Christmas 1995: A Memory

I drove through the night. Snow was falling like the steady rain of summer storm. As the yellow dividing line disappeared under the white fluff, so did the dark paving of the highway. I was traveling as fast as I dared, which wasn’t fast enough. The headlights illuminated the snow as it pelted my car giving the illusion that I was driving through an avalanche of stars.

I was headed to my momma’s house for Christmas. 

Christmas at momma’s house: the anticipation, the excitement. Remember? There’s an ease to it, a comfort. It’s childhood and cookies and surprises: memories flooding the mind. 

At that time, my momma’s Christmas tree was decorated beautifully with ornaments both old and new, standing proudly in the living room. I can see it in my minds eye filling the corner by the front door, the lights glowing with a beauty that’s hard to match at other other time of the year. 

On this particular night I wanted to be at her house desperately. But the snow was slowing me down. I was scared and frustrated. But I kept going. Moving forward with caution.

When finally I arrived in Arlington, Kentucky—in the wee hours of the morning, after an arduous journey from Bearcreek Farms in Indiana—I was met with an excitement I could actually feel in the air. For you see that was the year my aunt Cindy and her family spent Christmas at my momma’s house. I’ve seen my mom very happy on Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day many many times—she has a childlike joy during the Christmas season—but that year was like a Brady Bunch Christmas. And as crowded and chaotic as it sounds like it could have been, it wasn’t.

It was amazing. 

I quietly walked into the house to find the living room floor strewn with blankets covering sleeping bodies, pillows supporting resting heads. Aunt Cindy awoke as did momma. They came into the living room where my sister, April, and cousins, Casey and Whit, had all stirred awake from a half slumber under those blankets. We sat talking in the glow of the white Christmas tree lights: alive, awake, happy. It couldn’t have been more special.

The snow fell that night. And Santa delivered his presents. The house was warm and filled with love. I don’t think the lights on that Christmas tree have ever been more dazzling.

Time spent together with the first people who love you is special and as we get older that time becomes more rare...and even more precious. 

As Christmas morning approaches take a second to step outside and feel the magic in the air on the Eve. Look at all the beauty. See it...before it disappears. Laugh, hug, eat, tell stories. Remember.

Merry Christmas 

Frozen, Broken, and Hearing the Lyrics for the First Time

I feel as if I heard the below lyrics for the very first time today, and in hearing them, I see exactly where I am in my life...

You only see what your eyes want to see
How can life be what you want it to be
You're frozen
When your heart's not open

You're so consumed with how much you get
You waste your time with hate and regret
You're broken
When your heart's not open

Mm, if I could melt your heart
Mm, we'd never be apart
Mm, give yourself to me
Mm, you hold the key

Now there's no point in placing the blame
And you should know I suffer the same
If I lose you
My heart will be broken

Love is a bird, she needs to fly
Let all the hurt inside of you die
You're frozen
When your heart's not open

Mm, if I could melt your heart
Mm, we'd never be apart
Mm, give yourself to me
Mm, you hold the key

I hold key but I'm stuck in a cycle of fear and self-loathing with a near continuous inability to be vulnerable. I seem to be unable to truly forgive and I never forget. I definitely feel broken, frozen, closed.

Subway Stories: An Observation Toward Forest Hills

He sat next to her on the hard, orange-colored seat in a Queens’s bound subway car, fanning her with a bright pink fan covered in white leaves. He was 65 if a day. The light glinted off his 80s style herringbone necklace. His beard and mustache were close-cropped, well taken care of. His backwards facing cap said Nike.

Her age was indeterminate. She might have been younger than he but from the looks of her, cigarettes and, I don't know, drugs maybe, had taken their toll. She was still attractive in a worn kind of way, but she seemed worn down, tired, but more than tired. She seemed spacey. She grabbed a scarf from her backpack and dabbed it across her face. I couldn't see the wetness she must have felt.

Her bleach blonde hair was brushed straight back from her face and gathered into a short ponytail. She was wearing all white. She looked fragile and vicious all at once.

The sores on her leg could have been from over-scratched insect bites. Or cigarette burns. Or they could have been the broken skin of a shin bashed too hard against a coffee table. But to me those glaring sores looked like puss-filled ulcerations the can result in over-active drug use.

Her face was made up. She seemed the type to never leave home without it. But it wasn't garish. Just enough. She knew what she was doing. Her eye lids were lined with long fake lashes that didn’t quite fill the expanse of the full lid. They were generously covered in black mascara, which accentuated the empty spaces on either side.

