I am Michael, Hear me Rohrer

American Politics: Whatever Happened to Class?

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Tue, 13 Aug 2024 14:12:00 +0000

This cover is fake

There’s a song in the musical Chicago called “Class.” It’s a comedic lamentation performed in earnest by the characters, Velma Kelly and Matron “Mama” Morton bemoaning society’s loss of decorum and manners.

The fact that Velma is in jail for murder and “Mama” is the warden who will scratch your back if you scratch hers makes the song even funnier.

These are not paragons of society. They are a murderer and an extortionist, respectively. Yet there they are singing:

“Whatever happened to fair dealing? And pure ethics? And nice manners?”

This musical’s story was originally set in the 1920s, but truly, the action could be any time. The lack of respect for others and the deplorable behavior that these two characters are lamenting has never been timelier than right now.

In the current political reality show that is American politics—more tragedy than comedy—there is no class on the side of the Republican Party. Most of its members have crossed over to the dark side and should consider renaming themselves the MAGA Party. But I’ll just call them MAGA Republicans for now.

The de facto leader of the MAGA Republicans, those Fox-News-watching conservatives, most of whom also consider themselves Christians, is the wolf in sheep’s clothing that my Sunday School teacher warned me about.

He masquerades as a conservative man, a Christian, a savior trying to Make America Great Again, all while stoking the fears associated with Other and Different. He’s a dangerous man. Willing, without compunction, to lie to his followers in order to incite the desired reactions: fear and anger. He’s a revenge-threatening bully; a narcissist with hateful tendencies as ugly as his combover. And the speeches he gives at his rallies and press conferences often make no sense. There isn’t enough money in the Federal Reserve to buy this man class.

He has no desire to be courteous. His followers wouldn’t stand for it anyway. He, and they, only want him to be as nasty and politically incorrect as he can. The MAGA Republicans thrive on meals of mockery and disrespect, leaving the table satiated with ignorance. And blissfully happy. They have no desire to seek the truth, believing without hesitation—unquestioning—just as I was taught to do in the pews of the Baptist churches of my childhood. And if they happen to discover the lies aren’t true, they don't apologize for sharing and promoting the lies. Nor do they share the actual truth.

I recently watched John McCain’s concession speech from when he lost the presidential election to Barack Obama in 2008. The man held up his hands to stop those who supported him, disappointed by his loss, from booing as he began the speech. He didn’t speak negatively against Barack Obama. He commended him for “his ability and perseverance.” And admired him for “inspiring the hopes of so many millions of Americans.” He acknowledged the two had differences and that those differences would probably remain, but he pledged his support for the newly elected president and encouraged his supporters to do so as well.

A speech that started with booing ended in applause. It was a time when it seems Republicans and Democrats could negotiate their differences, find a compromise, shake hands across the aisle, work together.

That was 2008.

Now we have a fool that purposefully mispronounces the name of the woman running against him for the office of president. And his MAGA followers eat it up.

Sixteen years later, we are in the shadow of a would-be dictator. In two Obama terms and their subsequent years, how did we get here? In sixteen years, how did decades of political civility turn into January 6, 2020? How did it turn into the least productive Congress in our country’s history? How did it turn into name calling and demands for loyalty? How did it turn into such a deeply divided Us vs Them?

A friend once told me that Newt Gingrich, as Speaker of the House, was the man who used his power to inject divisive division into the Party line, cracking it by telling his Republican colleagues to treat their Democrat co-workers as the enemy and to have no dealings with them outside of work. Did it start there in the late 90s? How was that good for the country? For the People?

Back to the grifting shyster who has risen to power as the leader of the MAGA Republicans. He likes to hurl accusatory barbs at the other side, accusing them—us—of doing the very things that he and his followers are actually doing. He demonizes Democrats, Black people, Hispanic people, science, women, democracy, facts, truth. And let’s not forget how he mocked the disabled and veterans. He is concerned with his own power, not with the good of the country.

As for the elected officials who have brown on their faces because their heads are so far up his ass—Marjorie Taylor-Greene, Lauren Boebert, Matt Gaetz, Ted Cruz, Marco Rubio, Tom Cotton, Josh Hawley, Lindsey Graham (to name a few)—they worship at his feet, forgetting all about the first of the Ten Commandments in the Holy Bible, a book they claim to revere above all others: “Thou Shalt Have No Other Gods Before Me.”

I don’t get it. I’m dumbfounded that we are here. I shake my head in disbelief. I continue to wonder how this happened. I no longer trust an American populace that could and would elect Donald Trump. Or any of the above mentioned senators and representatives. They are fucking with too many lives. For what? So women can’t get abortions? So gay people can’t get married? So trans people can’t get the medical care they need or use the goddamn bathroom that goes with their gender identity?

(Side note: No one is coming for their churches. Their right to pray. Or their Bible. Although in the 2024, maybe the Bible should be the top challenged book to be banned instead of Gender Queer: A Memoir by Maia Kobabe. But I digress.)

I leave the last word to “Mama”:

“Jesus Christ, ain’t there no decency left?”

Being Woke Is Simple, But Tell That To The Conservative American Christian

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Fri, 02 Aug 2024 23:45:00 +0000

To be woke, as defined by dictionary.com, is “having or marked by an active awareness of systemic injustices and prejudices, especially those involving the treatment of ethnic, racial, or sexual minorities.”

Isn’t that a good thing? Shouldn’t we embrace a positive reaction to our historical and present-day negative actions?

Wouldn’t you think those who profess to be Christians would be at the forefront of this movement—more woke than anyone else?

I would think so. But no. I would be wrong.

American Christians, most of whom are conservatives, use woke as a negative term and fight hard against changes in the world being made by those who recognize the movement's eyes-wide-open benefits.

The Woke Movement isn’t new. It’s been around since the early 1900s when Black Americans coined the term for use in the racial justice movement. It simply meant that a person was “informed, educated and conscious of social injustice and racial inequality,” according to Merriam-Webster Dictionary. I had never heard the term woke until recent years when the 24-hour news cycle and social media brought it to my attention because conservative American Christians were using it as a double-edged sword against those striving for progress and change.

I was discussing the definition of woke recently with a friend who said that Christians don’t see that there is a problem. Or that there ever has been a problem. He added that Christians view wokeness as an attack on them.

Investigating further, I read a post from a Reddit thread from a couple of years ago. The original poster believes woke means being sensitive to injustice and having compassion for the marginalized and minority groups, adding that conservatives mock “bleeding heart liberals” who understand movement and try to implement its intended change. A responder to that post spoke of the perceived toxic environment created by the Woke Movement, opining that when one doesn’t follow the rules perfectly as laid out by those in charge then one is reprimanded. (Who’s in charge?) Further into the thread, responses of “simply having respect” and “wokeness demands repentance but offers no forgivenesses” caught my attention.

Why is there no forgiveness? Why aren’t Christians the ones with bleeding hearts? Why does respecting another person’s color, sexuality, gender, gender identity, religious beliefs (or none), etc., cause such fear-based outrage?

I can’t answer these questions.

From what I remember in my nearly 18 years of going to Sunday school and Baptist worship services three times a week, this man Jesus was supposedly a kind, generous, loving person. He is characterized as a man who opened his heart and his arms to the sick and the poor, to kings and outcasts alike. And he supposedly taught lessons of acceptance and forgiveness.

As a queer from a small town in the red state of Kentucky, I sure know what it means to feel, and be, different. I know what learned fear feels like from the repeated warnings of a fire-and-brimstone preacher as he spoke of a God who would punish me for my sins, turn his back on me if I failed to heed his attempts to convict my heart to turn toward him, and send me to Hell for being gay.

Side note: if we are all created in the image of this God of the Bible, then that means my non-binary, gay, queer, femme-ass self was made in the image of that God too. And I would suggest that you stop thinking of this God as some white-haired, white-bearded, white man who resides somewhere above the clouds. I suggest instead that you think of this God as an entity that posses both sexes, all colors, and every race. This God would be trans and bi and poly and glorious and glittering in his various shades of life. But I digress.

We all know this biblical God of the White Right, don’t we? And so, too, this man Jesus. (If either of them even exist.) But if this God does exists then he’s clearly a man with a penis. As is this man Jesus. That’s the only option for most American Christians. And the God of the American Christian doesn’t seem to want his followers to embrace trans people or queer people or gay people. No. This God wants his followers to close their eyes to the injustices perpetrated on these communities. They’re angry all the time and righteous as they point out how threatening we are. Their God wants his followers to speak with nasty vitriol and in some cases even perpetuate the injustices with violence. He doesn’t want those dirty fucking trannies to live happy lives. And we shouldn’t even speak of how he seems to feel about the nasty gays and their disgusting sexual habits. Not in His America. Hell no.

Of course none of that is true. If there is a God how could this entity want anything but happiness and love and full lives for all of its creations? Human beings are the ones who don’t want that. Human beings live in fear of what we don’t understand. Human beings have decided they can speak for this God.

Let’s look specifically at two words in the above mentioned definition of woke: active awareness. That’s it, right there. To be woke is to have an active awareness. Of what? Well, of racism, homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, to name just a few. And with an active awareness, a person can actively work against these negatives.

So why are so many Christians actively working against being woke? To simply respect and support other people seems like something this man Jesus would do, something very Christlike.

This feels like the perfect time to bring up the word “agenda.” I am aware that many American Christians think anything different, or new, is part of someone’s “agenda.” They love to say these “agendas” are being shoved down their throats. We’ve all heard of the Gay Agenda. Of course now there’s the Trans Agenda. And we can’t forget that old stalwart, the Black Lives Matter Agenda.

