The Bed

Soundtrack

Part Two

“Now close your eyes, look into your hand

What do you see?

Life is our song to give and learn to take

Time will not wait

Oh won’t you please come dance

While the song’s still playing

Won't be long till the silence falls”

(It’s Not A Song, Amy Grant 1985)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VuIgy1NHaWk

            My love for both Amy Grant and her music is my longest relationship with any woman outside of my family. She has been part of my life since I first heard her sing “Giggle” back in 1977. For a few years, my appreciation of her sound evolved along with her style and presentation. When she released “Age to Age” in 1980, I fell completely and unconditionally in love with the entire package. It was the meaning that spoke most to me. It has been over forty years and I still sense every heartbeat. Everything changed when I discovered Amy. Every project she manifested seemed to flow in parallel with my life at the time. It was like she played in the under, a cornerstone of Christian ideals and New Age ecumenicalism. To this day she continues to release new music, music which still plays like it is the soundtrack to my life. I find something in every lyric, in all the phraseology, in the musical bed that plays underneath my chaos. I have never met her and I probably never will. If the occasion just so happened, I would really only have “Thank You” to say. Words could not express. She is tied into my history. Sometimes, she was my history. Every song, and I do mean every song, has been imprinted in my heart and my soul. I know every word. The three times I have seen her in concert were Canadian tour dates. I have almost every song she ever recorded on CD or MP3. I have her book “Mosaic.”  I even have a gem mint copy of her on the cover of Marvel Comic’s Doctor Strange issue 15. I actually own a hard copy of all her videos. I have two certified autographs and the 1994 poster of House of Love. For years, I always knew she was more for me than against me. It’s not been easy for her to be pro-LGBTQ. She encouraged me to think it would all be okay if we just come “out in the open.”  It’s not just that she speaks to me, it seems that she sings to me. 

“For the sake of never making waves

I kept my secrets to myself

And no one ever really knew the

Darker shadows of my heart

But I will be a witness

That there’s nothing in me dark enough

The power of forgiveness

Cannot rescue from the deep”

(Out in the Open, Amy Grant 2003)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qS8Qln5mwaQ

            It was my first day of music class, back in grade 6. Without warning, we were forced to pick the musical instrument we would be playing, they told us, for the rest of our lives. This was the string section. The violin was too classy for me. The viola is too squeaky. The cello had already been chosen by my sister. So I stood beside a grandfather bass, ready to learn how to play it. One of the Smothers Brothers stood with his. I had never really given much thought to playing anything. I took piano lessons for a year when I was even younger but they never took. From Elementary school, all the way to High School graduation, I held my trusty friend. Sometimes I found it easier to hide behind it. I also took voice lessons for a few years during this time. Needless to say, I have an extensive background in music theory and music history. The same class that trained me on bass, also introduced me to Classical music. At first it seemed so foreign, almost alien to me. Where the hell were all the words? It turned out to be like eating a Tootsie Pop. You lick and lick and lick until you get to the centre. The reward is in the flavour.

           Over time I fell in love with Classical music. I now hold a greater passion for it. It is the main genre I choose to listen to on the radio, especially when I am driving in heavy traffic. It soothes this savage beast. I also took trumpet and saxophone while attending Strathroy District Collegiate Institute, although for much shorter amounts of time. I wanted to play the bass. I wanted to listen to anything like it. It was Mozart who first struck gold.  His Symphony No. 40 in G minor captured me the moment I heard it. The Piano Concerto 21, also by Amadeus, cemented my appreciation and loyalty to the brand. Classical music had become like an otherland for me. I can escape there, into aesthetic sounds and pleasant ideas. Again, it soothes this savage beast. Whether Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Holst’s The Planets or even Beethoven, Handel, Brahms and Bach, Classical music is an agreeable music bed for a life well lived. If you’re looking for a soundtrack for solace and comfort and ease, turn on 96.3, The New Classical FM out of Toronto, Canada. It is available online and offers “beautiful music for a crazy world.”

“Today I found myself

After searching all these years

And the man that I saw

He wasn’t at all who I thought he’d be

I was lost when you found me here

And I was broken beyond repair

Then you came along

And you sang your song over me”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4m_dP2n-5W8

            I don’t listen to popular music, Country music or even Alternative music. I get samples here and there from other people’s choices but I don’t seek out any other form of music besides Gospel and Classical. I listen to Christian music. When I need more than just Mozart, I turn to Amy Grant, The Afters, Michael English and Plumb. Bands like Third Day, Sanctus Real and even Diamond Rio only add to the spiritual mix that finds me wanting. Sometimes it can seem as if the very voice of God is reaching out to touch me through these songs. It’s not some message of salvation or a moral treatise that draws my attention. It’s the feeling I get when I hear people sing about God’s love and faithfulness. They can send me to reeling. At one point, many years ago, it was John Denver that held me captive. In the late 1980s, it was Country music that soothed this weary soul. Ever since the death of my first partner in 1995, other Christian artists beside Amy have filtered into my world and my mind and my being. I am lost inside each one, always wishing that God really worked that way. Always hoping the words and the melody could bring me closer to the peace that passes all understanding. In the 1970s and early 1980s, my mother listened to Christian artists like Evie Karllson and Keith Green. I discovered Petra along the way and the foundation for my current focus was laid in those notes of gold. I have to admit, sometimes hearing folks go on and on about worshipping “The Lord” can seem rather repugnant to me. There are times when hearing about Jesus’ love for me does not ring true. Still, always lying beneath it all is the message of acceptance and forgiveness. I feel hope when I tune into the power. Christian music has become like a soundtrack to my spirituality. It is a door to the other side of living. It lies there like a spirit would.   

“So I say

Thank you for the music, the songs I’m singing

Thanks for all the joy they’re bringing

Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty

What would life be?

Without a song or a dance what are we?

So I say thank you for the music

For giving it to me”

(Thank You for the Music, Abba 1977)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0dcbw4IEY5w

            The truth is there are not many forms of music I don’t at least appreciate. I like Incubus as much as I like Matthew West. Abba and One Republic may not have much in common but the years separating them mean little to the symphony that plays constantly in my head. Good is good, if you know what I mean. It’s not often that I tire of the sounds. Sometimes it can seem like a cacophony, song after song playing over and over again in my head. Most times, it flows all together like strawberries and cream. The uniqueness of my experience with music is not that different from other people’s. I think the artists change but the message lingers just the same. I am never surprised when the music touches me negatively. Sometimes remembering something through a song is not the road to travel. With the wrong choice, you can fall back into the place you were when you first heard that melody. Music summons, and not always in a productive way. Even the pain is part of the mosaic, the underlying bed of emotions that sings out loud and strong. It is also silent and calm. It is everything and yet nothing at all. The days of heading to a record store have almost faded into dust. The Internet, streaming and YouTube have all claimed a place in the universe known as music. The radio station in my head is full from each of them. Each song in my heart, goes on and on. It’s a comforting thing to know I have connections with my history through music. Sometimes I can hear them all playing underneath it all, the mix comes to a crescendo and I just happen to sing along. I like Madonna and Rihanna and Adele. I’m not much for Beyonce or Gaga. I like Bruno Mars and Keith Urban but I am not much for Sam Smith or Justin Beiber. I have an eclectic collection stored up in my noggin. It plays like any music bed would. It dances. It lingers. It makes me feel alive and I thank God for it.

