unamerican exceptionalism

Sikhism is a monotheistic religion and spiritual practice founded during the 15th century in the Punjab region of India. The word Sikh translates as discipline or student. It is the fifth largest organized religion in the world with almost 30 million Sikhs woldwide. It is also one of the most steadily growing. The Sikh system of religious philosophy is known as Gurmat (wisdom of the gurus). Harmandir Sahib (the Golden Temple) is located north of Dehli, in the city of Amritsar, near the Pakistan border. The kitchen of the Golden Temple feeds up to 100,000 people a day, for free, regardless of background, religion, caste, or creed. In the temple's Langar Hall, all people sit and eat together. Punjab, India is the only region in the world with a majority Sikh population.

Yesterday morning, a gunman walked into a Sikh temple in Oak Creak, Wisconsin, a suburb south of Milwaukee and opened fire, killing six worshipers and wounding three others. The mayhem ended when one of the first police called to the scene shot the gunman dead.

Why did a thing like this happen? Maybe this happened because the idiot gunman believed that these worshipers were Muslim (If they ain't Christian, it's all the same, right?). Maybe it happened because they have brown skin and wear funny hats. Maybe this happened because good ol' gun-totin' Joe had grown tired of seeing his white, blue collar, good-ol-boy community infiltrated by towel heads from other countries who wear weird clothes and speak with silly accents and eat funny smelling food. Maybe this happened because in certain parts of the U.S. of A. the words anti-American and terrorist have become synonymous with foreigner, or liberal, or educated, or same-sex marriage. 

Ultimately, violent tragedies like this happen because of ignorance and bigotry. The only thing that these peaceful Sunday morning worshipers were guilty of being is the worst thing that anyone could possibly be: different. It's surprising that hate-fueled bloodbaths don't happen with more disturbing regularity in light of contemptuous, divisive, elected officials like Michele Bachmann, Alan West, and Jan Brewer, and the incendiary, hate-fueled vitriol that they spew in the name of America and of Jesus. Couple the cacophony of blasphemous hate-mongering with fanatic delusional readings of the second amendment, and we discover the perfect recipe for domestic terrorism and hate crimes. 

As the dog days of summer approach, and the Republican convention ramps up amid ceaseless imbecile cries of  "U.S.A!, U.S.A!, U.S.A!" I fear what may be lying just up ahead. I can't help but think that Chick-fil-A appreciation day was only a small preview of the moronic malignancy that's rapidly infiltrating this once great nation. A huge overhauling of firearms regulations notwithstanding, until the disturbed lunatic antics, the likes of Bachmann, West, Brewer, and others are censured and condemned, we should expect to see a rise in domestic terrorism and hate crimes wrapped in a star-spangled cloak of patriotism. The sad and ironic truth is that these self-important fabricators are precisely what they've accused others of being: anti-American and unchristian.

could it be magic

I did it. I finally acquiesced to a combination of cultural pressure and my own personal movie mania and saw "Magic Mike." I wasn't going to do it; I'd seen the trailers and I figured that if I wanted to see beautiful men take their clothes off, I could stay at home and watch porn. Why, I asked myself, should I get all hot and bothered in a theater with the general public when I could see the whole enchilada, and quite a bit more, in the comfort of my own home? I'd also heard that audiences have been whooping, hooting, and cat-calling during the strip/dance numbers, and I could hardly think of a movie-going experience that might appeal to me less. But the all-around positive feedback that the film has been getting coupled with the fact that it had been directed by Steven Soderbergh, an interesting and thoroughly thoughtful filmmaker, piqued my cinematic curiosity. 

What I saw was a provocative and measured testament to the increasing elusiveness of the American dream, and the demoralizing lengths that average Joes (though these Joes are anything but average) might go to in order to achieve the piece of the pie that had been promised them. Of course, the table-turning, gender-bending centerpiece of the film being that men are the objectified pieces of meat paraded in front of a predatory female audience might be interesting enough in itself, but what I found most compelling was the cautionary implication of the human cost of a failed capitalist system.

Only a few generations ago these very same rippled and gyrating hunks might've been trying to get in good favor with their construction site managers so they might make some headway with their local labor unions. Or they might've been driving cabs, or slinging burgers behind a grill in order to pay their way through school. In his fleshly and exhilarating attestation to the plight of the (not so) common man, Soderburgh demonstrates the need for the average guy to not only juggle numerous jobs, but also to prostitute himself simply to get by. It's not surprising that there's such excessive drinking and drug taking in this movie; who wants to deal with this kind of a reality?

