I Don't Want To Be Like You / "Can I Truly Respect This Guy?"

Dreaming about my past work as an architect (intern & eventually licensed pro) between '96 and '06 (private sector job) happens often.  And these dreams are so vivid that whilst waking up, I'm so very relieved to no longer bear the burdens I once did (though I really do enjoy the heady emotions brought on by the fantastical revisit).

At that time ('96-'06), I was (almost) fresh out of college, and having never met an architect that I truly wished to emulate / look up to (high school / college experience or otherwise), I gravitated towards the man who hired me for such a time as that.   

He was a decade my senior, though due to our collective youth, still quite young (especially to be a partner within a firm).  

We hit it off immediately, and working under him was a joy.  Not to mention the projects he assigned me to design were challenging and fulfilling to work on.

Eventually though, I grew frustrated with my boss.  Especially as it pertained to who he'd chosen to align himself with (pro relations / spouse).  This mounting bad taste in my mouth only soured further as I couldn't help but observe his personal modus operandi closely (due to proximity).

-------------------------

My best friend from college also worked at this firm.  In fact, he'd been there just one month prior to Rob coming onboard.  This man was a weird one (what architect isn't?) but overall, no weirder than the colleagues he was now sharing an (branch) office with (I worked in the much larger, main office).  Nonetheless, the original branch office clan of three (two minions and one partner who were there prior to my best friend and I being hired) refused to give much of any respect to my friend.  In essence, he was being singled out and mistreated.

As a result, my friend threw in the towel, doing so once he reached a point of no return.  This occurred around '00 (both of us hadn't been licensed as architects too long).

I remember going to my aforementioned architect boss, there in our main office, on behalf of my friend's situational plight (well in advance of his sudden resignation), only to receive a very glib response.  This infuriated me.  For I knew my friend well enough to know that he'd not be able to continue within such a toxic work environment for much longer.   

-------------------------

I spent many a shared meal with my best friend from college (primarily during our time together in architecture school).  He was also the best man in my wedding (much to my father's chagrin).  During our fourth year at MSU, we'd also lived together amiably in Evans Hall.  As a result of all this, our mutual respect for each other was unwavering.

My friend had been reared in a complicated home, and his adolescent years had been especially tough, but man, he was a hard worker with a very sharp mind.   

On the other hand, he was weird.  Now, if you were to engage with him today (25 years into the future), almost every facet of that weirdness is no more.  But back then, it was a defining attribute, resonating clearly in regard to how he carried himself. 

Honestly, at first, I pitied him.  That was the initial centerpiece of why I served him as a friend.  And when you choose to ever support someone you truly pity (even if for a season), via a longstanding relationship, it's hard to resist defending them reflexively.

-------------------------

I feel compelled to remind you that I'm a same-sex attracted man, therefore there's a really good chance that you're not in the same boat that I am.  Hence, this likely won't be, going forward, commentary you can relate to.

When I warm up to (platonic) hetero men, I put that much more emphasis on the following question:  "Can I TRULY respect this guy?"

Why?

I'm convinced it's a result of mirroring.  

In other words, I MUST FEEL CONFIDENT IN POTENTIALLY RECEIVING what I'm setting myself up to divvy out in kind.  And for so many men, especially when they get to know Rob, this is not easy to deliver on.  Nonetheless, when it does occur, I have absolutely no issue following suit.

Also, especially when I was a younger man, I was absolutely convinced that obtaining a mentor, who by definition would follow suit with this reciprocal respect, was of paramount importance / significance.

In closing, there're only two men who I can call friend today who've equally (cross pollination) respected Rob, and one of these is my oldest, aforementioned (college) friend.  And yes, I'm pleased to say that he's still architecting (public realm).

-------------------------

The takeaway:  Because of my boss' refusal to advocate on behalf of my friend, there at his architecture firm, I subconsciously began to emotionally decouple from the profession as a whole.  For as I stated earlier, he had represented, in the flesh, what I might achieve as my end goal.  

Because this internal decoupling was happening of its own accord, when I resigned from his architecture firm in '06, I felt a myriad of disregulated (very confused) emotions.  Hence, during my "private sector retirement reception" (I had chosen to move into the public sector immediately following), I was speechless throughout the event.  This was beyond awkward for everyone in attendance.       

