I’m supposed to seek wisdom — not to pretend I know everything.
I’m supposed to be strong — not to never need help or get hurt or fail.
I’m supposed to love and serve people — not to fix and save them.
I’m not supposed to know — but to have hope and believe.
Some of it’s been tough & I’ve suddenly grown commitment issues.
Don’t we all want to reach our goals early? Don’t we all want to be fixed yesterday? We don’t know how to wait.
(Somebody else said this first, but . . . .)
The right thing at the wrong time is the wrong thing.
Amen.
This whole experience has taught me much about myself, most of which I’m thankful to know, and some of which I wish I didn’t.
Not only do you have to find the eggs, but you’re never quite sure what’s in them when you do. Now, isn’t that ridiculous?
Happy Easter.
With every choice comes the sacrifice of the choice we didn’t make.
Today, I realized what I have to do & I’m terrified to do it because I might be wrong.
We want security so badly. Instead, Jesus walks out to meet us on the water.
Oh me of little faith.
Well, I did what I felt I had to do.
Something I’ve learned in this: whether you’re religious or not, there is a strength that comes from acting on faith. It won’t always be easy & you won’t always be right . . .
But you’ll always have hope — & hope, itself, is a miracle.
In a week, I may start panicking, but for now, I’m remembering the idea that first brought me here . . .
You can’t say you’re rock-climbing while staying a safe thirty feet from the edge & you can’t say you’re a person of faith unless you act like you believe anything can happen.
Sunday, August 14th — approximately 7:50 pm
I had just hung up the phone with Ang, regretting about three-fourths of what I’d just said when he hugged me from behind. Naturally, I was quite startled when I turned to find, not the host of Candid Camera, but a well-groomed late-twenties black man leaning over me. It had been quite the draining experience and I was in no mood for weirdness, so I just got to the point.
“Can I help you?” I said. He replied in an I’ve-just-had-ten-shots swagger, “You want to come with me?”
“What? Where?” I said, probably with more bite than I intended. He indicated the room behind us where the words, Crown Royal Club were in shiny display above the door.
“Why would I go in there?” I asked and he replied with a solid look of why-not and said, “Because you can drink for free.” Having been born too kind-hearted – or too stupid – to shut anybody down completely, but lacking even the slightest desire to go into a bar with this stranger, I politely stated, “Well, my plane leaves in about a half hour.” To which he countered, “Well, I’m flying out too.”
Here’s my mistake. I chose to engage in conversation with the wino. Don’t worry, I’ll learn eventually.
I turned and asked him, “So what’s your final destination?” And he said, “You’re my final destination.”
. . . . uhh
I said, “What?” and he said, “You’re my final destination.” I said, “What do you mean by that?” and he said, “Huh?” and I said, “What do you mean by that?” and he said, “What?” and I said, “Say what you just said, but in different words.” So, he whispers, “I wanna eaa oo aaahz” I said, “What?” And he said, “I waaan oo eeee uurrr aaass.” So I got louder and said, “WHAT?”
This time I heard him. “I want to eat your ass.”
I threw manners to the wind and said, “No, no, no, no, no. Sorry, man, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Have a nice flight.” and then I turned my back and left for the gates at the opposite end of the airport. That was the last thing I needed after the time I’d had. An honest-to-God, wasted-to-the-marrow gay man wanting to toss my salad right there in Ft. Lauderdale Intl. Airport. I was too pissed to even be flattered.
As I turned back to make sure he wasn’t following me, I caught a last glimpse of him retreating back to the safety of alcohol and the Crown Royal Club. He had, as he turned, the saddest and most pained expression I’d seen in weeks. And for a split-split-split second, I felt sorry for him and wished there was something I could do. But then I realized that the only way I’d make him feel better would be to compromise my sexuality and that’s by God the last thing I needed at that point. Of course, Lily did find out that I’m 23 percent gay.
Oh, I should probably explain –
Thursday, August 11th — about 6:05 pm
So, Lily came over to give me a ride to the airport and I was so thankful that she did, because I didn’t have the money for a cab after I’d spent so much on the plane ticket. While she was waiting for me to finish packing, she looked online and found this test to determine how gay you are. “Not funny ha-ha, funny queer.”* She asked me the questions and I answered them honestly.
Turns out I’m 23 percent gay. I mean, barely gay at all. I’m not even metro as Cee would later point out. (She made this really funny joke but it requires hands to tell it, so I’ll refrain) I won’t say how gay Lily turned out to be, but let’s just say that her percentage score gave us both quite a pause. It explained a lot.