In this current recession, amidst continued threats of union busting, increased tuition costs for higher education, and drastic cuts to social services, is it any wonder that the men of "Magic Mike" bare their oh-so-smooth and muscular asses for crumpled, estrogen-sweat-drenched bills? No, not at all. The only question that remains is, what's an average Joe supposed to do if he really is average, or if, heaven forbid, he can't afford a gym membership?

it's a mad mad mad mad world

I haven't written anything here in almost a month. What with the Aurora shooting, Chick-fil-A basting its chickens in bigotry, Michele Bachmann's full-throated, McCarthyistic cries that Islamic extremists have infiltrated the United States government, voter suppression, extreme weather conditions, the Olympics, and Romney's flagrant lies and endless gaffes, you'd think I'd have quite a lot to prattle on about, but lately, I find myself simply exasperated. Sure, I'll continue to engage in debate about social justice and economic inequity. Of course, I'll go on wearing my bleeding-heart liberalism on my sleeve; keep abreast of current political shenanigans, get ruffled, sign petitions, and vote come November. But right now, I'm looking at the world, at my country, and I'm just resigned. Are the huddling masses really so short sighted as to sell the farm to a mean-spirited, lying, opportunistic plutocrat simply because the last four years hasn't seen them showered in magic prosperity? Can they really be so rigidly partisan and witless as to believe the gross fabrications spun by devious oligarchs; untouchable billionaires and war-profiteers (think Super Pacs), who heartlessly expect to flourish at the expense of the nation, its citizens, world peace, and the planet?

I'm terribly afraid that they might be.

the supremes

I don't think anyone saw that coming. 

(I’d like to preface this post by stating the obvious: I am not a constitutional scholar  -  legal matters and Supreme Court jurisprudence are far beyond my purview. That said, I do try to keep abreast of the major decisions that this court rules on, and realize the full and far-reaching consequence of their power.)

A national nail biter - for weeks the country has been poised for yet another disappointment. Nothing has suggested that we should've expected anything else but more conservative manipulation, misuse of power, and the inevitable continued shredding of democracy, judiciary neutrality, and constitutional sobriety. While conservative blowhards ceaselessly and loudly caterwaul the dangers of liberal activist judges, reasonable people can’t help but notice that the incessant 5/4 conservative majority of this current Supreme Court have ensured that corporations are people, that it remains perfectly acceptable for campaign finance to be unlimited and clandestine, and that election results don’t really matter. So when Justice John Roberts, George Dubbya’s own cherry-picked ultra-conservative chief justice, sided with the liberal leaning four on the Affordable Care Act, it was a welcomed and exceptional shocker.

Months ago, there was no suggestion that anything in the Affordable Care Act was unconstitutional. Unpopular, yes, but questions of constitutionality weren’t even on the radar. The individual mandate is what’s gotten everyone’s knickers in a bunch, but that was put in as an alternative to the single payer option in order to appease Republican opposition. It was, after all, modeled after Romneycare in Massachusetts. (If we were living in a sane political climate, the Presidential hopeful might be proud to take credit for the architecture of the individual mandate as his greatest achievement, but times being what they are, Mr. Romney feels the need to backpeddle in order to distance himself from it.)  So to read that the four dissenting Justices voted to throw out the entire bill as unconstitutional simply smacks of political partisanship. Exactly the political gamboling that we’ve come to expect from this court,  and exactly why the Supreme Court’s approval ratings are in the toilet. 

Of course, changing the trajectory of how healthcare is conducted in this country may be President Obama’s crowning achievement, and for that fact alone, Roberts must surely have wanted to squash it. But as staunchly conservative as he is, and as much of an opponent to the President, he is also a constitutionalist with encyclopedic knowledge of Supreme Court precedence, and a deep love of the institution itself. Understanding that the court is more partisan and polarized now than ever before, and that this polarization and partisanship has undermined its public opinion and respect, my guess is that Roberts voted with judicial precedence, rather than with his political leanings (as the other conservatives clearly did and as he has in the past). In other words, he may have decided that attempting to restore the legitimacy of the court itself was more important to him than admitting that a bill resembling socialized healthcare, which is most certainly personally distasteful to him, is unconstitutional.

So yes, this has been a pleasant surprise, and has garnered new respect for Justice Roberts from progressives and others who may previously have seen him as just another conservative power player in the de-democratizing of America. But this decision doesn't erase all the damage that this court has recently wrought. We should all keep in mind that in the next term, among other things, these very same Justices who seem driven to make this country a theocratic corporatocracy, will be deciding the outcome of immigration statutes, same-sex marriage, and anti-abortion legislation.  Most importantly, three Justices will most probably be replaced during the next Presidential term. Even if you've been disappointed with Obama's leadership; if you feel he hasn't been as quick to deliver the hope and change that was promised in the last election, keep in mind that the next President will be filling three of these Supreme Court seats.

fang bang

fire

I am in school, the consequence of which is that I write a lot of papers. I'm relatively old-fashioned in that I like to hand in hard copies of my work instead of emailing them to the professors. Usually when I get a paper back, it has comments written on it. Things like: "good point," "yes, this is exactly what I was hoping you would pick up on," "I'm not sure I agree with you," "go further with this," and so on. In a queer studies class, we screened Deepa Mehta's 1996 film, Fire, and were asked to write a short reaction paper to it. When I received my paper back from the professor the following week, it had no comments written on it. I kept reading and there was nothing. Finally, at the end of the paper the professor had written, "Publish this." Understanding that there's little market for thousand word reactions to sixteen year old movies, I thought I'd post it here. If you haven't seen the film, it's a remarkably powerful and enjoyable piece of work, and if you care to read my reaction to it, please enjoy.

