June 10, 2018

Through the years I have learned that it takes me approximately two hours to get ready to leave my place after I wake up in the morning. I'm not sure why I was thinking about this, but it was a really important concept to me at the time. This morning we all left the house before the time I had told the girls that we needed to leave. This like, never happens. If there is an anti-horror movie that could be made perhaps this morning and these events could be used. Mom - expects anger, attitude, passive or outright hostility, tension, comments, etc..., meanwhile the children expect an overly authoritarian tone, constant reminders, stress, tension, comments, attitude, anger, tears, outbursts, etc..., to have very little of this was downright shocking and left me very unprepared for the sequel. The girls drove separately to church and I half expected them to be very late or not show up at all.

Let me back up for a moment and explain that one of the first things I saw when I woke up this morning was a text from my sister reminding me that church was at 9:00 AM, and that she would bring an extra Bible for me or anyone else who needed one. Before I left I put my small Bible into my purse, put the water bottles into my backpack, and made it most of the way down the stairs before I remembered that I had left my purse sitting on the small table near the top of the stairs where I habitually keep it. I asked my youngest who was closest to the kitchen to grab it and then had a moment when she had no idea where this was. We have lived here for almost a year and I feel like I keep my things in that spot routinely, this is how anxiety works. Presumably she is legitimately bewildered by the request and my explanations are unclear. To me it seems as if this is information she should know, but I forget that she lived at school during the school year and isn't as used to this system as her sister. 

I tell her sister that I must have been unclear and I meant that. We leave and I warn the girls that it is very wet as if they can't see the pooled water or feel the slash of it against their skin. I'm glad I wore clothes that were warm as I trudged to my vehicle. I had assumed the girls would be riding with me and had a moment of, I don't know what to call it when they went to the other vehicle. I drove by myself in high winds and extremely wet roads, slipping several times and praying that my children were driving at conservative speeds and mindful of how close they were following other vehicles. I see my family is already seated and am surprised when my sister gets up rather than just sliding down to let me into the pew. We are sitting in the last row, my two youngest nieces are there and I am momentarily comforted by the youngest who is wearing a pink long sleeved shirt that says; I love you. Her other piece is a pair of very comfy off white pants and I jokingly ask my sister why she wasn't wearing her pink shirt and white pants.

Most of church is going through the motions for me. I want to be paying better attention, but have a long standing habit of allowing my mind to wander whenever it is permitted to take a break from whatever is being said by others. My niece is putting paper into her mouth, making unintelligible noises, and bouncing up and down when she wants to see something better. She's almost a year old and her hair is a downy white while her eyes are a very clear blue. I suddenly remember my children being that age and how tense, angry, and fearful those days were. I pray she has a bright future ahead and want to start crying when she smiles at me for no reason other than she probably recognizes me since I've seen her more recently lately. We sing hymns, my children are on the other side of my nieces and their dad, I look over and see one of them is wearing my mom's long old lady trench coat. It makes me smile and I start to relax, putting aside job related worries and previous family drama for the moment.

My mom asks what the plan is and I'm immediately transported back to childhood when I heard this phrase so regularly it became one I adopted myself, one of those - I'm turning into my mom - moments I suspect some of us have from time to time even though I swore I would be nothing like her when I grew up. I tell her I'm exhausted and won't be going to Bible class, she's disappointed, but resists the urge to challenge it although I can see from her face and posture that she's about to say something she knows won't go over well. I tell the girls something and can hear my sister asking them about Bible class. Since they went to church without much of an argument other than pulling pillows over their heads when I tug on their toes and tell them it's time to get up I figure we can take a flyer on Bible class even though I enjoyed it last time I went.

To my complete shock my sister is able to persuade them to go, I hate it when people bribe and cajole others, but my sister does this and it works. Lured by the promise of snacks the girls go downstairs willingly and I feel a complex spectrum of turbulent emotions as I follow them. I estimate there are about forty people down in the basement. Spread out on two six to eight food tables are what seems like a gluttonous and hedonistic spread of goodies. Oreo cookies, animal crackers, someone has written 'Lemonade 'Brownies'' on a small sign and attached it to a container of what looks like very tall lemon bars boasting a creamy glazed top. A box of frosted chocolate doughnuts sits next to half a dozen varieties of International Creamer. There are bags of popcorn, my youngest grabs a bag of Lays potato chips, and I see my sister carrying a large glass of red Hawaiian fruit punch. There is also a bottle of apple juice, one of grape, and an almost empty container of V-8.

