Love Letter

So here we are in our lazy circle.
Spinning through our daily routine.
Dancing around each other.  Glancing beyond the point of contact.  Who wants that anyhow?

We worry so much about ruining the fantasy.
So lets not.

Isn't it true that my smile might better in your sleep?

Oh so many things.  All the pretty little baubles. The trinkets, and shiny things.
The mess of memories I carry in my pockets.

Oh won't you be my new mess?

Swim in the river of existence. Of remininscence.  Of pain, and doubt.
and joy.
and love.

But don't get carried away in the flood of it all.

We are racing toward the end.
We are running for air.
We are not drinking because we are thirsty.

I think maybe...
just maybe...
we were meant for more.

Perhaps we are more than the sum of each of our separate parts.
Maybe not...
but..
maybe we're safer to never find out.

I mean the truth is...
no matter what...
no matter how hard we try...
no matter how many I love you's...

The end is still just dirt.

We're safer just friends right?
We're free from pain...
if we simply ignore the I love you's.

The gray is so goddamned safe.
And
the security of that particular blanket is
just so warm
and
just so fucking fluffy.

I mean look at them out there.  The lovers.  Holding hands.  Smiling.  Laughing at their own stupid jokes, and pitiful nicknames.
Wrapping themselves up at night...
...in each other.

Aren't you glad you locked up that part of you that thought that was something beautiful?
Something to hope for.
To want so badly for yourself.

You're happier now right?





right?

You're better off without the distraction.

The tears of lonliness
though still tears
hurt less
than the tears
of heartbreak.

So you make yourself busy.
You make yourself scarce.
You make yourself invisible.

You make yourself despicable.
You make yourself hateful.
You make youself pretend.

Because if they don't see you that's great.
If they do see you, and hate what they see...

You know at least the things they see...
...and hate...
are simply the pretense.

You can't give them the things that are real...because
well
you know.

And you do know.
You know that part inside you that is
well
yours.
And yours alone.

Is safe.
It can't be broken.

Again.

Not again.
Jesus Christ...you just can't do it again.

And so we dance our dance
and spin our circles
and laugh our lies.

and know that we are safe with each other
because we are determined.

We are statues.
We are stone.
We are those willing
to simply dream.

Once more into the breech...

Well you see her when you fall asleep, never to touch, no never to keep.

This came out all wrong the first time around.
Guess I'll try again.

Almost exactly a year ago, I began something that I knew from the beginning would not end well. That little place in me that feels things got all wrapped up in another person.  Our time was just a brief intersection on our seperate roads.  We knew we were both simply passing through.  So we passed together.  Then we waved goodbye, and went our different directions.

I played it off as cool as I could, but I also knew it would destroy me.

It did.

But I guess not really right?  I mean here I am.

I let myself become vulnerable with another human being.  I loved every second of it. I was never, at any moment...unaware of the disasterous consequences.
I've lived every day of my life since with those consequences.
I would do it all again without a second thought.  Without hesitation.

Over a year and a half ago, when I became single, I stated that it was my intention to remain so.  When I entered into that brief affair, I knew my resolution would remain safe.  There was no chance...ever...at any moment, that I would not still be single when it ended.

We started with a predetermined expiration date.  We ended right on schedule.

There is no getting that back.  There is simply holding on.

Since then has been a sort of emotional numb.

This is not depression.  Please don't think so.  I don't devote time or energy feeling sorry for myself, or hating my life.  In fact quite the opposite.  I'm typically very happy.

I'm also typically very numb.

I've reached a point I think where I might not want to be...but it's so
well
frustrating.

I meet new people all the time.
Why just today I was surrounded by so many beautiful faces...and I wanted, so very goddamned much, to feel something.
With anybody.

You know.
Spark.

I don't mean simply physical or sexual attraction.  I'm so accustomed to those things that I hardly notice anymore.

I mean the spark.  That connect that reaches oh so much deeper than the superficial.
Sometimes I think that I want that so badly that I may try too hard.
Or maybe that's just my imagination, and I don't try hard enough.
Or at all.

When I was eight or nine, my family took a trip to see my grandparents in Arizona.  The trip took us through Las Vegas.  It was my first time seeing The Strip.  The lights.  The buildings.  The people.

I had a feeling when we passed through.
I would live there someday.
It was more than a feeling really.
Now I don't believe in psychic abilities.  I don't really hold with any type of spiritualism.  I don't know about future recognition, or circular timelines, or forward projection.  For the most part I think it's all a load of bullshit.
But I distinctly remember that feeling of recognizing Las Vegas as home...the first time I ever saw it.

I never once felt compelled to move there.  There was never a reason for me to go there.
I ended up there.
It's true.  It's a long story that I'm not going into...but living in Vegas was one of the least planned things in my life.  It just happened.

Like I knew it would when I was eight or nine.

I have that same feeling about Chicago.
I don't know that I will ever actually live there.
I've never even fucking been there.
Not once.  Ever.

But I feel like I might end up living there someday.
I don't feel compelled to move there.
I have no reason to go there.
I don't really know much about the city at all.

Just a feeling.
But I don't trust my feelings anyway, so who knows.
If it doesn't happen, I won't be surprised.
If it DOES happen, I won't be surprised.

I am made out of patience.  Sometimes I just get these feelings that things will happen.  Sometimes those things actually do happen.  I never ever ever feel like I need to make them happen.  I just need to wait.  That's all.  Just wait.  So I do.

I get that feeling with some people too.  I see someone.  That's all.  Just see them, and I know that our lives will in some way intersect.  I don't feel like I need to make the intersection happen.  I just need to wait for our roads to cross.  Many times it takes years...but...everytime I've had that feeling about someone...
it's happened.  Ususally it's quite profound.

There are a couple people here in SLC, who I'm pretty sure we're gonna connect.
Then again...
I'm just as likely wrong.
I don't trust feelings.  Those things are fucking liars.

What I wonder.
What I sometimes think about is...
If the other person feels it too.

Does this person have a feeling of patient waiting?  Do they also understand that in time, what should be, will be?
Do they even know what should be?  I sure as shit don't.  I have no fucking clue.  I simply know that it's something.

Valentine Michael Smith said it best I think.  "Waiting is."
Grok?

The girl who I had a brief thing with last year...well see I've talked about the end of that story so many times, but never really the beginning.

I had met her years previously, and I knew...when we first met...that in time...
time...
Time is a miserable bitch, and so I have no choice,
but to be made out of patience.

I think, you and I may have a dance yet. So as long as there is music playing...

...Waiting is.

Relax it's just...

So most of the fury has died down.  Facebook and Twitter seem to have gotten back to normal.  Such is the lifespan of the scandal in the digital age.

So why am I addressing it now?  Ninety nine times out of a hundred I pretty much ignore the hype.  So why now?  Why after people have stopped talking about it?

Because the whole thing has left a godawful taste in my mouth.  It started off inoccuously enough.  Little comments, snarky posts about her image...her body...whatever.

Then it progressed.  It got ugly.  It got mean.

I had one person counted among my FB friends who started his post with "Why Miley Cyrus is a horrible person."  Then went on to essentially blame her for all teen pregnancies, and raising up a generation of whores.  His words.  It was at this point I pretty much flipped my shit.