She leaned over to him and kissed him gently in the cheek. He turned his face so that his lips met hers. Another kiss. He loved her. I could tell. And she loved him. He continued to fan her, loose wisps of her bottle blonde hair blowing back and forth in his created breeze. 

I had heard her mention Forest Hills in her cigarette-choked voice when they first sat down on the train. But Forest Hills didn’t seem like their final destination. 

I never heard his voice, but watched him listen intently to every world she said, fanning, fanning. She closed her eyes and lay her head on his shoulder. I watched as he pulled the bottom of her shirt dress down over a thigh he must have felt was too exposed. He would protect her until he died. I knew it. I bet she knew it too, even if she did seem slightly languid at the time.

I wonder where they were going with their five bags of stuff? I wonder who they were? I’ll never know. 

Exit

Ivy's Revenge: A 30-Day Tweeted Serial...(And Scene)

Her anger frightened her. Her fear frightened her more. It was done. Blood covered her hands. She could feel splatters on her face. She steadied herself on buckling knees. The sweetness of her revenge warmed into nausea. She retched.

The hot bile violated her throat. She heard the sloshing sound as it hit the floor, a yellow marriage of fear and adrenaline. She watched as the pooling blood mingled with her sick, her heart racing. Each inhale of breath brought with it a sting and a gasp.

The red pool continued to widen around the head of Katie's limp body. The remains of the icicle jutting from her throat now barely visible. Warm blood had done its job. Blaine smiled as she watched the perfect murder weapon disappearing right before her eyes.

As the blood oozed toward her feet, she let go of the kitchen island she’d been using for support and stepped out of its lazy yet engulfing path. Her knees held, barely. She watched with hypnotic fascination as the surrounding white tiles drowned willingly.

As her pulse began to normalize she became immediately aware of the ambient sounds that up until then had been muffled by her pounding heart. There was chocolate bubbling in a saucepan on the stove. Its gurgling and popping mixing with the strings of...what?

She listened. She recognized those strings. Too many garden parties in her youth. Vivaldi, “Summer,” Movement 3, if she wasn’t mistaken. Those violins pierced the air with electricity. They represented hail or flies. She couldn’t remember which. Did it matter?

“So much drama,” she playfully said aloud of that particular movement. “I couldn’t have chosen a better theme song if I’d tried.” Her fear had lightened to relief. She stepped to the stove and removed the pan of chocolate from the burner, turning it off after.

“We wouldn’t want to burn the house down, now would we, ‘Katie’?” She venomously spat out the name as she looked over her right shoulder at the body lying on the floor. Katie’s eyes were open. Somehow that was creepier than the fact that she was dead.

Blaine continued to stare at Katie’s eyes, skeptically. She was completely creeped out. An icicle to the neck? Sure. No problem. But the open eyes of a dead woman made the ugly butterflies start to flutter in her gut. The music changed abruptly. Vivaldi fini.

From the twangy sound of an accordion, she thought it was something French. She rolled her eyes. Then someone started to sing. Edith Piaf, perhaps. She wasn’t sure. Bougie. What she was sure of was that she had to wash the drying blood from her face and hands.

To get to the sink Blaine realized she’d have to avoid Katie’s legs, which were lying parallel on the floor between the sink and kitchen island. She hugged the counter, edging her way to the right. She turned the water to hot and waited for the steam to rise.

It scalded her hands but she needed the angry violent wetness to wash away the dried residue of her anger, her revenge. As she splashed it on her cheeks, the burning brought with it stimulated nerve endings and tears—from pain, from release. Her body throbbed.

The tears continued as she reached for the yellow dish towel lying on the counter to dry her face and hands. Her pent-up rage was waning, the emptiness it left behind filled by a sense of elation. But the fucking tears...they carried sadness in their stream.

She’d carried her anguish for years. It was deeply rooted. But tears and sadness were not an option. She hated the dead woman lying on the kitchen floor. “So you go by ‘Katie’ now? Cute,” she said sneeringly. “Well, I found you Bethany Wakehurst. I found you.”

“And guess what, Bethany? Oh,” she paused, “May I call you that again?” she asked mockingly. “Anyway, I changed my name too. To Blaine. But I can tell you, I’m Ivy Wakehurst, Revenging Angel.” She laughed at herself. “I know you thought I was dead. Surprise!”

“And now, it’s you who’s dead.” Ivy smiled. “You left me unconscious in a burning house. From one woman to another, that was a shitty thing to do. Me surviving though? Twist. Yet here I am, standing over your dead body, by my hand, in your own house. Wow.”