“A musical bed is a songwriting-composition term used in music production. A musical bed consists of the bottom layers of tracks consisting of bass, drums, the main harmonic progression with chordal instruments like guitars or keyboards, and other musical effects, usually created by a music producer. The musical bed is then given to an artist to compose the melody and lyrics on top. The musical bed is like the foundation of a song and its creator receives writing credit and royalties, the finished song cannot be licensed without permission from all who created the song.”

  

Photos

http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/montreal/montreal-orchestra-octobass-1.3810990

Sources

https://www.quora.com/What-is-the-meaning-of-a-musical-bed-in-music

Soundtrack

“It’s not a song till it touches your heart

It’s not a song till it tears you apart

After what’s left of what’s right and what’s wrong

Till it gets through to you

It’s not a song.”

(It’s Not A Song, Amy Grant 1985)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VuIgy1NHaWk

            Music has this way of creeping up on you. It can play like it is the soundtrack to your life. We can travel with it if we care to pay attention. It seems we have no choice but to let the music play. Almost every event in our lives is accompanied by this song or that song. When we look back, those songs play in our head, over and over again. We associate our lives with the euphony. There plays a symphony, a melody, a parade of note after note. Some love you like a love song, others scream like it’s a hard song. Some tell a story while some just linger, both ever associated with one thing after another. We collect each tune like comic books or silver spoons. Each song we encounter takes its place on the list. When we close our eyes and focus, we can hear them. Sometimes they flow in the background, a subtle reminder that, at times, the brain really is little more than a cerebral version of YouTube. Some are fierce, their volume is often more than you can handle. Just let that music play. As life goes on and our collection grows and grows, so too does the affiliation. I got into Radio Broadcasting for just that reason. Songs become our friend, we rely on them in the end. I think music is as important to our lives as the lessons that we learn. Everything has an underscore. Every note of music is more like God humming along than anything else.  

 “Everybody finds somebody someplace

There’s no telling where love may appear

Something in my heart keeps saying

My someplace is here”

(Everybody Loves Somebody, Dean Martin 1964)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z-2_OstpR5c

            I remember it like it was yesterday. The first time I actually recognized music for what it is stands out as one of my strongest memories of my childhood. My father and I were both working in the basement, it was just the two of us. I can see the turntable, sitting on a small table just inside the rec room door. I can see my father switch it on, reaching for an LP jacket and then he quickly removed the black disc from within. I thought to myself that it would make a grand Frisbee or a ninja weapon, whichever. He placed it on the playing pad, engaged a button or lever, then walked away as the song began to play. I can still hear that singing in my head. My father has always liked the older stuff. At the time, most of his listening pleasure was new stuff. Charlie Pride, Waylon Jennings and even Dean Martin all mixed in some cacophony, a blaze of scales and vocals and performance anxiety. As “Everybody Loves Somebody” played in the foreground, I first joined into the singing. This memory is strong within me. I have to admit that the idea of a Dean Martin song left me confused. No country backbeat, no mandolin or banjo reached out to greet me. I believe it was the Tin Pan Alley sound that most garnered my attention. It was an introduction to music outside my listening pleasure. I’d heard the sounds before but this time I noticed. My Mom only added to the mix. The Mamas and the Papas, John Denver and Judy Collins danced with George Jones, Charlie Rich and Dolly Parton. These variables well blended, leading me, I dare say, to appreciate much more than a mere artist. It was the sound that attracted me the most, although the lyrics always paced close behind in the running. When I stop to think about it, Dean Martin and that silly song helped to begin my musical definition. The song has become a touchstone of sorts, despite the fact that I just cannot stand it. It did me well at the time. Any future orchestrations would consist of the same concoctions, a potpourri of varying styles, and motifs and genre. My tastes are quite diverse, just as experience has taught them to be. It can be heartwarming, almost comforting, to see how it all began for me. It is better to just listen, to let the soundtrack lead the way. The music has a way of telling the story for you.

“High on a hill was a lonely goatherd

Lay odl lay odl lay hee hoo

Loud was the voice of the lonely goatherd

Lay odl lay odl loo

Folks in a town that was quite remote heard

Lay odl lay odl lay hee hoo

Lusty and clear from the goatherd’s throat heard

Lay odl lay odl loo”

(The Lonely Goatherd, The Sound of Music Soundtrack 1965)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=za7dAJtYXwo

            I have to admit that as a homosexual, I find it awkward to like something that is stereotypically gay. I don’t care if people know I am but sometimes I don’t necessarily want to be associated with certain behaviours. I am a little embarrassed to admit that my greatest musical influence came quickly after Deano. I discovered the LP mixed in with my mother’s musical treasures. The soundtrack to “The Sound of Music” remains one of my favourite exposures. Most of the mid-70s found me dancing around the living room thinking I was a “lonely goatherd.” I abducted it, took it to one of my hiding places, then signed the front cover so everybody knew. My Mom just let me have it. I still have it to this day, name and all. It hangs safely, on a wall, deep in the basement. I have another copy of the same LP, for my listening pleasure. The original is not in mint condition like the newer. Few things rarely are when you use them like I did. The music still plays well but the sleeves are withered and browned with age. The 1965 album has decayed right along with me. We share the same birth year, yet have other things in common.  I am also worn and ragged. My edges have softened and my spine has frayed and faltered. I look older and I sound older. Unfortunately, I would assume for some, I still work as well. I do not hang on the wall like my old friend does. I am not worth more now than I have ever been.  I am always affected. No matter how much times passes. No matter the melodies that came before and since, “my heart wants to sing every song it hears.”

“Do you get

What you’re hoping for

When you look behind you

There’s no open door

What are you hoping for?

Do you know?”

