It is humbling.
We used to rush to the mailbox to see if any letters arrive. On Tybee Island most of us go to the Post Office to get the mail and we pull it out of the box then flip through the stack … hold the bills back for later, throw away the multiple credit card applications, and now occasionally … but only occasionally is there a card or a letter.
Letter writing is almost a lost art.
On the other hand … email, instant messages, texting and Face Booking occurs in abundance. It all happens instantly and from anywhere in the world. My friend Jacob in Norway sends me encouraging messages while my friend Sandi on the other side of Tybee cracks me up with her Face Book posts.
I check on my kids daily through Face Book to see what they’re up to.
Valarie in Hawaii lets me know she will see me at the Street Medicine Symposium in Philadelphia while Maria in Chicago lets me know that I won’t see her.
Dedra texts me to see if she can come over while Conner lets me know they’re home from St. Martin.
Will is a friend I’ve never met though we stay in pretty constant touch and are currently planning a party together (he wants a tour of the sad little holy dock).
I hadn’t seen Rev. Jim Lowder since we were both in serious trouble with the Baptists all of those years ago but now we’ve reconnected and trust that our physical paths will cross again and not just our virtual ones (we have more Camelot’s to unfurl).
And every day I write about … what’s going on.
When I first started it was all work stuff but then I found myself “suddenly single” and it was more important for me to write about that. So I did. I just poured my feelings out figuring it best. “Let it out and let it in,” Paul McCartney told us in “Hey Jude” and I figure he’s right about that.
It got me in trouble of course (most things I do seem to get me in some kind of trouble). The Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous (Jerry Rainey) took great offence that I described my hurt, the discovery of who loves me and who doesn’t, whatever Goddess did, my drunken bicycle and Fran’s thousand shades of green.
So he met me one morning when I really didn’t want to see him and chastised me about the things I posted on the Internet. Luckily he met me at the Breakfast Club and when they saw a short guy in a suit lecturing me they threw toast and bacon at the booth we were sitting in. He took offense at this too but it made me love them more.
And I didn’t listen to a word he said and kept writing about the real things that were happening to me. It was the beginning of the end of end of a pretty rotten relationship anyway.
So every day I wrote and of course things got worse. So I wrote about … worse.
And this incredible thing happened … I started getting all of these emails, texts, instant messages and Face Book posts from people who were struggling with … worse.
The things in my life resonated with the things in their lives. Or the things in my life made them feel better about the things in their lives.
And people kept writing me.
New friends came into my life. Old friends were raised from the dead. All of these friend requests came from people who were … or are … homeless. People from around the world were suddenly in my laptop every day.
Some took offense at things I said and let me know it but most said … it is really helpful to me that you do this. So I keep doing it. It is kind of like praying.
So … I pray the Lord my soul to keep … and to keep your soul too … and for hurt to go away from our lives … for worse to get better … and for peanut butter cookies.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
The Best Days of My Life
What I remember about last year is I was numb. Jerry Rainey and John Tatum had me in negotiations over my leaving Union Mission and boy that was fun. My son Jeremy went with me to look menacing. I remember just being sad and tired and angry. That was my last birthday. It wasn’t all that great.
At one point during the day I got on the computer and went to Face Book and there were all of these messages and greetings. There was this one telling me how good I look for 54 and I remember staring at it for a long time … cause I felt like shit.
So it made me stop and ponder for the longest time.
Keller Deal had worked things out so that I basically stayed in St. Martin for the month of June. I’d resigned and there was all of this press and I was a pretty funny cartoon in the paper. I remember showing it to Conner and Hania on the computer. Conner shook his head, fixed me a drink and made me shut off the computer.
So I stayed in St. Martin for a long time contemplating moving here. I didn’t have anything else to give back home. But Jeremy and Marie needed to leave and get on with their lives and I had nobody else to watch Goddess. And Jerry and John demanding things and I was demanding things so there were these meetings to attend.
So not really wanting to, I went home.
And there were these people waiting on me … my children … Jeremy and Marie, Kristen, Chelsea … Keller of course … John and Judy, Sarah, Shirley, Stacy, and the collection of crazies from the Breakfast Club.
I remember watching them watch me … cause they were scared of how bad I was.
I slept walked for months.
Somehow we agreed to terms, probably because of how menacing Jeremy appeared … and I disappeared to the back side of Tybee Island ... and slept on the floor … with a dog who licked my face and slept with me. Goddess is a dog who thinks she is a person.
My birthday falls close to the 4th of July and I remember going to see the
fireworks. My daughter Kristen has a roommate … Travis … we all love Travis … he is big, black, long dregs and crazy. One time he showed up for fireworks on the beach and after we had all of this stuff to carry back to the house … chairs, tents, coolers … and Travis tells us that he’s park close by.
He was.
On the cross walk! He literally drove up it and left his car there.
It is hard not to love Travis.
Unless you’re Kristen.
But last year …
I took a walk on the beach at night …
Somehow sand got in my mouth and if you’ve ever had sand in your mouth it drives you nuts so you open and shut your mouth, trying to spit, and you just can’t get it out.
But I remember laughing and feeling love for the first time in … forever.
Jeremy and Marie woke up surprised the next morning at how good I felt. At how good
I was.
This year is of course much different.
I’m content, happy and homesick.
I’m starting anew.
It’s not the first time. But God’s greatest gift is the chance to start over. And I have.
So looking back, it’s all been pretty cool. I’ve done some great stuff and a few bad things but … here I am. It all made me … me.
But the best days of my life … are coming.
Happy Birthday ME!
At one point during the day I got on the computer and went to Face Book and there were all of these messages and greetings. There was this one telling me how good I look for 54 and I remember staring at it for a long time … cause I felt like shit.
So it made me stop and ponder for the longest time.
Keller Deal had worked things out so that I basically stayed in St. Martin for the month of June. I’d resigned and there was all of this press and I was a pretty funny cartoon in the paper. I remember showing it to Conner and Hania on the computer. Conner shook his head, fixed me a drink and made me shut off the computer.
So I stayed in St. Martin for a long time contemplating moving here. I didn’t have anything else to give back home. But Jeremy and Marie needed to leave and get on with their lives and I had nobody else to watch Goddess. And Jerry and John demanding things and I was demanding things so there were these meetings to attend.
So not really wanting to, I went home.
And there were these people waiting on me … my children … Jeremy and Marie, Kristen, Chelsea … Keller of course … John and Judy, Sarah, Shirley, Stacy, and the collection of crazies from the Breakfast Club.
I remember watching them watch me … cause they were scared of how bad I was.
I slept walked for months.
Somehow we agreed to terms, probably because of how menacing Jeremy appeared … and I disappeared to the back side of Tybee Island ... and slept on the floor … with a dog who licked my face and slept with me. Goddess is a dog who thinks she is a person.
My birthday falls close to the 4th of July and I remember going to see the
fireworks. My daughter Kristen has a roommate … Travis … we all love Travis … he is big, black, long dregs and crazy. One time he showed up for fireworks on the beach and after we had all of this stuff to carry back to the house … chairs, tents, coolers … and Travis tells us that he’s park close by.
He was.
On the cross walk! He literally drove up it and left his car there.
It is hard not to love Travis.
Unless you’re Kristen.
But last year …
I took a walk on the beach at night …
Somehow sand got in my mouth and if you’ve ever had sand in your mouth it drives you nuts so you open and shut your mouth, trying to spit, and you just can’t get it out.
But I remember laughing and feeling love for the first time in … forever.
Jeremy and Marie woke up surprised the next morning at how good I felt. At how good
I was.
This year is of course much different.
I’m content, happy and homesick.
I’m starting anew.
It’s not the first time. But God’s greatest gift is the chance to start over. And I have.
So looking back, it’s all been pretty cool. I’ve done some great stuff and a few bad things but … here I am. It all made me … me.
But the best days of my life … are coming.
Happy Birthday ME!
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Where my love is
In college we conducted this hostile takeover of the Baptist Student Union meaning we showed up, played cards and listened to the Devil’s music on the sound system. There would always be a lot of us playing “Spades” and someone’s favorite song would come on and the card game slowed while everyone sang along.
Stephen Bishop’s “On and On” was mine. Pretty girls down in Jamaica … dreaming and staying tan … tossing your heart up to see where it lands … on and on …
I’d always loved Tybee and the beach at Hilton Head before it became the traffic jam that it is today and Daytona Beach. But way back then I knew that I would make it to the Caribbean. Then Jimmy Buffett came along and added fuel to the flame and my soul started getting sand in it.
Key West came first and the drive across the seven mile bridge was orgasmic. Then the whole funky rock is a constant gyration of Cuban influence. Hemingway’s house is there and if you love the beach you love Hemingway and God the guy could write.
Next was the Bahamas … the Abacos … Hope Town … Marsh Harbor ... Eleuthera. We would get on a boat and sail to dinner in the crystal blue waters. I discovered fried Plantains and “rice and peas”. I started swimming with Stingrays.
St. Lucia followed and I would run every morning next to the side of the road out of Castries dodging goats and cows and women walking with large bundles on their heads. I hiked through a rain forest, slide down a water fall and swam with schools of squid.
When I actually made it to Jamaica, I fell in love with the prophet Bob Marley, learned that you don’t actually need a bathing suit on a beach, and studied Rastafarian. I would pound people’s fist and say “Respect” as they said it me. And Hemp was everywhere. It was hard not to get high.
Then I went to Cuba. I wanted to see it before it becomes Disneyland one day. I was invited to give a speech so it took ten days. The place is drop dead gorgeous! And the people are the world’s most beautiful people. I saw Castro, paid loving homage to Che, went to Hemingway’s other house, hitchhiked through the countryside and had students from the University of Havana move the furniture out of their tiny living room so that they could teach me to salsa. I also got busted coming back into the United States because our stupid foreign policy regarding Cuba.
St. Martin came next … half of it Dutch … half French … nude beaches … French wines … and I fell in love. For a decade now this is where I come. I make my way around the island and people call me by name. I’ve had supper cooked for me in the tiny little concrete cottages of my friends who work in the places I stay. Carlos took me to a lingerie show once where there were a hundreds of people watching … and I was the only white one.
“Stand here while I get us a beer,” he said. “Trust me, I’ll find you.”
It’s been a healing place for me. I went through a divorce here, left a career here, lost my Dad while I was here …
I counted up and this is my twenty-first trip to St. Martin. I know that I’ll be back. The place has taken root in me. I love these people. They love me. And … well … it is beautiful … well the French side is.
Every time that I’ve ever been here I just kept trying to stay longer. Normally I’ll weeks and weeks and still not be ready to go home. I almost threw it all away and moved here last year.
But last night I wasn’t in the mood for it. My friends all went out to dinner and I went to sleep. I’m ready to go home.
Maybe it’s all that I’ve been through for the last few years? I’m having fun … how can I not with Conner? And Hania makes me eat which I didn’t do last night so I am starving and all of the food is at their place which is way over there … and it’s raining.
But I am ready to go home.
Where my love is.
Stephen Bishop’s “On and On” was mine. Pretty girls down in Jamaica … dreaming and staying tan … tossing your heart up to see where it lands … on and on …
I’d always loved Tybee and the beach at Hilton Head before it became the traffic jam that it is today and Daytona Beach. But way back then I knew that I would make it to the Caribbean. Then Jimmy Buffett came along and added fuel to the flame and my soul started getting sand in it.
Key West came first and the drive across the seven mile bridge was orgasmic. Then the whole funky rock is a constant gyration of Cuban influence. Hemingway’s house is there and if you love the beach you love Hemingway and God the guy could write.
Next was the Bahamas … the Abacos … Hope Town … Marsh Harbor ... Eleuthera. We would get on a boat and sail to dinner in the crystal blue waters. I discovered fried Plantains and “rice and peas”. I started swimming with Stingrays.
St. Lucia followed and I would run every morning next to the side of the road out of Castries dodging goats and cows and women walking with large bundles on their heads. I hiked through a rain forest, slide down a water fall and swam with schools of squid.
When I actually made it to Jamaica, I fell in love with the prophet Bob Marley, learned that you don’t actually need a bathing suit on a beach, and studied Rastafarian. I would pound people’s fist and say “Respect” as they said it me. And Hemp was everywhere. It was hard not to get high.
Then I went to Cuba. I wanted to see it before it becomes Disneyland one day. I was invited to give a speech so it took ten days. The place is drop dead gorgeous! And the people are the world’s most beautiful people. I saw Castro, paid loving homage to Che, went to Hemingway’s other house, hitchhiked through the countryside and had students from the University of Havana move the furniture out of their tiny living room so that they could teach me to salsa. I also got busted coming back into the United States because our stupid foreign policy regarding Cuba.
St. Martin came next … half of it Dutch … half French … nude beaches … French wines … and I fell in love. For a decade now this is where I come. I make my way around the island and people call me by name. I’ve had supper cooked for me in the tiny little concrete cottages of my friends who work in the places I stay. Carlos took me to a lingerie show once where there were a hundreds of people watching … and I was the only white one.
“Stand here while I get us a beer,” he said. “Trust me, I’ll find you.”
It’s been a healing place for me. I went through a divorce here, left a career here, lost my Dad while I was here …
I counted up and this is my twenty-first trip to St. Martin. I know that I’ll be back. The place has taken root in me. I love these people. They love me. And … well … it is beautiful … well the French side is.
Every time that I’ve ever been here I just kept trying to stay longer. Normally I’ll weeks and weeks and still not be ready to go home. I almost threw it all away and moved here last year.
But last night I wasn’t in the mood for it. My friends all went out to dinner and I went to sleep. I’m ready to go home.
Maybe it’s all that I’ve been through for the last few years? I’m having fun … how can I not with Conner? And Hania makes me eat which I didn’t do last night so I am starving and all of the food is at their place which is way over there … and it’s raining.
But I am ready to go home.
Where my love is.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Hania ... not Tonya
So after everyone wishes Conner a happy birthday …
Yeah, I know his Dad shot off some rockets and Conner got conceived …
And I’ve already had to endure him waking me up this morning after keeping me out last night, watch Karima sing him “Happy Birthday” then kiss him multiple times, then Verna did the same, then he makes me change towels which is something he does every day, then Patti puts up a “Happy Birthday” thing above his door and he decides that he can do it better because it’s his birthday and Karima told him that he can do anything he wants on his birthday while I groaned listening to this …
But this isn’t about Conner. It is about his wife … Hania.