Agenda is not a bad word. It’s a plan. And the agenda for any of these movements is to shine a light on the disparities and the prejudices and the treatment of people in these communities. But these “agendas” sure rile people up, don’t they?

It’s American Christian who have the biggest “agenda.” Example: you may be a person that’s against abortion. And that’s fine. You can be against abortion. To me, that means you’re not going to have an abortion.

But many Christians rejoiced when the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, even though that meant millions of women most of who these Christians will never know, lost access to safe and legal abortion. Tell me Christians don’t have an agenda. And theirs is the Agenda being shoved down the throats of too many Americans on a daily basis.

What about your Ten Commandments? What about the Golden Rule? What about “Judge not lest ye be judged?”

Woke merely means I see you. I acknowledge your struggle. I recognize your community hasn’t been treated well. I want to understand. I want to help. I have empathy. I include you.

If I seem frustrated, maybe even a little angry, (and a bit more than anti-Christian) you’re not wrong (and, yes, I am). The truths is I, too, struggle with being woke. But it ain’t that deep. And it sure as hell isn’t something that conservative American Christians should be getting their panties in a twist over.

My Recruitment Office Was In The Church

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Tue, 16 Jul 2024 21:53:00 +0000

Anita Bryant, the acid-tongued former orange juice mouthpiece turned born-again Christian anti-gay savior of the children, once said, “Homosexuals cannot reproduce, so they must recruit. And to freshen their ranks, they must recruit the youth of America.”

What a load of fear-inducing horseshit!

~~I am a homosexual~~. I am QUEER!

I was born. Two parents: a mom, a dad. Loving home. Raised in the Baptist church.

Homosexual. Queer.

I was not recruited. I just am.

But do you know who recruits—that is, indoctrinates—children? The church. Yes. The church indoctrinates children because they want them to believe a certain way and to accept—without question—that their God is real and that a man named Jesus died for their sins and that homosexuals are godless sinners. They have to replenish their numbers to keep their hate strong. That’s recruiting.

The church was the place where I found my first sense of community. But, in the opinion of a person who walked away from that community, the foundation is built on quicksand. One must follow and conform and walk the “straight”and narrow path.

(Horseshit)

In reference to my Baptist church upbringing: I am still recovering from that. As a queer person, what I learned in my time there about their God’s wrath, punishment, Hell, fear, and blind faith continues to affect my life. I haven’t attended a church service regularly in just about 35 years. But the teachings remain imbedded in the adult mind of the child who absorbed them.

I was indoctrinated, for sure. My attempted recruitment to be a soldier in the “Army of God” failed. Thankfully. But the recruitment attempt happened during the formative years of my life and therefore still fucks me up.

Back to Anita Bryant, it seems to me that fear played the biggest role in her ridiculous passion play about saving the children. Maybe she was afraid of what she didn’t understand. Maybe she was grossed out by the idea of homosexual sex. Maybe she truly believed the shit she said. She recruited people to her cause by using the fear tactics she no doubt learned in a church service.

(And if you believe in karma then it truly is a bitch because Anita Bryant has a gay granddaughter. Suck it, Anita!)

I was not recruited to become a homosexual. I was not recruited to become a queer. I was not recruited to become non-binary.

I was not molested.

I was born.

(And once upon a time I was Born Again. I reject this.)

I continue to fight to accept myself. I continue to fight against the need to be accepted—I want to be accepted for who I am, but I want to not need that acceptance.

And sadly, I continue to have to fight the fear.

I walked away from the church years ago and a community that pushes for believing without question and doesn’t accept LGBTQ humans. But I continue to walk through my own life—albeit on a curvier much more spacious path—with heels on my feet and polish on my fingernails, questioning everything.

Queers do not recruit.

Christians recruit.

Another Visit to Melancholy City

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Mon, 29 Apr 2024 17:42:00 +0000

There wasn’t a tilt. But there was a shift. A mood change. The sidewalks seem the same. The sun is still shining. But the light is different. And the Air. The air is heavy. Heavier than when he’s in Anytown. Here the air insulates him with his thoughts.

(sigh)

Melancholy City. He’s back for another visit.

When he’s in a period of deep melancholy, a period in which he currently finds himself, another wander through the streets of Melancholy City is inevitable. And when he’s there he longs for it all to be over.

He wishes there were no more days. That his fading from people’s memories would begin. That he no longer existed

Have you ever wished it were over? That you were done.

Before you even ask the question, yes, he knows what he’s saying. He knows the above scenario would mean that he was dead. And surprise, there are days he wishes he were.

He longs to stop trying.

He longs for sleep.

When he’s visiting Melancholy City, sleep is a drug. It takes him to Dreamland. And when he’s in Dreamland he doesn’t have to think. Thinking

(overthinking)

is a must in Melancholy City. But while slumbering in the lighter breezes of the pastel void of Dreamland, he is free. Yes, he knows that Dreamland can be vivid with color. He also knows that sometimes it can be alive with technicolor nightmares. But he so often lives in a fantasy world—even in Anytown—that Dreamland is the better respite from his thoughts.

(mostly)

When he’s in a period of deep melancholy, he wallows in self-pity. There’s a lot he doesn’t like about himself, which he can keep at bay most of the time in Anytown. He ignores his feelings, pretends they don’t exist, pushes them so far into the dark corners of his mind that he believes he’s happy.

But when he visits Melancholy City, he can’t keep the negativity in the darkness.

He sees himself as old and ugly, worthless with shallow tendencies that announce themselves like a scent that enters the room before he does. He wears his anger like a pair of shoes and clomps around hoping to frighten people away otherwise he will condescend and judge until they run. His fear has kept him afraid and alone and lonely.

(and insecure)

When he’s visiting Melancholy City his wounds ache, they bleed. While there he longs to be invisible. He wants to go unnoticed. He stays silent. He tries to give no one anything to talk about, no reason to stare. But inevitably, every laugh he hears piercing the thick air as he passes through stabs him with mockery for something, anything, nothing he’s doing.

As he wanders those desolate streets of MC alone, he thinks about his age and his life and sometimes he wishes his retirement were closer.

(another ending)

Before him there are fewer years left to work than the years of working already behind him.

But then he thinks about retiring from life and wonders how much of a relief that would be.

He knows there’s beauty in the world. He sees it most days. There are colors he wants to surround himself with because they breathe life into his day. He knows the sky, when its blue stretches uncluttered for miles, is a miracle. He loves the green shade of baby leaves that trees produce as they burst back to life in spring after a cold dormant winter. He knows the cooing of a dove is somehow calming.

He’s seen the majesty of a sunrise, the glory of a sunset. He’s smelled the sweet floral fragrance of a pink peony, inhaled the creamy scent of sandalwood drifting off his skin. He’s tasted the bitter sweetness of cinnamon in his coffee, the explosion of flavor from a greasy skillet-fried cheeseburger

He’s felt the rough brush of stubble on his face from a man’s chin during a passionate kiss.

This is life.

But when he’s visiting Melancholy City, he mostly feels like he’s just surviving instead of really living.

(a side effect felt in Anytown)

He’s alive but perfunctorily going through the motions; no thought to carry him through a day.

Or, for that matter, through a life.

The idea of dying

(literally being dead)

freaks him out. But when he’s in one of his periods of deep melancholy, the idea of not being feels like relief.

There are too many days he wishes for what he can only assume is its “sweet release.”

But maybe death is merely a metaphor for ending this way in which he sees himself.

Pink is My Empowerment Color

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Fri, 29 Mar 2024 13:55:00 +0000

Have I become Shelby Eatenton?

For those unversed in the Louisiana-set world of Southern belles and strong female friendships that is Steel Magnolias (you should watch it immediately), Shelby Eatenton is the “Pink-is-my-signature-color” character played by Julia Roberts (in her first Academy Award nominated role).

I am very comfortable with pink these days. It has become a very significant color in my life after the color blue, which holds the top spot because it brings out my eyes. But not so long ago, I was threatened by this palest tint of red.

Back in 2011, I decided while getting a manicure in Provincetown, Massachusetts, to get the nail on my left index finger painted blue. It was different. And if I desired anything while growing up in my small Kentucky town it was to be different. But I digress. I liked the color on the single nail. I found it interesting and unique; a somewhat stylish fashion statement.

I continued to paint that one nail myself for years. I acquired bottle after bottle of nail polish. So many shades that I risked the polish drying up before I could possibly use it all when only painting that one nail. Eventually, I decided to add the middle finger on the left hand to the polished party. And you know what, two was better than one. I liked the pair. They added something a little avant-garde to my style. They also multiplied the questions from those enquiring minds that wanted to know: “Why just two nails?” I didn’t owe anyone an explanation, but “I like it” was the answer my therapist told me to give. So I gave it. It was the truth, after all.

Then came the moment I painted those two nails red. I know this is a pink story but the red came first so just stick with me. I painted those two nails red and they shined. My inner queer felt like he was channelling a 1950s movie star or maybe even Joan Crawford in The Women. I quickly noticed, however that I was hiding those two nails more than I was letting them bask in the light. I was embarrassed. I couldn’t figure it out. Blue nail polish didn’t bother me. Neither did brown or gray or green. Even a dark crimson red didn't affect me. But the bright red shade I had chosen shined a spotlight on me with an illumination that I just couldn’t handle.

I thought maybe it was a red thing without bothering to explore why it was a red thing. So I decided to give pink a try. (I told you to stick with me and I’d get back to pink.) I had the same reaction. I loved the color, felt fabulous with it on my nails, but only in private or around friends. I was hiding those two pink nails the same way I had hidden the red ones.
What was I so afraid of? It was just a color. But pink, like red, commanded too much attention. For some reason I felt exposed…and ashamed.

