if i ruled the world

with a tip of the hat to maira kalman and rick meyerowitz.

in honor of mother’s day, a reading of roses are red, violets are blue (in which the author speaks with his mother about the long island medium)

mother’s day card from the author to his mother, 1962

it doesn’t seem possible, does it mother, that in just a few short days it will be 30 years since you left this world? how to account for the intervening years, then, the years that i wish i could have shared with you; the failures, the small triumphs, the love, and the sadness, the gossip, the weather, bill clinton, george w. bush, and a trip to france? in just a few paragraphs today there is no way we could cover all of that ground is there (water under a bridge, but actually more like virginia woolf wading into the rill that last time, her sweater pockets filled with rocks)? how then, to explain my life to you; all those little things in my life that  went undocumented because i could not call you on the phone and tell you, “i got the job!” or “i think you’ll like him, mom, he means the world to me.” the time pneumonia put me in the hospital, so sick there was concern that i might not make it through, the white cyclamen my boss sent to me sitting on the window sill of my room (all remembered with the hazy soft filter of time and morphine.)

and even more so than the peaks and valleys are the tiny little moments that you experience on a daily basis when the road is level, like when i was a teenager and you asked me what happened during my day and i would respond, “nothing.” those are the nothings that you do share eventually, unprompted, it spills out of you as we recount the week behind us, you on the stool in the kitchen under the wall phone, me, well me, wherever i was living at the time. how could we catch up on all that love? what of it, hmm?

please note the dish towel thrown jauntily over her shoulder. i have the same habit.

a few days ago, m. introduced me to the “long island medium”, a “reality” show (how to explain reality tv to you, you who left before its onslaught, lucky you) about a woman living on long island in new york who communicates with the dead. i wouldn’t have thought to bring it up were it not so close to this time marker, this anniversary of three decades without you, although it’s probably silly not to, all things considered, since your mother was as psychic as they come, but it appears that this woman really does talk to the dead. (if it’s not true, my hat’s off to the producers of this ‘unscripted’ show for pulling off such amazing acting turns from ordinary people.)

m. and i spent a lazy sunday afternoon and early evening watching, actually more like completely absorbed by, this phenomenon, this woman reaching out to strangers to tell them (she can’t seem to hold herself back from intruding on other people’s lives) that their loved ones are watching them, are with them when the grandchild was born, the birthday was celebrated, the high school graduation, the wedding, the death of another close relative, the dog that died.

ghosts always seemed to accompany us, seen here at christmas in california, 1968

the medium insists that she only shares happiness, and the people whose lives she touches seem to be at a point in their grieving where this interruption, this communication from their ghosts is most needed. she paints a picture of “the other side” as one of all roses and harps and eternal bliss where those who’ve left us frolic together, each and everyone coming together to watch over you, the living.

there are so many joyous tears and looks of incredulity at the minutiae she apparently knows about your intimate life that you can’t help but believe that she has touched on some element (the 5th? or was that just some silly movie with bruce willis and brad pitt?) that i have to ask you, mom, have you been here all along?

as lovely as that seems and as much as i would like to believe that you are here, now (and it’s true i may unconsciously believe that you are) it does not put you physically in front of me as much as i might yearn for that. if the long island medium were to communicate for you to me, yes, it may offer temporary succor, but the fact remains that i cannot call you up when i want to, to check in with you, how you’re feeling, that you had your hair cut and styled, bought a new dress, went out to dinner with your friends, volunteered at the local VFW for a food drive, drove up to jeff city for a doctor’s appointment by yourself, that the dogwood are blooming, a neighbor has a new dog that spends more time with you than with them.

all of that is gone. i accept that. and today, on mother’s day 2012, just a few days from when we laid you in the ground 30 years ago, it may be enough for me to know that you’re close by, watching and smiling, still in love with your son.

iris 4 (ego)

my ego is so bruised that its normal color is purple. (ba da bing. thank you, i’ll be here all week, folks.)

what? you say you didn’t know egos had a color? my dear, where have you been? but of course they do. tout le monde knows that (even megadeath does and if they do, why shouldn’t you, i ask?) if you’re ever to have any influence over others, to be a leader, one of the world’s great creators, you must stick your flag in the ground and claim it as your own. think caesar, columbus, hillary (sir edmund percival, not mrs. clinton, although she can certainly hold her own against any of the world’s largest egos, amirite?), kardashian (pick one. are you not surprised that kim is not spelled khim? i’ll wait while you digest that.)

