Book of Jamez

55 y/o malcontent, something of a writer

Author: Jamez

  • Chapter Five

    so at this point I’ve given up the whole charade of making my life fiction… and I’m telling the truth instead, I’ll have to edit the parts of Chapter 1 where I talk about things that weren’t true.. oh well

    Chapter Five

    Just the act of keeping a secret gave me stomach cramps on and off for about a year. It was bad enough that I had been in and out of the doctor’s office trying to figure out what was wrong with me and no one had a clue. I didn’t think it was the secret that seemed silly; a secret couldn’t do that could it? I guess it depends on how big of a secret.

    A bunch of us boys had gone camping with one of Mom’s friends that weekend, there was some festival that all her friends and her wanted to attend so we were sent camping. Just two tents in our area and yes they were large enough, but soon it was me and the adult sharing a tent and a sleeping bag as all the other spots were taken. I really didn’t think anything of it and soon enough I was asleep in the tent.

    I woke up rather startled when I felt a hand on my pants unbuttoning the top button and soon the zipper being pulled down – I bolted up in bed, left the tent and lit a smoke (I was a rebellious teen who smoked and drank already at the age of 12) making sure to redo my pants. He stayed in the tent and I just chain smoked for a while, but didn’t do anything else. Nothing else happened that weekend while camping and I didn’t think too much of it after – when he dropped us off at my Mom’s I overheard him relating the story of having a dream he was with a beautiful girl and when he went to fondle her found something unexpected. He and my Mom laughed it off, but I knew he was establishing a cover for himself in case I said anything – which I didn’t.

    A smart kid would have kept his distance at that point I think, but he was the first adult male to pay attention to me in my memory so I wasn’t sure if this was wrong or not, I did have a feeling of uneasiness at first but that was quickly replaced with love and admiration.

    In the beginning of the seduction of me he would bribe me with alcohol or cigarettes to get me to try new things, sucking on his cock or kissing him, but after a while I would do it without any external reward at all, I spent most of my free time with him.  He came home from a weekend away and said he brought some porn for us to watch, when he put the video in he pretended to be shocked that it was all guys, claimed he bought it from a large bin of unmarked tapes. I don’t know why he was still playing that particular part, but I didn’t buy it I knew he liked what we were doing and at that point so did I.

    I thought he loved me and that I’d likely spend the rest of my life with him, never mind the fact that he’d also taken advantage of 11 other young boys some of them while I was there participating – he would be mine I was sure. At twelve years old I didn’t really have concepts of what a lasting relationship was, most every adult I knew had been divorced at least once so this was new to me. He never hinted that he would keep me forever and knowing something about pedophilia now I know he would have needed a young boy, he would have little interest in me in a few years.

    Why I didn’t say anything? I don’t know, I didn’t want to ruin it probably. He never asked me to be quiet about it, but it was understood that this would not be accepted behavior somewhere in my consciousness. I never told any of my friends nor did I write about it in my diary it was all internalized though and I would frequently wonder where this was all going if anywhere at all.

    He and I took a trip to Chicago together one weekend and I had some initial fears that he would sell me off or introduce me to other adults that would have their way with me but none of that happened – I met some of what he claimed were his family and we turned around for home.

    During all this I started to get my stomach cramps, they were painful and had me in tears most of the time that they would happen. Nothing seemed to make them better or go away and there were no triggers, it would just start to hurt for no reason at all. At first my Mom and Grandmother didn’t believe me, but the pain was real and soon we’d be at the doctors. They ran all kinds of tests and x-rays, he even came in for visits during one hospital visit where they were running extensive tests. I wonder now if the nurses and doctors didn’t spot signs of abuse when they were examining me or if they just ignored that as a symptom.

