Writing Prompt #4: What is your favorite work of art? What do you love about it?

The interesting part of this question, to me, is how to define a “work of art”. Is it a painting? Is it a selection of music? Is it a statue, a piece of architecture, a poem, or a novel? Could it, perhaps, be a dance performance, a script, a play being performed, a film or television show? Maybe it’s a mission patch from one of NASA’s Apollo missions, or a logo designed for a company. Maybe it’s even a spraypainted mural on the side of a building.

There’s so much art to choose from that it’s nearly impossible to make a single decision. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but I see art everywhere in nearly everything. We express ourselves in so many myriad ways that it can be overwhelming.

One possibility for me is The Starry Night, a painting by Vincent Van Gogh. There’s something about the colors and the swirls and the darkness juxtaposed against the light that’s always appealed to me. Painted in 1889 while Van Gogh underwent self-commitment to a mental asylum, it is considered one of the most recognizable paintings in modern art.

Another personal favorite of mine (and here’s where my nerd shows through) is a concept-painting of the USS Enterprise-D created by Andrew Probert and Rick Sternbach during the development of Star Trek: The Next Generation prior to the show’s premier in 1987. Originally intended to demonstrate the proposed look of the new ship, it was so well-received that it was hung on the wall of the captain’s ready room set for the entire seven-year run of the show as well as the film Star Trek: Generations.

If anyone is ever wondering what to get me for Christmas, a framed print of either of those would make me very happy.

At the end of the day, though, I’m such a voracious reader that my “favorite” work of art has to be a story, either something written in prose or something filmed. Even narrowing it down that far leaves almost too many possibilities to think about. There are so many short stories, novels, comic books, television shows and films that have moved me over the years that I could teach several college courses on the subject and still only scratch the surface.

Of all the possibilities, I’m going to go with a simple one. It’s a comic book limited series called Midnight Nation, written by my favorite author, J. Michael Straczynski. It’s the story of a detective, shot dead by a suspect, who gets stuck in a place between life and death and who goes on a cross-country road trip to regain his soul from the Devil and in the process discovers who he really is as a person. Along the way, he discovers a multitude of lost souls who have been discarded, ignored, or forgotten by the daylight world we all inhabit. I won’t spoil it for anyone who hasn’t read it, but in my twenties the ending struck me in a way that I don’t think anything else ever has. The thing I love about it is the self-discovery: our hero starts his journey wanting one thing, but at the end he realizes what he actually wants is something very different.

Even so, at the end of the day, I think trying to choose a favorite is an exercise in futility. There are far, far too many works of art out there that demand our attention, that demand our respect, to ever narrow the list down to just one or even two or three. If life is an exploration of possibilities, of ideas, then surely art is one of the tools we use in that endeavor. No matter how much we expose ourselves to, there’s always more out there, and I take comfort from that. The exploration will never be over.

Who Are You?

My family never attended church. My father is a devout atheist and my mother is, at best, a non-practicing Catholic. The only times I remember being in a church before my thirties were weddings and funerals. Religion was an alien world to me, one that I felt little need to dip my toe in.

That’s not to say that I didn’t find ideas and philosophies that influenced me and continue to influence me to this day. They weren’t what anyone would call “books of faith” or anything like that, but they were important to me and gave me a lot to think about. They helped me find my way and establish something firm to stand on in a world where the people I knew all seemed to have conflicting beliefs and convictions, and where I had a hard time deciding who was right and who was wrong.

In 1989, I was eleven years old when I bought my first comic book and really discovered Spider-Man. Actually, if I’m being honest, my first comic book was an issue of a licensed Real Ghostbusters comic that I found at Stater Bros. while my mom was grocery shopping. I begged and pleaded for her to buy it for me, as only an eleven-year-old can, and she finally relented. I loved it, but there were only a few issues available on the spinner rack at the time, and once I finished those two or three comics I was hungry for more. Not knowing much about the other titles on display, I picked a character I at least recognized from Saturday morning cartoons. Outside of a children’s read-along book I had when I was younger, The Spectacular Spider-Man #150 was what I consider my first “real” comic book.

