Papagni Pages

Tag: truth

  • Luck or Earned Success

    People have called me a lucky bastard my entire life. If I’m being honest, I’m not quite sure how to take it. My friend Mark was told he couldn’t board a Cessna to the Maldives last year because the plane had a weight limit and they had met the limit. The plane went down on route and everyone was killed; Mark is lucky. I ask people why they think I’m lucky and they tell me it’s because everything comes to me so easily.

    I beg to differ. First and foremost, I was born black. I was born blacker than any other black person within 1000 miles of my town. Second, I was born poor. I’m talkin’ about the kind of poor you never shake; like third world poor. And lastly, I was a foster child. Do you still think I’m lucky? Do you think the shade of black you are doesn’t matter?

    Yes, maybe I was lucky that I was born in the good old U.S. of A.; a country where your skin color only matters if you need a job, or you want to live anywhere, or you want to marry anyone. Needless to say I had my struggles growing up. I want to tell you about all of my foster homes, but a few stand out.

    The Mississippi department of Social Services decided that my single mother was unfit to raise me. She worked at McDonald’s and left me home alone a lot. I guess our neighbors heard me crying and reported my mother to the police. I was only two years old when I went into my first foster home so there’s not much I can tell you about it. Subsequent foster parents told me that I was one of 12 fostered children in that home — Social Services had to lock those people up because they were trafficking the kids. Fortunately, I was too young to even be groomed.

    When I was five years old I ended up with this older couple that took me to New Jersey. They were nice people, but they were too old to take care of me and I ended up with people who were younger, but they only took kids for the money. Social Services figured out their scheme and shipped me back to Mississippi. My dark skin made it difficult to find parents for me.

    When I was 12 years old I was brought to a nice house Outside of Atlanta, Georgia. I could tell these people had money because they had five bedrooms in their house, wood floors, and a couple of nice cars. It was a Caucasian family of four — their two children were not adopted. I liked this family and this house a lot. I realized the only way they’d ever adopt me, was if I behaved well and showed them I was worth having around. They were kind people from the start, not allowing me to do more chores than their own children. There were rules, but they were fair and easy enough to follow. I was actually happy for the first time in my life. But, it wasn’t all good and easy.

    People stared wherever we went. Bonnie and Everett made it clear that Anne and Mark were their parents and I was a social experiment. I was meant to make them feel better about their abundant lives. I was fully aware of my role and I was determined to play the part well.

    The first thing I did was ask Anne and Mark if they would call me Scott and sign me up to junior high school as Scott. They said they’d do it with no questions asked. I mimicked Everett’s every move so that I wouldn’t stand out; blending in was the only way to survive. When Anne took me clothes shopping, I picked out clothes Everette would wear. Lastly, I pretended to enjoy every dish prepared for the family. No signs of the food I was familiar with and I certainly wasn’t going to ask for it.

    What I did ask for was writing utensils and notebooks. Anne was happy to purchase them for me. I was quiet, studious, and I stayed out of trouble — never mentioning my past and keeping my eyes on the future.

    About a year after I joined the family, Anne and Mark told me that I should dress for a nice restaurant because we were all going to dinner in the evening. It seemed like an ordinary family get together, therefore, I didn’t anticipate what was to take place that night.

    We were all seated and two bottles of bubbles arrived, one had alcohol and the other didn’t. Glasses were filled and the waitstaff left the table. Mark asked us all to raise our glasses. I had no idea what was going on, having never seen this sort of ritual.

    “This is to officially welcome Scott into the family. That is of course if Scott wants to be a part of this crazy crew. Do you Scott?”

    I was thrown off-guard; shocked really.

    “Scott, what do you say?”

    “Umm, ummm, yes, I would like that.”

    “Well, Scott says yes, after some surprising hesitation, he agrees.”

    Anne gets up from her seat at the table and runs over to hug and kiss me. Bonnie and Everett were coaxed by Mark to join her. This is what I’d always wanted, why wasn’t I thrilled? It didn’t take long to find out why my intuition was right.

    That was one wild rollercoaster of a year. My last name was changed to Stanton and my new parents had to figure out how to hide their regret. Some friends stopped calling, others made excuses. Invitations to parties and dinners became less frequent. My newly dubbed siblings were suddenly distant.

    For me it was an old, familiar story. I knew exactly why the honeymoon was over; I was once again alone; fighting for my right to exist. Anne and Mark tried. They said nice things, bought me nice clothes, they talked to me about piano lessons, soccer camp, and a racing bike. I could tell they wanted this arrangement to work, but I was cautious and dubious. I stayed in the shadows. I kept my head in the books. I focused on the prize.

    By the time I started Harvard, my parents had adjusted to the hate and Bonnie and Everett barely tolerated me. I did everything I could to stay out of everybody’s way. I got a full scholarship based on my SAT scores and academic record. Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) was not a factor, but I’m certain everyone assumed that DEI got me in. So once again, I had to work harder than anyone else to prove myself worthy.

    I joined every club, competed in athletic programs, and I considered the things in life that were attainable. During my quiet moments I often thought about my birth mom: why did she give me up? Was she alive? Where did she live? I’m not sure why, but my biological father didn’t enter my thoughts; perhaps I was fed too much propaganda about black fathers.

    I was sitting in Harvard’s main dining hall one day and a beautiful woman sat across from me. She said hi and asked me if I was enjoying Art History. I realized she must have been in the same class, but there were over a hundred students in that class and I had long ago taught myself not to look around or get distracted. She introduced herself as Claire.

    “Nice to meet you Claire, I’m Scott.”

    Claire noticed that I was socially awkward, but it didn’t stop her from talking. I listened, asked a couple of questions, and hoped she’d move on. Claire eventually stood up.

    “Scott, it was nice meeting you, I’ll see you in class.”

    I nodded and went back to finishing my sandwich.

    For the next few weeks, Claire sat next to me in class. She was friendly, but not pushy; I remained somewhat distant. I was attracted to her, but the number of red flags made me very cautious. Claire was white, ambitious, outspoken, and attractive. Any sort of closeness was way too risky. I concentrated on Art History.

