Poke And Pour

2010-07-08T20:03:00.001-04:00

I am testing my mobile phone to see if posting from my crackberry really works?

Circling around…

2010-07-06T10:56:00.001-04:00

There was this time when I was probably 16 or 17, wait, maybe I was 17. Yes, I was 17 years old going on 18. (do you wanna sing the song after that sentence?) I was in NYC for a summer theatre program. Everyone back home was "scared for me." But, it wasn't overwhelming. Everyone expected it to be. Even everyone today, 15 years later, 32 going on 33, asks me if I was scared or if it was a wild and crazy new experience being 17 years old and in the Big Apple. It wasn't. It just WAS. I was in NYC. It was just supposed to be. Anyway, I was there in the big apple studying, dancing, singing, laughing, living. Everyday---ALL DAY! This on 6 hours of sleep. In fact, things haven't changed much. I may not move as fast, or be as eager to get it going as I was at 17, but I sure as hell haven't caught up on sleep or stopped feeling like every hour counts. In fact, I am writing this at 1:28am after a fitful 6 hours of sleep the night before. In fact, I am memorizing lines for an audition. 16 years ago, about this time of the year, I was memorizing lines for a class. 16 years later I am memorizing for an audition. Nothing big, just a gig in a show somewhere. Anyway, I digress. There was this moment in the summer of 1995 when I had a few hours off from classes and such. I was exploring the upper theatre district of Times Square. It was very rare that you were ever separated from the other company members. It was even more rare that you would find yourself alone. I wished I could remember how or why I found this time alone, but I don't remember the specifics. I feel like it had something to do with waiting in line at a bank or western union or something. However, that could be a figment of my imagination. Anyway, at some point, I stopped at a payphone on the southwest corner of 50th and Broadway to call my parents. I remember it so clearly. Even as I write this it's becoming more clear than when it came to me moments ago. It was hot but not hot enough for me to care. Which means it very well could have been 85-90 degrees, but I didn't care because I was in NYC. I shuffled through my fanny pack (yes fanny pack) for my calling card (yes calling card). After locating the SAM's CLUB prepaid card, I took a deep breath. There was a moment where I looked over both of my shoulders and across the street. Then I looked in every direction to make sure it was safe. But that was fleeting. The next moment I took all of what was around me in while I waited for the card prompts and then finally the ringing of my IOWA family phone. In fact, I stood across the street from Caroline's Comedy Club and could still see the LETTERMAN marquee from my pay phone. I remember that some tall funny lady who was on the series COACH was performing at Caroline's, at least according to the marquee, I made a mental note to bring that up to the father since he loved that TV show. Blah, blah, blah...I talked to my parents and told them how excited I was. I talked about standing on the corner of 50th and Broadway. I mentioned the actress/comedienne from COACH performing across the street. I told them I was safe and happy and excited. They mentioned how loud it was. They asked if I was eating enough on my budget. They asked if I felt safe. Blah, blah, blah...and the conversation ended. I kept myself huddled tightly to the payphone as I unzipped my fanny pack to place my phone card back inside. I dropped the phone card. I bent to pick it up and saw a man's shoe. I slowly traced that to the man's calf then to his knee, all of which was exposed in his GAP-type khaki shorts, and then I realized how close he was to me. Or at least how close it felt he was to me. Apparently he grabbed the phone card and picked it up before I even looked back down at the ground. I couldn't take my eyes off of his face. He looked so familiar. SO, so familiar that I looked around thinking he might be with a handful of people I knew. When I turned back I realized that the phone card was in my hand even though I dont' remember retrieving it from his. I looked directly at this man. This man that wasn't much taller than me. This man that wasn't much thicker than me. This man that didn't appear to be terribly older than me. And, although it was only a few seconds, maybe 10 or 15, I studied him. 'Why did he look familiar to me,' I thought? He was olive skinned, he was lean and thin but not skinny like me. He had brown eyes and lines across his forehead. This and his height being the only thing that proved he was older than my 17 year old self. I trembled for a second and looked away. I looked south toward 42nd Street, though not out of fear, just because I couldn't look him in the eye. As I placed the phone card back in to my fanny pack I heard him say....

"Everything will be okay. You will survive this. You have survived that. Trust me. Trust me. This is what you were meant to do. Meant to be. Get away, be away, find a way. Life is not just the here and now. It is not just what is back there. It is what is about to be. You will be fine. You will be better than fine. You will thrive. You will be divine."

I turned around and immediately knew he wouldn't be there. It wasn't some ghost moment. I just knew he was gone. I knew half way through the message I was being delivered. It only took me a breath or two to realize as I stood at 50th and Broadway that I met... myself. I was introduced to me. The me I would be. It would take years for me to realize this was probably just a figment of my adolescent imagination. My young adult version of myself getting caught up the moment of being alone on Broadway and 50th Street in Manhattan, NY. Looking about, dropping my phone card and picking it up, placing it in my fanny pack, looking around and feeling safe. Suddenly, I felt comfortable and confident. I was probably overcome with the reality that I was meant to get away. I would be safe making bold choices. I could be divine.

It would take another moment of meeting myself entering Montrose Beach in Chicago, IL on the 4th of July 2010 for me to put the pieces of this puzzle together. I went to tie my shoe and someone placed their hand on my back just below the neck (or at least it felt like that) and without turning around I heard them say...

"Look up. See that. That sky, that purple sky? That purple sky is home. Everything will be okay. You will survive this. You have survived that. Get away, be away, find a way. Life is not just what is back there. It is what is about to be."

I think we meet ourselves many times in life. There are moments that are so crucial, so evolved, developed, and filled with sensory that we have an almost outer body experience. Except, maybe that is inaccurate. Maybe it is an inner body experience. So inner, so inside of me that I actually believe I have met two different people in my life. Except I am not sure they really, physically happened. They weren't people. They were me. They are me. This is me.

I think we meet ourselves many times in life. It always when we least expect it or when we are most elated and open to it.

I believe it to be a Circle Mirror Transformation.*

*(a title of a play I never saw but loved the title)

Vision Board or Vision Bored???

2010-03-25T22:28:00.005-04:00

I can't believe I have actually heard this come up in recent conversations,

"VISION Board!"

A sentence overheard like this..."so, while I was cooped up last weekend I started adding to my vision board."

Or this one..."she is really talented. I told her she needs some focus, maybe a vision board"

I mean, I know I heard Oprah mention it. I think she occasionally refers to it. But, I didn't think anyone actually did one. But, in the past several weeks I have heard at least 3 people talk about their vision boards. Part of me wants to puke. Part of me wants to laugh. Part of me wants to pry. And, honestly, a large part of me wants to know if I should do a vision board.

I have my own beliefs in what motivates people. I believe that most of our motivation for anything we do originates out of two primal emotions: LOVE and FEAR.

We either LOVE to eat and let ourselves get Fat. Or we FEAR that we are getting too fat and we diet. Or we come and go from both sides of the spectrum.

When we LOVE someone so much, it motivates us to keep the relationship alive. We are motivated to talk to that person, to help that person, to hold that person. When we are AFRAID of losing someone or afraid it isn't going well any longer, we are motivated to lie, cheat, harbor our feelings inside, hypothesize etc.

But, I also believe we "go toward what we focus on." When I focus on the negative in my life, things never seem to look up. When I focus on money problems there is never a solution. When I look in the mirror at a blemish or a scar my perspective of my self changes. The same is said when I look in the mirror with a good hair day and nice suit. I feel sexy. I walk out the door differently. When I focus on leaving 20 dollars at home every time I walk out the door, I find myself with extra money at the end of every pay period. And, I definitely believe that if you hear something enough, over and over and over again, it can start to become your personal truth.

So, does a vision board put those feelings into better perspective? Or, are we just bored with our daily life, daily outcomes, etc, and decided to vision our life in a make believe way? Does the board function and motivate? Or, does the board just remind us? Which can either measure our success or constant reminder of where we are NOT. Maybe the bigger question is what are my visions? Before I can make a board for them or get bored of them, I should probably start to figure out what they are?

I should also stop judging those who do have faith in the power of a vision board. Who am I to criticize or patronize or condescend. What ever works for you! I certainly don't seem to have it right, or at least any better...

Let's see...I envision...umm...ummm...well, right now...I envision wine and maybe some froyo!

Another attempt

2010-03-22T23:49:00.005-04:00

Here I go.

With no readership but myself.

I have to start all over and get it going again. I made a promise to myself that after my trip to Chicago over the weekend of March 6th, I would jump back on to this "writing" idea that I have. I am not sure if a blog is exactly the way to go anymore, but for now it seems like the best way for me to do it. Using my ballpoint and a sheet of lined paper inside a leather bound book seems so archaic at this point. And, truthfully, the thought that even one person (even somebody I actually know) could read this is just the amount of pressure/validation I need to keep me writing...ANYTHING!

Right now that ANYTHING is a haunting sadness and an overall lethargy. These two emotions seem to be the most powerful over the rest of my flurries that bluster through me on any given day. Sure, the sadness can be linked to my departure from NYC after nearly 14 years of braving the "concrete jungle where dreams are made of." The lethargy is part complacency, part normalcy, part growing older in a city that always makes you feel 10 years older than you are. I am tired all the time but don't sleep well. I am lazy with my days but still get everything done that needs to be done, for work, for home, for me. I am lacking motivation but have a tendency to keep knitting, keep reading that one book that has taken me 4 months to finish, that one vocal CD I have been working on since December, and the organization of my belongings that seems to be 3 years in the making. I am bloated and feeling fat for my frame, yet I am cutting out carbs, drinking less, and trying desperately to not indulge in the late night binges. I am not an idiot. I realize this all points to me just not being happy with myself, or where I am in my life. I keep trying to understand that "unhappiness." I don't necessarily feel unhappy. But, I think my actions, feelings, and demeanor all point to something unhappy within me, around me, about me. I know that I wished I were doing more in life. More meaning what, I don't know? I guess when I say 'more' I mean something bigger than myself, or something truly myself. I feel pulled in too many different directions hence never giving anything 100 percent of my devotion. I always spend my days wishing for more time, looking back at what I didn't get done instead of what I did. I also tend to wake up with a feeling of anxiety. I always feel like there is some impending doom awaiting me when I turn off my alarm and turn on my phone, when I open my mailbox, when I open my front door, when I take my first step into the jungle. I know that I need some inspiration, some motivation. I hope I am not putting too much pressure on my huge life change to suddenly spark the inner artist in me, or to transform me into an overnight healthy, successful version of myself. But, they say that huge life changes like "moving" can either be the most difficult thing to go through or the most rewarding. It forces you to face the harsh realities of starting over, getting to know new people, new places, and new life. I can't sit on my couch anymore in a pile of safety blankets, hugging a pint of complacency and sipping a cup of soothing liquid of my choice. I hope this is the case for me. I hope I can face the new chapters in my life with more zest. I hope I can zoom through those chapters in half the time it has taken me to read the last book I read.

Here is to another attempt.

