On Any Random Sunday

22 Nov


On any random Sunday, you might wake up and find yourself feeling blue; looking for hope in a cup of coffee. The piece of apple caramel pound cake is also hopeful, or so you find it, on this particular, random Sunday.

On any random Sunday, you might find that you are out of tea. Your partner is still asleep, but when he awakens he will surely seek a cup. You realize the closest place to buy tea is that store– one of those stores with the word Dollar in its name, but it isn’t an “everything for a dollar” store–that store you usually avoid. The store where the clientele look like they are only in the store because they took a wrong turn on their way to the methadone clinic–or so you might think, but you don’t like to judge, at least not on this random Sunday.

You might, on any random Sunday, drive to that store you do not like– not just because of the clientele, who you do not judge, but mostly because the place is crammed full with too much “stuff” and the aisles are tiny. When you enter the store, you might find yourself overwhelmed by displays of ceramic fall foliage and pumpkins jammed into shelf after shelf of wrapping paper, tree decorations and other Yuletide paraphernalia. It is like Christmas threw up all over Autumn.

On any random Sunday, especially on a Sunday just past mid-November, especially the Sunday that falls randomly before Thanksgiving, you might find yourself bemused by how quickly a year can pass. You might recall good intentions for the year that never came to pass, at least not beyond the part where you were good at intending but at implementation, not so much.

You might, therefore, find yourself entertaining regret. You might offer regret a cup of tea. You might consider that a good host would also offer regret a slice of apple caramel cake. But you don’t.

Instead–and this is highly recommended–you might send regret on its way. Instead you might brew a cup of hopeful coffee and seek another slice of apple caramel pound cake for yourself.

Then you might should eat the cake without regret; for surely cake and regret are never to go together-not on any random Sunday. Not ever.

Cat Zen Space

18 Oct


Happy Sunday!

Coming Out: now and then

30 Jun


The first production of  the Jacksonville Coming Out Monologues opened at Kent Campus of Florida State College on June 29, 2012. 

Being part of this community-grown project was truly a life changing experience for me and for many others. Happily, the show in 2012 was only the beginning. I have been honored and inspired to have been a part of this remarkable project, both on stage and behind the scenes, for four years now.

The Coming Out Monologues 2015 was performed this past weekend. Opening a show like the Coming Out Monologues on the same day the Supreme Court made their historic ruling making same sex marriage the law of the land, was serendipitous to infinity. And what an amazing cast of storytellers! I am so happy to have met each and every one of them and am so blessed to have them as friends. 

For a taste of what the 2015 COM was all about, check out Kyle’s blog: My Coming Out Monologue. Kyle is both witty and wise, so you owe it to yourself to click the link and check his wonderful monologue. 


All of this COM love sent me on a rainbow walk down memory lane to the very first Coming Out Monologues, at Florida State College Kent Campus.

Although I have written about COM in previous blogs, I have never shared my monologue from that first show. I’d like to remedy that today–the 4th anniversary of the final performance of the first production of Jacksonville Coming Out Monologue. And here it is:

August 1958: I came into the world 12 days after the birth of Madonna.

That may be the gayest sentence I have ever said out loud in my life.

Like most children of my generation, I learned early that homosexuals were terrible, scary people.  I just wanted to be loved, so, there was no way I could ever be one of “them.”

There may have been gay liberation somewhere, but I grew up in Jacksonville. I’m pretty sure the Stonewall riots weren’t covered by the Times-Union.

My father died when I was six. So, when it came time to teach me the facts of life, my mother gave me a book: David Reuben’s Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex but Were Afraid to Ask.  I raced to my bedroom, closed the door and immediately turned to the chapter on homosexuality.

The book said gay men live loveless lives spent in public restrooms, writing notes on toilet paper and “playing footsie” under the stall. Dr. Reuben said a homosexual has to get his fun where he finds it since Mother Nature didn’t see fit to give him a vagina.

            By then I knew I was attracted to other boys but I definitely didn’t have vagina envy, so I was clearly not a homosexual.

In high school, I began keeping a journal. Even though I recorded my most intimate thoughts, my desire for other boys was the love that dare not write its name. I knew what I felt, but I refused to admit what it meant. I wrote in my journal about girls I told myself I wanted and expressed frustration that whenever I got close to a girl, we always wound up being “just friends.”

I also wrote about boys—guys who triggered desire I wouldn’t accept, so I channeled the feelings into an emotion I could process–jealousy. I was jealous because more than anything, I wanted to be like other boys who I thought were normal in ways that I feared I would never be.

