If I Could, I would...

What a year it's been. A year with way more dark moments than light ones, a year of learning lessons good and bad. A year of change the likes of which I never knew I needed. Through it all there remained one constant...I missed my children. I ached for them. I cried weekly. And though we stayed in contact by text and phone, it only compounded the need to touch their beautiful skin, gaze into their gorgeous eyes; to laugh until we cried, the way we used to do. It has been a year since my son has laid his head in my lap while we watched TV. A year since my daughter and I have watched the sun come up as we discuss politics, social theory, and Lindsay Lohan's prognosis.

But they are coming tomorrow night, and if I could...this is how I would greet them.

Merry Christmas everyone.

From The Mouth Of Babes

Who doesn't love Betty White?

I present to you...the reason I'm smiling on Sunday morning.

Strength

I've been described as a "strong woman". That can have many meanings...to be strong and female is to be a bitch (said as if it were a bad thing), aggressive, able to withstand all manner of hardship and nonsense...I could go on, but I think you get my drift. This morning, while checking in on one of my writer pals on Open Salon, the place where I'm challenged to sharpen my word-whacking skills; I hit on the definition of strength.

It is defined by Scylla The Rock. Scylla is one of those writers whose prose leaves me weak-kneed and jealous - his writing is so lyrical that I swear a musical score swells in the background as I read. His subject matter however, is thought provoking beyond measure and not for the feint of heart.

Scylla's son was murdered several years ago. His wife is serving in Iraq, law enforcement was his career until he was disabled. Writing is his therapy to keep him here, as he is very vocal about his desire to end his life; because what good is a sheepdog who is unable to guard his flock? The events that have transpired in his life are all directly tied to the essence of who he is; he is awash in grief and survivor guilt. We at OS who have chosen him as one of our favorites are humbled to the core when he gifts us with a post. I worry when he is silent, I drop him a note now and then to say that he's on my mind, and I breathe a sigh of relief when he rings in.

Today however, I stood up and cheered and wept. Today Scylla gave us the best gift one could have receive on a Sunday morning. He is rising, preparing for battle. His son's murderer is going to trial on May 23, 2011 and his post can only be described as a description of a gladiator rising from the dust, ready to live to fight another day.

All this serves to remind me of the nature of struggle. My struggles are significant only to me, and God knows they weigh me down, grind me to a raw nub. But in light of Scylla's difficulties, I have to wonder how I have the nerve to complain. Today his post ended with this:

"I did try so very hard as a father to protect my 3 children. One night I was not there for my son and he died. I will be at this trial. This boy that went to war with my son, who lived with my son and I for months, this boy whom with whatever poor power my soul doth possess has forgiven, this boy that shot my son to death, this boy shall look at me and see my son. He will see Scylla the Rock.

To prepare I must turn my thoughts from death. I've given up the cheap whiskey. I walk and walk and walk. I spend hours now with the heavy iron. I will be off all this morphine in 100 days. It will take my all, it will take my life to travel these thousands of miles, sit day upon day, listen as my son is defamed, sit and control the evil and the anger. Use up the last of my life to give this ending, waning strength for my son. My son, my son. A pain without end. I will be strong. I will be stoic, I will be a rock. I will show the strength of my son. I will be prepared. I will discharge this last duty. I am a soldier with a mission. Though this be my last absolute act. My son needs his father one more time.

I will not fail him ever again."

Today, I am hoping that no one that I love ever has to find themselves in a situation where they have to dredge up this kind of strength. I pray that we are all gifted with small challenges, for challenge is really just a growth exercise in disguise. But knowing that life is what it is, I know better.

I hope that today you'll find someone to stand up and cheer for. I hope that you have someone to cheer for you as well.

And if you think your heart can take it, I hope that you can stop by OS, check out Scylla's journey (this will involve many tears, lots of tissues and walks around the block to clear your head), and send out a cheer and a prayer for him and his family as well.

