The Dream That Carried Me

18 07 2025

When I was a boy in the Florida Panhandle — where the heat made any breeze that cut through the pine trees feel like a gift from heaven — I used to press my ear to the railroad tracks and wait.

For what, I wasn’t sure. A rumble. A tremor. A sound that confirmed something was coming. Trains moved through our coastal town, carrying paper from the mill. They moved like ghosts, urgent and unbothered, and I wanted, more than anything, to be the one driving them.

That was the dream: steel, speed, the illusion of control.

And now here I am, fifty-two years old, riding in a single-car light rail train into Hillsboro, Oregon, cloaked in the dark hush of a December morning. I am the one pulling into an empty platform, the one with hands on the lever. My left brings her into braking. My right taps the bell. The train stops clean.

“You don’t need to have a death grip,” Jorge tells me. “Be gentle with her.”

We were halfway through our training program and on the overnight shift. There are nine of us left, split into three teams. Jorge, all Cuban warmth and exacting calm. James, slower, quieter — Los Angeles cool, but alert beneath it. They don’t teach you how to handle the machine as much as they teach you how to be with it.

“Relax, take your time,” Jorge advised. “Do each step individually and it’ll all tie together and become natural.”

Sage advice. Slow your roll, essentially.

Before the yard-to-yard test — the one that moves you from theory to real track — I got sick. A stomach virus that left me wrecked and sweating through nights I couldn’t remember. I missed one day. James let me make it up. Another trainer might not have. I passed. Just barely. I passed.

“Watch your intermediates,” James told me as we walked through the Beaverton yard.

Signals, I learned, are prophecy. Intermediates tell you what’s coming — when to slow down, when to stop. Ignore one and anything can go sideways. Signals, switches, speed. There is no room for sentimentality out here. Only precision.

Oregon’s light rail system is complicated. Beautiful, yes. Ingenious, even. But also dangerous. Tracks run through intersections, weave alongside bike paths, share spaces with cars, pedestrians, skateboarders, scooters and dogs on leashes. You are constantly negotiating with chaos.

After the test, we entered line training. Three weeks of shadowing operators who knew too much, but said very little. They spoke in glances, in warnings you felt more than heard. This was no longer the dream. This was the reality.

You learn quickly: revenue service is where romance goes to die. Where you stop seeing yourself in the story and start seeing everyone else — angry passengers, lost time, bullying supervisors and the thousand ways things fall apart.

Still the horn cuts through a sleeping city, something stirs in me. That boy on the tracks, listening for the future. He never imagined what the job would cost. But he’d still want it.

So do I.


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Categories : Florida, Growth, The Train

In Hot Water

29 05 2025

What left an impression on me about Japan was its culture of cleanliness and respect, qualities that were ever apparent as we traveled the country.

Admittedly, there was a sense of embarrassment for my homeland. Japan’s trains and stations were clean, riders were considerate of fellow passengers and there was nary a whiff of smoke — much less illegal drugs in the air.

Most of the platforms had vending and recycling machines, which would be impossible to maintain in a vandal plagued Portland.

To my surprise, some train cars were designated for women only. I found this a bit odd, considering the country’s reputation for male chauvinism.

Keita’s mother, on the other hand, was not one to be subjugated. An octogenarian who was still driving — a stick shift car no less — she fetched us from the train station and always made sure we ate a big breakfast each morning.

After a long bus ride from Tokyo we arrived in Kusatsu, where you are greeted instantly by the rotten eggs smell of sulfur from the hot springs.

In the town square sits the Yubatake, a field of water, where people gather particularly at night to socialize. Some believe the minerals from the hot springs have healing properties. If true, I was more than ready for a soak.

“Let’s do the Onsen after we check in,” Keita said to me as we hiked through the narrow and curved streets up to our hotel.

Donning our yukatas (robes), we entered the male side of the Onsen. Inside, phones and cameras are strictly forbidden and it is custom to bathe naked. To set the mood, relaxing zen music played overhead as I stepped into the tile enclosed pool.

Life takes unexpected twists and turns and here I was, the lone Western figure at a remote hot springs resort tucked away in the mountains of Japan’s Gunma prefecture.

And the water was wickedly hot!

