What's the alternative

An alternative lifestyle. I have heard this phrase used to refer to many of my friends and their way of dress, preference in type or volume of companions or any other excuse to label them as non-mainstream (although they seem to be a majority in my circles of friends and acquaintances.) It is even in the dictionary do describe it and label it something abnormal or even rebellious, apparently.

alternative |ôlˈtərnətiv|

adjective [ attrib. ]

(of one or more things) available as another possibility : the various alternative methods for resolving disputes | the alternative definition of democracy as popular power.

• (of two things) mutually exclusive : the facts fit two alternative scenarios.

• of or relating to behavior that is considered unconventional and is often seen as a challenge to traditional norms : an alternative lifestyle | they have one foot in alternative music and the other in rock.

noun

one of two or more available possibilities : audiocassettes are an interesting alternative to reading | she had no alternative but to break the law.

DERIVATIVES

alternatively adverb [ sentence adverb ] : alternatively, you may telephone us direct.

ORIGIN mid 16th cent.(in the sense [alternating, alternate] ): from French alternatif, -ive or medieval Latin alternativus, from Latin alternare ‘interchange’ (see alternate ).

USAGE 1 Alternate can be a verb, noun, or adjective, while alternative can be a noun or adjective. In both American and British English, the adjective alternate means 'every other' (: there will be a dance on alternate Saturdays) and the adjective alternative means 'available as another choice' ( | an alternative route; | alternative medicine; alternative energy sources). In American usage, however, alternate can also be used to mean 'available as another choice': | an alternate plan called for construction to begin immediately rather than waiting for spring. Likewise, a book club may offer an 'alternate selection' as an alternative to the main selection. 2 Some traditionalists maintain, from an etymological standpoint, that you can have only two alternatives (from the Latin alter ‘other (of two); the other’) and that uses of more than two alternatives are erroneous. Such uses are, however, normal in modern standard English.

As you can see, alternative is essentially choice. The music you listen to, the way you dress, the foods you eat, these are definitely choices.

For example: Goth. The people who, with a sometimes morbid attraction to the dead, undead or other horrific iconography, have chosen to dress in dark colors, dye their hair black or red or blue and listen to angst-ridden electronically produced music. This is an alternative lifestyle, as they could choose to wear blue jeans and flannel shirts and listen to country music if that is the way their tastes migrate.

This makes it sound like our tastes are dictated by social norms. In these cases they can be. We can choose to buck the system or blend in. I know a young woman who lives in a predominantly Hispanic area and has chosen the goth lifestyle. This is definitely and alternative to hip-hop and rap lifestyles.

Alternative implies choice. Do we have choices in some of these lifestyles? That depends on the circumstances.

I am quite pleased to be friends with a variety of folks with diverse tastes in music, theater, food, wine, beer and just about every other vice known to mankind. These sorts of things that, if they had never been exposed to, would never have come to their minds are a choice. They choose a particular beer over another and can defend their choice with at least "To me, it tastes better." If you’ve never heard of Guinness, how can you know if you like it or not?

Their life partners are not so. Although they can choose the specific person they believe is compatible, they did not choose that they would prefer male to female (or that both are an equally acceptable opportunity.) How does this make it an alternative? If there is no choice, there is no alternative.

I find that the actual alternative is to pretend to follow the social norm and repress the actual emotions, attractions and behaviors that you cannot control. It is unnatural and damaging.

Alternatively, no pun intended, I have friends that choose to have relationships that include multiple partners based on the sexual preferences of those involved. Polyamory is acceptable practice to them. The diversity of these relationships range from open marriages to closed triads.

At any time, they can choose to leave the relationship and become monogamous, or swingers, if they like or prefer.

My taste in companions ranges, but essentially comes down to a certain sort of limited group of criteria that I limit unconsciously.

Let's take one criteria for attraction for me: hair color

If I go on hair color alone I find myself attracted to red, raven, odd artificial colors (red, blue, etc.,) brunette and then blonde hair colors, in that order. This is not to say that some young blonde couldn't catch my attention; it is just that based on hair color alone, I find my uncontrolled impulses of attraction are least to them.