Driving thru memories

2009-10-17T23:41:00.000-04:00

I am not sure if Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car" was as much a part of his youth as it was mine, but that song was so heavy with hurt. I remember not really knowing what it was about for the first few years after it was released. I remember later in college thinking it was such a weird song to have become so successful. Now, years later her self-titled album found it's way back into my life and I've discovered how many other songs on her album I love. The song "Baby Can I Hold You Tonight," which was later a shitty boy band cover. The song "For You," that only people who really gave the full album a listen will remember and love. As I sit down to try and recap the past week of my wild and crazy ride through my state of mind and California state, I can't help but think of that song. Although, the song's lyrics when you listen to the whole thing don't truly reflect my week in sunshine and bliss, a few of them will have to do for this post. "We'll take this fast car and keep on drivin'" she would sing. Rosas was a fast car. Rosas was the name he assigned her. Not for reasons you might expect. The car is not red or pink, it doesn't have a name similar to a flower or a petal, and Rosas owner was not of the latin or Mexican persuasion. In fact, the fast car is a sleek Mazda3. Black with a sunroof, and soft black leather interior. Four doors. Because he hates the idea of himself or anyone for that matter crawling in the back seat. Besides, the doors on two door cars are so much heavier and large. Rosas name was assigned shortly after he arrived in WeHo and met the numerous flower sellers that stroll the Santa Monica Boulevard strip at night approaching bar hoppers and restaurant goers offering "rosas." Except it must be typed phonetically so that you may see how it sounds when the short and stout Mexican mama offers them to you or when Carlisle, Rosas' corn-fed, white, southern boy owner speaks her name in an over pronounced Spanish accent. "Rothath?" "4 dollath." This is how he spoke to his car whenever referring to her. "Oh, look how pretty Rosas (rothath) is after her wash." Some would say it's childish. I called it charming. Because he said it with such earnesty. He wasn't joking. Mazda3's name was Rosas. Besides, I have aunts and uncles who still name their cars. We all have, at one point in our life, named our cars. I just haven't had one in ten years, so I forgot how much people really get into referring to their car by their new given name. By day 4 of 8, I was ridin' the Rothath (rosas) Band Wagon with the best of 'em.I never could have imagined the view from Rosas while on the Pacific Coast Highway. I mean I knew it would be pretty and unique, but I had no idea it would be breathtaking and fantastical.Every twist and turn revealed a different view of the sky, ocean, mountain. Just around the bend would be a scene from some movie about uncharted land or undiscovered country. I never tired of the next turn or bend in the road.With the sunroof open and the music on just loud enough to be filler during silences and soft enough to allow conversation to be effortless, we drove the 8-9 hours. We stopped nearly two dozen times for yet another perfect photo opportunity. I remember Carlisle laughing at my fear of heights and brushing it off with the utmost confidence. Like a parent who let's go of their kid's bicycle seat when you first take the training wheels off. With a nonchalance that should be studied, he laughed at my dramatic display of fear and told me to brave it or stay in the car. So, there now exists a photo of me clutching a bridge that must have been 200-300 feet above a thin river of water branching out to meet the ocean. The look on my face after braving my fear (slightly) is that of genuine fear and dramatic interpretation of fear. It's priceless to say the least.Rosas has a Bose sound system. She has been blessed with good, strong senses. The 80s collection CD I purchased in LA specifically for only one song comes up on Rosas' disc changer. I ask Carlisle if he minds if we skip to track 18 and then start the CD from the beginning. He is an easy type of guy, so, of course, gives me the okay. I know how crucial it is for the driver to like the music. Especially if that driver has driven the entire stretch so far. So, needless to say, Carlisle's best interest was at hand-not my need to hear "Hands To Heaven" by BREATHE. So, there its--the sun, the clouds, the breeze, the winding road, the edge of the country, the ocean and the song of all 80s love songs playing at perfect volume. Carlisle let's me sing along and doesn't say a word when I don't hit the high notes and turn to silent lip synch. His hand reaches across the gear shift and gently falls onto my thigh. Nothing else. No eye contact. No squeeze. Just a delicate hand draped ever so gently across my trembling thigh."Tonight I need your sweet caress..." the song belts.His hands are beautiful to me in this moment. How have I never noticed the strength and beauty in his youthful hands? How have I never noticed his knuckles and the soft light hair on his wrist creeping slightly onto the back of his hand? The color of his string tied bracelet suddenly complements his skin tone on his hand and arm. His shirt is rolled to just below the elbow exposing the perfect amount of a forearm with soft veins appearing across the top and several more barely visible along the bottom of his arm. Like roads, they eventually intersect at the bend in his elbow. I feel this intersection with my first two fingers softly gliding over his skin then slowly back down to his hand and all the way out to his middle fingertip. I continue to sing the song. Again, I miss the high note and mouth the words instead."Tonight you calm my restlessness, you relieve my sadness..." the songs moves into the saxophone instrumental break.The song. His hand. Bring me back to Henry's Skateland in Smalltown, USA. I asked Stephanie if she would meet me by the fir tree and kiss me on the lips. We did too. I relay a bit of my 80s past to my younger travel companion. He doesn't recognize the song. I don't mind. I don't bite back with a bitter banter about the good ol' days, or how old I never intended to be. I just give him more details about why I loved this song and why I still do. He nods his head a subtle yes and agrees it's a pretty song. He doesn't need to recognize it. He recognizes what it means to me. He doesn't need to think it's pretty. He thinks it is and because I do.His hand makes it's way back to the wheel during sharp turns, but it eventually finds it's way back to my thigh. Never caressing. Never squeezing. Never sexual. Only intimate. Only soft. Only a reminder. Only a gesture. If I left a finger he meets my finger listening to the debate of whether they should intertwine or not. So available. So easy. So comfortable.For months, I have been starving for affection. Taking it in brushed elbows and arms of strangers around the waist. Taking hugs from friends for a moment too long. For months I was convinced it was something I needed. Taking pats on the ass as compliments. Taking drunken thrusts as attraction. Taking drunken kisses as meaningful.I begin to think of Tracy Chapman's song..."You've gotta fast car...is it fast to enough so that we can fly away...I gotta feeling that I belong....Aye, I gotta feeling I could be someone, be someone,...be someone."All I needed was in that fast car, Ms. Rosas (rothath)! The surge of positive energy that came from Carlisle's gentle hand hit me like the waves that were crashing into the cliffs 300 feet below our winding road. I wasn't starving for affection. I was yearning for meaning, simplicity, and truth. Thank you Rosas for being that fast car. Carlisle, "just remember when we were driving, driving in your car speed so fast I'd feel like I was drunk, and city lights lay out before us and your arm...."No words to say. No words to explain. This feeling inside. I have....

The Fast Track...Day 1

2008-06-04T19:54:00.007-04:00

There's probably not many of you left out there still reading me. I can't believe I dropped the ball just at a time when I was getting readership. Anywhoo, here goes...

I have embarked on what I believe to be my very first official diet. Sure, over the years I have given up this or cut back on that. I have had my exercises fanatical days and my low carb seasons. But, this is the first time I am with in very strict perimeters of a diet that is specifically aimed at cleaning and detox the colon and the liver. It is called The Fast Track One-Day Detox Diet. (Link above...i hope)

Here's a little back story.

-Met a boy and he made me smile.

-Three months later it's a deal.

-His influence is powerful because I love him.

-Now I follow a strict summer detox that he has done in the past, loves and is far more diligent and excited about than me that lasts for a total of 11 days.

But, it is something we can do together (I keep telling myself). It's something that we can share the benefits of together. It means we can cook together. Share ideas for snacks together. Encourage and motivate each other. Even keep tabs on each other to ensure that neither is falling off the detox wagon.

So it begins with 7 days of stocking up and chowing down liver loving foods. (i.e. Greens nobody likes, fruits and veggies that make you gaseous, and protein the size of the palm of your hand in the form of lean chicken, beef or fish. Not to mention things like Flax - what the F is Flax? - a few berries here and there, olive oil, and half your body weight in water a day.) But it also means staying away from the things that clog our liver, toxi-fy our body, and cling to our colon. (i.e. Coffee, alcohol even WINE!, breads, gluten, pastas, fried foods, soy products, sugars and anything that ends in "uctose" as well as any and all dairy.) On the eighth day you fast for 24 hours with only water intake and juice they call "Miracle Juice." It consists of Cranberry Juice (natural of course) and some spices of nutmeg, lemon, etc. Then after most likely "gettin' rid of the rottens" you spend the next 3 days replenishing your fluids and your good bacteria with some supplements and lots of good healthy yogurts and greens.

Now, I must admit, I consider myself a person with a strong sense of conviction and dedication. When I set my mind to something I feel that 9 out of 10 times I accomplish or fulfill to a satisfactory outcome. And, so far this is how it went...

DAY #1 MONDAY

I woke up with a whisper of a hang over. It could have actually been a hang over from Saturday masked by margaritas and wine on Sunday only to rear it's soft subtle head on Monday. A hangover nonetheless was present. So was the boyfriend. (For the sake of this blog and any future one's he will be known as Zondry.) There we were, Zondry and I, scrambling eggs with broccoli and mustard greens in olive oil. The night before we had done some mild one or two day shopping of must have items: A couple of pears and oranges.; a big clove of garlic and a large onion; some odd greens like cilantro, mustard greens, and chard; carrots and lean chicken breast.

I did very well. I jokingly wined about craving coffee. I gave total poker face when Zondry asked if I had a headache. I mustered up a smile (could have been a wince) and said..."No not really..." While thinking..."Nothing a little cup o' java couldn't cure!" He gave his signature "ha!" Which is this adorable nervous laugh he has after he knows more than someone else has actually revealed, when he doesn't know what to do with the dead air, when he feels like being polite and when he hasn't really been listening. It's actually quite cute. Adorable in fact. This toothy, airy, comforting, "Ha" that has just a linger of a sustained awww sound. He preps me on what to expect for the day with my hunger pains, headaches, and possible withdrawal symptoms. (What am I, a junkie?) He promises to cook my first dinner that night and have it waiting in the fridge when I come home from the night shift. (He really is that devoted to the diet)

I suffered that day. No matter how many pears or carrots I ate, my hangover stomach and caffeine headache just would NOT let up. But, I made it. I drank copious amounts of water. I didn't cheat. I didn't have a glass of wine from the three beautiful bottles staring me in the face from my kitchen. I made it home to grilled chicken over more mustard greens and asparagus sauteed with olive oil and garlic. It tasted like heaven and I loved it more because just the thought of Zondry brought his scent into my memory and the dish was peppered with Bond St. #9 cologne.

Day #1.
Mood Swings - 0.
Tired Level (0-10) - 8
Hunger Level (0-10) - 9
Cheats - 0
Cravings - 2 (Peanut Butter and Coffee)

Rainy Nights flood with Random Thoughts

2008-05-03T22:42:00.002-04:00

The following is a small handful of random thoughts that came and went through my mind while on the clock Saturday night. It was raining and dismal and I longed for sleep and someone to hold me. I was also doped up on cold meds and a little foggy in the head. After several trips to and from my office the following is just some random things that I laid out into this post.

When I was a very young boy I used to strum my toy guitar and sing Eddie Rabbit's "I Love The Rainy Nights." It used to be a party favor for my parents at adult gatherings. Like there was a string attached to my back and they would pull it and I would strum and sing..."I love to feel the rain on my face and the rain on my lips. You know it makes me feel good..."

I know it sounds ridiculous and maybe even a little cra-cra. But, I am starting to believe that love is it's most real, raw, and true when it eats away at you causing small fits of rage, panic, arousement, anxiety, lust, jealousy. These coming and going by the hour or sometimes by the minute.

Only a few short hours ago, one of my fellow male employees (a 22 year old immigrant who is heterosexual) asked me if I am scared that being gay may mean I will not have a family and will end up alone. Instead of questioning the origin of his curiosity, I answered the question as clearly, honestly and succinctly as possible. I said, "Absolutely! I am terrified. It is something I believe most people gay and straight are afraid of. However, I believe that gay people have to face everyday of their lives learning how to deal with the possibility of no family and living alone as well as cultivate their own idea and definition of family and loneliness."

I find myself missing some of the most odd and specific things about my friends and loved ones. For instance, with Joely I miss watching her put on her lip gloss and the smell that seems to lightly lift from her handbag when she combs through it. I miss the Nurse's clean scent after he would take a very long and thorough shower. All freshly scrubbed and humid linen smell. I miss the smell of new car sometimes. Pretty much everyday when I wake up, I miss the smell of cleaner air and the smell of a large house rather than a tiny apartment. And right now, in this moment, I miss my new man's quick little "Ha!" laugh that he has after almost everything.

Have you ever really sat down and praised yourself for your own personal growth? I hardly do it. I am sure we all should do it more often.

I Bow to The Queens

2008-03-24T15:25:00.002-04:00

A few months back, I had an incredible "overheard" moment. I had arrived early (SHOCKER!) to a bar where my friends who are always late were planning to hang for the night. I knew no one, but it did not stop me from sliding my ’fatter-than-normal-lately’ ass on to a bar stool that stood at a cocktail table and quickly summon my server to bring me a Maker’s Mark on the rocks. Maker’s is something I have been drinking during these colder months. It’s nice, but too many can reek havoc the next morning. So, I generally switch to Stella as soon as I feel the bourbon buzz.
Next to my three-top cocktail table stood three boys. Although, they were all clearly over the age of 21, they were still boys. And not because of their ages, but because of what I overheard. Just to give you some visual perspective, they were all above average height, above average looks, and they all were plain and boring. Simple faces with simple haircuts (all with no variation from the other) on top of what clearly were simple minds.

