#writingsofgvearwood

[writingsofgvearwood]

Acceptance or Ridicule

I was born with an optical condition called strabismus, also known as crossed eyes, or lazy eye, or various other increasingly derogatory misnomers. It was assumed that I inherited the condition from my mother who likewise was born with alternating strabismus. At 60 years old I underwent outpatient surgery which aligned the eyes to an undetectable closeness. To explain, the many people who have alternating strabismus focus only with one eye, and it can be either eye, only one at a time. The non-focal eye becomes akin to peripheral vision. Of course, without stereo optical vision, the element of dimension is considerably more difficult; however, that part is easily adapted to and compensated for in the magnificence of the human brain. So, while I still have alternating strabismus and my singular focal vision is exactly the same, my elation is an unfamiliar change in who I am.

Having any irregularity in the human body from crossed eyes to three arms, from a harelip to having no arms, causes the bearer of that difference to be mocked and pitied and bullied and patronized. The guy with only one arm sees people looking at the absent space, and can well read the reaction on every face. The skinny white boy with crossed eyes hears the whispers and subtle giggles of his classmates. The lady with misshaped teeth whose parents simply had not the money for braces, attempts to speak while trying to move her lips as little as possible and who always, always covers her mouth with a hand before laughing. The middle-aged man who wears a tee shirt at the swimming pool to avoid the second and third looks at the scars on his chest from heart surgery. The teenage girl who doesn't have a cell phone who finds a few thousand excuses and reasons for her connected peers. The young person who realizes he or she simply is attracted to the same sex and creates at least one alternate personality to accommodate the seemingly requisite judgment and rejection. Importantly I wrote 'the bearer of that difference'.  

The distance between empathy and sympathy is equally as extreme as the difference between right and wrong. Absolutely! And the polarity of acceptance and mocking closely resemble the distance between heaven and hell. We do this to each other. Look, no matter how quick the glance or how many double takes, we inherently notice when anyone is different from . . .  Yeah, from what? Okay, so you noticed my eyes were not both looking at you when we met. Please don't pretend that it isn't there. Empathy is greatly realized and appreciated when the rare soul notices the difference and, perhaps, smiles. No verbal acknowledgement is necessary when you see that a man has only one arm, but you both know that you know, and it is in your face how you wish to treat that man. Are you freaked out and just want to get away? - that's the quick side-glance and furrowed brow. Are you filled with such sorrow that this man, bless his heart, has only got one arm? - that's the corners of your mouth drooping and a semi-weepy, puppy dog kind of look in your eyes. Are you inclined to move just a bit closer and regale this one-armed man with a tale of another unfortunate person who was missing a leg, or arm, or toe? - that's the, oh never mind, please don't do that! Hell, we even consider Albert Einstein to be irregular, different.

And yes, I include race and skin color and sexuality and ethnicity in league with any other difference, as it were. This all starts the first time a child overhears a voiced judgment from a respected adult. It can be as simple as a flippant yet overheard comment that plants the seed of discrimination and demonstrates the permissibility of sharing judgments: they look down on us 'cause we're poor; I'm not quite sure where her husband came from; I couldn't tell who that cross-eyed man was looking at; taller people have life so much better; theirs is an interracial marriage; I wonder which side his bread is buttered on; that girl is a little too tomboy; well you know he doesn't even know who his daddy really is; etc., ad nauseum. It is truly amazing how we learn to assuage the individual ego. You may have it better, but it doesn't make you better, because there is no "better". If you want to interact with or maybe even know a particular person, then do so; however, to do so, you must learn who the person is without your interpretation. If or when you do not wish to interact further or even engage in any exchange with a particular person, leave, don't, allow them to be something, whatever, other than you. Beliefs, deformities, scars, religion, mores, bodies, opinions - all of these are yours, and yours alone. Why, why, why do we humans feel the need to be better, prettier than other humans to define "normalcy".

We stand on the shoulders of history and see clearly that every attempt exclude any particular human beings from the "normal" has failed, miserably, and with angst and shame and perhaps feigned regret. We wait until we are older to acquire the "I like myself" power of being. As a people, we humans of this planet must embrace the peculiarities and peccadilloes or any other human, with the right and power to know or not know any particular individual. And leave it at that! To quote Shakespeare, "nothing is bad but that we think it so". Damn right! There is a recipe to bring this harmony about, and there's only one ingredient: education. Acquiescence is a balm that diminishes the power of the bully and coincidentally the desire to be like others. Acceptance is the unfortunately implausible dream that "it", whatever "it" is, doesn't matter, and will therefore have no label, no distinction. This isn't rocket science, it is mind your own business. You do the best you can with what you have, and I'll do the best I can with what I have.

What I have learned from these past two weeks while my new eyes were healing, is that I judged myself to be "different" right along and in tandem with everyone else. I compared, and thought myself lacking, and I wonder the difference. My vision is the same, still different from most people, but now no one will know when the look at me. Am I still different? And why the hell does it matter. I am the same person but I am received and regarded differently. I see no facial reactions from those who look at me.  Shame on me for allowing that in my life. Shame on everyone who feels better than any other person because of your, or their, individuality or difference or . . .  what the hell ever!  

