Goodbye 2010, hello to the splendid unknown!

Wow. As I begin to compose this post, the clock indicates that this ridiculously dramatic, at times wonderful, at other times indescribably painful, all-around eventful, undeniably fruitful year will end in less than two hours. Are you curious about how I spent the last few days of 2010? Well, I'll write about it whether you're interested or not. How's that?! Aw, give me a break! I write because I need to, not because I care whether the world cares or not. There's plenty of less stimulating, less ego-centric, more scandalous and flesh-happy literature available for a few bucks a pop at your local grocery store checkout line or tobacco-and-news (and porn) joint.

Yesterday I declared in a very permanent way my admiration for and devotion to Pittsburgh's best member-supported, commercial-free public radio station, 91.3 WYEP ("Where the music matters!") by getting their logo tattooed on the back of my left calf. That was my fourth--but certainly not my last--tattoo. (Did I mention that tattoos are addictive, that you'd better be mindful of that fact when you wander in for your first one?!) I plan to write more extensively about this fourth tattooing experience in a few days. The tattoo itself looked like this moments after it was finished:

My newest little baby currently feels like a bad sunburn, but that's an understood consequence that must be accepted if one is going to have ink forever needled into one's skin. As long as it heals well without too much color dropping away with the dead skin, I'll be happy!

Last night I dreamed, among other things (including Legos, soaking in a wintertime swimming hole a la the Polar Bear Club, wading through a muddy creek, and exploring a most interesting woodsy landscape coated in ice-melting salt residue) that I was watching Fleetwood Mac rehearse for a comeback tour--but all was not well. Stevie Nicks sat on the stage floor next to me, beautifully made up with her pleated suede knee-high platform boots, but tired and showing her age; she wanted me to sing harmonies on 'Rhiannon': Dreams unwind, love's a state of mind over and over again. I sang two different low harmonic parts for her and she told me exactly which one I needed to stick to--and I could not creatively alternate. She was hurt by Lindsey Buckingham's constant biting comments and passive-aggressive behavior. He just couldn't or wouldn't let the past die, or so it seemed. When I sat next to Christine McVie in a folding chair a bit later, she was sarcastic and bitter; I could imagine that she would've taken comfort in a cigarette just about then. She might have said something to the effect of--and I take great liberties with embellishment here--"This whole bloody tour's going to implode. Bunch of dysfunctional sixty year-old babies. I should have stayed at home in the English countryside with my dogs and my cooking."  I think that John McVie (Christine's ex-husband and Fleetwood Mac bassist) and Mick Fleetwood (Stevie's onetime lover, wild statuesque band namesake and percussion virtuoso) would've been happy jamming away together, the other three and all their drama gone for good.

This morning, after brewing some coffee, I finally finished my latest Kurt Vonnegut foray, The Sirens of Titan. People, listen: if you're wondering what to read next, give Vonnegut a try. If you're a fan of political satire, or scathing black comedy, or social commentary, or heart-prodding tragi-drama otherwise, or particularly of well-crafted science fiction, read this Vonnegut work first. The story was deeply moving and an enthralling piece of Earth-rooted Sci-fi fantastica spanning millennia and most of the geographical universe by leaps and bounds. I actually cried a bit near the end--but then I'm an overly emotional, sentimental sap on Wellbutrin, so what do you expect? A few lines really caught me in those last twenty pages, and I'm compelled to share them. First, "It took us that long to realize that a purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved." (I've been thinking about love and all its residuals lately, so that line really pierced my wicked little heart.) Later, referring to a Tralfamadorian (fictional planet) spacecraft, "The controls were anything but a hunch-player's delight in a Universe composed of one-trillionth part matter to one decillion parts black velvet futility." Black velvet futility to describe outer space. Exactly.

I spent most of this afternoon exploring the wonderful Homewood cemetery, less than a mile from where I currently sit. (By extension, less than a mile from where I've been living for the past four years.) How, oh how, could a morbid brooding zombie-loving cemetery enthusiast let so much time pass without exploring a magnificent cemetery so close to home filled with the rotting memories of some of Pittsburgh's most famous (and criminally wealthy) citizens and the ridiculous architectural creations that house their bones?! How, having passed this cemetery over 100 times, could I have ignored it for so long? These questions and their necessarily rhetorical admonitions are irrelevant; what matters is that today, on the last day of the last month of 2010, in unseasonably warm weather under blue skies, I finally ventured into the place with my camera and took approximately one zillion photos. I braved idiotic dog-owners ignoring the "leash at all times" rule, foul-mouthed Emo teenagers up to a whole lot of no good (common in city cemeteries, in case you didn't know), and the inevitable unpredictable mystery of companionship with myself and myself alone in the name of art and adventure, folks! I will post more about this experience, and share a photo or two, a bit later.