In no particular order I heard things like this. (Embellishments and liberties have been taken...so roll with it.)
one boy: "I mean, I just don’t get it. Sure, I want to get married or have the right to. But the type of people that are standing up for it in the media are, like, fat lesbians, and bear daddies."
another boy: "I mean, let’s face it, it’s sort of the ugly, retarded types who want to get married. Or at least that is what it looks like. Is it mean that I just said that? I mean, you guys know what I mean, right?"
the third boy: "I totes know what you mean. (okay, so he probably didn’t say totes...but it makes the story sound oh so much better.)I just feel like there are, like, certain types of gay people. There’s, like, us. And other’s like us. And then there’s like, drag queens, and trannies, and lesbians. I just don’t get the drag queens?"
one boy: "I kinda don’t get it. I mean why can’t all gay people be more normal."

At this point, it is taking every muscle in my body to tame my tongue and lock my loud mouth. So, needless to say , I ordered another Maker’s Mark since I sucked the first one down in an attempt to bite my tongue. Chewing the straw made me drink it faster I guess. There were more things tossed around the conversation round cocktail table. Things about lesbians being "just different." There were more comments about how they love some drag queens but don’t get the others. Lots of talk of "normal." What the fuck IS Normal?

So, this is my shout out to the queens, the trannies, the ho’s, the movers and the shakers, and the button pushers, the ones who are out, the ones who are loud, the ones with bellys and hair on their chests. I fucking love you. I worship you. I idolize you. I sometimes dress up like you. I sing along to your songs. I learned how to lip synch because of you. My runway skills have gone from "Wha’ the F*K?" to "WOOOORRRRKKK!" I have scored some major free drinks because of you. I have met some crazy tranny chasers because of you. I have made friends with you. I have serenaded you. I have toasted to you and with you. I have given you jobs. I have fired you. I have dragged my ass out on my only night off to air kiss your beat face and watch you make dozens of happy homos that much happier and drunker (is that a word?). I bought your single. I celebrated your birthday. I walk proudly down the street arm and arm with you. You teach me to be unafraid. You teach me to hold my head up even higher than my arrogant ass thought I could. You make me realize what it takes to be yourself. You make it look so natural and you always look gorgeous to me! Fat, thin, goth, old school, dirty, sexy, cool, soft, sweet, singer, lipsyncher, performance artist, musician. Anyone with bravery and balls. (Literally and Figuratively)
You know who you are and you are BEAUTIFUL dammit! Despite what a table of 20-something, flat ironed, flat faced, thin browed, drab, grey, plain white T-wearin’, above average "Normal" gay BOY says!
You paved the way and still continue to do so.
I love you. I thank you.
You better work!!!

Pieces of Me

2008-03-24T15:20:00.002-04:00

For instance, I want nothing more than a million little things with you in this very moment. I want to cry on your lap. I want to hear you sing. I want to throw popcorn in your face. I want my hair stroked by your hands. I want to slowly undress you. I want to swirl the hair on your forearms. I want to run really fast through Washington Square Park in a race. I want to take you to my favorite lil romantic wine bar. I want sleep for 12 and 1/2 hours waking up periodically to your elbow in my chin. I want you to complain about my hogging the covers. I want to push you to be more; to be better. I want you to challenge my intellect and my vocabulary. I want to know what Florida looks like with you. I want you to see beauty in the ugly of Iowa. I want to go shopping for you, with you, because of you. I want to fight at the jukebox. I want to hate Bjork...but I don't. You want to hate Kelly...but you won't. I want to gossip with you and judge all the boys that pass us by. I want your hand to fall effortlessly onto my thigh. I want my body to quiver when it does. I want to laugh, I want to kiss, I want to cry, I want to hold...even just your hand.

I will not be here waiting.
I will just be here.

I will not take these things for granted. I will only cherish and learn from all this that is bad and that is good.

Someday maybe...Someday maybe not.

Either way, in time it will bloom and grow and close up and start over again.
I will be here...if you will be. I will be here....Please be careful with me.

Breathe out the old...in the new...

2008-02-21T23:03:00.003-05:00

At first I was afraid. I was petrified.

I ran to the nearest mirror. I inspected my nose hairs for any extra long strays. I tugged at a few of the bed head strands of my styled-to-look-messy hair. I made sure my shirt was tucked in to reveal my "new" ass. I gargled with my organic mouthwash. I shined my boots. I may have even dropped down and squeezed out twenty push-ups (like when we used to date) to give myself a freshly pumped look.

I came up the stairs to find that I was not afraid. My heart was not aching with every heartbeat as it had so many times before. My hear wasn't even racing. I was angry but confident. You were somewhere you shouldn't be. You were doing all the things you shouldn't do. But, poor you, you just can't stop. I was confident but angry. One could say I was maybe confidently angry. I may have been angrily confident. I am not sure how the combination of the two end up rationing themselves over my emotions. But, I was both. I was grace and power. I was tranquil and in motion. I danced around you with reckless abandon but with total control over my surroundings. I looked you in the eye and saw right through you. You are hallow. I wanted your heart to beat. I wanted your pulse to rise. You were in MY house...UNWELCOME.

But I remained a gracious host. A professional manager. My normal, flirty, happy-go-lucky, playful self.

I believe I breathed my very last high strung breath with regards to you. It was a tight breath but after I let it out, the amount of new, clean, fresh air that I let in carried me to new heights. Higher than you. Bigger than you. And yes, I will say it, BETTER than you.

I am so strong...right now!

Dee in Dolce

2008-02-01T16:54:00.000-05:00

We will call him Dee. This will stand for his designer douche bagness and his dee-lite that he added to my night. Let me fist describe Dee. He's a little bit chubby if I'm going to stoop to the shallow edges of myself. Dee is tall. Dee is young (23-25). Dee is also drunk. He's feminine without being tranny. He is stumbling and fumbling somewhere he is not supposed to be and I politely ask if he needs assistance and guide him in the proper direction out of the basement of the bar. How he got there in the first place is beyond me. The following is my 2 min and 2 sec exchange with Dee.

(Oh and btw, I was also on a phone call)

Me: Can I help you? You shouldn't be down here?
Dee: Wha? I just...ummm...I am looking for drag queens.
Me: Well, we don't keep them in the basement here. Besides, I think they left.
Dee: (Pause with an open mouth stare then finally in his best valley girl voice)...Um...geez sorry I am wearing dolce. (Which could also be Sorry. I AM wearing Dolce.)
Me: What? That's nice. Now right this way up this flight of stairs. Watch your step.

Dee stops dead in her tracks and he says: "Do you know? I mean where on earth can you find Micheal (insert long weird name of some designer perhaps)? I mean you can't find him in New York..."
Me: Excuse me? I don't understand what you just said?
Dee: Puhleeeessseeee, I am just saying...
Me: (interrupting) I am not sure what you are saying because it has been nothing but hoots and clicks since I found you stumbling around. Can you please head up these stairs and I will show you out.

Dee begins to work up the stairs. This is different than walking up a flight of stairs. It's runwaying up the stairs. Work! But, just before he reaches the top of the stairs he speaks in his best Janice Dickinson and says...

"You're a poor bitch."

Me: Excuse me? What's that supposed to mean?
Dee: You heard me. A poor Bitch! This is Dolce+.

With that he shonteyed* out the door and back into the gay fray of Therapy bar.

+Apparently Dolce is this really tacky black jacket with horrible black floral stitching on it. But, also apparently it makes you NOT Poor!
*shontey is a word used by Rupaul in her hit song Supermodel. It's really spelled Shante. At least according to her liner notes inside the CD. But, since I am a poor bitch who can't afford an education, I made up this spelling. I am certain my pal Dee would know the proper spelling of this FABULOUS word from the fashion and pop culture vernacular

Enough is Enough

2008-01-20T18:27:00.000-05:00

He did not cancel. He texted when he was running late. He brought STELLA because he knows already. He brought popcorn...because he read my myspace profile. It was the old fashioned kind and he taught me to pop it in a pot with some oil and shake it over the stove. He brought his favorite seasonings, butter, salt, pepper, raisins and nuts. It was fun. My batch turned out better than his. He matched me drink for drink. We watched Project Runway. We watched will and grace. He drank what i was drinking. (we had one bottle of white and one bottle of red) He told me he was jealous of the coziness of my apartment. He laughed a lot. He made me laugh. He told me about his life. He held my hand....a lot. He kissed me a lot. He finally let me touch his belly even though he is insecure about it. He threw me on the couch and tore my clothes off and then respected my wishes to move slowly. He made penis jokes that weren't too corny. He then stayed another hour longer than he said he would. He complimented my looks. He praised our first date. He asked for another date. He left at 1:50am....It was well worth the over 4 month wait. Well worth it. Even though it never happened again.

Because...

It still was not enough for him.

Seasons Change

2008-01-12T22:54:00.001-05:00

It took a lot for me to say what I did. I am not certain it's all the god's honest truth, but in that moment it was what I was feeling, thinking and foreseeing in our possible futures. I guess the reason I blurted it out could be blamed on the hour of the night, or the amount of alcohol I consumed. But, the burning desire to tell you came from a longing to hear you, see you, touch you and a fear of losing you. I couldn't watch someone come in and sweep you away from me. Not only as a jealous "possible" love interest but as your friend. A good friend. I know you so well. He will come in a sweep you away from this life. From this life of shared sodas and music critiques. From this life of twisted arms to venture to the next watering hole or stay even though we are drenched. Do you or anyone else for that matter realize that we abandon so many people for one other person. I know friends til the end, and friendships prevail. But, how can you move forward or on with this new person if I am not a part of it too...at least in some way?

I wished I could sweep all my control issues under the rug and let it all unfold in fate's hands. But, this is who I am. Control. Direction. Constantly in tune. You must know this by now. I wished I didn't care about your choices in life and your future. I wished I did not always think I was right about them. I don't know what's right for you, but for some reason I often think I do. I see things in you that I am not certain you see in yourself. Hence the contrived and manipulative demeanor your sometimes choose to wear. Or, the innocent, confused traditionalist you convince yourself to be.

It's harder now for me to be brushed by your arm. To pretend I never let the words escape. I don't take any of it back. I don't know if any of it is real. I must say, for those tearful, impassioned hours I had some odd sense of hopefulness and self pride. But, now it's harder to look you in the eye. Now, I wonder what it will be like, look like, feel like a year from now.

We will all still be here when this is over. But, don't forget we are here now. We are here to share a soda and have our arms twisted.

Did you get my text?

2008-01-11T20:07:00.000-05:00

One should think that over time and experience you would get better at the waiting game that comes with the dating game.

I suck.

In an age of instant gratificatoin and constant communication, we are so used to rapid response. But, I hereby declare never to text again. Let me be more specific. I will, from this point forward, no longer communicate with a boy I am interested in via text until it is undoubtedly clear that feelings are mutual, affections reciprocated, and committement is the goal.

I say that today...then he will text me tomorrow or Sunday and I will crush all that I claim to stand for, out of sheer relief to hear from him, and widdle my thumb and pointer on my keypad in an immediate response.

OY! Men!

my lovely mixed company

2007-12-30T05:13:00.000-05:00

visit this site before you ring in the new year....read this post and all the others.

Such thought. Such yearning for one's own life. I love you Joely.

www.mymixedcompany.com

Excerpt from DEC 7th 2007

It is possible to find some kind of God. And I don’t care what people say. There is a way to move, that pushes you to the edge that brings forth a kind of light that you can’t get from a bottle, or a sermon, or a group of people who convince you they know more. Even more than halfway through my night’s share, belly up to my favorite place, I can look across and remember that there was a point when all it took was for me to push my body to feel a certain Light that no thing or place can bring, and all that separates me is an avenue of rushing cars and some fear of being better than I am right now.

Stuff. It sucks.

2007-12-30T04:41:00.001-05:00

I can't believe how fast a year goes by. Let alone this last month.
I haven't written because I have been eating, drinking and sleeping.

