Richard Writes!

O Holy Night

2010-12-24T13:17:00.000-08:00

My christmas card to all:

Oh Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining. It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth!

Long lay the world in sin and error pining.

Till He appeared and the Soul felt its worth.

I have loved the words of this Christmas hymn for years, even more so now that I know the metaphysical interpretation of our own Christ consciousness tis really the holy night that we all resonate with.

Many of you know of the journey I have taken the past year with brain cancer; in fact many of you have been on this journey with me hand-in-hand.

During this holiday season, I want to express my feelings of gratitude to my family and friends for all you have done with specific acknowledgement to my beloved partner Dan for his untiring patience and presence, to the support I have felt from the Bodhi Spiritual Center,(and my beloved Sangha group::Scott, Anjie,Ben, Richard, Dennis,Marsha, Douglas, Kristl, Margret), for the unconditional love and connection from my Dad and his wife Cindy, to my brothers for their great visits recently, as well as my mother. Thank you Mike for being the best co-worker anyone could ever ask for. Mark Anthony, Shakti, Scott L,the spiritual connection of our friendships and the honesty you allow has nourished my soul: thank you. Much appreciation to all the other spiritual healing practitioners for the sesssions and many prayers.

As I have shared with some at times, cancer has really made me question things. Tough questions about the meaning of disease and healing arose throughout the long, trying year, as I had brain surgery in January and then radiation and chemotherapy for six weeks in March and April, then the failure of a clinical trial drug in late summer, then another surgery in October in Cleveland with the hopes of a new vaccine treatmen,t that did not work; I awoke from the surgery with the left side of my body mostly paralyzed and needed a cane to walk. Most recently, after the Bodhi Spiritual Center raised money for a trip to go see the spiritual healer John of God in Brazil, the same week the trip was planned, I had a stroke that put me in a wheelchair, unable to walk, delaying the trip.

Yes, I have asked myself at times during the year as it seemed one thing after another occurred that surely felt devastating at the time: what did I do to deserve this? Was I being punished?

It was an old story from my childhood related to issues of worth and being gay and falling short of the love of God.

But something else happened this year as well, thanks to Bodhi and all of you, not to mention some surprises from my family of origin as well. The Savior that I have looked for so long,

I discovered was inside me all along, and my soul has now felt its worth from the overwhelming inexhauastable demonstrations of Love shown by so many of you during this journey called cancer.

So the question had to get larger: what did I do to deserve so much Love? The only answer I can come up with is that I must have always deserved all of the Love directed to me, not just now but throughout my entire life, even when others failed to tell me I deserved it.

Maybe cancer was/is part of some larger spiritual healing in that it has lowered the veil that kept me from seeing I was worthy every moment and that Love is coming towards all of us All of the time... we just have to be open to it. that’s the only sin or mistake or error::that we don’t realize in the moment, every single moment just how loved we are and that we are allowed to feel that Love. Thank you family, friends and Bodhi for helping me see the Light of my soul’s true worth...what a gift!

Let our worship of the Birth of the Christ child be a reminder to unconditionally love our divine essence.

O Holy Night!

Self Love Haiku 7

2010-12-11T06:00:00.000-08:00

Sun shining clear bright

icicle becomes water

pure...deathless like me

Self Love Haiku 6

2010-12-04T08:04:00.000-08:00

nectar dripping thick

hummingbirds suckle, honey

i am hot moist air!

Self Love Haiku 5

2010-12-01T08:06:00.000-08:00

please believe me now
Old Oak bellowed through the wind
You were born of me

Self Love Haiku 4

2010-11-30T15:52:00.000-08:00

Monks in Tibet snow -
a distant gong sounds three times
- carrying warm bread

Self Love Haiku 3

2010-11-29T16:17:00.000-08:00

Deserving full health

like fresh mountain stream water

flowing free and clear

Self Love Haiku 2

2010-11-28T17:00:00.000-08:00

my impaired body

(feeling like a funny ape)

still, God's creation!

Self Love Haiku 1

2010-11-27T08:02:00.000-08:00

a loud roar today...

my Lion-shaped heart beating:

the strength inside me.

Sacred Storytelling: a Father and Son Pow Wow

2010-11-25T09:35:00.000-08:00

Sacred Storytelling: a Father and Son Pow Wow

by Richard Allison and Ronald Allison

My dad and I had a serious conversation last night, perhaps what some people used to call a Pow Wow. That word has a connection to Native American culture that does not go unnoticed to me. In fact, I had just been talking with some friends about the importance of naming rituals in native cultures and spiritual rituals. So it was interesting that my father said what he said last evening because he spoke directly to the idea of naming as part of initiation. Ironically, knowing that my dad would be visiting, one of the things that I wanted to discuss with him (but did not know how) was, "What does it mean to be a man." Being the middle child as well as gay, I have always felt a sense of not being enough in regards to being a man and have always wanted my father to give me guidance in this important area of self worth.

So it came as a very pleasant surprise when my dad initiated the conversation by talking about Native American naming rituals. Let me step back for a moment and share that my father and I have experienced uncannily similar health challenges for the past year. Some native cultures might even define these challenges as initiation rites of their own. Initiation into a deeper and richer sense of life and love and nature not unlike the vision quests that tribal elders demanded from young boys, sending them off into the forest for days without food or human contact to test their strength and perseverance. If the boy survived the forest and all the tests that he encountered in that time of hardship, then he would be called a man and a warrior. He would then be given a new name to reflect this great accomplishment. So how appropriate that my dad, visiting while he is still recovering from his own time having survived the dark forest of induction chemotherapy and at the same time I am recovering from my third brain surgery and now paralysis would share a story about Native American naming rituals.

My dad, always a great Storyteller for as long as I can remember, shared this gift of words with me yesterday, first verbally, and then in writing, after my request:

I've always been interested in Native American Indian history and lore. I learned that once Indian babies are born, in certain tribes the males are initially named by the father and females by the mother. Their initial names were often the very first thing the mother or father saw. For example if the father saw two running deer, the son would be called "Running Deer" or maybe the mother would see a beautiful yellow flower and name her daughter "Yellow Flower." After about a year the child would receive their formal name, and it was always associated with nature. A few days ago upon reflecting on my son Richard and the tremendous struggles he has encountered with brain cancer, I decided that I would, if I were a Native American Indian, I would initially have named him "Kicking Feet" because he was constantly kicking his feet rapidly as a baby. Later, I would have formally named him "Strong-Son-Shine." Strong because of his resilience and strength, Son because he is my son but moreover I also translate Son to also mean sun because of the extreme warmth provided by the sun such as Richard has provided to so many people. Then the word Shine for Richard''s brilliance and love that he has shared with so many thousands of people through his life. So my son Richard's indian name, to me, will forever be "Strong-Son-Shine!"

With great admiration, affection and love, Dad

As I followed my father to the front door as he departed for the hotel for the evening, both of us now using canes to assist us in walking, I thought about another important aspect of native cultures, that of the Sacred Storyteller...and that would be my Dad, Ronald Dean Allison.

EXTREMELY EXPLICIT MATERIAL WARNING

2010-07-24T10:07:00.000-07:00

The Gospels of Nelly Christ

By His Disciples Matt, Marc, Lucas and Johnny

Matt

1 I wasn’t there for his birth, of course, but his mom told me all about it. Many people today don’t believe everything Mary said was true, but it’s definitely a good story. That Madonna, like a virgin, knows how to tell a tale.