So this is what everybody is talking about.

And this is what no one said a word about.

From this moment forward, all arguments are invalid.

Why is it that Miley is the slut, and Lady Gaga gets a free pass?

Is it because Lady Gaga is a symbol of female empowerment, and fuck youitude? (Or so I've been told by those with opinions.)

It is because Mily twerked Robin Thicke?

Incidentally I have no idea who Robin Thicke is, but I can't hear the name without thinking of Mike Seaver's dad.

Also, I pride myself on knowing more words than the average third grader, but I had no idea what a twerk was until a couple days ago.  Turns out its just a stupid thing people do...like planking...or flash mobs.  Except I guess it's supposed to be sexy?  Or something?  I dunno.

Exactly ten years ago, at the 2003 VMAs Brittney kissed Madonna.  Remember that?  Remember how everyone shit a brick because Brittney kissed Madonna.  Nobody really said anything about the fact that Christina did too.  Nobody said anything about how Madonna kissed two girls half her age.  It was all just...Brittney kissed Madonna.  Of the three, there was only one slut.

Hanna Montana debuted March 24, 2006, and finished production in 2010.  I know this because wikipedia told me so.  I never saw the show.  In fact I'm quite certain that in that time period I never even had access to Disney Channel.  I'm sure though it was a delightful romp with fun filled adventure and teenage family friendly mayhem.  There were, I'm sure a requisite number of laughs, and lessons to be learned, all neatly wrapped up in 22 minute episodes.

I have no doubt that Ms. Cyrus was charming, and cute, and won the hearts of parents and children alike across this great nation, and really...kudos to her.  Although I consistently wear the clothes of a cynical hedonistic man o the world...I actually have nothing against and am all for family programming.  I'm glad it's out there, even if I don't really get involved with it myself.

Here's the thing though.  Miley Cyrus is not Hanna Montana.  I know this comes as a shock to some.  I know others who have railed against her in the past couple days who will undoubtedly say "I know she's not...but...", and to that I ask

Do you?

Here's another news flash for some of ya'all.  This one's really gonna grind yer gonads.

Miley Cyrus was NEVER Hanna Montana.
Never.
Not once.

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it seems necessary to burst some bubbles.

Hanna Montana is a product of fiction.  Miley was paid money to say words written by other people.  She was contracted to act in a certain manner in front of cameras.  There is no doubt in my mostly broken mind, that many times, while on set...saying words and doing things in the charcter and clothes of "Hanna Montana", Miley Cyrus was thinking of nothing more than her next union break.

You see, you claim to know that Miley Cyrus is not Hannah Montana.  Perhaps on the surface you really do know that.  Perhaps somewhere, somehow you've been able to separate the two.  Thing is though, Miley very successfully created a character that you fell in love with, and ergo...created expectations.

So now I'll answer the question I posited at the beginning.  What's the difference between Miley Cyrus and Lady Gaga?  Simple really...

Expectations.

Everybody expects Lady Gaga to behave and act in a certain manner.  So when she conforms to expectations, nobody is surprised.  Nobody really has anything to say.
Oh that's just Lady Gaga being Lady Gaga.

But when Miley Cyrus breaks expectations...everybody loses their damn minds.

God forbid a real life human being didn't act and behave like a fictional character you've come to know and love.

Lady Gaga does her thing in front of your 14 year old daughter...well...you can explain that away.
But Miley Cyrus...how dare she betray her role model status.

This makes you very uncomfortale.
And what do you do when you're uncomfortable?

Let the slutshame games begin.

See now she's not Hanna Montan anymore.  Now you can finally make that break.  Now she's the reason your daughters are becoming whores.

I'm sorry to all parents everywhere, but if you are satisfied to allow any celebrity to stand as a role model, without actually talking with your children about the nature of humanity, or willing to stand as a role model yourself...well then...you deserve everything that happens.

To a degree I get it.  I do.  Celebrities.  Sports stars.  Musicians.  These people are in the public eye.  People will see them, and want to be like them.  Hell I'm a grown man, and I still want to be Benedict Cumberbatch.

Thing is though...you have to talk to your kids.  Maybe instead of worrying that Miley is the cause of teenage pregnancy, you should explain to your kids how babies are NOT made.  It's actually quite simple.

I've had sex at least three times, and still no babies.

Maybe instead of pretending that sex doesn't happen...you should accept that it does.

Moms.  Dads.  I know you don't want to hear this.  You certainly don't want to think about it, but someday, your precious little gem is going to use words that haven't been invented yet, to describe acts that your parents were certain would send them to hell.  They'll do this in text shorthand.

This will happen.

Your sons and daughters are going to do disgusting things with people you don't approve of.  And they'll do it without Miley's help.

If you don't want them to do those things...teach them not to.  They'll do it anyways.  And they'll do it without Miley's help.

Then there's this gem.

I get the joke.  I do.  I see where chucks could be had.  I guess.  Except not really.

First thing is, I hate that we live in such a sensitive society where people are made to apologize for anything they say...even if it is stupid.

Secondly...I've seen strippers.  What Miley did, isn't that.

Third...even if it were all true...
all of it...
So fucking what.

I've more than one friend that is or has been a stripper.  I know the stereotypes.  Single moms stripping for drug money.
Know what?
I've also known single moms working call centers for drug money.
I've known single moms working a warehouse for drug money.
I've know single moms working the cash register for drug money.

So think what you want I guess.  Most of the girls I know who do/have done it are/were paying for school.  I know more than one girl who paid for her masters degree swinging her ass around a pole, and I'll tell you something.  Flashing your titties for a few bucks is a far better way to pay for a masters degree than most ways...like say...student loans.

See that's the thing.  We LOVE to take a moral high ground.  Especially where sex, or anything sexual is concerned.

Well I would never...

It's simply unnacceptable...

I hope my daughter...

son...

Anyone who does that is a whore....

In my experience men who call women whores, are simply pissed off that there is a girl who openly enjoys sex...without him.

In my experience women who call women whores, are simply pissed off that there is a girl who openly enjoys sex, when she hasn't learned how to yet.

We are so easily, made so uncomfortable by the most basic of human biological drives...and anything that makes us uncomfortable, we seem to have an incredible need to vilify.

So Miley's performance made you uncomfortable...and the vilification began.

I think one of the great tragedies of the human experience is attaching sex to religion...or morality, when in truth sex and morality have absolutely nothing to do with each other.

I think one of the great tragedies of the human experience, is teaching our children that they should wait until they're married to have sex.

I did that.
I gained nothing from having done that.

I think in fact, that in a perfect world we would have establishments, with working professionals, and by that I mean people who are equipped to deal in a very nurturing sort of way, mentally and physically, where our children between the ages of sixteen and eighteen are HIGHLY encouraged, though not forced, to go and relieve themselves of that pesky virginity problem.  Somewhere where sex and love are kept entirely separate.  Where they can gain experience and knowledge, and information.

I also think that if two people meet, and there is sexual attraction...just fucking get it over with already.  In the dating process, everything that happens before sex is a lie.  It just is.  Once the initial sex is over with...then the truth can begin.  Then you'll be able to have the real conversations.  then you'll be able to know if this is someone you actually want to be with...or simply someone you wanted to bang.

