Fright Night

•October 26, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Jo’s mother: “Everything’s seen at its best in the dark … You know I can’t understand why you’re so frightened of it.”

Jo: “It’s not the darkness outside I’m frightened of … it’s the darkness inside [of] houses I don’t like.”

—from A Taste of Honey by Shelagh Delaney

I used to adore nighttime.

Don’t resent it nowadays, I’ve just become indifferent.

All this on the cusp of Halloween — a holiday met with similar indifference in our family.

It was the wrong holiday.

Mom and Dad loved Christmastime because, on Dec. 21, 1957, they married. Poinsettias lined the Greensburg United Methodist Church that day. Every year thereafter was an opportunity for them to reclaim their joy of that day — and they waved us into the party every chance they got. It’s one of my happiest memories of them.

Oh, but Halloween. It’s confusing.

My earliest memory is losing a mask a children’s radio event in Indianapolis. I cried buckets that fall. Later in Maryland our Irish-Catholic neighbors, the Alywards, led the charge in costume-making and door-knocking for “trick or treats.” They were always great fun. I totally get the theatricality of Halloween, but there’s a deeper issue here: the disruption before the calm, All Hallow’s Eve, because the Hallowed, the saints and their ilk, arrive at daybreak on Nov. 1.

So, Halloween is the Nightwalking you must go through to get to Daytalking.

We’ve covered this ground before, but I think it needs more teasing out.

Daytalking is easier for me to define because it’s formed the happiest moments of my life.

It’s not exactly “talking” but pure relating — connection, belonging, the thing most lacking in society today. It’s transparency, honest, candor, freedom to be yourself and allowing others to do the same (hence the connection part). For a word-phrase denoting “light” and “speech,” it’s actually a silent activity. You can be Daytalking just by silently holding the hand of someone you love. That’s the gist of it, really.

Nightwalking, however, is rough.

Rough because no one likes going through difficult times. They make us uncomfortable, like a scary movie, until we realize in the end that maybe the catharsis was necessary.

So, what if we approached Nightwalking from a Halloween perspective? I have to delve into movies to make this point, so here goes nothing.

I don’t care much for violent horror flicks — you know, the slasher stuff — but I do love a good ghost story. And I think I know why.

Ghosts, at base, are lost between worlds. I grew up with Casper the Friendly Ghost — and he was forever misunderstood. Even as a kid I got it, because kids always feel like they’re either in the way or just being ignored. The sad thing about Casper is he would remain a ghost because he’d never be recognized for his open-heartedness and generosity. I fear that may be true for many of us.

On the other hand, there are evil spirits. M. Night Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense demonstrated that evil includes self-absorption, ignorance, and indifference. Heck, just look at Grasper the Unwelcome Ghost, haunting not only the White House but every goddamn media outlet on the planet.

Ghosts are needful things. They can’t slip their “ghosty track” until they’ve been acknowledged — and that’s usually by scaring the shit out of everyone else.

Ghosts (and zombies, their kin) are Nightwalking personified. They’re stuck, undead, spaced out, hungry for attention (and brains), and huge nuisances. But as a metaphor, they exist for a reason. Because we’ve all been that way — some to a greater degree than others.

This past week I encountered two strangers and a dear friend Nightwalking. I know what they’re going through, and will help them if I can. Nightwalking truly scares me. I don’t like the person I become when I’m there. It’s filled with fear, hate, despair and confusion. It’s a state that leads to thoughts of killing yourself.

And holy shit that is as permanent as it gets.

But I now realize it’s just a passage through, if I’m able to call it out — just like acknowledging the ghost that begs to be heard.

I’m reminded of the scene in The Sixth Sense where Kyra, the poisoned girl, needs to show Malcolm the truth — a truth even he’s not ready to acknowledge — and in the end brings an uneasy closure to a family torn by ignorance and deceit.

Maybe that’s the true meaning of Halloween: jolting the system so we can move forward to a better place?

