"I Wanna Bear My Testimony"

It's taken me longer than it ever has before, but, finally my apartment is decorated for the holidays. The tree I thought would be out of my financial reach stands beautifully in the front room window, adorned with clear lights and my increasing collection of vintage ornaments. If she could speak I imagine her saying "thank you, slow human" and smiling proudly at all the attention from passersby below.

In keeping with the tradition of naming our Christmas trees, we've named this one Gertrude.

Well, Gertrude the tree may have been smiling, but I haven't much lately. I entered this Christmas season, kicking and screaming, whining because I didn't have this or that or those, or... him. Feeling sorry for myself, really, and not realizing how deeply into capitalistic ego I had fallen, I began equating my worth as a father to my ability to pile a competitive number of gifts for my children under happy Gert.

I've done it before: over compensated, or wanted to, in one way or another, for my own feelings of fear and inadequacy. But, why now, at Christmas?

The answer to that question is glaringly simple: seems there is no other time when capitalistic ego is stronger. Media is replete with marketing that suggests, though sometimes subtly, that love, friendship, commitment and respect are determined by the quality--and, of course, quantity--of the gifts one gives.

Thankfully, however, this blog post is not about capitalistic ego. It's not about gift giving, or capitalism or commercialism. Nor is it about effective fathering while confronting feelings of inadequacy. Simply put, this post is about the experience I had when, after becoming very overwhelmed by all those things, I sought help from the Creator.

What happened was this: I was invited to stop thinking and sit still long enough to hear, whispered in my spiritual ear "I love you, Shawn."

In that moment, my face quickly went into that goofy-looking pursed lipped posture and my eyes immediately swelled with tears. I felt, rather than overwhelm, a sense of well-being and a strong sense of communion (common-union) with my fellows. Specific details of how Spirit made that invitation are irrelevant, with one exception: the people who delivered the message. Several individuals around me, in one way or another, completely unaware they were conspiring with Creator on my behalf, bore witness of God's love for me.

In my post dated Friday, October 9, 2009 (name omitted here, it's kind of naughty) I wrote my creed: a statement of my beliefs. While vague about the nature of God's Being, it specifies that I believe in and have faith in "God's sons and daughters who, through enlightenment and the power of Holy Spirit bear witness of God's love."

Included in that, then, are prophets, priests and popes; men like Gandhi and women like Mother Theressa. White witches and native shamans, who remind me to appreciate Mother Earth, bear witness of God's love in powerful ways. And, also included, and perhaps even more powerfully, is the young girl who lives in my apartment building and seems always to have a kind thing to say. Included also is the drug addicted, alcoholic homeless man who sleeps in an alley nearby; his level of gratitude for life and love and beauty astound me. It was his thoughtful compliment today that shifted my perspective the most.

He bore witness of God's love. The drug-addicted alcoholic homeless man said something that shifted my focus to one of love rather than fear or indifference. So, if he can, I surely should be able to. Here goes: When I am not distracted by fear or indifference I feel a connection to Source, or God, that tells me I am a part of God like a wave is a part of the ocean. We all are. Again, when free of distraction, I feel loved by that power in ways my human voice can't explain. We're all loved like that.

So, there it is. No dogma. No "hitchhiking" doctrine attached to the sensation of God's love for me. No "proof" that some dudes construct of God, creative though it may be, is embedded in the experience of being loved.

Just my feelings, my message, my testimony.

To the drug-addicted homeless man who sleeps in an alley nearby and the little girl who lives in my building: Thanks guys. You made my day.

My Name is AIDS! I have Shawn!

Clever title isn't it?

It was intended only to grab attention. Today, by the grace of divine intervention and the Buddha nature within, I am alive and healthy.

So, correction: my name is Shawn. I have AIDS.

Buddha said it right on when he said that sometimes life sucks, we suffer, hurt. I'm really happy to be alive and able to take care of myself; granted, a lot of people help me along the way. But what I'm especially thankful for on this 21st World AIDS Day, is that I do indeed have AIDS, but, AIDS doesn't have me.

It's been my observation that the tendency to BE one's disease, facilitates an absence of health. Those who identify strongly with illness, seem always to see themselves as ill, even in the face of evidence that suggests otherwise. Consequently, acting the part of a sick person leads to it's own set of problematic issues. This, I think, is very sad.