In the meantime, I'm going to wrap this post up, finish my first glass of New Year's Eve wine--a flavorful deep-red vintage called Seven Deadly Zins (thank you Matt Goodman, good buddy!)--and get the hell downstairs so that my friend and housemate Josh--and I--will not be totally alone at midnight.

FUCK YOU and thank you my beloved, deceitful bipolar mistress 2010! I know well that 2011 will be a much better companion. She simply has to be.

Creative explosions (or candle flames)

Ever wary of the frighteningly swift passage of time (and my misuse of it!), I often scold myself for not producing enough artwork or otherwise doing enough creatively stimulating things, including reading. I tend to feel guilty when someone says "You should read some of Mike's poetry" or "Mike's an awesome artist!" when, truthfully, Mike's not writing very much poetry or doing much art most of the time. Unless I'm actually producing artwork regularly, I am uncomfortable with being called an artist; "a person who occasionally turns out some really good drawings" is more appropriate (although I suppose that's pretty convoluted). Fortunately, I did find some time in the past seven days to be creative. Granted, this creativity stemmed from my responsibility to complete a commissioned work--to be given by a friend of mine as a Christmas gift to his girlfriend--and my earlier procrastination in avoidance of starting the drawing.

Last Sunday was one of those rare days when I had absolutely no obligations: nobody to work for, no pressing chores, no appointments. I should have started my friend's drawing, due Wednesday, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I sat around all day long in my pajama pants, barefoot and shirtless, editing photos on my computer, drinking coffee, and savoring the incense burning in the study/library where my lovely reptiles lounge in tanks dreaming of crickets (Luna) and twitching pinky rats (the snake gang). Out of the blue, it occurred to me that I should do something to immortalize the leftover roses arranged in the dining room and living room before tossing them in the compost. I grabbed the camera and tripod, headed outside before dark, and started playing around in the garden bed. This is Rose Wake, so named for its allusion to a funerary gathering:

On Monday night, I mustered a bit of discipline and got started on Daryl's drawing. As with almost every artistic project that I embark on, the beginning--the intimidation of a blank page and no definitive vision or sense of direction--was a lonely emotional battleground. Yet, as with almost every project that came before, a vision developed as the page took on color and geometric composition; my confidence grew; my singular determination to stick with the art, to see it through to completion, developed into excitement and experimental possibility. As the drawing came alive, my muse stretched her limbs, chanted three Aums channeling the vibrations of the universe, and struck some pretty phenomenal yoga poses. On Tuesday night, the drawing was finished and celebrated with a one-man spiced rum toast.

Later today, I'm going to head over to the 61C Cafe on Murray Avenue and prepare some of my Christmas cards while sipping coffee (like I need more of that!) and hopefully feeling a little hip among all the hipsters and academic types who often populate the 61C. This week, I promise myself to work on a poem--a little epic about a solitary World War II American flying ace in France that I've been meaning to write since September. I'll start reading Kurt Vonnegut's The Sirens of Titan after having just finished Mother Night. With enough discipline and motivation, I'll do at least one oil painting between Christmas and New Year's Day. Wish me luck! 

Appreciation and direction

Yeah, I had so much to say that I've decided to post twice today! This past week, for the first time, I watched Madonna's documentary 'I Am Because We Are' on YouTube. (To clarify, the film was written and produced by Madonna and directed by Nathan Rissman, once a gardener for the star.)  If you haven't heard of it, I recommend it--and I'll summarize by saying that the film explores, among other things, the devastating effects of AIDS on the population of the African nation of Malawi (seemingly unknown or unheard of to much of the western world, at least until Madonna became involved): the hundreds of thousands of orphaned children, the despairing victims on the verge of death, the desperation of parentless youth left to fend for themselves on the streets. Add poverty, lack of education, economic stagnation, alcoholism, absence of medical aid, and destructive traditional cultural practices perpetuated by ignorance (including "curing sex" in which elder male villagers designated as spiritual healers engage in repeated forced sexual intercourse with the mothers or wives of AIDS victims to supposedly rid them of the resultant impurities of their lives), and you've got a pretty awful situation. The film is devastating, brutally honest, at times repugnant, inspiring, life-affirming, and beautiful. 

