I’ll cut to the chase and get to the end of the story’s big reveal:  the creepy airplane guy is me.

Yesterday I enjoyed 12 hours of airplane travel madness. I left my Washington D.C. hotel at 6:14 a.m. so I could fly out at 8:00 a.m. Our plane circled a fog-blanketed Atlanta a few times and I must admit I was enjoying seeing the downtown skyscrapers poking their reluctant peaks out of the snowy blanket of clouds, like a Victorian Christmas village. Pretty cool.

Well, cool until the Captain announced that the auto-land wasn’t functioning correctly and we didn’t have enough fuel to make another wide berth of the city, so instead we were heading for Nashville.

I’m not sure why the Captain needed to tell us “there’s not enough fuel” at the same time he’s informing us of an equipment malfunction that should have been caught before trying to land the plane. All around me, my co-flyers sat up straight. What was that about not enough fuel? Even the iPod folks pulled off their headphones and asked their seatmates, “What just happened? Why did everyone flinch?”

Maybe our Captain didn’t realize how he said it. But to the layperson, “We don’t have enough fuel to make one more lap, so instead we’re going to head to a different airport in another state” is not comforting. I found myself wishing I had paid closer attention to those story problems with two planes.

So we clutched our side arms and pretended it was only a huge inconvenience and we weren’t terrified of crashing into the Smoky Mountains. I saw the movie Alive, I know how this goes. Personally don’t think I could eat human flesh if it came to that. Well, maybe. But it would have to be like, with a dipping sauce. Honey mustard. No way could I eat human flesh with a blue cheese or watery dill sauce.

In Nashville, we exited the plane and no longer confident in our cheerful Captain’s promise to “get that landing gear fixed before we try for Atlanta again,” I rebooked myself on another series of flights.

From Nashville, I flew to Cincinnati next and from Cincinnati to Minneapolis. With each new city, I got more and more irrationally nervous about never making it home, experiencing a new weather delay, equipment malfunction, a zombie invasion from Russia that immediately kills all airplane travel. I’d be stuck in the Cincinnati airport when the zombies attacked and the people who worked in the airport Cinnabon wouldn’t let me into the Employee Area with the other survivors because I wasn’t one of their own, just a traveler, and they were worried they’d run short of rolls and frosting leaving me to become an airport zombie, the worst kind of zombie.

If I’m going to be a zombie, I’d at least like to stay in my own neighborhood. I would totally go bite on those neighbor kids who keep stealing my raspberries and I wouldn’t even need honey mustard sauce.

I arrived in Cincinnati a little haggard. By now I had survived two airplane trips and had yet another to get through. I was getting a little unraveled. I’m not big on flying. I already knew my luggage was going to take a few twirls at the Atlanta airport before someone recognized its revised destination. I didn’t care; I just wanted to go home. Home.

In Cincinnati, my name was paged over the airport intercom, which always makes me nervous. (I always think my name is going to be followed by, “…you left an oven burner on at home. Your house burned to the ground.” Everyone will glare at me with angry pity and also a seething, ‘well what did you expect?’)

The friendly woman behind Delta’s gate confirmed it was me.

“Yes.” I tried to keep it cool.

“Do you have a seat on this plane? We’re not showing you with one.”

“I do! I do! I switched in Nashville, see the plane didn’t have enough fuel to land in Atlanta! So we…”

I rambled for a moment before she said, “Sir, because of the rebooking they didn’t give you a seat number like 11A, did they? Doesn’t your boarding pass say, ‘SEAT UNASSIGNED in big block letters?”

Oh. Right.

Yeah, that’s no big deal.

The last leg of the journey home was another small jet:  total of four seats across, can’t stand up straight, no beverage service because if the small plane lurches, an airline attendant could take out someone’s eye with a straw. Every lurch is stronger on a small plane. I wasn’t eager to crawl into another of these coffin-like cylinders. They assigned me to one of the back few rows, window seats. I crushed myself in and my seatmate crushed himself in and this is where it got weird.

I was feeling warm, tight, trapped in an enclosed place, and when I tried to turn on my overhead air jet, it didn’t work. He snickered a little in that, ‘airplanes, huh?’ kind of way that suggested a friendly sentence might be okay.

“This enclosed, warm space sure isn’t helping my claustrophobia.” I joked (but not really).

If I really want to chat with someone on a plane, which is rare, why must I say such odd things as an initial greeting? What’s wrong with a safe, “I bet the overhead light doesn’t work either.”

He grunted a little in solidarity but looking back, I think I had already shared a little too much by this point. I probably should have explained that I got up at the Central Time Zone equivalent of 4:30 a.m. this morning because my wake-up call was 20 goddamm minutes early. Or that I had kinda lost my normalcy around air travel for the day. Nope.

At the time, his slight guff was enough encouragement for me to continue.

I then looked at all the blank lumbering figures, slowly trudging back towards their seats amongst us and I said, “Boy, if these people were dressed nicer than they are now, this could be my funeral.”

To his credit, the gentleman completely ignored me. Just pretended he didn’t hear a single word.

Through his silence, I instantly realized how creepy that came across.

Why would I say that?

I blame the captain and his fuel comment thing. I blame the weather, of course, my frazzled nerves, but mostly I don’t take responsibility for that statement. I had had four caffeinated beverages by that point in the day.

Oh, and I also directly gestured towards these airplane zombies while casually remarking on their substandard attire for my funeral vision. So it wasn’t just words - I delivered this zinger with a flourish.

I knew he heard it; I’m not a mumbler. I was loud. He was open to hearing a friendly hello sentence; I know how to read my fellow travelers. But his complete refusal to acknowledge me was my first inkling that something was off.

Tonight I told my friend Michael this story and he burst into laughter.

“He thought you were a terrorist!” Michael laughed.

“No…no…”

Michael clearly didn’t understand. I wasn’t saying I wanted to die or that the plane was definitely going to crash. I was just saying that being here was like being at my own funeral and they would be part of my funeral. I uh…yeah, I guess maybe there was a creepy implication there.

We howled with laughter.

I then reflected on how many little non-verbal signals were confirmed by this Terriorist theory. The rigidity of my neighbor’s posture, the immediacy of turning on his computer and putting on headphones. He was powering up his computer and already wearing his headphones by the time the attendant had finished that ’safe altitude’ message. He thought I was exceedingly creepy.

If the freedom-hating terrorists wanted another crack at our national air carriers, they’d be smarter to send a chunky blond guy to do their dirty work. Someone who looks like me, all innocent and doughy.

Michael was fascinated with our interaction and demanded to know if I said anything else weird or threatening to my neighbor the rest of the trip.

I explained that no, this was not a problem after the first twenty minutes because I asked the airline attendant if I could move to the nearby exit row where there seemed to be an empty aisle seat.

Michael’s eyebrows shot up.

“No,” I explained, “I just wanted the extra room so I could work on my computer.”

“What kind of person wants to sit in the available exit aisle seat? Who also comments that the fellow plane-boarders are his funeral procession?” Michael asked.

“Terrorist.” I said glumly.

I’m not sure why I say some of the absurd things I do. Or why I find it so amusing to alienate perfectly nice strangers through unconscious creepiness. While jump starting a car some winters ago, the very grateful lady pointed out that she could see a half-eaten bagel in my engine. Instead of saying, “Huh, that’s weird.” I turned to her and said, “Did you notice any cream cheese?”

I have to work on my people skills.

“Also,” I said to Michael last night and pointed to my pants. “I was also wearing these.”

Camaflague pants.

Michael looked at me wearily. “Of course you were.”

Halloween.

One of the few acceptable times of the year when the young and unempowered are allowed to threaten the status quo of the world with their one and only weapon:  youth.