    When the end came it was a boy younger then me that finally told an adult, and then everything came apart. All the boys that spent time with him were questioned and we were all kept apart from one another. I think everyone of us were called to court to testify about what he did to us. I remember them asking me questions before court, but I only remember one specific question “Did he make you and the other boys do anything together?” or something to that effect, and I said no. I think they asked several times, but each time I said no and I know they knew I was lying. I was convinced that if I admitted to those things that I too would be in trouble and be considered a monster as well. The way my Mom had been looking at me I knew she already thought I was a monster, and it hurt. Sitting in court facing him and feeling utterly alone was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. There were a ton of people in the courtroom but he was the only person I could see. I knew I was betraying him when I sat on that stand, but I think he knew that I didn’t have a choice. Not once during my testimony did he look up at me, and God I wanted him to. I wanted him to look up and reassure me, make me feel better or give me a knowing look that would let me know it was all a dream. Once he went off to jail I would be alone again and no one would love me. Sick isn’t it?

    The seduction/abuse led to years of therapy (mostly against my will) where old men would ask questions and I would lie to them, or occasionally tell them the truth – that usually ended badly. I’ve even looked at Rorschach tests for hours on end, didn’t make me feel better. It really seemed to me that these professionals were more interested in finding out what was going on in my head and not really interested at all in how to make me feel better about what had happened – maybe they weren’t supposed to do that, but I sure wanted that. Perhaps if I had told the truth consistently they would have seen that I needed and wanted to feel better about the whole mess. Mostly I feared that if they heard the truth they’d lock me up in a room or put me in jail, the thoughts that traversed through my head weren’t thoughts that the general population would accept, somehow I knew. Once Mom came to a session and I told her I had no steady father figure and didn’t know better – this was a slap in the face for her as at this point she’d been married three times already and the steady stream of men coming out of her bedroom was confusing even to a twelve year old.

    So the question on most people’s minds is “Did being abused make you gay?” and I really don’t think so, even before he touched me I had thoughts about Superman and Batman kissing and sleeping in the same bed – not that I had any clue what they’d do in bed together at that point. For one Halloween I dressed as a woman and no I don’t think that had any effect either – didn’t make me like drag either thank God.

    Friends in high school who I let know about what happened made it their goal to have me have sex with a girl, but they were unsuccessful, there were a few girls that were interested but I wasn’t. I waited to have sex with a girl until I was nineteen years old, and then I only did so at the insistence of friends who didn’t want me to turn twenty a virgin. I was nervous, but I knew what to expect as some of the porn I’d watched was hetero. The sex was ok, nothing that really made me want to do it again there was no emotional attachment to this girl. I didn’t have sex with a man again until I was twenty-one and then again at twenty-four, it was never something that I sought to have – a part of me believed that any sex was bad and wanting it made me a bad person. That’s a little emotional damage from the events of my youth that I did eventually get over.

    It does make me not want to have children as I’ve read time and time again that those who were abused become abusers in an endless cycle. Which is really silly, I’m attracted to older guys not younger guys – always have been. People in my life that know my history have never once shown any concern when I’m near their children – for which I’m grateful, I have a ton of adopted nephews and nieces that mean the world to me. I’d probably make a great father but fear keeps me from wanting to. I don’t fear being a violent abusive husband like two or three of Mom’s husbands were, I’ve never been violent.

    So it really all boils down to fear. Fear that a man who was hurting me wouldn’t love me, fear that other people would find out about this love and fear that I will be stuck in an endless cycle of abuse of others. You can outgrow fear, or so I’ve read, you can establish a foundation of hope and trust amongst your friends, family and power greater than yourself so strong that fear cannot penetrate it. I tell myself that some fears are healthy, that’s where my foundation sometimes fails and lets the worries in.

  • Jamez and Bill take NYC

    Early following the engagement party at my house, Bill and I headed to NYC via Amtrak for a weekend of theater in the Big Apple. The train ride was smooth and he and I enjoyed watching Toy Story 3 on my iPad which made the time fly by.

    When we arrived at Penn Station we met up with his niece Christina before heading off to our hotel the Hampton Inn. We all were hungry so we went to lunch at B. Smiths right near our hotel.

    Then we went out to be touristy and before I knew it Bill had purchased us all tickets to see the Radio City Music Hall’s Christmas Spectacular where not only did we get to see Santa, we  enjoyed a wonderful show.

