Sunday, July 20, 2014
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Thoughts about my friend, Chris Miller
As the anniversary of the death of my dear friend, Chris Miller, approaches tomorrow, I want to share some reflections that I am having.
About two and a half years ago, I did a photo shoot of Chris. I was trying to capture his genuine laugh, so I told him a joke. Here is the joke:
About two and a half years ago, I did a photo shoot of Chris. I was trying to capture his genuine laugh, so I told him a joke. Here is the joke:
A
guy walks into a bar and orders a beer. He takes a sip, and then suddenly the
most incredible piano music he's ever heard starts up. He looks around, and he
sees this tiny man, about a foot in height, playing the piano.
Puzzled, the guy asks the bartender, "Where in hell did you get that little guy?"
The bartender answers, "Well, I was taking the trash out into the alley and saw this old dirty lamp. I rubbed the dirt off it, and this genie popped out and said 'I'll grant you one wish, but one wish only!’ So now I have this little man."
"Wow!" says the guy, "is that lamp still out there?"
"I guess so", says the bartender, "go out and take a look."
The guy rushes out the back door and sure enough, there's this dirty old lamp. He picks it up and rubs it. Out pops the genie and says, "I'll grant you one wish, but one wish only!"
Beside himself with excitement, the guy yells, "I want a thousand bucks!”
Puzzled, the guy asks the bartender, "Where in hell did you get that little guy?"
The bartender answers, "Well, I was taking the trash out into the alley and saw this old dirty lamp. I rubbed the dirt off it, and this genie popped out and said 'I'll grant you one wish, but one wish only!’ So now I have this little man."
"Wow!" says the guy, "is that lamp still out there?"
"I guess so", says the bartender, "go out and take a look."
The guy rushes out the back door and sure enough, there's this dirty old lamp. He picks it up and rubs it. Out pops the genie and says, "I'll grant you one wish, but one wish only!"
Beside himself with excitement, the guy yells, "I want a thousand bucks!”
There’s
a flash, a bang, and a bam! And out of nowhere, there are 1,000 ducks.
Pissed off, the man walks back into the bar, grabs the bartender, and says: “What do you think you’re pulling? I asked for a thousand bucks!”
"No kidding", says the barman, "did you really think I asked him for a 12-inch pianist?"
Pissed off, the man walks back into the bar, grabs the bartender, and says: “What do you think you’re pulling? I asked for a thousand bucks!”
"No kidding", says the barman, "did you really think I asked him for a 12-inch pianist?"
The Perpetrator and the Dad
This story is very powerful. Having been
someone who was shaped by a molestation from an older neighborhood boy, I
think my father or brother, Roy, would have done the same thing to the perpetrator. Still, the final quote that
this article includes from the father, I find unintentionally
hilarious. To clear the record, Mr. Father: the molester didn't die, because he didn't die; it had nothing to do with your love for God. You beat him badly enough for death to take over. We are all so stupid and comical and
brilliant and ugly and beautiful and quite silly in our understanding of
ourselves and the world.
http://www.news-journalonline.com/article/20140718/NEWS/140719489/1040?p=1&tc=pg
http://www.news-journalonline.com/article/20140718/NEWS/140719489/1040?p=1&tc=pg
Friday, July 18, 2014
Just Like a Girl
I think about those insidious statements and
institutions and countries and ideas that have limited girls and women. I
think about my own daughter, and how both her mother, Tessin Bozard,
and I refuse to place those limitations on her.
I think about the religious environment that I was a part of for many years, and how girls and women were/are told to act; how too often many of these girls grow up to be women who define their success or status based on "what their husbands do".
I think about the world wide abuse that girls and women take. Daily. And sometimes hourly. Because they are girls. Because they are women.
I think about countries where men perform gender mutilation on girls and women to "control" their sex drives, and thus, control them.
I think about growing up in a home where my father would say to my sister, Michele, "If you get pregnant, I will throw you out of this house, and you'll have to find some place to live!" And how my father would turn to us boys and say, "If you get somebody pregnant...then you will have to find a job to continue living here."
