Bits of News

So I fly back to Indiana tomorrow, for Christmas with my family.  We're all going out to our favorite Italian restaurant that evening, assuming the weather accommodates my flight plans.  This restaurant has been the go-to place for our family celebrations for as long as I remember.  This occasion will be the first time we've all gone since James' death.  There will be plenty of such firsts this season, of course, and for the next year.  Goody.  But as Mary says, the only way out is through, and we'll toast him, eat some good food, tell some favorite stories, laugh and cry.  When Dad first mentioned this plan to me, he said "We probably won't be the first guys sobbing in the men's room."  I agreed.  It's an Italian restaurant, after all, even if it's in the stoic Midwest.  I doubt we'll bother hiding in the men's room, frankly.  Why start now?

Huh.  That wasn't what I got online to tell you though.  First off, I did a bit of house-cleaning yesterday on this here bloggerino, adding some fun new links, and updating old ones (finally, Greg, I'll be sending people directly to the Midnight Garden).  If any of my links don't work, please do let me know.

One of the new links is called Queer New York.  The illustrious, intriguing, and ever-productive Father Tony started a new blog focusing on life in New York from a queer perspective (did you pick up on that from the name?), and much to my delight he invited me to be one of the contributers.  Initially I was unsure if I should accept for a few reasons: 1) I haven't exactly been burning up the interwebs here at my present blog, why add another blog to ignore, 2) I rarely managed to go anywhere or do anything even remotely New York City-related AND 3) I didn't seem to know more than, oh, let's say three gay men in New York, and maybe six world-wide.  Starting this blog actually doubled the number of gay men I interacted with on a regular basis, and I haven't even met all the local ones face to face.

(Okay, if I didn't link to you in the paragraph above, don't take it personally, it was just taking all day, and I have other things I need to do.  Did I mention I'm flying to Indiana tomorrow?  I will also admit that if you haven't posted anything on your blog for two or more months, I didn't link to you.  Doesn't mean I don't love you, I just figure you didn't need the pressure.)

Fortunately my natural tendency towards gluttony won out though, and I accepted Tony's invitation.  I only have two modest posts up at this point, but I anticipate this being a fun endeavor to be part of.  There's some wonderful stuff there, and I'm looking forward to seeing what else comes down the pike.  Tony has assembled an eclectic mix of men and women (though he still wants to find more queer bloggers of color, so contact him if you fit the bill, or know someone who does), and has, with only a small number of caveats ("this won't be the place to post pictures of your cat") encouraged us to post anything we like.  Reviews of various kinds are making a big showing at present, but no doubt some of the fun with this venue will be seeing how it shapes itself over time. If there is a mission at this point, I'd say it would be to give out of towners the inside scoop on LGBT life in NYC.  PDQ.  RSVP.  BTW.  LOL. (OMG did I just type LOL?  Seriously?)

Huh.  Don't know why I thought that was necessary.  I do feel like progressive politics tends to involve a LOT of acronyms, not that there's anything wrong with that.  And don't you love the caps button?  I sometimes wish I had one in my daily life, though the fact is city living would probably benefit from fewer caps buttons running around the joint.  Just in general.  Did I mention I'm going to Indiana tomorrow?  Have I mentioned before that I usually spend the first two days of my visits to Indiana sleeping, or wanting to sleep?  Sixteen hours at a stretch is not unheard of.  I call it the Richmond Coma, and I think the sheer dearth of NOISE (caps intended) has a physical effect on me.  My nervous system, which in cities is probably more nervous than is healthy, simply collapses. I usually come out of the coma ready for long walks and some serious dog-romping, though, and conveniently, there is a dog who loves to romp.  I might actually get some video footage of that, if Fang is amenable.  Amenable is her normal state, if not organizing principle, so I'm optimistic.  Whether or not I actually turn that video into something worth seeing, that's the real question here.  I'm less optimistic on that front, but not completely without hope.