Say what you will about Madonna--about her musical significance, her talent, her reputation for manipulation, her knack for mastering the changing weather of cultural relevance and taste, her very public adoption of two children of Malawi (one of whom is well known to still have a living father), her motives as an artist / director / singer / songwriter / musician / actress / producer / executive / philanthropist. 'I Am Because We Are' humanizes Madonna and convinces all but the most cynical, cold-hearted viewers that her heart overflows with love and an inherent responsibility to help others. As someone who has questioned, on countless occasions, the value of his own life, his purpose, his value to the world, I was left wondering how I might sign up to serve Madonna's mission for a better Malawi and a better planet. I would gladly go there in a heartbeat, and not just to please her. Indeed, the potential benefits and inherent thrills of a professional relationship with Madonna Herself are hard to deny, but the realization of a personal commitment to change in a suffering yet promising nation of life-loving survivors and innocent children--capable of changing the world as we know it--is an opportunity that is hard to dismiss.

Make no mistake: I am committed to a better America, and I am grateful to live here; but as Madonna points out, there is a joy, a deep celebratory abandon, an absolute lack of pretense or artificiality, present in the lives of the most impoverished and seemingly discarded human beings populating the forgotten corners of the developing world that makes our spoiled, selfish, unabashedly ignorant American experience pale in comparison--a life of color and dance and laughter blossoming amidst the death thriving everywhere. If I had the courage, I would book a one-way flight for Malawi tomorrow. Somewhere in that land of suffering and wonder I am convinced that I would find myself--that I would find purpose in influencing the lives of forgotten children and neglected souls begging for the opportunity to shine. Honestly, it would be fantastic to meet Madonna, to earn her respect and admiration; but it might very well be good enough to connect with the people regardless of her approval or praise. I would never do it just for her, or just for myself; I would do it for the children, for the elders of Malawi who would hopefully be convinced, in time, of my selfless intentions. How can I do this?! Is it my calling? 

Starting from scratch

What a day. In the blink of an eye my entire savings account has vanished. Why? Hospital bills. At first, they came trickling in, little harmless things--tremors inflicting manageable amounts of damage: $143.95, $77.50, $48.25. I'd almost convinced myself that the Big One wasn't coming after all. Then the quake hit like a mother, a ruthless highrise-toppling 9.0 on the Richter scale of my sanity: $1,042.00. I stood in the living room last night with my coat still on, bill in hand, staring at the wall and thinking All the work to save that money... and Why can't I ever catch a break? Just ONE?! Then my attitude shifted: the bill must be paid, the past cannot be undone, the loss isn't worth agonizing over, and I actually have enough money in my savings account to finish the whole thing off in one payment. At three o'clock today, I did just that. Now, as I sit here in the mercifully quiet basement of the Software Engineering Institute, I'm thinking to myself How much and how often am I gonna have to whore myself out to rebuild my savings? I guess I can kiss that shimmering mirage of a trip to Germany or Turkey or the British Isles goodbye. This is but one of the many unfortunate penalties that I've paid for having been blessed with more than just a touch of instability. If I were asked to relate one positive element of the whole experience, it would be this: without insurance, my out-of-pocket bill would have totaled $3,165. Health insurance companies may operate as depraved, humanity-hating mini-governments with dollar signs for eyes, but at least I have insurance.

Lately, to keep my spirits up, I've been reflecting a good bit upon my magnificent Thanksgiving break--the road trip to Georgia with my friend Greg: how wonderful his family was to me and in general; how exuberantly generous the weather was when we hiked on Thanksgiving day; how good it was to swing by Nashville briefly, meeting up with my best friend Ryan and pounding a few too many excellent dark beers down in the company of guys I'd give anything for. Even the long drives south and back seemed to pass quickly, colored as they were by an endless variety of music, meaningful conversation, amusing stops (e.g., the criminally tacky combination BP station / fireworks emporium in Tennessee), surprisingly lovely early-winter landscapes bathed in misty darkness (on our way to Georgia) and sunshine (returning), and the refreshing liberty of not having to be or sound like someone I'm not during any part of the journey.

