Only On Sunday

I don’t exactly have a positive history regarding long-term, marital type relationships. Been there, done that, three times, none of em worked. My first was open warfare, starting with the first salvo fired about an hour before we tied the proverbial knot and more or less ending with her stripping the house down to, and including, the dirty shag carpet five years later and carting it all off. She didn’t even leave me a pillowcase. Nor a pillow for that matter.

My second went a bit smoother. We lived together without benefit of legal formality for nearly two years, decided to do the nuptial thing and subsequently broke up less than a year later. I spent several months wearing out Bob Dylan’s “If You See Her, Say Hello” before she once again appeared on my doorstep. Looking back on it now, I think I was reluctant to start things up again. But I did. And it didn’t work. Less than four years later she was gone again.

My third? We never did the nuptial thing but the five years I spent with her, as chaotic as they were at times, were the best five years of my life. Losing her changed me in ways I could never have foreseen. I wish it would have worked out. But it didn’t. Life can be like that sometimes.

So why am I going on about this marriage thing? I’ve never been a big supporter of the institution of marriage nor have I been particularly opposed to it. I could say I’m not very good at it but would that be accurate? What I’m not very good at is a long-term relationship with a woman, with or without the formality of marriage, which has nothing to do with the actual institution of marriage. For me, living together or marrying are an either/or thing. If I lean in either direction, it would be more toward the living together side if only because there’s one less thing to deal with when the relationship comes apart.

Not everyone feels that way, of course.

83 year old Phyllis Lyon and 87 year old Del Martin don’t feel that way. They wanted to get married, have wanted to get married for a good number of years and did just that last week in my beloved San Francisco. I don’t know Phyllis or Del but their marriage brought a tear to my eye. I do know why it took them so long to get married. And I know why their first attempt at marriage four years ago failed. The law wouldn’t let them. You see, Phyllis is a woman and Del, well, she’s a woman too.

The institution of marriage has become something of a battleground of late and the battle heated up dramatically when, in a move that surprised more than a few folks, the California Supreme Court overturned the ban on same-sex marriages, opening the way for Phyllis and Del and thousands of other same-sex couples to finally have what I and the rest of the hetros so take for granted: a trip down the aisle or a few words before the judge and all the protections those actions afford.

The fundamentalists and the homophobes are going ballistic, of course. Oh me oh my these queers are gonna destroy the sanctity of marriage! Sanctity? What fucking sanctity? And what constitutes sanctity anyway? Love? Devotion? Read Paul Monette’s “Borrowed Time” and then come back and tell me it’s not possible for a man to love another man every bit as much and every bit as deeply as a man might love a woman.

Longevity then? Nah. Sure as hell can’t be that. ‘Divorced’ is as much a marital status today as ‘Single’ or ‘Married’. If longevity is part of what constitutes the sanctity of marriage, then Phyllis and Del have most hetros beat by a mile and a half. They’ve been partners for more than 50 years. Jim and Tammy, the ultimate evangelical, opposite-sex couple didn’t last that long before they divorced. And those 50 years of Phyllis’ and Del’s are 33 years longer than my three relationships combined.

The fundamentalists and the homophobes aren’t through yet. No such luck that the rapture will occur and rid us of their ilk. No, they’re gathering signatures to put a referendum on the next ballot, a referendum to amend the California constitution to ban gay marriage. I wish I could get enough signatures to put a referendum on the next ballot to ban them. As it is, all I can hope for is that the people of California do the right thing and shoot that referendum down in flames.

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Technorati Tags: Phyllis Lyon, Del Martin, California Supreme Court, same-sex marriage, marriage, California, gay marriage

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A friend, after reading the previous post, asked me how I felt about what I’d written, about what’s going on out there. Was I angry, he asked? Angry, hmmmm, yeah, I am, at times, angry. Not the rock-throwing, take-it-to-the-streets righteous indignation anger I felt back in the 60s/70s during a previous unjust and unnecessary American war. More a frustrated, tired, disappointed anger. So much of the dream we had back then, so much of the energy to achieve that dream, is gone.

The anti-war and civil rights movements saw tens of thousands taking to the streets, dedicated, defiant, willing to face the consequences of trying to change a system they believed to be deeply flawed. Today I see a dozen people dressed in black standing outside the Federal courthouse here in Albuquerque, protesting a war as heinous, if not more so, than the war I fought against. And while the traffic streams by on Lomas Ave, those pathetically few brave, protesting souls are no more relevant to those self-absorbed drivers than shadows on the street.

A black man and a woman vie for the presidency while our government builds a fence across our countries southern border. Whatever happened to ‘Give us your poor, your tired, your huddled masses longing to be free…’? If the Statue of Liberty could weep, her tears would form a waterfall of despair.

The infrastructure of this country is falling apart, children in the richest country on the planet go hungry, the education system is falling apart, the gap between the richest and poorest grows, the middle class is disappearing while our government tries to foist ‘democracy’ on other countries at the end of a gun. A very expensive gun. A gun we pay for, I might add. And they won’t even let us see the body bags of the children who held those guns nor the devastation those guns have wrought on other children.

The pursuit of fear alleviation has replaced the pursuit of happiness. We, the ‘common’ folk, pay the vast majority of taxes and few of us are more than one paycheck away from homelessness. And that paycheck is getting smaller by the day.

Retirement? The Golden Years? Fagetaboutit. If you’re lucky enough to have a job, you’re going to have to keep that job until you fall face down in your Cream of Wheat some morning to be replaced by some slightly younger poor fuck who will have to work until they fall face down in their breakfast cereal.