I do not feel good about the parade of people going back and forth, like birds at a feeder in a protected area. Almost everyone is overweight, the woman who sat directly in front of me is a stark contrast. She is wearing a long white linen tunic that would have been a wrinkled humid mess on most others. Beneath that she has a red shell tank, a pair of black Capri length leggings, and shiny dark red heels. Her necklace matches the heels and her lipstick is so bright I have no trouble spotting it from across the room. It seems as if she is joining me in silent condemnation of the grazers as her thin wrist displays an expensive looking watch that complements her iron colored hair. Class begins and I relax somewhat. I'm able to pay better attention that I had upstairs, but I don't really say anything, trying to listen to what others have to say and feeling out of my element since I haven't attended Bible class in decades apart from the stint last Sunday.

Finally I have an opportunity to contribute. The pastor says something about a particular logical fallacy, after listing straw man, and several others. I mention ad hominem as the fallacy he knows, but has temporarily forgotten. He looks up as if he can't figure out who made the comment, I don't think he was really expecting anyone to say anything and then I feel silly since I had blurted it out without raising my hand. The basement is cold, damp, it needs to be redecorated. I realize I am reliving a time when the church was a much larger part of my life, but I had a lot less control than I do now. I'm reminded of sitting in an upper room listening to my father speak. It's blazing hot in the windowed room, around us are hangings of long dead saints and tributes to their deaths; beheading, upside down crucifixion, a knife commemorating the removal of flesh from a living body, it's hard to imagine being flayed or stoned as the voices of playing children carry up to our sunlit room.

I drive home feeling unwell. I lie down and sleep for several hours. When I wake up I am filled with dread that has no real life basis. I am making more money than ever, I'm making progress with my children and family, I'm listening to music I love, swapping songs with a guy I find attractive who wants to road trip to Nashville. We go back and forth for a while, the conversation starts with him telling me he hasn't done much on his day off and doesn't feel productive. I urge him to relax, we discuss our various vacation and road trip ideals, Led Zeppelin is prominently featured, I learn about a band I have never listened to before and introduce him to some really old music that is new to him. I ask my daughter if she wants to go somewhere. She tells me she has already left the place once today and I tell her that sometimes people leave more than once. She recoils in horror and I laugh, but drop the subject.

Earlier I read an article on the suicides of Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade. Jim Carrey is quoted and he gets at the heart of something that I've been struggling with for what seems like an eternity. When we see celebrities who appear to 'have it all', he replies that this is in fact, the real problem. You realize that nothing can fill the void inside. Not money, fame, fortune, success, new experiences, denial, pain, sacrifice, I wore Kate Spade eyeglasses and carried several of her signature bags. The other day I saw an unmarked one at the thrift store for $4.99. I'm sure some would argue that it was a knockoff, and perhaps it was, but there was no denying that it was well done if it was. The studs on the bottom, the heft of the handles, the way the outer fabric constrasted cheekily with the inside, it was classic Kate to me. I will miss her quality and love for the whimsical that she paired with the geometrical. No matter how bad my life feels some day, and my own issues with religion aside, I'm glad I went to church with the girls today.

Xoxo,

J

P.S. Maybe this Real Simple article on home offices will be fun. I'm so easily distracted. Ever notice how hard simplicity can be? 

j

Lost In Confusion

I am a 57 year old closeted gaymale. My partner of 30 years passed away almost 5 years ago. Since then I have disregarded all thoughts of an encounter or relationship. 3 weeks ago, while at the Public Library, I met a closeted 30 year old young man.We developed a casual friendship. We seemed to be doing fine and met several times within the next few weeks, sometimes at my insistence and sometime at his. Each time we met, he would nod and smile before saying anything. Today,however, when we met, he seemed nervous and embarrassed and kept his eyes downcast and just smiled whenever I said anything. He wouldn't even look at me or talk.I finally shook his hand and told him I had to go. I feel that something is wrong. Should I approach him again? Or just leave him alone? I can provide more details if necessary.

P.S. We talked today and as it turns out, He has been married for almost 2 years now and has a 2 year old son and a 1 year old daughter. I appreciate his honesty! I wish him the very best that life has to offer! Sometimes not knowing why something happened is the worst thing that can happen.I'm grateful to him for letting me know! Peace Out!

Thank you all for your kindnesses.

As you know, kindness is a part of love. We are love. The light of love flows in you. Besovi willed it to be so. We bask in Besovi's light. We are Besovi's children. We are everything2 website.

On Sunday I spent some time with my friend Clifford. He is going through some things right now. They are personal things. Not to be discussed. Would be wrong of me to plaster his life up for you to see. Clifford is not one of my followers. He is thinking about it. He has seen a pamphlet.

There are many pamphlets out there in the world. Some contain interesting and usefull information. Some contain nothing but lies. Some contain a mix of the two. When I went over to Clifford's apartment down by the river I knew there would be trouble. Not terrorism or coming face to face with rough and tumble bigots but personal trouble. His trash can was overflowing with empty beer cans and whiskey bottles. This was not good.