“It’s crazy, right? I mean, it sounds like something you would do...plan revenge on the person who ruined your life.” She edged back down the counter toward the stove. She picked up the pan of chocolate and inhaled deeply. “I love the smell of chocolate. You?”

She took the stirring spoon that was lying next to the stove and swirled it around in the cooling chocolate. As she lifted a still warm dollop to her mouth she noticed the spoon rest said Somerston, Rhode Island. “Of course,” she said as she rolled her eyes.

“Of course you would have something from your past hidden in plain sight.” She lifted the spoon to her mouth and gently touched the chocolate to her upper lip. Cool enough. “You know, we’re both women scorned, me by you and you by me.” She ate a kiss of chocolate.

She closed her eyes in indulgence. “This chocolate is amazing,” She turned to look directly into Bethany’s dead blue eyes. “Did you add vanilla and salt to this?” She was back to the pan when she heard a gurgle from the floor. She froze. Fear seized her body.

Her stomach clinched. She dropped the spoon and watched the chocolate partially absorb it. A cold sweat mottled her body. She thought she might be sick again. She gripped the counter to steady her once again weakened knees. “She’s dead,” she reminded herself.

“She’s dead,” Ivy repeated the words to herself like a mantra. “You know she’s dead.” She took a deep breath then whipped herself around to face Bethany, still lying on the ground. Blood bubbles were foaming from the hole in her neck left by the melted icicle.

That sound was like something from a horror movie. Ivy thought she might take it to her grave. She could never unhear it. She shivered and grimaced. As her body began to relax once again she said to no one who could hear, “Revenge has too many side effects.”

The voice she now definitely recognized as that of Edith Piaf continued to sing what sounded like a mournful tune. “I lived in fear of you for a long time. But fear is a dark place. And my anger was just the light I needed to see me out of that darkness.”

Ivy picked up the yellow dish towel and carried it with her as she walked around the kitchen island. She avoided the now motionless pool as she bent forward and placed it over Bethany’s face to cover her soulless dead blue eyes. “Did you feel this euphoric?”

“I didn’t know how I was going to feel,” she continued. “But I haven’t felt this much bliss since the day I first kissed Christopher.” She lost herself in the memory of that day. She might’ve swirled there forever had it not been for the ring of the doorbell.

“Shit!” she said as she looked around the room. The icicle had melted. She hadn't stepped in the blood so there were no shoe prints. She quickly ran around the kitchen island and pulled open a drawer next to the stove. Bingo. Luck was on her side. Dishtowels.

She quickly took one from the drawer and began wiping the counter’s edge where she’d steadied herself getting to the sink. She wiped the handle of the drawer she’d just opened. She wiped the kitchen island where she’d kept her buckling knees from buckling.

The doorbell rang again. A sounding cry to escape. She began moving quickly, “90 miles an hour” she remembered her mother saying when Ivy had been moving too fast. She looked around the room. She saw the pan of chocolate. “The spoon!” She whispered to herself.

She breezed around to the other side of the island, grabbed the visible portion of the spoon that sat frozen in the suffocating chocolate, and wrapped it in the dish towel. “Time for me to go, Bethany.” Covering the knob, Ivy quietly slipped out the back door.

Social Media Disinterest Syndrome

I have now come to believe that social media is extremely detrimental to my mental health.

Tweets with questions and clever thoughts get no response. Instagram posts where I try to say something honest and, in my mind, important, get no response. I try to be involved. I use the hashtags I think will send the tweet or Instagram pic to a community of people who would be willing and maybe even excited to start a conversation. Nothing happens. 

I call the feeling I feel when there's no response: Social Media Disinterest Syndrome. It's a heaviness. I can feel its weight depress upon my body. I can physically feel it change my mood.

Popularity has always been a desire. Crucify me if you want to. I wasn't popular in high school. I was the queer, the faggot, the joke. I was friends with some of the popular kids, but I never ascended to their ranks.

Why should this still matter to me? I don't know. I keep asking myself that question. I've been out of high school for 30 years and that past should have no relevance for the adult I've become. But try as I may to fight it, it does. I suffer from a lack of confidence and an inability to validate myself. I fear my own opinion being the wrong opinion. I fear criticism of said opinion and the confrontation that could follow. Could. I'm living in fear of something that hasn't, and mostly doesn't, fucking happen.

I want to be seen, but I want to hide more. I want to lift up my voice in protest but I want to remain under the radar.

Twitter and Instagram are reminders every day of my lack of popularity and an apparent inability to connect with people. And when I think about connection I am reminded that I don't connect easily IRL either.