    I noticed Claire’s absence for the next few lectures. At the start of her third absence, our professor asked if anyone had seen or heard from Claire. We all looked at one another and then I noticed everyone looking at me. Our professor asked me to stay after class; he once again asked if I’d see her. He told me that she had been reported missing a few days prior. I told him that I had not had any contact with her since the last lecture she’d attended.

    That night the police came to my dorm room. They asked me if I would go with them to the Cambridge police station. They escorted me out of the dorm while several of my fellow students watched. At the station, they informed me that several students had reported seeing Claire and I together. I shared how we were acquainted, however, that did not seem to dissuade them. The media got hold of the story and I was vilified.

    The police couldn’t actually charge me with a crime being that at that point Claire was only reported missing. Still, my photograph was all over social media and I was guilty in the eyes of a jury of my peers. In fact, the University was considering suspending me, I assume in order to show that they were being proactive about Claire’s case.

    My birth mother read about the adoption story and figured out that I was her son. My mother was in a much better place, often wondering about me throughout the years. She did a bit of research and found me at Harvard. When I received her message, I was elated. I had long ago given up on any hope of finding her. My adoptive parents claimed that the records of my birth mother and birthplace were sealed.

    We met at a coffee shop on campus the next morning. Her name is Cassandra. She’s smart and beautiful. She expressed no regret about her youth, having had a very difficult upbringing and very little opportunity early on in her life. She is currently an advocate for single mothers in Mississippi. Cassandra believed me when I told her I had nothing to do with Claire’s disappearance.

    A few days later, Claire returned to campus. She had apparently met a guy a couple of weeks prior. They decided to take his boat out to sea; she failed to tell anyone where she was going. Once she did think about it, she was already halfway to the Caribbean with no cell service. When she arrived in Jamaica, she discovered family, friends, and the authorities were looking for her. Claire immediately flew back to New Haven and apologized.

    What I found disturbing was that no one contacted me to apologize. All that I had known and worked for was in jeopardy at that time. I had no support from anyone except for my birth mother. I truly believe my parents and siblings thought that I was somehow involved with Claire’s disappearance.

    Years later Claire did manage to find me and apologize. She had some lame excuse about being caught up in her homecoming and not knowing I was questioned by the police. For a time I had considered suing Harvard and the New Haven police department, however, Cassandra advised me to move on. She said that I should channel my anger into graduating and finding the right professional position.

    Today I am a U.S. Congressman for the state of Georgia. My parents have often reached out to me, but I am guarded. Turning my back on them would come to no good. My brother and sister have their own lives; they have never shown remorse or interest and that’s fine with me.

    Cassandra and I visit often. I credit her with being elected to Congress. She is often by my side for official ceremonies. I consider her opinions and advice in everything I do. Someday soon, I hope to introduce her to my future wife.

    As a Congressmen I have fought for DEI; not because I am a product of its practice, but because I know and believe that the world is a cruel place for anyone who is different. Creating ways to ensure some resemblance of equality and fairness, is my life’s work.

    By the way, please call me by my given name, Jamal Jackson.

    State-of Mind

    You might be thinking, “How can he write in the first person, as a black American male?” Truth is, I couldn’t possibly know what it’s like to be a black man in America. It’s all conjecture and creative writing, but isn’t that usually the case? Men writing female characters and vice versa. A straight writer writing gay characters; you get the picture. I’m angry about the current politicizing of DEI in the U.S.; politicians and citizens wishing to further divide the country along racial and ideological lines.

    Being a minority in the U.S. is at a huge disadvantage on many levels. White men hold the power and they are afraid of losing it and they will do everything they can to keep it. Of course there are good white men and of course there are people of color who should never have been put in positions they weren’t skilled for; however, the numbers are disproportionate. Sadly, it has been this way since our forefathers won the revolution and wrote the constitution — all men are not created equal and they never have been. DEI is an woke attempt to level the playing field. As a woke white male, I support protecting the rights of individuals; further, I support any opportunity to ensure diversity, equity and inclusion in all aspects of life.

    I’ve shared this before and I still believe it to be true. I applied for a position over thirty years ago, when affirmative action was the law in federally funded institutions. I lost out to a woman of color. At the time I was angry. I thought myself the better candidate. I soon after realized that I was not the best choice and that the administration at the university had done the right thing for many reasons. White men have had the advantage in the U.S. for centuries, why not ensure that everyone is given an equal opportunity to succeed.

    I’m enjoying my stable life in Portugal; my home, Paco, my friends, and Portuguese/EU Politics (flawed, but progressive and working toward making life better for its residents). Dwelling on the rise of authoritarian rule in the U.S. is difficult, tragic and more than I choose to handle. Choose your platform and fight for what you believe in.

    “One day our descendants will think it incredible that we paid so much attention to things like the amount of melanin in our skin or the shape of our eyes or our gender instead of the unique identities of each of us as complex human beings.— Franklin Thomas

  • When Obsession Turns Toxic: Pippin Knows Best

    When Obsession Turns Toxic: Pippin Knows Best

    It started with an occasional glance over his shoulder. A crazy feeling, an odd sensation that someone was watching. Each time Peter would dismiss this notion, knowing that being paranoid is neither reasonable nor founded in truth. After all, he was a nobody, a non-entity.

    Two weeks went by and his cell phone rang at 3:00 a.m. Peter looked down at his phone and saw that it was an unknown caller; he ignored it. It happened again the next night and the next. He’d tried blocking the number, the same ring at the same hour, the caller persisted. It got Peter thinking about several people he might have pissed off over the years; there have been a few. There was that car he sold to this guy on Facebook Marketplace. It was a Dodge Dart that looked pretty good on the outside, but had been a lemon from the start — let it be someone else’s lemon he thought. The buyer’s name was Steve; Steve wasn’t very happy. Then there was this woman Sharon he’d met on Tinder. Sharon was a bit too needy and Peter tended to be emotionally unavailable. Her free flowing tears became a problem and he forgot to leave a note. Then there was this cousin who couldn’t handle who Peter voted for in the most recent election. He told Peter that blood was everything and Peter told him to fuck off and search for his soul, being certain he’d lost it some time ago.

    The ‘do not disturb button’ on Peter’s phone did not deter the caller. He became incredulous; refusing to consider how far this person would go. Then it occurred to him that perhaps he should pick up the phone the next time. Later that evening, as predicted, Peter’s mobile phone rang and he answered, “Who is this?”