That started a lifelong fascination with superheroes. From Spider-Man, I learned that with great power comes great responsibility. For those who don’t know, Peter Parker at first squandered his powers trying to make a profit and looking out for himself until, one day, he refused to stop a mugger he could have easily apprehended, a mugger who shortly went on to murder his Uncle Ben. As Spider-Man, Peter vowed to never look the other way again. He realized that if it was within his ability to help, he had a responsibility to do so, especially when people couldn’t help themselves. For an eleven-year-old, that’s heavy stuff. It goes deeper than just watching people in colorful pajamas beating each other up. It’s a way of life writ large. From Spider-Man, I moved on to other comics: Thor, The Infinity Gauntlet, The Avengers, Captain America and others. I found myself mostly drawn to Marvel characters, but I also collected a lot of comics from the Denny O’Neil editorial run on the Batman titles. One of the things I learned from all those writers, artists, and characters was that the differences between us all as human beings, whether they be ethnicity, nationality, language, religion, or any number of other differences were inconsequential. What mattered was that all people are important, all people deserve the chance to live in peace, to live according to what makes them happy and what they believe, and to be protected. Most of what divides us as people is trivial in the grand scheme of things.

Then came 1990. Over the summer between 6^th and 7^th grades, I was at a family event at my aunt’s house. I’ve never been a hugely social person, so I wandered into a side room and turned on the TV. This was well before the age of hundreds of cable channels, so the channel-surfing options were limited, but it just so happened that one of the local stations was airing a rerun of the most recent Star Trek: The Next Generation episode. I had never seen it and I was barely aware of the show in general, but that afternoon I was hooked. There was something about this group of people who were very clearly an extended family and their determination to do the right thing, save their father-figure, and protect the innocent people on Earth that captured me. I spent the whole summer watching every rerun I could and awaiting the Fall premier that would wrap up the cliffhanger that ended the previous season. It was the Summer between parts one and two of “The Best of Both Worlds” and the start of my attachment to Star Trek in general. Those themes of progressiveness, inclusion, scientific curiosity, and duty have been a part of my life ever since.

A few years later, Babylon 5 premiered, and provided me with a five-year run in which the stories and themes resonated on a similar level while giving me even more to think about: media bias, faith, fascism, good and evil, order and chaos, whether we are bound to follow one of two divergent paths or whether we have the freedom and responsibility to forge a third path, our own. It was J. Michael Straczynski whose writing first taught me the two most important questions in anyone’s life. “Who are you?” and “What do you want?” It was through his work that I realized it matters what order you answer those questions. Deciding what you want is much easier than figuring out who you are, but if you decide what you want before you understand who you are you can end up going wildly off-course and finding yourself in places you never thought you would and where you never wanted to be. That’s something that happens all too often in our goal-oriented, materialistic society. Wants are much easier to define than identity.

In the years since, I’ve been exposed to a lot of religion, mostly in the form of evangelical Christianity. That’s an entirely different ball of yarn to unravel, but one thing I’ve heard over and over again is that you have to read your Bible every day, every single day, to feed your faith and maintain your identity. And they’re right. They’re absolutely right. But it’s a broader truth than even they realize. I struggle every time I stray from the things that shaped me, that I truly believe in, even if I don’t believe in the literal, factual truth of the stories. I don’t believe superheroes are literally real or that Star Trek or Babylon 5 represent our actual future. But those stories don’t have to be factual truth to have power or for the themes and ideas they represent to resonate. If I don’t constantly reinforce those ideas in myself, I start to wander and forget what shaped me. But eventually, I always come back. I always come full circle. And I’m starting to realize how important it is to stay with those ideas in some form, to keep reminding myself who I am. Because that’s the first, most important question of our existence: “Who are you?” Without that, it’s all too easy to get lost.

Writing Prompt #3: Write a diary entry, dated 10 years in the future.

February 16, 2036

It’s been a long road.

With apologies to Star Trek: Enterprise, that’s not just a song lyric. It’s been a long road for me. I’m about to turn 58 years old and my life has been a series of nothing but ups and downs; most of the downs have been my own fault, either because of choices I’ve made or the way I’ve reacted to things. I’m not going to lie: I still have a lot of issues to work through, but at least I haven’t had a drink. It’s been ten years, in fact. I was in denial for a long time, but it took getting hospitalized and having to move back in with my parents for a while to get me to really recognize that I just can’t drink. Ever. I can’t pretend that I’m like other people. I can’t hide my alcoholism. I have to be open about it, and I can’t be reluctant to turn down a drink when it’s offered. I can’t go on a date and pretend I’m a normal person.