Who knows.

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The Gangster of Love

•October 20, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Ah, autumn rains and a high-school romance turned sour. Next week, an all-new post walking the edges of Halloween. Cheers my friends! MM

Completely in the Dark

Now let us speak of the pompatus of love.

When you’re on the verge of eighteen and your inner Joker is on the loose, everything seems possible.

You’re a senior in high school, you have some friends, maybe a little money, and—if you’re a guy—you’re looking for a girl. That one special girl with whom you will magically make a connection that you both will never—ever—forget.

Hey, never said we’d be talking about the truth now, did I? I mean, what do you take me for?

Some kind of Space Cowboy?

Since our school newspaper field trip to the University of Minnesota, Darla and I were spending nearly every day together. We stayed after school for a drama club meeting; we worked together in the Smoke Signal office, typing up stories for the next issue; and, on the rare occasions Mom let me borrow her car, I drove Darla home…

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How to Detect a Man in Hiding

•October 12, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Hey my brother, how’s that man cave thing workin’ out for ya?

Gettin’ a tad claustrophobic in there? No prob, let’s open a window.

Buh maybe you should put that hammer down first. Let’s open it the normal way and get us some well-needed face time, OK?

Don’t know about you, but I was shocked, saddened, and then angered by the news from Las Vegas last week.

A lone gunman, on the 32nd floor of the Mandalay Bay hotel, armed with 23 guns, 12 of which were fitted with bump stocks (that allow semi-automatic weapons to precisely mimic automatics), opened fire on an outdoor country music concert, killing 58 people, including himself, and injuring 500 more. Police later discovered over 50 pounds of exploding targets and 1,600 rounds of ammo in the gunman’s car. It was to date the worst mass shooting in American history.

Maybe it’s easy to become numb to this seemingly neverending horror in American society. It deadens the senses, adds to cynicism at Congress’ inability to break the NRA’s grip on it, piling on more divisiveness into an already sharply divided electorate.

But what I couldn’t get out of my mind was the reaction of the gunman’s brother at hearing the news.

Eric Paddock told CNN his brother Stephen was “an army of one” and, aside from having a girlfriend, he “hung out by himself.” Paddock related that their late father was on the FBI’s “Top 10” most wanted list, but they’d had no association with him. Stephen Paddock lived solely as a gambler, with no political or religious affiliations or criminal record, amassed millions of dollars, traveled freely, and “could do anything he wanted.”

Paddock said he “knew” his brother for 57 years.

Well, I’m now 57 years old. And I, too, have a brother I have “known” that long.

And I’ve never owned a gun.

My brother Brian (at left, with me in 1968), however, keeps our late father’s handgun and hunting rifle, and probably has another rifle he bought for himself. Brian raised three sons who often go hunting with him in the fall.

I’ve never thought twice about Brian’s gun ownership. And I’m not sure this incident has changed my mind about that.

But it has made me think: Why should two brothers be such secrets to each other? What are the lessons, rules, and traits—the sins—we’ve acquired from our father?

And am I my brother’s keeper?

I do know this: As children we were encouraged by Dad to not be weak, to not cry or feel extremes of emotion (which, oddly enough, included joy, go figure), and to “buck up and be a man.”

The women in the family, my mother, aunt, and grandmothers, all stood by in silent complicity when Dad ruled the roost. I’m sure I felt betrayed and abandoned by them.

You can only imagine.

My brother went on to play sports in school: first basketball, then football, later track and field. When he raised his own family, he grew closer to our father. Meanwhile, Dad and I became more distant. I was determined to assert the few lessons of humility, cooperation, sensitivity, and kindness I learned from our mother. It’s still challenging to stick by those values, especially in this hyper-competitive, male-centric world.

So what’s an emotionally intelligent male supposed to do, to fight the madness and shit-can the despair, inertia, and cynicism?

Well, I think I have some ideas.