    Beth said, “No need to be rude Peter.”

    “It’s 3:00 a.m. and I’m being rude? What the fuck do you want Beth?”

    “Just to say hello, it’s been a long time.”

    Peter cut off the call and turned off his phone. He sat and mulled over what he had done to Beth to drive her to this point. She’d stalked him, annoyed him with middle of the night calls, what else had she done that he was unaware of? Peter couldn’t recall how their relationship had ended. He recalled meeting Beth in Art History at Uni. She was attractive, opinionated, and approachable. They’d gone out for a coffee after a lecture on Caravaggio. Beth found him to be provocative and progressive and Peter believed him to be subversive and propped-up by the far left of his day. They’d had a heated conversation that got him all worked-up and horny; he had to have her.

    Peter hadn’t given her much thought lately, but come to think of it, Beth did seem a bit off; maybe that’s why he had run away so fast. There were moments he’d checked out, but to be fair, there was that intense passion; hard to resist and Beth knew it. When he did finally leave her, she wasn’t having it. They had a bit of a public screaming match and she finally got the message. Peter had been through similar break-ups before, so he shrugged it off. He knew he could be an asshole, but he was young and cocky.

    A week after he’d hung up on Beth, there was an incident that had him confused. He was sitting at his desk at work and a DM popped up on his Mac. It was from a woman he had dated over five years ago; her name was Lisa. Lisa insisted they meet as soon as possible. Peter was half hoping she was interested in seeing him again and half hoping it was something completely unrelated to their romantic involvement. He had a drink with Lisa the following night. She told him that she’d been contacted by the FBI. She had agreed to talk to an agent who questioned her about Peter and their history. At the end of a 15 minute phone interview, the agent told her that Peter was being investigated for treason. Lisa said that since she never had a problem with Peter and because she was certain he wasn’t capable of treason, she´d decided to tell him. Peter was upset about what Lisa shared, but he considered it ridiculous and probably a mistake. They both agreed that he was a schmuck, however, not cut out for crimes against his country.

    Then it happened again a few days later with Lauren, a girl he’d dated briefly in college. Lauren said the conversation with the FBI agent was brief, but concerning. It had gotten to the point where Peter thought he should contact the FBI to find out more about what they were investigating — thinking cooperation would help his case.

    The D.C. FBI office had no record of these phone calls. They told him that this sort of thing happened all the time; scorned lovers and angry neighbors. Peter put two and two together and decided to speak to Beth. He didn’t think calling her would be very effective, so he went down to the bar in the Village where they’d met.

    Sure enough, there she was having a drink at the bar. Peter casually walked over to say hello. Beth was unapproachable, in fact she behaved as if she’d never met him. He had never experienced anything like it before. He quickly realized she was playing games with him and he wasn’t interested in taking part. He told her to stay away from him.

    “If you continue to harass me Beth, I’ll involve the police.”

    Beth looked straight into his eyes, “I’ve never even met you, let alone harass you.”

    Peter just walked away. Things were quiet for a few days, leading Peter to believe his threat worked. That Saturday, he decided to visit his mom at her home in Queens. He usually just showed up and let himself in. As he entered the house, he heard voices in his mother’s living room. Peter walked in and there was Beth just chatting with his mom.

    “What the fuck are you doing here?”

    Beth didn’t flinch, “I came to see your mom, is that not allowed?”

    “Mom, can you come to the kitchen right now please.”

    Peter’s mom followed him to the kitchen. She told him that Beth had shown up at the door saying she just happened to be in the neighborhood. Beth had only been at the house ten minutes before he arrived. When they walked back into the living room, Beth was gone. Peter told his mom what had been happening and insisted that she not let Beth in the next time she showed up.

    Peter was out-of-his-mind with anger, having no idea how to handle the situation. After some thought he remembered that Beth had a small Lhasa Apso. He’d never been to Beth’s apartment, but he followed her home from the bar one night and found out where she lived. He watched her walk the dog from a few houses over. Beth seemed annoyed, practically dragging the dog down the sidewalk. Peter knew what to do and he had to do it sooner than later.

    A friend once showed him how to pick-a-lock; a skill he knew would one day come in handy. Peter wore a hoodie and sunglasses and looked down, in case she had a camera at the door. Getting in was pretty easy. Peter thought Beth had said her dog’s name was Pippin, so Peter called out his name. Pippin came over to him wagging his tail — he scooped him up and carried him to his car. The neighborhood was quiet. Peter drove off with Pippin’s head out the window, enjoying the breeze. He figured he’d have to keep the whole affair on the downlow; Beth knew where he lived. Peter fortunately had a roof garden, making it easy enough to stay away from the streets. He was certain that two weeks of keeping Pippin would shake Beth up a bit.

    Peter didn’t feel great about what he’d done, but clearly this woman needed to be taught a lesson. Pippin was a delight to have around the house. He was well-trained and a great companion, but after a week Peter’s guilt was too much to bear. He had searched social media to see if Beth had put out word that Pippin was missing, but he saw nothing. Still, he thought it best to return him to Beth. When he brought him back to her neighborhood, he didn’t see any street signs asking for help finding Pippin. It didn’t seem like Beth cared that he was gone.

    Peter quietly returned Pippin to Beth’s house. The little guy was whimpering and giving him the saddest face he’d ever seen. It hurt Peter to leave him. The following morning Peter was leaving his building and there Pippin was sitting with his doorman Sal. Sal asked me if Pippin was his dog because he’d seen him carrying him out the day before. He said that he was and Peter took him upstairs to his apartment. He unblocked Beth’s phone number and texted her that he had Pippin and that she should come for him. An hour letter he received a text from her:

    “Hey Peter, I know you took Pippin, but he seems to prefer you to me and to be frank, I don’t want him anymore anyway. So keep the little runt. I’ll stop bothering you, but you should know the gonorrhea you left me with was pretty shitty. I hope I never see you again . . . ever!”

    Ironically, Peter was fairly positive she didn’t get the gonorrhea from him, seeing that he’d never had gonorrhea. He didn’t return Beth’s text or Pippin. Pippin turned out to be a great companion and Beth became a distant memory.

