Wednesday, September 8, 2021
Tuesday, September 7, 2021
Monday, September 6, 2021
"There So Few Christians There"
My oldest daughter is slated to return to her college dorm later on this afternoon, now having accomplished her initial 3-weeks as a freshman (& being home for this long holiday weekend). I had breakfast with her on Sunday morning, and she let me know how surprised she was to experience a community of students & faculty - at her chosen university - that was so very (relatively) pagan.
Her response instantaneously returned me to my freshman experience back in the fall of 1990, and back then, I was also "being educated" at a public institution here in Mississippi.
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Arguably, the college experience's biggest liability is the spiritual vacuum students are so often faced with. And I'm not referring to curriculum or campus life. I'm referring to the true influence - peers, professors, etc.
This is, of course, unless the student respectfully recognizes and subsequently maps out her situation, knowing full well whom she belongs to all the while.
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For Rob, it was the architecture school professors, whom I respectfully yielded to, that surprised me the most. Their outlook was always so clinical and devoid of any sort of eternal perspective. As such, I would especially appreciate those who'd make a point to smile and crack jokes in order to lighten the ever ominous (who's going to change majors / "double D" next?) mood.
I remember - particularly as a freshman - feeling like I'd been caught up in an entirely different world. A world of ever present academia, amongst leadership that was far more knowledgeable than anything I'd ever witnessed.
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But then there was marching band. What a godsend it was. I played clarinet and marched with hundreds of other students - every late weekday afternoon for practice and at most weekend football games. The band directors were down to Earth and no doubt Christian. Polar opposites of the majority of my professors.
It was there that I could simply exhale (literally) each and every day, no longer having to take notes, worry over project deadlines or professors' expectations. Instead, it was simply a maximized (massively scaled up) experience of high school band which is where I'd felt most comfortable simply being myself during the previous five years of my life.
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Samson Society is a similar reprieve for me today. Tuesday evening (tomorrow night), I'm anticipating attending (for the first time) the Pruitt Baptist Church meeting. Especially from the standpoint of me not having the honors of facilitating the meeting.
It's nice having that reprieve. That opportunity to exhale. Especially when you're subject to - as we all are - the real world. A world where there're so few Christians. I am so thankful God ushered me into this community of men.
Sunday, September 5, 2021
Theology Of The Turners' Bodies (With Particular Attention Paid to My Own)
I described Rob's body politics within my last post as such: complete unrecognition / avoidness / blindness. To sum that up, I like to use the word void. This is absolutely the best word I've come up with to describe what happens when I attempt to see my physical self.
Therefore, it begs the question: How can you love something you simply cannot see nor have ever seen?
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When I was a teen, and please know that what I'm about to say simply didn't grow out of teenage angst, I did not feel as if my dad was truly my biological father. Now, as a result of this, I also didn't believe my mother had become impregnated with little me via another suitor, therefore overall, I sort of made the assumption that I couldn't possibly be a "natural born citizen" within our fam. Now, I'm not going to go into all of the why behind my feeling this way, as it pertained to Robert, Sr. But trust me, in many ways, he reciprocally felt the same about me. It made for a childhood where I would find myself enviously looking at my friends' relationships with their dad's (& more than likely the same was occurring with my father enviously looking at his peers - & especially his brothers' - sons).
Therefore, with no siblings to parade around with (or seek counsel from) whilst growing up, I was left to wonder why I felt like such the oddball - particularly as a teenager.
And to expound further regarding this, I also naturally looked hard at my uncles (my dad's three brothers) / cousins (each & every one of them male children) and was unsuccessful in locating a reprieve. Though I loved these men / boys and enjoyed spending time with them (& of course, still do) as my known family, I just didn't BELIEVE that I fit into the group. At all. BUT IT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH HOW THEY TREATED ME. They truly were (& still are) really wonderful family members to have.
(I feel obligated to interject THAT.)
My hunch today, whilst looking back, is that the similarities / pedigree were / was absolutely there; its just that I couldn't see them in me myself. And I still today don't know why that was / is.