[writingsofgvearwood]

the Waffle House

As I turned 15 years old in 1969, I thought my paper route to be a brutal job since it required 2 hours every evening and almost twice as much time in the wee hours of every Sunday morning. I'd delivered The Atlanta Journal since January of 1966. Yep, the dorky kid with the crossed eyes visible through the black horn-rimmed glasses, and long, skinny legs rode a bicycle (when I had one) or walked the few blocks every day, but I was the nerdy kid with a bit of my own money. The work ethic was explained to me as a very young child when I was required to join the rest of the family in a field of cotton, picking the fluffy, white, tiny clouds from those nasty, brittle, finger-cutting bolls in which it grew. Of course, that included lugging a canvas bag behind me strapped to my shoulder and growing heavier and heavier with every seemingly weightless puff I dropped in. Because I was only 5 and 6 years old at the time, my efforts didn't make a noticeable difference in the family's daily production of king cotton. It did, however, contribute to the larger amounts picked by my older siblings and my parents. So, the paper route was high on my list of "things to do" when we moved from the fields of north Georgia to Atlanta. Damn it, I couldn't get a route until I was eleven years old.

January of 1970 was my first job search. I called every business near home, asking whoever answered the phone if they were hiring 15 year old guys with an official Worker's Permit. There were no takers in the first 10 or 15 or 20 calls from a scared sounding kid on the phone. Then, to my total surprise, the manager at a not-so-nearby Waffle House said, "yes"!  I could start as a dishwasher that very night, 7:00 pm to 7:00 a.m. As I asked him to hold on and laid the phone on the rickety table in the dining room center of the house, I grimaced at the prospect of asking my Mother, so I opted for my partially inebriated Dad. With pats on the back and congratulations all around, he assured me that he and Mother would drive me there and pick me up. I returned to the phone, told Mister Manager the excellent news that I would be there at 7:00.

My mother was a protective sort, you know the type, I'm sure. She simply wasn't happy when any of her children were out of her sight. She acquiesced to Dad's approval, then chose the clothes I would wear to ensure that none of my "good" clothes would be yukked up by splashing dish water. I arrived in an excited state and began being trained on the dishwasher, how to bus tables, how to mop the floor once an hour, how to do whatever was asked of me by the professional waitresses, and then, finally, how to clean the bathrooms with a rag and a bottle of bleach. Just before 7:00 a.m. I gathered enough nerve to ask Mister Manager how much I was making per hour and when I would get paid. One US Dollar per hour, paid every two weeks and maybe a few tips if the waitresses really like me. I left at 7 am, worn the hell out, smelling of bleach and grease and steamy dish detergent. There were smell that Mother picked up on as soon as I got into the car. As the questions started and I detailed my night of work, her nose began to scrunch and the corners of her mouth turn downward. I'd said too much. When I awoke later that day, sometime in the afternoon, Mother told me she had already called those people and told them I would not be back. It wasn't the hard work or even the smells, but cleaning a public bathroom with just a cloth and bleach was totally taboo. Thankfully, she called. And thankfully, I still had my little paper route.

Mister Manager at The Waffle House made an executive decision to not pay me the earned twelve dollars because I didn't come back. Dad to the rescue. He drove me to the Waffle House and once out of the car I knew to follow him and stay close. After about three minutes of my John Wayne-esque Dad standing over the sitting Mister Manager, twelve dollars in cash appeared in my hand. It seems that the threat from a serious Teamster had some weight on the truck's main Atlanta thoroughfare. That and the threat quietly communicated by the intensity of Dad's glare got me paid.

I'd long forgotten that failed attempt at a first job until recently when I reviewed my lifetime Social Security earnings and payments. There, for 1970 was twelve dollars paid to me from The Waffle House, and a few cents even went to the Social Security Administration, gratis! Thank God for intimidating Dads and paper routes!

[writingsofgvearwood]

Thoughts On . . .

Movies - Can't anybody sing and make me happy and feel good as I leave the theater anymore. Enough with the mundane visualization of life. Gone With the Wind - The best movie ever made and not because of its subject or period. It soared, it was honest, and it ended with the most classic cliffhanger ever! Opinions - If you know nothing of contrasting views, just shut up! I don't care what you believe simply because you made a choice without objective, intelligent questions in your mind. Religion vs. Science - Facts do not obviate the presence of divinity; however, how vain and egotistical that anyone could think their request for a lottery win or whatever human triviality could be of import. Heterosexual Women - penis envy. Gay Men - zealous penis envy. Straight Men - discrete, guilt laden penis envy. Lesbians - rubber penis envy. Penises - the joy and bane of man's existence. Art - if you look at it with your eyes, you missed the point. AARP - they could have found Osama Bin Laden the day he turned 50 and every day after that if someone had just paid the damned sixteen dollar annual fee. Soulmate - that one human being who knows you're full of shit and tells you when to flush. Soulmate - the person who understands your vanity and egotism and doubts, and considers our request for a lottery win or whatever human triviality to be of import. Funerals - the need to spend money and share with others your hatred and fear of death, in a dignified manner, whilst disposing of an empty, useless vessel. My Youngest Nephew - A hedonist without a dream in search of himself and confused as to purpose, yet gliding on his own steam of choices that are, whether in reality, good opportunities without expectation of outcome. A good soul who has always wanted to be more than he is, kinda. My Eldest Niece - a very ordinary woman whose every opinion can only be formed after fitful projections as to what her long-dead parent(s) might think or do, and then adhered to as an extension of the mourning process. Moderation - moderation in ALL things, including moderation. Farting - flatulence by any other descriptor remains mephitic, unpleasant, necessary, and as private as an expulsion of feces from the same source. Grapes - nature's candy, especially the seedless red ones. Lying - a means to obviate judgment, whether necessary; or, perhaps fulfilling another's expectations but probably what seems to be the easiest answer at the moment. Republican Money - the method by which one's importance to society is measured. Democratic Money - the method by which a government establishes one's importance to society is measured. Bullying - standing on another's shoulders to fool the herd into the perception that one is taller, somehow better than the shoulderer without whom to stand upon the bully would be equal to the sheep who would drink the sand, if told to .

