zen's journal

When churches become carpet stores
Olden gods no longer work
(they are irrelevant)
no longer is a reason
given
nor accepted
for our squalor

when resteraunts become churches
we lose the mystery
wonder
of the almighty
and sense is no long made
of our petty struggles.

When Ikeas become our churches
We stand at the alter
Of imported furniture
Praising
Our luck at having one
So close, yet
Not in our neighborhood

When our church becomes corrupted
By a fury of yeas
And imported doctrines
Our reason is suspect
And logic fuzzy
Thinking
The Almighty interchangable

28 July 2004
Waterford, CT

Where's Zen??
Well, I've been around, but not much online. I posted a story http://www.litkicks.com/BeatPages/message.jsp?what=Stories&message=679025&thread=104632&parent=-1

It's what I did for the Fourth "vacation."

Any comments are appreciated.
Thanks.

I've been wanting to post a journal entry for a bit, but haven't had a chance to come over.
Part of my problem is that I've installed Windows 2000 Pro., and I'm running into a wealth of glitches. I'm actually NOT going to talk tech here. Even though I love tech talk, I'm going to save that for the forums.

This post was edited by zen on Jun 07, 2004.

***WARNING...SOME ADULT CONTENT!!!***

I’m gay. I can’t say that I’ve said that all my life. In fact, it’s only been in the last 8 years, max, that I’ve come close to acknowledging that to myself.

When I was in school, I described my self as straight, although I knew deep down that I must be bisexual. In the 1980s, listening to Dr. Ruth Westheimer, I heard of the Kinsey Scale, of 1 to 10. I forget which end was the totally-straight, and which the totally gay end, but I self-identified as a 5 on that scale. The exact middle, I was, perhaps, the perfect bisexual.

In school, when younger, I told people that I was straight, and acted accordingly. Never wanted to give anyone the impression that I was anything but completely straight. I even tried to date a few times, but failed in my social life miserably. I think that I was, at some point, attracted to females. I did want to think that I was straight, even though my deep down feelings told me otherwise. And I also drank alot at that time.

Of course, I’ve always been fascinated by skin, and flesh of all types, and configurations. I love skin, preferably smooth, and hairless; although I can live with the right hair in the right places on male or female bodies. And truth be told, I love seeing nudity, and nakedness. Maybe I’m not a Kensey 5: perhaps I’m just a nudist!!

Any way, these days, for the most part I feel comfortable calling myself gay (within certain circles of course). I adore flesh. I love seeing naked guys. I “fav” nude dudes on DeviantArt. I regularly (well, more or less) go to gay porn sites. In my virtual life, I’m open about my sexuality. In real life, I’m less open; but if I trust the person, I won’t lie about it, and will tell the person of my orientation, eventually.

I think that since as long as I’ve been drawing, and doing artwork, I look at people wondering how they’re put together. So I’ve watched people for a long time, not necessarily for an erotic attraction, but just cause it’s what I’ve always done.

Lately, though, I’ve become fascinated again, about the female form. Actually, not just the form, but certain parts of the form. I’ve been thinking of the woman’s soft furry patch between her legs, and the wonderful shell-like parting of the vaginal lips, and labia glistening so pinky soft in the light of a setting sun. I’ve been thinking of not only dating, but the whole courtship thing, and dancing and being with a woman, and waking up with her, and looking into her beautiful brown, or soft slate grey eyes, and kissing her so profusely, and very inside of the soul of who she is. And Thinking of gettting naked with her, and holding and caressing every inch of her luscious body, warm with the heat of our breathing, and holding her tightly and rubbing every inch of her untill she shivvers and quivvers, and quakes from the anticipation of my touch on her lips, and neck, and the deep kiss, dark and long on her neck, and behind the ears, and down the neck, to breasts, ready with glistening sweat, and the feel, of my warm, soft lips on hers, as my fingers gently slid, oh-so-lovingly, soft and gentle down to her furry, lightly-haired mount of Venus, and inbetween, to that lovely, poetic, parting of the greater and minor lips, to its warm, and waiting conclusion.

So I went to the store to get some porn with naked ladies on the cover. I looked over all the magazines, and the babes were naked. And they looked hott, and I guarentee that I’d have seen their beavers split, and smiling...and I was going to get it; but there was just one problem. It just looked nasty, and, well, dirty. I left there without getting the books with the naked babes on the cover. It didn’t FEEL right. So then I’ve come to the following conclusion: I’m gay.

It had snowed a few, scant days before. There was still snow on the ground, piled, and congested, waiting for a Spring thaw that was not forthcoming. That day had been unseasonably cold, and biting. Windy, it strangely made me think of Detroit, a city I have yet to visit. In all its seasonal unrest, I never figured that I would not see the snow melt, only a week later.

March 15, 1993 was the year that I committed a crime, for which I went to jail. Actually, technically, it's prison, as it was a felony. I don't think that I can name one of my friends or associates at the time who would've thought that I would be the one to commit such a crime.

