April 2006 Archives

My sister sent me a letter to the Editor my Mom wrote, published by the New York Times in 1986, turned up by an Internet search. Evidently my mother was steamed by a previous letter extolling the joys of cigars and the "right" to smoke then in (pre-smoking ban) New York restaurants.

"I would like Jonathan M. Weisberg to know - he is obviously blissfully unaware of it - that there are many people (and not only pregnant women) who are so inconvenienced by cigars that their stomach literally turns over at what their senses perceive as untolerable stench - not unlike skunk or rotten egg bouquet.

Are we to equate the ''relaxing experience of a good after-dinner cigar'' (for some) with a good bout of after-dinner vomiting (for their ''otherwise civil people'' at a nearby restaurant table)?

SIMONE OLMSTED

Mount Vernon, NY"

Bravo, Maman! (She's French, which you'd never know from her flawless English).

I have to say, I miss that fairly passionate personality that seems to have become submerged under the weight of the world, made far heavier by old age and a depressive streak that 5 kids made her too damn busy to indulge in most of her life. I don't really know what to do about it, or if there is anything at all I can do about it. It seems to be getting worse--and yet she is in remarkably good physical health, and wants for absolutely nothing materially.

Frankly, it reminds me very much of her own father at 80. And worries me personally, because my Dad's dad committed suicide and my Dad drank himself to death. I'm very much like my Mom in most ways, and like my Dad in one crucial way, it makes me a bit fearful over the possibility the genetic propensities are stacked against me from both sides.

I really really thought old age is the last thing I had to worry about. Oh well, I should just relax. When the big inevitable flu pandemic comes along I'll just volunteer to take care of the sick and soon enough, no more worries for me.

MCO 2006

Today I'm just irritated. I could go down a list of specific causes, but nothing is remotely original, and most of it is banal.

Some days are just like this. On the whole I suffer rarely from such days, so can't really complain too much when I do.

I could jot down what I need to do to get out of this frame of my mind, but I think it's important to remember I don't need to do anything. It's perfectly okay to have a bad day, to be with your feeling of irritation, that vague sense of dissatisfaction, even of the world conspiring against you. It's all okay. It's just life.

What's not okay is to use it as an excuse to pick up a drink or drug. That's still my initial instinct, and I guess will always be. Not to worry, I'm in no danger of it, but I recognize the impulse. For example, when I read today that Mexico was decriminalizing the possession of small amounts of drugs, my first thought was to move to Mexico.

Happily those were not my second, third or fourth thoughts. And it's not the first thought you have about something that counts, it's the last.

MCO 2006

I kind of hate getting these feel-good "send to five friends" chain letters, not because of the sentiments usually contained in them, but because of the implied (sometimes not so implied) pseudo-threats that if you don't send it along, good things will not happen, or you will spread bad luck. I don't cotton well to emotional blackmail.

But I did come up with a chain letter of my own--a take-off on the dreaded anonymous notification letter in the plain brown envelope from the Health Department everyone anyone who has ever been a little naughty dreads getting.

The directions? Send it to anyone in your life who has recently brought joy to you. (If there's more than one, then one at a time, each individually addressed. Do not dilute it by sending it to a group of people at once. You want special people to feel special.) The value of this exercise, obviously, is to become aware and appreciative of the joy-spreaders in your life.

What do you get from sending this along? Nothing beyond the pleasure of letting someone else know that you appreciate a recent smile they've brought to your face (or the smiles they bring to it regularly.)

And if you don't send it? Well, it could just not be your style or sense of humor, and that's fine. But if you can't think of anyone to send it to, then you may have some food for thought there. (Hint: Before you complain about the quality of your friends and family, make sure you've done something recently that would make someone else think about you as a worthy recipient of this letter.)

"Dear __:

This is to inform you that it has been brought to our attention that you

may have recently spread joy to at least one person. As a matter of public

mental health, we urge you to continue to do so to as many partners as

necessary, in fact, with whomever you may come into contact.

We thank you for your immediate attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

Your Name

Department of Social Services

Your City"

And now I'm going to violate my own rules by addressing all of you as a group instead of individually--but 90% of you I don't even know, so I can't do otherwise even if I wanted to. I would like to thank each of you for the joy you bring me every morning when I look at my "stats" and see the total of how many of you have signed on and spent some time reading me. Thank you thank you thank you 263 times (today).

MCO 2006

Well, I can't remember the last time I enjoyed myself so much in an interview. My "strategy" was no strategy--beyond being myself and doing my best in the time I had to give them an authentic sense of what I'm like and what my strong suits are. I gave them whatever information I could so they could make the most accurate assessment for themselves of whether I'd work well with them. I know this is what I wanted a sense of when I hired people at Genre (or co-hired with colleagues)--whether you'd communicate well and get along for the 8+ hours a day. (And whether you could adapt=particularly as a writer. That was a cinch to reassure them on, because I can honestly say that is SO what I do best).

I have to say the two guys who interviewed me put me at ease and seemed really nice and competent. I was very happy with how I answered their questions and even got a laugh or two. And I have to admit, the reel they showed me of they're cable product was way cool, as were the offices. I confess I am no longer so neutral about getting the job--I'd REALLY like to. And I'm pretty sure I'll make it at least to round 2. I'll find out next week.

MCO 2006

My mind is fairly blank, I'm trying to stay clear and calm for my interview this afternoon. The cool thing about it is that I'm really equally okay with landing the job or not landing the job. I'm just trusting that whichever result will be the right one. It does help that my writing is going well. I just wish I'd come to the psychological reckonings that I needed to come to months ago, but it's damn hard to rush the part of the creative process that is subterranean, that happens slowly, beneath the conscious radar.

One of the casualites of my hard drive wipe of weeks ago was a list of new words I'd made up, most of them created by splicing together two other words. So now when they come up, if they're amusing, I'm just going to post them. This morning, this came to me:

Splurgery: Elective invasive expensive cosmetic enhancement done on a whim.

Oh, and a draq queen name inspired by a commonly abused barbituate: Pheno Barbie Doll. (Actually, Barbie Tuate isn't bad either).

You read 'em here first.

I'll probably blog again after the interview.

MCO 2006

med•i•ta•tion

Pronunciation: (med"i-tâ'shun), [key]

—n.

1. the act of meditating.

2. continued or extended thought; reflection; contemplation.