interesting isn’t it, that i didn’t mention a single artist? i suppose i could’ve included the greek sculptor in the 4th cent. b.c. (was it polykleitos?) who made the decision to utilize contrapposto structure to their interpretation of man or maybe someone like da vinci for his truly renaissance genius, exploring as he did all disciplines, perhaps picasso, too, but it may be too soon to tell with him and what list would be complete without a nod to duchamp? none that i know of. possibly when the ‘arts’ section of the newspaper — before its extinction, of course — is the first fold and not the last, then maybe the artists will get their due.

just when i thought i’d conquered my abject need to be universally loved (circa 199_) along comes “social” media and “followers” (i.e., strangers) and suddenly it’s high school all over again with its cliques and outliers and jocks and geeks, a maze of intricate behavior (STOP! NO ENTRY!) and outrageously complicated ritual that now confounds and astounds and depresses me. depresses me because who doesn’t want the love and recognition of their peers — and not just peers, but the dream of the entire world bowing to your brilliance seems so within reach, if only the number of your followers would increase exponentially; and these, your online friends, if they would then just spread the word to all of their followers and ad infinitum, kapow! you’re a star!

and now there’s an application called ‘klout’ (the long-lost kardashian half-sister), that actually tells you how you rank as an influencer throughout your social media universe. gah! i’m doomed — as is my ego.

as a panacea i am posting a photograph of the yellow and white irises that were blooming in our garden this past week when the sun was shining and the sky was so blue you could dive into it like a pool of fresh mountain water (come on in, the water’s fine) and for the moment i cared not a whit about anything remotely related to my ego or the approval of anyone other than myself.

the palms in fog (literally)

not an allegory

this weekend

has been shrouded in fog as if this corner of the earth were being filmed in noir.

two days of misconceptions, wrong turns, mistaken identities, hitchcockian, beautiful blond women, unshaven men, silk, trenchcoats, trains pulling out of the station, blood seeping from a fatal wound, missed connections, naivete, cunning, cigarette smoke, red lipstick (“you do know how to whistle, don’t you?”)

post script

p.p.s. for those of you who may find it difficult to read this, it may be easier if you click on it for its full size.

untitled (the history of roses)

“history is a myth that men agree to believe.” –napoleon bonaparte

 

the effects of cloud computing on my sanity

 

having your “head in the clouds” is not such a bad thing; a lot can be accomplished when you do put it up there (or down or around or however you get to your own cloud. do remember to stay out of other people’s clouds, it’s only polite), but then they come along and make cloud computing a thing and it really takes the wind out of your sails cloud and suddenly there’s all this extraneous stuff just floating around out there…little 1s & 0s all a-jumble and who, in their right mind (or wrong mind, for that matter) can make any sense of it any longer, conceptually or otherwise, i ask you? [otherwise known as things i said to take up digital space and call it my own. --ed.]

toy soldiers*

my fantasies as a child were no different than yours. perhaps you were jealous of my solitude, but that did not matter to me. i did not have to share my toys, my books, my bedroom, my mother with anyone and although you might imagine that would make me a selfish person, it has not.

it is possible that i am better equipped to be alone, that my ability to manage on my own far exceeds that of someone with brothers, sisters, a father, and a mother. it is also possible that i am at turns gregarious, charming, shy, aloof (not necessarily as opposite as one might think, although a coolness does run through those social skills.)

these perfume bottles were my toy soldiers. i never thought how unusual it might have been that my mother had collected these bottles in the 30s and 40s and then carted them around in an old red velvet-lined silverware box. (what happened to the silver was never a topic of conversation.) i would line them up on the linoleum in the kitchen or in my bedroom; the short squat ones with the black lids the front line of defence, the thinner and taller ones making the important decisions, guarding the flanks.

the battle would stop when a bottle fell over, a quiet ceremony of picking it up, unscrewing, uncorking its cap, the left-over scent of a long-ago perfume imagined (or was it real? maybe a bit of both.) as i grew older i would try to discern the words on the labels, “mr. poulter of new york”, “divine”, “honeysuckle”, paris, london, rome, avon. each a symbol of something grander, of something more mysterious (my mother; they are mysteries to their young boys, these mothers who control your life. you know they are different, but you are unsure of what that difference is. you throw yourself into their arms in fear, in love, in fun and bury your head in their lap, their breast. your thin arms stretched around their hips, their waist for protection and reassurance.)

i’ve never thought of photographing them before today. and now that i have i think i can let them go; each wrapped in toilet paper and laid into the red velvet-lined silverware box with its faux leather exterior (a warm camel color) and bakelite black handle; soldiers buried, wars won, medals pinned to chests, conquests of foreign lands (the chenille rug, the hassock, the child’s rocking chair) remembered.