Having said all that, it may sound contradictory, but I believe we should respect this disease. Buddha taught that all things, including our bodies, are temporary. A perfect bill of health is something we feel entitled to and spend tremendous amounts of time, energy and money in it's pursuit. Yet, the law of impermanence reminds me that, unless I mindlessly step in front of a rapidly moving vehicle, one disease or another will eventually facilitate my grand exit.

With that in mind, and at the risk of appearing psychotic, I've begun talking to the Human Immunodeficiency Virus that live in my body, those clever little bastards who clearly crashed my party and now want to stay.

I used to say all sorts of profanities to them, telling them to "get the fuck out of my body." That didn't work. Now, however, I'm able to use a more loving tone; terms of endearment such as "little bastards" are said in a more gentle way. In fact, sometimes I manage to say "thank you...little bastards." Thanks for reminding me that life in this form is temporary and that identification with my being, rather than my disease, will enable me to enjoy life more fully. And, thanks for showing me that I am not a victim of this circumstance. I have the power to take ridiculously good care of myself or the power to party it up, and (this is the best part) I can enjoy the benefits or consequences of both.

Wow...having done all that, I'm thinking these HIV guys are pretty cool. And, if you'll excuse us, we're going to steep some tea, put on some comfortable cloths and chat.

Good night.

Flaming Turkey and the Honey Bombs

Today: Thanksgiving, 2009. I just put the turkey in the oven and feel inspired to offer up a moment of silence. My thoughts are wandering...

Thanksgiving day, 2008.

It was a beautiful day, the sun producing glaring reflections on the crisp snow. As usual, my awareness of daylight came gradually as Blix sat staring at my face, occasionally whining his pleas for me to get my ass out of bed and take him outside to pee. Only a quick and disoriented walk around the block with the dog stands between me and a large cup of dark coffee. Or a pot.

Honey, I had decided, would be a healthier alternative to processed sugar, and a quick spin in the microwave would warm my honey bear very nicely. I thought.

Well, warm it nicely it did. Too much so, as a matter of fact. Granted, setting the microwave to cook on high for ten minutes with the intent of stopping it after ten seconds is not a good idea when one has an obnoxious four month old puppy who is hell bent on making himself the center of attention no matter what. The sizzled-whirling sound reminded me of those loud ground flower firework things that dance nervously around the arsonist. In a flash I threw open the microwave door and, to my amazement, saw the honey bear, blown up like a puffer fish, spinning furiously. Seconds later the small yellow cap went flying, never to be found again. Molten honey splattered across three walls of my recently cleaned dining room, leaving out only the space of a torso and two arms. That honey, flung angrily from the honey bear puffer fish, landed painfully on my skin.

Needless to say, I was awake after that.

Strangely, I've forgotten what Blix did to demand such a diversion from my coffee preparation. Karma came knocking on his doggy door, however, when a couple hours later he ran directly into the glass patio door. Evidently, I cleaned it extraordinarily well after the honey bomb explosion; spotless enough that he couldn't see what separated him from the outside world he loved so much. Indeed, I laughed out loud. My roommate? He laughed so hard I think he wet himself. The greatest guffaw, however, was yet to come.

I've been known to bake a delicious turkey: Thanksgiving, 2008, despite the molten honey and yelping dog, was going to present another beautiful bird. To prevent unsavory dryness I used a roasting bag. Butter, fresh herbs and lots of garlic were smeared all over the skin. Instructions followed to the letter. Two hours later: smoke! Smoke, billowing out of my oven. And, a flaming turkey!

What the instructions failed to warn me is that if the bag comes in contact with the element, it will ignite, and consequently ignite the butter or oil or skin of one's Thanksgiving centerpiece.

I was shocked, bewildered, didn't know what to do, but, in the end, we ate it anyway. Never have I laughed more on Thanksgiving. Seems very appropriate, actually, given that I feel grateful for laughter; Extremely grateful because I believe it heals me. So, here it is, Thanksgiving, 2009, and the turkey is baking, flame-free, in the oven, in a roasting bag. This year I carefully tucked in the excess bag-baggage before baking, and, it's looking beautiful.