3. See transcendental meditation.

4. devout religious contemplation or spiritual introspection.

I personally would like to lay claim to Number 2 on this list of definitions of meditation. I just don't think I have one of those minds that will ever be clear of any thoughts, and I suppose I resent the idea that "real" meditation is the Eastern form that has been in vogue for the past 30 or so years in the west. That sort of meditation is certainly wonderful, and I envy those who can successfully do it. But the other kind of meditation remains as valid today as it was when and as St. Augustine, Blaise Pascal, and Martin Luther King Jr. practiced it.

No, I'm not reacting defensively to anyone pressuring me to meditate. I just realized that I feel somehow inadequate about not doing it one way, when I do it alot the other way. And I think it serves me well. (Everytime I try trancedental-type meditation, I fall asleep--just like my Mom. But frankly, the way I dream, I think that should count for something in the metaphysics department.)

MCO 2006

A friend sent me the following link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A5VNe9NTOxA

If you watch it, you'll see an almost camp--think Reefer Madness--short film from around 1961 which warns young men of the dangers of the predatory homosexual. If you don't, it's about the overly friendly guy who picks the 14-year old boy up hitchhiking and before the innocent kid knows it, he's not only in a motel room, but he's "caught" the contagious homosexual sickness.

It made me laugh, which was the intended effect, but it also made me sad. I'm pretty sure I was too young in the 60s to have been shown this film, clearly geared for adolescents, and yet, there was something so utterly familiar about it. This image of the sick, predatory and contagious homosexual was the one I absorbed, along with most of my generation and I would say a fair amount of both Gen X and even Gen Y that has followed me. Certainly in most Bible-thumping Red-State households, this image is still propagated. Even in my ultra-liberal home, while the n-word from my lips would never have been tolerated, the f-word (fag, not f**K) was only as proscibed as any other hostile language, which was generally discouraged by harmony-encouraging parents.

It took me years of therapy to recognize that all the gay liberation in the world had not erased the inner image I still carried with me unconsciously of the gargoyle homosexual. Realizing this was a breakthrough, (thank you Dr. Weinstein) but I still don't know to what degree it has played a part in the self-destructive choices I have made in my life. I do think that internalized homophobia is as huge and harmful as external homophobia, but far less recognized as such.

Not that I'm an advocate of woe-is-me whining. Just by being born a white American male I have had access to more advantages than 90% of the world's people will never have, never mind the gay thing. And in some ways, I consider straight men as burdened by society's expectations as gay men are--I certainly witness a lot of what I consider a great deal of unhealthy self-limiting as far as what and how they allow themselves to feel and express. But they never, ever get the message from society that who they choose to love is unnatural, warped, wrong. It is a toxic message to get, probably much more toxic than most of us realize.

On Holocaust Remembrance day, I want to remind everyone that there were a 250,000 homosexuals put to death as well, not to mention all the Jews and Gypsies and political prisoners who happened to be gay, though hardly fitting our modern conception of it. (You can be sure most gays--Jews or otherwise--in the 1930s just got married and spent a life denying what they truly felt. And yes, one can be homosexual without ever committing one homosexual act. It's an orientation, not a behavior-just like heterosexuality. Ask any straight virgin.)

Boy, suddenly remembering the Holocaust puts things in perspective. In two ways: I'm reminded 1) I don't know what real suffering is; 2) not being vigilant about hate and ignorance in any form can lead to that very suffering I don't know anything about.

MCO 2006

Today is Armenian Genocide Day, and as I live in Little Armenia, the streets around my house are packed with cars covered in Armenian flags. Armenians dressed in black will hold a "parade" (for lack of a better word--it sounds a tad festive for the occasion) to commemorate the slaughter of a million souls by the Turks in 1918-20. I read an account of the Armenian genocide when I was 13 or 14, when I was obsessed by the Holocaust. It only seemed fair to learn about other horrors of history. It also probably fed my life-long (until quite recently) atheism. In fact I still wrestle with the conundrum of how to reconcile a supposedly all-loving and all-powerful God with what went on in places like Turkey, Poland and Rwanda. I'll let you know if I ever find a truly satisfactory answer to that one.

Anyway, Little Armenia is also Thai Town--which makes for an odd neighborhood, to say the least. The weird thing is that two extremely different populations--culturally, linguistically, racially---have alphabets that are oddly similar. The groceries tend to be Armenian, the restaurants, Thai. The Thai shop and restaurant owners seem to live elsewhere though, while the Armenians are well-represented in the residential part of the neighborhood. (And boy, do the men like to "hang out" in front of their buildings, wearing sweat suits and smoking). Though strangely, my building is almost entirely Filipino--go figure.

When I go north just two blocks, I walk the dog on one of the nicest, upscale streets of Los Feliz--a largely white neighborhood with big houses and beautiful lawns and a Hispanic name. Though two blocks south is where most of the Hispanic live, in small apartment buildings and multi-family dwelling with small yards. Sprinkled admidst it all are the not so upscale gays and straight singles--though I kind of only know about the former from rainbow flag bumper stickers on some parked cars. I kind of turn off my gaydar in this neighborhood--you always get the feeling there's a disaproving Armenian smoking a cigarette in his driveway who might sic a killer pigeon on you. These guys feel very Tony Soprano, to be honest.

I just thought I might give you a snapshot of the Hood. If I get this job, I suspect I'm outta here. I spend too much time farther west, and these gas prices are killing me.

MCO 2006

Boy, do I ever have to remind myself on a daily basis not to take things personally. Ninety percent of all behavior that one dislikes is not about you, and if it's not specifically hostility directed at you for something offensive you have done, then there's just no reason to get uncomfortable about it.

There are a lot of lost souls in the social skills department in the world, but they don't just irritate me, I tend to internalize the discomfort they provoke to the point that I want to say or do something about it, as if I have to protect the rest of the world from the same discomfort. Invariably, I find out that everybody else is also rolling their eyes over this person, and they don't need my protection, nor for me to apologize for or explain the behavior to them. (I know I'm not the only one who does this, but I think I suffer from this tendency more than most.)

I guess it boils down to control. Do we ever really recover from that slow realization that crept up on us in babyhood that we were separate from what was out there, that we couldn't always have our every need met when we wanted it met, that we weren't in control? Basically, that we weren't God? Then we spend years and years being socialized into not acting on our impulse to smack everyone who behaves in a way not to our liking, but boy, the impulse is still there on some level, isn't it?