Dheepa Mehta’s Fire (1996) not only stretches the boundaries of a heteronormative family structure, but also challenges the conventional and often rigid gender roles of an Indian traditional/cultural narrative. At the film’s start, in what we might expect to be among the most thrilling moments of a young bride’s life, Sita and Jatin are on their honeymoon at the Taj Mahal. They are listening to a guide tell the great love story that led to its construction. Sita asks, “Don’t you like me?” Even if the concept of an arranged marriage is something that we, as modern Westerners struggle with, we understand that something is wrong here. Mehta highlights the indifference with which the young groom treats his new bride, and this immediately creates a sense of discomfort as we watch this new relationship unfold.  

When Sita commences married life in the home of her new in-laws, matters get more complicated, and the family configuration becomes more complex. Radha is unable to have children, and has devoted her life to her husband, the care of his elderly, disabled mother, and the family business. Jatin spends his nights with his mistress, while Ashok spends his nights with his swami – the younger brother yielding to earthly temptation as the older practices resistance to it. 

Despite her unhappiness and her deepening feelings of isolation, Sita adapts to this new arrangement as best she can. In lieu of being a devoted wife, she becomes a useful member of the family by assisting in the family business. In the absence of their husbands, the two women discover a commonality between them; based in their isolation and repressed desires. The relationship between the two women develops slowly, but as Sita begins to open up to and trust Radha, both women begin to experience what they’ve been missing from their respective husbands; a loving and intimate interchange. Seemingly, within the confines of the traditional heteronormative family structure, this masquerade might have been able to continue and their secret remain hidden had it not been for the two secondary, yet pivotal characters: Mundu, a devoted, sharp-eyed, and compulsively self-pleasuring servant, and Biji, a sympathetic, yet somewhat tyrannical, watchful, bell-ringing mother-in-law, whose bed is situated at the center of the house. 

The moments of tenderness and sensuality that we see between Sita and Radha are little respites of erotic verse in the greater family drama. At one point, the family is at a picnic in a flowered field, similar to the one in Radha’s childhood memory, and Sita begins massaging Radha's feet. Ashok encourages his younger sister-in-law to continue massaging his wife's feet, as it is her duty to serve her elders. This act of “duty” becomes one of the most erotic moments of the film and is in full view of the family. This small act is stunning in that it shows Sita’s defiance as she flagrantly takes advantage of family traditions to mask the two women’s nontraditional connection. 

Even as Westerners, with perhaps limited knowledge of Vedic scriptures, Mehta ensures that we are aware of the parallels she is trying to draw to the scriptures by having Ashok make repeated reference to them, and having scenes from religious dramas accompany the action throughout the film; on the television, at the temple, etc. Like characters from one of the books of the Ramayana, the members of this family play out a morality drama that explores tenets and human values, and poses questions about the behavior of the ideal wife, husband, brother, servant, and king. 

Throughout the film there is a lot of talk about the testing of one’s purity through fire. This is, of course, spoken about in the context of a religious parable, but Mehta brings this parable to life as Radha’s purity is literally tested by fire. Her purity remains intact as she walks through its flames to be ultimately delivered into the arms of her lover. That the couple’s outcome remains unclear is welcome refreshment. Too often we’ve seen troubled same-sex lovers breach traditions and go against customs only to perish for their transgressions, or possibly suffer for the good of future generations. In Mehta’s drama, however, the outcome is completely ambiguous. In deciphering the moral of Fire as a religious parable, beneath its surface the film is not so much a tale of lesbian love as much as it is about the bonding of two neglected and isolated people, the sharing of their sensual expression, hope, and the prisons that can be constructed by culture and traditions.

someone left the cake out in the rain

An awkward, isolated, and fearful child - I comforted myself with music. I'd sequester myself for days on end; barricaded in my room listening to and singing along with records (remember records?). Show-tunes, rock, jazz, folk, disco, everything and everyone from Peggy Lee to Pink Floyd... and beyond. Along with a rich fantasy life, my isolation from the world allowed me an extensive and eclectic musical education. 

