The most mind-bogglingly ambiguous lyric in rock history.
Nothing else comes close.
We're not talking indecipherable or obscure, a la "sitting on a cornflake" or "nobody heard, not even the chair". We're talking multi-layered ambiguity in a coherent, grammatically-proper lyric that means something very specific. Or something else, perhaps. Or something else altogether? Or this other thing, maybe. Or...
Recorded by Yes for 1971's THE YES ALBUM, the song is a two-part composition. It starts with "Your Move", by Jon Anderson, which was released as a single. The version played on the radio however, almost invariably includes the second part, "I've Seen All Good People", by Chris Squire. All of Chris' lyrics are included in Anderson's section...and indeed, part of what makes this all so tantalizing is that the entire lyric of "I've Seen All Good People" is one single line. There are no surrounding words to give any kind of context, any kind of hint, as to what the hell it's supposed to mean. Nor does scrutiny of "Your Move" provide any seeming answers - the only thing one finds there are chess and Lennon allusions, in the general context of "might isn't necessarily right (or wise)". Once the "All Good People" lyrics take over, all we get is the following line, repeated over and over and over, in a descending spiral:
I've seen all good people turn their heads each day so satisfied I'm on my way
With perhaps intentional perversity, the album provides no punctuation to narrow the possible interpretations.
Is the message one of resignation? Did the singer expect people to turn their heads, and wasn't disappointed? He may have hoped for some other outcome, but that didn't happen, so he's accepting the inevitable apathy of "good people", which is perhaps a euphemism for the establishment?
Is the message one of disgust? Is it the people, not the singer, who are satisfied? Does the singer see self-satisfaction in the faces of all those who turn their heads, and so embraces misanthropy?
Or does it mean that all good people are satisfied the singer is on HIS way?
If so, does that satisfaction arise from knowing the singer is leaving? Or is it from knowing that he's "on his way" to the top?
None of these interpretations are a stretch. Can there be any doubt that this almost diabolical wordplay was Squire's intention? If one were inclined to stretch for more interpretations, how many more might we find? How many more have YOU found, driving alone in your car on a dark and late night, the radio your only friend?
Don't surround yourself with yourself...
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Friday, October 4, 2013
"Last Words"
-by George Carlin
(with Tony Hendra)
2009
You know those disclaimers reviewers write when they have some personal connection to their subject matter? I feel i ought write one. But my connection is simply the overwhelming sense of identification that i (and many millions more) have felt with George's material. Whatever nerve he touched, whatever vein he sourced, he's the only comedian who ever made me feel like i was listening to some funnier version of my own thoughts.
His career was towering, enduring, and unprecedented. His 60s work was impersonal and apolitical (even though he knew and adored Lenny Bruce, it took a long time for him to evolve in a similar direction). In the 70s, he realized he could be funnier if he mined the experiences of his own life, but it wasn't until the following decade that he let rip his more naked self. It was at this point that he leapt past the boundaries of stand-up to join a rarefied pantheon, along with Paine, Twain, Thoreau, King, and Mr. Bruce.
The book was culled from decades worth of association with Hendra (THIS IS SPINAL TAP), collecting material for what would be the crowning of George's career, a one-person (sorry, George) Broadway show about his life. He died a year or two shy of realizing that dream, but all the material is here. In that respect, it's much more personal than anything else he's written.
Reading the book, i'm struck with how alike George and i were, at the end. We took different paths to get here - he had a rougher youth, with larceny, military courts-martial, and decades of drug abuse. But at the end, when he sums up his understandings of life, it's an almost eerie mirror for me. He even invokes an alternate version of himself who is almost entirely me - the loner who works in anonymity, running around on no one's hamster wheel, writing his thoughts on his own time and sending them in accordingly.
Another difference between us is that he spent almost all his adult life married...which may be the reason why monogamy is the one glaring social ill he never railed against, even though he may have very much wanted to. Very few of us don't have to kiss somebody's ass, if only to keep domestic peace. If i presume too much, George, it's not without cause.
About drugs however, if i may make an observation hopefully worthy of him, we all use drugs in one form or another, and many of the distinctions between them are so much bullshit. At the most basic level, drugs alter our mind and take us out of our reality. In those terms, comedy is a much more literal drug than you've probably ever considered. In that respect, George Carlin was one of the greatest drugs that several generations of humanity ever ingested.
(with Tony Hendra)
2009
You know those disclaimers reviewers write when they have some personal connection to their subject matter? I feel i ought write one. But my connection is simply the overwhelming sense of identification that i (and many millions more) have felt with George's material. Whatever nerve he touched, whatever vein he sourced, he's the only comedian who ever made me feel like i was listening to some funnier version of my own thoughts.
His career was towering, enduring, and unprecedented. His 60s work was impersonal and apolitical (even though he knew and adored Lenny Bruce, it took a long time for him to evolve in a similar direction). In the 70s, he realized he could be funnier if he mined the experiences of his own life, but it wasn't until the following decade that he let rip his more naked self. It was at this point that he leapt past the boundaries of stand-up to join a rarefied pantheon, along with Paine, Twain, Thoreau, King, and Mr. Bruce.
The book was culled from decades worth of association with Hendra (THIS IS SPINAL TAP), collecting material for what would be the crowning of George's career, a one-person (sorry, George) Broadway show about his life. He died a year or two shy of realizing that dream, but all the material is here. In that respect, it's much more personal than anything else he's written.