And when someone you love in one way doesn't love you back in the same way, boy is that ever hard not to take personally. You know in your head that's about who they are, but it sure as hell feels like it's about who you are (or aren't--good enough, smart enough, funny enough etc.). You know in your head that you're giving them that power over you, but your heart keeps experiencing it as the objective truth. At least till years later, when you're finally totally over them, and you can't believe you cared so much what that neurotic pain-in-the-ass thought of you. And you know that one day you'll get there with this one too, but while you're in it, you can't manage not to care.

Of course, I read about all of this in a book, I can't remember which one. You know I can't be discussing my own experience, because of that sentence about loving someone who doesn't love you back the same way. Oh please. As if! And even if it had happened, once, okay, maybe more that once, that's ancient history, right? Hello, water under the bridge and all that!

Yeah, well, still waters run deep. (Which has nothing to do with anything, but it sounds good.)

MCO 2006

So after months of circling around it yesterday, making notes, reading, and thinking, thinking, thinking, the title of my memoir came to me. "Here Lies the Truth." And at 4 in the afternoon, I sat down and started writing it.

I don't want to sound immature by being premature, but I swear to God, it was worth the wait. It's good. It's really good. It's about truth, lies, memories and secrets--how they can masquerade as each other, play camouflage, then reveal themselves. If it means a page a day for a year, I'm going to finish it. God knows, the blog has taught me I can do that.

What was really trippy, was as soon as I finished typing--almost to the second--the phone rang. It was the offices of the cable TV channel to whom I'd applied for a job two days ago. We've set up an interview for Thursday. Magical or the way the universe works? I guess both, if you think the way the universe works is magical.

I am completely willing for the job to happen, but equally willing for it not to happen. I'm just putting myself out there, "suiting up and showing up," and the results will be whatever they're supposed to be.

MCO 2006

P.S. Funny thing is that right before I started writing, I caught one of my very favorite movies of all time on TMC. "Places in the Heart." Wicked good screenplay--although a little intimidating. I found myself asking, "will I ever write that well? Can I?" "Compare and despair"-- a recipe for disaster. I just have to write as well as Marc can write, and that is well enough.

So I'm walking the dog at 6:30 this morning, thinking how much I take for granted what almost 2 years ago I swore I would never take for granted again. I remember being summoned from D-Block at Delano to go see the doctor, one of the rare occasions that, with a pass, you had a few precious minutes of relative autonomy--not in a line with other prisoners or escorted by a guard. I looked out through the fence at the highway in the distance, and the way it glimmered in the sun it looked ever so much like a river instead of a road. A river to paddle down on a canoe.

I closed my eyes and for a moment thought I might actually manage to turn into a fine mist that would be cycloned through the fence like the mist from a genie's bottle. If desire could make it so, it would have happened. It seemed an unimaginable luxury to be able to simply go for a walk, not to mention be in my own apartment with a full refrigerator and sole control of the remote.

And of course, I get to take that walk three times a day now, with my dog no less, and needless to say, I do not burst into song while maintaining a spring in my step as I do it. Not that anyone would expect me or anyone else to, but it does illustrate a fundamental truth, doesn't it?

Happiness is not the absence of unhappiness.

Likewise many things. Love is not the absence of hate. Sobriety is not the absence of substance use (that's abstinence.) Homosexuality is not the absence of heterosexuality.

But back to happiness. Bottom line, it's not the result of what you don't do, but of what you do do.

I think I just called happiness doo-doo. I better stop here.

MCO 2006

Well, as much as I enjoy my sweet little life, I did commit to the idea of at least responding to opportunities that I become aware of without actually hunting for them. So when I saw an ad for a communications coordinator for a gay cable network, I could not ignore that the job description was an amalgam of every job I've ever had.

So I updated my resume and started on a cover letter. It took me a few minutes of staring at the screen, but I decided, shit, I'm just going to put the truth out there right up front. In as few words as possible, I outlined my addiction, my dealing, my incarceration, and my recovery. I also decided to immediately address the fact that I was 47. Without reverting to euphemisms like "seasoned" I quite truthfully pointed out that experience is a plus. Obliquely referring to prison, I said that I was very adept at working with the most difficult personalities. (I guarantee you, there are no worse office politics than those in the California Penal System.)

I already received an acknowledgment, the standard "we are looking at resumes and will get back to you." It was a little worrisome to see that email was sent at 10:30 pm. I hope that's not an indicator of the hours routinely required! Though I have to say, when I worked at Genre, I got home, fired up the computer, and worked some more. Plus Saturdays. When I love my job, I'm prone to workaholism. But it sure helps to have deadlines, expectations and a paycheck to keep the fire lit underneath.

Anyway, it was such a relief to know that if I do land an interview, I don't have to be cagey about my past. Hell, it might be what gets me in the door. Mine is probably the only cover letter/resume they can pretty safely assume doesn't contain a lie. In any event, it's not worth it to me to go back to work unless I can do so secret-free.

Back when I was in jail, my sister told me that she found herself able to live life pretty much without having to lie or even break the law. (Not telling your best friend she looks fat in that outfit does not count). Not only was I skeptical that she was telling the truth, I honestly couldn't imagine ever getting to that place myself. But I have to say, it's pretty much the case with me too these days. It really is possible.

Too bad the title "Secrets and Lies" is already taken (for my book.)

MCO 2006

P.S. My nephew will be traveling the world in May filming a documentary about tea for an eccentric billionaire. See what you can do at 22 when you're not downing screwdrivers in bars and sleeping with half of Manhattan, like his uncle did 25 years ago? Ouch, truth, Ouch!

One of the problems with being an addict--even a sober one--is that thinking is as much an enemy as drinking. It is, after all, a disease of perception. One of the reasons people in recovery get sponsors and depend on them has been put this way: "Think of your brain as a dangerous neighborhood. You wouldn't go up there alone, would you?"

So what's the way to combat alcoholic thinking? Taking action--sometimes contrary action. It's put this way: "You can't think your way into right acting, but you can act your way into right thinking." (The simplest definition of right thinking is any thinking that does not see picking up a drink or a drug as part of a range of options in reacting to life. The more complex definition would be thinking that is spiritually aligned with the will of a God of your understanding.)