2 Mary got pregnant after years of complaining that Joseph couldn’t get it up, so all her friends thought she must have been cheating. She told them, the only one I been cheating with is God the Father.

3 I mean we all now know that everything is true, but then her friends told her that she was crazy for saying it was some kind of immaculate conception.

4 So on the night of his birth, the word got out real quick that Mary was delivering and folks just started showing up. Never heard of a woman having a baby without a real daddy, they said. Three old Rice Queens showed up there, saying they had traveled for weeks, following a star in the sky.

5 One of them, that night, as Mary told me, lifted the baby from her arms, holding it up towards the star, and said, “His name shall be Nelly, he is the Savior, he is the Christ.”

6 Of course this was all after the prophecies that a Savior would be born to the gays. This time, it seemed like it was actually true. Well, for me, I know it is true.

Marc

1 I am an angry man now. He died so long ago, but it still feels like yesterday. Others have started writing about him, so I wanted to tell my story. I felt so special knowing him. He was the nicest queen I ever met. And he made me believe me in my own power, like never before. Since he died, I have not felt the same since, and I find it insulting that so many men live their lives in secret, or even outwardly as gay, but inside, they hold onto a secret shame. I want to tell everyone, He died to set you free, so live like you know it. If you had been around him when he was alive, you would have known it, you would have felt it.

2 He made others feel this too. Like Mary Magdalene, that drag queen that everyone hated because she had stolen money from everyone, even him. But it didn’t matter to him. Her drug addiction had made her so sick, her own parents had thrown her out onto the streets and she was eating out of the trash.

3 The day I saw her, Nelly was telling his prodigal son story, about the boy who returns to his father’s house after a long absence of thinking his dad hated him for being queer. But upon his return, the son is embraced with such love by his father that it completely restores him.

4 Mary was obviously moved emotionally by this story, as I could see her slowly sneaking her way through the crowd, closer and closer to Nelly. When she was right behind him, she reached out her dirty, skinny hand to touch his garment. Those around him tried to stop her but Nelly asked her to come forward. She muttered that she felt if she just could touch him, she would feel forgiven.

5 He said, “Because you asked, it has already been given to you, there’s nothing you need forgiveness for, girl.”

Lucas

1 I am not going to say that I had sex with Nelly. I am not sure anyone ever did. But I probably came closer than anyone.

2 Nelly was the most effeminate guy I ever met. I met him at a wedding in Gaylilee. He was there for the celebration, just like everyone else. I knew both of the guys getting married, Adam and Steve, from some of the gatherings I had been to in years past. Already, at the beginning of the reception, a lot of people were whispering about how cheap it was that there was hardly enough wine; it was getting bitchy.

3 I sat on the ground and noticed this guy beside me. I introduced myself and noticed as he talked he kept touching my knee at certain points to hold my attention. About every third sentence was “Tell it!” and he called everyone his sister. But in the middle of all that swishing and swaying, he was saying some pretty deep things, including a theme that would continue throughout our friendship and his ministry: “The Queendom of Heaven is at hand.”

4 I didn’t know what it meant then; I thought it had to do with waiting on the heaven of an afterlife, after we die. But he meant it more literally, that right now, at hand, is your fabulous potential to be a powerful queen. As I am sure everyone knows by now, it was then that he stood up and said, “Your belief makes it so.” The wine bottle that was being passed around, previously running dry, was then unlimited. There wasn't a sober person at the reception after his miracle.

5 But I know you want to hear about the sexy stuff. At the same wedding, (this was before I was comfortable having sex myself with men, before I knew that my own Queendom was at hand), I found myself turned on with all the shirtless sweating men at the reception. I went behind a grove of trees to relieve myself in a carnal way, stroking furiously to get it over with and back to the reception. Halfway through I look up and there Nelly is, staring, standing right beside me.

6 He said, “This is not a sin, calm down, feel it.” I gushed right then and there, my jizz landing at his feet, my face burning red.

7 That’s as close as I got to sex with Nelly Christ. Before I knew it, he was being nailed to a cross.

Jonny

1 “Be ye a fisher of men.” I followed that invitation more than any other of his. I was a fisher of men, a lover of men, a seducer of men. I embraced my beauty and let others enjoy it too. I was, like Nelly used to say, “The Light of the World.”

2 But for me, I have never had a doubt that I was the Word made flesh. Just ask anyone who has seen me naked. A sight to behold.

3 I am older now, but I still live a carnal life, a meaty, fleshy life to go back to the origin of that particular word.

4 Being older, I cannot help but reflect, when I am asked about Nelly, on his last days.

5 I tried to stop them from killing him, I kept saying that everything he said was true; just because he was effeminate and he was gay, that doesn’t make him a liar. But they hated him for that; they hated all of us for that.

6 During the Last Supper, the night before he died, we all knew it was coming. We were so melancholy and yet he still was being the master caretaker, knowing how devastated we would all be after he left. He led us through a ritual, a ritual that I have shared with so many people who did not him when he was alive, allowing them to make Nelly Christ their own personal savior.

7 He passed around a chalice, and said, “This is my essence, drink it and you drink of me.” We all did. We all didn’t want him to go, but he said he knew that it was what had to happen. He had to die to make us all free, so that every single gay person who was born and lived after him, could live a life free of prejudice and shame and parental abuse and societal ostracization and pious moralizing. He died so that each one of us could love in the way we were born to love, with the same sex, in the way we wanted to have sex, with one or many partners. He died to set us free. “Do this in remembrance of me,” Nelly said. I still do to this day.

8 Three days after his crucifixion, some say the stone was rolled away from his grave and the grave was empty. Some say they saw him walking around. Some say they saw him ascend into the heavens on a pink chariot. Not just some. I did.

9 Nelly looked down with those eyes of love, snapped his fingers three times, flicking his wrist in that oh-so-Nelly way, and said, “Girl, I have risen.”

10 And so believers, we must rise to the occasion ourselves, to his mission and carry on his ministry. I say to you to spread the Word as I tell it to you now: I believe in free love and free sex and I believe in committed relationships and I believe in gays as divine teachers of beauty and sensitivity and art and compassion to the rest of the world.

11 I am the Light of the world, shining bright pink. The Queendom of Heaven is at hand. Tell it!

"Drishti, My Drishti" - a new poem

2010-05-07T08:52:00.000-07:00

Drishti, My Drishti

Standing on one leg
arms held high
shoulders down
away from the ears

Body quivering
sweat pouring
calf muscles tight
balance your weight

Find a focal point
- your drishti -
calm your mind
notice your breath

Rotate your ankle - both ways -
Lean forward slightly
onto the ball of your other foot
don’t lose your drishti

Today,
lying down on the metal table
arms at your side
mask over your face
entering the MRI

Where’s your drishti?
calm your mind
comfort your fears
fill up with love

All day at the hospital
seeing three doctors
viewing your brain scans
what’s this all mean?

As scared as a young boy
sitting on a church pew
hearing that the way he loved
made him abominable

Where’s your drishti?
fill up with love
comfort your fears
calm your mind

Wondering where God is sometimes
WHAT God is -
Ommmmmmmmmmmm
over the sound of the MRI
Ommmmmm
Over the sound of your fears

letting yourself love again
lying down on his bed
arms wrapped around him
earthy masculine comfort
smile upon your face

“You...have been my drishti,”
you whisper to him

But now, he’s gone -
where’s your drishti
comfort your fears
fill up with love
calm your mind

Ommmmmmmmm, drishti, oh drishti

By Richard K Allison

***

A drishti (view or gaze) is a specific focal point that is employed during meditation or while holding a yoga posture. Source: www.yogabasics.com

http://www.yogabasics.com/learn/-focusing-on-a-drishti.html

The Metaphysics of Wonderland

2010-04-29T06:32:00.000-07:00

After seeing the dull Tim Burton adaptation of "Alice in Wonderland" recently, I revisited the work of the senior thesis for my Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing, entitled, "The Metaphysics of Wonderland: Lewis Carroll's Real Religion as Anticipation of William James."