It's terribly frustrating not having any inkling whatsoever as to what my destiny in life is, yet being plagued with an unwholesome obsessiveness that refuses to allow me some refuge from the habit of thinking about such things constantly. As this year comes to an end, I'm once again in a position to symbolically start anew, as you perhaps are. If I can allow myself to simply live, to stop predicting possible futures and to avoid self-persecution as a result of my perceived failure to succeed with the magnitude that I'd expected myself to, that will be just as wonderful as any conventional new year's resolution. Of this year, I have certainly learned that I am a survivor. Does that not count for something?

On to the next book: from Capote tragedy to Mailer's Jesus

I walked over to Gullifty's on Murray Avenue in Squirrel Hill last night for dinner, a few drinks, and the unique condition of being totally alone with my thoughts (and my book--more on that in a moment) yet surrounded by conversations and boisterous activity simultaneously. The weekend left me feeling quite isolated and uncertain of myself--uncertain of my value to myself or indeed to others. I had to get out. When I arrived, I was disappointed to find that, first of all, there was no room for me at the bar, and secondly that everyone seated at the bar was there to watch the Steelers game--a bit more in the way of boisterous activity (and spontaneous screaming) than I had counted on. I could've fled to the coffee shop but that would have been bad form; the bartender, who I know, had already seen me come in. Besides, I was starving for real food. I sat alone at a cocktail high-top and opened my new book, 'The Gospel According to the Son' by Norman Mailer--a hypothetical account of the life of Jesus as related by Jesus Himself, employing a more straightforward, unambiguous language than we associate with much of the New Testament. (For the record, the only other Mailer piece I'd ever read was an extensive interview with Madonna--the pop star, not the Blessed Mother, just to clarify.)

Many of us suppose, perhaps, that Jesus must always have been aware of His importance, His magnificent appointment on Earth--His transcendent fluid existence bridging life and death, Heaven and Hell, God and humankind.  In Mailer, here is a Jesus who seems detached from and somewhat nonchalantly ambivalent about--at times humbly unimpressed with--His divine purpose, a spectator of his own life. (Henceforth, then, I will leave him un-capitalized.)  This lack of condescension and self-righteousness is quietly revolutionary in its approach to a most sacred, unchallengeable account of the very theological continent upon which all of Christianity was constructed.  Of course, as a reader I would like to encounter Jesus as a modest and humorous young carpenter's apprentice, walking beside him on the dusty desert roads of human experience with all its sufferings and filth rather than the incomprehensible glowing perfection of some abstractly magic Heaven offering promises I will not accept.

Jesus the youthful bearded carpenter--what pride Mailer's Jesus took in his craft! Here is God grounded to the earth, to the trees, fruit of the soil. Here's a welcome intersection of scriptural Christianity and my admitted pantheist leanings--Jesus the tree-hugging hippie inside every bleeding heart willing to invite him in a bit. Thank the cosmos that Jesus had been a skilled woodworker friendly with fishermen, at home on an open sea where nets are cast for the promise of abundance, rather than some ambitious and sly apothecary or sneaky merchant of Oriental curiosities in the Nazarene markets. Then, at the age of thirty, as nearly I am now, the transformation in the River Jordan: immersion in brown water by John the Baptist, cousin of Christ (and another fairly grungy man presaging the hippie aesthetic). The man loved the desert and the sea, worked with his hands, hung with scoundrels and flesh-selling low ladies, embraced his own humanity--what's not to like here?!

Fifty pages into the book, I'm overcome by a warm and certain sense of peace along with a touch of scholarly purpose, already preparing the notes for this post. One of the low-functioning adults who works at Giant Eagle across the street squeezes in beside two men at the bar in Steelers garb and is instantly at home with them--accepted, valued, not spoken down to. It's rare to see individuals living with obvious mental impairments warmly embraced in the company of those we consider "normal," and the humanity of the occasion lifts my heart. By the end of dinner and my second drink, I realize that I'm watching the football game behind the bar and--gasp--actually paying attention to it! What the hell is wrong with me?

"Where life's headed, I have no way of knowin'..."

