JUST A LITTLE TRIM...
from Wikipedia:
In Greek mythology, Procrustes (the stretcher) was a bandit from Attica. He had his stronghold in the hills outside Eleusis. There, he had an iron bed into which he invited every passerby to lie down. If the guest proved too tall, he would amputate the excess length; if the victim was found too short, he was then stretched out on the rack until he fit. Nobody would ever fit in the bed because it was secretly adjustable: Procrustes would stretch or shrink it upon sizing his victims from afar. Such cunning ruses were common practice in mythology. Procrustes continued his reign of terror until he was captured by Theseus, who "fitted" Procrustes to his own bed and cut off his head and feet (since Theseus was a stout fellow, the bed had been set on the short position).
This is a grand old story, with all the satisfaction of the punishment of the wicked, but I have found myself in the odd position of Procrustes setting the bed too short for himself and then considering which pieces of himself to lop off to make the fit. And then it turns out that the choice is not mine after all; my Theseus has arrived. My contemplation of the bed -- and the amount of time I have spent on it, and on this blog, over the last months -- and all that that has brought, have made the decision for me. Once, long ago, when I thought I had crossed this bridge "for once and for all" as now it seems I have done without meaning or wanting to, I wrote a post to Sean with a certainty that I suppose I must embrace again. March 31st seems so long ago, and yet here we are, and it has all come true, in the ugliest way possible:
I would say for all the torture of my current situation, and if you have been reading this, Sean, you know what I am talking about, I do feel that peace that passes all understanding: I am absolutely convinced that I have no choice but to walk a certain path; that path started with coming out to myself however many thousands of years ago, took on some shape with coming out to my wife seven or eight years ago, and is now moving into a broader reality through my inability to live in silence any more, even for her sake. I have tried to let her woe trump mine, and I find I can no longer do it. It is only in crossing that threshold myself that I have come to understand my gay friends who could not keep silent; my mother and her generation were content to tolerate almost anything if they didn’t have to acknowledge it, and could not understand why the private could not stay private. Nor could I, on some level, but now, ah, now I do. And in SPADES.
Once that threshold is crossed, I will have to find my way again, but I can look at the possibility of my children turning against me, of losing my home, of losing the love that has born me up for twenty-six years, all but the last with something like resignation, and say that I know that whatever may come, it will be the result of my own free choice, and I will try to be ready for what I cannot imagine. There is an odd kind of peace in that, no matter how little anyone else understands. As I said to the one called Piggo:
Remember this one: “I used to be fucked up on drugs until I found Jesus; now I’m fucked up on Jesus”? Well, I used to be fucked up on porn until I found the Bear and the Blog Brothers, and now I’m fucked up on them.
What I am trying to say, in my ham-fisted way, is that the peace does not resemble what you want or expect. It just passes all understanding. And I think that our tradition is wise in not attempting to say any more about it.
Mine is not a grand old story, but apparently the wicked are still punished. And I will do something the entire world will see as terminally stupid. I will have only my guru's word to support me, that "all religious acts are stupid" when seen from the outside. Now is the time for that peace that is to pass all understanding to descend, because without it I am nothing.
And I am not good at being nothing.
Grant me your peace, O Lord. That peace I was once so sure of possessing. We may possess nothing you do not grant first. And thank you for painting your message to me in letters so big even I couldn't miss it. I will, I am sure, in time, even make my peace with the fact that the building you painted that message on fell in on me, if you give me help. In time.
And O, my brothers, if you care for me, pray for my wife and children.
In Greek mythology, Procrustes (the stretcher) was a bandit from Attica. He had his stronghold in the hills outside Eleusis. There, he had an iron bed into which he invited every passerby to lie down. If the guest proved too tall, he would amputate the excess length; if the victim was found too short, he was then stretched out on the rack until he fit. Nobody would ever fit in the bed because it was secretly adjustable: Procrustes would stretch or shrink it upon sizing his victims from afar. Such cunning ruses were common practice in mythology. Procrustes continued his reign of terror until he was captured by Theseus, who "fitted" Procrustes to his own bed and cut off his head and feet (since Theseus was a stout fellow, the bed had been set on the short position). 
This is a grand old story, with all the satisfaction of the punishment of the wicked, but I have found myself in the odd position of Procrustes setting the bed too short for himself and then considering which pieces of himself to lop off to make the fit. And then it turns out that the choice is not mine after all; my Theseus has arrived. My contemplation of the bed -- and the amount of time I have spent on it, and on this blog, over the last months -- and all that that has brought, have made the decision for me. Once, long ago, when I thought I had crossed this bridge "for once and for all" as now it seems I have done without meaning or wanting to, I wrote a post to Sean with a certainty that I suppose I must embrace again. March 31st seems so long ago, and yet here we are, and it has all come true, in the ugliest way possible:I would say for all the torture of my current situation, and if you have been reading this, Sean, you know what I am talking about, I do feel that peace that passes all understanding: I am absolutely convinced that I have no choice but to walk a certain path; that path started with coming out to myself however many thousands of years ago, took on some shape with coming out to my wife seven or eight years ago, and is now moving into a broader reality through my inability to live in silence any more, even for her sake. I have tried to let her woe trump mine, and I find I can no longer do it. It is only in crossing that threshold myself that I have come to understand my gay friends who could not keep silent; my mother and her generation were content to tolerate almost anything if they didn’t have to acknowledge it, and could not understand why the private could not stay private. Nor could I, on some level, but now, ah, now I do. And in SPADES.
Once that threshold is crossed, I will have to find my way again, but I can look at the possibility of my children turning against me, of losing my home, of losing the love that has born me up for twenty-six years, all but the last with something like resignation, and say that I know that whatever may come, it will be the result of my own free choice, and I will try to be ready for what I cannot imagine. There is an odd kind of peace in that, no matter how little anyone else understands. As I said to the one called Piggo:
Remember this one: “I used to be fucked up on drugs until I found Jesus; now I’m fucked up on Jesus”? Well, I used to be fucked up on porn until I found the Bear and the Blog Brothers, and now I’m fucked up on them.
What I am trying to say, in my ham-fisted way, is that the peace does not resemble what you want or expect. It just passes all understanding. And I think that our tradition is wise in not attempting to say any more about it.
Mine is not a grand old story, but apparently the wicked are still punished. And I will do something the entire world will see as terminally stupid. I will have only my guru's word to support me, that "all religious acts are stupid" when seen from the outside. Now is the time for that peace that is to pass all understanding to descend, because without it I am nothing.And I am not good at being nothing.
Grant me your peace, O Lord. That peace I was once so sure of possessing. We may possess nothing you do not grant first. And thank you for painting your message to me in letters so big even I couldn't miss it. I will, I am sure, in time, even make my peace with the fact that the building you painted that message on fell in on me, if you give me help. In time.
And O, my brothers, if you care for me, pray for my wife and children.
Troll,
ReplyDeleteI'm praying for you and your family.
You're surely not alone.
God bless you.
Hang in there friend. You and all who are tortured by these circumstances are in my prayers.
ReplyDelete