I just spent a few days with family in Betesda, MD. I had a blast. I can’t imagine a better way to wind down the old year. For the most part, I’m happier than I have ever been. I have lots to write, but I need to catch up on chores and get ready for going back to work this week. I’ll post in a day or so. Thanks for your well wishes.
Category Archives: Miscellaneous
Another Year
This poem was written by my grandfather on my father’s side, the Welsh side. He was a coal miner in Wales until the age of 21, when he asked his beloved to marry him, then shipped off to the land of opportunity. The year was 1921.
He forged an impressive career in the US, working his way up the ranks of a fairly large shipping business in Philadelphia. He eventually became chief engineer. He was a wizard at building things. He often made toys for me and my sister. During the last decade of his life, he was king of the retirement community’s workshop; he had to instruct others in the use of the lathe, a complex and delicate wood cutting instrument. I still have numerous finely lathed lamps around my house.
His charming Welsh accent never left him. He always had a smile on his face and a joke to tell. I don’t know now many times he asked me “So, are you going to become a genius… (which he pronounced geniASS with emphasis on the Ass!)”
He sang in choirs all through his life. He is the reason my mother was able to continue her musical career after marrying my father. He is one of the reasons, indirectly, why I am a musician, along with my sister.
He often wrote beautiful, poem like notes to us. This poem was probably written in the early 1980’s. He was a gentle, upstanding American citizen. He died in 1985.
Another year has reached an end.
‘Tis Christmas time in gray December
With thoughts of giving, as we spend,
of bad times past we rare remember.
Throughout the world a spell is cast
And thoughts of love and peace takes hold.
As we hear again as in the the past
The greatest story ever told.
True, greed and hate will still abound.
In hardened hearts who have no creed.
They specialize the year around
Using God to state their greed.
But thanks to Him, a son was born,
And Father, son and Holy Ghost,
Though many laugh and many scorn
The spirit of God is worth the most.
The atom bomb, the power of man
To most of us, has caused much fear.
These threats of hate, since they began
Have plagued us all the year.
But bombs and threats have gone to pot.
The day of days is here again.
When the power of man is soon forgot
And the King of Kings, once more will reign.
The yearly log will close with cheer,
Another chapter in life’s great tome.
a merry Christmas and a Happy New Year
I hope you have one in your home.
Hows and Whys of my Ps and Qs
I’m morphing, trying to get my life balanced, blogged out, blogging in other directions, feeling good about those other directions (for now), filling out my gut with life and deep laughter, birthing raw thoughts from the underbelly of wild animals, beginning to believe again in the possibility of true newness in life, thinking there is hope of salvaging my distant relationship with the clarinet, thinking there may be a lover out there to match me (but not yearning for it), not reading enough books at all, yet, generally feeling quite vivid, attenuated, effulgent…drinking from the source.
I want to apologize to those whose blogs I usually frequent. During Winter I hibernate. I go inside my “box” and clean up, sort, add content, edit, rest…lots of resting, resting my eyes, my brain, my insides, taking time to stare out the window, time to watch the particular jiving, bobbing Indian head dance of turtledoves.
The word selfish is apt to describe this behavior. But from all that I’ve learned from interacting with all of you in this electronic neighborhood, I know I am useless unless I balance my own scales. I’ll be here. And in due time I’ll be getting back to visiting all my friends, old and new, including you.
So, please forgive my manners. My Ps and Qs my be out of place, but my intentions are sincere and my loving thoughts still go out to you all, if a bit more quietly for awhile.
Notes from Inside
He gazes across the newspaper spread before him. Looking out the window, he peers past an editorial he was reading, which outlines the festering mendacity of certain political leaders, while genocide thrives in Africa. Outside, the garden’s disarray, not inappropriate for Autumn, reflects his own spirit. Things need to be done. Raking, planting bulbs, more raking. The season’s story asks with answers and gives questions. There’s always something to ponder there. For now, nature’s bounty has shriveled to dry, itchy skins blowing in dusty piles.
After a bustling week with visiting friends and family, his home is a mere house again, and the clutter outside is a ruminative distraction.
The joyous noise has ended, the guests all departed. Remnants linger. A hickory smoked ham carcass bears the scarred record of hungry hands which sliced morsels into salivating mouths, a joyous sharing of sustenance. Pillows and wool blankets, suddenly cold, lie folded neatly near the futon bed, which is now restored to its day job as a couch. No evidence remains of the two cuddle snuggets which occupied it the night before. Nor any more tinkling sounds of little doggy tags prancing round Mom’s legs, skirting all arms but hers, bonded in devotion to her care alone, with angelic innocence. Glittering, smiling eyes have gone. Squeaky floors are mute. Missing Espresso, sounds and smells are silent.
The cacophony of stuffed hours has floated away, not laden enough to stop their exodus. Surrendering to the moment was easy with three conversations bubbling for attention all at once. Happy consociates huddled around mini-decisions, such as which leftovers to nibble at, how to keep the cats away from the dog, who wants to go on a walk, when it’s nap time. Ah, nap time. Torpor weighed in after all.
Events happened, with no one bearing singular responsibility. A snack or a nap or a laugh was shared. Familiarity insulated us from the cold, strange world beyond the glass windows. The den bustled with clusters of happy commotion.
Alone now in his newly painted (four day’s work) great room, his mood is comforted by the warm colors, gold, orange, deep burgundy purple. That was the idea. The gray day surrounds us all in our pools of warm light.
The garden beckons with the answer to this sweet emptiness. Pick up where you are and tuck away these memories for a long winter’s night.
technorati tags- Thanksgiving memories
Intimacy
Some kind of far and deep metamorphoses has been taking place in me the past few years. I’ve grappled with some of its details here on this electronic stage, in posts such as Flat Sex and Taboo Sex as Mythic Fuel.
Intimacy is a very different chemistry than sexual attraction. Men tend to fear intimacy. I know I do. I feel like I’m giving over my soul. No way. Sex is easier than love, by far, especially for men. And post orgasm rejection comes as easily as removing the condom.
In the long run, having sex is less important than intimacy. I know that seems obvious to many, but sex and its trappings in the gay world can create a quagmire of identity. To my surprise, I’m finding that a deeply felt connection can lead to beautiful and rewarding sexual experiences. But the walls of self protection and self deception are high and the foundations deep. The house is confused with the man.
The house metaphor carries through my life. I have always lived more clearly externally than internally. My soft, chewy center is well camouflaged by my friendly, affable exterior. I focus on the exterior to fulfill my desire to be accepted and loved, but my vulnerability remains hidden. And that exterior takes time to maintain. It becomes self perpetuating. The house becomes me. But I remain, the inner child wanting to play, the faerie struggling in a man’s world, the artist trying to shape chaos, experimenting, the boy fearing rejection by his father, by anyone, the explorer wanting to wander and get lost, to find new lands.
I’m finding that just allowing myself to know these intimate personas is the greater battle. Looking in the mirror, I only see the shell. The inside is hidden even to me. But that is changing.
Digiart by Veach
Technorati tags- intimacy, men and sex, sex