I really liked Lily and I enjoyed being around her. But it was weird because when we were starting to be really good friends we would talk about serious stuff just as much as we would joke around. Then we had that one conversation that didn’t go so well and ever since then, we didn’t really dive into any more serious conversations. I really craved to talk about more serious things with her (cause I’m kind of a serious person), but I think I was too afraid of getting hurt and I think she was too afraid of getting seen (at least by me) so we both stayed guarded for our own reasons. As a result, most of our conversations consisted of teasing each other or telling dirty jokes. That eventually changed and before we stopped talking to each other entirely there was one more serious conversation. It didn’t go very well either.
But in the car ride to the airport that day, we mostly picked on each other and told dirty jokes. I remember it was fun.
She dropped me off at the airport and I reached my gate almost two hours early. So, being that it was a red eye flight, I decided that I wanted some hot food and a nice glass of wine. Both of which I found, both of which were affordable, and both of which turned out to be among the highlights of the coming vacation. Take that for what it’s worth.
On the plane ride to Florida, all the seats had these personal television sets and an MP3 library where you could build a tracklist and I did just that and went to sleep and slept very well and when I woke up I thought to myself, “Man, if the rest of the trip is like this, I’m gonna be in Heaven.”
Three friends all picked me up at the airport (with this fantastic poster of a character I’d played on TV) and we all laughed and hugged and were thankful just to be there. But in the car ride to Kay’s house, while we were all just laughing and cracking jokes — I cracked a couple jokes about gay people.
I had lived with two homosexuals for over a year and a half and I somehow figured that gave me the freedom to joke about the matter. Granted, I don’t really understand homosexual preferences, but I guess they don’t really understand mine, so my roommates and I worked out just fine. Mutual confusion. All I said in the car that day was that “Gay people like to get naked a lot.” Which is true. It’s not a put-down. You look at a lot of photographs and gay advertising and you’ll see a lot of muscular men wearing next to nothing. I don’t find it offensive, but it is amusing and when I pointed it out, somebody in the car began to get a wee bit upset.
Naturally, I didn’t realize they were getting upset until later, but that makes no difference now. Or maybe it wasn’t that comment that upset her. Maybe it was when I told the story about always opening the refrigerator in my old apartment and seeing the penis-shaped lollipop right next to the butter. Boy, those were the days. Mom and Dad had been . . . less than thrilled.
If I’d have known she was offended by my comment, I would have told her, “It’s OK, I’m 23 percent gay myself.” Maybe that wouldn’t have helped, but I would have laughed.
So, maybe its just karma that a few days later I’d wind up back at the airport being invited to have my ass eaten. Or maybe that’s nothing more than the wonders of alcohol. Numbers have never made much sense to me and neither has raw, drunk lust. But I learned that with some people, you can do nothing but joke around. With others, you have to be very careful what you joke around about.
Shutting up every so often can be quite wise, as well.
Today, I’m just resting in the peace that I’ve done the best I can do.
Tomorrow could be stressful. Next week, who knows? But tonight, there’s a full belly and a warm bed and a big glass of Cabernet.
Yesterday’s gone. Tomorrow is tomorrow.
For now — tonight — I’m all right.
Police & an ambulance (complete with awkward bystanders).
Street breakdancers.
50-person long entrance line to the club.
A human beatbox.
Homeless dude talking to his buggy.
The chapel with a huge AIDS ribbon on the tower.
A sidewalk preacher speaker-phoning Isaiah.
Batman & Freddy Krueger.
& I thought, “Three blocks. Only in LA.”
I’m a character in search of a description. Everyone wants to know who they are & unfortunately we don’t have the fictional luxury of creating our own back stories.
What would your one-line character description be? Take a shot at mine while you’re at it.
Meanwhile, I’ll be having a Homerathon.
Everybody needs attention, — some try to create it. Sympathy addicts.
Maybe we’ve all been guilty. But self-martyrdom won’t save you.
Do you want to be well, or to be pitied?
No one can help you if you won’t be helped.
Everybody needs compassion — but sometimes healing requires difficult growing pains.
Don’t lecture me about moral responsibility when your only gauge for “family-friendliness” is how many CUSS WORDS A MOVIE HAS!!!
Listen to the message & stop counting the four-letter words.
And by the way, don’t use the fact that we’re friends as an excuse to think you own me. DANG!
Don’t you hate it when you find the life you could have lived being carried on by someone else? I had the shot & let it go, with only my imagination to finish the story.
Makes me wonder — but not regret.
If I could go back, I’d miss that chance again.
Ever start to get worried when good things start happening for you? They might go away soon or maybe you just don’t deserve them and soon karma will realize that.
But don’t live life afraid. The light at the end of the tunnel might mean the tunnel’s over after all.
I’m startled by my defensiveness. But then, there’s always been much in me I wish wasn’t there.
