I’m almost finished with The Walking Dead: Season 4. A friend and I will watch the final two episodes on Friday. (We chat online while we watch.) I love the series now just as much as I did when I first started watching. The characters are compelling and I care about them. The plot is strong. The show is terrifying, and like good literature, it causes us to reflect on the human condition and human nature.
I am always involved with the story, but there are a lot of outdoor shots, and a lot of the scenes take place in the woods, which can be a little distracting for me. This season, we saw many of the characters hike along railroad tracks through the woods. As I understand it, the series is filmed primarily in Georgia, so the woods are dense and mostly deciduous. They are very much like the woods in West Virginia minus the mountains. While watching the show, I’m sometimes overcome with homesickness. Despite the horror, I long to be in those scenes, to walk along those tracks, to smell the moist earth and decaying carpet of leaves, to hear the birds and cicadas. One of the reasons I like the show is because of all the pretty scenery. That may be a little odd, but it’s true.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Monday, December 29, 2014
Into the Woods
I've wanted to go backpacking for the longest time. Nothing too demanding. I just want to be in the woods and away from civilization for a few days. For a long time, I thought I only needed to get into shape and find someone to go with. Those things might be tall orders for me considering how out of shape I am and how difficult it would be for me to find a backpacking friend given my intense social phobia and PTSD. But I thought I could do it if I set my mind to it. And maybe I could go alone if I didn't feel comfortable going with a friend. But yesterday morning I could hardly move for more than an hour. I went to the bathroom stooped over like an old man and then sat down at the computer and waited for the ibuprofen to kick in. But then again, walking 15 or more miles in a day was never my goal. I just want to be in the woods. So if my arthritis flares up while I'm out in the wild, I can take my pills and sit there until I feel like moving.
Jeremy Irons in Brideshead Revisited
Saying I enjoyed Brideshead Revisited when I was a teenager would be an understatement. Seeing it was a life changing event. The relationship between Charles and Sebastian was depicted in a timid way by today’s standards, but it was a revelation at the time. I remember locking myself in my room and watching it on my small B&W portable with the sound turned way down so my family wouldn’t hear the dialogue. I hardly breathed while it was on because I didn’t want to miss a thing. I literally sat on the edge of my seat and stared at the TV with singular intent. I thought about nothing but the story while it was on. I didn’t think about the past or plan for the future. I was completely in the moment.
I became a fan of Jeremy Irons after that. I’ve enjoyed a number of his performances over the years. However, I have to admit that when I see him now, I can’t help but think of the absurd and insensitive comments he made about marriage equality. I can hardly believe that he actually said he was worried about it because he feared fathers would start marrying their sons. When asked why opposite sex marriages haven’t led to fathers marrying daughters, he replied that they were afraid of having babies with two heads or something. He showed no empathy or concern for the same-sex couples that might want and benefit from marriage, and he was quite annoyed when his opinion became the butt of jokes. I just don’t want to believe he said such things, but I suppose he did.
I became a fan of Jeremy Irons after that. I’ve enjoyed a number of his performances over the years. However, I have to admit that when I see him now, I can’t help but think of the absurd and insensitive comments he made about marriage equality. I can hardly believe that he actually said he was worried about it because he feared fathers would start marrying their sons. When asked why opposite sex marriages haven’t led to fathers marrying daughters, he replied that they were afraid of having babies with two heads or something. He showed no empathy or concern for the same-sex couples that might want and benefit from marriage, and he was quite annoyed when his opinion became the butt of jokes. I just don’t want to believe he said such things, but I suppose he did.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
Happy Holidays!
I love the holiday season, but the religious, Christian mythology aspect has never been the driving force for me. I have always loved the music, especially the secular, happy songs. I love the decorations, especially Christmas trees and Christmas lights. I love the gift giving and the pretty packages. Even though I have PTSD and social phobia, I enjoy hearing about and knowing others are going to Christmas parties. I enjoy the food. I enjoy sweet, sappy Christmas movies. Many make a special effort to show their appreciation of loved ones and all of their fellow human beings in the month of December. It’s a celebration of life.
For those of us in the northern hemisphere, it is the beginning of winter, which can be harsh and long. And for many, it was once a frightening time due to the scarcity of food. What a wonderful time to celebrate life and the processes of nature. It’s good that we reassure one another with loving messages and by giving away precious supplies as we head into this dark, cold season. We will stick together. We will survive. And we place our faith in nature and look forward to spring.
I see life as a mystery, and if there is such a reality that is often called “God”, I believe this reality is transcendent. I don’t believe you can ever know it or talk about it in a direct way. Much of religion, including Christianity, becomes absurd to me when it is concretized. So I don’t really care if you go to church, specifically wish me a “Merry Christmas” or if you remember to “keep Christ in Christmas.” I don’t care about any of that. What I like is the underlying message of hope and love which can be expressed in any number of ways.
For those of us in the northern hemisphere, it is the beginning of winter, which can be harsh and long. And for many, it was once a frightening time due to the scarcity of food. What a wonderful time to celebrate life and the processes of nature. It’s good that we reassure one another with loving messages and by giving away precious supplies as we head into this dark, cold season. We will stick together. We will survive. And we place our faith in nature and look forward to spring.
I see life as a mystery, and if there is such a reality that is often called “God”, I believe this reality is transcendent. I don’t believe you can ever know it or talk about it in a direct way. Much of religion, including Christianity, becomes absurd to me when it is concretized. So I don’t really care if you go to church, specifically wish me a “Merry Christmas” or if you remember to “keep Christ in Christmas.” I don’t care about any of that. What I like is the underlying message of hope and love which can be expressed in any number of ways.
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Remembering The Hardy Boys
I ordered a magazine through Weekly Reader with this photo on the cover when I was in the sixth grade. Our orders were given to us at the start of the day in home room. I already knew I was gay by then, and I remember sitting there in class staring at Shaun Cassidy's crotch and wondering what his dick looked like. Oh, how I wanted it.
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Friday, December 5, 2014
The Raven's Sepulcher by Gary Cottle
I wrote The Raven’s Sepulcher after my head surgeries in 1997. Moving around caused the blood pressure in my head to go up, which caused me pain, so I couldn’t do much of anything for about a year. I used that time to finally pursue my dream of writing a novel. I could do that while sitting still. The basic story came to me several years before when I read in WVU’s student newspaper that a mysterious room had been found in the attic of my old dormitory. I polished and worked on the story for years, and I decided this past spring that it was time to share it.
The Raven’s Sepulcher is about a teenage girl on the verge of adulthood who is sent to live with her grandmother. The grandmother lives in old colonial farmhouse in New England. There’s a spooky old cemetery behind the house and a strange chapel in the attic. Eventually, Allison learns that her family belongs to an old and secretive cult, and she has to decide if she will join as her family wants and expects or if she will reject the cult’s barbaric practices and run for her life.
It’s a thriller with elements of supernatural horror, and, as some may guess, it reflects the terror that accompanied the struggle for independence many of us experienced. Some families simply do not want their children to be who they are, and they would rather crush their hopes and dreams than allow them to be free. The Raven’s Sepulcher is a tomb for a broken spirit.
It's at Amazon, Barnes&Noble and Smashwords.
The Raven’s Sepulcher is about a teenage girl on the verge of adulthood who is sent to live with her grandmother. The grandmother lives in old colonial farmhouse in New England. There’s a spooky old cemetery behind the house and a strange chapel in the attic. Eventually, Allison learns that her family belongs to an old and secretive cult, and she has to decide if she will join as her family wants and expects or if she will reject the cult’s barbaric practices and run for her life.
It’s a thriller with elements of supernatural horror, and, as some may guess, it reflects the terror that accompanied the struggle for independence many of us experienced. Some families simply do not want their children to be who they are, and they would rather crush their hopes and dreams than allow them to be free. The Raven’s Sepulcher is a tomb for a broken spirit.
It's at Amazon, Barnes&Noble and Smashwords.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Uncle Alfred's Skin Rag
In my novel My High School Boyfriend (available at Amazon), Glen and Shannon venture up to the third floor of the Maynard mansion and explore Uncle Alfred's room. There they discover a copy of the magazine Physique Pictorial.
From the book:
“Look at this,” Shannon said.
He was holding up a small magazine, and when I examined it, I was a little shocked. It was called Physique Pictorial and there was an illustration on the cover showing several handsome, impossibly muscular young men wearing revealing tight pants. They were attending a carnival or fair. One of the men was removing his leather jacket so he could test his strength by hitting a high striker with a large mallet. I would later learn the image was created by Tom of Finland. I flipped through the magazine and saw several photos of men wearing nothing but posing straps.
“I didn’t realize stuff like this was around when your uncle was alive.”
“Old Alfred may have been a hermit, but he wasn’t a monk.”
“Look at this,” Shannon said.
He was holding up a small magazine, and when I examined it, I was a little shocked. It was called Physique Pictorial and there was an illustration on the cover showing several handsome, impossibly muscular young men wearing revealing tight pants. They were attending a carnival or fair. One of the men was removing his leather jacket so he could test his strength by hitting a high striker with a large mallet. I would later learn the image was created by Tom of Finland. I flipped through the magazine and saw several photos of men wearing nothing but posing straps.
“I didn’t realize stuff like this was around when your uncle was alive.”
“Old Alfred may have been a hermit, but he wasn’t a monk.”
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Nothin' Wrong With That
I remember when I was about 9 years old, some distant relatives came to visit my grandparents. Among them was a young man about 25 or 30. Normally I was intensely shy, especially around people I didn’t know, but this man seemed different. He seemed nicer and gentler than the men I was used to being around. Somehow I ended up sitting on his lap.
He allowed me to do this, and shockingly, no one else said anything to me. No one told me to get down. No one told me to stop bothering him. No one told me that I was being girlish. Normally, a “big boy” like me would have been scolded for seeking that kind of affection, especially from a man. But that day, I was allowed to be the gentle boy I was. We were all out on my grandparents’ front porch down on Laurel Creek. He was on one end of the porch swing, and I sat on his lap. I liked doing this. I felt so comforted sitting on his lap.