Now, I doubt Thanksgiving would feel right without some weirdness, without laughter. That in mind...I think this meal will be eaten on the hard-wood floor, picnic style. But, here, in these few moments of silence, I thank God, the Great Spirit, the Creator, the Buddha nature that binds us, for laughter: brief little moments of healing nirvana.

And, that's all I'm going to say about that.

To Fatigue: Thank You

This is, in fact, a tribute to fatigue.

Anyone who has abused stimulants and then discontinued their use knows what I'm talking about: fatigue, complete exhaustion. It was during one of these phases that I fell asleep standing in line at the grocery store and sitting in a booth at Carl's Jr., producing a distinct pool of saliva on the table for passersby to admire. Sometimes I needed 18 hours of sleep a day before returning to a more normal sleep pattern. Indeed, this kind of fatigue is unlike any other I've experienced.

So, crazy as it may sound, I want to honor that feeling. Celebrate fatigue. Why?
That's simple: To more profoundly and vibrantly experience the sensation of energy. In other words, I'm celebrating contrast, the demonstrator of what I really want in my life.

Here is a small list of contrasts that I feel particularly grateful for today:

1. Pimples on my 41 year old face. Zits! What's up with that? Shouldn't I be too old for these unsightly blemishes? And, here's the funny part: they're huge; not the pin-sized, easy to pop variety. Rather, great big ones that unexpectedly talk to me when I stare at them in the mirror too long.

However, When all the squeezing and applications of Clean and Clear are done, I'm so happy to have my face back. Good bye third eye, that's actually located on my chin. Or, even better, no more kidney bean sized pimple on the tip of my nose resulting in that red nosed reindeer look that startles unsuspecting persons.

2. Conversations with guys who I find ridiculously sexy and, consequently, I get nervous and sound like a total fucking retard. (That word is not PC in this context, but, I really don't know of another word that better fits.) Usually these events coincide with sleep deprivation, excessive self-criticism or trying too hard to impress. Whatever the reason, I know it's happening by that peculiar look on his face; the one that says, boldly, "what the hell are you talking about?"

It is moments like this when I appreciate the awareness that generally I engage with good-looking men just as I do with any other: relatively articulate, soft-spoken, somewhat nerdy, intelligent.

3. Bad sex.
Need I really say more? Actually, yes. I must say this: nothing motivates me more to appreciate good sex than those times when it is not. You know, those times when, no matter how hard you try; no matter how much preparation goes into the experience, it just turns out, oh...I don't know, shitty. It really sucks when sex-- the thing I hope will bring me closer to this guy--leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth. No clever metaphor comes to mind for the worst of all: erectile dysfunction. Not being to get it up it such a bummer, you know?

But, here is where I pause to experience gratitude for bad sex. Without it good sex, the kind where you just know--I mean really know you're properly prepared--would become boring. Seriously, without bad sex, an erect penis would eventually become and irritant. Want ads would read "Gay white man seeks same. Flacid cock a plus."


And, there are many others; probably enough to keep me engaged for a few hours. Hell, that much writing would tire me out. Which brings me back to fatigue, to which I say: Thanks, and happy celebration of fatigue day!

Now...I'm going to go take a nap.

Let Go, My Ego.

I'm a pretty swell guy.

I'm also pretty good-looking, have an inviting sense of humor, and understand social and ethical codes of conduct well enough to know when and how to ignore them most effectively. I love a good political mud-slinging, especially when it justifiably exposes the unfathomable short-sightedness of the "conservative agenda."

A short list of my talents goes like this: creating art, fathering, cooking and baking, writing, day-dreaming and making fun (in the most loving way possible) of people when they have no idea I'm doing it.

Yes, sir...I'm pretty damn cool.

In fact, I am so confident in my coolness, so mindful of my magnificence, that often times I allow my ego to step-up as manager of my life, while I go off on some cognitive tangent or something. And, on top of my ego's to-do list: demonstrate and/or prove Shawn's coolness over and over and over again.

But, it's also ego that tells me I'm not good enough, smart enough, handsome enough or endowed with a big enough dick. Inferior and helpless. In other words it tells me I'm not OK.