There’s a narrow ledge between possibility & downfall that I’ve chosen to walk out on. Maybe that’s ok.
I desire opportunity over security.
I desire faith over practicality.
And I desire forgiveness over perfection.
To struggle and to rest
To resist and to surrender.
To wish and to realize.
To dread and to invite.
To wonder and to experience.
For greetings and for farewells.
I am grateful for the season that has been and hopeful for the one to come. For today, be well.
I know it didn’t always make sense to everyone, but I’m very grateful for this month’s reflection.
I’ve learned that all of life is this:
We are still Here, with still There to go.
Thank you all for being “here” with me, — I hope to meet you “there” someday.
– Reed
Ghosts in the Closet, Treasures in the Field
Current mood: reflective
Category: reflective Religion and Philosophy
NOTE: This was a sermon I wrote for a small group study, then an email I sent to a bunch of my friends back home. Now it is a blog. Hope it does for you what it did for me.
I believe in ghosts.
Not necessarily those spirits of the dearly departed coming to haunt those who sleep in old, worn-out houses, but spooky enough just the same. I also believe in time travel, but not in the traditional idea of us physically going back in time. It’s interesting to me how often I’ve heard people say, “If I could only go back and tell my younger self this . . .” or “If I only knew then what I know now . . .”
Despite our sorrowful talk of wanting to go back and speak to our past, it most often happens that the past speaks to us here in the now. Something from your past will come out of nowhere and tell you something about yourself or the world around you that will literally dessimate everything you thought you were wise about and clued-into. You’ll lose your concentration and you’ll turn pale like you’ve seen a ghost. Because in some ways, you have.
I was just visited by a series of ghosts and experienced my own sort of surreal sense of time travel. No, I’m not on drugs and although I’m a bit of an insomniac, my senses are fine. Here’s what happened: I recently formatted the hard drive on my old computer, but before deleting everything, I went and transferred the old files on it to a disc. Then, curiosity compelled me to examine said files. There, I saw the ghosts.
At least a dozen reflections of the past began to speak to me as my prior journal entries flooded the screen in the same pristine typeset in which this blog is composed. Emails and letters not even as recent as the initial months of my move to California, but from EARLY in my college years and late in my High School ones. File after file was a gut-wrenching set of steps down Amnesia Avenue. I cried and laughed and was shocked and puzzled and was entirely, fully, and utterly overwhelmed.
I’ve wondered a great deal about the pros and cons of blogging and journaling and doing any sort of thought-spilling for others beyond myself to see. I’ve wondered if such things should remain private and not be let out from the heart in which they hide. But seeing those old journal entries, saved Instant Messenger conversations, and silly little short-story memories, I was reminded of the tear-jerking necessity of preserving the here and now in some way. So even if you don’t read, I feel compelled to write. If you’ve made it this far, then bear with me just a moment longer and maybe I can bring some encouragement to us both.
Looking at those old files, I was amazed at how much I had forgotten. I had forgotten how badly I initially wanted to become a teacher before the disillusionment set in. I had forgotten how easily I fell in love before becoming the much more frustrated romantic that I am now. I had forgotten how casual it was for me to speak of faith and of God and of Christ. I’ve since grown up a great deal, and my faith has become a more precious and almost fragile thing. I tend to speak of it less and handle it more carefully not because I am ashamed of it, but because it feels more precious to me, almost like a treasure I’m afraid of mistreating.
Jesus told a story about that. I never really understood it all until now, but Jesus once said that “The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field.” (Matthew 13:44)
I never could make sense of that story. First off, why does the guy hide the treasure again once he finds it? Why wouldn’t he just take it? Then, on top of that, he sells everything he owns to buy the field. Why the crap would you sell everything you own to purchase a place where you can keep a treasure hidden instead of just taking the treasure with you while nobody’s looking? Well, the lesson to be learned is this:
Some treasures you take with you, and some you have to leave where they are. I put it in bold so you’d read that if you read nothing else. That’s really the point this time around.
You see, I think back on the joys of my younger days and I want them back. I want to be in love again the way I was in those first two years of college. I want to be as involved in the arts as I was throughout college and high school. I want a community of friends who are happy to be where they are instead of worrying to death where in heaven’s name the rent is going to come from. I want a job that makes me feel fulfilled in my life’s journey and that doesn’t drain my very essence by the time I’m supposed to clock out.
But I wake up and find myself in California, thousands of miles from the friends I had before and from the family that gave me the chance to have them. I have to fight the urge to do something, anything drastic to recapture those glory days. I think about moving home or rejoining with old friends or going back to school or anything other than being where I’m at now.
But some treasures have to stay where they are.