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It is so pagan-feeling going to Wal-Mart on a Sunday morning. I know that firsthand, having shopped there this AM.
We've been having Sunday morning church at our abode - over the past month or so - due to the uptick in COVID-19 cases throughout our state, therefore this lends itself to even (at times) executing our family church service on Saturday evenings - if need be (which we did last night).
As I was hurriedly shopping at Wal-Mart (surgically masked), I walked past an unmasked guy whose eyes locked with my own. A few seconds later, I wondered aloud if I actually knew that guy. By this point, I was much closer to my big box store destination zone (hardware), yet I couldn't help but continue to ruminate on his face / build, trying to put my recollective thinking into gear.
"Where do I know that guy from?"
After placing my needed items into my shopping basket, I eventually made my way to the self checkout section, and fortunately, I spotted him again.
Then I remembered where he and I used to interact!
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Throughout my life, I've had a love-hate relationship with my imagination. For on the one hand, it's what - in may ways - consistently springboarded me from my adolescent identity vacuum, but on the other hand, wrought so much regret and anger relative to fueling my propensity to willfully sin.
At the center of that chronic routine was what I've dubbed my archetype. An amalgamation of masculine physical attributes - that embodied for me - a sexualized ideal of what it meant to be a man. This archetype was, more often than not, (within my sexual fantasies) an imagined big brother, uncle, next door neighbor, teacher, coach, and on and on. Any of which would eventually work towards seducing me into engaging in homosexual relations.
It was through the "pursuit and subsequent validation" of this archetype that I attempted to endure the void. For he (singular) was as affirming as any group of ideal athletic teammates might very well be whilst all the while being more comfortable with me (& accessible to me) than I was with my own self.
The aforementioned fellow Wal-Mart patron (whom I eventually recalled was a former friend from over a decade prior) happened to - past & presently - embody my archetype both physically and emotionally. He was / is the ideal, and this is a significant truth.
And as a side note, the fact that this former friend continues to be so (at our close-to ages), is rare indeed. For most middle-aged Mississippi guys aren't anywhere near the physical parameters of my archetypical, masculine male (which is a godsent reality for me).
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In the past, encountering my archetype as I did this AM at my local big box retailer would have elicited quite the elicit response. Particularly taking into account a long since forgotten friendship with the individual.
And as such, days and days, if not weeks and weeks would likely have gone by where me being privately consumed with that encounter were the absolute norm.
And as a side note to that, when I began consuming gay porn online (back in late '90s), the impetus for that was me realizing how expeditiously / efficiently I could locate (search engines) and therefore harness those salacious facsimiles similarly (sexual fantasy). All in reaction to the void / vacuum / blindness or whatever you want to call it.
To be clear, it wasn't that I wanted to be these archetypical men. All I was looking for (through sexual fantasy) was a means to manage the pain of acknowledging the reality of the void itself. But it was those specific archetypical men who were the key. And I'm not sure why that was either.
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In closing, it is incredibly difficult to face the truths that I've written about here. Not only emotionally but intellectually (particularly from the standpoint of there being so many unanswered questions). As such, I don't believe I even began to truly wrestle with my own body politics 'till I was well into my 30s.
I do remember, as a much younger man, wishing I had a body that I felt at peace with (self-affirmation), but even as I took action to change my build (age 36+), it had no impact on clarifying my visibility.
So here's that question again: How can you love something you simply cannot see nor have ever seen?
The only thing that has even a remote impact today is holding fast to what I believe of God's take on me (as well as all of his children). His promises. His narrative. His approach.
Otherwise, I'd simply be blind all around.
Sometimes only having a peripheral view of yourself does in fact prescribe an outlook that drives more truth / more faith and less comfortableness with a holy God.
Saturday, September 4, 2021
Theology Of The Turners' Bodies (With Particular Attention Paid To My Wife's)
As a couple, & in very specific terms, Angie & I sit on the opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to making peace with the theology of our individual bodies. Now, as a married couple, we are - by God's definition - one flesh, and we can both vouch for that. There's simply no such thing as singular husband / singular wife - within a marriage under God. As such, she & I are thoroughly combined, and this is the core reason for there being such general richness within our 25-year betrothal.