I was a virgin when I left for college and during the next 2 years I went on exactly one date with a girl.  While I was writing frantic journal entries, pining for a girlfriend, I was engaging in activities I didn’t dare document—furtive, random hook-ups with other men that left me feeling empty and even more alone.

Since I really didn’t enjoy these trysts, I couldn’t really be gay.

I’ve never been particularly athletic, but I am a Gold Medal winner in the sport of mental gymnastics.

In 1977 Anita Bryant went on national television and said, “If gays are granted rights, next we’ll have to give rights to prostitutes and to people who sleep with St. Bernards and to nail biters.” I have no idea what Anita had against nail biters, but Anita was yet another warning that I had better keep this whole gay thing under wraps.

While I was busy keeping secrets in my own head, I made a secret deal with myself.  I couldn’t and wouldn’t decide if I was really gay, until I experienced sex with a woman.

Fall 1978, I took a class on The Novel and in that class was a woman I couldn’t take my eyes off of. She looked like a Cuban Carly Simon. For the sake of the story, I’ll call her H. I plotted excuses to strike up a conversation with her. I even had a pre-rehearsed line:  “I’ve never read Virginia Woolf before, so Orlando is a real revelation to me.”

Note to anyone who wants to woo a girl who’s an English major with a Women’s Studies minor–this line works like a charm!

After class we walked together and talked about literature and life. The fact that we were both left handed Virgos seemed to take on cosmic meaning.

Besides astrology, H was also into Tarot cards and she insisted on giving me a reading. She laid out the cards and then predicted that I would soon meet someone who would change my life. I was beginning to think I already had.

November 27, 1978–I lost my virginity (heterosexually speaking.) Afterwards, H said, “Are you going to write about this in your journal?” and we both laughed.

And then I went back to my dorm and wrote about it my journal.

 H consulted her astrologer about me. The astrologer warned H that a high percentage of Virgo males, born in 1958, were gay.  Really? I blame Madonna.

Spring break 1979, H stayed in Tallahassee while I came home to Jacksonville. During the break, feeling lonely and horny, on a whim I visited a gay club. I was bored as soon as I got there and I nearly left, but then I saw him. His name was Ray and he was different from any of the other men I had met.

I spent the rest of Spring break being wooed by Ray–we went out for Chinese food; we went to the movies; and spent time at the beach, where we found an abandoned kite.

When I returned to Tallahassee after the break, I had no idea what I was going to do.  Ray and I had not made any commitments. I wasn’t even sure I’d ever see him again, but I knew everything was different now.

Just like the Tarot reading said, I had met someone who had changed my life.

What was I going to tell H?

I called her. H sounded odd and declined an invitation to have dinner. When I called her, the next day, she cut me off in the middle of a sentence. She said she was listening to a Lou Reed album and wanted to hear ‘Walk on the Wild Side’ so she had to go. Two hours later, she called to wish my roommate a Happy Birthday, and when he asked her if she wanted to speak to me, she said, “Not really.”

Did she suspect? How could she know? Was it that damned astrologer?! I still blame Madonna!

After two days of silence, I ran into H on campus. She looked me in the eye and said the four scariest words in the English language: “We have to talk.”

We sat down and I waited for her to say something. By now, I was prepared for the worst.

Finally, she spoke: “I’m having an affair,” she said, “with a woman.

This is how I described the next moment, when I wrote about it in my journal:

I told H that her confession had made it much easier for me to confess something I needed to tell her: I have been having an affair with a man. (My God, I’ve actually written it!)

After all of the mental gymnastics and then finally meeting a man I thought I might love—it still had to come down to this. The moment I wrote it in my journal was the moment that I truly, finally came out to myself.

H told me not to label myself but to be open to this new love. And I was.

I did see Ray again. In fact, today, decades later, Ray and I are still together. I’m still keeping a journal too, but thanks to H and Ray, I’ve stopped keeping secrets from myself.

I guess I had always known it would take the love of a good woman to teach me to accept the good love of a man.

A gray day spent well is brilliant

22 Mar

catzen.jpgSometimes when the day is overcast and dreary, like today, I hate it. But other times, I let go of my judgement and simply enjoy what’s there.

The gray of the day feels like a texture.

The day seems laden with stories. Everywhere you look, the houses, the duplex apartments, the empty storefronts–all are draped in the gray blanket of the day and you
can sense, just beneath the surface, each place is rich with stories.

This is a day that demands a fireplace, if you have one. (I should totally have a fireplace!)

There should be wine (now, that I have) and music (Mozart or Billie Holiday, I dunno–something!…)

Sip wine while staring at the flames, silently listening and deciphering the stories cloaked in the code of the crackling fire.

