April exits stage left,
bidding adieu, waving her
Sonoran brush of trade winds
and soft apricot. They dance
down walls to touch natural oak,
warming, welcoming, watching
every moment of our lives.
Outside, hours before midnight,
cottonwood trees sway.
They whisper of mad
May days to come,
while we will find comfort
in what we can control,
who we greet with love,
even as we ponder what
western treasures to
embrace and behold
in the desert lodge
of our Arizona abode.
I haven’t stopped in lately.
I won’t apologize for that.
I’ve had important things to do.
Pressing places to go.
Unexpected treats to devour.
Birds to stalk. Make sense?
I know you’re busy.
New flooring tomorrow?
But it’s Easter, right?
Like my grand entrance?
Anyway, just dropping by,
To shake your tree,
Add a little levity,
Which only I deliver,
And then I’m outta here,
Cause that is what I do best.
Sculpted or not, spectacular public art soothes the sharp edges of our daily lives. For just a few moments in the center of any city, it frees our minds of responsibility and replenishes our spirits … especially when it pays tribute to local nature and history.
Mark Rossi’s Three Blacktail Jackrabbits, located at 700 S. Mill Avenue in downtown Tempe, Arizona, reflect the natural history of the Phoenix Salt River Valley. His Groomer Rabbit, Guard Rabbit, and Restful Rabbit (built in 1993) welcome passersby with whimsy and provide a year-round oasis.
It’s late Friday afternoon in the desert. The mockingbird outside our backdoor is singing his or her heart out. It’s a tender, hopeful, pre-weekend serenade … a chirpy, lyrical refrain coming from the top of a telephone pole that connects our heavier world of technology and dissonant news and noise.
None of us knows what tomorrow will bring … ever. But especially now.
Case in point: early this afternoon as Tom and I devoured a few remaining slices of sausage and veggie pizza from the night before, a military jet zoomed overhead.
The sudden surge of decibels jarred our nerves. Though we live near a military base at Papago Park, we rarely hear that intense noise. Only an occasional squadron of helicopters arriving or departing.
We are a nation of divided people living on the edge of time, sound, and sensibility. Each day when we climb out of bed, we are aware of the dismantling of institutions we have come to know and respect.
Each day we are threatened by another batch of edicts tossed out the sidedoor by an authoritarian regime bringing shame and constant anxiety to those of us raised to believe in a country that once valued high ideals over low morals.
I don’t pretend to have the answers. But I know silence will kill us.
I won’t pretend to be someone I’m not. Or as I have said frequently to friends lately, “I’m not putting this genie back in a bottle.”
What do I mean? I spent too many years as a teenager and young adult (of the 1970s, 80s and early 90s) denying my true gay identity, subverting my whole self to try to fit into a predominantly straight, suburban culture.
That caused me (and others in my life at the time) tremendous personal pain. And, on a larger scale, denying the truth kept our society from advancing to a higher plain of equality, freedom, and human possibilities.
Yet now our federal (and some of our state and local government officials, too) are attempting to wipe away the contributions and accomplishments of our “diverse” people from websites and history books.
For instance, native code talkers who–by virtue of their distinct language–were instrumental in helping to bring an end to World War II.
Did you know that recently pages on the Arlington National Cemetery website–highlighting the graves of Black and female service members–have been removed?
These and other efforts are designed to erase the accomplishments of women and people of color.
How far will this attempt at whitewashing our history go? I don’t pretend to know. But I do know that the best attributes of our diverse culture exist in the past and present and people need to know about these contributions.
My husband Tom, an aficionado of films from the 1960s and 70s, has been leading a film series this winter and spring at the Scottsdale Public Library, titled “Movies That Matter: the 1970s.”
Each Monday afternoon, between 75 and 100 people attend this free series. The audience is mostly white people who love great films.
Last week, Tom screened “Dog Day Afternoon”. Directed by Sidney Lumet and starring Al Pacino, the film–based on a true story that occurred in Brooklyn, New York, in the 1970s–chronicles a botched bank robbery in the heat of the summer.
It’s an intense and sometimes funny film early on. Pacino plays Sonny. He’s desperate to get the money his partner needs for a sex change operation. But we don’t know that until more than half the movie has spooled through what once was a movie projector.
It’s a must-see flick. I won’t spoil the outcome if you haven’t seen it. But the most meaningful and important aspect of this story is that 93 people attended. They listened to Tom’s stage-setting intro for historical context. They watched the film, and then they talked about it. Together.