Then it hit me, pink (and red) is a feminine color. At least in my mind when it came to nail polish. So this went much deeper than exposure. It went much deeper than being ashamed of being a man with painted fingernails. It was about my feminine shame.

Oh shit.

I had to face it.

But not immediately. That’s not my way. I hid from it just like I hid those two nails from those prying eyes and enquiring minds.

Sometimes we’re afraid of the things we want the most. I was. I wanted all ten nails painted and wanted them to be painted red or pink. But I didn’t want to be exposed that fully. I had hidden myself most of my life. Too much exposure allowed too many people to see the truth. Different is nice, but…

Finally, I felt courageous enough to do something that I hadn’t known I really wanted to do back in 2011, the first time I got that one nail painted. I got all ten of my fingernails painted. It was September 12, 2019. It was a major step for me. One that had been building for more than eight years. The shade of color I chose was a deep slate gray. It had to be a dark shade for me at that time. A dark shade I could handle. I had to ease myself into it. But it was amazing. I loved having all ten of my nails painted. It was freeing, if that makes sense. As if by not painting them, or by only painting two of them, I was holding my other fingers at bay, keeping them prisoners devoid of the joy that color can bring.

As with anything one does repeatedly, having painted nails got easier to flaunt, to the point that I felt naked if they weren’t painted. During the COVID-19 pandemic, when the theatre industry in NYC—my industry—was shut down for 18 months, I even learned how to polish my own nails. As a right handed person, I even got pretty good at polishing the right hand with my left if I do say so myself.

I have been on a journey of self-discovery for so many years that I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t trying to give myself permission to take a step forward and be myself. There is freedom to be found in expressing your true self, exposing, if you will, the person that you might hide from the world.

The true me is feminine. I have always been feminine. I have loved that about myself in private and hated it about myself in public for way too long. I shouldn’t fear my femininity, yet sometimes I still do. But just like everyone else, I am a work in progress.

I have now added so much pink to my life that I rarely go a day without it. It’s an unconsciously conscious choice. My nails are almost always pink. I alternate between three or four varying shades every two weeks, much to the dismay of the owner of the nail salon where I get them done. She often questions why my color is always pink. The truth is, I love it. It makes me happy.

Pink is feminine. Pink is masculine. Pink is me.

The medium to deeper shades of pink that I like are vibrantly beautiful and alive with energy. I have found confidence and power in their hues. I have found vitality.
It amazes me to think back on the fear I once had about two pink nails when I now see how fabulous I feel with ten.

So, what was I so afraid of? The simple answer is: the truth. More specifically, I was afraid of my reaction to me being myself and that of others to me revealing myself. I have always loved being a feminine person when it didn’t cost me anything: no hateful words, no threat of physical violence. But if the truth does actually set you free it can only do so when you admit it.

I love my pink nails, my pink clothes, my pink earrings, my pink rings, my pink shoes, my pink lipstick, etc.

The color pink is important to me. Whether it has become the signature color in my life, I don’t know. It certainly has become a signature color. But all signature color talk aside, it has definitely become my empowerment color.

I may not be Shelby Eatenton, but we are definitely kin.

From The Land of Tethered to the Land of Un: A Journey of Truth Toward Freedom

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Wed, 18 Oct 2023 02:20:00 +0000

I can’t believe I’m starting off this piece with a biblical reference, but it seems apropos as most of us have heard the phrase, “The truth will set you free” (John 8:32, KJV). That might actually be true. The truth can certainly have a positive effect on people. It can also hurt like hell. But let me focus on the clarity-providing positive aspects of the truth.

I have long avoided asking questions to which I feared the answers. Answers that I suspected I knew but didn’t officially know. In recent weeks, however, I asked some of those questions of my family, and I was graced with a bit of truth in their answers.

Imagine wandering aimlessly down a path cracked with uncertainty, overgrown with weeds of assumption, constantly trying to evade being ensnared by snaking vines of suspicion. This path is in the Land of Tethered and I’ve been walking it for a long time. Avoiding. It’s exhausting. I thought knowing the truth would hurt too much, so I avoided it. I trudged along, believing the “truth” in my head. I let the unspoken “truth” weigh me down. I’ve been rambling down the path wearing concrete shoes.

Turns out I was right about the answers. I know my family loves me. But being loved is different from being supported. Love might allow one to throw out the welcome mat but that doesn’t mean it will open all the doors. There is silence between us. Conversations, when they happen, have moved into the zone of politesse. There is no depth, no revealing honesty. We tiptoe around each other, avoiding topics like religion, politics, anything LGBTQ. We’re on different sides. What I didn’t know is there’s a perception that I am selfish and self-absorbed. Those thorny words pricked my skin. Yet, I know I can be both. But so can we all at times. It was expressed to me that I am the cause of heartbreak, which is never my intention. But sometimes our actions and choices break the hearts of those we love. Sometimes even the questions we ask. My heart has definitely been in a state of break due to the choices made by my family based on a religious moral code. But the most surprising disclosure of this truth-telling delivery was the anger. I was on the receiving end of anger that I didn’t know existed. I’m usually the angry one.

We are not entitled to know what other people think about us. And we would all probably be better served not knowing. But learning the truth, in a way, released me. I was relieved to know that what I had always thought was the truth was actually the truth. I began to accept it. I began to process the fact that I will (likely) never have the relationship with my family that I long for or the type of support from them that I desire.

I was recently speaking with a gallery associate at the Bowersock Gallery in Provincetown, Massachusetts, about the artist/owner’s series of hot air balloon paintings. I had first seen a few of the paintings in the series in June 2021, when I was there to celebrate my 50th birthday. I was so drawn to them. Initially I thought it was because in October 2010, my best friend, on the occasion of his turning 40, had planned a hot air balloon ride in the Berkshires as part of the celebration. However, the weather didn’t cooperate. The winds were too strong that day. The hot air balloon ride was cancelled.

It was nearly eleven years later that I first laid eyes on Steve Bowersock‘s hot air balloons. Set against ominous skies, these colorful hot air balloons were floating toward something, away from something, through and above. They hovered in their dreamscape world, frozen but not. Were they carrying the rider into danger or transporting him to freedom? One painting in particular continues to fascinate me. In it, a rope dangles freely from the basket of the balloon, a body clinging to it. I can’t help but wonder if the person is trying to climb aboard or trying to escape?

(I want in.)

My best friend was on that trip but not in the gallery with me on the day of discovery. I wanted him to see those beautiful hot air balloons. I found him and brought him to the gallery. I hoped he would love them as much as I did. I hoped he would buy one and then by proximity I would be able to view it and contemplate its strange surreal beauty every time I was at his home. Alas, he did not buy one. And while he liked them, he wasn’t actually as drawn to them as I.

I’ve been to Provincetown a few times since that trip. Each time I’ve stopped in the Bowersock Gallery to see if any of the hot air balloon paintings remained. There’s always been one or two available. I’ve always gotten to see them. Ponder them. Wonder what was happening in their world. But on my most recent visit in October 2023, they hung in the gallery no more. Sold. All of them. And it was during that visit, and the aforementioned conversation with the gallery associate, that I began to think more deeply about the hot air balloons.

They’re untethered. They’re free. They can float aimlessly but they can also soar with direction. I want that. I want to leave the path.

Admitting the truth that I am non-binary gave me a sense of freedom. Learning what I feared was true is true gave me a sense of freedom. What am I doing? Why do I keep trying? I want to be accepted for who I am in all of my queer, non-binary fabulousness. Not despite who I am. I’m not sure I even want to keep pushing and trying to educate. I’m kind of tired. And that’s not a bad thing. I think my family is just as stuck as I’ve been but I don’t have to be. I can soar.

I’ve found a clearing at this juncture in the path and I’ve stepped into it. The clouds might be ominous but there’s a sliver of sun shining through. There’s a balloon. It’s beautiful: pink and teal blue patterned in yellow and purple, sage and red. I feel hesitant but I also feel the thrill. I want to untie the rope and get in the basket. I want to soar upward and float freely away to the Land of Un, knowing that even if a major wind blows me off course, I will be fine because just like the balloon I can right the course or even change direction.

Using hindsight, one can always connect the dots of a past experience to that of his present, finding greater meaning in something from then when applying it to now. Maybe the meaning is something he couldn’t see at the time. It’s possible the hot air balloon paintings were simply something I loved because they made me think about my best friend and his canceled hot air balloon ride. But maybe they represented something that I longed for even before I understood fully what that was and how desperately I needed it.

Funny thing about this truth: it wasn’t as heavy as I’d feared. None of it. The fear itself is what was heavy. The fear is what choked the path, kept me tethered to the ground. I don’t believe the truth has fully set me free. Not yet. My fear did not magically disappear. But I know it has helped me feel freer. And while I will probably continue to fear the truth, even after knowing and understanding its benefits (it’s my pattern), my hope is that I will spend less time limiting myself in the Land of Tethered and more time soaring free among the clouds in the Land of Un.

It’s More Than Just A Little Lipstick, It’s About Identity

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Thu, 05 Oct 2023 20:48:00 +0000

Oddly, I didn’t feel scared. This was different for me. There was a bit of anxiety pulsing in my chest, but it felt different than normal. The pulsing might have even been more from excitement than fear.

The day after I officially came out as non-binary, I went to the Chanel beauty boutique at Saks Fifth Avenue with the sole purpose of buying a new lipstick. I am not new to lipstick or lip gloss, but my chosen colors tend to be pinks and nudes that are similar in color to my lips and therefore don’t stand out as much as they enhance the already existing color. These lipsticks don’t announce themselves to the world yet still give me the pleasure of feminine expression.

