Monthly Archives:

September 2012

The Sweetest Vine

This is the Sweet Autumn Clematis, one of my favorite vines of all-time. It’s one of those clematis that you cut down to the ground each Spring, after which it makes its leaps, often covering upwards of thirty feet in a single season before blanketing itself in sweetly-scented white blooms. While the blossoms are individually delicate, taken en masse they create a potent sea of petals and perfume, an intoxicating mix that many bees find irresistible.

Despite its delicate appearance, this is one tough vine, coming back year after year with the slightest of care. Of course it does much better when amended with some manure and a cooling cover of mulch, and when given that extra pampering it will astound you with a show like this in the late gardening hours of September.

It’s the perfect plant for covering an arbor, but I’ve also seen it used effectively to soften a fence, or winding its way among spring flowering shrubs like the mockorange – which gives a pretty and fragrant bookend to both sides of the summer.

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A Pre-Birthday Wish for My Father

Being that my Dad’s birthday falls unluckily on September 11, or rather that September 11, as we know it, happened to fall on my Dad’s birthday, he usually gets short-shrifted as far as big celebrations go. Fortunately, he wouldn’t have it any other way, and it’s always seemed like his birthday was more of an annoyance to him, and more of a reason for his family and loved ones to celebrate him in spite of his reluctance. Usually I save the day-after for his post, but this year I decided to do a little something before-hand. Having just finished up cooking his Filipino feast (this time I tried a Sinigang Na Carne for the first time, a slightly bitter stew that may prove challenging) we’re having him and some special friends and family over tomorrow. It will be, according to his own preference, a low-key family affair, but made all the more special because of it. Only a fellow Virgo could understand the need for a quiet birthday. Like Father, like Son. Happy Birthday Dad!

(On a side-note, tomorrow this blog will have its traditional one-post-only in honor of those who lost their lives on September 11, 2001. There were no words then, and there are none now.)

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The Naked Butts of Magic Mike

The naked backsides of ‘Magic Mike’ – Channing Tatum, Matthew McConaughey, Alex Pettyfer, and Matt Bomer. Who’s your favorite?

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Don Draper’s Big Swinging Dick

You just know that to be as big a dick as Don Draper has been, you had to have an actor to fill his shoes. Or pants as the case may be. This is Jon Hamm, parading around New York, seemingly sans underwear and shame. If ever there was a reason for the ‘Bulge‘ category here, this is certainly it. Not sure if these photos have been enhanced. There’s only one way to find out for sure. Oh Don…?

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Why I Love Colin Harrison

“I thought I recognized in him a certain kind of man, a man who is damaged and yet unflinching. I’ve met a few. Because he has taken pain, such a man knows he can take more. In fact, he expects it; suffering, so far as he sees, is in the order of things, the logic of the universe. Usually such men are hard, even self-punishing workers, capable of long periods of isolation or aloneness, and suffer bouts of crippling melancholy. They refuse to take antidepressants, they refuse to talk too much; instead they wait and wait, with the patience of a cat, for the mood to turn. They drink coffee alone in the morning, they smoke cigarettes on the porch… Such men believe in luck, they watch for signs, and they conduct private rituals that structure their despair and mark their waiting. They are relatively easy to recognize but hard to know, especially during the years when a man is most dangerous to himself, which begins at about age thirty-five, when he starts to tally his losses as well as his wins, and ends at about fifty, when, if he has not destroyed himself, he has learned that the force of time is better caught softly, and in small pieces. Between those points, however, he’d better watch out, better guard against the dangerous journey that beckons to him – the siege, the quest, the grandiosity, the dream. Yes, let me say it again. Quiet men with dreams can be dangerous.”

~ Colin Harrison, ‘The Havana Room’

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Madonna: The MDNA Tour Review

Even when it comes to Madonna, I’m somewhat hesitant to describe anything related to pop culture as a truly “spiritual experience”. Yet that is exactly the journey she takes us on for her current MDNA Tour. Watching from the sidelines of the TD Garden in Boston (and slightly behind the stage, thank you Ticketmaster), I felt the gradual upward trajectory of the show in a more fully realized manner than almost all of her previous tours. Say what you will about her singing or acting or on-and-off-again English accent, her power and command as a live performer have always been well-earned givens. The woman knows how to put on a show.