Nothing new. I know. I've written about the crazy struggle between feeling inferior and feeling uniquely and supremely cooler-than that my ego often incites. Bookstore shelves are replete with information written by well known gurus, and,as if that weren't enough, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, Oprah Winfrey tackles the beast in one variation or another.

The bigger problem for me is this: ego tells me I can, and should, keep secrets, or withhold important information from important people. Ironically, for years I've taken pride in my transparency, or at least the idea of it. In fact, I've made the statement "My life is an open book" and posted blogs detailing very intimate moments in my past. Yet, certain things go unsaid still. Ego convinces me that I'm "doing the right thing," or "taking the higher road," or "fostering health and balance in the environment's Eco-system," when I keep certain truths about me secret from the people I care about the most.

Mainly I refer to this: I do not want my kids to know if and/or when I get high. They've been hurt so deeply by my drug addiction that surely the more noble approach, ego argues, is to "protect" them.

Protect them. Protect them.

Pain settles in my stomach as I sit here looking at those words. Shawn the father, the man, wants to protects them, yet, a higher consciousness reminds me that the time to protect them was years ago. The trauma is done. Clinging to the idea that I now have the ability, dare I say even the right, to protect them is nothing more than egos baffling tricks. Like a hungry mouse in a relentless maze, ego has kept me on a perpetual hunt for redemption. Use a self-defeating behavior to mend the pain of self-defeating behaviors done a long time ago? Seems kind of silly now. But, not so much when I remind myself of what sits at the top of my ego's to-do list: demonstrate and/or prove Shawn's coolness over and over and over again.

And besides, my kids know authenticity when they see it. Don't they deserve that?

The Green Eyed Dragon

"Once upon a time lived a Fair Princess
Most beautiful and charming;
Her Father, the King, was a wicked old thing,
With manners most alarming."


The last time I came to Preston, ID was when my dad died.

Seemingly small details of that lugubrious farewell are permanently embedded in my mind: the peaceful, but mischievous smile on his face, the unexpected objects placed with him in the coffin, the listing of him on the program of his own funeral. More than a year has past since then. Strange, really, that I've been gone for such a stretch; I live only 90 miles South of here. Nonetheless, it feels good to finally come home.

"And always on the front door mat,
A most ferocious Dragon sat,
It made such an awful shrieking noise
So all you little girls and boys...
Beware, take care,
Of the Green-eyed dragon with the 13 tails,
He'll feed,
With greed
On little boys, puppy dogs and big fat snails."

His chair, the out-of-place-blue one that lifted him up and pushed him outward, is still in the same place it was when he died. It was there that I wrapped blankets around his feet and rubbed his hands trying to produce warmth. (In years past, however, it was he who could never be cooled enough; my mother the opposite.) And, next to the chair on one of many books about his faith, sit his glasses, dusty, but apparently waiting for him to gingerly put them on his face.

"That Dragon went down to the kitchen one day
Where the Fair Princess was baking;
He ate, by mistake, some rich plum cake
Which the Fair Princess was making,
That homemade cake, he could not digest,
He moaned and he groaned, and at last went west -
And now his ghost, with bloodshot eyes
At midnight clanks his chains and cries..."

Interesting...the feelings I'm experiencing just sitting in his chair, looking at his things. I don't know exactly how to describe it.

"And hurry up the stairs,
And say your prayers,"

In fact, I'm sitting here conversing in my head with my ego because it's pushing me to write a long essay, a breathtakingly poetic tribute to my dad, yet, my heart is content just to sit here. Seems like he was here only yesterday and that he left so long ago, both at the same time. I think, if he walked in and sat down, I'd only say "I've missed you, Old Man."

"And duck your heads, your pretty curly heads..."

That's all I'm going to write today.

"Beneath the clothes, the clothes..."

I miss you, Dad.

"...the clothes."

Goodbye, Green Eyed Dragon.



*Note: The Green Eyed Dragon (Newman & Charles) was sung by my dad to his children and grandchildren for many years. I honor his loving heart and his desires to bring joy and laughter to those he loved.

Oh Lord My Cock!

Oh Lord My Cock!

A friend told me I must visit a blog called: Total Cock Worship.