*i never had real toy soldiers; i used what was available to play my boy games. nurture or nature or fate? (all of them.)

you will be amazed (i will predict the future)

the future = what you make of it • <less what you have no control over> x your genetic make-up + who you choose to surround yourself with ÷ goldman sachs – rick santorum ± whether or not you caught the #7 train (heads or tails) (blue eyes or brown) + the name of the first street you lived on – the time your parents argued about paying for your college even though you had decided to get a degree in the humanities (pick any subject within that discipline, they’re all weighted the same) [didn't go to college? no matter! you're fucked no matter what choice you made.] x nature/nurture ÷ bootstrap pulling ability x your fifth grade teacher + your first cigarette/kiss/toke of marijuana/beer/hand-job in the back seat of your best friend’s car (all of which could have happened at one time) to the 10th power.

mix well, down in one gulp to avoid that nasty after taste while reading ayn rand standing on your head so that your t-shirt slips down around your upper torso and everyone is looking at your hairy belly (bonus points for the hairy belly if you’re a woman) and wondering if you’re any good in bed, ’cause, after all judging your ability as a lover is the first thing we all think about. amirite?

i worry

i worry.  i worry that i consume too much/not food—well, maybe a little worry there/but that i consume too many objects/paintings/pottery/plants.  i worry that i worry about this.  once m. & i had dinner at an architect’s house/new friend (for about 5 minutes in gay time) his abode was stunning/stunningly empty & every object was spotlit/sparse/solitaire.  he takes me by the hand to show me his glass collection (both pieces, okay maybe there were 5, i don’t remember how many exactly [something else to worry about] all were exquisitely displayed,) but completely drained of personality which made worry about what kind of person lived here or could live here (his house—i wouldn’t have called it a home) what should’ve worried me, but didn’t at the time, was that he had taken me by the hand—as i later find out, was a ‘move’ on his part, i totally missed the signals when they should’ve been obvious since there was nothing in his house to distract me from paying attention to minor gay details such as hand-holding by the host, he may’ve even patted my hand or stroked my wrist—i was trying so hard (because i worry) to be the gracious guest and ooh & aah over every little detail/how little detail there was too ooh & aah over made me worry that i was being a tad over solicitous — was i sending smoke signals when there was no fire/misread?  no, no, all him, not me, m. assured me after we left & i had expressed my worry to him.  of course, m. said to me ‘i could not live like that.’  so i still worry that i consume too much/& what it might say about me/i don’t want it taking over my life, but i worry that it might be too late/that i’ve/we’ve taken that final exit into spinster aunt-hood, for christ’s sake there’s a crocheted doily under the fucking cherry pie pot/carrier which a friend gave us (fitz & floyd how i love you) and we’ve never used, but love anyway.

i worry.  i worry that being gay is going to be more difficult than it already is.  i worry that we won’t ever have equal rights.  i worry that my neighbors denied me equal rights.  i worry that m. will die before me (true that.)  i worry that i’ll be all alone in socal, which i loathe (except for its beauty.)  i worry that i’ll lose my job.  i worry that people won’t buy art anymore, because everything is free on the internet & copyright will be a thing of the past & the elderly (me) will say ‘why, i had to negotiate the copyright agreements when i was your age & it didn’t stop me from enjoying life’/in the similar vein that ‘i walked 7 miles to school,’ shit your parents/parent/parent’s parents dished out in the last century to your parents/me (except i think my mother did have to walk a long way to school in the miserable wyoming winters with only newspaper to wrap her feet in so they wouldn’t freeze/frostbite still a worry in that ‘great depression.’)  i worry that i worry.  and then i don’t for some time/maybe hours/minutes/seconds/days/weeks/months (that’s not true, months that is) because something/someone/some object/painting/pot/plant/animal/friend/lover/neighbor/boss/associate/blog (multiple ones)/tumblr takes my mind off my worries.  thank you, i’m better now, maybe even a little corner of my lips turned up in a smile-kind-of-better, however briefly, before the next worry creeps up behind me on little cat’s paws and covers my eyes & says ‘guess who?’