[writingsofgvearwood]

In Love

Because it feels fucking great!

So, why do people want to be in love with just one "someone"? It's a question that has been bandied about since the Big Bang, or when Adam lost that damn rib. There are as many answers to such a question as there are moments of glory when any two people feel interconnected, absorbed with only each other. I think it doesn't matter if it is momentary or intermittent or even if it lingers. An old man will remember many experiences and emotions, but none compare to the now gentle and familiar warmth in the center of his chest that he felt at 16 or 42. Passion, lust, pheromones, insecurity, security, and voracious attraction are incomparable in the human experience. Both frightening and comforting, it feels fucking great to be in love.

Yeah, you will definitely long for that particular rush of glorious worth after it assuages. Well worth the longing though, 'cause being in love feels fucking great!

[writingsofgvearwood]

A Few Musical Thoughts

My family enjoyed "making music". And that is exactly what it was appropriately called. The first warm-fuzzy-I-am-somebody feeling happened at 5 years of age while riding in a 1950 Ford with Dad, Mother, an older brother and an older sister. I don't think there was a working radio in the car, we sang so much in my memories that I'll go ahead and say there wasn't a radio at all. When I suggested we sing "I'll Fly Away", a unanimous favorite to which we all knew all of the words, Dad asked me to lead it out. And lead it out I did.

From that time throughout my entire life, music has been so much more important than I ever imagined. I have a thousand songs in my head. I certainly don't know all the words or even the melodies, but a memory is attached to a majority of the songs I've ever heard. With whom, doing what, wherever, whenever - none of that has ever left my memory even if I can't remember a lot, or much, or anything specific.

Music surreptitiously accompanies your soul throughout the process of living. The gamut of emotions, the need to remember something you do remember, Music is the invisible baggage we all carry, and it has no weight but can be as heavy or as light as the moments of you. Carry it proudly and hold on to it with zeal, for even as your specifics become whitewashed or fade away, the memory of that touch, that smile, that joy, that roller coaster, that kiss, that crazy night out with a hooker and a Jew, whatever your memories are, there is a soundtrack.  Enjoy it, for it is as much a part of you as your five or six senses. Live. Shut up, and Dance to your Music!

[writingsofgvearwood]

My Brad Pitt Theory

There can be no stronger, more absolute form of showing your love than to deny all others except the one and only intimacy which you have sworn to uphold. Keeping yourself to him/her and no other. In a way, bullshit! The choice, the promise, the reality of a monogamous relationship is nothing more than an agreement to deny yourself the urges, emotions, needs, wants and desires that course like mercury through the sexual aspects of your soul. In another way, bullshit on the choice. When you find the one person who churns your butter, ignites flames in the center of your chest, weakens the knees, and can cause better-than-adequate orgasms, there is no need or genuine desire for the intimacy of another.

But wait, I contradict myself. Duh!

My Brad Pitt Theory came about from a multiply broken heart, a hungry desire for every gorgeous young man, and the bliss of being totally in love with a man who rebuked monogamy. To explain, I'll invent two genderless people, Chris and Pat. Chris and Pat are for 6 years in a very "loving" couple, which means they get along most of the time and have a few reliable moments of intimacy and passion enjoying each other whether it be sex or shopping or dancing or cuddling. As all good consumers in the U.S.A., each has their favorite movie star - you know, that one digitized (I almost wrote celluloid) person who, in two dimensions, is everything you would want in a sex partner.  Gable, Pitt, Kutcher, Cruise, or Halle Berry, Jada Smith, Audrey Hepburn, et al.  We fantasize about that person, we lust after that body, we can't resist their acted charm, and now we get to see beach pictures, and nude spreads, read of their diversity and their break-ups. For all time since Thelma and Louise, Chris has had an unrequited crush on Brad Pitt. While walking down a street in Hollywood, Chris accidentally passes the one and only Brad Pitt. Brad turns round and schmoozes on Chris, inviting Chris to his house, like now, for just a few minutes to hang out alone. The sexual undertone and energy are rife. If Chris goes, Chris will be laid by, OMG, Brad Pitt.

Option One: Chris rejects the opportunity of having sex with this humanized fantasy, this titan of sex, because Chris is in a committed relationship and, "can't."

