Innocence for sale

I tried to sell my innocence today.

I fell in love when I was 18. Holly and I worked in the remote corner of a baseball stadium parking lot. For hours a day at least two weeks a month for a summer, we were alone with no one to talk with but one another. But for part of that summer she left for a church mission trip to Brazil. It was only while she was gone that I realized I felt more than friendship. When she returned, I couldn't wait to tell her.

That Christmas she gave me a silver ring with inlays of pearl and turquoise. And I vividly remembered her asking me to share something special with her. She took me to a little chapel off to the side of the big church and sang Happy Birthday to Jesus with just she and I. It was a simple, sweet gesture.

Being who I was then - and who I would remain for decades to come unluckily - she and I would never cut it. I was in no way ready to love someone because I had such trouble loving myself.

But after all those decades, I still have that ring. Thinking myself overly sentimental and unwilling to let go of the past, I decided to sell the ring to one of those precious metal buyers.

On the drive over, I pondered the ring in my pocket. Was it really a Rickie/Holly ring? Or was it anything else? I pulled it out and looked at its tarnished finish. I thought of how I had grown since that time and it would no longer fit on the intended finger. But I placed it on a smaller finger just to see if it belonged there. It probably didn't in terms of current fashionability. But there was a flash of how it maybe did in terms of Rickie.

I handed the girl making the bid the ring with a stated trepidation. The minute it left my hand, I knew. It wasn't about any past relationship or state of emotion. It was a symbol of the struggling threads of innocence in what has become a too cynical heart. It was the core of what was now under a lot of armor and history and experience. I had handed her not only what I used to be, but what I was once brave enough to be.

I needed to be sure it wasn't what I needed to be. I couldn't do that taking a few dollars for the metal value. I needed to have a substantial, solid image of my innocence, even if that innocence had waned.

I kept the ring. I just put it back in the not very secure, not very preserving place I'd found it. But I hung on to it, even in that rather cavalier way. Even if it's off to the side in a spot with little honor, at least I know it's still there.

Social experimentation

For the last several days, I've been conducting a social experiment using social media. I'm afraid the outcome doesn't say much about our society.

The posed question was if we can still conduct human discourse over issues. For my efforts, I've been called a poopy-head.

Okay, no one used those exact words. But it seemed the direction most wanted to go and tried to drag me.

The recent past was chosen because an election fell in those days. I'll admit the sample was only my 160 or so "friends" on Facebook. And not all of those likely had a chance to view my enticements. I stated a viewpoint on issues or outcomes and waited to see how others responded. To be honest, I didn't always believe the stances I took. But they were meant to inspire response. They ranged from health care to defense and into taxation.

For the purposes of discussion, I'm using progressive (which I find arrogant for a bunch that is as stalled as their counterparts) and conservative labels here because I do believe the current major parties have pretty much made themselves indistinguishable and irrelevant when it comes to issues.

I found that when I tried to get response on an issue or got debate, it was most often schoolyard. I don't completely blame the respondents. This is the current methodology. Call names, point fingers, regurgitate slanted "facts" and play to stereotypes.
* "I won't stop being sick until Obama is gone." No policy reason.
*"We have to throw out the Democrats ruining the budget." No response on what programs to cut that will make a meaningful dent.
* "Pelosi is an idiot." Although I didn't disagree, no action that indicates such was proffered as evidence.
* "Obamacare must be repealed." No one could tell me what horrible impact proves this (since it has yet to be implemented) or an idea of how to make health care work so the poor don't drain the system and die needlessly.

There were a few who when asked to (1) prove it, and (2) offer solutions, actually gave it a shot. But even some intelligent and well considered answers always contained a stereotype or attempt at slander. Unfortunately, most never went any farther than repeating when some radio or television pundit had said in the last 45 days without giving credit. When asked for back up, I was told I could "look it up for myself" or given a reference that had a kernel of truth that had been twisted into a cornfield of conspiracy.

Does anyone think anymore?

I caught some a bit off guard, and was complimented for it at times. I tried not to belittle opinions based on facts. There were times people made their point intelligently and I admitted I simply disagreed with the philosophy but accepted their logic. When pressed, I offered solutions to some problems that were more middle of the road than standard progressive.

But here was the fact I found most fascinating. I know some of it is because of the outcome of those ongoing elections. But it's a trend I'd seen before I conducted my little experiment. Every conversation I had, every post by another that gave me a chance to move into a different genre, was me vs. a conservative element. They responded, they posted, they fought back.