Reading the book, i'm struck with how alike George and i were, at the end. We took different paths to get here - he had a rougher youth, with larceny, military courts-martial, and decades of drug abuse. But at the end, when he sums up his understandings of life, it's an almost eerie mirror for me. He even invokes an alternate version of himself who is almost entirely me - the loner who works in anonymity, running around on no one's hamster wheel, writing his thoughts on his own time and sending them in accordingly.
Another difference between us is that he spent almost all his adult life married...which may be the reason why monogamy is the one glaring social ill he never railed against, even though he may have very much wanted to. Very few of us don't have to kiss somebody's ass, if only to keep domestic peace. If i presume too much, George, it's not without cause.
About drugs however, if i may make an observation hopefully worthy of him, we all use drugs in one form or another, and many of the distinctions between them are so much bullshit. At the most basic level, drugs alter our mind and take us out of our reality. In those terms, comedy is a much more literal drug than you've probably ever considered. In that respect, George Carlin was one of the greatest drugs that several generations of humanity ever ingested.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
"Andromeda"
ANDROMEDA
2000-2005
"I SURVIVED ANDROMEDA".
Gotta be T-shirts out there somewhere.
Yes, campers, i watched it all. 110 episodes. Five seasons. More than classic TREK and classic GALACTICA - combined. Millions and millions and millions and millions of dollars, swirling down a commode set on permanent flush. This article ends with a marathon, but do NOT take that as a recommendation to watch it. This show had everything you could want. Everything, that is, except...
Writers?
Yeah, that would have been a good idea. Hire some writers. Theirs was an unremitting failure on both levels...the story supervisor was the ultimate absentee landlord, and the script writers cranked out turd after turd after turd. I gutted out the whole series because of dedication to the genre, plus the first two seasons' tease of faltering promise, but mostly because of the Roddenberry connection. Gene's name was in the title (though his contribution was only a few scribbles decades before), and Majel Barrett (every TREK incarnation ever) executive produced...so the possibility of TREK actor drop-ins coudn't be ignored. Alas, Majel either didn't recruit them, or they had the good sense to go spelunking that week. The only ones to appear are John de Lancie (a fine job in a couple flaccid outings) and Tony Todd.
ANDROMEDA is the queen of unresolved threads. Again and again, they toss out characters and story arcs that peter away into nothingness, very often illogically. Sometime in the third season, it all settles into unwatchable dreck, as the only idea the writing staff has after the banishment of story developer Robert Hewitt Wolfe (STAR TREK: DS9) is "Let's have Dylan get his Kirk on!" The ultimate failure of the show was in never making us care about the characters. They never showed us why these people became dedicated to one another. None of the friendships resonate, and too many motivations ring false.
The directors descended to the level of the writing. Again and again, the blocking reveals the hand of someone who has no understanding of how people actually behave in tense moments.
The show always starts with a new quote...which often disappears before you have time to actually read it! What, are they afraid we'll see through the so-so writing? The title credits finally settle for good in season 3 with a voiceover that begs to be mocked with a Crocodile Hunter "danger, danger, danger". The end-credits music is so grating you'll rush for the pre-emptive stop button every time. The blasters make a noise every time you activate them, which is perhaps the most unrealistic prop choice in the history of sci fi. And the performers?
KEVIN SORBO
-Dylan Hunt (110 episodes)
Executive producer Sorbo has the requisite presence for a series lead. It's a shame they couldn't find one for him. His costuming choice after the first few episodes feels a little "casual Friday". It's not as bad as the "Members Only" season of BUCK ROGERS, but it does make you go there. And is it possible i know more about Kevin's taste in women than i should? CASTING NOTICE: seeking females - tall, statuesque, caucasian, and ever-so-faintly horsey.
LISA RYDER
-Beka Valentine (109 episodes)
Passable.
LAURA BERTRAM
-Trance Gemini (109 episodes)
A delightful presence, almost masochistically defaced. Her original look, all blue with a fun tail, turned into a visual downer that mirrors her character's decline. Her final look reminds one of a second-rate Data from FIRST CONTACT.
GORDON MICHAEL WOOLVETT
-Seamus Harper (109 episodes)
Disastrous. Inconceivably, he usurps Michael Shanks (STARGATE: SG1) as the worst sci fi actor of all time. Imagine Neelix in the hands of a hack. Horribly overacted, yet somehow the writers kept thinking he was essential. You'll just want to walk through the screen, boot the director back to community theater, and tell Gordon, "Let's do another take, but this time give me less." Then you'll give the same direction for another take. And another. Sometime tomorrow, you'll have a usable performance. How much of the blame should be laid at his feet, is a good question. Certainly the writers thought they had him nailed, but they painfully didn't - nor were they able to produce lines that made us believe he's as intelligent as advertised. It takes 109 episodes to finally produce one scene that doesn't make you cringe.
LEXA DOIG
-Rommie (109 episodes)
Tantalizing. So much potential. The one character you almost really care about. You want her android story arc to be fascinating, but like everything else, it peters off into tortured limbo. The romance you keep waiting for between her and Dylan never happens. It should have been one of the key threads of the show. Part of this is understandable, as it takes about four final season episodes to realize that she's only being shot from the head up because...she's pregnant! Apparently, sabatoging his own series wasn't enough for father Shanks. By the time she fully returns, there's too little time to salvage anything. They scoot her off in the final scene, to leave Dylan alone on the bridge. You'll silently scream "WRONG, WRONG, WRONG".