If you’ve read my previous post, you know how pink and red shades of polish on my nails once made me uncomfortable. The same can be said of lipstick. A bold shade that proclaims itself before the lips wearing it are determined to be mine is something that I have been unwilling to do. The culprits are fear and shame. Those two hateful siblings allow me to feel more uncomfortable in my skin than anything else.

But, just like my desire to wear the pink or red nail polish, I truly desire to adorn my lips with color. And so here I am.

I knew that I had to face my fear of being seen and what better time than the present? The eyes were done. The clothes were chosen. The earrings were in place. The final step before departing my house was to swipe that color on my lips. And as you can see from the above photo, swipe it I did.

As I said above, I was oddly calm when it was time to leave my apartment. I was ready to step outside of their protecting walls.

And you know what, nothing happened. No one said anything. The negative reaction I feared was not expressed. As one prone to holding onto the negativity provided because of other people’s insecurities, I know how important it is to hold onto the positive ones. I’m working on that.

I also know that no matter how small the steps, forward is forward. I am supported and loved by the people that I have chosen to share my life with.

Courage comes from within. But surrounding myself with people who encourage me and lift me up and push me forward makes being brave a little easier. And with bravery comes confidence.

Today I confidently wore Chanel Mystérieuse lipstick. A bold and vibrant choice for a (hopefully) bold and vibrant new me.

Another Coming Out: I’m Non-Binary, My Pronouns Are He/Him, But I Also Respond to Hey Gurl.

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Tue, 03 Oct 2023 20:06:00 +0000

LGBT Foundation, a United Kingdom-based charity whose roots date back to 1975, defines non-binary as “people who feel their gender cannot be defined within the margins of gender binary. Instead, they understand their gender in a way that goes beyond simply identifying as either a man or a woman.”

It can go deeper than that. Some people identify as both male and female while others identify as neither. Some feel that their gender fluctuates with fluidity between the two.

I am that. That is me.

I have written more than a little about my young life in small-town Kentucky. As early as three- or four-years old I discovered my mother’s shoes. Specifically, a pair of white platform sandals. I loved those shoes. Who knows why? How often do we hear that children like playing with the box better than the toy that came in it? All I know is little boy Michael loved those shoes.

What I also know is that I always got in trouble when I got caught wearing them. I know our memories can cloud and change as we get older. What was once just a statement can become a stern reprimand. But I do remember the words always being a stern reprimand to take off those shoes.

I will always believe that this is when the seed of my shame was planted. And that it has been growing since before I understood what shame was or that I was feeling it.

I’ve written about when my foot had finally grown to the size of my mother’s and what pure joy I felt when her high heels actually fit my feet. I loved getting to stay at home alone while my parents were away grocery shopping or running other errands. I wore a pair of her heels from the minute the car was out of sight until I heard it pulling back into our driveway. Of course, I always made sure to put them back where I found them because I didn’t want to get caught. And I sure didn’t want the reprimand (possibly in the form of a spanking) that would follow.

Fast forward to 40-something me living in New York City. I was dying to paint all ten of my fingernails, but afraid to do so. I allowed myself just one at first, then two. I professed them just a part of my style. I always felt like I needed an answer for why I only painted the one (eventually the pair). My therapist at the time said my answer need only be that I liked it. I tried that for a while.

Eventually I felt brave enough to let my inner female show herself. But not on my hands.

I bought a pair of Gucci platform heels and I felt fabulous while wearing them and supported by those around me. Jewelry followed: cocktail rings, jeweled bracelets, earrings. It was baby steps in the coming, these outward expressions of femininity.

Eventually I got all ten nails painted—September 12, 2019. I felt complete. I was nervous to be seen…a man with painted fingernails. But I loved them. I had been denying myself this happiness of expression out of fear for way too long. The color was dark slate gray. A very masculine color for fall. Masculine. I remember thinking that. As if the color being masculine would somehow be a distraction from the fact that I was a male with painted nails.

The gray was fine and the reaction was positive. But what I really wanted was pink.

It took a while to get there. I had tried pinks and reds when I was still painting only one (or two) nails. The color made me uncomfortable. I found myself hiding the nail when coated with one of these shades. I was embarrassed by it. I had no idea why? Maybe because I saw pink as feminine?

Eye shadow, lipstick, perfume, and a white asymmetrical Halston jumpsuit joined list of feminine expressions

Eventually I succumbed to my desire and got all ten nails painted pink. It was life. It was empowering. Pink is so vibrant and alive. It has energy that no gray will ever possess. I became a pink-nail queen. I almost feel incomplete when my nails are not some shade of pink. I do allow other colors to live on my nails from time to time, but it always comes back to pink.

All of these things are mile markers on my journey: questioning myself, discovering myself, revealing myself, accepting myself (if only in small increments).

I’ve been questioning my gender for some time now, though I would always conclude I’m a cis gay male: assigned male at birth and living as male. However, the questioning began in earnest one day when I approached a person on my subway platform wearing pearls. I was curious if this person felt nervous and guarded like I always do when wearing categorically feminine attire and/or accessories. We got on the same train and as we rode into Manhattan we talked. She was a trans female and younger than I. She was kind and generous. She let me ask questions and she answered. She posed questions. After that conversation I couldn’t stop examining myself. I know there are a lot of people who hate labels but I wanted to figure out where I fit. I wanted a label to help me understand, accept, belong.

I did a lot of thinking.

I thought about how when I was a child I always liked to be the wife or girlfriend when I played house with my male cousins. If I could be pregnant in our make-believe world I was even happier. And I loved being a bride.

I thought about how I often feel pretty not handsome.

I thought about how I often feel female not male.

But I didn’t feel as if I was in the wrong body. One of the questions I asked the woman on that subway ride was: “When did you feel like you were in the wrong body?” She said she’d never felt that way. Her answer was a revelation.

I couldn’t get there until I got there.

I don’t feel like I’m in the wrong body either. I like my penis. I don’t want breasts. I just don’t feel like I’m wholly male. I truly feel I am both male and female, yet not exclusively one or the other. I definitely feel more feminine most days but the male side of me comes out to play sometimes too.

I admitted the truth: to myself and others. It's been there all along. I finally feel brave enough to admit it.

On October 3, 2023, I finally had the courage to say that I am non-binary. At the time of this writing I feel happy. I feel light. I feel as if I might be even closer to understanding, accepting, and loving myself than ever before. I feel like admitting this out loud to my friends makes it even more real to me. As if admitting it has allowed me to breathe in my skin for the first time in years. Maybe now I will finally begin to dispel the shame.

My name is Michael Rohrer. I am non-binary. I am human. I am gay. I am queer. I am a person in progress. I am on a journey and my most recent discovery is “huge,” to quote my friend Mandy.

I am.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go put on some lipstick then change the sheets on my bed.

The Dying Friendship

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Mon, 02 Oct 2023 00:08:00 +0000

It’s been dying for years, the friendship. Incremental steps toward death. Baby steps one might say. But here we are. A long and full history filled with experiences. Some so monumental they will never be forgotten. Some so silly it would be a great loss to forget them.

But the present? Well, the present seems barren of fresh moments. There is more silence than laughter. New memories are just old memories being rehashed in a new light. The connection has thinned so much that a snap seems inevitable.

How did it happen, this widening into a divide where once there wasn’t even the possibility of a crack?

Time.
Distance.
Avoidance.
Disinterest.

They all lead to:

Animosity.
Frustration.
Sadness.

The crack appears.
A little darkness seeps out.
A silence develops.

As the divide widens, darkness shoots upward from the emptiness, a wide beam, absent of light. Shadows of our former selves are barely visible through the near opaque twilight of separation. The silence becomes powerful but normal, expected.

Is it over?

Can the dying be mended?

Can the death be staved?

No one knows the future. The seasons change. But as each ends there is an expectation that it will return.

Friendships change. They grow, they evolve...they fracture.

Sometimes they die.

But…

Sometimes they last a lifetime.

That takes effort, communication, time.

To survive, light must dispel the darkness. The divide must be closed.

The shadows must become visible, break the silence.

If time truly does heal everything then maybe, just maybe, what is dying can leaf once again...and thrive.

Seeing Myself in Jude: thoughts on A Little Life

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Sun, 01 Oct 2023 11:38:00 +0000

The first thing I remember upon hearing of Hanya Yanagihara’s novel, A Little Life is that it’s terribly sad. And at 814 pages (the paperback version) that was a lot to consider. But I found myself more intrigued than intimidated.

At 10:49pm on the evening of August 19, 2023, I began A Little Life.

I won’t lie, it took me a few days to penetrate the world of the novel, find its rhythms. But once I did, all I cared about was setting aside time to enter it again, turn the page, find out what happened next.

This essay contains spoilers, so if you haven’t read the novel, and there’s any thought in your head that you might, you should stop reading right now.

Malcom, J.B., Willem, and Jude: college friends, post college friends, four young adults supporting one another as they build their lives in New York City, old friends. I have those friends in the presence of Neal and Matt. The novel’s four men experience a lot of life together in this chronicle, and so have we three—turning 21, coming out, learning ballet, graduating from college, living in NYC, marriages, cheating, break-ups, dating, divorces, births, deaths, laughter, anger, tears, silence, forgiveness.

But A Little Life really centers on the character of Jude. It struck me like a distressing blow to the face when I recognized my own reflection staring back at me in the way he feels about himself: the shame, the low self-esteem, the feeling that all good is undeserved. His desire to be alone, to fade away, to shrink himself into an unnoticeable figure—small and ignored. His anxious recoil at being touched. (I don’t so much recoil as I just don’t often put myself in a position to be touched. Yet I know my body craves that intimacy.) His fear of sex and dislike of it. (I fear men even as I desire to feel the closeness that sexual penetration can provide.)