Break the silence: It’s way overdue to finally deep-six the “strong, silent male” stereotype. Women should stop revering it, and men gotta spot-check their need for it.

It’s tough for me as I’m an introvert (and have always been cautious in a crowd), so I’m naturally reticent to speak about anything until I’ve thought it through.

The question I now ask is: “Can I encourage other men to speak out?”

The answer is: I must.

Feel all the feels: This will be challenging. I’ve often wondered about the energy it must take for men to hold their emotions in check. Sure, Pop got angry—he’d storm and yell and let it all out—but he was also wise enough to apologize later, or try to make amends.

Later in life, Dad and I got the chance to grieve together after Mom died. We held each other and sobbed. I’ll never forget that. The man had a big heart. It was just hard for him to let it show.

Be present in the world: The Las Vegas killer “could do anything he wanted.” He was a free agent, living in the Free World.

While America exalts freedom (and privacy) above all, the gaping hole in Paddock’s life had to be a lack of community. Hey, look, it’s okay to decide not create your own family, to not father children, and to privately enjoy the benefits that freedom affords you.

But it’s not okay to check out from the world you live in.

The one we all live in.

What if everyone contributed more to volunteering? And I don’t mean just dialing in your dollars. It doesn’t take much time or effort to personally make a difference in others’ lives.

This is something I plan to do more of after this tragedy, to find ways to give back and grow within my community, in person. And that means a diverse community—not just my fellow aging white bros. Only through reaching out have I learned things I would’ve never discovered otherwise.

So, am I my brother’s keeper?

Yes. Yes, I am.

I was raised to believe that is one of humanity’s deepest articles of faith.

Will it be easy? No, probably not. But I want to help all my brothers get out of hiding and into the open—where we can make things better for everyone.

Are you with me?

The Seven-Year Plan

•October 6, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Life was mostly a blank up until I turned eight.

After November 1967, everything began. By then I’d laid the foundation of the “Daytalking, Nightwalking, Stargazing” person I am now.

I’ll pass yet another birthday this Thanksgiving and all I’m thinking about is … how will I spend the next seven years?

Here’s hoping they’re nothing like the first.

People talk about five-year plans, but I like the idea of seven. You can use the “five-year plan” as the core, with a one-year ramp-up and remaining-year course correction, along with whatever new goals crop up.

I stumbled across the “baby book” (above and at right) that my late parents received from a family friend after I was born (Who were “Mr. and Mrs. Frank Gierke?” They’re part of this story, too. I’ll have to do some digging). The book is pure twentieth century and I’m grateful for its treasures—a gift from my mother to me via the Gierkes.

Maybe it’s something we can all do to reconnect with our original selves—a sort of gift to ourselves later in life.

Based on this photo (at left), birth couldn’t have been easy. But it certainly got better.

So let’s just go with that.

I’ve been thinking about conversation, public speaking, and small talk a lot lately. I might be doing more of it in the near future. So “First Words” caught my eye. Of course a child says “Ma-ma” sooner than “Da-da” because toddlers traditionally spend more time with Mom. Also, breastfeeding. Who gives me the milk? Well, we all know how that turns out.

But “Mama and Daddy go Bye in car…” Hrm. Guess we drove everywhere because it was Indianapolis, Ind. No one goes walkie-walks in that neck of the woods, at least in the early 1960s. “Jingle Bells,” is a memorable tune, so of course a kid is gonna memorize that.

In February 1961 my mother had turned 26. She was gorgeous. I loved her beyond reason. My father? He seemed like a heavy cat, Mr. Danger Man. In the photo bottom left, I wonder what I was thinking. Dad has me in his arms, but I seem to be squirming away. He’s also pulled back a bit. We’re trying to negotiate who we are together. It’s the beginning of a long, somewhat edgy relationship.

And I wonder about Mom’s caption to the photo: “Mom, Dad & Me at the Maupins Feb. 1961.” It’s interesting Mom puts herself before Dad. She was assertive, Irish, and the faithful author of this “baby book,” so she knew she had license to do as she pleased.

