This is a rather long post of little interest to anyone outside of my immediate friends. I'm recording it here mainly so that I can write it down immediately after it happened lest I forget too many details.

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This was my first Christmas in twenty years spent with my family. Watching my half-sister, Lynne, introduce her mother and father to one another — only appropriate since they had never met — gave me a sense of just how difficult our family history has been. Of course, while it seems strange to me, it might even seem incomprehensible to the casual reader, so with the permission of the parties I spent Christmas with, I've decided to finally write out what little I know about how this strange situation arose.

Unfortunately, what I do know is often filled with strongly contradictory accounts. Some differences may arise from maliciousness, but most, I suspect (hope?) are merely due to memories fading over time. I'll never quite know the truth of any of this, but I'm close enough to it to be content. Or perhaps I'm merely tired of guessing. Who knows? What follows is what I think happened. Some of you know bits of this, so my apologies for being repetitive (and you might recognize bits I've left out).

( A Family Christmas )

Probably the most memorable thing said to me in my weekend trip to Scotland was a gentleman saying "I like your cock". He was instantly horrified by what he said, but in the context of the conversation, it was a perfectly innocent comment. However, it's so delicious that I refuse to explain the circumstances. Don't ask because I won't tell.

When my friend Paul invited me along to his weekend trip to Scotland, I was only too happy to accept. However, I confess that I felt a bit odd about it. You see, though I was born in Texas, I was conceived in Scotland. Had my mother not had to leave the country under circumstances I've heard at least three contradictory versions of, I would have been born there. I'm not the sort to attach any mystical import to such an event, but it weighs on my mind all the same. I felt like I was going home, in some nonsensical fashion.

The drive, not surprisingly, was beautiful. This is a rather common sight in the English midlands.

( Many more pictures )

As some of you know, my full name is Curtis Allen Poe (note the middle name is spelled differently than the famous Edgar). I was named after my great-grandfather, Curtis Allen Tom. Naturally, given the last name, I'm constantly asked if I'm any relation. I've always answered "no" because Poe was adopted as a child, never fathered children (that anyone knows of) and died with no known living relatives.

Cut to my paternal great-grandparent's tombstone:

Great grandmother Birdie Poe apparently claimed that we were related to "the" Poe. I knew this was preposterous, but in doing a little digging around, it appears that Poe's mother gave birth to three children and if that's true, my understanding of the situation was wrong. I doubt I'll be able to find anything out over the Web and since Birdie Poe is dead, I can't ask why she thought we were related, but it's interesting nonetheless (in a "trivia" sort of way. It's pretty damned useless).

Perhaps what most intrigues me about the UK are the inevitable cultural issues which will arise. Culture, when viewed without context, can be a curious thing. I've had women get very upset with me for holding a door open because I'm being patronizing to women. What??? I could equally argue that women in the deep South were the ones in the wrong for expecting men to run around and open doors for them. Give me a break, folks. Culture is culture and so long as all parties are consenting, no harm, no foul.

While culture is frequently exhibited in behavior (I still don't feel comfortable wearing a hat indoors but it's no longer universally considered rude), more often than not, the issues arise through language. When my brother in London told me he was getting pissed, I felt very uncomfortable until I realized he was "getting drunk". When I first moved to the Pacific Northwest, I couldn't help but laugh the first time a lady offered me a "pop" because I was used to little kids referring to "pop" and adults referring to "soda". I heard a grown woman talking like a little child.

Perhaps one of the worst issues with culture arose in Texas when I first realized that my friends' use of the word "nigger" was offensive. Vowing to not be a racist, I altered my vocabulary to show proper respect. This shocked my mother. She, to her credit, informed me that the word I was looking for was "black", not "negro". That I could have thought "negro" was acceptable tells you a lot about Texas culture (and perhaps why so many Texans like Bush).

I hugged Roger and Carolee goodbye last night. Due to scheduling difficulties, I might not see them before I leave. In fact, I might not see them again. The night before, I hugged Silke goodbye. That was tough. I love Silke dearly and she's a wonderful friend but I might not see her again, either.