I've learned that my early experiences of finding comfort in music are not unique. Many people who've felt different or outcast as kids, or were socially awkward, seem to have had comparable experiences. Similarly, the relationships created with musical heroes, if at times delusional, have taken on deep personal meaning and intensity.

In addition to the ever-increasing, heterogeneous playlist in my own little corner of the world (my room), I was also very much aware of current popular music trends. As I entered my teens, found drugs, and dared to venture away from my self-imposed seclusion, my personal soundtrack began to intermingle with what was going on around me. Never able to fully commit to either end of the pop music spectrum, I'd bounce between the world of CBGBs punk and Studio 54 disco. While I always admired the revolutionary and in-your-face artistry of the punks (I was especially fond of Patti Smith's hard-driving, androgynous poetry), I eventually realized that dance floors, bathhouses, and the West Side piers were far more conducive to a hot-blooded, teenage gay-boy than the grimy rock clubs of the East Village. My coming out in a post-sexual-revolution, pre-AIDS New York City meshed perfectly with the hyper-sexual music of the dance floor and the Love to Love You Baby provocative beat that accompanied me as I humped my way through adolescence into a fully realized young adulthood.

As always, there is evidence everywhere of the passing of time and of my own aging. Last week, I walked through an exhibit called, The Piers: Art and Sex along the New York Waterfront; a collection of photographs at the Leslie Lohman Museum of Gay and Lesbian Art. A beautiful visual reminder of days gone by. Long before gay rights was an issue of marriage equality or of serving openly in the armed forces, groups of men were hammering out the identity of their community through subversive art installations and clandestine sexual encounters in public spaces. The piers - these were my after school playgrounds. It was there that I simultaneously discovered my own sexuality, learned about sexual excitement and pleasure, and realized that I had a particular persuasive power over grown men; an intoxicating combination for a boy who had always felt isolated and ineffective. The piers were taken down years ago, and now, due to the success and tourist draw of The High Line, as well as the inevitable gentrification and evolution of Manhattan real estate, the neighborhoods that used to border the waterfront; meatpacking during the day and sex-clubbing at night, have given way to luxury living spaces, high-end designer boutiques, and chic eateries.

Four days ago, Donna Summer died. The queen of disco and the voice of a generation passed from cancer at the age of 63. Yesterday, Robin Gibb, one third of the sensational singing brothers that made up the Bee Gees, passed from cancer at the age of 62. These are the days that disco died. The pioneering, innovative orchestrators who helped shape the soundtrack of a generation have gone. Whatever one's musical tastes, the cultural significance of the disco phenomenon was inescapable - the legacy of these cultural icons has left an indelible impression on our collective psyche. However sweet and melancholic "Saturday Night Fever" was before last week, it now falls into the category of archival commemoration - not strictly because of the passing of any one particular singer or musician, but because of the distance and delineation between that era and this. There have never been any good old days - our modern understanding of poverty, civil rights inequities, and government corruption has deemed that concept a fallacy. Only imagine a pre-Reagan America, a pre-AIDS world; imagine boogieing with abandon in ignorant bliss to an unrelenting synthetic beat and an intoxicating promise that could only ever be fostered by youth and idyllic inexperience.

This week also saw the passing of Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, the brilliant German baritone, who is, perhaps, the most recorded man of all time. A gifted singer and dazzling musician, Fischer-Dieskau's recordings of Schubert and Wolf Lieder remain the standard of musical accuracy and taste. He'd retired over a decade ago, and died it his home in Upper Bavaria, ten days before his 87th birthday. Not sympathetic to the Nazi party, but forced to fight for the German army in World War II, Fischer-Dieskau's infirm brother was institutionalized and eventually put to death by the Nazis. Fischer-Dieskau, himself, spent two years as an American prisoner of war, singing lieder to homesick German soldiers until his release.

All three of these talented music-makers had a hand in shaping large swathes of the twentieth century experience. They brought joy to countless listeners. It's hard to make sense of a world that would take away these members of the family of music (two of them quite young), yet someone like Dick Cheney still marches on; indefatigable and malevolent.

But I digress.

history

Last night, by a vote of 61 to 39 percent, North Carolina passed a constitutional amendment defining marriage as being solely between a man and a woman, making it the 30th state with a constitutional amendment banning same sex marriage. Same sex marriage is already illegal in North Carolina, but this most recent anti-gay amendment goes beyond any already existing state laws by additionally voiding civil unions and domestic partnerships from having any legal status. Just prohibiting gays from marrying wasn't enough for these folks, they had to ensure that any gay relationship was illegitimate in the eyes of the law. Consequently, opponents of the amendment believe that many hetero couples will also be effected by this discriminatory law; it will impact custody issues for unmarried couples, hospital visitation rights, inheritances, and unmarried victims of domestic abuse. Apparently the majority of North Carolinians feel that these are small prices to pay for the satisfaction of having anti-gay legislation written into their state's constitution. 