I mean, sure it’s adorable when little Spiderman shows up and whispers, “Twicker tweets.” That puffy, little, muscle costume makes it hard for him to waddle up and down the sidewalk. The shy ninjas, shrugging Darth Vader who you can almost see blushing under all that plastic, the lion who wants candy but also wants you to hear her roar.

Cute.

But I’m not fooled.

It’s also a subtle threat.

They’re saying, “Hey, seriously. We live in this neighborhood and although we’re only roughly 5 - 12 years old right now, we’ll be teenagers in a few years and you don’t want to be known as that dick house where the candy has sucked for the past ten years. We’ll remember. And we’ll have cars by then. So c’mon. Gimmie a Reeces peanut butter cup.”

It’s okay, though. It’s their night of the year. And they don’t run the world just yet.

But we do, and what is the world going to be like when we hand it over? How awesome is it going to be an adult then? Or will it hurt worse than it does today, in our adult world right now and the costumes we wear? Totally cliche, I grant you; I feel like I just groped Whitney Houston.

But it’s also kinda true.

These kids will inherit debt, an oil crisis that hasn’t even begun, and a whole generation of fucked up war vets, brave men and women who gave so freely of their lives in service. Just or unjust as you may believe the Iraq war to be, these American men and women gave all their hearts to this country because they were worried that the rest of us might not be able to go out at night in costume and laugh and play and not be arrested for expressing joy. This is their love for us.

And tonight some of their kids are out trick-or-treating.

I like to think of these kids as the future walking to my front door, a toothy fashion show of how we might turn out. Hulks. Heros. Vampires. Wonder Women. Princesses in ribbons who remember to laugh. Knights who are excited to joust the air between houses. I always think the pirate children are going to end up as artists, massage therapists, and midnight authors. They understand that pirates have many different looks, and you actually have to walk crooked to pull off that costume. They’re the bravest and grow up so uniquely wonderful, little pirate kids.

If I run out of M&Ms tonight (which honestly would make me sad because then what the hell am I going to munch on during Final Destination 3, waiting for Ann to arrive from Iowa? After she arrives, we’re going to order Chinese and then head out to a costume party. She called me on the road to let me know that she’s already dressed as Harry Potter and has been all day. Adults get to have joy too.)…

Anyway.

If I run out of M&Ms, Reeces cups, and Hershey bars, I’m going to give the Future Kids one of my favorites:  Almond Joys.

Yum.

And also a silent promise to try to be a better man and to try to make this world better.

I bet it’s going to be a hard world for you kids. I’m feeling some extra hope these days because of the upcoming regime change. We might just not go totally insane in this world after all. Obama may pull us back from the brink, this unconventional and wise king. So things might be better when you kids get to be buying mortgages and worrying about your investments. I hope so. I intend to make it so.

(Although honestly, I don’t own jack shit in investments so, you know, I sleep at night. I’m not THAT grown up.)

But for tonight, you’ll have to settle for Almond Joys, which honestly, I don’t understand why you Future Kids don’t like coconut. You will. It’s coming for you. One day you’ll suddenly like coconut and then go, “Oh hey. I think I might be an adult here.”

And in the intervening years before we shake hands, adult-to-adult, don’t soap my house or egg my garage. I’m not afraid to chase you down the alley, you little motherfuckers.

I’m not giving up on you yet.

I think we might make it.

The Pirate Kids will help us out.

Ooo - gotta go!

Future Kids are at the door demanding candy.

After being invited by two warrior buds who I really like, I decided to make good on a long-time-wish and attend Burning Man, that wild, desert party, attended by 50,000 strangers who create an enormous, nomadic city for eight days. The self-labeled ‘burners’ have a language all their own in this advertising-free, corporate-sponsorship-free, green zone. There is dancing, partying, meditating, spirituality, elaborate art, and mutant cars! Workshops, giveaways, self-sufficiency, interdependence, night raves, and a culture of gratitude and outrageousness.

And costumes. Everyone wears costumes.

Because of my late-decision to attend, the cheapest means to get to the desert was for me to drive my trusty Subaru. By Wednesday of this week, I had assembled my best costumes on the dining room table (everyone loves Greasicle the Clown!), started a Gifts of Gratitude pile, and being somewhat responsible, took my car to be checked out by my favorite, trustworthy mechanics. So, when they informed me that the Subaru needed a great deal of work before they deemed it ‘cross-country-worthy,’ I believed them. With sadness, I believed.

Dang.

The cost of driving to the Nevada desert, outfitting myself with necessary supplies (backpack, cheap bike, food, miscellaneous desert necessities), seemed pretty costly to this mostly-unemployed man. Costly, but worth it. And now fixing the car would double that cost…should I listen to my head and finances? Or should I listen to my eager heart, ready to run off and play with fun new friends?

Lucky for me, my friend Stephen was immediately available to do ‘the warrior thing.’

That is, as I lay out my pros and cons, gold and shadow, asking for feedback, he listened carefully, asked a lot of questions, and probed how attending Burning Man fit within my life mission. While bemoaning the car costs, the preparations I had already made, etc. I tried to slip in one tiny, little innocuous fact that meant nothing: I am right on the cusp of completing the first draft of a powerful piece of fiction. I’m not even exactly sure how I came to mention this in the Burning Man debate.

(Sidebar: at 153 pages, it’s the first third of a novel - yet a complete story in itself. The writing is some of the best I have ever done and I am quite proud of it. And with the help of a really wonderful editor I have met online, I hope to make it better. The story is goofy, loving, and full of gratitude. It’s sexy and erotic, playful, and intense. I love writing fiction!)

As soon as I mentioned this insignificant, little detail, Stephen’s eyes blazed because he recognized a thing: a secret handle, a door slightly cracked: something was lurking back there in shadow.

It’s amazing to process something with another warrior and experience this deep, deep listening. I do not say this to diminish Stephen’s giftedness, because he is giftedness (that came out wrong. Where’s my editor?). Warrior listening includes bypassing one’s need to give advice, to fix things, to manipulate towards a certain outcome, or even just to say, ‘Oh, I totally know how you feel. Last week when I was in the Target parking lot…”

It’s a deeper listening, a subtler place. Listen and watch for the ‘tells,’ the little details and head jerks, the flinches that sometimes reveal a deeper truth. And Stephen had found mine.

I was running away.

“What happens with this piece of writing, now that you’re almost finished?” Stephen asked.

I tried to avoid answering, but it was too late - I had been busted.

“I, uh…” I stammered, “have got to get serious about researching publishing options, making edits, plotting the next pieces…”

Oh. It hit me.

I love sitting for seven or eight hours just putting together words trying to make myself laugh or feel sad, wondering where these fictional characters are headed. And while I have entertained dreams of book signings at Borders (the line extends out the door and around the block), I have done very little to actually make that fantasy a reality. I haven’t tried to get anything published, I haven’t made much effort to read books on writing, attend workshops, etc. (Also in the book signing fantasy, people keep bringing me boxes of Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies.)

After wild, unexpected success online with fiction I wrote this Spring, I sobered up. I told myself, “I can do this…” and then I believed it. Bought a few books on writing. Attended a writers’ workshop. Took this idea of writing a bit more seriously.

But not too seriously.

I still struggle with consistently making time to write - it hasn’t been coming easily. Or I sit down to write and let myself get distracted. Somehow, it’s still not a true priority in my life. Or, if I try to remain open and non-judgmental about it, I can say it’s not a strong *enough* priority where it shapes my life.

It was a sad realization that perhaps attending Burning Man this year - while right on the cusp of making a commitment to writing - was more of a distraction than I had let myself believe. As Stephen and I pondered this together, I realized how closely the two are intertwined. Maybe the money issue, which raised all these doubts, was just a manifestation of some deeper concerns on my part.