I think instead of protecting our kids from an over sexualized world...thus creating a greater illusion of the glory of sex, we should be honest.  Tell em, "Yeah..sex is awesome.  You should try it."

Then they'll get that out of the way...and discover all the things that are WAY more awesome.

Instead of slut shaming...become sex encouraging.  Teach safety.  Responsibility.

Most importantly...
Joy.
Love.
Truth...in whatever form it presents itself.

If we...
If our children...
If us as a species

could just be the sluts that we're so convinced that Miley now is...

perhaps we could have realized
that her performance
was just that...
a performance

and not even a great one.

Perhaps we'd be grown up enough to know that
sex happens
whether you you aknowledge it or not.

We're so afraid of the act and illusion of sex...
We glorify and glamourize it...
We vilify it...
We make it dirty...
We become outraged.
We sanctify it...
We tie it to our mythologies...
and get REALLY pissed off when other people don't toe the line of those mythologies.

When the truth is...
We're all doing it.
We're all going to do it.
Most of us enjoy it.

And then we go on and do all the other things we do.

There is SOOOOOO much more to life than simply the act of creating it.

So really
the fact is
If Miley's little circus made you upset...
or uncomfortable...
or twitchy...
or nervous...
or made you feel like you are somehow a better...or more moral person...

well

That speaks volumes to me about you
and nothing about her.

What goes around...

This wasn't going to happen.

I had an entirely different blog planned out.  One dedicated almost entirely to being a student and lover of all things chaos, and the resulting effects it has had on my life.

And how my pants are being funny.

Instead you get this one.  Another (sort of but not really, but in a way kind of) joint thingy with Deena.

It started out simply enough.

Deena had asked on FB for blog topics.  This is not really unusual for blog writers.  We are sometimes curious what our readers may want to read about.  I've done it myself a number of times.  Thing is, it can be kind of frustrating.  I've learned from my own experience that asking that question can actually be pretty futile.  Most of the time the responses we get are either ridiculous, or lean toward things that we have never had a single independent thought about.  How can we write about it, if there is no part of us that cares about it?

Knowing all of this, I decided to be specific.  I simply responded to her query with 10 questions I wanted to know about Deena.  This made it personal.  Something that is incredibly easy for anyone to write about.  It's sort of like an interview...except without all that annoying interviewer crap getting in the way.

She took it to heart and responded beautifully.  Then...in true player form, returned the questions with a gorgeous backhand, and now it's on me to answer the same questions.

So instead of digging into the more troubled parts of myself, and how the past few weeks have not so positively affected me...and my incredibly strange and funny pants...I will answer the same questions I previously asked Deena.

So here goes.  I will word them here exactly as I worded them for her, and then answer as they apply to me.

1)  Why in the world would a talented equity actress make SLC her home?

This question came off sounding more harsh than I intended, but it is a curiosity.  It should come as no surprise that most of my relationships, and deepest friendships are with other actors.  These are the people I spend most of my time with.  Many of them are card carrying equity members.  Most are not.  Of those that are, I hear a common lament, that there is simply not enough great equity work in SLC.  Oh sure there is some, but naturally, for the few contracts available, there is plethora of competition.  Acting is a tough gig no matter what professional level you maintain.  It was assumed that I meant perhaps New York may be a better place for a working actor...but really...there are a ton of great theatre towns in this nation, and SLC isn't really known as one of them.  For good reason.  SLC is where musicals go to die...and die...and die...a tremendously long, agonizing, miserable death.  Fer chrissakes, people are all excited about a production of Carousel here.  Carousel.  Carofuckingsel.  I...  I just can't even begin to express how depressing this is to me.
But here's the thing.  That's my perspective.  It's how I see things.  I must always remember I am but one small voice among many.  Her answer was thrilling to me for a number of reasons...foremost being I'll always have at least a little bit of something to look forward to.
My answer for myself regarding this question will be better explained I think in question number 2.

2) What makes a home?
This is actually kind of a silly question.  I imagine most people would have a similar response.  Home is where your family is...or where you make your family.  Home is where you are comfortable.  Home is where you feel love.  Home is ....(fill in the blank with any given warm sentiment).
Here's the thing though.  It's something, from a personal level I'm deeply interested in.  Especially when it comes to specific locations.
I've written pretty extensively on this in previous posts, so I won't go too deeply into it here, but since the question exists...so must the answer.
I am for all intents and purposes...homeless.  Oh sure, I've a roof over my head, and a key that unlocks the front door.  I pay rent on residence.  I am not houseless...but...
I have never felt at home in any location that I've had a mailing address. So to honestly answer question 1, I have to respond, I DON'T call SLC my home.  If I live here the remaining years of my life, whether they be few...or decades...I will never call SLC my home.  I know this.  I've known it since I moved here.  Hell, I'm pretty sure I knew it before I moved here.  I may live out, and die here, but I'll never belong here.
So for me I ask the question What makes a home, because I don't know.  I know what makes family.  I have the best one on the planet.  I know what makes love, and comfort, and I know about zipcodes, and renters agreements...but I still...after 40 years of life...have no idea what makes a home.

Okay the next six questions are kind of a cheat.  I had an incredibly limited amount of time to come up with 10 questions.  Given more than the 3 minutes I had, I'm sure I could have done better, but I did what I could with what time I had.  But also, sort of not a cheat, because there is/was a certain curiosity.  A compare and contrast with who we are...who we were...and who we wish to be.  All played within a defined space of now, 5 years, and 10 years, each progressive direction.  So I'm going to answer the next six questions with two responses.

3) How is 2013 Deena different than 2012 Deena
4) 2008
5) 2003

I will of course address these questions as though the name above reads JayC

In 2003 I had lived in Las Vegas already for two years.  I was finding my niche as a paid theatre tech at The Rio working all sorts of shows as a spot op, or video op, or stage hand depending on the show.  I was receiving the best pay rate I've ever had, for essentially monkey work.  I was balancing working an ever changing entertainment schedule at work, with my ever persistent need to do my own theatre work.  I was quite successfully making a name for myself as an actor and director in the town.  I was on the board of directors for Las Vegas Little Theatre.  I was happily married, and discovering a freedom I'd never known, as an out of the closet atheist.  I was constantly engaged in a new project, and spent more nights than I can count at the local pub with friends talking theatre, religion, politics, and all sorts of other bullshit til the sun came up.  I had a pretty tight knit of friends...most of whom I had gone to college with, and we were all on the same page.  I grew complacent.  I grew fat, and happy.  I was doing what I loved, with the people I loved.  There were bad times of course.  There always are...but I tend to focus on the happy parts of my past.
In 2008 I was divorced, and the casino had decided that it no longer wanted to maintain an entertainment showroom, turning it instead into a night club, and laying off a majority of the techs.  Myself being one of them.  I was now living in Salt Lake City.  I had been here but a few months, living alone in a tiny half bedroom apartment downtown.  I was cast in my first show in SLC as Picasso, in Picasso at the Lapin Agile.  It was tremendous fun, and I met a lot of wonderful new people.  I met a girl who was...unavailable.  I hate that.  I didn't pursue anything because...well...you just don't do that.
Although she would have no idea, 2008 is when I first saw Deena on stage in a play called Skin in Flames, and to be honest, I didn't love the play.  I didn't hate it.  It was good.  She though...  I've told her this... hell I've told everybody this.  She blew me away.  There was a moment in the play where I was transported.  I was left literally breathless by her performance.  I knew as I left the theatre that night that there was talent in SLC, and I couldn't wait to be part of it.
2008 is when I met the girl who I would spend the next four years of my life with.  We met.  We connected.  We decided to give it a go.  And go it did...for four years, and then it stopped going.  And so it goes.  I gained weight.  I lost weight.  I juggled jobs, and acting gigs.  I knew...all along I knew...that things weren't...well...I don't even know how to put it.  Deena says it best in her blog, so I'll refer to her.  Things weren't yes.
In 2012 I was reunited through small world coincidence with the unavailable girl I met in 2008.  Again I was single.  Again she was not.  This time the crossroads crossed harder.  In the end, I still had to let it go, because well...that's just what you do.  The girl I had started a relationship with in 2008, ended it in 2012, leaving me to decide at the time, that the single road is probably the road I should travel.  A decision I don't regret, and haven't changed.  2013 JayC is in a very strange place however.  A land of never say nevers.  Not looking, not searching, but open to all the winds that blow.  Homeless but not houseless.  Everything right now is disposable.  Everything.  Especially my weirdo pants.