    Before we knew it the time had flown by and we were back at the hotel getting ready for our first scheduled show Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown at the Belasco Theatre.  Bill was very excited as he’s a huge fan of one of the actresses, Patti LuPone. In all honesty I thought the play overall was just ok. I wasn’t all that impressed with the story and it seemed a little slow. Justin Guarini of American Idol was in it and he was actually quite good. I think Laura Benanti stole the show though, she was just very funny and entertaining.

    After the Women we headed to the Disney Store to look at every single piece of merchandise available, both Bill and Christina are huge movie fans. It was late at night but I swear it was wall to wall people. And then to top the evening off we had NY Style pizza before we headed back to the hotel.

    Sunday morning I got up early to get coffee for all of us at the Starbucks across the street, but Bill and Christina slept in and didn’t want cold coffee (can I help that I wake up at dawn?). The breakfast at a diner near the hotel, before we took Christina to the train and sent her back to Yale.

    Angels in America (Part One) at the Signature Theatre, started at 2 and we had seats right in the center of the theater – it was spectacular. There was the one guy who smelled horribly like urine, but he wasn’t seated near us – thank you God. We really were engrossed in the story from the get go, the only role that we didn’t feel as real was played by Zoe Kazan (as Harper Pitt), to me it was like she was reading the lines from a book and not attached to what she was saying. She also played one other small role (we think) a young lawyer, which she actually pulled off well – but I’ve jumped ahead, that’s part two.

    When Part 1 came to a close we went out to find a restaurant near by and were soon at Forty-Fourth and X in Hell’s Kitchen – where the food was ok, but not anything to rave about. After we were seated Zachary Quinto walked in and sat at a table behind me. Zachary is playing Louis Ironson in Angels in America and is known to me as Spock from the new StarTrek movie. It was rather cool. Just moments earlier I had seen his penis on stage and here he was eating near me… /swoon. I kept my cool and kept eating and trying to engage Bill in conversations, but he was enamored by the site of Zachary and no matter what I talked about his eye kept wandering. I know they were making love to one another from across the room… I can’t take him anywhere.

    Even after Bill spent an entire evening flirting with Zachary Quinto, it was a great night. Part two of Angels in America was just as wonderful as part one was. I had seen the mini-series on HBO years past, but the actors and actresses (except where mentioned above) had pulled me so deeply into the story I forgot I was in a theater at all, but living a part of the story.

    Monday we were to head home, but stopped first at Midtown Comics and as I browsed the massive selections Bill sought life size action figure of Zachary. Then off to Amtrak where we did crosswords together all the way back to DC.

    We had a really great time, if anyone of you run into Zachary while you’re in NYC please tell him to leave my guy alone, he’s taken! 😉

  • Chapter One

    I’ll be adding a few of the chapters here to the blog so you can follow my progress, here is Chapter One, let me know what you think.

    Chapter One

    Having been born in a mental institution, I often find myself wondering if I’m crazy myself. Fortunately, too often, I run into someone else that I’m convinced is crazy and puts my mind at ease – for at least a moment or two.

    My mother, it turns out, was one of those cases where no one even knew she was pregnant, I’m sure you’ve seen them on the news. Seems she was so big when she was admitted to the ward that they didn’t even think to run a pregnancy test. The birth was too much for her to handle and she died giving birth to me; I heard all of this relayed to what had been a long list of foster parents by a loud-mouthed social worker. She informed them that was why I had been to so many homes, but I knew that wasn’t it, I’m not the crazy one but most of the foster parents had been. Some foster homes would turn me down right there or only agree to take me temporarily, and this is the main reason I was never adopted – or at least that is my theory.

    Foster homes are always an adventure; you never know what might happen to you. Id met all kind of monsters in them; pyromaniac kids, molesting adults, drunks, drug addicts, and slave labor traders top the list. Each placement I’d find a way out or would be asked to leave – usually if I threatened to tell on the men who wanted to touch me or if I’d defend myself against rotten kids. Those people were crazy, even a young kid could see that. Sometimes I couldn’t get away, those scars will always be with me. There were good foster homes, the one I ended up for the last three years especially, but more on that later.