I remember the next day when we went back to my grandparents’ house, the distant cousins were still there, including the young man that I had been drawn to. But in the interim, I must have come to the conclusion that I had crossed the line the day before, and I was now intensely embarrassed. My face would blush red hot whenever I even so much as looked at this man. Even now when I think about it, there’s this twinge of embarrassment like I did something that was horribly shameful. But I was just a kid who wanted affection, especially from a man, something I hardly ever got. There was nothing wrong with that.
He allowed me to do this, and shockingly, no one else said anything to me. No one told me to get down. No one told me to stop bothering him. No one told me that I was being girlish. Normally, a “big boy” like me would have been scolded for seeking that kind of affection, especially from a man. But that day, I was allowed to be the gentle boy I was. We were all out on my grandparents’ front porch down on Laurel Creek. He was on one end of the porch swing, and I sat on his lap. I liked doing this. I felt so comforted sitting on his lap.
I remember the next day when we went back to my grandparents’ house, the distant cousins were still there, including the young man that I had been drawn to. But in the interim, I must have come to the conclusion that I had crossed the line the day before, and I was now intensely embarrassed. My face would blush red hot whenever I even so much as looked at this man. Even now when I think about it, there’s this twinge of embarrassment like I did something that was horribly shameful. But I was just a kid who wanted affection, especially from a man, something I hardly ever got. There was nothing wrong with that.
Friday, November 21, 2014
Pretty in Pink
When I was in high school in West Virginia in the early ‘80s, I heard there was a gay bar in our capital city of Charleston. Kids would make homophobic jokes about it. I dreamed of going there wearing pink pants and going home with a guy driving a Harley.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
I know I'm not alone.
From a very early age, I was browbeaten by homophobia. I was subjected to extreme homophobia every day. "Faggots" and "queers" and "cocksucker" were thrown around all the time. They weren't usually directed at me personally, but the words and the hateful attitude were in the air. It made me afraid to reveal who I was to anyone. I felt I could be attacked at any moment. I was a kid, and I felt like I was in a war zone trying to survive. And that permanently changed how I perceive the world. I will never feel completely at home anywhere because of it. I will never feel truly at ease around people. And I know I'm not alone.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
This is my latest dream cottage.
The main part of the house is 35 feet x 20 feet, and the bedroom bump out in back is ten feet x 12 feet. So it’s 820 square feet.
Not a so-called “tiny house” but still small. The floor plan is open with lots of windows.
There’s a fireplace in the living room with a sofa in front and an armchair and a TV on the sides. The TV will be on a rolling cart so that you can move it in front of the fireplace if you want to sit on the sofa and watch a movie, or you can turn it toward the dining table or roll it in front of the bed.
There are two sliding glass doors at the end of the living room, and one by the bed. I imagine there would be a deck or a patio that wraps around from the side of the house to the back.
There would be windows in back of the bed and on the side opposite of the sliding glass door. And windows on either side of the fireplace, above the desk and over the sink in the kitchen. And maybe another small one over the washer and dryer in the pantry off of the kitchen.
The floors will be wide planked pumpkin pine, and the walls will be covered in tongue and groove paneling. Board and batten siding for the exterior.
It will be on a wooded lot outside of town.
Not a so-called “tiny house” but still small. The floor plan is open with lots of windows.
There’s a fireplace in the living room with a sofa in front and an armchair and a TV on the sides. The TV will be on a rolling cart so that you can move it in front of the fireplace if you want to sit on the sofa and watch a movie, or you can turn it toward the dining table or roll it in front of the bed.
There are two sliding glass doors at the end of the living room, and one by the bed. I imagine there would be a deck or a patio that wraps around from the side of the house to the back.
There would be windows in back of the bed and on the side opposite of the sliding glass door. And windows on either side of the fireplace, above the desk and over the sink in the kitchen. And maybe another small one over the washer and dryer in the pantry off of the kitchen.
The floors will be wide planked pumpkin pine, and the walls will be covered in tongue and groove paneling. Board and batten siding for the exterior.
It will be on a wooded lot outside of town.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
September (1987), one of my favorite films.
September (1987) is not one of Woody Allen’s more popular movies. In fact, it lost quite a lot of money, but Allen went way over budget, so that may explain the financial failure to a degree. Allen fired one of the principle actors early on because he didn’t think he was right for the part, and then he fired the replacement and several others when the film was nearly completed. So basically, he shot the film twice.
Elaine Stritch’s character had a few funny lines, but the film was almost devoid of Allen’s sense of humor. It is straight up drama inspired by Chekov’s Uncle Vanya with a plot twist borrowed from the life of Lana Turner, and Allen wanted it to have the feel of a stage play. There’s a lot of dialogue and a lot of long shots with few close ups. The setting was a country house, but it was filmed entirely on a soundstage. There isn’t a single scene that takes place outdoors or away from the house. So maybe it’s just not cinematic enough, or maybe most found it too sad or slow.
Oddly enough, I have always loved it, and I’ve seen it many times. It is one of my favorite Woody Allen movies. I have to admit that I love the house even though it’s not a real house. They did a wonderful job by adding numerous quaint and charming but realistic details. And I loved how Allen suggests late summer in New England with light, thunderstorms and the sound of crickets and tree frogs.
Mia Farrow plays Lane, the main character. Lane attempted suicide the previous fall, and after getting out of the hospital, she moved to her family’s country house to recuperate. Howard, an older college professor, is her nearest neighbor, and he kept Lane company on many long winter nights. Howard fell in love with Lane, but he kept his feelings secret because Lane was still fragile. At the beginning of summer, Lane rented out her guest cottage to a man who is taking a break from his job in the city with the intensions of writing a novel, but Peter doesn’t make much progress. Nevertheless, Lane idealizes Peter and begins to develop feelings for him. Lane’s old friend Stephanie pays her a visit late in August. Stephanie is married and has two children, but she needed to get away from her family because she’s having problems with her marriage. Peter soon develops feelings for Stephanie. So there’s a lot of tension, frustration and jealousy in the air. And as if all the unrequited love weren’t enough, Lane’s mother and her latest husband drop in for an unexpected visit. Diane is an aging Broadway actress and playgirl, and her husband Lloyd is a physics professor. Diane immediately becomes the center of attention when she enters a room, and she seems completely oblivious to how her antics affect Lane.
In the late ’80s, I was suffering from severe depression, and I strongly related to Lane. Events from her past haunted her, none of her relationships had worked out, and she had not been able to settle on a career. Noting ever seemed to work out for Lane, and Farrow played her in such a way that you could see the stress and heartache she had endured in her demeanor, the clothes she wore, her facial expressions, her tired eyes and the timbre of her voice. Lane looks like someone who has experienced unrelenting and unbearable pain and is close to death. I felt the way Lane looked, and when Stephanie takes away her sleeping pills and asks if she really wants to die, Lane delivered a line that has always resonated with me: “That’s my problem. I’ve always wanted to live.”
I was studying philosophy and religious studies when I first saw this film. That’s because I wanted and needed to know what the meaning and purpose of life is. I was grappling with these fundamental questions and trying to decide what I believed. I feared that life had no meaning or purpose, and this film had a philosophical element that helped me confront the psychological aspects of my intellectual pursuits. As I said, Lloyd, Diane’s husband is a physics professor, and he and Peter have a chilling conversation about physics and the meaning of life one night when the power is out. In the course of this conversation, Lloyd informs Peter that the universe is “haphazard, morally neutral and unimaginably violent.” We have to endure petty betrayals and disappointments and watch everyone around us die as we await our turn, and we have to go inside of ourselves and find hope and a reason to continue because the universe isn’t going to provide us with the answers.
I guess the film does sound rather heavy and depressing, but I appreciate it’s honest attempt to portray the human condition. People usually go to the movies for distraction, and that’s important. We all need to get away from our pain now and then, but sometimes we need to confront out pain or we won’t be able to learn to cope. The country house with the sound of crickets in the background is, for me, like going into a therapist’s office, and there I have the courage to face some of my demons.
Elaine Stritch’s character had a few funny lines, but the film was almost devoid of Allen’s sense of humor. It is straight up drama inspired by Chekov’s Uncle Vanya with a plot twist borrowed from the life of Lana Turner, and Allen wanted it to have the feel of a stage play. There’s a lot of dialogue and a lot of long shots with few close ups. The setting was a country house, but it was filmed entirely on a soundstage. There isn’t a single scene that takes place outdoors or away from the house. So maybe it’s just not cinematic enough, or maybe most found it too sad or slow.
Oddly enough, I have always loved it, and I’ve seen it many times. It is one of my favorite Woody Allen movies. I have to admit that I love the house even though it’s not a real house. They did a wonderful job by adding numerous quaint and charming but realistic details. And I loved how Allen suggests late summer in New England with light, thunderstorms and the sound of crickets and tree frogs.
Mia Farrow plays Lane, the main character. Lane attempted suicide the previous fall, and after getting out of the hospital, she moved to her family’s country house to recuperate. Howard, an older college professor, is her nearest neighbor, and he kept Lane company on many long winter nights. Howard fell in love with Lane, but he kept his feelings secret because Lane was still fragile. At the beginning of summer, Lane rented out her guest cottage to a man who is taking a break from his job in the city with the intensions of writing a novel, but Peter doesn’t make much progress. Nevertheless, Lane idealizes Peter and begins to develop feelings for him. Lane’s old friend Stephanie pays her a visit late in August. Stephanie is married and has two children, but she needed to get away from her family because she’s having problems with her marriage. Peter soon develops feelings for Stephanie. So there’s a lot of tension, frustration and jealousy in the air. And as if all the unrequited love weren’t enough, Lane’s mother and her latest husband drop in for an unexpected visit. Diane is an aging Broadway actress and playgirl, and her husband Lloyd is a physics professor. Diane immediately becomes the center of attention when she enters a room, and she seems completely oblivious to how her antics affect Lane.