6)What would Deena like for 2014
7)2018
8)2023

Deena pretty much stole my answers for these questions, but since she answered them first, I guess it's really I that am stealing her answers.  In these replies we are much the same.
I am not a planner.
Oh sure I make plans.
They almost always...nearly every single time...fall through.
This past weekend I had plans.  Plans that were made in February or March.  Something I was very much looking forward to.  It didn't happen.  Sometimes it's something planned only a few days in advance.  It ends up not happening.  Without fail.
I don't lay blame.  I truly don't  People have lives.  That's the neat thing about life.  It happens.  It changes on a whim.  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't often disappointed.  I'd also be lying if I said I was ever surprised.  It's simply how my life is.  Defined almost soley by bad timing.  The only schedules that I've come to rely on are work, rehearsal, and performance schedules.  Once those are set, they rarely change.  Anything planned outside or around those schedules...well...it's fruitless.  I've discovered that for me, the best way to go about things is to arrange for something to happen almost immediately or within the next few hours.  Anything beyon that...well...
So to think 1, or 5, or 10 years in advance is nothing but the purest fantasy.  I suppose my biggest hope for 2023 is to still be alive.  If I am, then perhaps it's okay to hope that my death will take place in some spectacular space battle.  The icing on top would be if I were piloting a TIE Fighter.

9) You once mentioned going back to school, how's that coming?
That question is Deena specific.  Like she responded, never say never...but I have never had plans of returning to school, and still have no plans of such.  For me...every day is school in one way or another.  I just don't have to take out egregious loans for the education I get/give myself now.

10) If at some point in your life you had been wise enough to put together a time capsule, and you opened it today, what would you hope to find?

Little stuff mostly.  Stuff that would have no meaning for anyone but me.  A hand carved knot slip that my dad made for me to wear at my Eagle Scout Ceremony.  I lost it before the ceremony, and never got to wear it.
A picture of my ex wife and I when we were young and pretty and happy.  I can see the photo so clearly in my mind, and I'm sure it exists...or existed...but I have no idea where.
Four or five cassette tapes I made when I was in High School.  No music on them, just...me talking.  A sort of audio journal thing I was trying out at the time.  I don't know whatever happened to them.
Just..you know...shit like that, that has been lost over the years.
I like to think that over the course of my life, little gnomes, much wiser than I, have been collecting this stuff.  Someday when I'm old, and feeble, and ugly, when I have nothing left to give this world, and this world has nothing left to give me, and I'm sitting under my own giving tree somewhere, the gnomes will come and give me all this shit back, to look at one more time.
That's a nice though.

These questions were all originally intended for Deena, and she did answer them in her own blog.  If you'd like to read her responses, they can be found here.

10 things I want to know about Deena

That sweet thought spot.

Monday 7/29/2013

According to the time stamp on my phone, I got the message from Deena at 10:15 a.m.

You remember Deena right?  Of course you do.  In fact many of you who I know that read these little rants and ramblings are friends with her.  If you're not...well...your loss really.  She's quite the person.  Even if you aren't friends with her, you may know of, or remember our little blog project.  I suppose there remains the possibility that you could be completely unaware of anything I'm talking about.  So to catch up to speed...

A few months back Deena proposed to me, that occassionally we, each from our different points of life...different points of view, pick the same topic, and write about it.  We've done this a few times now.  There is no rhyme or reason to it.  There is no schedule.  There is not a plan.  There is simply the randomness of it, and to tell the truth...I wouldn't have it any other way.  It has been an absolute blast up to this point, and I look forward to each new time. 

At 10:15 a.m. I got a message from her proposing this new idea.

Random thoughts.  Whatever goes through the head over the course of a day.  That's it.  

Well color me intrigued.  I almost never pay attention to my own thoughts.  That seems a dangerous road to travel.  This seemed like just way too much fun to say no to.  Of course I was in.

So now I had to start making note of thoughts.  Whatever shit happens to pop into my head, and I'm very excited to discover what those things might be.  The first thing I begin to notice, is that my thoughts are pretty boring.  I had this idea, immediately upon agreeing to the project, that I would have all of these great, clever, creative, imaginative sparks of random explosion that would entertain and frighten the masses.  What's really happening though is I've been at work for three hours now, and I'm in full baby pajama mode.  

Yes you read that correctly.  I work in a shipping warehouse.  The company I work for is an online retailer primarily focused on women/mother interests.  Baby clothes.  Scrapbooking products.  Stuff for kids.  Jewelry.  You know...pretty much the exact opposite of what I would buy for myself.  So women go to the company's website and buy shit, we in the warehouse print out the orders (somewhere between 1000-1500 on a good day), walk through the warehouse to find the shit they ordered, package it up, and send it out.  It is, to put it mildly, mindnumbing work.  It requires just enough though to keep your brain occupied on that task, but not enough thought to be interesting in any way.  It lends itself to no amount of creativity, and yet if your mind wanders too much, you end up sending some poor woman a skateboard for her kid, instead of crib bumpers for her newborn.  What's really sad, is that as a near 40 year old single male, who's never had a child of his own...I know what a crib bumper is.  I also know what diva cups, freedom bras, and oopsies are.  I am SOOooo prepared for sensitivity.

So there I am, walking through the warehouse, wondering if I can possible be interesting, when I notice I have balled up garbage in my hand.  I throw it, left handed at a garbage can about 15 feet away, and without even hitting the sides, sink it right in.  Of course there is no one around to see it happen.  My first independent though of this project becomes...I am REALLY fucking awesome when there are no witnesses.

I get to a box full of product, located on a very high shelf.  It's pretty heavy, and as I lower it down my arms start shaking.  You see the past few days I've been working out.  Lifting on the in-home weight bench here in the house.  I haven't noticed any difference at all, except if anything...I seem to be getting weaker.  My arms are like jelly.

I fucking love jelly.

Apple jelly specifically.

Although I'm not incredibly fond of apples.

I do like apple juice though.