Some loves have to stay in your heart. Some dreams have to stay in your head. They have to stay there because that’s where they belong. Just like that treasure hidden in that guy’s field: part of what makes them precious is where they’re found. I guess that’s why he thought it was worth it to buy that whole huge field, even if he had to sell everything else he had to do it.
It’s amazing, too, that the man sold all he had to own the field of treasure, instead of selling the treasure instead. And the story stops there. He doesn’t dig the treasure up or even dig for more treasure as far as we know. He’s just thankful he found it and he’s content that he knows where it is. I wish we could be more that way about things. I wish I could learn that lesson to the core of my soul. Meanwhile, it’s something to think about, at least.
So I stopped reading all those files long enough to write all of you a couple thoughts and let you know I’m still alive. I shut the ghosts up and sent the past back to the past where it needs to be. Tomorrow’s something new. Maybe not something better, but who can say?
Just try to remember that when tomorrow holds your treasure, you can’t have it today. . . . You can’t.
You have to wait and be patient sometimes, but don’t be afraid and don’t give up. And if you can forgive my cheesy poetics, I’ll remind you that life is full of fields.
And you never know what you’ll find buried in them.
– Reed, 2003
There’s a truth I’ve been running from all my life and it catches up with me only about once every two or three years. This is a scary world.
It’s terrifying, and for one principle reason. It’s a terrifying world because for all of our knowledge, all of our experience, all of our history, all of our technology, and all of our talking — we still don’t really know anything.
We have a bunch of facts about all these different subjects of discussion and we cling to them like they float around where there’s no land in sight. But all of our facts don’t answer our questions. Not the scary ones, anyway. Like will our lovers really leave us? Will our loved ones survive the night? What are we going to do when the money is gone? What’s going to happen to us when all of our secrets finally do hit the fan? (You can insert your own question here, there are millions of them out there to choose from.)
You know, when you’re a child, monsters are real. They’re nasty, smelly, ugly, slimy and just waiting to devour every vulnerable little one of us with their sharp, uncountable teeth. They hide in closets, under beds, behind curtains, and sometimes even in the weird crack near the corner of the ceiling. When faced with the absolute terror of these beasts, you run to the shelter of Mommy or Daddy or whoever keeps you safe and they assure you, ever so lovingly, that while there IS a Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, and Tooth Fairy, there are certainly NO monsters.
And isn’t that funny? Because you find out a few things as you get older. You find out that there really isnt a jolly fat man, a giant rabbit, or a dainty quarter-giver. But the monsters are most definitely real. Not only are they real, but theyre dangerous. While you were sleeping, they crept near your bed and planted a seed in you somewhere — in some secret place. The seeds werent invisible, but no one was looking for them because you were just a child. There were all different kinds of seeds: addiction, abuse, co-dependency, self-consciousness, racism, greed, violence, cowardice, selfishness, deceit, and countless more. Monsters. All of them.
They attacked this generation before us and the generations before them. They use the things people say and the ways people act to make the ground fertile for the seeds they plant and when you get older, the worst thing happens: The seeds become brand new monsters, threatening even to turn you into a monster yourself cos this world is dog-eat-dog, right?
Okay, let me hop off this analogy and just get right to the point. When youre young, things happen to you that alter your perception of things in such a way that doesnt always manifest itself fully until adulthood. Then, when you become an adult, you spend all of your time trying to figure out why you cant make sense of things and why you find it harder and harder to hold onto an idea of justice or goodness when theres so much unfairness and evil in the world. Psychiatrists may call these feelings neuroses or disorders. I just call them monsters.
Now, in the time Ive spent out here, Ive gone through many of what most people would call tough times. Money troubles, physical ailments, severe inconveniences, and occasionally just plain old rotten luck have hit me in spades since becoming an LA resident. Living the dream, right? Well if you’re still reading, let me tell you what Ive figured out about pursuing dreams…
When we pursue our hearts dreams, what were really trying to do is kill all those nasty, slimy, ugly monsters that we’ve always been afraid of.
Just think about it. Those who dream of success are really just trying to kill their fear of failure. Those who dream of wealth are trying to kill the monster of poverty. And I really feel bad for those people dreaming of importance because theyre trying to kill one of the nastiest monsters out there: worthlessness. We hope and we pray for our dreams to come true because we believe that when the dreams come true, well be happy and the monsters will leave us happily-ever-after alone. If we reach our dreams, we wont have to worry anymore. If we reach our dreams, life will be consistently livable from that point forward.
But theres a dark side to this moon. Because sometimes you get what youve always wanted (the wealth, the relationship, the praise, or whatever it may be), and the monsters still dont go away. You’re still anxious, still scared, still always on the defensive. When that happens, you can become bitter or angry. You might even begin to resent the dream that you once clung so tightly to. Some people turn to alcohol or drugs. Some people turn to music or friends or exercise. And yes, some people go to God.