Lastly, I believe these as of late monthly dreamscapes of architecting past are my mind's attempt to make sense ofl that dysregulation.  For I'd put a tremendous amount of hope (& pressure) in the professional relationship I had with that mentor architect.  In essence, I wanted him to demonstrate what I was very, very compelled to instinctively reciprocate.  When that didn't pan out, I became tremendously conflicted internally in light of what he'd come to represent.  So many years of disillusionment followed.  Disillusionment that I had to fight hard against constantly.  Also, I see now that my chronic consumption of Internet porn at work was exacerbated via this disillusionment.

His choice to not advocate on behalf of my closest friend slowly set in motion a new vocational path forward for Rob.  A path that had nothing to do with the ideal he represented.  

That's a sobering reality.

Recommended Reading - LOVE THIS TOO - Wellspring Of Living Water

His Ocean for Thirsty Souls | Desiring God

Recommended Reading - LOVE THIS - Stay Strange

Stay Strange: The Church as a Home for Exiles | Desiring God

What Is It About Fall 2024?

I don't have a favorite season, and I believe that's because I'm from Mississippi (where Fall & Spring are miniscule).  Plus, winter here is so very mild (free air conditioning!).  Therefore, for Rob, it all just blends together month to month to month.  

But fall of 2024 is different.  Something about it...

I know I'm anticipating the Samson Summit, and primarily because of its location. 

Every "National Retreat" (as they were originally dubbed) has always been in middle TN at a pretty low rent Methodist Retreat Center.  (Last year's really doesn't count.  The venue was such an overstep due to its scale / posh.)

As such, I'm anticipating a fresh place (East Coast) and a very fresh, appropriately scaled locale.  Why?

It should bring in some fresh Samson blood.  I get so worn out seeing the same guys frequent these events (& believe me, I'm sure they feel the same about Rob).  Fresh Samson blood means opportunity for fresh relationships.

-------------------------

I'm part of a volunteer board (& have been for 3-4 years now) that supports the area of the Jackson Metro that we live in.  At the beginning of 2025, my plan is to resign my post.  There're two remaining events that we're hosting this fall (both of which I'm looking forward to), and then from there, I'll be hanging up my hat.  

It took two decades for me to find out about this troupe (that supports our area), and I'm so glad I did, but all in all, I'm ready to retire.  Our meetings have grown tedious, and the volunteer work repetitive.  Nonetheless, it's been a fantastic experience for me overall.  Giving back locally is a gift in and of itself.

-------------------------

This forthcoming holiday SHOULD BE the last one with all three daughters home here within our 1,550 sf abode.  

Living with four arguably ADULT women - full-time - quickly wears me down.  Especially when there's no rhyme nor reason as to their schedules (they make fun of dad / husband for not being able to expertly keep up with who's slated to do what with whom and when each & every day).  

My oldest is a senior in college.  She's very much ready to fly the coop.  Yay!  Knowing this will be her last hurrah here at our "garden home", puts a huge smile on my face.  I'm so proud of her, and I see so much of myself therein.  As such, I want to cherish this final Xmas together before saying sayonara.

-------------------------

& finally, I'm a closet gardener.  As such, I have a plant that blooms on overdrive throughout October (up to the first frost).  It's a perennial, and it's about a 1/3 of the size of a full-size pickup truck (though a head or two taller).  

For some reason, this plant is a rarity in these parts yet considered an "Old Southern" plant.  I was encouraged to purchase it (county extension plant sale) +/-15 years ago prior to planting the 1/2-gallon pot adjacent to our driveway (in a small, newly prepped flower bed), and now, here we are.  It's my King Kong plant.  

The blooms are the size of softballs and interestingly enough, they open as cotton white before turning pink then crimson red over the course of the next 48 hours.  From there, the outlandish blooms die quickly and drop to the ground.  Because there're so many, the base around this native Asian plant becomes littered with slippery nastiness (think falling figs off a fig tree).

Countless people stop me when I'm outside piddling to inquire about this Confederate Rose plant.  Experiencing its show firsthand is such a blessed way to usher end the final stretch of each calendar year.  Considering the apocalyptic heat / dryness of Q3 / Q4 '23, there's all the more reason to botanically celebrate what's right around the corner. 

Do You Dabble In Internet Porn Consumption? If So, Why?