It started out early that morning with a tumultuous ride by mom to the town centre, so I could pick up my General Assistence check. After that, I caught the local bus to the package store and started my day's usual activity, drinking. It was about 3 pm by the time I got out of the pub in town. I met my soon-to-be-victim at about 5, shortly before going to the package store for some ginger brandy. I remember the prosecutor kept saying the words ginger brandy. They sounded so odd coming from his mouth

We drank, and then we walked out to the beach...and the rest, as they say, is history.

It's supposed to snow tonight, and turn to rain, and back to snow. Accumulations might reach 3 to 6 inches.

I try not to think of my victim, although it's difficult. My actions changed both our lives, and our families. I am forever sorry, and regret what I did. At this time every year, I think of him and say a prayer. Mostly I just ask for healing.

And it is at this time of the year that I say a prayer of thanksgiving, being grateful for another year...or at least another day, of sobriety.

Another day at work... <http://zen-.deviantart.com/journal/1897147/>
Journal Entry: Tue Feb 24, 2004, 3:31 AM

Mood: Still feeling dirty~

3:00am (my time)
I'm fading a bit, having just swigged half a bottle of Nyquil due to this stupid lingering cold-thingy. Noone's on tonight, even on my Buddy list, except for one very special guy [:)]. But then again, I'm not really up to talking to people anyway.

I was at a house today, doing an "estate call." That's basically when someone passes away, or goes into a convolescent home, and their estate has stuff that needs liquidating. That's one of the things that my job does. We liquidate estates, regardless of the size. Dad tells me, you've never seen anything like this before. He's absolutely right. I never had.

The shed doesn't look like much from the outside. Technically I think it's called the "out building" as it has two floors. Simple stuff outside, the remnants of items unfixable, or simple too old to bother with. Follow the old man, but the door does not open all the way. Upon stepping in, it's a completely different world. Everything is piled-up in one huge mound of crap. Actually, there's a walk-way between the towering mounts of stuff on either side. I say a prayer, like Moses parting the Seas, that it doesn't get restless while I'm poking through and decide to encapsulte me like Pharoe and his legions.

Our job on this one is the furniture. Another man has the paperwork.We all have different jobs on this one. So I'm given the country-style cupboard. It's full of glassware, but we're just taking the furniture. I have to get over to it--no menial task--then fill the boxes, and then find a flat places for all these boxes of glassware, and then set them down.

I start filling the boxes, but the door to the cupboard doesn't open all the way. The windows are practically useless, and I didn't bring a flashlight. In fact I also didn't bring gloves, or a much needed mask. Or a screwdriver to remove the hinges. I'm stuck--stuck like chuck.

And here's the shitty thing. I can't break the glass. Alot is crap, but a bunch of it is highly valuable Lemoges, or milk glass, or bottles with bubbles in it, and stuff that I don't know about, but just know it's got to be worth money. I have to be very careful with it all, because hell, I'm thinking of coming back to buy it myself.

So an hour later! it's cleared out. The old man had to help. Getting it out was a fucking nightmare. We had to coffin roll it, then twist-turn it. Unbelievable. But we did it. We got it. Into our van it went, but not before nearly tripping 10 times in 20 feet. The place was a fucking disaster. Dust and dirt, and shit--literally rat shit--everywhere.

But that's not the reason for writing this. The point is this: the man is now in a convolescent home. He's got Parkinson's or something. He daughter is taking care of his property and estate. This includes all the stuff in this out building. He boyfriend Joe is watching us, as he's the acting executor. I kept calling him the " cashier."

So, on the way over, it started getting good, as the old man's telling me about it. He says this guy was a bad man. He had pictures of boys. Naked boys. And he's in a gay club. By this point I'm thinking "Oh shit, NAMBLA." This can't be a good thing.

Then he says "sixteen, eighteen year old boys."

Oh, I think. At least it's not illegal.

But wait, this guy's a professor at a college. Those would be the ages of his students. It that right? He's got photos of guys the ages of his students?

It kept getting better. While I'm digging out the shit to get to the cupboard, I'm finding modelling clay, and plater-of-Paris. And stuff like that. So then I find these strip of dried plaster of Paris. I hold it up, and it is definitely the shape of a leg. I recognize the knee. And then I realize it's the entire leg all the way up to the buttock. Eww, I'm thinking and drop it...alright, not immediately.

And there's another strip, but more square shaped. It's the guy's chest; and this was one built motherfucker. Chest like a ... well, he was definitely no little boy.

And of course, all the while staring at me while I'm unloading this cupboard was a 4 foot high painting of a young man in his briefs. (Given a chance, I'd definitely have brought it home with him. He was just fucking hot, and no, he was definitely adult.)

We kept coming across all kinds of funky shit strewn in various places. I go upstares and find out what the modelling clay was used for. There's a mold, plaster "cast" of a guy's back side; his whole back from neck to knees. (with a cute little butt on top of it.) Upstairs is where all the art stuff was. Drawings, sketch pads, pencils, paints, the works.

This one was the most interesting and wierd "house call" that I've had to make yet. It's probably the nastiest one, in terms of working conditions. And honestly, can't remember the first, or last time of running into so much yummy stuff in one of these.

I was thinking on the way back, that hopefully when I get to be this guy's age, I'll be looking at dudes closer to my age than my grandkids age. (...but who the fuck knows? 18 year olds are just hott!)