Taking that into account, Angie's relationship with her body has always been one of mistrust / suspicion, and as such, this has rightly been validated since her 2020 stroke. Yet, I can confirm, having known her since we were teens, that she's always wrestled (as opposed to being at peace with / ignoring) by default with all that can come with existing within our God-given bodies.
For Rob, my "bodily" relationship hasn't been so much about mistrust but complete unrecognition / avoidness / blindness of that which I exist within. Therefore, in its steed has been an unhealthy default towards other's (men's) bodies in lieu of my own. And this sin laden approach is where my struggles with same sex attraction (particularly as it relates to consuming gay porn - arguably the most efficient means of doing this) grew out of.
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Ever since Angie's stroke (late May of 2020), I've relied on her to tell me if she might be interested in having intercourse. Before that life altering event, Angie was in (& had been for a few years) the throes of perimenopause (which she still is), therefore with her menstrual cycle being so unpredictable, she was - & this harkens back to her body mistrust outlook - very rarely interested in sexual activity of any kind.
Here was and still is my take on my wife regarding this: Sex certainly cannot and will not be something you feel comfortable participating in when you mistrust your body. Sex is an obvious working in tandem (50/50) with your spouse to execute this very intimate act. Therefore if 1/2 of that equation isn't at all confident / at peace in its body's ability, that's going to present a problem.
I share that commentary as its helped me come to grips with - at times - a very minimal / oftentimes negligent-feeling sex-life situation. But Angie's body politics aren't all that's been brought to the surface over the past 1.5 years. Remember, I am no doubt her lesser half (remaining 50%).
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Because there's so little internal conception / acknowledgement of me my bodily self, I frankly don't fare any better than she at offering up much "sexual assuredness / comfortableness" relative to my 50%.
Hence, my focus can often be too much on her (or elsewhere), and as such, she's often aware of this, complicating things even further.
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All this oversharing above points back to what the priest summarized within the embedded video and the difficulties we can have as individuals therein with these truths. Those truths being that we are both spirit and flesh, image-bearers of the living God, embodied by the Holy Spirit. And as he states, God is love. And that definition of love is clearly spelled out in God's word. So how do we love our bodies, particularly if - as a married couple - a sizable portion of our body isn't our own but our spouses?
Angie spent close to a month within a rehabilitation hospital in Jackson post-stroke. This hospital worked her each (business) day regarding physical, speech, and occupational therapy. From there, she came home and continued with her therapy, though it was outpatient in nature. Her reception towards all this therapy was with open arms, and not just from the standpoint of an immediate physical recovery but too, as an educational opportunity.
The core issue for Angie relative to her mistrustful relationship with her body comes down to magnanimous self-awareness. This being just an off the charts - in real time 24/7/365 - self examination of herself from stem to stern. And as such, taking part in certain activities - that are out of the ordinary (her comfort zone) - can amplify this.
I'm on the opposite end of this spectrum. For so many years, I solely invested in examining / worshipping other bodies (men's) in response to the void of me being successful in examining my own. So much so, in fact, that it's as if I'm that guy in the film Memento with the short-term memory loss issues. Hence, I have a narrative of how my body came to be (from 5,000 feet up) but no relevant experience with it in the here and now (or ever). Even the protagonist's many, handmade tattoos speak to his detached relationship to his body.
Which, in a lot of ways, makes it as if I don't either have a body to begin with or am borrowing someone else's.
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Earlier today, Angie and I went to Y and strength trained. She started joining me in the gym well before her 2020 stroke (for regular workouts), therefore post-stroke (with the aforementioned rehabilitation knowledge in tow), it's not been at all difficult for her to continue forward.
What's no doubt different now (versus pre-stroke) is her slow progression towards making peace with her disabled body. I can actually see this occurring as she makes more and more baby step gains each week. And yes, I typed that correctly. Angie making peace with her now disabled body.