(Do You Know Where You’re Going To, Mahogany Soundtrack 1975)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3DnxTvqOe-I

            If I wasn’t listening to Julie Andrews, I was listening to radio CFTR-AM out of Toronto, Canada. It was very much a Top 40 station, even before that term became all the rage in the 1980s. I would lie in bed listening for hours, absorbing each song as if it were my very own. I had never before purchased any form of music but when I first heard that song, I knew I had to have it. I had old 45s my brothers no longer used. I had LPs my mother or father had given me. I had a nice little collection for a 10 year old. When I initially engaged with the song, the sensitive child in me took over. I cried just a little when I heard her let it go. Still, I have never really appreciated the talents of Diana Ross. I’m not sure that in hindsight she had many to speak of. I was not a fan and, for the most part, I still am not. It was just the one song. With the theatrical release of Mahogany in 1975, came the radio release of “Do You Know Where You’re Going To,” in the fall of that year. It was a chilly and windy day when I grabbed my stash and headed out to find heaven. There was a loose baseboard at the top of the stairs. It moved just enough so that I could conceal my stash behind it, for no one else to know. I hid it in plain sight so no one else would see. One time, my Dad re-secured that loose board and I had to get a hammer for access to the $14.54 hidden just behind it. I would have stored my comic book collection there but there was no way they would fit. Even as a child, an exorbitant amount of my time and money was spent in the pursuit of comic book after comic book. The song itself motivated me out of the little otherland that I zoomed around in. I walked into the record shop, the one right behind the Dominion grocery store where my parents shopped. I walked in, spotted the section I was after, and I fell upon a new love.  I felt much glee, it was almost the same feeling I got when I discovered a new issue of the X-Men or the Avengers. I headed towards the checkout and had to stop myself from skipping. For the first time, I plopped down my cold hard cash for my very first 45. It was something other than a comic book (or candy). It was rare for me to spend my money on anything but comic books but when I first discovered the song, I was swept away. I remember how I felt such hope in the words and melody. It fit right in with my world at the time and seemed like destiny to my 10 year old reality. It was played over and over and not just up in my head. This was my first tactile experience with actually acquiring music. The 70 cents I paid seemed outlandish to me then. Music has evolved as the second-most collected item in my home. If only I could go back and reclaim my guiltless and unobstructed nature the way you can with music. We all know, deep down, we cannot. I still hear the music. I guess that underneath it all, she is still singing. I was quite innocent when the lady first sang the blues.               

“You got your passion

You got your pride

But don’t you know that

Only fools are satisfied?

Dream on

But don’t imagine they’ll all come true

When will you realize

Vienna waits for you?”

(Vienna, Billy Joel 1977)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wccRif2DaGs

            I assume that most people under 30 years of age don’t know what an 8-track player is. I will not get into the details other than to say they still exist in retro and the albums are like giant cartridges you almost have to slam into a large dock. My brother’s room was a bastion, a citadel of access. It was there that much of the music I craved dwelt. It was an otherland of LPs and 45s and the much exalted 8-track. It was a giant room of music to me, large and very forbidden. It was full of those songs which I could not afford. I used to wait until my brothers would leave then sneak through their collections, listening here and there or almost anywhere. I discovered the new album where it had not been before. I had no idea who the artist was or what they sounded like. I just liked the title of the piece, The Stranger. Although Billy Joel has become a staple in my musical universe, at the time I was a virgin. I listened to that album so many times that I can still sing every note, every word without pause. I bought a copy a few years later, on the standard cartridge that was so vogue in the 1980s and 90s. When I finally switched over to CDs in 1994, The Stranger was the first purchase I made.  It remains one of the top 5 albums of my all time. I still play it often, sometimes weekly, especially if I am heading off somewhere in the car. My favourite track from the work is “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant.”  This was not always the case. I used to play and favour “Only the Good Die Young” but I lived with my family back then and my mother banished the song from being played in her home. I played it anyway, cursed from above as she screamed down the stairs at me. It was written as if the perfect accompaniment to my life, and still is to this day. There is something to be said about being able to go to “Vienna” anytime I wish or sitting in the front window of some place with Brenda and Eddy. There are times when I actually hear these songs like they are some music bed in my head. They play as I do. Throughout the late 1970s and early 1980s, I rarely favoured any male artist as much.

“No one compares

You stand alone

To every record I own

Music to my heart, that’s what you are

A song that goes on and on”

( Love You Like A Love Song, Selena Gomez & The Scene 2011)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EgT_us6AsDg

            My life has been like my taste in music. It is diverse, eclectic and, at times, very expensive. A mix of Tin Pan Alley, Country, Pop and Gospel, all rest with me still, even if only for a moment or two. My tastes have changed over the years. I no longer chase the meaning of a song, I just let it resonate with me. I have to admit, if not for radio I would barely venture outside my current tendencies. I find most forms of modern music nothing but noise with a catchy beat. In 2011, Selena Gomez released “Love You Like A Love Song.” I still love this ditty. It is the last contemporary hit that I even garnered with attention. It played like a theme song for me. So I sit with my old songs and some new songs and the songs I have carried with me. If I lined them all up, they would be one huge soundtrack to go along with my days and nights and everything in between. Along the way, my musical universe varied as I added new talent, as I discovered new songs. Artists like Lionel Ritchie come, then go. You try it, then you move past it and keep on running. Sometimes exposure shifts things, and it is like being given a new song. Everything evolved when I discovered Amy Grant.

Photos

http://www.tourisme-montreal.org/meetings/2016/01/28/songs/  

https://www.amazon.com/Everybody-Loves-Somebody-Dean-Martin/dp/B00I5XHLE2

https://eil.com/shop/moreinfo.asp?catalogid=386178

http://images.45cat.com/diana-ross-theme-from-mahogany-do-you-know-where-youre-going-to-tamla-motown-2.jpg

https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/the-stranger/158617952

http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/File:Selena_Gomez_%26_The_Scene_-_Love_You_Like_A_Love_Song.jpg

Touchstones

            A touchstone is a reference point against which things can be evaluated. It is an ideal by which something may be measured. It is a measure by which we can assess and then discern. Touchstones are a “standard or criterion by which something is judged or recognized.” A touchstone can be an object of significance. Whether a memento, a pet, or even the dead , a touchstone is an acknowledgment, sometimes a memory. A touchstone can be a significant other, a person you believe completes you and makes you whole. Ideally, this person comes without criticism and judgements. They love unconditionally and hold great importance. We turn to our touchstones when we need them the most. We rely on them to ground us, to bring us back to reality even in the midst of great chaos. Some of my greatest touchstones are not just people or places. Physical objects in of themselves hold much meaning. I think we all have little trinkets and keepsakes that we give not only great sentimental value but they act as a touchstone, a way to treasure or fear, depending on your state of mind. Like a cherished old sweater or a picture of your mother, these connections bring us back to a place and a time without having to venture there ourselves. They act not only as a reminder but also as an escape of sorts, an otherland of objectification. We feel them. We see them. We know just what they are and why they are with us. Almost literally, noting each is like touching a stone. They can act like old friends if you let them, a safe harbour on a sea of despair. .