Even a day uphostered in dreary gray can be brilliant. In the way that being fully present in the moment–either by design or startling inspiration–is brilliant. For
each moment is a story and each moment carries its story into the next moment, joining all stories into one amazing volume (or tapestry, or–insert preferred metaphor

The wine in my glass has a story. It is a pomegranate wine from Armenia–how could it not have a story?!

I have a story. Sometimes I think I have a million of them. My own story and stories I have imagined.

I was born in Dothan, AL, the son of a peanut farmer and his wife. Or, more precisely, I was born in Dothan, AL, the son of a
peanut product company salesman and his wife.

Either version, there is much more to the story than those few simple details.

A man, a woman, a baby and some peanuts. Most importantly, there were peanuts.

Some days I fear I am out of stories; sad that the arranging and rearranging of words (and punctuation–there must be punctuation!) may be a lost art to me. My mind a
sieve, the stories slip from my cranium, dripping into my hands for the sole purpose of slipping through my fingers, then falling to the floor.

No matter how hard I may try to scoop them up from the floor, declaring the 3 second rule as I attempt to bring the words back together, the stories pool up, quickly
regroup and then slither away.

Where do they go? Do they wind up with some other, somehow more deserving writer? Perhaps a writer who has a fireplace…?

If there can’t be a fireplace, there should at least be a loft–at least one story up, in a city (Paris would be nice. New York or San Francisco are also more than
acceptable) with large windows and an easy chair or a divan or a day bed–something on which you can sprawl, right by the window, with a truly amazing book, and a
glass of wine (that wine travels well, no matter what the tale…) distracted from the pages of the most excellent book, only as the gray of the day fades into night,
causing the lights of the city to ignite, like a fire. (Not necessarily a fire in a fireplace, but some other good kind of fire, you know?)

The glorious view provides the perfect punctuation (for there must be punctuation!) for the day.

A cloudy, dreary day.

Present moments strung together, shining like the lights of the city, viewed from the window of a loft, while reading a book about drinking wine in front of a
fireplace. The stories. The crackle of the flames.

The city lights through the loft window or the warm glow from the fireplace reveal a spot, previously unnoticed, where the stories that have hit the floor have left a
residue made up of words that were left behind when a story slipped through fingers and then escaped. Perhaps these words were slower than the rest and got left
behind. Perhaps these are rebellious words who simply refused to leave.

By the florescent light of the kitchen, I gather the words carefully. All words are salvagable.

I will go locate some punctuation and see what can be made.

A gray day, with clouds, well spent, is brilliant, like the present moment, fully noticed, whether by design or sudden inspiration, is brilliant.

Winter Will Be the Death of Me Yet

9 Jan


We had “snow flurries” yesterday.

Floridians call that “a near blizzard” and I am sure there are some enterprising souls who will be expecting their employer to declare a “snow day” today. But they won’t. They will expect everyone to scrounge around in the back of their closets, find something that will serve as a winter coat, bundle up and come on in to work.

Employers are like that—wanting you to show up for work and stuff.

I used to have a job that required me to travel to Maryland–often in January or February, as luck would have it. I stayed in a hotel that was less than a half a mile from the office.

One night it snowed big time. When I got up, there was white as far as the eye could see! It was hard to distinguish my rental car from all of the other big snow lumps in the parking lot because all of the cars were completely covered. “Oh, heck no!” I exclaimed–I am sure this had all the makings of a “snow day.”

Surely my employer will not open their offices today!

So I called the “Incliment Weather Hotline” with baited breath. The recording answered. A man’s voice recited the
date and then advised that the office would be open and said that everything is “business as usual.”

Business as usual?

Business as usual?! Has this guy even looked out his window? How is anyone expected to get to work under these conditions? A person could freeze to death or go snow blind (not sure what that is) or get snow sickness (might be making that one up) or something!

It is a good thing the rental car people had the forethought to provide me with a scraper-thing to clear my windshield. You can’t even buy one of those in Florida. You can buy pecan logs and gator repellent in Florida, but the scraper thing? Forget it!

As I was scraping the glaciers from the windows of the car, I felt the urge to share the experience with a friend.

“I know,” I thought (and it is a wonder I could think at all because you really would have thought my brain would have frozen solid by this point,) “I will call my friend and co-worker back in Florida–the one who grew up in New York, but was smart enough to move to Florida some years back.”

It is a miracle I was able to dial my friend’s desk phone–I don’t know how cell phones can even work in such bitter cold. Don’t the cells freeze up? I guess not because her voicemail answered.