So here's my dilemma (shared no doubt with many a writer) : Human beings think in words. As a writer, I specialize in words. My particular kind of action-taking requires thinking alot--writing is really thinking on steroids. Hence, the more I write, the more I think AND the more I act. There ends up being a thin line between my problem and solution. Sometimes I wonder which is which.

It occurred to me that this is why some of my dreams have been so intense of late. This is one area where my facility with words provides no defense. Dreams are mostly images and feelings. There is dialogue, but I have no conscious control or impact on any of it. The result is that my subconcious will cough up those emotions that I successfully marginalize on a conscious level by virtue of my ability to think/write almost any bothersome idea or concept into a manageable corner.

To be honest, this can make for some wrenching nights. My dreams can be entire-mini-series in which emotions thought buried are dredged up and hung out to dry. Sometimes its about old love, but not always. Last night it was about being verbally abused in a work situation, intense financial anxiety, and two bloody marys. Usually in drinking or using dreams I am chasing the drink or drug but never actually consume it. Not so this time--although I did go right to intense regret and don't remember actually feeling any effects. (If you could successfully get drunk by drinking in dreams I'm quite sure some alcoholic scientist would have invented a machine to do so nightly).

I woke up in a sweat. Talk about powerlessness. What I dream is truly beyond my capacity to influence or control. And I don't care what anyone says--it's anybody's guess what dreams represent. I cannot but pay attention, but I really have no idea what--if anything--they actually mean.

MCO 2006

I spent the morning editing a piece of my little sister's, and it really makes me wonder if, in the final analysis, I am more of an editor than a writer. Not that I can't be both--few are good at one without being good at the other--but maybe I should pursue that more specifically. I really enjoy it too. Too bad when I did it for a living it paid unbelievably badly. When that gig ended, I tried to land another one, but...

But. But. But. The truth is that I did not pursue getting another job doggedly. I was able to get back on disability and got some major cash in from a viatical settlement. I thought I was going to be dead in a few years and I fell in love with a drug dealer and really went at it with the crystal. You know the rest.

Anyway, my sister asked me to write something more about the need to vote, as she has a few friends who don't either and it drives her batty. For me, it is so self-evident that I almost object to having to state the obvious, it's like having to convince people it's bad to litter.

So I'll keep it simple. Voting gives you the Right to Bitch. (RTB). However little you may otherwise participate in impacting the political process--all the demonstrations unattended, the letters to the editor unwritten, the petitions unsigned--when you vote you not only express your will as a citizen, but you fullfill the minimal requirement for being able to complain about the sorry state of the country all you want for the next year or 2 or 4.

And let me tell you, when I was still in prison on the first Tuesday in November in 2004, it absolutely bit not to be able to pull that lever. If it had been 2000, and I was in Florida, I would have had friggin' cow.

So if you haven't, Register. Vote. And Bitch away..

MCO 2006

P.S. Since you can't earn the RTB until November, try this on for right now:

http://www.humanrightsfirst.org/international_justice/darfur/voices/index.aspx?source=ga-taf

I just got a call from Chelsea Merz at Open Source.

It seems I was one of 4 bloggers interviewed, and only one of us--the woman--are making it on to the show.

This is rather irritating as I doubt very much she was in prison.

Chelsea was very apologetic--she'd really responded well to my answers when she conducted the interview.

She said she'd try to arrange to have it available as a Podcast on the Open Source site--we'll find out tomorrow.

Although I am pretty bummed, luckily I have tons of experience in the realm of disappointment, and it really does serve one well. I have learned not to get completely excited about anything until it actually happens, and this was no exception.

MCO 2006

This is a bit obnoxious BUT I doubt very much that to the casual listener of the radio program that will be on later today, the spelling of my name will be self-evident. So here, to give Google a hand, I'm going to list all the variations I can think of (or remember really--anyone in my family will know this all too well), so that anyone who might be curious can find the blog even if they make a vague stab at replicating my name.

Marc Olmsted

Mark Olmsted

Marc Olmstead

Mark Olmstead

Marc Homestead

Mark Homestead

Marc Almstead

Mark Almstead

Mark Amstead

Marc Amstead

Marc Holmsted

Mark Holmsted

Marc Holmstead

Mark Holmstead

Marc Armstead

Mark Armstead

Marc Holmested

Mark Holmested

IF YOU'VE GOOGLED ONE OF THE ABOVE, AND YOU'RE LOOKING FOR THAT GUY YOU HEARD ON OPEN SOURCE/NPR, YOU'RE IN THE RIGHT PLACE.

In other news, I finally figured out the through-theme of my life up until about midway through my prison sentence. It was about secrets. I was addicted to creating them, having them, and keeping them, And sometimes, revealing them. The bigger the better.

This is the arc I've been looking for, the real story (as opposed to the situation--which are all the circumstances that furnish the physical plot). The situation is what happened. The story is what was going on, the psycho-spiritual journey of the protagonist. My journey was from a place of secrets to finally, a place of no more secrets. Which really, I can honestly say, is what marks my life now. Everyone doesn't know everything about me, (who would want to) but there is nothing not known by at least one person.

Anyway, I've started a list of possible titles, all with "Secret" in them. Additional suggestions welcome.

MCO 2006

Below please find my Good Friday remarks, made at the 4th station of the cross, in "response" to the scripture below.

(I have to admit, that I'm sharing any of this is all pretty surreal. I still think of myself as an atheist, and certainly not a Christian. And yet I talk and think about God and go to a Christian church--albeit a gay one. I find myself in good company there. The Bible is considered "sacred story"--emphasis as much on "story" as "sacred." Jesus is valued for the idea of his life, not because anyone believes he was actually the progeny of God, at least any more than you or I are. We're all divine is the idea--some of us just did/do a better job a living out that divinity than others, and therefore are held up as an example. I try to emulate and honor and celebrate, but I don't worship, certainly not in the traditional sense. I abhor the idea of God as out there and above, as opposed to in here and with.)

"Why? What crime has he committed?" asked Pilate. But they shouted all the louder, "Crucify him!" Wanting to satisfy the crowd, Pilate released Barabbas to them. He had Jesus flogged, and handed him over to be crucified.

Remarks

I couldn’t help but notice that the crowd doesn’t answer when Pilate asks what crime Christ has committed. The crucifixion is one of history’s greatest examples of punishment as an expression of society’s fear of those who think differently, who propose revolutionary change, or who even simply challenge the status quo. Oscar Wilde is a more recent example of this fear run amok. Though thankfully, he was not crucified, 2 years at hard labor, particularly to a man who had know only creature comforts and high social status, was certainly harsh punishment, especially considering his only “crime” was sleeping with men.