Perhaps I was eager to go to the desert and feel other peoples’ fire. Maybe I wanted to be around creative energy and soak it up. Dance naked. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. But I don’t just want to GO to Burning Man…I want to BE a burning man: the man on fire. I want that fire back home in Minnesota, in my life.

And here’s the kooky thing: I am on fire!

Through warriors I have already touched that fire within. I have seen it blaze and I love it! Yet I sometimes forget this fire by not tending it, continuing to seek it outside me: food. Watching TV. Answering emails. Planning a social calendar. I let myself get distracted from my life’s priorities by shiny and new baubles. I like hunting for new fires - that’s novel and new. Sustaining and growing a fire sometimes means committing time and energy to something less dramatic.

Hey, I still want to go to Burning Man. I hope to go next year. But this year, I’m going to have my own Burning Man at night in the gazebo on my back porch.

I might just edit naked with glow sticks.

I hain’t no math whiz, but I have been thinking of quadratic equations lately. Those things I alternatively loved and hated in high school algebra: 3(x+y) / 4xy-2y=14.

Solve for X.

I loved them when I solved them - loved the instant rush of knowing Y EQUALS 8! IT EQUALS EIGHT! Wahoooooo!

And of course, more often than not, I would slink into Mrs. Jollie’s Algebra class thinking, ‘who gives a fuck about a stupid ‘y?’ It’s just a dumb alphabet letter; it’s not like we’re ever going to meet at the post office and I’ll have the opportunity to say, ‘So. You equaled -42 last week, how’d that work out for you?’

My recent experience in the Advanced Novel Workshop has really churned my butter (I’m trying out a new colloquialism) in terms of ‘what can I learn from this?’ And there’s an uglier question here that I must ask myself: how did I CONTRIBUTE to this situation?

Because I did.

I did not speak the prejudice; I don’t own those pieces. But looking at my own shadow and contributions to the classroom dynamic, I start pulling seeing a math equation where the quantity E (for Edmond) equals = ?

I started reflecting on all the ways I felt vulnerable (Vulnerable = V). I was not staying in my own home. (2V). I had been traveling the entire week prior and was not feeling grounded. (3V). I wasn’t doing anything particularly helpful to ground myself and find center, such as work out, eat healthy, or meditate (6V). I hadn’t planned well for the workshop week: I was still doing the ‘pre-work’ as I was racing out of town. (7V). All of these factors kept increasing my vulnerability to this experience (or any!) and I paid no heed.

Factor in the intense vulnerability around the fact that I have never attended a formal writers’ workshop for feedback, certainly not traveled out of state for one, and the coefficient for V becomes 21. Factor in that I have never shared gay-themed writing with a group of writing peers who I cannot know are going to be supportive, and that coefficient is 36. Here in Minneapolis, I have lived amongst so many supportive, loving friendships that I forget this is not how the rest of the world sometimes is.

Looking back now, when I showed up to class, I had shut down. I was scared. Normally, in a classroom situation, I tend to be rather goofy and outgoing. I introduce myself to other participants and find some way to play together. Spend some time in heartfelt conversation or forging some connection. But not this time. I sat stone silent and waited for someone to talk to ME. You guys prove to ME that you’re going to treat me well, and maybe I’ll show up.

That’s not how vulnerability works.

Or rather…it’s a very brittle sort of vulnerability. Breakable.

By Wednesday of that week, I realized I was hiding out, not showing up like a king with these people, so I deliberately shared a few stories that always delight and create a sense of play: my frequently being mistaken for twin brothers. (Stories for another blog.) But even this was ‘too little, too late.’ The stories were amusing, but they were not heart-opening and they did not forge a deeper connection.

So that week’s Vulnerablatic Equation, as I have begun to consider it, added a victim mentality (VM) that suggested everyone in the room should do something to make me feel welcome. I was taking a BIG RISK here, so where was my hand holding? Who was going to rub my tummy?

That’s not how a king thinks of the world. A King says, ‘What can I do to make THEM more comfortable? Feel more loved? How do I make this the kingdom I always wanted to be part of?’

One of the biggest qualities that was missing was my compassion. For four days (4D), my expanding compassion (C) was close to zero. While I was still friendly and kind to others, I wasn’t EXPANDING compassion in this room, breathing it into all of us, building a safer, tighter container. I imagine Mrs. Jollie trying to explain this to my by mapping it on the chalk board:

4D(36V + VM) - C =

Trouble.

I have been reading a book called Transforming Fate Into Destiny, strongly recommended by a warrior friend. Now that I’m almost done with the book, I understand why he advocated it: a good portion of the ‘what you can do about your life’ pieces are about avoiding self-induced destruction by owning your shadow, looking at your projections, and rising to GREET destiny instead of dragging your feet and mumbling about how life ‘isn’t fair.’

In that book, I read this quote by Carl Jung, “The psychological rule says that when an inner situation is not made conscious, it happens outside as fate. That is to say, when the individual remains undivided and does not become conscious of his inner opposite, the world must perforce act out the conflict and be torn into opposing halves.”

Ow.

I remained blind to my intense vulnerability and my lack of loving compassion. I showed up as a victim. When the Canadian judge kept repeating that the closest he came to ‘my kind of writing’ was the child pornography case he adjudicated, I was in such shock and so blindsided that I could do nothing else but use this as further ‘proof,’ of the growing hostility in the room.

I am not taking responsibility for the comments of others. It was truly amazing to hear such unadulterated prejudice come out of the mouths of such intelligent, worldly people. (I mean, who still defiles the *Irish* anymore?)

But.

My response was brittle. I did not make my heart bigger to embrace this situation. I did not prepare myself to encounter this kind of thinking, by caring for myself. I subtracted compassion when I should have used it as a coefficient (ever since I looked up that word in wikipedia, I can’t stop using it).

In the words of my Warrior Monk friends, I helped create this reality. I helped instigate it.

I do not like recognizing that I had a hand in this. It’s much more comfortable to blame others and look at how THEY made the world so ugly.

Some days, it’s awesome to be a warrior! Not so fun other days when it means taking ownership for those pieces of life that I create that aren’t sparkling and golden. Given the choice, I’d still rather look at my shit than not.

I think I was less confused about the world back when ‘y’ simply equaled 8.

Thursday in our Advanced Novel Workshop we reviewed 15 pages of a manuscript which had a sex-crazed, gay character manipulating straight men into unwitting seduction. (This manuscript confirmed The big Straight Guy Fear: we’re after them.) I waited to see if someone else would comment, but nobody did, so finally I spoke about this one-dimensional character.

That unleashed a flood of uh…energy.

“It’s totally realistic,” snapped the Young Portland Guy (YPG). “It’s not one-dimensional at all. I know gay guys like that. I saw this in San Francisco all the time.”

Someone pointed out that we didn’t see much of this character, and that perhaps he becomes more fully rounded later. True, I admitted. But we see three main characters in their own ‘complete’ section, and while the other two straight characters presented were not saints, they each had redeeming qualities. They weren’t stereotypes.

While trying to articulate this, I was cut off no less than FOUR times by YPG and the Dallas Doctor (DD). Their vehemence and energy was surprising. They would not let me speak.

The instructor said nothing.

No one else in the class chimed in.

The gay character in what we reviewed is a punch line - making him a real person would probably make the scene less hilarious.

Still, it’s surprising.

But maybe not.

Besides my characters, the only other gay character even *mentioned* this week was by DD who has the traditional Depressed Gay who can’t stand himself, his secret queer life, and commits suicide.

Novels are not obligated to include a homo.

However, when you DO include a queer…would it be possible to make him A) not sexually evil, B) not suicidal over being gay, or C) not snapping his fingers while putting on his drag makeup and singing along to the Evita soundtrack? Still, perhaps it’s progress that nobody included the Effeminate Best Friend who says to his plucky gal pal, “You go, girl!”

