the Flying J special promotion-this month it's a few eggs, over Meatloaf, piled on top of hashbrowns with enough brown gravy to lubricate a Peterbilt, if you're sitting in her station, you only do so upon her approval and determination that this is the appropriate selection. Eddy sat across from me, delighted with the fact a stranger was able to instantly leave me speechless and dazed. He left her a huge tip.
Leaving the Flying J, we turned toward downtown Tacoma. Tacoma is like this unspoiled slice of nostalgia, comfortable and familiar. The architecture is chaotic yet new influences compliment the historic ones as if they've existed side by side for centuries. The pace is slower in Tacoma and the city has a distinct artsy, blue collar, down home sense to it. Forget about the Johnny Come Lately transience of the Seattle Dot Amazon Dot Com hype or the snobbery of the more conservative Microsoft, soft on social conscience, heavy on the bottom line focus. Tacoma is about flawed and real and alive. The city seems proud to admit that the scars visitors see are real and that history is seldom perfect.
Eddy and I drove around Tacoma searching for the Grand Cinema theater, one of the few cinemas in the Puget Sound area featuring the movie Millions, an independent, underdog picture. Millions is similar to the movie Billie Elliot. An upstart flick, Millions has caught both critics and audiences by surprise, playing to sold out, packed houses. A throw back to a different time, people stand and applaud at the end of this movie. Although billed as a family show, theater managers report they are seeing far more seats filled with starry eyed adults than children. The promo flyer we read, once we finally found the theater, described the show in the following glowing terms:
"...Millions is director Danny Boyle's (Trainspotting) heartwarming story of two little boys, faith, miracles...and lots of money. Starting anew after the death of their mother, 9-year-old Anthony is ever practical while his 7-year-old brother Damian uses imagination, fantasy and faith to make sense of a confusing world. When a suitcase full of money falls out of the sky at Damian's feet, it sets the boys on the adventure of a lifetime that leads them to realize that true wealth has nothing to do with money."
Yeah I know. You're thinking, "Whatever Tim. This sounds like cinematic manipulation, Mary Poppins in the new millennium and Disney on Steroids. "
Hear me out. It's not like that. The film continues to enjoy extended runs because it's THAT good. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Eddy and I bought our tickets and because the show wouldn't be starting for an hour, we walked next door and began exploring the Two Vaults Gallery. Located in the Merlino Arts Center, the same building as the Grand Theater, if Tacoma has a soul, this old brick building impressed me as the type of place where you'd find it.
As we entered the Two Vaults Gallery, owner Renee Healy greeted us. An animated woman with a beaming smile and this warmth that unexpectedly envelopes and surrounds you, her hospitality was immediate and genuine. I was spellbound by the work offered in her collection of diverse artists. Adorning the walls, art electrified the space. Binding blinding color and relief, this was a space that conveyed both inspiration and boundless energy.
The gallery contains the gallery floor in addition to two old vaults. One vault has a framing shop and studio while additional art flooring and display space is located in the other vault. The floors are textured, the walls roughshod and imperfect. It is the most appropriate location to display so much life captured in various mediums. Renee's vision only further compliments this imperfect yet perfect location. The art is impeccably displayed, reflecting out the very original character of the city that cradles it.
Art reflects and captures life-its hue and tone, its before and after, it's timing. In various pursuits of color, in the tactile, in the cast formation and gentle or rough relief of three dimensional creations, here was a mirror looking back. The gallery space also displayed offerings of timeless photographic memory. Everywhere we looked celebrations of life, in all its immediacy fell down among us. Gazing up and around us there was so much to see and absorb that it was almost overwhelming. As I struggled to understand all I saw, I realized that far worse things can happen in life than being overwhelmed by artistic expression, sensory overload and fantastic brilliance.
Renee interrupted, asking what brought us into the gallery and following our answer, what show we were seeing. Edward and I confessed a bit of embarrassment about seeing a "family" flick. She smiled, and told us we'd talk after the movie. She wanted to know what we thought of Millions. Instructing us that before the show we should walk up the street and enjoy a latte at the Blue Nile Espresso stand, she whispered that it was the proprietors first day in business and that he'd be excited to see us. Holding up a fruit smoothie, she'd just brought down from the Blue Nile she added a bonus plug, "It's really, really good."