From prison, he wrote a work known as De Profundis—which means both “Of Profound Things” and “From the Depths” in latin. In this passage, he describes being transferred from one prison to another.

On November 13th, 1895 I was brought down here from London. From 2:00 till half-past 2 on that day I had to stand on the centre platform of Clapham Junction in convict dress and handcuffed for the world to look at. I had been taken out of the Hospital Ward without a moment’s notice being given to me. Of all possible objects I was the most grotesque. When people saw me they laughed. Each train as it came up swelled the audience. Nothing could exceed their amusement. That was of course before they knew who I was. As soon as they had been informed, they laughed still more. For half an hour I stood there in the grey November rain surrounded by a jeering mob. For a year after that was done to me I wept every day at the same hour and for the same space of time.

If the persecution of Christ teaches us anything about punishment, it is that often it bears little relation to any offense, and that everyone, no matter how certain their guilt, needs to be treated with humanity. Christ's life teaches us redemption is available to everyone who asks for it. This is how we love our enemies, by doing what is in our power to make God’s love available to them, to help them find it in themselves.

But there is one thing everyone can do, for those in prison, and it is simple. Be aware of them. Read about them. Talk about them. Write and visit any that you may know personally, do not be afraid to become a penpal to one you don’t know. More than anything, prisoners need to feel someone out in the world remembers they are there. As a former inmate who was never forgotten by friends and family, I cannot tell you how wrenching it was to see how many there were who never received a piece of mail, or even had someone to call collect.

Oscar Wilde was a homosexual, a prisoner, a Christian. His thoughts on the meaning of Christ’s sacrifice, informed by his own ordeal, resonate powerfully over a century after they were written.

There is something almost incredible in the idea of a young Galilean peasant imagining that he could bear on his own shoulders the burden of the entire world: all that had been already done and suffered, and all that was yet to be done and suffered; oppressed nationalities, factory children, thieves, people in prison, outcasts, those who are dumb under oppression and whose silence is heard only of God: and not merely imagining this but actually achieving it, so that at the present moment all who come in contact with his personality, even though they may neither bow to his altar nor kneel before his priest, yet somehow find that the ugliness of their sins is taken away and the beauty of their sorrow revealed to them.

MCO 2006

Side effect #1 : The Strateera just makes me feel unpleasant. Not high, at all, but definitely not better than "normal." Luckily the doc gave me samples. They're all going back.

Side effect#2 : This might fall under the rubric of "too much information" but I switched from Reyataz to Kaleetra, because you can't take antacids with Reyataz, and I was having heartburn like you wouldn't believe. Unfortunately, Kaleetra takes some adjustment in the intestinal department, and I find myself needing to stay proximate to the porcelain, if you catch my drift. This goddamn AIDS thing, it never ends.

The silver lining is that I had to cancel volunteering at the Marriage Equality Initiative today--a brainstorming/training workshop. The truth is that although I of course completely support the equal right to marry for gay people, I also think there are far more urgent issues. If I'm going to volunteer my time and effort for a poliltical cause, it would be something I feel much more strongly about, like 30 million people barely surviving in the country because you can't live a decent live on 5, 6, 7, 8 dollars an hour. Although you could manage if you had National Health Insurance--that's an urgent fight. As is ending the stupid War on Drugs and the warehousing of our poor in prisons.

And the truth is that I feel most comfortable advocating for change via the blog, emails, conversations voting and what I can afford to contribute. I hate talking to strangers--(excepting a room full of alcoholics--but even if we don't know each other, believe me, we aren't strangers.) Plus, when I try to engage in one of these volunteer groups, there is ALWAYS one person who just drives me batty. That obnoxious person with zero social skills who drives everybody nuts. I shouldn't let them bug me, but they do.

Frankly, I am so incredibly irritated at all the people who don't vote in this country. I am truly convinced that if everyone got informed and made sure they voted, that the movement in this country would be overwhelmingly in the right direction. Or the left direction, as it were.

And I don't believe that people should have to be harangued to vote, or to get informed Both abilities are gifts of living in a democracy, that people are literally dying to exercise all over the world. I can understand the reasons behind this apathy till the cows come home, it still infuriates me.

MCO 2006

Well, I interviewed "formally" with Open Source today for about 45 minutes--a few of which will hopefully make it onto the show. Unfortunately, the show does not air in the Los Angeles area, but on which stations and when it can be found is listed on the webpage below.

http://www.radioopensource.org/be-a-source/hear-on-the-radio/

The topic of the show is "race, class and prisons" and I think I offered up some cogent quotables. I'll be way curious to hear it, and I hope those who can, tune in (via the internet if not the radio) this Monday, April 17th.

This morning I went to the doc and got my meds adjusted, including something for my ADD--that does not make you high. (Doesn't work like Ritalin) Tonight I'm participating in a Good Friday ceremony at my church--we're "doing" the stations of the cross. I will be reading a short piece I wrote about our very own gay martyr--Oscar Wilde.

I'm still playing computer catch-up, so I'm off.

MCO 2006

Well, my hard drive decided to go kaput around 36 hours ago, and I had my computer guy in all morning. "Luckily," I had a backup hard-drive, unluckily there was some recent work I had not backed up that is irretrievably lost, including some recent work on the screenplay. Also, I have to reconstitute my entire email address book, so if you are a correspondent as well as a reader, please shoot me an email to make that easy for me.

Yesterday I did stop by a friend's, and checked my email--just in case there was something time-sensitive. Lo and behold, I got a request for an interview from an NPR radio station that does a show called Open Source (www.opensource.org). They wanted a blogger's take on the prison system, and obviously my blog is about as inside as you can get on that particular topic.

I just got through a 45-minute preliminary conversation with the producer, who's taking the info into a meeting and will call me back tomorrow. Meanwhile, I'll send her some of the entries that best capture my experience as it pertains to race and class in prison--the focus of the show. Needless to say, if I get on, you'll all know when and where to tune in.

