The Journey Back

I put my cross back on.

After a series of injuries (physical, mental, emotional, spiritual and that worst injury of all - repeatedly having to shower at 5 am in cold water in the dead of a New York winter because something is up with the hot water in our building) I found myself in the middle of a crisis of faith. Indeed, I was finding it difficult, almost impossible, to believe in anything. I stopped believing in dreaming, in goodness, in kindnesss, in honour, in love, in people, even in God. Throughout my life I have always believed in something - especially God. Mind you, I haven't believed in the God that everyone else believes in; my God was a personal one. I have tested the waters with many different religious groups and found that the best belief system for me was to take what I wanted from each of those religions and apply it to my life.

There is a Mezuzah on our front door.

There is a Buddah on the altar where I pray.

There is a cross on a chain around my neck.

Anyone who enters our home knows that their faith is welcome here -- so long as it is a faith based on goodness. I don't know anyone whose faith is based on a belief in commiting pain against others and I don't want to. The open door, open faith policy has been in effect in our home for some fifteen years.

During the week between Christmas and New Year's, I took off my necklace. I put my Buddah away, as well as the incense, the candles, the tingshas and everything else on my altar. I ceased blowing a kiss to Jesus as I passed St Malachy's Chapel on my way to the gym. I stopped believing. In everything.

Dudes, that is a cold and barren place. Living in a state where you believe in nothing is like being in a choppy and dark sea in a boat with no oars. It is like being shot out into space and left there, to float in the darkness, for an undetermined amount of time. I wouldn't wish, on anyone, the journey into the dark that became my life for the last four weeks. To be stripped of your belief system after four and a half decades of building that system, brick by brick, is a lonely row to hoe -- my belief has been my rock and my God has been my best friend. My husband has remarked, often, on how God is my best friend, how he has noted that every minute of the day I seem to be talking to God. It's true. The phone would ring and it would be good news and I would blow God a kiss, in gratitude. Walking in the park, I would see a particularly beautiful glade of trees and stop for a moment or two of chanting. Out for a run, unable to continue because of exhaustion, I look up into the sky and feel myself being pulled forward. I'm not a religious fanatic - I just have a strong connection with the power that guides me. I'm not a Christian. I'm not a Buddhist. I'm not a Jew. I have my own faith. I call it StephenIsm.

But dammit. It was gone. I've been living and moving about but empty. I wondered if it would change back or if I was going to be this way forever. I talked to Pat about it and to Doctor Bowler. I have touched upon it to one or two close friends; but no more than that. I sequestered myself so that my loved ones wouldn't see me in this state. I did, though, touched upon it in my online writing, be it on blogger, in a Facebook survey or even my status messages. I have not, though, been completely forthcoming about it, publically, because it's private. As a blogger I made myself a promise that I would always be honest in my writings; but there comes a point when a person is over sharing and I didn't want to get to that point. It's difficult to be an optimist who has bad days because then you can't share yourself with the world; it isn't a side of you they are used to seeing and it might not go over well. I have learned that my M.O. is to beat the problem and then share the story. That's the way it worked with my alcoholism. I beat it, I told about the journey. Weight issues; beat them, told the story. Mind you, those journeys took YEARS.

I'm older now. I'm wiser. I know the value of dealing with things with expediency and getting on with your life. For that reason, I have spent almost every waking moment focusing on the events that dropped me into this abyss, healing the pain, forgiving the perpetrators of those injuries, moving on and restoring peace to my house, and I don't mean Two-A, I mean my house.

It's not happening as easily as it should. It's a struggle this time, especially since I am STILL waiting for them to do something about the dangnab cold water in which I have to shave my head ( it burns, man ).

This morning, though, I was doing the laundry (every weekend at seven am - either day) in the freezing cold (which I hate but try not to complain about because, after all, I choose to live in New York City)... And that is what I thought of.

I live in New York City. It's where I want to live; and I live there, with the love of my life. That's a good place to start. I began to make the list of happinesses in my life, so as to lessen the control of negativity on my breathing pattern. It actually isn't a long list ... but it's long enough. With each new entry on that mental list, I felt the colour return to my cheeks and the strength in my stride double, until I was walking home from the laundromat, into a blinding sun against which I refused to shield my eyes. If I have been lucky enough to be granted the blessings I have, there must be something out there worth my belief, whether it is dreams, people, Mother Earth, Santa Claus or a God none of us seem to be able to decide upon. For awhile, during this rough sea, I felt immense freedom from the lack of pressure to believe in something... but that isn't me.