    But it does beg to question, do crazy people think they’re crazy? Probably not, but I’m not crazy… of that I’m fairly certain. Ride the bus you’ll see crazy.

    The other day I had left my iPod at home and by the time I realized it I would have been late to work had I gone to retrieve it. I knew I’d hear crazy on the bus, but I also didn’t want to be late for work – so when the bus arrived I walked on, paid my fare and found a seat near the window. In the rare occasions that I had forgotten my iPod before I had learned a few tricks that sometimes keep me safe from conversation or confrontation, lean your head against the window, slouch down and make sure your eyes are closed. Above all, don’t react, that’s the important thing, don’t react.

    So when the tap, tap, tap was felt on my shoulder I knew I should have ignored it, but there I was opening my eyes. I looked across the aisle at what appeared to be a lovely lady, dressed nicely for the morning commute with a handbag on her purse. She smiles at me and I say “Yes?” to which point she asks me what times it is. Seriously, she wakes me from my fake slumber to ask me what time it was I’m mildly furious yet kindly tell her that I do not know.  This was pretense of course, she’s not really interested in the time, instead only wants to talk to me, even if I’m not interested in talking to her at all. I lean back against the window and close my eyes, she keeps on talking at me hoping I’ll take part in the conversation – but this time I remember not to react. Bus people are like that, I wouldn’t be surprised if she smiles at me the next time she sees me and considers us old friends.

    At the junction I get off the bus and wait for the next, lighting a cigarette and generally go over what is sure to be a busy day. Before the third drag on the cigarette the bus has arrived and it’s full, most of the seats are taken and none of the open seats are windows. There is one guy in the fourth seat back that is hogging up both seats, but past experience has made it clear the odors that waft from him are not worth sitting next to him even if your feet are about to fall off. So I find a seat next to a young man, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, he looks harmless enough.

    Very quickly I discover that he’s far from harmless. Almost as soon as I sat down he started to chat away at me incessantly. Seems his father was a bad man, he tells me four or five times, so I’m sure he must have been bad. He talks with what I assume is African accent that makes it hard to understand the words I’m trying to ignore. It’s easy to get wrapped up in the lives of crazy people, so I can’t help but listen. It’s not too long before he starts to tell me how he shot his father in the leg, doesn’t tell me why he shot him, but does go into graphic details about the amount of blood and screaming that happened after he had pulled the trigger. (At this moment one of the other people on the bus looks up suddenly at him in horror, so part of me thinks she is either not crazy, or upset that someone mentioned blood or guns or screaming on the bus, any of these are possible) Then the really crazy part happens, he asks me if I’ve ever been shot – to which I answer, “No” and a smile as huge as I’ve ever seen spreads across his face while his eyes get a glint of expectation and he gets lost in his own world. Thankfully, that’s my stop. I make a note never to sit by this individual again come hell or high water.

    The work day goes as expected and I’m so overwhelmed with things to do at the office at five o’clock I don’t remember that I had left the iPod at home, so tentatively I head to the bus stop and hope for a quiet commute home.

    When the bus arrives I get in line to board and can see the sane people on the bus – they’re the ones wearing headphone or talking on their cell phones (listen carefully to their conversations and you can tell it’s a ruse – they only do that to avoid the crazy people on the bus). There is an empty seat and I sit by the window thankfully, but as I start to slouch in my seat someone comes to sit next to me, I glance up and a guy smiles at me, naturally I smile back, but still slouch down and get ready for my faux slumbering – of course it’s never quite that easy. He of course wants to talk, and at first it’s just casual conversation so I let my guard down and start to participate – bad mistake. Before I know it he lets me know that he has recently had penis reduction surgery, which is of course not something I hear every day but definitely in the realm of possible conversations you’d hear on a bus any given day of the week. He goes into details about how difficult of a life it had been for him up until the surgery no girls were interested in dating him as soon as they saw his humongous member – apparently it was difficult in physical education classes as well, all the other boys gave him a hard time (no pun intended) for the size of it. He goes into very specific details about not just the length of it, but also how enormously thick it was.