I am close to both but Hania takes care of me. Over the past year I’ve had a tendency to not eat and skip meals. This offends Hania so she reacts by stuffing whatever she has cooked into my mouth. This of course offends me but she doesn’t care and reacts by stuffing more stuff in my face. This makes Conner laugh which encourages her so my face gets stuffed with things that I do not want.
They are an uncaring couple.
And I love them with everything in me.
I tell them everything. We have no secrets. They SEE everything about me.
A couple of years ago when I found myself suddenly single Hania was the first person
I told. She happened to call for something and I burst into tears and blurted it out.
“You come here now,” she commanded. “You need to be taken care for once.”
I will never forget that.
I didn’t make plans to go to south Florida where they live so they planned it for me. Would I do a wedding for friends of theirs? Could I talk to a friend of theirs?
When I was there for work we met or I stayed at their house … and Hania stuffed food in my mouth.
Last night was a laid back Caribbean affair. My friend Hugh grilled tenderloin. Conner was off talking on the phone to a special person. Hania was watching me and at one point I watched her watch me.
And I immediately knew how blessed I am. In spite of all of the bad times, there are these wonderful people who love me. They go out of their way to prove again and again and again ... sitting on beloved back decks, sad little holy docks, at Bored meetings, in beach swings, on drunken bicycles and in orange bathrooms.
After dinner she, Conner and I walked to Papagayos for a night cap. There was hardly anyone in the restaurant but this guy from the “70’s show” … at least that’s what he looked like … disco 70’s hair … Tom Selleck mustache … wife beater black tee shirt …started hitting on Hania.
Her name is Polish which is where her family came from. It translates as “Ann Marie” in English.
Conner and I were cracking up when he said “Hania? Not Tonya? …well that is so much more beautiful.”
Hania looked at us for help.
He had a Pittsburgh Steelers tattoo on his arm.
“Are you from Pittsburgh?” I cleverly inquired.
“How did you know?” he slurred.
“Hines Ward,” I said high fiving him.
He missed.
And we laughed.
Then Hania assumed her role as designated walker …
And I woke up in my tiny little studio …
alone …
But knowing how loved I am …
And knowing how much I love …
Yeah, I know his Dad shot off some rockets and Conner got conceived …
And I’ve already had to endure him waking me up this morning after keeping me out last night, watch Karima sing him “Happy Birthday” then kiss him multiple times, then Verna did the same, then he makes me change towels which is something he does every day, then Patti puts up a “Happy Birthday” thing above his door and he decides that he can do it better because it’s his birthday and Karima told him that he can do anything he wants on his birthday while I groaned listening to this …
But this isn’t about Conner. It is about his wife … Hania.
I am close to both but Hania takes care of me. Over the past year I’ve had a tendency to not eat and skip meals. This offends Hania so she reacts by stuffing whatever she has cooked into my mouth. This of course offends me but she doesn’t care and reacts by stuffing more stuff in my face. This makes Conner laugh which encourages her so my face gets stuffed with things that I do not want.
They are an uncaring couple.
And I love them with everything in me.
I tell them everything. We have no secrets. They SEE everything about me.
A couple of years ago when I found myself suddenly single Hania was the first person
I told. She happened to call for something and I burst into tears and blurted it out.
“You come here now,” she commanded. “You need to be taken care for once.”
I will never forget that.
I didn’t make plans to go to south Florida where they live so they planned it for me. Would I do a wedding for friends of theirs? Could I talk to a friend of theirs?
When I was there for work we met or I stayed at their house … and Hania stuffed food in my mouth.
Last night was a laid back Caribbean affair. My friend Hugh grilled tenderloin. Conner was off talking on the phone to a special person. Hania was watching me and at one point I watched her watch me.
And I immediately knew how blessed I am. In spite of all of the bad times, there are these wonderful people who love me. They go out of their way to prove again and again and again ... sitting on beloved back decks, sad little holy docks, at Bored meetings, in beach swings, on drunken bicycles and in orange bathrooms.
After dinner she, Conner and I walked to Papagayos for a night cap. There was hardly anyone in the restaurant but this guy from the “70’s show” … at least that’s what he looked like … disco 70’s hair … Tom Selleck mustache … wife beater black tee shirt …started hitting on Hania.
Her name is Polish which is where her family came from. It translates as “Ann Marie” in English.
Conner and I were cracking up when he said “Hania? Not Tonya? …well that is so much more beautiful.”
Hania looked at us for help.
He had a Pittsburgh Steelers tattoo on his arm.
“Are you from Pittsburgh?” I cleverly inquired.
“How did you know?” he slurred.
“Hines Ward,” I said high fiving him.
He missed.
And we laughed.
Then Hania assumed her role as designated walker …
And I woke up in my tiny little studio …
alone …
But knowing how loved I am …
And knowing how much I love …
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Beach Bums for Christ (Bar Church)
This morning Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music with Gordon, showed up for the morning meeting of Counter Intelligence at the Breakfast Club. In addition to being a great musician, the coolest looking dude on the island, the owner of a golf cart partially pulled by his dog ... Sam is also the mastermind behind Bar Church.
Whenever I need a dose of organized religion, I go to Bar Church . Which is exactly what is says ... church in a bar. Sam is Psalmist as he calls himself. So the band sets up, votive candles are everywhere, a screen is set up which flashes the words of songs so everybody can sing if they want and "wallah" Church is born in a bar.
Sure some people bring Bloody Mary's or Screwdrivers ... an occasional tall one in a brown paper bag ... but most members of the congregation stumble in from wherever they were a few hours earlier. A surprising number of children are present. There is usually also breakfast in the back and coffee and orange juice in the front. It's as laid back as church can possibly be.
It's not especially organized religion though it does have rhyme and reason. A lot of praising goes on. Hallelujah type songs which I'm not especially big on. (The theology is often terrible in them ... "My husband beats me up, I'm pregnant with an unwanted child and I don't have health insurance but Jesus loves so its all alight!" Hallelujah!") but most folks seem to really enjoy these songs. They clap and dance and sing along.
I suppose that some of the dancing people are Baptists in recovery.
There is a lot of encouragement too. "My life is as screwed up as yours" is a constant message "but we can love each other through it and God loves us anyway ... so screw it!"
Now this is good theology!
And there testimonials. My favorite is from my dear friend Dave who the Lord led to stand up one day and describe how he fell down and laid there for a while unable to get up until some military guys came by and tried to help him and he said "Whoa fellas, let's make sure everything is working first."
Then he concluded by saying, "The Lord is sending me message but I haven't figured out what it is yet. But when I do ... I'll let you know."
And everybody clapped because everybody loves Dave and love is really what church is all about anyway. Not all of that other stuff.
So Sam shows up at the Breakfast Club this morning for counter intelligence and to have a long conversation with me about ... minister stuff. People who need this or that. How to sustain Bar Church with no money (most of the people who come don't have much). What the Lord has laid on Sam's heart and how to turn it into a practical reality. His concerns about certain people and what to do to help them.
So I sat there in my "Hike Naked" tee shirt and he sat there with his long hair and surfer clothes and we looked like ... beach bums having coffee. We shared the same spoon as you would expect ministers to do.
When he finished asking me stuff, Sam's eyes grow large behind his glasses and with great enthusiasm he asks, "What can I do for you?"
I sip my coffee and think for a minute.
"There is this girl out," I explain. "Pray that we find each other soon."
"Hallelujah!" he says, hugging me and kissing me on the cheek.
I love Bar Church!
Whenever I need a dose of organized religion, I go to Bar Church . Which is exactly what is says ... church in a bar. Sam is Psalmist as he calls himself. So the band sets up, votive candles are everywhere, a screen is set up which flashes the words of songs so everybody can sing if they want and "wallah" Church is born in a bar.
Sure some people bring Bloody Mary's or Screwdrivers ... an occasional tall one in a brown paper bag ... but most members of the congregation stumble in from wherever they were a few hours earlier. A surprising number of children are present. There is usually also breakfast in the back and coffee and orange juice in the front. It's as laid back as church can possibly be.
It's not especially organized religion though it does have rhyme and reason. A lot of praising goes on. Hallelujah type songs which I'm not especially big on. (The theology is often terrible in them ... "My husband beats me up, I'm pregnant with an unwanted child and I don't have health insurance but Jesus loves so its all alight!" Hallelujah!") but most folks seem to really enjoy these songs. They clap and dance and sing along.
I suppose that some of the dancing people are Baptists in recovery.
There is a lot of encouragement too. "My life is as screwed up as yours" is a constant message "but we can love each other through it and God loves us anyway ... so screw it!"
Now this is good theology!
And there testimonials. My favorite is from my dear friend Dave who the Lord led to stand up one day and describe how he fell down and laid there for a while unable to get up until some military guys came by and tried to help him and he said "Whoa fellas, let's make sure everything is working first."
Then he concluded by saying, "The Lord is sending me message but I haven't figured out what it is yet. But when I do ... I'll let you know."
And everybody clapped because everybody loves Dave and love is really what church is all about anyway. Not all of that other stuff.
So Sam shows up at the Breakfast Club this morning for counter intelligence and to have a long conversation with me about ... minister stuff. People who need this or that. How to sustain Bar Church with no money (most of the people who come don't have much). What the Lord has laid on Sam's heart and how to turn it into a practical reality. His concerns about certain people and what to do to help them.
So I sat there in my "Hike Naked" tee shirt and he sat there with his long hair and surfer clothes and we looked like ... beach bums having coffee. We shared the same spoon as you would expect ministers to do.
When he finished asking me stuff, Sam's eyes grow large behind his glasses and with great enthusiasm he asks, "What can I do for you?"
I sip my coffee and think for a minute.
"There is this girl out," I explain. "Pray that we find each other soon."
"Hallelujah!" he says, hugging me and kissing me on the cheek.
I love Bar Church!
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Francis and me
It is a contemplative morning. It actually started around four a.m. when I got out of bed and stumbled outside into the night on the beloved back deck. Standing there under the stars, my mind was racing with thoughts that refused to be smothered with sleep. So I stood there looking at the stars ... which is something that I've always done when I need to relax and focus. They were especially bright and the sliver of moon was mostly a black ball hanging there.
I got a lot going on all of a sudden. There are manuscripts for three different books that are written and need to come to life. One is on "Taking time to Heal", another on "Passion" and then there is this sort of sequel to "Running with the Dolphins". They are like a set of triplets demanding to be born all at the same time, each with a different personality and each will turn out differently than I think they will.
Esther who I love was asking me yesterday about my books and which was my favorite. In some ways that's impossible to answer as it's like trying to say which of my children is my favorite. It's impossible as I love them all so much. Chelsea was here last night giving me her critique of the remade house that is becoming a new home. So at the moment she is my favorite, especially when we started watching Monty Python clips on You Tube and shared the same laughter that comes from the same places. But then Kristen will blow in like a hurricane bossing me around or Jeremy will call and we'll talk and then it changes. Throw us all together and we a collective hoot! Throw in Marie and Sam and we get out of hand.
So standing in the dark under the early morning stars these books were coming together in my head. And I was thinking of Esther and her question and almost 1000 pages that are just lying around. I'd already asked Dedra to help me assemble them as she is an editor.
I am convinced that there are two types of people in the world ... writers and editors. My dear friend Stacy, whom I also love, has chided me that I need an editor for my morning musings. I will never understand editors! They are whacked out people who believe in rules. They are necessary ... but who cares if I left out a word or two?
Then there is this agent in New York who's asked for my stuff. I've never had an agent. I've published like I write ... I freebase!
This of course drove my publishers crazy. The first two books were very similar and the publisher thought we were settling into a groove. Then a bigger publisher wanted the third book so I jumped ship which was fine until I wrote the forth book which was how to end homelessness in America. So they dropped me (though the book did win an award which makes it all ... ironic).
Then I wrote "Running with the Dolphins" because Tybee Island is too crazy and beautiful a place to not write about. The Tybee Island city council decided to change everything about the island after the book came out so they tore down (1) the amusement park; (2) the Desoto Beach Club; (3) put an end to the Tybee music festival which always included the Tams and the Swinging Medallions; (4) forced Spanky's to relocate to the other end of the island; (5) made a rule that the Tybee Island Police Department would no longer drive you home if you drank too much ... I could go on. Everything that is cool in that book has been done away with by the City Council.
"Playing Hide and Seek: A non-church goers Guide to God" followed which mostly got me in trouble. Trouble is one of the most consistent things about my life so it didn't bother me too much but it drove poor Bennie Mitchell and the publisher crazy. It also got me this great rejection letter from Tony Compollo who took issue with my Liberation Theology self (he was going to write the preface but then I wrote "No Savior will ever sleep in the White House" and he'd just slept in the White House and well ... it didn't work out).
My dear friend Guy Sayles wanted to write a book together at this point, so we talked and decided to do one titled "Called In/Called Out" but it didn't work out either. I think that Guy got hamstrung by Southern Baptist policy or some bullshit like that. I did write the called out part which turned into "Out From Under the Rock" (get it? "Upon this Rock I will build my Church," Jesus said to St. Peter). It's my favorite so far (but don't tell the other books). I'm not sure why. Guy is the glue that holds the book together and I gave it away to Union Mission to raise money and it did ... like $100,000 or something. But it came at a special time and means special things to me.
Keith was unforgettable. A homeless mentally ill, Vietnam veteran with lupus who I loved so much that I moved him to the Tybee Island nursing home to be near me is the reason "Tour of Homes" was written. It's my epic novel on homelessness and how crazy Savannah is. It's mostly a love letter to Keith who disappeared and I still wonder if he made his way back to the red head.
Then I stopped.
Work became all consuming. My marriage began to crumble. It felt as though rocks were being piled to keep me from doing the things that I'd always done. I became sullen. The creativity remained locked inside. I got depressed.
Then as it was all getting worse ... I started again.
And I worked my way back to me.
So standing naked under the stars this morning, birthing books in my head and heart, loving the people who encourage me with everything in me, I suddenly felt like St. Francis when he took off his robe and tossed it aside to take the hand of Clair ...
And as he did this ...
He changed everything.
I got a lot going on all of a sudden. There are manuscripts for three different books that are written and need to come to life. One is on "Taking time to Heal", another on "Passion" and then there is this sort of sequel to "Running with the Dolphins". They are like a set of triplets demanding to be born all at the same time, each with a different personality and each will turn out differently than I think they will.