Perhaps this change of heart is pragmatically tied to progress - tangible progress - within her routine, but I'm convinced too that it has a lot to do with that mistrust (of her body) finally being validated / confirmed.
This reckoning of her's is the weirdest thing I've yet to witness within our very weird marriage. Particularly from the standpoint of how it's indirectly bringing about my own.
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In conclusion, my hope lies today in what my wife is doing now to continue to rebuild strength / mobility within her post-stroke body, and me having the good fortune of witnessing this awesome, multifaceted work. In the end, as an outcome of this good work, my hope for her is to love her body well as she slowly makes peace (yet not completely trust) with it going forward.
For we both benefit, taking into account our one-fleshness.
Friday, September 3, 2021
Recommended Reading - Social Media Is A Playground For Men (& Women) Who Obsessively Lust. Countless Hours Are Wasted As They Fuel Their Sexual Fantasies. This Is Another Great Reason To Avoid Social Media.
Thursday, September 2, 2021
Wednesday, September 1, 2021
Neutralize / De-escalate Reactions To Your Christian Worldview By Framing Your Beliefs Within Your Own Story, & Always, Always, Always Listen Well
A few weeks back, I had the good fortune of meeting a new, very close to my age / circumstance (stage in life) friend. And this guy, over the course of about 90 - mostly uninterrupted - minutes, poured out his heart relative to various spiritual, personal viewpoints sprinkled with specific anecdotal accounts of his life as it pertained to his upbringing, vocation, overall temperament, role as a husband / father. By the time we went our separate ways, I sort of felt like his priest post-confession.
The setting in which all of this took place was one of those once-in-a-lifetime milestone events for both he and I (as dads / husbands), therefore emotions were already running high, but too, I did get the sense that he simply wasn't shy about opening up, if given the opportunity.
Nevertheless, it was his emotional state of mind that opened the door, so to speak, for him to be as transparent / forthcoming as he was - for such a time as that. For he needed my listening ear just as much as I benefited from having the opportunity to meet that need.
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Emotions, I believe, are best experienced whilst articulating or scoring our current state of mind (what's actually on our mind). And that may be recalling past experience (memories - both good and bad) or reactions to events in real time. Profanity exists especially to assist us with this, believe it or not.
We're being conditioned though, as westerners, that verbiage isn't worth verbalizing unless they're ears to hear it (besides your own).
How?
The endless chatter of social media (that gives the illusion of actually being heard).
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Taking that into consideration, one of the most sure-fire means to come across as a potential threat to someone's "perch" (familial / vocational, etc.) is to refuse to spew forth your thought life incessantly.
Now, 90 degrees to that approach is letting out your thoughts verbally but in due (on your own) time.
To circle back to my new aforementioned friend, he stated expectantly that I'd reciprocate "my story" to him once he was finished. And, in order to meet his expectations, I did so, but via a personal email exchange a week or so later (as luck would have it, we ran out of time for me to have "a turn").
And this approach worked to my advantage because my story, though just as raw as his, isn't / wasn't at all like his. And to take that truth a step further, my story, by definition, can be quite the polarizer.
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So, let's talk about that word: polarizer. For this isn't usually where individuals care to land as it pertains to their identity.
As fundamentalist (Bible-believing) Christians, within this western culture of ours, we are no doubt going to polarize those around us via how articulate we are regarding our beliefs. And we should. Yet, I would argue, we can minimize this - to some degree - if we're intentional about framing our beliefs within our own story.
And I would argue too, in order to do this well, you should be giving the courtesy to your (hopefully) soon-to-be listener (of your story) first dibs on telling his own.
Then, once that's complete, you can circle back. And if you're savvy (& a quality listener), you can interweave contrasting highlights of your friend's story with yours by using them as jumping off points to carry your Christ-centric narrative along.
There is nothing of greater value within a relationship than listening. Not hearing. Listening. For listening takes work. And everyone knows that. Therefore, you can truly earn someone's trust by taking the time to listen to them well.