I did.

Instantly I was sucked in (no pun intended). There before me were some of the most seducing penises I had ever seen, and I've seen a few. Some were uncircumcised, extraordinarily large, others more average. Some managed to hold my attention only briefly, while others caused a dropping of my lower jaw and that ever so slight tilt of my head to the left in awe of their beauty. Silent watchers over my shoulder would have known, without doubt, that I enjoy, admire and even ogle the cock.

But wait, there was more. As if the buffet of penis weren't enough there was a liturgy, scripture, testimonials, prayers and all manner of written word that caused within me a burning in my bosom.

Well....OK, perhaps there was no burning in my bosom; no tears of joy at finding, after all these long years, The Truth. What I did experience, however--and you unbelievers may want to sit down for this one--was respect. Respect and reverence. What I found within myself was a deeper awareness of the longings we as humans have to know divinity within ourselves; to share a communion (common-union) with each other and to touch and be touched by something bigger and greater than ourselves (again, no pun intended).

This perusal of the Priesthood of the Penis created a space for me to appreciate, not only my sexuality, but also my connection to the Creator, the great spirit, the heavenly father and mother, the universal life force who gave it to me. A few years ago, while I was incarcerated, I was asked to define what I believe. Some fuck-you-punk-bitch-gangster-Jesus-freak wanted to know if the fag believed in God. I said I would write a statement of exactly what I believed and what values I aspire toward--my personal creed. This is what I wrote:

I believe in God, our loving Mother, patient Father, compassionate Friend;

Creator and Source of all that is;

And in God's sons and daughters who, through enlightenment and the power of Holy Spirit bear witness of God's love.

I believe that I, and my human brothers and sisters, are

Divine extensions of God's Being, endowed with gifts of:

Creation, knowledge and judgement.

I believe in AND CELEBRATE:

The power of kindness,

The joy of simplicity,

The healing nature of laughter,

The mystery of communion,

The manifestation of abundance,

The hope of re-birth,

The miracle of forgiveness, 

And, the innate perfection of ALL the God has created.

The "G" believed me after reading my creed and it seemed to have a strange sort of power. It seemed as if fuck-you-punk-bitch-gangster-Jesus-freak and the fag enjoyed a few moments when we were not separated by our ridiculously strong jail-surviving egos; we were not separate at all, and the feeling was familiar, natural, our Buddha nature. I believe the power that I call God entered the space between us for no other reason but to remind us that there is no separation other that what we create for ourselves.

As expected, someone, either his homey or mine, walked past and like dis empowered robots, we jumped back into ego. We had no choice, really.

Since then, I have recited my creed thousands of times. It preludes almost every prayer or session of meditation and it often serves as a mental distraction when my thoughts race furiously through my head. Why, or how does it work? I don't know for sure. But, I do know that somehow it allows me to touch divinity, or, perhaps it's better articulated to say it allows me to see the one-ness of God and me.

My problem is this: I am not entirely committed to living in the awareness of non-duality. Perhaps old ideas, formerly known as doctrine, still hide like shadowy rats in my mind. As a child I was told that I am here, and God is there, way out there. In fact, on another planet kind of out there, and that my mission and purpose in life is to prove my worthiness to "live with him someday." Moreover, I was taught that, because noble and faithful Adam gave in to the temptations of his easily beguiled, seducing wife Eve, my natural state is "an enemy to God." That mentality made it easy for me to pull away, to create distance and duality, to cover my nakedness with the metaphorical fig leaves entitled "fear and indifference." And what of my body, my penis? Nothing more than a means to an end: an orgasm.

That being said, few things compare to a raucously loud, toe-curling orgasm. The Creator would agree, I'm sure, being the author of such an experience. Which brings me back to the worshipers of the cock. These guys have a connection to their bodies that I admire; a union of body--with all the experiences it was designed to create--and spirit. That feels healthy to me. When presented with the choice of love, service and devotion to one's self and to human-kind, vs. the blindly, un-questioned worship of a god who lives on that planet far, far away, seems like a no-brainer.

So...do I intend on packing away the statues of Buddha with which I often meditate? Shall I erect a large wooden penis in their place? I think not. Rather, I'll offer my thanks to the religion of the worship of the cock for reminding me that there is no separation between body and spirit and no separation between myself and others, other than what I create.