Esther who I love was asking me yesterday about my books and which was my favorite. In some ways that's impossible to answer as it's like trying to say which of my children is my favorite. It's impossible as I love them all so much. Chelsea was here last night giving me her critique of the remade house that is becoming a new home. So at the moment she is my favorite, especially when we started watching Monty Python clips on You Tube and shared the same laughter that comes from the same places. But then Kristen will blow in like a hurricane bossing me around or Jeremy will call and we'll talk and then it changes. Throw us all together and we a collective hoot! Throw in Marie and Sam and we get out of hand.
So standing in the dark under the early morning stars these books were coming together in my head. And I was thinking of Esther and her question and almost 1000 pages that are just lying around. I'd already asked Dedra to help me assemble them as she is an editor.
I am convinced that there are two types of people in the world ... writers and editors. My dear friend Stacy, whom I also love, has chided me that I need an editor for my morning musings. I will never understand editors! They are whacked out people who believe in rules. They are necessary ... but who cares if I left out a word or two?
Then there is this agent in New York who's asked for my stuff. I've never had an agent. I've published like I write ... I freebase!
This of course drove my publishers crazy. The first two books were very similar and the publisher thought we were settling into a groove. Then a bigger publisher wanted the third book so I jumped ship which was fine until I wrote the forth book which was how to end homelessness in America. So they dropped me (though the book did win an award which makes it all ... ironic).
Then I wrote "Running with the Dolphins" because Tybee Island is too crazy and beautiful a place to not write about. The Tybee Island city council decided to change everything about the island after the book came out so they tore down (1) the amusement park; (2) the Desoto Beach Club; (3) put an end to the Tybee music festival which always included the Tams and the Swinging Medallions; (4) forced Spanky's to relocate to the other end of the island; (5) made a rule that the Tybee Island Police Department would no longer drive you home if you drank too much ... I could go on. Everything that is cool in that book has been done away with by the City Council.
"Playing Hide and Seek: A non-church goers Guide to God" followed which mostly got me in trouble. Trouble is one of the most consistent things about my life so it didn't bother me too much but it drove poor Bennie Mitchell and the publisher crazy. It also got me this great rejection letter from Tony Compollo who took issue with my Liberation Theology self (he was going to write the preface but then I wrote "No Savior will ever sleep in the White House" and he'd just slept in the White House and well ... it didn't work out).
My dear friend Guy Sayles wanted to write a book together at this point, so we talked and decided to do one titled "Called In/Called Out" but it didn't work out either. I think that Guy got hamstrung by Southern Baptist policy or some bullshit like that. I did write the called out part which turned into "Out From Under the Rock" (get it? "Upon this Rock I will build my Church," Jesus said to St. Peter). It's my favorite so far (but don't tell the other books). I'm not sure why. Guy is the glue that holds the book together and I gave it away to Union Mission to raise money and it did ... like $100,000 or something. But it came at a special time and means special things to me.
Keith was unforgettable. A homeless mentally ill, Vietnam veteran with lupus who I loved so much that I moved him to the Tybee Island nursing home to be near me is the reason "Tour of Homes" was written. It's my epic novel on homelessness and how crazy Savannah is. It's mostly a love letter to Keith who disappeared and I still wonder if he made his way back to the red head.
Then I stopped.
Work became all consuming. My marriage began to crumble. It felt as though rocks were being piled to keep me from doing the things that I'd always done. I became sullen. The creativity remained locked inside. I got depressed.
Then as it was all getting worse ... I started again.
And I worked my way back to me.
So standing naked under the stars this morning, birthing books in my head and heart, loving the people who encourage me with everything in me, I suddenly felt like St. Francis when he took off his robe and tossed it aside to take the hand of Clair ...
And as he did this ...
He changed everything.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Remaking you Life
When you remake your life it reaches a point when you wonder when the remaking stops.
It's been a year of remaking for me. Suddenly I was single. Then I left the career that had defined who I was (which I would highly recommend that no one ever do). I lived alone for the first time in my life. Decades of public life vanished and overnight I became very private. All of this happened at once which is the way that lives are remade in the first place.
Things may build up over time ... resentment, loss of passion, confidence erodes, and you find that you just don't care anymore. Or whoever you are with reaches these points and makes the decision for you. Or whoever you worked for decides and forces the issues. Then it's like the guy who pulls the table cloth off of the table without disrupting what is one the table ... some things are the same yet everything is different.
You life is remade in an instant.
Then what do you do?
For months I didn't do anything. I laid around.
Then these friends showed up and they all refused to take no for an answer. And love crept back in through the cracks of the doors that I'd slammed shut.
Then I was sitting here one day and decided it was time for the future to arrive. The house that I lived in was no longer the place that it had been built for. That family was no more and I had been keeping like a shrine to what used to be.
"To hell with that," I told myself.
So I called Jimmie who assembled the Union Mission alumni association and they have descended upon the house that I live in. It has been remade. An old beach house with an antiquated kitchen is now modern. Shelves fill voids. Crown molding covers old scars. Orange cover the blues that used to fill the bathroom. A back splash gives me protection where I used to leave myself exposed. Hilarious Hideous pillows adorn the sofas which make me laugh adn fill me with joy.
A once happy home is now happy again.
Happier!
The Union Mission alumni association take twice as long to accomplish anything because they keep wanting to talk and tell Dedra, who has come back from the dead again, old stories about things that I did or things that they did. We all laugh and tell one another how much we love each other.
Then ... like last night ... I'll stumble into the new kitchen ... which is far better than the old kitchen ... then do my best Conner impersonation to stroll out to the beloved back deck ... take a seat propping my feet on the rail ... and blow a kiss to Taurus the Bull which happens to rest over me.
Then I walk back into my new old house.
Remade.
Like me.
Ready for next.
It's been a year of remaking for me. Suddenly I was single. Then I left the career that had defined who I was (which I would highly recommend that no one ever do). I lived alone for the first time in my life. Decades of public life vanished and overnight I became very private. All of this happened at once which is the way that lives are remade in the first place.
Things may build up over time ... resentment, loss of passion, confidence erodes, and you find that you just don't care anymore. Or whoever you are with reaches these points and makes the decision for you. Or whoever you worked for decides and forces the issues. Then it's like the guy who pulls the table cloth off of the table without disrupting what is one the table ... some things are the same yet everything is different.
You life is remade in an instant.
Then what do you do?
For months I didn't do anything. I laid around.
Then these friends showed up and they all refused to take no for an answer. And love crept back in through the cracks of the doors that I'd slammed shut.
Then I was sitting here one day and decided it was time for the future to arrive. The house that I lived in was no longer the place that it had been built for. That family was no more and I had been keeping like a shrine to what used to be.
"To hell with that," I told myself.
So I called Jimmie who assembled the Union Mission alumni association and they have descended upon the house that I live in. It has been remade. An old beach house with an antiquated kitchen is now modern. Shelves fill voids. Crown molding covers old scars. Orange cover the blues that used to fill the bathroom. A back splash gives me protection where I used to leave myself exposed. Hilarious Hideous pillows adorn the sofas which make me laugh adn fill me with joy.
A once happy home is now happy again.
Happier!
The Union Mission alumni association take twice as long to accomplish anything because they keep wanting to talk and tell Dedra, who has come back from the dead again, old stories about things that I did or things that they did. We all laugh and tell one another how much we love each other.
Then ... like last night ... I'll stumble into the new kitchen ... which is far better than the old kitchen ... then do my best Conner impersonation to stroll out to the beloved back deck ... take a seat propping my feet on the rail ... and blow a kiss to Taurus the Bull which happens to rest over me.
Then I walk back into my new old house.
Remade.
Like me.
Ready for next.
Monday, June 27, 2011
When Gifts Rush Back
One of the things about doing this is the surprises that keep happening. Gifts come in the form of responses from people I assumed to be long dead. It's shocking they're not and over time ... decades ... they rise from tombs I'd tenderly placed them in to let me know ... we still share bonds. Strong and rich things that made us ... us.
Yesterday, I wrote about a song I could never finish that my friends helped me complete. It came about because another friend was taking issue with me over mixing holy words with profane ones and then told me of a bad experience with her mother's caregivers in a nursing home. I was already thinking about my friend Trolly Joe. Then I had the most wonderful of Saturday nights when my life was painted orange and King Aurthur popped into my head because I love the story of him pulling the sword from the stone ... and that made me remember the song ... and my friend told me that she was "formed by stone" ... and this writing happened.
I'm always stunned by it. I start off either meaning to say one thing ... or having no real idea what I mean to say ... then it takes on a life of its own ... like baby Sunflower seeds that burst from the ground ... or like my kids who all turned out as them, which are things I never would have imagined but I wouldn't trade for anything.
So I wrote about breaking away from stone. I didn't think it was that good so I threw in some Monty Python to give people comic relief. But it was me ... from the heart ... surprised at what came out. I've learned to trust that ... without over thinking it. Just do it! Just be me.
Then my friend Jim Lowder wrote. I haven't thought of Jim in years. Decades! We were in serious trouble together for different reasons in different places. He was the Pastor of the Deloris Street Baptist Church in San Francisco and I was Pastor/Director of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky. Our support group was the Oakhurst Baptist Church Church in Decatur, Georgia and the Koininia Commune in Americus, Georgia.
These were our peeps.
Jim and I actually met in Kansas City during the southern Baptist Convention and we immediately hit it off. Kindred spirits do that. He was about to be fired by the Home Mission Board of the Southern Baptist Convention because he had the audacity to love gay people who had AIDS. This was the mid-1980s so everyone thought that you could catch AIDS from toilet seats and the country was horrified at it ... and gay people who brought it to us.
So, Jim did what Jesus would have done. He just loved who showed up. They happened to be gay. Too many happened to have AIDS.
And that got him fired.
I was in trouble for the minor infraction of hiring Cindy Weber to be Associate Pastor of the church I was inexplicably in charge of and Baptists don't believe in women ... except to be helpmates ... which is bullshit.
Anyway ... Jim and I stood there ... he wore a three piece suit which cracked me up with his long hair and beard. I was styling the Kroger Bag Boy look ... blue jeans, white shirt, sock tie, and blue blazer. We looked good.
Fast forward thirty years and Jim comments on yesterday's blog ... and it may as well have been Jesus rising from the grave. He wrote and I wrote and then we did it again. I felt we were standing on the floor of the Southern Baptist Convention in Kansas City ... he about to be fired ... me in trouble ... and the two of us just laughed at the trouble we were in. Though there was this fierce intensity behind the laughter.
Then later on the same day my fiend Judy Puckett Stainaker posted this picture of a very younger me standing there in Forsyth Park in Savannah, Georgia for the first AIDS walk in a sleepy southern city. We think it was 1990 though I really don't remember.
What I do remember is marching by one of the Historic District's shops and the owner yelling at us, "Why are you doing this? We hate you!"
I hadn't thought of these things in decades but yesterday they were gifts that came rushing back.
And today I hold them dearly.
I so proud to have been associated with such damn good people who ... pull swords out of stones.
Yesterday, I wrote about a song I could never finish that my friends helped me complete. It came about because another friend was taking issue with me over mixing holy words with profane ones and then told me of a bad experience with her mother's caregivers in a nursing home. I was already thinking about my friend Trolly Joe. Then I had the most wonderful of Saturday nights when my life was painted orange and King Aurthur popped into my head because I love the story of him pulling the sword from the stone ... and that made me remember the song ... and my friend told me that she was "formed by stone" ... and this writing happened.
I'm always stunned by it. I start off either meaning to say one thing ... or having no real idea what I mean to say ... then it takes on a life of its own ... like baby Sunflower seeds that burst from the ground ... or like my kids who all turned out as them, which are things I never would have imagined but I wouldn't trade for anything.
So I wrote about breaking away from stone. I didn't think it was that good so I threw in some Monty Python to give people comic relief. But it was me ... from the heart ... surprised at what came out. I've learned to trust that ... without over thinking it. Just do it! Just be me.
Then my friend Jim Lowder wrote. I haven't thought of Jim in years. Decades! We were in serious trouble together for different reasons in different places. He was the Pastor of the Deloris Street Baptist Church in San Francisco and I was Pastor/Director of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky. Our support group was the Oakhurst Baptist Church Church in Decatur, Georgia and the Koininia Commune in Americus, Georgia.
These were our peeps.
Jim and I actually met in Kansas City during the southern Baptist Convention and we immediately hit it off. Kindred spirits do that. He was about to be fired by the Home Mission Board of the Southern Baptist Convention because he had the audacity to love gay people who had AIDS. This was the mid-1980s so everyone thought that you could catch AIDS from toilet seats and the country was horrified at it ... and gay people who brought it to us.
So, Jim did what Jesus would have done. He just loved who showed up. They happened to be gay. Too many happened to have AIDS.
And that got him fired.
I was in trouble for the minor infraction of hiring Cindy Weber to be Associate Pastor of the church I was inexplicably in charge of and Baptists don't believe in women ... except to be helpmates ... which is bullshit.
Anyway ... Jim and I stood there ... he wore a three piece suit which cracked me up with his long hair and beard. I was styling the Kroger Bag Boy look ... blue jeans, white shirt, sock tie, and blue blazer. We looked good.
Fast forward thirty years and Jim comments on yesterday's blog ... and it may as well have been Jesus rising from the grave. He wrote and I wrote and then we did it again. I felt we were standing on the floor of the Southern Baptist Convention in Kansas City ... he about to be fired ... me in trouble ... and the two of us just laughed at the trouble we were in. Though there was this fierce intensity behind the laughter.
Then later on the same day my fiend Judy Puckett Stainaker posted this picture of a very younger me standing there in Forsyth Park in Savannah, Georgia for the first AIDS walk in a sleepy southern city. We think it was 1990 though I really don't remember.
What I do remember is marching by one of the Historic District's shops and the owner yelling at us, "Why are you doing this? We hate you!"
I hadn't thought of these things in decades but yesterday they were gifts that came rushing back.
And today I hold them dearly.
I so proud to have been associated with such damn good people who ... pull swords out of stones.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Formed of Stone
When Arthur pulled the sword out of the stone to become king ... he became someone else in an instant ... because he overcame stone. This has remained one of the images of my life. Arthur was in charge of the stone though many had tried to set the sword free, it took it as a teenager. There was a place for ancient wisdom which is where Merlin comes from but ancient wisdom is only worthwhile after the impetuous acts of the young.
That's why I've tried to keep my "school boy heart."