Social Media Disinterest Syndrome affects me every day. Yet I keep putting myself through it, hoping this day will somehow be different. If you're reading this, and you clicked on the link via Twitter, then you already realize I'm putting myself through it again today.

How many of us hope that strangers will validate us and fulfill our cravings? I know I'm not the only one. Likes and retweets and even comments create a dopamine effect.

More often than not I wish for the courage to leave my phone at home, or at least in my bag, and to disengage from all of it. I just want to deactivate it all like I deactivated my Facebook.

Maybe I'm too old. Maybe I'm out of touch. Maybe I'm not as clever as I think I am. Maybe I'm just not that interesting.

Maybe my expectations are just too high. This always leads to disappointment.

Social Media Disinterest Syndrome is a real thing for me. I am living with it...or surviving it. I don't know. It's exhausting.

Without the Work, Nothing Changes

I have to do the work. I don’t want to do the work. But I have to do the work.

It was suggested to me by my therapist today that I want someone to do the work for me. Ouch. The truth hurts.

It doesn't come easy for me this change that needs to happen in my life.

When my therapist says, “Baby steps,” I get so frustrated. But he’s right. The change isn’t going to happen overnight. It’s going to take time. I’m 48 now, and I’ve been marinating in this anger and self-loathing for a long time. It’s going to take time and that means that I’m going to have to do a lot of work.

The first step is to start believing I deserve to be happy. The second is to find the courage to be so, then confidently project that to the reflection in the mirror and to the rest of the world.

The third step is to stop being a victim of my past experiences. (Am I creating my own victimhood?) Things were said. Things happened. We all have issues from our pasts. But not everyone lets those issues affect them so easily in their present.

A fourth step might actually be to stop and realize that I'm projecting onto others what I'm actually doing to myself, e.g. believing that my father would think I brought a gay-bashing on myself when really I'm the one who believes the bashing is his own fault. 

It’s not going to be easy. But then again maybe nothing worth while ever truly is.

The anger and fear are debilitating. And remorse has become the lesser of the two evils between debilitation and intimidation. Self-loathing might as well be a shirt that I put on years ago and have yet to take off.

I have been surviving for a long time but not living. And as Adele sings, “I want to live and not just survive.”

So how do I do this? How do I step out of my comfort zone and step into the lions den with no fear of the bite?

That remains to be seen but step in I must. Otherwise what’s the point?

An American in Paris

There is a freedom that comes with being somewhere else; being a stranger in another country. Yet I am realizing with more and more frequency that I stand in my own way on the path to that freedom. 

I am in France. Specifically, Paris.

I desire to set myself free and be alive in the air that is different from what I normally breathe. I wish to blend in, to look as if I belong. Therefore, I’m afraid to make mistakes, afraid to be the American that I am.

I’m not doing anything wrong. I just wish to adhere to the customs, meld with the culture of the country. 

We Americans are very different than the French. 

This, my third trip to Paris, came with many memories of how to get around, but with more apprehension in how to just be. 

I found myself embarrassed to speak the language that I had been working on for weeks prior. I knew that I was an outsider but didn’t want to be perceived as such, even though I knew I couldn’t possibly sound as if French was my native language. 

Sometimes the mere greeting of Bonjour led to a response of Hello. I felt saddened by this. Even though I knew the Parisian to which I was speaking was ultimately going to have to converse with me in English. 

I know this comes from a history of not wanting to look like a fool and a strong desire to not be mocked. 

My heart is filled to bursting with happiness when I’m in Paris. Why is it then that I can’t accept that I am an American in Paris and just enjoy the air?

What Am I Doing?

“What am I doing?” he said aloud to himself. Did he mean with the day, the morning, that moment, his life?

The coffee in his cup was cold...again. He'd already warmed it once in the microwave. He didn’t ever seem to be able to finish a full cup in its state of straight-from-the-French-press hotness. Many days there were multiple trips to the microwave just to invigorate the sweetly bitter liquid with enough heat to warm his throat as he swallowed. Why should this day be any different?

What am I doing? That question continued to plague his thoughts. It was a big question that led to other questions. He couldn’t answer any of them really. Or wouldn’t.

The exotic fragrance of bergamot from a candle burning quietly on his kitchen counter wafted into the room where he sat. One whiff of its perfume always put a smile on his face. It was the essence of comfort, luxury, and happiness, set free by the heat of a flame.

His own flame was flickering. He wasn’t aging gracefully. Just that morning he’d been admiring a picture of a handsome older man in the pages of Vogue magazine when he read that the man was 48 years old. He felt like he’d been slapped in the face. He was going to be 48 years old himself in a mere three months. Reality! He didn’t see himself as older. He wondered how others see him. He thought he probably didn’t want—or need—to know.