My long-term life companion is an artificially-colored raven-haired woman. This means that she beat out a redhead somewhere along the line at least once. (Likely, by combining the colored and raven qualities together.) However, a shapely redhead will turn my head every time.

Generally, though, I take many factors into consideration on many levels when choosing a partner – general body shape and proportion, hair color, personality, etc. Then there's the Wow! Factor, that sometimes uncontrollable attraction to someone who is generally outside my "normal" criteria. Sometimes it "just happens."

Now, how did I come by these criteria? I have no real idea. I just know that these are what attract me.

Why do I prefer females? Well, it's because the glands in my body that respond to hormones respond to females and not males. It's biological; I have no control over it. The same works backwards for others. It's not a psychological behavior – it's a biochemical reaction. (If this confuses you on any level, I suggest that you take a science course that explains such things – I’m not learned enough to propose further discussion on the biological processes involved in hormonal reactions.)

This, of course, means that there is no choice involved. I am attracted to females, not a thing I can choose to change because my physiological makeup dictates that I respond to female sexual stimuli and not male.

So, by all this rhetorical definition, I live an alternative lifestyle. I choose to be with the life companion(s) I am with, to stay in the relationship(s), within defined boundaries and accept the consequences of the actions within them.

But let me ask you this: When alternative becomes mainstream, what’s the alternative to Alternative?

Traversing the wild...

My mind has wandered away.

It interrupted me in the middle of something I was doing and when I told it to hold on it huffed and walked out of my cubicle. I'm not quite sure where it is at the moment. It travels rather fast for such a small thing, it's hard to catch once it leaves.

I think it's somewhere with my lovers, enjoying the fruits and affections of the labors of love that it has put in in recent times. Cuddling close under thick, warm blankets and cool silken sheets near the brightness of a sunny window; teasing lightheartedly about the way that the hair falls across their faces or their eyes sparkle with mischief when certain subjects are mentioned. They could be having breakfast in bed, dinner under the stars, drinks on the seaside and midnight strolls on the beach.

Perhaps it's on vacation, traveling the world, visiting all those places that it has never before seen: Monaco in the spring, Brazil at Mardi Gras, California in the summer, New England in the fall. Sitting by the Seine with a glass of semi-sweet Alsatian and a plate of brie; pub hopping in London at dusk; eating scones with butter and honey near the Great Pyramids at sunrise. Tan and trim from all the whirlwind action, or lazing in the breeze without a care for it's waistline as the sweet European waifs cater to it's every need.

Then again, maybe it's in the mountains walking up green grassy hills among the clouds, swimming in the cool, clear lakes and relaxing under a tree with a thick newsprint pad and some charcoal pencils or a paperback book.

Or it might have headed out west to visit places that spark it to imagine that maybe life would be different if we were there, living the life I put behind me years ago. It does love to reminisce so about the good old days of youth and the way we travelled the country in search of ourself.

Maybe it's with my daughter, learning to ride without training wheels, keeping that kite in the air despite the gusts, lying on a grassy hill counting the clouds, or eating ice cream cones on the waterfront as the sailboats glide across the harbor.

Alternatively, it might just be thinking about you and the way you make it feel. Warm and cared for; challenged by your inquisitive nature; frustrated by your flighty and evasive personality; confused by your changing stories; delighted by your attentions and invitations, physical and intellectual.

Well, I guess it will let me know where to meet it later. If you see it, have it send a postcard to remember it by.

Are you listening?

"If we choose not to decide, we still have made a choice..."

As a ghost, I walk through the corridors of life.

I look in from the outside as I pass through the barriers that would hold a normal man at bay. I travel unheeded through wall, window and door; floor, ceiling and roof. Instead, unseen barriers hold me to this unlife; keep me here where I can see all that I am missing without the ability to interact with it. My cries and queries are unheard by the living as they go about their routine.