The last time that North Carolina's state constitution was amended was in 1875. At that time it was amended to declare that “all marriages between a white person and a Negro or between a white person and a person of Negro descent to the third generation inclusive are, hereby, forever prohibited.” North Carolina's 1875 interracial marriage ban remained part of the state's charter until a new constitution was adopted in 1971; even though the U.S. Supreme Court invalidated anti-miscegenation laws in the famous 1967 decision, Loving v. Virginia.

It was a very sad and grey morning this morning with news pouring in of legislatively sanctioned discrimination being voted in by a state's majority. Then, unexpectedly, later in the afternoon, in an ABC special report, Barack Obama, the President of the United States, told "Good Morning America's" Robin Roberts, "I've always been adamant that gay and lesbian Americans should be treated fairly and equally." Well, this might have been enough to re instill a glimmer of hope in this gay American's morning, but then the President said, "I have to tell you that over the course of several years as I have talked to friends and family and neighbors -- when I think about members of my own staff who are in incredibly committed monogamous relationships, same-sex relationships, who are raising kids together, when I think about those soldiers or airmen or marines or sailors who are out there fighting on my behalf and yet feel constrained, even now that Don't Ask Don't Tell is gone, because they are not able to commit themselves in a marriage, at a certain point I’ve just concluded that for me personally it is important for me to go ahead and affirm that I think same sex couples should be able to get married." 

Did the President just say what I thought he said? In an instant, North Carolina's ignorance and bigotry was old news. The President just said that he thinks same sex couples should be able to marry! 

The phone rang, facebook exploded, history was unfolding before our eyes as we were being catapulted further along into the twenty first century. All through the remainder of the day there have been teary and breathless reactions to Obama's affirming announcement. The breadth of the reaction speaks to an emotional response from a group of people who have historically been marginalized, dehumanized, and discarded. The visceral collective validation of an entire community has been legitimized by the President of the United States. Of course his decision to make this announcement at this particular moment in time is one that has been dissected and analyzed by an army of strategists, but its impact still remains significant. Particularly in light of the fact that churches and communities continue to tell gay children that they are freaks and abominations. I am old enough to have watched friends whither away in sickness and die as Ronald Regan refused to publicly mention AIDS, as it was a pestilence only effecting gay men at the time. To have our President say what he did today is a BIG DEAL. Today I'm proud to say that I voted for him, and I'm gonna do it again.

hello kitty

Pets aren't merely domesticated animals whom we feed and care for; they are family members, service critters, heart regulators, surrogate children, and more. Most especially for un-partnered and childless people, the bond between owner and animal can take on deeper and multidimensional significance. Oftentimes we don't even choose these animals, rather they find their ways to us as if walking on some predestined path. One of these very creatures has been present in my life, yet barely mentioned; I'll do that here.

Sometime in 1997 or '98, my then boyfriend found a frightened and disheveled looking cat in the parking lot of the Safeway off of Geary Street, near Japantown in San Francisco. He brought the cat home and the two of us slowly nursed it back to health. The cat was terrified and in pretty bad shape; it was filthy, its fur matted and mangy. It had been wearing a torn spiked collar. One theory about the cat's history was that it had been used as bait in a dog fight and then discarded. Though underfed and in bad shape, this was a large cat; white with big orange patches. Because of its size and color (all Tabbies are male) I assumed the cat was male and named him Carl. 

Carl was famished and very skiddish; he had clearly suffered some severe trauma. We took Carl to a vet, discovered that the little black spots on and around his ears weren't mites, as we'd suspected, but were actually burns caused by sun exposure. We also learned that Carl was a not an orange Tabby, but was what is classified in cat typography as "Buff." We also learned that Carl was female. Thus Carl became Carla.

As slow as Carla was to warm up, she was quick to gain weight - she ate and ate. She wasn't interested in going out; she stayed away from doors and windows. She was cautious around people, hesitant to be petted, and was only interested in food. Having known hunger, it appeared that she wasn't going to chance being hungry again - Carla quickly became a very large cat.

She occasionally meowed, but more often hissed. She wasn't doing this when threatened, or necessarily as a warning; it seemed hissing was the only way that she knew to communicate (know any people like that?). Even when she'd eventually let me pet her, she would softly hiss as if she didn't have any other method of expression. I remember thinking it was odd that she couldn't purr. I'd pet her and she would rub her head against me, but she wouldn't purr. Her experience and history had programmed away her natural pleasure response.