“Time is a funny thing.” How often had he heard that phrase in his life? Where did it even originate? Does it even matter? Not really. Time isn’t funny. It continues forward through the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful. It has to continue forward otherwise he’d be dead. And he didn’t want to be dead…at least not today.

Dead is a heavy word loaded with fear and darkness, the inability to escape the black nothingness of the unknown. Gone. 

He had often wondered what life would be like for the people who know him if he was no longer present in their lives. Since he feared the word death almost as much as its result, he thought about this lack of presence as more of an absence. Like, say, severing the connective tissue that is cyber space, freeing himself from the binding filaments that are often more detrimental to his psyche than beneficial. Then he pondered the essay he would most assuredly write called "Separation Anxiety and the Negative Effects of Solitude" and decides once again to stay present and connected albeit more limited than before.

The perfume from the burning candle continued to fill him with contentment…and longing. The coffee inevitably cooled once again in his cup. He took a deep breath. He sipped, grimaced.

Time moved forward, his pendulum swinging, marking. His flickering flame did not set him free. 

He was told recently that he needed to dig deeper to uncover the truth of his sadness. He was good at avoiding.

So the question remains: What am I doing?

I Woke Before The Flood Could Take Me

photo from the film The Day After Tomorrow

I could see a crowd of people running in the distance. I was about half a block away from the bustle. I had an odd sense of déjà vu. I had seen this crowd, and their running, before. Yet I did not run...toward them, from them, or with them. I continued to walk as I always did until I reached the street corner. The crowd was running past me to my right. 

Where was I? Was this New York City? If so, these strangers, who seemed familiar yet not, were heading south. The familiarity with the scene gave me pause at the corner of Whatever Street and Something Avenue. Where was I going? What were the people running from?

I finally turned to see what the people were running from. I saw it. A wall of water cresting over the avenue’s hilltop maybe three blocks away. I stared in shocked fascination then turned to join the crowd moving away.

This was happening. My sense of déjà vu spiked even higher. 

This had happened before. I remembered it. I had survived it. I had lived through this destructively rushing liquid wall's twin in my very recent past. I had run with all the others who were trying to stave off mother nature’s attempted murder. I had run down the hill (down the hill? Was this San Francisco?) toward a building that housed a department store. It rose maybe four stories. It had been tall enough. I had managed to get inside and climb up, up, and away from the wall of death that threatened to wash me away without a trace.

This time, however, I could see a crowd of people standing on the sidewalk in front of that same department store. They were pushing, shoving, shouting, screaming, beating on the glass. From what I could see, no one was getting inside. The revolving door was not moving. 

We had all been here before, but this time it was different. We were either late or the water was early. 

Somehow, even at the distance from which I stood, I could see that the ground level of the department store was filled with people. Movement had ground to a halt. Others were trapped inside the triangular pockets of the revolving door, briefly surviving to ultimately die. I could not imagine their fear even as I felt the hand of dread clench my heart. I could hear the roaring surge of the water approaching. I recognized this water. I knew it was taking with it everything in its path even though I refused to turn and look my approaching killer in the eye.

There was no building high enough for me to save myself. I had been here before but not like this: outside, completely unprotected. The hand of dread did not release its grip on my heart nor did it tighten any further. My terror was calm as I tried to accept my impending doom.

I heard myself say aloud,  “I guess I’m going to die today. I love you, momma.”

Then I woke

The Wall In My Head (lyrics)

The Wall in My Head

John McCrea, Original West End Cast of Everybody's Talking About Jamie

It was something he said
Something he said
His words built a wall
A wall inside my head

Just one little thing
Didn't mean that much to him
But it keeps building and building and building
This wall in my head
This wall in my head

Just one tiny thought
It started out so small
The thought made a brick
The bricks made a wall

And the wall keeps me down
And the wall trips me up
And it keeps building and building and building
This wall in my head
This wall in my head

And here I stand
With my feet stuck to the floor
As I shout down the street
Screaming for more

Over the wall
Over the wall
I see my future standing tall
Over the wall
Over the wall
I can believe I'd have it all

So I keep climbing and climbing and climbing
This wall in my head, head, head
I'll keep on climbing and climbing and climbing
This wall in my head, head, head
This wall in my head
This wall in my head

‘Twas something he said
Just one little thing
The thought left a scar
The words left a sting

Those words are the walls
That still hold me in
And they keep building and building and building and building

And don't fall, I'm finding my feet
There's shoes to be filled
But this wall, is harder to beat
When its one you helped build

Over the wall
Over the wall
I see my future standing tall
Over the wall
Over the wall
I can believe I'd have it all

So I keep climbing and climbing and climbing
This wall in my head, head, head
I'll keep on climbing and climbing and climbing
This wall in my head, head, head

Oh I'll keep climbing and climbing and climbing
And climbing and climbing and climbing
And climbing and climbing

Hand over hand over hand over brick over
Hand over brick over hand over brick over
Climbing, climbing, climbing, climbing

This wall in my head
This wall in my head

This wall in my head
This wall in my head

This wall in my head

Can I Call Myself A Writer?