I know I dabble out of habit.  It's like opening the refrigerator door and staring blankly inside for 10-15 minutes.  I do reach inside to pick up CERTAIN items, examining those thoroughly prior to returning them to a shelf.  But I never open these, and certainly don't eat / drink from said containers.  Instead, I simply close the door and walk away once I feel thoroughly bored with myself.

The problem could be rectified immediately if there were a lock on the refrigerator.  For it isn't my appliance.  It belongs to someone else.  I just happen to have access to it during certain windows of time.  But if the owner were to catch me glaring into their durable good, it would be mighty embarrassing.  

Why?

I have a refrigerator of my own.  The difference though is my refrigerator's contents aren't a free-for-all as the aforementioned one is.

-------------------------

This is me being a rebel.  And I realize it may sound minute to you, but to me, it suffices.  

I don't drink or smoke.  I'm an avid exerciser.  I watch what I eat, and I don't watch TV (nor do I play video games).  My family tithes and gives regularly to a number of causes (including Samson Society).  

It's a mundane existence, therefore why can't I "live a little" (remember, I'm NOT EVEN SNACKING ON ANYTHING I TAKE OUT OF THE FRIG)?  

-------------------------

So how do I put a stop to this?

I crawled out of bed this morning (very early) and prayed earnestly for help.  We'll see...

That First Foray Into The Notion Of The Supernatural

This post is going to address the specific entertainment culture of the '70s by allowing my memories (& amateur commentary) regarding television to narrate therein.   

If you were to turn back the clock to 1980, I would be 7 - 8 years old.  At that time, there were three broadcast TV networks.  CATV was just beginning to gain traction, but it wouldn't be 'till 4-6 years later that it became the de facto means to receive TV programming within the home (& thereby immediately expanding the number of / clarity therein of available channels).  Hence, over-the-air ABC, NBC & CBS (along with PBS) served up the American people with the only TV programming available, all of which was clearly time-slotted via age-propriety (& interestingly enough, there was typically no programming broadcast at all from midnight to 5 AM).  

Revenue garnered to these three networks was dependent on viewership.  How?  The higher the viewership, the more the networks could charge for advertising time (TV commercials).  Blue chip companies, in particular, relied on TV advertising's powerful influence on the American consumer to drive revenue. 

Keep in mind that EVERYONE watched TV during this era.  Especially primetime TV broadcasting.  Why?  The broadcast content was very entertaining (mostly via novelty), and it was "free".  Whether it was comedy, drama (soaps), sports or news, broadcast TV was the GO-TO solution.

As such, networks knew a lot of $$$ could be made not only from (qualified) high viewership numbers, but too, the demographic the TV programming was aimed towards (preferably white people with disposable incomes).  Combined, these two guaranteed advertising "real estate" that was priced at a premium.    

-------------------------

The 1970s ushered in the era of supernatural horror, and this coalescence with pop culture paralleled our taste for music (heavy metal) as well as the slow embrace of / interest in all things pagan. 

As such, the '70s landed such film spectacles as The Exorcist and The Amityville Horror.  Even The Omen experienced deep seated cultural traction (that's still intact) as Americans tepidly (but reverently) filled the cinema seats en masse (from one end of the country to the other).  Young Americans, in particular, dominated ticket sales.  For these films (regarding their subject matter) were considered spectacle events and therefore were MUST SEE.  

The producers / directors / screenwriters of these supernatural horror classics were very rare finds.  To be adept at capturing the tone needed to terrify audiences took precise skill.  Otherwise, missing the mark by simply one degree may very well relegate a huge studio investment as derivative camp.  Therefore, despite the seismic cultural / monetary impact, sequels / franchise continuity were almost always massive failures.  Studios therefore eventually turned to new, more novel material.  And none other than a young, myopic fiction author, Stephen King (he was around 33-years old at the time), caught the attention of many a network executive.  

At this time, King's fanbase was blossoming despite the fact that his books were very lengthy.  This meant his stories played out slowly, allowing suspense, creepiness & dread to build chapter by chapter.  Plus, in order to enjoy his stories, you ACTUALLY HAD TO READ THEM.  Therefore, a certain level of intelligence / education was required of his audience.