That's a line from a Tom Petty song ('Time To Move On' from the album Wildflowers), and it's also an all-too-common worldly theme--or fearful preoccupation, anyway--that I've been contemplating for the last few weeks with increased intensity and frequency. I'm going to be thirty in May. I have no idea where I'm going to live next year. I don't know whether to run the full Pittsburgh Marathon or just half of it again. (Sounds like a trivial concern, but that's a big difference when it comes to the necessary discipline and training.) I want to really push my skills and challenge myself as a skydiver in the coming year but it's going to be very difficult to find the time or the resources to make it happen. My full-time job is...well, just a job, a means of paying the rent and enjoying the rare privilege of better-than-average health insurance. Then there's this reliable old curmudgeon of a life-narrative trope, if you will: I've been single for my entire adult existence now, and despite the fact that I am absolutely ready to transition into my thirties--a decade that will, with any luck, prove to be the best ten years of my life to date--, I am keenly aware that my chances of finding love, even short-term companionship with benefits (use your imagination...), are very slim. Of course, I'm concerned as well about the responsibility of carrying on the family name. If I don't conceive children, the Jehn name dies when I die. That's a really intimidating, frightening situation to have to face. Alas, so much to offer--at least I'd like to think so--, and no takers, as always. (Forgive me my indulgence of a little melodrama.) You know, I'm really just goddamned sick of my perpetual aloneness and apparent undesirability, frankly--sick of thinking about it, more accurately, because if I were more comfortable in my own skin--more accepting of my current prescribed role in this world, more grateful for my countless blessings, less inclined to constantly compare myself to other people and crucify my own character as it consistently fails to meet the impossible expectations of our vulgar culture--, I'd be a far happier person.

Just so I won't lose you in eye-rolling frustration at my brooding, my two or three loyal readers, I'll end by listing some of those aforementioned blessings. I'm grateful to have my friend Greg, who has turned me on to sharing tea on Murray Avenue a few times a week (rather than hitting the bar and spending four times the money). I'm grateful for my friend Amanda who has stuck with me through thick and thin for almost ten years now. I'm grateful for my family. I'm grateful that I was able to include three pieces of art in last Friday's Arbor Aid show, which drew over 500 guests and scores of spectacularly talented woodworkers and craftspeople. I'm grateful that I made five skydives on Sunday and finally earned my B license. I'm grateful that I'll be an uncle in February. I'm grateful that I have a best friend who will always be my best friend, at least until the day that one of us keels over; how many people can say that?! I'm grateful for all the friends unmentioned here. I'm grateful that I survived my dark episode in October. I'm grateful that I can go out and run seven or eight miles if I want to. I'm grateful that I'm healthy. I'm grateful that Squirrel Hill Magazine publishes an article penned by me in almost every issue. (Unpaid, but potentially crucial in the event of a future job prospect.) Hey, you know, this list could go on and on. That's a good thing, right?!

Weekend recap -- no literary icing, no exploding candles, just the cake!

This past weekend was exactly what I needed: a balanced mixture of work, community volunteering, socializing, and enjoyment of the outdoors.  Saturday morning and early afternoon comprised an increasingly frenzied pre-party prep session in Monroeville (including vehicle loading) timed for completion just minutes before heading down to the Heinz History Center for a Bar Mitzvah party setup with Micki and Dena--luxury sports car-themed, I might add.  (Each table centerpiece was a different car: Ferrari, Viper, Bentley, Bugatti, Mercedes, Maserati, Porsche, Rolls-Royce.)  I'll admit that I felt tense; I was still in a rather sensitive place emotionally given my hospital experience two weeks ago, and I anticipated that there would be some unpleasant clashing.  However, despite the chaos at the history center thanks to the massive influx of visitors there to behold the Vatican Splendors traveling exhibit (which initially forced us to stand around for about half an hour, unable to do much of anything), we finished in plenty of time, succeeding under light duress with minimal tension and no lingering drama.  We had a phenomenal time at Chicken Latino in the strip, bantering hilariously with the staff and socializing with a new friend, a Chilean man recently arrived from Miami, soon to transplant his family in Pittsburgh--and elated to have found a decent joint in town serving Chilean cuisine.  At 11pm, after a little relaxation, we headed back to the history center and spent no more than half an hour tearing down.  I was in bed by 12:30am.