Those people who have nothing to turn to become lifeless shells. Their soul withers up within them and they die long before their body expires. Youve seen them. You know the kind of people Im talking about. When the dreams die, the monsters win. Then where does that leave us?
So we keep chasing our dreams, doing anything we can to make them come true, believing all ego-boosters and denying all party-poopers. Well fight all sorts of battles and overcome all sorts of obstacles to reach the dream that will kill the parts of us we cant live with. Cause we still don’t know anything about anything. We dont know how to deal with who we are, so we blame all the bad parts on someone else. We havent learned how to deal with pain, so we lash out at others, injecting even more pain into the worlds bloodstream. Were scared of what we might become, so we spend all our lives chasing these . . . dreams.
I’m a religious man. And I think a lot of people look to religion because they’re scared or because they’re busted or because as long as you cling to religion, there’s probably going to be somebody out there who agrees with you and you won’t have to be alone. But that’s not why I’m religious.
I’m religious because I was born with one flaw (among many). I am a hopeful man. I see the problems that face me and that face my friends and I am terrified that the worst will happen, but I am hopeful that somewhere, somehow, somebody can change things for the better. And when I reach out to that hope, when I clench my heart around that wish — I call that praying.
And who I am praying to is beyond my comprehension. I call it God and I call it Christ (cause, specifically, I’m a Christian). And I let go along time ago of that compulsive need for everybody to agree with me, but it doesn’t stop me from buying into what I sincerely believe in my center. I believe Jesus talked about that kind of hope that we need when things get bad and when we’re overcome. And at the end of the day, I like what He had to say. I think it bears some repeating.
Lifes tough. Theres no getting around that, religious or not. And here there be monsters. Sometimes theyre even so real that they have faces and names and we spend all our time running from them, chasing after the one thing were sure will save us.
Now, theres nothing wrong with pursuing dreams. Theres nothing wrong with wanting more. Theres nothing wrong with trying to do better for yourself or your family. Theres not even anything wrong with being selfish every once in a while. But theres one thing you have to make sure you never do: Never put your hope in dreams, in good feelings, or in idealized situations. If you make the mistake of always counting on those things to save you, then youll die lost. Put your hope in something beyond yourself.
Sometimes youre hurt, sometimes youre confused, sometimes youre overcome, sometimes youre depressed, sometimes youre out of strength, sometimes youre just not good enough, and sometimes its all just too much. But it’s been written to “not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” (Galatians 6:9) And elsewhere, it was written down that, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)
So much could be implied from that and so much already has been. For my two cents, I think its just saying that we dont have to be afraid of the scary stuff in life and we dont have to be afraid of ourselves. I think Hes saying its all right that things arent what we wish they were and that were not quite who wed like to be. I think thats just Christs way of telling us everythings going to be ok.
And whether you believe in it or not, we could all stand to hear that from time to time.
WARNING — This blog post is NOT for the squeamish. Yes, I’m serious.
It was an uneventful evening. Downright boring, you could say. Just me and another manager, with a capable but underwhelming staff and not a ton of customers.
I was at the DVD counter, ringing up some guests with two of the associates, when someone walks slowly into the store (almost at a glide). This man comes and stands near the counter, saying nothing. Now, we all pretty much know that this person is there, but none of us really look at him because we’re all assisting other guests. Besides, he’s not bothering anybody.
About ten seconds later, our employee Jean Michel begins to say, “Oh my God, Reed! Reed! Oh my God, look!” And so, still suspecting nothing, I turn and look at the guest who is standing by our counter. And then I see what the fuss is all about. (Another fair warning — here comes the squeamish part) . . .
His face and arms are covered in blood.
There were slices all over his face and marks all over his arms where something had scraped off whole layers of the skin. When his mouth would open, he was missing a few teeth and his complexion was paler than normal (even though he was a black man). He was covered in his own blood, standing still by our counter, not saying a word or really moving at all.
Now you tell me that wouldn’t keep The Shining out of your DVD player for a while.
So here we are, all standing around not really having a clue what the crap to do! Mark, another employee, calmly looks at me and says, “I have to leave or I’ll pass out.” A few of the other guests took the same cue. Jean Michel didn’t miss a beat. “God, he’s bleeding to death over here! We have to call emergency. Something!”
I told him to dial 911 and after the next guest had finished their transaction, I walked over to speak with the man. Jean Michel got emergency on the line and tried to ask the man a few questions about how he got hurt and who he was. He barely responded to anything any of us said, which was a whole new kind of creepy.