So we promised to return. Leaving the gallery, we paused as an infusion of humanity delayed our progress. Entering the gallery a young man nodded, he covered in skin art with the strangest red beard I'd ever seen and wearing various tattered layers of black clothing. Several people exited the just concluded showing of Millions next door. As we stood aside from sudden unexpected congestion of pedestrians, I noticed that some of the theater patrons were in tears, bashfully smiling and wiping their eyes. I looked back at the young, wild looking man who just entered the gallery. He was talking to Renee, pointing back at the street, as she followed the direction of his motions. Something told me there was a story there and I reminded myself to ask her about him after the show.
After grabbing some coffee from the Blue Nile, we made our way back to the Grand Theater and sat down in these rich, nearly ancient theater chairs awaiting whatever came next. I won't go into details of the movie, other than to say this is one of the most moving pictures I've seen. Humanity rallies, plunges, and flails across the screen, as seen through the eyes of two boys who have already witnessed a bit more of the frailty of the human condition than is reasonable. But if there is one thing about life that always seems to hold true, it's that life is seldom reasonable and this simple truth elevates the movie more than any other theme. The soaring finality of Millions left me teary eyed. I emerged into the brightness just as bashful and vulnerable as the earlier theater patrons I'd witnessed before.
Returning to the gallery Renee was in the midst of her own trust building exercise with humanity. It seems the tattooed guy I'd noticed previously was a talented young musician who played in a band at the coffee house next door. In some moment of sharing, the gallery owner learned the young rocker had a flair for fixing Volvo's and although she'd just met him that day, he was now headlong into a mission to revive her Volvo. Scrawling part numbers and rotor numbers on his arms, his tattooed torso, he scribbled additional numbers on his hand as we watched in fascination. Recognizing our return, Renee shrugged as the rocker brushed past Edward and I on his way to retrieve additional supplies from the auto parts store.
Explaining her Volvo predicament, she could see this scene was a bit on the strange side. To be trusting the health of her car to a complete stranger, especially considering her location perched on the edge of some of the rougher Tacoma neighborhoods was peculiar. Renee offered that in spite of the risks, she preferred to do business this way. Relying on the human currency of trust and first chances, good will was there for the taking. Provided you had the courage to reach for it.
We looked at additional art as Renee continued to share insight into various artists, their history and the nature of their creative process. I felt like I'd just gone back for thirds at an all you can eat buffet and as I left her gallery, I let my eyes relax. Several pieces held my thoughts as Eddy and I set off to further explore Tacoma and the treasures to be found.
In the course of our journey, we found a gay bar, several antique stores, and hidden alleys full of interesting shops and intriguing eateries. We found stores that sold Native American Art, and stores that sold witchcraft supplies and magic crystal balls. We strolled through antique malls and were warned by street people that this was a dangerous day to be on the streets and to keep our eyes open. We walked past renovation and dilapidation and the cycles of life in an up and coming, down and out inner city sped past us as if we were stationary. We stopped in at one store that had numerous items pertaining to wolves and spirituality and met a woman who was into mimes and witchcraft.
Later Eddy asked me if I believed in witches and magic. I offered that I did. I offered that I believed in most things, but that I didn't necessarily rely on those influences in my life. He was silent for a long time after that, and the sky darkened and the clouds let loose and I wondered if somehow we'd just broken a spell. As Eddy drove me back to my parents house, I was quiet.
The day we'd just shared seemed like magic and the movies dance with faith remained with me. I thought about time and resources and how we spend both. I considered the people I love and how fluid those interactions seem to be. Nothing is for certain except that everything is uncertain. In thinking about the last twenty four hours, I can't help but return full circle to the magical gift of time. Unscheduled moments, the freedom of acceleration and deceleration, and the gift of human interaction remain the root of all the good stuff that humanity seeks, but that we never get enough of. Everything else seems more like distraction than satiation.
I know, its not exactly the most original thought. Maybe your thinking this is starting to sound really earthy and granola and that maybe I am under the influence of a vegan breakfast or too much coffee. Maybe your rolling your eyes. Maybe your thinking Tim, you're not being realistic. Physical and comfort needs are just as real.
