the diet

“To eat is a necessity, but to eat intelligently is an art.”
– François de La Rochefoucauld

I have spent many years being overweight and sluggish. I look in the mirror, wondering who the fat kid looking back at me is. Somehow, though, I feel that I am internally skinny and would like to let that person out for the world. I am making some headway in this area, but I still have a long way to go.

I’ll make this as brief as possible; there are plenty of books on the subject and my views are not going to make any difference.

As Americans, we need to change the way we think about food and health. As Michael Pollan points out in his book, The Omnivore’s Dilemma, it should be the most natural thing for us to know what to eat. Sadly, though, it is difficult for people to decide what they are going to eat, and often the wrong choices are made. Until very recently, I happily consumed sythetic foods & caged animals, not wanting to know much more about it — especially that what I was eating could potentially harm me. I was blissfully unaware of the problems I was causing for myself.

I hope I am starting to change that about myself. Although I don’t feel it is right for everyone, vegetarianism has changed my perception of almost everything. A common reason among vegetarians and vegans for not eating meat/using animal products is to reduce suffering. By cutting down on those things that cause great suffering, the world is a better place. I appreciate those individuals, but the issue is deeper for me. I simply don’t want to consume thinking beings. It is that shift in mindset that has forced me to read the label of everything I purchase, from tortilla chips to vitamins (many multivitamins contain fish), seeking out the hidden animal products in seemingly benign products. Who knew I would be giving up Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix (it contains lard) or canned black-eyed peas (most are canned with pork products).

It is this label reading that has forced me to deal with something else. Artifice in my food. Primarily, I don’t have the energy to read through long lists of ingredients. I’d rather put the item back than sort through everything. But I also find that I can reduce the amount of other items too. HFCS generally keeps a food item from coming home with me. As does anything claiming to be “enriched” or “whitened.”

I don’t think a little knowledge about what you are chosing to put in your body is a bad thing. And that isn’t to say I don’t still have the occasional orange soda (loaded with lots of yummy HFCS) or buy some fresh bread, even though I know it is made of white flour. Sometimes the moment dictates that you throw these convictions out. But I am able to make more informed decisions about what I eat on a regular basis.

I’m shrinking. Without exercise, I have been losing weight quickly. I have tons of energy and feel mentally more alert than I have in a long time. I can really only attribute this change in myself to the change in my eating habits. I am just generally eating a more healthy diet than I used to. Now, I will be adding exercise to the mix. I hope I only continue to get healthier. I need to.

Life is sometimes all about the small victories. I recently found myself not out of breath after walking up the stairs at work. It has only happened a few times, but it is something!

Suggested reading:
The Omnivore’s Dilemma : Michael Pollan
Plenty : Alisa Smith & JB Mackinnon
Becoming Vegetarian : Vesanto Melina & Brenda Davis
Fast Food Nation : Eric Schlosser

the faith

“I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.”
–Frank O’Hara

Perhaps one thing I developed as a child of Oklahoma is an innate sense of faith. It is something I take for granted; something I assume we all have in common. When I am proven wrong about faith — when I discover the great numbers of beliefless people, I am dumbstruck and a little bit sad.

Faith is often the only thing I have to hold onto, the rest of life’s trivial issues slipping away and seeming increasingly less important. That isn’t to say that my “willingness” to have a belief system has made me apathetic about the world. In fact, I think quite the opposite has happened. Life is filled with meanings — deep meanings. Everything seems so charged and alive, knowing there are forces working around us that are greater than we are.

It also seems that the further I get from home, the more bitter those around me seem about any sort of organized thought (and religion in particular). That is likely just part of working with books. Bookstores attract thinkers. One of the wonderful things about thinkers is that they often arrive at conflicting conclusions concerning existence. I love being surrounded by such a difference of ideas.

Faith seems like a foreign notion here in Alaska. Those of us with belief systems, regardless of those beliefs origins, are certainly not the majority. It is all very unsettling.

But I believe very strongly that the blame for this goes entirely to the religious leaders of the world. In their efforts to speak for God, a contemptuous act, they have alienated too many. With such a variety of people, it is hard for many to feel they belong into the rigid molds cast by well meaning theological dictators. That is unfortunate.

Christianity has already lost one fight. The hypocritical and belittling treatment of gays and lesbians over the decades has pushed us away. Feeling ostracized by an organization we weren’t sure we wanted to belong to, the community seems to have moved on. Faith isn’t important to the outcasts of religious society. And it seems that this isn’t a lesson the Christian community has learned. The persecution continues. And so it does with many groups who don’t fit the ideals of these individual schools of thought… these approved ways of being by the religious communities.

A well-organized effort to cater to and serve those who think for themselves or who don’t fit the exact mold of the perfect Christian could have had a positive effect on the spreading of Christian “values.” Exclusivity, a lesson not found in text, has become the hallmark of a people who cannot see the forest for the trees. They are too busy concerning themselves with superiority that they have not noticed that the power has already been surrendered to the angry and faithless. This is probably true of any religion. I can’t say anything on behalf of those I am not associated with.

It isn’t about these specific religious thoughts, but about faith. Simply having faith is the important part. For myself, I will continue to feel my way through blindly. My own faith is hardly shaken. I am saddened that there are so many without a place to turn when life gets to be difficult. They end up turning on themselves. I don’t feel that it is too late for the major religions of this planet. The most important thing is to eliminate hate. Without hate, the anti-faith movement has less footing. Without hate, support can be found in surprising places. Without hate, there will only be love. Love is something all types of people can support. With more people joining the efforts, support systems are built and mankind can only benefit from such a system.