But you know, I have to pause here and point out how silly some of the questions are that 911 asks when you call them. “What’s his height?” Come on, now! Are you trying to recognize him when the ambulance gets here? I’ll give you a hint — HE’S THE ONE COVERED IN BLOOD! Seriously, now, can you just send somebody? Please?!
Anyway, I had Jean Michel go get me some paper towels to try and stop some of the bleeding. I asked the man to leave the store with me and Rob was gracious enough to clean up the little trail that the man was leaving behind him as he walked out. (Look, if you think it’s gross reading — you should have been there. I tell you, it was something.)
When we got him the paper towels, he began to wipe himself off and I tried to speak with him. I asked how he got so cut up and he told me straight-eyed that he cut himself up. He said he hated himself and he was so depressed that he couldn’t think of anything else to do. When I tried to ask further, he wouldn’t speak. He stopped wiping the blood because he said it hurt too much. His arms were raw and several of the wounds looked pretty severe. So we just sat there. I tried miserably and futilely to think of something — anything — positive to say. But I was stunned, shocked, and utterly speechless.
To their credit, it was maybe only four or five minutes before the paramedics arrived and took care of the man, one of them staying just long enough to ask me a few questions. It’ll be a long time before I get that image out of my head. But what’s worse is the feeling that someone can get so low — that you can hate yourself that much — that you would destroy yourself in such a way. I don’t know why he came into our store (it didn’t seem to be for help but it sure as hell wasn’t to shop). But whatever he’s left with, I hope it’s better than what he came to us with. I hope he finds something to ease those wounds, cause the ones on his heart are bound to be worse than the ones on his body.
And as for all of us, let’s be grateful for a few things tomorrow, and the next day, and in the coming week. Be thankful for what you have instead of being loathesome of what you don’t. And remember as Bob Dylan once said, “To be kind to everybody cause you never know how hard their road is to walk down.”
And stay away from horror flicks for a while — watch some Simpsons or some Little House on the Prairie or something. . . . maybe Fraggle Rock . . . really anything else.
“This was written a while ago, and in lieu of wanting to post a new blog, I figured I’d toss it up and see what folks thought. I’m actually doing very well these days, so please don’t take this poem as a sign that I’m all upset, though I was quite the upset cookie when it was written. Still, I’d love some feedback, please and thank you.”
Cain and Hell and Me and You
That side you don’t show to most folks, bit my heart in two
Barely second best this time, but five chances overdue
I’m holding up the trashbag with all the memories we’ve accrued
Cain I know, and Hell I know, but tell me who raised you?
I guess it started like anything else, with boredom of the few
But the many overtook you babe, and I slipped out of view
Was anything you’ve ever told me through your crying true?
Cain I know, and Hell I know, but tell me who raised you?
Never lovers, barely friends, and still stuck on the fence
The walls are closing in on all that weird coincidence
I don’t regret it, not a word
And I know I said it, I think you heard
But I can’t be bought or lent or owned
And neither can you, so I’ve been shown
But I thought we had it down to share
Until you pulled that left hook from over there
And my blood is bad at moving on
And letting go of what’s long gone
But you then you and me, your pawn
Been locked together way too long
And now we’re both just wrong — wrong….
I took a breath and set it down, and looked at something new
I broke once and I got lost and I looked like that too
So it’s not so hard to see why you do the things you do
There’s lots of being childish that we never quite outgrew
But the question lingers hard and loud when all the anger’s through
Cain I know and Hell I know, but tell me who raised you?
– Reed, 2005
Some streams of thought about opinions — yours and mine.
It was on this unknown stretch of I-10 west in between rest areas and before any legitimate civilization. The moment happened in about 2 and 1/2 seconds, but the image hit me for a full minute before I realized it wasn’t there anymore — and I’ll probably see it for the rest of my life.
I had been thinking, as is always a comfortable driving past time. Often times I think about life or movies or people or God, but as it so happens I spent most of this highway thinking about me.
You see, all my life I wanted to be a really great guy. I wanted to be the friend you could always count on, the compassionate accepter, the poet with the sense of humor, the cute guy who doesn’t know he’s cute, and the walking dictionary of original quotations, among other varied and interesting character possibilities. I wanted to be all those things so badly that I would torture myself when I thought I didn’t live up to my own ideal of who I was supposed to be. I would destroy myself when I wasn’t funny or when someone didn’t find me attractive or when I hadn’t said just the right thing or if I felt like I had let someone down. I thought that when it came to me, the opinions of one were the opinions of all, and it would crush me almost every night when those opinions were less than exemplary.
And for some reason, people began to attribute things to me that I couldn’t live up to. They were standards I had actually set for myself as well: like always saying and doing the right thing or always being there when they needed me or even (if I can be this broad) always being who they needed me to be. I don’t know if people just started expecting those things from me or if I expected them from myself and the rest of my world just caught up with me. Either way, I was a self-esteem nightmare.