I hear all that too. But I am becoming increasingly convinced that even more important than these needs are these moments of increasingly all too rare connectedness and interaction. Maybe as time speeds up, we just have to commit to exiting out of the rapid commute flow and suspend ourselves in the luxury of the moment. Maybe sometimes the destination, the point of origin, and the details and the trappings of our mode of transport are irrelevant. Maybe, like the credit card commercial says, as they sell us the benefit of credit, the actual accumulations and expenditures are far less important than the moment of connectedness we find in the most unusual places and unplanned instances. The "priceless" stuff we all recognize but often have difficulty obtaining.
Seems easy enough in theory. Now if only I had a little more time to devote to putting it into practice.
The details...
Blu Wolf Gift Store~ A journey for the soul offers a large selection of unique gifts for all...they can be found at 765 Broadway Avenue, Tacoma, Washington 98404 ~253-272-2228
Two Vaults Studio Gallery~ In the Merlino Arts Center can be found at 602 South Fawcett, Tacoma, Washington, 98402. http://www.twovaults.com
Millions the movie, trailer and other details can be found here:http://www2.foxsearchlight.com/millions/
I've just grabbed another cup of coffee. I'm typing while looking out the window. Trying to collect my thoughts. Here goes.
I've been exposed to all this media now that I've spent some time back in the midst of civilization. I hear themes repeated everywhere I go that the world is speeding up. People just don't have enough time in their day.
Sometimes I feel as if it, time, threatens to swallow you whole. And the universe will allow this if you let it.
Lately my life has also sped up-maybe this sense originates from spending so much time in an urban area. Maybe my awareness comes from watching all these people who are close to me face transition into the next place, wherever that might be-maybe through their last breath, or their last gentle kiss goodbye at the end of unrealized passion, or their last lingering look before they pass through airport security and catch their flight to anywhere but here.
I've done a bit of standing around, absorbing this rush forward and felt the acceleration of heartbeat and footfall and time. I've also been lingering, suspended between my own version of the present while comparing the infatuation of yesterday with the great big question of tomorrow.
Under the gaze of such a moment, time can't help but have motion. In some instances, I fight the urge to go with the flow. Or I give into the urge and run as fast I can toward this acceleration and try to leap into a state of oneness with it. I always miss. Sprawled out on the ground, I stand, dust myself off and wait for the next scheduled arrival. If I can only catch up to time, maybe I can become one with it.
I know, you think this is all crazy talk. You're thinking I am going all Aquarian on you again. Don't you dare scroll down. Breathe. Hear me out.
I haven't been doing as much babysitting lately, or spent as much energy trying to keep up with the whirlwind of activity that defines a three year old. But I have found myself in the sometimes awkward and hesitant mode of trying to offer comfort to my fellow adults. Often in the midst of situations that defy explanation and reason. Dangling precariously in the squeeze play of crisis, I've found myself trying to understand situations that seem completely devoid of human compassion.
My friend Kevin, a man who has really been there for me over the last few months, has suddenly found himself confronting the very same emotions I've been dealing with. I've struggled for the words that will ease his heartbreak, give him hope and offer an optimistic light upon which to focus. Sometimes words haven't come at all. Sometimes words are like that, escaping into the universe uncaught and the only thing to bridge the pain is silence and shared human presence. Or put into words, sharing TIME with him in the midst of his pain.
I don't have too many hero's but Kevin is one of them.
During my grandmother's last days, Kevin was really there for me, rallying other health care professionals, helping my family navigate the legalities of wrongful death and assessing the lack of professionalism that compromised Billie's health to the point of no return. Kevin rallied the Washington State Department of Health and Human Services involving investigators in the case immediately. As a result, Citations fell down like hail, even as the investigations continued.
Aside from his professionalism, he was also a very present interceder as a friend. Rapidly becoming one of those people you can say anything to, no matter how unreasonable, he watched my back. During one late night/early morning melt down after I'd witnessed Billie's most gruesome fight for breath and comfort, Kevin was there on the other end of the receiver, listening to my confusion as I begged God to just let Billie's suffering end and yet feeling guilty for thinking such things. He was there over and over and over again.