But, if given the opportunity to attend their services, believe you me, I'll be first in line for communion.

The Fairies Have Spoken or I am patient, damn it!

It’s been over a week since my last post. I’m not entirely sure what the avoidance was about. Maybe, a few days just simply to sit with myself and reflect on recent events was in order. Or, and I have a suspicion that this is closer to my truth: I have been given gifts of insight and potentially purposeful personal information, and, rather than say “thank god!” or even “thanks God,” I’ve been pouting. But, I’ll come back to that.

The retreat was fabulous; also insightful and emotionally draining. My intention was to discard labels that fostered stagnation or negative thinking. With my “old bones” in hand, the object that represented old stories (labels) about me, I said a prayer to Spirit and tossed it into the bonfire.

The specific content of the brown paper bag is immaterial. What it represented is significant for me: guilt and shame and their parents: “hopeless failure” and “worthless drug addict”. And another label I have not heretofore mentioned: “damaged goods,” with its prolific offspring, fear and loneliness. Into the fire went my assumed right to refer to myself as anything other than Shawn, Child of God and Defender of the Underdog….well, and also Dad.

Hell, with all that accomplished on just the first night, I was well underway, I thought.

My intention for the remainder of the retreat was to remain open to whatever Spirit wanted to show me. And, show me a few things she did.

1. I pull away from present and/or potential sources of love and affections because I fear their loss. It's true: drug addiction is frightening to people who don’t understand it—not to mention the threats of theft and that ridiculous nodding off at the dinner table thing that some addicts do. It's also true that some have severed ties because of prejudice. However, rather than place blame, I simply want to acknowledge the loss. I miss them. I miss feeling like I was one with them, granted it was often a dysfunctional family of my own creation, but I loved them. I love them still. (Disclaimer, I did not anticipate such an emotive oration. However, that’s my point. Excuse me, that was Spirit’s point: I still need to grieve those losses and until I walk through the process I’ll continue to say mean things to myself and feel lots of shame and feel stuck and self-medicate the pain.)
2. Next, Spirit showed me that when I speak loving kindness, warmth, and prosperity about others, I feel it reciprocated.
3. Commitment came next. Well, actually the sweat lodge came next, but, in the sweat lodge came the lesson regarding commitment. Normally, I dread the lodge; what with all the steam and heat and anguish and laying my face on the earth just to remember what reasonable coolness felt like, a few times I've asked to leave part-way through the ceremony. This time it was not an option. I was committed to remaining present throughout. My lesson: If something is worth committing to, I am invited to simply make the commitment. Speak it out loud. See myself doing it in my mind. Then, just do it. And, if to follow through with that commitment becomes painful, I can and should take care of myself in the process. In other words, if I need to I’ll plant my face on mother earth and nurse from her cool, refreshing tit. (Ok, that went way too far. Sorry.)
4. Then the fairies got their two-cents in. On the final morning of the retreat I went into the dining area for coffee and found a friend engaged in a personal reading from the Fairy Cards. Their observations of him where right on and their forecast was downright exciting, so, naturally, I wanted in. After carefully shuffling the cards, dividing them into four groups, re-stacking them and pulling the top card, I was told what the upside-down “Lilly of the Rainbows” said. I’ll paraphrase: The universe has given you significant challenges lately. You need to relax, trust and be patient with the process.” Quickly, I shuffled again, divided, re-stacked and turned the top card. Surprisingly, upside-down “Lilly of the Rainbows” appeared again, telling me that the universe has given me significant challenges, I should relax and trust the process and patient. Well…needless to say, I was a bit taken back. Right back to the book shelf where the I Ching was waiting. I was determined to hear something different, insisted on it. After carefully following the steps for getting a reading from this ancient oracle, the message was loud and clear when it told me, almost verbatim, the same thing. Thankfully, it also said this: “…success is imminent, if only you BE PATIENT.”
5. And, finally, Spirit showed me that, even following an amazingly beautiful and spiritually rejuvenating weekend such as this one, my ego still wants me to feel sorry for myself. It still wants me to come home to my modestly-gay-fashionable-yet-strangely-lesbian-sheik, one-bedroom apartment, passing along the way many homeless men and women, and whine because my apartment is too small. Or, feel different because I only ‘committed’ to the lodge; I didn’t see a vision like that one guy. Or, and here’s the stickler, I can feel fabulously free of all those labels when I’m on the ranch, outside the real world, but, “down here buddy, you’ll hurt just like all the rest of us pieces of shit!”


