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Friday, July 11, 2008

I used to really hate coming to my parents house in cleveland. They moved here while I was in college, so I dont know anybody. I like seeing them, but it felt like being twelve again, because I had no life of my own.

Well, now I do. I have a job, a car, and a social network completely seperate from theirs. I work for Swagelock, a piping fixture factory. Chances are the faucets in your bathroom or the spickets (sp?) from your sprinklers came from us. The work itself sucks, although I do feel pretty manly in my factory uniform.

I'm really enjoying the people though. It's an eclectic group. some urban black. some urban white. some eastern european immigrants. some indians. and a few college (or post college) kids like me.

Initially, working here was scary because, much though I try to be a radical I'm really just a scared white kid from the suburbs. And men intimidate me. They always have. Not all of them, but in general I tend to distrust them.

Black men intimidate me (or used to) all the more. I'm not sure why. Who can ever really know why we are as screwed up in the head as we are? But we are, and thats part of what makes us human.

in awkward situations, I've found that the best course of action is always just to jump in the water. The clumsier the cannon ball the better. legs and arms flailing, smacking as hard as you can. The funny thing is that I always do this expecting a mess. A splash if you will. But one never comes.

I hit the water expecting it to be cold and painful only to find that I've jumped into a pool of marshmellows, or gummy bears, or something soft and comforting and better than I expected.

I can't tell you how many times in how many ways this has happened.

The people I've met at Swagelok are really warm and decent. Theres this big black guy named Tom, probably fifty years old, who sings at the top of his lungs. His favorite is that cocoa puffs jingle for some reason. He also likes to sneak up on me and sing the micheale Jackson song "Ben" in as loud and obnoxious a voice as possible;

BEN. NO ONE SEES YOU AS I DO
I WISH THEY WOULD TRY TO
I KNOW THEY"D THINK AGAIN
IF THEY HAD A FRIEND LIKE BEN

He does this at least three times a day. Yesterday we somehow got on the topic of music. He told me his all time favorite was simon and garfunkle, but that he also liked Barry Mannilow. We talked beatles, Dylan, Billy Joel and some other good mutual tune-age. I told him he was very well cultured. And he said,

"yeah, well I had two parents."

not realizing the gravity of what he'd said, I said something like

"that'll do it."

but he kept on.

"You have two parents?"

I nodded

"They both alive?"

nod

"And togehter?"

nod

"see?"

And I think I do.

There's this other guy, Dustin, who's thin and wiry and white, but scrappy and lean with tattoos on both arms and his neck.

He didnt have two parents. Maybe not even one. Im not really sure.

The first time I learned his name, it was because the supervisor said,

"You know Dustin. Tall skinny guy. Looks like a crackhead."

and he kindof does, but not in a bad way. He looks pretty hard, and is. He's had a rough life. At first, I thought he was a lot older than me, now I'm not so sure. But anyway, he's a brilliant conversationalist, and an excellant case study in male entrapment; his only outlet being rage.

He likes to watch sick stuff on the internet. beheadings, beatings, weird sexual things. Anything violent or dirty. He likes to watch them, he says, because they remind him that life is real. I can only imagine what kind of life he's had.

He showed me a cigar the other day and said, "Im gonna smoke this after I ruin a bitch's life."
He went on to say that he had loved this girl, that he would've given her the moon, but that she, out of the blue, texted him saying "I can't see you anymore. I hope you understand."

At first I thought he was just an angry guy, but yesterday and today he became so transparent. Yesterday he said he was having trouble sleeping. That he missed her. He didn't really want to ruin her life, he just wanted her back.

Her name was Swallow. Like the bird. She had been his friends girl, but he was sent to prison for several years and she and Dustin hit it off. One time, when they were having a really bad acid trip, Dustin knew deep down that he was going to die.

He appolagized to everyone he had ever hurt and started weeping. And Swallow held his hand and just said, "It's okay honey. I'm here."

"I never felt that connected to anyone before." he told me.

which is tragic. He gave her his moms wedding ring. She still has it.

It's bizzare that I've been trusted with all this knowledge. Dustin isn't his real name, and I doubt he has a xanga, or could find mine.

But his story really got me.

More than that, though, under all the anger is a really good heart. The other day, when I was moving a stack of boxes with a power jack, I spilled them in the isle and made a huge mess. Everyone came from everywhere to help me pick them up. Dustin included.

It was embaressing. I think he could see that. so he said,

"shit! I've done this more time than I can count."

His speach pattern is dleightfully punctuated with shits and fucks, the way some of us use commas.