They call out to me with their material voices seeking my council and answers I hold, and I answer to the ether, which carries my voice beyond. Would that they would heed my words if they could hear them at all. Rhetoric is the order of the day.

Here is the carried frustration at my need to either become beyond all this normal life or return to it. Do I search harder for that road to the clearing at the end of my life or do I stay here and search for the means to be with them again? Traversing the universe would certainly be preferable to wallowing in my past

Occasionally, some one notices the creaks and groans of my carried burdens as I pass, but rarely does the mortal notice more than a chill draft or odd tickling in the back of the mind. They are chained to their own burdens here and they do not shuck them off as they might before those weights press down on them forever.

Does it all become such as nothing to them? When you are gone, do not those who were here notice any more? It seems that only a few will, and yet fewer will care. They are enraptured with their own delights and disgusts. Their journey leads them further into their own minds. External experience is irrelevant, what can you teach them when they cannot see.

What is my unlife to those unaware of it? It was not their in their notice when in life, unless I intruded upon their own lives. No one is predisposed to include someone in their sufferings or joys without some return on the investment. We have become a closed society. "Do Not Disturb" signs come pre-installed on our psyches.

The "me" generation is specifically numb to the preternatural. They focus on their pitiful existance and ignore the existential. Outside of their senses there is nothing.

Those senses have improved over the ages: the computer, television, satellite communications, portable telephones. They just do nothing to improve the pointed nature of the information parsed. If anything, they are no better than bored housewives leaning over an electronic fence post. Centuries pass, but the nature of communication doesn't. Rumor travels faster than truth and is more likely to be believed.

Complaints hold more weight than the best recommendations. Personal experience passes and only the worst is passed with speed, if not reliability.

But instead of listening to those things they truly search for, they rain against their own self-deluding nature and complain that no one has told them the things they need to know. They ignore the world around them in a search for the things beyond their grasp. Human nature has not changed, only the spaces they live in and the ways they communicate their meager misinterpretations has.

I whisper to them as they sleep, then they hear me and comprehend the answers they seek but as waking bombards them with misinformation and propaganda, nothing is retained.

Perhaps it is time that my ethereal footsteps begin to lead me towards the end of the great Red Road, where I can find peace and convey my learnings to my ancestors. Perhaps they will listen and learn from my mistakes, instead.

Muses and cherubim...

Dusty and worn, the dress she wears reveals the hard years that the cherubic face conceals. It was faded and yellowed in places, but retained the delicate nature of the lace and ribbons used to accent it. The petticoats rustle gently when she moves.

She sits silently in a corner holding her own hands as people walk by looking for additions to their family, silently wishing that she, too, could find a home and not need to return here to wait any more. Every day drags on into the next. Time has passed and as it goes, it becomes more difficult to measure.

One of her slippers dangles from her toes as her feet hang over the edge of the box on which she sits. The crushed and faded green velvet finish diffuses the harsh lighting of the bare florescent fixtures overhead. It twinkles faintly if one were to look closely enough.

She is quiet and contemplative in this austere setting among all the riffraff and cast-offs. Pieces of someone else's past hoping to become another's future. Her past is filled with changes, happy homecomings and eventually the growing apart and becoming orphaned. She contemplates that Puff experienced similar problems with the boys, she is sure of it.

Over there a brown-haired boy in a sailor's uniform stands at attention behind the glass wall, looking out over the hallway. His face is broken and his uniform stained with dirt and blood, but he stands proud, none the less.

Sounds fill the building as the days crawl on. Nearby she can hear jumbles of conversation as negotiations take place in other parts of the room. The attendants noisily devour their lunches between phone calls and the ringing of the front bell. The cars passing by honk and hiss against the damp pavement. Overhead a plane passes and drones off into the distance.

This small booth is the place she waits, daily, until the attendant comes to place her in her little, locked room for the night to protect her from the others. She is fragile and dainty. The rough and tumble life is not for her.