If the author wants to create a one-dimensional character in his work, that’s his business. As a manuscript reviewer, it’s my obligation to point it out so his choice is conscious. I did the same for one-dimensional straight characters earlier in the week. This didn’t have to be a ‘gay thing.’ It was a ‘one-dimensional character’ thing.

I have a few friends who see prejudice everywhere and I am the one who rolls my eyes. “You’re overreacting.” I tell them. “Seeing haters where there is nothing but smoke.”

All last evening and into the night hours (early enough to hear birds begin their morning songs) I have been questioning whether I have been inventing phantoms. Am I? Maybe. But then I keep reviewing the whole week.

I commented on an ethnic slur in a Monday manuscript and the author explained, “Yeah, but it’s true. People really think that way about the Irish.” After class, another woman from class sidled up to me and said, “It is true, you know. The Irish really do have bad blood. It’s okay; they accept that about themselves. It’s why they have so much fun and drink so much - because they accept it.”

She felt it perfectly acceptable to say this since she is married to someone of Irish descent.

Also on Monday, DD and I got into it a bit during a manuscript review when I commented that a female character seemed exceptionally rude to her one-dimensional boyfriend: a muscley, masonry worker. DD said to our class, “Yeah, but some men you just have to talk to that way.”

“So he *deserves* it?” I asked. “Because he’s blue collar…”

That remark didn’t go over well. After Monday’s class, DD huffily explained that she is a DOCTOR and sees a LOT of people, so when she makes that remark she KNOWS what she’s talking about.’ She stormed away when she was done lecturing me.

I guess I expected something different from a group of writers.

“This gay guy,” argued YPG when cutting me off Thursday, “is the snake in the Garden of Eden. He’s totally evil. He’s perfect just like that.”

I grew quiet after that comment because, well, it seemed pointless. YPG and DD refused me the respect of even listening to my perspective. The facilitator just watched. Nobody else commented.

A few minutes later, I think YPG realized he had been a little extra vehement. He returned to the topic again after the rest of the class had moved on, to justify what he said: “I think I went after Edmond because this happened to me once. I knew a gay guy who was just like this character so it really rang true for me.”

Yeah, that’s pretty much how prejudice works, bud: you have a bad experience with ONE person and then decide that this person represents everyone in that subgroup. But even if you had a bad experience with TWELVE people in the group you’re condemning, it’s still a stereotype. Twelve bad eggs still don’t equal a fair representation.

(I typed YPG and DD’s exact phrasing on my laptop during the class while it was fresh. It was all I could think to do while my brain was reeling, trying to process their sharp scolding of my observation.)

And hey, it’s not just the straight people in the room.

The author who wrote the one-dimensional gay character is himself gay. He told me so Wednesday night after the Open Mike event. He never volunteered this in class. He’s in a relationship and lives openly in San Francisco, so this isn’t some closet case. Never openly supported any aspect of my gay-themed manuscript during the verbal feedback. (Given this climate, can I blame him for keeping his mouth shut?) He’s welcome to hate the manuscript I wrote; there’s no automatic solidarity expected. Yet his gushy written comments didn’t match his verbal silence.

After his Thursday feedback session, he eagerly admitted that he wants a best seller, so I give him credit for knowing his audience: they rabidly defended his gay character. So yeah, pandering works. But it makes me sad that the only other gay man in the class deliberately kept an invisible profile and is apparently willing to portray us as ‘the serpent’ if it will help sell his book.

Maybe the character he is creating eventually has more depth. Could be. We only read 15 pages. Even so, given the energetic conversation around this character, his lack of comment on this character during the post-mortem was noticeable.

It’s really discouraging.

One of the multicultural workshops I attended pointed out that folks in ‘the majority’ just don’t often get what it’s like to be a minority so they can’t see the unfriendly environment surrounding them. “You’re overreacting,” they’d most likely be inclined to say to whomever broaches the topic. Therefore, facilitators of people in charge won’t act on what they can’t see. And of course, no facilitator can control what people say.

Yet without any multicultural sensitivity, I still think our instructor could have noticed the verbal badgering and said something like, “You’re not letting Edmond make his point.” Or perhaps reminded YPG and DD to keep their energy directed at the writing. Or that nobody’s opinion is wrong - it’s an opinion - so there’s no sense in berating someone.

Nada.

It hurts my heart.

This experience on Thursday made me think of comments I heard Wednesday about my gay-themed manuscript. I really did hear wonderful insights and feedback; that was useful. And as I reread my misgivings pre-critique, I shuddered and think to myself, ‘Dumb Ass…you had already seen the contour of the room and ignored it.’

During my manuscript critique, I received verbal feedback from two straight men stating, ‘I COULDN’T GET INTO THIS. THIS WASN’T WRITTEN FOR ME.’ One guy gave me pointers on how to make it more accessible for him.

I seriously doubt that if I had presented a children’s manuscript for review, my colleagues would have said, “Well, this didn’t seem like it was for ME. I couldn’t get into it.” They would have said, “Of course it’s not written for me, but let’s see what I think of the writing anyway.”

And no, neither of these men was the Canadian judge who yesterday repeatedly informed me the closest he came to gay-themed-anything was the child pornography case he adjudicated. (Also Wednesday’s blog post.) The judge did try to give me tips on how the police can track information on your computer, I guess in case I felt like downloading kiddie porn.

You know how the gays love kiddie porn.

I came to this Iowa Summer Writing Festival believing that writers - WRITERS - would know how to step into worlds different from their own, see a different point of view. To recognize that black people might see the world different from white people. That the poor might not have such a great time as the rich. (And hell, the rich might not be having such a great time either.) Even my dividing the world into black and white people is ridiculously overly-generalized.

I need to look at my own projections about writers: their supposed openness, my assumption of their willingness to be curious, my thinking that as a group, writers will set aside personal judgments in service to critiquing a story. That’s a stereotype too, one that clearly I must own. And I have to remember the folks I encountered this week don’t represent a majority; they themselves are just a couple of eggs.

Last night I talked with two friends I trust to be rigorous with me and invited them to help me see what parts of this are mine to own. What did I contribute to this? What is my own work here? Go back to class? Bow out? I know several I could have called who would have most assuredly told me what exactly what the bruised part of me wanted to hear. But I didn’t want that; I wanted perspective. Honesty.

I’m not going back today for the final class.

I will review the final manuscripts for my two remaining colleagues and leave them on their desks an hour before class begins; I will keep the commitment I made to give my best feedback.

But I can’t sit in that room again.

In the end, it’s not about the words. (Which is pretty ironic for a crowd that loves words.) This isn’t some political correctness test. Honestly? I don’t think the misguided Canadian judge *intended* harm with his words despite their impact. Even DD seemed surprised that a person might take offense to the phrase ‘You just have to talk to some men that way.’ They don’t get it.

There’s a guideline in New Warriors to recognize that actions and words have both intended and unintended consequences. So, while there may not have been intent to do harm by anyone in the room, I do think the environment became more and more unwelcoming with each passing day. The Irish bashing was easy enough to just confront and then let it roll off, but every frickin’ day there was something new. And calling a creepy, one-dimensional sexual predator a representative of gay men and NOBODY in the room flinches or says, ‘that’s messed up…’ well, I recognize when it’s time to leave.

Sometimes, being a warrior means challenging those prejudices. I did that. And sometimes it means removing yourself from an environment that does not feel safe.

And now I’m doing that.

I’m sharpening my defensiveness.

Getting ready to pounce.

My selected pages are going to be reviewed in roughly 45 minutes and I find myself a little freaked out.