Review of my thesis at the time of publication:
Praise for "The Metaphysics of Wonderland" -

"As a professor of English, I can attest to the ability of Mr. Allison's prose to focus my pupils in the right direction in spite of a lifelong problem with cross-eyedness." W. Knight.

"Never before has a trithor exenticated and concoined the merkacity underborth the Alice stories to a modient." J. Wock.

"Richard Allison's latest work has had the effect of drilling its words into my consciousness and I can say with absolute honesty that my mind has never been more bored with any subject." D. Dormouse.

From the book jacket:

Like other books on the subject,
exemplifying the imagination and
wit of Lewis Carroll, Richard Allison
invites his audience to look closer at the
stories of Alice. Starting with the basic
clues in the texts, Allison makes new and
amazing connections for the modern
reader between religious implications
resident in the literary works
of C.L. Dodgson's alter ego and the
lifework of philosophy of William James.
Liberating the deacon from the treacle
well of Victorian Christianity, the book
incorporates the ideas of identity and
life experience as pioneered in the
literary works of William James. The
inclusion of James's ideas about God
allows Dodgson to be seen not only as a
man who held traditional beliefs, but also
juggled with radical spirituality. Now, the
acrostic that appears in this text has been
made obvious to you...without a doubt
everyone reading this has by now
seen what the letters along the left reveal.

I won't post the content of the work here, only to open up a conversation, both serious and fun, about the playfulness, in children's literature, and life in general, as an expression of Spirit. How do you express yourself playfully?

A Magical Mixture

2010-01-23T13:50:00.000-08:00

I made oatmeal yesterday. I poured the raw oats into a pan and covered them with water. I put the pan over a burner and turned it to medium. As the oats began to cook, I added raisins, chopped pecans, brown sugar and flax seed. In a few short moments, I was enjoying the aroma of these ingredients as I took care of a few household tasks while the oatmeal cooked. When the food was ready, I dished i into a clean, white breakfast bowl and sat down for a good meal. A dear friend of mine has reintroduced the idea of praying before meals, of more accurately, giving thanks for our food. Along with that gratitude is a specific blessing for the healthy intention we desire from the food. This practice has brought to mind the sacred connection between food and the soul, something we all unconsciously know and understand on a daily basis, but it is good sometimes to pause and think on these things consciously.

Thomas Moore talks about the difference between Soul and Spirit. Soul, to paraphrase Moore, is earthy, imperfect, moody, demanding, secretive and meaty, to use a food word. Spirit, on the other hand, is light, inspirational, heavenly, motivating, freeing, forward-looking...it is our dessert. One of the most obvious words that comes to mind in regards to both food and soul is "nourishment." Food nourishes our body; countless things nourish our soul, including good food.

The art of food preparation is an activity that can nourish our soul. It is also a good metaphor for the soul itself. As we take raw or uncooked ingredients from the earth and we wash and chop and dice and mix and boil and bake and knead and work these elements, it is like the subconscious, imperfect, sometimes experimental process our sould goes through in its search for meaning. "A little bit of this, a little bit of that." "Not quite right, let me try this." Our soul needs room for experimentation as well. Why am I drawn to this person, place or thing and not another? Why do I like this taste? Why does this one taste bitter and the other sweet? What secret mystery in my soul requires mixing, kneading, baking to resonate for me with pure authenticity?

And when the preparation is done and the aroma wafts through the kitchen and we pull the meal out of the oven or off the stovetop, that is when our spirit is engaged; we anticipate the tasting, we savor the moment, we converse and laugh with friends with open hearts. Indeed, our spirit is like a finished meal, the ingredients all complimenting one another, our goodness a tangible substance to be enjoyed and consumed by those who love us.

Even when our bodies are aching or ill, food supplies alchemical powers of healing that is something more than just the ingredients and the prepared dish, something more than soul and spirit. It becomes transcendent: a manifestation of the very love of the person who created or gifted the food.

As we commune and consume together, let us respect the earthy needs of the Soul and honor the heavenly flight of Spirit, as we, gathered around the table, the individual ingredients to a divine sustenance, complement our differences to form a magical mixture.

Holy Shit: Lesssons Learned from a Libertyville Latrine

2009-10-06T09:47:00.000-07:00

12 midnight, Sunday, October 4th: I am taking a hot eucalyptus bath to wash off the shit smell. What a day!

Earlier that day...

1.00pm, Sunday, October 4th: After being invited to an evening potluck, I throw some sausage, beans, corn and tomatoes into a crock pot so that a good soup will be ready when I get back from my planned hiking trip. I put Baz, my dog, into the car and hit the highway.

1.30pm: I stop at the I-94 Lake Forest Oasis for a bite to eat, on the way to find a nice spot to hike, I am not sure where exactly I am going so I stop at the travel kiosk and pick up a brochure for a place called Independence Grove in Libertyville, Illinois. It's only about 10 more mile up the road so I head that way.

2.00pm: At the main entrance to Independence Grove, the attendant tells me pets are not allowed in the main park but they have a 23 acre dog park on the other side of the grove and she kindly provides directions.

2.15pm: I park in the lot for the Dog Recreation Area and pay twice the daily fee, not having anything but twenty dollar bills and the fee is only $10. I gladly put the $20 in the envelope and into the slot, trusting that the extra money is going to a good cause. Walking through the front gate, I am immediately impressed at the spaciousness of the park - it is a much nicer place than the place we normally take Baz near our house. I let Baz off his leash and as usual, he runs directly to the water and jumps in. After a few minutes in the lake, I call Baz and put him back on his leash to explore more of the park. We walk down a heavily forested trail that circles the small lake and there are plenty of other dogs there. When we reach a clear meadow, I let Baz free again, and he joyfully chases several other dogs, following them back...to the lake.

2.30pm: Knowing Baz, I start walking further down the trail, knowing he will soon notice my absence and begin to follow, as he does. I am thoroughly enjoying the walk, being completely under the trees but still seeing the blue sky and white clouds peak through. Baz runs ahead for a while, playing tag with other dogs, then runs back to me at full speed in a flash, just to make sure I am still around and goes tearing off in the other direction...he loves his free time off the leash!

3.00pm: Baz has plunged himself into the lake already at least 5 times as we walk the perimeter of the lake and before I know it, we are back at the front gate. "Let's go around again," I tell Baz and he gladly follows. A friendly dog owner has thrown a tennis ball too far out into the lake for her little chihuahua to reach it and Baz excitedly paddles out to get it and back again with then ball in his mouth. The young lady expresses thanks after I finally get Baz to drop the ball.