    If that weren’t enough he wants me to know that they can’t just cut it off at the top, they actually have to take a chunk out of the middle and then reattach the two halves for it to work properly again. The doctors explained to him that there was nothing to be done for the thickness of it, he was dismayed at the news but hopeful that he might find someone who’d be able to withstand his big member.

    In spite of myself, I’m fascinated but I’m not sure if what fascinates me is the whole story or the details to which this man has gone to creating such a tale. There are several people around me also listening to him go on and on about his dong, some with smiles others with blushes and some with eyes as big as saucers.

    Inevitably, he has to ask the question: “Do you want to see it” and in all honesty, no I had no desire to see this mans reattached penis – not something I’d ever thought I’d say to myself or another human being. Nor did anyone else, as they all suddenly had other things to look at besides this man and me. Fortunately he didn’t pull it out there on the bus next to me – the bus was crowded enough. I politely say no, and luckily see that my bus stop is just a few more minutes down the road. The man with the monster penis looks disappointed that I’ve not wanted to see it but remains quiet for the rest of my ride. When I pull the cord to stop and ask him to get up I can’t help but glance down at his groin area, where indeed there is a very big mound.

    So while forgetting my iPod can be an adventure, it’s not something I hope to repeat in the future. Maybe I should just carry a set of headphones with me, that way I could pretend to be listening to music but really listening to all the crazy, without having to actually be a participant. I may not be crazy myself, the jury is still out, but I obviously attract crazy. Ride the bus, you’ll see crazy.

     

  • November Novel Idea

    I’ve decided to participate in this years NaNoWriMo and that’s just scary. NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month an annual event that challenges people from all walks of life to write one 50,000 word novel from scratch during the month of November. I like to write, which will be helpful, but thinking about writing that much during a one month period of time … well, I don’t know. Some months in this very blog I only write one or two posts and those are usually pretty short.

    So I’ve been spending the last few days trying to figure out what to write about. It seems the definition of a novel by default is fiction, so it can’t be the memoir that people keep asking me to write, it’ll have to be a work from the depths of my mind. Thinking of characters that have been forming in my mind’s eye for a while now and tweaking them a bit here and there.

    It doesn’t have to be a good story, it doesn’t have to make sense, nor does it have to be a best seller. The point of the challenge is to get me to do it – to finally put pent to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and do what I say I’ve always wanted to do. I will struggle with some punctuation, some verb usage and probably some other issues but who cares. Just so long as I write one 50,000 story in a thirty-day time period.

    So what will I write about? still trying to figure that out. But I know I can’t actually start until November 1 and when I do then I’m just going to let the creative juices flow and be done with it. I hope it makes senses… but we’ll just have to see.

    So what do I win? It is a contest after all. If I get all 50,000 words done by November 30 at 11:59 p.m. then I get the satisfaction of doing that one thing that I keep putting off. That should be prize enough.

  • Wedding Wrench

    Planning a wedding can seem like an insurmountable challenge. There are things that keep coming up that I haven’t thought about, things that I thought about but not enough about… it can seem like a lot to get done. Fortunately everything is still months away and will likely go smoother then I anticipate right now.

    I sent an email to a hotel in San Francisco for the reception giving them the parameters of the wedding (e.g. how many people, dates, vegetarian, non-drinkers, and so on) and the next day, as promised, I received a call asking me more details about the event which I provided. I was told someone else would be contacting me about specifics.

    When that someone contacted me it suddenly became clear to her that Bill and I were both guys, I don’t know how she missed it earlier. She then said “Oh, I was told this was a wedding and didn’t realize it was a commitment ceremony, I’m very excited for you both”.

    That was the last I heard from her, I was handed off to someone else who apologized for the “confusion and the change of hands” and said she would be my point of contact from here on out.