These are strangers who are forced to read my writing because that’s what you do during the Advanced Novel Workshop:  read and critique. I haven’t really *connected* with a single person in the room. Had some decent conversation at a ‘Writer’s Reception’ the other night, but then again, we were all drinking free wine and a little buzzed. (On the plus side, I can cross off ‘Get Drunk in Iowa’s Formal State Capitol’ from my Life List.)

These strangers actually already read my work last night; we’re discussing it today.

I’ve already projected all over them:  they’ll be uncomfortable with the gay references. Four of them will boldly announce, “For moral reasons, I could not read these pages.’

The instructor will nod sympathetically, and say, “Understandable.”

The 60-ish, Canadian Superior Court judge attending the class will silently get up and walk out of the room.

Yesterday, a very intelligent woman explained she has her gay character commit suicide because he’s so miserable. I think today she will blankly ask me ‘why is this story so upbeat? Aren’t gay people, you know, miserable all the time?’

I have rehearsed a couple Outraged Fag scenes in my head:  YOU PEOPLE DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE A GAY MAN IN THIS STRAIGHT CULTURE! I SHOULD HAVE NEVER SHARED MY WRITING WITH A GROUP OF PEOPLE WHO WOULD REFUSE TO STEP OUTSIDE OF THEIR SURBURBAN MINDSETS TO …

(The rant continues. There are several striking variations. One includes a dramatic storming out of the room.)

The truth is, I’m just scared.

I didn’t pull punches with this work I submitted, I didn’t edit my words to make it ’straight-person-friendly.’ There aren’t raunchy sex scene in this, but I did use the word ‘cocksucking’ and not in a derogatory way.

And if I dig a deeper (which is what a warrior commits to do: dig deeper to more fecund layers of truth beneath the topsoil), this projected fear that ‘they can’t handle it,’ is just another dirt layer of defensiveness.

What if none of them have a problem with a man-to-man love story…what if they just hate it because it’s bad writing?

Ouch.

It’s easier to prepare my Outraged Fag scenes in my head than admit this simple truth:  I am afraid. I don’t like feeling judged (who does?) and I’m about to willingly go into this classroom where I am going to be judged.

Ironically, each of the 5 class participants who we’ve already critiqued had to go through the exact same experience that I am now: fear, anticipation, wondering about judgments. Which means we probably have a lot more in common than I want to admit. And yet, I’m so ready to say, ‘Wow, you’re WAY different than me…’ because it’s easier to be judged, perhaps, by people who don’t understand the Real Me, than it is by people who call me on my shit.

Ugh - this feels like such a high-school revelation that I expect the food court where I’m typing right now to start playing music from the Sixteen Candles genre. Cue Molly Ringwald to show up with her pouty lips whining, “It’s not fair.”

And maybe this is an age-appropriate revelation. The part where this fear comes from might just be part of me that’s not much older that high school, the age in my life where I hid being gay. During those four years, my ‘best friend’ sprinkled the word ‘faggot’ so regularly into his conversation that it felt like table salt for his vocabulary. And he loooooved salt.

For four years of high school, I tried not to mind.

***

Class is over.

The world did not explode, although I thought my heart might. And I never got to use my Outraged Fag speech. True, there were comments from classroom colleagues that indicated they did NOT get it, nor did they try. One (straight) man said bitterly, “if you’re trying to reach me as your intended audience, this isn’t going to do it.” Yeah, I can see how writing about two men in love might not attract the straight male reader. Kinda figured that.

But then again, weeks ago my friend John (also straight) read some of my work and was exuberantly gushy about what he read, so much so that he has since adopted vocabulary from the story which made me blush with pleasure.

Most of the class had fantastic insights, gripped my writing with their teeth and shook it like a dog enjoying a bone. And weirdly, you want that in a writing class:  for the participants to gnaw on it, wrestle with it, growl over interpretations, bark at each other a little.

“I think you’ll see on page 4, the author meant this…”

“Oh no he didn’t. Why would he have that character’s relationship take this turn if he intended…”

I listened in silence, taking notes, marveling at how wonderfully forthright and genuine their perceptions were. Were some of them uncomfortable with the subject matter? Maybe. But they slobbered over the bone, discussing lines that pleased them, analyzing confusing narration, making smart suggestions on how to improve the writing.

Fantastic.

At the end of the experience the class took a break, ten minutes to stretch.

Before I could leave my seat, the Canadian judge came to me and said, “Good work. The only time I’ve experienced writing this (gay-themed) was a child pornography case brought to me a few years ago.”

“This isn’t child pornography.” I explained to him. “It has NOTHING to do with child pornography.”

“Yeah.” He said vaguely. “It’s just the closest I’ve come to subject material like this is child porn.”

I repeated my statement but could see that it wasn’t really going to change his mind.

“You would not believe how much porn he had on his computer.” continued the judge, pretty much ignoring me at that point. “What’s the word…downlobed? He downlobed it.”

Hmmm.

Perhaps some of the judgments - the shit I made up - were on target. But at the same time, I’m glad I chose vulnerability. And the judgments were bearable, I am not the kid I was in high school.

I’m a man. 

As I write this, I’m seated in a University of Iowa classroom with 12 others, voluntarily attending something titled, Advanced Novel Workshop.

Our first real class session began roughly ten minutes ago. I am trying to look studious and hopefully, give the impression of writing copious notes about the Structure Of A Novel.

Several people in the room are very busy quoting famous literature to show that they’re well-read. “Have you read The Hours? You haven’t? Oh, you really, really must.” There is this puffiness about us fresh writers, a ‘LOOK AT ME! I READ BOOKS!’ quality that feels very eleven-years-old. I attribute this to Day 1 jitters; everyone wants to look literary.

It’s a competition as well.

Last night in our ‘intro’ session where we told our names and a brief synopses of what we brought to read, someone exclaimed over a particular writer, “I LOVE her! She’s brilliant! I’ve read everything she wrote!”

Someone else one-upped the speaker by saying, “You DO know about her new novel, right? Coming out next month.”

The original speaker did not.

Someone else one-upped the one-upper by saying, “A selection was in this month’s Harpers. Did you read it?”

The one-upper had not read it; this was the Ace of Diamonds trump card.

It gets a little competitive.

Ugh. Someone just said an approximation of this: “The genius of George Elliot…”

This is why I hate writing workshops.

On the chalkboard, our facilitator started creating a list of Highly Recommended Books: Mrs. Dalloway, Wolf Willow, Crossing To Safety, etc. The list depresses me a little bit, suggesting perhaps I have to read a lot more IMPORTANT BOOKS before considering becoming a Serious Writer. To be fair, I probably already knew that most of the stuff I read is not on that list of great literature. (I don’t think Joss Whedon’s run on the Astonishing X-men has been officially sanctioned by the literary canon. Not yet.)

Among the non-quoters, there are four people looking pensive, reflective even. It’s like those high school graduation photos where the senior gently rests their chin on knuckles looking towards the future. When I’m not typing faux-notes, I think I might be one of those.

Are they bored with the quoters like me? Or waiting for their moment to quote George Elliot? Hey, I read George Elliot’s Middlemarch while in college. I still remember one specific line I can quote easily, nestled comfortably around page 634: “He was a dried bladder for peas to rattle in, said Mrs. Cadwallader.” Seriously. It’s a line from Middlemarch. My friend Margy and I cracked ourselves up over that one. It’s just hard to know where I might use this little gem.

Time passes.

37 minutes into our first real class, someone brings up Virginia Woolf’s death, greedily describing how Mrs. Woolf weighted herself with rocks in her pockets before walking into the river. It’s like a creepy campfire story for writers. I’ve heard it at several writer workshops now. Everyone nods knowingly, as if to say, ‘That could happen to me if I don’t master my gifts.’

I can’t decide if I’m being uber-judgmental because I’m nervous about having my writing critiqued or because these quoting contests drives me crazy. It’s probably the critique. I do love some of the classics and honestly, I heard a beautiful quote from George Elliot at a lecture earlier today. So it’s probably nervousness.