For the last several days, I've been present with Kevin through late night conversations, standing on full moon illuminated piers or shouting at one another over really tired showtunes in drag queened-up! nightclubs. We've somehow traded places. As I've found myself easing into a comfortable place, Kevin's life has gone into warp speed. There aren't many answers in the midst of such a launch, but that doesn't mean that the questions still aren't worth asking.
I think one of the things all the people in my life have been asking lately has a lot to do with faith. Where we place it. Do we have any business having faith in fellow humans, and when do you know if your faith has been well placed? When do you have certainty about interaction and the splendid knowledge that your investment was worth making? When do you know your pursuits have been worth your time.
In light of these questions, I once again find myself thinking about time, timing, and the rate at which we stumble into awareness of what gives life value. Time is the most precious gift we have, yet time is often the first and most easily discarded blessing as we rush headlong, chasing experience, riches, and enlightenment.
That's where my friend Eddy enters into the picture. He darts in and out of my life with regularity. He has this saying that drives me crazy. "There are no victims, only volunteers." Edward uses these words to describe the wreckage that sometimes results from human interaction and our inability to accept timing. If anything, serenity is as much linked to timing as it is toward taking steps and action. This is the most subtle negotiation. We do not exist in a vacuum and as much as I argue with Eddy, I can agree that he's also correct.
The Aquarian in me hates solid rules, rigidity, and definition. Yet because the conversation with Eddy is always so challenging, I find myself perplexed and feel spent for days after our discussions. Ironically, one of the most wonderful blessings of spending time with Eddy, is that our time is rarely structured.
Saturday fell open to this possibility when Eddy called me up and said he was hungry. He said he'd be by to pick me up. He announced we were doing brunch. I've written about Eddy in the past, but just to refresh, he's the handsome construction worker who is always wanting to get into theological debates with me. His eyes sparkle with this devilish delight and yet in all that amusement stands a steady serenity. We never really settle anything in our debates but the interaction itself is enough to sustain you through a week or two of introspection. If you let it.
Eddy is part angel, part devil and he can play both roles simultaneously. Eddy and I never make solid plans on where our journey is going to take us. He usually arrives, we join up, and then set off, destination unknown, abandoning any set schedule. When he's at the ranch, he often arrives bringing a chain saw or a DVD movie or his best friend to help chart the course. When I'm over here, he drives and I ride.
Yesterday we set off for Tacoma.
We were going to see the movie "Millions", a movie about faith.
But first we enjoyed brunch at the Flying J Truckstop, where our waitress became quite fascinated with my inability to read the menu, or choose what I was in the mood to eat. Yet when I finally came up with a menu choice, she objected going all passive aggressive on me, making sure I realized the truest significance of the portions involved. Other customers got involved in this brinkmanship, including the muscular young logger sitting next to us. The logger kept smiling and shaking his head, realizing that I was in over my head. The waitress toyed with me, I under her spell, flustered, until I threw up my hands in exasperation. Finally, she ordered for me, her domination complete.
When you partake of the Flying J special promotion-this month it's a few eggs, over Meatloaf, piled on top of hashbrowns with enough brown gravy to lubricate a Peterbilt, if you're sitting in her station, you only do so upon her approval and determination that this is the appropriate selection. Eddy sat across from me, delighted with the fact a stranger was able to instantly leave me speechless and dazed. He left her a huge tip.
Leaving the Flying J, we turned toward downtown Tacoma. Tacoma is like this unspoiled slice of nostalgia, comfortable and familiar. The architecture is chaotic yet new influences compliment the historic ones as if they've existed side by side for centuries. The pace is slower in Tacoma and the city has a distinct artsy, blue collar, down home sense to it. Forget about the Johnny Come Lately transience of the Seattle Dot Amazon Dot Com hype or the snobbery of the more conservative Microsoft, soft on social conscience, heavy on the bottom line focus. Tacoma is about flawed and real and alive. The city seems proud to admit that the scars visitors see are real and that history is seldom perfect.