It opens hauntingly, with hooded monks in high-heels swinging an over-size incense holder while the Kalakan trio (whose soothing harmonies ground the show at integral points throughout the evening) intone an introductory chant. A convincing video backdrop of a Cathedral rises to the ceiling, a surprisingly effective use of technology that works wonders in filling the stage space with arresting visuals. To the bracing sound of shattered glass, a crowned and veiled Madonna takes aim at the audience with a rifle before blasting into ‘Girl Gone Wild’ with some slick and sick choreography. In some ways, it’s classic Madonna, cavorting in tight formation with shirtless dancers, as the briefest of references to ‘Material Girl’ and ‘Give It To Me’ give way again to the pounding beat of ‘Girl Gone Wild’. An ingenious set of platforms that rise and fall gives a powerful vertical element to the proceedings, (even if those of us behind the lights can still barely see).

The provocative gun-play of the set that has caused so much controversy thus far rears its head with ‘Revolver’ and ‘Gang Bang’, the former finding Madonna and her handkerchiefed band of girl friends brandishing fire-arms while her electronically-altered voice eerily rings out, “My love’s a revolver, my sex is a killer, Do you wanna die happy?” For ‘Gang Bang’ she hops atop a seedy hotel room scene, dispatching invading entrants with another gun and graphic splatters of blood on the video screens.

It’s an ultra-violent beginning that finds retribution in an all-too-brief snippet of ‘Papa Don’t Preach’, because when you go against patriarchal authority, the punishment is swift and inevitable – in this case, doled out by a set of frightening masked marauders who proceed to tie Madonna up and literally string her along a slack line, upon which she sings a disturbing version of ‘Hung Up’. She does a bit of perfunctory line-walking, barefooted and brazenly, because she gets her kicks when she’s walking the wire.

Closing out this gorgeously dark vignette is the defiant ‘I Don’t Give A’, in which Madonna boldly faces her audience head-on, a guitar strapped around her neck, and a middle-finger extended for all within sight. Nicki Minaj makes her first video-guest-appearance, decked out in religious garb, rapping and wrapping things up with the declarative, “There’s only one queen, and that’s Madonna.”

As the ominous chanting returns for its dramatic climax, Madonna rises slowly on a platform, as a cross glows crimson behind her. In a long career of successful visual-arrests, she captures yet another iconic image. The lights go dark for the briefest of moments (everyone knows Madonna shows just don’t stop) and the impact of this scene is stunningly powerful.

A rather dour interlude follows, with a mash-up of ‘Best Friend’ (an under-appreciated track from the deluxe edition of ‘MDNA’) and ‘Heartbeat’ (from 2008’s ‘Hard Candy’) to the accompaniment of graveyard scenes in moody black-and-white ~ a metaphorical death-knell for what came before, and a chance for Madonna to make the most drastic costume change of the evening, into a white and crimson majorette uniform. She marches up to center stage, leading a merry pep squad in front of cartoons of caricatured women subversively turned into images of power and humor. It’s a fun moment for fans old and new, echoing her triumphant Super Bowl performance and breathing new life into a classic song. She segues (ahem, seamlessly) into a quick snippet of Lady Gaga’s ‘Born This Way’ – not in an ungracious or unkind way at all, and even her final few lines of ‘She’s Not Me’ seem more tongue-in-cheek than antagonistic, a throwback to the cheeky minx who once wanted to ‘rule the world.’

A marching band descends from the rafters – no, really – for her latest Top Ten hit ‘Give Me All Your Luvin” and it’s a truly transformative version of the song, given extra pep and vigor – invigorating and effervescent – especially when delivered with all the energy and bombastic dance moves she pulls out of her too-fit-to-be-fair ass. The pom-pom popping routine she throws down at the apex of the runway brings the crowd to its first crescendo, a welcome relief and release from the serious beginning. The infectious energy continues with current single ‘Turn Up the Radio’.

While I initially thought this would be one of the more elaborately staged songs, she goes the opposite way, in a straight-forward  rendition sung from center stage, with nothing but a black outfit and guitar, and somehow it works, the music and the song taking flight, and the audience riding the crest of another colossal pop wave. Suddenly, I’m transported to catching a snippet of ‘The Virgin Tour’ on television some 25-plus years ago. I can still remember that Saturday afternoon, sitting in the wood-paneled family room and watching this dynamo of a woman singing and dancing with joyous abandon. I did a little dancing around the room that day too, and at each of my darkest moments of the past quarter of a century, there’s always been Madonna, imploring me to simply ‘Turn Up the Radio’ and promising the brief escape of a pop song, the momentary salvation of music.