A few days ago, I filled my car with gas, realizing that it was the last time that I was feeding this loyal beast. At just under 100,000 miles, she's never let me down. I've cared for her tenderly and fixed her few ailments and she's rewarded me by taking me hither and yon without complaint. Now I'm selling her to Schwern and it almost feels like betrayal.

I just bought my last bag of coffee beans over here. I walk by buildings and wonder if I'll see them again. I don't remember going through this years ago, when I moved to Amsterdam. But then, I wasn't a regular blogger at the time and this pseudo-memory wasn't available to me.

Unlike my rather disastrous adventure in Amsterdam, I've prepared carefully this time. All of the legal "t"s and "i"s are crossed and dotted. I've carefully built a solid resume, continuously improved my craft and blogged relentlessly with the intent of keeping my name out there. I volunteered for the Perl Foundation, wrote articles and, by a curious stroke of luck, have my name on the cover of a book.

It's not blind luck, though. Lady Luck has keen eyes and if you keep working at something, breaks come your way from time to time, so long as you're paying attention. And I have. Years of dreaming and always keeping this possibility in the back of my mind have paid off; I'm moving to the UK. I'm also getting rid of most of my possessions and have already started thinking about how my retirement will work out, decades from now. That will probably be my next big goal.

But what's a goal? Why do we have them? Many folks think that their purpose in life is to achieve their goals. They're wrong. Once you achieve your goals, then what? Is it time to die? No! They have it backwards. Their goal in life should be to follow their purpose and each person's purpose is to understand their driving needs and pursue them with integrity.

My driving needs are adventure, learning, and challenging assumptions (rebellion, if you will). Those are a dangerous combination and if I didn't know what they were, I'd still follow them, but perhaps in an unhealthy manner. How many people, not consciously understanding their driving need for adventure wind up cheating on a spouse? If they consciously knew that adventure was so important to them, there are plenty of ways they could satisfy this need without being dishonest.

Others have different driving needs. Some need security or comfort (and not in the Maslow's Hierarchy sense) and find themselves too timid to take risks. Others have a driving need for justice and that, particularly when combined with a sense of adventure or rebellion, can lead them to do stupid things. Witness the Earth Liberation Front.

So my needs for adventure and learning have led me to pursue moving to Europe with a focus which has surprised me. It took me years to find my brother; it's taken me years to move to Europe. Anyone familiar with me knows that I'm often not a good "long-term project" kind of guy. I have a huge library of partially read computer books. I have tons of unfinished software projects on my computer. I have a screenplay I should rewrite but probably won't. But somehow I've pulled it all together enough to relentlessly pursue Europe.

The beast of my purpose, however, is only temporarily sated. It's gorging itself on the prospect of new adventure and learning but my rebellious streak is a separate creature altogether and it's one I've not entirely tamed. If anything will be my downfall, it's the latter.

I have just over a week left in the US and most of that time will be spent with Sean and Lil, the two people in my life who mean the most to me. They're both brilliant and wonderful people and leaving them is going to be the most difficult part of all of this. I don't mean that to slight the others who are close to me, but without Sean and Lil, gallivanting off to a new life would be much easier.

I'll keep blogging and letting people know what I'm up to. I'll read your blogs and keep track of your lives. I'll miss all of you -- a phone call or a blog entry isn't the same -- but I'll make new friends, too. Life is going to get very interesting soon.

Why is it that all of my friends who've seen "Brokeback Mountain" are quick to say that it's not a great film? They all say it was "good", but not "great". I suppose it's a subjective thing.

Me? I cried when I watched it. Really. It had a tremendous impact which I found very compelling. Yes, it had gay cowboys, but that's not the point! Why does everyone seem to miss that? It's about the conflict between those who chase their dreams and those who forgo them to remain "safe" and gay cowboys are a jarring image to illustrate that. It's a perfect metaphor for what we can aspire to as compared to what we settle for. Everyone else just sees gay cowpokes.