Option Two: Chris looks over his shoulder at the last ion of resistance and takes the blond god up on the offer for Chris' (hopefully) fulfilling hour with a lifelong fantasy.

Option One has its good and bad points.  Chris has upheld the commitment and not cheated on Pat. Chris will invariably mourn the loss of a fantasy. A dream has died with one word, "no". Chris will now accelerate expectations of Pat, because Chris chose Pat over Brad Pitt. Said differently, Pat had better live up to the fantasy, replace the dream with a bit more than new china, a cruise, or the usual mediocrity of a partnered life. Pat will also feel some remorse from knowing that the reason Chris was unable to realize a penultimate high is because of the commitment they share, because of Pat's happiness.

Option Two is also oxymoronic in its own way. Chris will have lived an impossible dream, slayed the dragon, climbed above Everest in just one hour out of the thousands that comprise a lifetime. Chris opened the door when the ultimate opportunity knocked. And now for the guilt, recriminations, and the overpowering need to share that accomplishment by telling Pat, and probably every other friend and acquaintance from 20 years past and hence. Pat will fight the feeling of inadequacy with anger and jealousy.

I realize these are not new questions or dilemmas. My husband and I never lived together through our eight years, and we were not allowed monogamy both due to that physical distance and his calming instruction to me whenever he saw a tinge, just a tinge, of jealousy in my eye. "You are the person I will love all of my life. You are not the only person I want to have sex with, and admit it, you too." After my husband's death, I've had two significant relationships, the first being a raucous failure to strive for monogamy, the second a resounding failure in my attempt to love someone enough for both of us, oh, and generally monogamous, with a few digressions. All three scenarios were difficult for me. I wanted someone who wanted to only be with me, and I wanted to want to only be with someone.

It doesn't work that way. Whether you're having a physical tryst with someone, had a one-time-fling, or even closed your eyes with your monogamous partner so you could imagine someone else, you've cheated. To bind one's soul by promising that you will know what you want, and what you will be, twenty minutes or twenty years from now, is tragically self-destructive. Perhaps the marriage vows should read, "I promise I will deny myself all urges and temptations for anyone but you." I don't know the answer for anyone, including myself, except to say that life is to be lived, without regret, and without cookie cutter societal forms into which you strive to fit.

Now, define your own version of Brad Pitt, because I know you have one, then figure out what you think you would do. Because when the bell is about to toll for thee, you will only regret the things you haven't done or aren't doing, as is the conundrum that is life. You will also remember all the good you have done and those few moments of any passion fulfilled during your life here. There is no right or wrong, except that we perceive it so. And even Brad is changing, but still a god of mine.

[writingsofgvearwood]

Little River Canyon

My most special place, and for reasons I can't possibly understand or discern.

My first visit to Little River Canyon was as a child, with an uncle and aunt and their 3 girls. I was awestruck. To my young mind it was way bigger than the Grand Canyon I'd seen only in pictures. This canyon, however, was covered in trees and was so totally green that it seemed more alive, softer, as if loved by nature itself.

My next visit was in my late teens, and happened, it seemed, by accidental navigation. I wanted to drive alone, to enjoy the freedom that a three year old Ford Mustang imbues upon a post-adolescent, pre-adult with his own set of keys and money for gasoline. Subsequent trips included various high school friends and varying elicit activities in the vane of Boone's Farm Strawberry wine, a joint or two, and some heavy, heavy conversations of dreams and goals and hopes for the world we were about to go forth and conquer. On one of those trips with a long-forgotten friend I routed my return trip via the nursing home where my paternal grandmother was bed-ridden. After I described the place and how I felt there, her smile conveyed understanding and a sense of peace. Unfortunately, I don't remember her words; however, I recall her encouragement that I continue my relationship with any place that made me feel that good. That was my last visit with her, and somehow those events embedded a bit of her memory into my Canyon.

My next visit was the first of many with my soulmate and the love of my life. While driving around the rim of my Canyon, I recognized a particularly favorite place from previous visits. We walked on a hardly trodden dirt path through trees and underbrush to the outcropping of rock in the picture above. There weren't many venues where we could hold hands, kiss, gently touch or just express our physical and emotional need for each other. On that rock, with only God watching, I learned the indescribable joy of just being in love, being together, making love, and baring my soul, my body and my heart. Incomparable, perfect, blessed love! I returned to my Canyon to grieve his death a few years later and for the first time felt a need to descend the majestic greened walls to the source, the small, rippling water at the vortex, hundreds of feet below with my puppy and a backpack. A few days later I ascended the cliffs and went back to living my life, albeit changed forever.

Through subsequent years, two boyfriends have gone with me for a day trip to drive around the rim and perhaps share a walk to the edge of the rim for the expanse and glory of my Canyon. One of those was so enamored with the beauty of so much nature that he insisted that we stay atop the rim, amongst the trees and live the sunset. The other was a lover of three years who determined on his first visit that we return the following weekend for a few days of camping by the river, and we returned more than once, more to enjoy the surroundings than each other.