    Side Note: My medical doctor ex read my story and wrote to tell me that he loved it, but that I should know that one could be a carrier of gonorrhea; however, not be aware of it. So then, Peter could have left Beth with that unwanted present. I thought it added a nice little twist and now I know all I needed to know about gonorrhea.

    State-of-Mind

    “I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.” G.K. Chesterton

    It’s been a while and I’m tempted to share why that is, but I’m thinking it’s boring and tedious and it might be best to just leave it behind.

    I recently had the great pleasure of hosting two new friends who live in my neighborhood. Both women went to the high school across the street from my apartment. It was one of the most enjoyable afternoons I’ve shared for a long time. A reminder of the joy of getting to know new people, the pride in sharing your nest, and the warmth felt when realizing you are in the exact place where you should be. It’s quite an amazing feeling and I am grateful for recognizing it.

    There has been a major shift in my life and my priorities. This new direction will inform me of my choices. I have come to realize I’ve been spending way too much precious time concerning myself with matters I cannot control. I have never been one to spend a great deal of time on regrets, but I also do not spend enough time on gratitude. My focus for now is taking stock of all that is good and satisfying and real in my life. After all, what else matters?

    “Enough is a feast.” Buddhist proverb

    Sometimes people write and tell me that I should either finish a story or expand on one; that’s fair. I will if the spirit moves me, until then, they will remain as they are.

    Thank you for reading and have a great summer.

  • Coping with Politics: Finding Peace Amid Chaos

    Keep in mind: my thoughts, not gospel, not all based on fact, and not meant to persuade or dissuade. Merely suggestions for getting through the muck & mire.

    First and foremost, no matter how bad it gets — and it will get worse, I cannot allow what is happening in the United States or the world, to drag me down. I honestly believe Trump and his sycophants are attempting to distract, exhaust, confuse, and lead us to helplessness. To the point where many will just give up or even worse give in.

    Next, I realize as a childless, older adult living abroad, American politics has less impact on my life, then it does for others. Having said this, I would also add that the influence of American Politics is felt throughout the free world. Further, any discrimination, stripping of basic human rights, corruption, and/or abuse of power, directly impacts my life.

    Some ways that I have learned to cope (in no particular order):

    • By filtering all that I read, see, and hear. There is currently a lot of noise, news, and opinions about the Trump era. Some of it is of course factual and has grave consequences. To be well informed, one must be certain to sort out what is hearsay or false. I feel empowered by standing with those that know what they are talking about.
    • I cannot control those members of my family that have decided to stand by and support this administration. I can, however, distance myself from them and/or insist that they not try to persuade me to join them.
    • When you are in pain or discomfort, the best thing you can do is find a healthy way to soothe the pain. Go to the gym, immerse yourself in your hobbies, watch mindless films, have a glass of good wine, a well-made cocktail, or a cold beer, read, go for a hike or walk alone or with a friend.
    • Keep a journal. Clear out your mind on paper; it helps keep things in perspective without sweeping your thoughts under the carpet or worse, denying they exist.
    • Speak your truth when questioned. Hiding your thoughts or your truth, can ruin a relationship and make you feel guilty or angry with yourself.
    • Always keep in mind that this too shall pass. There have been times in history when adversity led to more progressive change.
    • Get away. Nothing is better for clearing my head than a change of scenery.
    • Make a worst case scenario plan. Always better to be prepared.
    • Be a bit frugal, just in case you need funds in the future.
    • Pick your battles. You cannot take everyone and everything on. Write to your congressmen and senators, vote in every election, and campaign if you can — even if it’s on a grass roots level.
    • Celebrate the small victories.
    • Cook and/or eat comforting food.
    • Spend time with a friend or loved one that is like-minded and supports one another. Try to avoid a negative rabbit hole.
    • Having taken advantage of therapy for much of my life, I am a strong advocate of finding a professional you can trust and talk to. A psychiatrist may be more appropriate; especially if medication is to be prescribed. Medication can be a lifeline for those suffering from depression or mental illness. No shame in self-care.
    • Meditation is a very effective tool. I find sitting in a quiet space and concentrating on my breathing, works well for keeping outside influences in perspective.
    • I discovered gratitude not too long ago. Taking stock of all of the people you love who love you in return, and the gifts provided by the universe, is an excellent reminder of how good it is to be alive. And then there are pets to bring you joy.
    • Lastly, getting rid of toxic individuals in your life is essential for good mental health. People in your life who are broken, may attempt to bring you down with them — don’t allow it. If necessary and when necessary, walk away.

    Whatever works for you, is the way to manage the chaos and strife; so long as you have tools.

    What we have is worth fighting for

    Oh How these words spoke to me

    “We shall not cease from exploration
    And the end of all our exploring
    Will be to arrive where we started
    And know the place for the first time.”

    T.S. Elliot

    I’m worried about a few people in my life that are feeling defeated and suffering from intense melancholy. I hope that they come to realize that there are ways to rise above the negativity. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not enough.

    I’ve been enjoying listening to Mel Robbins on her podcast. The Let Them Theory makes a great deal of sense. https://www.melrobbins.com/podcasts/episode-70

  • Stephen’s Journey

    Stephen watched and listened to the news: an endless loop of burning neighborhoods, tsunami warnings, earthquake devastation, and political unrest. Never before had his thoughts mimicked what was happening outside, so precisely. Chaos and confusion.

    What had Stephen learned from his Zen Master? In the midst of the insanity, there is peace. That elusive peace, difficult to find in the past, now seemed far, far away. A voice deep within his unconscious mind told him that giving up meant abandoning humanity and himself. Stephen was a fighter, he fought for the right to be his authentic self, he fought for community justice, he fought for the underserved, and he fought for an ideal he knew in his heart was unattainable.

    After all, it wasn’t his war and the drought did not directly affect him. It wasn’t his house or even his cousin’s house. It wasn’t his sister’s body they were trying to manage and manipulate. It wasn’t his religion being used to brainwash and control. It wouldn’t be his home in twenty years or his oceanfront Airbnb in thirty years. Wouldn’t they find a cure for cancer soon? Weren’t pills meant to mask the pain and wouldn’t technology save the planet?