Eddy and I drove around Tacoma searching for the Grand Cinema theater, one of the few cinemas in the Puget Sound area featuring the movie Millions, an independent, underdog picture. Millions is similar to the movie Billie Elliot. An upstart flick, Millions has caught both critics and audiences by surprise, playing to sold out, packed houses. A throw back to a different time, people stand and applaud at the end of this movie. Although billed as a family show, theater managers report they are seeing far more seats filled with starry eyed adults than children. The promo flyer we read, once we finally found the theater, described the show in the following glowing terms:
"...Millions is director Danny Boyle's (Trainspotting) heartwarming story of two little boys, faith, miracles...and lots of money. Starting anew after the death of their mother, 9-year-old Anthony is ever practical while his 7-year-old brother Damian uses imagination, fantasy and faith to make sense of a confusing world. When a suitcase full of money falls out of the sky at Damian's feet, it sets the boys on the adventure of a lifetime that leads them to realize that true wealth has nothing to do with money."
Yeah I know. You're thinking, "Whatever Tim. This sounds like cinematic manipulation, Mary Poppins in the new millennium and Disney on Steroids. "
Hear me out. It's not like that. The film continues to enjoy extended runs because it's THAT good. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Eddy and I bought our tickets and because the show wouldn't be starting for an hour, we walked next door and began exploring the Two Vaults Gallery. Located in the Merlino Arts Center, the same building as the Grand Theater, if Tacoma has a soul, this old brick building impressed me as the type of place where you'd find it.
As we entered the Two Vaults Gallery, owner Renee Healy greeted us. An animated woman with a beaming smile and this warmth that unexpectedly envelopes and surrounds you, her hospitality was immediate and genuine. I was spellbound by the work offered in her collection of diverse artists. Adorning the walls, art electrified the space. Binding blinding color and relief, this was a space that conveyed both inspiration and boundless energy.
The gallery contains the gallery floor in addition to two old vaults. One vault has a framing shop and studio while additional art flooring and display space is located in the other vault. The floors are textured, the walls roughshod and imperfect. It is the most appropriate location to display so much life captured in various mediums. Renee's vision only further compliments this imperfect yet perfect location. The art is impeccably displayed, reflecting out the very original character of the city that cradles it.
Art reflects and captures life-its hue and tone, its before and after, it's timing. In various pursuits of color, in the tactile, in the cast formation and gentle or rough relief of three dimensional creations, here was a mirror looking back. The gallery space also displayed offerings of timeless photographic memory. Everywhere we looked celebrations of life, in all its immediacy fell down among us. Gazing up and around us there was so much to see and absorb that it was almost overwhelming. As I struggled to understand all I saw, I realized that far worse things can happen in life than being overwhelmed by artistic expression, sensory overload and fantastic brilliance.
Renee interrupted, asking what brought us into the gallery and following our answer, what show we were seeing. Edward and I confessed a bit of embarrassment about seeing a "family" flick. She smiled, and told us we'd talk after the movie. She wanted to know what we thought of Millions. Instructing us that before the show we should walk up the street and enjoy a latte at the Blue Nile Espresso stand, she whispered that it was the proprietors first day in business and that he'd be excited to see us. Holding up a fruit smoothie, she'd just brought down from the Blue Nile she added a bonus plug, "It's really, really good."
So we promised to return. Leaving the gallery, we paused as an infusion of humanity delayed our progress. Entering the gallery a young man nodded, he covered in skin art with the strangest red beard I'd ever seen and wearing various tattered layers of black clothing. Several people exited the just concluded showing of Millions next door. As we stood aside from sudden unexpected congestion of pedestrians, I noticed that some of the theater patrons were in tears, bashfully smiling and wiping their eyes. I looked back at the young, wild looking man who just entered the gallery. He was talking to Renee, pointing back at the street, as she followed the direction of his motions. Something told me there was a story there and I reminded myself to ask her about him after the show.
After grabbing some coffee from the Blue Nile, we made our way back to the Grand Theater and sat down in these rich, nearly ancient theater chairs awaiting whatever came next. I won't go into details of the movie, other than to say this is one of the most moving pictures I've seen. Humanity rallies, plunges, and flails across the screen, as seen through the eyes of two boys who have already witnessed a bit more of the frailty of the human condition than is reasonable. But if there is one thing about life that always seems to hold true, it's that life is seldom reasonable and this simple truth elevates the movie more than any other theme. The soaring finality of Millions left me teary eyed. I emerged into the brightness just as bashful and vulnerable as the earlier theater patrons I'd witnessed before.