I think about how I am part of the problem if I don't speak up.
My daughter will never be raised to believe that she is less than a man; if my daughter is heterosexual, and chooses to marry a man, she will not be raised to think, not for one minute, that any man is the "head" of her or her family.
I think about my voice, and how I can help empower girls to take back the insult and turn it into their weapon; how I can confront boys to question their words, their thoughts, their limited viewpoints.
I think about all of this, and so I share it with you, my friends. Watch it! Pass it on. It brings me to tears.
http://youtu.be/XjJQBjWYDTs
I think about the religious environment that I was a part of for many years, and how girls and women were/are told to act; how too often many of these girls grow up to be women who define their success or status based on "what their husbands do".
I think about the world wide abuse that girls and women take. Daily. And sometimes hourly. Because they are girls. Because they are women.
I think about countries where men perform gender mutilation on girls and women to "control" their sex drives, and thus, control them.
I think about growing up in a home where my father would say to my sister, Michele, "If you get pregnant, I will throw you out of this house, and you'll have to find some place to live!" And how my father would turn to us boys and say, "If you get somebody pregnant...then you will have to find a job to continue living here."
I think about how I am part of the problem if I don't speak up.
My daughter will never be raised to believe that she is less than a man; if my daughter is heterosexual, and chooses to marry a man, she will not be raised to think, not for one minute, that any man is the "head" of her or her family.
I think about my voice, and how I can help empower girls to take back the insult and turn it into their weapon; how I can confront boys to question their words, their thoughts, their limited viewpoints.
I think about all of this, and so I share it with you, my friends. Watch it! Pass it on. It brings me to tears.
http://youtu.be/XjJQBjWYDTs
Monday, July 14, 2014
Unfair to God
Unfair to God
I
have been unfair to God. I’ve allowed
others, those who share a relationship with God,
to define and limit my relationship with God.
This is unfair to God. For, have I not
others, those who share a relationship with God,
to define and limit my relationship with God.
This is unfair to God. For, have I not
had friends, who have friends
who are no friends of mine? Have there
not been lovers, who have had lovers,
whether prior to or thereafter me,
who share not even a shadow of me? Do I hold it against
these friends for those friends; these lovers
for those lovers? No.
I do not.
In truth, I do not even consider it,
considerably. Perhaps I should.
My dance with my friends and lovers
is privately personal.
Yet, when it comes to God, I partially discount this perspective.
Instead, I give weighted credence to noisemakers of judgment,
the (self-proclaimed) pious ones who crow and boast
of their commitment to the One of Infinite Names.
Why do I choose to include any of their sounds? They are clanging,
and not a part of my equation. They neither add nor multiply
abundance to my friendship, my love affair, with God.
For this I am sorry.
For this I have been unfair to God.
7/10/2014
An Unknown Constellation of an Eating Disorder
An Unknown Constellation of an Eating Disorder
Age 8 – Mom takes me shopping for clothes. I am excited. Mom asks the clothing clerk to help us find some jeans that will fit my size. He measures my waist, then comments to my mother: “He’s a husky boy.”
Age 9 – My family goes to New York to visit my aunt. She comments about my brother’s handsome features. She then turns to me, looks, then announces to my mother: “Mikey is getting fat.”
Age 9 – My first diet. I just stopped eating. Or maybe I just tried to stop eating, but filet-o-fish, brownies, and m&m’s melt well in my mouth.
Age 11 – Recess is torture. Kids tease me. They say that I’m fat, but I can’t be fat because I run fast. Fat kids don’t run fast. I’m faster than all of them in my class. So, I’m not fat.
Age 13 – My friends constantly tease me, “Mike’s got boobs.” Boys give me purple nurples because fat is just fat, and fat has turned into muscle. Yet.
Age 14 – I miss the cutoff for registering for football. I join the wrestling team. It’s a great way to stay in shape. I like that it’s a great way to lose weight.
Age 15 – My chest turns into muscles. I will never be fat again. I hope.
