What is Long-Range Vision?

It seems like only yesterday I could respond to a question without relying so heavily on COVID to make sense of an outlook. When words meant something outside the virus’s limited yet far-reaching scope. Despite calling out the repetitive cycle of words I’ve used to describe my f-/cr-/st-umbles along this What’s in a Name? expedition, I couldn’t help but duplicate the same narrative structure I used in recent posts when drafting the introduction for this response: describe life before COVID, onto life through COVID, then the uncertainty of life beyond COVID. It has dominated the start of every discussion; it’s changed what everything means, how meaning is derived. Here it is again, standing in the way of any long-range vision. And it brought friends: police brutality and systemic racism.

Funny (or not) enough, while everything gets blurry, I already know where this response is going to end: death. Geez, give some warning next time…Apologies, but the word has monopolized my view since coronavirus became my most-searched phrase. It’s around every corner. It’s stalking in the shadows. It creeps even closer when it overtakes those you love. Those who inspire you. Those who remind you what it means to be hopeful. I’ve lost friends who mean so much; through their passing, my teary-eyed vision tries to memorialize joyful, heartfelt moments, but it’s tempered by heartbreaking reality. The resulting haze makes any previously defined shape of a future mutate into monstrous blobs that taunt me as I j-/m-/b-umble.

Can’t you think about someone other than yourself for once?! Oh right, we had the discussion about “I’s” and “my’s” 3 responses ago…Unfortunately, when my focus takes on different perspectives, the obscurity gets worse. How many families have been torn apart now? How will we ever recover? When will the suffering end? “Death” is on the tip of our collective tongues; languages the world over are using it to describe the loss of loved ones, justice, stability, and freedom. It’s an end we’ve come to understand, based on our ease with using the word, but accepting death is a lot harder to see through to the end as we gr-/t-/?-umble over the loss of our pre-COVID lives.

“How many times have we thought, ‘I should have seen it coming’? Our lives are often full of heartache and problems simply because we failed to really ‘see’ the situation confronting us. But suppose we could foresee all the consequences of the future right now…” (78). Is it just me, or are Yehuda Berg’s words from The 72 Names of God becoming more vexing the longer this drags on? Who does he think he is? Maybe after discovering his dirty (not so) secret, my trust in his guidance on this spiritual endeavor has waned. At least he’s had something published! Grr…the monstrous blob from the future is right; I’ll never achieve my long-range vision of writing something transformative, memorable. I’m a hack, much like Berg, but I don’t have the photo ops with Madonna to show for it. Ugh, will this desperation never end?!

In an effort to refocus, I opened the pages of Gaybash, the first novel by David Jay Collins. Inside, I was introduced to Matt, a gay, only child living in Chicago and working as a nonprofit grant writer, whose negativity and denial surrounding his identity leads to disastrous consequence; his jealousy and selfishness bring about death. It was eerie to read through, feeling like eyes were over my shoulder during my stayover in the city from 2016-2017; after my violent encounter, though, I didn’t become a media sensation. Or write a book…Upon finishing the read, I was blinded by my short-sightedness: I’ve been held up writing my story for over 3 years! Then, I learned Collins’ book was written in 2014, 2 years before I even came out. How did he know who I’d be?! On Collins’ site, he writes, “On that last point, for many readers, the subject matter in Gaybash reopens painful memories of their own bullying and physical abuse…I truly hope that through Matt's journey, readers can begin to release these negative feelings….At our best, artists can foster understanding, challenge inequality, and heal pain.” Now I see what separates me from Collins and everyone else who can focus enough to actualize their visions: they are artists. I’m a hack with a story that’s been done to death.

Boob tube

From the looks of it lately, all I can do consistently is fall into the couch watching series after series—most I’ve already seen—tuning in to tune out. The jokes make me laugh, the storylines make me think, and the escapes makes me feel safe, unlike other unhealthy behaviors I pick up when I’m feeling blurry. So I’m binging Ricky and Morty again, what’s it to you?! I especially like justifying my viewing habits by layering an explanation of the plots with a mouthful of unnecessary words used to trick the ear into believing I have depth and knowledge; the gag? I’m lacking the soulful integrity to follow through with any long-range vision of my own. My motivation to reach a goal, whether that be writing a novel, developing a series, or just a (damned) haiku, wavers as I sit back and “relax.” There must be more to the story…

Now I see: my eyes have been glued to the TV since my long-range vision began developing. Peeking back at Like Haircuts, I shared photos of me and my grandfather, my bald-headed hero, when I was in my infancy. Those moments together were clearly comforting, feeling his presence through the rhythmic beat of his heart combined with a series of unexpected funny faces. Looking again at the photos, I notice how his gaze isn’t turned toward the lens of the camera; no, his concentration is focused on a TV screen. Odd…In that post, I wrote about how I only remembered a few moments together, including playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” for him on piano and the plane crash. Before I could see any further, torrential tears washed away my focus so the words (and healing) stopped.

My grandfather, in my eyes, was a creative genius. An exquisite painter. An innovative craftsman. It was like anything he tinkered with took on new life. No wonder I still idolize him…When he watched TV, though, it was to zone out. Being in close proximity during those moments gave me an opportunity to tune into his reactions as he watched. Of course, I couldn’t see or understand what he saw for several years, but I learned how certain things affected him. Music really moved him; his heart skipped along when he heard renditions of his favorite songs. Any crying or whining agitated him, resulting in me being sent away from the prime spot next to him. If I wanted the attention my only child syndrome demanded, I needed him away from the screen. The best way to do that? According to TV: be a musician. So I set out to learn the piano and watched, overjoyed, as my grandpa’s eyes diverted from the TV and landed on me while I played. He was my muse, the reason I willed myself to sound better year after year. When I mastered “When the Saints Go Marching In”—his favorite song—it was a moment of clarity: my love for making others smile combined with my growing passion for music. I felt like an artist, even if it was the simplest song to perform. I saw the transformative power of something within my control and imagined all the ways to share it with those I loved.