KEITH HAMILTON COBB
-Tyr Anasazi (68 episodes)
Fine potential dribbled away. They had a chance to give us an insight into a different way of thinking, with this nietschean species. A race for whom self-interest is everything (overtly, not covertly like us). But instead of fleshing out that alternate paradigm, committing to it and making it consistent, perhaps imbuing Tyr with character growth...it all just piddles away.
STEVE BACIC
-Rhade (45 episodes)
A fine performance doomed by desultory writing.
BRENT STAIT
-Rev Bem (36 episodes)
A sweet performance of a well-conceived character. Allergies to the makeup ended his tenure early, but in the big picture, maybe his allergies were wiser than he.
BRANDY LEDFORD
-Doyle (20 episodes)
A last-season android fill-in who's not as awful as you fear.
NOT-WRETCHED-A-THON (season)
-The Sum of Its Parts (1)
Treading on well-trod ground, a pleasant enough meditation on matters of genuine science fiction - the crew receive an invitation from a supposedly-mythical collective of machines who live in the empty space between star systems. Their emissary assembles into sentience, and gets to know the crew. The collective's intentions are less munificent than advertised, however. The emissary circumvents its command to disassemble, and helps the crew escape. Guest star Matt Smith offers a lovely performance.
-Its Hour Come 'Round at Last (1)
This season 1 finale ups the ante, and the octane. Harper finds a lost file in the ship's A.I., which re-boots and perceives the new crew as intruders, while resuming an ancient mission into the heart of magog territory. The ship is boarded and the action is scorching, mostly because it imperils the cushiest conceit of all sci fi serials - the foreknowledge that no cast regular will die. But character after character gets creamed. On ANDROMEDA, this conceit is combined with the notion that a ship with a nominal crew of four thousand could be successfully run by six. Even though that first conceit will never feel more contrived than in the season 2 resumption, you may have to pick your jaw up after this one.
-Lava and Rockets (2)
The series' greatest burst of romantic/sexual chemistry, in an episode that features the three most resonant characters. Dylan is pursued by bounty hunters in an "appropriated" tourist barge with an outraged novice pilot (Kristin Lehman - JUDGING AMY). Under fire, the two of them come to appreciate each other. Tyr and Rommie search for them in the Maru. A little sexy, a little human, a little loosey goosey...
-The Lone and Level Sands (3)
Tight, compelling, and (most importantly) a sci fi serial idea that feels like something you've never seen...and you can't imagine why someone didn't think of it before. The Maru flees from pirates into deep space. They're rescued by a ship that Earth sent out centuries earlier, the Bellerophon. Equipped with the most powerful engine ever, of pre-slipstream design...meaning the faster-than-light travel comes with time distortion - to the crew, a journey of centuries has been measurable in years. The Maru unable to get home, they get caught up in a mutiny triggered by the knowledge that Earth is now a slave world. Rommie has a tantalizing romance with the ship's captain (TREK luminary Tony Todd - CANDYMAN, BEASTMASTER: THE EYE OF BRAXUS). A well-written story elevated by Todd's performance.
-The Unconquerable Man (3)
A passable little alternate reality exploration, as the original events of the story reverse, with Dylan dying and Rhade trying to resurrect the Commonwealth 300 years later.
-Day of Judgement, Day of Wrath (3)
An offering given the juice of sentimentality, in a marriage of STARGATE and ANDROMEDA (a second-rate series plus one that's sliding into third). Guest stars Michael Shanks and Christopher Judge play A.I. avatars in a death struggle. Not awful at all.
-The Heart of the Journey, part 1 (5)
Okay, actually kinda wretched. But it's worthwhile for feminist afficionados, as it's perhaps the only time in sci fi history that female regulars outnumber males on a starship crew. The writers play this up with an estrogen-enhanced slow-mo. There's also a blatant tribute to STAR WARS that would be sad if this series had worked, but in the context of a five-year failure, is kinda nice.
2000-2005
"I SURVIVED ANDROMEDA".
Gotta be T-shirts out there somewhere.
Yes, campers, i watched it all. 110 episodes. Five seasons. More than classic TREK and classic GALACTICA - combined. Millions and millions and millions and millions of dollars, swirling down a commode set on permanent flush. This article ends with a marathon, but do NOT take that as a recommendation to watch it. This show had everything you could want. Everything, that is, except...
Writers?
Yeah, that would have been a good idea. Hire some writers. Theirs was an unremitting failure on both levels...the story supervisor was the ultimate absentee landlord, and the script writers cranked out turd after turd after turd. I gutted out the whole series because of dedication to the genre, plus the first two seasons' tease of faltering promise, but mostly because of the Roddenberry connection. Gene's name was in the title (though his contribution was only a few scribbles decades before), and Majel Barrett (every TREK incarnation ever) executive produced...so the possibility of TREK actor drop-ins coudn't be ignored. Alas, Majel either didn't recruit them, or they had the good sense to go spelunking that week. The only ones to appear are John de Lancie (a fine job in a couple flaccid outings) and Tony Todd.
ANDROMEDA is the queen of unresolved threads. Again and again, they toss out characters and story arcs that peter away into nothingness, very often illogically. Sometime in the third season, it all settles into unwatchable dreck, as the only idea the writing staff has after the banishment of story developer Robert Hewitt Wolfe (STAR TREK: DS9) is "Let's have Dylan get his Kirk on!" The ultimate failure of the show was in never making us care about the characters. They never showed us why these people became dedicated to one another. None of the friendships resonate, and too many motivations ring false.