3.15pm: We find a small trail leading off the main trail and are soon walking along the side of a river. We walk completely alone for a while, the solitude and quiet soothing me, despite the fact that the trail is growing increasingly muddy. I hear voices ahead and we catch up to a man and woman with a small labrador puppy named Sam, who looks just like Baz as a puppy. Baz and Sam play with each other, jumping in and out of the river, both of them running up to the man and the woman and myself, putting their muddy paws all over my pants. I don't mind a bit. Baz jumps into the river by himself and swims the entire width of the river to the other side, making me nervous for a moment. Right when I think he is going to emerge on the other side where I won't be able to get him without swimming the river myself, he turns around in the water and heads back towards me. I comment to the couple that he looks like a little otter and as he swims, Baz opens his mouth several times, thinking that the stray leaves floating towards his mouth are food. Adorable!

3.30pm: I realize I have to use the bathroom so we head back to the front gate of the park. I put Baz in the back of the car and walk over to the public bathroom, putting my car and house keys into the pocket of my sweatshirt. As I finish my business, I hear a slight tinkling sound of keys and see, now, in front of me, seeming to be slow motion, the keys falling from my pocket down into the toilet. I stand there in disbelief. It is a true latrine, nothing but a toilet mounted ontop of the floor, a hole at the bottom of the toilet in the floor, about 3 feet of space between the hole in the floor and the waste in the dark recesses below. Tears well up in my eyes for a moment. How fucking stupid! Then I see the glimmer of the keys as they are floating on the top layer of the muck. I get onto my knees and stretch my arm down into the toilet, but the basin of the toilet blocks me from being able to extend my arm down...my fingers are at least two feet away from the keys. Noooooo! I walk outside the latrine, looking around at the calm and peaceful people walking around with their dogs on such a gorgeous day. No one even notices me...thank goodness. I walk to a tree and break off a limb with several bends and curves at the end. Back in front of the toilet, I feel flashes of hope and despair as I think I have the keys on the branch but then, no, the keys disappear, completely out of site, sinking down into the muck. FUCK!!!!

3.45pm: I walk back to the parking lot, seeing that the car has steamed up with Baz inside it and I start to panick, oh my goodness, the windows are all rolled up. I go around to each of the 4 doors and they are all locked. I see my cell phone laying in the car in the cup holder. What else can go wrong? I see a couple and their young baby, people I had seen walking on the trail earlier and tell them my situation, sounding very stressed. The gentleman allows me to use his cell phone. The only thing I can think of is to call AAA to have the car towed all the way back the 40+ miles home. I get on the phone with AAA, they look up my membership using my name and address. I tell them the full situation and that my dog is locked in the car and I need someone out to help me immediately. The AAA rep says that he will have someone call me back, can he get a number that I can be reached on? I tell him that I am on someone else's cell phone and I agree to wait. For at least ten minutes, the gentleman, his lovely wife, and their little baby girl, who cries occassionally as the poor kid was tired and wanted to get home, all wait patiently as I use their phone, and they sit in their car waiting to leave. As I am pacing, listening to the annoying hold music, I pace back over to the car to check on Baz and consider that if a tow truck isn't here soon, (as I have had to wait 2 or more hours before with AAA service), I am going to break the window to get Baz out. With the cell phone in my hand, I once more walk around my car, checking each door again and come to the back hatchback door in the rear. It opens!

3.59pm: The AAA rep comes back on the phone and tells me that he has dispatched a local locksmith and the estimated time is...two hours. I hand the cell phone back to the gentleman and try to give him a twenty dollar bill but he refuses and is so kind and polite that I want to hug him. He and his family drive off and I wave goodbye to them. After taking Baz for a short walk, I crawl through the back of the car and unlock the other doors and sit down in the drivers seat. I pick up my cell phone and notice that the GPS navigation system has been on the entire time that I was out hiking and that there is 10% of the battery left. No, no, no!!!

4.15pm: The locksmith company calls and asks exactly where I am. I give them the best directions that I can, not knowing the area. My cell phone is beeping at me while I talk to the man, indicating a low battery. I hang up with the locksmith, who ends the call saying they are in Zion and it will still be at least an hour before they can get to me, to make me a key to start the car, which would enable me to drive home. I look at the cell phone battery status and decide to brave a call to my boyfriend, Dan, who is in California on a business trip. I blurt out the situation, feeling embarrassed and stressed, not to mention rushed to talk to him before my time runs out. I have a nervous cry with him for a few moments and he gives me some encouraging words as he always does in his sweet manner, and I notice that the cell phone cigarette lighter charger is lying on the floor of the car. YES!

4.25pm: Already knowing that my cig lighter charger does not work unless the key is turned in the ignition, I try anyway. Nothing. I check on Baz in the back of the car and then see a lady and an even older lady getting into their SUV with their dog. I tell them the situation and ask them if they can let me charge my phone for a few minutes. They do. For about ten long, kind, unselfish minutes. They give me a bag of treats for Baz. Again, I want to hug and show my love. They drive off and I return to my car. At least I have the comfort of being able to sit in the seat.

4.35pm: Back in my car, Dan and I exchange text messages about whether anyone we know has spare house keys, so that if and when I finally get home that evening, I will be able to get into the house. The only person who might is the contractor who recently renovated our kitchen. But I am already resolved to break into my own house if necessary. Dan asks if I want his father to drive all the way out there and pick me up. I say no. The cell phone starts beeping again...low battery power. I close it and decide the only thing I can do now is choose to relax.

5.30pm: After sitting in the car for some time looking at the incredibly beautiful blue sky with sincere appreciation, I allow myself to think, what can I learn from this situation and of course, it comes to me quite quickly. I have already been shown kindness by several people. I didn't realize how much more kindness was on the way. I send Jerry, the kitchen contractor, a text message to ask him if he had a key to our house. He calls me back (no, no, no, my battery is dying again) and tells me that he thinks the key is in his truck, but his cousin has borrowed his truck and won't be back until tomorrow. I tell Jerry thanks for checking and end the call quickly, again, resolved that if necessary, I will get into the house somehow. I send a short text message to the friend who invited me to the potluck saying I won't make it. The kind message I receive back is so appreciated.

5.45pm: I let Baz out of the car and we walk around the lake for a few minutes, both of us grateful to stretch and relieve ourselves. I notice a young couple leaving the park, getting ready to get into their car. I tell them my situation and they are both immediately sympathetic but also they laugh and allow me to see the humor in it. The guy's name is Kurt and his girlfriend, Jessica. We chat casually as we wait for my cell phone to charge. I apologize several times for taking so long, but also have the aim of getting more of a charge onto my phone this time. Baz and their dog greet each other, but their dog, a mastiff, charges at Baz and they get into a little scrap. No one is hurt. Jessica suggests, why don't I take Huxley for a walk around the lake, and Kurt, you take Baz and Richard down the highway to get them something to eat. I am stunned at the offer and almost decline, but I don't. Kurt drives with me in the passenger seat, Baz in the back of their car, and we go through the McDonald's drive-thru. When we get back my phone has 3/4 of a charge, and my tummy is full. Right as I am getting out of their car and thanking them both profusely, my phone rings. The locksmith. It is going to be another 90 minutes before they get there. That means 7.30pm. Kurt and Jessica express their empathy and ask if there is anything else they can do. I tell them that they have been so kind already and it is not a problem for me to wait here in the car for the locksmith.

7.00pm: The sun is setting and it is getting colder. Every time I get out of the car to give Baz some exercise, I am eager to get back into the car to warm up. I allow myself to empathesize with the stories of people who have been stranded in the wilderness for days, as I am getting a bit stir crazy. I find a booklight that I took on a recent camping trip in the back of my car and some Spanish lessons in my dashboard that I threw in there one time, and never put them in the house. I start reading the Spanish sentences and the English translations when I see headlights entering the now empty parking lot. I jump out of my car, thinking it is the locksmith...it is a park ranger. He asks me what I am doing out here and I explain and at first, he seems rough and hard and irritated, but about five minutes later, he seems more casual and asks if he can get me anything and I say no, explaining the kind people who have already helped. He says that I have to be out of the park by 10pm so the locksmith needs to hurry up. I say, believe me, I agree. He drives away.