Monday, August 30, 2021
Sunday, August 29, 2021
The Sperm Of The (Gulf Of Mexico) Hurricane
Tulane University championed a sperm study post Hurricane Katrina (16-years ago) that resolved the unexpected influx of impregnated women immediately following that catastrophic event. The assumption was that romantic interludes sprang forth from bored couples who were left with "nothing else to do" post-Katrina except have intercourse. But that didn't explain the exorbitant amount of pregnancies that resulted during that natural disaster. For as we all know, birth control practices don't just cease to be when our normal way of life is turned up on end.
Hurricanes borne out of the Gulf of Mexico are unique in that their barometric pressurization is massively low. Because of this, as researchers at Tulane have proven, sperm production within men's testes is uniquely impacted.
Sperm's mobility is a result of flagella. Flagella are "tails" on the end of sperm cells that whip about violently, and therefore propel the cells forward in search of the ovum.
Men's testes are constantly manufacturing a gosh-awful-lot of sperm cells each day, and under normal atmospheric conditions, these sperm have flagella that are all the same length. But within the unique atmospheric conditions needed to manufacture a Gulf of Mexico hurricane, sperm's flagella length & energeticness is massively impacted.
Therefore, for about 2-3 weeks following a hurricane event, those men who're situated (hunkered down) within the direct line of the storm's impact will likely see their sperm production mutated as such for better (mind blowing sex) or worse (additional dependents) via these sorta now hipster single cell organisms.
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A sperm cell must puncture the ovum (or egg) within a woman's fallopian tube successfully in order for a zygote (fertilized egg) to spring forth. The pathway up through the woman's reproductive organs is chemically hostile to the sperm, therefore most do not survive the journey. Hence, when the few who do successfully locate the ovum attempt to penetrate, most are unsuccessful, due to physical degradation (fatigue).
But this precludes the small window of occurrence of the Gulf of Mexico hurricane sperm (for those certain geographically & atmospherically situated guys).
These little buggers can travel up to 5x as swiftly than their normal flagella-ed brethren. And as we know, accelerative speed not only equates to ovum penetrative power but far less exposure to those nasty uterus toxins.
Hence, females are successfully impregnated with stunning efficiency by their all-the-while ignorant mates...unbeknownst to them.
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Another outcome of the Tulane study solved the prophylactic question as well. At least regarding condom usage.
It was successfully proven that these Gulf of Mexico hurricane sperm were so vivacious / energetic that standard latex condoms weren't of high enough millage to hold them back (inside the rubber). Often, upon ejaculation, these little buggers would simply power their way through the rubberized membrane, instinctively seeking out their target like so many heat seeking missiles.
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In conclusion, as we all know, a man's orgasm is a result of sperm's flagella "tickling" the stud's uretha gleefully as it ferries its way "to infinity and beyond". This is what causes the intense pleasure of the man's reproductive organs at orgasm / ejaculation, with particular emphasis at the penis' head as the sperm blow past the authorities in pursuit of their final "launch" outside of the dude's body.
As such, Gulf of Mexico hurricane sperm, with their "super flagellas" exhibit such over the top orgasms for men, that the urge to have sex no doubt increases exponentially.
This too, per the Tulane study, accounted for another factor in the sizable pregnancy uptick post Hurricane Katrina. In essence, the average coastal dude became a stud overnight. In spite of the fact that his pad had no electricity or potable water to speak of.
Therefore, be mindful, all you guys down in NOLA / along the Gulf Coast. Though the hetero sex you participate in over the next few weeks will be arguably the most intensely pleasurable of your life, you're moreso likely going to end up with a(nother) kid to tend to as a result.
As I've always said, pregnancy sex is the best sex. But especially during the few weeks after riding out a Gulf of Mexico hurricane.
Friday, August 27, 2021
(In)Toxic(ated) Masculinity
There're gas stations surrounding our 'hood at the Reservoir along with numerous liquor stores, bars (one that even lets you throw axes after a few drinks), "discount" tobacco and CBD (whatever that is) stores. This area has truly "matured" into the "last stop before home", particularly over the past few years.