The directors descended to the level of the writing. Again and again, the blocking reveals the hand of someone who has no understanding of how people actually behave in tense moments.
The show always starts with a new quote...which often disappears before you have time to actually read it! What, are they afraid we'll see through the so-so writing? The title credits finally settle for good in season 3 with a voiceover that begs to be mocked with a Crocodile Hunter "danger, danger, danger". The end-credits music is so grating you'll rush for the pre-emptive stop button every time. The blasters make a noise every time you activate them, which is perhaps the most unrealistic prop choice in the history of sci fi. And the performers?
KEVIN SORBO
-Dylan Hunt (110 episodes)
Executive producer Sorbo has the requisite presence for a series lead. It's a shame they couldn't find one for him. His costuming choice after the first few episodes feels a little "casual Friday". It's not as bad as the "Members Only" season of BUCK ROGERS, but it does make you go there. And is it possible i know more about Kevin's taste in women than i should? CASTING NOTICE: seeking females - tall, statuesque, caucasian, and ever-so-faintly horsey.
LISA RYDER
-Beka Valentine (109 episodes)
Passable.
LAURA BERTRAM
-Trance Gemini (109 episodes)
A delightful presence, almost masochistically defaced. Her original look, all blue with a fun tail, turned into a visual downer that mirrors her character's decline. Her final look reminds one of a second-rate Data from FIRST CONTACT.
GORDON MICHAEL WOOLVETT
-Seamus Harper (109 episodes)
Disastrous. Inconceivably, he usurps Michael Shanks (STARGATE: SG1) as the worst sci fi actor of all time. Imagine Neelix in the hands of a hack. Horribly overacted, yet somehow the writers kept thinking he was essential. You'll just want to walk through the screen, boot the director back to community theater, and tell Gordon, "Let's do another take, but this time give me less." Then you'll give the same direction for another take. And another. Sometime tomorrow, you'll have a usable performance. How much of the blame should be laid at his feet, is a good question. Certainly the writers thought they had him nailed, but they painfully didn't - nor were they able to produce lines that made us believe he's as intelligent as advertised. It takes 109 episodes to finally produce one scene that doesn't make you cringe.
LEXA DOIG
-Rommie (109 episodes)
Tantalizing. So much potential. The one character you almost really care about. You want her android story arc to be fascinating, but like everything else, it peters off into tortured limbo. The romance you keep waiting for between her and Dylan never happens. It should have been one of the key threads of the show. Part of this is understandable, as it takes about four final season episodes to realize that she's only being shot from the head up because...she's pregnant! Apparently, sabatoging his own series wasn't enough for father Shanks. By the time she fully returns, there's too little time to salvage anything. They scoot her off in the final scene, to leave Dylan alone on the bridge. You'll silently scream "WRONG, WRONG, WRONG".
KEITH HAMILTON COBB
-Tyr Anasazi (68 episodes)
Fine potential dribbled away. They had a chance to give us an insight into a different way of thinking, with this nietschean species. A race for whom self-interest is everything (overtly, not covertly like us). But instead of fleshing out that alternate paradigm, committing to it and making it consistent, perhaps imbuing Tyr with character growth...it all just piddles away.
STEVE BACIC
-Rhade (45 episodes)
A fine performance doomed by desultory writing.
BRENT STAIT
-Rev Bem (36 episodes)
A sweet performance of a well-conceived character. Allergies to the makeup ended his tenure early, but in the big picture, maybe his allergies were wiser than he.
BRANDY LEDFORD
-Doyle (20 episodes)
A last-season android fill-in who's not as awful as you fear.
NOT-WRETCHED-A-THON (season)
-The Sum of Its Parts (1)
Treading on well-trod ground, a pleasant enough meditation on matters of genuine science fiction - the crew receive an invitation from a supposedly-mythical collective of machines who live in the empty space between star systems. Their emissary assembles into sentience, and gets to know the crew. The collective's intentions are less munificent than advertised, however. The emissary circumvents its command to disassemble, and helps the crew escape. Guest star Matt Smith offers a lovely performance.
-Its Hour Come 'Round at Last (1)
This season 1 finale ups the ante, and the octane. Harper finds a lost file in the ship's A.I., which re-boots and perceives the new crew as intruders, while resuming an ancient mission into the heart of magog territory. The ship is boarded and the action is scorching, mostly because it imperils the cushiest conceit of all sci fi serials - the foreknowledge that no cast regular will die. But character after character gets creamed. On ANDROMEDA, this conceit is combined with the notion that a ship with a nominal crew of four thousand could be successfully run by six. Even though that first conceit will never feel more contrived than in the season 2 resumption, you may have to pick your jaw up after this one.
-Lava and Rockets (2)
The series' greatest burst of romantic/sexual chemistry, in an episode that features the three most resonant characters. Dylan is pursued by bounty hunters in an "appropriated" tourist barge with an outraged novice pilot (Kristin Lehman - JUDGING AMY). Under fire, the two of them come to appreciate each other. Tyr and Rommie search for them in the Maru. A little sexy, a little human, a little loosey goosey...
-The Lone and Level Sands (3)
Tight, compelling, and (most importantly) a sci fi serial idea that feels like something you've never seen...and you can't imagine why someone didn't think of it before. The Maru flees from pirates into deep space. They're rescued by a ship that Earth sent out centuries earlier, the Bellerophon. Equipped with the most powerful engine ever, of pre-slipstream design...meaning the faster-than-light travel comes with time distortion - to the crew, a journey of centuries has been measurable in years. The Maru unable to get home, they get caught up in a mutiny triggered by the knowledge that Earth is now a slave world. Rommie has a tantalizing romance with the ship's captain (TREK luminary Tony Todd - CANDYMAN, BEASTMASTER: THE EYE OF BRAXUS). A well-written story elevated by Todd's performance.