I have begun to call myself a writer. It still feels weird. But it has gotten easier than it was nearly 10 years ago when I started blogging about my life experiences. It is true that writing is like exercising a muscle: the more you do it the better you become at it. 

My writing has changed a lot since 2009. There's more raw honesty, more depth in the storytelling. I have even faced the daunting task of staring at the blank screen and creating fiction, which is completely different than recounting how certain situation or experience affected me. Fiction is creating something from nothing. Intimidating. I have then let other people read said fiction. As a creative person with a fear of failure, putting my thoughts, ideas, and stories in front of other people's eyes is truly a feat of courage. 

However, I recently watched the film The Wife in which Glenn Close gives her Oscar nominated (and hopefully, finally, winning) performance as Joan Castleman, the title character. She is the wife of a writer. She is a writer herself. 

There is a scene in which her husband says, “a writer must write as he must breathe.” As soon as he said it, it gave me pause. Was Joan breathing? Am I? Of course I am. I breathe to live. Yet, I’m calling myself a writer, yet I don’t write every day. Sure, I try to be clever or intuitive or thought provoking in a Tweet or Instagram post. I try to use my words to greatest effect. But I don’t write every day. 

I don’t live and breathe a story for eight hours a day. Not even ten minutes a day on most days. But I love words. I love stringing them together to create a feeling, an emotion; to evoke a laugh, a tear, an understanding of a situation; to take the reader on a journey. 

Can I call myself a writer?

I recently finished watching the series You on Netflix. The main female character is a writer. She didn't write every day though. She would often say she was stuck. Social media, and life in general, were often distractions. (I know these distractions. Throw in television and porn and I'm fully distracted.) She admitted, if she was being honest, that she was just putting it off. (Guilty!) She once tried to justify her procrastination saying that thinking about what she wanted to write was just as much a part of the process. In her next breath though she acknowledged she was actually procrastinating. I believe a lot of her, and my, procrastination is fear of failure. Maybe even fear of success.

I often think about the stories and characters that are brewing in my head. I would go as far as to say that I think about many of them daily. But I don’t sit down and write about them. I often mull over my own life experiences and think about what I have to say in connection with something that inspires or angers me in the present. But I don’t write about it immediately. 

Can I call myself a writer?

There are times when words pour out of me like water; when essays practically write themselves; when I can’t type fast enough for the sentences forming in my brain. But it doesn’t happen every day. 

I don’t commit time daily to the computer screen. That long gestating party that I’ve been thinking about since 1990 is still waiting to be written. The piece on the importance of pink in my life is still waiting to be fully explored. The story of the half sisters who hate each other yet continue to work together is waiting for its next soap operatic confrontation. The fiction and the non, it sits there. But hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about that party and who is in attendance and what they are doing or saying. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about what pink means to me. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t wonder what is going on with those two women.

Can I call myself a writer? 

There are days when I can do nothing but write the words that are clawing their way out of my thoughts; when writing is the only form of expression that allows me to get the drama, the anger, the comedy, the provocation out of me. 

There are other days when I can't seem to find the words to say anything at all. 

The written word is probably the most authentic way in which I express myself. I am definitely a storyteller. And even though I have a body of work to my credit, calling myself a writer remains an uncomfortable label. My confidence ebbs and flows.

I may not write every day. I may be lazy and procrastinate. I may be afraid of the exploration of my thoughts, my opinions, my ideas, my past. I may be completely intimidated by the party scene that I won’t write. But I do know that without the ability to express myself in words, whenever I have something, anything, to say, I would be breathless. 

The Cap and the Silence

I was confronted with a symbol of hate, deception, and racism last week on a vacation trip to Kentucky. A red "Make America Great Again" cap practically throbbed like a caution light on the head of a member of my family as he walked into the room where I was sitting. To say that I was shocked and unprepared is an understatement. My heart began to pound. The space around it became weighted with anxiety.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to react. I felt the flush of heat burn my cheeks. I felt sick. 