Wow….I'm taking deep breaths and trying to center myself here. I’m tired of writing for today and I’m almost out of humorous clichés so I’m going to stop. However, let me say this: Today, I want to take care of myself a little better; I want to commit to be kinder to myself in my thoughts, and, more patient with myself in the process. I don’t want to avoid like I have done for the past week (I hear those of you saying ‘try the last several years.’). I don’t want to sulk (although my sulking skills are some of the best around) anymore when the universe challenges me or when Spirit shows me some troubling things about myself.

What I want is peace inside my noisy brain, replacing mindless chatter. And, I want my friends back, or maybe just more and more new ones, but I want to feel at home in my own skin first. I want that success that is “imminent,” as well as the patience to wait.


That’s a lot.
Thanks God.

Lucky Penny

It's with a lot of mixed emotion that I post this poem, written by my son. On the heels of so much talk about my addiction, it seems appropriate that his experiences be honored and validated too. Cody has been given many gifts; among them is his ability--and willingness--to share what is in his heart. He wants to heal the world with his compassionate weaving of words. It's my prayer that poems like this one help him to heal first.


Lucky Penny

I was eleven years old when I realized
That the sun does not rise or set
More like the earth perpetually falls around it
The feeling of being very small took my breath away
With the intensity
Of being microscopic on a giant rock
Hurtling through space

When I was twelve
I slaved summer evenings
Filling my shoes with the severed arms
Of grass blades
Slave driver sunrays lashed the skin of my bare back
Into sheets of copper
Come summers end
I squeezed my shoulder blades together
And cried for mercy
Two lucky pennies fell from between them
Heads up
I had heard that god laughs in lucky pennies
So he must have been listening to my innocent pleas for help
The next day
I traded one of those pennies in for my freedom
A lime green Gameboy Color
For the next ten months
All I wanted to do
Was catch monsters
In balls

When I was thirteen
My father decided it was time
To have the “growing up” talk
The one about the hair growing like weeds in all these weird places
The one about the birds and the bees
And how incredibly irrelevant birds and bees are to human sexuality
The one about how he was addicted to drugs
But was doing better now
When I asked to see his arms
He pretended he didn’t hear me
This was a part of “growing up”

When I was fourteen
My Gameboy Color collected dust in the corner of my room
Along with one last lucky penny from god
I had stopped believing in him
Around the same time I stopped catching monsters in balls
This was when our roles switched

Father
Did you know that the earth is supposed to revolve around the son
Not the son revolve around the earth?
I have realized that the earth is perpetually falling
But kept in motion by the gravity of the son
If it is my love that you gravitate to
I will pull so hard
Your planet will be incinerated
But know that I am growing up and can not always be there for you
So if you could bring back atlas
Surgically remove his legs and arms
Attach yours and stand on your on two feet for a while
I will take a much needed rest from mine

When I was sixteen
They caught a 5’8, two hundred pound monster in a ball
People look at drug addicts like monsters and disregard the real issues
So I knew my father for the majority of my teenage life
Behind a hazy glass screen and a speaker
Kind of like my Gameboy
My video game father
But I was not there catching monsters
I was there seeing the man who taught me to love unconditionally despite everything we have been through
Who told me the beauties about sex when no one else would
Who gave me the best advice I have ever received
Who made me the man I am today

I am twenty years old
Sold my game boy six years ago
Melted down that last lucky penny from god
Replaced the ink in my pen with liquid copper and wrote this poem
I hear that god laughs in lucky pennies
I think its about to start raining dad
Grab a basket
Heads up

--Cody Winger

Fondling my LCSW

It's true. I am both a mumbler and a soft talker.

My friend and sponsor in 12-step recovery work called just as I was writing what was going to be the title for this post: Shawn R Winger LCSW. He laughed and explained that he thought I said "Fondling my LCSW," and that, he believed, is a better title.