7.30pm: No locksmith. I call AAA and ask for a status. They keep me on line for a long time, apologizing, saying that this incident will not count towards the 4 occurrences allotted per year with my membership.

8.30pm: No locksmith. I am lonely, cold and irritated. It is pitch dark. I am in an empty parking lot off a highway, no one around. A few text messages to my boyfriend, my potluck friend, and a couple others keep me going. I decide to call the locksmith directly as I have the number from when he called me earlier. As I am on the phone with him, the ranger pulls back into the parking lot. The ranger asks me how it is going and I tell him I am on the phone with the locksmith now. The locksmith, who sounds drunk, says he is on the way from Zion, and I say, you told me that hours ago, and he says that AAA made him stop at other calls on the way. I say, can you give me a firm ETA as to when you will be here, as I have been waiting 4 hours now. The man says it will just be another twenty minutes. I don't believe him.

8.45pm: No locksmith. The ranger has stayed in the parking lot with me and has been chatting with me. He asks casually if I paid for the daily fee for the park earlier, and I think he is checking on me to make sure I did it. I say yes, I paid, I even put in a $20 because I did not have the correct amount. He sorts through all the envelopes he has retrieved from the dropbox, takes mine out, gives me the twenty back and says, you've had enough of a rough day. Tear up the window tag and don't tell anyone I did that.

9.00pm: No locksmith. The ranger says, do you mind if I call the locksmith. I say, not at all, I would welcome it. The ranger calls and is very firm and forceful, hangs up. The ranger says, yeah, he sounds drunk. AAA calls on my phone right after and says, the locksmith says he is two blocks away now. The ranger drives out to the entrance of the parking lot and turns on his flashing lights so the locksmith can see where we are.

9.10pm: The locksmith finally arrives after two more calls from the ranger who is now just as irritated at AAA and the locksmith as I am. The locksmith, who obviously has had a bit to drink, is so pleasant that I have no choice but to converse with him kindly. He has his teenage son, Jeremy, helping him out. Jeremy keeps me in conversation, which is good, as it distracts me from his father tearing my car apart, to find a secret code that will allow him to make the car that will start my electronic ignition. It is apparently not as simple as just duplicating the key.

9.30pm: Jeremy asks, if you lost your keys, how are you going to even get into your house when you get home. I said, I will have to break in. He says, if we had a strong magnet, you could get them out of there, it would be just like they float up magically, if we had a magnet strong enough, like a super magnet. I politely give a fake laugh and say, yeah, wouldn't that be nice. His father says, we have a retractable magnetized pole but it is only 3 feet long. I say, oh, that's not long enough. The ranger says, lets tape it to a branch or something. The locksmith gets into the back of is truck and within a few minutes, with another metal pole and the magnetized pole duck taped together, hands me a 6 foot long tool.

9.45pm: The ranger says, I will hold my flashlight for you, but I am not getting no where near that toilet. I can't believe he is even coming with me, in the dark, to stand beside me with the flashlight. We enter the latrine and I put the pole down into the pit, swirling it slowly around in the muck, pulling it up every few minutes to see if anything is on it. I don't have much belief that it will. Then, I feel something heavy on the pole. I lift it up. It is a dog poop bag that reeks like nothing I have smelt before. The ranger and I both walk out of the latrine to get fresh air to keep ourselves from retching. We laugh about it as if we have been buddies for years and he slaps me on the shoulder and says, ok, let's go back in.

9.55pm: I swirl the pole around the muck a few times more. Again, something heavy. I lift the pole up and something glimmers. Metal? I become more careful now, as if it is the keys, I don't want them to fall off. The end of the pole ascends slowly through the dark pit, the ranger asks, you got something?, I am quiet, methodical, I pull the pole out and into the beam of the flashlight. It is my keys. My car key. My house keys. My KEYS! I can't believe it. I say it aloud: I can't fucking believe it! The ranger laughs and says, alright! He walks me down to the lake where, the keys still hanging onto the the magnet at the end of the pole, he suggests rinsing them off in the lake. We walk back to his patrol car and he gives me some hand sanitizer and we put the keys on the ground and squirt sanitizer all over them.

10.05pm: When I get back to the parking lot, the locksmith has my new car key ready, although I don't need it now, but without he and his son's help, I wouldn't have my house keys either so I gladly pay them the $120 service fee. I get the name and business card of the ranger, thanking him sincerely for his help as he stayed with me for more than an hour, helping me out. I extend my hand to thank him, he laughs and says, I am not shaking that shitty hand, but have a safe trip home. He says, I was glad to help.

11.00pm: I walk into my house, using my house keys to unlock the front door. The Jewel frequent shopper keychain tag still smells awful. I don't care. I open the door to the smell of the sausage corn chowder in the crockpot. I really had hoped to make it the potluck but on my drive home, I again asked myself, is there anything to learn from this experience? And as before, but even more evidence of it because of the multiple occurrences of unselfish kindness, the answer is obvious. Over a bowl of warm, steaming, delicious chowder, I know that I have been taught a valuable lesson about how important small acts of kindness between people are.

12 midnight: Soaking in the tub. I ask myself, in the future, no matter how shitty my day might be, how kind will I be to someone who might need just the smallest gesture? Thank you to the couple and their baby girl for letting me charge my phone. Thank you to the lady who gave Baz an entire bag of treats and let me charge my phone. Thank you to Kurt and Jessica who took me to get some food and let me charge my phone. Thank you for the text messages from Dan and others that alleviated the stress of the sitation. Thank you to the Park Ranger (name omitted as he risked his job when he tore up my permit and refund my fees) for his comradery, conversation and humor. Thank you to the locksmith and his son, Jeremy, for allowing me to lighten up when I really wanted to be angry and irritated. And thank you, Spirit, for whatever reason, allowing me to be open to all of this in a way I have never felt before in my life.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 30

2009-10-01T06:28:00.000-07:00

Giraffe felt so low!
Wanting to be Elephant.
Then..he stretched higher.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 29

2009-10-01T06:22:00.000-07:00

When the Monsoon hit:
"You have to let me go now,"
with tears in his eyes.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 28

2009-09-29T09:17:00.001-07:00

motorcycle gals
traveling mountain highways
canopied by trees

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 27

2009-09-26T12:36:00.001-07:00

Antidepressant
is what she is to Gramps now;
making him giggle.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 26

2009-09-25T07:32:00.002-07:00

Boabab. Flowers?
YES! Luminous white blossoms!
WATER!...for my child.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 25

2009-09-25T07:32:00.001-07:00

In a hollowed log,
old journal of an affair...
memories of youth.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 24

2009-09-25T07:31:00.001-07:00

A breath of fresh air!
- haikuing throughout the day -
To keep my Self sharp.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 23

2009-09-25T07:22:00.000-07:00

speed limit thirty.
a cheetah passes your truck.
you step on the gas.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 22

2009-09-22T14:24:00.000-07:00

your teacher, my friend -
spiritual guidance for us...
a golden compass.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 21

2009-09-21T10:35:00.003-07:00

Magnificent smile,
tickling my soul with your joy
like cleansing water.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 20

2009-09-17T08:23:00.000-07:00

Sunlight shimmering...
the foal stumbles and then stands;
birthed in the meadow.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 19

2009-09-17T08:17:00.001-07:00

Infatuated,
the elephant bull bellows.
A bath calms him down.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 18

2009-09-14T09:21:00.000-07:00

She made him too much.
Then, watching leaves float away,
She blasphemed...Self first!