Why I Write

I write because I love music. To me they are the same thing. I'm not exactly sure when I had my "words = music" epiphany; nor can I remember the book. What I do remember was becoming conscious of the fact that I was "hearing" what I was reading.

The words were so beautifully strung together that I could count out the beat. I knew when to take a deep breath before diving into the next sentence, the next paragraph; when to let my shoulders roll languorously on the perfect phrase. And now, I know I'm onto something if I can "hear the music" when I begin to read. I'm not sure how to explain it in a way that will do it justice, but here goes.

If you've read Toni Morrison's "Song of Solomon" you must have heard it. That low hum, the deep and barely perceptible throb of the music spilling into the street from the speakeasy on Saturday night. The wiggly and discordant jazz that swoops and swells when the more than slightly unbalanced young woman begins to speak her mind. The tympanic power of the fathers rage. Surely you heard the hushed gospel choir whose chant is the background music of the entire book. Their sound reminds me that I am witnessing something so huge and so powerful that it will take me days to get it out of my mind.

In "We Need To Talk About Kevin" by Lionel Shriver, I struggled to find the tune. I nearly put the book down until I realized that I was listening/reading for music; but was hearing quietly whispered white noise, sotto voce hyperventilation, the muttering of unbridled fear. I tucked myself in and was swept away by the rhythm of her solitary terror. And when the music stopped abruptly and the cymbals crashed (just once) revealing all...I kid you not, I was so shaken that I had to take a walk around the block.

Now, I can carry a tune in something a little larger than a bucket, but I cannot read music, can't play an instrument. With words, I don't need to. I sometimes sway as I write. I conduct as the the words float around in my head, trying to find the moment at which they will land on the page just so.

If I'm lucky, and if I really do my job - you might sway as you read them too.

Originally published on OpenSalon 3/12/10. Revised 11/19/10

Johnny Weir...

...is made of awesome.  

Johnny Weir is what you get when you raise your children to strive to be the best human beings they can be; when you accept them for who they are...and love them out loud...they learn to express themselves so eloquently.  JW on his parents:

"I hope that more children have the same opportunities as me, with the same parents as me, that let me be an individual, who gave me freedom, and taught me to believe in myself before anyone else would believe in me. 

I hope more young boys and girls can grow up to have that love and support from their families, and it's very clear to me that those two men talking on that program did not have that kind of upbringing."

"The 25-year-old athlete was referring to observations made about his skating style and costumes by Claude Mailhot and Alain Goldberg of RDS, a French-language sports channel in Quebec.

"This may not be politically correct, but do you think he lost points due to his costume and his body language?" Mailhot said.

Goldberg responded that Weir's graceful mannerisms take the muscle out of male figure skating and damage the sport.

"They'll think all the boys who skate will end up like him," he said. "It sets a bad example."

The controversial commentary continued about the skater whose life is chronicled in the Sundance Channel documentary "Be Good Johnny Weir."

The men suggested that Weir, a three-time U.S. national figure skating champ, should take a gender test — and that he should skate against women."

We should all be free to be so comfortable in our own skin.   I love that he lives his fabulousness and genuinely seems to enjoy himself while everyone else worries and frets about the 'effect' of his sexuality.  Surely that explains placing 6th after skating a routine that reduced him to tears...as it did me.  Dude was totally robbed.

This is a guy that I would love to hang out with.  Good on ya, Johnny

Free your secrets...

For years I have been singing the praises of Frank Warren and the Post Secret project; I can't say enough about it, or him.  Having given up his private life to be the protector of secrets, the virtual shoulder for the world to cry on, the trusted friend for those who feel they have none; Frank Warren has taken his show on the road, generally to colleges across the country, and I am lucky to be in one of the target cities. Heck, I'm literally around the corner from the venue, so you can bet I'm going to be in that auditorium.

There are certain schools of thought that suggest that periodically 'messengers' are sent to us from whomever is watching our drama unfold.  They rarely choose the 'messenger' role, and in fact seem thrust into it and seem powerless in the face of the magnitude of their task.  But they're here to remind us to have hope, that we are powerful and amazing beings, and most important...that love is all there is.  