On Sunday, I was up early and marching toward the corner of Forbes and Murray by 7:30am to help coordinate our annual fall Squirrel Hill cleanup.  This is an event that always renews my faith in people and in our community.  The weather was perfect, the turnout was magnificent, and I was actually able to get my hands dirty picking up trash on the streets with my friend Greg for a few hours rather than standing behind the tables for three hours looking important.  It was wonderful seeing old friends from the Litter Patrol, including Judy O'Connor, wife of the late Bob O'Connor, former mayor of Pittsburgh, and her son Corey.  I was also comlimented by a volunteer who marvelled at my seemingly boundless energy and sense of purpose!  (Ego booster--sometimes important!)

Sunday afternoon brought me a tremendous feeling of relief as I finally found the perfect old wood planks for my Arbor Aid piece (due in less than two weeks!).  Fortunately, Brian Koski is back in Pittsburgh from his expatriate quarters in Florida for a visit with his wife, my occasional part-time employer Allyson Holtz, meaning that I have both a wood shop and an experienced woodworker at my disposal for the next week.  After a refreshing walk back to Squirrel Hill from Highland Park, I relaxed a bit at home, had tea and take-out Chinese with friends at Te Cafe on Murray (yes, we actually brought our sushi and Wonton soup into the cafe), enjoyed a little Baskin Robbins, and was miraculously in bed by 11:30.

I spent blessed little time worrying about the aftermath of my "incident" (that's a nod to Josh and Porcupine Tree!) or what tomorrow will bring.  My focus in the next two weeks will be on my Arbor Aid contribution, which must be installed next Wednesday.  I have also been without a drop of alcohol for two weeks now--an all-time record for the entire stretch of my adult life during which I have been a regular drinker.  Has it been hard?  Not even remotely!

Reflections on a necessary crash-and-burn episode

Hello, blog.  I know that we haven't talked for awhile, and for that I apologize sincerely.  Life has taken a few very dramatic turns lately.  I promised myself that I would minimize how much I talk about what happened last week and how much I write about it.  The problem is that I can't stop thinking about it.  I can't stop regretting.  In an afternoon of despondent resignation I made a rash decision, quickly devolved into a desperate emotional catastrophe--a weakened fraction of the man that I am capable of being--, cried out a few final times hoping that someone would intervene, was stopped (thank God), and spent four days of treatment reflecting upon what I'd done and about the very substance of my life--all the insecurities within me, changes without, pain that I had harbored, truths denied, depression gone untreated, cancerous alternative narratives of reality entertained mentally to the point of hijacking real reality...all this that brought me to self-implosion.  I honestly believe that what happened needed to happen.  I required a violent, epic wake-up call.  I needed to face the illness of my mind and spirit.

Last night I was browsing through photos I'd taken in Costa Rica three years ago and found this one of a broken, almost comically misplaced phone booth on a nearly empty Pacific beach.  Once, perhaps, it provided a fitting metaphor to describe the way I had come to envision and contextualize my own life: despite having been blessed, surrounded by beauty and offered the gifts of serenity, peace, and productive capacity, I could not escape the pervasive self-defeating delusion that I am an outsider destined for mediocrity--isolated, neglected, misunderstood, unlovable (with, I should add, not much in the way of self-value behind those seemily impenetrable sunglasses).  I am happy to note that that attitude, with tremendous effort and humility, is being fed to the wrecking ball right now--such effort because there's a lot to demolish, not to mention great consequences for stopping work; and that photo, rather than allegorically relating a particular story of how my life is or was, is simply a pleasant and darkly funny photo taken at a gorgeous beach.  Even that very day in 2007, when I took the photo, there were emotional struggles.  I'd decided to swim out to a rock offshore and sit behind it for two hours because I thought that a friend wanted me to disappear; she was actually worried and entertained the idea that I might have drowned.  Of course, that day later developed into a remarkably rewarding string of memories to be treasured after all.  Huh.  Maybe there's more metaphor connected to that phone booth than I thought.