On one of the day trips to my Canyon I brought my mother. Although a lovely day with some good bonding and mother/son time, I hid from her an unspeakable sadness that I could not even tell her most of my memories or even of the love that had been felt there, for her disdain and judgment would have been an attempt to assuage or minimize my love and my memories. It was, however, a good day, adding her laughter, her love, and our extraordinary relationship to my Canyon's memory.

My latest visit to my Canyon was a short while after recovering from open heart surgery. I drove there with the explicit goal and purpose of sitting on that particular rock, and being whelmed by the spectrum of memories to waft around my soul. On that day it became apparent to me that my Canyon is integral to the sanctity of my existence. Of course I realize it is just a place not very dissimilar to many other places, and it has not always been there and will not outlast time; however, inexorable truths, loves, realizations, abated fears, dreams, laughs, tears, and healings live in my Canyon just as in my heart. I find peace there, and I know I will be there again, even if in dispersed ashes, for as long as my Canyon exists, so shall I and all that I am.

[writingsofgvearwood]

Three Score Years

I know, I could have just entitled this 60 Years; however, three score has a bit less impact on the psyche.

It is unusually cold and, well, winterly outside replete with a couple inches of snow atop an inch of ice. That's very winterly in Atlanta. The grocery stores have sold out of bread and milk and beer (maybe not beer) and school closings are announced before such weather actually arrives. So, most everyone stays inside and watches continuous news coverage about the weather, snow scenes around the city, comments by a few of the stupidest residents, and of course, replayed similar scenes from previous years intended to by comparison exacerbate (if not exaggerate) the current worst storm. While trolling along on Facebook this evening, I was affected by the post of a young acquaintance who wrote, "Dinner in bed. No work tomorrow. Beautiful guy beside me and movies.... Goodnight America." After a necessary pause, I exhaled a sigh of delight as similar memories scurried around in my head, accompanied by the usual melancholy giggles.

Out of a five year spousal type relationship, there will be a few spikes on the happiness scale that will last for the balance of your life. The spontaneous moments of time when you and that one other person want to be together more than any other want ever wished, and it never matters what you do because you have turned two momentarily matching spirits into the joy, the joie de vivre that is the reason for life. A movie you want to watch for the fourth time even though you've rarely paid attention to its detail, but you both know certain lines by rote and always laugh and kiss after successful voice overs. A day spent traveling three hours in a car to have a two hour picnic before the three hour return drive, but the same trees pique the interest of both of you and you reach for a sure hand to squeeze just a bit, perhaps just to seal the moment. The spikes of such closeness and intense sharing are quite rare in any relationship, regardless of longevity. Some may enjoy such memories together, but the joy each feels and accepts at that moment remain part of each soul, each psyche, each life. That's the good stuff. That's living life, but only if you let yourself "go" and just have fun. Abandoning any distractions or logic - just be.

A gay, white man being sixty years old in 2015 is almost an anomaly. And for those of us still here, there are too many friends who died because of AIDS to leave the large circles of friends we enjoyed in our younger lives. Almost all of the shared moments of peace with long-time friends are mine alone. But that's the good stuff. I lived a lot of lives in my lifetime and soaked in every ray of joy and bliss and love that was available. Now that I am of the age when friends start dying because they've lived a full, long, life, I'm just a bit frightened. Not of the dying or even the just-being-fucking-old, but that I let even one of those most special gifts from the gods slip by without being touched again, without requiring the sighed exhale, replete with the melancholy giggle or laughter or spine shiver, or lump in the throat. Live, young people, but to paint the art that will be your sustenance in years to come, savor, bask, accept, participate, love and strive for those moments of honesty between your soul and another. Incomparable with any other emotion or memory, trust me.

[writingsofgvearwood]

Justice

I have the good fortune to have seen actual justice. There is so little fairness, so few who might objectively appraise any other person, and so much opinion. Does it anger anyone to hear the dramatization of the legal process as the best story wins? Are there protests and slogans such as "poor lives matter" when an overburdened and callous attorney who barely passed the bar who is known and often appointed by the man who shall judge the "stories" presented. Frankly, there are too damned many examples of injustice to iterate, or even (thankfully) to know.

So I choose to think of the few moments when the undeniable connection with another person or a collective received the humanity of justice. Yet there is no notable recollection of genuine justice without great cost. Nelson Mandela's release from prison was one of the purest forms of justice, but dependent upon the injustice 27 years earlier. Was it a form of justice that the man who had assassinated a United States President should be shot in cold blood the next day, or could it have been the obviation of justice? Is there any justice when a domestic or family court judge alone has the power and sole discretion to mete out punishments, or is the jury system more just than an individual with prejudices and memories and experiences and opinions?

Many thought it just when President Nixon resigned. Many thought his unconditional pardon from President Ford was just; however, many thought it unjust. Perhaps President Nixon's justice was meted in the political and societal deprivation, the crown jewel he could never touch. After a long career in the business of law, any definition of justice simply cannot include the now traditional plea bargain. In the United States, it is glaringly obvious that justice is defined by dollars. A low level employee embezzles thirty thousand dollars and is sentenced to five years in Federal prison. A wealthy Ponzi crook takes millions and gets five years in Federal prison. A pound of marijuana can evoke a life sentence in Federal or state prisons. It all depends on the story that is presented, and that story depends upon the teller of the tale. How far will this go, how long will it continue, how much injustice can reasonable people accept?