Well, I gave all that up a couple of months ago and I got over myself. (Hooray for me, quick pat on the back) I stopped focusing so much on myself and started focusing on other people. I found when I did that I was able to listen better, understand more, and I actually got a little funnier too. (Seriously, I did) It was weird to me. It was like the more I focused on others, the better I felt about myself. And it didn’t stop after only a few days — it lasted for months.
Tiger Lily noticed the change. In fact, I had talked with her in great detail about the changes I was trying to make in my heart and the path I was taking to essentially “get over myself.” I was actually chatting with her about that very thing while I was driving down I-10 between the last rest area and God-knows-where. I was chatting with her about it when I saw the star.
The only thing I didn’t count on in my whole self-esteem journey was getting rid of the expectations of others. Oh, I can throw away the deranged opinions of strangers and of casual acquaintances, but what happens when I don’t live up to being who those that I’m close to and love want me to be? What happens when I don’t give them the response they wanted or when I don’t manage to say what they needed to hear?
I thought I was done with it all and I was. That is, until recently when I didn’t gel anymore with the image of me that had been built up in my friends’ minds. I dropped the ball on their ideals and for a moment, each of them managed to punish me for it. I guess they didn’t know what else to do, I mean after all — they were disappointed with me. But the question that haunted me was this . . . could I ever escape having to maintain friendships by living up to an imaginary ideal?
And all of this was on my mind while I was chatting about nonsense with TL, driving 80 miles an hour down I-10. It was about the time she began to read me my horoscope (which was ironically accurate for once, I must say) when I looked up and saw it.
It started as a long, thin stream of bright white light — like ruler-straight lightning. I thought to myself, “Aw, it’s a shooting star.” But then something weird happened. The beam, which was big enough as it was, suddenly became bright orange and widened to look like the size of a dime in the sky. (remember that I’m miles away, so if it’s a dime from afar — it’s frickin’ huge).
Then I thought, “Holy crap. That’s not a star, it’s a meteor!” My heart skipped a beat and my eyes widened in case the apocalypse was about to overtake us all. I didn’t want to blink. Then, the dime-thick orange beam slivered down to half its size and became light green in tint.
“Is it an alien?” I thought. Even cooler than the apocalypse! I must have just watched a flying saucer enter our atmosphere. (And where’s my brand new digitial camera? Packed behind back issues of Batman in the back seat, of course. Of all the rotten luck.)
Anyway, TL was reading or saying something, but I was lost to the sight of the cosmic chameleon miles in the distance. The green flash once more became bright white like lightning and then, as if snuffed out, blinked away like a lit match that’s just caught too much wind.
I had to ask TL to repeat what she’d said. Even though the entire display had only lasted 2 and 1/2 seconds, the images were still with me. Though, the metaphor wouldn’t hit me until I sat down to write this blog. And the metaphor is this . . .
People see us not for what we are, but for what they think we are. (Just as I saw that light and thought it was a shooting star.) Then, as we go on in our life’s journey, sometimes we change and don’t fit the description they thought we once fit. (Like when I was sure I was either witnessing an invasion or the end of time or both.)
But when our life blinks out, the memory that is left will not so much be a reflection of us as it will be a reflection of those who remember us. Those who inspire us only tap into what we already desired for ourselves and those who anger us only step on the nerve of our most personal fears. We forget that what we see in others begins with our own eyes.
And while we are still on our journey, before the blink takes us out, we must remember that why we do something is as important as what we do. The intentions of your heart are far more important to your growth than the reactions of your peers. We all have to understand this if we’re ever to learn what is right to do or how it is right to live.
So, in the end it does us no good to seek the approval or validation of others, even those we are close to and love. We are not made good simply because we are loved and we are not made wrong simply because we are contradicted. And we certainly aren’t made up of other people’s opinions. Ironically enough, we are often made up of our opinions of others.
All of that to say, as Bob Dylan once did, “I seen a shooting star tonight and I thought of you.”
P.S. I’m not sure what the heck I saw out there, but just in case, I didn’t forget to make a wish. What I wished for, I’ll keep for me. 
“Obviously, this blog was written around Christmas time. I’ve posted it here (out of season) for three reasons. 1) I still full agree with everything in it. 2) When it was first published (Myspace again) several other people agreed as well. And 3) I find it a solid example of my more unpolished, more aggressive writing. Don’t worry, there will be plenty more soapboxes where this came from but for now, Merry Xmas.”
Warning! This blog may offend absolutely everybody. And you may no longer want to be my friend. Just prepare yourself for that. So without further delay . . .