So, yeah, I guess you could say I’m angry.

Langston Hughes wrote of a dream deferred. Has the dream become the raisin or the sore or a heavy stone sinking below the surface of our waking self? Is there enough left to reach a critical mass, to explode again? I hope so, but I’m not real big on hope these days.

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Technorati Tags: anti-war, civil rights, Albuquerque, Give us your poor, your tired, your huddled masses longing to be free…, Statue of Liberty, Langston Hughes

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Kurt Vonnegut Jr. 1922-2007

I’ve read everything the man ever published, most numerous times. Indeed, I’ve read Breakfast of Champions every year for the last 30 years. He was one of the greatest influences on my own writing. I will miss him.

“Everything that ever was always will be, and everything that ever will be always was.”
The Sirens of Titan - Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

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Technorati Tags: Kurt Vonnegut

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It was a year ago today that I started this blog. A lot has happened over this past year, quite a good deal of it bad. I’ve lost three of my seven cats; Feral-When-I-Wanna-Be, The Doubtful Guest and Mooch. I finally got my house in California on the market well after the real estate bubble there burst and it took nearly the entire year to sell. Lost a lot on that deal. Fired my dunce of an agent, something I probably should have done in 05, and haven’t yet found another. Had my car repossessed. And those are just the surface things, the things I’m willing to write about here.

There’s been some good sprinkled in there, to be sure. I’ve had a couple of short stories published. I finished my second novel, Meter Maids Eat Their Young. I made the decision to rewrite Stealing The Marbles and I did, finishing less than a week ago with plans to start subbing it tomorrow as soon as the post office opens.

The house did sell, but that was a mixed blessing as it sold for considerably less than the initial asking price, which has somewhat diminished my hope of buying a house here in Albuquerque. Still, it’s gone and that’s one less burden I have to carry.

Certainly the high point of the year was the way my friends at Backspace and beyond rallied together to help me get my car back, selflessly contributing stories to my 1500 Stories in 20 Days project and then buying most of those stories themselves and organizing auctions to fill in the gaps until the goal was not only reached but exceeded. I am still in awe of that and not a day goes by that I don’t think about it and give thanks for their heartfelt generosity. Backspace, and the folks who frequent its forums, are the best of the best. I can’t wait for the 07 conference in May to finally meet some of them in person.

And finally, toward the waning days of 06, the eternal hermit (that would be me) finally reached the point that this somewhat hokey poem, author unknown, illustrates better than I could.

And the day came
When the risk to remain
Closed in a bud
Became more painful
Than the risk it took
To blossom

Whether I shall blossom and what bizarre form that blossom might take remains to be seen. But, I’ve stepped out of my room, my self-imposed, albeit safe, prison to mingle with the living in the physical world, and not just as a shadow moving silently along the back wall of the room as has always been the case in the past. And you know what? Except for the two feet of snow sitting out in my yard, the sky hasn’t fallen on my head yet.

A happy, safe and productive 07 to you all.

I don’t like Christmas. My favorite day of the year is the 26th of December because it’s as far from Christmas as one can get in any given year.

Having said that, I want to pass this along. Christmas In The Trenches by John McCutcheon. It’s all that needs be said.

I can’t get a link to work so you can hear it. You should find it, though. It’s worth it. In the mean time, here are the lyrics.

Christmas in the Trenches by John McCutcheon

My name is Francis Tolliver, I come from Liverpool.
Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school.
To Belgium and to Flanders, to Germany to here
I fought for King and country I love dear.
‘Twas Christmas in the trenches, where the frost so bitter hung,
The frozen fields of France were still, no Christmas song was sung
Our families back in England were toasting us that day
Their brave and glorious lads so far away.

I was lying with my messmate on the cold and rocky ground
When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound
Says I, “Now listen up, me boys!” each soldier strained to hear
As one young German voice sang out so clear.
“He’s singing bloody well, you know!” my partner says to me
Soon, one by one, each German voice joined in harmony
The cannons rested silent, the gas clouds rolled no more
As Christmas brought us respite from the war
As soon as they were finished and a reverent pause was spent
“God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” struck up some lads from Kent
The next they sang was “Stille Nacht.” “Tis ‘Silent Night’,” says I
And in two tongues one song filled up that sky
“There’s someone coming toward us!” the front line sentry cried
All sights were fixed on one long figure trudging from their side
His truce flag, like a Christmas star, shown on that plain so bright
As he, bravely, strode unarmed into the night
Soon one by one on either side walked into No Man’s Land
With neither gun nor bayonet we met there hand to hand
We shared some secret brandy and we wished each other well
And in a flare-lit soccer game we gave ‘em hell
We traded chocolates, cigarettes, and photographs from home
These sons and fathers far away from families of their own
Young Sanders played his squeezebox and they had a violin
This curious and unlikely band of men

Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more
With sad farewells we each prepared to settle back to war
But the question haunted every heart that lived that wonderous night
“Whose family have I fixed within my sights?”
‘Twas Christmas in the trenches where the frost, so bitter hung
The frozen fields of France were warmed as songs of peace were sung
For the walls they’d kept between us to exact the work of war
Had been crumbled and were gone forevermore

My name is Francis Tolliver, in Liverpool I dwell
Each Christmas come since World War I, I’ve learned its lessons well
That the ones who call the shots won’t be among the dead and lame
And on each end of the rifle we’re the same

© 1984 John McCutcheon - All rights reserved