It’s hard to be vulnerable with something important to me. If someone critiques my lawn-mowing, I’d shrug and say, “Yeah, good pointers. I should definitely turf in the Spring.”

But my writing.

Well.

I do want honest feedback, I really do. And despite the loving, careful feedback I’ve received, I still get leery. Mostly in writing workshops where just about everyone has an axe to grind. Perhaps this drives my feeling a little cantankerous about the tone of the class. I am probably too harsh. I’ll have to look at my shadow around insecurity.

It helps me to remember that there is something wonderful about 12 strangers gathering to humbly ask, “Please read this and give me your honest opinion. But keep in mind I might be a little fragile on this topic because it matters to me.”

It’s sweet.

Vulnerability can be tricky.

I’m probably also anxious because although I love reading, I don’t always come across as intelligent in book discussions.

During my junior year of college, I was enrolled in an Honors Program class devoted to about eight of Charles Dickens’ masterpieces. I was a first class, Dickens Geek having spent my lonely teenage years wandering around his Victorian England. This class thrilled me to the core. I reread all the books - just for fun. During class one day, I had tried to describe a beautiful scene from A Tale of Two Cities and ended up saying, “Really…it was a beautiful part of the movie…I mean…novel.”

Needless to say, the Dickens’ class screeched with schadenfreude delight. I earnestly tried to explain that I honestly had never seen the movie, but nobody could hear me through the noisy laughter.

They were laughing with delight because THEY hadn’t slipped and said it themselves.

Since everyone (except the 2-3 Dickens’ diehards) had grown weary of reading 800+ page Dickens novels, the video stores near NIU experienced an inexplicable demand for every available Dickens’ movie. Just a few days prior to my disastrous comment, Jeanie, a classroom friend had grumpily complained that the only version of A Tale of Two Cities available to rent was the cartoon version.

“But what are you gonna do, right?” She paused. “Actually, it wasn’t too bad.”

You’d think my Dickens’ humiliation from college would be enough for me to keep my mouth shut.

Apparently, it was not.

Roughly an hour ago we began discussing a colleague’s shared pages. His novel features a female anti-James Bond who drags her troglodyte boyfriend from bed (where it’s casually mentioned that he is an extremely muscular masonry worker) to go steal credit cards.

In the middle of a dialog about the nature of female action-hero relationships, I thought I might offer some insight from an unconventional source.

“In the movie Charlie’s Angels,” I began.

Everyone burst out laughing.

Our facilitator stopped chortling long enough to ask me, “Shall I add that to our list on the chalkboard under Mrs. Dalloway?”

Peals of laughter could be heard down the echoing, Iowan hallways.

Sigh.

I hate writing workshops.

I went to a workshop this weekend that kinda blew my head open. This entry isn’t going to be about that.

(Yeah, it was a New Warrior event. Marketed quite blandly as ‘Integrating Personal Leadership Training,’ the experience was a brain-busting blend of psychology, poetry, rich lecture, male archetypes, and the deepest kind of wonderings. Like most New Warrior events, we bypassed roughly four levels of social norms, and went for the gooiest heart stuff: love, blessings, sadnesses and the prickliest fears handled equally in lovingly and fierce care. Definitely worthy of some blogging, but not tonight. Tonight is about the anniversary.)

Sunday night, after three days mentally orgasming on the brain’s tilt-a-whirl-weekend, I was in altered space. I kept trying to do normal things but I’d stop and then grin for a while. Read for a while and grin, then I’d eat something and compose half an email before walking away. I watched The Spiderwick Chronicles and nodded seriously throughout. ‘This could happen.’ I would think. ‘Yeah, this is totally, like, I’m surprised it hasn’t already happened.’

Altered state.

So I didn’t make a phone call I had intended to make - an anniversary phone call.

I moved to Minneapolis 13 years ago this past weekend. Thirteen years ago, my family and Ann drove me and the U-Haul full of disgruntled houseplants to Minne-soota. We unpacked my belongings in this amazingly beautiful one-bedroom place in Uptown with wooden floors.

That chilly June evening, Ann kept huffing into the air, these short soundless barks. “Look.” she’s say to me pointing at the smoke cloud. “It’s so cold tonight there you can see my breath. HUFF. See that? It’s June, Manning. It’s fucking June.”

The whole night we giggled with each other, my family, Ann, and I as we unpacked my kitchen and my heart pounded in fear. We went out for ice cream after we unpacked, and while we sat outside and ate in Crema’s patio garden, Ann would take a eat a bite of ice cream, swallow, and then huff her cold breath into the night air where frozen crystals formed. “June.” she would say, eyes blazing.

I drove back to Illinois with them for two more weeks of in-office work. And when I came back two weeks later, it was Gay Pride weekend in Minneapolis. I was going alone.
No, no…that was cool.

I wasn’t a, you know, not a TOTAL loser. I could make new friends. Right?

I could do this.

So I went to the Big Gay Pride Stuff and wandered around Loring Park, looking at the booths. It was charming, a quality I found lacking in Chicago’s Gay Pride. Oh, Chicago was fierce, proud, and like, on steroids. Awesome. But then after the parade, the hard drinking began and if you weren’t wasted by 5pm, then what was the point of even going at all?

Minneapolis Pride, much like the entire city itself, has a very different vibe from other places I’ve lived. I personally think the Minneapolis state bird should be a comfortable flannel shirt. Minneapolis definitely has a few glamorous spots, probably only 100 or so. Totally glamorous, actually. But most of Minneapolis feels like I city that should have been named, “Bud.”

“Hey, Bud.”

Bud nods.

Whenever I approach Minneapolis from I-35W, headed north, there’s this great hill. Coming over the hill, you see the downtown skyline on the horizon, close enough to know whether the downtown lights are on at night, but far enough away that the buildings still seem huddled together, maybe for warmth. (It’s cold in June, sometimes, ya know.)

In the summer, an ocean of green trees surround the skyscrapers in every direction. From this view, mile after mile of turbulent, green waves protect the castle keep. Coming upon Minneapolis this way makes me happy and misty-eyed because I feel like I’m part of the secret kingdom that everyone erroneously thinks is in Antarctica.

The citizens of this kingdom ride bikes like fiends all summer long, which would make you think they were afraid of Winter and had to make every day count. And I suppose that’s true for some. But the rest of the city says, ‘Oh no, it’s just too damn warm to snowmobile, so we figured ‘why not bike?’ We love the summer. We love the autumn. We hate the winter (But not really. Not like that.) and we love the Spring. It’s a crazy city.

And it’s my 13th anniversary of living here!

I moved here after a heart-vision of seeing future, loving friends over for dinner in my future, adorable home.

I have the bungalow. Loving Friends. A Richness of Life that boggles me. Stain of a dead person on my kitchen floor. Okay, THAT one I did not actually dream of, that was just a tough real estate market when I bought this lil’ home. I suppose that’s part of Bud’s charm.

“Hey, Bud,” you might say when you are a first-time home-buyer and find out you bought a house with a corpse stain on the kitchen floor, “Bud, there’s a corpse stain on my kitchen floor. How about that? What the fuck is up with this city, Bud?”

Bud raises his eyebrows, shakes his head and then goes back to whatever he was previously doing.

Anyway. That first Pride weekend I wondered if I would meet someone new. New lover? New friend? Would I ever have a friendship as rich as Ann’s and mine? What the fuck was I doing anyway? I wondered about these things and the life opening before me, and wondered if it were wise to listen to my heart pounding 10 months ago when I visited this castle-kingdom for the first time ever.

“Hi.” said a handsome man, stepping out in front of me. I was wandering around the Pride Festival, the merry-carnival: 800 colored booths of rainbow merchants and happy volunteers.

