Monthly Archives:

September 2015

Scene: A Pool, Late Afternoon

Sparkling in the waning hours of a sun-filled afternoon, the water looks inviting. Do not be deceived: this is no bath. The water is cold. Its still surface belies its deadly charm. Like some California dream, it is all an illusion. Pretty enough to look at, but no one would dare delve deeper into such a frigid world. Do we know the day when it is at hand? Do we ever really know the day? I think we only know it when it’s gone. It’s only real when it’s over. It is safer that way.

For now, a pause to admire the prettiness of the scene. A pristine look before bodies and waves and blood pierce moonlight-stained water. A bed of liquid to break a dead man’s fall. Or a pocket of delusions to give him wings. Either way, he’s about to take flight…

The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Last Stand of a Rock Star

Next Stop: SEATTLE, WA

 

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Return to the Emerald City

The Delusional Grandeur Tour traverses the country this weekend, as I make my way from Maine to the West Coast, and my first visit to Seattle since 1998. When last I left that Emerald City, I was riding in an over-heated white Volvo station wagon with Suzie, and as incongruent and unlikely as that sounds to my preferred mode of living, it was one of the happiest times of my life.

After a few days in Seattle, we had packed up Suzie’s meager minimalist belongings and headed out, and one of the only things I remember about that first day of traveling (aside from the over-heating) was a magnificent field of sunflowers, resplendent in the deep amber glow of an August sunset. It remains a memory that warms my heart all these years later – a memory of beauty, of contentment, only slightly tinged with restlessness, and emboldened by a golden lining of hope.

This time around, I’m focusing solely on Seattle – home of the Nordstrom flagship store, the fish-flinging Pike Place Market, the team of hunky Cooper Helfet, and a whole fleet of whales soaring through Puget Sound. In other words, it’s the ideal place for a touring adventure. A throwback and a new beginning in one. A return – not a comeback – and a moment ripe for a sunset…

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The Art of Touring

Having just spent a couple of days in Portland, Maine, it seems a little soon to be jetting off to the other side of the country, but such is the state of affairs when one is on tour. In a few days I’ll be in Seattle, and there are some serious ‘Delusional Grandeur Tour‘ posts coming up for that – but for now, a holding pattern to give me the chance to breathe.

The photos for this post were taken by permission in the Portland Museum of Art, where we were awaiting a showing of ‘Iris’ – and which is absolutely worth a trip for its own merit. A museum is a treat on the most beautiful sunny day (when there are fewer crowds) or the rainiest (when the place transports you to other realms of beauty). In this case, the day was hot, so we kept to the cool environs and surrounded ourselves with works of art. A ‘Director’s Cut’ show was on display, whereby various directors of other Maine museums had supplied some of their signature works for a grand exhibition – a greatest hits if you will. It was comforting to see the many pieces that referenced or originated in Ogunquit. We’ll head back there as we get deeper into the fall. Before that, I’m heading West… life is peaceful there.

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Kim Davis Should Be Fired

When Kim Davis first refused to issue same-sex marriage certificates even after the Supreme Court declared it law, I took it all with a grain of salt. The will of the highest court in the country seemingly meant nothing to her, and though it was an aggressive, and downright mean, act to perpetrate against a couple that simply wanted to get married (at its heart, Ms. Davis, that’s what you’re doing, under the guise of religion), I still decided to let her nonsense play out.

Let’s be reasonable, something that people in support of Ms. Davis and “religious freedom” seem incapable of being. Kim Davis has been married four times. She’s been divorced three times. If we’re going to go by ‘God’s law’ then Ms. Davis is already in for a hellaciously hot future. Targeting innocent gay and lesbian couples who want only to celebrate their love (as she got to do four times already) is not endearing her to anyone’s God. I thought for sure the loonies would see that much, but they and Ms. Davis herself have proven capable of stupidity beyond my wildest imagination. Even then I joked a bit, saying that I didn’t understand how someone so badly in need of a makeover could alienate so many gay men.

But today, after her umpteenth appeal was denied, and after she still refused to do her damn job and issue marriage licenses, I’m just pissed. I work for the government too, but if I behaved the way she did I’d be disciplined big time. Her job is to issue marriage licenses, not administer a religious sacrament. There is a distinct separation of church and state written into the constitution, and it’s there for precisely this reason.