It’s heat pulsing as I stood knee deep and naked in the Onsen’s large pool. The convection like an attack on my nervous system.

While the temperature stymied me, others were easily submerged in the mineral waters.

“John, are you okay?,” Keita politely asked, noticing my hesitation to take a deeper plunge.

“Yeah, it’s just very hot,” I replied, thinking there was no way I could go any further.

Then I heard what sounded like a frog noise beside me. I turned to see an older man, sitting in the pool, with no expression on his face. Then suddenly, that sound again:

“Ribbet, Ribbet.”

I smiled at him, but knowing very little Japanese, did not speak. Keita engaged the man in friendly banter, translating for me.

“He says you’ll get used to the temperature,” Keita told me. “And he thought you were French.”

The metaphor could not have been more fitting.

After that exchange we waded away from the man and I did eventually work up the courage to go completely under. This being the first step in my transformation. I was washed and exposed and felt no shame.

I slept good that night. The Onsen brought my Misogi challenge more into focus. I was determined to become a train conductor and upon returning home would enroll in a program to begin this process, leaving behind mundane janitorial duties.

Yes, this frog had escaped the boiling water.

Ribbet, Ribbet.

John & Keita at the Yubatake in Kusatsu, Japan


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Categories : Friendship, Growth, Japan, Travel, Water

Can Do

20 01 2025

One word convinced me. Actually, it was the concept behind the word.

That concept took me to another level — snapping me out of a cautious funk of settling for the easy way out or crumbs along the path of least resistance.

The word is CAN.

It first came to my attention through a sticker on the back of my cousin’s jeep. Come to find out a Hawaiian man, battling depression, decided to defeat the doubt and negativity in his life by changing his mindset.

CAN defeats Can’t. Simple as that, right?

Well, it’s not as easy as it sounds. As those who have accepted a challenge can attest, half the struggle is just getting started.

I have been fortunate enough to accomplish certain things in life that seemed impossible as a youngster. The list of achievements include running for public office, hiking the Grand Canyon, publishing a book, covering a presidential election and getting married.

Some would say that’s a life well lived.

But I know there is more to experience. Who wants to be mopping trains forever? Not this guy. Could I operate them? You bet, I can.

There was also a not so subtle desire to start a family. This is something Stanley picked up on in our therapy sessions, particularly when it came to my attachment to River.

“You want to be needed,” he said.

Who doesn’t, I thought.

David still needs me and we had a lovely time in Hawaii. The hospitality Rob & Shelley extended to us was above and beyond.

It’s amazing how fast the time goes. I still vividly recall summers on St. George Island and Apalachicola with Rob and all my other cousins. I now realize how precious those moments were.

Looking back, was there anything that could have altered my path? Would a different decision at a critical juncture turned out for the better?

Second-guessing now seems silly.

Changes did await on the mainland. A new work assignment, on the other side of town, would free me from the graveyard shift, challenge my thinking and provide the opportunity to put my new ‘CAN DO’ attitude on display.

For the first time in years, checking on my folks in Florida seemed both doable and desirable. My father’s health continued to deteriorate and mom’s cries for relief were like a broken record.

An old friend from Japan was also on my mind. Like many of the international friendships forged during my younger days traveling, promises of reunions now seemed possible.

CAN was already at work in me.

Fear no longer had a grip on my emotions. Failure, I had come to realize, was just part of the process — not the end result.

I was ready to enter the arena again. To dare greatly while speaking my truth softly. To strive valiantly without coming off overconfident and cocky.

I think I CAN. I think I CAN. Choo-Choo!

All Aboard!


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Categories : Confidence, Family, Hawaii, Optimism

The Shrink Next Door

28 09 2024

Safely onboarded into a new career, I turned my focus to home.

Together, David and I had made tremendous strides in five years in Portland. We had a new apartment, blessed with good health and eager to turn the page in post-COVID times.

The Doctor will see you now

The new apartment ignited an interest in cooking — something that I had never fully explored, aside from the occasional spaghetti dinner. Our gas stove soon became a focal part of our lives. I began making casseroles, biscuits and muffins; sautéed steaks, grilled fish and many other delicious meals.