Many years ago I wrote this song that I could never quite finish. "Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot, sailed off the end of the world. Looking for adventure another Camelot, just more dreams to unfurl ..."
And that is me. Or it's who I want to be. Sailing off the end of the world looking for new adventures should be the way we live. Once you've touched Camelot ... or love or perfection or holiness ... well then you so want it again. So once is never enough so you keep looking cause new dreams need places to grow.
"But Guinevere is sleeping now and Merlin's simply disappeared. And Arthur went and stuck the sword back in the stone ... when will the Holy Grail appear?"
That last ling about the Holy Grail came from my dear friends Mitch and Dedra. I could never figure it out by myself. They did it for me. In the end, it's about the search for what we want ... who we are ... what we want really.
When I wrote the lines though, I was at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel and doing radical stuff. Homeless people lived in Sunday School rooms, Baptismal pools were their bathtubs, young kids from across the city of Louisville came and brought this energy and five little old ladies were the glue that held us all together. We were there at the beginning of homelessness, AIDS, the crumbling of access to the American Health Care System ... and like the young Arthur believed with everything in us that it doesn't have to this way.
But the stoned Southern Baptist faith didn't allow for such activity. They wanted the sword back in the stone ... NOW! ... God Dammit! And that is how I learned how religion is run.
It struck me as the height of hypocrisy as the first thing that Jesus did after he was killed and buried is have someone "roll away the stone" so he could get out. No that's wrong ... I suspect he did it himself. "Ain't no stone gonna hold me down," he said when he got up. "I've had enough of dead. I'm gonna live!"
And it amazes me all of the ways that people chose the stone. Stones are heavy things, blocking your way, hiding the sun, keeping the dead in their tombs. It's funny to me that graveyards have tombstones that seem to say "The stone won. You had a life once but ... stones win in the end. There's just out engraved faces here. Everyone else is buried."
What stones do of course is keep things the way that they are. They hedge you in. They force you to see things only one way. They are status quo ... the way it's always been ... "One way!"
One of my favorite pokes at the hypocrisy of religious rules is from Monty Python's "Life Of Brain". It is the stoning scene ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIaORknS1Dk ) where an old man is being stoned to death because he told his wife one night "that halibut was good enough for Jehovah." You're not supposed to say the name of God in Jewish religion so they stone him (well, the women dressed as men stone the enforcer of the rules in the end ... but it is hilarious and I love it). And it accurately reflect the ways of institutional religion. Which is why I love Bar Church.
But I know a lot of people who live under rocks. They're like flounders swimming along the bottom of the sea with two eyes on one side of their face because they only see things one way.
"We all started off as sand and dust," a friend wrote me last night, "I wonder what our bonding agent is?"
That's the question right? What is it that holds us together? What makes each of us ... us?
For a lot of people it is the stone that forms us. We grow up to be immoveable rocks. Sometimes we're thrown by others but most of the time we just do it the way its always been done. Live up to the expectations of everyone else.
Well I don't believe in any of that. Ask my Mom.
Stones are to be rolled away so that we can be born again ... and become something other than who we are ... to have the opportunity to become what we were created to be.
Sure ... sometimes crucifixions are involved ... marriages, careers, faiths, politics, religions ...
Those can be some pretty dark times.
But then the stone is rolled away ...
And sunshine burst into the once dark caves.
That's why I've tried to keep my "school boy heart."
Many years ago I wrote this song that I could never quite finish. "Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot, sailed off the end of the world. Looking for adventure another Camelot, just more dreams to unfurl ..."
And that is me. Or it's who I want to be. Sailing off the end of the world looking for new adventures should be the way we live. Once you've touched Camelot ... or love or perfection or holiness ... well then you so want it again. So once is never enough so you keep looking cause new dreams need places to grow.
"But Guinevere is sleeping now and Merlin's simply disappeared. And Arthur went and stuck the sword back in the stone ... when will the Holy Grail appear?"
That last ling about the Holy Grail came from my dear friends Mitch and Dedra. I could never figure it out by myself. They did it for me. In the end, it's about the search for what we want ... who we are ... what we want really.
When I wrote the lines though, I was at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel and doing radical stuff. Homeless people lived in Sunday School rooms, Baptismal pools were their bathtubs, young kids from across the city of Louisville came and brought this energy and five little old ladies were the glue that held us all together. We were there at the beginning of homelessness, AIDS, the crumbling of access to the American Health Care System ... and like the young Arthur believed with everything in us that it doesn't have to this way.
But the stoned Southern Baptist faith didn't allow for such activity. They wanted the sword back in the stone ... NOW! ... God Dammit! And that is how I learned how religion is run.
It struck me as the height of hypocrisy as the first thing that Jesus did after he was killed and buried is have someone "roll away the stone" so he could get out. No that's wrong ... I suspect he did it himself. "Ain't no stone gonna hold me down," he said when he got up. "I've had enough of dead. I'm gonna live!"
And it amazes me all of the ways that people chose the stone. Stones are heavy things, blocking your way, hiding the sun, keeping the dead in their tombs. It's funny to me that graveyards have tombstones that seem to say "The stone won. You had a life once but ... stones win in the end. There's just out engraved faces here. Everyone else is buried."
What stones do of course is keep things the way that they are. They hedge you in. They force you to see things only one way. They are status quo ... the way it's always been ... "One way!"
One of my favorite pokes at the hypocrisy of religious rules is from Monty Python's "Life Of Brain". It is the stoning scene ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIaORknS1Dk ) where an old man is being stoned to death because he told his wife one night "that halibut was good enough for Jehovah." You're not supposed to say the name of God in Jewish religion so they stone him (well, the women dressed as men stone the enforcer of the rules in the end ... but it is hilarious and I love it). And it accurately reflect the ways of institutional religion. Which is why I love Bar Church.
But I know a lot of people who live under rocks. They're like flounders swimming along the bottom of the sea with two eyes on one side of their face because they only see things one way.
"We all started off as sand and dust," a friend wrote me last night, "I wonder what our bonding agent is?"
That's the question right? What is it that holds us together? What makes each of us ... us?
For a lot of people it is the stone that forms us. We grow up to be immoveable rocks. Sometimes we're thrown by others but most of the time we just do it the way its always been done. Live up to the expectations of everyone else.
Well I don't believe in any of that. Ask my Mom.
Stones are to be rolled away so that we can be born again ... and become something other than who we are ... to have the opportunity to become what we were created to be.
Sure ... sometimes crucifixions are involved ... marriages, careers, faiths, politics, religions ...
Those can be some pretty dark times.
But then the stone is rolled away ...
And sunshine burst into the once dark caves.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
My Carnival of Frienda
It has been brought to my attention that I have the strangest collection of friends.
Seriously!
People have started writing trying to book times to come to Tybee Island to meet them. "You should get your friend Trolly Joe to organize a tour of the life of Mike ... you know take people to the Breakfast Club to meet your extended family, watch Johnny O feed the squirrels, go to the Pier and Fannies-on-the-Beach for the Bored meeting, stop at Shirley's sad little holy dock, go to Bernie's to listen to Samuel Adams and Gordon play damn good live music, then end up on a beach swing at night. It would have to be a bicycle tour so that Whitley can give the tour of the combat zone (formally 16th Street but Shirley decided to change the name to Tybrisa Street for reasons only she understands). Can I come?"
I swear! I actually got this from a friend who lives in South Carolina.
Hmmmm .... now that I think about it ... only South Carolina people would think of something like this. She must be a graduate of the state university there that rest in hole in the ground that is called Columbia.
But then another wrote asking me to have a picture taken on the beloved back deck with Fran's thousand shades of green behind us, with me with one arm around Goddess and the other around my drunken bicycle. She wants me to post it Face Book.
Seriously!
Then she asked for another that's a group shot of the above mentioned people along with my raised-from-the-dead college friends Dedra, Mark and Mitch ... my children Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea who are all good friends ... Stacy ... and the famous Dr. Jim Withers who lives nowhere near me. They also want to see what Conner looks like which is incredibly frightening! Hugh and Patti, Carlos and Verna, Nathalie and Ana and the St. Martin are also supposed to magically appear for the shot (which Hugh could take now that I think about it). Bill Berry (not the former drummer from R.E.M. but the other one) is also supposed to be in it. It would be like a very warped Sgt. Pepper at the Beach picture!
I mean you can't make this stuff up! I really did get these requests!
Which got me to thinking ... my carnival of friends really is a strange bunch.
Let me give you a few examples.
Johnny O and Judy feed squirrels on their porch every day, take photographs of stuffed kitties smoking pot on a toilet seat to post on the Internet and Johnny really believes that he is Sinatra. Of course he still talks daily to Chicago Bob who is long dead. And Johnny O is regularly dropped as a columnist for "The Tybee Breeze" our ...I'm really not sure what it is ... not a newspaper or a magazine ... for Christ's sake Julia Pierce has a column ... explain that?
Then there is Whitley who wakes up every morning (that's a relative statement) to see if his traps have captured a raccoon (67 caught so far this year), rides his very drunken bicycle to aforementioned Shirley named street, then disappears for days until his very drunken bicycle needs me to throw it in the back of my car and give it a ride home.
Dedra, Mark and Mitch ... after spending thirty years ignoring one another we decided to throw caution to the wind and get back together. The result is we have formed a band ... "The Acoustic Savages" and we've already written one-and-a-half songs (soon to be released on the World Wide Web ... assuming we can come up with the other half ... or figure out Mark's role in the band).
But then Dedra went to a "Back Street Boys" concert and threw granny panties on the stage suffocating two of the "Back Street Boys" so we're re-thinking her existence.
My kids ... we're an odd lot. Put us all together and we laugh a lot. Individually we're just a little strange. Jeremy and Marie are kind of like Star Trek darting in and out of the universe at warp speed. Kristen is the mystery of the universe and likely the reason why Jeremy and Marie dart in and out as Kristen beams in-and-out of reality at any given moment. Chelsea and her fiancee Sam bring me a bobble head doll of Pope Benedict XVI as a gift after spending six months in Europe. Need I say more?
I could on.
In fact, I've scratched the surface.
Conner called me last night to ask if we have enough duct tape for next week's return trip to St. Martin. Now that we understand that Nathalie is not inviting us to her apartment or can cook anyway, he thinks that duct tape is necessary for the group massage that we're having (oh yeah ... Hugh and Patti you're involved).
I could keep going.
Franklin, who is brown, works at the Breakfast Club, and takes steroids collects "cougars" and told me today he has five.
I wouldn't trade them for anything. And I love them all. Individually are wonderful. Collectively we are a carnival.
But there is this one ...
out there ...
I'm waiting on you ...
Don't rush ... it'll happen when it happens.
Soon.
But not soon enough.
Seriously!
People have started writing trying to book times to come to Tybee Island to meet them. "You should get your friend Trolly Joe to organize a tour of the life of Mike ... you know take people to the Breakfast Club to meet your extended family, watch Johnny O feed the squirrels, go to the Pier and Fannies-on-the-Beach for the Bored meeting, stop at Shirley's sad little holy dock, go to Bernie's to listen to Samuel Adams and Gordon play damn good live music, then end up on a beach swing at night. It would have to be a bicycle tour so that Whitley can give the tour of the combat zone (formally 16th Street but Shirley decided to change the name to Tybrisa Street for reasons only she understands). Can I come?"
I swear! I actually got this from a friend who lives in South Carolina.
Hmmmm .... now that I think about it ... only South Carolina people would think of something like this. She must be a graduate of the state university there that rest in hole in the ground that is called Columbia.
But then another wrote asking me to have a picture taken on the beloved back deck with Fran's thousand shades of green behind us, with me with one arm around Goddess and the other around my drunken bicycle. She wants me to post it Face Book.
Seriously!
Then she asked for another that's a group shot of the above mentioned people along with my raised-from-the-dead college friends Dedra, Mark and Mitch ... my children Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea who are all good friends ... Stacy ... and the famous Dr. Jim Withers who lives nowhere near me. They also want to see what Conner looks like which is incredibly frightening! Hugh and Patti, Carlos and Verna, Nathalie and Ana and the St. Martin are also supposed to magically appear for the shot (which Hugh could take now that I think about it). Bill Berry (not the former drummer from R.E.M. but the other one) is also supposed to be in it. It would be like a very warped Sgt. Pepper at the Beach picture!
I mean you can't make this stuff up! I really did get these requests!
Which got me to thinking ... my carnival of friends really is a strange bunch.
Let me give you a few examples.
Johnny O and Judy feed squirrels on their porch every day, take photographs of stuffed kitties smoking pot on a toilet seat to post on the Internet and Johnny really believes that he is Sinatra. Of course he still talks daily to Chicago Bob who is long dead. And Johnny O is regularly dropped as a columnist for "The Tybee Breeze" our ...I'm really not sure what it is ... not a newspaper or a magazine ... for Christ's sake Julia Pierce has a column ... explain that?
Then there is Whitley who wakes up every morning (that's a relative statement) to see if his traps have captured a raccoon (67 caught so far this year), rides his very drunken bicycle to aforementioned Shirley named street, then disappears for days until his very drunken bicycle needs me to throw it in the back of my car and give it a ride home.
Dedra, Mark and Mitch ... after spending thirty years ignoring one another we decided to throw caution to the wind and get back together. The result is we have formed a band ... "The Acoustic Savages" and we've already written one-and-a-half songs (soon to be released on the World Wide Web ... assuming we can come up with the other half ... or figure out Mark's role in the band).
But then Dedra went to a "Back Street Boys" concert and threw granny panties on the stage suffocating two of the "Back Street Boys" so we're re-thinking her existence.
My kids ... we're an odd lot. Put us all together and we laugh a lot. Individually we're just a little strange. Jeremy and Marie are kind of like Star Trek darting in and out of the universe at warp speed. Kristen is the mystery of the universe and likely the reason why Jeremy and Marie dart in and out as Kristen beams in-and-out of reality at any given moment. Chelsea and her fiancee Sam bring me a bobble head doll of Pope Benedict XVI as a gift after spending six months in Europe. Need I say more?
I could on.
In fact, I've scratched the surface.
Conner called me last night to ask if we have enough duct tape for next week's return trip to St. Martin. Now that we understand that Nathalie is not inviting us to her apartment or can cook anyway, he thinks that duct tape is necessary for the group massage that we're having (oh yeah ... Hugh and Patti you're involved).
I could keep going.
Franklin, who is brown, works at the Breakfast Club, and takes steroids collects "cougars" and told me today he has five.