After the beep I said, “Hey, Terri, this is Bill. And this is the sound of me scraping the ice off of my fucking windshield!” Scrape! Scrape! Scrape! said the scraper as I attacked the ice with all of my Flordian might.

When my friend got to work and listened to my message, she laughed and laughed.

Then she forwarded the message to HR and filed a formal complaint about me leaving obscenities on her voicemail.

True story! Except that last part about her forwarding the message and the formal complaint. She would never have ratted me out to those goons in HR!

After I got the windows cleared–all the while feeling just like William H.Macy in “Fargo”, I began the trecherous quarter of a mile journey to the office. While I was driving, I listened to local radio. The morning banter zoo crew people were going on and on about the weather and then they mentioned two things I had never heard of in my life:

  1. Did you know that car doors can freeze shut? Not helpful I am learning about this after I am alreay on the road. If I had had more advanced notice, I could have used this as an excuse not to go into the office. I bet those bastards would have expected me to walk! “It’s only a quarter mile…” Have they no heart?!
  2. Then they explained about the scariest cold thing of all. Have you heard of this “black ice”? It seems that sometimes during the day the snow starts to melt, but when it gets dark (which it does in the frozen north at like, 3:30pm) and the temperatures drop to below freezing (below freezing!) the melting snow–especially the snow on the roads under overpasses, freezes into sheets of ice that look for all the world like normal, la dee da, go ahead and drive as fast as you want road surface.

So your car slides, spins, maybe even rolls over–and you DIE!

That was many years ago, but I am pretty sure that is what they said–“If you drive on black ice, Bill, you will DIE!”

So of course I just assumed my employer would let me leave work well before sundown because they cared about my safety, right? Not so much, as it turns out.

Not only did they make me drive a full quarter of a mile to the office in post-blizzard conditions, they also did not let me leave early. I didn’t get out of there before 5PM. And, as I have already established, it was dark.

Time for the Black Ice to rise up and menace the innocent!

I white knuckled my way back to my motel. As I traversed inch upon inch of road on that harrowing quarter of a mile journey from Hell, I was convinced that at any moment the black ice was going to reach up and grab my rental car (I knew I should have taken that extra insurance!) and throw the vehicle, with me in it, into a dark, cold ravine.

Where I would DIE.

I don’t really know if there were any revines between the office and the hotel, but at that moment, as I was being terrorized by the sinister black ice, I was pretty sure that I knew exactly how that soccer team felt–you know, the ones who crash landed in the Andes Mountains who had to survive by eating their dead comrades.

Just like them, I was cold, I was scared and boy, was I hungry!

Fortunately the hotel had a happy hour buffet–after a few pigs in a blanket and two for one beers, I regained my normal intrepid composure.

And that is what winter means to me.

I had best scrounge around in my closet and find that winter coat because I need to get to work. I can only pray that those snow flurries did not freeze into black ice. At least I can take some comfort in the fact that between my house and the office, there are no ravines.

Happy Friday everyone. Stay warm!

Purge or Accommodate? That is the question.

8 Jan catzen blue

Maybe it is the sink or swim transition from “The Holidays” to regular routine; maybe it is the weather; maybe it is a bi-product of my advancing years–what ever it is, I am in a really crabby mood.

It came on like a slow fog, enveloping my being and then just settling into the corner of my mind where my outlook resides.

Not the email kind of outlook–perhaps I should have chosen a better, less confusing term–thank you, Microsoft!–but it is early and cold and I am swimming in my stream of consciousness–I don’t really have the time or the inclination to consult a thesaurus.

You know, outlook–perspective, the way I look at things, the View Master of my soul, my world view goggles.

Point of view not so happy.

I need to find a way to work through this.

I have found that sometimes if you take the time to listen, life will send you messages, telling you the things you really need to know.

Hopefully at this hour, life will not repeat its familiar refrain of, “Reach for the Jim Beam.” That would be cruel. Life knows I gave up bourbon for breakfast last Lent. To tempt me now would just be wrong.

Life, I am listening.


Really listening…

PATIENTLY listening…

What’s that, life?

My f-ing Drop Box is full?!

Unless this is a metaphor–and if it is, I don’t want to consider what my metaphorical “Drop Box” might be–I do not find this helpful.

Wait. Could it be that the “Drop Box” is anything you’ve had enough of?

That just popped into my head this very minute, after I swallowed a big gulp of coffee. And a little ran down my chin and that annoyed me and then BAM–insight!

I used to have a lot of insights when I drank breakfast bourbon but most of them just made me late for work. Coffee is a little more productive.

So how do you make more room in your “Drop Box”? You delete files. PURGE FILES–yes, yes, yes!