I am an optimist.

That is what is at my core.

An optimist.

So I got on the phone with my spiritual touchstone this morning and talked a bit and listened a lot. Then I went to my desk and picked up the tiny gold chain that lay in the Side by Side by Sondheim souvenir dish and put it back on. The little gold cross is, once more, nestled in the dent of my collar bone. It's time for me to step back into the light. Wiser, yes; cautious, oh yes; jaded and mistrusting, definately. This is how we become the mosaics that we are - those new pieces lie beside the brighter, more hopeful, more idealistic pieces of me; but at least they are all together, walking in the light.

The next step is the rebuild my belief system and my altar.

Then, God and I have some serious talking to do.

Exposed

It's been difficult for me to sit down and write. Not just my blogging; my writing. The funny thing is that it shouldn't be difficult for me to write; it seems to be the one constant in my entire forty five years. Other interests have come and gone as I've walked this road; but not writing. At various times in my life I have either wanted to be or have been an actor, a dancer, a musician (wanted to but couldn't seem to get that one going -- same as singing, just couldn't make it happen), a clothing designer (I actually saw a couple of my designs created and worn), a photographer, a chef, a trainer... not to mention all the other odd jobs I've had - everything from secretary to management, from janitor to personal assistant. All of these interests, all of these jobs, fell by the wayside.

All of them, except for writing.

From my earliest days I can remember my passion for the feel of a pencil in my hand and the scraping of the lead against fresh, crisp, clean white paper. I created stories in my mind; sometimes they landed on the paper, others, they died in the fall from my brain to the tablet. Once I realized that I didn't have a natural gift for fiction, I told the stories of my life and the stories that I witnessed. There were even times that my writing was confined to letters (in the days when people still wrote them) and lists. It would appear that what I am, at the core, is a storyteller.

One of the things (major things) that caused the end of each of my artistic careers was a failure to capture the attention of any kind of an audience and the extreme distaste of rejection. So, one by one, I walked away from each of my careers.

It didn't take long for me to give up on dance. After a summer of Estella Levy telling me I needed to take some weight off of my 18 year old 145 pound body and criticizing my dance technique, I (rapidly!) lost the passion. When Professor Ed DeLatte humiliated me by making fun of my singing in front of my entire musical theater class in college, I didn't open my mouth in song for two years. Once, a dear friend who ran a theater company in Dallas aggressively pursued me to audition for a show I didn't want to do; I gave one of the great auditions of my life and was cast in not even the smallest part - which didn't bother me. What bothered me was her inability to phone me and tell me and her reluctance to face me in our personal life. That is when I stopped acting. I published a photography book nobody bought and didn't pick up a camera for 18 months. I stopped catering when I stopped caring about preparing my own meals at home. Each career I attempted, eventually, brought me heartache.

As my friend Vince says: "when something stops bringing you pleasure, stop doing it."

I like that philosophy.

Writing still brings me pleasure. And, as a blogger, I don't have to worry about rejection - nobody is here to buy. Nobody is here to review. People either read or don't, what I write. I don't know the reaction to my writing and it is better that way. I can create something and send it out into the world and not have to worry about approval, either in the form of sales or verbal validation. Zip a dee doo dah, hip hip horray and fuck a doodle doo.

So why has it been so difficult for me to sit down and write?

Because I've been unhappy. That's no excuse because sometimes the best writing comes when a writer is unhappy. That has, certainly, been the case with me. Not this time, though, because my unhappiness has existed on a level so deep as to cripple, even paralyze me. Me; the gay guru of Hell's Kitchen, the Pollyana of the West Side, the optimist of midtown, paralyzed by unhappiness -- who'da thunk it? Not me, that's for sure; particularly since this avalanche of sadness came right after what was possibly the best Christmas season of my entire life. Nevertheless, we cannot control what feelings crop up in our lives, though I believe we can own them when they do turn up and, then, we can alter them.

