Dancing with Myself

And So Forth

I was raised by a gentle christian who taught me that God's gift to us is his perfect love.  She taught me to look for his hand in all things, and not to pester him about correcting my mistakes in judgment with divine intervention.  She made it very clear that to a guy as busy as God, he had better things to do than contend with my mundanenss.  She also taught me to see God's face in all living things.  To her, the word "christian" was a verb, not a noun. She taught me to begin all prayers as praise and thanksgiving.  God was to be worshipped and glorified, not treated like an answer machine where you could leave lists.  Yeah, I'm talking about my grandmother again.

As I opened myself up to the universe, I began to understand that Jesus Christ was teaching us techniques by which to live better, and how to be more fulfilled as spiritual beings.  "The Kingdom of God is at hand," he said.  It is here, it is now.  Be here now.   

When I encounter the hate and meanness of some Christians towards me as a fellow human being because they imagine that I am less than they because of my freedom of affection, and as I listen to them villify me as being unworthy of God's grace for a circumstance of my humanity, I wonder how they could have taken so wrong a turn in their understanding of Christ's teaching?  I leave them (and you) with a quote by Saul of Tarsus who, upon being enlightened changed his name to Paul (I so totally understand), "By the grace of God, I am what I am: and His grace which was bestowed on me was not in vain." 1 Corinthians 15:10

The Power of Prayer

Do you believe in prayer?  When you say, "dear lord," just who is "lord" in this instance?  An old white guy on a throne in heaven?  Be honest.  If there is an encompassing presence we anthropomorphize as god, is it capable of understanding our thoughts, and is it amused when we ask it to suspend the laws of physics as a personal favor to be paid for by eternal gratitude and devotion? 

Occasionally as sensitive human beings, we encounter situations where we wish to express extreme sympathy.  I suppose its harmless when we say "I'll pray for you."  I think of it as a kind of verbal blessing which allows us to hide our awkwardness with the situation.  So I like it when I hear it directed at me by others.  I will use it myself, but I'd rather express my empathy for the situation in ways that express real sentiment.  That's not always easy, and thank god, not always necessary. 

My grandmother taught me how to pray.  She had tough rules.   All prayers should begin as praise and thanksgiving:  We are so lucky.  We were poor, but in our poverty we were still rich.  We had a family, we had a home, we  had land, we had livestock.  We were Americans.  We were free.  Etc.

It was assumed that God was a real busy guy.  We were not to bother asking him to correct our mistakes in judgment.  "Save my ass" was not addressed to God.  It's not that he couldn't, but you shouldn't ask.   If he wanted to save your ass, he'd notice your ass needed saving and would save it--if he wanted to.   And if your ass was saved, it was perfectly acceptable to say, "Thank you, sweet Jesus."   On the other hand, you had no right to say "damn you god for not saving my worthless ass," because, well, duh, your ass is worthless to begin with.

I have a few friends in several degrees of crisis right now.  There is nothing I can do to make their burdens lighter.  Their grief and suffering is their own, and it is not about me.  It would be more honest for me to say to them, "my inability to make any real or significant difference in your pain and suffering right now hurts me more than it hurts you."  You know, if someone said that to me just after I had a tooth pulled, I'd knock the shit out of them.  Instead, I'm going to use the plain value of good English, and say, dear sisters, I have the greatest sympathy for you.  I am humbled by the courage you show in the face of your circumstance.  As my grandmother taught me to pray:  I wish you to be able to see God's hand in all creation.  I wish you to be able to see God's face in all living things.   And especially I wish you,  in this exact moment, to be with God.  Be here now.

What time is it?

We do not need to look at a clock to know what time it is. It is always the only time we have, Now. Nor do we need a map to tell where we are. We are always Here. We have no other time and place than here and now. We carry with us memories of previous times and places, but that is not where we are. We often burden ourselves with anxieties about future times and future places, events that might take place but have not, but that is not where we live either. Trying to live in the past or the future are both illusions, and they can ensnare us and cheat us of the only place and time we actually have in which to be and to act—Here and Now.