Not once did another of a progressive viewpoint add to my argument. I got personal notes encouraging me to keep fighting. But not once did anyone else actually speak up.

I believe we have absolutely no chance in this nation until we can say I think this because of this, this and this. And have all the "this" be concrete facts instead of fear and conjecture. We have no opportunity for such conversation when one side sits silent unwilling to both talk and listen.

My great hope has always been that what we hear most is the severe minority. That reality lies somewhere right in the middle. But people are swayed by the screaming on the ends. We just might have a big majority willing and able to go somewhere if we could hear and process the reality behind the emotion of everything going on right now.

But the Facebook I've seen is of millions with mouths open and ears and minds shut.

The little whys

All of us sometimes wonder why the world is so harsh, why innocents get hurt seemingly needlessly and why we can't all just be a little more rational.

It can make you crazy. Especially if you have a natural tendency for obsession as I do. So one of my releases is to let go of the big whys and spend some fun time with the little whys. Quite often, they involve my dog, Rusty.

Observing him is one of the great and small pleasures in my life. He and I have only been together since last summer, and he's still growing up. So the changes and behaviors are often new to us both.

An example is his reliance versus independence. Almost all of the time, Rusty is exactly at my side one step back. While I'm doing the mundane or the important, that is the post he chooses. He's fairly wise about avoiding my sudden moves and his apparently tender feet. It's a good thing because something about his golden retriever breed makes him almost silent. I have no idea how something about 70 pounds and a big swishy high tail can appear and disappear without a sound. But I don't get much space. Just enough.

Until fall approached. And I noticed the other side. He wants that back door open to ensure his ability to return to his post. But he'd rather be outside again and again exploring a small space he ought to have down pat by now. If I'd join out there, he'd be in heaven. He could fulfill his duty and curiousity all at once.

I don't understand his sense of obligation and alternate sense of freedom and adventure. But I recognize it.

And then there's his sense of organization. Regularly each day, he has to put his toys away - by his order, not mine. Sometimes they are gathered and placed on my bathroom floor. He has a couch upon which he can sit before an upstairs window and watch the world go by. Most often, it is upon that window sill the toys are stored. A squeaky ball, what's left of the end of a rope chew and whatever current chewbone he has been provided. Nothing he steals, only what he is given and shown is his. If you take them down and play with them, they will eventually be returned to the spot by him.

On the other hand, Rusty fulfills his need to chew with fireplace logs. Like many people, there's a log pile in the back corner of the back yard. He chooses his logs from there. Drags them into a shady spot under the big oak where he can keep an eye on everything and sharpens his amazingly white teeth on a hardwood. In comparison to his other belongings, however, these logs never get put back. In fact, when oak stops tasting so good, cedar becomes a new challenge. But within a few feet of the oak log. This changes at least four times over a couple of days. The wood pile is soon a wood strewn. And even when I go and reassemble the pile, he repeats the sloppying process.

Today I was smirking at these seeming dichotomies when it struck me. He's not confusing. Rusty is Rickie. Not in the exact behaviors, but in the incongruities. I am never middle of the road, aware I choose the bar ditches to see what surprise is hidden there. And I switch from left to right constantly. I do some things consistently because I believe it is my duty, my responsibility. And every now and then I say screw it and do whatever I want completely upon whim. Because it feels right to me.

I sometimes feel guilty about my inability to be consistent. But then I laugh aloud at the silliness that is Rusty's behavior. And see how his doing those things make him do the Goofy Dance, straight up in the air, body twisting and tongue lolling. He doesn't try to understand them, he just does them and finds it makes him happy.

I'm going to come up with more little whys and just enjoy them. Hell, maybe even find myself in a Goofy Dance every now and then.

Demon dance

"Devils and demons dance in my head"

I wrote that line when I was 18. Wrote it without understanding that I might recognize the struggle going on, but I still hadn't looked the characters in the eye. And that meant they would continue their disrupting dance for decades.

The blog post immediately prior to this was to remind me that point again. Inside the commentary, I can see ongoing actions that would be detrimental for way too long. And the unpublished memory of that same day adds to that understanding.

I come from a family and world where dealing with feelings was not taught, not displayed and not respected. That's tough on a highly sensitive man. But I learned the lesson of taking the feeling and shoving it farther down. And down. With whatever weight was required.