Let’s say, for example, that my religion is fashion. Not a far-fetched example, quite frankly. And let’s say that I’m vociferously against Crocs and cargo shorts, that I think anyone who wears them is going to hell, and that I don’t want to be affiliated with them in any way. As much as I’d like to not help them, if my job calls upon me to provide information that they need to do their job, if I have to help them or support them in the course of the day, as a state worker I have to do so. I can’t refuse because I don’t believe in Crocs or cargo shorts.

Or better yet, let’s say that I don’t believe in working a full day. My beliefs are that I need a siesta from noon to five, and after that I need a period to relax and meditate. It goes directly against the hours that I’m supposed to work, but hey, those are my beliefs and everyone who knows me will most definitely attest to this. Can I just leave my job at noon based on these staunchly-held beliefs?

That’s exactly what Ms. Davis is doing right now. If it were anyone else, they’d be disciplined, if not fired. How many times does she need to be instructed to uphold the law of the country and do her job as a government employee? I think she’s had her chance. Either do your job, or resign. Stop getting paid for services you refuse to render.

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School, Saddle Shoes & Shame

When I was in third grade, saddle shoes were all the rage. At least I thought they were – the way they contrasted so delightfully in and of themselves, the way they sharpened an outfit. I didn’t pay much attention to who exactly was wearing them, but I loved the way they looked and soon became obsessed with getting a pair.

At Buster Brown there was a pair of saddle shoes – for boys in fact – and I rejoiced as I slid them on my feet. Ahh, the glory of a pair of shoes! These shone in shiny black and white, beacons of pride and joy, like tickling piano keys as I walked. I marched around the store, admiring them in the shoe mirrors. They were bold, and at first my feet were unaccustomed to something so demanding of a second look. Could I pull them off? Of course! How could I not? I thought of those pretty little girls parading around in their pristine saddle shoes, topped by perfectly-white frilly socks. How they glided along on dainty footsteps, how they made it look so effortlessly elegant and easy, and how I wanted to do the same.

The first day I wore my saddle shoes I felt like I was floating into school. I was making my own black-and-white checker-tiled dance-floor, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers all rolled into one (before I even heard their names in the ‘Vogue’ rap).

Yet the whispers upon my entering class were not of awe or envy. I knew those whispers even then. These were whispers of confusion. These were the whispers of discomfort. These were the whispers of ridicule. I thought I heard someone say they were girl shoes.

Then, sudden and swift and irrevocable, the onslaught of shame. With reddened face and panicky disposition, I seethed in inner agony. I quickly took my seat and swung my feet under my chair, away from prying eyes. At heads-down time, I peeked under the desks to study the feet around me. Only girls were wearing saddle shoes.

I shrunk in embarrassment. I cringed at the monstrosities on my feet. I’d made a fatal misstep. I who never faltered, who never failed, now felt the hot flush of being the almost-object of ridicule. I felt myself teetering on the brink of becoming ostracized from the only people who seemed to matter. Yet I never let on that those whispers bothered me, or even made it to my ears. I never let on how badly they crushed my ego and destroyed the silly bit of joy I got in those shoes. I never let on that when they tried to break me, they had in fact succeeded.

I didn’t wear the saddle shoes much after that – just a few more times so as not to arouse the suspicion or ire of my frugal parents for not making use of new shoes. They went back into their box, worn only at home or on vacation or where I could be myself and not worry about being chided for it.

Everything I do today, every strange, questionable object I wear, is done in honor of that little boy who was robbed of such joy, held captive for the rest of his boyhood by a gang of innocently cruel children. They were taught by the world to dress like a boy or a girl, and there was never room for anything in-between. Another line between innocence and shame. Another demarcation of growing up. The way we erase our identities to fit in, to feel like we belong – I didn’t know then that it was the very way I would grow to hate myself. It would take years before I returned to my quirky style. Years of khakis and polos, and jeans and sneakers, and trying to be the boy everyone wanted me to be. Years in which I pushed my lovely saddle shoes into the dark recesses of my closet, and the life-loving fun that should comprise every childhood into the hidden recesses of my heart.

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