If you’ve read the novel let me state without further hesitation that my life experience does not mimic Jude’s beyond how we both feel about ourselves. I have not been molested. I have not been forced to be a prostitute. I have not been beaten to unconsciousness or run over by a car. I have not inflicted physical self-harm upon myself. And I have only half-heartedly given thought to taking my own life—the pills were in my hand, but I didn’t have the courage. I have not experienced his trauma—so much trauma. I don’t know how he keeps going, keeps breathing, finds any moments of joy or happiness. Yet I have experienced people who taught me shame and fear, which led to my feelings that I am undeserving of love or of a life without the expectation of suffering. My experiences have led to my traumas. Mine. (I know Jude is not real but that doesn’t change how powerfully his story affected me.) We all have some sort of PTSD from the traumas in our lives. Comparatively though, Jude wins hands down, and I feel like a whiny bitch.

I have thrived in the relationship/friendship/chosen family threesome that is Neal, Matt, and I. But I have also pushed them both away. I often feel that when I once again begin speaking about how religion affects me, about my family’s political beliefs, about how ashamed I often feel when expressing my femininity, or about the depression of the moment, that they roll their eyes when I’m not looking. I know I’m blessed to have them, but I also don’t see myself as easy. I often wait for them to say enough is enough and then move forward in their lives without me. Sometimes, I feel as if I’m trying to push them beyond their Michael limits so they will eventually prove my expectations warranted. This never happens.

Brother Luke to Jude; “When you’re with your clients you have to show a little life; they’re paying to be with you – you have to show them you’re enjoying it.” (Yanagihara, 2015, p. 473)

As I learned more and more about Jude’s life experience (the agony was often relentless), I felt gutted, sad, sick to my stomach, broken. When my heart wasn’t pounding out the rhythm of anxiety in my chest, (my breathing dancing in the shallows), it felt as if it had been ripped out of my chest. I wanted Jude to find happiness. I wanted him to feel safe. I wanted him to fight to get mentally healthy. I wanted him to stop apologizing for everything. I wanted him to share all his secrets in the hope that it would set him free. I wanted him to trust those who professed their love for him. But he didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t.

We learn at an early age from the adults in our lives what is expected of us, what we’re worth, how much we’re loved, who we can trust. I know I was loved. Am loved. But I also learned to fear and to be ashamed and I didn’t trust. Jude learned those things, and more, but from extremely disturbing circumstances that no child (or adult) should ever have to experience.

At 4:22 pm on the afternoon of September 22, 2023, I finished A Little Life.

I now know what happened next, and I feel relieved to know it. But I also feel tremendous sadness at the revelation. There was a lump in my chest. I’ve felt this lump before. I know how to deal with it. I need to cry it out. And while I had cried a few pages before the end of the novel, I needed to really cry. I needed to face my feelings and get them out of me. The first thought I had was to play “What Was I Made For?” by Billie Eilish. So I did. Music is magic at helping one express his feelings.

When her breathy voice gently breathed, “I used to float, now I just fall down,” I couldn’t hold myself together. All I could think of was Jude as a little boy. (Me as a little boy.) The word “float” in the context of this song conjured for me images of that joyous time when one fears nothing. Memories of me playing, laughing, running flickered through my mind. Jude never really had that. I could picture him as a little boy, at the monastery where he was raised, happy in the greenhouse helping Brother Luke, the monk who had always treated him with the most kindness. This was before Brother Luke revealed himself to be the catalyst of Jude's ruin. Jude never felt safe. But I did, until I didn’t. I have fallen down.

I bawled. I howled. I shook as I wept. For Jude. (For myself.) I held the book to my chest, over my heart, as if Jude was a real person and by holding his story over my heart, I would somehow comfort him, and me. I listened to the song twice. The deluge continued. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. My heart was so broken.

After the tears stopped, and the nasal congestion that accompanied them began to clear, I took myself outside for a walk. I needed to move. I needed to clear my head. I wanted to have a cigarette. I focused on my breathing, the inhale and exhale of the smoke, and the beauty of the colorful flowers still in bloom around me. I noticed a vibrant pink and yellow flower with a bumble bee sitting in its center doing what bees do. It was life. A little life.

If I hadn’t seen myself reflected in the form of Jude’s own feelings about himself, I have no idea how I would feel about A Little Life. It is gripping and rich in description. But there’s no use wondering what might have been as I will never know because I did see myself, and when the story was over, I cried for us both.

Again, I know Jude is not real. But I am. I’m alive. I’m a 52-year-old man-child whose heart is old but tender because I’ve rarely let it get broken (no calluses). But I should be able to change how I feel about myself, shouldn’t I? There's still time, right? But will I? I’ve been trying for years, but I’ve been stuck longer than I was ever free. I know that I have to believe that I matter, that I’m worthy. I have to believe that I have nothing to be ashamed of. With each new day, as I wake to breathe again, I wonder if there is still a chance I will believe it. Will I live more than just a little life? Will I one day finally loosen the shackles of my fear and shame and live more freely, more fully, more vulnerably, more happily, more openly? I’m not sure I believe I can.

I see A Little Life as a story of friendship: its challenges and rewards. I see it as a love story: unexpected and thrilling. It’s also a story of child abuse and its detrimental effects. It’s a story of physical damage that, for Jude, is too difficult to overcome. It made me think about my life, my friends, my family, the relationships that still exist and the ones I’ve walked away from. My anger. My avoidance of vulnerability. My internalized homo- and femmephobia. The dates I wouldn’t go on. The sex I’ve refused to have. The loneliness cultivated by solitude. All the wasted years.

Referencing the aforementioned Billie Eilish song again, these lyrics weigh heavily on my heart: “Think I forgot how to be happy. Something I’m not, but something I can be.” It isn’t that I’m always sad. There is joy. There is happiness. They’re just harder for me to hold on to.

This story clearly had a profound effect on me. Jude’s story touched me deeply. It is one that I will not soon forget. I may never forget it. And even though its pages are singed with sadness, it is quite possibly a book that I will one day read again

Life After Death

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Sat, 30 Sep 2023 23:00:00 +0000

What if I invited Death in?

Let him curl my lashes,

Apply my mascara?

What if I invited Death in

And we spent together

A day filled with laughter?

What if I invited Death in

And I wasn’t afraid,

Found him handsome and sweet?

What if I invited Death in

And we drank French red wine,

Ate oven-warm Brie cheese?

What if I invited Death in

And all my fears vanished

Like vapor in the sun?

What if I invited Death in

And he caressed my face,

Danced me like a lover?

What if I invited Death in

And in his embrace I

Was finally alive?

What if I invited Death in

And he filled me with love

And I was fully whole?

What if I invited Death in

And for the first time I

Felt no shame in myself?

What if I invited Death in

And we walked hand in hand

While talking about time

What if we saw his old friend, Life,

And Life was more winsome,

More fearless, more alive?

What if I was smitten with Life:

His smile, his laugh, his eyes?

And he reached for my hand?

(The air quickens, the light changes, a thought occurs)

What if I invited Life in?

The Conditioning of My Gay Anxiety

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Thu, 07 Sep 2023 20:27:00 +0000

Nick is walking down the street. The camera shot is a close-up of his face. He’s beaming. Filled with joy. His smile encompasses his mouth, his eyes, his hair. He is happy. It’s obvious.

I find myself anxious. I expect the camera to pull back and reveal impending doom.

(Spoiler alert: this is the final scene of season two, episode one of the endearingly sweet Netflix series, Heartstopper, created and written by Alice Oseman, based on her graphic novel.)

The more I thought about the anxiety I was experiencing, the more I realized I’ve been conditioned to expect shame, tragedy, and sadness. At least where gay stories are concerned. I expected there to be a bully. I felt my body tense as I prepared for a verbal attack of faggot or queer. My heartbeat sped up as I feared a fist would invade the frame of the shot and punch the smile off Nick’s face.

But nothing happened to Nick. His smile remained. His joy was uninterrupted.

I, however, had to take a pause.

Upon sharing my experience with two of my gay coworkers, who also watch the series, they too admitted a feeling of anxiety in that same moment. We have not been conditioned to sit back and watch an LGBTQ story play out in film or television that is set in a world of pure gay joy. We’ve been conditioned to expect adversity.

How thrilling it would be to live in a world without this homophobic bully-induced anxiety. As a queer fem human, who is still questioning where he fits on the gender spectrum, I think I would thrive.

Before I step outside my apartment building, I typically feel fabulous, proud, and joyous in my flourishes of nail polish or a cocktail-style ring or high heels or eye makeup. But the minute I step out into the world, I am on guard. Preparing. No matter how many times nothing negative happens to me, I am always on guard. I have been conditioned to be so. Having an awareness of one’s surroundings isn’t a bad thing. But expecting strife is.

It’s disquieting that I can more easily recall the pain and shame I felt when a group of men called me a faggot (for no other reason than they could) as I passed them to enter the building where I work than, say, the positive reinforcement from people who go out of their way to complement my nails or eyes or whatever it is. That’s because the negative moments are more traumatic. They carve out a place in my memories and live there in a darkened corner waiting to remind me why joy is more fleeting than heartache. I wish I knew how to store all the positive experiences the same way. Why do I give more credence to being called a faggot than to being complemented on my choice of nail color…by a straight man no less?

For the record, Heartstopper has proven itself to be nothing but gay joy. That isn’t to say that there aren’t negative experiences within its episodes. But overall, there was no reason for me to anticipate that expected adversity. That’s not the world Nick lives in. I wish I could live in his world.

Gay joy is something I strive to hold on to. And even though I haven’t found that easy, I am grateful for the pure joy of Heartstopper as reference.