-The Unconquerable Man (3)
A passable little alternate reality exploration, as the original events of the story reverse, with Dylan dying and Rhade trying to resurrect the Commonwealth 300 years later.
-Day of Judgement, Day of Wrath (3)
An offering given the juice of sentimentality, in a marriage of STARGATE and ANDROMEDA (a second-rate series plus one that's sliding into third). Guest stars Michael Shanks and Christopher Judge play A.I. avatars in a death struggle. Not awful at all.
-The Heart of the Journey, part 1 (5)
Okay, actually kinda wretched. But it's worthwhile for feminist afficionados, as it's perhaps the only time in sci fi history that female regulars outnumber males on a starship crew. The writers play this up with an estrogen-enhanced slow-mo. There's also a blatant tribute to STAR WARS that would be sad if this series had worked, but in the context of a five-year failure, is kinda nice.
Monday, September 30, 2013
taryn, anari, angela
WOMEN 81-83
Taryn
We met through an apartment search. I had put an ad onto Craigslist, describing the kind of home i was looking for. I think she was the only person who responded. She was quite taken with the way i described myself...when we talked on the phone, she admitted she didn't really have a place for me, but wanted to meet anyway. So we did. She lived near Columbus Circle, in a somewhat fancy doorman building. We walked and talked for hours. She was funny, smart, progressive, and open. She'd been a dancer for much of her life, and was now a personal trainer. When it came time to say goodbye, it was obvious that our hearts weren't in it, so we went to her place. A few hours later, she invited me to spend the night, non-sexually (this was dandy with me, as i didn't rush into sexual relationships). Not only didn't she have a guest room, she didn't even have a proper bed, so we shared her pull-out couch. I asked whether she'd mind if i slept naked. She said no. As soon as i disrobed and laid down, she said all her resolve had just disappeared, and could we make love? I don't think i'd ever been with a woman who was so suddenly overtaken by her own carnal desires in such an objectively accepting way (she was even laughing at herself). It was adorable and made me want to care for her. So we made love. It was quite beautiful. We didn't share penetration, because she'd told me she had HPV (but hadn't had symptoms in a long time).
She had a glam side i didn't relate to...despite her body health awareness, she wouldn't give up high heels. And when she got made up to go out, she really threw herself into it. But too, she loved relaxing at home with me, with not a speck of makeup. So beautiful. She'd been a Rockette for a number of years, and i told her she had the kind of physique eighteen year-old girls wished they had. It was the stuff of my dreams too.
We settled into a fun relationship, getting together two or three times a week, often getting takeout and watching Bill Maher, or some such. We sought out vegan yummies. She respected how i lived with one foot off the grid. I learned that her biggest demon was abandonment issues stemming from her childhood and father. These issues had exploded any significant romance she'd ever had. I knew that might be a minefield no wisdom of mine could spare us from, but i didn't try to "fix" her, i just focused on learning and sharing. Her progressive side had one blind spot, in the form of a cinderella complex (surprise surprise). Though i knew it meant avoiding an issue that might easily end our time together, i was happy to offer her monogamy for the present.
Our sexuality was wonderful, even though a part of my brain had trouble wrapping around the HPV thing. I knew she could pass it on even when she was asymptomatic. For a month or so, we resisted any penetration. It was during this time that we shared one of the most beautiful sexual memories of my life. She lived on the third floor, and had huge windows running all along one of the walls. She didn't mind leaving the curtains open, which gave a show to anyone higher up in the building across the street. I didn't mind either...i'd always dreamed of loving a woman so uninhibited. One afternoon, with those curtains open, she lay on her stomach while i made love from behind...not penetrating, but sliding our tumescent, well-moistened genitals together, moving between her lips for time without end. So amazing.
Finally, i acquiesced to those loathsome things, condoms. She said she wanted to get tested to find out whether the virus were inactive. If so, she excitedly wanted to share condomless penetration. As much as i wanted that too, my understanding of HPV told me there was still a possibility of passing on the virus.
It was at this stage of our togetherness, that the explosion occurred. She was telling me about some of the horrible things she'd lived through, and that part of it had involved drug use. I told her i wasn't surprised...that her face had the suggestion of an alcoholic in it (my housemate had thought the same thing). The size of the button my comment touched in her was probably beyond words. She had lived most of her life in a world where looks were everything. I tried, over the next few weeks, to tell her how innocent my comment had been. But nothing i said was able to bridge the chasm that had formed. She thought i was horrible and insensitive. She resisted seeing me, and finally told me to go away.
In the aftermath, i wondered whether a part of her reaction didn't go back to her abandonment issues...that the closer we got, the more afraid she was of losing me. Perhaps she subconsciously needed to burn us, so that i would never have the chance to leave her.