And so she did.

I love the book for that.

It’s like hearing Mom’s voice all over again, every time I open it up. Dad may’ve been the CEO of the Family Project, but Mom got to call the shots too.

These days I’m thinking about gender roles. What does it mean to be an aging white male in early twenty-first century America?

I wish I felt hopeful about that, but I don’t.

Men have so much to learn from women, but there’s a major communication breakdown.

To begin with, I probably wouldn’t have become a reader, writer, diarist, or wannabe musician without Mom. She was the one who set that tone. Dad was the taskmaster, but he also wanted to be an artist. It was his closet occupation, all the way up to the day he died.

But wanting to be an artist and making art are two distinctly different things. The latter is a natural extension of who you are, other than wishing about it so you can become someone else. In that regard Mom was probably more of an artist than Pop. For my part, I’m not sure I want to be an artist, which confuses some people, not the least of whom is me.

Modern artists have résumés, curriculum vitae, gallery showings, and followers on social media. My artist friends just make art. It comes from them organically and I acknowledge them as artists—even when I run into them shopping at Target.

In seven years it will be 2024. I can’t even imagine.

But adopting a seven-year plan (with the ramp up here, now, in 2017), would mean the five-year core begins in 2018, with solid strides toward a goal I wouldn’t have dreamed about in 1967. Back then my inner 8-year-old talked to a “mysterious other” in a Maryland backyard (Daytalking), moodily stalked the streets after dark with neighbor kids (Nightwalking), and went home to study National Geographic magazines about Jacques Cousteau, read up on American history, and pore over the Encyclopedia Britannica (Stargazing).

My first seven years remain the endless mystery.

But having a book that memorializes them gets me thinking: “How can I best spend the next seven years?”

How would you do something like that?

Wedding Bell Blues

•September 28, 2017 • Leave a Comment

My heart is just a blood-soaked pothole in someone’s back alley.

Ah, love. It’s a many-mansplain’ed thing.

Seriously, I’ve got nothing constructive to say about the institution of marriage.

Or so I think.

I never married. It seems ridiculous to mention it, but there were times I thought it was possible. But that happened only rarely.

I feel compelled to weigh in now that my story is at the point where I attend my brother’s wedding in 1989.

And this being 2017, it’s also the year that he and his wife of 28 years finalize their divorce.

—Am I surprised? Yes and, well, no.

No need to pull out the statistics. Most marriages don’t succeed—that’s generally acknowledged.

And I don’t see any reason to run through the histories of my friends’ (or family’s) relationships or marriages (failed or otherwise) because the story we think we know is never the reality the couple actually experienced together. The opinions of anyone else instantly makes any judgment moot.

They had a lovely run, Brian and his wife. Three beautiful, healthy children, a couple well-maintained homes, and memories with doting grandparents on both sides of the family.

Our parents, for their part, were proud about two things: that Brian married (since it didn’t seem likely I would) and that I graduated college (that, too, looked dicey for the longest time). My journal recaps the wedding on Monday, Oct. 9, 1989, but says little about my state of mind and nothing about how distant I felt during it.

I was smack in the middle of a “creative period.” That summer I’d finished Vicious Frieze III and was writing the first draft of the Ellen Terry screenplay. I took classes at Metro State University during the day and worked the night shift proofreading direct-mail marketing pieces. I had my own apartment but had broken up with Sally, my most recent girlfriend at the time, in 1987. I was also growing my hair out, which appalled my parents, even to the point where they demanded (something I learned only from Brian) that I cut it in time for the wedding—something I refused to do.

“It was a cool, windy autumn day,” the journal describes Friday, Oct. 6. “Not many clouds but certainly cool.” I got to the rehearsal early, meeting up with my grandfathers, aunt and uncle, and cousin with her family. It seemed awkward, the entry reports, as “the priest—fighting a cold—sent us through our paces.”