    I know it may seem silly and petty to some folks, but it’s not a commitment ceremony – it’s a wedding. I am going to marry the man I love in a church, in front of the people who love us and in the eyes of God. I may not be fortunate enough to get the same rights and privileges that straight couples get on that same day, but I will someday and I resent that you think my special day is “less than”.

    I want someone to explain how my love of someone of the same-sex is somehow not as valid as the eight times my mother married, the three times Rush Limbaugh married or countless others have been married.

    While we were in San Francisco two weekends ago we heard talk that the State of California plans to validate the marriages of any same-sex couples that were married before Prop 8 is finally struck down for good, and they believe it will be. I hope so, but it really doesn’t matter, as far as I’m concerned and as far as the God of my understanding is concerned – Bill and I will be married on June 25.

  • San Francisco – 2010

    Although I’ve never been a fan of the city, I just got back from an extended weekend in San Francisco with Bill where I grew to appreciate it more (thanks honey).  The trip out there didn’t go as smoothly as I would have liked (lack of coffee and good customer service were not helping) but once I arrived it was nice to see Bill there waiting for me.

    We stayed with one of Bill’s friends, Dorothy, who has a great view of the city and if it’s not foggy a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Our first night there we went for a walk in the Golden Gate Park, which was beautiful, the weather was just about perfect and the company really was. It had been a long day so we were in bed pretty early.

    Saturday Bill was kind and made sure we were up and about early so I could get to a coffee shop, we found a nice little place and the coffee was just right. Afterwards we spent the rest of the day with another friend of Bill’s, Patrick and a few of his friends touring the city. We hit Twin Peaks, Japan Town, Cable Cars, Zachary’s Pizza, Humphry Slocombe Ice Cream (where I tried several of the flavors but settled on “Elvis (the fat years)” which was quite good) and many shops in the Castro.

    Sunday, we again went out for coffee early, intended to go to the Folsom Street fair early, but ended up napping (and snoring if you believe Dorothy – Bill and I both deny we snore) while Dorothy, a nurse, went off to volunteer her skills at the first aid station at the festival. That afternoon Bill and I did get to the fair, briefly, before walking to the Castro and just being touristy until that evening when we went to the Castro Theater to see the classic film Metropolis which, despite being made in ancient times, was really quite good.

    Monday morning we went out for coffee and breakfast before heading off to the church where we plan to be married in June, The Interfaith Center in the Presidio. It’s perfect, cozy, sweet and just right…. I know, I know… but it really just felt like the right place to come to get married. Bill and I met with Sandi, the director there, and made arrangements for the day, we also asked her to officiate the event. She was wonderful and we hope you will think so too.

    After our visit to the church Bill and I drove up to Bodega Bay, CA where Alfred Hitchcock shot the film The Birds. If you didn’t know, Bill is a big movie buff, and this was always something he hoped to go visit, so we did. We  used my phone for it’s GPS and by the time we arrived my battery was dead so I don’t have photos to post from there, but we did have a really nice time there and the cooler weather was a nice change (it was in the upper 90s in SF most of the visit and remarkably cooler on the coast). Then we drove up Highway 1 for a bit before stopping in a very gay friendly town near the Russian River for Ice Cream and then headed home through some wine country.

    Then, sadly, I headed for home on Tuesday morning. Bill will be there visiting friends for another week. Fortunately, I’ll get to see him in San Antonio in just two more weeks :-).

  • Reflections on a Starr

    My sister Amy asked me to post some fond memories of my Grandmother Starr the other day on Facebook. At the time I couldn’t recall any pleasant memories as I have a particularly unpleasant one that happened during one of our last communications.

    My Grandmother is old, but not dying to the best of my knowledge, but there was a recent scare and everyone got all sentimental. Well, I’ve kind of distanced myself, so I didn’t… I’m just mental everyday. She must be in her late 80s or early 90s at this point and I haven’t seen her since my mother died, which I think was in 2004, but I can’t recall, at my Mother’s funeral and Grandmother didn’t even know who I was, so I can’t imagine that she’d remember me today either.