That's all I do. This is my truth. I do nothing. I do so much that it is nothing. I feel overwhelmed by the everything that is my nothing and the nothing that makes me feel like everything is left.

I said I wouldn't drink tonight. Last night. The night before. I did. I did. I did. And I have excuses for it all. Someone is visiting. It's the holidays. It was stressful at work. I am bored. I am alone. I need something to do. I said I wouldn't sleep in today, yesterday, the day before. I did. I did. I did.

60 year old man on 30 year old skin.

I hate to ramble and ramble on. But this is where I am tonight. Today. Yesterday. Tomorrow. I am not so much unhappy as uninvolved. Uninterested.

I think about so many ridiculous things all at once. I will be jotting down some calculation at work while thinking of plucking my eyebrows. I will also be thinking of having sex with an ex while also thinking of trimming my body hair. I will think of exercise while eating something fried. I want to sing when I only have 20 seconds of freedom in a public restroom. I want to cartwheel or skip when I only have three blocks to the train. That bill needs paid. That email needs returned. I should have invested this year. Where is my favorite belt. There are so many thank you cards and notes I should have sent in the past year.

I will never be the same again. But, I am not certain I even know what the same was/is.

But, I like my Christmas tree. I like my candles illuminating my living room. I like the smell of pine cones and cinnamon. I like hearing from long lost friends. I like finding them on myspace or facebook. I hate having nothing to tell them.

Or,better yet...lying about it.

Almost Lovers by A Fine Frenzy

2007-12-30T04:34:00.000-05:00

I wished I could say that I wrote this...but, yet again, someone else penned my thoughts for me...

My latest melancholy song by A Fine Frenzy

Your fingertips across my skin
The palm trees swaying in the wind
Images
You sang me Spanish lullabies
The sweetest sadness in your eyes
Clever trick
Well, I never want to see you unhappyI thought you'd want the same for me

[Chorus]
Goodbye, my almost lover
Goodbye, my hopeless dream
I'm trying not to think about you
Can't you just let me be?
So long, my luckless romance
My back is turned on you
Should've known you'd bring me heartache
Almost lovers always do

We walked along a crowded street
You took my hand and danced with me
Images
And when you left, you kissed my lips
You told me you would never, never forget These images
No
Well, I'd never want to see you unhappy
I thought you'd want the same for me

I cannot go to the ocean
I cannot drive the streets at night
I cannot wake up in the morning
Without you on my mind
So you're gone and I'm haunted
And I bet you are just fine
Did I make it that Easy to walk right in and out Of my life?

[Chorus]
Goodbye, my almost lover
Goodbye, my hopeless dream
I'm trying not to think about you
Can't you just let me be?
So long, my luckless romance
My back is turned on you
Should've known you'd bring me heartache
Almost lovers always do

Please Sir, I want some more....

2007-11-29T20:26:00.000-05:00

I wring my hands. I pace back and forth. One minute I am giddy, the next I am nervous. It's all I can think about. It charges me enough to busy myself at work, but occupies my mind enough to keep me glued to my sofa when at home. I am so out of practice and out of shape that one fleeting romantic moment, one silly touch of my thigh or hand, one open mouthed kiss sends me into a prancing, dancing, tight-rope walking, dizzy, sissy, paranoid fit.

It was only a kiss.

But, he was so cute. And it was soooooo good.

Start Talking

2007-11-23T20:04:00.000-05:00

I haven't written in awhile. Mostly, because unlike most artists, writers and creative types, I don't always thrive with rich and full creative juice when I am down and out or just plain tired. I guess another reason might be because may be only a dozen people actually read this and then when you hardly ever post you lose even more readers. So, although, I have never really written for my readers (more of a cathartic process for me to revisit after publishing), when you come to the realization that you are reading your blog more than anyone else, checking to see if it is updated more than anyone else, and still not writing anything. You have to ask yourself why you still maintain it? Or, better yet, do you have anything to say?

I do. A lot actually. So begins my new blogging step. I plan to be more consistent on this site. I plan to write more frequently. No, not daily. And, no, still not like an online diary of daily crap. And, no, still not some literary piece of brilliance (misspellings and bad grammar and poor punctuation and run ons stay!). It just means I plan to put more stuff out there. Maybe some fiction, pieces from plays I wrote in my younger days, poems even (although so bad they are good), and of course personal stories in metaphor style, and some of my crazy dreams (since I tend to have plenty of them).

So, I begin with this quick quote that rings so true of mine and other's recent situations as we continue to mature.

"Never allow yourself to make someone a priority while allowing them to make you an option"

Now, as Linda Richmond would say..."Talk amongst yourselves."

Dreams Lend To Reality

2007-10-25T12:46:00.000-04:00

I had a dream last night. I have tried to so hard to stifle you and bury you that you have entered my subconscious mind and now I have had my first dream. Isn't that the way the world works. Just when you think they are out of your mind the have entered an entire different realm.

The clouds were low in my dream. Like, right by my window-low. They were puffy and thick and I was sitting on my window ledge hanging my legs out the window letting the thick fog of the clouds run over my legs leaving a murky film over my shins and calves. I heard my name. I couldn't see down to the street through the thick and cumulus clouds to see who was calling me. But, when I heard my name it was as if it was softly whispered in my ear, even though I knew it was coming from five flights below. My name kept being called, so I stood on the ledge of my window and dove into the clouds using them as cushions and bouncing from one to the other until I landed on one cloud right above the sidewalk. There you were. It was you. You were calling my name. But why? You looked up and tried to swipe away at the clouds to get a better view of me. You told me to fall into your arms. I began to panic. I didn't know how I was going to get back up to my window five flights above. I tried grabbing on to clouds but no luck. I tried leaping onto one above me. But, every time I landed on one it made the cloud sink a level lower. The last thing I wanted in this dream was to fall into your arms. You stood there. In your postman sort of outfit. Pressed shorts and a nice polo. You smiled but it could have passed for a cynical sneer. You kept telling me that I could fall into your arms. But, the thing was, you weren't holding your arms out. I started to call to you to hold your arms out. I knew I was falling. I knew there was a chance that I might not make it up to my window ledge. You still didn't throw your arms out. You stood there. Stoic. Sneering/Smiling. With your hands in your pockets. Whispering my name and telling me to trust you. But, you didn't lift your arms. I was so tired of fighting the clouds. I laid on my back and sank into one. My dream moved to slow motion. I passed by three clouds on my way to you. I passed by you. You didn't catch me. You stood with your cynicism in tact and your hands wringing in your pockets. I sank into the ground which seemed to be made of a soft slate colored sand. It was moving so slowly. The sand began to wrap around my legs, my body, and soon my face. I blew at the sand to keep it from my mouth and when I did, I created a strong enough wind that you blew over as if you were made of paper. The deterioration of your reality inspired strength in me and I began to sit up and wade out of the sand until I could grab a cloud and rest on it. You were a paperdoll. I made another blowing gesture and it was aimed right at you. You picked up and were whisked away in a moment. I sat with relief and comfort at the fact that you were not real. I made it back to my window ledge determined to never again to fall for a paperdoll just because they can be beautiful and joyful.

I thought I was first.
But I also thought you were real.
I can admit to being wrong.
You will never have this privilege.

No Sense....

2007-10-21T15:00:00.000-04:00

I don't speak. I don't want to hear.
I knew that a storm was brewing. But, I closed my shudders and windows to remain blind to it.
All I wanted was to know I was safe. Safe in your arms. Safe from danger.
The dangerous push and shove of the crowded world of normal boys.
Normal.
Feeling Love is Normal. Hiding it is not.
"All the uncertainty, the insanity, of super fluidity" My friend reminds me.

Are you ashamed?

My foolish hopes. My hopelessly fooled heart. Tears fall on pillows where stray hairs cling.
Are you liable? My vulnerability taken advantage of...
Do they know? Do I really know? Will you ever know....exactly...ever?

The taste in my mouth is of dirty metal or tin or copper. It lingers with a stiff bitterness.
What do you taste? Was it worth the licks and ticks?

I push you away bitterly.
You curse my name.
Apologies fall on deaf ears.
All I can do is keep breathing.
The song remembers when.

Blow Out The Candles And...

2007-10-10T10:51:00.000-04:00

She's at home alone tonight.
Again.
She reaches for yet another wrapped chocolate even though she knows she shouldn't. She wears the same red heavy sweatshirt cardigan that she has for years. She also folds an afghan over her lap and slips her feet into footie socks. She leafs through month old newspapers and clips out updates on her son's high school mates while she waits for the cookies to harden. Which she will then lay down into the wax paper lined, shortbread tin she saves just for this one occasion every year. These clippings will eventually be folded into his birthday card. Two layers of cookies, one piece of bread to (hopefully) lock in the freshness, and a card full of black and white announcements about babies, weddings, police reports, hospital updates. The card will remind her son that his birthday takes her back to 30 years ago, when she first held him, listened to his beating heart and fell so deep in amazement with him. The card will remind her son that his mother relives the wonder and meaning of this special day. The card will also say that she forgot to tell him so many things about the journey that the world held for him. She signs it with "Love you Lots exclamation point"

She sends it off knowing her other gift will arrive in a phone call on his actual day.

The cookies arrive just in time. The freshness locked in. The clippings are meaningless facts about people who have become strangers. But, the clipped edges and the perfect folds are full of sentimental messages from the mother. She has no wealth. She has no monetary gift for her 30 year old son. She has only her cookies and her well wishes.

She calls him on the day. She is no singer, but her and her son share a strong love for music and lyrics. She props the phone on an angle and asks for four minutes of her son's time and begins to sing...

I hope the days come easy and the moments pass slow,

and each road leads you where you wanna go,

and if you're faced with a choice, and you have to choose,

I hope you choose the one that means the most to you.

And if one door opens to another door closed,

I hope you keep on walkin' till you find the window,

if it's cold outside, show the world the warmth of your smile.

But more than anything, more than anything...

My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,

your dreams stay big, your worries stay small,

You never need to carry more than you can hold,

and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,

I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too,

Yeah, this, is my wish.

I hope you never look back, but you never forget,

all the ones who love you, in the place you left,

I hope you always forgive, and you never regret,

and you help somebody every chance you get,

Oh, you find God's grace, in every mistake,

and always give more than you take.

But More than anything, yeah, more than anything...

My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,

your dreams stay big, your worries stay small,

You never need to carry more than you can hold,

and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,

I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too,

Yeah, this, is my wish.

Her son is 30 today.

4am Escape

2007-10-07T04:55:00.000-04:00

The Sweet Escape hasn't been so sweet. More bittersweet. It seems I can't escape myself when I need it the most.

My travels have been eye opening, fun-filled, exhausting, challenging, cumbersome, worthwhile, and joyful. But, in all of this I wished I could escape my mind and the anxiety that plagues me.

My travels did not begin last week, or even two months ago. They began years ago. Some of the same roads have been traveled. Some of the same places have been visited. All the new and "first-times" have been parts of my journey of self discovery.

I am not myself these days. I am trying to change. Sometimes, it can't be forced. Other times it was never meant to change.

I deserve to escape. Escape the thoughts and fears that hold me back. Only then, when I break free, will I be open to the changes that surround me. Or at least the possibilities for change that stare me down.

I'd give you everything that I am
I'm handin over everything that I've got
Cause I wanna have a real true love
Don't ever wanna have to go and give you up
Stay up till four in the morning And the tears are pouring
And I wanna make it worth the fight
What have we been doing for all this time
Baby if we're gonna do it come and do it right

Lounging by the pool....

2007-09-24T00:12:00.000-04:00

You aren't supposed to be here if you are here right now. So don't continue from this point on. The water may be too shallow. Diving is allowed but at your own risk.

Seriously, you said you would stay away. We both agree that the water is too cold. The waves that grow when there is more than one can crash. Dangerously.
I said I didn't want to alter my thoughts or my writing just because I knew you visited.

But, that's just it. Since you have visited me, my thoughts have altered. My writing has changed. My demeanor has adjusted. People are complimenting me right and left. "You look great Clem!" "What's going on with you?" "What's the secret-you look so happy and rested?" They say to me.

