“The wind in my face blows so cold, I dedicate this poem to a man 40-years old…”
When I was 14, I wrote a poem called “Time to Play”. Unfortunately, the book I wrote it in disappeared a long time ago, more than likely discarded as something childish and irrelevant in one of my moves. Despite the years that have passed, though, the first and last verses are imprinted in my memory.
“One day this man will write about a teenager and his courageous fight.
He’ll look at me, smile and say – We’ve made it kid. Time to play.”
This project is many things. It’s a place to share creative endeavors and an outreach to like-minded people. But above all, Guy Penn is a tribute to a 14-year old boy who dreamed of being writer, who believed that I – awkward, nomadic, floundering me – would be the one to rescue him.
Last April 2011, I turned 40. Over 27 years had passed since I wrote that poem on a rainy night in 1985.
This website is dedicated to all the 14-year old poets in the world. May your pencil always be sharp, and your dreams never misplaced.
Although I am a gay man, I am still easily enchanted by beautiful women. And in 1985, I was 14, and Madonna was the fairest of them all…
Up until 1985, I’d done the impossible – I’d managed to ignore Madonna. Good Catholic schoolboy that I was, what I knew about Madonna, I didn’t like.
I was annoyed with the song “Borderline”, because I thought the title was “Waterline”. And anyone comparing love to water pressure was just weird by my estimation.
I also remember three girls singing “Holiday” at the playground during recess. When I asked them what they were singing, they started squealing about seeing Madonna at The Virgin Tour, which was, by all accounts – totally gross.
And then came one fateful night… I was watching Friday Night Videos. My VCR was set to record, “We are the World”, my favorite song at the time. And the video that followed was the world premiere of Madonna’s “Material Girl”…
We are the huh? That’s Madonna?
I became a Madonna fan because I enjoyed her music, but I remained a fan because I respect her politics.
For starters:
Supporting LGBT causes wasn’t always chic. Madonna fought for my rights when I didn’t have the courage. She challenged social norms and hypocrisy, spoke when others wouldn’t, back when her voice was needed most – When men were dieing, and the silence was deafening.
Madonna songs typically gravitate around love, acceptance, pride, and enlightenment… So happens, I’m a big fan of each. As an added bonus, I also enjoy dancing and sex (although I’ve learned to avoid both at once).
I respect Madonna’s work ethic and self-governance. Having your every move scrutinized, while raising a family in the public eye must be difficult enough. But when you add Madonna’s macrobiotic diet, regimented workouts, quest for enlightenment, and career feats, it becomes increasingly evident – Madonna devotion to self-discipline is nothing short of religious.
Above all, I have to confess – I like that my enthusiasm for Madonna bridges me to my youth. Now in my 40’s, where Madonna’s concerned, I’m not so very different from that giddy uniformed schoolboy, at a local newsstand flipping through the pages of Tigerbeat.
While “Material Girl” was my induction song into Madonna fandom, back in 1985 it was “Dress You Up” that left me spellbound.
Madge & Me ~ 1985
In the video above, when that screen first lifted and Madonna came posing down the stairs, I knew I’d be dancing with her for years to come.
I didn’t dream of satin sheets, custom suits made in London, or luxuries so fine. I was different. I wanted to be the back-up dancer to Madonna’s left, the dude with the swivel hips, bouffantus-maximus and perma-grin.
At 14, I got it. I understood why that dancer was so ecstatic…
What could possibly be more magical than sharing a stage with Madonna, celebrating life with a full head of hair?
Although I am balding, I’m happy to report… Nothing.
“Surely, whoever speaks to me in the right voice, him or her I shall follow.” ~ Walt Whitman
January 1989 – Initial Contact
I assumed it was a prank caller or a bad connection at first. But before hanging up I heard someone breathing on the other end. I pressed the receiver closer to my ear and heard a woman clear her throat.
“A friend referred me, said you might help with my pain,” the woman whispered, her voice cracking in and out.
“What’s causing the discomfort,” I asked?
“It’s my throat,” she said. “I’m losing my voice, my livelihood. But doctors haven’t been able to help me. They can’t isolate a cause.”
“You know I’m not a throat doctor,” I clarified.
“I know who you are,” the woman shot back.
I opened my planner and scanned the upcoming month. “Are you available next Thursday at 3:00 PM, or the following Tuesday…”
“I’ll be at your office 8:00 AM tomorrow, before you open,” the woman insisted.
I tossed my planner on the desk, then asked, “Whose name should I pencil in?”
Before hanging up, the woman replied, “My name is Dita.”
1 month later – first hypnosis
“How will this work,” Dita asked nervously. “I’m trusting you, Sigmund.”
“My name is not Sigmund,” I reminded, yet again. “And you’re sounding much better, more playful than…”
“Don’t you want to know why I trust you,” Dita scolded? “Shouldn’t my trust mean something to you?”
“Of course, I want your trust.” I replied. “But for these sessions to work best, I need you to realize…”
“Then ask me,” Dita demanded. “Ask me why I trust you.”
I smiled at my inability to control my patient. I was learning, though, conversing with Dita was more fluid when I followed her lead and didn’t fight the current. Besides, I was curious. “Why do you trust me, Dita?”
“You have Spanish eyes,” she said. “I can tell a lot by a man’s gaze, yours tells me that you are safe to trust, that your heart is here with me.”
It was evident that I was putty in Dita’s hands, to be molded and played with at her pleasure. “Thank you,” I said, all but blushing and fiddling with my imaginary pearls.
“Doesn’t mean I won’t hire some goons to kick your ass, if I end up quacking like a duck on the set of my Pepsi commercial,” she warned. “So don’t get any ideas when I’m under, Sigmund the Spaniard.”
“Sigmund the Spaniard,” I repeated with a nod and a grin.
Dita stretched out on the couch and slowly exhaled, before facing me again. “I hate relinquishing control,” she confided.
“I understand,” I reassured. “Most of us do.”
“You never answered my question,” she reminded. “How will this work?”
I removed a pocket watch from my jacket and dangled it in front of Dita.
“I will ask you to focus on this watch while holding onto my voice,” I calmly explained. “Imagine that I’m telling you a bedtime story after a long and troubling day. As you listen to my sentences, understand that today is the last day that I’m using words. They’ve gone out, lost their meaning, don’t function anymore…”
Guy Penn 