I felt the sadness of losing her, for years to come. For more on taryn, see http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2010/05/karyn.html
Anari - see http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2011/11/njeri.html
Angela - see http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2012/05/janie.html
Taryn
We met through an apartment search. I had put an ad onto Craigslist, describing the kind of home i was looking for. I think she was the only person who responded. She was quite taken with the way i described myself...when we talked on the phone, she admitted she didn't really have a place for me, but wanted to meet anyway. So we did. She lived near Columbus Circle, in a somewhat fancy doorman building. We walked and talked for hours. She was funny, smart, progressive, and open. She'd been a dancer for much of her life, and was now a personal trainer. When it came time to say goodbye, it was obvious that our hearts weren't in it, so we went to her place. A few hours later, she invited me to spend the night, non-sexually (this was dandy with me, as i didn't rush into sexual relationships). Not only didn't she have a guest room, she didn't even have a proper bed, so we shared her pull-out couch. I asked whether she'd mind if i slept naked. She said no. As soon as i disrobed and laid down, she said all her resolve had just disappeared, and could we make love? I don't think i'd ever been with a woman who was so suddenly overtaken by her own carnal desires in such an objectively accepting way (she was even laughing at herself). It was adorable and made me want to care for her. So we made love. It was quite beautiful. We didn't share penetration, because she'd told me she had HPV (but hadn't had symptoms in a long time).
She had a glam side i didn't relate to...despite her body health awareness, she wouldn't give up high heels. And when she got made up to go out, she really threw herself into it. But too, she loved relaxing at home with me, with not a speck of makeup. So beautiful. She'd been a Rockette for a number of years, and i told her she had the kind of physique eighteen year-old girls wished they had. It was the stuff of my dreams too.
We settled into a fun relationship, getting together two or three times a week, often getting takeout and watching Bill Maher, or some such. We sought out vegan yummies. She respected how i lived with one foot off the grid. I learned that her biggest demon was abandonment issues stemming from her childhood and father. These issues had exploded any significant romance she'd ever had. I knew that might be a minefield no wisdom of mine could spare us from, but i didn't try to "fix" her, i just focused on learning and sharing. Her progressive side had one blind spot, in the form of a cinderella complex (surprise surprise). Though i knew it meant avoiding an issue that might easily end our time together, i was happy to offer her monogamy for the present.
Our sexuality was wonderful, even though a part of my brain had trouble wrapping around the HPV thing. I knew she could pass it on even when she was asymptomatic. For a month or so, we resisted any penetration. It was during this time that we shared one of the most beautiful sexual memories of my life. She lived on the third floor, and had huge windows running all along one of the walls. She didn't mind leaving the curtains open, which gave a show to anyone higher up in the building across the street. I didn't mind either...i'd always dreamed of loving a woman so uninhibited. One afternoon, with those curtains open, she lay on her stomach while i made love from behind...not penetrating, but sliding our tumescent, well-moistened genitals together, moving between her lips for time without end. So amazing.
Finally, i acquiesced to those loathsome things, condoms. She said she wanted to get tested to find out whether the virus were inactive. If so, she excitedly wanted to share condomless penetration. As much as i wanted that too, my understanding of HPV told me there was still a possibility of passing on the virus.
It was at this stage of our togetherness, that the explosion occurred. She was telling me about some of the horrible things she'd lived through, and that part of it had involved drug use. I told her i wasn't surprised...that her face had the suggestion of an alcoholic in it (my housemate had thought the same thing). The size of the button my comment touched in her was probably beyond words. She had lived most of her life in a world where looks were everything. I tried, over the next few weeks, to tell her how innocent my comment had been. But nothing i said was able to bridge the chasm that had formed. She thought i was horrible and insensitive. She resisted seeing me, and finally told me to go away.
In the aftermath, i wondered whether a part of her reaction didn't go back to her abandonment issues...that the closer we got, the more afraid she was of losing me. Perhaps she subconsciously needed to burn us, so that i would never have the chance to leave her.
I felt the sadness of losing her, for years to come. For more on taryn, see http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2010/05/karyn.html
Anari - see http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2011/11/njeri.html
Angela - see http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2012/05/janie.html
Free Radical
STAGE/SCREEN 73
-fall 2004
A short film whose audition notice advertised it as a mockumentary a la Christopher Guest, about a college “radical” with grand delusions. The Guest allusion made it irresistible, and it was only when i was in callbacks that i realized it was non-paying (i don’t know how i could have missed that in the audition notice). They wanted to cast me as the hippie third grade teacher of the radical, and since it only involved one afternoon of shooting, i said yes. It was a fun little shoot. I got on well with the actor playing the radical’s dad, and with the two child actors. We shot my scene in an elementary school, and i gave it a basic hippie-dreamy quality. Director Andrew McKinnon was very cool, but never sent me the copy of the film i’d been promised.
-fall 2004
A short film whose audition notice advertised it as a mockumentary a la Christopher Guest, about a college “radical” with grand delusions. The Guest allusion made it irresistible, and it was only when i was in callbacks that i realized it was non-paying (i don’t know how i could have missed that in the audition notice). They wanted to cast me as the hippie third grade teacher of the radical, and since it only involved one afternoon of shooting, i said yes. It was a fun little shoot. I got on well with the actor playing the radical’s dad, and with the two child actors. We shot my scene in an elementary school, and i gave it a basic hippie-dreamy quality. Director Andrew McKinnon was very cool, but never sent me the copy of the film i’d been promised.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
nocturnal emission
I had a wet dream last night, for the first time in years. Maybe a decade, maybe more.