I once knew a woman who was so filled with doom and gloom that people called her "crying girl" for awhile until someone took their cue from a popular novel and dubbed her "moaning Myrtle". AJ had given me a book called Happiness is a Choice and it changed my life by changing the way I look at the negative emotions we have and the way I deal with them. I gave her my copy and it served to help in absolutely no way at all. I made the choice to never, ever be a moaning Myrtle myself. To that end, a friend asked me (a couple of years ago) why I never talk to her about my problems and the answer was that I am actually more comfortable not doing so -- I don't like to. You know that saying 'discretion is the better part of valour?' -- I believe that. It is brave to keep your troubles to yourself and not go broadcasting them everywhere; but the extent of that bravery is that you have chosen to keep those concerns private, rather than ease your pain by sharing them with an uncomfortable audience. Until recently, I had a neighbour who, almost every time I passed (and spoke to) her, insisted on complaining about her life -- opting to share details about her failing marriage and misery over failed careers. It was so uncomfortable for me that I began crossing the street if I saw her coming or, rudely, simply waving as I passed. It is because of her and moaning Myrtle (and one or two other friends) that I began to clam up in my personal life, choosing to talk things out with only Pat, Hunter, Doctor Bowler and (occasionally) one or two other friends.

So why, then, have I chosen to write about this current wave of unhappiness on this public forum?

Because I believe (and have, for several years) that the greatest gift we can give the people in our lives is to let them know who we are, to allow them to see us. I know I have mentioned this philosophy several times over the years, that's how strongly I feel about this. It is one of the reasons I blog, in fact. After I have left this place, I want someone to know who I was, what I did, what I was about. This is the legacy we leave behind. It is why I ask so many questions. I want to know people. I want to see people.

For a long time I have said this to my loved ones: "I see you." Years. Imagine my shock and surprise when I went to see the film AVATAR yesterday, only to find that my personal philosophy and expression of love was a major part of this blockbuster film - and not in a slightly related way; it is exactly the context in which I have always used it. As a photographer who, first, picked up his camera at the age of 16, I have spent three decades looking through the lens. I see things differently than other people. I look through the lens in search of the truth and when I see it, I document it. It has become my nature to do the same, even after the lens is no longer in front of my eye. I see people, I see inside of them, I understand them. It has made some of my friends and associates crazy (really --CRAZY) but that cannot be helped. It has also made me crazy because of the number of times that I realized a person or people do not, cannot or choose not to see me; but as another of my philosophies has always led me -- don't worry about being loved; worry about loving - it's so much more important. So I always had to put away that regret over not being seen, to be dealt with on another day.

When you put away a regret for enough years, it's going to build up, build up, build up, until it cannot be contained any more. There have been a lot of regrets over the years, almost all of them put away, to be dealt with at a later date. Regrets over failed careers, regrets over mistakes made, regrets over disappointments and injuries at the hands of so called loved ones, regrets over things so personal that, to share them here, would be really regretable for the reader... and in spite of my wish to allow people to SEE me, to know me, I am still not ready to set aside my discretion and my valour. What I am willing to say, though, is this:

the dam burst, unhappiness followed suit, paralysis set in, and the ability to sit down and write became impossible.

You know what, though? As with everything, there is a beginning, a middle and an end. There are processes that must be followed. Tears, tantrums, anger, sadness, hatred, self-loathing, people loathing, stress eating, depression sleeping, revenge shopping, the trimming of the family tree and talk, talk, talking with Pat and my other pillars of stength... followed by an hour-long super hot shower, a good sea salt scrub, a close shave and a teeth scrubbing. Then this complicated and often exasperating person called Stephen emerges from a steam-filled room, ready to begin again, in a time of change. It should be called a time of change, too; after all, it is a new year, a new decade, a new day and it is a new mindset, a new outlook, a new ambition. I don't know who I am anymore or who I'm going to be when I'm done; but I do know this:

I am a Southern-born, Europe-educated, son of a Marine. I am a fighter, a survivor, a champion. I exercise discretion, embrace valour, seek truth, share myself and allow the chips to fall as they may, all the while, making my own choices and destiny.

My friend and family, Jason, often says "I love you", to which I reply "I know you do; but you don't see me." Until he saw AVATAR, he always asked "what does that MEAN?" Now he knows. I have dared him to see me.