30 March 2007

{edit}

When I wrote these thoughts out, I had intended them to reflect a general impression I have gotten from fundamentalist Christian “leaders” in America. I realize that there are still understanding individuals whose values are based on love. I didn’t mean to generalize to the point of excluding those Christians from my argument. And I didn’t mean to say that there is no longer any hope. I think the battle has long been lost, but certainly not the war. In my opinion, it is up to the open-minded members of the Christian faith to bring the message to those who have otherwise been ignored. Those who preach hate have made that task very difficult, as there is now a resistance to faith of any kind.

My family attended a Church of Christ. Not strictly a denomination, Churches of Christ are gatherings of Christian worship where beliefs seem to be individualized. I felt encouraged to come to my own conclusions about the issues of the world and I didn’t have to share those beliefs with the person sitting next to me. This made church very personal for everyone. And that sense that it is your walk with God that makes the Churches of Christ so great. If anyone felt offended by my rant, I apologize, but this sense of increasing alienation is very real. And you should be offended. You should be offended that there are Christians spreading hate. You should be offended by apathy. You should be offended that the values of good people are being routinely dismantled.

I am trying to figure out how to get home in May. It is starting to feel complicated.

story{introducing…}

These are two stories I wrote forever ago. The purpose of both is to introduce several characters I intend to use in various stories. These characters are a family in my head still and I will one day start recounting their lives. I hope you enjoy this, their Genesis.

American Dream [or Yesterday Hurts] (Revised Version)

I still can’t believe I am here. I just can’t stand this. I guess I can’t say I’m lucky, but I can’t say I don’t deserve it either. Rejection that is. It still hurts, and I think the worst part is that I can’t do anything about it. I started with good intentions; I am not a bad woman. I had the chance to have a family like I dreamed of doing, and I loved every moment of it. I married a seemingly wonderful man and had two beautiful boys, Chad and Ivan. I love them so much.

One day though, my husband left me. He ran off with a woman with perfect teeth and big breasts. I hated her then. Maybe I still do. But why shouldn’t I? I was a good wife and was still a damn good mother, but sometimes, you know, that thing inside you, that desperation, just needs something to make life easier, so I drank. I wasn’t a heavy drinker at first, not really. I just had a little in the evening. It made it better, the pain that is. I knew it was getting worse, but I tried not to think about it.

My drinking started getting worse. My children were suffering from my neglect, I realize that now, but I still had to have something. It seemed to be what I needed. I soon turned to abuse. Oh, I would never become physical with them, but sometimes it seems that words hurt worse. They do. I know that now.

Ivan was my baby, and he was only eleven at that time. The divorce and the pain of knowing what his father had done had gotten to him and I guess he was pretty depressed. I didn’t see it then, I do now. I feel so bad for not noticing he was hurting. As his mother I should have been there for him. But I was too busy being comforted by my bottle of whatever it was I was drinking. My other son, Chad was twelve. He ignored the situation. He would go spend time at his friend’s house and wander around the neighborhood.

I didn’t try. I only made things worse. I love Ivan; I really do. But he is different. I knew back when he was five and six that he might be gay. I started calling him “fag” and “fruit” and any other name I could think of. The names made me feel better at first, but would always make me feel worse in the end. He would cry and sit up in his room. I heard him. I didn’t care. I mean, I did care, but I didn’t do anything. I guess I’ve been a lousy mother. I know Ivan didn’t even know why I called him those names, not that there is an excuse. He understands now. He came out to his aunt about a year ago. They have been so supportive of him, and I think he might even have a boyfriend. I guess I am proud. Not that he is gay, but that he is happy. At least he is. He never told me he was gay. Chad told me. I felt terrible when I heard that and wondered if it was my fault. No wonder he hates me.

Anyway, my drinking somehow led to drugs. I didn’t really expect it to, but it did. In the back of my mind I told myself that it couldn’t happen. It seems that Chad knew it would. Ivan didn’t want to be around me enough to figure it out, so I don’t think he knew I went that far. He probably knows, but I hope not. I love those boys and never wanted to hurt them, but I knew when I started that they would be taken away when anyone found out. I regret my drug use now, but it is too late for that, I guess.

I sent my children to stay with their aunt, my ex-husband’s sister. She is a good woman, and treats my kids wonderfully. She is Ivan’s biggest support. I love her so much for treating my baby so well. I think sending them there was the best thing for my kids. A few days later I called to the rehab center. I was so nervous and embarrassed, but I knew I had to do that for my boys. Chad was fifteen then, and Ivan was fourteen. He hadn’t said two words to me in three months. I deserved it, I guess. I was in rehab for six months. I couldn’t believe I had to miss both of my kids’ birthdays. Chad turned sixteen on the first of March. Ivan turned fifteen on St. Patrick’s Day. He has always been proud of his birthday. It makes him feel special to have a holiday birthday.

I had given custody of the kids to their aunt . She would have given them back, but because of my rehab I had to go to court to prove myself. It was ruled that the boys would make the decision to come home with me or not. I think I wouldn’t have gotten them at all if they had been younger. Anyway, Ivan has never been a leader. I really expected him to do whatever Chad did. I knew Chad would come with me. We have always been close. The boys were given another week at their aunts to make a decision. In that time, I rented myself an apartment and applied for some jobs. They were small jobs, but I figured they would have to do.