The Basque vocalists of the Kalakan Trio resurface for a wonderfully re-imagined ‘Open Your Heart’, the 80s gem getting a sparkling, almost acoustic make-over. It grows into a rollicking highlight, building up to a rousing percussion-driven chance for the dancers (and her son Rocco) to step up their high-kicks a few more impressive notches. There is healing here, especially after that deliciously brutal start – healing and joy – and this turning point is one of almost spiritual transcendence. She traditionally pauses here, the first time she gets personal and talks, and it’s always a crap-shoot on what she’s going to say – gay rights, Pussy Riot, imprisonment – but tonight she keeps it on the light, and Boston-specific side.

“You guys are crazy!” she begins. “I’ve been coming to Boston every time I’ve been on tour,” she continues, extolling the virtues of freedom of expression, saying it’s okay to be gay and okay to be whomever you want to be, and that she hopes it will stay that way – a none-too-veiled reference to the upcoming Presidential election. She may not watch television, but the woman knows her current events. “Are you going to let crazy shit happen in this country” she asks, demanding a “Fuck No” response that we are all crazy enough to give her. “Are you going to let crazy shit happen in this country??!” Fuck No! “Except me!” she says with a devilish grin. A beautiful rendering of her Golden Globe-winning ballad ‘Masterpiece’ follows – and then a sexier, darker, cheekier, hotter-than-the-original version of ‘Justify My Love’ plays as a video interlude.

Photo by Kevin Mazur.

It’s a stylish intro for the Madonna of the now-almost-retro 90s, and no song opened that decade with a bigger bang than ‘Vogue’. It struts its stuff here in all its fashion-forward elegantly black and white glory, with Madonna updating her Gaultier bustier with a stiff leather cage-like structure, at once androgynous and fiercely feminine. A more-delicious-than-expected adult take on ‘Candy Shop’, featuring a few all-too-brief quotes from ‘Erotica’, continues the divine decadence, proof that Madonna’s live performance can lift her most mundane and melody-lacking songs, such as ‘Human Nature’. I understand that this is one of her ultimate non-victim fuck-off songs, but she does it much better when there’s a driving beat and actual melody (as in ‘Express Yourself’). 

One of the most hotly-debated performance pieces is her new take on ‘Like A Virgin’. Having done everything from lampooning it Cyndi Lauper style, masturbating on a red velvet bed, Dietriching it out in top hat and tails, and riding a virtual horse, there’s not much more to be done for the song, but Madonna strips it down literally and figuratively, turning it into a plaintive piano waltz, and crumbling to the floor before enacting a dramatic tightening of a corset around her waist. This may be what’s polarizing audiences for the MDNA Tour. Madonna is not interested in looking back and chirping the same songs in the same way, and her artistic integrity, and own personal truth, are such that she never could.

Those who hate this anything-but-shiny-and-new version are those who haven’t taken the time to delve into the deeper, complex glories of the MDNA album. While there’s nothing wrong with wanting to hear your favorite Madonna classic performed in the style to which you’ve grown accustomed, there is little challenge in that for an artist like Madonna. ‘Like A Virgin’ is, at its heart, a wistful longing to be made whole again, to retrieve that innocence and freshness that time and life inevitably ebbs away, and, in this seering version, the realization that sometimes you simply cannot go back.

After this spell of darkness, and an equally moving/disturbing video montage for ‘Nobody Knows Me’, the power of the beat – and the dance music that brought so many of us to her in the first place – is a welcome rejoinder in ‘I’m Addicted’ , one of the top cuts off MDNA. Her Joan-of-Arc metallic costume of armor glistens in its Swarovski-crystal-studded magnificence, and her braided warrior-hairstyle is a brilliant match for the throbbing song.

Love has always been Madonna’s drug of choice, and as the lights swirl about the audience and the inevitable dance break explodes, love is not only a drug, but a battlefield as well – one that remains a dizzying fix for a woman who still seems to have a lot of fight left in her.

Hardcore Madonna fans like myself will love this tour because it’s so MDNA heavy (and that album is easily her best since 2005’s ‘Confessions on a Dance Floor’). Nothing exemplifies that more than the gleeful romp of ‘I’m A Sinner’, given an Indian slant as it morphs impossibly, yet perfectly, into a B-side (‘Cyberraga’) from the ‘Music’ sessions. That song was previously in the bottom-five of those I ever wanted to see done live, but here it works brilliantly with the backing of the Kalakan trio. Coupled with some breathtaking video backdrops, this is where the journey nears its completion, and we have indeed reached a new plane.