            I cannot remember life without it. All these years have passed and it is still with me. It is one of my first memories. I remember spotting it on the corner cabinet in our living room when I was six. It sat there for years. When we moved from Toronto to Strathroy in 1976, that tin was delegated to a secondary position. The top of our kitchen cabinets would have to do, I supposed. Eventually, I just asked my mom if I could have it and she surprisingly said yes. In hindsight, I think she knew that I would keep it and care for it and hold it to myself. I have many family treasures in my possession for exactly that reason. The tin itself is nothing to speak of. It still holds its shape and most of the illustrations, but it is dented and aged and worn from the life it has passed through. It had looked like that long before it came to me. The ravages of five children clearly shows on its skin. There have been no new dents or scratches since I claimed it from my Mother over thirty years ago. It was once ornate and polished but time and those children have managed to dim and ding the newness away. It is an oriental, eight sided tin with a brass handled top. I treat it like it is worth as much as anything else in my home. It is prominent in the room regardless of its appearance. It is a treasure, a touchstone for me. I don’t have to literally touch it to remember all those years I have held it as my own. It is connected to my childhood and my mother and it represents both at completely the same time. When I miss her, I can caress that silly little tin, almost as if it was a gravestone or burial marker. I could not cherish anything more.

            Emma and Abby met on the first day of kindergarten. They became fast friends and travelled through their youth together. No one could have been closer. No one could have been more connected. At least, that is what their youth told them was the truth. More sisters than best friends, the two shared years together. For Emma, no one mattered more. As an only child she had wanted a sibling but Abby was more than she could ever ask for. They were kindred spirits. For Abby, her pal gave her refuge and sanity in a world that was not so friendly. Em was an escape from the ravages of abuse.  Whenever she needed to run, whenever she ran, it was always to her bestest friend. There was sanctuary since the day that they met. High school was a experiment in torture. Both girls we not on the top of the popular list. This only strengthened the commitment they had to one another. They joined clubs together and attended social events in spite of the poor reception. They would laugh and then they would laugh some more. There was nothing sweeter than the time they spent together. Eventually, all good things come to an end. After graduation, Emma moved to Montreal to attend Concordia University in pursuit of a Nursing degree. Abby finally found emancipation in New York City. Columbia University offered Film and Media Studies. The day they parted was not a big deal. They could text, they could chat, they could email. They was no real reason not to stay connected. Time surprises everyone it seems. The distance and work load made it difficult for the friends to stay in touch with each other. Eventually, the relationship eroded and slowly faded away. Both women got married and had children. Neither was present for the other’s wedding. They had no clue of anything in the other person’s life. They might as well have been strangers. News spread of Emma’s battle and soon Abby became aware of her friend’s new struggle. Abby knew Emma had once been there to comfort her when the world around her fell apart. It was Abby’s turn now. She left her family and her life and headed home to be with her champion. When she walked into the hospital room, she could see the fighting on her old friend’s face. No words were required. In fact, it was like nothing had happened, like no time at all had passed away. All night long they sat together, playing cards and laughing again. Emma gained much comfort from the visit. It grounded things for her. This was her touchstone. It was well into dawn before the darkness came.

            

            I was born and raised in Toronto, so when my first partner and I moved there in the spring of 1994, I fell back into heaven. You can go home again. For seven months we lived in the Kensington Market area, just minutes from the downtown core. The CN Tower was a neighbour and Lake Ontario was just down the street. When life got complicated, or when the money ran out, we would take our miniature television set and head down to the Skydome. While Doug listened to the baseball game, I would toss bread up for the seagulls to catch. It was an easy time, these moments I remember. I can still see him sitting on a grassy knoll, volume turned up and not a care in world. At least, that’s how things looked at the time. I could not foresee the darkness brewing within him. I am glad to have these memories to remind me. Things were good between us, most of the time. Every time I have stood at the base of the CN Tower since then, I can hear the gulls calling and the Blue Jays squawking. I am with him and he is with me. I do not mind a journey through this otherland. It is a pleasant standard by which I judge all of my memories of him. I don’t even need to actually be there to visit. That miniature television set, antenna and all, still rests in my home like it always has. I am not sure if it even works anymore but I have it. I am lucky to have two interconnected touchstones, both a place and an object. One has granted easy access while the other requires some effort. In 2014, my partner Ben and I travelled to this familiar place. I had not been there in years and it clearly had a new tenant. The Ripley’s Aquarium of Canada opened earlier that year and it sits just feet to the west of the CN Tower’s base. Yes, I could still feed the birds if I wanted and the grassy knoll sits just as it did before. It’s now a crowed space, however, and the foot traffic is severe. I don’t suppose I could recreate those moments. I could try but there really is no sense. I have both touchstones to measure my world against. Whether I am standing face to face with 553 metres of concrete or holding a broken down piece of technological history, I am at once in a happy place. It’s nice to have things that make you go there.

            When my first partner died I was left with little choice. I tried to give up only to have to go on without him anyway. It was humbling to experience such darkness, such gloom. Out of nowhere there came a glimmer of light. I met Rob and Brenda when I returned to the United Church my family attended. I reverted to Christianity out of fear and hopelessness and despair. I was crying out and somehow thought if I was actually part of a community, I could find more strength to carry on. With that community came my new friends. The married couple were only a few years older than me. They came with a young son and lived on the far side of Strathroy. For a few years we made much history. We studied together, sang together, we ate and laughed and shared together. During that time, the couple visited Israel. I would have loved to go with them but they never asked. Rob waited until Christmas to give it to  me. The polished cedar box came with Hebrew markings on a simple wood background. The lid was to shape. Inside, tiny scrolls of Hebrew writings wrapped themselves around  a rather plain and uninspiring stone. I had no idea that Rob had grabbed a piece of the Wailing Wall for me. He hid it well and brought it back, just for me. I still have that tiny morsel from the Holy Land.  Although, I haven’t seen either Rob or Brenda for years, I often look back on that time with good thoughts. We just faded away from each other. Some people come into our lives not to stay but to serve a purpose then leave. At the time, I had just come out of the closet and in so doing lost almost all of my friends. Brenda and Rob were hope when all seemed lost. Their friendship was a pleasant distraction from the reality that I faced.  If I am looking for an example of hopefulness, I always find it in that small cedar box, sitting on my television stand with all the other little extras.