I believe that Mr. Warren is one of them.  His gentle demeanor certainly suggests that it may be a possibility; and in watching the video below what I find  most striking is his voice.   It speaks to me of safety.   It sounds like compassion.  It sounds a lot like my 'good medicine' blanket from New Mexico feels - but that's another story for another day.

FREE YOUR SECRETS AND BECOME WHO YOU ARE

Ok, I'm heading to Iceland

I've been floating around in the erotica world for a long time and there's not a lot that I can't wrap my head around when it comes to fantasy.  Interspecies sex?  No big deal.  I once attended a great workshop given by the lovely P.C. Cast, on how to write interspecies sex that was um...illuminating (the trick is to start with the animals mating style - then let your imagination go buck wild).  I was reading Vampire erotica light years before "Twilight" surfaced; before anyone even knew that there was such thing as vampire erotica.

Aliens with dual penises that can grow to accommodate any position and/or body type? Been there, done that.  Shapeshifting big cats?  Oh hell yeah!  When I see a tiger, I see something entirely different; but I think that I've only encountered one Elf-themed book in all this time; and none of it was written from personal experience - as is apparently the case with this young lady.  So take yourself over to The Frisky and check out Elf Sex in Iceland.

No - not that elf...

After doing some digging around, I even managed to find the blog of the young lady in the video, and for once - I'm kind of speechless.  In any event, if you don't hear from me for a while - it's because I've gone to Iceland.  

For research...yeah, that's it!  Research!

Happy Valentine's Day!

A David Duke WHAT???!?

THIS is what happens to children who grow up too fast; to children who become media darlings before they've even graduated from high school.  High school is boot camp for the rest of your life, and if you find yourself out in adult land with no structure and no boundaries, you'll never learn stuff like...don't pull the pin on that hand grenade and just stand around holding it.  There will certainly be consequences if you do.

John Mayer was a Grammy Award winning artist at 17, and I remember watching his self-conscious geeky performance on Saturday Night Live and thinking "wow what a heavy load to bear when you're just a kid."  I was also amazed and impressed with his talent.  But John didn't complete boot camp, and if you read his Playboy interview you'll get a glimpse the hazards therein.

Narcissistic, seemingly unable to manifest positive connections with other human beings, and clueless to the impact of his words on those who (at the very least) loved his music; say nothing of those women who shared themselves with him - and I'm not gonna jump into that mess - I'm guessing that somewhere Jennifer Aniston is trying to keep Gerard Butler from going all Leonidas on his ass.

This is the result of youthful entitlement coupled with poor social skills and way too much weed:

PLAYBOY: If you didn’t know you, would you think you’re a douche bag?

MAYER: It depends on what I picked up. My two biggest hits are “Your Body Is a Wonderland” and “Daughters.” If you think those songs are pandering, then you’ll think I’m a douche bag. It’s like I come on very strong. I am a very…I’m just very. V-E-R-Y. And if you can’t handle very, then I’m a douche bag. But I think the world needs a little very. That’s why black people love me.

PLAYBOY: Because you’re very?

MAYER: Someone asked me the other day, “What does it feel like now to have a hood pass?” And by the way, it’s sort of a contradiction in terms, because if you really had a hood pass, you could call it a nigger pass. Why are you pulling a punch and calling it a hood pass if you really have a hood pass? But I said, “I can’t really have a hood pass. I’ve never walked into a restaurant, asked for a table and been told, ‘We’re full.’" 

Anytime you see "That's why black people love me" in a sentence, be prepared to be horrified.

Seriously John?!  The guy is a BLUES musician!  I'm sure his idols would totally understand his reference to a "nigger pass" coming from a coddled, wealthy white guy; because nothing shows homage to your influences like the use of the "N" word.

And then there's this little gem:

PLAYBOY: Do black women throw themselves at you?

MAYER: I don’t think I open myself to it. My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton heart and a fuckin’ David Duke cock. I’m going to start dating separately from my dick.