At the time, my boyfriend and I were living in separate apartments; Carla stayed at his house and my cat, Cleveland, a big beautiful black cat that I'd rescued a number of years earlier, stayed at mine. We were spending more and more time at my house and less and less time at his, so we decided to move Carla to my place. Introducing the two cats took a while, maybe a few weeks. They would be on either sides of the same door, tails fully puffed, meowing and hissing at each other under the crack in the door. Eventually, they learned to live in harmony, though they never became truly close friends. In Cleveland's old age the two would sleep together, but it always seemed that they did this out of necessity or obligation rather than any feeling of closeness.

We all moved back East: boyfriend, Cleveland, Carla, and me; packed into a Nissan Pathfinder, the back squeezed full of belongings, stuff loaded and tied to the roof of the car; looking like the Clampetts. After we had been back in New York a little while, in the early spring of 2002, I rescued Zeke. When I brought Zeke home, Cleveland immediately welcomed him by purring and rubbing against him. Carla, who had since learned to purr, but certainty wasn't purring at Zeke's introduction, watched indignantly from across the room. Eventually she crossed the room, walked directly up to Zeke, a slightly dopey and confused young pit bull, and swatted him square across his snout. It was a gesture that seemed to say, "I was here first, this is MY house. You may be big, but I have retractable claws - Don't fuck with me." She confidently turned and walked away. It worked; Zeke was terrified of Carla. For years afterwards, if Carla was in the hall, Zeke would sit and wait for her to move rather than chance walking past her.

Zeke and Cleveland became close friends almost immediately. The two of them would lie about together, and Cleveland would clean Zeke's ears for hours on end. Carla, on the other hand, would have little to do with either of them. Perfectly content to obsess about food and wander off by herself, she would let them have their little love fest for the next few years.

Always demanding when it came to food,Carla would often wake me by finding any body part that had been left exposed while I was sleeping; a hand, a foot, and slowly apply pressure with her teeth until I woke up. I would wake with a start and find her looking at me. She'd meow, and I, being an obedient human, would reward this horrible behavior by feeding her. She's trained me well.

Cleveland became ill, and in 2005, he died in my arms, here at home as Carla and Zeke looked on. Zeke seemed to suffer terribly from Cleveland's passing, and eventually, Carla would take to sitting with Zeke; though there was certainly no licking or ear-cleaning going on between them. Again, as if by obligation or necessity, the two of them understood that they were family, and were expected to be civil, if not affectionate.

Carla isn't of the same temperament or stature as she once was (sometime in 2003, I took her to the vet and she weighed in at close to 30 lbs). I have no idea how old she is, maybe 16 - an old lady by anyone's cat standards. She's still food obsessed (she'll often eat until she pukes, then meow for more), she's lost a good third of her body mass since her weigh in at 30 lbs, and she's calmed considerably. A few months ago, Zeke died, leaving Carla the unlikely and lone remaining quadruped of the stable. From impoverished and traumatic California kitten-hood to pampered Upper West Side old-age, Carla is a survivor. She often wanders into the other rooms at night and meows loudly, conversing with ghosts or her imaginary playmates. She's more needy and affectionate than she's ever been, sometimes circling my ankles while I'm at the desk, or flopping on her side, silently begging for a petting. Despite her big personality, I often take her for granted. What with the recent blog postings about Zeke and the void that he's left, I thought it was time I give a shout out to Carla and give her an extended blog posting of her own.

personae

 

I returned to MoMA today to revisit the Cindy Sherman retrospective, which is there through June 11. Wandering through the galleries of huge, saturated colored prints, I was awed and almost intimidated by the tremendous amount of exceptional and seriously thought provoking work Ms. Sherman has produced in the past thirty or so years. Her work is remarkable in that it can be serious, sometimes disturbing, thought provoking, and almost always simultaneously funny - a truly rare and unique accomplishment for an artist.

Room after room, piece after piece, and every one of them is her. By description it would seem impossible to imagine that the Sherman canon could be anything other than self-indulgent, self-conscious, even ego-maniacal, but the result is something quite contradictory. In offering herself as model, medium, and creator at once, there is a sense that she's uncovering something special and private - an intimate inner domain, dreamlike and unusual. She's a buxom blond, she's a clown, she's a cowboy, she's a dismembered blow-up doll, she's a socialite, she's a soap opera actress, she's all of these and she's none of these. And as diverse, extraordinary, and curious as these people are, they're all disturbingly familiar. 

Yes, she is always the subject of her own work, but this work is not self-portraiture. Using makeup and props, Sherman takes on radically different personae, from characters in Renaissance paintings to archetypal secretaries. Macabre, sexy, sad, and funny - this is the work of a great actress. Uncanny in their cinematic feel, the work doesn't rely on real-life emotions drawn to the surface, but rather on the projections and associations of the viewer. Whether epic blockbuster or intimate snapshot, the actress/director transforms so completely into the product as to render herself invisible - even as she is the subject.