Also, his horror stories were centered more on mood / tone and therefore tension versus standard tropes such as brutal murder / Satan's playground - ramped up exponentially for maximum shock value.

Besides, once the three aforementioned films were released, they instantly became milestones within our then cultural zeitgeist, and as you know, milestones are often touted - out of respect - but rarely truly lovingly revisited (thanks to their spent ambitions).

-------------------------   

Enter 'Salem's Lot.  This was King's second novel.  And it was perfectly written in light of TV's reach and ritual respect - at the time - within the American household.

'Salem's Lot did have one direct connection to the three aforementioned '70s horror milestones, and that was its focus on victimizing children.  Whether they were teens or elementary age, child characters were integral to the story.  Hence, whilst screening the 2-part TV movie version therein, viewers of all ages (late November of 1980) were horror-mesmerized by the shattered innocence integrated throughout the gratuitous content.  

In summary, the story of 'Salem's Lot is one of covert exploitation via an unassumingly viral-like exchange, leaving its assaulted victims enslaved to the MO of the initial host / infector (a small-town interloper).  That antagonist isn't revealed but for a very short stint (90-seconds total within the tail end of the TV movie), but alas, this / these brief scenes gave the audience sufficient shock to involuntarily empty their bladders with.

-------------------------

Now let me remind you, once again, that I was around 7-years old in late November 1980 when 'Salem's Lot was broadcast (Saturday at 8 PM CST).  Because it was two parts, the network used two subsequent weekend time slots to cash in.  

I wasn't reared by parents who were all that more mature than your average teenager.  And this was due to their youth (they were in their late teens when they had Rob).  Plus, they'd both been reared in rural MS (my mother grew up impoverished).  Finally, neither had any real understanding of Scripture (my mother could barely read at this point).  And as a result, neither did I.

As such, watching network TV was THE ABSOLUTE Turner afternoon / evening centerpiece - no matter what day / night of the week it was.  I can remember vividly the "TV Guide" magazine always being prominently displayed on top of the stained walnut coffee table in our den.  But I digress...

-------------------------

I've always been a highly visual male.  It's one of the primary motivators for me pursuing the career of architecture.  As such, certain TV / film programming, especially during my childhood, had a profound impact on my developing brain.

'Salem's Lot's narrative firmly planted the idea of being cursed and therefore recognizing one's inability to escape a certain dark fate, and in turn, sympathizing with the horror of watching those you care / love haplessly perish.  If you've ever read Poe's The Masque of the Red Death, you see the exact same theme except there it plays out within distinct waves.  

-------------------------

When I look back on my life, I credit the gospel firstly with upending my cursed outlook, and from there, it was my wife.

Now, let me expound on the former.

When I reference the gospel, I'm referring mostly to the gospel lived out.  Demonstrated.  And mostly, of course, in and through adults that were either paid to or genuinely (or some combination of the two) cared for Rob.  If I were forced to list those, it would take pages and pages.  This is my good fortune.  I saw Christ in these supporting characters, and this powerfully drew me in.

My wife though is a whole different story.  For she willingly loved / loves me.  And this truly detonated a path forward for me that dismantled completely any musty misgivings of cursed(ness).  I could never disavow / discount owning her gaze and allegiance and perpetual trust.  This served as a powerful reminder of God's love for me.

For I'm telling you, I knew even as a small child that Satan was real and that he was intent on taking me down.  How did I know this?  Mostly through dreams but also via what always felt like the makeshiftedness of my 3-person family.  A family that put so much of its faith (like so many others of this era) in the ongoing cultural novelty of the status quo.  For I knew that video entertainment wasn't anything more than such, but it was its influence (on my young brain) that was lost on me as to how best to manage.  

-------------------------

So here we are.  Fall of 2024.  A lot of time has passed since 1980.  

'Salem's Lot will very soon be released as a feature film.  On TV, no doubt.  I've watched the trailer dozens of times and even gone back to YouTube to watch fanatical pieces pertaining to the original 1980 TV production.  

As a result, my 7-year-old self has been stirring deep within the recesses of my grey matter.

And it's been so very emotive and opportunistic in terms of truly sitting with my boyhood self.  

-------------------------

A few weeks back, I screened a horror film with my middle school daughter (who also is a highly visual person).  And just so you know, the film is a courtroom drama firstly (this child has a noteworthy interest in the practice of law).  Hence, my justification.  