In my world, I think it’s time to recondition my condition.

Room Fourteen: A Companion

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Mon, 31 Jul 2023 14:10:00 +0000

A room has four walls.

It’s a holding space,

A hiding place,

A sanctuary.

Many things can happen in a room.

Death, for instance.

In room fourteen there was death,

Yes.

I’m sure the walls had witnessed it before.

But on this day they observed so much more:

There was Love,

Laughter,

Support,

Breathing.

There was Singing.

I was there. I heard it.

That room, its walls, guarded a Landslide of emotions…

Sympathy,

Fear,

Sadness.

But also Joy.

I was there. I felt it.

There was remembering happier times.

There was letting go.

There was surviving.

There was darkness…

But also sunshine.

In room fourteen there was death,

Yes.

There was stillness

If not quiet.

But there was also life,

And release;

A gentle fading away.

I was there. I saw him

As he soared toward San Antone.

Convinced

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Wed, 29 Mar 2023 13:45:00 +0000

When one has convinced himself that no one truly cares about the things he cares about — merely indulging him as he romanticizes about the scent of a new perfume, humoring him as he reenacts a moment from his favorite soap opera, tolerating his frustration with the lack of consequences for rule breakers — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

When one has convinced himself he is his family’s shame and disappointment — welcoming him into their home, yes, but avoiding conversations about his life as a gay man, flippantly replying when faced with gay topics, silently reacting to his emotional outbursts on phobic occurrences, ultimately tempering his own shame — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

When one has convinced himself that he is a unicorn peacocking among the regular horses — chin up, aloof, lips glossed with color, lashes mascara’d, perfectly armored (um, adorned), an inkling of knowledge that makes him seem well versed, a pretender even after he is safely hidden away and has removed the horn he foolishly believes makes him special — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

©️MichaelRohrer

I Know About (Not) Popular

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Tue, 28 Mar 2023 22:57:00 +0000

I am not popular.

I have never been popular.

I will never be popular.

There is no engagement of consequence on social media for any of my posts. My friends look but they don’t comment. Most don’t “like”. There are no questions. Using hashtags to get the posts in front of the eyes of strangers also does little in the way of making connections. Zilch. Nada. Crickets.

Most of what I write falls into the void of cyber space. My essays, poems, fiction, and stories don’t find an audience. So they don’t evoke a response. There is no connection. Maybe the ancient aliens in the black hole of time will one day find my words floating around them and stop to read, finding a writer they can identify with, but he will be long dead.

I have wasted so much time wishing and hoping and trying, only to realize I am enacting the definition of crazy. The response is always the same. Yet still, I periodically insist on running around this loop of discouragement.

The depression and sadness it causes me is real. And it’s real for others. In that I am not alone. But I am the subject of this writing, and I can’t bear the emotional strain, the mental weight. I can’t figure out how to just put an essay or an Instagram post out into the world and let it land, breathe, live. I desire a response. I long for it. Just like an actor needs applause. I want to engage with an audience that doesn’t seem to find me interesting.

I feel like a failure: worthless, unworthy, and less-than. I will never be a sensation. I often say being invited to the party is enough. But I will never get the invitations to the parties that I will then decline.

I might be a selfish, self-involved, non-empathetic person who thinks he deserves more than others, and that he should be recognized for his trivial Instagram posts and descriptive word choices in his blog essays and his…etc, etc.

But, still…

I am not popular.

I have never been popular.

I will never be popular.

©️MichaelRohrer

Surface/Life

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Tue, 28 Mar 2023 14:22:00 +0000

It’s all surface…his life.

There is no depth.

It’s shallow, perfumed with artifice.

The loneliness is real.

The solitude his choosing.

His anger is rife,

And exhausting.

He places blame, lives in fear.

The walls are high.

The asylum soothing.

He exists in strife;

Breathless, fading.

He sleeps, avoids by dreaming.

The nakedness quelled.

The exposure looming.

It’s all surface…his life;

A creation.

He yearns to change, but is tired.

The disquiet is heavy.

The darkness seducing.

He does not long for death;

To leave anyone behind, mourning.

He longs for non-existence,

Which leaves no one broken-hearted from knowing.

The road is twisted, curved.

The hills go up then down.

There has to be a fork.

There has to be a sign.

He has to make a choice.

Life…

His.

©️MichaelRohrer

Slipping

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Tue, 28 Mar 2023 14:19:00 +0000

He slipped out of your life.

Have you noticed?

Has it been a day, a week…a year?

What once was is now a memory.

Do you feel it, his absence?

Does it even matter?

The seasons have changed.

Yet the sun is cold.

There is a void, but is it empty?

Is the effort too much?

The slipping too easy?

Is there blame?

The light has faded,

The colors too.

A faint essence remains.

He slipped out of your life.

Visible, yes.

But ultimately gone.

Observations from a TBLE @ Rue 57

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Sat, 31 Dec 2022 16:18:00 +0000

A father speaks to his son. The son listens. He thinks. There is no friction. No angst. The son looks like a rebel but he isn’t. He responds to his father. It’s almost jovial, without a smile. The father nods his head. The son then smiles. A small Coke bottle is picked up from the table. The son takes a swig. Sugary goodness. The father’s wine glass sits half full to his right. The father’s face is hidden but his posture indicates he too is smiling, happy. The people at the table too appear to be happy. Cell phones are out. Social media apps being perused?? Pictures are taken. Food is shared. They are happy.

She sits across from him in her pink sweater. Talking. Talking. He is so cute. He smiled at me when he returned from the restroom. I desperately wish she too would go to the restroom just so I can see what he’ll do. IF he’ll do. But she appears to have a bladder of steel, and keeps talking, talking, never leaving the table. They know I’ve been watching them…coyly. He smiles at me again as he puts on his jacket. Then both say “goodnight” as they pass. He won’t kiss me later, but his smile is fodder for my dreams.

They are obviously tourists. From where, who knows. But their sweatshirts and table etiquette give them away. They can’t hide. They have invisible scrunchies in their hair. All of them. Even the balding men.

Complete

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Wed, 18 Aug 2021 14:44:00 +0000

When do the pieces fall into place?

Is life a puzzle filled with curves and shapes that don't fit:

Big pieces

Small pieces

Pieces with no bloom?

Don't the pieces have to fit together?

Doesn't there have to be rhyme, reason...purpose?

Doesn't there?

Maybe not.

Maybe it's random.

What if the pieces are just pieces

And the rhymes just words that end in different sounds:

Blithe laughter,

Silent screams,

Chords both bitter and sweet?

What if the pieces remain sep'rate?

I am a collection in a single piece.

Beautifully vibrant,

Gracefully muted,

Dissonant...and silent.

Maybe there's beauty in the chaos,

And the purpose in my collection is lone.

Together...

Or apart

A complete work in one.

PLAYTIME

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Wed, 23 Jun 2021 12:54:00 +0000

The sun creeps across the lawn

Burnishing the grass: phosphorescent, brilliantly green.

It chases the shadows. Protection is fleeting.

A gnarled finger of shade reaches across the fence.

It beckons, but it lies. There is no salvation there.

The air grows warmer: heavier, delicately humid.

The clouds rise up, themselves creeping.

It’s Hide-and-Seek time. The shadows revel in their temporary advantage.

This game is not new. It’s familiar, recurring.

From my haven of shelter I watch as they play. A change occurs: a retreat, a fade.

The clouds have been bested, the shadows displaced, as once again

The sun creeps across the lawn.

On The Occasion Of Your Anniversary

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Sat, 16 Jan 2021 21:00:00 +0000

January 16, 1971

Fifty years ago today

The roses were red in your wedding bouquet.

There was tulle, satin…delicate lace;

Blue velvet and stripes and a smile on each face.

With something blue and something new,

Was anything borrowed? I haven’t a clue.

You were young. Were you scared?

Your lives were changing. Were you prepared?

Time is fleeting. Years fly by.

Looks like you made it. Even Ms. Twain can’t deny

Was everything roses?

Of course it wasn’t. But this writer proposes…

Smile. Exhale. Look back on your lives:

Reflect. Reminisce. Remember. Realize.

A choice was made in ‘71

And her eyes still adore you in 2021

What was then has now grown,

You’ve both been changed forever, “For Good.” Who could’ve known?

Fifty years ago today

The roses were red in your wedding bouquet

January 16, 2021

Happy 50th Anniversary

How Are We Going To Find Unity If We Remain Divided?

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Sun, 08 Nov 2020 23:35:00 +0000

The clearest path toward unity excludes name-calling and violence. It requires listening and hearing, which involves faith and trust. Can we do it, America? #AmericaDecides2020 #Election2020results #BidenHarris #TrumpPence #CountryOverParty
— Michael Rohrer (@michaelrohrer) November 8, 2020

I tweeted the above thought and question this afternoon. Just after pressing send I thought about my own character in respect to the question I'd posed, "Can we do it, America?". I replied to myself: "I will struggle with this also. It's been a tough, divisive four years. But we have to be willing to try."

We do have to be willing to try, don't we? I admit that I don't even know how to begin. I will have to seek guidance from those who are more willing and open than I.

Four years ago, there were so many tears and so many broken hearts amid the shock and confusion of the 2016 election results. For all of those who believed their prefered candidate would win, there was an overwhelming sense by a majority of the country that one of those candidates didn't have a chance.

We were wrong.

Donald J. Trump was a disruptive candidate from the moment he stepped of the escalator in Trump Tower on June 16, 2015 to announce his candidacy for the office of President of the United States of America--disruptive because it seemed like a publicity stunt; a stunt because it had the potential to pull focus away from the other candidates and the issues they wished to address and their positions on which they wished to state.