We all have our preferences when it comes to dating, there's no denying that.  But to invoke David Duke when referring to what may or may not come in contact with your dick...well, that sends an entirely different message.  I heard it loud and clear, and so did a nation of black (and white) women who are commenting ALL over the interwebs.  Latoya over at Jezebel sums it up nicely(but for some reason the link won't embed, so here it is:http://jezebel.com/5469484/its-impossible-to-have-a-benetton-heart-and-a-white-supremacist-dick?skyline=true&s=i)

"Racism is not clever. Trying to lampoon racism by perpetuating racist stereotypes about black women, using racial slurs, and claiming to have a pass is just idiocy masquerading as wit. Or, as Farai Chideya explains at the Huffington Post: "The reality is that, it's insulting to say black people love you and then profoundly misunderstand the difference between entitlement and humor."

Note to John Mayer...a person who claims to have a Benetton heart would welcome all colors of vajayjay...and in fact, would revel in it.

Of course, he's backtracking and apologizing all over town.  Last night in Nashville he waxed poetic to his fans about his attempt at being "clever."  Good for him.  Farai Chideya over at The Huffington Post brings up a critical point by reminding us that "not one, but two of Mayer's songs (including "My Stupid Mouth") contain the line "I'm never speaking up again," and now he may well feel like taking his own advice. But that would be a shame. Sometimes the only way to learn is by messing up, getting checked... and then learning to check yourself."

I've always said that what's in your heart will always eventually come out of your mouth.   I think the gentleman below says it a whole lot better than I ever could.

The Space/Time Continuum

There's a great line in "Close Encounters of The Third Kind", where one of the scientists points skyward and says ..."Albert Einstein was probably one of them". I have to agree - and I'm not about to go into a Quantum Physics rant (though I'd love to! That kind of stuff totally rings my bells). But Professor Einsten made time and the fact that it doesn't make sense...well...make sense. If you care to jump into the subject and let your brain be swirled and agitated like a clothes in a washing machine, may come to see that the sensation of deja vu makes perfect scientific sense.

Case in point...Conan O'Brien, 1998. Discuss among yourselves.

...Gives me hope

What a week it's been.  I don't know what they put in the water down here, but the whole country should be drinking it.  I am once again humbled by kindness on a daily basis.

When I left LA, it was because my very ability to survive was in question.  I don't even want to consider what would have happened to me if I had gone back after Miss Lillian passed away.  That, like LA as I was crossing the desert, is now in my rear view mirror.  I had only hoped that by staying here, I would learn to breathe again.  That was all I wanted.  Such a simple biological act had become nearly impossible to do without panic; not a morning went by when I didn't cry in the shower.  Who knew I would learn to smile like a Texas beauty queen?  

I had turned into an angry, bitter, cynical uber-bitch and didn't even realize it.  Here in East Tennessee, it's a challenge to not greet everyone you encounter.  And it's uncomfortable for me, which is really sad.  I had perfected the art of scowling and not making eye contact; refusing to connect.  It appears that these folks are bound and determined to cure me of that.  Lucky me.

I have recently settled into my new gig as the assistant to a health care executive.  She is amazing - normal, kind...human.  And rather than be viewed with suspicion and held at an appraising distance as "Lynn's new assistant"; I have been so relentlessly welcomed by so many total strangers that my smile muscles are damned near paralyzed.  I'm talking about people coming over to my office just to introduce themselves, offer assistance should I need it, and then end with my favorite local expression:  "We're so glad to have ya!"  There's no such thing as sitting alone in the lunchroom.  If you're in it, you're part of the conversation whether you want to be or not.  

While watching the Golden Globes this past weekend, I kept waiting for the moment that I would feel a twinge of nostalgia for my former studio life...it never came.  This morning when I heard Cathy yell across her cubicle "Becky, did ya get those roosters yet?"  I just had to pinch myself to stop myself from smiling.  The conversation then drifted to the weather, and how cold it's been (7 degrees last Thursday morning) and how hard it's been to keep the pipes from freezing so that the cattle could get water.