A week later I showed up to pick up the kids. Chad was ready. His bags were stuffed haphazardly, like he couldn’t have had any less time to pack, though he had a week. No one said a word as Chad gave me a hug and ran out to put his stuff in the car. Eighteen and still a mama’s boy. Ivan was leaning on the wall, like he was hiding. He looked like he was mad, but he was about to cry. He didn’t even look at me. I think he wanted to, but he didn’t. A got one of those lumps in my throat. I wanted to cry. I didn’t though. I just went home with Chad. On our way home, I cried. Chad starting saying that Ivan was a jerk and couldn’t believe he didn’t come. That day Chad called Ivan a “fag” and it killed me. I started crying. Chad said he didn’t mean it, and almost started to cry, I think. Ivan and Chad loved each other. They had to. Without each other they had no one. Well, they had their aunt, but they still needed each other.

Being rejected by one of my children really hurts. I mean, I knew it wouldn’t be a good feeling. But Chad was at home, and I still felt as bad as I did before. I guess I was ashamed of myself for everything I had ever done. But I still loved my baby, even if he did hate me.

I started my new job, waiting tables. It wasn’t much, but it helped and the apartment was small enough to make up for the difference. It felt empty without Ivan, Chad told me Ivan had never felt like he belonged in the family. I wish he knew how much I loved him.

About a month passed and I decided to go talk to Ivan. I wanted to let him know how much I loved him. I went to see him at his aunt’s. I called for him and he didn’t come. His cousin told me he had locked himself in the cedar closet. I went to the closet and tried to open it. It was locked. I knew it was a stupid idea to put a lock on a closet door. said that the first time I saw it there. He wouldn’t talk to me. I could hear familiar music. I had bought a tape for his tenth birthday. It was all he had wanted. He had wanted it for so long. He still had it. I started to walk leave when Ivan knocked on the door three short knocks. I knocked back twice. Those knocks were kinda our little thing at our old house. His room was next to the master bedroom. I would knock three times and he would always knock back twice. It was kinda like saying “I love you” I guess. As soon as I had finished, Ivan slipped one of his paintings he had done under the door. The background was black and gray, with a red heart. In the heart two people, one with long hair the other with short hair. I turned it over and on the back was a note: “I love you mom. Ivan” I didn’t thank. I just left. I didn’t know what to think. I had the painting framed. It is hanging in my living room now. Ivan has still never seen it, and he has still not spoken to me. I decided soon after to look for some support. Divorce is hard, but I took mine too far. It destroyed my family and we will never be the same, not that we were ever really happy. I am so happy to have found this group. I hope you can help me relieve some of the hurt. Thank you.

Brian Fuchs 5.23.1998

Character: Jean (Original Version)

Jean walked swiftly into work at nine fifteen and sat at her desk, stopping a moment to catch her breath. “Hi Jean” Sue said from the next desk.

“Oh… hello,” Jean started, “Ivan was over last night and I took him to school and I had to get gas. It’s been a long morning…did I miss anything?”

“No. It’s been a slow here.”

Jean allowed herself time to worry about Christine, as she always did. Christine had married Jean’s brother, Robert, and when he ran off with another woman, Jean became closer to Christine and checked on her frequently. Christine would slip into periods of depression sending her children to stay elsewhere. Ivan almost always ended up at Jean’s. He was close to Brooke, Jean’s daughter. The two would talk about school and their parents acted so much alike. His brothers would end up at a friend’s house or at Jean’s mothers, but never together. Jean constantly worried about them. She does this too often, Jean thought to herself, she is missing her children grow up. With that, Jean decided to go talk to Christine after work as she always did when Christine was like this. She was too stubborn to let Christine waste her life away.

By four that afternoon, Jean’s mind was racing in anger. “I’m going early, Sue.”

Jean pulled up to Christine’s house, being sure to lock the doors as she got out of the car. She walked up on the porch. The glass on the storm door was still missing. Christine had thrown a mantle clock through it when Robert walked out on her. Jean rang the doorbell. Receiving no answer, she fumbled angrily for her key and walked in. She sighed as she walked through the house. The laundry was in heaps in the living room and the dirty dishes overfilled the kitchen sink. “Chris?” she called. “Chris….” She went back in the kitchen. On the table, among various bills and schoolwork from the kids, there was a note:

Jean- I knew you would come. I had to leave for a while. I don’t know how long I will be gone. -C

Jean’s eyes widened as she read the note. She didn’t how to take it. The anger she felt turned into guilt and she stood there with the note in her hand, her mind racing with where Christine could be. She stuffed the note in her purse and left.

When she got home, she wasn’t sure what to do. “Ivan!” she called. “Ivan?”

“What,” Ivan asked calmly, appearing from the den. Jean ran up and hugged him. He was taller than she was, which made it difficult, but she held on tight. Ivan reluctantly put one arm around her. She let him go and just stood there, looking at him. “Dinner will be ready at seven and Jerry will be home then.” Jean turned and walked into the kitchen and phoned her mother. Ivan looked over at Brooke and raised his eyebrows in confusion. Brooke shrugged her shoulders.

They ate in the den. Jean was not chatty as usual. She explained what had happened and they were completely silent. “I’m going to bed,” Ivan finally said, not having finished his meal. Jean got up, found him some blankets and told him to sleep on the floor in Brooke’s room if he wanted. Jean couldn’t sleep that night. She worried about Christine. Ivan cried himself to sleep and Brooke fell asleep soon after Ivan’s crying stopped.

Ivan woke up with a sharp pain in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or guilt or sadness.He had spent much of his time like this lately, but now that his mother had gone, the pain was much greater. Ivan had become a master of confusing himself. He would tell himself one thing, while he would want it not to be true so badly that he would tell himself that. He did that with his mother. He did not want her to be gone so much that he would build up a deep denial and feel she had not run away.

“Honey… better get up and get ready for school.” Jean said solemnly as she passed by Brooke’s door.