The First Nations have an additional understanding of the Sacred Circle in which we are gathered. The two roads that run from north to south and west to east cross in the middle and that center of the Medicine Wheel is where we find ourselves. We are always in the center of the Circle, no matter what our geographic location. This is mystical topography, of course, so we must let go of our Cartesian coordinates for a while to understand. You and I may be thousands of miles apart, yet each of us is in the center of the Sacred Circle, at that crossing point, always in the Here and Now. There is no place we can go and not be with ourselves. There is no place we may flee and not find God already present with us. There is no place but the one place. That is where we are.   

A lesson from Paul.  No, not the one from early Christian history, the one from Byzigenous Buddhapalian, a new addition to my blogroll and a new friend in my life.  If you have a few minutes, do visit Paul's blog and take a few minutes and read Genocide has a face.  By day Paul is a normal guy paying for a  house in the suburbs, but by night and week-end, he's a fearless verb of God. 

 

Assaulted!

On my way to BART after work today, I was deliberately assaulted by one very angry person.  Joseph, my friend and neighbor, and I were walking with a group of people from our building, when a rather normal looking white guy, about 5'10", 170 pounds, gray hair, glasses, deliberately elbowed me as he passed in the opposite direction.  It raised a knot on my arm.  I called him on it.

He turned and very aggressively approached me.  The thing is, I don't scare.  I'm not sure what this asshole's problem was, but it is never okay to physically assault someone, especially me.  I had my first fight when I was about 6.  It's tough being a sissy in the South.  Being a Redbone sissy just complicated it.  You could trash talk me, but you couldn't trash talk my people, so I got into more fights than I should've.  Here's the thing about fighting:  any physical discomfort, you know, like busted lips, black eyes, bloodied noses, do not last as long as the feeling of humilation. 

My friend, Joseph, placed himself between us.  He did the right thing for the wrong reason, but still, he did the right thing.  Joseph did not see me get assaulted.  He heard me say I was assaulted, but since he didn't see it, he took it up from where he came in.  Two people were getting into a fight, one he knew, one he didn't know.  He decided the last thing he needed, much less me, was to get into a fight.  So he pulled me away.  The guy followed and shoved me.

I am not afraid of taunts.  How does he know I'm a chicken-shit mother fucker when he's just randomly assaulted me on the street?  He don't know nothing about me.  He's just guessing.  A physical assault is another thing altogether.   After getting beat up a couple of times, my older brother who has NEVER liked me, took me aside and told me how to defend myself.  He told me to stay out of fights altogether if I could.  If I couldn't stay out of it, then do whatever it took to make it a short fight by taking out the guy who's attacking you.  This nutcase had physically assaulted me twice.  I was ready to take him down.

Joseph once again pulled me away.  My total consciousness, knowing that Joseph was right, allowed myself to be pulled away, and as this asshole continued to yell taunts at me, he became almost comical and by the time we were 50 feet away, he had disappeared completely.

Oddly, my heart rate barely increased.  I wasn't even hyper, and here I was ready to take this motherfucker on.  I'd give myself points for this except for the tiniest bit of anger I felt towards this asshole.  If I'd had put him down hard in front of 30 to 40 witnesses, how many of them could have said that I provoked it by calling him out for brushing against me?  He sucker-punched me.  No one saw it, just me felt it.  What if I'd have put him down hard and he busted his head and it killed him?  Okay, I'd probably have gotten off, but not for free.  It could easily have cost me over a hundred thou.

Joseph did good.  He kept us from getting into a slugfest.   Even if I'd have gotten in a few good blows, I'm the one who had most to lose from a fight.  Thank you, Joseph.

Everybody Say "OM"

My blogbuddy, Jaye, over at Winding Road in an Urban Area (don'tcha just love the name?) has just finished Day Two of the Texas Bar Exam.  I just spoke with partner Jon.  She's a wreck right now.  We need to all think about her right now and send her good vibes.  She's just one of the smatest human beings in the whole world, and she's going into the Third Day which is writing, and that is her strength.  You Go girl.  You're going to kick ass! 