Well, thanks for asking. It's joy. It's peace. It's comfort.

I am not sure what the secret is. Actually, I think the secret is, that it is not a secret. I am not keeping anything secret. There is no special key to unlock the answers to love and happiness. I think once you realize that, you stop looking for the secret answers to life's ridiculously ludicrous and thought consuming questions. And, once you have stopped looking for these secret answers you can actually spend more time realizing the present. Instead of investigating the past and the future. Just lie back and soak.

I am not perfect. I will still question. But, please don't let my questions blind you and make you not realize the present state in which I dwell and/or float.

If you are still here. I am not ashamed. If you are still here. I have said anything and everything I would and would not say to you or away from you.

If you are still here. I thank you. If you are still here. I dwell with fulfillment. Float with excitement and swim with grace.

If you are here tomorrow. I may not have the same thing to say. But, it doesn't not change the state in which I dwell.

Sometimes swimming, sometimes floating, sometimes treading, sometimes wading, sometimes waiting.....never sinking.

Going with the flow.

My pool of thoughts.

This Moment

2007-09-16T11:33:00.000-04:00

I can't decide whether to keep going, hold my breath, lash out, dive in, or any of the other metaphors you can think of when developing a relationship with someone.

I can't find descriptors that suit the lips or the eyes. Green, beautiful, full, tender. These words don't seem to stand up to what I feel or witness. These words seem lacking in luster or strength. They don't seem to be heavy enough for anyone to feel the weight of the world that lives beneath the ever changing sparkle of green and hazel that swims with in his stare. These words don't seem to savor the succulent savviness or sarcastic perversions that fall from such ripe lips.

I wished I could tell you about the hands. The hands I have yet to leave my tears in. The hands that hold, touch, and caress my thoughts. These hands that could hold my entire person if I asked them to. These hands that will explore my body only to expose my soul and wrap me up in my own spirit. These hands that have a sexy, smooth, masculine exterior with a sensitive, soft spoken inner life.

Then there is the laughter. The stifled boyish chuckle that begins and ends as a giggle. There is also the smells and the texture of the skin. Both so clean and worth burying your nose in.

If only I could comprehend my own fears and where they have come from. Just when I think I have a full view of myself and my world. The enormity of my reality hovers above causing my fleeting moment of joyous exuberance to shutter to the thoughts of sadness and solitude. Only to shift once more to horny-ed excitement and fluttering eagerness.

It has been slow, steady, and sufficient to this point. I can't predict, no, I won't predict the outcome. I will only say it has been worth it. Sometime, hopefully in the very distant future, I will come back to this post and remember that no matter what the outcome, I was plenty full of happiness. My satisfaction was running over.

"Can I get an Amen!?"

2007-09-06T11:42:00.000-04:00

If we stood on our tiptoes and could peak into the future, what would we see? If we knew we could do this, would we do it everyday? Would we constantly be standing on our tip toes? A sea of people walking on their tippy toes afraid of what is to come, maybe excited, or just overly controlling with their life and it's path.

How much control do we really have? Sure, we can financially do our best and keep our fingers tightly gripped on all of our dollars. Thus, preparing for the "future." Having money is preparing for the future isn't it?

But, what about the deeper more immediate future? What about three days from now? Three days from now is my future and there is no telling what is going to happen. I could fall flat on my face. I could soar through my life song with rousing applause. Two weeks from now is my future. Two weeks from now I will turn 30 years old. The day after that, I could die. Or, the day after that, I could feel relieved or nervous or nothing. Three months from now is my future. Three months from now is the end of the year. It is all of our futures. Will we care about how much money we have in the bank? Will we look back at three months ago and see fiscal growth that will ease our minds and make us realize the present moment which was only a few fleeting moments ago the future and now in another fleeting moment it is the past? Or will we have tippy toed our way through those three months dodging anything that looked like potential harm or hurt so as to keep us on the even. I mean really, if you stood on your tiptoes and peaked into the future and saw the hurt you will be feeling after the end of the affair, wouldn't it scare you enough to think twice?

If I could stand on my tiptoes it would only be to stand taller and prouder. I wouldn't want to see into the future, or walk through life straining my already tired and old feet. I would be tempted, of course. I might find myself on a quiet street late at night stretching to the very tops of the tips of my toes and sneaking a quick, but hopefully vague, peak into my future. But, I wouldn't want it to scare me away from the moments that lie most immediately in my future and the ones that exist in my present. I don't care so much about financial growth or security. I don't care so much about retirement plans and property ownership. I don't want to care about whether I am going to be hurt or experience loss or devastation in the future. If I did know these things I might actually become what I fear most--a robot. A functioning product of society as opposed to a fulfilling participant of life.

Sure, I am scared of the future. We all are. Some are terrified. Putting away money and stocks and bonds. Scouring match dot com for the father of their babies. Planning and plodding their predictable futures. Others just nervous and anxious for the changes that lie ahead. Maybe one of the changes in our future will enlighten us. Maybe another will awaken us.

I think about where I might be 10 years from now. It's always fun to think about it. It's fun to think that or to be asked that question. "Where do you see yourself in 10 years?"
My response will be..."I do not see myself in 10 years. I can't see myself in ten hours from now. I see myself as I am currently. And, the most I can hope and strive for is to constantly evolve, learn, feel, express, try, and be. I will dive in. I will swim, wade, languish by the pool and soak up the sun. If I am burned or tired or drenched, then I will make the necessary changes to feel differently. I will not let my tippy toes tread through life with trepidation and a soft unspoken step. I want to leave my mark. I will not let my tippy toes taunt me with my future that teeters on the edge of anything and everything. I want to love the shit and shiny stuff all the same.

I will not take these things for granted.

I will, again, attempt to practice what I preach.

Grow For Me!

2007-09-05T10:01:00.000-04:00

The only plant I own was dying all last week and I couldn't figure out why. Was it the drastic change in climate from cold to hot? From open window to AC? I watered it when I felt it needed it. I moved it closer to the window sill for better sun. I even watered it with some of my Smart Water because I buy into all that electrolyte enhanced marketing BS. I had also been talking to my plant. They say that helps. I would place it prominently on my desk and practice my songs by serenading it. I would then bring it back to the coffee table and tell it about my stress at work, the financial woes, and the fear involved with THE BOY. I would see the wilting of it's leaves and I guess I knew that the plant and I were bonding. I wondered what he was going through. Was the yellowed leaf an outcast and struggling to find his way in the rustle and bustle of the The World of Normal Leaves. I wondered how much taunting was coming from the group of bigger and stronger leaves. I began to root for the underdog. I would dust him off solely and stimulate the soil at his roots with my fingertips. Nothing seemed to be working. I had the beginnings of "giving up on it" stirring in my mind and heart. Oh to be the leaf. Oh if only the leaf could live for me.
So, I was lying there on my sofa one evening. I was contemplating "the world." (twice I have used quotation marks...yikes) It was one of those nights where I knew I could cry if I just played the right song or thought of enough bad shit. If I listened to the swelling voice of Patty Griffin or thought about that party in 8th grade I wasn't invited to, I could cultivate tears. So, I did. I sobbed. I sobbed a very hard and heavy sob. Not for any particular reason, just to sob. To let go of the sadness I tend to carry and to send my fears off floating down my cheeks, chin, chest. Repeating random and general phrases over and over in my head. "It will all be okay." "You are worth it." "Why?" It's funny if you think about it. I am certain we all repeat ridiculous, stereotypical, blanket phrases like these to ourselves continually and even more so during sob sessions. I believe I fell asleep shortly after this 7 or 8 minute session. The next day, I awoke to what appeared to be a very small upright stance of some of the leaves on my plant. Oh to be that leaf, struggling and dusting itself off. I will be that leaf. That day I plowed through my work, my shit, my life, "the world" (again with the ""). That night, I saw the boy and I gave into my desires. I put down my defenses (some, at least) and came to my senses. The next morning I smiled without force or conscious participation. That day consisted of a held a hand, a kissed cheek, a phone call, a laugh. I listened, stood up straight, demonstrated kindness and gratitude, felt with my heart and walked taller.
When I arrived home in the early evening, I forgot to check in with the plant. But, I found myself singing different songs than before and after a few hours I grabbed the plant, quenched it's thirst, moved it into the light and told it how I was doing. No longer was the monologue filled with pointless griping, or circular hand movements demonstrating the pattern and monotony of life. I was giggling...to my PLANT!! What have I become? I know I am getting older, but I feel like I am skipping a generation. I had such peaceful and blissful sleep that night. I remember the temperature dropping for the first time in days and I opened my windows for fresh air. By early morning, my plant had stretched it's leaves upward and onward. The yellow leaf is still a little yellow but standing up and willing itself to grow.
I know it's cheesy. I know it only makes sense in my mind and not in my words. But, we all want the same thing. We are all so closely connected to this earth, to this life. I will never misjudge the power of nature and the natural progression of all the things beyond our control. Beyond my control. My leaf and I stand alone, but among The World Of Normal Leaves.

Hills and Loops

2007-08-28T22:14:00.000-04:00

I can't begin to describe the flurry and fury with which my emotions rumble through me these past few weeks, days, hours. One minute, I am reeling from blueberries and yogurt. The next I am doubled over in pain set on by the anxiety of life. I can be cool as a cucumber and stroll hand in hand down a street, or fret and stew at the great unknown of the city and the nights that don't belong to me.

I feel so vulnerable these days, which can either manifest itself as abounding confidence or overwhelming sensitivity. My body will ache with desire for things I have never felt. My heart will mourn and scorn the loss of something I don't even have yet. I can cry only by myself. In circles I can only laugh too wholeheartedly. I miss people that I know have not gone away. I take for granted the ones who are available to me most.

I hate vulnerability. It feels like walking a tight rope. Or better yet, it feels like waiting in line for the newest most dangerous rollercoaster. One second you are excited the next your stomach tightens. One minute your thinking about jumping the line and taking the chicken exit the next you can't wait to throw your hands up with reckless abandon.

ARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!

Scribbles

2007-08-21T17:57:00.001-04:00

A therapist looks me in the eye and says, "your parents have made you who you are today. the good the bad and the ugly. you should be thanking them. not resenting them."

mom...
dad...

sorry.
she is wrong. I don't resent you. I love you.
But, I will not thank you for teaching me some of the things you did about love, sex, my body, intimacy, or the lack there of all of the above.

I am running away faster than either of you ever could have imagined. I am plotting with more detail and precision than you ever did. I am sabotaging with a force that can only come from the power of two. The two of you.

Thank you.

Sugary-Sweet Gestures

2007-08-13T16:53:00.000-04:00

I was running around prepping the space with crumpled papers and keys a jingle. Up two flights of stairs then down three. "Put those over there and hand me that! Where is he? What time is it? Hello, can I help you?"

I saw him. He must be the model. He was late. Somebody told me the model had a arrived and was wearing a polo shirt. He was wearing a polo shirt and definitely could pass for a model. Besides, he was also walking around alone as if he was looking for someone.

With assumptions and authority raging, I grabbed him by the arm and began leading him to the changing station while mumbling something about how long he would have to be here and whether or not the company that sent him had explained all that was needed to explain. He stopped me by placing his free hand over mine which was holding his arm at the wrist. I felt something and everything came to a halt. I stopped dead in my tracks, looked him in the eye and saw such sweetness. In an instant I knew I had the wrong person. We shook hands. I apologized by tripping over my words that needed altered and brushing myself off with smiles and batted lashes. His eyes were deep and living in a warm soul, as if his tears may be made of simple syrup. He looked at me with a sense of understanding and intrigue. He was flattered to be presumed a model. He was intrigued to know (quickly) who I was. He most certainly looked at me with desiring eyes and inquiring minds. For lack of a better statement, there was a "moment" between us. It was clear. If not to him, well, then to me. But, in truth, I think it would have been clear to anyone standing in on this first exchange. If we had been a cartoon on Sesame Street little thought bubbles with hearts and music notes would have appeared above our heads. After collecting names and a few other quick facts, I marched away hoping I looked dashing, smart, authoritative and put together in the 8 paces I had left in his view. Hoping by pace 5, 6, 7 and 8 he might have smiled that unnoticeable smile that only his closest friends could have seen through his eyes.