The person wearing the cap doesn’t know what it represents to me. I honestly believe there was no malice intended. Yet I couldn't help but wonder why those with more knowledge weren't more attentive to their surroundings. Then again, I was the outsider, the guest. I was in their environment.

As I sat on the sofa at my parents’ house I was very aware that I was wearing mascara that day. I was also aware that I fully expected acceptance from everyone around me while wearing it. Mascara is not a MAGA cap, but it is a potential button pusher when worn by a male in a family of gun-toting, sports-playing, Southern Baptists. No one said a word about my mascara the entire trip. Just like no one mentions the bracelet with rainbow beads that I sometimes wear while there. Is it avoidance or acceptance? Rainbows and MAGA caps send completely different messages, but I digress.

Additionally, while relaxing inside this household of Trump supporters, I was never hesitant to discuss Michelle Obama’s memoir, Becoming, which I was openly reading at the time.

I tried to put myself on the other side of the Party line, trying to provide the acceptance that I was expecting. How could I expect it yet not give it in return? Aren’t we all human beings, co-mingling with differing opinions? Yet providing that acceptance was hard for me. I sat in silence trying to ignore the rage that was bubbling inside me, just below the surface. 

I was hurt. That cap (and those words) will go down in history as the symbol of a very dark and divided time in America. I will never be able to see it with eyes that don't register negativity.

I may be a Kentuckian by birth, but I am a New Yorker by choice. I knew at an early age that I had to get out of Kentucky. I had to get out of my small town. I knew there was a bigger world out there where I could find the freedom to be myself. Where I could find the freedom to question. I knew there were bigger ideals than what I was taught in Sunday service. 

I am gay, and feminine. I am a believer that Freedom of Religion also means Freedom from. In Trump’s Divided States of America, I am a liberal. I am for progress. I am for gay rights. I am for women’s rights. I am for trans rights. I am for human rights. I am for TRUTH! I believe America was already great.

That cap makes me angry. What it stands for makes me angry. I can’t believe I have family members who believe the huckster who pushes its message. I love the wearer so much, but with caution was the only way I felt I could proceed. I've never been one to rush head-on into conflict. In order to keep the peace, I kept my mouth shut. For this, I am disgusted with myself as much as I am with the cap.

As I sat writing about how this incident affected me, I couldn't help but ponder: does writing about it, rather than confronting it in the moment, make me cowardly or intelligent?

I was the lone blue in a room full of red.  

My Day at Dior: A Liaison Between Desire and Jouy

The champagne may have been joyful with bubbles, but it was I who was bursting with effervescence. 

It happened on December 30, 2018. I bought my first piece of Dior. A bag, of course. Specifically, the Dior book tote in canvas embroidered with a burgundy Toile de Jouy motif. Happy New Year to me!

I’d been thinking about that Dior book tote for days. To be honest, the book tote in general had been on my mind since it premiered as part of the Spring/Summer 2018 collection: a new bag with style to spare using a vintage pattern--the Oblique--culled from the House of Dior’s archives and reintroduced by current creative director, Maria Grazia Chiuri, for a new generation. I was enamored. So were a lot of other people. The Dior Oblique book tote was immediately sold out with a waiting list on which I did not wish to put my name. 

Fast forward to late fall and the release of the Dior Cruise 2019 collection. Once again the archives of the House had been culled. But this time inspiration was found in a toile that had originally been created for the walls of Monsieur Dior’s boutique in 1947. 

For those who don’t know, toile can refer to the fabric or the pattern on the fabric. A toile pattern is usually a pastoral scene repeated over and over. But Maria Grazia Chiuri updated this toile with lions, snakes, monkeys, tigers, giraffes. Those quiet pastoral scenes are now dotted with danger and the allurement of adventure.  

The Toile de Jouy book tote--which takes its name from the French town of Jouy-en-Josas, where toile has been produced since 1759--arrived just before Christmas. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. The pattern and the color had woven themselves together so completely in my brain that no matter how I tried I could not release myself from their grip. I checked dior.com almost daily to see if the availability at the 57th Street boutique in New York City had changed from “in stock” to “limited stock” or worse, the dreaded “out of stock.” 

I was a man obsessed. I even dreamt about it…twice. I woke from that first dream remembering the joy I felt from owning it. Every person I encountered as I walked down that dream street admired its beauty. Even awake, I could still feel the joy in my chest. Upon waking from the second dream I was left with no memories just a feeling of happiness.