Wow.  I DO go on.  I can't believe it's been two weeks since I posted anything here.  I don't know about the rest of you bloggers, but this process has evolved into a fairly useful processing tool for me.  I feel the lack when I don't do it.  Babbling on paper (what Dad calls 'bilge-pumping') is fairly necessary to my mental well-being too, but I think I've been reasonably good about not putting that stuff out on the internet for all and sundry.  Sundry gets really cranky about that kind of thing, and who can blame her?

I'm shutting up now.  But I've missed you, and hope to be writing more regularly, here at at the new house.

A Day Late

March 15th is my dad's birthday. Sadly I wasn't able to be there for the festivities, I wasn't even able to call during dinner as is my usual habit (fortunately everyone will be gathering at Mary's and Tony's tonight for Irish stew and twice-baked potatoes).

I can be reasonably certain how the party happened though. Dad, Mom, James, Mary and Tony all gathered in the dining room of Laceyland, joined by both the dog and the cat. Everyone held hands for silent grace, with Fang insisting she be a part of it too, so people on either side of her each took an ear. (The cat is largely uninterested in grace.)

The smells of Dad's chosen birthday meal -this year it was roast beef, mashed potatoes, and salad- wafted in from the kitchen, making mouths water (probably all seven of them; even I, who don't really eat beef any longer, would revel in the aroma.) Mom brought it out, James opened the first bottle of red wine, and everyone set to. In amongst talk of everyone's day were memories of trips taken, other occasions celebrated, a lot of wonderful meals remembered. We talk about food a lot, my family. A second bottle was probably opened, though none of them would drink much more than two glasses. We like being nicely oiled, or as my sister puts it "goofed up," but not more than that.

The volume and speed of the conversation probably rose a bit, but not to a mind-splitting degree. The lights were turned off, and Mom fetched the birthday cake. White cake, chocolate frosting, sliced bananas and frosting in between the two layers, this is Dad's favorite cake, the one fond memory he has of his mother's cooking. That wasn't really her thing. He blew out the candles (with the baby of the family turning 40 in June, any attempt to put the 'right' number of candles on the cake ceased decades ago), and Mom immediately took them off and dunked them in cold water, to save for the next birthday. Some frugal, Quaker farm-girl habits never die, but she takes the ribbing ('run! run! Get them to the sink! Aiee!') with a good nature.

The cake was sliced, tea poured, tonight the rule about seconds on dessert was relaxed, then it was time for presents. Dad has always been hard to find presents for. From what I hear, this is a condition common to dads. Not sure what the hell that is about. It's gotten worse as he and Mom have gotten older, because they need nothing now, and don't have much in the way of wants either. Even books, the fool-proof present in the past, now are chosen with greater discrimination, though the absolutely perfect ones are not by-passed. Mostly he got nice wine, cheeses, other fine comestibles, since those are always appreciated. Second cups of tea were poured, the news watched on TV, then everyone went off to his or her respective homes and evening chores. Part of what made this evening so special is the fact that it isn't that rare. Mary and Tony may not join them for dinner every night, but family meals still happen a few times a week, even if they're not always this fancy. I feel some envy at not being able to participate, but mostly I feel delighted knowing this quiet family ritual is observed so often.

I've said in other entries that trying to describe why you love a person is hard to do without sounding insipid and trite, or resorting to lists of fine qualities. I think that problem is only worsened when you're talking about a parent. I can talk about all the good I've seen Dad do in the world, as a teacher, counselor to students and colleagues, and now as clerk for The American Friends Service Committee, which has him gallivanting all over the world in his seventies, doing things we would have never imagined like going up the sides of mountains in Columbian war zones in trucks with benches bolted in the back... but this wouldn't tell you about his goofy side. I could mention that in hearing the news about Eliot Spitzer he speculated about what one would get for $4300 an hour, and decided he wouldn't settle for anything less than a trampoline and an off-stage accordian player (and comments like these from my parents have long since ceased to traumatize me, if they ever did), but that wouldn't tell you about his ferocity... I could talk about when I was a student at Dad's college, he and I frequently found ourselves going after the same administrators, so my 'teen rebellion' years got to be spent with my dad in the same trenches...but that still wouldn't give you a full picture of him. I might mention his special bond with babies and dogs, his desire to have a pet penguin and baby elephant that he would take for walks, the way he taught us to that literature and art matter in the world, but didn't let us get precious about it (In a copy of The Joy of Cooking he gave me, he quoted Bertolt Brecht, writing "First food, then rights!"), his love of Benny Goodman, Beethoven, the Beatles, Yeats, Keats, Levertov, Austen, Eliot, of dancing... okay, so I'm making that list I said I wouldn't. And I've barely scratched the surface.