    The answers to the questions he grappled with were way too obvious to overlook. He knew in his heart that there truly was only one force that would determine the course of time; that force is and has always been Mother Nature. Was she pissed off? No, Stephen knew she wasn’t angry. Her only focus is correction. The balance the universe seeks to maintain is non-negotiable; solutions imply that there is a problem to be solved — there is no problem, there is only inevitability. What led Stephen to these complex thoughts?

    When Stephen was 50 years old he suffered a massive heart attack which nearly ended his life. He had always questioned his existence, but this near death experience forced him to take inventory of his life and its meaning. Was he working in the right field and in the right place? Were his friends supportive? Was he communicating with his life partner effectively and did this person do everything possible to lift him up? Was he the partner he thought he could and should be? And so many other questions which he hoped he could find answers to. Not only answers, but a positive path forward as well. If he was going to live, he wanted to live with purpose and fulfillment.

    Stephen contemplated the future of the world, his inner and outer circle, his place. Although it is a lifelong process, he found himself slightly more accepting of the reality of his limitations and grateful for the gifts the universe provides. And his conclusions?

    AI generated

    In his quest to find answers and inner peace, few things were clear to him. First and foremost, his own being was but a minuscule part of the whole — no more or less than any other being, next: however small, each eventually amounted to the totality, and therefore, mattered equally. Lastly, Stephen had the ability to determine his contribution. Would he change the course of nature? The answer was a resounding, no, but he could make an impact on his immediate surroundings. He could make the older woman who lived next door’s day a little easier, he could share a story with his niece that would help her to understand her mother, he could model kindness and consideration. What he learned from experience and feedback, is that all of these things collectively would make a difference in the now. Although the future would be whatever it was meant to be, Stephen could embrace the present and enjoy the sun and a delicious burger.

    Stephen is a fictional Everyman character. We are all seeking answers and punting as time quickly passes. Some of us fill in the blanks with nonsense, some of us see the answers, but refuse to acknowledge them, some of us do not have the capacity to decipher fact from fiction, a few of us realize the search is part of the journey, and some of us want to change facts to suit our own needs. Nature is equipped to deal with an unstable and defensive environment, giving us one less thing to concern ourselves with — all that is wrong with our vessel will eventually be made right.

    I know this story was somewhat hokey, but this is where my head is these days; needing to find meaning in the madness. Today, I will enjoy a burger. Looking forward to some time away on the west coast of France in a couple of weeks. But first, a visit from a good friend living in the U.S.

    “It is change, continuing change, inevitable change, that is the dominant factor in society today. No sensible decision can be made any longer without taking into account not only the world as it is, but the world as it will be.”

    Isaac Asimov

  • A World Where a Head of Hair No Longer Matters

    I woke up one morning a few years ago running my fingers through what I thought was a thick head of hair. As reality hit, so did the realization that I had been dreaming and I was in fact bald. I considered those few moments of joy when I thought I had a full head of hair; better than winning the lottery. My name is Tom and I am follicly challenged. It’s an interesting world to navigate when everyone around you seems to have more hair than they need.

    Lately, I have been imagining a reality where a head of hair doesn’t matter. Why not, we already live in a world where intelligence doesn’t matter, good taste doesn’t matter, and integrity doesn’t matter. So what does this utopia look like:

    For one, we as humans have come to accept our differences. Blue eyes and brown eyes are seen as equally magnificent features. Height, weight, skin color; none of these are considered superior attributes. The old are respected for their wisdom and longevity; the young are celebrated for their energy and ideas for the future. We are all magnificent.

    Let’s get to the root of all evil, the almighty legal tender. We have to have money, but having more than you need is obscene and unnecessary. In this new world, people have an opportunity to do well and make just enough money to have the things they desire. Limits are set based on access and excess. It wouldn’t be fair to take more than you need, because if you are permitted to do so, there won’t be anything left for others. In this world, that doesn’t fly. The earth’s resources are not infinite; therefore, limits are applied and compliance is a given.

    There are infinite freedoms that allow for individuality and choice. People are free to choose how they identify and how they dress; if indeed they choose to dress. There is no such thing as normal, conventional, or standard. Too much, outlandish, excess, greed, over-the-top, are words and phrases that are never spoken.

    Vegetables are all grown organically and widely appreciated. A plant-based diet is celebrated and enjoyed. Waste is used to fuel heating, operate vehicles, and power homes. People are acutely aware of how much they take, how much they discard, and how much they contribute.

    Political leaders volunteer for their positions and do not benefit from serving. The strengths and talents of all individuals are made public in order to serve the greater good. As humans age, they are encouraged to rest and share their wisdom; storytelling is the way that young people are taught history. We finally learn from our past.

    Social media died decades ago, along with plastic surgery, luxury brands, mansions, estates, and jet planes. Travel is done on foot, bicycle, train or people movers. All individuals are expected to consider the least invasive form of transportation when going from A to B. The internet is used for research and as a tool for the betterment of society.

    There are no longer borders. Countries have held onto their culture, but none are seen as superior to the other. Leadership exists for all humans across the board. Healthcare is a global right and so is food and shelter. Animals are only caged if they pose a danger to others, otherwise they are permitted to roam free; after all we are all inhabitants of a planet none of us own.

    Holidays are internationally recognized and celebrated. The energy of the entire world celebrating together is explosive. Religion is rightfully of historical importance; however, it has long been debunked and is no longer practiced. In its place, the universe and its wonders provides for spiritual empowerment and what a universe it is.

    Peace is revered, cherished, and a way of life. War, unrest, starvation, are all words long forgotten. All sexes are seen as equal. Death is an accepted eventuality; as with birth, it is celebrated, we live as long as we are meant to live. Illness is rare, however, when it occurs, an individual is cared for and pain is minimized. Addiction, alcoholism, and life threatening diseases and cancers, have all been eradicated.

    You’re wondering what people do for fun? Fair question. Human beings find immense pleasure and happiness in witnessing the joy of others. We see life as a gift. Being with one another and supporting each other, preserves that gift. The sexual experience is never perverse, never imposed upon another without consent, and never taken for granted. Fun is derived from a simple life, enjoying nature and the wonders of the universe.