In the dream, i'm walking along a city street. There's a bit of a run-down, post-apocalyptic vibe (but that's just how a city can feel sometimes). I'm walking under scaffolding near the intersection of several small streets, almost alley-like. I stop at a vendor at a news stand. He's watching a baseball game on television. Not far off, another vendor is watching another game. I suddenly realize that in another reality, i'm a major league pitcher currently pitching, and going into the ninth with a no-hitter. I say to the vendor, "But i don't want that, i don't much care for spectator sports anymore." The vendor says that if i do it, there will be three TVs playing different games at that intersection, something that's never happened before. He seems excited, so i play along. Standing on the mound, i get ready to throw. I realize i'm holding a glass jar. Two of my fingers are inside the jar, so i know i have a good grip for an effective pitch. The jar is also a ball, so the batter will be fine (and perhaps get a hit). The next thing i know, i'm in an apartment above the street. I'm with a white married couple. The wife has decided to take me as a second husband, because one man isn't for a woman, sexually. I agree to do this even though the commitment might take years, because i'm proud of her for asserting herself (i know he's not comfortable with the idea). I'm not in love with her spiritually or hormonally though, and he's a bit of a corporate jarhead. The two of them finish making love...or rather, he finishes. She calls me to her, as he backs off unhappily. It feels strange, but she's also very attractive physically. Both of them are well-muscled, almost body-builder types. She hasn't moved from her position when he came, with her knees at her shoulders. I bring our naked bodies together. Her hair is lightened by dye, in a wavy perm. She also wears makeup...but i'm attracted nonetheless. Part of that is just pride in her for asserting herself. I penetrate her. It feels wonderful, so much so that i want to cum quickly. I try to resist, because the reason i'm here is to be long-lasting for her...but she tolerates my cumming, and it feels wonderful.
As i start to ejaculate, i wake up and realize what is happening. In such moments, it's sometimes possible to stop oneself, but i decide not to, as this hasn't happened in so very long. Even in the taoist years when i wasn't ejaculating, i would still have regular retrograde ejaculations.
It's strange that this would happen today, as i ejaculated just two or three days ago. It usually takes a week or two of no sexual release, to bring on a nocturnal emission.
This is also all very strange, because last night i had surgery on my penis.
Self-surgery of course, said the uninsured american (if you'll pardon the redundancy). But strictly outpatient stuff. I had a pinhead growth of extra skin on the lower shaft, and a blocked sebaceous gland near the head. The pinhead is new, the gland decades old. I used a sterilized nail clipper. Neither bled. The pinhead was tiny, the blocked gland a little bigger, so i just took off the top. It had maybe gotten a little bigger than it used to be (which was so small that no woman had ever noticed).
The gland, that is, not the penis.
In the dream, i'm walking along a city street. There's a bit of a run-down, post-apocalyptic vibe (but that's just how a city can feel sometimes). I'm walking under scaffolding near the intersection of several small streets, almost alley-like. I stop at a vendor at a news stand. He's watching a baseball game on television. Not far off, another vendor is watching another game. I suddenly realize that in another reality, i'm a major league pitcher currently pitching, and going into the ninth with a no-hitter. I say to the vendor, "But i don't want that, i don't much care for spectator sports anymore." The vendor says that if i do it, there will be three TVs playing different games at that intersection, something that's never happened before. He seems excited, so i play along. Standing on the mound, i get ready to throw. I realize i'm holding a glass jar. Two of my fingers are inside the jar, so i know i have a good grip for an effective pitch. The jar is also a ball, so the batter will be fine (and perhaps get a hit). The next thing i know, i'm in an apartment above the street. I'm with a white married couple. The wife has decided to take me as a second husband, because one man isn't for a woman, sexually. I agree to do this even though the commitment might take years, because i'm proud of her for asserting herself (i know he's not comfortable with the idea). I'm not in love with her spiritually or hormonally though, and he's a bit of a corporate jarhead. The two of them finish making love...or rather, he finishes. She calls me to her, as he backs off unhappily. It feels strange, but she's also very attractive physically. Both of them are well-muscled, almost body-builder types. She hasn't moved from her position when he came, with her knees at her shoulders. I bring our naked bodies together. Her hair is lightened by dye, in a wavy perm. She also wears makeup...but i'm attracted nonetheless. Part of that is just pride in her for asserting herself. I penetrate her. It feels wonderful, so much so that i want to cum quickly. I try to resist, because the reason i'm here is to be long-lasting for her...but she tolerates my cumming, and it feels wonderful.
As i start to ejaculate, i wake up and realize what is happening. In such moments, it's sometimes possible to stop oneself, but i decide not to, as this hasn't happened in so very long. Even in the taoist years when i wasn't ejaculating, i would still have regular retrograde ejaculations.
It's strange that this would happen today, as i ejaculated just two or three days ago. It usually takes a week or two of no sexual release, to bring on a nocturnal emission.
This is also all very strange, because last night i had surgery on my penis.
Self-surgery of course, said the uninsured american (if you'll pardon the redundancy). But strictly outpatient stuff. I had a pinhead growth of extra skin on the lower shaft, and a blocked sebaceous gland near the head. The pinhead is new, the gland decades old. I used a sterilized nail clipper. Neither bled. The pinhead was tiny, the blocked gland a little bigger, so i just took off the top. It had maybe gotten a little bigger than it used to be (which was so small that no woman had ever noticed).
The gland, that is, not the penis.
Monday, September 23, 2013
aphorism
"You get out of a relationship what you put into it"
Ah, words of wisdom. Aphorism. Succinct sayings we turn to in moments of bemusement or bemoanment. They reveal life's mysteries, truths, and follies.
Or maybe they're just pretentious prattle we cling to, to make life bearable. A feeble attempt to make sense out of senselessness.