I should stop drinking soda.

Well actually I pretty much have...what I should really do is slow down on the slurpees.

NEVER

My boxcutter can hardly break through this tape.  Why do they call it a box cutter, when it can't even break cellophane.

And to think, 18 scrawny guys with not but boxcutters brought a nation to it's knees

And now I can't even fly with a cigarette lighter.

God I want a cigarette.

And some apple juice.

I wonder why I'm craving apple juice.

Phone buzz in my pocket.

Facebook notification.

God I fucking HATE candy crush.  It's worse than that goddamn farm game people used to play.  I can't wait til candy crush goes the way of farmville.  That beautiful anticipation that someone may want to talk to me...but no...they just want me to send them extra lives.  

If only friends could send us REAL extra lives.  I'd be jumping down all the sewers to rescue all the princesses, if I had but one extra life.  I don't though, so let the princess figure out her own shit.

Stupid Patrick Stewart has to go and get himself married, so now stupid Jonathon Frakes won't be at stupid Comic Con. There goes my chance to kick Riker in the nuts for having the most glorious beard.

Why is it that when I'm not in a show, there is absolutely NOTHING interesting to audition for...or even go see, but as soon as I'm cast in something three different people offer me roles in fabulous shows that all conflict with the one I'm cast in?  Fuck you universe.

I want to direct again.  

I should write a play.

Okay that one I have all the time.  I mean seriously.  All the goddamn time.  I've been seriously aching to flex that particular muscle again.  Problem is...I have no story to tell.  I try all day long to come up with a good one...but pretty soon, I'm back on baby pajamas, and not thinking about a play anymore.  I crave the process though.  I seriously....SERIOUSLY...want to write a play.  I ache for it.  I just...  I practice.  I write dialogue that goes nowhere.  I'm writing Godot, but with less point.  It's pathetic really.  Also...writing it is only half the joy.  Once it's ready for production...I'd have to go through the work of finding someone willing to produce it.

Work.

Phhbbttt.

I need a new job.

I should go back to college.

College costs money.

I have no money.

I need a new job.

I get to my desk to enter mountains of superfluos paperwork and there's the boutique girl.  She needs me to find something for a customer up front in the store.  That's right.  Our online company also has a physical store.  

She's a PYT and I do as instinct demands.  I notice the low cut of her top, and the way the fabric of her dress hugs her body.  I do this in an instant.  When I was younger, I used to let this moment take forever.  I'd stare, and oggle, and I dunno...probably drool a little.  Then I got older, and became sensitive to feelings, and stopped looking, because it wasn't proper.  Then I got married, and pretended not to look because I was monogomous. Then I got old and single, and said fuck it.  Do whatever you're gonna do, then move on...because life happens.

See the problem is that after four decades of walking this planet, three of those decades living with an intense interest, desire, and craving for all things female, I've...through media, books, movies, magazines, conversations, experience, forums, discussions, and just being male....received just about every single conflicting report imaginable.  The whole checking out thing...it's a mess.  It really is.

"Women aren't objects."

Well duh.  I never thought, insinuated, or for one second thought that they were.

"But sometimes we like to be objectified."

Well duh.  You're human aren't you.  We ALL like to feel that way now and then.

"Women are equal to men."

Um yeah...it's called being human.

"Women are superior to men."

Okay.

"Anything you can do, I can do better."

Well shit...anything I can

 do...ANYONE can do better."

I don't really subscribe to ists or isms.  I don't label myself according to my gender, my politics, my career, or my sexual preference.  All of those things seem to exist on some relative scale of fluidity.  If I DID have to pick an ist though...it would be humanist.

I do believe that all people should be paid the same wage in the workplace for the same job done.  I do believe that every woman, should have every right, freedom, and choice that any man has.  I think she should have access to all types of healthcare...sexual or otherwise.  If a woman becomes pregnant...she should have the availability to utilize ALL of the options available, and the freedom to make whatever choice is best for her.  That's simply how I feel.  I honestly believe that there is HORRIBLE misrepresentation of women in movies, television, and video games.  That's not gonna stop me from playing video games.

I do feel that if a woman is raped or sexually abused in any way...we must...we absolutely MUST and immediately STOP criminalizing the woman.  We absolutely HAVE to stop making the first question..."Well what was she wearing?  What was she drinking?  What did she do to cause this to happen?"  We have to grow up, and we have to put the impetus where it belongs...on the person who committed the crime.

I know that this world we live in is to many degrees not female friendly.  Everybody, man or woman, has every right to wear whatever the fuck they want that makes them feel good.  Feel confident.  Feel attractive.  It is against every single thing in me to ever think that simply because a woman is dressed a certain way, that I am given free access to act a certain way.  

I'm still gonna window shop though.

So there's cute boutique girl.  There's me window shopping.  There's me moving on.

Find out what the customer wants

Find it in the computer

Find it in the warehouse

Go get it.

Repeat ad nauseum.

This is my day.

Every day.

This is my life.

I should be rescuing princesses.

I hate red cars.

I hate the word truth.

I hate how a person declares a truth, and then climbs on that truth taking a moral high ground based on that truth.

Everything is true.

Nothing is true.

I find that the more I learn about anything, the more I grow to appreciate it.

I'm still not going to read or watch Twilight though.

I need a story to tell.

I need nicotine.

I hope the man who invented ecigarettes has everything he ever wanted.

Bathroom break.

Maybe I need a muse.

Someone or something to inspire that story right out of me.

I should go to the park this weekend.

I hope I have sex this weekend.

I will probably not be having sex this weekend.

So maybe I should go to the park.

I wonder if anyone here notices that I read the product numbers out loud when I'm looking for them.

I wonder why I do that.

Thoughts.  Those fleeting things that help us occupy the emptiness of tedium.  I wonder how many of those thought we actually notice, and how many go completely ignored, like so much traffic on the freeway.  The only ones we really notice are the pretty ones, or the annoying ones.

God I hate red cars.

I start to wonder about secret thoughts.  The ones we think might be too dark.  The ones we think might reveal too much about ourselves.  We do afterall have to maintain some sort of propriety.  

But we all have it.  The darkness.  The deviance.  The little kinks and fetishes.  

Come on.  Where's the good stuff?  Why can't I have those thoughts that will turn heads, and stomachs?  That will cause nervous laughs, or slight disgust, or pure outrage...  

This is supposed to be fun.

Be revelatory...

All access to the deviant mind of a sometime blogger, most time actor, full time dork.

Then it occurs to me.  I'm not having secret thoughts because...well...

I don't have secret thoughts.

There's nothing I hold sacred.

There's nothing I won't share.

There's no question I won't answer.

There's no darkness I won't explore.

There's no kink or fetish I won't try at least three times.

(Yes it's a personal rule.  I can't know for sure until I've tried three times.  Once for just the experience alone.  Twice for comparison.  Three times for analysis.)

Although I am quite possibly offensive, you cannot possibly offend me.

but also

I will never judge you.  Ever.  For anything.

Sometimes the very best part of the day is right when you get home from work.  It's not the sitting down, and relaxing...if even for a moment before doing all the things you have to do now that you're home.

It's the moment before.  The anticipation of the relaxation.  That's a beautiful moment.

I should clean my room.