In the late ’80s, I was suffering from severe depression, and I strongly related to Lane. Events from her past haunted her, none of her relationships had worked out, and she had not been able to settle on a career. Noting ever seemed to work out for Lane, and Farrow played her in such a way that you could see the stress and heartache she had endured in her demeanor, the clothes she wore, her facial expressions, her tired eyes and the timbre of her voice. Lane looks like someone who has experienced unrelenting and unbearable pain and is close to death. I felt the way Lane looked, and when Stephanie takes away her sleeping pills and asks if she really wants to die, Lane delivered a line that has always resonated with me: “That’s my problem. I’ve always wanted to live.”
I was studying philosophy and religious studies when I first saw this film. That’s because I wanted and needed to know what the meaning and purpose of life is. I was grappling with these fundamental questions and trying to decide what I believed. I feared that life had no meaning or purpose, and this film had a philosophical element that helped me confront the psychological aspects of my intellectual pursuits. As I said, Lloyd, Diane’s husband is a physics professor, and he and Peter have a chilling conversation about physics and the meaning of life one night when the power is out. In the course of this conversation, Lloyd informs Peter that the universe is “haphazard, morally neutral and unimaginably violent.” We have to endure petty betrayals and disappointments and watch everyone around us die as we await our turn, and we have to go inside of ourselves and find hope and a reason to continue because the universe isn’t going to provide us with the answers.
I guess the film does sound rather heavy and depressing, but I appreciate it’s honest attempt to portray the human condition. People usually go to the movies for distraction, and that’s important. We all need to get away from our pain now and then, but sometimes we need to confront out pain or we won’t be able to learn to cope. The country house with the sound of crickets in the background is, for me, like going into a therapist’s office, and there I have the courage to face some of my demons.
Friday, November 7, 2014
My High School Boyfriend by Gary Cottle
My High School Boyfriend is doing pretty good considering hardly anyone has ever heard of me. This is the book I tried to write when I was still in high school, but I couldn't get past the basic concept because I couldn't come up with the details. I didn't know any out gay men, and I didn't have any personal experience to draw from. I wanted a special friend, but I couldn't imagine I would ever have one. Nearly forty years later, I finally wrote this story which began as a kind of half-baked dream when I was still a teenager. This is how it could have been and should have been. I would be very pleased if reading it encourages others to believe in the dream of love.
My High School Boyfriend is available as an ebook at Amazon, Barnes&Noble and Smashwords.
My High School Boyfriend is available as an ebook at Amazon, Barnes&Noble and Smashwords.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Joining the Death Watch
I grew up among fundamentalists, and there really wasn’t any alternative viewpoints commonly expressed in southern West Virginia at the time. Even people who weren’t particularly religious seemed to believe in fundamentalism. They seemed to believe that they were sinners or just not as good as churchgoers. But none of that sat well with me. I wasn’t quite sure what I believed, but I knew I wasn’t a fundamentalist. When I went away to college, I studied religion and philosophy because I was looking for answers.
In my freshman year, I read an essay in my Religious Studies class called Death Watch. It was written by an academic theologian, I forget his name now, and he proclaimed that many who studied Christianity were now convinced that it was a dying religion. He claimed that our culture had changed so much and so quickly in the 19th and 20th centuries that Christianity was unable to adapt.
He pointed out that religions serve the culture in which they exist, and when they stop serving the culture, people begin to gravitate away from it. It finally ceases to be a viable force. It becomes a dead religion. He went on to point out that human history is in fact full of dead religions. It seems that to the author, individual religions weren’t all the important. He seemed to think that religions are merely vehicles that provide a means to express our spirituality and that when Christianity goes, something else will soon come along, something that will better serve our modern culture.
I was blown away by that essay, and I read it over and over again. It really helped me step back from my own personal disappointments and pain and see the religion I was brought up with in a more objective way. We are part of a culture. We’re caught up in it. But it’s only our way of doing things. It’s not essential. There are other ways. Habits can become so ingrained we can forget that we can quit doing what we’re doing anytime we want to.
In my freshman year, I read an essay in my Religious Studies class called Death Watch. It was written by an academic theologian, I forget his name now, and he proclaimed that many who studied Christianity were now convinced that it was a dying religion. He claimed that our culture had changed so much and so quickly in the 19th and 20th centuries that Christianity was unable to adapt.
He pointed out that religions serve the culture in which they exist, and when they stop serving the culture, people begin to gravitate away from it. It finally ceases to be a viable force. It becomes a dead religion. He went on to point out that human history is in fact full of dead religions. It seems that to the author, individual religions weren’t all the important. He seemed to think that religions are merely vehicles that provide a means to express our spirituality and that when Christianity goes, something else will soon come along, something that will better serve our modern culture.
I was blown away by that essay, and I read it over and over again. It really helped me step back from my own personal disappointments and pain and see the religion I was brought up with in a more objective way. We are part of a culture. We’re caught up in it. But it’s only our way of doing things. It’s not essential. There are other ways. Habits can become so ingrained we can forget that we can quit doing what we’re doing anytime we want to.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Hatfields and McCoys Miniseries
I grew up with the story of The Hatfields & The McCoys. Every year or two starting when I was about 8, we would go see a musical based on the feud at nearby Grandview Park at an outside amphitheater. The production was a kind of summer stock thing performed mostly by college students studying drama and dance. One of the reasons I loved it was because even as a little boy, I sensed that many of the attractive young men on stage were kindred spirits. I never saw so many boys like that in one place. But the story the actors and dancers told was a grim one.
I just finished watching the miniseries based on the story, and it covered all the major plot points that are familiar to me—the dispute about the hog, the love triangle between a Hatfield boy and two McCoy girls, the violent assault on Devil Anse’s brother by three McCoy boys and their summery execution by the Hatfield clan when the old man succumbed to his injuries, as well as the bloody New Year’s Day raid on the McCoy cabin.
These events took place in the latter half of the 19th century, and southern West Virginia and eastern Kentucky were wild places where civilization had not yet taken hold. This wasn’t the west, but it may as well have been. People didn’t necessarily rely on the law to protect them or their families. Many didn’t even trust the law. And in this culture where vigilante justice often prevailed, two families began to look at one another with suspicion. That grew into hate and a desire for revenge. Neither side would back down or admit any wrongdoing. Both sides stubbornly insisted that everything they did was justifiable.
The miniseries is a good retelling of the story and an excellent cautionary tell about the darker impulses of human nature.
I just finished watching the miniseries based on the story, and it covered all the major plot points that are familiar to me—the dispute about the hog, the love triangle between a Hatfield boy and two McCoy girls, the violent assault on Devil Anse’s brother by three McCoy boys and their summery execution by the Hatfield clan when the old man succumbed to his injuries, as well as the bloody New Year’s Day raid on the McCoy cabin.
These events took place in the latter half of the 19th century, and southern West Virginia and eastern Kentucky were wild places where civilization had not yet taken hold. This wasn’t the west, but it may as well have been. People didn’t necessarily rely on the law to protect them or their families. Many didn’t even trust the law. And in this culture where vigilante justice often prevailed, two families began to look at one another with suspicion. That grew into hate and a desire for revenge. Neither side would back down or admit any wrongdoing. Both sides stubbornly insisted that everything they did was justifiable.
The miniseries is a good retelling of the story and an excellent cautionary tell about the darker impulses of human nature.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Born This Way
A lot of people talk as if sexual orientation doesn’t take effect or isn’t completely formed until we hit puberty, but I don’t think that’s true.
I knew virtually nothing about sex before I was ten years old. I come from a prudish, fundamentalist family. Everyone stayed covered up all the time, and sex was hardly ever mentioned. But still, I realized I was gay at the age of 11. I put that label on it. I knew exactly what the term meant, and I knew I was gay.
I can remember sitting on our back deck and reasoning it out. Many guys around me had started talking about what they’d like to do with girls in graphic terms. I knew I had no interest in doing those things with girls. But I did have a strong sexual interest in boys. I knew a boy who likes other boys sexually but doesn’t like girls sexually is gay. So I was gay. That was me. I was 11. I came from a family that tried to keep me in the dark about sex. And I still figured that all on my own.
Later, I came to realize that there had been many clues that led up to my eureka moment. I had always felt different from other boys. Most boys seemed strangely aggressive to me, and I didn’t get why they were like that. I was often intimidated by them. I didn’t understand their strong interest in sports either. I felt much more comfortable with girls even though I wasn’t one. When I was very young, before I started school, I used to enjoy cross dressing. I remember wishing I had been born a girl.
Even though I didn’t have strong sexual feelings until I hit puberty, I had crushes on little boys in grade school. I remember stealing a kiss from one boy when I was in second grade. I thought he was adorable, and one day when I was coming back into our room after lunch, I found him sitting in a seat up front. He was there all by himself. There were only a couple of other people in the room. And he had his head down. So when I walked by him, I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. He was quite surprised by that. I just went on to my seat without saying a word. I was seven and gay as a goose.
A neighbor boy and I were playing together when we were about five or six, and he decided he wanted to pretend he was a dog. He said dogs don’t wear clothes, so he took his off. I remember being strangely excited by his nudity, and I liked seeing his body in an unexpected way. You might think it’s only because he was naked, and I wasn’t used to seeing people without their clothes on. You might think that seeing anybody, male or female, would have excited me. But I don’t think that’s it because around the same time, a little girl from the church decided to take me with her to the bathroom, and she showed me what she had. I was not interested in that. In fact, I was uncomfortable and left the room.
I’m pretty sure my sexual orientation was deeply ingrained and fully functional by the time I was three or four years old. I strongly suspect it was there from the start. I think I was born this way. ...not that my or anyone's sexual orientation needs an explanation.
I knew virtually nothing about sex before I was ten years old. I come from a prudish, fundamentalist family. Everyone stayed covered up all the time, and sex was hardly ever mentioned. But still, I realized I was gay at the age of 11. I put that label on it. I knew exactly what the term meant, and I knew I was gay.