Try this, perhaps, define justice to yourself. Don't understand, don't compromise, and create your personal definition of justice. Once there, let it be your religion to never accept injustice in any form. Seek justice, not legality. Be assured that you will be an exception and part of a thinking minority, but if you are capable of this one definition you have no choice. Is this a just request?

[writingsofgvearwood]

Thoughts On . . .

2017

Until November 2016, I was oblivious to the depth of racial hatred that would motivate ANYone to cast a vote for a joke of a conman. Rainy Sunday afternoons are God's way of saying take a nap! YouTube is the best thing to come from the invention of the computer. Steel Guitars - the only musical instrument that whines in Country. Marijuana - a necessary and rather harmless diversion so, fuck your stupid laws! Religion - there is some good in every religion; however, every religion becomes bad when it becomes laws. Stubborn Ignorance - go away, don’t speak, just go away. Lying Truth is a gift from one person to another and not everyone deserves a damn gift. Country music - George Jones, Loretta, Tammy, Ferlin Husky, Charlie Pride, Johnny, Patsy, Merle, Roy Acuff, Willie, Waylon, Hank, Marty, Sissy Spacek portraying Loretta, and only one young singer who is in the genre of those, Mo Pitney. Tell me a story with verses and a repeated chorus, touch my emotions, reinforce our shared human frailties. The most beautiful music in the world, ever An acapella group of boy sopranos (e.g., Vienna Boy Choir). Favorite gospel song I'll Fly Away Favorite piece of music Suzanne written by Leonard Cohen and performed by Roberta Flack Closest encounter with God a good performance of Handel's Hallelujah Chorus. Social Icon to spend an hour with George Washington. As former President John Quincy Adams argued before the Supreme Court in U.S. v Amistad Negroes, "perhaps it is time for us to call upon our ancestors for guidance and wisdom." The man who was offered the United States as a kingdom became President and after 8 years relinquished the Office to the man elected to succeed him, could give us an abundance of guidance and wisdom now. The greatest act ever in this democratic republic was that first Presidential succession from Washington to Adams. Yeah, we need their guidance now! Being single at 62 preferred, peaceful, selfish, contented, and thank God I have my puppy so I can talk to somebody who still loves me no matter what I freakin' say. Shaving - highly overrated. Led Zeppelin - the pinnacle, the best, the epitome of Rock 'n Roll music who performed my favorite Rock song, Whole Lotta Love. Favorite Concert Bad Company at the Omni in Atlanta with a beautiful blond man, Jerry Griffin, ample quantity of quality cocaine, at least a dozen pre-rolled joints, and a hit of blotter acid appropriately named "flash". (I just realized that I've been smiling and very happy for the last several minutes as I flash-ed back to that fanfuckingtasticphenom night.) Best Love Song The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face written by Carol Bayer Sager and performed by Roberta Flack. The Monster Under my Bed Grief

No regrets. No remorse. I just keep going. . .

[writingsofgvearwood]

So, Who Are you?

Who in the hell could penetrate my well earned security of a life somewhat assured that no one  may revive the fear of loss.

What do you want and why and just how long will it take for you to no longer want to share you  and burn my heart with abandon.

I remember love and hope and peace with smiles and cuddles and kisses and sex as the red of passion faded to the calmest cream of a few kind angels while we both opened our souls and hearts and it felt too damn good.

What if I can't stop my heart from loving you and I have to redefine myself again  and no new definitions remain.

[writingsofgvearwood]

No Homos

Rabbi Joshua Heller of Congregation B’nai Torah mentioned the ongoing debate in the Jewish community over verses in the Bible, such as those in Leviticus, that some construe as being against homosexuality.

“I’ve read those passages in Leviticus,” he said. “But I’ve also read Leviticus 19:18 that says ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ And I’ve read Leviticus 25:17 that says ‘Don’t oppress your neighbor.’ And I can be no less serious about those verses than any other in the scripture that I hold dear. And so when I see someone citing Judaism, citing the Holy Torah to exclude people from a larger society, to impede human beings trying to live in human dignity, I must say, ‘Not in my name, not in our name, not in God’s name.’”

[writingsofgvearwood]

Tuesday With my Beautiful Friend, Eric

Tuesday With My Beautiful Friend Eric

           I have come to another crossroads in my life.  I am neither proud of every accomplishment nor am I disappointed in the opportunities missed.  I have lived, dear God, I have lived.  Since childhood I inherently knew that I would fall in love.  Of course, I wasn’t wise or mature enough to accurately interpret that emotion until May 1, 1976.  When I first glanced at Larry Wright. He was leaning against a booth at one of Atlanta’s gay XXX adult video bookstores and cinema arcade.  The glance cannot be described as lingering, even though I stopped walking and we froze, quite frankly staring.  I found my soulmate, the other person whose existence was required for me to know or understand or experience or be consumed by love.        After eight years of indescribable interdependence and absolute joy, Larry died, and the elements of my soul contained in my body and spirit which had been filled and improved and complimented by his presence and his love were still intact.  The opposite was most assuredly not true, for the elements of me that completed him no longer had a home.