            I have many mementos that I cling to for a sense of what once was and what might well have been. For example, the two collars once warn by our two dead dogs hang about for all the world to see. One even dangles from the rear view mirror of our car. My Dad’s fireman badge, sits in glass and safety. His picture, in uniform, rests beside the silver pin. I have pictures of my mother, and my first partner, and cuttings from the hair of each. I have people that I turn to in times of crisis. Some of those people I even turn to on better days. I have places I can visit when I am looking for any sign of that often elusive peace. I have many things in my life that act as a touchstone. The security they bring me may be artificial but its better than nothing, that’s for sure. Anything that acts in such a capacity, is good for the soul. We need to touch base sometimes. We need to feel the connection we once had with something. A touchstone can be a great source for reconnecting,  reconnection with the past as well as our own place within it. We hug our touchstones. We hold them dear. We use them to measure the things we hold near. In the end, the only thing a touchstone does is activate whatever rests within each person. All that we call upon is already there. Sometimes we just need something to tweak us, to awaken that part of us. This is what a touchstone is for.

Photo

http://www.awakeninghealingarts.com/black-zen-stones/

           

The Old Tin Can

Paris, Ontario

March 2018

https://www.northwesternmutual.com/life-and-money/the-financial-steps-to-take-after-a-loved-one-dies/

http://urbantoronto.ca/news/2011/08/ripleys-aquarium-canada-holds-potential

Just another piece of the Wall

Paris, Ontario

March 2018

https://www.um.edu.mt/newspoint/noticeboard/notices/2017/11/touchingbase

Sources

https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/touchstone

Moonbeams

“Would you like to swing on a star?

Carry moonbeams home in a jar?

And be better off than you are?

Or would you rather be a mule?”

            The ability to learn is the most important part of being human. It is inherent, built into our framework. If you do not learn, you are destined to repeat. For those who wallow in their own crapulence, life does the same. The reality is that the process of life is nothing more than a learning curve, and then you die. If there wasn’t teaching, and studying, and recognition, there would be no growth, no change and no evolution. Life would be static and seemingly unmoveable. Some people are born limited. They struggle with their own ignorance regardless of how many years of education any one person might have acquired. Higher learning requires one to actually learn. Some people remain as simple as a woodchuck. An education does not automatically negate the lasting effects on those stupefied by the very act of their genetics. You cannot be a little bit pregnant. Sometimes it comes right down to stupid is as stupid does. I should polish up my political correctness. I could choose my words with moderation. This would not take away from the fact that some people just don’t have a clue.

“A mule is an animal with long, funny ears

He kicks up at anything he hears

His back is brawny and his brain is weak

He’s just plain stupid with a stubborn streak

And, by the way, if you hate to go to school

You may grow up to be a mule”

            He was stunning and I appreciated that. While I was security on one side, he was bartender on the other. We became friends, at least in a casual sense. He sure was pretty. His solid muscular body, his very handsome face and his general demeanour made him the star attraction in many a gay man’s night. Management was right to put him behind the bar. Sex sells, after all. The entire package of him was what another co-worker called rather “yummy.” I agreed with her completely. Good always comes with the not so good. There is always a price to pay. James was dumber than a tree knot. We had to explain to him how ice was made. He could mix drinks for 10 people, all at the same time, but he couldn’t manage to put his shoes on the right feet. I am unsure if James was aware of his limitations. He struck me as the sort of man who didn’t stop to do anything but brush his teeth. He was shallow and I am sure not only because he was vain. It was like talking to an empty vessel. He was 26, at the time, and he somehow managed to get through a quarter century of existence. You would think that journey might have rubbed off on him. In the end, he was a dull light bulb ready to be changed. He only lasted a few months then the exhibit closed for good. He was gone but so was his beauty. He didn’t leave because he found another job. He didn’t leave to improve himself with an education or training in an apprenticeship. James, an innocent child it seems, left because he was afraid that by working in a gay bar, the gay would rub off on him. I asked him when he shared his fate, “Aren’t you gay?” He replied from outer space, from his otherland.

“Or would you like to swing on a star?

Carry moonbeams home in a jar?

And be better off than you are?

Or would you rather be a pig?

A pig is an animal with dirt on his face

His shoes are a terrible disgrace

He’s got no manners when he eats his food

He’s fat and lazy and extremely rude

But if you don’t care a feather or a fig

You may grow up to be a pig”

            Without some semblance of decorum, we are nothing but animals.  Tell that to my late friend Tammy. She died a few years ago yet somehow the odour remains. She was a hoarder, and a rather dirty one at that. For the 20 years that I knew her, I rarely ever went over to her place. She was embarrassed, humiliated and yet did nothing to rectify the situation. Her home was a pigsty. I have known several other hoarders, including a family member, and their chaos was nothing compared to Tammy’s. It wasn’t just too much furniture, too much stuff. Garbage and filth were everywhere. It got worse every time I climbed over what used to be her living room. At least she didn’t seem to collect her own feces or urine, although I could never be sure what laid under all those piles of debris. I am not sure why I never said anything to her about her quality of living. I suppose, in a clear sense, I was just as embarrassed for her as she was for herself. It was heartbreaking to venture into her world. I never knew what might crawl out of the piles of trash that literally littered the place. At one visit, I thought the floor was moving but it was only a combination of ants and roaches that tricked my senses. The longer her rampage went on, the harder it was to breathe in her place. I suppose the black mould on almost every wall was the culprit. Eventually, any invitation I had to return to the scene met with distance and excuses and disinterest. I still cared for my friend but I could not just keep going, condoning her behaviour and her lifestyle. She definitely needed the help I could not give. Even if she had a mental condition that caused the behaviour, she had other options besides ruminating in her own mess. She had no shame, no sense of pride. I’m not sure if this detachment was the problem or if she was. All I know is that her death was just as messy as her life had been. Her body, like her kitchen floor, filled with foreign invaders. Cancer still grows in a crowded house.

“Or would you like to swing on a star?

Carry moonbeams home in a jar?

And be better off than you are?

Or would you rather be a fish?