I grabbed a business card, scribbled my personal phone number on the back and placed it in the back left of my Lucky's. How apropos!

I then proceeded to maintain visibility in his sight lines roughly every 8-10 minutes. I felt this was enough time to appear busy enough to continue passing by and short enough intervals for him to also think, perhaps, I wanted him to see me. Also, I just didn't want him to forget about me. He didn't. He too maintained a position among his crew that allowed small intense bolts of eye contact.

I think there might have been an exchange when he left. Something along the lines of saying each other's names before saying good-bye. Kinda pointed at each other with toy guns--"Clem!?" He was right. "James!?" I shot back. But, the timing wasn't right to hand over my lucky card. Alas, maybe next time. He did say there would be a next time.

Over the course of the next month or so, there was a next time and a next time and a next time. After visit two and three, I still had not handed off my doodled business card that I had been carrying around with me since our first meeting. There had, however, been the eye contact each visit, smaller talk grew bigger, and the guns came out each time we said each other's names. I think there even may have been a hug or half hug or maybe just that "awkward one arm slightly around the waist thing." But, by the fourth next time, he was only with one person. I knew this person. It made it so much easier for both of us. We now shared something or someone rather. It instantly pulled us closer together in a safe and trusting way. I made him laugh, he asked lots of questions, and it was easy. It was fun. It was clear. I learned about his quest to keep parents and children interested in sugary, sweet morning cereals. He was torn. He made a great living marketing and advertising the profound chocolatey-ness of Cocoa Pebbles but was fully aware he played a role in child obesity. I explained my waving craving of sugar cereals. I talked about how Cocoa Pebbles and Lucky Charms are my favorite cereals to indulge my craving with. I actually had just finished a box of Cocoa Pebbles days before this conversation. When the other person turned away for something, I reached into my wallet and pulled out the crumpled and faded business card with my number on it.

He didn't take it. He had circumstances. I respected that. He would have been too tempted. He didn't want to lead me on or himself for that matter. But, it didn't change us. We still smiled, laughed, gave piercing glances during pass-bys, and the like.

The next Next Time came a few weeks later. My office speaker phone screamed feedback as a co-worker explained that a person by the name of James needed to speak with me. On my way up the first staircase, I hoped it wasn't a complaint. On my way up the second staircase, I hoped it would be quick and easy. I was looking down at my feet as I was trotting up the stairs and suddenly someone grabbed me by the wrist. I felt something and everything halted. I stopped dead in my tracks and looked him in the eye and saw such sweetness. The simple syrup his large eyes swam in sparkled, like moonshine was in perfect alignment with his iris. We hugged as if we were very close friends from college or as if we hadn't seen each other in months. It had really only been a couple of weeks. We stopped traffic on the staircase. I feel like saying he was beaming, but that might be too presumptuous. Or, I might be projecting. :-)
He said he had something for me. (what could he possibly have for me?)
Then he lifted his left arm up and in his hand was a large 13oz. box of Cocoa Pebbles. "Tastes More Chocolatey" was printed largely on the box. I was dumbfounded. Not only was this a very thoughtful gesture, but it was charming, silly, flattering, romantic, crazy, specific, and it's importance in my life in that moment swelled to epic proportions. It was this kind of joy and kindness that was missing in my life.

No, his "circumstances" hadn't changed. No he had not intended to use chocolate as a wooing tactic. No, this didn't mean sex would come soon. But, it did mean he thought of me. He thought of me very specifically. He thought of me and followed through with this gesture. He thought of me, followed through with this silly, sweet, chocolatey gesture, and never needed anything in return, besides maybe to see the look on my face.

I hugged him again and maybe even again. It might have been awkward. I can't remember. I remember blushing, beaming, giggling. I whispered in his ear..."you aren't allowed to do this." But, I didn't mean it. What I meant between those words was..."you (mister smart and funny man) aren't (are charming) allowed (and I respect you) to do (and your pride and your willingness and eagerness) this (to present such a gift with little to no expectations).

Needless to say, I brought the Cocoa Pebbles home after two days of it prominently displayed on my desk, got into my P.J.'s and have never enjoyed a bowl of sugary, sweet nothingness more.

And, I am writing a letter to the company to congratulate them on excellent one on one customer service and that, indeed, these Cocoa Pebbles taste more Chocolatey than ever!

Someday He'll Come Along...

2007-08-08T19:12:00.000-04:00

Things I would say to him, and him and him and him. All the one hour dates, flirts, chance meetings that keep me hibernating in front of my fan and next to my books and magazines. Surrounded by empty bottles of vitamin water.

Don't put your thumb and forefinger above my hipbones searching for cum gutters.

Don't ask me where I bought my V-Neck and then roll my sleeves down or pull the V up toward my neck.

Don't stop me on the street in the pouring rain to explain why you haven't called in weeks. I didn't even like you that much. I only liked that you liked me. Or so I thought.

You are not allowed to reject me. YOU pursued ME, remember?

Stop quizzing me about my waist size and then lifting your shirt to reveal an 8 pack. (p.s. when did it go from a 6 pack to an 8 pack. Jesus Christ!)

I don't want to see you walking home from the gym. But, more than that, I don't want you to tell me your gym schedule or how many hours you spend there, or what you worked on today.

ARRRGGGHHH!

Sleeveless shirts are for pubs or parks not wine bars and intimate dinners. Plus, you are an adult now...aren't you?

What makes you think it is okay to squeeze my thigh underneath the table and chuckle when I don't flex my thigh bicep? We only knew each other for a total of 52 minutes.

Stop talking about the last guy you dated. You hardly knew each other. You act like he is an ex-boyfriend. This should be eye opening for me.

Why would you proceed to compliment me on my shape only to say that if I worked out more religiously I would be "really hot." Thanks for basically saying I am lukewarm.

Come up with something better than I need to walk my dog. Not too quick are we?

STOP COMING INTO MY PLACE OF WORK AND ACTING LIKE WE NEVER KISSED OR YOU HAVEN'T CALLED, THEN PROCEED TO "MAKE OUT" WITH A DIFFERENT BOY THAN ME. ONE THAT JUST HAPPENS TO BE SOMEONE I ONCE MADE OUT WITH.

I know we all like to look. But, learn how to tilt your head with some sense of subtlety. Sneak a peak when I am slicing into my fillet. Not when I am telling you about my scar on my forehead.

And please, please, please NEVER EVER give me a ride home and proceed to rub your crotch and make whimpering moan-like sounds and say "you're gonna leave me like this?" And point to your crotch.

Oh, and that bite you drunkenly tried to rip off of my shoulder looked like a F'in hickey I had to explain away in yoga class to my fellow yogis. Thanks you big ass drunk!

Announcement

2007-08-07T15:41:00.000-04:00

The show is over. And all future performances will be cancelled.

It all doesn't seem to matter anymore.

All the things I wished I had said or done.

I have so many ideas, thoughts, proposals, adventures planned in my mind that will never come to fruition.

That's because my external world is a reflection of my internal world. Which I won't elaborate on at this juncture.

That's because if I actually do anything I say I will do, I will be alone. I would leave the comfort of all of us who have so much to say about everything but little to do with anything. I don't want to be alone especially in my thoughts. I don't want to be different. I certainly don't want to feel segregated from other's. But, most of all, I don't want other's to feel that segregation from me.

So we continue to pedal beside each other. Sometimes going up hill just a bit faster than one. Sometimes one is sliding downhill ahead of me.

I drench myself in the camaraderie of others.

Please agree with me. Please believe with me. Please stay here with me. Please be with me.

So, I cancel my shows. I keep them locked inside my dreams. Dreams that can often feel like nightmares. Shows that will only make me a more difficult person. Shows that require too much from me and my audience.

The show is cancelled with no rain date decided.

In My Dreams

2007-07-31T20:31:00.000-04:00

I had a dream last night. And it fit me like a glove. I was everywhere I ever wanted to be at once. I was with everyone I every wanted to be with at once. I was everything I ever hoped I would be. But, nothing was specific. It just was the way I felt in the dream. It was known. Everything was a given and my dream-self was not questioning any of it.

I was in a place with lots of doors and hallways that led to vast open spaces and other familiar places. It was similar to a mall or an airport in size and layout but with enormous old metal doors that stood 10 feet tall or higher. Everything was made of stone or brick. Like stuff in Italy or Rome. (I'm guessing) It was very Harry Potter or Shakespeare in Love but everyone was in modern attire.

In my dream I was in a hurry and very busy (which is normal). Except in my dream it was easy to be this busy. In my dream everyone knew me to be flitting about swiftly and with the greatest of ease. In my dream if I passed by a friend with a wink and a smile it felt like we spoke for hours. In my dream everyone seemed to be gliding through life. There was a swiftness and an ease in every one's movement.

In my dream one door could take me to my giant bed filled with feather pillows and satin sheets and blankets. Another door would take me to a wide open field of grass filled with all the beautiful people I could ever want to surround myself around. There were frisbees and footballs, and huge lakes with waterfalls.

In my dream I was tall. Not unusually tall, but noticeably taller than most. It was as if everyone stood between 5'8" and 6', and I stood 6'3". In my dream there was always a breeze which kept my hair blowing beautifully. Because, in my dream, my hair was flowing like Orlando Bloom. In my dream, I was golden from the sun and chiseled out of stone.

In my dream the Dr. held my hand with bursting laughter and kissed my mouth like he was breathing pure oxygenated love into my body. Then it would be the nurse and we would cry and kiss each other's tears from our cheeks while the theme song from the golden girls softly being strummed across a harp. Then the fleeting boy from six months ago would show up and dance and spin around with me to Madonna while serving me lavender scented water out of a solid silver chalice.

In my dream California was behind multiple doors with the young boy of my latter day dreams and affairs playing by a pool or sleeping under the sun. Hollywood flood lights would be circling the sky while flash bulbs would be quick spotting the memories of my future in California in strobe effect. The young boy from latter day dreams and affairs would be behind each door. Be it San Francisco or L.A.. Be it beach or pavement, he would always catch my eye, wave me over, and tell me he was playing my favorite songs.

In my dream my best friends were plump with excitement and vigor and were full bodied beautiful people of power. They had dozens of little ones at their feet following in their footsteps learning the lessons my friends laid in their trails.

In my dream my happiness fueled other people's happiness and vice verse. In my dream it smelled like fresh flowers everywhere I turned and it seemed to be a comfortable temperature lacking in humidity. Fountains were made of succulent beer and savory coffees. Roads had no lines and land had no borders. The colors were of autumn, spring, summer and winter combined.

In my dream I could float and fly whenever I needed to breathe deeper or clear my mind. It was limited to only those times and I was unable to fly or float very high or fast.

In my dream my families were alive in pictures and words that floated by in low hanging clouds. When they passed by, a flourish of memories and energy filled my soul.

In my dream I go to sleep with my prayers of thanks and praise.

I Shall Scream

2007-07-26T14:35:00.001-04:00

It will happen when I least expect it. Probably awakened by a dream or I will have lost my keys. And in that panicked moment, It will grow inside me like a whistle tone that only the bats inside my stomach can converse with. Then it will rise up to my chest with a rumble like a train. It will pound at my heart like the big bad wolf. Finally, it will take up residency in my throat bouncing off of my chords and my tonsils and my glands and my pipes like a pinball wizard. But, when I open my mouth hardly any sound will come shining through. Because, my true colors aren't always vibrant and full. Because, instead my mouth will hang open and my eyes will squint closed and drool will fall from my mouth which will seem separate from my body. But, the scream will be heard. Not around the world. But, it will ring and echo inside my head.

Blah and Gross

2007-07-21T21:41:00.000-04:00

It's days (and nights) like these were I want someone the most. Someone to heat up my soup. Someone to stroke the back of head and neck and back. Someone who will watch a movie with me. Someone to run downstairs to the store for more bottled water or gatorade. Someone who will rub my hands and feet. Someone who will run all my errands for me and call me while out to make sure I didn't change my mind about dinner. Someone who doesn't mind watching a Full House Marathon on Nick at Nite. Someone who likes the discovery channel and E!

I hate being sick.