All’s Forgotten that Ends Dead

Really? That last paragraph ended with such an optimistic outlook; another sharp turn, and we’re right back at death’s door, gleefully knocking. Trick or treat! I joke to escape the hazy discomfort. In Haircuts, I cut the comedy to discuss the widening divide between me and my grandpa post-plane crash and how I felt responsible for his passing shortly after because of our separation. This cleared another memory from the blurriness: my mom and I sitting in the hospital parking lot after losing my grandfather to a heart attack. The tears wouldn’t stop, especially after remembering the collection of Christmas songs our family recorded a week prior, a gift that was sure to bring an extra-wide smile to his face. Through my contribution—a few tunes on the piano—I hoped to bridge the growing divide. But it was too late. He was gone, and no song would bring him back.

Any motivation to practice piano waned following his death. The keys didn’t sound the same; playing became a chore. I mostly appeased my grandma, who requested “My Heart Will Go On,” but I would fake the left hand (play a simplified version of what was written), escaping real effort being exerted. I combatted my musical passion because it gave me no control of my long-range vision (since my loved ones were vulnerable to death), and I grew resentful of being asked to play because I saw how vulnerable each experience made me. When it was suggested that my repressed homosexuality was on display as I expressed myself musically, the door shut on sharing any joyful noise openly. Instead, I lashed out at loved ones when asked to play, especially my grandma, too blind to see how it might reopen my heart to find a purpose beyond my grandfather.

Then, the world clouded over when my grandma died a few years later. All the projected rage I threw at her haunted me. I channeled my grief by playing “My Heart Will Go On” repeatedly, finally catching up to the lessons I avoided for so long. After days of practice, I was ready to honor her memory by performing at the funeral. But there was a problem: the more challenging version of the song required me to follow along with sheet music versus play it from memory. Since I would already be battling with my emotions through the performance, someone had to turn the pages for me. I can’t remember if it was under pressure or voluntary but my mom agreed to stand by my side, in front of the church, while I played at her mother’s funeral. I don’t remember how it sounded. I won’t say it was a perfect rendition, nor did the page turning go off without a hitch; my heart, though, was on full display as I pressed into the keys. Thankfully, my mother helped me to not collapse under the emotional weight of the moment, but following the experience, I wanted to forget any vision of playing piano since it buried those I loved. So began my relationship with alcohol, but that’s an old story…

Restrictive Inner Perception

There’s probably a more accomplished writer putting together the story of some hack writer who dreams of making people smile through the screen but can’t heal enough to enact his long-range vision. “Emotional Nightmare.” That will be my epitaph. It’s difficult to combat this legacy when the world is crumbling around me, though. It makes me reflect on my grandpa, particularly through the fever that caused his hair loss. Who was he during those trying moments? Would he respect who I am through this moment? Recently, I learned that he had plans to create an automatic page turner for sheet music; however, he didn’t act on his long-range vision to complete it. Yeah…how about that? In fact, there are a lot of question marks regarding my hero and his legacy (and his views on gender, equality, sexuality, addiction). Would he have approved of me? Waiting for the response is agonizing because it’s another reminder of what’s buried. As a result, I get lost in a sea of “I’s” until I can’t see straight.

Is that what he would want; to see you blurred and unable to express what your heart feels because you’re stuck on his approval? It wouldn’t be a peaceful rest for my grandpa if he felt my unrest in this reality. Unwilling to look to Berg for advice, I see a more peaceful path in Why God Won’t Go Away, by Andrew Newberg, M.D., Eugene D’Aquili, M.D., Ph.D., and Vince Rause, “Mystical reality holds, and the neurology does not contradict it, that beneath the mind’s perception of thoughts, memories, emotions, and objects, beneath the subjective awareness we think of as the self, there is a deeper self, a state of pure awareness that sees beyond the limits of subject and object, and rests in a universe where all things are one.” (155). To look beneath the words that convey my mind’s perception, I found a site to create this word cloud, importing the 20+ responses from my What’s in a Name? series to discover the most commonly used words. Unsurprisingly, “like,” “I’m,” and “words”were at the top of the list. Aside from some fun sightings (“lost past sure hold” “seem gay mine center” “dark matter will find faith”), this visual shows me my long-range problem: “I’m” (like) the center of my universe. Still!

As I sit in front of the TV now, watching RuPaul’s Drag Race et delirium, I see how selfish it is to permit my thoughts, memories, and emotions to be buried by the screen. I get stuck in a restrictive inner perception while watching life pass by, and at this moment, when words of support are so crucial, I find myself silent. This inactivity is just as destructive. My white privilege grants me an opportunity to voice my differences from white hegemony, to distance myself from white supremacist behaviors and beliefs because of my sexuality. But I am complicit, and I am freezing when confronted by these social issues. To better see my role in white supremacy, I recently started Me and White Supremacy: Combat Racism, Change the World, and Become a Good Ancestor by Layla F. Saad; while challenging, the reflective work so far has helped me envision a world where I’m not the center of the universe, where white supremacy is not the status quo, and where justice is served. Most importantly, it’s shown that death is never an end; if we work together to make life more equitable for all, we are able to see beyond our singular existence and finally rest in a peaceful universe.