           Since his death I have tricked with literally countless men, some more than once, one of them lasting for three and a half years, another lasting for five years, and several that were in the 1 to 3 month time range, all in a feeble, somewhat desperate but well-intentioned search for something, anything to fill even one-tenth of the void that has become incorporated.  When the soul and the indestructible spirit of a human has achieved perfection and undeniable peace, no trickery or substitution can be disguised, for loving someone is almost the opposite of the rare privilege of a chosen or very fortunate few who have felt the smile on God’s face.

           Of course, any search is a futile expense of energy, a hope equal to wishing the moon was, in fact, made of a cheese, and the Little Engine did.  I knew that from the moment I kissed his lips and they were only cold.  This quest is fueled by a hunger, a thirst, a need, an incomplete psyche, a broken heart, and the half of the soul that is there to make an effort to remember its purpose.  It is an inescapable quest.

           My initial meeting with Eric in April of 2006 was another sexual encounter, him joining a few others at my apartment for, succinctly stated, gay male eroticism.  A knowing passed between Eric and me.  His smile was infectious, his eyes the color of absolute trustworthiness, and the corners of his mouth were exuding the bright light of adventure and wanderlust.  A bond was formed instantly and morphed into a friendship exponentially longer, truer and calmer.

           From the wee hours of the beginning of four days, I helped Eric pack and sort and prepare for his move into my home until his ship sails to be at sea for some 24 days.  Thankfully Eric sensed or knew, as he always did, that I was in need of sex on many different levels of existence, and he ensured satisfaction while maintaining the distance to obviate any expectations or thoughts of longevity.  Indeed we each love the other, and probably always will on some level equal to the present or not very much diminished.

  We know, each for our own reasons, that where we are in this short time is the edge of possibility.  We are not soulmates, but people who appreciate the comfort, the challenge, and the trust our friendship brings.  Later this afternoon Eric lost the courage to request a bit of privacy to play with a guy he really wanted to enjoy.  At 24, Eric’s sexual appetites are almost exactly the same as mine – young, young, and without attachment.  That rendezvous is of no consequence to friendship; however, it was quite awkward that I had to divine his desire and lead the discussion to direct him to do what he really wanted to do.  I am well aware that my less than moderately attractive appearance combined with the 26 additional years put me in the well defined category each would define as – oh no, not for sex.

           The events of today and this evening followed precisely the scenario I prescribed to my best friend last evening.  I wouldn’t lay someone who looks like me, or at least wouldn’t want to.  And neither does he want to, but occasionally he does assist with satisfaction.  I am grateful to him, I adore him for that concern, I respect him for his ability to allow his love for me to somehow look past me and do what he can to help.

           There is no jealousy, no anger, no disappointment, and no uncertainty as to why a hot young man would be more appealing to Eric – that is precisely what I see when I look at only the physical and erotic aspects of him.  No, this is not the issue.

           I must now admit to myself, accept and acknowledge that I have been the grateful recipient of physical generosity from many young men.  Add the love of two people who were destined to be long-time friends, and I can only appreciate the generosity Eric has extended to me.  But I know now, without argument or possibility of change, that my physical attraction to young, attractive men dooms me to be the proverbial mercy fuck, that every sexual encounter that arises from my libido will do little more than, if lucky, arouse an orgasm from a benevolent human.  This wasn’t about Eric’s pursuit of someone whom I would assuredly have wanted to experience enough to make a donation to his college fund.  It was the passage of any claim to youth for me, and equally the acceptance that I will never again have any of the ultimate, intimate, devouring moments with my soulmate.  

Sex, even if merciful, has been enough until now, and I must accept the incontrovertible fact of my passage into another existence – either on Earth to be happy and bide time awaiting the hopefully inevitable and deigned reuniting of Larry’s soul with mine; or in the next life, perhaps sooner than nature might dictate so that dignity may be sustained and my heart won’t someday far in the future find my Larry and have become so scared as to harm the beauty that we were, that we are, and that we must be.  I do not wish to be the object of pity, even if grateful.  I want the electric touch of the soul who longs for me without pause – ALL of me.

© April 18, 2006

[writingsofgvearwood]

RIP?

If there weren't any better reason to walk away, breathe different air, learn anything, feel something, the inaudible release of unknown tensions and particulates stuck in my proverbial craw, the whole purpose and paramount joy is reason enough to amend your definition of who you are.  In my sixtieth year I have learned to release without any reuptake or further thought.  I like me, a lot. I know that I have been forgiven my immoralities, indiscretions, sins (if you will) every time I look into the big, round, black eyes of my puppy, Oliver. Somewhere along the way I sowed enough goodness to bountifully feel Oliver's pure, absolute love. There are so many souls who have left - yeah, left me! - for whom I still have so much love that I feel incomplete without reviewing every memory from time to time. Basking in it, laughing, crying, dancing, being stupid together, sharing unspoken dreams without any need for words but with complete understanding and acceptance. Those are such rare pieces of my life that I dare not let them go for fear of hollowing out some depth in my own soul that could never again be filled. My fear that slowly creeps itself into my reality is that I grow more accustomed to missing those departed gifts than remembering them. I can tell their stories. I can see their faces, hear their laughter, need their love, but I can't make them real enough to feel a hug or just listen more.   I was loved, by some damn fine people, and I still feel their love from somewhere within my own soul.