What should I watch whle I clean?

Netflix has too many choices.

I want to watch everything.

I don't want to watch anything.

Thank you Mr. Bach for the Brandenbergs.  

Thank you Mr. Chopin for Nocturn #2

And Thank you, thank you, thank you Mr. Beethoven for Piano Sonata #14 in C Sharp Minor.  A melody that most people have heard so often, and are so familiar with that even hearing it is almost routine, yet to me is still one of the most simple, beautiful pieces of music I've ever known.

Mr Beiber, if people are thanking you for your music 300 years from now, then you'll have my dead respect.

Water.

I'd kill for water.

A beach

A river

a pool

I think I'm part amphibious.

It's time for a new tatoo.  Just got to finish up the design.

I used to wish I was gay.  I tried man.  I really did.  Gay porn.  Pray the straight away.  I honestly wanted that.  True story.  Mostly.  It didn't take.  I still wish I could be bi.  I mean how great would that be.  The whole world a potential sexual adventure.  I think I wanted that mostly though becuase ultimately I'm really lazy, and I think it might be easier to get guys to have sex with me.  That might simply be self flattery though.

Thing is...none of us can be what we're not.

Oh maybe I"ll read tonight.  I don't read enough.  I always forget.  I'm always so tired.

Goddamn 5:30 in the morning

Every morning.

Goddamn not being able to fall asleep until 1 in the morning.

Every morning.

It's a miracle I'm still alive on Friday.

Every Friday.

I should start a religion.

I'm great at public speaking.

I'm short on charisma though.

Maybe I can be the worlds first non charismatic religious leader.

No wait...Pat Robertson.

Fuck.

Oh phone buzz...maybe somebody wants to...

Goddamn candy crush.

Sometimes my roommate's phone rings, and I think it's my phone.

Which is weird because...

we don't even have the same ringtone...

and

I never turn on my ringtone.

Chocolate.

There is never a single moment...never an instant...never any given point of any given day, that I don't want candy.

Ooohhh gobstoppers.  That's what I want.

Or dinner

but mostly gobstoppers.

I sure do have a soft tummy for a guy who never eats real food.

Maybe I should write a play about a...

with...

or...

Nope

Nothing.

Guess I'll go smoke about it.

Twilight.  My favorite time of day.  I hate that I can't think, or even say that word without it conjuring some sparkly piece of shit vampire now.

Fuck you Stephanie Meyers.

I love when the sun is gone, but there is still residual light.  It's my most alive.  It's my most coherent.  It's my most mentally productive.

It lasts about 7 minutes.  And then it's dark.  

Dark.  Always a new kind of friend.  Every damn time.

All the best things happen when the sun is down.

Oh sure daytime is when the stuff happens.  Money is exchanged for goods and services.  Food like products are consumed.  People congregate and do things.  Hands are shook.  Deals are made.  People smile at babies, and take pictures of each other, and go to jobs, so money can be made, for use in further exhange of more goods, and more services.  The general consumerist exchange.  News happens.  Politics happen.  Leaders pound pulpits.  Banks charge interest.  People go places, and do things, and buy stuff, and meet up with other people they like because they have to, or like because it's convenient..or even...sometimes when they're lucky...like because they like.

But at night.

Night is when we put our truths to bed, and our lies put on their shiny shoes and go out dancing.  Night is when we let the romance out, and exchange gifts in whispers and a kiss.  Night is when we touch with purpose, and intent.  When we forget about who we were in sunlight, and become who we always knew we were meant to be.

Night is when we get to remember all the people we have ever loved.  Night is when the quiet slips under the blankets with us, and wraps us in longing.  Night is the friend that never lets us down.  Night is when it's safe to cry.  Or laugh.  Or speak a truth that we are just now realizing.  Night lets us be brave.  Night lets us be beautiful.

And you are, you know.  Beautiful.  I wish you could see you through my eyes.  You would never...ever...question it again.  It is impossible for me to think of you, and not smile.  

If you are reading this because you read Deena's blog first, and clicked a link, and landed here...and then made it all this way...thank you.  If you are reading this because you follow my blog anyways...and you made it all this way...thank you.  Sometimes you like what I say.  Sometimes you don't.  Sometimes I make you angry.  Sometimes I make you laugh.  Sometimes you're just bored, and passing time in the bathroom.  Whatever the case...thank you.

It is my greatest wish now, that you click this I think, therefore... and read Deena's thoughts through a day....

The last 48 hours.

I thought I was prepared. I had mentally walked myself through this.  Or so I had supposed.

To preface.

I am incredibly proud of my mother.  I say this with no irony, or subtle hint of disparagy.  Since I was a small child I remember my mother talking about how her greatest goal was to get a college degree.  She married at 18, had me at 19, and before my birth had only gone through one semester of college.  She put all of that aside for her family.  Despite anything I, or you, or anyone may have to say on life choices...this was hers.  She gave up her dreams and goals to focus on her new and over the years growing family.
When I started middle school, she began attending a community college located eighty miles from where we lived.  She would travel nearly an hour and a half each direction two or three nights a week for classes.  After a few years of doing this, she finally got her associates degree from Western Wyoming Community College.
Now, decades later, through the magic of digital technology, and internet communication, she received her Bachelors from BYU-Idaho.  At the tender age of 58, she has reached her lifelong goal of a degree from an accredited collegiate institution.  This woman, who truly sacrificed so much of what she wanted, for her children...this woman who I give all credit for any good quality that I may have...has been a prime example that the time it takes to reach a destination, is nowhere near as important as the arrival.  She is my mother, and she is amazing to me.
She is also Mormon.  I am not.  This probably breaks her heart a little.  She raised me to be.  She gave me the education and training in that particular brand of spirituality.  In the end, it didn't take.  It did for a while though.  I was twenty-seven before I made a full break from the religion.
I grew up with the dogma.  The practice.  The songs, and traditions, and ceremonies of it all.  I knew and practiced the customs.  I read and studied the books.  The Bible.  The Book of Mormon.  All of the Mormon scriptural cannon.  I could talk doctrine, and debate theosophic ideas with the best of them.  I went on a mission to do just that.  To convert as many to my way of thinking as possible.
I also attended BYU-Idaho, although at the time it was simply a Junior College called Ricks, located in Rexburg Idaho, about 25 miles north of Idaho Falls.  I went there for one semester before my mission, and a couple years again after my mission.  I made a lot of great friends, some whom I'm even still in contact with.  I met the woman who would become my future ex wife there.  I began my theatrical training there.
I am not like most ex-mo's I meet.  I don't harbor any ill feelings for the church.  I'm not angry.  I don't hold onto any hatred for any offense, real or imagined.  All of those parts of my life led me to become who I am now, and truth is...I really like who I am now.  Still though...still...
I do try to distance myself from it now as much as possible.  I've discovered for myself all the many reasons to not believe.  To not be able to believe.  To know, in my own reality why that (or any other church) cannot possibly be "true".  I don't share my discoveries, or push my own reality on other people.  I simply exist as I am, within my reality, with my discoveries, and allow all others the pleasure of doing the same.  I have no anti-mormon agenda.  Still though...still.

I thought I was prepared. I had mentally walked myself through this.  Or so I had supposed.