I can remember sitting on our back deck and reasoning it out. Many guys around me had started talking about what they’d like to do with girls in graphic terms. I knew I had no interest in doing those things with girls. But I did have a strong sexual interest in boys. I knew a boy who likes other boys sexually but doesn’t like girls sexually is gay. So I was gay. That was me. I was 11. I came from a family that tried to keep me in the dark about sex. And I still figured that all on my own.
Later, I came to realize that there had been many clues that led up to my eureka moment. I had always felt different from other boys. Most boys seemed strangely aggressive to me, and I didn’t get why they were like that. I was often intimidated by them. I didn’t understand their strong interest in sports either. I felt much more comfortable with girls even though I wasn’t one. When I was very young, before I started school, I used to enjoy cross dressing. I remember wishing I had been born a girl.
Even though I didn’t have strong sexual feelings until I hit puberty, I had crushes on little boys in grade school. I remember stealing a kiss from one boy when I was in second grade. I thought he was adorable, and one day when I was coming back into our room after lunch, I found him sitting in a seat up front. He was there all by himself. There were only a couple of other people in the room. And he had his head down. So when I walked by him, I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. He was quite surprised by that. I just went on to my seat without saying a word. I was seven and gay as a goose.
A neighbor boy and I were playing together when we were about five or six, and he decided he wanted to pretend he was a dog. He said dogs don’t wear clothes, so he took his off. I remember being strangely excited by his nudity, and I liked seeing his body in an unexpected way. You might think it’s only because he was naked, and I wasn’t used to seeing people without their clothes on. You might think that seeing anybody, male or female, would have excited me. But I don’t think that’s it because around the same time, a little girl from the church decided to take me with her to the bathroom, and she showed me what she had. I was not interested in that. In fact, I was uncomfortable and left the room.
I’m pretty sure my sexual orientation was deeply ingrained and fully functional by the time I was three or four years old. I strongly suspect it was there from the start. I think I was born this way. ...not that my or anyone's sexual orientation needs an explanation.
Monday, October 20, 2014
Those things that you so casually dismiss, Harold, would actually help many of us.
“Too often, people make the mistake of believing that if they only had more money or more sex or a different partner or a better looking body, they would feel the sense of "wholeness" they have always craved. Virtually without exception, this is not the case. What is actually lacking is the dimension of giving and kindness as a means of nourishing the soul. To add this dimension to your life is to nourish your soul.”
—Harold Kushner
I only agree with this to a point. I have just enough money to scrape by, but when I was living with my parents in Fayetteville, I had a little more money. I wasn’t rich by any means—I was still poor by American standards—but I didn’t fear homelessness, and I was never in danger of running out of groceries by the end of the month. I also had a little extra to spend on things like plants and flowers for the yard, holiday decorations, socks and underwear. Those things did make me happy. I was happier then. I was.
I was also significantly thinner and in better shape. No, I certainly did not look like a 21-year-old fashion model. In fact, I was still a little chubby. And, of course, I dreamed of being young and beautiful, but I still felt better than I do now, and I was happier.
I remember getting laid, and sometimes that was awkward, and no, sex is not the be-all and end-all of life. But getting some can be nice. Going decades without, not so nice.
I think these people who tell you that what you have is enough and that happiness is merely an attitude probably do have enough. They may not be millionaires, but they probably have enough to keep them from being scared. They may not have the kind of looks that would sell magazines, but they’re probably in decent shape, and they probably have some admirers. They’re probably getting it fairly regularly, too. So it’s easy for them to tells us to be satisfied with what we have.
—Harold Kushner
I only agree with this to a point. I have just enough money to scrape by, but when I was living with my parents in Fayetteville, I had a little more money. I wasn’t rich by any means—I was still poor by American standards—but I didn’t fear homelessness, and I was never in danger of running out of groceries by the end of the month. I also had a little extra to spend on things like plants and flowers for the yard, holiday decorations, socks and underwear. Those things did make me happy. I was happier then. I was.
I was also significantly thinner and in better shape. No, I certainly did not look like a 21-year-old fashion model. In fact, I was still a little chubby. And, of course, I dreamed of being young and beautiful, but I still felt better than I do now, and I was happier.
I remember getting laid, and sometimes that was awkward, and no, sex is not the be-all and end-all of life. But getting some can be nice. Going decades without, not so nice.
I think these people who tell you that what you have is enough and that happiness is merely an attitude probably do have enough. They may not be millionaires, but they probably have enough to keep them from being scared. They may not have the kind of looks that would sell magazines, but they’re probably in decent shape, and they probably have some admirers. They’re probably getting it fairly regularly, too. So it’s easy for them to tells us to be satisfied with what we have.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Waiting for Lianna
During my freshman year of college, they scheduled a screening of Lianna (1983) at the theater in the student union at WVU. It was at night, so the crowd in the student union had thinned out, but there were still people around, and I was terrified of anyone seeing me going to a movie about homos. It was my intention to duck into the theater quickly, but the theater was locked when I got there. I went across the hall and leaned against the wall. I hoped no one would realize I was waiting to see Lianna.
When my nerves had settled, and I was no longer completely self-absorbed, I noticed another boy was leaning against the wall across from me. I’ll never forget how scared, alone and vulnerable he appeared. He wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. He kept his head down. And there was just something about him, the way he carried himself, that told me he had been deep inside of his shell for a long time. His skin was even unusually pale as if he avoided sunlight.
I was fascinated by him because we were so much alike. We were kindred spirits. We were both afraid. So afraid neither one of us could manage to cross the short distance between us and strike up a conversation. Looking back on that night, I see it as a missed opportunity. That traumatized boy could have been my friend. Who knows, we may have even become partners. We may have been able to live our lives more courageously as a couple than we ever could on our own. But eventually someone came by and noticed a poster by the door had fallen down, and it said that the screening of Lianna had been canceled. In a flash, the boy was gone, and I never saw him again.
When my nerves had settled, and I was no longer completely self-absorbed, I noticed another boy was leaning against the wall across from me. I’ll never forget how scared, alone and vulnerable he appeared. He wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. He kept his head down. And there was just something about him, the way he carried himself, that told me he had been deep inside of his shell for a long time. His skin was even unusually pale as if he avoided sunlight.
I was fascinated by him because we were so much alike. We were kindred spirits. We were both afraid. So afraid neither one of us could manage to cross the short distance between us and strike up a conversation. Looking back on that night, I see it as a missed opportunity. That traumatized boy could have been my friend. Who knows, we may have even become partners. We may have been able to live our lives more courageously as a couple than we ever could on our own. But eventually someone came by and noticed a poster by the door had fallen down, and it said that the screening of Lianna had been canceled. In a flash, the boy was gone, and I never saw him again.
Fear of Rejection
I think it’s an ongoing process, overcoming the homophobia. The programming is always there. You have to keep overriding it. I recently turned 49, and just the other night, I had a disturbing dream about my father. As many know, I like to share sweet, romantic images depicting young men in love. Images such as this were simply not available to me when I was growing up in southern West Virginia, so it lifts my spirits in a significant way when I see them now, and it makes me happy to share them with others who appreciate them. But in my dream, such pictures were illegal, and my father—my dream father, not my real father—discovered that I had a collection of these images. They were hard copies inside of a crinkled brown paper bag because, I guess, the dream was set in the early ‘80s. And he intended to turn me in, so I was desperate to get rid of these illegal images of young men in love. I feared I would spend the rest of my life in prison. So I ran along a path into the woods with the intention of burning the photos once I was far enough away for the fire to go unnoticed. However, my dream father saw me running with the bag of “evidence,” and he came after me. I was scared to death, and I ran as hard as I could, but I was unable to get away. My dream father grabbed my arm and forced me to stop. I considered punching him, but I looked into his eyes, and I felt defeated. I had done something that wasn’t allowed, and I had been caught. My dream father didn’t care that I was his son. I had broken the law, and I had to be punished.
My actual father would never have been that heartless, thank goodness, and gay romantic images, however scarce, were not illegal when I was growing up. But they didn’t have to be illegal. Societal disapproval was so extreme, so nearly universal that most were too terrified to produce or share simple, sweet romantic images of men in love. Everyone talked about the “queers” and the “faggots,” and once in a while you saw a gay character in a movie, but there were no out gay people where I lived, and I never saw any examples of men in love. Straight romance was all around, but gay romance was invisible. So I learned to keep my feelings hidden. All these years later, I have to fight against that instinct. I think the dream shows that there’s still a part of me that fears I will be rejected and punished if I let the truth out of the bag.
My actual father would never have been that heartless, thank goodness, and gay romantic images, however scarce, were not illegal when I was growing up. But they didn’t have to be illegal. Societal disapproval was so extreme, so nearly universal that most were too terrified to produce or share simple, sweet romantic images of men in love. Everyone talked about the “queers” and the “faggots,” and once in a while you saw a gay character in a movie, but there were no out gay people where I lived, and I never saw any examples of men in love. Straight romance was all around, but gay romance was invisible. So I learned to keep my feelings hidden. All these years later, I have to fight against that instinct. I think the dream shows that there’s still a part of me that fears I will be rejected and punished if I let the truth out of the bag.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Made in the shade?
Government housing subsidies are distributed by local housing authorities. These housing authorities are given a limited amount of funds to distribute in their area according to strict guidelines. The funds provided do not necessarily increase if the need in the local area increases.
Local housing authorities do not always accept applications. If they have reached the limit of their funding, they will stop accepting applications for housing subsidies. A year or two can go by before a person in need can apply for a housing subsidy.
If you do apply, and if you do meet the strict guidelines, you will not necessarily begin receiving a subsidy immediately. You are usually placed on a waiting list. You can be on that waiting list for one or two years.
The amount of your subsidy is based on two factors: your income and the “fair” market value for your basic housing needs in your area. Basically, you are expected to pay 30% of your income for a modest rental unit. If you’re single and making $1,200 a month and a basic studio or one bedroom apartment in your area costs $600 a month, you would be expected to pay around $360 a month and your subsidy would pay up to $240.