Waiting for The Big One

My friend, Wanda, wants to know if I ever worry about The Big One.  To the uninitiated, The Big One is the next big earthquake.   Honestly, it never enters my mind.   The last Nearly Big One, and to some others, like my mother in Santa Cruz, The Big Enough One, also known as the Loma Prieta Earthquake, was in October 1989.  I was in the elevator of my apartment building when it struck.  Nope, no scary story here.  The elevator shook a couple of times then stopped at my floor.  I went into my apartment and was checking my answer machine when the power went off.  My apartment was on the corner of Leavenworth and O'Farrell in a great old building dating back to the 1910s or 1920s.  I lived on the fifth floor on the corner with windows looking out to the South and to the West.  I walked over and looked out to the street and people were pouring out of the buildings like ants when the nest gets stirred.  It was only then that I realized we had experienced a major earthquake, and HOLY SHIT, I had been in a fucking elevator.  OH MY GOD!  An elevator!  I missed it.  I had always looked forward to watching a big earthquake.

I saw a small earthquake once.  That was so neat.  We were having lunch at what is now Chevy's in Emeryville which sits on the eastern side of the San Francisco Bay when we experienced a small earthquake.  I looked out across the glimmering mud flats and could see the earth rippling.  It was incredible.  So naturally, if we were going to have a pretty good sized earthquake, I wanted to be in a position to maximize the experience, and yes, I always try to sit in the first seat of the first car on a roller coaster.  But no-o-o-o.  I have to be stuck in an elevator.  And about the time my warped reasoning works itself back to the beginning of my circular reasoning, I realize once again that I was almost trapped in an elevator. 

Anyway (Piggy's favorite word), I had my friend's car parked outside, but I wanted my "war pony".  That's what I called my old Kawasaki I rode most of the time.  It was in the basement at my office in the state building.  As I got there the gates were closing and I ran past the guards with them screaming at me that the building was damaged and they were closing it down.  Not with my war pony in the basement I screamed back at them.  They did close the booger down, too, and almost clipped my license plate as I rode past.

I headed off to the Castro to check on my new flat.  It was okay.  The refrigerator had danced across the kitchen about six feet, and one champagne glass had fallen over in the cabinet and broken.  It was obvious as I rode across town that the City was going into shock.  I found my fm walkman and started getting the news.  The Bay Bridge had collapsed and the Marina was on fire. 

It's always about us, isn't it?  It never occurred on me that my mother was the one in danger.   She lived in Santa Cruz, and the earthquake was in San Francisco.  We don't call the 1909 earthquake the Central California earthquake, now do we?  I tried calling her to let her know I was alright.  Couldn't get through.  Only two weeks before, mom and I had watched a special on public television about how to prepare for earthquakes.  We put together our emergency kits and agreed to a plan for letting folks know we were okay, or to get any other messages to others.  The narrator of the special said that it would probably be easier to call across country than it would be to call locally.  So, mom, my sisters who lived in San Jose, and I agreed that we would call our brother in Texas.  That proved more difficult that I expected.  I don't know my brother's phone number, and besides, I don't particularly like him and didn't want to share my earthquake with him, so I called my cousin, Sue, over in Walker, Louisiana and asked her if she'd call him after I finished telling her my earthquake stories. 

Our plan worked, only I still did not know that Santa Cruz had been devastated.  That night in the Castro neighborhood of San Francisco we had no power, so people were hanging out on the street, partying.  My neighbors and I set up a formal table with crystal, silver, and china with lots of candelabras and had a dinner party!  I didn't want to sleep alone that night, so a couple of really nice guys invited me to join them.  Oh stop with your licentious thoughts.  It was more like a pajama party.

For the next couple of weeks there would be aftershocks.  Scare me?  Oh, hell no.  If I were laying in bed when one started, I swear I'd rock the bed to extend the feeling. 

A few days later I spoke to my mom who had been in the library at De Anza College in Santa Curz which was only a few miles from the epicenter.  She said as the earthquake began to shake, it was just like a drill, everyone immediately went under the tables without hesitation.  She said they knew a major earthquake was happening.  It took her an hour or more to get home to the north side of Santa Cruz.  Her house was okay, only minor damage.  Her neighborhood did much the same as mine, staying out on the street well into the night, visiting and comforting each other.