Nearing a half century of existence — an age, frankly, I didn’t think I’d ever see —- I finally felt at peace with my life. Publishing a book was sort of my grand finale. There wasn’t a lot of sales, but perhaps I need to die to be discovered or appreciated. Seems to be the case with a lot of famous writers.

Our apartment building was buzzing with creative types, mostly Millennials and Gen Zers. Once a month, management hosted a themed party on the rooftop in an effort to get residents to connect with their neighbors.

That’s where we met Stanley.

A published author of critically acclaimed sex therapy books, Stanley and I hit it off from the start. I liked his intellect and there wasn’t a lot of walls thrown up — something I had run into a lot at work.

Stanley was David’s age, but dealing with some major health problems. He had a partner from Mexico, who was quite younger and an aspiring singer with rugged good looks.

The four of us went out for drinks a few times at a nearby cocktail bar. I shared with Stanley about my past as a journalist and how I never would have imagined that at this age, I would be doing blue collar work.

“The body eventually breaks down,” Stanley said. Was this foreshadowing?, I thought.

David, of course, pulled out his New York playbook and began rehearsing stories I had heard many times before. They both lived in the city when 9/11 happened. Stanley, tragically, had a front row seat in Tribeca.

Stanley was intrigued by relationships and it didn’t take him to long to inquire about how David and I met and came to be a married gay couple. Realizing, a professional shrink lived next door, I let down my guard and shared how David and I navigated our different desires.

None of what I shared came as a shock to Stanley. He had been in practice for quite some time. It only took a few meetings for him to deliver an assessment that lifted a heavy burden off my shoulders.

With martini in hand, Stanley served up some truth.

“You’ve never had and never will have the love you needed from your father,” he said in that sort of 60 Minutes interview way.

Then he leaned forward, hovered over the table and put it in no uncertain terms.

“What you need to do, John, is go out and have some fun. Unleash your true feelings and, for God’s sake, find something that makes you happy and then…just do it!”


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Categories : Healing, Marriage, Relationships

Taking Out The Trash

11 03 2021

Gonna go ahead and started writing again. I had hopes of hiring a literary agent and signing a book deal but no such luck. Probably have to put it all together myself and package it through Amazon. The ol’ boot strap way.

I’m still at the warehouse job. My body aches after every shift and I sleep mostly on my down time. The goal was to work backwards and starting on overnight shifts certainly fulfilled this mission. I could elaborate but why spoil the sequel. Next week I move to days having earned trust from management. This transfer, the hope is, will raise energy levels and improve mental health.

Still no communication from T but the hole in my heart remains.

In January, I took some PTO time from work and flew down to see my friend Alan in Los Angeles. A wise Chinese man, highly educated and well traveled, Alan sought to encourage me.

“Your life is filled with garbage,” he told me. “You need to take it out.”

He was right. In my slow and turtle way, I am doing this cleaning while trying to be fair and realistic. What can be recycled and donated for others to use and learn from? There are truths buried beneath the garbage. I’ll likely need a professional to explain why they are there and how to set them free.

Alan provided a nudge needed to begin the process.

He came to America on a mission with the church but has since left those antiquated institutions behind. He flows through the Holy Spirit now more than looking to God for answers. Religion, Alan says, is about following rules. Being a spiritual person is about believing in the heart.

“Pastors were the biggest hypocrites,” Alan told me, his tone direct and tinged with anger. “I got tired of the lies, cheating and fake bullshit.”

Alan said he left the church behind so he could be himself — happy and free.

My journey to see Alan came as a new President was inaugurated and southern California was under another coronavirus lockdown. The touristy places we visited — Santa Monica Pier, Griffith Observatory, Hollywood Blvd. — were nearly empty. A unique experience to remember for sure.

Alan instructed me to bring only one outfit. He gave me a bunch of clothes. It was his gift to me. They were nice clothes, reflecting a distinguished sense of style and fashion. If anything needed reviving from my time in the Oregon rainforest it was my fashion. The pandemic and overnight shift work had me surrendered to sweat pants most of the time.

In a guru like way, Alan pushed me to break out of my depression.

“You’re a winner,” he kept telling me. “Stand Up!, Speak Out!, Act Up!”