Perhaps they're even both.
Whoops. I came dangerously close to coining an aphorism there myself. Since that's not my intent, let's move to the business at hand. Aphorism #1, come on down! Let's hold you up to the light, take a little nibble, cup your balls, and find out what you're made of.
"You get out of a relationship what you put into it."
Very pretty words. Very, very pretty...
And pretty stupid.
Perhaps those words might have merit in a healthy world, where people knew how to share and love. Where people didn't live in a crippled haze of fear and insecurity, never knowing whether their most basic needs (food, love, shelter, sex) will be met, never knowing if they suddenly won't be good enough, smart enough, strong enough, young enough, desirable enough, or fortunate enough.
But in this world, you can pretty much count on hardly ever getting out of a relationship what you put into it. The selfishness around us (and in us) runs too deep. We spend our lives chasing our needs, walking on thin ice above chasms of despair. Equality is the exception, not the rule. We embed inequality into the very structures of our social institutions...bosses and subordinates, pecking orders...elaborate justifications for the ultimate payoff, "I get to tell YOU what to do." Just a generation or two ago, our primary social institution (marriage) was the ultimate realization of that ethos.
We live in need of what others can give us, trying to maximize what we can get, so to keep away the demons of want. With everybody trying to maximize, nobody's trying to give. We learn the value of having people around who need us more than we need them. They always come through, pretty much whatever we do. But we also find ourselves chasing those who embody our own dreams of love, security, or vanity. These others, however, know where they stand.
Deep down, everyone knows where they stand.
What we learn as children on the playground is not how to act, but how to appear. Kindly and compromising.
But somewhere deep inside, every littlest child absorbs the truth of this world.
The law of the predator.
This aphorism has a close cousin, "You get out of life what you put into it". That's even more patently stupid than the first! Perhaps you're one of the lucky few, living a life sheltered from this world's more overt inhumanities and horrors. But brutality's reign on this planet is a long, long way from over. Starvation, war, rape, torture, homicide, genocide, patricide, infanticide, suicide, celibacy, monogamy, exploitation, racism, speciesism, sexism, classism. Are "good people" rewarded fairly in this world? That's a notion so preposterous i won't even insult your intelligence by listing the litany of ways they're not.
Perhaps a more realistic version of the aphorism is "You can't expect to get more out of a relationship than what you put in"?
No, that's actually EXACTLY what you can expect.
Or less. Far less. That's a fair expectation, too.
Perhaps the only realistic version is "You shouldn't expect to get more out of a relationship than you put in". But that's so watered-down, it amounts to little more than passive-aggressive finger wagging.
Next?
Ah, words of wisdom. Aphorism. Succinct sayings we turn to in moments of bemusement or bemoanment. They reveal life's mysteries, truths, and follies.
Or maybe they're just pretentious prattle we cling to, to make life bearable. A feeble attempt to make sense out of senselessness.
Perhaps they're even both.
Whoops. I came dangerously close to coining an aphorism there myself. Since that's not my intent, let's move to the business at hand. Aphorism #1, come on down! Let's hold you up to the light, take a little nibble, cup your balls, and find out what you're made of.
"You get out of a relationship what you put into it."
Very pretty words. Very, very pretty...
And pretty stupid.
Perhaps those words might have merit in a healthy world, where people knew how to share and love. Where people didn't live in a crippled haze of fear and insecurity, never knowing whether their most basic needs (food, love, shelter, sex) will be met, never knowing if they suddenly won't be good enough, smart enough, strong enough, young enough, desirable enough, or fortunate enough.
But in this world, you can pretty much count on hardly ever getting out of a relationship what you put into it. The selfishness around us (and in us) runs too deep. We spend our lives chasing our needs, walking on thin ice above chasms of despair. Equality is the exception, not the rule. We embed inequality into the very structures of our social institutions...bosses and subordinates, pecking orders...elaborate justifications for the ultimate payoff, "I get to tell YOU what to do." Just a generation or two ago, our primary social institution (marriage) was the ultimate realization of that ethos.
We live in need of what others can give us, trying to maximize what we can get, so to keep away the demons of want. With everybody trying to maximize, nobody's trying to give. We learn the value of having people around who need us more than we need them. They always come through, pretty much whatever we do. But we also find ourselves chasing those who embody our own dreams of love, security, or vanity. These others, however, know where they stand.
Deep down, everyone knows where they stand.
What we learn as children on the playground is not how to act, but how to appear. Kindly and compromising.
But somewhere deep inside, every littlest child absorbs the truth of this world.
The law of the predator.
This aphorism has a close cousin, "You get out of life what you put into it". That's even more patently stupid than the first! Perhaps you're one of the lucky few, living a life sheltered from this world's more overt inhumanities and horrors. But brutality's reign on this planet is a long, long way from over. Starvation, war, rape, torture, homicide, genocide, patricide, infanticide, suicide, celibacy, monogamy, exploitation, racism, speciesism, sexism, classism. Are "good people" rewarded fairly in this world? That's a notion so preposterous i won't even insult your intelligence by listing the litany of ways they're not.
Perhaps a more realistic version of the aphorism is "You can't expect to get more out of a relationship than what you put in"?
No, that's actually EXACTLY what you can expect.
Or less. Far less. That's a fair expectation, too.
Perhaps the only realistic version is "You shouldn't expect to get more out of a relationship than you put in". But that's so watered-down, it amounts to little more than passive-aggressive finger wagging.
Next?
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