California takes earthquakes very seriously, and while not foolproof, we have good codes honestly enforced.  None of the worst case scenarios promised by alarmists proved true.  There was not a rain of glass from the high rises.  The problems promised by the experts occurred.  The Marina, built on landfill, proved extremely unstable, and there was a lot of damage there.  Areas where creeks and streams had been filled in, also suffered a lot of damage.

I am not afraid of The Big One.  It'll give us something to talk about.

I gotta get out of here, I'm late for work, again.

 

Where was I?

I just had an intense week-end.  I didn't do much, but it sure was intense.  I came to an understanding of myself and my needs this week-end that has changed everything about my life.  How's that for drama?  I lived in San Francisco for 20 years until I moved to Oakland 5 years ago.  I decided as the result of a process of examining your priorities and realities, that I am moving back to San Francisco.  I have never thought of Oakland as home; well, home base, maybe, but never home planet. 

Due to an oddity of the real estate market, my pocket of the Greater Bay Area has expanded more exponentially than has my preferred neighborhood, the Upper Castro in San Francisco.  I am now in a position to trade my equity for a place of similar quality in a more desirable (to me) neighborhood.  My immediate reaction is to pee on myself, so thank god for depends, or a kinky subculture.  So I put the process in motion.  I'm going to put my condo on the market in the next 18 months, and the sooner the better.   It'll take me three months to get rid of crap so the place looks half way decent.  I don't think it matters too much if I do it this month or next year.  My niche of the housing market will continue to expand more rapidly than the S.F. neighborhood side.  All economic indicators show the area as booming, so let it boom another year.  The greatest risk comes from the  vagueries of the interest rate.

And I had a couple of dates this week-end.  Tres interesant.   Tres.  My stock seems to be going up despite my avoidance of the gym and the ever increasing grayness of my hair.  On one of the dates I was the younger person, although barely, and with the second one I had a good eight years on  him.  Both of those degrees are within the realm of reason.  I have a second date with the older of the two this Saturday next. 

This is me on Saturday.  I have a chest, I swear I do.  Me and older date walked over to my neighborhood's Saturday farmers' market.  We spent a very nice three hours on Saturday.  He took the picture.  Does he really think I look that goofy?  Oh well.  You know you always look exactly like who you are.   (With a special "wink, wink" to Tennessee Williams.  I owe you one, Tennessee.)

A Dog's Life

Have you ever witnessed cruelty and felt challenged to confront it or at least attempt to rescue the animal or human being mistreated? Mark over at Auterrific, a dog-friendly blog if ever there was one, points to this story in Slate about an underground railroad which rescues dogs from abusive or neglectful situations and helps them find homes. Sometimes you just have to do what's right despite the fact that it might be dangerous and/or illegal. Shabat shalom, Mark.

Do All Republicans Eat Shit?

Check out this story. The part that troubled me the most? "Vaughn's measure called for imposing fines against clergy who performed same-sex marriage ceremonies." Excuse me, but why is the state telling clergy what they can and can't do in their churches? Oh, is this about the clergy acting as agents of the state? I think it's about time for mainstream clergy to get out of the job of enforcing the state's limitation on marriage. My church says it's alright to marry same-sex couples. If your church doesn't allow it, that's your church's business. Your church does not have authority over my church, and neither does the state of New Mexico. Naturally, this legislation was introduced by a Republican representative, Gloria Vaughn of Alamogordo. My cousin lives in Alamogordo. He's a Republican enabler. When they do shit like this, he backs away and says, "I don't buy into all of their agenda," but he votes for them. He's as guilty as they are. He's just not honest about it. Like one of my commenters said yesterday, they hate us when we're different and they hate us when we try to be like them. They just hate. They hate so much their faces are contorted.

The Promise of Spring

The view from my deck.  This is at 7:55 a.m.  It's so dark and gloomy that the flash went off.