This is fairly exciting stuff, for me, but I'm trying to remain level-headed about what it could actually lead to. I remember a year ago, when my Pride Guide article was on the verge of rolling out in every gay pride festival for the next six months. It had a print run of 500,000, and I thought it might actually be the beginning of, I don't know, something. My best guess is I got about 20 visitors to the blog, and about 5 who stayed. I cherish each and everyone of you, but I have learned to keep my expectations low. I'd rather be pleasantly surprised than unpleasantly disappointed. At the same time, I do think starting a blog from prison rated some points in the never-done-before department, and was actually surprised it never seemed to gain any traction on a larger scale.

Happy Passover to those celebrating.

MCO 2006

I'm not one to prostelytize, but I'm really sick of the way the religious right has hijacked Christianity. A coalition of progressive Christian activists have also had enough, and are embarking on a walk across America, from Phoenix to Washington, to publicize the 12 principles espoused below. They hope to encourage a countermovement to the religious right that emphasizes tolerance, inclusion and love and--well just read the principles. If you are intrigued, visit the website and you may wish to participate yourself in some way.

MCO 2006

I discovered one disturbing thing about Wellbutrin. When I take the prescribed dose--2 a day--I get horrible nightmares. It's happened twice in a week, and did not happen the days I forgot to take the second dose. (For years I've only taken one, except for prison, where I took none except a few snorted at County. Talk about an ersatz high!) Anyway, these were no ordinary nightmares. In both--to quote Scarlett in Gone With the Wind--"I done murder." In last night's Helter Skelterish episode, I slayed a whole family. Although it wasn't me--I was trapped in the body of the murderer. (There must be some horror movie with that very plot). Thank God the need to pee woke me up--another sign it was the Wellbutrin. It was not a restful night, to say the least. What the content of the dreams means, I don't know, but I'm blaming it on the Wellbie. I suppose the depressant that you're anti-ing, so to speak, gets shoved into your subconcious.

I really really need to get disciplined and to get going again on the screenplay. I want to have some sort of finished work shopping around out there in order to concentrate on the prison memoir. I need to have the feeling, in general, of anticipation. Even if the hoped-for outcome never arrives, it doesn't mean you can't get a lot of mileage out of never knowing, on any given day, if you'll have good news. But that hope has to be realistic--you've got to have the product to offer. After all, I have to watch my tendency to conform to the definition of alcoholics as "the type of people who want to win the lottery even when they haven't bought a ticket."

MCO 2006

I can't believe the silly reactions of the fundamentalists about what it would mean about Jesus if indeed, he told Judas to turn him in. I heard one say it would mean Jesus was psychotic.

I'm no scripturist, but I seem to remember Jesus predicting his martyrdom on more than one occasion. Why is it so hard to imagine that he would engineer its time and place? Didn't he have more than enough chance to get the hell out of Jerusalem before he was arrested? This could explain why he ignored the warnings. Why he told the disciples he would be presently betrayed. Not to mention finally supply a satisfying reason why the disciple closest to Jesus betrayed him.

Listen, Jesus knew damn well that if he lived until 70, the eminence grise of another obscure sect, he would be long forgotten a few years after his death. The only hope to make sure his revolution had a lasting impact was to create a mythology that would last for millenia. If he truly wanted to avoid death, he could have.

Judas was a tool--and a lesson. Be willing to question everything. All is not what it appears to be.

MCO 2006

Well, since I changed my outlook from considering myself "ready" to simply being "willing" for some movement in the sex/romance department, I've met two guys. One I have a scheduled assignation with this afternoon, the other is rather more likely to evolve into a friendship as he is in early sobriety. (The scheduled assignation I met walking from Trader Joe's to my car with groceries. I haven't met anybody like that in years!) To be honest, less do I want some sort of serious involvement than to have an occasional distraction and some irons on the fire. Anticipation is underrated.

I watched the wonderful Real Time with Bill Maher last night. Senator Joe Biden was a guest, and he was so smart. The guy has my vote--and yeah, that's means over you Hillary. Boy, does her pandering to the right on defense piss me off. Maher himself made the most intelligent remarks about immigration I've heard so far. Very simply, he contends that it's bullshit that Americans won't do the work illegals do because of the nature of that work. They won't do it because of the nature of the pay. Raise the minimum wage to levels that a worker could live on decently (and a couple could support a family on) and suddenly you'd find plenty of "legals" willing to do the same work. And employers would certainly pick legal workers over illegal ones if they had the choice. Couple that with encouraging major investment in Mexico so that the people there don't have to come here for jobs, and watch your immigration problem become completely manageable.

About this leak stuff. You KNOW Bush isn't smart enough to have specifically ordered a leak about anything. What you can be sure of, though, is that he gives orders like: "do what you have do do, Dick" (Cheney). He trusts others with the details, trusts others to make sure what he's doing has political cover. After all, up until recently, that's always worked for him.

We're watching a puppet whose puppeteers are losing their grip.

MCO 2006

I've been meaning for a while to do this. The poetry on my website is all "arted", so each poem was scanned in as a complete graphic. Therefore, even when someone googles a phrase within the poem, the poem will not come up.

So I thought at the very least I could list the names of all the poems, so that if someone at least googles the title, they can find it here, and then perhaps check out www.marcolmsted.com, and then find it under "Poetry and Writing."

Here goes:

Strata.various

unconditional

meaning less

morning

return to sender

april in bethlehem

divage

in deep end dance day

wet

three men

1975

shoals

tu, otro

after life

redemption

prayer

what counts

take care with my heart

More Recent

libraries

here

perspective

this man true

love do hurt

the great debate

preamble

baggage

never after

blues hovering

sentenced

art and pain

drole de guerre

macchu picchu

si me

press send

antietam

butts

If you're a fan of poetry, by all means, visit. The artwork is mine as well.

MCO 2006

Last night I heard the old saying: "Watch what you pray for..." and I'm thinking--at first--'that's bullshit.'--in relation to men and the long romantic drought I've been having. Then it came to me. A forgotten moment in which I was walking the dog near my old apartment on Willoughby three or so years ago, and like Scarlett O'hara in Gone With the Wind, I held up my fist to the sky (literally) and prayed one of the only times I prayed when I was out there. I prayed to never fall in love again, because I could not trust myself to choose well the object of my affection, and the resulting hurt was just not worth it.

Answered prayers, indeed. So I had to go back, knock on the door, and tell God that, er, I'm willing again. Which is something I can decide. Whether I'm ready, well that's up to her, isn't it?