This region that we've lived in (multiple decades) is right on the edge of the oldest developed portion of the ginormous Ross Barnett Reservoir "resort area" (on the outskirts of Jackson). "Resort areas", by definition, have recently been given legal credence to many of the aforementioned retailers. In other words, they wouldn't be allowed within this area otherwise. And this recent "Resort area" legislation was, of course, spearheaded by legislators who now own (all or a portion of) many of the leasable properties ("strip centers") here within this particular region of "The Rez".
We even have one of those - very recently added - standalone bag-o-ice robo-dispensaries out in the parking lot of a 40+ year old strip center! Of which, a few bags are just perfectly suited to fill the cooler (that's full of booze) in order to keep it nicely chilled for the start of the weekend.
I mean, this area has become about as white trash Mississippi as you can get. As such, all that's really missing now is an Asian massage parlor. It's no doubt morphed into a microcosmic anti-Madison.
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I was just out and about (earlier today) gassing up our vehicles (in preparation for next week's forecasted natural disaster) at one of these gas stations here adjacent to our 'hood, and I realized that it was right at 5 PM on a Friday afternoon. I had to go into this particular station to retrieve my receipt (pump printer paper was either out or jammed), and whilst doing so, was instantly struck by the scene.
The scene which screamed 5 PM on a Friday afternoon.
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A former friend, who's no longer here in Jackson, and I were chatting many years ago about how his beer stash within their family's fridge would inevitably be tampered with whenever his son would have friends stay overnight for a sleepover. And he found this amusing.
I remember asking him (this dude is a pastor) why he "occasionally" drinks beer at all. And ultimately, he answered that question by admitting that it's simply too cool to not.
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When I worked for the State of Mississippi between 2006-2012, I befriended a fellow bureaucrat (who didn't work within my bureau but tangentially to it). And this dude warmed up to Rob very quickly (to the point that it was a little freaky). I remember doing my darndest to minister to him (at arms length) through our friendship (succinct chats at work, etc.), but that all seemed ridiculous to continue with once he admitted to his true love.
I can still see his face when he stated that he - without any exception - drank 8 to 9 beers a night (that he purchased on his way home from work). The grin was unmistakable. It was one rooted in (in)toxi(cated) masculinity.
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So what exactly was that scene that I just recently witnessed at our one of many Reservoir gas stations?
Men being men. Cool men, in particular.
And what does this mean exactly? I'll be honest with you. I'm not really sure. For I'm certain booze doesn't taste nearly as good as some other beverages.
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Earlier this week, I stopped into (arguably) the most well established haberdashery in Jackson in order to purchase a gift certificate. It had been over a decade since I'd darkened the door of this retailer, and immediately upon walking in, I was instantly transported to my teen years when my mother used to bring me there (there was - back in the '80s - a boy's clothing offshoot upstairs).
The smell of the store, the style of the furnishings, even the scale of the space, relayed masculine comfortableness. And it wasn't a comfortableness that encouraged lingering (for men DO NOT linger), but as you might expect, retail efficiency.
And this points back to where we live out here at the Reservoir, which arguably has become - over the past 10 years - a masculine retail encampment.
And a big part of this has to do with booze. Lots and lots and lots of booze.
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Booze is a massive revenue producing liquid. It takes time and energy to brew, and trends force breweries to stay one step ahead of the masses' taste buds / specific definitions of cool.
But it's not just the booze itself. For I'm convinced it's just as much the purchase of the booze and the ice and so forth that's part of this very significant masculine identifier.
When I was faced with the scene at the gas station, the line was at least three patrons deep - all men - holding their respective case(s) of booze. Each of them knew the Persian clerk behind the counter by his first name (& he knew theirs), for I could hear their banter during the transaction. One of the patrons also purchased some sort of fruit flavored cigarettes to go with his weekend booze. I know this because it took him awhile to decide on what flavor (there looked to be +/-50 on display).
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There aren't that many retail hotspots solely dedicated / designed for / paying homage to men. But I'm now convinced that we do sort of live in one of them. Who'd a thunk? Cheers!
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