Age 15 – Wrestling season. One day before I must weigh in. I’m weighing 124 pounds. Coach Reid asks if I will make the 119 weight class. I secretly laugh because he doesn’t know my secret: I can lose seven pounds in a day. Three shirts and a sweatshirt, jump rope, run, sweat, spit, jump rope, run, sweat, spit, jump rope, run, sweat, spit. And if you don’t eat at all you can float two pounds over night.
Age 15 – Next day. Weigh in. I am weighing 117 pounds. Time to eat. Time to binge.Then time to get rid of it before the match. So I sit on the toilet until it’s all gone.
Age 16 – I have a spiritual awakening. I find Jesus. I want all of him, because I want none of me. I pray and I fast. And I fast and I fast. And I pray some more. And I fast some more because my body is a temple that must be destroyed. And when it is destroyed, my spirit will be greater. And Jesus will love me more. So I fast some more to gain the Kingdom of God.
Age 16 – My first girlfriend pinches my love handles and nicknames me ‘chubba’. I am still scarred by her playful pet name.
Age 21 – I’m weighing 135 pounds. This is less than my first girlfriend and her mother. They are horrified by this admission. I am proud of this fact.
Graduate school – I’ve gained much weight. I am ugly. I am fat. I recite this mantra secretly. Often.
2010 – Amsterdam with Cecy. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. I look truncated. I wish to be naked. I hate the shape of clothes and how they hug whatever you try to hide. My words begin to spar themselves: You are ugly. I am beautiful. You are ugly. I am beautiful. I am beautiful. You are fat. I am. I am. I am beautiful.
Today – I am onstage, feeling uncomfortable in my skin. Someone takes a photo of me. I see the image, but it is not as distorted as the one in my head. I look better than the sickness in my head. I smile. I’m starting to believe how beautiful it is just to be me.
6/2014
Age 8 – Mom takes me shopping for clothes. I am excited. Mom asks the clothing clerk to help us find some jeans that will fit my size. He measures my waist, then comments to my mother: “He’s a husky boy.”
Age 9 – My family goes to New York to visit my aunt. She comments about my brother’s handsome features. She then turns to me, looks, then announces to my mother: “Mikey is getting fat.”
Age 9 – My first diet. I just stopped eating. Or maybe I just tried to stop eating, but filet-o-fish, brownies, and m&m’s melt well in my mouth.
Age 11 – Recess is torture. Kids tease me. They say that I’m fat, but I can’t be fat because I run fast. Fat kids don’t run fast. I’m faster than all of them in my class. So, I’m not fat.
Age 13 – My friends constantly tease me, “Mike’s got boobs.” Boys give me purple nurples because fat is just fat, and fat has turned into muscle. Yet.
Age 14 – I miss the cutoff for registering for football. I join the wrestling team. It’s a great way to stay in shape. I like that it’s a great way to lose weight.
Age 15 – My chest turns into muscles. I will never be fat again. I hope.
Age 15 – Wrestling season. One day before I must weigh in. I’m weighing 124 pounds. Coach Reid asks if I will make the 119 weight class. I secretly laugh because he doesn’t know my secret: I can lose seven pounds in a day. Three shirts and a sweatshirt, jump rope, run, sweat, spit, jump rope, run, sweat, spit, jump rope, run, sweat, spit. And if you don’t eat at all you can float two pounds over night.
Age 15 – Next day. Weigh in. I am weighing 117 pounds. Time to eat. Time to binge.Then time to get rid of it before the match. So I sit on the toilet until it’s all gone.
Age 16 – I have a spiritual awakening. I find Jesus. I want all of him, because I want none of me. I pray and I fast. And I fast and I fast. And I pray some more. And I fast some more because my body is a temple that must be destroyed. And when it is destroyed, my spirit will be greater. And Jesus will love me more. So I fast some more to gain the Kingdom of God.
Age 16 – My first girlfriend pinches my love handles and nicknames me ‘chubba’. I am still scarred by her playful pet name.
Age 21 – I’m weighing 135 pounds. This is less than my first girlfriend and her mother. They are horrified by this admission. I am proud of this fact.