A bustling crowd passes to and fro and barely notices her as they jabber and rush on. Their passing throws dusty white clouds around the room and off to the side a young man coughs and reaches for an old fire truck he has discovered beneath a table.

The tread has long ago worn off of the tires, but it still rolls smoothly as he pushes it around on the floor as he makes siren and explosion noises and shouts "Get that ladder up there!" and "Unfurl those hoses, we don't have much time!"

A woman slows as she passes by and looks into her smiling eyes, so hopeful, but the woman turns and continues on, a connection not quite made. Another missed chance to make someone's life more full.

The sky darkens slowly over the morning hours and the mists give way to more. Still, as the rain patters on the roof overhead, hope garners momentum. A small group of people comes by as the sky releases it's heavy load of water in a sudden rush that startles them. The clash of water on metal rings throughout the great hall and the building trembles.

As the rest of her group continues on to the reception desk to ask questions of a man dressed in a pale green coat, a young woman slows to look at the booth where the porcelain-skinned girl in the faded dress sits.

For a moment the young woman seems not to notice the frilly little dress off in a corner of the little booth but then she looks down at the small hands clasped in the lap and a saddened smile crosses her face.

"Well, hello there." The young woman reaches out and brushes a curl from the rosy cheeks, her voice kind and quiet. "Aren't you just so beautiful?"

She reaches down and picks up the girl as a child dressed in pink overalls walks up behind her. "I'll bet you could use a good home, couldn't you."

"Isn't she beautiful?" The young woman turns and shows the girl to the child.

"Oooh, yes." The child reaches out and touches the dainty curls softly. "So pretty."

"Very pretty." The young woman echoes and reaches for the box on which the girl had been sitting.

"I'll get it." The child in pink takes it so that the woman can carry the girl without dropping her. "I'll take it to the front desk for you."

The girl's eyes close as she leans back into the young woman's arms and her shoe finally falls off and flutters lightly to the floor. It leaves a little impression in the dust for just the moment it is there before another of the young woman's companions returns and picks it up. "She seems to have dropped something."

The man delicately places the slipper back on her foot as he smiles at both the girl and the young woman. His smile continues into thoughtful recognition of the connection between the young woman and the girl in her arms. "I see that you have made a friend. Do you plan to keep her?"

The young woman looks from the man to the girl and back for a moment, contemplating the costs: time, space for the girl and her belongings - however few there are - future clothing, and care.

"Yes, I think I am," The young woman smiles and begins to head for the front desk. "She'll make a wonderful addition to the family."

"Would you like me to carry her?"

"No, she's not heavy at all." The young woman heads carefully up to the attendant at the front desk.

The girl's eyes open as she sits up and watches all the booths and people pass her on the way. Her expression never changes, but her future looks much more bright.

"Ah, I see you have found one of our little treasures." the man behind the counter puts down his sandwich and steps up to the register. He types in a few numbers and waits for the computer to catch up with him. Then he fills out all the paperwork and offers it to the young woman for her signature. "I think you have made a good choice in this little girl."

"I think so, too." The young woman smiles and signs quickly on the line, as though someone might talk her out of it as she leaves ink on paper. "I am going to give her a good home."

She then picks up the porcelain-faced girl, smoothes her dress and places the precious little doll her back into her box, so that the rain does not mar the small, delicate features painted on so long ago.

Qualified applicants only need apply...

The telephone in my home office rang yesterday.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Badinov?"

"Yes."

"We're sorry, Mr. Badinov, but the applicant, Ms. Person, has declined your offer due to a misinterpretation of clause 32.8c stating that a romantic relationship may be entered to at a later time if all terms of friendship include the riders for limited term friendship to the aforementioned Ms. Stazia. This offer is too demanding of the time and emotional content of the applicant and she rescinds her application for “friend” at this time."

"Oh, that's a touch disappointing."

"Well, in the future we suggest a revision of your policies on disclosure of personal information and the exchange rate, thereof."