But through the whole ordeal, I've seen how unhappy he is. How lonely he is.

Im not sure how I got off on that tangent. Hes just on my mind i guess. There are others too. A cool kid named Vik, a few years younger than me, who asks me for girl advice. Why I can't imagine. but he's convinced I'm good at it.

A really chill guy with corn rows and a perpetually tired look named Rico who nods when he passes me.

A cool lady named Donna who likes to sing Lauren Hill when she thinks no ones listening.

and some kick ass Polish Ladies named Tereiza and Elizabeita who give me candy and tell me why polish cinema is better than American cinema.

These are my Cleveland people. This is my Cleveland life. It wont be for much longer. Im moving to columbus (or thereabouts) in a month. But I think it's served, and is serving it's purpose. Im confronting my own bigotry, encountering pain that was foreign to me, and maybe, learning to be a little more adult.

Anyway, I think I like it here. And might even be needed her. at least for now.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

I just finished reading a really good book. Before I got a job I was spending all my time at borders and I saw this book with a picture of two nearly identical people, one a woman one a man. "Self Made Man; one womans year as a man," said the title in bold friendly letters (I heart Douglas Adams)

And so I found one of the many big armchairs around the store and began to read. The author is a lady named Norah. She's a lesbian, and has been told all her life that she is mannish and unfeminine. But more than that, she sees the liberties society has historically given men, and wants to experience life from the other side.

Whenever I hear 'lesbian' I automatically assume the man hating variety. I'm not sure why. I know lesbians and gay people, and in every case, they're regular people who don't fit as neatly into their political archetypes as I'd expect them to,

But still, knowing the authors background, I expected an embittered, cynical rant against the baser sex. But I was pleasantly surprised by her insights and her beautiful portraits of men she met and befriended as "Ned". She writes about brotherhood and comraderie, which she says is foreign to women. And, perhaps most astoundingly, she writes with great sympathy for the role society gives men. Traditionally, the only negative emotion men have been allowed to feel is anger. Hurt and sadness are womanly feelings.

I know I've encountered this. I see men all the time who can't articulate their emotional state beyond being "wicked pissed!" or some such nonsense.

She also goes on to talk about the male facade of confidence, which society demands. Since the sexual revolution of the sixties, she writes, men are expected to be sensitive and liberal, respectful and introspective, erstwhile being strong, confident and secure and aloof. She wonders allowed if both extremes are possible simultaneously.

many of the men she encounters as Ned (her male alter ego) are 'faking it'. They feel inadequate, weak, ill equipped and self conscious, but act macho, self reliant, and strong.

Yesterday at work I was talking to a co worker about this beautiful girl who wroks at the factory with us. I told him she intimidated me, and I always found something to do when I saw her coming, so as to avoid eye contact.

His response could have been part of the aforementioned book. "I'm not the hottest shit in the world, either. I mean, Jesus! Look at me,"

I love this guy, he's sort of a redneck. A little on the portly side. One of those scruffy heavy metal goatees,

"Whenever I don't feel confident, I fake it. People buy that shit, man. Nobody thinks twice."

And he's right! No one does. I wondered, after he said that how many things in life that might be true of. Can a bad singer "fake it" with confidence and become a good singer? Probably, eventually.

Then I thought about John Wesley. I don't remember the exact phrasing, but I remember a friend of mine telling me that Wesley's mentor told him (during a period of existential doubt) to act as if he had faith until his faith came back. Or, in laymans terms, to fake it until it's real.

Returning to the topic of the book, one wonders if thats all gender is, a series of faked poses and attitudes which we adopt over time until they are us.

Anyway, just some random thoughts. It's definitely a book worth reading.

peace

ben

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

I didn't actually realize that I'd made that post. It was one of those automatic things that Xanga does if you agree to keep your blog after a long period of absence.

anyway, it's saying that I have to make a post on my own now to confirm that I do indeed want to keep this site. so there. I've done it.

Monday, June 16, 2008

I'm bringing Xanga back - drop a comment if you're with me!

Tuesday, March 04, 2008

an epiphany of sorts

Today as I drove through the rain
Reflecting on the night
I realized just how much I miss by always being right
Self consciousness can cloud the mind; elitism the soul
My judgments are most often wrong
And ego takes its toll
To sit and to observe the world
Through selfless, peaceful eyes
What sacred moments have I missed
In laughter lines and sighs
The animation of our forms
The musings of the mind
Bespeak a higher order of a transient mystic kind
If, in the act of reading
You were, by agreement, met
Remind me of this cheesy poem
The next time I forget.