“Okay.” He said, with a deep crackle of morning in his voice.

Ivan sat in class, trying carefully to look as if he was listening. As his first-hour teacher explained quadratic equations, Ivan’s mind raced and his stomach ached. It was still early enough that his eyes were sore from last night. He thought mainly of his mother, but he would occasionally have an out-of-the-blue thought about the history test next week, how he felt he wasn’t normal like other teenaged guys with their girlfriends. He knew that he wasn’t going to have a girlfriend; he did not want one. But then, he would think about his mother, sharpening the pain in his stomach.

“Ivan!” the teacher said.

“Oh… what?” Ivan said trying to sound likr he misuderstood the question.

“Can you work problem twenty-seven on the board?”

“No… I need to go to the office… I don’t feel well.”

When Jerry arrived at the school, Ivan was sitting on a bench in front of the building, hugging his knees for comfort. He grabbed his bag slowly and seemed to crawl into Jerry’s truck.

“Hi Ankle…” Ivan said slowly. Jerry was called “Ankle” by the entire family. When she was younger, his brother’s daughter could not say Uncle Jerry, therefore she called him “Ankle Cherry.” The name stuck and Jerry was now so used to it, he didn’t notice.

“Upset?” Jerry asked, trying to sound compassionate.

“I feel sick.”

“Yeah?”

“My stomach hurts… and my eyes… “

“Well, you just need some rest.”

“Yeah, probably…”

Jerry dropped Ivan off, as to get back to work as soon as he could. Ivan went up to the garage door, entered the code and went inside.

Brian Fuchs 3.31.1998

story{Tuesday}

Some birds chirp cheerfully, just outside the small one bedroom house. Morning reaches in the blinds of the bedroom and across Opal’s face, weathered with her eighty years. It pulls on her eyelids and she gladly greets its warmth. She sits up, yawning a moment, and glances over at the clock, 7:30. Opal has a way of waking at the same time each morning. She has never needed an alarm clock.

Opal lives alone in her house, which is set apart from the rest of town by a small group of trees. She never married and has no children, so she rarely has visitors. Today, however, is Tuesday, and July. She hires a boy from town each year to cut the grass and he will be at Opal’s around noon. Every week he comes at the same time. Each week Opal looks forward to these visits.

Still in her housecoat, Opal goes into her kitchen, and fixes herself a cup of coffee. She reaches into a plastic container on the counter and retrieves a croissant. She made the croissant a few days ago, and it is still moist. Opal often reaches in and finds a dry one. This one is not dry though, and it smells sweet, having been warmed by the sun. Opal makes sure the plastic container is always in the sun’s path. That way, each morning her breakfast will be warm. She places the croissant and coffee beside each other on a saucer and carries them onto the porch in front of her house. As she eats her breakfast, she watches some bird bathe in the early morning dew on the high grass. That boy will be here today, and its about time, she thinks to herself. Opal picks up the cup and saucer and carries them back into the kitchen. She sets them in the sink and runs water in the cup. She will get to it later.

The boy will be here around noon, Opal thinks, and decides to get dressed. To her, it is important that a lady present herself well whenever she has company. She finds her favorite yellow dress. The color is barely visible in the dress, but Opal remembers its brilliance. It is still her favorite. She fixes her hair, which she still keeps long, though it is rather thin now. She puts much of it into a bun, leaving two locks to hang down on either side, in front of her ears.

Opal rarely wore make-up throughout her life, but today the boy is coming to cut the grass, and she wants to look nice for him. She puts on her lipstick deliberately making sure her lips received the color within each wrinkle. She tries as she goes to not put the make-up on too heavily, as she had read in her magazines for mothers.

By eleven o’clock, Opal is ready. She sprays a bit of perfume on herself, sniffs it, just to be sure it is enough, and goes into the living room to wait. The living room is barely big enough for her sofa and chair with their coffee tables. She sits in and lets the late morning sun light and warm the room.

The boy will need something to drink, she thinks to herself and goes into the kitchen again. She retrieves her glass pitcher, which she only uses on Tuesday afternoons. She makes a full pitcher of tea and places it in her old refrigerator. I will put ice in it when the boy gets here, she thinks. She goes back into the living room.

Opal glances over at an old clock hanging on the wall, 11:53. She smiles, realizing that the boy will arrive soon. He has been late only twice, she thinks. Once when he came at 2:00, and once when he came by just to say he would not be able to cut the grass that week. She hopes he will not be late. She picks up her photo album. She only has one since she has no family. She has various pictures of friends in it. She even has a picture of the boy who will come today to cut her grass. He is a handsome young man, she thinks as she pauses at his picture. She glances at the clock, 12:20. She decides to take the tea outside, so it will be ready when the boy does arrive. He must be running late, she thinks.

Opal has no telephone, so her contact with the world is through visits from people. The boy coming today was her closest friend. There was also a lady who came from the Methodist church in town. Opal had grown too old to attend services at her congregation, so the Methodist lady took over. Opal is always polite to the lady; she doesn’t have the heart to tell the woman to leave her alone. She looks at the clock as she carries the tea outside, 12:34. She sits out on the porch with the tea and two glasses. She made some sandwiches yesterday, but she decides they will be best if left in the refrigerator.

Opal sits on the porch until 1:30. Well, I better take the tea in; it is warm now, she thinks. She carries the tea back into the kitchen. She decides to eat one of those sandwiches. It is too hot to sit in the sun all day, so I better stay here in the living room, she finally decides. Besides, the boy will be here to cut the grass. If he waits too long it will be too hot.