This gives me hope.  I had come to view the rest of the world and my life through perpetually narrowed, angry eyes.  I had no idea that you could be content just to be content; but I'm bound and determined to learn.  

And speaking of hope...PostSecret.com is where I go to pray and meditate on Sunday mornings. To witness a bit of the collective consciousness of a weary and difficult world, and then send out a bit of healing light when I'm done...GivesMeHope.com is where I go to remind myself that it's working.  

Go and be renewed.  You'll smile like a Texas beauty queen.

 

Buttery Ass Funny

Nothing of major importance...I just love me some Triflin Toons and I had to share the love.

A seat at a table in the Gratitude Cafe

I am  surely old enough to be his mother...but Jason Mraz trips my triggers in a way that one might consider downrighty pervy.  Why?  It's simple...he's sexy without being creepy, spiritual in a way that resonates with me, smart as a whip, and most important...funny.  Funny always wins the day (see below... and there are plenty more where that came from).

 

We should all be chilling at a table at the Gratitude Cafe.  In fact, it's place we should be visiting weekly (if  not daily); and I don't mean Mr. Mraz's website either...  

I came across this very cool iPhone app:  the Gratitude Journal.  I really like the idea; all you have to do is  list 5 things you're thankful for, once per day.  I do this in my head every day just before I go to sleep, especially if I've had a bad or challenging day; but I like the idea of writing it down.  I believe that writing things down makes them so; gives the Universe the message that you're serious, that you want to be heard, and can kick start the process of making things manifest.  So...does my writing this mean that I get to have my wicked way with Mr. Mraz' partner in crime, Toca Rivera, should I encounter him?  Hmmmm....but I digress.

Below is just for a taste of his wordsmithing and vocal abilities...this one is full of humor...

and this is just lovely - and true.  Enjoy.

Turn the page...

Enough time has passed, a new year has begun, and I'm finally ready to close this chapter in the ever evolving book of my life. Mainly, this post is for the rest of the family members who were unable to be there; but it's also for friends who have listened to my harrowing/wacky Miss Lillian stories for years. This is the last one I have to tell. I'm ready to move on; ready to write new ones.

Unfortunately, the event was not recorded, and the sheer hilarity of Miss Lillian's funeral has not been preserved, but I think the eulogies below say quite a bit about her and how she was regarded by those who knew her. One of the many things I learned from her was that funerals could indeed be funny...it's all in the delivery.

ML and I were never close; we didn't have the kind of mother-daughter bond that I longed for, but I learned not to expect it, and that made the ride somewhat less jarring. You can't miss what you didn't have. But if I were writing the screenplay of our story, in terms of sheer character development...she's a veritable goldmine, so I have that to be thankful for.

And thanks Mom, for bringing me home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eulogy for Miss Lillian by MHR

September 11, 2009

As men, we are all equal in the presence of death. - Publilius Syrus

When I started thinking about all the things that I could say about my mother, I realized that I had a lot to wade through. But the word that kept coming back to me over and over again was “character”. Not character as in: that thing that makes each of us unique, that defines who we are. No, I meant character as in: "my mother was a..."

And she was such a character. A master storyteller. A woman of infinite mystery. She kept the details of her life very carefully guarded, and many of you here know her better than I ever will. If you have anything you want to share, any insight you'd like to give...I'd really appreciate it.

My mother believed in maintaining connections with people, and in her own unusual and intense way, she cultivated her relationships. I’m so pleased to see those relationships represented here. I can tell you that she is pleased as well.

*****

If you look up the word "diva" in the dictionary, right next to that picture of Mariah Carey – you'll find a picture of Lillian Ryan. They both shared a love of drama, of an adoring audience… and a near psychotic need for bendy straws. I think my mother would be pleased to know that she’s been giving the ultimate Diva a run for her money.

When I was going through her belongings, I found a poem that she had written many years ago, called “Things I Have Taught My Children.” Well, let me tell you about the things that I learned from my mother.