I want the people around me to know that I'm confronting the reality of my situation with total alertness and, I think, a slightly elevated consciousness.  I am learning to find value within myself.  I deal with each day's challenges as they arise.  I remind myself frequently of my blessings.  I am learning to accept.  I cannot take away the events of last week (although I wish that they hadn't been necessary).  I cannot undo the damage that I've unintentionally done--the absolute horror that I caused my family and friends.  I hope that they've forgiven me, that they'll offer the gift of support as I move forward, that they will allow me to rebuild trust and to develop into a person of higher character.  I hope that certain relationships in particular can be restored, even if it takes months--or, if they cannot ever again be what they were before, that I can accept the new reality fully and with a certain amount of wisdom.  I hope that my life--and my ability to sail the inclement weather of my life courageously--will only get better with time.  I am accountable to myself, to my friends, to my family, to this world.

Another semi-recent poem about love from Mr. Single himself

Bushwhack Attraction

You better watch it, you
young ungainly son of a gun.
That emu’s got the goods on you
and at least one eye too.

Now there’s not tremendous
coordination there but the bird’s
got drive and a scandalous bite—
what did you do to offend her?

Those feathers are ruffled good,
neck extended for inspection
and legs cocked for righteous
running, gunning for a chase.

The outback’s a wild place
they say—are you tuned
to its sacred energies?
This sweltering dust-dry heat
has turned many a man sideways
for love as locals know—
Mother Nature playing ancient games
as the sun sets over desert gold.

Do yourself a favor, brother:
run top-speed from a charging emu
if your heart’s not fit for adventure;
save your sweat and flesh
for less intriguing creatures—

or hop on top if you think you can,

catch the currents of her secret life.
She’ll let you ride easy
if she respects you, throw you off
then stomp if you’re not true.

In the catching itself
there’s something—
 

for loyalty in these violent times
requires a certain earning.

Beekman Tower, NYC: Frank Gehry's tallest

Our New York City excursion this past weekend was fantastic but, as with most trips, too brief.  Next time I'm there, I'll give myself at least an entire day to explore some of the significant new highrise towers and other buildings that have gone up since my last in-depth Manhattan architecture exploration.  There will be a stop at the World Trade Center site, of course, where Tower 1 is climbing with magnificent speed, Tower 4 is well above ground, and the memorial pools and plaza are finally a tangible presence; a visit to Cooper Union's magnificent new Academic Building; the re-clad and re-purposed Museum of Arts & Design (formerly 2 Columbus Circle); and perhaps, finally, a visit to the lobby of the Hearst Magazine Tower, a prismatic Norman Foster icon hovering seemingly weightlessly above the original Art Deco podium.  Then, of course, there's Beekman Tower, the tallest building design ever realized by starchitect Frank Gehry.  I was amazed to see just how imposing and tall (76 floors) this fairly stand-alone mixed-use building is, viewed from a distance.  The familiar blindingly shiny cladding and signature Gehry language of folding, cresting, undulating forms are there on a previously unseen scale.  I wasn't sure about this thing before, but as with many buildings, the realized project is suprisingly better than even the best renderings.  Must be nice to call this behemoth home!

My first post of substance: a recent poem!

Spin

When you throw yourself down these hills,

you slide hard and roll, legs pounding

soft soil at the edge of control.

Grass stains and pain are rewards for passion,

gravity the catalyst for breathless bounding.

When funnel clouds come off hill ridges

they carve notches through forest crowns,

dance mid-air, find careful footing

before touching down again. Such studious

meandering pays off in ripened valleys

where the ground is good for churning.

Spinning buildings, billboards, solitary

swing sets—every object from boulders

to bodies wants that sweet speed

around and downward. Are you not

like them? You with your taste for danger,

your perilous charm, smart and sacred

logic—you crave to churn the world, too,

cascade down slopes toward gorges,

twist tornadoes through complacent

self-serious places to land on something

genuine. Reach down from heavy-bellied

thunderclouds to rearrange our lives

with frantic, arbitrary art—breathe

beautiful chaos into my heart, careless

love.

My little hello to the world from the new blog

Hey, everybody! Welcome to my new blog. I figured that this would be a fun way to share my thoughts, feelings, concerns, hopes, and deep perversions with the world--well, the very limited part of the world that would be interested. I doubt very sincerely that this little exercise in self-indulgence (or vanity, or earnest self-expression, or whatever you prefer to call it) will ever make important waves on this silly planet we're all stuck to, but at least it ought to be fun. I'll update it as often as I can. Enjoy! M.