A fish won’t do anything but swim in a brook

He can’t write his name or read a book

To fool all the people is his only thought

Though he’s slippery, he still gets caught

But then if that sort of life is what you wish

You may grow up to be a fish

A new kind of jumped-up slippery fish”

            Every word out of his mouth was a complete fabrication. He was a falsehood, even to himself. Throughout the last decade I knew him, he managed to create one drama after another. Always trying, it seemed, to weave something out of nothing. I never really understood to what end. I had no idea why a person would need to do that. Any deduction I made was irrelevant. I could not believe a word that came out of his mouth. One day he had a disease and the next he was getting married. He won money then lost it the very same day. Someone got hurt. Someone always got hurt. Every day of contact with him seemed riddled with bullshit. This happened or that happened, all the while his claims of suffering fell upon deaf ears. I have lost contact with him over the years. The truth is, it was a conscious choice not to continue to associate with him. There can be no relationship without trust. I do not trust him, not in the least. Everybody lies. It matters little whether you care to admit just that, we all do it. There is something to be said for moderation. My old friend did not seem to understand the simplicity of the term. When people believe you are a liar, it doesn’t matter what  you say or what you do, there will always be that absence. I remember one incident, while I was still in contact with him, when he claimed to have had surgery. Of course, it was quite serious but he managed to get home at the end of that day. There were no scars, no bandages, no anything but a million excuses and a million more reasons. It’s hard to have faith in someone who doesn’t seem to understand the meaning of truth and honesty. At least, I try not to make it a personal priority to fill the air with nothing but prevarications. I’m not above a good lie here and there, but when it’s all you give, it’s all you get.

“And all the monkeys aren’t in a zoo

Every day you meet quite a few

So you see, it’s all up to you

You can be better than you are

You could be swingin’ on a star”

(Swinging On A Star, Bing Crosby 1944)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9CDs067081E

            I don’t believe in fate or serendipity. God’s Will is all good and well but I doubt very much that the idea is anything more than just that. While I do not entertain notions like destiny and “meant to be,” I do believe there are lessons implanted throughout our lives, lessons we must learn or face repeating. This is why learning is so very important for a person who wishes to move past their own folly. If we don’t learn then we don’t move forward, we don’t evolve and we become stagnant. Some people like to rummage around in their lives. Staying in the same place is comfortable and easy. It takes no effort at all. You can always do better. If you are stupid, study. If you are dirty, take a bath. If no one believes you, try the truth. Regardless of our limitations, each one of us has choices and those choices will dictate who we will turn out to be.

Photo

https://www.pinterest.ca/cherylc1970/vintage-goodies/

Ichlosigkeit

“What we give is all we have.

How we love is what will last.

And this hope we know will carry us through

We can’t own it

We just get to hold it for a while.

This Life.

We can’t keep it

Or save it for another time.

This Life.”

(This Life, The Afters 2015)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F0B9P2tW9hg

            Death has a strange effect on people. It can turn the most powerful and confident soul into a puddle of weep at the bottom of a bucket. It can change people, either in the short term or in the long term. Often, it does nothing of the sort. For brief amounts of time, mourners become someone they are not but this state is not real. People who had not bothered with the deceased become contrite, acting and speaking in ways so foreign just a day before. I’m not sure if it’s all just artificial or somehow that something within, those parts of you still human, cry out when there is really no need for you to do so. I have always believed you can tell those actually grieving by their silence. Most who cry out and scream out and lash out don’t really strike me as sincere. Grief brought on by death is usually met with sorrow but it is the truly saddened who withdraw into themselves. This kind of pain is often too hard to handle, too fierce to face. The screaming banshees who make great claims towards the dead are merely playing it up on a stage designed specially for fools. Death doesn’t really bring us closer to the ones we love. Death brings out the truth. It draws you in but it is guilt and remorse and regret that change things up, if only for a day or two.  Those feelings, in most cases, are not maintained. Loss is something that affects each of us differently, we all feel the same things but we react in a unique manner, exclusive to us and us alone. Our emotions inflame, our reactions filtered through our feelings rather than our logical state. We rant and rave, trying desperately to validate what we have said and done in the past. Sometimes it is all about what we have not done.

            My maternal grandmother was a fucking bitch. She not only condoned, she assisted my grandfather in his abusive ways. My entire life, all she did was cover for him. She even enabled him, demanding respect and obedience. My mother never really recovered from their opprobrious parenting. My grandfather died a horrible death. At the time I felt, in a karma sense, he got what he deserved. There was the gnashing of teeth at his funeral. My grandmother died just a few years later. When they told me that her heart stopped working, I was surprised to learn she actually had one. The funeral was pensive. The mean age in the room was 75, at least I think it was. The entire room smelled like Absorbine Junior. My grandmother was a heavy Christian. To be honest, I am not sure what Jesus she believed in. Growing up, she always seemed to have a flaming sword popping out of her big fat mouth. You could hear her religious friends walking about the funeral quoting Bible verse after Bible verse. It was strange, the entire time, from service to burial, the only person I saw cry was my mother. No one else seemed affected whatsoever. No one spoke but the minister. I could almost imagine that no one at all was even there. It was a dead space, so to speak. Not one person commemorated her. I doubt anyone even knew she was gone, not really. My mother’s tears were alone in the room. Her two brothers, null and void. Half the audience failed to show up at the finale. A few stray here and some more stray there, did little to fill in the giant nothingness. It was almost like everyone was just waiting for it to be over, waiting to just go home. It was like a countdown to the kickoff, while her body already rested in the end zone. This was not to hide from any pain, or to start the stages of grieving, rather because Murder She Wrote was on at 7.

“The reason so many people turned up at his funeral is

that they wanted to make sure he was dead.”

(Samuel Goldwyn, Polish American film producer)

            People are odd creatures. When it comes to death and grief, they are an enigma drowning in a pile of bullshit. People act differently when under the microscope called a funeral. They put on airs to impress both the dead and the living. The day before is always a different story. We wanted nothing to do with the deceased, we could not have cared less if they dropped dead. We even make sure that everyone knows it, that is until the news hits. We cry and we mourn and we suffer, not because we loved but because we failed to. People don’t care, not really. Demonstrating otherwise is the way of the world, it seems. We are falsehood, pretending to be what we think everyone else wants us to be. One day we want nothing to do with what is broken, then we cry and mourn and suffer because we missed the chances to fix things. Of course, we don’t really want to fix anything except for our overwhelming ego. When a person is dead, your relationship with them is final, over, fait accompli. The way things were with them will linger, especially in the mind of a guilty person. We don’t just create emotional states because we want to make an impression, we want to appease our own guilty conscience. No matter, sometimes people are just assholes. Who would want to have anything to do with that type of person? We are justified in our absence but we feel guilty when someone dies because, honestly, we were the assholes just as much. We judge and we pronounce. We exchange our pride for lack of service. We avoid and reject and disappear on others, then we reappear once again in order that the dead may know how much we will miss them. We miss opportunities, we discard chances then whine and complain how we wish things could be different. Just who we are complaining to is irrelevant. Corpses never partake in the conversation when you talk to them. They never, ever answer back. They don’t feel a thing and they hear nothing at all.