I was really moved by the film. tmonsta was there and she held me at the end as I cried. I know, it sounds silly to say something like that and I confess to feeling a bit awkward about writing that, but to say anything else about my reaction would be lying. Admittedly, given that I'm moving to the UK, it could be that the movie touched a nerve in me, but the point is the same.

( Spoiler alert ... )

While I have a number of them, I told one of my favorite lies on a chilly night in London, October 18, 1999 (I checked my passport for the date).

I flew to the UK to meet my brother, Lewis, (cleverly known on LJ as ovids_brother) for the first time. We went to London to spend a bit of time prior to visiting Paris. While in London, we hit a pub and at around 10 in the evening, they called last call. I was a bit confused until Lewis explained the curious UK laws apparently implemented to encourage people to get drunk as early in the evening as possible. Naturally I wanted to keep drinking and we decided to find an after hours club.

Walking outside, we were immediately accosted by a pair of panhandlers. I had trouble understanding them at first due to thick Scottish brogues, but once it was clear what they wanted Lewis and I both turned them down. Then it hit me: they live here. After confirming that yes, they knew of an after hours club, I promised them a couple of pounds if, when we got there, there was actually a club.

We're walking along and one of them was in front of me talking intently with Lewis. The other one was talking to me and not walking very fast. In fact, I noticed that Lewis and I were slowly getting pulled further and further apart. Since Lewis was in front, I had no idea if he noticed this and I realized we had a bit of a problem. I'm trying to think of a way of dealing with this without setting off our new found "friends" when the one next to me asked ...

"So what brings you to our country?"

"Oh, we flew in to compete in the international Karate tournament."

And the gap between my brother and myself mysteriously disappeared.

What's your favorite lie?

I used to be a car salesman. I wasn't a particularly good salesman, but I wasn't particularly bad, either. My only serious problem was that my heart wasn't in it. Eventually I quit after coming home one day and stumbling across my conscience, weeping in a corner, but right now I'll share a tidbit or two though this is really about about writing in some convoluted sort of way.

( The Gory Details )

As you have probably noticed, LiveJournal now allows you to add "schools" to your profile. You can list the school and the years you went there. I figured, what the hell? I'll do it. Maybe I'll catch up with old friends. A quick saunter down memory lane and maybe I'll find out it's not really on the bad side of town.

The first school, Keystone, was easy enough. I couldn't enter my second high school or my second junior high school as they hadn't been added to the school list yet. I quickly rectified that and hopefully they'll be on there soon after LJ approves them.

Next I tried to enter my first elementary school. Couldn't find it. Then I googled for it. Couldn't find it. I hit Google maps. Found it, sort of. It's still there. It's now an "early childhood center" for preschool and Kindergarten. Then I saw the church where I actually went to Kindergarten. I don't remember much about that --- it was 34 years ago after all -- but I remember her. I don't remember her name. I don't remember her face. I remember her. She and I played together all the time. I remember playing hide and seek and finding her in the curtains. I remember her telling me she was moving away. I cried.

I vaguely remember promising that I could call her and we would somehow stay friends, but I didn't. She didn't call me either. Four years old and I had already learned the fine art of foreshadowing.

The next year, I was in first grade. Susie was busy telling everyone that she was going to marry me. Came over to the house once. Our new German Shepherd took a huge chunk out of her leg. I never got to play with that German Shepherd again. Or Susie, for that matter.

Next year it was Dina Robinson. This time, instead of her wanting me, I wanted her. She never knew I existed.

By the third grade, I was pretty jaded about love, being such an old hand at it and all. Then Kristie moved back to town. I had a huge crush on her on in the first grade and was upset when she moved away. Now here she was, being introduced by our third grade teacher, Mrs. Wittenborn. The teacher turned to Kristie and asked her how she spelled her name. Now was my chance. I stood up and answered for Kristie, telling Mrs. Wittenborn how to spell Kristie's name. I knew she would finally notice me.

She did notice me. I spelled her name wrong.