MCO 2006

A few weeks ago, I made a casual assumption that my generally good mood over the past few months was due to a more evolved spiritual life. While this is probably true to a large degree, there is also a chicken-egg cause/effect circular thing going on, i.e., when you're depressed, you have trouble accessing that spiritual life that reinforces everything that keeps you undepressed.

And here's the thing about anti-depressants. If they work well, you know it not from what you feel, but from what you don't feel. You're not depressed, but they don't make you euphoric. Life--hopefully--just bops along with the reasonable sense of well-being. That's exactly what happened, and I didn't bother refilling my last bottle of Wellbutrin. Not a very good move when a week later two friends drop dead on you.

Before you knew it, I sank into the whole "something must be wrong with me that I just can't see" frame of mind. Luckily, this morning it also sunk in that I couldn't find that Wellbutrin and needed to get a refill. And did.

Here's the weird part: knowing I was going to get some relief almost immediately got me feeling better. The placebo effect indeed. Well maybe that plays a role, so what? They don't get me high, seem to help me from getting low, and not being low is very important for my mental health and continued sobriety.

Meanwhile check out this horoscope.

Dear Mark,

Here is your horoscope

for Thursday, April 6:

Love arrives just when you're least expecting it. Of course, you have to stop looking for it first. (It's tricky like that, love -- and it has a perverse sense of humor, too.) Worry about your life, and the love will follow.

Got it.

MCO 2006

I've concluded that once you really really fall for someone, no matter how much it's really truly over, until you feel that intensely for someone else again, that last love will always be like a pilot light that can momentarily burst into flame and make you feel kicked in the stomach all over again. (Admittedly, this is a hypersensitive day, emotionally.)

No wonder I decided I never wanted to be in love again. Unfortunately, the only sure way to no longer feel that way about one person, is to feel that way for another. Time alone alleviates much of the pain, but it simply does not excise it. It must be supplanted.

MCO 2006

P.S. This is not about Craig, who was eons ago. Just an offhand remark from someone more historically recent that felt like a mugging. It was certainly not intentional. Officially, every topic between us is supposed to be fair game. But he is not like every other friend, no matter how much I wish that to be the case, or even act as if that is the case, or even, for months at a time, believe that to be the case.

P.P.S. I supposed this could have been a lot shorter if I just quoted Dorothy Parker: "The only sure way to get over one man is to get under another."

Craig Fisette

January 18, 1959 - March 29th 2006

Craig was a very dear friend, one of the first I met in California, when I lived with my brother in San Diego. He was a Texan, who almost singlehandedly redeemed the state in my eyes from the damage done by Dubya. Witty, warm, supportive--very sexy, if truth be told, though I eventually got over the huge crush I originally had on him.

He wrote me a month or so ago, inviting me the memorial service/celebration he was planning for himself, in Texas. I immediately offered to go down to San Diego and help care for him, but he didn't respond. I wish I could have told him I would go to Texas when the time came, but I knew I couldn't afford it. Neither, as I wrote to his brother last night, did I feel I could risk my sobriety. I can't imagine a situation in which I would more want a drink.

I did write this to his brother, who asked if he could include it in a remembrance. Of course I said yes.

"What attracted me to Craig was his beauty. What kept me coming back was his intelligence. What I'll remember most fondly was his charm."

Not surprisingly, I am somewhat spooked by two deaths coming so close on each other's heels. (Craig had battled AIDS for 20 years - I don't know why what worked for me did not work for him. To make it more ironic, Craig never did drugs, never abused his body like I did. I could go nuts thinking too much about it). But my experience is that these deaths come in clusters. I am very nervous.

MCO 2006

I spent the morning with my friend B., in town helping handle the affairs of his late ex-lover, J.

Friends joined us for breakfast, and then I took him to see J.'s doctors, so he could let them know about the death of their patient in person. Afterwards I took him to the airport.

This kind of practical activity is by far my favorite stuff to do with someone I haven't seen for a long time, especially B. We are friends because of a long shared history over the past 15 years--including addiction and recovery--but he's a slightly odd egg. He has an extraordinary memory, but it's a little borderline autistic/savant. ("This is the third anniversary of my third date with my third boyfriend" kind of thing.) He used to send an annual e-mail to friends describing his procedure for choosing which radio stations to pre-set his car radio to. And this was done with tongue NOT in cheek. In his defense--and this is what redeems him--he will always laugh at himself if you tease him about such things. And I've always been able to make him laugh--which is of course the trait I most appreciate in anyone I know.

I got back here and collapsed for a three-hour nap, then walked the dog in the pouring rain. Then I read an essay my little sister sent me--the result of her just "playing around" in the middle of the night. She completely floored me with her humor, insight, self-deprecation, and honesty. Not to mention punchy, breezy and completely accessible style. The little upstart. Who the hell is the writer in the family, anyway?

What could I do but be completely supportive of her? And PROUD! Who knew? Watch out world, there's an Erma Bombeck (meets Erica Jong) for the new millenium about to burst forth on the scene.

MCO 2006

Warning: So far there is no Chapter IV, and I'm not going to bother if I don't think anyone's following it It could be that these are just too long for me to expect anyone to read them--my sister astutely pointed out most people have maybe a minute and a half to read each blog entry.

Gee, that's sounds sort of crabby. I'm sorry. The weather is poopie today, and frankly, I feel just like the weather.

(Our story till now: Banger, the dog and reincarnated human, has met his neighbor cat, Amber. He hopes to enlist her in a plan to match up his humpy neighbor, Paul, with his grieving ex-lover Sean)

III – Which Life is it Anyway?

‘Okay, so you can read my thoughts, I got it! So let me ask you, Amber, if only we reincarnated pets can communicate like this, then who did you used to be?’

This took her off guard. Cats don’t like to be caught off guard. Though of course they’d rather die than let you know it. Nine times, if necessary.

After a pause, Amber responded.

‘I was Diane. Eileen’s ex.’

Diane. Oh yeah… ‘The one that died of….’ I couldn’t remember of what. Evidently, Amber wasn’t too sure either.

‘Breast cancer, I think.’

Before I could think, ‘You think?’ Amber explained: ‘You’ll see. You start losing the grip on your human memories.’

Yipes. That confirmed it. I thought something like that was going on.

‘So why’d you come back?’ I asked her.

‘None of your business,’ Amber sneered. I wondered if she even remembered why, but for some reason, she couldn’t read that thought. I guessed you could block being read if you tried.