My mother's graduation ceremony was July 23, in Rexburg Idaho, on the campus of BYU-Idaho. It was very important to her that I, as well as all of her family, attend.  Of course I was going to.  After a lifetime of giving to me...what kind of a shithole would I be to skip out simply because I wanted to avoid a Mormon atmosphere?

I thought I was prepared. I had mentally walked myself through this.  Or so I had supposed.

Upon arrival in Rexburg, I took myself on a little stroll down memory lane.  I drove past the buildings I had lived as such a young student.  I walked by womens housing where I had formerly had so many friends and crushes.  The apartments where the woman I would marry had lived.  My old theatre building and classrooms.

Anyone who has taken a similar journey, knows the familiar ache of a past now seen through very different eyes.  It was simultaneously invigorating, and heartbreaking.  So much familiar.  So much had changed.  I saw in my eyes the faces of people I had known, whom I haven't seen in decades, who now have families and children of their own.
I sat at a piano, in a practice room where I had created so many memories.  It was overwhelming.  I am not the person I was.  We are not what we once thought we would become.  Some for better, some for worse, change is inevitable...but the circle...the magic circle where we remember a past, thinking about a future, and realizing how both right and wrong we were.

It was the walking around where the other parts started creeping in.  The itchy parts.  The irritaion.  The discomfort that I had known would happen.  That I had mentally prepared for.

Rexburg is not primarily mormon.  It IS mormon.  When I lived there, there were at least two night clubs that I knew of.  They are gone now.  There are no bars.  There is no bookstore that has a "relationships" section.  There is nowhere that you can find anything that isn't in some way church sanctioned.  The ONLY exception I discovered was the no-name convenience store where I was able to pick up a pack of cigarettes.  I was surprised to find that.  When I asked the clerk for my brand...a very VERY common brand...it took her a while to find where they were located.  I had the feeling this might be the first time anyone had asked her for a pack.  I could nearly see her picking it up with between her thumb and forefinger and holding it as far from her body as she could, as she passed it over to me. I could practically hear in my head the discussion she was preparing to have with her bishop, if she should keep a job where she was in fact sometimes, an agent in the distribution of sin.

I stepped out to smoke one of my newly procured cigarettes, knowing that my opportunities to do just that would be very few, and very far between.  Not seconds after lighting up, I counted no less than three drivers of cars, slowing down and literally rubernecking to look at the heathen disgracing the hallowed streets of their fair town.  I honestly don't believe this was a conscious choice on their part, so much as it was something so incredibly out of the ordinary.  They had to give themselves time to register if what they were seeing, was actually happening.

I walked onto campus, toward the building where the graduation ceremony would be.  I had officially entered hallowed grounds.  I saw exactly what I knew I would.  What I had mentally prepared myself for from the moment I knew I would be going.  On a college campus, on a warm day, with summer classes in full swing...there was no frivolity.  There was no mischief.  There was no joy of youth.
Oh there were students to be sure.  Reverently walking to whatever classes they had next.  If they were wearing shorts at all, (not many were) they were past the knee shorts.  There were no tank tops, or clothes of summer, but instead high neck tshirts.  There were rings on the fingers of near children.  I don't care what decision a person makes in life.  If you feel, at the ripe age of 18 that you've found the love of your life, then by all the gods, do what you will...I don't give two shits...but still...still  It seems so much waste.  All of these kids...yes...fucking KIDS...who have been trained, and taught, and conditioned to throw away the best years of their lives.  How could I not be at least a little depressed?
The glassy eyed stares.  The fake, empty smiles.  The light laughter, if there was any.  Where oh where oh fucking WHERE was the goddamn joy?  This, they are taught, is happiness.
Well...who am I to judge?  Maybe it is.
This is what I HAD prepared myself for.
Then came the graduation ceremony.
BYU-Idaho is of course owned and opperated by the Corporation of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.  The Mormons.  True, it is a state accredited school, but the rules of seperation of church and state don't really apply here.  Mormon rules all the way.  That's fine.  I had prepared myself for this.  I was ready.  Or so I thought.
For those who may read this who aren't familiar with Mormon phraseology or heirarchy, allow me a brief moment to explain.  At the head of the church is the President.  As recognized by federal government he is the president of the corporation.  He is the person responsible for, and accoutable for all of the legal and financial decisions for both corporate and non-profit divisions of the organization, as pertaining to the government.  He is aided by a first and second counselor.  These three men stand at the head of the church. They are annually sustained as Prophets, Seers, and Revelators, although within my lifetime not a goddamn one of them as prophecied, seen, or revealed a single thing. Within the church structure, directly under him are twelve apostles.  These are the men directly in line to become President if they live long enough.  Directly under the twelve, are about a bajilion men commonly refered to as General Authorities.  Each given different responsibilities over different capacities in church function.  This is church government.  Twice per year, once in April, and again in October, is General Conference.  General Conference takes place is Salt Lake City, but is televised and broadcast throughout the world.  During General Conference, most if not all of these men will stand up and address the body of the church.  This takes place over a combined total of four two-hour sessions for the general church body.  This does not include the meetings that will also take place specifically for men, and for women, during the same weekend.
The talks they give during those meetings are about...well...nothing.  Oh sure, there will be the occassional, "Don't watch Porn" speech.  Don't sin.  Serve more.  Family and the definition of family has been a huge topic the past few years.  Don't sin.  Love.  Love.  Jesus died for you.  Blah blah blah...you know...the usual.  But if one were to actually listen to any of those talks, you realize pretty quickly that these men are fucking professionals at rhetoric.  Saying what sounds profound, without saying anything at all.  They have learned that their words can and will be used against them by people outside the church...so they say 8 goddamn hours worth of words that don't really say a fucking thing.  They are tales.  Told by idiots.  Full of sound and fury, signigying nothing.  In other words.  Really...REALLY...fucking boring.  There is a reason I bring all of that up.

The ceremony started off normal enough.  Family members seated in the auditorium.  The processional.  Pomp and Circumstance, and all that jazz.  Then the President of the College stood up to the podium, and everything changed.  I was still okay.  I knew this was coming.  He was a man full of charm and smiles.  He warmly welcomed us, and informed us that although we were here to celebrate the accomplishments of the graduating students, this was still a solemn event.  He invited us to not give in to the whims of cheers, and whistles and yelling, but rather polite applause.  A feeling of appreciation that would welcome "The Spirit."

Mormons LOVE "The Spirit".

"The Spirit" fucking HATES...well...everything.  Loud laughter.  Crying children.  Noise of any type really.  It hates sex, and boobs, and r rated movies, and caffiene, and I'm pretty sure single women, and the hours between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m., and skirts that go above the knee.  Water parks.  Rivers, oceans, okay...all water that isn't contained in something you drink out of.  It hates democrats, and foreign countries, sitcoms, and most contemporary literature, (unless written by Stephanie Meyers of course).  It hates normal underwear, and evolution, and naturally homosexuals.  "The Spirit" is a mind reader, and a voyeur, and a tattle tale, and will report all of your activities to God at some point in post life judgement.

So it stands to reason, that if our clapping was subdued, our thoughts were pure, our bodies properly covered, and every woman in the room over the age of eighteen was wearing a ring, then perhaps "The Spirit" might feel welcome.  To...um...I guess...  attend a GODDAMN COLLEGE GRADUATION CEREMONY.