As the campaign season gained momentum and Trump became the Republican nominee for President of the United States of America, one swath of Americans felt empowered by the lack of restraint with which he used his words. Another swath sat stunned in a state of shock. The Empowered and the Stunned took completely different approaches in this moment. The Empowered seemed to revel in the nasty frankness while the Stunned settled into the assumption that this bully of a man, with his name-calling rhetoric, couldn't possibly defeat the candidate which they felt was more than qualified for the job.

Surprise! Complacency and inconceivability gave us president Trump. And while many in our country felt that Hillary Clinton was an untrustworthy candidate ill-considered for leading our country, Trump managed to alienate and irritate more Americans that this writer believes Clinton ever could have. However, we will never know if Clinton's presence in the Oval wouldn't have continued to widen the gap in our already faulty division.

Trump traverses in lies and conspiracy theories. He rarely has proof to back up the accusations he so readily spews via his tweets or from the podium at a MAGA rally. He is the Supreme Leader of Misinformation. (Thankfully, Twitter began adding alerts to his tweets about false and misleading information.)

As the results of the 2020 presidential election began to hit news desks around the country, Trump began to regurgitate, more viciously than he did during the days leading up to the election, his lies about voter fraud. Determined to win even if he had to cheat by saying the other side was cheating.

The other side wasn't cheating. There is no proof of voter fraud. Those who count the votes are bipartisan--Republicans and Democrats coming together to accurately and properly count the votes. Because of Trump's false claims about mail in ballots and absentee ballots leading to fraud, news outlets and social media outlets began to add fact-check flags and misinformation notifications to election related posts in an effort to clarify how the process works, how it has always worked, that it is currently working as it should, and how there is no proof of voter fraud.

True-to-form, Trump's rhetoric led to his most rabid supporters showing up at ballot counting facilities, demanding to be let inside in order to supervise what was already being supervised. Many even arrived with their guns in tow. (And the Left has been deemed a radical mob. Insert eyeroll here.)

With Joe Biden declared the projected winner of the presidency in the United States, there was a flip in the reactions on both sides from those of 2016.

Dancing in the streets, cheers, noise, and happy tears erupted from those of us excited--and relieved--to find the Trump presidency at its end. But those who support this most divisive, alienating, distracting, and unsettling president ever--although he is fond of saying he's the Most, the Greatest, the Best--reacted with the disbelief that I myself felt four years ago. A major difference is that, while I was shocked, I never suspected voter fraud. Russian interference, yes. But I believed our votes were cast and counted...accurately and properly.

So, back to the question: "Can we do it, America?" That's a big question. And it has no easy answer. I don't even know how to discuss Trump's blatant lies about the election with my Republican family members, let alone his actions over the past four years. The idea gives me agita. I get angry at the imagined conversations (or arguments) in my head, which are based on our previous conversations, or from what I know about their beliefs. If this is the case for me regarding my family--the people who know me and are supposed to love me--how in the world am I then going to be able to listen to what scares (or angers) someone about an America under the leadership and guidance of Joe Biden?

Unity lies closer to a middle ground than our country has found itself leveled on for many years. The flames of division have been burning for too many of those years, but Trump threw fire on them and stoked them until they burned with a fervor that sent people running to the edges in search of like-minded harmony. Separated by these flames, our country has become the Divided States of America.

Trump seemed to only want to represent those who were loyal to him. Biden wishes to be the President of all Americans, not just the Democrats and not just those who voted for him. Can we swing the pendulum back toward the middle? Can we shake hands and agree to disagree instead of making fists and calling each other names? Do we have to continue blocking the path just so those who oppose us don't get their way? Can we help each other?

The man who wants to lead us ALL said, "[Trump supporters] are not our enemies. They are Americans." I would add that Biden supporters are not the enemy. We too are Americans.

How are we going to find unity if we remain divided?

I'm Biden My Time

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Thu, 05 Nov 2020 18:15:00 +0000

I'm sure most of us have heard the saying, "Patience is a virtue." Boy do I find that statement hard to implement. Patience is hard! I could give many examples where needing to have patience nearly drove me crazy, but I don't think any would be as timely as the Mud Puddle of Patience we're all treading water in called the American Election and the Cult of Donald Trump.

I woke this morning with the old Gershwin tune "Bidin' My Time" running through the suburbs of my dreamscape.

I'm bidin' my time,
Cause that's the kinda guy I'm
While other folks grow dizzy
I keep busy
Bidin' my time

Firstly, it struck me as funny because of "Bidin'" and Biden. Then is struck me as apropos because of..."Bidin'" and Biden.

I'm one of the "other folks" in this scenario unfortunately. I have grown dizzy with frustration and fear as I've watched, since Tuesday evening, American democracy continue to be undermined by a man who has done nothing but sow seeds of doubt and distrust for longer than his four years in the office of the presidency. He's a snake oil salesman from whom many have purchased his bottles of piss.

My hands were shaking last night at dinner. Not even the lovely glass of French Chardonnay could help. They outwardly mirrored what was happening on the inside--2016 PTSD showing its ass. I was tied up in a knot that seems to only release when I'm asleep. Thankfully, I can sleep. Yesterday I found myself sleeping a lot. It's probably a sign of mild depression brought on by mental and emotional exhaustion due to the state of our country in this time of chaos and crisis. I don't like the idea of being depressed, but I am grateful for the sleep.

Bidin' time is a lazy kind of patience that seems to only exist in a world when the stakes aren't this high, but bide it I must--we must. I wish I could take a pill for patience. I have struggled with finding it for years. I even have the Chinese character for patience tattooed on my left forearm. Beyond reminding me that I needed more patience in my life, I used to joke that I would rub it as a reminder as if to release some magical power imbued within its ink to calm thereby strengthening my ability to deal with stress and anxiety.

That tattoo should be rubbed off by now.

I will admit that Joe Biden was not my first choice for the democratic nominee for President of the United States. Bernie Sanders was not my choice either. But I struggled. After eight years of my country's first Black President, Barack Obama, I feared that we, collectively, would not elect a woman. My fears were proved right when Hillary Clinton, even after winning the popular vote, failed to secure the electorate and become the first female president of the United States of America.

With all of that in mind I looked at the viable candidates and saw: two old white men, a white woman, a Black woman, and a gay man. Jesus Christ! I couldn't help but wonder who the people of the United States would support and rally behind. I mean, this is a country that elected Donald Trump as its "leader." I didn't trust my own judgment, and I certainly didn't put my trust in the American people. As far as I'm concerned, many of my fellow countrymen let the country down when they cast their vote for Donald Trump.

After the sun had set on Tuesday, November 3, 2020, my best friend and I tuned into CBS News to watch the election results. The excitement and hope for the possibilities began to darken just like the night sky as we began to see the map of our country once again awash with red. There are those guaranteed states that one knows will be red. They always are. But after fours years of bullying, mockery, lying...I couldn't believe the overwhelming support for this candidate. That piss must go down so smooth. I wonder if it's better as a shot, sipped, or mixed with one's favorite juice or soda?

On Wednesday night, November 4, 2020, peaceful marchers in Massachusetts marched with signs reading, "Count Every Vote," while Trump supporters gathered outside an election center in Detroit, Michigan, chanting, "Stop the count!" and "Stop the vote!" Why doesn't EVERY SINGLE AMERICAN want every vote counted? P.S. the vote had stopped. Unfortunately, Donald Trump used the words "stop the vote" (I heard it with my own ears) and it seems there are those who can't quite understand the difference between "vote" and "count."

This is chaos. And patience is not easy in the midst of chaos. How patient can one be if he happens to find himself stuck outside in the middle of a hurricane, unable to find cover, unable to move, digging deep to find the strength to wait it out. Patience is a virtue indeed.

Joe Biden has called for unity and for putting the nasty rhetoric of the campaign aside. Donald Trump, on the other hand, has filed lawsuits and continues to push his false claim of fraud.

THIS. IS. CHAOS!

My anxiety is through the roof. No amount of deep breathing or long soaks in a bubble bath seem to alleviate it for long.

How did we get here? How did the least Christ-like of presidents wrap the Conservative "Christian" Right around his finger?

President Barack Obama sang "Amazing Grace" after delivering the eulogy for Rev. Clementa Pickney, in Charleston, South Carolina in 2015. Rev. Pickney was the victim of the bullets let loose upon those attending a Bible study at Mother Emanuel church in what was deemed a racially motivated attack by Dylann Roof. I saw our former president deliver his eulogy and sing the old hymn that comforts so many. It was powerful and emotional. It showed empathy and sympathy. It connected with dormant memories from my youth when I was a follower if the Baptist faith in Kentucky--a dogma that I no longer practice and a faith in which I can no longer believe.

Donald Trump posed on June 1, 2020, for a picture in front of Ashburton House, the parish house of St. John's Church on Lafayette Square in Washington, D.C. after it had been damaged by fire during the previous night's protests over the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The photo of this man holding a Bible left me numb. Even though I no longer read it, do not give it any credence, and do not believe it should have any influence over the laws of our country, I still somehow approach it with reverence. (That's a little fucked up, I realize.) So, to see this man who bullies, mocks, and lies holding up a copy of that book in an effort to appeal to his supporters without doing anything to assuage the racial tension happening steps away continues to leave me cold.

We are living in the Divided States of America where I believe Donald Trump has conned his way into the hearts of too many. I can't help but be reminded of Matthew 7:15, a verse in that same Bible that I know longer read, which states: "Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves." This is Donald Trump: selfish, fake, destructive. He has used his platform--twitter, MAGA rallies--to empower those who feel he sees them, identifies with them, hears them, supports them. He has opened the door for their deeply held religious beliefs to explode into the room dressed as the hate that it truly is.