This guy and I almost walked into each other.

“Hi, I’m Brian.” he said, shaking my hand. “I just moved here this weekend.”

Brian had been in Minneapolis for roughly 48 hours and managed to capture an entourage by his own personal magnetism.

This handsome guy at the party was suddenly shaking my hand.

Maybe I’ll wax prolific some night about our tawdry affair, our few weeks of dating, our years of friendship, our Big Fallout, and how Brian’s big-heartedness paved the way for us to be friends again. Short version: he’s just in that deep in my heart. And our Anniversary is the Pride weekend, when we both moved to Minneapolis.

There were a few years when Brian, Chris, and I would hang out so frequently that on those random nights I would go out on my own, just about all the gay Minnesotans would say, “So. Where are the other two tonight?” The three of us were single and dating, so every other week Chris would perk up and say, “Oooh. Tangled web story. I had a first date with someone you had two dates with, Ted.”

Brian might reply with, “I go next.”

“Damn.” I would say. “Because my ‘tangled web’ is a good one.”

We’ve fallen away in recent years. Not like, angrily…more like attrition. They both fell in love with great guys, the Big Kinda Love, and roughly months apart and a new chapter of their lives began. Plus, I bought a home owner with a corpse stain in your kitchen, and you know how it goes. Yard to mow, things to fix, can’t see you Saturday - all booked up…how about Tuesday, no? You guys have plans on that next Friday? Okay. No, no, you gotta go to that. Huh. Well, the next weekend for sure.

We have missed some dating escapades with each other or only heard about them as opposed to lived through them together. Some big ups, some big downs. It hurts a little because Brian was the only one who ever got how overly-precious the word ‘Yesh‘ was to me. To this day, the in-synchness is always wonderfully present when we’re together, for five minutes or an occasional weekend breakfast. But the occasions just doesn’t happen often enough.

There’s always going to be a chunk of my friendship-heart that has Brian’s handsome smile throating out, “Hellllllllllllllloooooooooooooooooooooo” in the creepy-old-lady-voice he would use to answer the phone whenever I called. He would often insinuate that he (sorry…”she”) was in the middle of elderly masterbating and would I care to join in for some hot phone sex?

Ugh.

In the game of ‘raunch chicken’ with Brian, I always lose.

I love him. He’s just in there - embedded deep in my heart.

Yesterday was our anniversary. I should have called him.
(In my defense, I would like to point out that I almost thought the Spiderwick Chronicles was a documentary last night.)

I had recalled Brian throughout the weekend. Multiple times every day. During the retreat, the tough question was asked, ‘What have you let slip away in your life by not being the king? By not assuming the role of king in your kingdom, what has suffered?’ Ow. Ow. Double-ow for Brian.

Tonight I drove home from a massage and decided to take the scenic side around Lake Calhoun, because Bud is quite gorgeous in the summer when he stretches out his arms and yawns. The sky was that color of blue that is almost purple and the clouds were the color you often see in religious greeting cards. From the car, I happened upon a vista - break in the tree line and the right angle where I could see the downtown skyline, its sleepy Monday nightlife gradually awakening.

At that exact moment, I was listening to the song Ever After by Carrie Underwood from the Disney movie, Enchanted. What can I say? The sun was setting, I just had an incredible massage, and I am loved.

I was so stunned and flooded with joy that I LIVE HERE! I HAVE A LIFE HERE! I had to pull over and stare at the skyline, staring at the colors in the sky, the lights of the city, and my heart was singing. Birds were twittering.

Any hesitation I may have had about calling this old friend after missing our anniversary vanished, because I had just had my I-LOVE-MINNEAPOLIS! anniversary moment, a goofy grin from my old friend, Bud.

Brian did not answer with Creepy-Old-Lady voice, which I was half-expecting.

“HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!” I yelled into the phone. “IT’S OUR ANNIVERSARY!”

Brian laughed and said softly, “Yesh.”

We talked for a few moments but he was eating dinner so we promised to talk soon, a promise I am sure now I will keep. I learned a few things about myself this past weekend and how I can let important people slip away. I know we have lots to catch-up on and hope more yet to experience together. We both love 30Rock with a freaky passion and while the-falling-in-love-with-30Rock happened at different times and not-quite-together, it means there’s a part of us that still really ‘gets’ each other.

“You were on my mind this weekend, Brian.” I told him.

“I think you mean your MIND-grapes.” he corrected me in a Tracy Jordan imitation.

And THEN it was the perfect Minneapolis moment.

Happy Anniversary, Bud, and thanks for Brian.

Bud nods.

I know people talk to their plants, say loving things and tell them to ‘grow, Honey, into that leafy emerald goddess,’ and I think that’s sweet. If I were some shy Minnesota houseplant yearning for a little more sunny goodness from November - May, those words might be comforting. Uplifting, even.

So, I’m just saying, I know it’s not weird to talk to your plants. Or sing to them. I’m sure I will some day.

However, I talk to the yard plants as if I were their CEO and they are my employees. I’m not sure it’s normal to threaten downsizing for some of the underperformers and talk to the desirable plants as if there are advancement opportunities if they just show up a little on the weekends.

It started normally enough, I guess - just a quarterly meeting, really.

I would chat with them about last quarter’s harsh Spring - the numbers were NOT good - and how “second quarter is really our big time of the fiscal year to move product.” I swing my arms with a little energy, like it’s an off-site meeting in a Hilton conference room. “So, let’s all get geared up for Photosynthesis ‘08! We’ve got Marketing putting together some great slogans!”

I think they’re responsive. My yard plants are definitely proactive and love to think outside the box.

Well, some of them do. But there are non-team players, like Charlie.

Creeping Charlie.

I’ve tried to have his ass fired from Backyard, Inc. so many times and yet he always manages to get in good with Human Resources; he makes me out to be the big-bad middle-manager trying to crush his career goal of racing throughout the lawn. Surprise, Charlie, you shouldn’t have take the front-yard-account away from me, because now I’m using my fiscal ‘09 budget to hire some outside consultants who specialize in organic removal. Outside. Consultants. That’s how far you pushed me.

In the mornings, even days usually, I tour the Raspberry Factory. I nod approvingly but with a slightly haughty demeanor. The hard-workin’ Joes who are busy producing squishy, crimson fruit like to see the Big Boss wandering around every now and then, nodding at their blossoming performance.

It motivates them.

Our nearest competitor is Rose, who is an amazing gardener. She lives next door (and no, she’s not a plant-metaphor-thing. She’s real. I just didn’t think about how confusing that would be when I started this post.) Years ago, Rose planted these pencil thin twigs against the rustic, wooden fence joining our two lots.

“Trust me.” she said.

I was skeptical.

Now they’re an impossibly thick arch - hundreds of bright pink roses, literally hundreds. She trained them up and over the gate, so walking through that fushia foliage is like a like being the prize-winning horse at the Kentucky Derby. It’s intoxicating and my heart swells every single time.

Rose isn’t a competitor anymore, she’s a strategic alliance. A resource partner. She tells me things, organic cures and such, and tonight I offered her some impatiens, a lateral career move for a eight-pack of seedlings who felt they would have better advancement opportunities over there. Good luck, guys. Remember what they say about the grass being greener.

After processing some common weeds and filing them under N for Nuisance (hey, it’s my filing system and it works. I can find anything). I often do an onsite at the satellite office - the window box out front. Later, I retire to the corporate housing, through the exclusive C-level entrance, the deck. It’s an entrance the majority of the employees of Backyard, Inc. never get to use.

And the unfortunate few who DO make it to the deck are decapitated on their stems and their bodies are proudly displayed in a vase on the plastic table on said deck. Everyone in the backyard can see their pink-slipped coworkers, bobbing in water.