    I was told that my Grandmother provided food and shelter to my mother, my sister (Dawn) and I when I was a newborn – as my father was always drunk (or so they say). She often provided food for my family in later years when my mother was always drunk.

    When Dawn and I were fairly young we would join our Grandmother at Nuclear Protest rallies where she would take up her guitar on the large stage and sing protest songs, songs that she had written and speak out against nuclear power. Dawn and I would sing together songs that were familiar to us (Barbara Mandrell, Oak Ridge Boys, Alabama… mostly country stuff) on the stage to much fanfare while Grandmother played the guitar. It could have launched our careers and turned us into 1980s version of Justin Beiber, but alas – I was a big old drama queen and would throw fits if Dawn started the song on the wrong beat or sounded off key… yes, on stage. Me? I was always on. 😉

    The family curse (that when you become a teenager you can’t live with Mom anymore) sent me to live with Grandmother. I was horrible to her, often stealing money from her purse, cutting the screen windows to use the screen as a filter for bongs, burned bibles (one I understand was a Family Bible – whatever that means) and just being a general shit head. She tolerated a lot of shit from me and my friends while I lived there, she should get recognition for that if nothing else.

    I will always remember her bringing music into my world, exposing me to the Dulcimer, the Guitar, the Piano. She’s the one that got me writing, she kept a diary and wrote her own songs and stories. She really was/is something special.

    In 1998, when I came out of the closet after I had moved to Washington, DC, I received a letter from her basically damning me for my “choice” to be gay. That’s the most current memory I have of her and it’s not a pleasant one. Since that letter I’ve had very little to do with her or her other children – truly I’m probably better off.

    I hope that in this life those who got to know her, got to know the parts of her that inspired, taught and sang to me and not the parts that led her to condemn me to hell.

  • iRead, iWork, iPlay – iPad

    I am just continuously impressed with my iPad and how much it can do with such ease.

    First, I love the size and weight of it. It weighs so little compared to my Macbook, image of iPadbut a little more than my Kindle weighs and fits in the smallest of carry on bags for me to take with to the airport. I’ve bought a nice little bag for it which also is big enough to carry other travel essentials – it has a pocket for my iPod.

    I bought the 64GB iPad, the largest size available, and don’t keep my music on it as that would take all of my memory – I can’t pick and choose which music I might want to hear traveling across the country. Whereas my iPod has over 5000 songs and room for more at present.

    I’ve rented and downloaded a movie and some TV shows that I’ve watched on my iPad while on a plane trip to San Antonio. The sound, the picture quality and the large screen are just wonderful to have with me.

    In addition to being able to read my Kindle books on it, I can also read digital comic books from Marvel, DC and Image (there are other comic companies but I read primarily from these) all of which have an app specifically designed for the iPad. Let me tell you, its beautiful to see the characters on this screen – absolutely love it. The price for some of these comics is a little extreme and hopefully it’ll come down as we progress into the future.

    I have apps for news (Huffington Post, Cnet, ABC News), games (Jumbline2, Slice It and more), work (from Apple’s iWork series I have Pages and Numbers – if Microsoft was smart they’d get an app out for Word and Excel soon), music (Pandora and iTunes) and photos.There are also some that are just cool, Wikihood, Starwalk, Netflix… I could go on and on.

    It’s just an amazing tool that allows me to do all of these things on such a small, light device. I know it might seem like an expensive toy, but it’s really a very effective tool for all aspects of life. I’m glad I spent the cash on mine and suggest you give it a shot yourself.

  • Helpless

    Last week I received news that one of my best friends had tried to take their own life – thankfully they weren’t successful. Afterward, it was discovered that the suicidal thoughts had been growing more insistent in the last few weeks; they had been struggling with some issues for years; and they had kept it all to themselves.

