Indianapolis IN USA

June will mark the 10th anniversary of my move from Seattle to Indianapolis. Those 10 years gave me the chance to become very close with my mother before she died, the chance to meet so many friends, the chance to meet Scotty, and the chance to rediscover myself.

Indianapolis has been good to me in so many powerful ways. Having said that, my love for Indianapolis has waned. Indianapolis has a chip on its shoulder about its location, its geography, its lack of dynamic public transportation, its far-too-invasive Family Friendly atmosphere, and its fear of change.

There are troubling things here: A huge lack of respect for education, libraries, and the arts. The fear of the outsider. The myth of “Hoosier Hospitality.” The fear of being “too” anything (too showy, too tall, too diverse, too big, too alive, etc.). The embracing of all things easy and comfortable.

There are also amazing things here: The Indianapolis Museum of Art. The Eiteljorg. The downtown canal. Crown Hill Cemetery. Massachusetts Avenue. I could go on and on about the places I enjoy and love.

Indianapolis doesn’t like change and doesn’t like to be pushed. I don’t either. I’m like a cat when it comes to changes.

Thanks to a small group of friends, I’ve been pushed, and my fear of change is going away. I can’t wait to see what the next 10 years will bless me with as I travel to new horizons and redefine the meaning of home.

My Goals are Mine.

I have three huge goals I’m pursuing. They are dreams I want to come true. I’m not telling you about them until well after the fact. Yesterday, my partner reminded me of a study that determined that talking too openly about ambitions and goals releases the same sets of brain chemicals that are released when you actually achieve a goal. Basically, talking about your goals too much tells your brain and body that you’re satisfied, and then you discover that goal doesn’t blossom into fruition. Your goal is talked to death.

I know this is true because I’ve personally done this so many times. I can recall at least a dozen things I’ve wanted to do that never happened. Oh, I talked about those things endlessly and with great enthusiasm. What do I have to show for it? Nothing. The old adage is often true: words are cheap.

When it comes to goals, I need action and less talking. I need steps and lists and discipline, not more talking. Our society talks too much and does so little. We endlessly talk about curing cancer, healing the environment, ending domestic violence, funding the arts, etc. None of it happens. I believe we talk things to death.

My goals are mine. Your goals are yours. Tell me about them after you’ve reached them, and I’ll do the same.

An Open Letter of Forgiveness for the Boy at Anderson University

I moved into the room at the end of the hall on the west side of the 1st floor of Smith Hall in January of 1991. The exit door was just outside of this room. School was not going well, and I was struggling academically, spiritually, and physically. Everyone thought that having a private room would be a benefit to me. No one thought it would become a nightmare.

I don’t remember your name, but I remember you. Your face and hands. Your goatee. Your smiling eyes. You were handsome and looked like someone I’d want to get to know. I liked that you lived right next door.

It started innocently enough: I bumped into you leaving the showers one morning right after the semester had started. You scowled. I said I was sorry.

You started to harass me that night. Around 9:00pm, the first “thud” landed on my door, followed by another. I quickly ran to see who it was, and you were standing there grinning, hands balled into fists. I asked you what was going on, and you replied, “Just having some fun.”

I went back into my room, and closed and locked the door. The TV was on, and I tried to do some homework. You kept banging on my door all night. That was the night I stopped sleeping.

A couple of weeks passed, and you’d – thankfully -- ignore me in the halls and on campus.

Then you started again.

I don’t recall the exact day, but it was late and during the school week. I heard this screamed in the hall: “FAGGOT!” I made sure the door was locked. I turned the TV on and closed the blinds. I drowned myself in television and books to muffle what you were saying in the hall to your friends: “A FAGGOT lives next to me.” You said it over and over like a child might do when they are shocked or scared.

The next morning, after I made sure you had left the dorm, I went to speak to the resident director. I was told he would talk to you, and that I should just be careful around you.

Things escalated after that.