But the bigger issue was always that I can’t deny who I am. The alcoholism is part of it, but I can’t deny myself the things I want to do or the people I want to be around. I didn’t like living at the Hacienda or the Salvation Army or in Fontana because that’s just not me. I don’t want that lifestyle. I gave up most of the things I wanted to do years ago, but when Lindsey and I were together, in fact, because I felt guilty spending money on myself. I stopped buying comics, going to conventions, playing card games, and lots of other things because it all costs money, and in doing so I gave up parts of myself. I pretended I didn’t need anything and, especially after Lindsey left, I didn’t allow myself to do things that brought me joy or that I could look forward to on long days at work. And so I started drinking more and more. Part of staying sober is letting those little moments of light and joy into my life and not feeling guilty about it. I had to give myself permission to be happy.

And it’s been good since then. Things have improved. I’m working a decent job and, while I’m not rich, I have a decent amount of money. And I have people in my life now, people I enjoy talking to and spending time with. I’m not afraid to be myself anymore, and that’s helped me stay sober. If I have joy in my life, why would I want to give that up for a drink? I don’t, and I hope I never will again.

Writing Prompt #2: Have you ever spoken up when you saw something going on that was wrong? Were you scared? What ended up happening?

I absolutely have. The most recent example is a place I worked at until a couple of years ago where I was the office manager and later the assistant director. This was a residential facility for men with a history of substance abuse, and it was intended as a place dedicated to recovery and staying sober.

Within the space of about a year, both the CEO of the non-profit corporation and the director of the facility both passed away, which led to a major shakeup in leadership. The new CEO pursued a very different agenda and had very different priorities than the previous one, and major changes started happening. Necessities were cut. Essential property and equipment were sold. Standards were lowered or eliminated. I spoke up about all of those, every cut or sale or elimination that negatively impacted the residents that we were supposed to be caring for and helping. My boss, the new facility director, agreed with me, but the CEO wasn’t listening.

Eventually, we were asked to overlook or bypass admission requirements. The CEO asked for an admission letter, signed by the director, for someone we had never met or heard of. The normal process was for me to do an intake interview with potential new admissions to determine their history, medical status, and legal status before committing to bringing them in; this was to make sure they didn’t have any medical conditions we weren’t able to provide for and to make sure they didn’t have any outstanding warrants or pending court appearances at distant locations (local appearances were fine) and were in compliance with any terms of parole or probation. It was against policy to issue an admission letter without conducting an interview like that, but the CEO insisted on it anyway. My director instructed me, over my objections, to prepare the letter and send it to the CEO.

Months went by and we completely forgot about that letter. We issued several of those letter every week, which inmates at local jails would often present at a hearing in support of their request to be released; it wasn’t uncommon for us to never hear from that individual again, so it was easy to lose track of any one letter. Then, one day, the CEO sent a guy over unannounced to live on the property with us. The instruction wasn’t to admit him, which would have involved having this individual live with the rest of the residents under supervision without a cell phone or privileges to leave and return at will. Instead, he brought a trailer with him and was allowed to live by himself in that trailer and to come and go as he pleased. We had problems with this person immediately: he barricaded himself into his trailer, came and went at all hours of the day and night, behaved erratically, and things started disappearing all around the property. But he was there at the direction of the CEO, so there was little we could do about it.

Then, one night as I was getting ready to go to bed, one of the staff came banging on my door. The individual I had been referring to had apparently collapsed in the middle of the courtyard and needed help. By the time I got out there, he had been helped onto a nearby bench and was having trouble catching his breath. I started asking him questions about what had happened and if it had ever happened before; at that point, I had already decided to call 911 out of an abundance of caution, but as I was asking my first couple of questions his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell off the bench onto the cement. I immediately called for an ambulance while one of the staff performed CPR, but by the time the paramedics arrived he was already dead. It seemed obvious at the time, but it was confirmed later that he had died of an overdose, and some of the residents confirmed that he had left the property earlier and returned with a backpack, though we never did find out exactly what he returned with.