But it is a very disturbing film (as all great horror films are).

So disturbing in fact that she slept with me afterwards (& we only screened the first 50 minutes).  

But, as you know, there's a big difference in age 7 and 14.  Nonetheless, we spent (& have continued to spend) mucho time discussing said film (at least the portion we've watched) in anticipation of finishing it off.  

-------------------------

Evil exists.  Humanity truly is cursed.  Our comprehension of secure shelter for ourselves is misguided.  This world of woe is overseen by Lucifer.  Those are genuinely frightening truths.  Especially to helpless children.

But...

There's an assemblage of humanity that's been predestined to survive this wretched curse.  But not by our wits or sacrifice or resistance.  By favor.

For though evil is manifest, God is ineffable, and his propinquity is not unlike the very air we breathe.  

In closing, as young King David boasted about in 1 Samuel, our God is living.  

Vampires, in so many ways, depict Satan almost too well.  As the undead who feast on the hapless living for survival, their very existence is cursed.  

There's one misgiving though regarding this analogy.  Children get a pass 'till they're mature enough to be considered accountable to an understanding of the gospel.  Picture a lei of garlic cloves hanging 'round their necks as a sign of their judgement day immaturity.  Perhaps that's why these tales are all that more harrowing.       

My Wife's Limp

Rarely does my sweet wife use her left hand to move her lovely salt & pepper hair out of her face.  Instead, she uses her right hand.  Why?

She can't naturally reach her hair with her left hand due to her left arm's post stroke condition.  Too, she can't feel her hair with her left hand (even if she could reach it easily).  

If you observe her using her left hand to touch her hair (as I did over the weekend), it's awkward.  For her forearm won't bend naturally at her elbow as it should.  Instead, it's stilted or hung up at the joint.  As if her elbow were locked tight at a certain angle.

When she walks, her gait is biased towards her right side.  Therefore, her stride is more of a left leg drag than a true symmetrical rhythm like we're used to seeing.  

Because Angie doesn't have lengthy legs, her limp isn't nearly as noticeable.  Were she built more like my oldest daughter, it would be undeniable.  

Another deficit is her inability to jump or run at any pace.  If you were to ask her to do either, she'd laugh at the request.

-------------------------

When I befriended Angie in high school, she was the most delicate female soul I'd ever encountered.  In line with that was her class and her intelligence, but her core attribute was this virgin saintliness that was so very inspiring / attractive.  Never had I met anyone so fragile yet so compelling.

Angie loves Jesus firstly.  A close second to Jesus is her love for the church.  

Our church, Lakeside Pres, has never had Sunday evening church services.  Angie bemoans this missed opportunity.  For though she's been to church on Sunday morning, she loves the idea of returning for more six hours later.  

This is just how she is and always has been.

-------------------------

I am and have never been ashamed to have a wife who's physically disabled.  She and I are closer than we've ever been throughout these 28-years of marriage, and much of that is a result of her willingness to allow me to serve her well post stroke.  

How?

Physical stuff for one, such as housework, yard work.  But then too, we've only had intercourse thrice since May 29, 2020.  And I'm not embarrassed to type that.  Most middle-aged couples (with a disabled spouse or not) have very little / much less interest in sexual activity compared to their childbearing / rearing years.

Being physical / doing physical is a reminder of her deficits, therefore we forgo that to make room for other things that are just as / if not moreso (for us) unifying.

-------------------------

What's so very sobering is really taking the time to acknowledge Angie's limp.  And I did that this past Saturday, (9/7) whilst at our daughters' college campus.  We spent the majority of the day there, traversing (on foot) from one section to another (& back again) in light of their football team's first home game. 

For when I take the time to observe, I see her, once again, as a teenager.  Fragile.  Vulnerable.  And this makes me very, very emotional. 

If you know me at all, you know that I feel at 150% when I allow myself to.  But even when that's intentionally throttled back, compared to most, I'm hypersensitive to emotional states.  And I've grown to love this about myself.

-------------------------

In closing, Samson Society meetings have been unique Petri dishes for me to hone these sensitivity gifts.  I've done so simply by listening / observing - just as everyone else does - but with my heart completely open.

For I know the shares will be raw and not relegated to critique as we observe each other in kind.  Step by limp by step.