However, the subsidy comes with strings, so it’s not as if you’re being given cash to spend on your unit. You must find a landlord willing to take the subsidy, and this can be difficult because the housing authority will insist on inspecting a modestly priced unit, and they might make certain demands regarding upkeep. These maintenance issues are sometimes over and beyond what would be expected if the landlord were renting to someone without a subsidy. So most landlords simply prefer not to deal with housing subsidies.
When you are approved for a subsidy, you are given a limited amount of time to find a unit. You have about two or three months. It doesn’t matter if it’s difficult for a renter to find a unit that fits their needs at the low cost set by the housing authority. It doesn’t matter if most landlords refuse the subsidy. You are given a few months, and that’s it. If you do not find a place that will accept the subsidy in that short amount of time, you loose the subsidy, and the whole process starts all over again. You’ll have to reapply. If the housing authority is no longer accepting applications, you will have to wait until they do. Maybe a year or more. When they do begin accepting applications, and if you still qualify, you might be placed on a waiting list. That might take a year or more.
If you’ve gone through all of that, and you’re lucky enough to have found a landlord willing to accept the subsidy who has a modestly priced unit that fits your needs as determined by the housing authority, you’re not yet home free, so to speak. The housing authority will send someone to inspect the unit. They will do this in their own time. If they decide they will inspect the unit sometime next Monday, both you and the landlord are expected to be at the unit when the inspector arrives. Failure to comply might result in the lose of your subsidy. After looking over the unit, the inspector will either give the unit a pass or give the landlord a list of improvements that must be made before the subsidy will begin. If the landlord agrees to make the improvements, another appointment will be made, and the unit will be inspected again. The landlord is not obligated to agree to make the improvements. If the landlord doesn’t, you have to start looking for another unit, and the clock is ticking. When and if the unit passes inspection, both you and the landlord will be expected to sign a one year contract.
At the end of that year, you have to reapply for the subsidy, and the unit will have to pass inspection again, and the landlord will have to agree to make necessary improvements and sign another one year contract. After the year is up, the landlord is not obligated to deal with you and your housing subsidy bullshit for another year. The landlord can tell you to hit the road. If that happens, you have to find another suitable place in a few short months, or you will lose your housing subsidy.
If you are the recipient of a housing subsidy, you are not allowed to have guests staying at your home for more than a few nights within a given year. And you are not allowed to leave your home for more than a few days at a time in a given year. So if you meet someone, and the two of you start spending your nights together either at your place or his, you run the risk of losing your subsidy even if there is no guarantee that the relationship will work out. If you’re sick, and you’re sent to a nursing home or a rehabilitation hospital for a few weeks or a couple of months, you run the risk of losing your subsidy.
Imagine being in this situation if you’re old, or frail or if you’re disabled in some way. Those who receive housing subsidies obviously don’t have a lot of money, but what some might not realize is that those getting the subsidy may not have a lot of friends willing or able to help them find another place to live, or help them move, or give them a place to stay if they suddenly find themselves homeless.
I have a number of friends that I keep in contact with online. I greatly appreciate them, especially considering how hard it is for me to make friends given my PTSD and extreme social phobia. I don’t know anyone here in the area, and I don’t have a car or savings. I used to have one friend here, but he, too, was disabled, and he sadly died last spring. If I could no longer live in this apartment or if I could no longer afford it, I would be in a lot of trouble. That sometimes worries me, and I know I’m not alone. A lot of marginalized people in this country are living right on the edge, and many foolishly believe they have it made in the shade.
Local housing authorities do not always accept applications. If they have reached the limit of their funding, they will stop accepting applications for housing subsidies. A year or two can go by before a person in need can apply for a housing subsidy.
If you do apply, and if you do meet the strict guidelines, you will not necessarily begin receiving a subsidy immediately. You are usually placed on a waiting list. You can be on that waiting list for one or two years.
The amount of your subsidy is based on two factors: your income and the “fair” market value for your basic housing needs in your area. Basically, you are expected to pay 30% of your income for a modest rental unit. If you’re single and making $1,200 a month and a basic studio or one bedroom apartment in your area costs $600 a month, you would be expected to pay around $360 a month and your subsidy would pay up to $240.
However, the subsidy comes with strings, so it’s not as if you’re being given cash to spend on your unit. You must find a landlord willing to take the subsidy, and this can be difficult because the housing authority will insist on inspecting a modestly priced unit, and they might make certain demands regarding upkeep. These maintenance issues are sometimes over and beyond what would be expected if the landlord were renting to someone without a subsidy. So most landlords simply prefer not to deal with housing subsidies.
When you are approved for a subsidy, you are given a limited amount of time to find a unit. You have about two or three months. It doesn’t matter if it’s difficult for a renter to find a unit that fits their needs at the low cost set by the housing authority. It doesn’t matter if most landlords refuse the subsidy. You are given a few months, and that’s it. If you do not find a place that will accept the subsidy in that short amount of time, you loose the subsidy, and the whole process starts all over again. You’ll have to reapply. If the housing authority is no longer accepting applications, you will have to wait until they do. Maybe a year or more. When they do begin accepting applications, and if you still qualify, you might be placed on a waiting list. That might take a year or more.
If you’ve gone through all of that, and you’re lucky enough to have found a landlord willing to accept the subsidy who has a modestly priced unit that fits your needs as determined by the housing authority, you’re not yet home free, so to speak. The housing authority will send someone to inspect the unit. They will do this in their own time. If they decide they will inspect the unit sometime next Monday, both you and the landlord are expected to be at the unit when the inspector arrives. Failure to comply might result in the lose of your subsidy. After looking over the unit, the inspector will either give the unit a pass or give the landlord a list of improvements that must be made before the subsidy will begin. If the landlord agrees to make the improvements, another appointment will be made, and the unit will be inspected again. The landlord is not obligated to agree to make the improvements. If the landlord doesn’t, you have to start looking for another unit, and the clock is ticking. When and if the unit passes inspection, both you and the landlord will be expected to sign a one year contract.
At the end of that year, you have to reapply for the subsidy, and the unit will have to pass inspection again, and the landlord will have to agree to make necessary improvements and sign another one year contract. After the year is up, the landlord is not obligated to deal with you and your housing subsidy bullshit for another year. The landlord can tell you to hit the road. If that happens, you have to find another suitable place in a few short months, or you will lose your housing subsidy.
If you are the recipient of a housing subsidy, you are not allowed to have guests staying at your home for more than a few nights within a given year. And you are not allowed to leave your home for more than a few days at a time in a given year. So if you meet someone, and the two of you start spending your nights together either at your place or his, you run the risk of losing your subsidy even if there is no guarantee that the relationship will work out. If you’re sick, and you’re sent to a nursing home or a rehabilitation hospital for a few weeks or a couple of months, you run the risk of losing your subsidy.
Imagine being in this situation if you’re old, or frail or if you’re disabled in some way. Those who receive housing subsidies obviously don’t have a lot of money, but what some might not realize is that those getting the subsidy may not have a lot of friends willing or able to help them find another place to live, or help them move, or give them a place to stay if they suddenly find themselves homeless.
I have a number of friends that I keep in contact with online. I greatly appreciate them, especially considering how hard it is for me to make friends given my PTSD and extreme social phobia. I don’t know anyone here in the area, and I don’t have a car or savings. I used to have one friend here, but he, too, was disabled, and he sadly died last spring. If I could no longer live in this apartment or if I could no longer afford it, I would be in a lot of trouble. That sometimes worries me, and I know I’m not alone. A lot of marginalized people in this country are living right on the edge, and many foolishly believe they have it made in the shade.
Monday, October 6, 2014
In the Woods
You met him at a party, and you went out with him a few times, but none of your friends knew him. However, trust had already been established, and rarely were your instincts wrong, so when he invited you to drive up into the mountains with him one Saturday, you agreed to go. But then he turned onto an unpaved road, and he fell silent. You asked him what was wrong a couple of times, but he wouldn’t answer. He wouldn’t even look at you. You began to feel uneasy. You thought about asking him to let you out, but you were in the middle of nowhere, and it had been twenty minutes since you had seen another car.
You told yourself to stay calm, but you couldn’t help but think about those people, those ordinary, unsuspecting people like yourself who had been led to remote locations by charming, handsome psychopaths. You feared you were about to be murdered.
He suddenly stopped the car, and you were terrified. You were ready to fight for your life and run like hell if you managed to get out of his SUV. He finally turned to you. He looked desperate, and you noticed that he was starting to sweat a little despite it being a chilly, wet day.
He said, “I’m sorry. I know you’ll probably think I’m a loser after this, and you probably won’t ever want to see me again, but I’ve got to… I have to go behind one of these trees and do what bears do in the woods.”
You sighed with relief and said, “Sure. Take your time.”
He dashed off in such a hurry that he left his door ajar.
Photographer and subject unknown
Fictional story by Gary Cottle
You told yourself to stay calm, but you couldn’t help but think about those people, those ordinary, unsuspecting people like yourself who had been led to remote locations by charming, handsome psychopaths. You feared you were about to be murdered.
He suddenly stopped the car, and you were terrified. You were ready to fight for your life and run like hell if you managed to get out of his SUV. He finally turned to you. He looked desperate, and you noticed that he was starting to sweat a little despite it being a chilly, wet day.
He said, “I’m sorry. I know you’ll probably think I’m a loser after this, and you probably won’t ever want to see me again, but I’ve got to… I have to go behind one of these trees and do what bears do in the woods.”
You sighed with relief and said, “Sure. Take your time.”
He dashed off in such a hurry that he left his door ajar.