Suffice it to say, I think he's been a force of love, vision, humor, and celebration in the world and he's just been a hell of a lot of fun to be around. We have had our problems, of course. Human beings will, after all, and fathers and sons may almost be required to... but in all the ways that mattered, he has always been behind me.

Below is a poem of his that I'm particularly fond of, and perhaps does a better job of showing his character than my scatter-shot approach above. If you're not familiar with the Dickinson poem he's responding to, it's included at the bottom of the entry.

Happy birthday, Dad. I love thee.






Another Slant of light


This afternoon’s sun is not yet at the horizon,
and it has bathed the unmarked snow fields
a mellow pink. The sun has set a joyful scene, dear Emily,
not like that New England winter light you praised
and mourned, a century ago.


Now more gold has
entered the light, and the snow invites us to urge
the dog’s happy leaps in and out of the drifts. Were
I not too old and stiff, too self-conscious
at looking foolish, I would make snow angels
in the trackless field or roll down the hill
below the meetinghouse. Like the dog, I would bathe
in this light, the brisk cold, the soft-tinged snow.


I hear a different heft of music, Emily,
this winter afternoon: the perfect cathedral tune,
Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor,and the triumphant last movement of St. Saens’
organ symphony. Listen to the opening bars:
dah dah dah dah / da da da da DAH! /
Da da da da, /da da da dah Dahh!
Oh hum along, Emily, wave your hands.


I always want to dance to that tune,
Emily, all around the room, though it
also makes me look foolish beyond my years.


But I don’t just hear organ music. The light
makes me imagine the dancing harpsichord
driving Artie Shaw’s Gramercy Five
on "Summit Ridge Drive" and "Back Bay Shuffle."
(A couple of Boston tunes, Emily.)


The day will darken toward more somber hues
and tones when the sun dips below the horizon,
but for now there is no heavenly hurt, no gouging
into the heart to find the meanings. It is cold, it will
grow dark, yes, as always, but now the light
is soft, golden, pink; the snow receives it as decoration,
as barrel-organ honky tonk, splashy
show-off tunes, as the body’s pleasure
in the triumphal, long-shadowed winter light...

Paul Lacey.



(258)
There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons -
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us -
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are-

None may teach it -Any -
'Tis the Seal Despair -
An imperial affliction
Sent us on the Air -

When it comes, the Landscape listens
Shadows - hold their breath -
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death -

Emily Dickinson 1890.

A Rockin' New Plan

For those of you who may have grown a bit weary of the comments re: my reaction to Heath Ledger, you may have missed out on the fact that I managed to take a lively discussion and turn it into plans for nude wrestling. I'm so proud. At this point it's Joe, Cooper, and me, with Steven refereeing, and administering massages, but I bet we can talk him into competing as well. So, the question is, how? Do we just start with two and let winner take the next challenger? Or should we divide up in teams, the US v. Canada say, with Joe and me on one side, and Steven and Cooper on the other? Or (and I think this might be the best option), since Cooper is a 26 year old Lumberjack who's been in training with two children for several months now, should the three of us old geezers all take him on at once? Seems like it will be the best match-up.

Nor do I think we need limit this to just us four. Perhaps this can be an occasion to bring all Loose Ends readers, regardless of gender or sexual orientation, face to face for the first time. What do you think?