73

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
   This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
   To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

visitation

I was holding him. He was pressed beside me, lying on his back with his front paws lifted limply above him. He was stretching his head backwards, and I was burying my face in his neck and rubbing his belly. I could feel the prickly soft whiskers under his chin poking against my cheek, and then I began to wake up, but before I fully opened my eyes, I remembered that he was gone.

It has been over a month, and the process of accepting this great loss; of acknowledging his complete absence, is long and aching. I am not devastated every moment of every day- I am not unable to function or to smile - I can have conversations, I can laugh. It has been more of a continuous, slow-moving, accumulative loneliness. Something very personal, very sweet, and unspeakably sad.

I'm often not aware of, or forget just how personal this loss has been for me until I leave the apartment. I find I don't want to meet anyone I know from the park or from the neighborhood who's known Zeke; don't want to explain what happened, don't want to say how I feel, don't want to see the expression in their faces, hear encouraging words, or sympathy, or how they might understand because they've lost beloved pets. I'd just as soon avoid any awkward or uncomfortable small talk about something that has been such a significant marker of transition in my life. I want to hold this experience close to my chest, like a cherished locket, and let its precious hidden secret hang just over my heart.

I remember a time when I was a child, it was sometime after Alexandra died, I must have been about 9 or 10. I was walking around the village with my favorite aunt. We were looking in shops and I wanted to go inside a small leather shop on Bleeker Street. In the window, there was a display of colorful fringed belts and bags. My aunt silently indicated that she'd rather not go in, but in my selfish childishness, it wasn't possible for me to take into consideration that she might have had a reason for denying me my wish - I couldn't have imagined my immediate needs not being met; I pressed through the front door. Inside the dark shop were two men; one of them smiled with recognition of my aunt and said to her, "How's the baby?" With a forced smile and no explanation, she said that the baby had died. The air was suddenly sucked from the room. I could feel her strength and her suffering. I was a child. I had no vocabulary for what was going on. I know intellectually that I wasn't responsible for her suffering at that moment, nonetheless, uncomfortable feelings rose in me - feelings I now might recognize as guilt. Decades later, these same tense feelings of guilt rise in me when I think that I might have forced my aunt into an uncomfortable situation all those years ago.

Similar feelings of uneasiness and disquiet have revisited me intermittently since that long gone afternoon. This very specific memory of that time with my aunt has repeated more frequently in my mind since Zeke's death. When I cross the street to avoid a dog walker, when I smile at a neighbor, quicken my pace, and silently acknowledge that I don't want to talk to them the memory rises. How could a young boy possibly have had any understanding of this personal and complex mixture of loss and embarrassment? He couldn't. Childish memory brushes against adult consciousness, and my heart reaches through time to comfort that grieving young woman, just as it reaches out to console that confused little boy.

With forgiveness comes freedom, and in freedom there is no time - I can be visited by an angel; I can feel his soft whiskers against my cheek, and maybe, even for just the briefest moment, I can forget that it's a dream.

zeke

I went to the opera last night and got home close to midnight. I took Zeke for a late walk in the park - he fell at one point, something that was alarming and terribly heart-breaking when it first started happening months ago, but unfortunately has become a semi-regular thing since then. He ate a few cookies, a couple who was walking their dog saw that he wasn't feeling well and stopped to pet him for a few minutes, then we came upstairs.

He couldn't get comfortable once we got in; he was panting, drooling, and he wouldn't stay in one place - I was wetting his nose with water and he was halfheartedly drinking it from my cupped hand. I held him, but he wouldn't lie down. He licked my ear and the side of my head a few times, and his tongue felt warm. I gave him extra pain medication, and sometime close to three o'clock I went to sleep. A couple of minutes after I closed my eyes, I heard him leave the room and walk down the hall.

I woke up this morning and he wasn't in the room. I looked all around the apartment and it took me a while to find him. He had situated himself behind the drapes in the living room, lying in the corner, behind the drapes and against the radiator, and he was dead. My beautiful friend is gone.

I knew last night that I was going to have to call the vet this morning and go in with him today to ask her to do the unthinkable. I brought him into her office a few days ago and she told me we needed to start thinking about making the decision to euthanize him. It was something I couldn't imagine having to decide, but also a reality I knew had to be dealt with, and soon. I got pain medication for him, and that was three days ago. In a final act of love, Zeke has saved me the heartbreak and misery of having to make the decision to end his life. I'm sorry I went to sleep at all last night. I wish I had held him all night long, told him how much I love him and let him know that he's not alone. He's not alone. He's now with everyone who has ever gone before: Nanny, Cleveland, Frankie, Johnny-Marie, Greg, Tom, Alexandra, Jesus - he will continue to be loved, and he can sleep in the hollow of God's hand. I know that these tears will eventually stop, but there's a hole inside of me that will never go away; a void so absolute, nothing could have prepared me for it. What this sweet and simple animal taught me about love is immeasurable. I'm so blessed to have had him in my life and to have been able to care for him. I wouldn't be who I am without him - he will live in my heart forever. And as sad and disturbing as his passing is, it is strangely comforting to know that wherever he is, he'll be keeping a spot warm for me for when I get there.

one fourteen

It is bitterly cold outside today, just like it was two years ago on this day, when Frankie died. I remember so clearly working my way across town, on the bus, through the cold and the snow, to the hospice on Second Avenue. I remember the kindness and patience of the staff there - how Frankie would weave in and out of consciousness; doing a dance with one foot in this world and one foot in another. She'd hold my hand and smile, then in an instant, all recognition would leave her face.