Returning to the gallery Renee was in the midst of her own trust building exercise with humanity. It seems the tattooed guy I'd noticed previously was a talented young musician who played in a band at the coffee house next door. In some moment of sharing, the gallery owner learned the young rocker had a flair for fixing Volvo's and although she'd just met him that day, he was now headlong into a mission to revive her Volvo. Scrawling part numbers and rotor numbers on his arms, his tattooed torso, he scribbled additional numbers on his hand as we watched in fascination. Recognizing our return, Renee shrugged as the rocker brushed past Edward and I on his way to retrieve additional supplies from the auto parts store.
Explaining her Volvo predicament, she could see this scene was a bit on the strange side. To be trusting the health of her car to a complete stranger, especially considering her location perched on the edge of some of the rougher Tacoma neighborhoods was peculiar. Renee offered that in spite of the risks, she preferred to do business this way. Relying on the human currency of trust and first chances, good will was there for the taking. Provided you had the courage to reach for it.
We looked at additional art as Renee continued to share insight into various artists, their history and the nature of their creative process. I felt like I'd just gone back for thirds at an all you can eat buffet and as I left her gallery, I let my eyes relax. Several pieces held my thoughts as Eddy and I set off to further explore Tacoma and the treasures to be found.
In the course of our journey, we found a gay bar, several antique stores, and hidden alleys full of interesting shops and intriguing eateries. We found stores that sold Native American Art, and stores that sold witchcraft supplies and magic crystal balls. We strolled through antique malls and were warned by street people that this was a dangerous day to be on the streets and to keep our eyes open. We walked past renovation and dilapidation and the cycles of life in an up and coming, down and out inner city sped past us as if we were stationary. We stopped in at one store that had numerous items pertaining to wolves and spirituality and met a woman who was into mimes and witchcraft.
Later Eddy asked me if I believed in witches and magic. I offered that I did. I offered that I believed in most things, but that I didn't necessarily rely on those influences in my life. He was silent for a long time after that, and the sky darkened and the clouds let loose and I wondered if somehow we'd just broken a spell. As Eddy drove me back to my parents house, I was quiet.
The day we'd just shared seemed like magic and the movies dance with faith remained with me. I thought about time and resources and how we spend both. I considered the people I love and how fluid those interactions seem to be. Nothing is for certain except that everything is uncertain. In thinking about the last twenty four hours, I can't help but return full circle to the magical gift of time. Unscheduled moments, the freedom of acceleration and deceleration, and the gift of human interaction remain the root of all the good stuff that humanity seeks, but that we never get enough of. Everything else seems more like distraction than satiation.
I know, its not exactly the most original thought. Maybe your thinking this is starting to sound really earthy and granola and that maybe I am under the influence of a vegan breakfast or too much coffee. Maybe your rolling your eyes. Maybe your thinking Tim, you're not being realistic. Physical and comfort needs are just as real.
I hear all that too. But I am becoming increasingly convinced that even more important than these needs are these moments of increasingly all too rare connectedness and interaction. Maybe as time speeds up, we just have to commit to exiting out of the rapid commute flow and suspend ourselves in the luxury of the moment. Maybe sometimes the destination, the point of origin, and the details and the trappings of our mode of transport are irrelevant. Maybe, like the credit card commercial says, as they sell us the benefit of credit, the actual accumulations and expenditures are far less important than the moment of connectedness we find in the most unusual places and unplanned instances. The "priceless" stuff we all recognize but often have difficulty obtaining.
Seems easy enough in theory. Now if only I had a little more time to devote to putting it into practice.
The details...
Blu Wolf Gift Store~ A journey for the soul offers a large selection of unique gifts for all...they can be found at 765 Broadway Avenue, Tacoma, Washington 98404 ~253-272-2228
Two Vaults Studio Gallery~ In the Merlino Arts Center can be found at 602 South Fawcett, Tacoma, Washington, 98402. http://www.twovaults.com
Millions the movie, trailer and other details can be found here:http://www2.foxsearchlight.com/millions/
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