I can’t help but smile as Madonna shakes a tambourine along to the Kalakan Trio, and we ride that happiness into an absolutely magical moment of transport that soars with one of the greatest pop songs ever written.

“Life is a mystery, Everyone must stand alone,” she intones, yet we are all standing together. Giving a traditional and true reading of ‘Like A Prayer’, Madonna stages one of the grandest sing-a-longs of the night, touching us as if it was the very first time, made more powerfully poignant as it comes imbued with all of the ensuing years of hard-won wisdom. It brings together new and old fans alike, the entire arena standing and singing and basking in the joy of the moment. 

The night ends with ‘Celebration’, a cut from her 2009 Greatest Hits collection of the same name (for those keeping track, that would be her third Greatest Hits compilation). With its musical echoes of opener ‘Girl Gone Wild’, it brings us full-circle, and it certainly does feel as if a journey has been completed – an ever-engaging, always challenging, entertaining-as-hell journey – and no other pop star has ever commanded a stage in such scintillating fashion.

There are those with greater musical talent, those with sharper dance skills, and those with more current relevance, but there is only one Madonna – and there always will be.

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Ryan Reynolds, Married (Again) and Naked (Again)

Word on the Internet is that Ryan Reynolds married Blake Lively. One question: who is Blake Lively again? Another question: does anyone else think this is anything more than an excuse to show a naked booty shot of Ryan Reynolds?

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A Shirtless Football Player

In honor of the opening weekend of the NFL season (that’s football for those of us who don’t know – I looked it up), here are a few shots of a shirtless, and bulging, Steve Weatherford. He was recently in the news for a possible hazing event, and he plays for the Giants. That’s all I could be bothered reading.

I was recently talking with Skip, my go-to straight guy for sports-related advice and info, and he mentioned that football trumps baseball when it comes to prominence. I was going to go all-out for a big World Series, well, series of posts, but he said the Super Bowl was a much bigger event. I’m still planning a few baseball posts for the end of the season, but otherwise our next big sporting event will be the Super Bowl. It will be hard to top last year’s event, but I’ll do my best. In the meantime, Mr. Weatherford in all his shirtless glory.

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Tom Ford: Dirty Birdy

These are a few of the eye-popping ads used earlier this year for Tom Ford’s ‘Neroli Portofino’ Private Blend. As the title of this post suggests, Mr. Ford is one of the best at getting the most provocative and smutty still shots out of his models, but his products get you oh-so-clean, and more sweetly-smelling than the most potent orange blossom, so in the end it’s a wash. Thank you, enjoy the veal! (And no, I was not talking about her boobs.)

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That Lusty Cockmonster Letter

At times like this, it pays to pay attention to football. Apparently football player Brendon Ayanbadejo, the Baltimore Ravens linebacker (don’t ask, I can’t tell what that is) recently vocalized his support for gay marriage. In response, Maryland state delegate Emmett  C. Burns Jr. wrote to the owner of the Ravens and asked that he ‘inhibit such expressions from your employee’. In true sportsman-like fashion, Chris Kluwe of the Minnesota Vikings penned this magnificent retort, in language so pure and succinct I can only hope to one day achieve something as powerful:

Dear Emmett C. Burns Jr.,

I find it inconceivable that you are an elected official of Maryland’s state government. Your vitriolic hatred and bigotry make me ashamed and disgusted to think that you are in any way responsible for shaping policy at any level. The views you espouse neglect to consider several fundamental key points, which I will outline in great detail (you may want to hire an intern to help you with the longer words):

1. As I suspect you have not read the Constitution, I would like to remind you that the very first, the VERY FIRST Amendment in this founding document deals with the freedom of speech, particularly the abridgment of said freedom. By using your position as an elected official (when referring to your constituents so as to implicitly threaten the Ravens organization) to state that the Ravens should “inhibit such expressions from your employees,” more specifically Brendon Ayanbadejo, not only are you clearly violating the First Amendment, you also come across as a narcissistic fromunda stain. What on earth would possess you to be so mind-boggingly stupid? It baffles me that a man such as yourself, a man who relies on that same First Amendment to pursue your own religious studies without fear of persecution from the state, could somehow justify stifling another person’s right to speech. To call that hypocritical would be to do a disservice to the word. Mindfucking obscenely hypocritical starts to approach it a little bit.