Nuff said

Some Times

2007-07-17T04:54:00.000-04:00

Sometimes you kiss someone on Christopher and Gay Street.

Sometimes you watch everyone be happy.

Sometimes you wished your habits would walk away the way that the last boy did.

Sometimes you think you could never be happier than the moment you were in the sun and laughing with friends about the sex appeal of body hair.

Sometimes you call you mom after a bad dream to let her know that things are okay.

Sometimes you text or call at an hour when no one should.

Sometimes you light a smoke when you said you wouldn't.

Sometimes you skip the gym and hit the record store.

Sometimes a phone call makes all the difference.

Sometimes I wished that sometimes were all the time.

Backwards

2007-07-15T16:40:00.000-04:00

When he laughs it makes a foreign sound. It's as if my favorite record is being played on the wrong speed. I am so used to how it sounds but now it's different.

Who flipped the switch? Is everything okay in there?

It's so complicated. It's so painful to watch them all try so hard. Why must we feel this urge to plow through life with a smile painted on our faces when the clown inside is full of tears that drip and drown us in a sea of vibrant blues and pale whites?

So he stands shifting his weight from left to right with such urgency or is it impatience?

What is ticking inside? Sometimes it feels like a time bomb ready to blow at any moment.

I will be here. To clown around when you are ready.

Climbing Up Hill

2007-07-14T18:41:00.000-04:00

The meadow is filled with men. Shirtless, frisbee-throwing, cargo-sportin', mostly heterosexual, metro MEN.

It's astonishing. Every summer my first time in the meadow is like the first time ever. I still can't believe this many beautiful bodies exist and that they are all here on a weekend tossing a ball, reading a book, massaging their girlfriend's feet.

When did straight men get so pretty, and so fit, and so primped? 13 year old boys have 8 packs. 40 year old men have cum gutters and shaved pecs. I take my shirt of with a studied nonchalance I have grown so good at tossing around. I look down and see empanadas and beer, ben and jerry's and skittles, pancakes and whole milk in my coffee. And that's just what I see when I look at my stomach.

Sensing Self/ Or Self Censor

2007-07-12T20:02:00.000-04:00

With muffin tops and and spaghetti arms he painfully demonstrated the most un-sexy version of sex appeal I had ever witnessed, let alone pay $22 to see. With falsetto as his hoop trick and power ballads from kick ass 80s rockers for me to mouth to, he attempted to put his face/name/persona on the map of creativity and star performances by licking his fingers and gyrating his dumpy ass up against his microphone stand.

Desperate for applause, he would make unnecessary costume changes and reveal himself like a Barker beauty miming the outline of a refrigerator. This would only garner the most polite amount of applause that an audience of 50 could muster. Three intermissions and three citron/sodas later, I was barking incessantly about how unprofessional the 37 minute late start time was. About how three intermissions is a lot to ask for when you are a virtual unknown. About how a performer of his age and experience can still be so uncomfortable in his own body. How has he worked at all if he can barely lift his boots to stomp to a beat during Pat Benetar's Invincible.

Don't get me wrong. I love risks and bravery in the arts. But, this guy is ludicrous. Somebody, somewhere told him he could sing (which is all he can do) But, to have to sit in a stuffy theatre in seats that don't give, that I paid $22 for and listen to an adult man of questionable sexuality and gender, flaunt his mediocre vocal stylings while having no sense of self, is the most dreadful time I have had in the theatre in quite sometime.

I know this rant is arrogant in some tones. But, I can't help but feel sorry for his own self-perception or lack there of. Sincerely.

A year

2007-07-09T17:32:00.000-04:00

Maybe all love is, is a reflection of ourselves at what we feel is our best self.

When we can actually say we love another, it could mean that person helps us to feel like the person we long, strive and dare to be.

I told everyone about you.

Everyone witnessed my strength.

Waiting

2007-07-08T16:51:00.000-04:00

"have you ever had someone hold you for 20 minutes straight and want nothing more than to hold you. they don't try to pull away, they don't try to look at you, they don't try to kiss you. they just hold you in the most unselfish way?"

from the Movie Waitress

Contemplate

2007-07-08T15:36:00.000-04:00

why do I feel unworthy

and why can't I remember you in that moment

that moment when you left a lip-cracked imprint on my temple

wished I could hold myself and make myself understand

stroke my own hair and wipe my own tears

there are whys and there are reasons

for all my controls and all my fears

why must it always be about me

when you all seem to know I have nothing do with it

alone but not lonely I lay

contemplating

Fuck

2007-07-07T21:03:00.000-04:00

CHASERS, I think they are called.

Guys, usually young gay men, who are chasing the virus. They want to be infected. It's their generation's version of suicide.

"Nobody pays attention to us, nobody love us, nobody notices us. Well now I have HIV."

Silence.

But some hear a type of applause in their warped minds giving a round of...

What about the one's who don't chase the virus, but they chase the act of transmitting it? The one's who will meet someone on the subway, at a dog park, online and go home and fuck. Not suck. Fuck. They will text the first fuck buddy that comes up on their phonebook and alphabetically go down the list until someone will come over and fuck them.

Is sex that good? Is sex that worth it? Is sex with someone you don't know easier than I assume it to be? Am I really such an inexperienced clod that I can not bring myself to have sex in the bushes, or intercourse on the first date, let alone after a ten minute encounter over the last few sips of a Stella.

Intercourse with a complete stranger. Intimacy and nudity with another man who shares your desires. Undressing, lubing up, forced kissing chemistry, lazy foreplay, bad breath, condoms (or not), ass, cock, saliva, cologne, sweat, shit, cum.

My cock burns at the sound of it. And, in the past, my cock has burned after less than the above mentioned have been exchanged.

I know we are supposed to love ourselves and give ourselves up to the moment. I know as a gay community we are more sexually free. That's supposedly a badge of honor.

I feel like I have a huge scarlet letter. Not sure if it's a P for Prude or a V for Virgin or a PS for Plain Stupid.

I know I am a blocked person sexually. I know I have leaps and bounds to make in my lifetime. I just don't plan or hope to make them with hundreds of people. I prefer to keep it in the dozens. If I being generous.

Blossoming

2007-07-05T23:38:00.000-04:00

This is a Monologue I wrote a few months ago...

(She kisses him on the cheek. And she turns sharply to walk down the entry gate to board the aircraft. Steve stands still at profile holding the soft pink teddy bear in his downstage hand. After a pregnant pause the lights fade and adjust back to single spot and Steve turns to speak to the audience.)

"And just like that, she was moving on. This little girl I had such a difficult time accepting as a young woman stepped onto the plane and, instantly, my life changed. My best friend, my buddy, my baby. Gone.

And, in her sentimental way, she hands me Calliope. This being her favorite stuffed bear as a child and a young girl. She hands me Calliope and what you didn’t hear when she leaned in to kiss her father good-bye was ‘you keep Calliope and remember you love me because I am the color of cherry blossoms.’

This was a phrase that I caught Callie saying one day when we visited the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. That must have been 1996, or 97. She was 6 going on 7. That’s right. We packed a lunch and some toys and some treats and I told her we were going to go tree climbing and flower picking. We get there with Calliope in tote and Callie is mesmerized by the pinkness of the trees. And, if you have ever been you understand what I am talking about. The pink hue from the trees gives every person who walks through the cherry tree lined path a rose complexion. I find a shady spot to lie down and let Callie and Calliope plan out their adventures. I propped myself up against the trunk of a tree and admired my little girl and her imagination.

I remember having one of many true realizations of just how lucky and grateful I was to have this beautiful child in my life. After a 6 year relationship that fell apart when I signed us up as a foster couple, I started to think I was never going to find a man who would want to have a child.

So, I dove in alone. Alone. And afraid. And then there was Callie. Callie is the result of my impulsive, passionate, dedicated nature. So, I sat there under those Cherry Trees in full bloom and watched Callie and Calliope exchange words about treasures and trails. Callie gave Calliope a very soft, high pitched voice to speak through. And, somewhere between burying the treasure and waiting for the prince to come Calliope (he picks up the bear and holds it to face him) looks at Callie and says in her given voice…’You love me because I am the color of Cherry Blossoms.'

And I cried. I cried with laughter and with overwhelming joy. And Callie walked over to me with her 6 going on 30 heart and mind and asked if I was sad that I wasn’t the color of Calliope. And I picked her up and squeezed her so tight and told her yes. Yes, I was sad that Calliope was a cherry blossom color and I wasn’t. But, I was also happy that Calliope loved Callie and Callie loved Calliope. For years, the cherry blossom color would be Callie’s favorite and I would continually tell her that I love her because she is the color of Cherry Blossoms. Almost every night when tucking in time came, in fact. There was a period where it wasn’t cute and she was too old for it, but eventually, it came around again.

Like today, when my daughter Callie, who I raised to be sentimental and sensitive and loving, hands Calliope over to my care and says (he turns his back on the audience and faces where the boarding gate was. He picks up the bear and has it wave good-bye.) I love you because you are the color of cherry blossoms. I love you because you are mine.

Tough Love

2007-06-26T23:21:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow was a big day for my 12 year old self. Dad was going to allow me to mow the grass by myself. All the other times we mowed lawns in the neighborhood, I either rode on the riding mower with him helping him shift gears, or I raked leaves and picked weeds out of the cracks that break mamas' backs. But, tomorrow he was going to let me use the push mower alone. Without supervision. He would, of course, check my work when I finished and probably do a lot of the trimming around the trees and bushes himself. But, it meant that I would make $8 instead of $4. That was like, 6 single tapes, or 1 cassette and 1 single tape, or maybe a compact disc that is on sale. (My music addiction began at a very early age)

I awoke with little to no fear. When I look back on it now, I remember feeling brave and confident that I would prove myself to my father. The day began as usual. Some breakfast of cereal (finishing the milk), some television, some time with the dog, then the yard work.

When my mother left to do some shopping at neighborhood garage and yard sales, I did have a quick pang of desperation. I wanted her to stay while I mowed the lawn just in case. In case. In case I did it wrong. IN CASE Dad flew off the handle.

Dad instructed me on how he wanted it done.

I began. I was quick. I was happy. I was certain I knew what I was doing. How difficult could a push mower be. If I missed I spot, I would neatly (in the direction of the lines dad preferred) mow back over it. He left me to my own. And I proceeded to comb through the back yard. But, he didn't leave me to my own. He was eyeing my every move from the back porch window. At first, I tried not to notice he was watching over me. I also thought once he saw me doing a satisfactory job, he would walk away and leave me be. After all, the point of me doing the lawn alone was so that father could get more done with his day. If he was planning on watching me the whole lawn then wouldn't that defeat the purpose? He continued to watch me. It sent me raging. I sensed what it must be like to become my father. I was soooo angry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to beg for him to trust me. Why was he still watching me with judging eyes and a condescending look on his face?

After three or four more lines in the yard, I couldn't take it. I let go of the mower and threw my hands up in the air looking right at my father in the back porch window. I threw them in the air with a non-verbal curse and an exclamation point! A second after I had done this, I knew I shouldn't have. His condescension changed immediately to rage.

I knew he was coming for me. I knew Mom wasn't home. I didn't know where to run. So, I didn't. He flew out the back door with three and four foot strides. I cowered like an ignorant puppy anticipating it's scolding. I can only imagine what I looked like at 12 years old and 4 feet 9 inches tall practically curled into a ball. He grabbed me by the back of my shirt lifting me off the ground. I remained curled up. He threw me. Far. I was tiny. He was big. My head and I landed inches from the rock landscape that encircled the large rose bush at the corner of the house. The pee sprayed out of me. It soaked my undershorts and my gym shorts leaving a damp spot on one of the stones. Now I was not only scared but embarrassed. He began kicking me violently in the rear and the back of my thighs as I attempted to crawl away from him up the back porch stairs toward some sort of furniture as a blockade or refuge. I didn't make it. He threw me over the love seat and I landed on the floor in front of it.

He peered over me. Like a monster. Like a mad dog. There was saliva in the corners of his mouth and splayed across my face getting picked up by the river of tears that was now cascading from my eyes.

He asked me if I liked this. No "Yes you do," he said. No
Yes.
Fine, yes dad, sir, I do.
LIAR!