Photographer and subject unknown
Fictional story by Gary Cottle
Asher at the Dance
Asher came out to his parents when he was 14, and he came out at school when he was 16, but he had never been on a date. He was from a small town, and he only knew a few gay people his age. Romantic opportunities were limited to say the least. Oh, a couple of jocks had hinted that they would be willing to do things if Asher kept his mouth shut, but Asher wanted to meet a nice boy who wasn’t ashamed of him. So when he was a senior, he was excited when his guidance counselor told him about a special dance and that all the LGBT students from the surrounding counties were invited. But when he got there, Asher felt shy and tongue tied. He couldn’t bring himself to talk to anybody, and nobody was approaching him. Asher was thinking about leaving when a cute guy came up to him and asked, “You ever dance with a boy before?” When Asher said he hadn’t, the guy said, “Don’t you think it’s about time you did?” Asher smiled, and suddenly he was glad he came.
Photographer and subjects unknown
Fictional story by Gary Cottle
Photographer and subjects unknown
Fictional story by Gary Cottle
Friday, October 3, 2014
My High School Boyfriend a novel by Gary Cottle
My High School Boyfriend is now available as an ebook at Amazon and Smashwords.
This is the book I dreamed of writing when I was still in high school. I tried several times but I just couldn’t get it to work. I imagined having a special friend, and I could picture us agreeing to meet at a scenic, romantic spot after we had graduated and leaving town in search of a place where two young men could make a life together. The trouble is I couldn’t get past that basic concept because I couldn’t actually imagine having a boyfriend. It seemed impossible. I didn’t know any out gay men, and rarely did I come across gay characters in books, TV shows or in movies, and when I did, they were usually pathetic and sad. Being gay was almost always presented as a tragedy, but I wanted to write a sweet romance.
I got older, and the need to write that teenage romance became less intense, but the premise has always stuck with me, and last summer, I decided it was time to give my little hopeful love story about two West Virginia boys falling for each other one last try.
Now and then, someone will ask, if it were possible, what would you say to your teenage self. In a sense, My High School Boyfriend is the letter I would send to myself at 17 if I could.
In 1983, Glen Farris, a poor teenager who was bullied at school and ignored at home, believed he was destined to lead a life of loneliness and solitude until Shannon Dupree, a handsome and stylish young man from the city, moved into the abandoned house next door. Shannon lived alone because his recently divorced mother liked to travel, and the rambling old mansion near the ghost town of Thurmond, West Virginia, built with coal money by Shannon’s great grandfather, provided a refuge, a place where the boys could relax and not worry about those who would judge them. They became close during the summer between their junior and senior years of high school, and in the fall, they became boyfriends. They planned to run away together after graduation, but their dreams were almost destroyed when Glen’s father, a fundamentalist preacher, discovered they were more than friends.
This is the book I dreamed of writing when I was still in high school. I tried several times but I just couldn’t get it to work. I imagined having a special friend, and I could picture us agreeing to meet at a scenic, romantic spot after we had graduated and leaving town in search of a place where two young men could make a life together. The trouble is I couldn’t get past that basic concept because I couldn’t actually imagine having a boyfriend. It seemed impossible. I didn’t know any out gay men, and rarely did I come across gay characters in books, TV shows or in movies, and when I did, they were usually pathetic and sad. Being gay was almost always presented as a tragedy, but I wanted to write a sweet romance.
I got older, and the need to write that teenage romance became less intense, but the premise has always stuck with me, and last summer, I decided it was time to give my little hopeful love story about two West Virginia boys falling for each other one last try.
Now and then, someone will ask, if it were possible, what would you say to your teenage self. In a sense, My High School Boyfriend is the letter I would send to myself at 17 if I could.
In 1983, Glen Farris, a poor teenager who was bullied at school and ignored at home, believed he was destined to lead a life of loneliness and solitude until Shannon Dupree, a handsome and stylish young man from the city, moved into the abandoned house next door. Shannon lived alone because his recently divorced mother liked to travel, and the rambling old mansion near the ghost town of Thurmond, West Virginia, built with coal money by Shannon’s great grandfather, provided a refuge, a place where the boys could relax and not worry about those who would judge them. They became close during the summer between their junior and senior years of high school, and in the fall, they became boyfriends. They planned to run away together after graduation, but their dreams were almost destroyed when Glen’s father, a fundamentalist preacher, discovered they were more than friends.
Friday, September 26, 2014
Mother on her Birthday Day
I’ve been thinking about my mother’s 61st birthday on Sept. 2, 2001. Mother suffered from paranoid schizophrenia and she had a psychotic breakdown sometime around Christmas the previous year. Her condition had not stabilized nine months later. She had been in and out of the hospital all that year. She was in fact an inpatient on her birthday, but her doctor thought she was well enough to leave the hospital for a few hours. Dad and I took her to Applebee’s.
We knew that the wait staff sang Happy Birthday to the patrons if they knew it was their birthday, but we didn’t know if Mother was up to that much attention from strangers, so we decided to simply not say anything about it being Mother’s birthday when we went inside the restaurant. But when the waitress was taking our orders, Mother announced the news herself. “It’s my birthday!” She said it like a little kid. Her eyes were wide open but not focused on anything in particular, which is a common thing among people with her condition, and her smile was unusually broad. The waitress politely wished her a happy birthday and went about her business.
The meal went well. Mother remained calm and she didn’t say anything inappropriate to those around us or act out in a way that would have required us to scold her or take her back to the hospital. However, both Dad and I knew what was going to happen, and sure enough, when we were almost finished, about ten restaurant employees came up to our table with balloons and a complementary dessert, and they all sang to Mother. Thankfully, Mother was delighted and not disturbed in the slightest. Dad and I were greatly relieved. It was a sad, funny and sweet moment.
We knew that the wait staff sang Happy Birthday to the patrons if they knew it was their birthday, but we didn’t know if Mother was up to that much attention from strangers, so we decided to simply not say anything about it being Mother’s birthday when we went inside the restaurant. But when the waitress was taking our orders, Mother announced the news herself. “It’s my birthday!” She said it like a little kid. Her eyes were wide open but not focused on anything in particular, which is a common thing among people with her condition, and her smile was unusually broad. The waitress politely wished her a happy birthday and went about her business.
The meal went well. Mother remained calm and she didn’t say anything inappropriate to those around us or act out in a way that would have required us to scold her or take her back to the hospital. However, both Dad and I knew what was going to happen, and sure enough, when we were almost finished, about ten restaurant employees came up to our table with balloons and a complementary dessert, and they all sang to Mother. Thankfully, Mother was delighted and not disturbed in the slightest. Dad and I were greatly relieved. It was a sad, funny and sweet moment.
Monday, September 22, 2014
A few thoughts on our sexuality.
Homophobes would have us believe that it’s selfish for us to define ourselves by our sexuality. They claim we dwell on it too much and that we’re obsessed with it. But it’s actually very common for straight people to define themselves according to their sexuality. It’s just that it’s so ordinary, so ubiquitous we often don’t recognize it for what it is in the same way we usually don’t think about the air we breathe. And it’s not just about what we do with our private parts. Homophobes love to reduce it all to the mechanics, but it’s so much more involved. Of course, that is an important element of our sexuality, but it’s also about who we’re attracted to on many levels, who we want to be with, who we identify with, the roles we feel comfortable with when we’re in a relationship, the need to love and be loved as well as the desire for physical intimacy.
Look at all the movies, books and songs that feature heterosexual romance. Listen to what people talk about and gossip about. Titanic, for example, was one of the most successful movies ever, and that’s because those who produced it were smart enough to make the romance between poor boy Jack and rich girl Rose the center of the story. It was tragic and heartbreaking when Jack died, but the fact that Jack and Rose found one another, fell for one another and were able to love one anther for a few days was beautiful and profound. That connection was still important to Rose 80 years later. Audiences ate that up. It didn’t matter that it was fictional. It didn’t matter that we weren’t directly involved or that the story was set so long ago. Millions related to Jack and Rose and adored them. That’s because sex, sexuality, romance and love are important to straight people, and those things are important to LGBT people, as well.
Look at all the movies, books and songs that feature heterosexual romance. Listen to what people talk about and gossip about. Titanic, for example, was one of the most successful movies ever, and that’s because those who produced it were smart enough to make the romance between poor boy Jack and rich girl Rose the center of the story. It was tragic and heartbreaking when Jack died, but the fact that Jack and Rose found one another, fell for one another and were able to love one anther for a few days was beautiful and profound. That connection was still important to Rose 80 years later. Audiences ate that up. It didn’t matter that it was fictional. It didn’t matter that we weren’t directly involved or that the story was set so long ago. Millions related to Jack and Rose and adored them. That’s because sex, sexuality, romance and love are important to straight people, and those things are important to LGBT people, as well.
Friday, September 12, 2014
A few thoughts on cause of homophobia.
I don’t see homophobia as an us v. them kind of thing. I think it’s a cultural problem. LGBT people can be homophobic. Sometimes very homophobic. I notice it all the time. And I know that I have a certain amount of residual homophobia in me. We were all raised with it. It’s in our programming.
I also don’t see LGBT rights as something that only benefits LGBT people. Straight people may not want to have sex or romantic relationships with members of the same sex, but homophobia is part of the that whole gender box thing that our culture is cursed with. When we’re born, our parents look us over, and suddenly there are all kinds of expectations placed on us based on what’s going on between our legs. Little boys are expected to be rough and tough. They’re expected to fight and to be strong. And they’re certainly not expected to like other boys in *that way*. Little girls are expected to be sweet, passive, concerned for others and pretty. The system my benefit straight boys in many ways, but we all actually pay a price because none of us fit into that system perfectly no matter our sexuality or how traditionally masculine the boys are or how traditionally feminine the girls are. I think we’re all being held back from our true selves, and we’re all being threatened. If you think straight men only receive the benefits from this cultural system and are never punished, I don’t think you’ve been paying attention. Our prisons are full of scary men who were once battered and abused little boys. Many successful and law abiding men were also abused, but they learned how to channel their aggressions in ways that lead to social status and material gain.
Of course, we have to call people out when they harm others, but if that’s all we do, I don’t think we’re going to get far. Rather than simply resting in our own self-righteousness and piously blaming others for all the things we don’t like about our society, I think we have to examine ourselves critically and look for the ways in which we are passing on our cultural problems.