2. “Many of your fans are opposed to such a view and feel it has no place in a sport that is strictly for pride, entertainment, and excitement.” Holy fucking shitballs. Did you seriously just say that, as someone who’s “deeply involved in government task forces on the legacy of slavery in Maryland”? Have you not heard of Kenny Washington? Jackie Robinson? As recently as 1962 the NFL still had segregation, which was only done away with by brave athletes and coaches daring to speak their mind and do the right thing, and you’re going to say that political views have “no place in a sport”? I can’t even begin to fathom the cognitive dissonance that must be coursing through your rapidly addled mind right now; the mental gymnastics your brain has to tortuously contort itself through to make such a preposterous statement are surely worthy of an Olympic gold medal (the Russian judge gives you a 10 for “beautiful oppressionism”).

3. This is more a personal quibble of mine, but why do you hate freedom? Why do you hate the fact that other people want a chance to live their lives and be happy, even though they may believe in something different than you, or act different than you? How does gay marriage, in any way shape or form, affect your life? If gay marriage becomes legal, are you worried that all of a sudden you’ll start thinking about penis? “Oh shit. Gay marriage just passed. Gotta get me some of that hot dong action!” Will all of your friends suddenly turn gay and refuse to come to your Sunday Ticket grill-outs? (Unlikely, since gay people enjoy watching football too.)

I can assure you that gay people getting married will have zero effect on your life. They won’t come into your house and steal your children. They won’t magically turn you into a lustful cockmonster. They won’t even overthrow the government in an orgy of hedonistic debauchery because all of a sudden they have the same legal rights as the other 90 percent of our population—rights like Social Security benefits, child care tax credits, Family and Medical Leave to take care of loved ones, and COBRA healthcare for spouses and children. You know what having these rights will make gays? Full-fledged American citizens just like everyone else, with the freedom to pursue happiness and all that entails. Do the civil-rights struggles of the past 200 years mean absolutely nothing to you?

In closing, I would like to say that I hope this letter, in some small way, causes you to reflect upon the magnitude of the colossal foot in mouth clusterfuck you so brazenly unleashed on a man whose only crime was speaking out for something he believed in. Best of luck in the next election; I’m fairly certain you might need it.

Sincerely,
Chris Kluwe

P.S. I’ve also been vocal as hell about the issue of gay marriage so you can take your “I know of no other NFL player who has done what Mr. Ayanbadejo is doing” and shove it in your close-minded, totally lacking in empathy piehole and choke on it. Asshole.

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[Editor’s Note: Thank you Brendon Ayanbadejo and Chris Kluwe, for being such brave straight allies, and such decent human beings. The world will get better because of people like you.]
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Polarizing Masturbatory Shots

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m no more narcissistic than anyone else, I just don’t bother to hide it.

Apparently the arrival of The Pictures (well, the re-arrival, as it’s always been a part of this site) has ruffled some feathers. For instance, the following message is from one of my FaceBook “friends” (errors intact):

“hi alan, really enjoyed seeing your posts and lover and whoever that little girl is and your travels. been FB “friends” a while… but got to block your postings, you just are getting a little too narcissistic and masturbatory-ish. you used to post nice things, and well, you’re an old man like me now, and i can’t tell my daughter and mom and co-workers who this aging naked man is posting on my timeline! lol i think you look great, but there’s an age where we do things with our friends and in private, or in porno mode, but not in family/work public. sorry to stop your postings, but i’ll still visit and admire from a gay adult man’s persepective. enjoy your fun.”

I will always admire honesty like that, and the writer makes some good points, though they are devalued when he takes pot-shots at someone’s age, especially when he’s about fifteen years older than me. Luckily for every post like that there are five other posts that are supportive and complimentary, but I won’t bore you with the ego-boost. The point is, they balance each other out. Over the years I’ve developed a very thick skin when it comes to dealing with this sort of thing, and it happens to anyone who puts themselves out here, identifying ourselves without a pseudo-screen-name, using our real faces and not a profile pic of our pet. It takes balls to do that, and it does not come without the risk of being attacked.

In certain cases, this one included, it’s apparent that I’m not the real issue. No one really has that much power or influence over another person. There’s no way I hold such sway, especially over someone I’ve never even met. Most of the rage and anger or simple annoyance that I inspire in others is a triggered response to their own issues. I just happen to be the lightning rod that’s erect when their storm hits. When I realized that, there was an instant sense of relief, and an infusion of contentment that took over both my work, and my attitude. You can’t take any of it personally. It’s never worth it. For the most part, I simply ignore these things, which is usually the most infuriating thing to do to someone who is dying for some sort of interaction. In this instance, I threw the person a bone and responded. But that’s all.