I wouldn't trade them for anything. And I love them all. Individually are wonderful. Collectively we are a carnival.
But there is this one ...
out there ...
I'm waiting on you ...
Don't rush ... it'll happen when it happens.
Soon.
But not soon enough.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Five Skin Tears
For years I’ve written. Sermons first and then journals, books, newsletter articles, press releases, lots of grants, letters to the editor, Judy’s term papers cause she could add (until the end) but couldn’t write anything if her life depended on it, arguments for funding, letters, drafts of divorce settlements and … now blogs.
For as long as I can remember I’ve written every day.
These days I mostly freebase.
With sermons you have to work God into it eventually (though I remain stunned at the number of clergy who don’t) … in books you have to have chapters that all fit together somehow … newsletter articles have to tug hearts to open checkbooks …press releases have to get the attention of the paper or television to do the story … letters to the editor have word limits … Judy’s term paper was like seventh grade stuff … arguments for funding were always fun because you have to dummy down the writing so the Congressman or City Official could understand it (kind of like Dr. Seuss needs money and will make up words to impress you) … letters are great cause they’re from the heart but hearts can’t be confined to paper … drafts for divorce leave you humbled …
BUT BLOGS … are freebasing … like mixing your drugs and breaking all the rules!
I love it!
You can do whatever you want. Write about anything. Go long. Go short. Whatevs …
Yesterday I wrote about sitting by myself with my feet dangling in a swimming pool, staring at the Back River of the Ocean, being at one with it … smelling it … feeling it … being it …
Thinking about the things I’ve lost and the things I’ve gained …
And of course God was present … she made all of this anyway … and I was thanking her for it … saying prayers … celebrating creation and the fact that I have friends who let me show up at their house to use their pool on days so hot they make your believe in hell …
But feelings of things I want and don’t have yet … led to me saying the word “Dammit” as I slapped the water.
Later while freebasing God and Dammit came together … in a holy way I think … at least that is the way that I think about it … God gave us this life … Dammit! Sometimes it doesn’t always go right …
So I wrote it out of me (as my son Jeremy describes it) and posted it … and it was amazing.
The phone started ringing. People wrote me asking me to call them. Others wrote asking me to write them … a couple texted wanting to come to Tybee to sit on Shirley’s sad little holy dock with Goddess and me talk.
I was busy all day. I was working hard and there is stuff being done to the house … and major distractions seemed to just lie on my couch as I tried to get things done …
Then towards the end of the day a friend of mine wrote saying that she didn’t like God and Damn being so close to one another. I say what I want every day and it doesn’t bother me in the least when people say what they want in response. I think it’s healthy and can cause dialogues if you remain open minded about it all. So she wrote and I read and thought well… that is that.
But through the miracle of technology we fell into an instant message chat. She asked if I was upset. I said no. She asked how I was. I asked how she was. This is the stuff that eventually leads to “community” if we’re lucky.
Then she told me that she had a day full of Five Skin Tears.
“What?” I replied. “Five Skin Tears?”
And she told me about it. You needed five layers of skin to get through that sad anger.
“Righteous indignation,” is what the Bible calls it, I told her. “Sometimes being pissed can be a very holy thing.”
We talked and were closer because of it. But Dammit God … sometimes things like that shouldn’t happen … why are people sometimes so cruel to one another … especially when frail innocence is involved?
Then we both had to go … but we’re closer because of it all … rain fell outside and we’ve all been praying for it for months … and God delivered just in the nick of time …
Dammit! It’s amazing what God does … and when … and how …
For as long as I can remember I’ve written every day.
These days I mostly freebase.
With sermons you have to work God into it eventually (though I remain stunned at the number of clergy who don’t) … in books you have to have chapters that all fit together somehow … newsletter articles have to tug hearts to open checkbooks …press releases have to get the attention of the paper or television to do the story … letters to the editor have word limits … Judy’s term paper was like seventh grade stuff … arguments for funding were always fun because you have to dummy down the writing so the Congressman or City Official could understand it (kind of like Dr. Seuss needs money and will make up words to impress you) … letters are great cause they’re from the heart but hearts can’t be confined to paper … drafts for divorce leave you humbled …
BUT BLOGS … are freebasing … like mixing your drugs and breaking all the rules!
I love it!
You can do whatever you want. Write about anything. Go long. Go short. Whatevs …
Yesterday I wrote about sitting by myself with my feet dangling in a swimming pool, staring at the Back River of the Ocean, being at one with it … smelling it … feeling it … being it …
Thinking about the things I’ve lost and the things I’ve gained …
And of course God was present … she made all of this anyway … and I was thanking her for it … saying prayers … celebrating creation and the fact that I have friends who let me show up at their house to use their pool on days so hot they make your believe in hell …
But feelings of things I want and don’t have yet … led to me saying the word “Dammit” as I slapped the water.
Later while freebasing God and Dammit came together … in a holy way I think … at least that is the way that I think about it … God gave us this life … Dammit! Sometimes it doesn’t always go right …
So I wrote it out of me (as my son Jeremy describes it) and posted it … and it was amazing.
The phone started ringing. People wrote me asking me to call them. Others wrote asking me to write them … a couple texted wanting to come to Tybee to sit on Shirley’s sad little holy dock with Goddess and me talk.
I was busy all day. I was working hard and there is stuff being done to the house … and major distractions seemed to just lie on my couch as I tried to get things done …
Then towards the end of the day a friend of mine wrote saying that she didn’t like God and Damn being so close to one another. I say what I want every day and it doesn’t bother me in the least when people say what they want in response. I think it’s healthy and can cause dialogues if you remain open minded about it all. So she wrote and I read and thought well… that is that.
But through the miracle of technology we fell into an instant message chat. She asked if I was upset. I said no. She asked how I was. I asked how she was. This is the stuff that eventually leads to “community” if we’re lucky.
Then she told me that she had a day full of Five Skin Tears.
“What?” I replied. “Five Skin Tears?”
And she told me about it. You needed five layers of skin to get through that sad anger.
“Righteous indignation,” is what the Bible calls it, I told her. “Sometimes being pissed can be a very holy thing.”
We talked and were closer because of it. But Dammit God … sometimes things like that shouldn’t happen … why are people sometimes so cruel to one another … especially when frail innocence is involved?
Then we both had to go … but we’re closer because of it all … rain fell outside and we’ve all been praying for it for months … and God delivered just in the nick of time …
Dammit! It’s amazing what God does … and when … and how …
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
God and Damn
Sometimes you just stare ... off in the distance ... the distant past or the distant future ... but somewhere other than where you are ...
Somewhere where you long to be ...
Not here ....
My feet dangle in the water of the swimming pool overlooking the marsh with the Back River way over there. I'm alone listening to John Mellencamp sing "Your Life is Now" ...
but I mostly stare off in the distant somewhere ... fingers of my hands laced between my knees ... feeling the ocean breeze ... the sting of the chlorine on the oyster shell cut that just won't heal from a month ago ... and apparently I'll have good health insurance again ... after a career of giving other people health coverage when they had no chance in hell of getting it ... the glass of wine that I'd brought is long gone ...
It's just me ... water ... sky ... breeze ... God ...
And my hands folded between my knees on top of the water ... with ocean breeze kissing my face ... salt water tingling my nostrils ... missing what I don't have ... longing for what will be ... cursing the past ...understanding how God and Damned go together so perfectly sometimes ...
"Goddamned," I say as I slap the water ... then I'm off in the distance again ... future distance ... past distance ... somewhere else ... not where I am at ...
It's not God's fault.
And she doesn't give a Rat's ass that I said "Goddamned" because that is not taking the name of the Lord your God in vein.
What is ... is to say that you believe in God and you don't really ... or to say that you're a Christian and you just go to Church and don't really take on the things of Christ ... or you don't give a shit about people suffering around you ... or you just care about you and yours while you usher and take money like tax collectors (like Board Chairs who choose to remain ... well ... he's not even worth the effort ...)
But ... the things God cares about ... well ... that's different.
Today I had all of these homeless guys at my house doing work. I wanted to pay them ... to say thanks ... as they were saying thanks ... everything took too long ... they wanted to talk about the old times ... I wanted to work ... I pondered my baby sunflower seeds ... I kept mediating stupid arguments ... it was a crash collision that was going to happen ...
Then it did ...
So I hopped on my bike and rode ....
Now I sit, with broken feet in chlorine water, hands between my knees, staring at Pine Trees dancing in the ocean breeze, wondering ...
There is an old black saying ... "I'm tied of being tired" ...
Me too!
So it's time to stop. To hell with what ever makes me stare.
My life is now! Whatever I have left of it anyway.
I've done good ... lots of good ... and I've done bad ... lots of bad ...
But I did the best I could ...
I'm ok with it ...
It's just me ...
The way God and me made me ...
And whatever I did in the past is done ...
My life is now ...
Moving forward to the future ....
Goddammit!
Somewhere where you long to be ...
Not here ....
My feet dangle in the water of the swimming pool overlooking the marsh with the Back River way over there. I'm alone listening to John Mellencamp sing "Your Life is Now" ...
but I mostly stare off in the distant somewhere ... fingers of my hands laced between my knees ... feeling the ocean breeze ... the sting of the chlorine on the oyster shell cut that just won't heal from a month ago ... and apparently I'll have good health insurance again ... after a career of giving other people health coverage when they had no chance in hell of getting it ... the glass of wine that I'd brought is long gone ...
It's just me ... water ... sky ... breeze ... God ...
And my hands folded between my knees on top of the water ... with ocean breeze kissing my face ... salt water tingling my nostrils ... missing what I don't have ... longing for what will be ... cursing the past ...understanding how God and Damned go together so perfectly sometimes ...
"Goddamned," I say as I slap the water ... then I'm off in the distance again ... future distance ... past distance ... somewhere else ... not where I am at ...
It's not God's fault.
And she doesn't give a Rat's ass that I said "Goddamned" because that is not taking the name of the Lord your God in vein.
What is ... is to say that you believe in God and you don't really ... or to say that you're a Christian and you just go to Church and don't really take on the things of Christ ... or you don't give a shit about people suffering around you ... or you just care about you and yours while you usher and take money like tax collectors (like Board Chairs who choose to remain ... well ... he's not even worth the effort ...)
But ... the things God cares about ... well ... that's different.
Today I had all of these homeless guys at my house doing work. I wanted to pay them ... to say thanks ... as they were saying thanks ... everything took too long ... they wanted to talk about the old times ... I wanted to work ... I pondered my baby sunflower seeds ... I kept mediating stupid arguments ... it was a crash collision that was going to happen ...
Then it did ...
So I hopped on my bike and rode ....
Now I sit, with broken feet in chlorine water, hands between my knees, staring at Pine Trees dancing in the ocean breeze, wondering ...
There is an old black saying ... "I'm tied of being tired" ...
Me too!
So it's time to stop. To hell with what ever makes me stare.
My life is now! Whatever I have left of it anyway.
I've done good ... lots of good ... and I've done bad ... lots of bad ...
But I did the best I could ...
I'm ok with it ...
It's just me ...
The way God and me made me ...
And whatever I did in the past is done ...
My life is now ...
Moving forward to the future ....
Goddammit!
The Pope and me
Chelsea was giving out presents on her birthday last night. She and her fiancee Sam had brought everyone gifts from the past six months they spent in Europe. She gave me a bobble head doll of the Pope. She got it at the Vatican where they are really into merchandizing as a way to help pay their legal bills.
That sounded cynical.
It is I guess. I'm not a fan of the Pope. Before he was Benedict XVI he was Joseph Ratzinger and I really didn't like him then. Back then I was really into Liberation theology, a political belief that seeks to continue Jesus' liberation of people from economic, political and social injustice. I was in Seminary and living and working with homeless people and Liberation theology gave me the framing I needed to not grow depressed by the poverty that surrounded me.
My heroes were all Priests (Gutieerez from Peru, Boff from Brazil, Sobrino from El Savador) who were all doing incredible things including overthrowing third world dictators that U. S. politics propped up. They also wrote incredible books about loving the poor because that is where God is ... with those who hurt, suffer, starve and are oppressed. Jewish theologian Eli Wiesel says the same thing when he talks about God being among the prisoners at Auschwitz, the concentration camp in Poland.
I was so enthralled and a solid convert to this way of thinking that I stood up in class in the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary one day and announced that I no longer gave a damn about "western theology" which only cares about why there is evil in the world. I was only going to base my study on Liberation theologians ... those Priests and nuns who were sick of "the way things had always been" and were doing something about it.
Of course this didn't go over real well with the Southern Baptists. I got called into Dean Ann Davis' office and she ripped me a new one. I held my ground and she threatened to kick me out of Seminary. We stopped liking one another. It was at this point that I discovered that lawyers really can be useful.
Ann had recruited me for the social work school which she was launching. I'd been working on a Ph.D. but social work was more in keeping with Liberation so I changed. We had to negotiate all of the classes I'd already taken for the doctorate and determine what classes I would need for a Master in Social Work. It was a contract. My lawyer ate Ann's lunch ... that's how I got my Master in Social Work.
At the time, Joseph Ratzinger was in charge of keeping the Priests in line with the doctrines of the Church. Liberation theology Priests were straying far away from doing it the way that it had always been done. So Ratzinger had them all silenced ... one by one.
And I still hate him for it.
When he became Pope, I remember hearing the news on the radio and pulling the car over to the side of road. I was cussing loudly. I called my friend Mary Ann Beil who crying over where the puff of white smoke blew.
Ratzinger? Seriously?
My dear friend Father Vernon Robertson defended him rigorously but concluded by saying "Popes aren't all they're cracked up to be." It was hard not to love Vernon. I would do the readings at noon day Mass and he would preach on Wednesday nights at the church that I was inexplicably in charge of.
In the end though Joseph Ratzinger killed off Liberation Theology. That allowed American Fundamentalism to gain the upper hand ... so Jerry Falwell, Jim and Tammy Baker, Kenneth Copeland and those people gained influence. Now it's T.D. Jakes and Pope Benedict XVI.
And things remain the same as they've always been.
The poor get poorer. The rich get richer. We spend more on prisons than we do educating kids. Half of the country doesn't have health insurance ... the military still buys $500 hammers ...
And the thinking goes on and on ... stay in a rotten bad marriage because God believes in marriage more than happiness ... have another baby when you can't afford the ones that you have now and you're too ignorant to understand birth control ... condemn people who are different from you because God only likes things one particular way ... or color ...