Graduate school – I’ve gained much weight. I am ugly. I am fat. I recite this mantra secretly. Often.
2010 – Amsterdam with Cecy. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. I look truncated. I wish to be naked. I hate the shape of clothes and how they hug whatever you try to hide. My words begin to spar themselves: You are ugly. I am beautiful. You are ugly. I am beautiful. I am beautiful. You are fat. I am. I am. I am beautiful.
Today – I am onstage, feeling uncomfortable in my skin. Someone takes a photo of me. I see the image, but it is not as distorted as the one in my head. I look better than the sickness in my head. I smile. I’m starting to believe how beautiful it is just to be me.
6/2014
Transatlantic Poem: Amsterdam, 2014
Note: Concept is simple. I write a poem in English, then I
translate it to one or more languages, then I translate the translation
back to English. I will first give you the original verses, then the
translation. Because I was in Amsterdam when I wrote the majority of
this poem, I go from English-Dutch-English in the translation. Enjoy!
Transatlantic: Amsterdam, 2014
I.
and so it follows, I am the greater part
of all the sadness that proceeded
yet tonight reminds me about the things that are not
not at peace, not balanced, not present
II.
undesirable. not a criticism. a reflection.
three children, three women
three mothers, one sad man
undesirable. i miss long night love. the consistency of it.
the comfortable, unfamiliar
scent of skin embroidered on my skin.
my mother doesn’t know me
i travel to europe
my mother worries about me
i travel to amsterdam
my mother loves me
i remain true to my guiding principle:
remain true to yourself
III.
wherever i go, there i am
i am wherever i am, wherever i go
4/12/2014,7/6/2014
Transatlantic: Amsterdam, 2014: English to Dutch to English
I.
and so it follows, I am most of all the sadness that went tonight
makes me think about the things that are not
not on peace, not in balance, not present
II.
unwanted. not a criticism. a reflection.
three children, three women
three mothers, a sad man junk.
I miss the long night love. the consistency of the.
the comfortable, unknown smell of skin embroidered on my skin.
my mother did not know me
I travel to Europe
I trip to amsterdam
I am my mother my mother loves me
I stay true to my guiding principle: staying true to yourself
III.
wherever I go, there I am I am where I am, where I'm going
Translation: 7/12/2014
Transatlantic: Amsterdam, 2014
I.
and so it follows, I am the greater part
of all the sadness that proceeded
yet tonight reminds me about the things that are not
not at peace, not balanced, not present
II.
undesirable. not a criticism. a reflection.
three children, three women
three mothers, one sad man
undesirable. i miss long night love. the consistency of it.
the comfortable, unfamiliar
scent of skin embroidered on my skin.
my mother doesn’t know me
i travel to europe
my mother worries about me
i travel to amsterdam
my mother loves me
i remain true to my guiding principle:
remain true to yourself
III.
wherever i go, there i am
i am wherever i am, wherever i go
4/12/2014,7/6/2014
Transatlantic: Amsterdam, 2014: English to Dutch to English
I.
and so it follows, I am most of all the sadness that went tonight
makes me think about the things that are not
not on peace, not in balance, not present
II.
unwanted. not a criticism. a reflection.
three children, three women
three mothers, a sad man junk.
I miss the long night love. the consistency of the.
the comfortable, unknown smell of skin embroidered on my skin.
my mother did not know me
I travel to Europe
I trip to amsterdam
I am my mother my mother loves me
I stay true to my guiding principle: staying true to yourself
III.
wherever I go, there I am I am where I am, where I'm going
Translation: 7/12/2014
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Advice on Making Pearls
advice on making pearls
stop asking why you were chosen for the pain you feel.
you just were.
you are both blessed and cursed because of this.
who cares?
pray that you are chosen. revel in this. and
if you are happy and you know it…pray for some sadness.
it will do you good.
okay, so you like the shiny stuff. you like the value in it.
ask the oyster what it took to make that shiny stuff. ask the oyster
how it made that shiny stuff. convince the oyster that she is valuable because she can make that shiny stuff.
for you.