I got up to shower one morning, and I was “pennied” into my room. During the night, you and your friends had wedged pennies into the door frame, thus locking the door to the frame and preventing me from leaving. Hours passed. Everyone I knew was at class or ignored my calls for help as they would pass my door. Around Noon, someone finally said, “I’ll get you out.” I thanked the stranger, and spent the rest of the day hiding in the theatre department, reading fiction in the green room. I didn’t return to my dorm until 2 or 3 in the morning.

You started banging on the wall between our rooms, and I would occasionally hear you mutter “faggot” in a low tone. A friend stopped by one night to read a play with me. After he left, you were standing outside of my door, smirking. When the friend left, you asked me about my “faggot” friends. I ignored you and shut my door and locked it. This was the beginning of weeks of daily taunting. I eventually became a prisoner in my room.

I skipped classes, and cried all day and night. The school did nothing. I was told I might be at fault for provoking you. That remark felt like a punch. What had I done to you other than not living a lie?

Weeks passed as I lived in my prison, not leaving until you had left for the day, and returning with books and food before you’d be back from baseball practice. I showered in the middle of the night, and only went to the restroom when I knew you’d be away.

Then you declared war on me.

It was March, and there was still snow on the ground. It was a Friday evening. I got dressed, bundled up, and headed to the exit next to my room. I felt my knees buckle as I reached for the door. I fell. Something whizzed by my head and struck the wall beside me. Then something struck my head. An eternity passed. I remember walking out the door. I didn’t feel any pain. My head was wet and I thought that was just the snow and ice. Someone screamed “FAGGOT” from the 2nd floor window above the door, and I walked into the cold, snowy darkness.

I don’t know what happened that evening other than returning to my dorm at some late hour and finding the back of my shirt and coat soaked with my own blood.

I rarely left my room again. The days and weeks melted into each other. I was failing every class. I was building walls so thick that not even the best of friends could reach me.

You never let up. You never halted your assaults.

I moved out of the dorm as soon as I could, one Saturday morning. I dropped out of school and moved home.

You haunted my nightmares for years.

But no more.

I forgive you, dear boy. I forgive your fear, and your fists, and the baseball bat that struck my head. I forgive your screams and your taunts. I can’t imagine how you came to know such hate, and I pray for you daily.

I’ve tried hating you, and all that are like you, but I can’t. My heart can’t hate you, because all hate can do is create cancer in your soul.

Dear boy, with the smiling eyes and the handsome face, I forgive you. I have a life to live, and it’s time to let you go. I’ve carried you in my heart for far too long.

I wish you peace, and I sincerely hope you find it.

You are forgiven.

New Directions

New Art

New Art is Coming

New editions have come to the studio: gilt, old books, jewelry wire, and a sewing machine. 28 years of flat painting have evolved into a new creation.

2010 is going to be a massive year for the new Jay.

Joyce's baby bird is finally leaving the nest.

The Bells

The American Baptist church I grew up in was given a set of English handbells in the early 1980s. My mother and I joined the choirs; adult and junior, respectively. I played the bells for many years from around the 5th grade through college. If my memory serves me correctly, I last played bells in 1992.

My mother played bells for the last time this past Spring at a festival in March. She discovered her cancer a couple of weeks later, and was gone by mid-June.

3 weeks ago, the subject of playing bells was brought up at a meeting concerning music at Broadway United Methodist Church. The next day, the music director asked me to join the bell choir and I accepted his invitation. I believe Mom is proud of this, and I'm sure she'll tell me some day.

Yesterday was our first performance and I had only been able to make it to one practice. It went very well, despite the fact that it was a very difficult piece of music requiring techniques I had long forgotten. I could tell Mom was there counting in our ears and telling us to relax. My friend Doug came up to me after the service and gave me a big bear-hug saying, "Your mother was here today Jay, and I think she brought some angels with her." This meant a lot coming from Doug since he sang at her funeral in June.

I love the sound of bells, and I rejoice in the fact that I'm carrying on Mom's legacy and putting music back into my life.