I’m highly religious. No, seriously, I am. I just encounter religion differently than a number of my more popular and outspoken peers.
Case in point — Happy Holidays. Season’s Greetings. Xmas.
There’s a war being waged on Christmas. And I’m not talking about the fight to take Christ out of it. And I’m not talking about the materialism of mainstream America. No, I’m talking about the concept of “Good tidings of great joy which shall be for all people.” Luke 2:10
Christmas for me is a reminder to step inside another’s shoes. Why? Because fundamentally I believe that this is what the Christ figure is all about. I believe this to be an essential to an understanding of Jesus (from whatever standpoint – religion or anthropology or mythology or philosophy, etc.) On a base level, the divine became human in order to reconcile the two together. Substitute whatever other analogy you’re more comfortable with (the wealthy became poor, the wise lived like a fool, the innocent became guilty, or any of a thousand others. They’re all there). Basically, the misunderstood now have an advocate and the unheard now have a voice. That is the Christ. And ideally, that’s what we’re to be reminded of every Christmas season.
But this spirit of seeing the other point of view is lost to us these days. And it is not the religious who are solely guilty. The “right” refuses to acknowledge the “left” as anything but an enemy and the “left” antagonizes the “right” because “left” thrives on validation through putting down all contrary opinions. If they stood on what they have in common, some real good might get done in this world, but as it stands no one gets any help because we’re at war with ourselves.
With this in mind, why the $&@# are we arguing over what to call Christmas??!! Some people are uncomfortable saying Merry Christmas cause it’s all Jesusy and others are uncomfortable saying Happy Holidays cause it’s not Jesusy enough.
WELL, PERSONALLY, I’m fed up with the sick at heart dying because we’re too busy fighting over what to call the medicine!
Message to Christians: — If you really feel that threatened, and if you honestly think Christ feels that threatened, than I applaud your passion, but you gotta remember a few things. Christ said to Pilate (while beaten to a pulp), “You have no power over me if it has not been given you from above.” John 19:11 What THEY call it doesn’t matter half as much as what WE do with it. They don’t have power over it just because they ignore it. Stop protesting outside of Wal-mart and start passing out food baskets to people who don’t have anything else! Stop yelling about the language and start practicing the spirit a little bit more — be a bit more giving and caring and compassionate instead of being so demanding. Remember that Christmas, just like our faith, isn’t all about you. I’m tired of seeing more Christianity from Extreme Makeover: Home Edition than I am from church gatherings.
Message to Non-Christians: Can it really piss you off THAT much if someone says Merry Christmas to you? Seriously, now. It’s not like they insulted your dog or something. Maybe it does piss you off that much, but if it does, then you piss off too easy and you should get over yourself cause all most people are trying to do is feel better about the year they’ve survived to get where they are. Most people are not trying to convert you just because they hang a Merry Christmas sign on the window. And the few who ARE trying to convert you with just two words are too ignorant for you to get all upset over the language and you should realize that or else you’re too ignorant to speak at all.
Any belief (religious or otherwise) that is dependent on its language for survival is dead already.
To me, Christmas IS all about Christ — specifically as it relates to His message of understanding and compassion, giving of yourself and wishing good things for the spirits of those around you. If everybody else in the world doesn’t see it that way, it’s not gonna change my feelings about that. But my faith certainly doesn’t need ME to defend it. Without my faith, I would be lost and anything with that kind of saving power doesn’t need me to fight its battles for it.
Personally speaking, I’m more pissed off that they’ve taken the spirit of Christ out of mainstream Christianity than I am that they’ve taken his name out of a holiday. I just wish that Christians could be allowed to express their faith openly without non-Christians feeling so threatened by it and I wish Christians everywhere would stop treating their faith like it was some kind of political campaign race to be agendized* (*not a real word). I guess I have to agree that everybody is taking Christ out of Christmas. I just wanted to point out that that has nothing to do with a couple of little words.
Cause I do want everyone to be well this holiday season. There are people with no homes and no food and no money for clothes, let alone toys. And I’m lucky to have a roof and enough electricity for a Christmas tree that’s humble but beautiful just the same. And there are people I love and there are people who love me and there are people who love you too.
I wish we could share that love with a few folks who won’t be getting much of it this year. I wish we could put aside our territorialism and learn to share. My Christmas wish is that everyone who has nothing, would wake up with something . . . and a hope for something more. Because that message isn’t just Christmas to me — it’s Christ.
I do wish everyone could have a very Merry Christmas this year — or whatever they would like to call it. And to all, a good night.
Ironically enough, this post was written two years before Rocky 6 actually WAS inspired to be made. And as awesome as that movie was and as much as I would love to take credit for it, unfortunately my post and Stallone’s vision were not connected.
Still, enjoy.
