Me and Mr. Jones

I think it is nice that we give ourselves this cultural opportunity for mass rebirth. To rectify or improve our lives. To feel a bit of weight lifted and new promise given. Tonight is the same as many others, but it is the first night/morning of the new year, and so is filled with potential and champagne. I feel no reason to state the things I hope to improve upon, because I don’t want it to come back and bite me in the ass. But do not doubt that I have plenty of plans brewing. Here’s to you and yours! See you in 365 days to raise another glass and begin again!

it comes down to this: when each night is the same, why do they continue? how much do my conversations with people really add to me? them? does he notice the new bottle? yes, truthfully he does. and yet they come, go, and are replaced. this is what it all comes down to. this. is. how do you define is?

Lately I’ve become so reticent in public. The casual observer may not notice this about me, but if you were to listen in on conversations I have they are parred down to the absolute necessities in order to seem pleasant. I find it hard to engage many topics that are bandied about, and instead have taken some solace in silent watching. How do the dynamics change, and how do the people react to one another. And who is stoking the fire?

I’m not sure if this is merely a passing phase I’m in, of if perhaps I have finally started down the road to introversion. Enveloped by the chilly dusting of snow, the leaves fall off and the roots pull inward to conserve. I like to sit with a drink in my hand. It’s fun to exchange glances and smiles. I just wish I could force the words out of my mouth.

Melt away.

My dad has always liked to talk. Not chit chat really, no, he likes to deliver monologues. I picture him at this moment sitting outside in his backyard, smoking his pipe and creating his next aural opus to expound whenever someone takes the time to listen.

Usually the topic is politics or his worklife, but sometimes it is on some random topic such as photography or his past. It is a sampling of these monologues that I would like to bring to you now:

“There are just some things that disgust me. For example, did you know our government pays money to make obscene photographs? There is this guy Robert Mapplethorpe who actually takes pictures of men peeing in each other’s mouths. Or another picture of himself with some sort of rope shoved up his rear end. I am not kidding, he has literally taken rooms full of pictures of men in various degrading or sexual situations. And he won an NEA grant. Can you believe it? Peeing in another man’s mouth.”

(although i had no way to investigate these claims at the time, i always remembered the name robert mapplethorpe as someone i would like to look up and view these glorious images. did people really drink pee? i didn’t really want to try it but i was anxious to see it. i’m sure i was about 13 at the time.)

“I remember living on the corner of Polk street. It was in what they called the ‘Meat-Packing District.’ Men would line the streets looking to attract the attention of other men. Like peacocks. Prancing in leather or tight denim. I would sometimes just go out to the corner to watch as these gloriously decorated people moved about looking for companionship. Who knows what kind of debauchery happened once they left the street…. But they were very interesting to see.”

(i sat silent while he told me this. recording terms like “meat-packing” and “peacocks” for later use when i finally was old enough to leave home. should i go to san francisco i wondered?)

“Boys don’t kiss other boys on the lips.”

(this truth was told to me when i was like 4 or 5 and offering my father a goodnight kiss. it seems i had planted one upon his mouth as he bent over me and he reacted instinctively.)

I talk of these things not to paint a picture of my father as a homophobe or insensitive man, just to illustrate the power of words as they are told from one to another. My father’s statements gave me inspiration, and once I found myself he has welcomed me with open arms. However, he has no idea how I may have perceived him or his words when he spoke them. We should always pay attention to the person we are speaking to. What is he hearing you say?

the phrase is something like “sometimes what is hidden, is sexier than what is shown.” this implies that full disclosure would take second place to veiled revelation. i’m not so sure. it depends upon the context. would i like to see him in his full glory? yes. would i want to hear all of the juicy details? absolutely. is it better to explain or to allude? well, that’s the question.

i have a tendency to just lay all my cards on the table. however, that’s not always acceptable. so i choose to tell some, and then just remain silent for others. at work i am all smiles, and they have no idea that i’m not just the shiny happy librarian i appear. i do not reveal the beast in me. and then i come home and fill up my drink and begin to let it all evolve and come to light.

who really knows the the true and whole person that we are? at what point is our guard really down? i’m not sure i even know. and i’m not even sure whoever i reveal myself to may actually find out.

and so i write, and so you read?

Family gets together and eats good food. But really, family sits in awe of this little darling: MORE HERE

I had hyped this up in my mind. An uncle meets his new-born niece. It is the kind of thing that is supposed to be sweet, but it seems that those things become “supposed to be” events because in actuality they are just as poignant as they appear. But none of this matters because really she’s just this petite princess, with a face and eyes and cheeks that all other babies just wish they had. I imagine she’s someone I’ll never really get over. This is as it should be. Check out the rest of the story HERE!

(In Honor of Audrey)

What do I know? How do I know it? And, more importantly, how do I communicate this knowledge?

This is my wisdom. A common term for a person’s accumulation of experience and aptitude for meta-cognitive understanding of these experiences. One is wise if one can pontificate. But actually, it is if one can pontificate in a poignant manner for others.

One is wise if one knows one’s audience, really…

We have Jesus, Buddha and Plato; Shakespeare and Sarte. There are sages for every generation. I have friends whom I feel comfortable actually asking for advice. You have confidants. This seems to be the crux of our mutual wisdom: how we depend or explore. How our collective knowing is parsed among quotable phrases.

I may elect you wise if you appeal to my desires. Or perhaps if I fit within your curriculum. (David Field or Andrea Sununu…holla!) I may deign to call you wise if your political ambitions fit my life. (Dennis Kucinich?)

The problem with wisdom is that it is subjective. One’s experiences may reflect another’s. One’s words may appeal to someone. But that seems to be it. Wisdom is birthed within our own need to understand.

That’s as much as I know. The extent to which I am wise.