They talked about what it meant. They examined the techniques employed in the film to tell the story effectively. They existed in that space for three hours as a community of people in a shared experience.
I don’t pretend to know all of the political affiliations represented in that room. But I’m certain they left with a greater appreciation for film and how it can shed light on the differences and pressures–like them or not–that have existed in our American society for decades.
Why do we gravitate toward
an idealized arrangement
of natural design and beauty,
heaping layer upon layer
of flat stones separated
from orderly round ones?
Do these walls stand
compressed in architectural
tribute to planned selection
over the stew of spontaneity?
Why does man’s comfort
with the squashing power
of conformity supersede
the messy-but-meaningful
marrow of our diverse story
… our diverse history?
Sunday through Monday–when desert winds blow freely or not at all–I prefer nature’s ever-present sweet, sunny and determined backyard faces to yesterday’s and today’s front-page disgraces.
In early March, while Glenn was away, Tom and I (along with an assist from St. Francis) cared for our friend’s lovable Newfoundland dogs–Katie and Mason–in their peaceful backyard.
In the theatrical world, it’s a good problem to have.
Every seat for all three of our Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus performances of Lights, Camera, Elves!, December 21 and 22 at the Herberger Theatre, has been sold.
While we are turning people away who might have bought additional tickets, we are also turning up the emotions, music, mayhem, excitement, and energy for two final rehearsals Thursday and Friday night.
***
This will be my fifteenth consecutive year singing in holiday concerts with my LGBTQ friends: 2010-2016 in Chicago with the Windy City Gay Chorus; and 2017-2024 with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.
Of course, I don’t remember every holiday tune, wondrous moment, or distinctive venue relating to those performances. But the net effect is the sense of belonging–the ever-widening space that occupies my heart, which is rooted in this collective community experience.
It’s difficult to explain, even for a wordsmith like me. If you have sung with a chorus, you understand.
If you haven’t, there is something inherently magical and healing that comes with standing side by side and contributing your voice to the greater good of a beautifully blended piece of choral music.
Nearly one hundred of us will sing, laugh and dance on stage this weekend. I will probably cry a little too as we perform captivating arrangements of Do You Hear What I Hear? and Pure Imagination.
But the tears will be mostly joyous and thankful ones as I channel the smiles on the faces of friends and family–past and present–who have surrounded and supported me on the risers and in the audience for fifteen glorious years.
It’s been nearly forty-two years since the American TV sitcom Cheers debuted on September 30, 1982.
In its inaugural season (fall 1982 to spring 1983), Cheers ranked near the bottom in the Neilsen ratings. But by the mid-eighties, it caught fire with audiences and became “Must See” TV for millions–ultimately running for eleven seasons and 275 episodes on NBC.
If you aren’t familiar with the concept of the series, the show was set in a Boston neighborhood bar. Locals–like Norm, Cliff, and Frasier–came there to drink, socialize, unwind, and escape the grind of their day-to-day lives.
The opening theme song written by Gary Portnoy, Where Everybody Knows Your Name, captured the sense of familiarity, comfort, and community bar “regulars” knew was waiting for them every time they walked through the door and descended down the steps for a drink.
But it was the bar banter with Sam, the owner, and the escapades (sometimes sexual) of the Cheers staff over the years–Diane, Carla, Coach, Woody, and Rebecca–that drove the creative content, tickled our funny bones, and warmed the hearts of young and old viewers.
***
I write frequently–in my books and blogposts–about the importance of community connections in our lives.
To feel fulfilled, I believe we need frequent connections to people (animals and plants, too) around us, along with a balance of alone time to recharge our personal batteries.
Of course, singing with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus (PHXGMC) fills a portion of that need for me. (I’m excited for our first rehearsal this Tuesday evening for the 2024/2025 season. We have a new artistic director and 112 singers!)
Each week, I look forward to the musical mayhem, creative camaraderie, and safe haven we share at PHXGMC.
From a writing standpoint, Tom and I have discovered another source of community connection we cherish just a few miles from our condo.
For almost a year–two or three times each week, usually in the afternoon–we have packed up our laptops and driven to Grounds on 2nd in Old Town Scottsdale.
It’s our favorite urban market, coffee shop, wine bar, and local hangout … and a conducive spot for writing. In fact, I’m drafting this post there right now.
The owners and staff are fun, friendly, and welcoming. They and we have become fast friends. They greet us with warm smiles, iced coffee (yes, it’s still hot here!), yummy pastries, and a comfortable place to plug in so we can write our next story or plan our next creative endeavor.