I have shared these personal experiences, thoughts and feelings with anyone who has chosen to read this far. Now, I dare those readers.

See me.

Food For Thought: Italian Chicken

Our friend, Andy, came to dinner and I wanted to make something nice, something I don't make all the time, so I got out my book of recipes that I love and found my mama's Italian Chicken and modified it for our healthier needs. You see, originally, this recipe calls for you to brown onions in butter and olive oil and then remove them and fry up breaded chicken breasts in it. Um. No. So I made a few changes and this is what we got:

Chicken Preparation:

Take a handful or two of rolled oats, a handful of pecans and a handful of walnuts and ground them up in your food processor (or whatever machine you use -- we use the Magic Bullet). You want about a cup for two chicken breasts -- since I never cook just two of anything, I had about two cups ... there will always be a need for more food in two hours, since I eat small portions and need to keep my metabolism up. Spread this oat/nut mixture out in a pie plate. Fill another pie plate with eggwhites. Dip your chicken breast into the eggwhite and then the nut mixture, covering them thoroughly; cook. I grill mine in my NuWave oven but you can bake, broil, grill (George Foreman or outdoor or any other) them til they are cooked. Please don't fry them. Fat, Fat, the water rat. When they are cooked, set them aside and let them cool so that the breading will seal the breasts.

Using a non stick skillet, sautee some diced onions and some diced garlic in a light drizzle of olive oil, til lightly browned. Add, bit by bit, a 16 oz can of tomato sauce -- do this slowly so you can taste it as you work, making sure it isn't too tomato-y. I add my tomato sauce intermittently with one cup of bouillon - use the bouillon that you like but be aware that a lot of them are packed with sodium; I try to find a liquid bouillon that is more on the healthy side - and 1/2 cup dry white wine. (Natch, if you are making more than 2 chicken breasts, you use more of each of these liquids -- as a cook, you should experiment and taste and get to know the recipe and see what works for you. Make this sauce to taste... some people like salty, some like tomato-y, some like more wine. I tend to follow the recipe and keep it all moderate. Add salt and pepper to taste, and 2 tablespoons of parsley. If the sauce gets too anything, cut it with a little water. If it gets too runny, thicken it with corn starch (use a sifter!). When you have the sauce at the taste and consistency you like, put the chicken breasts in and (if you like) some sliced fresh mushrooms (I don't like). Let the chicken sit in the sauce, simmering on low flame for about 20 minutes or so, so as to really tender it up.

Serve over rice.

NOW.

We use brown rice. This is how Pat makes it and everyone loves it. PLEASE avoid white rice.

1 Cup Brown rice
1 Cube Vegetable bullion
2 Cups Water
The rice and water is a 2 to 1 ratio so if you have 1 cup rice it takes 2 cups water…etc… The bullion is 1 cube to 2 cups water and so forth

These are mountain measurements… as much or as little as you like
2 Tsp (approx) Salt
2 Pinches Cayenne
2 Tsp (approx) Black pepper
2 Tsp (approx) Paprika
2 Tblsp Olive Oil
½ Tsp Garlic Powder
½ Tsp Onion Powder

Depending on your rice amount use and appropriate (deep) pot. Add the water and all ingredients except the rice. Bring to a solid boil so that all dry ingredients are dissolved in the water. Sniffing the steam should make you want to sneeze, if not, add in small portions, more black pepper & paprika until it tickles the nose.
Pour the rice into the boiling water and give it a stir. Let the water return to a solid boil, then cover the pot and turn the flame down to a low simmer and let sit for 50 minutes. After 50 minutes kill the heat and let stand for another 10 minutes before serving. Fluff with a fork.

I like to throw in some almond slices (not slivers) for added texture.

This is such a delicous meal and really quite healthy. We served it with some grilled asparagus (drizzle some olive oil over them, coat them, toss on any spices you like and grill til they are cooked but not mush.

Drink with the wine of your choice (I abstain but if you are a wine drinker, it's the deal).

Cheers!

M I A

hi everybody.

sigh.

the holidays.

illness.

january blues.

lack of inspiration.

lack of motivation.

and two weeks have passed without a single posting.

SHAME on me.

later today -- i promise. a new story; or, at least, some pictures.

after the gym.

peace

ste