This was someone our CEO had met while doing prison ministry in San Bernardino, who had apparently agreed to do handyman and construction work around the property in exchange for permission to live on the property for zero rent. He had a history of drug abuse, which wasn’t disclosed to us because he didn’t go through the proper admissions process. I watched him die on the front porch of my office because the CEO bypassed normal policy to get free work from someone he barely knew.

That was the beginning of the end for me. I stayed on for a while after that, but the changes didn’t slow down; if anything, they ramped up. More and more things were eliminated or sold off, more and more things were prioritized over the recovery program, and gradually the facility became something it had never been intended to be: a flophouse. A few months later, the CEO was scheduled to make a presentation to the remaining residents about a new direction for the facility, a direction that didn’t involve recovery or programming but instead focused on revenue generation and a change in mission. That morning, I resigned. In my role as assistant director, it would have been my job to be supportive of this new direction and supportive of the CEO, neither of which I felt I could do at that point. I packed up as much of my belongings as would fit in my van and left, and that was the end of a long chapter in my life.

Writing Prompt #1: What person in your life knows you the best, and how did you meet?

Years ago, this would have been an easy question to answer: it was my kids. When they were little, I was the parent who mainly cared for them and we spent a lot of time together. I always tried to be honest and up front with them, and they knew me better than anyone, including their mother. As the years have gone by, though, we’ve drifted apart. I suppose that’s normal, but it bothers me. If I’m being honest, it breaks my heart every day. The fact of the matter is that they just live too far away for us to have a really close relationship. They’re all adults now, of course. Ben and James live in Sacramento, and William was living in New York until he decided to move overseas to London.

The reality is that I don’t have anyone in my life right now who knows me terribly well. I’m getting along better with my parents now than I have in years, but I don’t think they really know me that well. We don’t have a whole lot of deep conversations and we don’t have many shared interests, either. At one point, a couple of years ago, I would have said Rose Marie knew me best, but we haven’t been able to talk much for over a year and a half now. I don’t even have her phone number anymore. Until just recently, I was hoping this would just be a phase we’re going through, I’ve finally had to accept that it’s not going to change, so I stopped going to church (which was the only place I could even say hi to her at all) and I’m just going to stay away from her. I’m going to try to stay out of Perris altogether. It’s best for everyone involved, but it means I don’t have a best friend anymore and I don’t have anyone who knows me very well.

Obviously, I met my kids when they were born. I was in the operating room when all three of them were born, so I have literally known them their entire lives. Rose Marie was someone I met by accident at a Memorial Day barbeque. She came up to me while I was standing in line to get a hot dog and a hamburger and she asked me to watch the two little dogs she had on leashes while she used the bathroom. While she was gone, one of the dogs (the little troublemaker) turned around and yanked his head out of his collar and went running around the property. I had to leave the other dog with a friend of mine and go chase him down; I finally caught him after he was too exhausted to sprint anymore and I was able to return him to her, after which we started chatting and struck up a friendship that lasted almost ten years. She’s had two kids since then and I know both of them very well; whenever they see me, they want to tell me stuff and show me stuff and play, and they like to walk around with me and explore places while I watch to make sure they don’t get hurt. That ended a while back, though, and I don’t talk to any of them anymore.

Welcome

The last time I used this blog was 2013. That was a long time ago and I was a very different person back then. A lot has changed for me, and I've decided I need to write and share my thoughts more regularly. I'm going to make an effort to write something every day; it might not be terribly deep or meaningful, but that's okay. It's just meant to get the juices flowing because I haven't written anything other than work documents in years. Sometimes these might be musings about my day or life in general, sometimes they might be short stories or poems or simple writing prompts (I bought a book with 300 writing prompts, so that should be me plenty of ideas), or they might be thoughts about something I've read or seen in the news or about politics (fair warning: I'm a liberal and I'm not afraid to talk about it).

It's entirely possible that no one will ever read this, and that's fine. This is more for my own personal benefit than for anyone else's, but if anyone out there does read it, I hope you get something out of it, even if it's just food for thought. Thanks for being here.