“If any of you cry at my funeral, I’ll never speak to you again!”

(Stan Laurel, American actor)

            You would have thought the world had just ended. The world did change but only by association. There was murmured crying, and laughing, and a mix of sadness and glee. They called it a celebration so I waited for someone to break out into a chorus of Hallelujah. I had never been to a gay funeral before. The closed coffin was more a testament to the ravages of AIDS than a token to save people from more anguish. It was a colourful event. Even the minister dawned a rainbow-flavoured sash. It didn’t make any real sense but at least the guy looked really good. I have to admit it was a little peculiar to sit beside Marilyn Monroe, even if by proxy. The mixture of uniqueness was actually quite impressive. It isn’t strange from our modern perspective but 30 years ago, it was almost unheard of. It was a controlled demolition. There was a kind of hush when he walked into the service. I had never met his father before. He often told me how jealous he was that I had a good relationship with my parents. He almost coveted this kinship, particularly the one I maintained with my Dad. We had all heard tell of the man who had just walked into the room. We knew what he had said and we knew what he had done. Slowly, methodically, the old man sauntered to the front of the room and almost sat down upon Judy Garland. Up went Judy and down went the intruder. The room turned from silly to quite sad. This man had some nerve showing up. It seemed like mockery rather than regret or contrition. He just sat there listening to each eulogy, listening to the music, listening to the words. Judy got up from her new place in the room, walked to the pulpit and started singing a moving version of Amazing Grace. Jesus must have been offended. I think God actually came down and condemned the funeral, at least in the mind of that nasty old curmudgeon. From what I understood, he had always thrown religion into the mess as an excuse for this behaviour. He was justified because the Bible told him to be. I did not see his face but I can only imagine. Before the end of the first stanza, he rose methodically, he stood at full attention before he started to walk out of the place. Not one person thanked him for coming. Not one person expressed their condolences as he shuffled across the floor and found his way to scriptural freedom. I understand he died within a year. He rotted alone in a hospice, unloved, unwanted yet justified. Karma is a bitch and you always get what you’ve paid for. I suspect, in the saddest of ways, that Jesus took him in regardless. I guess we should have some consolation that even the worst of us is welcome with the rest of us, just like Amazing Grace and all that stuff. 

“Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,

And mortal life shall cease,

I shall possess, within the veil,

A life of joy and peace.”

(Amazing Grace, John Newton 1779)

            Sometimes it feels like I know more dead people than I do not dead people, at least in a figurative sense. Sometimes it seems I have better relationships with the deceased than I do with those still alive. In most cases, I prefer the dead to the living. They never argue, they never betray us and they never put themselves first. The dead are the perfect companion, silent and very much at a distance, always there whenever you call. I have been to many funerals and wakes, I know the dead of which I speak. I have also watched, I have observed the artificial and often callous nature of mourner after mourner after mourner.  Although there are always exceptions to every rule, I have rarely noticed any love in the air. It’s always this dry and claustrophobic sense. It can be suffocating. All those people sitting and pacing and crying, it is not the way it really is. Grieving a death is almost always ego driven. It is our pain we experience. It’s our experience that causes the pain. We cannot know the dead’s state of mind but we are certainly aware of our own. When someone dies, the experience we have should be what the Germans would call Ichlosigkeit, a form of egolessness. It really should be all about the dead but really it’s all about us. It’s our pain, our misery that motivates us to be like that. The dead are all just dead, after all. 

            The eulogy went very well. My brother even told me he could see him up there with me, right beside me the entire time. I was frozen solid when I delivered it. The only way I made it through was to feel nothing, deal with nothing. I never understood why people have a luncheon after a funeral. The idea of consuming egg salad always makes me want to puke on the server. Those poor little old ladies in the back kitchen might not have felt the same way about it that I did. This was the funeral of funerals. Half the city of Stratford showed up to pay their respects. At that time, donations in lieu of flowers garnered the largest gift in the history of the Perth County Mental Health Association. 

I had no idea who 98% of the mourners were. It was overwhelming greeting them all, shaking hands while screaming on the inside. All those people, all those faces and I didn’t have a clue. I didn’t smile, I didn’t join in the memories, the history. I just stood there, tucked up in a corner of some Church basement. Once the hands were all shaken, the greetings all made, I just lingered in that corner. People laughed and made merry. I could not find one thing that was funny. I resented having to be there. I cursed God for doing this to me. I wanted so bad to understand. Watching all this interaction made me realize that my pain was artificial. It wasn’t really for him, it was for me. He was already long gone and no longer needed me. Apparently, I still needed him.

“If you want to really know what your friends and family think of you,

die broke and then see who shows up for the funeral.”

(Gregory Nunn, American entrepreneur)

            People entertain grief and use death as an excuse. They disregard their entire life and focus only on the corpse. They make promises. They try to fix things. This position usually ends when the pain runs out. We change, if only in increments. Quite often, the sorrow makes us do things and say things that we easily disregard after the appropriate amount of time and tears. Whether we care to admit it or not, the way we react says more about who we are than who the body used to be. It shouldn’t be about us but it usually is. When someone dies, a human being will do and say anything to try to purge the guilt. We should strive to have less ego about it. We should try to remember that this too shall pass so we don’t need to implode in our misery. 

“Life can change in the blink of an eye

You don't know when and you don’t know why

‘Forever Young’ is a big fat lie

For the one who lives and the one who dies.”

(Shovel in Hand, Amy Grant 2013)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pZQI1jgOC_g

Photos

https://www.calebwilde.com/category/death/funeral-directing/funeral-merchandise/

https://www.russellmoore.com/2017/06/30/say-unbelievers-funeral/

Me, Victim

            Just a few months before my 18^th birthday, I was attacked and sexually assaulted by four young men. Each one I knew well enough but I had no idea. Revenge is a dish best served cold, I suppose. Whatever their reasons, the act was violent and involved a relatively intimidating knife, several dozen kicks to the head and a face disfigured by smashing and crushing it into a brick wall. I needed stitches after grabbing the blade and discarding it into the winter snow. There would be no emergency room. There would be nothing but silence and withdrawal and wounds. People were surprised when I refused to identify the assailants and seek justice. I just wanted the entire thing to go away. I fell silent, not because I thought I had done something wrong but rather, it was the shame, the embarrassment that drove me to say nothing and do nothing. A few months after my 35^th birthday, history seemed intent on making a point. I don’t know why I didn’t realize something was wrong when he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I let him buy me a drink just to shut him the fuck up. He was standing way too close for comfort and he seemed to know it. I woke up in my car in the middle of the night. It was obvious I had been tampered with. I drove home although it was pretty clear that I should not have. Whatever he slipped me turned me into a spin-doctor of sorts. Round, round she goes. Sitting in my stupor, I just wanted to get back to the safety of our home. I should have taken my partner with me, I should not have gone alone.  I found myself surviving, yet again, all that shame and embarrassment. I just wanted to forget the entire event. Both times, I washed it all away in the shower. Both times, I went on with my life like nothing had happened at all. All these years later and it seems obvious to me. They might as well not have occurred. There is nothing like a good dose of denial.  