After the rehearsal at St. Therese Catholic Church (Stacey, my brother’s bride, was Catholic), the folks had booked a rehearsal dinner on a Lake Minnetonka yacht that left from Excelsior Commons.

“It was windy and very cold after the sun went down and everyone shivered as we awaited boarding on the yacht. … After a while the wind had died down and a few of the younger folks went topside to watch the moon off the water. A few of us talked with the kid who steered the yacht. I was feeling pretty good, sipping beers and later Brandy & Cokes—the group was pretty divided between the morose Maupin family and the chatty, ebullient Nelson side.”

The morose meets ebullient. Hrm.

Marriages are always about bigger things: creating a culture all their own. The two families were negotiating the terms of that culture (photo at left: me, Mom, and Aunt Joyce aboard the boat) and how things would go forward with this “new family.”

I probably should’ve been more present, but by 1989 I’d attended a fair share of high school friends’ weddings and, while I enjoy them for the optimism, cheer, good food and coffee, I get easily exhausted by large groups of people.

It’s just how I’m built.

Anyway, 13 years later I received a letter from Mom with a photo enclosed. The folks were not an openly affectionate couple, so it surprised me to see it was of them kissing. Mom wrote on the back of the photo: “A couple of old Valentines. Disney World—Celebrating 45 yrs.”

Five years after that, Mom died.

Then Dad died of a heart attack four months later.

How will their sons make it on their own? How will my brother and I live in a world without women? I’m concerned because I don’t know how he weighs in on the issue.

My women friends sustain me—and I try my best to help sustain them—but we’re currently in a worldwide culture war. Who will we end up supporting? Who will support us?

Maybe I have nothing constructive to say about marriage. But I will say that the private world of two people can ripple out and touch so many lives.

If marriage is important, then I guess it can be looked at from that perspective.

My Monster’s Keeper

•September 22, 2017 • Leave a Comment

The new post is still in draft mode, but this chestnut serves as a preamble: How can I be in a relationship when I first need to be a better person to myself? Enjoy and see you next week my friends. MM

Completely in the Dark

MonsterI haven’t wanted to write this, even as far back as last July, when I first added it to the edit slate.

So I yanked it, worried about “getting it wrong.”

Then it popped up after New Year’s, while I was searching through 1982–83 letters for topics.

There it was againmy monster—on the page.

The memory had been easily forgotten, since there’s no journal for 1983.

“I’ve not been in a ‘people’ mood lately,” reads the aforementioned page—a copy of a letter to Lindsay Clarke written on Sept. 7, 1983 (photo at left probably taken early that year, in Dad’s den at the farm, likely prior to the Guthrie date with Thérèse).

“I’m finding fault in everyone and trying hard not to say anything out loud. Let me explain.”

I’d returned to Minnesota from Britain feeling more lonely than I’d ever been, moreso after Thérèse and…

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Your Own Private Concord

•September 16, 2017 • Leave a Comment

“Course-correction imminent” may yet again be the watchwords for autumn 2017. Good things brewing. All-new CITD post next Friday! Cheers, MM

Completely in the Dark

[Dear readers: It’s nearly the 20th anniversary of this, my freelance writing business manifesto (terms of service, mission statement, liturgy, or what-you-will), so thought it a good time to remind myself how far off track I’ve gotten. Which means course-correction imminent. It’s the sleeve of a cassette recording I gave out to everyone who attended my business launch party in December 1992. The cassette contained songs played at the party, but the sleeve was purely for entertainment/reading pleasure. I also wrote my obituary that year. Enjoy!]

Manifesto by Michael Maupin

WHERE’VE YOU BEEN LATELY?

This is about the guy who “goes off to find himself.” Wish him luck. Send him a card. Buy his last lunch. Reminisce. Laugh. Sneer. Chide. Whatever you do, remember one thing:

Someday you may be in his shoes.

Christians have a heady concept. Their Big Guy once said that to enter the Kingdom of…

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