Wait–I might need that file. No, not that one, the other one. Only I probably need the first one too. No, I am saving those pictures for a rainy day. People pay money for pictures like those–especially if they are in the pictures, if you know what I mean…

“Purge files” seems like such a powerful message—I really will have to meditate on that.

Of course, you can have unlimited space in your Drop Box if you pay a little money to the right entity. Maybe that is the real message here:

Pay money to the right entity if you want your Drop Box to be more accommodating.

That is a very powerful, albeit somewhat disturbing message. So much to think about!

Let’s summarize this valuable message from Life:

Purge your Drop Box and do what it takes to make your Drop Box more accommodating.

I think that is what life is trying to say.

Let’s say that is what it is saying.

That’s what I think. Yes. Just sayin’…

I hope we all learned a valuable lesson today and if not a valuable lesson, maybe a helpful tip.

As you go through your day today ask yourself:

Is this going to make my Drop Box too full?

What can I do today to make my Drop Box more accommodating?

Will I have to purge first, or should I just pay money to some entity to expand my Drop Box so that my Drop Box becomes limitless?

Wishing you and your Drop Box much happiness today.

OH, By all means, feel free to take selfies with your Drop Box and forward them on to Cat Zen Space. My Drop Box loves to accommodate compromising  tantalizing photos I can cash in on  enjoy some rainy day…

Happy Thursday!

Let’s Get Perspective!

6 Jan

Monday was everything I expected it to be–chaotic and non-stop busy. Not too bad, actually.

I think sometimes I enjoy a little chaos.

I wasn’t so keen on waking up this morning.

Before my alarm went off, the cat advised me it was time for me to get my “furless butt out of bed,” as it was time for breakfast. The cat convinces me to get up by sitting on my chest and then patting my face with his paw. He even pats my mouth, as if to say, “this is the hole breakfast goes into. Now get up and give me something to put in my face hole!”

Animals have such a way with words, don’t they?

Once she knows I am alert, or at least conscious, it is time for the dog to remind me that she wants to go for her morning walk. She has a special bark that says, “I want to go out and I want to go out now, please!” If I ignore her she crawls up on my pillow and sits on my head. The dog weighs 70lbs, so this tactic is bound to get me stirring.

Animals have a way with non-verbal communication too.

When the dog and I ventured out into the cool, dark morning, I noticed that the street seemed especially dark. Then I realized the street lights were out as far as they eye could see. (I say “the eye” because at that hour, pre-coffee, I only have enough strength to have one eye open.)

Further down the street, I could see lights and the general hub bub that indicates the electric company is working their magic on an electrical pole. It was dark and cold and some poor guy had to not only get out of bed–he had to climb into a cherry picker and play with live electrical wires. (I hope he at least had both eyes open.)

God bless the electric company. (And not just that Rita Moreno show that used to be on PBS, but the real electric company too. And Rita Moreno and friends also.)

Today, I am told (because I don’t really remember when this happened) is “traditionally” believed to be the birthday of Joan Van Ark. She was born in like, 1412 or something. She is a heroine of France, a Roman Catholic saint and, of course, played Valerie Ewing on Falcon Crest.

Wait–that can’t be right. Surely I have some of my facts mixed up here. OH–of course, Valerie Ewing wasn’t on Falcon Crest–she was a character on Knots Landing! What a faux pax! My apologies.

Anyway, I heard she was burned at the stake. Very sad.

Also on this day in 1994 (and this I do remember) figure skater Nancy Kerrigan was clubbed in the knee with a police baton by some goon who had been hired by the husband of her skaing rival, Tonya Harding.

This incident is remembered primarily because of Nancy Kerrigan’s tearful response to the attack–“Why, why, why?”–a cry that would permeate the collective consciousness for decades to come.

I know I can be found at least once a week, at work, curled up under my desk, writhing and crying, “why, why, why?”  But of course, all of us have a similar tale to tell.

The really horrible aftermath of this event is that it made Tonya Harding famous and she just wouldn’t go away!

She didn’t get any medals at the Olympics, so you would have thought she would slink off quietly–but no! Just when you think  you have completely forgotten her, she pops up participating in some “celebrity” boxing match, or giving a “tell all” interview complaining about how crappy her life has been.

Maybe she should step back and get a little perspective.

Maybe Tonya would benefit from studying the life of Joan Van Arc. Joan was burned at the stake, Tonya! And you think you’ve got it so bad!

Life is so strange, is it not?

The coffee has kicked in and now both of my eyes are open. Time for me to dam up this stream of consciousness and ride off into the sunrise for another thrilling day in the world of gainful employment.

Have an awesome Tuesday.

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