Opal decides to take a nap while she waits for the boy to come. She is anxious and worried about the boy. At four o’clock, A knocking at Opal’s door startles her. Oh! The boy is here to cut the grass, she thinks. She is excited and gets up as quickly as she can. Her knees try to protest, but she persists. Walking across the living room, she looks outside. No familiar truck with lawnmower sits in front of her house and she wonders where the boy parked. She stands a moment at the door, straightening her dress. Excitedly, she opens the door.

“Oh! Hi Opal… well, you certainly do look beautiful this afternoon… how are you?” the woman on the other side of the screen begins. It is the Methodist woman. “May I come in?”

“Miss… I am sorry, but I am waiting for the boy to come cut the grass” Opal begins. “It is pretty high and he needs to do it as soon as he arrives,” she says as she points to the tall grass.

“Ma’am, I thought that boy came on Tuesdays…”

“That is why I must be ready when he gets here… I don’t want to wait another week.”

“But Opal… it is Saturday.”

“Well, leave me be then,” Opal says shutting the door on the woman. She is upset and sits down in the living room. Well, she thinks, he will be here on Tuesday then. She goes back into the bedroom. She is tired and it is just after four o’clock. She removes her make-up, and prepares herself for bed, as she always does. She lies down in her bed. I think I will sleep in, she thinks, I just don’t feel like getting up. Opal falls asleep, thinking of the boy who will come to cut her grass.

Brian Fuchs 5.5.1998

the used

“it is difficult to think of you without me in the sentence”

Why does it seem that the people with the biggest hearts are the ones who have those hearts trampled the most often? This isn’t about me. It could be; I have often had people in my life who take advantage of my good nature — or rather, who I have allowed to take advantage of me. I’m not saying these people have been necessarily malicious or unkind, but that I have encouraged them to get what they need from our time together and then leave.

This is about my friend David Eugene. If you know nothing else, know that he is a guy who will pull through when you need him, but he may not be around all the time. He is generous to a fault, often taking on so many projects that there is no way to finish them all in time. David Eugene sacrifices his time and his happiness to make sure everyone else’s needs are met. It is almost a sickness how much he takes on in his life.

There is something about David Eugene that attracts others to him, a certain je ne c’est quoi that keeps people interested in everything he does. This has resulted in a number of obsessed people fauning all over David Eugene, making inappropriate gestures and comments. I will admit that I have even been infatuated with him. He has such a strong natural charisma. I wanted to be around him so bad that it kept me up some nights.

Such intense fascinations seem to have left David Eugene alone… having no lasting friendships and only the memory of long-term relationships. But it seems that he does everything right. He does not seem directly responsible for this problem. Rather, the endless people throwing themselves at him seems to be a symptom of an intangible that only he has. Every few weeks, David Eugene meets someone new. Often, he is very interested in them and they seem equally interested in him. This initial getting to know one another period is both intense and wonderful. David Eugene starts to see a wedding, a home, dogs, and the life he has always wanted. The guy of the moment seems to share this vision — saying everything they know David Eugene wants to hear.

It doesn’t last. Soon, this new guy moves on, scared away by the seriousness of this plan. David Eugene is left alone — again. How can it be fair that such an amazing person could be used and discarded? Why do people treat the most generous of us like trash? And more importantly, how can this cycle be broken?

I feel awful for him, but I don’t know how I can help David Eugene. Perhaps, it isn’t something I can fix. Perhaps, it isn’t something I should try to fix. It hurts me to know that he is in pain and I cannot help him. I hope he knows that he has at least one friend who is still here for the long-term, who doesn’t expect any more from him than he can give. I hope David Eugene finds happiness.

Here are some things I have written about longing, obsession, friendship:

Preston’s Hold

for Johnny

The fear. Consuming fear and self-denial.
A dream of love – a school-boy fantasy -
crushed by the vise of injustice for self, by
society. I can’t give myself to you if you hide.

Can two people know each other in darkness?
Can a heart survive the cruel coldness
of lonliness? Kiss me (I know it won’t happen)
Dream of me – of us. Kill the fear of damnation.

It is over and you are gone. I always held on
too loosely, never tried hard enough. I needed
your hands, your touch, your morning voice -
soft and honest. I needed plans, and you…

Kiss me again, this time tenderly, and tell me
it is all okay – love me from wherever you are.
More importantly, be my friend – remind me
of who I wanted and who I wanted to be.

Need is dangerous – I still feel you.

Brian Fuchs 6.5.1999

twenty-four

Will this winter chill lift from my heart and allow me to find love? In the ice covered and mad city I can’t see anyone worth knowing, worth loving. I need my knight. This curse is too much.

Brian Fuchs 1.5.2001

Jerry pt 1

My heart still hurts and I still love you, my friend.
I don’t understand why you ran away. I never will.
Your boyfriend’s hold was too much;
his approval was too important to you.
So, you left.

You left me.

My arms will still be open, my home yours,
if you ever need it — need me.
My life has a space reserved for you,
beautiful friend.

Brian Fuchs 7.1.2005

27 March 2007

the mess

Basically, I’m a slob.

I have reached that point that I reach every few months — when I would rather just burn my place down and rebuild from the ashes than deal with cleaning. You’d think that I could keep up with it and not arrive at this point, but life just keeps happening. Once again, empty containers of whatevers are strewn about the living room, my boxes and out of place furniture have formed small tracks which I can use to get from room to room like some sort of small rodent, making paths in the brush.

Worst is the dishes. Without a dishwasher or motivation, the pile of dishes has become nearly unmanageable. I fear that I will find life forms within the structure that will need to be dealt with.