I also don’t see LGBT rights as something that only benefits LGBT people. Straight people may not want to have sex or romantic relationships with members of the same sex, but homophobia is part of the that whole gender box thing that our culture is cursed with. When we’re born, our parents look us over, and suddenly there are all kinds of expectations placed on us based on what’s going on between our legs. Little boys are expected to be rough and tough. They’re expected to fight and to be strong. And they’re certainly not expected to like other boys in *that way*. Little girls are expected to be sweet, passive, concerned for others and pretty. The system my benefit straight boys in many ways, but we all actually pay a price because none of us fit into that system perfectly no matter our sexuality or how traditionally masculine the boys are or how traditionally feminine the girls are. I think we’re all being held back from our true selves, and we’re all being threatened. If you think straight men only receive the benefits from this cultural system and are never punished, I don’t think you’ve been paying attention. Our prisons are full of scary men who were once battered and abused little boys. Many successful and law abiding men were also abused, but they learned how to channel their aggressions in ways that lead to social status and material gain.
Of course, we have to call people out when they harm others, but if that’s all we do, I don’t think we’re going to get far. Rather than simply resting in our own self-righteousness and piously blaming others for all the things we don’t like about our society, I think we have to examine ourselves critically and look for the ways in which we are passing on our cultural problems.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
A few thoughts on empathy
I think we’re afraid of empathy. Partly that might be because we’re wrapped up in our own problems and we can’t be bothered with the problems of others, but I suspect that many of us avoid empathy because we think we’ll get so caught up in it that we’ll become consumed by it, that we won’t be able to do anything else but mourn for the gargantuan sorrows of the world. I see us inventing artificial reasons as to why we shouldn’t care about entire groups of our fellow human beings. Some don’t care about those on food stamps because it’s so easy to assume that most of them are just lazy and don’t want to work. Some want to write off those who drive luxury cars or even everybody who lives in rich countries like the United States. But tragedy could strike any of us at any time, and I think on some level, we all know this. That woman whose driving that fancy car could hit a utility poll within the next five minutes. Her brains could be splattered all over the pavement. What good will her status and her bank account do her then?
But I don’t think turning our feelings off is the answer. It’s true that we only have a limited amount of time, and there’s so little we can do about the mess the world is in. The mess is too huge and complex. So it might be tempting to become cynical and dismissive. But if we don’t acknowledge our own grief and sorrow, I think we’ll spend our lives running from those things because they’re always going to be right below the surface. And if we don’t feel for others, we become callous and mean. Is there really any happiness and satisfaction in that?
I think there’s a balance we have to achieve before we can truly be ourselves. I have thought about this for many years, and I admit that I have not worked out the exact formula, but I think we have to let measured doses of it all in. We have to feel for ourselves, and we have to feel for others. And I think we have to acknowledge the horrors without forgetting to laugh, appreciate beauty or experience joy.
I can easily recall the night that I woke up from my first head surgery. I felt horrible. I hurt all over. The first thing I did was throw up, and because I was so weak, I couldn’t even lift my head, so I vomited all over myself. And aside from the physical discomfort, I was scared and lonely, and I thought I was going to die. I am thankful that the doctors were able to successfully remove the tumor in my head, and I’m thankful that the hospital staff nursed me back to health, but that night I wasn’t sure I would make it. However, I wouldn’t have blamed anybody if I hadn’t. I didn’t expect anyone to “fix” the universe for me just so I wouldn’t have to face mortality. But it would have been really nice if someone had taken the time to stand by my bed, to touch my hand or my arm, look down at me with an open heart and feel my fear and my pain with me. If someone had done that, if someone had really opened themselves up to it, they would have felt what I was feeling because that fear and pain wasn’t just mine. Even though I was the one on my back with a big bandage on my head, anybody who took the time to feel for me would have had to acknowledge that there was a chance they could have died that night, too.
We all hurt and we’re all going to die, so maybe it’s understandable that we want to look away from the horror most of the time, but I think feeling for people actually does make the world a better place for us and everyone else. Knowing someone understood that night after my surgery would have been a comfort, and I think when we comfort others, we end up comforting ourselves. When we feel for one another, we know we’re not alone, and that’s a big help.
But I don’t think turning our feelings off is the answer. It’s true that we only have a limited amount of time, and there’s so little we can do about the mess the world is in. The mess is too huge and complex. So it might be tempting to become cynical and dismissive. But if we don’t acknowledge our own grief and sorrow, I think we’ll spend our lives running from those things because they’re always going to be right below the surface. And if we don’t feel for others, we become callous and mean. Is there really any happiness and satisfaction in that?
I think there’s a balance we have to achieve before we can truly be ourselves. I have thought about this for many years, and I admit that I have not worked out the exact formula, but I think we have to let measured doses of it all in. We have to feel for ourselves, and we have to feel for others. And I think we have to acknowledge the horrors without forgetting to laugh, appreciate beauty or experience joy.
I can easily recall the night that I woke up from my first head surgery. I felt horrible. I hurt all over. The first thing I did was throw up, and because I was so weak, I couldn’t even lift my head, so I vomited all over myself. And aside from the physical discomfort, I was scared and lonely, and I thought I was going to die. I am thankful that the doctors were able to successfully remove the tumor in my head, and I’m thankful that the hospital staff nursed me back to health, but that night I wasn’t sure I would make it. However, I wouldn’t have blamed anybody if I hadn’t. I didn’t expect anyone to “fix” the universe for me just so I wouldn’t have to face mortality. But it would have been really nice if someone had taken the time to stand by my bed, to touch my hand or my arm, look down at me with an open heart and feel my fear and my pain with me. If someone had done that, if someone had really opened themselves up to it, they would have felt what I was feeling because that fear and pain wasn’t just mine. Even though I was the one on my back with a big bandage on my head, anybody who took the time to feel for me would have had to acknowledge that there was a chance they could have died that night, too.
We all hurt and we’re all going to die, so maybe it’s understandable that we want to look away from the horror most of the time, but I think feeling for people actually does make the world a better place for us and everyone else. Knowing someone understood that night after my surgery would have been a comfort, and I think when we comfort others, we end up comforting ourselves. When we feel for one another, we know we’re not alone, and that’s a big help.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
A few words on depression.
There might be antecedents or precipitating factors, but depression is a thing in and of itself. I have suffered from clinical depression off on and for decades. I have been hospitalized for it several times. I’ve taken a number of medications for it. I have received electroshock therapy for it. Childhood experiences probably did change my brain chemistry in a way that made it more likely that I would be susceptible to depression. My ongoing PTSD and social phobia and isolation causes stress that probably doesn’t help. But these factors don’t explain why I’m okay some days, and other days I just can’t stand it anymore. Nothing has changed all that much externally from one day to the next, but what it feels like for me inside my head does change.
People will sometimes ask, “Why are you depressed?” or “What do you have to be depressed about?” This implies that there is or should be a specific reason for the change in mood, and there often isn’t one. Sometimes someone will become depressed after being diagnosed with a disease, or after getting a divorce or after losing a child. People will then say that depression in those circumstances is understandable, and of course it is. But sometimes depression can hit you when you’re not expecting it, when it’s not so easily explained. And I think we should work at discussing this issue in a way that makes it clear to those who are depressed that they don’t need a reason or an excuse.
It’s not a personal failing on the part of the person who is depressed if they don’t have some kind of sob story to tell that will immediately play on the sympathy of those who hear it. The depressed person is in a lot of pain, and the depression alone should be cause enough for concern.
People will sometimes ask, “Why are you depressed?” or “What do you have to be depressed about?” This implies that there is or should be a specific reason for the change in mood, and there often isn’t one. Sometimes someone will become depressed after being diagnosed with a disease, or after getting a divorce or after losing a child. People will then say that depression in those circumstances is understandable, and of course it is. But sometimes depression can hit you when you’re not expecting it, when it’s not so easily explained. And I think we should work at discussing this issue in a way that makes it clear to those who are depressed that they don’t need a reason or an excuse.
It’s not a personal failing on the part of the person who is depressed if they don’t have some kind of sob story to tell that will immediately play on the sympathy of those who hear it. The depressed person is in a lot of pain, and the depression alone should be cause enough for concern.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
The Vicious Lie
I think the idea that gay = sin is destructive...as well as the idea that gay sex = sin or gay relationships = sin, but in saying that, I am not telling anyone how they should live their lives. I'm often not sure how I should live my own life much less how others should live theirs. If you abstain from sex or if you're celibate or if you embrace monogamy, that's your business. But I can't stand even the suggestion that gay = sin.
I haven't had sex in many years, and I don't see that changing in the near future. In fact, I may never have sex again. But the reasons are deeply personal. It has absolutely nothing to do with a belief that gay sex is sinful or inherently dangerous or wrong. I have trouble relaxing around other human beings, and a huge part of the reason I'm like that is because while I was a kid I was beaten over the head with the idea that my kind of attraction is sick, diseased, nasty, funny, strange, weird, wrong and sinful. Growing up in a society that strongly advocated those beliefs made the world seem like a dangerous place for me, and even now, I can't shake the feeling that I'm about to be attacked. I think the idea that a god doesn't like people like me is disturbing and hurtful, and I just don't want to hear that crap anymore.
I haven't had sex in many years, and I don't see that changing in the near future. In fact, I may never have sex again. But the reasons are deeply personal. It has absolutely nothing to do with a belief that gay sex is sinful or inherently dangerous or wrong. I have trouble relaxing around other human beings, and a huge part of the reason I'm like that is because while I was a kid I was beaten over the head with the idea that my kind of attraction is sick, diseased, nasty, funny, strange, weird, wrong and sinful. Growing up in a society that strongly advocated those beliefs made the world seem like a dangerous place for me, and even now, I can't shake the feeling that I'm about to be attacked. I think the idea that a god doesn't like people like me is disturbing and hurtful, and I just don't want to hear that crap anymore.