I walk up to my bobble head doll of Pope Benedict and ask him "You really believe all of this shit?"
And I slap his head so that it shakes from side to side. Then it starts going in circles. Then it ends up shaking up and down.
I laugh.
"Of course you do," I say out loud. "What you believe is more important than ... freedom ... happiness ... wellness ... discovery ... Love!
I remain a believer in Liberation. Damn what anybody says! Or which way their head shakes.
That sounded cynical.
It is I guess. I'm not a fan of the Pope. Before he was Benedict XVI he was Joseph Ratzinger and I really didn't like him then. Back then I was really into Liberation theology, a political belief that seeks to continue Jesus' liberation of people from economic, political and social injustice. I was in Seminary and living and working with homeless people and Liberation theology gave me the framing I needed to not grow depressed by the poverty that surrounded me.
My heroes were all Priests (Gutieerez from Peru, Boff from Brazil, Sobrino from El Savador) who were all doing incredible things including overthrowing third world dictators that U. S. politics propped up. They also wrote incredible books about loving the poor because that is where God is ... with those who hurt, suffer, starve and are oppressed. Jewish theologian Eli Wiesel says the same thing when he talks about God being among the prisoners at Auschwitz, the concentration camp in Poland.
I was so enthralled and a solid convert to this way of thinking that I stood up in class in the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary one day and announced that I no longer gave a damn about "western theology" which only cares about why there is evil in the world. I was only going to base my study on Liberation theologians ... those Priests and nuns who were sick of "the way things had always been" and were doing something about it.
Of course this didn't go over real well with the Southern Baptists. I got called into Dean Ann Davis' office and she ripped me a new one. I held my ground and she threatened to kick me out of Seminary. We stopped liking one another. It was at this point that I discovered that lawyers really can be useful.
Ann had recruited me for the social work school which she was launching. I'd been working on a Ph.D. but social work was more in keeping with Liberation so I changed. We had to negotiate all of the classes I'd already taken for the doctorate and determine what classes I would need for a Master in Social Work. It was a contract. My lawyer ate Ann's lunch ... that's how I got my Master in Social Work.
At the time, Joseph Ratzinger was in charge of keeping the Priests in line with the doctrines of the Church. Liberation theology Priests were straying far away from doing it the way that it had always been done. So Ratzinger had them all silenced ... one by one.
And I still hate him for it.
When he became Pope, I remember hearing the news on the radio and pulling the car over to the side of road. I was cussing loudly. I called my friend Mary Ann Beil who crying over where the puff of white smoke blew.
Ratzinger? Seriously?
My dear friend Father Vernon Robertson defended him rigorously but concluded by saying "Popes aren't all they're cracked up to be." It was hard not to love Vernon. I would do the readings at noon day Mass and he would preach on Wednesday nights at the church that I was inexplicably in charge of.
In the end though Joseph Ratzinger killed off Liberation Theology. That allowed American Fundamentalism to gain the upper hand ... so Jerry Falwell, Jim and Tammy Baker, Kenneth Copeland and those people gained influence. Now it's T.D. Jakes and Pope Benedict XVI.
And things remain the same as they've always been.
The poor get poorer. The rich get richer. We spend more on prisons than we do educating kids. Half of the country doesn't have health insurance ... the military still buys $500 hammers ...
And the thinking goes on and on ... stay in a rotten bad marriage because God believes in marriage more than happiness ... have another baby when you can't afford the ones that you have now and you're too ignorant to understand birth control ... condemn people who are different from you because God only likes things one particular way ... or color ...
I walk up to my bobble head doll of Pope Benedict and ask him "You really believe all of this shit?"
And I slap his head so that it shakes from side to side. Then it starts going in circles. Then it ends up shaking up and down.
I laugh.
"Of course you do," I say out loud. "What you believe is more important than ... freedom ... happiness ... wellness ... discovery ... Love!
I remain a believer in Liberation. Damn what anybody says! Or which way their head shakes.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Sunflowers
I was on the 23rd floor of Rockefeller Center looking down on the plaza where the TODAY Show has Friday morning concerts and Kenny Chesney was playing. I could see tiny people jumping up and down as the band was obviously rocking. I couldn't hear anything that high up behind the large glass window. Besides there were a lot of distractions.
Every time one of the agent's authors had been in the "New York Times Book Review" section of the Sunday paper it had been framed and hung on the walls. There were lots! Breaking them up and adding color to the walls were the framed covers of the books she had negotiated the deals over. As a lover of books and a writer it was hard not to be impressed.
Typical New York City, Rockefeller Center is imposing from the outside, then you get through security and off the elevator and the hallways are dingy little things. Then you open the door to the office suite and ... Whoa! Damn! That's impressive!
A glass walled conference room with one of the walls being a window looking down on Kenny Chesney driving the crowd wild. Melissa, ... blond, beautiful, wearing a blue and white sundress sat at her desk in the open space outside of the conference room. Behind her were two offices, one with no windows and I was introduced to Geri who is the money person and I thought, of course she has no windows ... she spends all of her time counting money (reminding me of a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous ... Jerry Rainy).
The other one was a corner with two windows that I was standing in front of looking down wondering if Matt Lauer was bogeying his ass off with everybody else.
"Shall we get started?" Maria Carvainis asked. A short, frumpy Jewish woman with a beautiful smile this was her agency.
The famous Dr. Jim Withers and I took our seats behind the glass desk that she sat behind. This was Jim's meeting and I was tagging along. He'd asked me to because I've published books and this is his first and he just wanted someone to hold his hand. I love Jim so of course I went. I was blown away by Maria and her agency though.
"Hello Micheal Elliott," she'd said shaking my hand without being told who I was when I'd followed Jim in. Of course she'd shaken Jim's hand first and then boldly came to me. She is impressive.
So they started talking and I was wondering about the sunflower seeds I'd planted back home.
At some point both of them were looking at me and I had no idea why. "Sorry, what did you say?" I asked in a clever attempt to cover myself.
"I was telling her how I spent last weekend with you," Jim explained, "so you could help me learn how you write but flotillas and the Samuel Adams Band kept getting in the way."
"Oh yeah," I shrugged. "It's true. It's my fault ... but Dedra and Cheryl helped."
Figuring this would end my involvement in their conversation I resumed wondering if Mom was watering the sunflower seeds or if Goddess was peeing on them.
"And" Maria asked?
And?
Shit there is more to this conversation!
"Ummm," I cleverly started. "Jim's a good writer. His story is incredible. You already know that. The book will be a movie. What else you want to know?"
Jim humbly looked down.
Maria beamed.
Nobody said anything.
"Yes!" I fist pumped my inward self.
They went back to talking. I started worrying about my sunflower seeds. I missed them.
Eventually they finished. "Micheal," Maria said handing me her card. "That's not my real email address." She handed me a pen, "The real one is ..." and gave it me.
"Well aren't you funny?" I said. "A rouge email address on you business card. I wish I'd thought of that!"
She smiled and I understood why she is so successful.
Melissa showed us out back into the dingy hall that led to the elevator, pass security back into the throngs of New York City. We were late for our next meeting so while I strolled like a good southern boy, Jim walked fast in little tiny steps like a northern boy.
I busted out laughing and Jim turned around to see why I wasn't keeping up with him. My hands were on my knees and a sea of people were separating to walk passed me ... I looked like a sidewalk Moses parting the water.
After I finished I meandered to Jim stood.
"We're gonna be late," he chided.
"Not in Savannah time," I replied. "We drip molasses on our clocks so nothing starts on time."
Uh-huh," he said with his hands on his hips before turning around and taking really fast little baby steps in the other direction.
I busted out laughing again with my hands on my knees.
When I finally stood up ... I noticed the throngs of people rushing pass me ... the majestic power of the buildings ... the imposing presence of New York City ...
And I thought ... I've finally slowed down enough to really enjoy all of this ... and to laugh in the midst of it all.
Then I wondered how my sunflowers were doing.
Every time one of the agent's authors had been in the "New York Times Book Review" section of the Sunday paper it had been framed and hung on the walls. There were lots! Breaking them up and adding color to the walls were the framed covers of the books she had negotiated the deals over. As a lover of books and a writer it was hard not to be impressed.
Typical New York City, Rockefeller Center is imposing from the outside, then you get through security and off the elevator and the hallways are dingy little things. Then you open the door to the office suite and ... Whoa! Damn! That's impressive!
A glass walled conference room with one of the walls being a window looking down on Kenny Chesney driving the crowd wild. Melissa, ... blond, beautiful, wearing a blue and white sundress sat at her desk in the open space outside of the conference room. Behind her were two offices, one with no windows and I was introduced to Geri who is the money person and I thought, of course she has no windows ... she spends all of her time counting money (reminding me of a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous ... Jerry Rainy).
The other one was a corner with two windows that I was standing in front of looking down wondering if Matt Lauer was bogeying his ass off with everybody else.
"Shall we get started?" Maria Carvainis asked. A short, frumpy Jewish woman with a beautiful smile this was her agency.
The famous Dr. Jim Withers and I took our seats behind the glass desk that she sat behind. This was Jim's meeting and I was tagging along. He'd asked me to because I've published books and this is his first and he just wanted someone to hold his hand. I love Jim so of course I went. I was blown away by Maria and her agency though.
"Hello Micheal Elliott," she'd said shaking my hand without being told who I was when I'd followed Jim in. Of course she'd shaken Jim's hand first and then boldly came to me. She is impressive.
So they started talking and I was wondering about the sunflower seeds I'd planted back home.
At some point both of them were looking at me and I had no idea why. "Sorry, what did you say?" I asked in a clever attempt to cover myself.
"I was telling her how I spent last weekend with you," Jim explained, "so you could help me learn how you write but flotillas and the Samuel Adams Band kept getting in the way."
"Oh yeah," I shrugged. "It's true. It's my fault ... but Dedra and Cheryl helped."
Figuring this would end my involvement in their conversation I resumed wondering if Mom was watering the sunflower seeds or if Goddess was peeing on them.
"And" Maria asked?
And?
Shit there is more to this conversation!
"Ummm," I cleverly started. "Jim's a good writer. His story is incredible. You already know that. The book will be a movie. What else you want to know?"
Jim humbly looked down.
Maria beamed.
Nobody said anything.
"Yes!" I fist pumped my inward self.
They went back to talking. I started worrying about my sunflower seeds. I missed them.
Eventually they finished. "Micheal," Maria said handing me her card. "That's not my real email address." She handed me a pen, "The real one is ..." and gave it me.
"Well aren't you funny?" I said. "A rouge email address on you business card. I wish I'd thought of that!"
She smiled and I understood why she is so successful.
Melissa showed us out back into the dingy hall that led to the elevator, pass security back into the throngs of New York City. We were late for our next meeting so while I strolled like a good southern boy, Jim walked fast in little tiny steps like a northern boy.
I busted out laughing and Jim turned around to see why I wasn't keeping up with him. My hands were on my knees and a sea of people were separating to walk passed me ... I looked like a sidewalk Moses parting the water.
After I finished I meandered to Jim stood.
"We're gonna be late," he chided.
"Not in Savannah time," I replied. "We drip molasses on our clocks so nothing starts on time."
Uh-huh," he said with his hands on his hips before turning around and taking really fast little baby steps in the other direction.
I busted out laughing again with my hands on my knees.
When I finally stood up ... I noticed the throngs of people rushing pass me ... the majestic power of the buildings ... the imposing presence of New York City ...
And I thought ... I've finally slowed down enough to really enjoy all of this ... and to laugh in the midst of it all.
Then I wondered how my sunflowers were doing.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Delusional Sunsets
Goddess Elliott and I watch a lot of sunsets on Shirley's sad little holy dock. Just down the street from A.J.'s the dock sits in the middle of the marsh and has a terrific view of the Back River. Unlike the crowds that flock to A.J.'s for dinner, drinks and watching the sun sink into the ocean, it's normally just Goddess and me sitting on the sad little holy dock. If the tide is low the choirs of mussels sing to us with their ticks and pops. If it's high the green marsh grass is covered and it looks as though God has painted it a greenish blue. Either way it is beautiful.
One of the things about the past year is I really slowed to down so that I could heal. I was tired, broken, hurt and full of a weary sadness that had become all consuming. So I dropped out of most everything and placed myself in this intensive care setting of beloved back decks, Fran's thousand shades of green, and a little holy dock. I cried enough to raise the tides a few feet higher.
I didn't do an especially good job taking care of myself during these days. I really didn't care. So I drank too much and stopped going out. I counted my losses and didn't celebrate much anything. It was a dark time and it seemed as though the sun never shined at all.
Good friends worried about me and went out of their way to make certain I was making it through in spite of it all. This tight little circle wrapped itself around me and slowly their love made its way into my heart and the healing began.
Then because I had time I started taking longer and more thoughtful walks. Shirley's sad little holy dock became a temple of prayer. My back yard became this ongoing work of art. My bicycle became the preferred mode of transportation. For the first time, I could simply explore me.
I'm a much bigger fan of sunrises than I am sunsets. Sunsets are all about the end of the day. It's over. Darkness comes. I know a lot of people who run from the darkness into bars, clubs or other people's arms as a delusional way of fighting off the gloom of their lives. I joined them too many times last year.
Sunrises are all about ... starting again. No matter how much we screwed up yesterday, the sun gives us a new day. "God's greatest gift," says Eli Wiesel, "is the chance to start over." This is from a survivor of Auschwitz ... the concentration camp in Poland. I went there once on a cold snowy February day and the place still reeks of death. Piles of discarded clothes rot outside of the crematoria that burned the bodies. In the midst of that dark experience, I found a candle that the wind had not blown out beside an unlit one. I reached down and lit the candle and a holiness descended that was shockingly unexpected.
Over the last year, something similar occurred.
Months of sunsets were suddenly balanced by sunrises.
I learned to enjoy the sunsets as they are things of beauty but they are delusional ... they make you believe that things have ended. Your day is done. And too many people sink with the sun into a watery grave where there is no light. This is where I was a long time.
Then ... the sun rose the next day. And the next ... and the next ... and I eventually believed that it will keep rising shining light in the darkest of places ... into my heart ... my soul ... eventually all of me.
Sinking suns are full of heaviness and weight. Sunrises are light and easy. Sunsets are endings. Sunrises ... beginnings.
Today with the rising sun, I am beginning again. Light, airy, full of hope and promise.