There is often a nice green tablecloth to soften the blow of their stolen comrades, but nevertheless I know it’s upsetting to the ranks of Backyard, Inc. because these on the table in the vase - they were the yard’s star performers. Why did they deserve this? How did this happen?

Corporate politics are so confusing, sometimes.

I do worry about how much my corporate career has seeped through my life.

The Mighty Corporate World is like a mission-statement/religion I did not intend to worship, these metaphors and crumbly phrases conveying mirthy acceptance of an adequate life. Not great, but adequate. We all know that the ones tossing around the catch phrase, ‘think outside the box’ couldn’t get out if the box was on fire and the only path was littered with cool, blue diamonds.

I can’t watch the TV show, The Office.

It makes me sick to my stomach. I know, I know…it’s funny. I have seen parts that make me laugh out loud. It’s not the show, it’s me. When I laugh at something funny in The Office, it’s like laughing when I have a toothache and have forgotten that the rush of air inside my mouth is about to jangle a nerve in about 1.1 - NOW, actually. Ow.

It’s not funny to me, I guess, because it’s too damn familiar. I feel like someone should pay me to watch that show because it’s like being at work. Make no mistake - my coworkers were awesome. Not nearly as dim or obtuse.

But I worked as a consultant for 17 years which means I have actually worked for roughly 100 companies and I watched them operate. The gi-normous bunglings! The insane decision-making! Plants are often mindless and seemingly vicious in their competition to survive, but at least they produce beautiful flowers sometimes while doing so.

I take this confusing mind-clutter out on the backyard, my strange language, mental constructs. I think it dehumanizes me when I think of the backyard as a Venn diagram of resources and time and garden space. I am not entirely grateful for that kind of thought process.

And some days when I’m forgetful of Corporate America, I do chatter mindlessly to the plants, saying supportive things like a motivational coach instead of a boss. Sometimes I work through fiction-writing problems with them, talking about how ‘if this character does this…how will he get over here…’ and they listen without giving advice because I didn’t really want advice. I wanted someone to listen. We’re colleagues in these moments, when I soften my brain and consider their beauty.

I think that’s why the Creeping Charlie never quite gets canned, year after year. I’ll be growling about their following the wrong incentivizing program maximizing market share - and then suddenly I will see them all waggling in a breeze, winking neon purple smiles and I remember that beautiful maxim: weeds don’t know that they’re not flowers.

Oh. Okay.

Right.

This isn’t one of those things where I have to win…I have to co-create. Right. I do that sometimes with the universe - we create stuff together. This is one of those times, huh?

If I can just soften my brain from some of the corporate mindset that I seem to have adopted, I am softer to them, maybe softer to myself as well.

Maybe they will invite me to the company picnic this year.

When I tour the Raspberry Factory, I will appreciate their beauty, plump red blobs bobbing in salutation. And I will try to remember that life can be less about productivity/efficiency and a little more about laying in the grass with my hands behind my head and casually saying to the nearest vegetation, “Enough about me. What would you guys like to talk about?”

No shit.

While visiting my pal Ann last week in Iowa City, I picked up Friday’s paper. We had just finished snarfing down eggs and bacon at marginally famous Hamburg Inn and while waiting for Ann to emerge from the restaurant, a front page Iowa-Citizen newspaper picture caught my eye. The high school math teacher was wearing a wizard hat, hugging a student in a cat-in-the-hat uh…hat (there’s no good way around that phrasing) after victory at Regionals. Cute story.

While scanning the rest of the front page, the REAL news appeared in the top left column: a local man (John) had discovered Jesus - you got it - in the crinkles of a plastic bag holding groceries. Below are a few excerpts.

“…Two days later, when he (John) was resting on the couch, he said he looked over at the bag and saw the religious figures. The sunlight coming through the open blinds in the room helped create the image, he said.”

“He said he believes there is a head-to-toe image of the Virgin Mary on the right side of the bag and the face of Jesus on the left.”

Apparently John captured the image on his cell phone camera and has been eagerly showing it around town. People gaped in wonder and awe. Over 300 have now seen it. But he can no longer show anyone the original bags anymore. Why not, you ask?

“I guess my friend or I must have picked it up or thrown it away,” John said.

This miraculous appearance led Ann and I to speculate on several important issues:

* Why were groceries he purchased from Walmart sitting on the table for two days? Were there perishables? What if there was cottage cheese or milk involved in this purchase?

* Why did he - after discovering the miraculous nature of these items - throw away the bags? Or maybe “his friend” did it. Uh…John. Take ownership, buddy. C’mon.

* Why didn’t the newspaper include a picture of the miraculous Walmart bags? It seems odd to run a story devoted to and centered around potential proof of God (or his family) and then not show the photo of said images.

* Seriously, what was in the bag that made him say, “I guess I should unpack these groceries now.” Oreos? Were they Double-Stuff? Because maybe they were put there by the devil.

In the car ride back to Ann’s place, we howled with laughter.

Poor Virgin Mary - little did she know that this mother-of-god gig would require her to make appearances in various oil slicks under Ford Escorts and also in pecan rolls outside Knoxville, Tennessee. I wonder if the Angel who gave Mary the “Blessed art thou amongst all women…” speech made full disclosure? It would have to be something like, “Oh yeah…and centuries after you’re presumed dead you’ll be appearing in parking lots and on Walmart bags.”

Mary must have hesitated for just a moment and then asked, “What’s a parking lot?”

I found this whole article supremely hilarious until I got home, visited my own website, and noticed that I had devoted a whole mess-o-words to a $1.79 bag of ice sent by mystical loving powers of the universe.

Huh.

Suddenly making fun of John’s Walmart bags wasn’t so amusing.

I wonder why it’s so hard for me to believe someone else’s faith experience. I sure struggle with that. I can believe some curious coincidences in my life have deeper significance. Of course they do! Even if they are not exactly physical representations of dieties, I often ponder if this is the “universe communicating” through physical objects, through people I love, through angry drivers trying to make illegal turns at red lights. I have no problem wondering about THAT.

And yet…someone else shares their experience of God or Goddess, of Buddha or their own Mohammad…and I’m rolling my eyes thinking, ‘Ah, here comes the big delusion.’

Why am I so stingy in this regard?

Faith does not always come easy for me. I stomped on it for many years, believing it to be an antiquated shackle left over from humanity’s collective fear of death. And after turning my back on the ‘hard sell’ of life-after-death mythology, what need had I of faith?

What a surprise, years later, to find in me a babbling brook of eager, happy faith, flowing towards a destination I did not see nor understand. What the hell was I supposed to do with THAT? I remember being surprised and confused that this faith didn’t require me feeling like I am a shitty person or a convoluted belief system taxing me to believe I’m going to hell for various impossible reasons. This faith was…refreshing. Literally, refreshing. Invigorating. It filled me with gentle power and humility, instead of over-blown righteousness and obsequious submission.

Well, clearly I’m still working on ‘righteousness.’

And I still don’t have the answers. I don’t really expect to get them in this lifetime. I’m cool with that. Really. Who knew that I could have faith without knowing its final destination? Besides, I wouldn’t trust anyone trying to sell me life-after-death religious insurance. Yet why is it so hard for me to trust someone else’s experience of divine intervention just because it was not the exact same as mine?

I hope I can use this Iowa City newspaper to remember that the universe probably doesn’t work through everyone the exact same way. John, if you’re reading this (and being that the universe and the Virgin Mary collaborate in mysterious ways, perhaps you are) I’m sorry I doubted your experience of the Walmart bags.

If I were still in Iowa City, I would invite you to the Hamburg Inn and you could show me the pics on your cell phone. Over eggs, perhaps I could ask you questions about your faith. And really, you should try the biscuits and gravy. They’re quite good.