Sorry.  I may still be a bit irritated.

Funny thing is, at this point I was still okay.  Twenty-seven years of indoctrination had prepared me for this.  I knew it was coming.  There was nothing about this that was surprising.  I was actually doing quite well, entertaining myself.  I made it through the opening prayer.  Yes...everything opens and closes with prayer.  I made it through the presenting of colors.  I even made it through the Mens Choir singing some godawful hymn.

Hymns are boring.  They are typically melodramatic, meloncholic, musically predictable tripe.  People love their fucking hymns though, so I accepted it as inevitable.

Then the speeches.  And this is what I had not prepared for.

I knew that there would be references to, or allusions of and about all things Mormon, but the reality is I was expecting the standard congratulations graduates, you've accomplished great things, now go, do, be speeches.  I was not, (and in retrospect perhaps I should have been) expecting fucking General Conference.

Not once in all the talks, did anyone ever congratulate the graduates.  Never did they use the word education.  It was all about...well...fuck. Where to even begin.

I'm going to save you the tedium actually.  You can imagine it.  Your imagination won't fail you.  If you've ever in your life heard any type of religious pontification, you know what I sat through.  For two hours.  For no apparent reason.

The one that got me though, the one I have to share.  The reason I went through all the explanation of church heirarchy...

So there was a General Authority there.  One of the top brass.  A MAJOR player in the church system.  I don't remember his name, and I don't care to, but he's really one of the big guns, also spoke.  It was...General Conference.  It was.  It was the same rhetoric.  The same bullshit.  The same faith promoting stories repeated ad nauseum to ensure the members that they are really part of the true church.  But then...THEN...as I was doing my best to just let it flow...he let out the whopper.  The one that I wasn't able to let go.  The one that I CAN'T let go.  The one that will in all likelihood haunt me for the rest of my life.  And before I relay it to you...please remember...he's telling this story to promote faith.  He's telling this story to relate an example of the truthfulness of Mormonism.

It all starts as a story of how members should listen to "The Still Small Voice" (another nickname for "The Spirit") to do good in the world, and spread the gospel of Christ.

He and his wife are finishing up a two year mission in Africa, and about to come home to the States, when his wife, hears "The Still Small Voice" tell her that she needs to find a 9 year old girl they'd been preaching to.  That's right...they were preaching to a 9 year old girl.  I'm not even going to touch on that part of it...just let that sit with you.  So they go back to this little African village to find this girl.  Turns out she's not there.  They ask around, and no one seems to know anything.  He himself is ready to give up, but his wife, just knows by the power of "The Still Small Voice" that she needs to find this girl.  The keep searching...asking...looking...and through some means never actually communicated in the telling of the story, they discover that this girl, and her mother have been sold into "The Sex Slave Trade.".  I guess that's what we call it, because I could practically hear the quotations around it as he was telling the story.  So yes...little african 9 year old girl, and her mother have been sold into sex slavery.

Now this is a very real...and very horrifying thing.  This is as I understand it, the worlds second largest industry.  It's NOT something to lightly toss about in stories to promote faith.  I...even as an absolute non believer in anything Mormon, am absolutely captivated by this story now.  I have to know how it ends.

So...turns out they discover this girl has been sold, and dude's wife just has to save her. He continues from that point to tell an incredible tale of intrigue.  Crossing four borders without papers.  Negotiating with nefarious men.  Travelling in the back of rickety trucks to find this girl...which of course...THEY DO!!!  They are able to buy this girl AND her mother, and return them both home safely.

This fucking douchebag...told this fucking story as I've related it to you.  I shit you not.  I wanted to jump from my chair and scream as loud as I could "YOU GODDAMN LIAR".  That never happened.  I am sorry, but you are going to have to confirm that story with at least 4 reliable outside sources before I can even remotely consider one iota of viability.  If what you say is even remotely POSSIBLE..why haven't we...by the power of grandma...ended the most horrific business practice on this planet?

This man, who represents this church, which claims to be God's one true church on the planet just told the most outlandish story, exploiting the worlds worst crimes, for the simple purpose of promoting a ridiculous idea. AT A GODDAMN GRADUATION CEREMONY.  Can you blame me for being a bit disgusted?

I looked around the room, for even one...just one fucking person with an astonished look on their face.  Someone who would realize what just happened.  I saw stone and glass.

I hate the term brainwashed.  I don't believe in it.  I don't subscribe to the idea.  It's a word that a lot of exmos LOVE to use...but I personally hate it.  Still...here in this room was evidence of...well

I'll say conditioning instead.  Conditioned to wholeheartedly, and without question accept any idea or word that leaves the mouths of these men.  Conditioned to never question.  Never stand up.  Never say... "I don't believe you."

I sometimes wonder if these leaders intentionally see how far they can push that conditioning.

I wanted to cry.  To cry for these people.  To cry for that girl in that OBVIOUSLY fictional story.  To cry for myself.

I didn't.  I don't cry.  I am incredibly hard to even get any type of emotional response from.  I emotionally responded to this experience...and not so positively.

I wanted to celebrate that I had gotten out of this mindtrap.  This double bind.  This horrifying state of existence, but can't...because in so doing I have left so many behind.

There's more.  But I've written a lot.  If you made it this far...you've read a lot.  I am physically and emotionally exhausted from the past 48 hours, and really..even with the more...I'm not sure that there's more that I can really communicate.  It didn't end there, but that really was the worst of it.  The rest is just more of the same.  Thanks for bearing with me.  This really had a lot of vent to it.  I know some who read my shit will relate, because of similar past experience.  I know some will be outraged.  I know some will say I knew going in, and I have no right to complain, and I know some who will be incredibly upset at how I portray the church.  So it goes.  I can't please everybody.  I don't ever try to.

Thanks for bearing with me.  Thanks for standing by me.  Thanks for reading my words...sometimes no matter how many there are.  I know I may say it to the point of tedium, but I really...honestly...love you.  In many ways I need you, as any human needs the assurance and friendship of other humans.  I can never say it enough...so I'll let it go that I said it now.

Warrior

Were you brave today?  I hope so.  

That thing you're wondering if you should do or not? ... Well, you should.

That thing you're saving for a special occassion? ... Well, that occassion is now.

Every damn day is a special occassion.  Don't believe me?

Close your eyes.
Take a breath.
Remember everything in an instant.
And smile.

You may have been told this before.
Or maybe not.
You may have believed it.
Or not.

But

Your smile is amazing.
It's a light in my darkness.

I bet I'm not the only one.

I love you for all the things that you are...
...that I am not.

If ever you wonder if you've made a difference, I give you now a resounding yes.  I may be just little ole me, but I'm the most important me in my personal universe, and that universe would be a little more empty without you in it.

I'm a person with just a few small skills, but how interesting it is that my skills require a certain amount of life experience.  An active imagination.  A point of view, that is guided in part, by the simple fact that you have become part of me.

I would be less
but
you make me more.

I see in you, so much ability.  So much talent.  So much brilliance, and passion, and life.  I see the things you think you hide.

I see the mask you wear, and I know...
even if you don't...
I know absolutely

That you were brave today.