            We’re not here for easy. Life is challenging, forever the struggle. Each of us faces our own demons, our own experiences. Most times, it is our own actions that cause most of our suffering. It is usually quite needless. Sometimes, it is the actions of other people that bring chaos and instability to our lives. I have never understood why mortal men strive to alienate each other so. They engage in behaviour that assaults not only the body but also the senses. White men have mostly gone unscathed by history, usually the perpetrator rather than the victim. In particular, race and gender have always been subject to the whims of the men in charge. In recent days, that power and unaccountability seems to be (thankfully) dying with one last breath. The world is changing right before our very eyes. For the first time in history, the voices of the weak and discouraged have finally been heard. From racism, sexism and abuse come the songs of men and women who have been oppressed throughout that history. Whether black or gay or a woman, finally the times are changing. The Civil Rights movement in 1960s America, the Gay Rights movement of the last 40 years, stand beside them now. The fairer sex is no longer confined to that definition. The Me Too crusade has evolved from a struggle to a social movement. All the voices aren’t just voices anymore. Men of guilt are shaking in their shoes, or should I say cod pieces. Their time is up.

            I understand the Me Too movement because I have experienced the same shame and embarrassment women have suffered throughout history. I understand the silence. I understand the pain. I cannot, however, speak for women or on their behalf. I have a penis, and no amount of empathy, no camaraderie can equal the experience of being a woman and what that experience means. It is unique unto itself. I can try to understand but, as a man, I am unable to do anything but relate, just as a woman could only relate to my experiences as a man. We are not the same, no matter what they tell you. It’s one thing to assault someone who can fight back. or at least has a fighting chance. Now, women have that option. They may not be able to defeat your abuse, but once the story has been told, and all the bruises laid, you can be damn sure that your time is up. This is solely dependant on circumstance. There are still victims of abuse and control who do not have the luxury of going to the police. It is not so easy for some. Their hell starts daily. At least, to a degree, they now have an option. People are listening and women have the right to be heard. The things that men have done to their wives, their children, their neighbours leaves one exacerbated. The things we continue to do is rather astounding. The fight for equal pay, job safety and anti-harassment legislation all seem reachable from this new vantage point. There is finally a hope that someday we all may be equal. We may all get along.  It’s no longer a pipe dream.

            It’s interesting to me that many of my male counterparts find the current movement in women’s rights unsettling. They do not understand why the women who have come out to claim abuse took so long to do so. They question the validity of their statements. Other men believe that because they also experienced abuse (sometimes identical) that they should be included in the Me Too campaign. I say, for God’s sake, let them have their moment. Really, haven’t we taken enough? The mission is clear. This is about women standing up against men, not men standing up against men. Get your own club buddy, and take your friends with ya. The dialogue should be about women, not diluted by contrite attempts to remain a victim. It’s been a sad few years. Watching man after man fall from grace, regardless of position or riches, has been interesting to say the least. By their own actions they have condemned themselves. I find it encouraging, the organization of women and the rise of Me Too. I must admit, I am surprised it took so long. I suppose that speaks volumes to the issue. It’s not like we didn’t have Gloria Steinem and the rule of feminism through the last 50 years. Women have come a long way since the 1950s pinup ideals of a suburban housewife. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Me Too movement will do much more than evoke anger and retribution. Instead of trying to fix the past, let us take this opportunity to evoke real change.

“I thought that it was more likely the opposite. I must have shut grief out. Found it in books. Cried over fiction instead of the truth. The truth was unconfined, unadorned. There was no poetic language to it, no yellow butterflies, no epic floods. There wasn’t a town trapped underwater or generations of men with the same name destined to make the same mistakes. The truth was vast enough to drown in.” (We Are Okay, Nina LaCour 2017)

            On January 28^th, 1983 and September 16^th, 2000, my life changed. Both incidents drove me to a state of being that I maintain to this day. This condition is no longer forced or contrived, rather it has become a natural state, just the way things are. Any other manner seems foreign to me now. The first violation introduced me to the notion of emotional distance and the second reaffirmed it was the only way to be. Had both assaults not occurred, I would not be the man I am today. I have strength, strength enough to talk about it and resolve enough to carry on with each day. Some people do not fare as well in the greater scheme of things. My partner also found himself standing before the judgment of selfish men. He does not hold his experiences as well as I do. They still haunt him all these years later. He has recently started to talk about his experiences in video form, which he posts on YouTube and Facebook. His hope is to expunge his demons. He has chosen to finally stand up rather than continuing to play the victim. He has even attempted to have dialogue with women about this issue. He was sorely condemned. His experiences are irrelevant in a literal sense. He is not a woman (I assure you) and they pointed that fact out with no apologies. He was deeply offended and hurt that his voice didn’t count. The fact that he is a man didn’t matter to him but to women, he just did not belong. The sting of association left marks, I am afraid. His anger has lasted up to this day. This does not negate the fact that he is a man and that his experience is completely different because of that, even if the events are similar.

            When people condemn women for taking 20 years to report a rape or sexual assault, I do not comprehend their ignorance. It is easier to run away and hide than it is to stand up and fight, particularly if you stand alone against the powers that be. The shame and embarrassment is universal. The Me Too movement has given each woman, at least, the opportunity to have a voice. Rise up to your power and cry out in the night. Finally, their voices are being heard. For women, it has always been a constant battle with little conquest. Times are changing. Women are changing. They don’t have to sit back and take it anymore. The Me Too movement has given them a platform to exercise the rights they should have been granted all along. I understand their once apparent silence. I understand the permission they have been given by this social movement. It has empowered them simply by offering release. Men must now take the role of villain, a role which will only change when men change. This is not your planet and you do not have the right to treat other human beings any way you decide. It’s time for accountability and it’s time for social justice. Women have the right to be heard without the convoluted murmur of men who now claim to be the victim. Still, the Me Too movement has little to do with men. We are the antithesis, simply through the whims of nature. No matter how you try to be part of it, you can’t without a vagina.

 Photo

https://www.nbcnews.com/storyline/sexual-misconduct/time-s-person-year-silence-breakers-metoo-movement-n826936

 Sources

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