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 17

2009-09-11T10:46:00.000-07:00

Moon shines on a lake;
Reflection disturbed by rain.
The moon above? Calm.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 16

2009-09-10T10:55:00.000-07:00

soaring high above...
after a flight of passion,
the goose grounds himself.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 15

2009-09-10T10:37:00.000-07:00

Bathing in soft clouds -
emotion...spirit...body;

soaking it in now.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 14

2009-09-04T06:21:00.002-07:00

Denial of death
blocks you from living fully
says the Zen Master.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 13

2009-09-04T06:21:00.001-07:00

Tennessee hiking...
A tough rocky hillside climb!
Then, joyful friendship.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 12

2009-08-27T07:58:00.000-07:00

Lion senator,
strength in the mighty jungle...
sleeps tonight in peace

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 11

2009-08-27T07:57:00.000-07:00

Rain cleansing my face.
Not just hiding tears of fear,
washing all away.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 10

2009-08-25T07:45:00.001-07:00

Tall, majestic, true.
Graceful in sound and movement.
An elk becomes man.

by Richard K Allison.

Haiku 9

2009-08-24T09:33:00.000-07:00

penguins in winter.
when the cold wind feels so harsh,
a fin to hold tight.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 8

2009-08-24T09:27:00.000-07:00

skinny hippie soul...
dancing on the table - like -
hummingbird in flight.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 7

2009-08-24T09:25:00.000-07:00

"the power of love
heals what you think it can, sir,"
crowed the rooster thrice.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 6

2009-08-21T08:04:00.001-07:00

"Climb Tiger Mountain,"
the peasant said to the thief.
"'Old Whore' lives up there."

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 5

2009-08-20T13:25:00.000-07:00

bougainvillea...
along the trail from Cusco.
ah! Machu Picchu!

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 4

2009-08-19T10:36:00.000-07:00

for once in your life
you let go of all worries
and kiss him fiercely

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 3

2009-08-18T07:34:00.000-07:00

The hot sun blazes.
Hiding in savannah grass,
the hyena howls.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 2

2009-08-17T12:29:00.001-07:00

love is substantial.
you...a great whale in my pond.
me...just a small fish.

by Richard K Allison

Haiku 1

2009-08-16T17:24:00.000-07:00

There swims an otter...
smooth, shiny fur and body.
Then! he disappears.

by Richard K Allison

30 days of HAIKU

2009-08-16T17:15:00.000-07:00

I challenge you to come up with a poem a day for the next 30 days! Yeah, you! Bring it on. Mine are gonna be soooooo much better than yours. To make it easy, I am gonna focus mainly on haiku, but if the Muse so inspires me, I might throw something else up there.

As a primer, a haiku is a traditional form of poetry from Japan, consisting strictly of 17 syllables, or "on." Most Japanese haiku translated into English don't retain the 17 syllables so writing in English, some argue isn't really haiku, but that's what we'll go with, as it is our primary language. In the English variation, the poem is usually represented on 3 lines of 5, 7 and 5 syllables respectively.

The challenge...begins...now!

Great openings to your favorite books

2009-06-22T09:53:00.000-07:00

Here's the opening to one of my favorite books, The House of the Spirits, by Isabel Allende:

Barrabas came to us by sea, the child Clara wrote in her delicate calligraphy. She was already in the habit of writing down important matters, and afterward, when she was mute, she also recorded trivialities, never suspecting that fifty years later I would use her notebooks to reclaim the past and overcome terrors of my own.

What's your favorite opening to a book? I want to know!

Focus on the Novel: Character Descriptions & Sample Scene

2009-06-01T14:43:00.000-07:00

Character Descriptions for Antelope Canyon

Toby Hunter: Lonely. Searching for the something missing in his life. Well-respected by all but himself. Carries guilt about not being around to save his parents when they were killed when he was 16. Now, 25, his right hand trembles uncontrollably at times. Unaware of his own anger that seethes just under the surface. Born in Hannibal, Missouri, but raised in Santa Fe, New Mexico since the age of two. Very light sleeper. Sheriff of Santa Fe. Very active and a practical joker with his friends. Having an affair with the wife of the mayor of Santa Fe. Thin, wiry and muscular with very curly dark brown hair. Outwardly confident and charming.

Logan White: Insecure. Superstitious about being born on All Hallow’s Eve as he believes it caused him to be born two months premature. He looks 20, although he is 31. He was the deputy under the current mayor, with no ambition to become sheriff, so he is still deputy, under Toby Hunter. While Toby exudes masculinity, there is a softer quality to Logan. Falls in love with an African-American woman. Toby’s best friend for about the last 8 years.

Rabbit Ears: A Navajo two-spirit, meaning he is spiritually respected as someone who is both male and female. 18 years old now, at 10 years old he was forced into a Christian missionary school, where he lived in a dank, windowless basement with his fellow students. His father rescued him from the school only to cast him out of the family a couple of years later for sexual indiscretions with a Navajo warrior. At 16, his father nagged him about wearing too few clothes around the home, his father feeling that a young man should dress and act like a warrior, not like a naked child. His father never believed the shaman’s notion that Rabbit Ears was sacred because he was a two-spirit. Rabbit Ears’ mother died a couple years after he was born.

Lance: Painfully shy 16 year old Anglo boy. His father is the only Baptist minister in predominantly Catholic Santa Fe. His father is ostracized from the city after an affair with an underage girl. Deeply conflicted about his religion and his budding homosexual desires. In school, he gained the nickname “Head in the Clouds” because of his height, about 6 feet 3 inches. Closer to his mother than his father. Shaved blond hair when the story begins, as his mother had to cut off all his hair due to lice.

Sample scene. POV character: Lance.

Lance watched his mother through the back of the tent: her attention was not upon Lance’s father but upon the almost naked man that he and the Navajo boy had found. The sight unnerved him yet he did not turn away. He felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned around, surprised to see the Navajo boy behind him. The boy motioned for Lance to follow.
“Where are you going?” Lance asked, following close behind.

“On the path.”

“Back home?”

“No, I cannot go back home.” Lance felt a similar conflict within himself due to his father being shut out of the church. He had overheard his mother threatening to leave.

“Why not?”

“I am forbidden.”

“Why?”

“I fell in love with a married warrior,” Rabbit Ears said, walking on, his long hair flowing behind his back, his slender body silhouetted against the soft pink glow of twilight. Lance continued to follow him, not really sure if was leaving his parents or not.

Lakai, the bear cub, chased a large bumble, trying to catch it in his mouth. The two boys laughed aloud simultaneously: the bee teased the bear cub, buzzing around his nose and flying off to safety at the last moment. Lakai jumped frantically, snapping at the air with his teeth. The bear cub ran a few paces to keep up with the bee in the air before jumping around, snapping his jaws, and pawing at the air. When the bear finally tripped into a mud puddle, the boys fell onto the ground themselves, laughing heartily.

“My belly is hurting,” Lance said. Rabbi Ears had tears running down his face from laughing so hard. For a moment, they sat on the ground, quietly trying to catch their breath.