Although I have come back from the cliff of ruin — on more than one occasion — I cannot deem this latest turnaround a success just yet. I am still searching for my forever home. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to live in a place where more than one person can use the kitchen at a time and the bed is not in the living room. Solace, at its basic level, can be taken in the fact I am not on the streets in a tent as that population seems to be multiplying here in West Coast cities.

I strive to be altruistic with my new resources. I look for ways to help by increasing donations to charitable causes, lifting up friends in tangible ways and staying in closer contact with family. David and I continue to support each other in a manner partnerships were designed. We are lucky to have escaped the deadly virus.

Romantic love, meanwhile, is on hold. There needs to be time for healing.

T showed up in a dream the other day. Wearing a light colored sun dress, arms full of books and walking briskly out of a house where my brother and I were standing, talking in the front yard. I followed and tried to catch up but my movement was like slow motion and she disappeared in a crowd of people on a busy sidewalk. I came to a row of shops and looked in the windows to see if I spotted her but she was gone. Then a tiny sail boat full of happy people sailed away. Then I woke up. I wrote down all the details immediately.

I’m hoping to see a therapist soon. I want to feel that kind of love again. The next time I’m not gonna let it get away so easy.


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Categories : California, Healing, Work

Coming Back, Gracefully

7 08 2018

Recovery going well. It has been a surprisingly hot summer in Portland. I accepted a union job offer from a local grocery store. Cleaning toilets and taking out the trash. It’s a smelly job, but somebody’s gotta do it and I am damn glad to have the work while earning a decent wage.

Walking the streets has been challenging but it has made me stronger. One must stay ever vigilant in certain sections of the city (Old Town/Chinatown) where those who have fallen on hard times lurk and dwell. I was not prepared for such a stark reality. Skid row here is ugly. Real ugly. These conditions I had not seen since the summer of 2009 in New York. People had lost their minds and were living like dirty gutter rats.

Old Town’s Stag

I’ve seen that here. On more than one occasion.

At my new job it is required to interact with the public. A daily evaluation of the local market. Even in brief conversations, messages can be exchanged. Understanding the neighborhood is important. Knowing hot and cold trends keeps you in the game.

Physically, the job can be exhausting. There is a lot of time on your feet. I average seven miles a day. There is also a lot of lifting to be done. There is even a demolition component involving “bottle machines.” The bottles and cans provide a source of revenue for people living on the margins. A tiny profit for people living on the streets or neighborhood folks trying to pay down bills.

I walk to and from work most days and nights. It is a safe neighborhood with a hospital nearby, plenty of construction projects, shopping and street car lines. Portland, I’m learning, is a major rail city. David and I enjoy riding in the street car. We’ve taken it to the riverfront, library and over to the eastside. Our studio apartment is coming along, albeit slowly. The biggest fix was getting rid of the leaking air mattress.

The Jeep is gone as well. God bless that vehicle. It did its job and more from Calgary to Miami. But, when in recovery mode — rebuilding lives — one needs less worries not more. Vehicles in the city are a luxury. There are risks to street parking no matter where one calls home.

I’m still reporting on queer issues for south Florida and, locally, have picked up a restaurant beat for a Portland neighborhood newspaper. We have joined an Episcopal Cathedral and begun volunteering at community events. Friends are planning visits…. I’m happy again. That’s the most important thing. 


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Categories : Business, Cars, Healing, Oregon, Portland

Thorough Clean-sing

11 08 2017

Osceola slept here.

Cristina asked that we all give up an addiction. She said we should grab a twig and toss it into the fire to symbolize the release of this addiction.

Moving around was quite challenging. The medicine was taking effect. I grabbed a branch and tossed it in. Carlos followed and did the same. Geraldo grabbed a whole stack and tossed it on the fire. The smoke funnelled up through the trees and Cristina began to sing again.

Some of the words I could make out. “Barricuda” “Santa Maria” and “Doma” I remember. I probably should not reveal too much as this was an exclusive gathering. Geraldo was pleased. He told Cristina he wished he had brought more of his family with him. There were times when I could not help but stare at him in silence. It was a display of respect.

Listening to the night and nature was fascinating. Cristina, with tears in her eyes, remarked how great it was to be moonbathing.