It’s pretty simple. Grounds on 2nd is a welcoming, bright, lofty, contemporary neighborhood watering hole with comfy chairs and rambling plants that green up the room and soften the edges.
Best of all, when Tom and I open the glass doors and walk in … to write, or drink, or just relax with friends … everybody knows our names.
It’s time to come clean. I haven’t been devoting enough time to an important piece of my life and identity. I haven’t been scheduling–and honoring–a critical creative need: uninterrupted time to write.
Like an untuned car with dirty spark plugs, this sputtering connection–between me and my creative self–has been misfiring for about a year.
Though I have produced creative things (like a few librettos for my chorus and a blogpost once each week), I haven’t been protecting my creative time. I haven’t been developing enough ideas that are purely mine.
It’s time to take action. To go back to school. To open the metaphorical hood of this mid-century car. To do something about it.
I know this is a challenge for all writers … and I’m luckier than most. I’m not juggling a full-time job at this stage of my life.
Still, external forces and demands often flood through the door–disrupting my good writing intentions. (Even as I began to write this, a sprinkler head outside our front door just went haywire. I texted one of our condo board members to tell him a fountain of water is spraying everywhere!)
I’m back to the keyboard of my writing universe. Beyond the whack-a-mole geysers that pop up in every life, it’s time I became more selective and vigilant with how I choose to spend my time.
It’s time for me to find a better balance again. To be more attentive to my own creative needs (like I did when I wrote and published four memoirs and one book of poetry from 2016 to 2023) … while still taking some time to help others.
Today I began by scheduling two hours–between 10 a.m. and noon–to write this blog post about the writing process.
Tomorrow, I have another two hours on my calendar. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday will be the same.
Perhaps it is fitting that I’m treating myself like a misaligned student, who needs guidance from the teacher in me. Because this fall I will be leading a three-part “Meaningful Memoirs Matter” writing workshop for up to eight students at the Scottsdale Public Library.
I’m excited about the opportunity to teach again. (In the early 2000s, I taught the fundamentals of public relations as an adjunct instructor for Roosevelt University in Chicago.)
I think this 2024 experience will be more fulfilling on a personal level than the communication courses I led more than twenty years ago.
I genuinely want to help aspiring writers in my community tell their own stories. I want to tell them they don’t have to be celebrities to do it.
Extraordinary things happen to all of us. Important stuff flies under the radar in our everyday lives.
Just as important, I want to share my passion for the memoir art form and set this small group of individuals on a path to discover and unearth their own voices.
Back to scheduling. One of the things I will tell my students is that writing is a discipline. It requires solitude, time, dedication, energy, and–of course–passion.
But if you start small and string enough hours, days, weeks, and months of devoted and affirming writing sessions together–with time–the misfiring or underutilized writing jalopy can become a well-oiled machine.
Simply writing this is helping me get my creative energy back.
It’s time for me to practice what I will preach. To nurture the most important pieces of who I am … the writer, the storyteller, the essayist, the poet, the creative protagonist.
Because I am happiest when I am producing something that is entirely mine. Something that speaks to our human condition. Something that celebrates our connections to animals and nature.
Something that amplifies the importance of raising your voice and sharing your truth … even if the rest of the world has blown a gasket.
In summer’s flurry of joyful singing, record-breaking heat, Covid resurgence, political revelations, and Olympics coverage, June is gone. July is close behind.
Until now, my Covid recovery, birthday revelry, and travels to and from Minneapolis for the 2024 GALA Festival prevented me from posting highlights from Encore, our Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus concert in late June.
Suffice it to say Encore was a musical review of favorite chorus moments and tunes (A Million Dreams, Some Nights, What Was I Made For?, Bridge Over Troubled Water, Proud, I’m Still Standing, For Me and ten more.)
Beyond that, it was also a reflective celebration of Marc Gaston’s twenty-two years as our artistic director–laced with storytelling vignettes (I wrote), LGBTQ anthems, and dazzling dance routines.
As a singer and one of several storytellers, I couldn’t be prouder of the program we created and performed for three exuberant audiences at Tempe Center for the Arts.
I will leave you with a snippet of dialogue … along with four images from the concert … that represents the joy, energy, rainbow colors, and love, which reverberated in the room away from the summer heat.
“When I sing with this chorus–these amazing people–and I absorb all the music and camaraderie, it feels like the sky is the limit. It feels like I could rule the world.” Mark Johnson, Storyteller #1, in Encore.
Mark Johnson Stories 