    My first reaction to the news was one of fear and anger mixed with a lot of confusion – how did it get to this point? Then I would wonder how I had failed at the position of “best friend” if I couldn’t see how much they were hurting and how desperate they were for help. Then again wanting to punch them in the face for trying such a cowardly act as this or tears coming in sheets down my face for the thought of this world without them.

    It’s hard to sit half a country away and know all this is happening to someone you love, it’s harder still to know even the family and friends that are there with them are as helpless as I am, as befuddled, fearful and angry. I worry about the family, they are my family and I just don’t know how they’re going to get through this… then I remember God.

    I remember that I wouldn’t even have these people in my life if it weren’t for God, I wouldn’t even have my best friend still alive if not for His grace, his love, his support.

    Knowing and letting go are two very different things… and I’m still struggling a bit with the letting go. Still wondering how we got to this point and what we can do to get out of it.

    It wasn’t that long ago that I found myself wanting to jump off a balcony ( See Here) and end it all, and things were going pretty well for me at the time. I guess I don’t understand how depression works, how suicidal thoughts can get so prominent in our heads that we can’t see any other way out of situations.

    If you find yourself in a situation where you think suicide is the only option, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at

    1-800-273-8255

    There is always hope, always another way, always someone who loves you in the darkest of situations that can offer you a helping hand, a hug, a heartbeat.

  • Unsettling

    To be honest with you I’ve dumped guys for quite a few shallow reasons. Reasons that some friends have suggested were worth overlooking if the other parts of him were acceptable. I’ve disagreed on numerous occasions – which is why I’ve been single so long probably. However, if I’m going to invest in something long term I certainly don’t want a flawed version.

    For the record I’ve dumped guys for the following reasons (just a small sampling, the whole list is much too long):

    • Bad breath – Once is perhaps understandable, twice is unforgivable but everyday, all the time is a deal breaker
    • Obsessions – one particular guy was very obsessed with Christmas – tears everyday, it was just overwhelming
    • Angry Penis – you know the kind red, bulbous, throbbing. I really need this thing to look happy, not pissed off that I’m interested in it.
    • Odd penis – it bent the wrong way, looked droopy and sad – as I said earlier, this thing should look happy that I want to spend so much time with it – I’m happy, shouldn’t it be happy too?
    • Odd first name – I’m not going to tell you what it was, but I couldn’t find myself whispering it, or moaning it or even calling to the kitchen
    • Sick Dog – this one proves I’m heartless, I didn’t know the guy that well and helping to take care of his sick dog while he was traveling just didn’t fit in my plans (he also had a small penis – the sick dog was the last straw … no, it wasn’t quite THAT small)

    Now I’ve heard people talk on both sides of the coin: settle or don’t settle. My Mother had been married 8 (it’s a guesstimate some were questionably done) times by the time she died and I really have no intentions of following her path to matrimony. Why on earth would you want to go through that so many times, that most of the guys ended up being real losers was a testament to her picker. She should have stopped at number two, all her children had been born at that point. For all I know the men actually wanted to marry her, but that seems odd to me, would you want to marry someone that had been married 5 previous times? 6?

    I’ve been fortunate to have lots of guys fall in love or lust with me. A few have become obsessed with me, one is a stalker and the police have been notified. I don’t know what I do that has this effect on them, but it really does happen. If I could have found a way to turn it off I likely would have. In most of those cases I’ve not fallen in love with them, I faked it for a while but kept looking for that spark that I hoped would be there and it just never arrived.

    Others told me that the spark was a myth, that it didn’t happen that way and I should try to look at love more realistically. That I should have given some of those guys more time or another chance. Truthfully, I didn’t really want to, once I set my mind to the end it’s the end.

    So I refused to settle. I still refuse to settle. If he’s going to be mine until the end of time, I want him to be just how I want him.

    Good things come to those who wait. I found the guy I’d been waiting for. I got my spark, he got his. He says he loves Christmas, this doesn’t bother me, he likes the Wizard of Oz, which does bother me, but he hasn’t insisted that I have to watch it with him (don’t get any ideas). We’ve just started our journey, but we’re both very hopeful for the future.