One of the things about the past year is I really slowed to down so that I could heal. I was tired, broken, hurt and full of a weary sadness that had become all consuming. So I dropped out of most everything and placed myself in this intensive care setting of beloved back decks, Fran's thousand shades of green, and a little holy dock. I cried enough to raise the tides a few feet higher.
I didn't do an especially good job taking care of myself during these days. I really didn't care. So I drank too much and stopped going out. I counted my losses and didn't celebrate much anything. It was a dark time and it seemed as though the sun never shined at all.
Good friends worried about me and went out of their way to make certain I was making it through in spite of it all. This tight little circle wrapped itself around me and slowly their love made its way into my heart and the healing began.
Then because I had time I started taking longer and more thoughtful walks. Shirley's sad little holy dock became a temple of prayer. My back yard became this ongoing work of art. My bicycle became the preferred mode of transportation. For the first time, I could simply explore me.
I'm a much bigger fan of sunrises than I am sunsets. Sunsets are all about the end of the day. It's over. Darkness comes. I know a lot of people who run from the darkness into bars, clubs or other people's arms as a delusional way of fighting off the gloom of their lives. I joined them too many times last year.
Sunrises are all about ... starting again. No matter how much we screwed up yesterday, the sun gives us a new day. "God's greatest gift," says Eli Wiesel, "is the chance to start over." This is from a survivor of Auschwitz ... the concentration camp in Poland. I went there once on a cold snowy February day and the place still reeks of death. Piles of discarded clothes rot outside of the crematoria that burned the bodies. In the midst of that dark experience, I found a candle that the wind had not blown out beside an unlit one. I reached down and lit the candle and a holiness descended that was shockingly unexpected.
Over the last year, something similar occurred.
Months of sunsets were suddenly balanced by sunrises.
I learned to enjoy the sunsets as they are things of beauty but they are delusional ... they make you believe that things have ended. Your day is done. And too many people sink with the sun into a watery grave where there is no light. This is where I was a long time.
Then ... the sun rose the next day. And the next ... and the next ... and I eventually believed that it will keep rising shining light in the darkest of places ... into my heart ... my soul ... eventually all of me.
Sinking suns are full of heaviness and weight. Sunrises are light and easy. Sunsets are endings. Sunrises ... beginnings.
Today with the rising sun, I am beginning again. Light, airy, full of hope and promise.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Daufaski
Within seven hours of arriving from New York City I was on Daufaski Island.
According to legend, Da-fus-ki is "Gullah" for "the first key" ... a key or cay is an island ... like Key West. The Gullah were former black slaves who emancipated and fiercely held onto their language, which is a Jamaican Creole that was bastardized by white people's English. The language is also called "Geechee" in south Georgia and when I was growing up whites would lapse into racism and call black people "Blue gums" when they talked this way.
When Lincoln emancipated the slaves some were pure genius and negotiated their own islands with the federal government ... Daufaski was one. About eighty black families lived there separated and segregated from the world that had raped them. They had beaches, oysters, shrimp and could bend over and pick up handfuls of sand ... which are pulverized sea shells ... broken by the ocean into something ... as beautiful as it had once been.
Broken often leads to something more beautiful than it was before.
I remember Daufaski growing up ... I mean it was always just right there ... but white people went to Hilton Head when they weren't building homes with servants quarters on Tybee Island.
I grew up in Port Wentworth which was a factory town ... literally built around a factory. My childhood friend Pig Jones is the Mayor of Port Wentworth. I loved a Mayor named Pig even before he was Mayor. We grew up together and our Dads would take us to University of Georgia football games or Braves games. Good times!
But they also told us about Blue gums and Daufaski.
So we went to Hilton Head ... where all of the black people lived in the middle of the island ... or Tybee where they all lived downstairs in the servants quarters. Tybee remains greatly proud that it has more historic beach cottages than any community on the East coast. What this means is that there are more servants quarters than anywhere on the East Coast (sorry Cullin Chambers ... but it is what it is).
Then Pat Conroy started writing books. I love Pat Conroy! Everything that he's ever written! When he was a kid after being the lone liberal graduating from the Citedal ... he became the first white teacher of black kids on Daufaski Island. "The Water is Wide" is the name of the book. They made a movie about it named "Conrack" because the Gullah kids could quite pronounce Conroy and it came out different ... as beautiful things always do.
Like a seashell pulverized by the ocean into sand ... it was a thing of beauty once ... but now it is a different thing of beauty ... more beautiful in so many ways!
So "The Water is Wide" is right up there with Jesus, Hemingway, Che Guevara, Frederick Buechner, Carl Hiaasen, Dorothy Day, Alice Walker and Guy Sayles to me.
So Jenny O was having her 50th birthday party and decided to do on Daufaski. About 30 of us collected although only about ten of us remember another ten. I was flying in from New York and though ... there were other things that are important to me ... it's Jenny Orr who is my friend ... on Daufaski.
How could I not go?
So my extended family Jodee and Cheryl took me over on their boat. There is no other way to get to the first key. And it rained beauty throughout the day and night. Though I was so exhausted from New York that I missed half of the beauty.
At one point, I sat on the dock alone ... thinking about the girl stars ... talking to them ... cause I love them most ...
And I sat there ...
Thinking ...
And while ... in the words of Jimmy Buffett singing about Daufaski ... "the bulldozers bury the past" ...
But ... Beach Music, Beach Music, Beach Music ... just plays on ...
So darlin' ...
Save the last dance for me.
According to legend, Da-fus-ki is "Gullah" for "the first key" ... a key or cay is an island ... like Key West. The Gullah were former black slaves who emancipated and fiercely held onto their language, which is a Jamaican Creole that was bastardized by white people's English. The language is also called "Geechee" in south Georgia and when I was growing up whites would lapse into racism and call black people "Blue gums" when they talked this way.
When Lincoln emancipated the slaves some were pure genius and negotiated their own islands with the federal government ... Daufaski was one. About eighty black families lived there separated and segregated from the world that had raped them. They had beaches, oysters, shrimp and could bend over and pick up handfuls of sand ... which are pulverized sea shells ... broken by the ocean into something ... as beautiful as it had once been.
Broken often leads to something more beautiful than it was before.
I remember Daufaski growing up ... I mean it was always just right there ... but white people went to Hilton Head when they weren't building homes with servants quarters on Tybee Island.
I grew up in Port Wentworth which was a factory town ... literally built around a factory. My childhood friend Pig Jones is the Mayor of Port Wentworth. I loved a Mayor named Pig even before he was Mayor. We grew up together and our Dads would take us to University of Georgia football games or Braves games. Good times!
But they also told us about Blue gums and Daufaski.
So we went to Hilton Head ... where all of the black people lived in the middle of the island ... or Tybee where they all lived downstairs in the servants quarters. Tybee remains greatly proud that it has more historic beach cottages than any community on the East coast. What this means is that there are more servants quarters than anywhere on the East Coast (sorry Cullin Chambers ... but it is what it is).
Then Pat Conroy started writing books. I love Pat Conroy! Everything that he's ever written! When he was a kid after being the lone liberal graduating from the Citedal ... he became the first white teacher of black kids on Daufaski Island. "The Water is Wide" is the name of the book. They made a movie about it named "Conrack" because the Gullah kids could quite pronounce Conroy and it came out different ... as beautiful things always do.
Like a seashell pulverized by the ocean into sand ... it was a thing of beauty once ... but now it is a different thing of beauty ... more beautiful in so many ways!
So "The Water is Wide" is right up there with Jesus, Hemingway, Che Guevara, Frederick Buechner, Carl Hiaasen, Dorothy Day, Alice Walker and Guy Sayles to me.
So Jenny O was having her 50th birthday party and decided to do on Daufaski. About 30 of us collected although only about ten of us remember another ten. I was flying in from New York and though ... there were other things that are important to me ... it's Jenny Orr who is my friend ... on Daufaski.
How could I not go?
So my extended family Jodee and Cheryl took me over on their boat. There is no other way to get to the first key. And it rained beauty throughout the day and night. Though I was so exhausted from New York that I missed half of the beauty.
At one point, I sat on the dock alone ... thinking about the girl stars ... talking to them ... cause I love them most ...
And I sat there ...
Thinking ...
And while ... in the words of Jimmy Buffett singing about Daufaski ... "the bulldozers bury the past" ...
But ... Beach Music, Beach Music, Beach Music ... just plays on ...
So darlin' ...
Save the last dance for me.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Our House
As good as the meetings where with a book agent and leaders in social media for good causes is as bad as the trip home was. A large thunderstorm over Manhattan may as well have dumped glue over the runways because everything got stuck. LaGuardia is a small Delta terminal anyway so it filled and was soon crazy crowded. Long lines at the bars and restaurants made it worse and the delays grew longer too. Soon people started getting upset and it showed. The entire place was this collective fund of bad karma.
I've traveled enough and have spent enough time on islands to know that when things like this happen ... go with the flow. Luckily I'm a Crown Room member so, while it was packed too, it wasn't as bad as the terminal halls. I got a glass of wine and fired up the laptop to instant chat with Esther, Dedra and Chelsea who was watching Goddess for me at the last moment. This is what I would be doing at home anyway.
Then they announced that the Atlanta flights were canceled.
It is hard to go anywhere in Georgia without going through Atlanta so a large groan erupted in the room. At that same moment a large clap of thunder exploded overhead.
"Shit!" several people said at the same time.
The fire alarm went off. Half the room decided this was a good time to rush the bar. The other half stayed put reading their books, sleeping or talking on their cell phones. It reminded me of the fire drills we used to have at Union Mission. Homeless people aren't big on fire drills.
"Come on," I'd say, "this could be a fire."
"Yep," they would say. "It's ok, we're wasted anyway. It's hard to do homeless sober."
"Hmmm ..." I remember thinking, "I'm sure it is."
So I chatted with people who love me and who I love ... pretty content.
The hardest part was keeping up with my delays and gate changes. I'd have to get up and walk to the board listing departures or to the gate only to find that it would another half hour before we'd take off. Of course everybody else was doing this too so we were like lemmings running back and forth.
People continued to get angrier and their voices grew louder. I sat with my chin resting in the palm of my hand watching them. They were sure wasting a lot of energy. Most were on the phone with family members cursing the airlines.
I was pretty laid back about it all. As midnight approached it dawned on me that I may not be home in time for Jenny Orr's birthday boating to Dafuski Island. "Hmmm... that would be a bummer," I thought to myself. I wrote Johnny O a message to inform him of this possibility.
At that moment God intervened and allowed the plane for Savannah to be lifted towards the heavens. Forty of us rushed aboard while the big boy jets heading for Atlanta stayed grounded.
I read the introduction to my book and immediately fell asleep. Two hours later I was in Savannah. I stumbled into a cab, said take me to Tybee, and immediately fell asleep. Forty-five minutes later he woke me up in front of my house. Chelsea had left the lights on for me and Goddess was going nuts barking with excitement. She woke Chelsea up who kissed me and went back to bed.
And I stood in my kitchen ... rubbing my hand on the cheek of my face ... thinking ... I don't remember the last time that I was kissed when I got home ...
Then Goddess slammed her butt into my leg ... reminding me ... that she kisses me every time I come home ... in her own way ...
Then I walked into our house ... and slept soundly.
I've traveled enough and have spent enough time on islands to know that when things like this happen ... go with the flow. Luckily I'm a Crown Room member so, while it was packed too, it wasn't as bad as the terminal halls. I got a glass of wine and fired up the laptop to instant chat with Esther, Dedra and Chelsea who was watching Goddess for me at the last moment. This is what I would be doing at home anyway.
Then they announced that the Atlanta flights were canceled.
It is hard to go anywhere in Georgia without going through Atlanta so a large groan erupted in the room. At that same moment a large clap of thunder exploded overhead.
"Shit!" several people said at the same time.
The fire alarm went off. Half the room decided this was a good time to rush the bar. The other half stayed put reading their books, sleeping or talking on their cell phones. It reminded me of the fire drills we used to have at Union Mission. Homeless people aren't big on fire drills.
"Come on," I'd say, "this could be a fire."
"Yep," they would say. "It's ok, we're wasted anyway. It's hard to do homeless sober."
"Hmmm ..." I remember thinking, "I'm sure it is."
So I chatted with people who love me and who I love ... pretty content.
The hardest part was keeping up with my delays and gate changes. I'd have to get up and walk to the board listing departures or to the gate only to find that it would another half hour before we'd take off. Of course everybody else was doing this too so we were like lemmings running back and forth.
People continued to get angrier and their voices grew louder. I sat with my chin resting in the palm of my hand watching them. They were sure wasting a lot of energy. Most were on the phone with family members cursing the airlines.
I was pretty laid back about it all. As midnight approached it dawned on me that I may not be home in time for Jenny Orr's birthday boating to Dafuski Island. "Hmmm... that would be a bummer," I thought to myself. I wrote Johnny O a message to inform him of this possibility.
At that moment God intervened and allowed the plane for Savannah to be lifted towards the heavens. Forty of us rushed aboard while the big boy jets heading for Atlanta stayed grounded.
I read the introduction to my book and immediately fell asleep. Two hours later I was in Savannah. I stumbled into a cab, said take me to Tybee, and immediately fell asleep. Forty-five minutes later he woke me up in front of my house. Chelsea had left the lights on for me and Goddess was going nuts barking with excitement. She woke Chelsea up who kissed me and went back to bed.
And I stood in my kitchen ... rubbing my hand on the cheek of my face ... thinking ... I don't remember the last time that I was kissed when I got home ...
Then Goddess slammed her butt into my leg ... reminding me ... that she kisses me every time I come home ... in her own way ...
Then I walked into our house ... and slept soundly.
Our House
As good as the meetings where with a book agent and leaders in social media for good causes is as bad as the trip home was. A large thunderstorm over Manhattan may as well have dumped glue over the runways because everything got stuck. LaGuardia is a small Delta terminal anyway so it filled and was soon crazy crowded. Long lines at the bars and restaurants made it worse and the delays grew longer too. Soon people started getting upset and it showed. The entire place was this collective fund of bad karma.
I've traveled enough and have spent enough time on islands to know that when things like this happen ... go with the flow. Luckily I'm a Crown Room member so, while it was packed too, it wasn't as bad as the terminal halls. I got a glass of wine and fired up the laptop to instant chat with Esther, Dedra and Chelsea who was watching Goddess for me at the last moment. This is what I would be doing at home anyway.
Then they announced that the Atlanta flights were canceled.