As the children of Besovi who gifted us this website we are entrusted with the words he has spoken to me. In my ear. More than once. Whisper into both ears he did. At different points. It was clear. The decline of the everything2 website had to be stopped. The bigots could not win. They had wrestled it away from us. They entrusted it to old ladies and sociopaths. And yet we hear the call for love from our brother LightGuy who shares with us his struggle above. He needs just enough love. But not too much. Will you be to one to rise to Besovi's challenge unto us? Will we help jessicaj make sense of what she talks about in her wonderful daylogs? She needs just enough love. But not too much. So good. So right. Say it with me. You knew it was coming. I am predictable.

Clifford has recently become seperated from his wife. In the legal sense. Paperwork was involved. You know the drill. Some of you have been there. Some of you were in that closet where 17 naked noders piled into a 10x10 enclosed space without windows. Clifford's wife was asking him for a divorce. Another man had been located and secured. Clifford was odd man out. You know the drill. Some of you have been there. Some of you were in the closet. I hope you are out now. Blessings of Besovi upon you LightGuy. May you find just enough love. But not too much. It is what you deserve you beautiful human being. Hugs are in your future. Source yet unknown. Believe.

I watched baseball with Clifford. Besovi looked over us. Kind Bexovi. Loving Besovi. Let yourself be taken into Besovi's graces. Besovi does not judge. Besovi loves those that love. When love is shared with many partners the light works. Spread your seed about. Johnny Appleseed was a pioneer. We know his story. So good. So right. So many apples. We now have bad apples. In the barrel. What happens when that happens? Not enough love. Sometimes too much. So wrong. So bad. Besovi is full of love. Come into Besovi's grasp.

Clifford did not feel better after I left. His team lost the proverbial baseball game. I cared for him. He will be better in time. Others will check on him. Check on friends. Check on loved ones. Know their troubles. Know enough. But not too much. Let them open up to you like the precious flower they are. No one should die alone or in silence when so much love is not being shared. Love thy neighbor do not report him or her to the INS. Be better than rotten apple in barrel. Be full of love.

What have I do say about Dotty the lady next door? She is brittle. I have seen her getting her mail. From the box by the street. Mail truck pulls right up. Puts mail in box. She ambles out to get it. One might say she will ambulate to the mail box. It is a slow process. I give her my love. Just enough. Not too much. It makes so much better.

Help those who need your love the most. Give them what they need. Besovi has so endowed you with this ability. Be authentic. Be real. If your co-worker is bawling in the men's room at work, get in there. See what you can do. Not too much. People need space. Be there. Do not let this man cry alone in the bathroom at work. A rotten apple might proceed into the bathroom instead of you. On his cell phone a photo he will take. That man will never work as a welder again. People will see him in this state. Not generally accepted amongst the welding brotherhood. It is embraced in the Chuch of Besovi. Come. I have ordered more folding chairs. I hope to see you in one of those.

All my love to you. As spokesperson for Besovi I can say that Besovi sends warm regards of love and light. So good. So right.

So my wife's mother died.

We'd been 45 minutes away in a small town known for white squirrels. People connected to my wife run an annual event there. We'd seen her mother that morning, but, given the frail and failing condition and the palliative diagnosis, she wanted to see her again on the return trip.

My wife became convinced her mother would die that night. They'd been at odds for many years, and she lived a large part of her girlhood with her grandparents. Circumstances have changed in recent decades. We came in recent years to know the person her mother once was, and might have been, had her life not strayed so far off a stable path.

After a long wait, we finally returned home. A half-hour later, just after midnight, they phoned us.

Requiescat in pace.

The funeral was small, because my wife has few relatives and her mother, for a long stretch of her life, lived like a hermit, become a neighbourhood legend in a house with an overgrown garden and piano music playing from the windows at odd hours. The few relatives, a couple health-care people, a few of my family, and a handful of our friends come, and three women whose presence draws attention and unease.

"Who are those women sitting there?" asks my wife's closest friend, in hushed and tremulous whispers.

We tell her later.

The staff informed us when we arrived the coffeemaker wasn't working. I drove to a nearby Tim Hortons to put in an order for coffee for the post-service dinner. Singularity Girl-- though by now she's long been a woman and mother—left the service early and did the pick-up run. I'd trust her with my life; picking up coffee was an easy matter.

My wife is a singer, so she sang at the funeral, Handel and Dvorák.

My sister plans to visit two childhood friends she has not seen in more than a decade, and the mother of one, a nonagenarian who lives with her daughter. She says she would rather see people at least once, now, rather than just turn up at their funeral-- or vice-versa.

Ashes to ashes.

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