‘All you need to understand is that I was supposed to be where you are and you were supposed to be where I am, but there was a foul-up, obviously.’

‘You ever think Eileen and Rhonda just aren’t cat-lovers?’ I posited sarcastically.

Amber reacted to that blasphemy with a contemptuous hiss, so loud that the corner of Paul’s newspaper dipped, and his eyebrow went up. At this, I laughed. But it came out as a bark.

‘Bark some more, canine.’ Amber commanded. ‘Louder, like you’re trying to scare me. Then watch and learn.’

I hated following orders from a cat, but I kind of like following orders, so I barked as I was told.

“Hey boy, what’s up?” Paul asked me.

Amber was up, that’s what! Up on her haunches, like some frozen parody, and then she… jumped. And I mean jumped. About 10 feet down and across, right onto the little table on Sean’s balcony. I saw the method to her madness.

“Amber!” cried out Paul, shooting up from his chair. I immediately drew back, and stopped barking. I instinctively knew I wanted to appear as if I’d been provoked, not naturally aggressive. Otherwise they might not let me back on the balcony.

Amber knew what she was doing. Sure enough, her little stunt was provoking Sean to open the French doors onto his balcony. And there was Paul, leaning over his railing, and in that perfect state of surprise that would soften him up just fine for flirtation. (Paul struck me as one of those slightly overconfident types who needed to be thrown a little off-kilter once in a while.)

“Is everything okay?” Hunh? That wasn’t Sean’s voice! I turned my attention from Paul to the man who’d just come onto my ex’s balcony. I saw there a very fine looking man of mixed race, with bedroom eyes and a creamy voice. I’d either never met him, or he was consigned to the part of my memory that was slipping away. What the hell was he doing in my old apartment?

“Uh…the girls’ dog sort of startled my cat.” blubbered out Paul. Evidently the mystery man had the intended effect on him. The effect I’d intended Sean to have, that is.

“Oh, I see” noted the mystery man, who was beguilingly shirtless. “I’m Ellis, by the way. I’m Sean’s houseguest.” Houseguest! That could mean anything!

“I’m Paul. Sean’s neighbor…obviously. Though I haven’t met him.”

I was waiting for Ellis to explain where Sean was, but he wasn’t being that kind of helpful. “Do you want me to bring up…” he waited for Paul to supply a name for the cat. Paul took a second to get it. Off-kilter indeed.

“…Oh, that’s Amber. Yeah, that would be very nice of you. We just moved in, and she doesn’t really know the territory yet.” Oh, Brother. Like hell, she didn’t. Suddenly Miss Dead Ex-Girlfriend was trying to match Paul up with Ellis. Talk about shifting loyalties. Cats.

Ellis just nodded. He was a study in neutral, that one. He gently took the compliant Amber in his arms. “That’s a good girl.”

Yeah, Amber. Great.

Just then, Eileen popped her head out onto my balcony. “Hey, what’s the ruckus?”

“Oh…” offered Paul. “Banger got a little excited and Amber jumped. She’d kinda hissed at him first, though.” Aww. Paul wanted to make sure I didn’t get punished.

“Ban-gerrrr!” Eillen came up and rubbed my neck in a playful admonishment. “Don’t scare the nice cat.” Nice! As if. She addressed Paul: “You know, it’s funny, I used to be such a cat person, but...”

”What?”

“Nothing.” Tell him about Diane! I barked.

“Well, somebody’s ready for a walk.”

Dammit, I was gonna miss smelling this Ellis guy up close! Then again, I loved my walk. I needed a walk. I’d get the dirt from Amber later. Mostly, whether Ellis put on a t-shirt.

If he didn’t, there could be no doubt as to his intentions, and poor Paul would be toast.

(Written by a retired Methodist minister. )

Bush is my shepherd; I dwell in want.

He maketh logs to be cut down in national forests.

He leadeth trucks into the still wilderness.

He restoreth my fears.

He leadeth me in the paths of international disgrace for his ego's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of pollution and war,

I will find no exit, for thou art in office.

Thy tax cuts for the rich and thy media control, they discomfort me.

Thou preparest an agenda of deception in the presence of thy religion.

Thou anointest my head with foreign oil.

My health insurance runneth out.

Surely megalomania and false patriotism shall follow me all the days of thy

term,

And my jobless child shall dwell in my basement forever.

With thanks to my friend Claudia, and apologies to the one Bush supporter who reads this, although, perhaps (I can always hope) she's had enough of him too.

And I don't hate him--just most of his policies. When I agree with him--like on immigration--I'm perfectly willing to say so.

MCO 2006

This is one of those rare times that I was unprepared for the time change, and I have a full day ahead, so blog time will have to go by the way side.

I did want to recommend to anybody in LA or where it might go next, to go ahead and try to catch the Ashes and Snow exhibit, presently on the Santa Monica Pier. Extraordinary.

My friend B. is flying in today to be with friends and family of J. I will be seeing him tonight or tomorrow.

MCO 2006

I got a phone call last night from my friend B., in Boston. His ex-lover, J., a gentle and handsome 40-year old, was found dead in his apartment here in LA yesterday morning.

The exact cause of death is not yet clear, but that drugs were involved is almost certain.

I hadn't spoken to J. for several years. We were casual friends, linked more through our mutual affection for B. than for each other. After he and B. broke up, I sold him meth a few times. B. got clean and left Los Angeles, then I went to prison. J. stayed here, gainfully employed, keeping his drug use ostensibly "recreational." Either he didn't think he had a problem or didn't know how to turn to anyone for help for it. Or knew he had one and didn't have the courage to do something about it. If that was the case, I can hardly fault him for that. After all, neither did I.

I am way too used to hearing news like this. In the 90s, the cause of death was mostly AIDS. Since the turn of the century, it's been mostly the result of addiction or alcoholism--and I include suicide as a symptom of either. I'm as angry as I am sad. Angry at the disease, at the drugs, at J. for not having gotten help, at myself for having facilitated his drug use years ago.

At the same time I can only manage to feel just so much about it either way. This should be the kind of bad news one gets once every 2 or 3 years at most, and I (and most of my peers) seem to be able to count on hearing it 2 or 3 times a year at least. The list of losses over the past 20 years is simply too long. It's impossible not to construct a protective armor of sorts. At least for me.

MCO 2006