I don’t know how I let my house go like this. I hate that about me and hate that my cats have to live with it. I can’t have people over and have to greet friends at the door, denying them entrance. I want that to change. I have been making great strides in my life, but the next thing I want to alter about myself is my ability to keep up with my home. Only then will I be able to feel comfortable having a relationship with someone. I couldn’t bear to invite someone over as it is. And my idea of a great time spent with someone is watching movies at home…

*insert continuation of this rant here*

So, if anyone has suggestions — helpful suggestions — on how to improve this part of myself, comment with them. That said, I am going to clean a little.

25 March 2007

the matriarch

One thousand eight hundred thirty-seven lost days, plus four hundred forty-seven more

It was March 10, 2002 — a Sunday morning. I was at work, shelving a cart in the corner of the store where the history, biography, & social sciences sections were kept. I had paused for a moment to read the inside flap on the book Nigger: The Strange Career of a Troublesome Word by Randall Kennedy. The book had caught my attention for obvious reasons and it looked very interesting. I had taken entirely too much time looking decided to place it on hold for myself so I could look at it later. I took it to the front and placed it on the employee hold shelf. Bettina announced that I had a phone call. I knew it would be my parents and it irritated me that they could never figure out to not call me before we open.

When I answered the phone, it was my dad. There were no pleasantries; he simply said I needed to leave work and drive to Stillwater immediately. Not really catching on to the tone, I informed him that I couldn’t leave work, but wanted to know what was going on. “Mimi has been taken to the hospital and is probably not going to make it.” That still breaks my heart. My brain went numb and my eyes blurry. I said I would leave and be there as soon as possible. As soon as I hung up, I went back to the office, told Bettina I needed to go, and fell apart. She comforted me, telling me not to worry about work and instructing me to do what I needed to do. I left work, went home to let Justin (who was my roommate at the time) know where I’d be, and rushed to Stillwater. On the way, my cousin Becky called to make sure I knew what was going on.

I arrived in Stillwater about an hour and a half after the initial phone call. As I walked in, I was met by my mom, who was bawling. The entire tone of the house was energetic and sad — each family member’s arrival starting the tears over again.

“Mimi” is my mom’s mom, Bonita Christine “Chris” Tucker. She was the matriarch of our family; the force that connected us all and kept us together. She orchestrated every event that brought us together, reminded us to connect with one another, and nagged us all mercilessly. Mimi was an extremely confident woman who knew who she was. She was totally devoted to her husband, her God, & the other members of her church. She was generous with her money and her time, but was never afraid to tell you her opinion on what you were doing. Evidently, there wasn’t enough money to be made as a writer to justify her supporting it. I cherished talking to her. I would sit with her and talk about people for hours… she knew absolutely everything going on in Stillwater. But it never seemed like gossip. Mimi was a very good-hearted person.

By the time I arrived in Stillwater, she had passed away. After the watery greetings from my mom and aunt, I settled in with my brothers and cousin — those I always hang out with when everyone is together. Star, my grandparents’ cat, was the hero of this story. Even though he was unable to save her, he did what he could. Apparently, he went to my grandpa (Papa), woke him up, and led him to where Mimi had fallen. We suspect either a massive heart attack, stroke, or aneurysm, as her arms were still by her side and she hadn’t tried to stop her fall.

Bonita
on viewing my Mimi’s body

She looks perfect,
her familiar red dress matched
beautifully with the soft pink lining,
the red heart draped around her neck.
As if she’d just come in
from church for a nap –
a lazy Sunday afternoon,
shy lay resting — calm, peaceful.
Tears stream down my grandpa’s
too often stoic face.
His wife — the woman he
devoted his entire life to –
his best friend.
“She really is a beautiful lady.”

Brian Fuchs 3.12.2002

That week was surreal. I still don’t remember much of it. Of course, it culminated in a beautiful funeral. I had gone back home to Tulsa to get some clothes and for the funeral I chose the shirt she had just given me for Christmas. The shirt was a gold knit with a collar. I wore khaki pants. I wouldn’t have felt right in dark colors and I really wanted to celebrate life. The funeral was made that much more difficult when I discovered that my cousins’ nanny was sitting with them and I couldn’t sit with my immediate family because of it. Furthermore, I ended up next to my mom’s friend, who had apparently not figured out that I was an adult and kept talking to me as if I were a child.

When the funeral was over, my two best friends came up to me and asked if I was okay. I had really been fine all week, only crying on Sunday morning. I shook my head no and buried myself in their arms and cried. I felt like the world had just ended. A few days later, I left on a trip with them, where I was able to sort through things slowly throughout the next week. Which isn’t to say I felt any better about it all.

untitled (’100 days’)

It’s been one hundred days
and if feels like it all happened
just this morning.
I’m starting to realize she’s gone –
finally missing her and ultimately
knowing I can never see her again.

I hate that morning –
when Mimi died.
Loneliness overtook me and
pain was invited in.
All I needed was a hug
from Bettina, JD, Travis, Becky,
Mom — but they weren’t there.
I’m cold inside and sad.
I miss her.

Brian Fuchs 6.18.2002

It took a long time to accept that Mimi was gone. I imagine I will have that hole in my heart for the rest of my life. I haven’t even been able to return to her house for any length of time and feel comfortable. That always makes me feel guilty because I do want to visit Papa, who is remarried, but there is too much history in that place. But it is also important to remember that I got to know Mimi. I had the amazing opportunity to be a member of a family with her at the head.

