Me and Mr. Jones

No, I recognize that I am not Rimbaud, but his image helps me build up my lineage.  The young, conflicted gay writer telling his story.  Or at least that is what I thought…

And then I went to the library and checked out a couple semi-recent young adult novels with a gay male coming-of-age/coming out theme and realized that my story ain’t all that extraordinary.  So many of the mulling emotions these various narrators expressed still resonated with me and my almost 30-year-old self.

However, this actually settled my mind rather than depressing it.  Sure this means that some of the initial (surface-level) themes that seem important in my writing are really quite standard and perhaps too sexually-focused.  But it also has worked to free my mind a bit as I explore situations to look for deeper literary relevance.  And it also helped me realize that my audience might not be who I have previously/pretentiously imagined.

Should I be writing a young adult novel?

So the time had come to go back home.  Such a journey is nothing new, nor is it anything to “write home” about (so to speak).  But I feel compelled to do just that.

Lately my travels south into the rural recesses of my childhood are designed pragmatically, and this was no exception.  I had several goals to achieve: spend time with my niece so she gets to know (and remember) me, spend time with my aging grandfather so I can get to know (and remember) him better, hang out with my family, and see my friend Bunny.  And of course the largest goal is always to refresh my memories and get re-oriented with some of my potential narrative designs.

It began with a 4 hour car ride and an audiobook.  I had a recording of Farenheit 451 that I was meaning to hear and this turned out to be the perfect setting.  I had never read the novel, but recently had read some essays by the author and decided it was high time I got to know his work.  The novel met me in all the right places: distress over technology’s ability to high-jack thinking, the danger of group-think, and a reverence for printed books.  There will be more on this subject once I figure out how to write about these things.

The meeting with my niece can’t be described without sounding generic… you know what I mean: she is so smart, she is so cute, her ability to discover things inspires me…. It’s like when I’m overcome with emotion with Thom and all I can do is tell him I love him.  I do love him, and I love her.  She reminds me of my own connection to young people, and she makes me long for a lifetime of afternoons to hang out with her.

Conversation with my father on a late-night porch with stars and fireflies is something that, although redundant, I actually really enjoy.  We have a drink and spin our individual yarns.  My own focused on the particulars of owning our heritage along with the farmland he lives on, he talked mostly of cutting down trees and his future plans for fixing and expanding.

And then came Poppa.  My grandfather and I have had a close relationship in development for decades.  I remember fondly our summer afternoons working on various projects: painting old buildings or trimming bushes, laying down mulch and hunting hidden treasures (although this last one we did separately and unbeknownst to each other).  We have an easy banter and can (and did) just sit and talk for hours.  I developed several project ideas in the four hours I spent talking to him, and I look forward to our continued meetings and collaborations.

Of my mother and brother I can say that there were moments I enjoyed.  My mother showed me our connection over music, my brother made an off-hand comment about my sexuality that made me feel comfortable and opened the door a bit more for us to eventually actually know each other. (“I thought you’d think he was cute.”)

Sunday found me up early for bell choir with Bunny and a quick bite to eat.  And I sat through a full church service for the first time in years.  And I actually enjoyed it.  Sweet-smiling folks and a thoughtful, civic-minded preacher with an endearing all-embracing personality.  Bell choirs are complicated creatures, with each note held by a different hand moving up and down in hopeful synchronicity.  Bunny played humble but it was absolutely lovely.

And home again with hours of traffic and piercing sunlight.  My belly-cramps unnerved me, but the days that came before them helped me to stay calm and happy.  I have a poignant connection to my past, mostly in that I still hope to utilize it in my writing future.  But even more importantly, I like spending time with my family and am at a place where I can genuinely appreciate them and my connection to them.

This traveler has a destination, but he also has an origin.

I decided that I would seize this new month’s clean slate to do some of the things I usually wish I have done as I lay down to sleep at night.  It all hinges upon my own discipline, of which I seem to have very little.

Three full months (and some weeks) until I turn 30.

Tonight I am writing to get back in the practice of writing.  I read a few published short stories today, most of them left me feeling ambivalent.  I know, though, that I have some ground to cover before I will get to read my own work in the likes of Zoetrope or the New Yorker.  It starts with this simple habit of starting.

My stomach is incredibly full, or maybe I should say my intestines.  These past few week have not been great for me health-wise.  This drags on my spirit.

And yet my imagination and/or my desire still seems to be incredibly vibrant.  I take this as a positive sign for the future.

Good night…

Impacting culture in a myriad of ways.  Impacting me in several others.  He will be missed. (I’m gonna make a change…)

Bunny called me this evening and she was looking for a book.  In actuality, I would say she was searching for a memory but if it came in the form of a book she would be pleased.  It was something about a monkey, a coconut cake, and an apartment in New York.  “I think his name was Wappie,” she explained.

I spent a few minutes online and located a mention of this “book.” Turns out it actually was a story in an old Childcraft anthology.  This knowledge, along with the title (Wappie’s Surprise Cake), made her most giddy.  She was validated, relieved, and hopeful that now she could get her hands on it.  Not so much the actual need to hold it, but rather the joy of having been reunited with the possibility to experience it again.

Similarly, I also was reminded of an idea that has me most excited.  Bunny mentioned that she located an old friend of mine on Facebook.  I haven’t spoken to him in over 7 years, despite the fact that I recently visited his country.  I’ve now contacted him and am also feeling the joy of possibility.  Who knows if we’ll reunite and actually hangout again?  What seems most important at the moment is that the possibility is still alive.

In the past decade I have experienced several deaths.  Mixed in between has been a smattering of losses and finds, break-ups and new loves.  The thing that is scary about death is the finality; the fact that I can’t call up Mr. Jones or visit my grandmother or even e-mail my former professor any more fills me with longing and anxiety.  There is no more future possibility, just lovely memories and inspiration.

Tonight I feel acutely the desire to create things that may last, that offer the possibility to be re-read and re-discovered.  Immortalizing some folks and ideas may very well decrease the longing and anxiety.

Oh to nibble on the madeleine…

patience