“My own brother said I was no longer his brother. He was the one who taught me how to use the bow…how could I not be his brother? I am not allowed to return home.” Rabbit Ears stared at his feet as he spoke.

Lance did not know what to say. Because of his father’s mistakes, his friends had stopped talking to him; he was no longer the teacher’s favorite. He had no one to talk to but his mother and father. Lance felt Rabbit Ears lucky just to have a brother. He had no one.

“We can be brothers,” Lance said but immediately felt foolish for saying it aloud. Rabbit Ears smiled, reached over and rubbed his shorn head.

“Yes,” Rabbit Ears said and before Lance could react, Rabbit Ears unsheathed his knife and drew it across the inside of Lance’s forearm.

“Aihhhh! Why did you go and do that?!” Lance watched as Rabbit Ears performed a similar cut on his own arm. Rabbit Ears let the blood flow freely while Lance clutched the wound to cinch the bleeding. Rabbit Ears closed his eyes and began to sing in Navajo. The song grew to a howl when Rabbit Ears grabbed Lance’s arm, rubbed it hard against his own, mixing the blood together. Lance howled along with the Navajo boy, as a sharp pain sped from his forearm all through his body. His toes curled in pain; he gritted his teeth. Rabbit Ears still pressed their arms together, the blood smearing across their forearms like paint, the singing pounding in Lance’s ears. But then, the native melodies drifted away like smoke and white spots appeared before his eyes. Lance fell over, unconscious.

When he awoke, Rabbit Ears sat beside him, staring intently at him, as if he had been waiting patiently. Behind them, Lakai rolled around in a fresh pile of bison dung. Despite the still throbbing pain with the cut exposed to the open air, Lance smiled looking down at the fresh wound on his arm: he imagined he could feel Rabbit Ears’ blood pulsing through his own veins. It was a strange yet wonderful feeling.

“You are my brother now,” Rabbit Ears said, “my brother of blood.”

Focus on the Novel: Antelope Canyon

2009-05-12T07:31:00.000-07:00

I am about 4 weeks into the novel writing class I am taking. It has really forced me to up my game in regards to a novel I have been working on for some time. For those that I have briefly mentioned the project to but have only given you bits in pieces, here's a clearer synopsis of the story, based on an assignment I had to do for class.

Antelope Canyon

The city of Santa Fe, New Mexico in 1879 is growing rapidly. The Plaza is rarely seen without new construction projects. Young sheriff Toby Hunter watches as his beloved hometown turns into something he no longer recognizes.

At the age of 16, Toby’s parents were killed and for a short time, he was thought to have killed them. A Navajo elder helps to bury his parents, a favor Toby never forgets. Now, almost a decade later, Toby is beaten and left for dead by an outlaw who could be the same person who murdered his parents. Hours before, the criminal killed a traveling magician who was staying at the Widow’s Saloon in Old Santa Fe. In order to finally clear his own name, Toby must track down the assailant before he has even recovered from a broken jaw and a couple of bruised ribs.

Toby sets out in pursuit of the criminal aided by a posse of close friends as well as his best friend and deputy, Logan. On the trail, they soon find out that the killer is a woman and she is stalking two young boys, one a Navajo, the other the Anglo son of Santa Fe’s only Baptist preacher.
Rabbit Ears, the Navajo boy, meets and befriends Lance, encouraging him to join him on a trip to a sacred canyon. Lance, having been ostracized from Santa Fe Baptist Church along with his father, due to the minister’s infidelity with an underaged girl, is easily persuaded to follow his new found friend.

On the trail, accompanied by Rabbit Ears’ pet bear cub Lakai, the two boys soon find they have much in common: they both desperately need to escape from the world of their parents. Lance finds himself profoundly conflicted with his own budding sexuality and a growing love for Rabbit Ears, a situation in great opposition to his family’s religious beliefs.

Meanwhile, on the heels of the criminal, Toby and Logan come to blows over Toby’s petty jealousy that Logan has brought along his girlfriend, thereby jeopardizing the success of the venture, in Toby’s opinion. Logan aptly points out that Toby is upset because he cannot openly love Carolina White, the wife of the current mayor and ex-sheriff of Santa Fe, the man who gave Toby his job as a lawman. Unknown to Logan, the Mayor, and others, Toby and Carolina have been having sexual encounters in the abandoned casita where Toby’s parents once lived.

In the open wilderness of the desert, Toby finds himself dealing with the loneliness and anger over his parents’ deaths for the first time since it happened. The parents of the young boy who has run off with the Navajo accompany the posse in fear that they will never see their son alive again.
As circumstances push them all towards Antelope Canyon, a violent storm brews on the horizon, saturating the ground with water causing a massive runoff to occur. Miles from the origin of the storm, the canyon lands seem peaceful and quiet but flood waters speed across the ground unbeknownst to the two boys in love, the assailant or Toby and his posse.

The boys reach the sacred canyon where Rabbit Ears leads Lance to a hideout only he knows about, while the criminal spies them from a distance. Toby observes the outlaw descending into the ground, into the opening of a slot canyon, and follows. The flood hits with a devastating fury, sweeping through the canyon slot, and taking everyone in the vicinity of the canyon along for the tragic ride.

With or Without Muse

2009-05-02T11:06:00.000-07:00

One of my muses has always been music, particularly the band U2. As I am reading the book "U2 by U2" now, I am finding comfort in so many similarities related to the creative urge and the creative struggle.

I find this passage from Bono particularly interesting:
"The lyric [to "With or Without You"] is pure torment. One of the things that was happening at the time was the collision in my own mind between being faithful to your art or being faithful to your lover. What if the two are at odds? Your gift versus domestic responsibility?...I was at least two people: the person who is responsible , protective and loyal and the vagrant and idler who just wants to run from responsibility. I thought these tensions were going to destroy me but actually, in truth, it is me. That tension, it turns out, is what makes me as an artist. Right in the centre of the contradiction, that's the place to be...
"...If I had cut loose, what would have become of me?...All of the people whom I looked up to as writers, they'd all done the same. Nothing had stood in the way, they had acted with abandon, and had lost marriages, bands, friendships, all in pursuit of the muse. But the muse is taciturn and can abandon you, leave you with nothing. My muse makes different demands...
"So that song ["With or Without You"] is about torment, sexual but also psychological, about how repressing desires makes them stronger. The most important line is probably 'And you give yourself away.'"

Do you relate to the pull between domesticity and wild abandon? How do you manage that tension?
If you are an artist, has the Muse's need for wanderlust taken you to places you would rather not have gone? Was it worth it?

Great sentences (or paragraphs)

2009-04-06T15:22:00.000-07:00

Lately, I have felt an urge to return to the basics of creative writing. In this mindset, I have noticed wonderful little nuggets of writing in the everyday "literature" of our lives: emails, blogs, Facebook statuses, etc. Today I came across Barry Shaeffer's Facebook blog about his recent trip to Nepal. I quote from it here:

"Daai?"
"Yes?"
"Cinema?"
"Yep. Cinema tomorrow."
"Lollipop?"
"Yes, lollipop tomorrow at the cinema."
Repeat ad infinitum ad nauseum.

Source: Barry Shaeffer, Blog post “This Little Light of Mine”

That little passage tells so much in so few words. Beautiful.
What great writing have you recently come across in your daily life?
Feel free to post a sentence or a paragraph here.