"The rate?"

"Oh, yes. Timing is extremely important in this type of instance. The higher the position the more information should be disclosed as soon as possible in terms that are definable by the recipient applicant."

"I see."

"One must be careful, though, to refrain from releasing details pertaining positions that the applicant might not be qualified for at the time of application.

"For example: the position of 'Beer Buddy'.

"It would be fine to disclose your taste in bar foods, alcohol and mixed drink preference (with deference to one's predilection for "girly drinks" as a topic for later discussion if continued sessions of drinking qualify the applicant for the possible promotion to 'Pal' or 'Buddy'.) Also, one would disclose the preference of card games, darts, billiards or bowling, for example with reference to the locations of drinking."

"I can see that."

"For the same instance, one would refrain from preference in the color of bedroom paint, the pattern of curtains or mention of the closet temptation to dress in women's undergarments and watch Pee-Wee's Bigtop on the big screen TV because these would effect the performance of the Beer Buddy, even though those activities have no bearing on the position."

"Hey!"

"This is all hypothetical, no offense intended."

"I see, I'm sorry."

"Not an issue. Now, compare that to the position listed currently as 'Girlfriend (dating)."

"Okay."

"As the position is more supervisory and includes a fuller disclosure of later confidential information, it would be ill-advised to disclose a taste for such foods and beverages unless the applicant applied at a location catering to those activities listed in the position Beer Buddy as this would convolute the applicants data gathering for reference to possible promotions to Girlfriend (long term), Live-in Girlfriend, Wife or Mistress."

"I see."

"Nor would we disclose the Pee-Wee's Bigtop urges, unless a role-playing clause is an addendum or rider on the sexual contact fulfillment benefits package and even then, one might consider an promotion to Girlfriend (steady) or Girlfriend (Regular) unless the applicant is already being promoted from Booty Call or Bed Buddy."

"This is really becoming complicated."

"It's really quite simple once you understand the guidelines, but they change circumstantially and that's why you retained me to represent you."

"So, back to the original issue: what you're saying is that this young woman refuses to be my friend because she was distressed at the disclosure of other personal information or that she was looking for a position with promotion possibilities and this was not an option at this time, correct?"

"Exactly. Oh, I'm sorry, I have another call I need to take. I will inform you if you have any other applicants. Goodbye."

"Okay, thanks."

Awakenings...

Today, I woke up and looked around as I muddled my way to consciousness. What I saw was familiar, but yet dissimilar to what I looked upon each other morning of my life. My eyes fell upon all those things one gathers in their bedroom: bed and bedding, side tables and lamps, hampers and baskets with laundry (both dirty and clean), books set aside as sleep pulled one into its arms and held you for the night.

As I sat up, I looked at all of this in the early morning light that fought its way into my room through the blinds. It was all grey and nondescript at first, but the muted colors began to wake and register in my mind. Certain things jumped to awareness first, early risers, as the rest of the room woke with me.

The alarm clock flashed 12:00 insistently, silently crying to be told what the actual time was. It seems to have been woken with a start in the middle of the night and had no one to look at to check and had sat there waiting for me the whole night, scared and alone.

I'm not sure about you, but as a point of reference, time is on my list of morning crutches. Personally, I find that assimilation into the day's activities is generally easier when I know how far ahead or behind I am starting. Some other important points include up, down and bathroom location. From these I feel I can gauge my approach to the rest of my day accurately, most times.

Other things had apparently crept up on me in my sleep and made themselves at home in my home: the stuffed Eeyore that sat, leaning unsafely over the edge of the armoire as one returning home after a hard night; the sweatshirt that hung limply on the bedpost as though it had taken all of its energy to climb that high; the box of books that formerly occupied a space on the closet floor, now with its former occupants strewn across the floor as if they had frozen in their escape attempt.

My disorientation did not clear as things became more in contrast. Something had obviously changed. Something intangible that I had only recently become aware of. What this thing was I am not sure but such changes continue.