The prior post is my finding a feeling I couldn't hold back. The unpublished part is that after that funeral, I had to drive across the Texas Panhandle to the family burial site. It's a landscape where you can see any oncoming vehicle on the tiny two-lane ribbons literally miles and tens of minutes before you cross. So I loaded up on beer feeling invincible on those roads and too vulnerable inside.

It was the latest lesson I'd learned. If you need help getting those feelings out of the way, drown them, anesthetize them.

Here's the problem with any method of ignoring - it doesn't work. Never. For decades I put away feelings, jammed them way down until I couldn't see them anymore. But they kept knocking and probing until some incidental thing happened that created a crack. And while it seemed the incidental thing was being way overblown, in reality it was just pressure spewing everywhere and all of the sudden.

It never failed. I got a reputation for having a quick temper. But it wasn't really that. It was the voracity of the temper when it came out that made it seem so full blown and sudden.

The physical result was I've found years later I've repeatedly broken my hands and wrists. I've never seen a doctor over that specifically, never worn a cast, but only learned of the breaks and heals from a body scan looking for something in my back. Valuing people, I'm almost always hit inanimate objects - walls, trees, signs.

The emotional results is deeper and more prevalent scars. Those closest to me could never tell what was coming. Because I didn't know. But I had no idea how I felt at any moment, even in the midst of rage. And for anyone who cares about you, that's a precarious place to be. When it came to my emotional punches, I threw them right to the face of those who least deserved it.

I feel almost fortunate to have known people who were strong enough themselves to reach a point of refusing those emotional blows. With losing them, I have learned.

These days, I try to recognize what I feel. I try to let it be. Those around me still sometimes don't like it. But they get it in more bite-sized pieces that mean they can digest it and we can all move on. And I can feel at peace much more often, instead of having so many things fermenting inside my psyche.

If you're one of those who gets my bluntness, my uncomfortable honesty, who I tell I like immensely even when it makes them a tad squirmy, believe it's for the better. Better than dancing with the devil in the dark with no idea where the edge of the stage is.

The importance of a bologna sandwich

(This was written in 1989 and is transcribed unedited)

It was only a bologna sandwich, didn't even contain mustard. But it was one of the best tasting things I've ever had.

The sandwich was served at the small, sticker-infested Lefors, Tex., park. The park was just a concrete picnic table, a couple of swings and a marble state historical marker of an 1800s army attack on some Cheyennes which recovered two kidnapped white women.

It would seem the vistas couldn't have led to the sandwiches' exquisite taste, but that was a large part of it. The bread was slathered with sweet West Texas sunshine and the entire sandwich was sprinkled with the mystery and history of the small canyons winds had dug into the slight rolls of the land.

It was also a specially prepared sandwich, made by my Grandmother. I had been kind of dumped on her most of the times between my second and fifth birthdays. We were a strange team, a woman in her forties and a child still forming trusts and beliefs. But she took me when no one else did, and even at that early age I seemed to realize it.

The reason the sandwich comes to mind is a return visit to the park today. It's almost 30 years later and I've returned to Lefors to bury my Grandmother.

Wandering around the town alone just before the services, I was drawn to some regular stops - the water tower we hiked to each day of Vacation Bible School and the muddy fork of the Red River.

But for some reason, for the first time, I was drawn to return to the park. The taste of that sandwich came to me immediately, but it seemed like a small memory to demand my subconscious to make the trip.

As I looked across the little canyons though I found the trip's reason. Moving across the road at the top of the ridge was the vehicle bringing my Grandmother's body from the nearby larger town of Pampa.

Although my Grandmother was a church woman, that building filled with mourners wasn't where she wanted to say goodbye. This park, those times, the taste of that sandwich, were her farewell.

Finally, I cried.

Antithesis

I have lost my identity. Not to some Internet thieves, but to a 65-pound ball of play called Rusty the Goofball.

I had a friend tell me once that I was remembered though small encounters because I'm somewhat gregarious. But that seems to have been overwhelmed by Rusty.

Someone stopped me at the gym one day to ask if I owned a red retriever. "I saw you sitting in the median with what has to be the best behaved dog on Earth." Well, at times.

If we go to restaurant patios, pretty waitresses bring Rusty a bowl of water. My chances of getting a refill are much more limited. Friends question his well being before mine. The homeless guys working the nearby street corners know him. A neighbor greets me with "how is the happiest puppy on Earth?"