but if you say some *** like that, be prepared to run, because
that oyster will turn into a giant black man who is still pissed off about his ancestors who were stolen from Africa, then forced into slavery.
only to be reminded, (ad nauseum), by the sons (of b**es)
and daughters (of former slave owners)
how strong he and his people are.
forget that. we all have pain. ugly, festering, puss-filled pain.
and that’s just the beginning of the rainbow. if you mix that pain with some grit and wisdom and tears and incredulity and years and prayers and a few shouts of ‘i-will-not-die-here’
hell, you might be surprised --
that shiny stuff was always within you, too.
but once you create that shiny stuff, there is one final task.
get it out. i’ll say it again: get. it. out.
your value does not lie in holding the secret.
it lies in the sharing.
2/7/2014
stop asking why you were chosen for the pain you feel.
you just were.
you are both blessed and cursed because of this.
who cares?
pray that you are chosen. revel in this. and
if you are happy and you know it…pray for some sadness.
it will do you good.
okay, so you like the shiny stuff. you like the value in it.
ask the oyster what it took to make that shiny stuff. ask the oyster
how it made that shiny stuff. convince the oyster that she is valuable because she can make that shiny stuff.
for you.
but if you say some *** like that, be prepared to run, because
that oyster will turn into a giant black man who is still pissed off about his ancestors who were stolen from Africa, then forced into slavery.
only to be reminded, (ad nauseum), by the sons (of b**es)
and daughters (of former slave owners)
how strong he and his people are.
forget that. we all have pain. ugly, festering, puss-filled pain.
and that’s just the beginning of the rainbow. if you mix that pain with some grit and wisdom and tears and incredulity and years and prayers and a few shouts of ‘i-will-not-die-here’
hell, you might be surprised --
that shiny stuff was always within you, too.
but once you create that shiny stuff, there is one final task.
get it out. i’ll say it again: get. it. out.
your value does not lie in holding the secret.
it lies in the sharing.
2/7/2014
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
York, England: 2014
June 30 - July 1 2014
As I sat in a pub last night, I was reflecting on a realization that was brought to my attention during a journey I had in Amsterdam two years ago. I was watching the film, "Almost Famous" in my hotel room. There is this powerful scene in the movie, where one of the central characters, William Miller (played by Michael Angarano), is an aspiring, 15 year old writer for the Rolling Stone magazine. He is miles from home on a tour bus, (writing an article), with the musicians and crew of a fictional band called Stillwater. He feels disconnected and homesick. After a night where the band almost splits apart, William, sitting next to the adored Penny Lane (played by the lovely Kate Hudson), turns toward her, in a somewhat panicked state, and says, "I have to go home." Penny, with the wisdom of the Buddha, flashes her fingers before William's eyes, and says, "You are home."
As I finished that last paragraph, I re-watched the aforementioned scene. Again, it aroused me to tears. You are home. Never were truer words spoken. Home is where we are, for we are with ourselves wherever we travel. Both on my trip to Amsterdam and presently on this trip to York, this insight is apt to my current thoughts. I remind myself of this truth, especially when I am traveling alone.
Sitting in the pub, I started to write in one of my notebooks. I've been working on an essay about death. It's been quite an arduous task. I spend more time looking around, trying to find the right words, than I actually do in writing on paper. But then again, does not life hold the same veracity? Is not the struggle for brilliance, insight, or growth seemingly always greater than the outcome itself?
While surveying the room, I noticed, at a distance, the general pattern of the wallpaper that covered all three walls. Nothing brilliant about it (from a distance), but I was in the mood to inspect it further, closer. When I got close I was laughably stunned by the detailed art that contributed to the larger composition. It was sketches of randy behavior; tiny bodies and body parts were engaged in multiple acts of copulation and/or nudity. It was rather brilliantly disguised in the patterned wallpaper. The paper clothed the wall with nudity.
Sometimes the overall experience of this life appears drab, at best. We forget or ignore the fine details that give richness to the pattern. Days blend into days, weeks into weeks, years into years, until we are dead. How much more flushed would our lives be if we could, at times, appreciate the smaller composites that inflame our minutes and hours?