I'm perfectly fine with being gay. I have always loved my feelings for my own sex right from the start. They made me feel alive, and I appreciated how the most boring day could become exciting the moment I spotted a cute boy. It was fun! But I couldn't be honest with those around me because the culture I grew up in was steeped in homophobic bullshit. As a result, I ended up with PTSD. You can't just turn that off. You have to learn to live with it and accommodate it. I have done that, and I have survived. But it pisses me off that some still spread the bullshit. And it really pisses me off when I hear LGBT people spreading it.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Late to the Revolution
Last week, The National Center for Lesbian Rights (NCLR) posted an open letter from 9 former “ex-gay” leaders in which they called for a ban on conversion therapy. On hearing about this letter, some have made it clear that they don’t trust these former leaders or that they find it hard to forgive them.
Maybe this is understandable. Alan Chambers offered a so-called apology for his leadership of Exodus International, the world’s largest “ex-gay” ministry, and shut the place down, but one could hardly claim that Chambers is now a supporter of LGBT rights.
However, I know some of these people who cosigned the letter. Four of them are on my Facebook friends list. And I believe they are the real deal. They no longer believe that being LGBT is a sin or that LGBTs can or should change, and I think they sincerely want to help us gain equality and acceptance.
I think we sometimes tend to forget how new the concept of LGBT equality is. Just a few years ago, states were still allowed to criminalize homosexual sex. When I was born in 1965, being attracted to your own sex was still considered a sickness, and those who experienced such attractions were considered a threat to society. We were thought of as degenerates, criminals and scum.
In this day and age, when Mat Staver claims that acceptance of homosexuality will lead to the destruction of civilization or when Linda Harvey claims that those nasty homos want to infiltrate schools so they can persuade kids to join the “homosexual lifestyle,” many of us laugh at their obvious absurdity, but not that long ago, their attitude was common and widespread.
While growing up, I heard the most vicious homophobic comments imaginable almost daily. The comments sometimes came from otherwise nice and friendly people. It wasn’t just the thugs who were against us. And there was nothing to counterbalance that hostile attitude. I knew no one who was out. Not one person. I rarely saw LGBT characters on TV shows or in movies or read about them in books.
And let’s keep in mind that there was a time when many of us wanted to be good little boys and girls. Many of us wanted to make our parents proud. Nearly everyone, at one time or another, has had disagreements with their parents, but only some of us have feared that we could risk losing our parents’ love, affection and support forever if we revealed who we really are. What a scary thing that is.
Many of us were taught that being LGBT was a horrible sin, an offense against God, and that those who were guilty of this sin are worthy of eternal damnation. Some of us found it hard to shake this belief. Some believed that if they accepted their sexuality, they would not only risk losing their families, but they could end up suffering in hell for eternity.
I believe that to risk offending your family in such a way that they might permanently reject you and to go against what you have been taught as a basic tenant of the faith you were raised in is a revolutionary act. I think it takes great courage to do this. I believe this so strongly that I wrote a novel about it, The Raven’s Sepulcher. (You can download it from Amazon or Smashwords if you care to read it. …I know that’s a shameless plug, but I’m like that. LOL)
I was never involved in any “ex-gay” or anti-gay organizations, but I was terribly afraid for anyone to find out about me for the longest time. I lived in fear. I’ve grown a lot over the years, but I think I still have a ways to go. I think I’m still recovering from the homophobia that was dumped on me when I was young. So I can understand why it took some of us a while to come around. I commiserate with those who had to struggle, and I’m happy to call some of them my friends.
Maybe this is understandable. Alan Chambers offered a so-called apology for his leadership of Exodus International, the world’s largest “ex-gay” ministry, and shut the place down, but one could hardly claim that Chambers is now a supporter of LGBT rights.
However, I know some of these people who cosigned the letter. Four of them are on my Facebook friends list. And I believe they are the real deal. They no longer believe that being LGBT is a sin or that LGBTs can or should change, and I think they sincerely want to help us gain equality and acceptance.
I think we sometimes tend to forget how new the concept of LGBT equality is. Just a few years ago, states were still allowed to criminalize homosexual sex. When I was born in 1965, being attracted to your own sex was still considered a sickness, and those who experienced such attractions were considered a threat to society. We were thought of as degenerates, criminals and scum.
In this day and age, when Mat Staver claims that acceptance of homosexuality will lead to the destruction of civilization or when Linda Harvey claims that those nasty homos want to infiltrate schools so they can persuade kids to join the “homosexual lifestyle,” many of us laugh at their obvious absurdity, but not that long ago, their attitude was common and widespread.
While growing up, I heard the most vicious homophobic comments imaginable almost daily. The comments sometimes came from otherwise nice and friendly people. It wasn’t just the thugs who were against us. And there was nothing to counterbalance that hostile attitude. I knew no one who was out. Not one person. I rarely saw LGBT characters on TV shows or in movies or read about them in books.
And let’s keep in mind that there was a time when many of us wanted to be good little boys and girls. Many of us wanted to make our parents proud. Nearly everyone, at one time or another, has had disagreements with their parents, but only some of us have feared that we could risk losing our parents’ love, affection and support forever if we revealed who we really are. What a scary thing that is.
Many of us were taught that being LGBT was a horrible sin, an offense against God, and that those who were guilty of this sin are worthy of eternal damnation. Some of us found it hard to shake this belief. Some believed that if they accepted their sexuality, they would not only risk losing their families, but they could end up suffering in hell for eternity.
I believe that to risk offending your family in such a way that they might permanently reject you and to go against what you have been taught as a basic tenant of the faith you were raised in is a revolutionary act. I think it takes great courage to do this. I believe this so strongly that I wrote a novel about it, The Raven’s Sepulcher. (You can download it from Amazon or Smashwords if you care to read it. …I know that’s a shameless plug, but I’m like that. LOL)
I was never involved in any “ex-gay” or anti-gay organizations, but I was terribly afraid for anyone to find out about me for the longest time. I lived in fear. I’ve grown a lot over the years, but I think I still have a ways to go. I think I’m still recovering from the homophobia that was dumped on me when I was young. So I can understand why it took some of us a while to come around. I commiserate with those who had to struggle, and I’m happy to call some of them my friends.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
The Raven's Sepulcher by Gary Cottle
The Raven's Sepulcher is available at Amazon and Smashwords.
I used the fairytale Sleeping Beauty as inspiration for my novel The Raven’s Sepulcher. The fairytale is about a girl who wakes to her own adulthood. There is a special emphasis on sexuality and romance in the fairytale, and those things play a significant part in my story, too, but I expanded on the basic premise. Allison, my protagonist, is not only confronted with her growing desire for love, but she also has to wake to the dangers and disappointments of life. She must give up her childish delusions and deal with reality if she is to survive. There are forces in her grandmother’s house that are urging her to open her eyes. These forces may be supernatural or they may represent Allison’s own innate wisdom bubbling up from her subconscious, but in any event, they are trying to tell her that she is leading a nebulous existence somewhere between life and death. She is in a tomb, and she might slip away forever if she doesn’t wake up.
I like the way Sleeping Beauty suggests that maturation has two tracks. On the one hand, our bodies mature physically, and there’s not much we can do about that. It simply happens to us. Accompanying that physical maturation are usually societal expectations that steadily increase as the process goes along. But there is a second maturation process, a psychological one, and according to the fairytale, this one is driven by our own willingness to accept that our childhood is over.
When Allison is sent out into the world, she is not ready to think for herself or make her own decisions, so for the longest time, she is blind to the danger she is in. There are people in her life, people she should be able to count on and trust, who would prefer Allison remain an obedient and naïve child. They would do anything to keep her asleep in her tomb forever.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Notes from a broken down mess
I’m a short, fat, middle-aged, half deaf, disabled man with partial facial paralysis, without much energy and with even less money. And being around people makes me incredibly nervous. That’s not a comprehensive description of who I am, of course. I have my good points. But still, I don’t think many would consider me a catch. I’m not saying that to be down on myself. I’m just dealing with reality. I happen to be most strongly attracted to young, lithe, slender, smooth men who are more pretty than handsome. You can call me shallow for being like that. You can tell me that I *should* be attracted to men who are more like myself, or to hairy men, or muscular, manly men. You might say that one day I might fall for a man who is more “right” for me. Maybe, and pigs might fly, too. But in the meantime, I’m attracted to who I’m attracted to. And, again, I’m just dealing with reality. This situation can be frustrating at times, but what helps is that I really don’t expect those to whom I’m attracted to like me back. I simply don’t. In fact, if a young pretty man expressed an interest in me, I would think he was quite odd. I would be grateful. I would find it flattering. I might even consider a relationship…one that would last a few hours, a day, a week, a month or till death do us part. But I would think he was strange.
I think I deserve respect, and I hope to find compassion in this life. But love and desire? I don’t think anyone owes me those things. And I don’t think anyone can give me those things simply because they want to or think I deserve it. Either you feel it or you don’t. You can’t force it. If love and desire were things human beings could muster at will simply because they thought they should, or they were told that they should, or they thought it would be noble of them, “ex-gay therapy” would work, and it doesn’t.
I think everybody should have the right to be honest about who they are and what they feel. I also think everybody should have the right to not be interested…for whatever reason and even if others think they’re of low moral character or a pain in the backside or a stuck up asshole for not finding supposedly deserving people sexually or romantically appealing.
At this point in life, I’m not sure I want to be coupled even if it was just for a few hours. I’m not sure I would be up to it. I think it would have been nice and I think I really needed it when I was younger. I think it would have been easier for me to find a squeaky-voiced little fairy boy back in the day if I lived in a more open and accepting society. I sometimes wonder what my life would be like now if I had found my cute little man. Would he be with me now? Would we still be happy together? I don’t know, but in any event, I didn’t find him.
So it’s up to me to love myself. And that means loving myself as I am rather than what others think I should be. If I’m that aging, broken down mess who sometimes daydreams about holding Dylan O’Brian, then I’ll just have to be that guy. There are worse things. And I don’t hold it against the Dylans of the world for not wanting to be with me, so it’s not so bad.
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