I also remember the expanse of the white and grey sky outside her window, the view of snow-covered rooftops during the storms we had that year, and the sound of the cold wind as it whipped past the windows.

It was an arduous struggle to get Frankie into that hospice, but once there, she was cared for and safe, and she passed peacefully.

This year, I'm tending to Zeke. His pathology report has come back suggestive of lymphoma. There can only be a conclusive diagnosis with a biopsy, but I won't put him through that. Even if it is conclusive, I won't choose to give him the treatment. His walking is difficult, his breathing is audible in a way that it's never been before, and he's hardly eating (he wouldn't even eat a burger I cooked for him the other day). I've gotten some wet food that is pretty stinky and has a pâté consistency, and he'll eat some of that, but he hasn't eaten any dry food (kibble) for about a week.

A number of years ago, when Frankie was going through treatment for her ovarian cancer, she stayed with me for a few nights. Zeke snuggled up next to her in the bed, and the two of them slept together for the time she stayed with me. She loved him, claimed that he was more healing than any treatment a doctor could prescribe, and called him "Sweetie-Petey."

This morning, I started Zeke on Prednizone. Hopefully, this will reduce the swelling of his lymph nodes, act as an anti-inflammatory for his arthritis, and increase his appetite.

Zeke and I were introduced to each other eleven years ago, in a pound, in Hyde Park, New York. Though still a young dog at the time, he was fully grown; maybe a year, maybe older. Since then, he's had a very fortunate dog's life, some might even say spoiled; fed home-made food, slept on comfortable beds, walked at least three times a day, and gotten more love and better treatment than most humans. Even with all that, it's hardly payment enough for what he's given me in return. I know that Zeke may not be here for very much longer, but for whatever time he has left, it's my job to make him as comfortable as I can.

sam

There was a man who used to sleep on the benches on Riverside Drive, across the street from my apartment building. He would sleep there all year long; winter, summer, rain, snow - he was always there. His name was Sam.

Sam was a wiry, dark-skinned, African-American man, probably in his sixties. He always wore a suit-jacket and tie, often a muffler, and carried a small suitcase. He never asked for money. Usually he was quiet and polite, nodding good morning, etc., but on occasion, he would talk to himself loudly or mutter angry and indiscernible things to passersby, perhaps suggestive that he'd missed taking his medication or was having some kind of episode.

Sam used to have a thing going on about the trash cans on the Drive and right inside Riverside park. He would move them around and rearrange them all the time. Often, after having cleaned up after my dog, in the park, I'd find that the trash can where I'd usually toss the baggied refuse had been moved clear across the field from where it usually sat. It also wasn't an uncommon thing to see Sam dragging a heavy metal trash can behind him as he walked up Riverside Drive, or around one of the meandering paths in the park.

Sam lived on the street for years. People would often leave food for him. Once, on my way home from food shopping, I offered him some fruit. He refused it.

People in the neighborhood, the dog people in the park, doormen, etc., always talked about Sam. Some of the talk, mostly from the more recent nouveau riche additions to the neighborhood, was concern at the unpleasantness of such an 'unseemly character' hanging around what was supposed to be a 'nice' neighborhood. But the majority of the talk was curiosity, or even concern about someone who we saw everyday - a neighbor.

About four year ago, during the winter, Sam died. One day, he just wasn't there anymore. There was really no more information about what had happened to him. It might have been because he was ill, it might have been exposure to the elements. No one seemed to know. There were vases of flowers placed in the snow against the wall to the park, and bouquets laid out on benches along the Drive for weeks after his death. There was also a small sign explaining to the folks in the neighborhood that Sam had passed away.

While I don't know if there was ever any confirmation about this, the word was that Sam had an apartment on 79th Street, right off of Riverside, that he used to rent out. He was apparently financially stable, and was once a successful young man, then one day he came home to find that his wife and young daughter had perished in a house fire. He'd been living on the streets since. Whether that's true, or a tragic story that someone made up along the way, I don't know. Certainly, if true, something like that would drastically change a person.

Sam's story suggests an excellent example to the testament that it is best not to judge people by their outward appearances. You just never know...