There is a balance between seeing the whole and inspecting the sum of its part. The key word, though, is balance. Art consistently reminds me of this weighted game. Last year in Prague, I had the opposite experience to the one that I enjoyed last night. I was in an art museum, too close to a painting I was viewing. It looked like mumble jumble of modern art. On my second trip, however, that same painting that disagreed with my senses upon first view penetrated me with a different interpretation. I stood at a greater distance, and saw the painting from a new perspective. I realized that I was too close the first time around. At close proximity, the details looked blurry and incoherent, almost senseless. On my revisit to that piece, two facts became clear: it was an Impressionistic piece, (not modern art), and the overall painting was gorged with ecstasy and pleasure. This was quite pleasurable to my senses.
The personal lessons from both my experiences above are clear: With one hand, I need to find pleasure and stimulation in the small details of my life, as I live it right now; the other hand must hold the panoramic lens that captures the entirety of my journey, not just the jumbled noise within confined spaces.
As I sat in a pub last night, I was reflecting on a realization that was brought to my attention during a journey I had in Amsterdam two years ago. I was watching the film, "Almost Famous" in my hotel room. There is this powerful scene in the movie, where one of the central characters, William Miller (played by Michael Angarano), is an aspiring, 15 year old writer for the Rolling Stone magazine. He is miles from home on a tour bus, (writing an article), with the musicians and crew of a fictional band called Stillwater. He feels disconnected and homesick. After a night where the band almost splits apart, William, sitting next to the adored Penny Lane (played by the lovely Kate Hudson), turns toward her, in a somewhat panicked state, and says, "I have to go home." Penny, with the wisdom of the Buddha, flashes her fingers before William's eyes, and says, "You are home."
As I finished that last paragraph, I re-watched the aforementioned scene. Again, it aroused me to tears. You are home. Never were truer words spoken. Home is where we are, for we are with ourselves wherever we travel. Both on my trip to Amsterdam and presently on this trip to York, this insight is apt to my current thoughts. I remind myself of this truth, especially when I am traveling alone.
Sitting in the pub, I started to write in one of my notebooks. I've been working on an essay about death. It's been quite an arduous task. I spend more time looking around, trying to find the right words, than I actually do in writing on paper. But then again, does not life hold the same veracity? Is not the struggle for brilliance, insight, or growth seemingly always greater than the outcome itself?
While surveying the room, I noticed, at a distance, the general pattern of the wallpaper that covered all three walls. Nothing brilliant about it (from a distance), but I was in the mood to inspect it further, closer. When I got close I was laughably stunned by the detailed art that contributed to the larger composition. It was sketches of randy behavior; tiny bodies and body parts were engaged in multiple acts of copulation and/or nudity. It was rather brilliantly disguised in the patterned wallpaper. The paper clothed the wall with nudity.
Sometimes the overall experience of this life appears drab, at best. We forget or ignore the fine details that give richness to the pattern. Days blend into days, weeks into weeks, years into years, until we are dead. How much more flushed would our lives be if we could, at times, appreciate the smaller composites that inflame our minutes and hours?
There is a balance between seeing the whole and inspecting the sum of its part. The key word, though, is balance. Art consistently reminds me of this weighted game. Last year in Prague, I had the opposite experience to the one that I enjoyed last night. I was in an art museum, too close to a painting I was viewing. It looked like mumble jumble of modern art. On my second trip, however, that same painting that disagreed with my senses upon first view penetrated me with a different interpretation. I stood at a greater distance, and saw the painting from a new perspective. I realized that I was too close the first time around. At close proximity, the details looked blurry and incoherent, almost senseless. On my revisit to that piece, two facts became clear: it was an Impressionistic piece, (not modern art), and the overall painting was gorged with ecstasy and pleasure. This was quite pleasurable to my senses.
The personal lessons from both my experiences above are clear: With one hand, I need to find pleasure and stimulation in the small details of my life, as I live it right now; the other hand must hold the panoramic lens that captures the entirety of my journey, not just the jumbled noise within confined spaces.
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