Little Girl Lost

2009-03-16T13:25:00.000-07:00

Today I am working a piece entitled "Little Girl Lost," which is focusing on a female archetype that illuminates our own life struggles through a journey from innocence to maturity amongst harsh or repressive institutions. After studying Alice in Wonderland extensively for my English thesis, I have seen this archetype show up most recently in the film Pan’s Labyrinth; the first book in the His Dark Materials trilogy, The Golden Compass; and in the recent Michael L. Printz Honor award winner, The Book Thief. In their creations, Guillermo Del Toro, Philip Pullman and Mark Zusak have provided readers with intelligent and rebellious young girls as reflections of ourselves. Have you enjoyed any of these incredible works of art? If so, what have you learned from Ofelia, Lyra or Liesel that you could share?

Blogging: Writing about Writing?

2009-03-02T09:29:00.000-08:00

As a writer with a new blog, I have been visiting other writer's blogs to help refine and focus what I want the world to see about me. It seems like writer's blogs fall into 2 camps: those that write about writing (and their original works appear in other published formats) and those who post their work for free on their blog site, poems, short stories, even novels. My own blog started off as a place to post some of my poems and short stories and is now evolving into a place to write about my writing. I am seeing the value of being paid for my literary work as well as the benefit of having an editor's contribution to the final product. But I also don't want to lose out in receiving immediate feedback from creative inspiration.
Other writers, what are the pros/cons of these approaches? Feel free to share your own experiences with me.

Living in the Void

2009-03-02T09:26:00.000-08:00

The spiritual leader at a community I belong to likes to use the phrase, “living in the void.” This notion resonates with me so much lately as I continue to move deeper into a life as a writer. After 17 years of full time work with the same company, I changed to a part time schedule in September. Let me tell you, the first couple of weeks, I was struck by an unexpected insecurity that made it feel like I was walking on water but that at any moment, I would sink below the surface. Who did I think I was that I could walk on water? In the current economy, I was opening myself up to greater risk in being laid off by going part-time, wasn’t I? And considering my history of cancer and the need for healthcare, which keeps me tied to a corporate employer, wasn’t I being foolish, losing the benefits of short term and long term disability? And the reason that I was doing all of this…to concentrate more on my writing and to make up the loss in my hours at the company through income I would make in my writing. What the hell? Was I crazy? I had not had anything published since college and even then, it was 3 or 4 poems in various university literary magazines that paid me nothing.
Months into this experiment, I don’t feel any more confident about my job security or the scary possibility of a cancer recurrence, and I have come to the hard realization that I won’t be immediately paid for my writing. In fact, these couple of months have felt unstructured, unfocused and without much “work” to prove the loss of self-worth that my previous corporate identity allowed me. But I am more comfortable sitting in this place, sitting in the void, to use my spiritual leader’s words. I lived in the void going through my treatments for brain cancer, trusting that I was making the right decisions based on the information from my doctors and other experts. Perhaps, the experience of a health crisis prepared me to be able to take on the risks that I am living in now. And ironically, it was the health crisis that spurred me to make such a radical change (at least it was radical for me), as I was forced to realize that I am not going to live forever, and maybe not even as long as you.
It was in college, when I was studying for my Creative Writing degree, before I took the path of safety and security in the corporate world, that I first picked up the Tao Te Ching. It taught me how to let go of the religious structure that I grew up with, with all of its neat answers and to live in the complexity and contradictions of life. I remember hearing a friend’s interpretation of his own reading of the Tao: that it was the space between life’s moments that provide the real meaning, those times of waiting for the next great thing to happen. It is the moment between breaths. It is the time between moments. I started to notice these gaps, to allow in the undefined, unknowable mystery of them, to sink into the nothingness of them; I was surprised to find myself comforted.
It is these open spaces that have taught me the most and have allowed me to move forward in my life. As I sit in the void of my current situation, of no longer being the “corporate man” and not yet having the credentials of the writers I admire, I trust that although I will sink below the surface at times and not be able to see where I am or where I am going, that it will be the lessons of the void that guide me.
What lessons have you learned from living in the void? Please drop me a line. I would love to hear.

The Holy Spirit of MILK

2009-01-05T10:22:00.000-08:00

I was trying to write a poem for my father, who has been on my mind a lot lately, to reflect my admiration for him…why? Well, just recently, I went to see the movie MILK, and as with most other gay men who grew up not really knowing who Harvey Milk was, until recently, I was very moved by the story. When Harvey admits to himself, to paraphrase, “I am forty years old, and I haven’t done anything with my life,” it had a specific resonance with me in regards to turning forty myself this year and sometimes feeling, what have I done for gay rights? It seems like this is the time to be counted and recognized as an upstanding, moral, contributing member of society, who happens to be gay, just like Harvey Milk was. I wonder, sometimes, what can I do? (Even when I know that there is more that I can do.) Has my coming out made any difference, even to my own family, for example, when I send my dad a copy of a reading I did at church this past year for Gay Pride and the only response I get back is “thanks for sharing?” Thanks for sharing!? After all the emails I receive from my dad about his political views and religious perspectives, that’s the only thing he can say. I felt insulted. Cheated. I wanted more.

But I had already gotten more: at the family reunion, about 4 years ago, in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. Let me paint the picture for you. My boyfriend and I drive up to the community center where it is being held and my dad’s brother is being lifted out of the back of a run down pickup truck in a recliner, carried into the meeting hall by a band of my cousins. (I found out later that my uncle had just had surgery on both of his knees, but it didn’t take away from the absurd opening scene to the redneck family reunion). We enter the meeting hall to see it decorated with red, white and blue for Memorial Day and several of my first cousins singing old time religious hymns. We settle uncomfortably in the meeting hall into some open seats and anxiously await when it will all be over. After we all eat, it comes the time for each of my dad’s siblings and himself to introduce their respective families. Knot in my stomach. My dad’s most religious brother (who, as a preacher years ago, called me out during the middle of a church service as needing prayer for my underage drinking) introduces his three sons, their beloved wives, and each of the kids. Next, the most redneck, beer-drinking heathen brother introduces his kids. The sisters introduce their children.

And then it’s my dad’s turn. Oh my god, I can’t breathe, he is just going to say my name and nothing else. Nothing about my partner. Or “This is Richard’s friend.” He introduces my older brother, his wife, kids. My brother Clark.

“And this is my son Richard, in from Chicago, with his life partner, Dan.”

What? What? Did I just hear that? I was stunned. Shocked. Embarrased. Proud. My dad, a lifelong Republican, a career military man, a hunter of wild game, a sports enthusiast, a stern disciplinarian, had just stood up in front of his entire mostly fundamental, religious, Southern family and introduced me and my gay partner. Me, his middle son, a lover of literature, a sensitive writer, a lifelong liberal, a peace-loving soul, a man lover! I felt chills running down my back and gave a quick sideways glance of pleased shock to my lover as my first cousins, the Allison Family Singers, started singing one of those religious songs that I grew up with, that I cut out of my consciousness for years, but this time, as they sang, “There’s Power in the Blood,” I felt a little something, a familial connection because of what my father had just done and I felt that the shivering sensation of redemption and validation that I was experiencing was not unlike the Holy Spirit that my father often refers to.

I felt the same type of shivering sensation, of validation, of redemption, of wanting and needing to do more, when I heard Sean Penn recite Harvey Milk’s haunting premonition: “If a bullet should enter my brain, let that bullet destroy every closet door.” Hearing that, seeing the horrible fate that befell Harvey Milk and yet all the good that has come from his legacy, sent shivers through my body at the movie theater.

Again, I felt moved by the Holy Spirit. I think even my dad could relate to that.