    ____________________________________________

    My name is Tom and this is a world I will never live in. Escapism provides momentary relief.

    Just My Opinion

    I’m an avid TikToker. I love the level of creativity you find in this application, I love the length of the videos, I love the people I’ve been introduced to, and I love that so many have been able to monetize their experience. I seldom post content, but I like the freedom I have to choose if and when and how I contribute. The U.S. government has decided to ban TikTok due to security reasons. If this Chinese company is not soon sold to an American, U.S. individuals will no longer have access to the platform. There are many different theories about why some lawmakers would like to see TikTok go away. It seems to me that there are many Chinese (and other foreign agents) operating in the U.S. If all of these businesses were banned it would be devastating for the U.S. economy and all Americans. Personally, I believe this is government overreach and a bridge too far. I’m happy in this case to be living in Portugal where the platform is in no danger of being banned.

    Please forgive all grammatical and typographical errors. I hate proofreading.

  • The Stain on the Cross

    Each and every time I see someone genuflect, it reminds me of my uncle, Father Simon. My father’s brother was larger than life; pious, soft spoken and a deplorable pedophile. Twenty years after his death, and not a single family member is willing to call him out for who he really was and the damage he did. I can no longer remain silent.

    Father Simon, not sure why, but that’s what I was forced to call him. He would come for Sunday supper after delivering Mass in the Bronx. His parish was in the Bronx; one of the only things I was grateful for. Whenever he walked through the door, it was as if Jesus himself appeared. The women in the family would yell and scream and the men would hug and kiss him. Nobody ever said anything bad about Father Simon. I mostly hid in the shed outside the house.

    The shed was always musty and dark, but it was safe because Father Simon would never go there. He would always be looking at me, didn’t anyone notice? He’d pick me up to kiss me when I didn’t want to be kissed. He’d bring me candy, but I didn’t want it.

    “You’re such a sweet boy and you look just like me.”

    “Come here Sean, sit on your uncle’s knee. Come here so I can tickle you. Let me put sunscreen on you.” Let me violate you.

    Father Simon was a drunk too. He liked red wine. Nobody cared that he laughed too loud or drank too much or that he fondled me in my bedroom. I asked him to stop touching me, but he would tell me that uncles were allowed to touch their nephews and that priests were doing God’s work.

    “It’s a way of showing you my love Sean. I love you very much. But if you tell your parents, you’ll go to hell — they’ll go to hell. Remember I am a man of God and he always listens to me.”

    When I was 10 years old I put six Ex-Lax pills in Father Simon’s chocolate pudding. He stayed in the bathroom for three hours that day. I didn’t care where he ended up so long as he stayed away from me.

    This business of Father Simon putting his hands all over me went on for years. When I was 14 years old I threatened him with a pair of scissors and he never came near me again. I was angry at myself for being mean to Father Simon. Everyone loved him, so it had to be me that was the problem.

    I’ve been in therapy for several years; although I think it’s helpful, I know that I am damaged goods; emotionally and psychologically. A recent conversation with my mother went like this:

    “Mom, do you have any idea what Father Simon did to me when I was a child?”

    “Come on Sean, that was a long time ago and things were different back then.”

    “Are you telling me that you knew what was happening?”

    “I didn’t know anything back then Sean, and for the life of me I don’t understand why you want to talk about this now. Your father and I loved your uncle very much. He did so much good for his community and he was adored by so many. Telling people about what happened to you will not change anyone’s mind about Father Simon; he was a man of God and we need to let him rest. You’re going to put your father underground if you keep this up.”

    I’m not sure what is worse, the abuse or the denial. How can I love a God who would allow this to happen to so many innocent children? Trust that there is a reason so many suffer? I am sorry, but Father Simon destroyed any faith I may have had. There are two things I know for certain: first, there are known monsters among us who are permitted to destroy lives in the name of God, and second, they need to be stopped.

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    Just a reminder that my current stories are fictional. I have never actually had a priest lay a hand on me.

    State-of-Mind

    The scary and precarious political situation in the United States is throwing me off-balance. My thinking is dark, therefore, my writing is darker. I’m not sure where we are headed and despite what’s going on all around me, I am hopeful — I know it’s Pollyanna, but I’m not sure how else to be. I am very concerned about Gaza and Ukraine, I cannot imagine that the current state of affairs in either place is sustainable. Innocent people are dying due to extreme positions around religion and land ownership. I cannot imagine any favorable outcome.

    2022 SOL Tracker

  • Baseball is Not For Sissies

    There were few things Ryan feared more than going up to bat. The judging stares of the other boys and his mother’s heavy expectations. Ryan figured if he swung the bat, missed the ball, and repeated the same pattern in rapid succession, it would be over quickly and he could return to hiding. He hated being a disappointment; scrawny and perpetually chewing his nails and sucking on bloody cuticles. His bedroom was his only safe space; Lady his only friend.

    Ryan had one wish when he blew out the candles on his twelfth birthday, he wished he’d die before his next birthday. He longed to be understood. Lady, his scrawny terrier, got him, but she was the only being who didn’t judge or tease. To be invisible and no longer an embarrassment was all he ever wanted.

    Lady tugged at his jeans hoping to pull him away from the darkness as she watched him descend. She feared the worst; spent hours wondering how she might warn Ryan’s mother. She understood a mother’s love, she felt that love for her own not too long ago. She nuzzled him, sidled up to him to distract him from his hopelessness, and tried to lick away his despair. Lady was certain that she could save Ryan from himself.

    Saturday came too quickly and Ryan would once again be expected to play baseball. To behave as if this was the thing that would ultimately make Ryan a real boy; a boy that was prepared for manhood. The dread was so overwhelming, getting out of bed was an impossible effort. Taking Lady outside to relieve herself was his only motivation, she knew that and showed him her gratitude. Today was going to be horribly difficult for Ryan. He wished he could share his fears with his mother, but he knew she would tell him to shrug it off, man-up, just aim for the ball.

    Lady tried to keep Ryan away from the lake. She headed in the opposite direction hoping he’d follow. She even faked being too tired to go on. Ryan was in some far off place where she couldn’t reach him. When he reached the lake, Lady ran off to warn his mom. When she got to Anne she wined and tugged until Anne finally seemed to get the message. Lady led her to the lake as fast as she could, panting and worrying herself the entire way.