To say that discord will remain in the United States of America regardless of the outcome of the election is unnecessary. We know there will be. And with social media providing us with information both true and false, our phone and computer screens will continue to deepen out relationships with like-minded people. To say there will be an uprising in the streets if all of the votes are not counted is almost certain. Don't you feel it? And how Civil might this War be?

(P.S. our taxes count as filed on time as long as they are postmarked by April 15. Why should our votes be any different? If they are postmarked by November 3, during a pandemic when many don't want to vote in person, why shouldn't they count? It seems obvious.)

It is time to remove the cancer. It is time for a leader that isn't going to fire you if you disagree with him. It is time to heal. It is time to sing "Amazing Grace" and mean it. It is time for empathy in the face of so much social and civil unrest. It is time to trust Climate Science and medical professionals. Isn't it time for America to be better than it is instead of treading on the false pretense of Making it Great Again? When is Again? What about now!

I don't know what's going to happen with the 2020 election results, but I'm holding out hope. Patience is hard, but I'm Biden my time. As Jimmy Kimmel tweeted on election night: "This is like being awake during your own surgery." Ouch. But true. This is painful, but I'm optimistic that healing will begin once the tumor is removed.

Two Weeks & Twenty-Six Cents

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Tue, 18 Aug 2020 00:44:00 +0000

When I was younger, two weeks could seem like an eternity. What about for you? Did the two weeks leading up to Christmas drag on forever? And what about the two weeks before your 16th birthday? Or the two weeks leading up to the end of the school year? Weren’t the hours endless? Of course, there are exceptions to this prolonged waiting period; e.g., the two week break I used to get during the Christmas/New Year’s holidays when I was in secondary school felt like it only lasted a couple of days.

Back in October of 1998, I found myself unemployed for an indeterminate amount of time. (Kind of like right now. Except, right now, I “kind of” have a return-to-work date even though it keeps getting extended.) I worked in the box office at the Century Center for the Performing Arts Theatre; an off-Broadway performance venue where the most recent production, Stupid Kids, had closed early (October 4, 1998) and there was no replacement waiting in the wings.

I took a Greyhound bus from the Port Authority in New York City to Nashville, Tennessee. At that point in my life, taking the bus was the only way I could afford to take the trip. It was an adventure—a 24-hour adventure 😳. (And one that I didn’t relish repeating for the return trip. I’m just sayin’.) It took roughly three more hours by car to get to my ol’ Kentucky home. But I got there…with no responsibilities and no plans.

During that visit, I felt very creatively fertile. Every morning I made a pot of coffee and perused old journals, searching for those soul bearing moments that might make a good country song. Some days I didn’t change out of my pajamas: no shower, no real clothes, just focus and flow. My parents would leave for work, and I would pour the first cup and sit down in front of my mother’s computer and start transforming adolescent thoughts into lyrics, hoping I might be composing A, if not The, Next Big Hit for country radio.

While stardom was something that eluded me, mostly due to my own lack of motivation to chase it, that time in my life is a warm memory cloaked in fuzzy slippers that is at once comforting and melancholy.

Two songs figure prominently in my memories from that visit: “26 Cents” by the Canadian country group, The Wilkinsons, and “Wide Open Spaces” by The (no longer Dixie) Chicks. While both were favorites before, they became touchstones for me...and my mom. And remain so to this day.

Two weeks had expired when the time came for me to return to NYC. The Century Center had a new tenant. I was employed again. Memories fade. And while mine is pretty solid (ask anyone who knows me well), I don’t recall a flying-by feeling. In my memory, time marched at a steady pace—not too fast, not too slow. I remember feeling free and dare I say, happy. That’s not a feeling I always feel when visiting Kentucky.

At the Greyhound station in Nashville, my mother gave me an envelope. She asked me not to open it until I was on the bus. I was extremely curious what was inside, but I waited—like I used to have to wait for my grandparents to arrive on Christmas morning before I could unwrap anything. Once the bus started moving, all deals were off. I opened it.

In my hands I held a lined piece of notebook paper where, in her perfect left-handed cursive, my mom had written the chorus to “26 Cents.”

When you get lonely, call me
Anytime at all and I'll be there with you, always
Anywhere at all
There's nothing I've got that I wouldn't give
And money is never enough
Here's a penny for your thoughts
A quarter for the call
And all of your momma's love (9-16)

Below that she had written her own message of love and encouragement. And at the very bottom she had taped a penny and a quarter.

Cut to August 3, 2020. The COVID-19 pandemic has left me unemployed, isolated, afraid, and with limited access to my fremily (that chosen family of friends) for nearly 20 weeks.

I was supposed to take a trip to Kentucky in June for a wedding that got postponed to August. When I changed the flight I decided to add an extra week to the stay. I mean, why not? I had nothing better to do. And sure, after 23 years in New York City, country living in the southern part of the United States is something that I can only take in small doses. A week teeters between just enough time and an overstay. It all depends on how I let outside factors affect me. But weighing the options, a large back yard and a pool seemed pretty charmed even if I might have to deal with Trump-supporting politics. And lest I forget, momma’s hugs and home cooking would be beneficial perks.

My mom might be the one person in my family that I allow myself to be vulnerable enough with to have very frank discussions. I push. She listens. Sometimes she has advice. Sometimes she doesn’t know what to say. I often wonder if I make her uncomfortable with my statements or questions; if I’ve pushed too hard or too far. I probably over share. But she keeps smiling at me, hugging me, loving me. I don’t know how she does it—(This must be where All of your momma’s love comes into play)—but I’m grateful that she does.

For two weeks the days were filled, each turning to night without me seeming to realize it was happening.

My mom and I took three-mile walks almost every day. In that freedom of companionship and exercise, we talked about many things: the pandemic, people’s reaction to it, people’s inability to respect others and wear a mask, other frustrations, the fiction I’m writing, the soap opera Santa Barbara, my love for the soaps in general. We talked about the past, the present. We questioned the future while also looking forward to it. We huffed and puffed and challenged ourselves while sweating through our shirts.

We played card games almost daily: Rummy, Five Crowns, Karma. We laughed. We quibbled. (One is prone to quibbling and deep sighing when a winning streak seems to be consistently elusive. Trust me, I sighed. I sighed so much.) We ate Milk Duds. We ate the fresh blackberries that we picked from the garden. Picture it: Arlington, KY. 2020. Me picking blackberries in a garden. But I digress.

The inevitable question: “What would you like to have for dinner?” was usually asked before we had even decided what we wanted to eat for lunch, and was usually met with an exaggeratedly humorous response along the lines of, “We haven’t even eaten lunch.” But the duck, the chicken, the steak, and the pork chops were all worth the early decisions when they made their way from the grill to the table to my mouth.

Sitting side-by-side on my parents’ sofa, my mom and I battled for the win playing Words With Friends. Books were completed and new ones started. Homemade ice cream churned in the garage, its hum becoming white noise until it stopped. Hours were spent cavorting in the pool: sliding into the refreshing coldness, tossing a volleyball back and forth, sitting on the bottom, attempting to keep a frisbee in the air—fifty-four times was the record between my sister and me.

We found family relics that I thought had been inadvertently discarded by me long ago. I had resigned myself to the sadness of their loss, accepted I would never see them again. Yet there they were in a storage tub in a large closet in the basement of my parents’ house. I was overwhelmed at seeing again this bonanza of sepia-toned pictures and daguerreotypes; images of family members I couldn’t possibly know and that no one still alive could provide information about. I was beside myself to once again hold the hand-written document noting the births and deaths of the family from which my own maternal line started five generations prior. My excitement was contagious and my mom caught it.

We consumed hours of television: The Golden Girls, Friends, Santa Barbara. We watched Jurassic Park and Scream.

Sleep came. And, for the most part, it cast us deeply in its shadow. Morning brought a new day, a fresh pot of coffee, a mug of hot chocolate, and a question of what to have for dinner.

We washed, rinsed, and repeated our way through two weeks. And even though those two weeks

contained the same amount of minutes and hours as any other two-week period, they seemed to fly by. I guess it really does when you’re having fun.

As we get older, time no longer marches at a glacial pace. It speed skates. There is no way to slow it down. Our task it to enjoy every moment. That’s all we can do.

As we said our goodbyes outside the small regional airport in Paducah, Kentucky, I thanked both of my parents for the welcoming opportunity to freeload at their house and told them I loved them. Mom always gets the last hug. That’s the way I want it. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a penny and a quarter and placed them into her hand. She looked down at what I’d given her and continued to smile even as her eyes filled with tears. History repeating. A full circle moment.

Now that I’m back home in NYC, a two-week period of self-quarantine begins. That’s because I’ve returned from a state with increased rates of COVID-19 transmission. Time in isolation is rarely fleeting so I’m betting this two weeks will inch along like an airplane sitting on the tarmac, 24th in line for takeoff.

“Who doesn’t know what I’m talking about?” The Chicks ask in “Wide Open Spaces.” Who doesn’t indeed.

Room 14

noreply@blogger.com (Michael Rohrer) — Fri, 31 Jul 2020 02:49:00 +0000

Ragged breath. Gasps fill the quiet room.

The breathing stops. No sound. Silence.

Inhale.

Relief.

His sentinels sit. We watch. We listen.

A melody sings out easy. A husband, to his love.

“The landslide will bring it down.”

The dread is heavy, the uncertainty thick.

There is no hope. But there is love.

Visible.

Abundant.

Resignation hovers. The inevitable approaches.

Peace will come, leaving sadness in its wake.

When tethered no more, this will be the down.

Remember.

Now soar.

July 29, 2020