Rest in Peace?  Hell no!  You go on to whatever is next and bust it up, do it, become whatever it is, for the horizon cannot be reached by resting, but continuing on in peace.

[writingsofgvearwood]

Equitable Equality Laws

I am not alone in my thinking that equity and equality can both exist within a system of laws. Equality is the foundation upon which equity inherently exists. There is equality under the feet of Atlas, and equity upon his shoulders. Our fear of the wealthiest not sharing with the poorest of us has led to a vast pooling of wealth without even a crevice through which even a small portion might trickle down. There is only one way to create an opening that might replenish the human needs of those among us in need. We must earn our equality and any possible equitable life in America by voting for no causes, no morals, no policies, nor any advertising. Vote for a person who is most likely to better the lives of the least among us, who will require some intangible sacrifice from the pool of wealth upon the head of Ayn Rand's Atlas to the benefit of the human race. After all, there is plenty for more than a trickling down. Here are some of my favorite quotations that well prove the civility and rightness of equality and equity. I can assure you that not one of these intelligent and honorable people quoted would be standing silently while Trump destroys the fabric and morality of America. .............................................................................................................. "A riot is the language of the unheard" Martin Luther King, Jr. “When a man is denied the right to live the life he believes in, he has no choice but to become an outlaw.” Nelson Mandela “The oppressed are allowed once every few years to decide which particular representatives of the oppressing class are to represent and repress them.” Karl Marx “One of the saddest lessons of history is this: If we’ve been bamboozled long enough, we tend to reject any evidence of the bamboozle. We’re no longer interested in finding out the truth. The bamboozle has captured us. It’s simply too painful to acknowledge, even to ourselves, that we’ve been taken. Once you give a charlatan power over you, you almost never get it back.” Carl Sagan “Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each of us can work to change a small portion of events. It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring those ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.” Robert Francis Kennedy “The genius of our ruling class is that it has kept a majority of the people from ever questioning the inequity of a system where most people drudge along paying heavy taxes for which they get nothing in return.” Gore Vidal “The ever more sophisticated weapons piling up in the arsenals of the wealthiest and the mightiest can kill the illiterate, the ill, the poor and the hungry, but they cannot kill ignorance, illness, poverty or hunger.” Fidel Castro “We despise and abhor the bully, the brawler, the oppressor, whether in private or public life, but we despise no less the coward and the voluptuary. No man is worth calling a man who will not fight rather than submit to infamy or see those that are dear to him suffer wrong.” Theodore Roosevelt

"There is just so much hurt, disappointment, and oppression one can take... The line between reason and madness grows thinner." Rosa Parks

"If Tyranny and Oppression come to this land, it will be in the guise of fighting a foreign enemy." James Madison "When any government, or any church for that matter, undertakes to say to its subjects, This you may not read, this you must not see, this you are forbidden to know, the end result is tyranny and oppression no matter how holy the motives." Robert A. Heinlein

"To the press alone, chequered as it is with abuses, the world is indebted for all the triumphs which have been gained by reason and humanity over error and oppression." James Madison

"To stand in silence when they should be protesting makes cowards out of men." Abraham Lincoln

"It does me no injury for my neighbor to say there are twenty gods or no god." Thomas Jefferson

"Unless both sides win, there can be no permanent agreement" Jimmy Carter  

[writingsofgvearwood]

Memories

Am I moored to my memories, without recourse? The simplest of touches or a smile of silent wanting seem but a memory now. Everyone who might understand, share my memories is dead. All the players. All. I dreamed of some golden years with more memories than I could ever remember. Little did I know that I was divining more than I could've known. Or maybe I set about consuming so much in my zeal that I'd be old with only memories, without enough brain or time to remember them maybe in part.

If there weren't any better reason to walk away, breathe different air, learn anything, feel something, the inaudible release of unknown tensions and particulates stuck in my proverbial craw, the whole purpose and paramount joy is reason enough to amend your definition of who you are.  In my sixtieth year I have learned to release without any reuptake or further thought.  I like me, a lot.I know that I have been forgiven my immoralities, indiscretions, sins (if you will) every time I look into the big, round, black eyes of my puppy, Somewhere along the way I sowed enough goodness to bountifully feel pure, absolute love. There are so many souls who have left - yeah, left me! - for whom I still have so much love that I feel incomplete without reviewing a lot, lot of memory from time to time. Basking in it, laughing, crying, dancing, being stupid, sharing unspoken dreams without any need for words but with complete understanding and acceptance. Those are such rare pieces of my life that I dare not let them go for fear of hollowing out some depth in my own soul that could never again be filled. My fear that slowly creeps itself into my reality is that I grow more accustomed to missing those departed gifts than remembering them. I can tell their stories. I can see their faces, hear their laughter, need their love, but I can't make them real enough to feel a hug or just listen more to feed my selfish need for new memories.   I was loved, by some damn fine people, and I still feel their love from somewhere within my own soul.

Rest in Peace?  Hell no!  You go on to whatever is next and bust it up, do it, become whatever it is, for the horizon cannot be reached by resting, but simply continuing in peace.