    Anne saw Ryan’s floating body as she approached the dock. He lay face down and still, as the shadow of the sun formed a halo around his fragile figure. Lady knew and she howled in despair. Ryan’s mom jumped in and dragged him to the dock. She lifted him up and he hit the dock hard. Anne frantically tried to revive him, but he’d been gone for too long. She called the police and held him while she waited for the medics to come and perform a miracle. She rocked Ryan in her arms and screamed into the silent nothingness.

    Anne immediately started to blame herself. Was she too hard on Ryan? Should she have stayed with his father despite her hatred for him? Was Ryan trying to tell her he was hurting? Deep down she knew she could have been a better mother, but she also knew she would never know what Ryan was feeling as he threw himself into the lake on that quiet and torturous Saturday morning in July.

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    Hoping to increase awareness of suicide in gay and troubled young people. The statistics are staggering. Thank you for reading, it means a lot. The first of many.

    “Bullying of LGBT youth is a contributing factor in many suicides, even if not all of the attacks have been specifically regarding sexuality or gender.[4] Since a series of suicides in the early 2000s, more attention has been focused on the issues and underlying causes in an effort to reduce suicides among LGBT youth. Research by the Family Acceptance Project has demonstrated that “parental acceptance, and even neutrality, with regard to a child’s sexual orientation” can bring down the attempted suicide rate.” Wikipedia

  • Change Is Coming

    To be honest, I’m surprised this blog has survived as long as it has; over six years of over-sharing. It was fun, therapeutic, a consistent companion, and exactly what I needed at this particular time of my life. When I arrived in Portugal I didn’t know a soul and I needed something to keep my mind off of the distance between me and the people I care about. Things have changed, I’m in better touch with myself and I have a lot going on in my life. It’s easy enough to see that a lot of you are no longer engaged (the site provides stats). What that tells me is that some of you or most of you are tired of me telling you about how bad my life was versus how good it is now. You know I’m exaggerating, but you also know, there is some truth in my words. It’s time for change.

    “Without change something sleeps inside us, and seldom awakens. The sleeper must awaken.”

    ~ Frank Herbert,  Dune

    The most poignant philosophy I have ever heard about living life, involved doing what you love. I love writing and I love storytelling — not so much oral storytelling, I get a little flustered when I notice people aren’t listening; my biggest pet peeve. What I have decided to do is write fiction whenever I am moved to do so. I will remain on this platform and keep this blog address. I obviously can’t get frustrated when readers of my stories stop reading, I won’t know any better. The older I get, the more I appreciate being oblivious.

    Writers draw from their own personal experience; therefore, there will be bits and pieces of me and my past in my prose. I will always protect the living; however, if you see yourself in my words, that’s on you.

    My stories will be short. I will try my best to entertain, provoke, and keep you wanting more. Having a provocateur in the mix will hopefully keep it interesting. Your feedback will help of course. I have found my readers to be fair and honest — sometimes appropriately candid, never mean. Well, there is this one family member, but he’s a loose cannon who hates everyone.

    “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader – not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”

    ― E. L. Doctorow

    Future Travel

    Oslo, Norway with Paco for all of July (with visits from friends throughout the month), Krakow, Poland in October, Bristol, UK in December and a much anticipated trip to the Puglia region of Italy in April 2025. Booked an NCL Greece/Turkey/Egypt cruise for fall 2025. A spring MSC Mediterranean cruise out of Lisbon, mainly to ports I have never been to, will be one of my easier excursions (anyone care to join me on either? Not in my cabin, but there is room on the ship). The United States in the late fall/early winter of 2025 or 2026: Brooklyn, Florida, Portland, Maine, Baltimore, Maryland, and Charlotte, North Carolina. Lots of my peeps to see. Everyone knows, I’ll mostly be there for the food.

    If you tell me you’re interested in where my travels take me, I can keep that bit in. I’m pumped about this, change is good; I think some of you will enjoy this new format.

    Please forgive typos and grammatical errors. Obrigado.

  • A Healthier Lifestyle

    Or Be Miserable Later in Life

    Photo by Alexander Grey

    This will not be one of those “prescription for healthy living” blogs. Instead I’m going to share some thoughts about living with the good and the bad and not get all caught up in the numbers game. It’s always been my MO that rules for living can only end up disappointing you — being human means making mistakes and facing the unexpected. I honestly don’t think I can extend my life by never taking another drink, but I do think that if I drink moderately, I will feel better overall.

    “Balance is not something you find, it’s something you create.”

    ~ Jana Kingsford

    What’s in Your Head (The Lies We Tell Ourselves)

    I’m going to reveal the biggest lie I tell myself: I will not suffer before I die. I’m convinced that I will be able to control my own death. I’m not obsessed with this notion, I just know it to be true. Of course I am also aware that I could have an accident and suffer or I can live to be 110 and no longer know which way is up.

    I do this thing where I set boundaries, sort out the when, the where, and the how and then hope for the best. Nine out of 10 times it all works out as planned; however, that’s not always the case. Sometimes I change my mind about what I want to eat or whether or not I want to play mah-jongg. I’m learning to be more flexible with myself. It seems crazy as I press the keys, but perhaps it makes perfect sense.

    The Reality of Everyday Living

    I sometimes have the best intentions, but alas . . . A few days ago I had my usual large lunch with every intention to eat a snack at dinnertime. Dinnertime came and for some reason or another, I was famished. I didn’t have anything in the refrigerator or pantry that would satisfy my hunger, so I ordered a pizza. The good news is that I ate half and put the rest in the freezer. You have to forgive yourself for occasionally stepping out of your self-imposed restrictions. I didn’t lose any sleep.

    At this point in my life, it’s not about looking good; it’s all about feeling good and the status of my health in the future. I could easily have more wine than I should in the evening, but if I overdo it, the following will happen: I will have to get up to pee more than once, I will have night sweats, I will feel like shit the next day — I don’t think it’s worth all that discomfort, so I color within the lines 95% of the time. When I go rogue, I forgive myself for overindulgence and move on. Most of the time.