‘Thanks for letting me know. Out of genuine interest, and sarcasm-free curiosity, I’m wondering why you felt the need to notify me of this. Most people simply unfriend or unsubscribe without an explanation, and had you not said anything I never would have known. Part of me thinks you wrote that just to hurt me, and I guess I don’t understand that. I’ll never understand that, and I hope I’ll never be able to access what it takes to understand that. As for being an old man, I’m embracing it. I don’t dye my hair, I don’t try to turn back the clock, and even if my body completely falls apart I will never find shame or anything wrong in displaying it. That said, I respect your decision and in a way I’m glad you told me. I wish you well. – Alan’

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We All Need A Little Wilson Phillips

Where was the convenience of buying one song at a time, a la iTunes, in the 1990s? I remain saddled with two complete Wilson Phillips albums, but upon rediscovering the harmonies here, I’m okay with it. That’s embarrassing enough, so I won’t get into the bedroom memories that accompany this song. Let’s just say that headphones were involved. Imagine the rest. ‘What is this power you’ve got over me? What is this power?’ (I’d say it’s the guy in the black Speedo.)

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Blo Me

This none-too-subtly-monikered business is on the corner of the street where our condo is in Boston. I dig the color, I dig the name, I only wish there was something for me in it. I haven’t blow-dried my hair since the 80s.

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Erasure and Manhattan Nocturne

“You can always tell, I think, with adults, who felt loved as a child and who did not; it’s in their eyes and walk and speech. There’s a certain brutal clarity. You can almost smell it.” – Colin Harrison

In some spring of the late 1990s I was listening to this Erasure song and reading ‘Manhattan Nocturne’ by Colin Harrison. Like Barbra Streisand, Erasure was never a favorite of mine, but Mr. Harrison – now there was an artist I could love. In those solitary nights, as the condo quietly waited for morning to come, I would read and marvel at his way with words, and, more importantly to me, his understanding of the human spirit – how dark it could go, how low we could sink, and how the smallest sliver of hope sometimes remained, but often didn’t.

“It was not as if I was not myself – oh no, I was myself, I was my other self, the self that wishes to carry on a secret dialogue with all that is evil in human nature. Some men do not struggle with this in themselves. They seem to have a certain grace. They are happy – or rather, they are content. They swing tennis rackets in the sunlight and get the oil checked regularly and laugh when the audience laughs. They accept limits. They are not interested in what might come up from the dark, cold hole of human possibility.” – Colin Harrison

It was not uplifting, it did not offer solutions, it did not even attempt to extend some bit of solace, but it was honest, it was real, and it was the very truth I wanted to confront. For more than Mr. Harrison dazzled me with his writing skills, he astounded in his portrayal of how different people survived in such a shitty world. Writers who get that, who show us the very worst so unflinchingly, have always impressed me. Whatever the reason, they seem to have more compassion than me, and so I strive to find that love of humanity by reading their work.

“There are people who enjoy degradation, or who seek it thinking they will enjoy it, or who seek it because it is the way they know how to have pleasure. After all, the experience is theirs. Perhaps they lived through the degradation and found pleasure in that realization. Or perhaps they found that in degradation there is a releasing of oneself; one is powerless; responsibility is taken away. I am not describing what occurs during the actual event, but the subsequent thought about the event that accumulates in a person’s mind.” – Colin Harrison

At that young age, I could have no way of knowing first-hand what he was talking about, but somehow I could sense what was coming. In a way, I look at that time as a way of fortifying myself for the heartache that would follow. It would be vain, foolish, to think I would escape unscathed, to think that true love would beat a steady and straight path to my door, then knock upon it and wait, even if I was not ready. That sort of faith in love would prove ruinous. This is what I tried to teach myself by reading his words. This is what I tried to impress upon my heart.

There are some life-lessons that can’t be learned from a book.

“In my experience, men and women who have a kind of brutal fortitude have been made that by a sequence of events, until the person passes beyond a point of no return. They learn that life requires the ability to coldly stand pain of one kind or another… They will do what is necessary to survive; they will conceal and protect their vulnerabilities, except from those who cannot hurt them. Above all, they will press their advantage when it presents itself.” – Colin Harrison

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