My bones began to crack like the flames shooting from our campfire as we each took turns drinking the Ayahuasca. Standing up and grabbing the branch to toss in was not easy. The terrain was rough. Although this area was populated by large neatly maintained farms, we were in “the woods.” During the ceremony some of the horses came near. In the dark I could only hear their musking noises — a sort of sneezing sound.

I sang some too.

Mostly humming to what reminded me of the Seminole war chant. My father took us to many Florida State University football games when we were young. Carlos seemed to know the chant too. If you know the legend of Chief Osceloa it helps. The brave native has become a recognizable symbol for the Tallahassee headquartered school.

I also had a tearful moment singing the biblical hymn, “When You Believe,” from The Prince of Egypt. The tears were more of a joyful confession than one of true sadness or sorrow. We were to let it all out, Geraldo had said. Release the past into the air.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, Cristiana asked that we all embrace each other. She hugged me tight and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Carlos was warm as well.

“Come here,” he said as he pulled me in for a hug.

Cristiana then directed Geraldo and I to hug each other and we did and it was like the kind brothers give after making up from a fight. Quick, back slaps and all.

As the full moon continued to rise I found myself tranqulized by its beauty and that of the southern sky. I would have preferred to sleep outside by the fire but the bugs were too much. The next day Geraldo and I drove back to Miami. We were happy and inspired and listened to music and laughed all the way home.

The past was gone. A new day had dawned. It was good to be alive.

“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.” — Ernest Hemingway.

 

 

 


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Categories : Florida, Healing, Medicine

Ocala Can You Hear Me?

10 07 2017

OcalaFarm

In search of healing we were introduced to Ayahuasca by a Brazilian shaman. Geraldo arranged it. We drove north into horse country to find it.

I was surprised to get the last minute invitation. It came via a text late Friday night after I had deactivated my Facebook and realized I had no clue where my next paycheck would come from. Before I could wallow in self pity Geraldo rode to the rescue.

His best friend from South America was here.

Cristina was her name. She was powerful and wise. A mother of two children. Girlfriend to Carlos. Healer of many.

Before Geraldo and I found Cristina’s campground we drove through the rolling hillside farm country. Some of the farms were quite immaculate with freshly cut lawns and thoroughbred horses grazing the fields. The oak trees in this part of the country were large with thick clumps of moss hanging from their branches. They were an oasis for cattle herds from the sun’s mighty rays.

Geraldo had been in Ecuador. He was a heavy man now. He said our trek into the North Florida farmlands would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. He described it as an circle of healing — spiritual not sexual. That was good enough for me.

David gave his blessing and we left Pompano Beach in a brand new volkeswagen jetta. Early July and the heat in full effect. We made good time on the turnpike pushing into Ocala around the four-hour mark.

“You’re going to drink with us, John?” she asked as we approached the campfire.

“Yes,” I said.

Geraldo warned it could get ugly. Vomiting, diarreha of the worst. He advised I fast the night before and refrain from drugs and eating meat. This was a cleasening, he said…to decide who I wanted to be and to release the demons of the past.

Cristina helped with that. She wore a yellow feather in her hair. At the ceremony she dressed in a beautifully beaded long red dress. Carlos was ever at her side. He was standoffish at first but when we spoke was assured the cleansing from this Amazon vine was what we all needed.

Carlos, Geraldo and I gathered wood for the fire. For the ceremony, I laid on my wolf blanket from Yellowstone. The one Anne gave me. Four candles were placed around the fire pit. After lighting the fire, Cristinia offered the Ayahuasca. It was bitter and hard to swallow. I took one sip and gave the cup back. She encouraged me to finish the cup and I did.

Once the drink had been passed around the circle, Cristina began to sing her native songs with accompaniment on the drums and guitar by Carlos. Her chants were passionate and in dialects I had never heard before. She moved around the fire, always stablizing herself in a yoga-like pose before another cry into the night. The Ayahuasca began to take its effect and soon my ears felt unclogged from years of swimming in cholrine dosed pools.

My senses began to peak. I could hear other sounds from the wild near and far. I could hear my heart beating again. It was a full moon rising….

TO BE CONTINUED

 

 

 


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Categories : Brazil, Florida, Healing, Love, Medicine, Women