A Dior bag does not come cheap. And it was an expense that I could not expend blindly. It's an investment. I mulled it over. I weighed my options. I talked to friends. I longed. I obsessed. I annoyed myself. 

In 1946, mere weeks shy of turning 42, Monsieur Dior founded his famed, and fabled, fashion house. He wasn’t a man in the midst of youth. He was a man 41 years wise and determined. World War II had ended. It was his time. He’d spent many years honing his skills in the French fashion Houses of Robert Piguet and Lucien Lelong. He even turned down an offer to breathe new life into the waning House of Philippe et Gaston. He knew what he wanted: his own House, his own name, his own rules, his own designs. 

Christian Dior is synonymous with glamour, beauty, style, strength, courage, and fearlessness.

I have long admired the man that I became aware of through my love of his gorgeously realized creative imagination. And the fact that he was 42 years old when he launched his first line only strengthens my admiration. It has long given me hope that anything is possible at any age. I’m 47, and while some see me as courageous, I’ve let fear get the better of me for more years than I care to think about. In Christian Dior, I see a man possessed with courage to start something new and a fearlessness that boldly transformed fashion. 

It was my time to engage with the glamour, beauty, and style. I was determined if not fearless.

As I walked east on 57th Street toward 5th Avenue, the awning, lighted in brilliant white illuminating the bold black name Dior, came into view. My pulse quickened. I was excited. I was nervous. I knew I didn’t have to buy the bag in order to step inside the boutique and see it. But I also knew I wanted the bag. My love affair with Dior goes way back.

As I stepped in front of the display window to the left of the entrance, I found myself relieved to see the mannequin I had seen on Christmas Eve still gracefully clutching the curved handles of the burgundy Toile de Jouy book tote. I felt an immediate sense of relief, as if I knew there would be a bag waiting for me inside, and that I would have no remorse in purchasing it. I walked through the glass doors.

Into the gleaming brightness I stepped, and there, past the towering red toile-covered giraffe, I saw the object of my desire. There were four of them beautifully displayed on a rack. I made a beeline. I asked the nearest sales associate if I could take one from the rack and was given permission. It was the first time I had admired its beauty up close. I already knew that each tote required more than 1,600,000 stitches and took over 42 hours to create, but as I held it in my hands I could see the artistry, and it was spectacular. 

I made my way to a woman standing at a display case behind me to inquire about some things of which I had questions.

There’s a certain expectation of bonhomie that comes with shopping in a high-end boutique like Christian Dior. But I never take that for granted. Probably because I don’t feel like I deserve it. I’m still a bit stuck in that stale mindset. However, I do deserve it as much as anyone else who desires that experience. So I proceeded, believing, if hesitantly, that I belonged.

That woman was Lauren, and it was serendipitous that she be my sales associate. You see, I had called the boutique the previous Friday to inquire about the bag. It was Lauren who had answered my questions. It was meant to be. 

Lauren was kind and so easy to talk to that she heard more about me than she probably wanted to hear. But she never let on that it was an imposition, choosing instead to participate with her own stories. She was generous with her time and attention. I felt like a queen. Say what you will about this being the sales associates job, I know when someone connects with me. I felt that she and I existed in our own little Dior world most of the time while I was there. 

A major desire of mine is to own my own “Bar” jacket. Introduced in Dior's inaugural collection of 1947, the “Bar” has been updated throughout the years by various creative directors during their tenure. It remains an iconic staple of the House. I felt comfortable enough with Lauren to ask her if she would help me figure out my size and fit. 

Up the stairs we went, past walls in motion with the Cruise 2019 fashion show. I took the bag with me. I barely put it down. Limited quantities and fear of loss can make one ridiculously possessive. 

Lauren indulged me in all things “Bar,” knowing that I wasn’t planning to buy the jacket, without a flicker of irritation. I’ve experienced that reaction before in an upscale boutique. It’s so disheartening. But on this day, the stars aligned to create for me the most exciting Dior experience I’ve had since my first trip to Paris when I stepped inside the Dior boutique at 30 Avenue Montaigne and breathed the air.

While my bag was being placed in its box--a piece of art itself--Lauren asked me if I wanted anything to drink: water, champagne? For a split second I thought “No.” I was feeling unworthy and undeserving; a waste of time. I quickly realized it, and that negative thought, of which I am so prone to default, was replaced with, “You’re in Dior! Have the champagne!” Lauren basically voiced that sentiment aloud.

Jouy directly translates to joy, and the liaison between my desire and the Jouy brought me nothing but. 

With my head swimming in champagne, I stepped into the chilled December air of a New York City evening and took my bag home.

Le reste c'est la beauté.