It is hard to go anywhere in Georgia without going through Atlanta so a large groan erupted in the room. At that same moment a large clap of thunder exploded overhead.
"Shit!" several people said at the same time.
The fire alarm went off. Half the room decided this was a good time to rush the bar. The other half stayed put reading their books, sleeping or talking on their cell phones. It reminded me of the fire drills we used to have at Union Mission. Homeless people aren't big on fire drills.
"Come on," I'd say, "this could be a fire."
"Yep," they would say. "It's ok, we're wasted anyway. It's hard to do homeless sober."
"Hmmm ..." I remember thinking, "I'm sure it is."
So I chatted with people who love me and who I love ... pretty content.
The hardest part was keeping up with my delays and gate changes. I'd have to get up and walk to the board listing departures or to the gate only to find that it would another half hour before we'd take off. Of course everybody else was doing this too so we were like lemmings running back and forth.
People continued to get angrier and their voices grew louder. I sat with my chin resting in the palm of my hand watching them. They were sure wasting a lot of energy. Most were on the phone with family members cursing the airlines.
I was pretty laid back about it all. As midnight approached it dawned on me that I may not be home in time for Jenny Orr's birthday boating to Dafuski Island. "Hmmm... that would be a bummer," I thought to myself. I wrote Johnny O a message to inform him of this possibility.
At that moment God intervened and allowed the plane for Savannah to be lifted towards the heavens. Forty of us rushed aboard while the big boy jets heading for Atlanta stayed grounded.
I read the introduction to my book and immediately fell asleep. Two hours later I was in Savannah. I stumbled into a cab, said take me to Tybee, and immediately fell asleep. Forty-five minutes later he woke me up in front of my house. Chelsea had left the lights on for me and Goddess was going nuts barking with excitement. She woke Chelsea up who kissed me and went back to bed.
And I stood in my kitchen ... rubbing my hand on the cheek of my face ... thinking ... I don't remember the last time that I was kissed when I got home ...
Then Goddess slammed her butt into my leg ... reminding me ... that she kisses me every time I come home ... in her own way ...
Then I walked into our house ... and slept soundly.
I've traveled enough and have spent enough time on islands to know that when things like this happen ... go with the flow. Luckily I'm a Crown Room member so, while it was packed too, it wasn't as bad as the terminal halls. I got a glass of wine and fired up the laptop to instant chat with Esther, Dedra and Chelsea who was watching Goddess for me at the last moment. This is what I would be doing at home anyway.
Then they announced that the Atlanta flights were canceled.
It is hard to go anywhere in Georgia without going through Atlanta so a large groan erupted in the room. At that same moment a large clap of thunder exploded overhead.
"Shit!" several people said at the same time.
The fire alarm went off. Half the room decided this was a good time to rush the bar. The other half stayed put reading their books, sleeping or talking on their cell phones. It reminded me of the fire drills we used to have at Union Mission. Homeless people aren't big on fire drills.
"Come on," I'd say, "this could be a fire."
"Yep," they would say. "It's ok, we're wasted anyway. It's hard to do homeless sober."
"Hmmm ..." I remember thinking, "I'm sure it is."
So I chatted with people who love me and who I love ... pretty content.
The hardest part was keeping up with my delays and gate changes. I'd have to get up and walk to the board listing departures or to the gate only to find that it would another half hour before we'd take off. Of course everybody else was doing this too so we were like lemmings running back and forth.
People continued to get angrier and their voices grew louder. I sat with my chin resting in the palm of my hand watching them. They were sure wasting a lot of energy. Most were on the phone with family members cursing the airlines.
I was pretty laid back about it all. As midnight approached it dawned on me that I may not be home in time for Jenny Orr's birthday boating to Dafuski Island. "Hmmm... that would be a bummer," I thought to myself. I wrote Johnny O a message to inform him of this possibility.
At that moment God intervened and allowed the plane for Savannah to be lifted towards the heavens. Forty of us rushed aboard while the big boy jets heading for Atlanta stayed grounded.
I read the introduction to my book and immediately fell asleep. Two hours later I was in Savannah. I stumbled into a cab, said take me to Tybee, and immediately fell asleep. Forty-five minutes later he woke me up in front of my house. Chelsea had left the lights on for me and Goddess was going nuts barking with excitement. She woke Chelsea up who kissed me and went back to bed.
And I stood in my kitchen ... rubbing my hand on the cheek of my face ... thinking ... I don't remember the last time that I was kissed when I got home ...
Then Goddess slammed her butt into my leg ... reminding me ... that she kisses me every time I come home ... in her own way ...
Then I walked into our house ... and slept soundly.
Friday, June 17, 2011
The World Grows Smaller
The very famous Dr. Jim Withers and I are in New York City for meetings. They are today though we arrived yesterday and opted for Broadway last night.
I love Broadway! Musical comedies are my favorites though I like musicals of all kinds. Pippin. Jesus Christ Superstar. Godspell. RENT. Spamalot. Hairspray (I went kicking and screaming but then there was Darlene Love in it and it doesn't get any cooler than her!). Cotton Patch Gospel. Don't Stop the Carnival. Avenue Q.
I could go on.
New York is always a head rush though I've grown fond of finding little taverns and neighborhood pups ... especially when the Giants or Jets are playing. That's always fun!
New York has no real concept of college football though. Once my son Jeremy, Melanie Finnachario and I ran like twenty-seven city blocks to catch the second half of a University of Georgia football game. Everybody else in the city was at the Metropolitan Museum of Art which is where we had been but ... UGA was playing so we found the one sports bar that was showing the game (Georgia beat Kentucky on a last minute field goal).
But I like running through Central Park because I'm always discovering these little hidden treasures. Once I literally ran into Yoko Ono on the 25th anniversary of John Lennon's death.
Ray's Pizza is really good! Once we were there and this homeless guy burst in the front door, held up his hand and screamed, "Don't worry kids! I'm the trash inspector!"
Then he buried his upper body in the trash can looking for ... I really don't know what he was looking for.
"Hey Timmy," said a kid sitting at the table beside ours, "what the heck's a trash inspector?"
"Beats me," said Timmy with a mouth full of pizza.
The entertainment in the subway stations are to die for. As is Ellen's Starlight Dinner where those who fail to pass the auditions on Broadway get jobs as singing waiters and waitresses.
Anyway, I'm here with Jim for a meeting with a book agent and another meeting concerning using social medal to solve problems like homelessness. The head of the National Alliance to End Homelessness, the National Coalition for the Homeless, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services and a several philanthropists will be there.
Lunch is provided.
It is interesting to me that a year after leaving Union Mission these opportunities continue to come my way. The sponsors bought my plane ticket, spent a lot of money to put Jim and I up at the Omni Berkshire on West 52 Street and apparently read a lot of what I write every day. We're going to explore the power of blogging, Youtubing, Twitter on mobilizing public responses for serious social issues like health care, homelessness and housing. As the world gets smaller because of technology, we have the opportunity to grow closer.
It's a small step from the writing that I do every morning on my beloved back deck to corporate offices in New York City.
Who knew?
I love Broadway! Musical comedies are my favorites though I like musicals of all kinds. Pippin. Jesus Christ Superstar. Godspell. RENT. Spamalot. Hairspray (I went kicking and screaming but then there was Darlene Love in it and it doesn't get any cooler than her!). Cotton Patch Gospel. Don't Stop the Carnival. Avenue Q.
I could go on.
New York is always a head rush though I've grown fond of finding little taverns and neighborhood pups ... especially when the Giants or Jets are playing. That's always fun!
New York has no real concept of college football though. Once my son Jeremy, Melanie Finnachario and I ran like twenty-seven city blocks to catch the second half of a University of Georgia football game. Everybody else in the city was at the Metropolitan Museum of Art which is where we had been but ... UGA was playing so we found the one sports bar that was showing the game (Georgia beat Kentucky on a last minute field goal).
But I like running through Central Park because I'm always discovering these little hidden treasures. Once I literally ran into Yoko Ono on the 25th anniversary of John Lennon's death.
Ray's Pizza is really good! Once we were there and this homeless guy burst in the front door, held up his hand and screamed, "Don't worry kids! I'm the trash inspector!"
Then he buried his upper body in the trash can looking for ... I really don't know what he was looking for.
"Hey Timmy," said a kid sitting at the table beside ours, "what the heck's a trash inspector?"
"Beats me," said Timmy with a mouth full of pizza.
The entertainment in the subway stations are to die for. As is Ellen's Starlight Dinner where those who fail to pass the auditions on Broadway get jobs as singing waiters and waitresses.
Anyway, I'm here with Jim for a meeting with a book agent and another meeting concerning using social medal to solve problems like homelessness. The head of the National Alliance to End Homelessness, the National Coalition for the Homeless, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services and a several philanthropists will be there.
Lunch is provided.
It is interesting to me that a year after leaving Union Mission these opportunities continue to come my way. The sponsors bought my plane ticket, spent a lot of money to put Jim and I up at the Omni Berkshire on West 52 Street and apparently read a lot of what I write every day. We're going to explore the power of blogging, Youtubing, Twitter on mobilizing public responses for serious social issues like health care, homelessness and housing. As the world gets smaller because of technology, we have the opportunity to grow closer.
It's a small step from the writing that I do every morning on my beloved back deck to corporate offices in New York City.
Who knew?
Thursday, June 16, 2011
A Rain Kissed Night
Lately, I've fallen in love with Tybee Island again. As someone who has lived on this clump of sand for over two decades you might think I would have grown weary of it or its lost luster. If anything my love of the east coast's eastern most island has deepened immensely. I love it now more than I ever have and it's becoming blurry with St. Martin which is the other island that I love so much.
It all started when I was a kid and Mom and Dad would stuff us in the car and bring us to the island and I can still remember the excitement of seeing the ocean as we rounded the big curve ... diamonds sprinkled from the sun danced on the sea. The little boy in me remains very much alive over such sights.
Years later, I would visit my folks from Louisville where I was living and leave everyone to drive out to Tybee. I would go to the old "Veranda Restaurant" with its view of the ocean and the "Texas Tower", drink coffee and write. Those first books came from a journal that I'd started but the ocean taught me to turn stories into song like things.
At this time Mom and Dad lived at "The Landings" which is like yuppie/retiree Disney Land for golfers, yachting and tennis players. Everything about the place is wonderful. I would leave it at daylight every morning and drive to Tybee or the Redneck Reveria as it was called then. People dress really nice at "The Landings" ... or 598'ers as they are referred to here but there are girls in bikinis on Tybee. There was no competition whatsoever for me.
When I wrote "Running with the Dolphins" it was really just a love letter to this place. Matt Hutton gave Tybee the best description ever ... which I stole and used it throughout the book ... "it's Mayberry on Acid".
Gordo, of the Samuel Adams band ... who play damn good live music on the island ... calls it "Mayberry by the beach" which is true ... but there is some sprinkling of fairy dust of some kind that transforms it all into something else.
There is a craziness to the place. I know ... most islands have it ... as my friend Jane Fishman once told me "Micheal it's an island, everybody is either running to, or running from, something."
I've been to a lot of islands. Tybee is different from them all!
These days a lot of people ... the Tybee City Manager, the City Council and other reprobates are trying to change it. For example, another city went out of business and we bought all of their stop signs at bargain prices. There are frigging Stop Signs every three feet on this island! You can no longer camp on the beach. Building a fire will get you a life sentence. Taking your dog on the beach is a $300 fine. The police no longer drive you home if you drank too much and they will even arrest YOU if your bicycle got drunk.
But in spite of such things ... well ... it remains magical.
Last night I sat with arms of love wrapped around me, surrounded by people I love dearly, with Chelsea my daughter freshly back from Europe (and styling white). Stars danced on the water. Italian shots made us all fill warm. Sam Adams played music. A harmonica appeared out of nowhere and Dedra sang the blues.
It was all ... spectacular.
An incredibly wonderful evening!
When I came home I was warm and tingly from the night.
Then it rained.
And I walked out on the beloved back deck, blew Fran's thousand shades of green covered in the blankets of darkness a kiss ... and danced.
It all started when I was a kid and Mom and Dad would stuff us in the car and bring us to the island and I can still remember the excitement of seeing the ocean as we rounded the big curve ... diamonds sprinkled from the sun danced on the sea. The little boy in me remains very much alive over such sights.
Years later, I would visit my folks from Louisville where I was living and leave everyone to drive out to Tybee. I would go to the old "Veranda Restaurant" with its view of the ocean and the "Texas Tower", drink coffee and write. Those first books came from a journal that I'd started but the ocean taught me to turn stories into song like things.
At this time Mom and Dad lived at "The Landings" which is like yuppie/retiree Disney Land for golfers, yachting and tennis players. Everything about the place is wonderful. I would leave it at daylight every morning and drive to Tybee or the Redneck Reveria as it was called then. People dress really nice at "The Landings" ... or 598'ers as they are referred to here but there are girls in bikinis on Tybee. There was no competition whatsoever for me.
When I wrote "Running with the Dolphins" it was really just a love letter to this place. Matt Hutton gave Tybee the best description ever ... which I stole and used it throughout the book ... "it's Mayberry on Acid".
Gordo, of the Samuel Adams band ... who play damn good live music on the island ... calls it "Mayberry by the beach" which is true ... but there is some sprinkling of fairy dust of some kind that transforms it all into something else.
There is a craziness to the place. I know ... most islands have it ... as my friend Jane Fishman once told me "Micheal it's an island, everybody is either running to, or running from, something."
I've been to a lot of islands. Tybee is different from them all!
These days a lot of people ... the Tybee City Manager, the City Council and other reprobates are trying to change it. For example, another city went out of business and we bought all of their stop signs at bargain prices. There are frigging Stop Signs every three feet on this island! You can no longer camp on the beach. Building a fire will get you a life sentence. Taking your dog on the beach is a $300 fine. The police no longer drive you home if you drank too much and they will even arrest YOU if your bicycle got drunk.
But in spite of such things ... well ... it remains magical.
Last night I sat with arms of love wrapped around me, surrounded by people I love dearly, with Chelsea my daughter freshly back from Europe (and styling white). Stars danced on the water. Italian shots made us all fill warm. Sam Adams played music. A harmonica appeared out of nowhere and Dedra sang the blues.
It was all ... spectacular.
An incredibly wonderful evening!
When I came home I was warm and tingly from the night.
Then it rained.
And I walked out on the beloved back deck, blew Fran's thousand shades of green covered in the blankets of darkness a kiss ... and danced.
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