That is when I first realized my life had become about death. It had only been 447 days since my grandma Fuchs (“G”) had passed away. Since then, I have lost 2 friends and 2 great-grandmothers. I am ready to have my life defined by something else; be defined by love or friendship or family. I have felt rather selfish about these deaths over these past 6 years. They are important to me, but moving on is much more important.

21 March 2007

the memories

forgone and so beautiful

This is little more than a series of ramblings that are only remotely connected to one another.

The mind is fascinating to me — what I really mean to say is unsettling. Creativity, knowledge, wisdom, intellegence, instict, intuition, memory. Such an array of abstracts that make each of us who we are. I was watching TV earlier and a notion was mentioned that has supplanted the inane items I was thinking about at the time. “We focus so much on the tangible, we have forgotten about the intangible.”

This applies to my life as much as anyone else’s. I don’t know why I needed a show to remind me of it. Perhaps I didn’t; it is entirely possible that I needed to be reminded of that today and the events were all set in place to make certain I received the message.

My life is in contant flux — morphing from one thing to another. I spend only a few months as each version of myself before moving on to the next… sometimes the change is so constant and uneventful that I am never the same person from one day to the next. I think that could apply to anyone, as these are fairly universal concepts. Two things really interested me on this subject. The first is why a person remembers events in the way they do. The second, friendships and their evolution (which I intend to cover later).

As I recounted in my previous post, I can remember certain moments throughout my life. I can remember making a girl cry in 3rd grade. I don’t know what I did though. I remember watching one kid kick over another kids cardboard brick construction when I was in kindergarten — I also remember waiting in line to go to the restroom and being kissed by a girl in my class. But the rest is a blur. I remember having the cast put on my legs, but don’t remember not being able to walk.

I don’t know what my purpose is for writing this. I guess I just started thinking about things a lot lately. This current version of myself is a creation of introspection rather than external events, so perhaps that is why I am thinking so much. I know a lot has to do with my high school reunion coming up. If I make it (and I intend to), I don’t really have much memory of the majority of the people who are likely to remember me. That sounds conceited, but that isn’t quite the case. I’m just nice most of the time. People like that.

I am worried that I don’t remember enough, but one can hardly live in the moment and dwell on the past simultaneously. ADHD is a fun tool for pulling random thoughts out of your head, but a terrible tool for making valid points about those thoughts.

I fear that I will not find someone who has the patience for me and my many thoughts and who is intellectually interesting enough for me to relate to. I don’t think being particular is wrong, but it has left me alone for the past 27 years. Or perhaps I am overthinking… as usual.

I don’t get to relive yesterday. Maybe all of this is really about that. The less I remember, the more of my life is actually gone. I don’t want to wake up at 70, realizing I have been alone all my life and wondering when I could have changed who I am. That time must be now, but I don’t know if I have to correct tools.

Of the intagibles of the mind go, wisdom is the most important to me. It is vastly more important than memory, which is simply recollection of moments. Perhaps I need to stop obsessing over the lost moments and focus more on the experience of being me today and what I can learn from myself and from the people/places/things I encounter today. What lessons are worth carrying with me and inserting into my understanding of the universe? And I know I need shift my focus away from the tangible. What I can buy today is not important.

19 March 2007

the gay

3+17+1997=10 or “Relax a little; one of your most celebrated nervous tics will be your undoing.” -Frank O’Hara

This might mean nothing to anyone but me, but it felt important to share it. Today, St Patrick’s Day, 2007, marks the 10th anniversary of me coming out to my friends as gay. It has been quite a journey, but this is an account of what happened before. To understand the full extent of where I am, it is important to first understand where I was. This poem by Frank O’Hara expresses it in ways I couldn’t.

February

The scene is the same,
and though I try to imagine
plinking starry guitars,

and while I spend my
time listening to a foreign
contralto sing the truth,

the earth is everywhere,
brown and aching. At first
it seemed that this life

would be different: born
again in someone else’s
arms, after seasons of childhood

and error and defense.
I thought freshly and tried
to change the color of my

habit. New metrics would be
mine in this excess of
love! but I was a braggart

to hope so. My old hurts
kept attacking me at odd
moments, after too many

songs, on public conveyances,
in the blue light of bars. Ah!
I cried, do not blame me,

save your temper for the
others! and at the same instant
in the same breath cried,

break me! I dare you, for
which of us am I? you will
break yourself! And this

became only too true, the
worst of all possible vistas,
my lone dark land.

Frank O’Hara

That was me. It still is from time to time, wondering how my life is really different and hoping that I have really changed — grown. I was lost. I had desperately tried to force myself into someone I am not, agrily trying to “not be gay.”

The feeling that I was different started as early as 5 or 6. I didn’t know how, but I felt like there was something about me that wasn’t “normal.” What’s more, as a young child, I knew that there were things I needed to hide from my parents — things they wouldn’t understand. I don’t know how we come to these conclusions. My first crush on a boy happened in 4th grade, but I didn’t think much of it.

I remember a number of times during church activities, specifically Bible Bowl, when I would drift off into my own world of introspection, wondering how much love I would find in these people if they knew this awful truth about me. I pretended to have crushes, marking my papers with the most obvious name, hoping to be caught pining for one of my teammates. I quickly became outspoken over my disdain for the public education system’s willingness to teach homosexuality as acceptable. I was turning on myself and was only 14.

The one thing I took away from that part of my life was self-loathing. And I could have ended up with some great experiences and memories, but the pain of being something you don’t want to be was very difficult to deal with.

A couple years later, I found myself washing dishes daily at my first job. I had gotten in through a series of somewhat unusual events, but was enjoying it greatly. I had started to realize that I would have to face this part of myself. I couldn’t hide behind hatred any longer, but I was terrified at what that would mean.