Awareness is not a new thing. I experienced it as a child when I put a face to a name or when I learned a concept and attributed it to an action – the stove is hot; the knife sharp; the night, dark. I remember that I learned Newton's first Law when, standing in a canoe, I tossed a cinderblock over one side only to be thrown into the water from the other. These things become embedded in one's mind.

Things become different over time. Our perceptions change through experience. Thunder is not the spirits playing bowling games, lightning isn't the gods taking photographs, eight inches of snow isn't really a free day off. I should not be surprised that I wake with a different point of view one day from the next.

My emotional comparisons, personal perceptions, knowledge base and personality are all different from what they were 10, 15 or 20 years ago (not to mention 10, 15 or 20 minutes ago) and continue to change.

But such things are personal. No one notices them except me. How can they if they aren't me? Simple: I share them if they are relevant. If I do, others will share in my awareness. If not, then they are observations and are my own to hold.

So, there you have it. Something has changed for me. Have you noticed it?

I was fine back in the day...

"It was long ago, and it was far away and it was so much better than it is today."


Several times in conversation recently questions about those who are no longer in my life have come up. You know: "Hey, have you heard from...", "What ever happened to...", "I thought you were dating...", and the like.

I'm a reasonably tactful person – at least I hope I am – so I tried to formulate an answer that didn't sound spiteful, hurt or whatever emotion applied to the person in question at the time of their departure. In each case, what came out was more or less "haven't seen them in some time." A nice sterile, blanket statement that encompasses the simple fact that they are no longer in contact regardless of why.

I have misplaced many people in my lifetime. So have you, I'm sure. Many have just drifted away with passing time, changes in location or occupation. Some have wandered away slowly, some have run screaming, some still stand where they were and I don't remember precisely where that "here" is.

All are missed: friends, lovers, family, enemies, coworkers, casual acquaintances. They were parts of me left behind like shed skin. Images of me, but not the full me. Each leaving a mark upon me, some fading like old pen marks and others indelible as tattoos, leaving me with something to take with me on my journey.

Some I miss greatly. Those that more than likely drifted away with passing time and distance and just went about their lives in whatever way they wished. Changed telephone numbers that never caught up with me, email addresses that reflect back, marriages, divorces and other incidents of life without my knowledge. A very few have crossed over to the clearing at the end of the Red Road, gone to meet with their ancestors, never to be heard from here, again. All of those are with me, but no longer where I can find them.

Others I miss less, if not for the person but for the circumstances in which the separation was instigated. Those whose departure was met with slamming doors, shouts or anger and pain, long and short telephone calls, squealing tires and the echos of emotions left like open wounds.

No matter how they left and where they have all gone, they are no longer anything but memories; echos of my past left to haunt me on lonely nights when sleep escapes me. Recent departures echo more loudly, pains more fresh and familiar to the mind and body but ghost pains occasionally move the amputated relationships and bring fresh pain and remembered joy to the surface.

Absence does make the heart grow fonder, softening the edges and blunting the cuts and stabs of memory. Some that once would have brought waves of emotion crashing down only ripple the surface and make the reflections difficult to grasp as they ring out in all directions. The harsh light of day is far away, the shadows of twilight fall long upon the scene and make the colors mute and blend with the darkness.

In the darkness, our imagination paints the scene with an incomplete pallet, hues not truly matching, but close enough in the shade to pass for what might have been. Our vision dimmed, we see our perceptions of the scenes, not with truly photographic clarity, but with the brush strokes of the impressionist. All of it reduced to the simplest of images.

Hindsight is not truly 20/20. It is seen, not through rose colored glasses, but through well polarized lenses that allow only one angle of reflection. The one way mirror of the soul keeping it's true nature hidden behind reflections of other distractions.

Someday, maybe I will look back and regret some of the misaligned memories, but not today. Today they are the comfort food of the soul. They keep me in peace and sanity.

So, no, I haven't seen her, but if you do... tell her I miss her, anyway, in spite of it all.