My first thought was this something to the effect of "what a strange person;" I mean, really, how could something else work better. Soon, however, the analogy became clear. The word fondle, in my professional paradigm, is the ugly thing sexual perpetrators do to children. In my private sexual world (or formally private), fondle is what I do to objects of lust. It's what I do, for the most part, simply to get off. Granted, a fair amount of selfless reciprocal fondling occurs, a form of compassionate service to my partner, if you will. However, fondle measurements of self-gratification often lean in the direction of ME.

You may be asking yourself how the fondling of objects of lust relates to fondling my LCSW. Moreover, what does that have to do with the "hopeless failure" label I metaphorically taped to the back of my shirt in recent years? Simply put, I loved that title; I really loved it. I remember writing "Shawn R. Winger LCSW" over and over again like a love-smitten girl writes the name she dreams of acquiring after marriage. I lusted after that title. My personal identity, my self of value and ability to contribute to society, became contingent upon having it.

And then, on December 12, 2003, the Division of Occupational and Professional Licensing reared their ugly head, showed their iniquitous teeth and demanded that I surrender my license; I was hurled back to the lonely world of "MSW."

Ok. So the above was written entirely for dramatic effect, another one of my skills for sure. They did call me in, however, after learning that I had been arrested and charged with possession of a controlled substance. And, they did ask me to surrender my license, explaining that my only other option was to go before the entire licensing board and explain myself: the drug use, the arrest, the fact that I was arrested after inviting an under-cover cop to come home with me, get high and have sex.

I signed the surrender form immediately.

Then I went home and got high. And for the months, even years, that followed, getting high was my solution for having lost my identity as a psychotherapist. The truth that alluded me for so long, however, was that by that time I had already lost my identity as a man. I had surrendered it in exchange for the identity of meth addict, and rather than giving a dramatic description of what it was like to assume that identity, I'll say this: it really sucked.

Loosing that label has also sucked. By "sucked" I mean painfully challenging. In fact, I still have it. It's like a really old, beaten, dusty suit that sits piled in a heap on the floor, that I pick up and put on sometimes. The funny thing is, despite how ridiculously ugly that thing is, if I'm high on meth, I think I look hot. That is, until I come down; that's when I think I'm a hopeless failure.

The law of cause and effect would suggest that I throw the piece of shit suit away. This weekend I'll be attending a Queer Spirit retreat where a bonfire will be created for the literal burning of "old bones," things that symbolize stagnant patterns of thinking or living. My commitment: throw into the fire all the self-assumed labels that keep me down, that hold me back and that drain me of the sense of joy and connectedness that is my natural state of being.

Damn...that's a big commitment. God help me.

Is this for real?

Is this for real? Am I really going to blog? Am I going to write things about me--my personal thoughts and feelings, my rantings and pontifications about society and politics and parenthood and drugs and sex and whether or not my outfits are too "matchy"--and put them out there for anyone to read? Then it occurred to me: I'm an exhibitionist, so sure, why not.



So, I'm really just another dude. But, I have story.



Of course we all have a story, one that we've created for ourselves through experiences and their interpretations and how we've chosen to relate to the world because of all that stuff.

The process of story-building, with it's accompanying scripts in our minds, has long been a fascination of mine. And, of course, the chapters in most stories are named. Labeled.



Some of the labels I've sported have been easy to embrace and others I've embraced in the same manner as I would were I holding a stranger's baby whose diaper is filled with shit. Here are a few: dad, fag, gay man, victim/survivor, Mormon, Buddhist, social worker, drug addict and, of course, the usual son, brother, uncle etc.

And now for the ones that have been easy to embrace. LOL. Just kidding. Although--and I'm not even kidding now--at times it feels easy to embrace the label of hopeless failure. It's comfortable, like a twently year old recliner that's worn and tattered and smells like a melting pot of the B.O. of everyone who has ever sat in it, but, damnit, its molds to your body!



So, how do I get my ass out of the hopeless-failure recliner and fucking stay out? I think this shrink needs a shrink. That's a phone call I'll make tomorrow. Meanwhile, I think that's enough rantings from me for one day.