The climate of the world for gays was very different in 1995 & 1996. From my teenaged perspective, it seemed like the dark ages. I didn’t want to indetify with them. There were no gay characters on television, no role models. If I were to accept being gay as who I actually am, I felt that I would be giving up; giving in to what I had been taught to believe is wrong. Furthermore, I was saying to the world that I accepted that I would have no place to fit in; no safe place to run to when life became too much.

Let me back up for just a second. I don’t actually remember my parents (or their parents) having ever spoken about the issue of homosexuality. I never had reason to believe they had thought about it at all. Neither do I recall any lessons in church concerning it. I remember lessons on love and compassion, but never about how wrong gays were. My lessons on this subject were from specific people, friends, who had “moral” objections to certain “lifestyle choices.” I didn’t want to be anything that would upset these people.

I was feeling rather exhausted about the whole issue and was no longer doing well in school. I spent my days worrying about turning into this pariah I didn’t want to be, all the while sitting in the car with my friends, or over at their house, a little removed from the group… from the situation. I was starting to feel like I was enormous, trapsing around people’s houses, hopind desperately to blend in and not be noticed, but failing. I started to discuss issues with my coworker and friend, hoping to find wisdom in her words. It turned out to not be so easy.

In June 1996, I made one of the weirdest mistakes of my life. I went on a class trip to France for 2 weeks. The teacher going with us was unable to attend at the last minute, due to a medical emergency, and I was left with a group of students, all a year older than me, who wouldn’t even talk to me or include me in their group… and the teacher wouldn’t be there. My 2 weeks in France would basically be on my own. And so they were. I befriended a few people from a group from Idaho, but basically did my own thing. As long as I was on the bus when I was supposed to be, nobody seemed to take much notice.

Everything was going great, until a rainy day in Paris. There wasn’t much we could go do that evening, but the guys I was sharing a room with went to hang out with the girls, so I was alone… with my thoughts… and having been in France for a few days, the newness having worn off, I was thinking about the same things that kept me sad and angry at home. That night I accepted it. I didn’t like it, but I realized that I couldn’t be anyone but who I am. The rest of the trip was very hard; I barely enjoyed myself. I would hang out with the bus driver, Kamal, or our tour guide, Arnaud, at almost every stop. I didn’t feel like I should be there anymore.

My biggest regret about that trip is not hiding my bitterness when I returned home. My family and friends were waiting at the gate to greet me; I was so happy to see them. But I was difficult and cranky and spoiled the mood for everyone.

I spent most of my senior year trying to convice people I was straight. But a huge weight had been lifted. The distraction that made the previous year so hard was gone, but I would eventually need to tell someone else.

Travis, one of my two best friends, had spent spring break in Mexico (I think), leaving myself and JD to spend a fun filled week of working more hours at our jobs. We did want to do something though, so we spent the week at my uncle’s cabin just outside of town. Travis returned that weekend and we all hung out on Sunday. I was a little down; Travis could tell. I drove home, talking to Travis on the CB (yes, it’s true) the entire way. He had followed me and pulled in behind me at my house. He and I talked about things. I wasn’t really ready to tell him everything, but I told him that I could never see myself marrying a woman and having kids with her. If felt like enough for that moment. He was very comforting, much more so than most friends. He told me that JD had asked if Travis thought I was gay. Travis laughed it off as a silly notion. I felt extremely exposed.

The next day was my favorite holiday of the year, St. Patrick’s Day. I don’t know why I love it, but I do. The first thing I did in my first class was to write a letter, expressing to both Travis & JD how I felt and about who I am. I told them of the many days, wanting to no longer live. I told them how painful it had been to let them down. And I told them that I am gay. I couldn’t face them, knowing that I was losing my two best friends.

I had an eye appointment and then work after school. I was almost finished at work when Travis & JD showed up. I tried to avoid them, but they seemed angry. I just walked out to the parking lot, letting them follow me. I intended to go home and forget the day had ever happened. But my car was missing. Defeated, I got into Travis’ car. We drove around a little; they told me they had gotten permission from my mom to keep me away all night. They told me that they didn’t care that I am gay, but they were angry that I had been so depressed and didn’t tell them.

Somehow, we ended up at Red Lobster, where they continued to assure me that they still loved me. It felt nice, but was painful at the same time. We drove around for a long time, talking (I was crying). I think I stayed at Travis’ that night. And that was it. It was done. I didn’t have to hide myself anymore. The last few months we lived in Stillwater were the happiest as a teenager that I can remember. Life had been so painful for me for so long.

A month later, Ellen Degeneres came out, bursting the doors wide open for gay men and women everywhere. It felt good to be a part of something from the begining. It still does.

I didn’t tell my family for a long time after this, but I will save that for another time. It deserves the same attention.

Today, I am very happy with who I am. It feels so good to be me and I am glad I came out when I did. I hope that there is a day when being gay doesn’t break children into secrecy. I hope that day comes soon.

St Patrick’s Moon

St Patrick’s moon shone
gently on us as we left
Texas, back to our lives.
The brief stays seem sad
and this was the last visit
with all of us single.

St Patrick’s moon shone
on the new baby — born
to make some forget
the tragedy its birthday
marked — the sadness of
this anniversary of death.

St Patrick’s moon shone
through the just-cracked blinds
on Laurisa’s face — the new
life growing within her body.
More family, more joy,
more love to make us forget.

St Patrick’s moon shone
through the rear window of
JD’s car onto my face as
I smiled. My life seems
to be getting closer to real.
I laughed a little because
life can be so wonderful.

Brian Fuchs (3.17.2003)

17 March 2007