Old Year Blessings, New Year Hopes

So I'm home again, and have started another entry about Indiana, but it's not yet finished and I doubt it will be today.  My dear sweet Melissa is coming over at 1pm or so, and we'll start cooking, baking, and preparing the apartment for what promises to be a quiet yet festive party with friends from various parts of my life.  My friend Julia has a superstition that whatever you're doing on New Year's Eve will shape what you're doing throughout the year.  I like the idea that the next year might include more social gatherings in my apartment, getting many of my loved ones in the same room at the same time (if you've never lived in New York, you may not know how hard this can be), where we can forge new connections, share some good food, get a little silly from the booze and dream big about the year to come.  

As meaningless as a calendar is in the grand scheme of things (and I tend to think of the Winter Solstice as the beginning of the new year anyway), I love taking stock of the past twelve months, and making plans for the next twelve.  I'm not big on resolutions, but I like making wishes, or creating long-term dreams.  I've never really been good at the latter, much as I've tried over the past ten years.  I'll do all the exercises the self-help books suggest (and I have a secret addiction to self-help books, don't tell anyone), I'll make lists, sketch out game plans with actions to take at one year, six months, one month etc. I think that's all fun... but then I pretty much take the days as they come, saying yes to projects that sound interesting, whether they fit my career path or not, changing little in my set patterns.  Floating along with the currents of one's life may be zen in some ways, but I could be doing more to put myself into the right rivers, to extend the metaphor.  Change needs to happen, and this year I'm feeling, for the first time in years, like it is possible and worth it.    

This blog has been a funny new way of engaging with the world.  I started it two years ago, thinking it might be a place I could put all the random musing and rantings I used to subject my friends to in emails.  That way they could, at their leisure, watch the squirrels in Patrick's head randomly pushing levers, and not feel like they had to respond.  I unconsciously assumed no one would read it unless I had sent him or her the link, so initially was a bit more loose in my naming names, and ranting rants.  I quickly learned (rather painlessly, luckily) that this was NOT a good assumption.  I've come to realize that if I write about anyone, with virtually ANY identifying markers, chances are very high he or she will read it at some point.  This has been a good discipline for me, actually.  It means I never write something I wouldn't be willing to say to someone's face.  This may mean the blogosphere has lost some oh so clever witticisms on my part, but the world keeps turning, right?  Another more surprising side effect of this has been that I've become a bit more direct in my conversations with my friends in the actual world, saying things I might have swallowed (and quietly seethed about) in the past.  I don't think I've gone overboard, pissed anyone off, or said anything unforgivable, I hope my friends agree.  I also don't think I've been put to the test yet in the "he can dish it out, but can he take it" department, which is the obvious corollary to this action.  So let me have it, Dear Ones, we'll see what happens.  

Overall though, I'd say there has been a lot less ranting than I expected there would be.  Mr. Crankypants has made an appearance or two, but he hasn't dominated the blog as I had expected.    Looking at some of my first entries, then contrasting them to my last few, there does seem to be shift in attitude that I hope indicates a new trend, not just holiday-inspired euphoria.  The fact that this is the third or fourth entry in a row that focuses on how happy you all make me must say something.  

Visiting my old friends, new friends, and not-so-secret crushes to read about what annoys you, delights you, or simply catches your interest, I've gotten brief glimpses of your personalities, the lives you've built for yourselves, and some of the things we'd discuss over coffee if we could.  I've yearned for your lives at times, and remembered old friends who have enriched mine, and both experiences have helped me clarify what really matters to me.  I am grateful for that gift.  

I wish I could be with each and all of you at midnight tonight, so I could give you an actual hug and kiss, but for now we'll have to settle for the virtual version.  May this new year be one of good work, adventure, good food shared with loved ones, celebration, serenity, beauty, and peace, in just the proportions you hope for.  

Elves-O-Rama

If you aren't already reading Cooper's Corridor (and if not, what the hell is the matter with you?) you might want to head over there today for a modest holiday performance.  It's very festive.    

You also want to be reading this guy.  

I love the internet.  For oh so many reasons.