    Acceptance and Comfort

    I accept many things about the person I have become, first, I am impulsive about certain things and as a result, I screw up — buying a car, for example, I never think it through. Second, I will never be thin, and lastly, I love sweets. Knowing these things helps me navigate the day-to-day. If I deny myself a piece of cake, I will spend the entire day thinking about cake and I will end up caving and devouring a large piece of cake by evening. Best to give in to it and have a small piece early in the day. I love the freezer for wrapping up cake and cookies for when my sweet tooth speaks to me.

    I’m not crazy about fruit unless it’s very fresh, sweet, and ripe. Fruit in the Algarve is lackluster, save for oranges and small bananas from the Azores . . . and strawberries in season. Melon, peaches, plums, and grapes, bleh. So I only buy what I like or I won’t eat it.

    I’ve always felt that good food is one of, if not the greatest gift the earth provides. I will not deny that gift, no way no how, even if it means a bit of gas, a year or two shaved off of my life, and or a few extra pounds. Throw away the scale. You know when you need to do better or when you can indulge a little.

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    Future Travel

    Oslo, Norway with Paco for all of July (with visits from friends throughout the month), Krakow, Poland in October, Bristol, UK in December and a much anticipated trip to the Puglia region of Italy in April 2025. Booked a Greece/Turkey/Egypt cruise for fall 2025. A spring MSC Mediterranean cruise out of Lisbon, mainly to ports I have never been to, will be one of my easier excursions (anyone care to join me?). The United States in the late fall/early winter of 2025 or 2026: Brooklyn, Florida, Portland, Maine, Baltimore, Maryland, and Charlotte, North Carolina.

    State-of-Mind

    The significance of good health as I grow older is an everyday consideration. When I stretch more at the gym, eat a healthier lunch, take my supplements; I feel so much better. When I feel better, I’m more pleasant to be around and so it goes. These days I pay a lot more attention to the signs from my body. We have control over so many daily activities in our lives, ignoring the importance of being present is a prescription for disappointment and discomfort. I’m paying a lot more attention and, therefore, I’m happier.

    I recently realized that world politics, especially U.S. politics, was making me crazy. The only way to ease the anxiety was to pay less attention to it. It’s about self-preservation and that’s okay. Shedding toxic individuals from your life will also greatly improve the quality of your life. It’s not easy initially, but give it a few weeks and you’ll wish you’d done it sooner.

    Side note: I have noticed that some of my neighbors drive to the gym. When you get there, you need to find a parking space. It’s a seven minute walk and you’re going there to workout . . . come on, people!

    “The Truth of the Innocent is the liar’s most useful tool.”

    ~ Stephen King

    Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors; I’m paying attention, but it’s never enough.

  • Shifting Priorities

    What Matters Most

    Images taken on recent cruise from London to Iceland. Stopping in Scotland and Norway along the way.

    What Once Mattered

    We can all relate to warped or misplaced priorities. When you’re 20 years old you care more about your outfit or where you’re going on Saturday night, than your bank account. When you are thirty, it’s your fading good looks that keep you up at night (and perhaps cocaine if that was your drug of choice — no judgment), in your forties it might be a mortgage payment that is larger than you can manage, aches and pains in your fifties and so on and so forth.

    I look back at the things that concerned me in the past and I wonder why nobody told me that it wouldn’t make an iota of a difference when I reached a certain age. Some of these things include, but are not limited to: brands & labels, Michelin star ratings, my attendance at parties, the cost of a gift I received, and how late I stay up Saturday night.

    Why it Shouldn’t Matter

    Perhaps it shouldn’t matter, but for reasons I cannot control or change, it does. For example, caring about what other people think. This has been on my goal list for years. In fact, I continue to care. How many likes I get when I post something on Facebook shouldn’t matter; in fact, it doesn’t. But who does or doesn’t like a post, does matter. When I exit a plane matters, I want to be up front so that I transfer quickly or get to passport control earlier than later.

    I find myself struggling with how I process conversations: what I say, how I say it, what I don’t say. There is a righteous aspect of my personality that can make life difficult, but can I stop it? Probably not, however, I can modify my reaction; I can tone it down. I can almost see the relief on the faces of those who love me most. In truth, I sleep better after keeping my big mouth shut.

    What Does Matter

    Here’s where I get to make a list. A list that is actually longer than it should be. Hmmm, should be, there I go shoulding on myself again. What matters:

    • What you think about my sexuality matters. If you’re disgusted by who I am and what I am, that matters. It took me way too long to be comfortable in my own skin.
    • The people who have shown me that they care about me and want me in their life.
    • The things I choose to spend money on and what things cost.
    • Good people who deserve to be seen.
    • Paco, my dog.
    • What I eat, where I eat, and who I eat with.
    • Where I travel and with whom I travel.
    • My health and happiness.
    • Being awake, alive, and present.
    • What charities I choose and whether or not I choose to make my giving known.
    • How I spend my time.
    • Where I choose to live and how I choose to live.
    • How and when I choose to die with dignity, if and when that choice needs to be made.
    • My bed and the quality of my sleep.
    • Lifelong learning and the desire to know more.
    • My family.

    I can proudly state that I am overall pleased with my list. The process of being discerning and thoughtful, has taken decades. That’s okay by me; I know some who never give it a first or second thought.

    “The only questions that really matter are the ones you ask yourself.“

    Ursula K. Le Guin

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    Future Travel

    Oslo, Norway with Paco for all of July (with visits from friends throughout the month), Krakow, Poland in October, Bristol, UK in December and a much anticipated trip to the Puglia region of Italy in April 2025. Booked a Greece/Turkey/Egypt cruise for fall 2025. The United States in the late fall/early winter of 2025 or 2026: Brooklyn, Florida, Portland, Maine, Baltimore, Maryland, and Charlotte, North Carolina.

    State-of-Mind

    I lost a close friend this week; a second friend over too short a period of time. Angelina was nearly 100 years old and Angela only in her 70s. Losing a close friend changes you in ways that play out in choices not words. What matters now are love and an appreciation for the many gifts I have been given. That pathetic bible thumper, that jealous cousin, that watch you lost in Budapest, that extra twenty pounds: no matter at all.

    “Death is inevitable for all of us. The only thing that really matters in the end is how we choose to live.”

    — Aimee Carter