He is hard to overlook. He needs to greet everyone. I mean everyone. When he does cross a street, our system is he must sit, wait and then when I say go he turns around to put a portion of his leash in his mouth, do a vertical leap and then cross. The vertical leap is fairly common. All feet in the air, tail slashing, body twisted. The goofiest dance you've ever seen. Pure joy.

He eats lemons, tomatoes and tree logs. He steals paper money, tears it into pieces, but doesn't eat the pieces.

All this is actually a life reminder. It was one year ago today, I lost my best friend at that time. Often, he had been my only friend. It left a gaping hole. One I honestly questioned I'd survive. Not just from that single incident, but that it was the topping on a series of blows that brought me to my knees and now lower.

Months later, Rusty came along in happenstance. It just turned out he was the right personality with the right instinct for me. Not a me that was with the previous friend, but the me right now. In fact, he helped create the me right now.

In the reality that true loyalty goes both ways, I don't forget Sam, sometimes miss him. I remember the pain he was in the final days. The look of abject fear when he was taken in for the final decision I had to make is emblazoned in my consciousness. Yet I also remember the experiences we shared, the times we went through together and the support Sam provided.

As importantly, I look at then and now and realize how one day in life can be the antithesis of another. For the feelings of one year ago today, I get to view the wild abandon with which Rusty rushes across a yard, bounds into the air to pounce on a football with a full growl and then come back at me like a fullback at a goal line. I am daily amazed at the hours he can spend sitting on a couch in an upstairs room looking out the window, nose awiggle and eyes vigilant for whatever the world brings by. I can absorb some of the ecstasy that comes with getting to go for a walk, even though it happens every day. I can appreciate how he wants to hurry to a street corner so he can do his sit, wait, go process and prove his behavior.

You know what today is like. Sometimes that's not all that good. You can't ever guess what tomorrow will be. Sometimes that's better than you could ever imagine.

Loneliness

"The worst loneliness is not to be comfortable with yourself."

A friend brought this quote attributed to Mark Twain to my attention several days ago. And I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.

Part of it is I've known several people to whom this applies. I've watched them fear spending even a few hours alone with themselves. It's as if they fear some voice in their head won't be drowned out by the sounds of others. It isn't limited by gender or age.

They go to extremes to not be forced into listening to that internal sound. Quite often, I've seen it lead them to substance abuse. They seek out places where they know there will be other people, and in the time between being away from their jobs and being asleep, they've often targeted bars as their only reliable safe haven. And constantly being in the bar usually meant consuming the products. They're quite often the first ones there for happy hour. And they don't leave until they've passed the point of caring about whatever drove them there in the first place.

Sometimes those same people find the time of day to be a constraint. Weekends can be the worst for them because they find they can't spend a full 18 hours in a bar. They try movies to be around others and fill the blank spaces. But there are only so many movies a weekend one can absorb.

I find these same people don't know themselves very well. Maybe that's obvious because if you're afraid to face the screaming in your head, you never get to the normal conversation with yourself that leads to understanding.

It's possible that's exactly what they want, to be avoid the introduction to themselves. Because there always seems to be this hint they don't like themselves very well. It all becomes a recipe for a very sour life. Those who don't like themselves don't like to be alone. So they go to bars where the liquor helps them forget they don't like themselves. The two factors together make them drink to abuse. Which doesn't make themselves any better and still hasn't done a thing about the sound in their head.

Ah, but the thoughts haven't just been judgemental. Because Mr. Twain was glancing at me too.

It isn't that I don't like to be alone. Sometimes I crave it and force it. I right out disappear. And I've been told by some that I have an ability to be in a room filled with people and be alone. I can put up a shell that puts anyone around on the outside.

But I also seem addicted to others. Sooner or later, I need stimulus, contact, input and connection. Maybe I see too much of myself, don't like enough of it, and need to drown it out just like those I've observed. Maybe it's just a human condition, the pack mentality of the human being. Maybe I need reinforcement in that I'm alright and somebody does like me.

I try to make a balance. I insist I be alone and look myself in the eye so I can develop a comfort with myself. I call it facing my demons. If I see them and they're taking over, I try remediation. I just have to force myself to not just see the brightly colored weaknesses in me and look through to the greys that are the good parts. Then I need to count up the two categories and make sure the less vibrants outnumber the look-at-me factors.

Sometimes I'm lonely. Sometimes I'm uncomfortable with myself. But I have to consciously ensure I don't carry loneliness just because I don't like me. I have to fix me if that's true. And that's a better cure for loneliness than hiding in a bar with strangers.