First and foremost, she taught me to love Shakespeare, which turned into a lifelong love affair with the power and rhythm of words. For that I am forever grateful.

She taught me that if you look at it in just the right way…pretty much anything can be funny. That has gotten me into trouble more times than I can count. It still does.

She planted the seed for my love of comparative religions and methods of worship, by exposing us to as many as were available to us in our area. She showed by example that it doesn’t so much matter how you seek your higher power – what is critical is that you do.

She taught me that you get what you give.

And in these last few months she taught me about selflessness, compassion, and the healing power of forgiveness. Those things are far easier than we think they are, and it feels really good to carry them around in your heart.

I know that my mother walked a hard road for most of her life; some of it by circumstance; a good deal of it was self-imposed. But I also know that her current road is one paved with unconditional love and grace; and I know that it feels good to her. It's about time.

Thank you for coming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

…On Being Aunt Lillian

By Evelyn Debro

September 11, 2009

This week Aunt Lillian has dominated my thoughts. My earliest memories of her are of thinking she was beautiful and rich. I thought she was rich because she didn’t work and she came in several times a year and stayed as long as she wanted to. I remember receiving a box of clothes before school started; at least twice. Thelma and I called it our “care package.”

One summer she took Thelma and me to Akron for the summer; but when we learned that Margaret was born, we didn’t want to stay any longer. Aunt Lillian and Uncle Sam weren’t coming back until the end of the summer; but we were so unhappy she explored her options and the only way we could travel alone was by plane. In 1952 there were very few people flying in this area – and definitely no black children flying alone. But Thelma and I did.

Thanks to Aunt Lillian, we were treated like celebrities. We were allowed to go into the cockpit and sit in the co-pilot’s seat. We were given wings and certificates, and nicknames: Mamie and Flamie. Aunt Lillian was like the Pied Piper, collecting children wherever she went until she had children of her own.

*****

Aunt Lillian always tested your love for her. She pushed you to your limits and beyond, and if you did come back…you loved her; and she kept testing us until the very end.

She was a very intelligent and crafty person. She was the first black person in Lebanon to graduate from high school. The black school in town only had a junior high…and she demanded more. She was informed by the school board that there was no money to send her go boarding school in Christiansburg. She informed them that was ok... because she’d just attend Lebanon High on Monday, but by Sunday funds were found to send her to Christiansburg where she graduated.

Her Daddy – my Granddaddy Charlie – was very political and passed his passion to all his children. All 5 boys were named for politicians. Aunt Lillian was always involved in politics, running for office or fighting for some cause. When she was working here before her marriage, she was a member of the NAACP when it was first organized.

When her eyesight was failing to the point that she could no longer read, she found a way to cope. Since she never trusted anyone completely, she would call us to come at different times and each of us had to read the same mail. That way, if you lied, she would know. She even signed her own checks until the last two months.

I would rather be hunted by the FBI and the CIA than Aunt Lillian. She found out whatever she needed to know, long before the internet. If she had looked for Bin-Laden, she would have found him.

Aunt Lillian had a friend in Jack Ashby, who called her daily to read the Akron Beacon Journal to her. And Mr. Newby, who had known her since her 20’s, said she stopped traffic when she walked down the street.

Mrs. Annie Ruth Gillespie was her dearest friend in Johnson City. At Aunt Lillian’s 80th birthday party, she was still living in Ohio, but her party was in Lebanon. Mrs. Annie Ruth said they had been friends for 60 years. We all laughed knowing that would change when she moved here.

She was always the Devil’s Advocate. If you were a Democrat, she was a Republican – and vice versa. She lived to debate you, and if you didn’t argue with her, she didn’t respect you. She talked to us, and knew us until two days before she died, and before she left she told us all that she loved us.

She always quoted the last stanza of this poem by William Cullen Bryant –

“Thanatopsis”

“So live that when thy summons comes to join

That innumerable caravan that moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take

His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”