He spit and scream. He hit and hissed.

Sissy. Faggot. Fucker. Among others.

It finally stopped. Probably less than a minute of beating that felt like hours. I stopped crying immediately. That's how he liked it and that's how he would stop. So, I learned how to stop the tears immediately. I eventually changed my shorts and wrapped them in a plastic garbage bag so that my mother wouldn't find them. So, that I wouldn't get into trouble for telling mom. So, I planned not to tell mom.

Later that night, I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake (please), I pray the lord my soul to take. My rear-end began to itch and ache. I tip-toed to the bathroom and pulled my undies down below my cheeks. A web of chaos had been deposited on my rear. I couldn't tell what had happened. Was it a bruise, a stain, veins, blood vessels?

Now should I tell mom?

It's now mine and Mom's secret. She thought it best to not tell Dad either. He would only get more angry that I went to mother to tell her about it.

I still don't think he knows the lines he left on me.

Tough Love.

Just thinking of the right things to say...

2007-06-20T05:22:00.000-04:00

If only you knew what was really happening to me. I am so afraid and ashamed to admit it.

I called someone the other day. Someone who might be able to help me. Someone who has been here before.

I see your lips and the summer kisses. As Eva Cassidy sings.

I lay here motionless and lacking any motivation.

Who knows where the time goes. That's a statement not a question.

I called my Dad on father's day. It was nice. It was fairly easy. Why does this surprise me?

I wanted something and it's not there now. I lash out.

I bury it. I try not to let it take me away.

I order another. I know that I shouldn't.

Somebody hold me too close. Please. Just hold me even when I try to pull away.

All the things I wished I had not said or did. It lives as madness inside my head.

You know in the end I will always be there.

I will still be here. I have no thought of leaving. But, I can't stop counting the time.

Legends

2007-06-12T23:08:00.000-04:00

The night is bitter.

Maybe there is only a whisper or a trace of me left in your memories. IF this is true, I am still grateful.

Maybe time really does heal all wounds. If THIS is true, I am happy.

Maybe the wounds are still there and they just get easier to live with. IF THIS is true, I am tolerant.

The stars have lost their glitter.

Maybe it was obsession. Maybe it was unhealthy. If this is TRUE, I will strive for growth and change.

Maybe it was authentic and an unexplainable desire, connection and chemistry that I can't seem to erase. If this is true, I won't apologize for it.

The winds grow colder and suddenly your older.

There is no denying that Judy is a better singer than Rufus. But, the bravery he showed when climbing atop the legendary Carnegie Hall concert of Judy's is, well, just that-Bravery.

And all because of the man that got away.

It took courage for me to say and do all the things I have said. From here all the way back to Carnegie Hall. The good, the terrific, the bad and even the ugly. I am saddened by the turn of events.

Ever since this world began,

there is nothing sadder than.

A one-man woman

looking for the man that got away.

Choking Back

2007-05-26T02:35:00.000-04:00

There are so many excuses for my behavior.

This was my first relationship.

I was highly insecure.

I was terribly jealous.

I was deeply in love.

I was 21 years old.

So, then, why? Why every time we see each other, do I get this dizzy stomach and nauseous headache? It's fleeting for the most part. But, it comes every time I see you. I look at you now, and the way we are as friends and feel so blessed. I see how much we have grown as people, as men, as lovers. 8 years and counting. But, I can't seem to shake this one instance. This disgusting display of immaturity and drama.

I wasn't a perfect boyfriend. I still doubt I ever could be. I was jealous and insecure and full of fear. I never felt you would love me for me. I don't think either of us realized it was okay to be ourselves with each other. So instead we tried so hard to be what we thought the other wanted.
And, boy did we love each other. WE LOVED. AND LOVED. AND LOVED.

I am not saying I live with regret from that moment in time. That moment in 1999 where I disappeared from the music store (in hopes that you would chase me down...argh...games!) and walked my sorry ass back to Jersey City where I proceeded to sit on the stoop of our brownstone wiping violently at my tears and peering down Mercer Street with tainted anticipation just waiting and waiting and waiting for you and her to come down the street. And...you didn't. Hours and hours went by. Not a phone call. Nothing.

I didn't get what I wanted. Even after a tireless, immature, ridiculous effort to manipulate it out of you. I didn't get what I wanted. But, I also couldn't see that what I had was enough. I wasn't taking what I was given I was only managing to see what I wasn't.

I don't regret my behavior. I had to go through that to learn about myself. It's an unfortunate circumstance that brings the chuck up to the back of my throat every time I think about it, but I had to go through that.

But, you asked me if I had any regrets, or rather, anything I would go back and change. That would be it. Even if I had left the music store out of jealousy and an immature display of loyalty. I never would have confronted you in front of her. I would have, hopefully, walked my sorry ass back to Mercer street and had sometime to think about not feeling sorry for myself. Then maybe when you both arrived back at the house, I would have stood up on the stoop and said I was sorry. Sorry for my childish behavior. Sorry I was pouting and needy for your attentions. Please forgive me. Please understand I am (was) so young and in the great unknown of relationships.

Enormity

2007-05-18T13:07:00.000-04:00

"The Enormity of it devours me." One of my favorite theatrical characters says this in regards to the sweeping overwhelmingness of life and the big picture.

For some reason lately, I have been thinking a lot about the war. Or, rather, Wars in general. And, although, I am opposed to war as a method of problem solving or a means to an end of "something" we aren't quite sure of, I keep thinking I don't know enough about the war.

I don't mean the daily news updates or political factoids that can later be tossed out to grease the conversations with others. I mean I don't have a personal feeling or thought attached to war. This has saddened me lately. My personal wars in my private and professional life take precedence over the wars our country are fighting. My personal battle with self-love and sexual expression overshadow the many men and woman who are considerably younger than me who are risking their lives for the honor and justice of our land. The enormity of this thought devours me and brings me to this page.

I guess my point is, I considered myself to be a passionate person. I have always felt I was a man with a mission, a statement, and an emotional attachment to life outside myself. But, since I don't know what it feels like to have a brother, an uncle, a cousin, or a son or daughter at war, I leave my emotions behind when it comes to this topic. So, I am left with my own wars. My own battles that pale in comparison to the larger ones that life deals to the masses. But, doesn't passion (true passion) come from being able to be compassionate? All this time, that is what I might have been lacking in my life. More compassion. How does one cultivate that? I don't want to have to have a sibling or close relative shipped out to war for me to feel what it might feel like to send someone off to duty. And, is it wrong that I am a little bit envious of those who do have a relative overseas? Not envious that their relative is over there, but envious of the amount of strength and emotion they hold deep within themselves on a daily basis, knowing the risks and the heroism that is thrown at their relative.

Meanwhile, I will release the enter button on my computer, shut down my system and retreat to the sofa to complete my obsession with Grey's Anatomy with the Season 3 finale. All the while, desperately trying to put my little wars aside and try to think about the bigger picture. Maybe just trying to think about the big picture is one baby step closer to seeing things from the big picture.

When I get this way. Which is not that often. I do have to agree with my favorite theatrical character. I sometimes feel the enormity of this world could swallow me whole without a sound.

Unicorns and Libras

2007-05-01T18:39:00.000-04:00

The balloon he twisted and shaped into and Odie-look-a-like was charming and playful. He handed it to me with my name on the collar. How youthful. He encouraged my own balloon making and creativity and stood behind me with his arms and hands serving as instructors.

The photos of his nieces and nephews plastered all over his mantle and bed stand show is devotion and loyalty. He speaks of his brother and his sister almost every time we talk.

His apartment is wall-papered with books. As well as his nightstand and desk. Moby Dick is his current literary endeavor. This after completing the Harry Potter Series for the second time in anticipation of the 7th installment.

His glasses are EMO with out being pretentious. His jeans are frayed from use not from dollars. His T-Shirt falls on him so comfortably, as if his chest hair is the grass underneath a picnic blanket.

His conversation is always full-bodied, intense with out being overwhelming, intellectual with out being arrogant, academic with out being droning, and passionate without being aggressive.

His friendships are strong, committed and full of effortless efforts.

His talents are art and photography as well as working with children.

He takes yoga because he likes what the teacher says in class not because he wants a six pack or gain access to his toes. He reads up on Buddhism, homeopathic medicines, spirituality and doesn't commit to any one fully.

He orders pasta with no reservation.

He has braved the city for over 10 years. He has stared familiar death in the face more than once. He has had his heartbroken and performed the breaking himself.

He enjoys the cocktails but doesn't smoke. He has no addictions or fearful habits that are not under control.

He listens to The Weepies and The Gossip.

He writes in a journal. He attends the theatre. He travels.

He does things like...lifting his and my shirts up to expose our chests while lying in bed for the first time and presses our torsos together. Skin to Skin. Holding me tight and nibbling my ear he says things like..."this feels so nice. Doesn't it?"

It does.

But, this is all I see of him. Now. At least. He is a Unicorn.

I am a Libra. There is a balancing act. And, this unicorn impression I am getting is exactly why one day before my date with the Unicorn, I will meet up with the Jew who lives in Brooklyn but wishes for the LES, only wears skinny Diesel jeans, carries a huge purse, has no ambitions, holds on to his heritage because he likes Shabbat dinners, smokes, sleeps in, has nothing hanging on his walls, won't accompany me to the theatre, and leaves everyone thinking he is a huge Bitch and we will get drunk and have sex.

This will be less than 24 hours before I nervously and excitedly meet up with the unicorn and ultimately not put out.

And, I will never understand this about myself.

Dear_____

2007-05-01T18:35:00.000-04:00

You are beautiful.

I always loved you.

I always will.

Forgive me.

My love,

Clem

Up with People

2007-04-22T13:20:00.000-04:00

I mean he is really cute. But, so is his boyfriend and so is the guy across from us at the table. So is the singer they all came to see. So is the entire staff of my employees who schlep the drinks to the table.

So, why did this happen to me? Tonight? I feel like a 12 year old boy. All, pitched tents and camp sleeping bags. You show me yours and I'll show you mine.

I am his friend. He is mine. I love his boyfriend. We are friends. I have never made an advance on him nor him on me.

But, tonight, I sat there next to him and he put his hand on my thigh. "Oh my..." As he began to caress it,(non-sexually) I began to grow and swell with excitement and desire. At first, I thought it could be ignored and it would dissipate. But, as he continued the friendly fondling with no expectations on his end, my manhood stood up for itself. I began to fear being discovered not only by my friend's hand, but by the surrounding customers. Or, better yet, by my staff. Because, of course, right now would be the exact time a dire emergency would require my attention. While I was standing at attention.

Wet puppies. Baseball. Newborn babies. RATS. Anything to discourage my hormones. But, no such luck. The libido speaks louder than the words in my mind.

I began to sweat. I could feel the lights searching for my shiny skin as the beads of sweat created a new texture to my face. Do I tell him to stop and embarrass him and me? Do I make a joke like I am being aroused but pretend I am actually not? That would probably force me to get up...from the table that is. And, the truth is, I can't. (I should have never bought these jeans in a 30)

So, I act fast. I grab his hand. I pat it the way a mother would when she's telling her son/daughter it will all be okay. I plaster a huge toothy grin on my face and say, "You can't do that right now. " (insert a tiny forced hee-hee) I continue, "Just stop...and don't ask, and turn away because I getting up (argh!) to leave now."

As I did rise (oy!) to leave the table, I caught him catch a glimpse. He wanted to know if he really had done this thing to me. He had. I wanted to go pat him on the back, because that looked like what he wanted. He looked so proud of his achievement. Instead, I shamefully hustled to the nearest employees only and burst into laughter that steadily became tears.

Is that chemistry? Or was I just extra-extra horny? Or is it both? Or could it have been anyone in that moment, if they touched me just right?

Who knew one of my G spots was the inside of my right thigh through a too-tight pair of Lucky Jeans.

Check Lists

2007-04-15T05:02:00.000-04:00

This is the first time I have ever written drunk. intoxicated with alcohol but intoxicated with fear and loathing.

I can't quite understand what is happening in my world right now. I give. Or so I think. I think. Or so I feel. I feel or so I wished.

But, ultimately, the dealer is tossing out the worst hand.

People warned me of this. Of turning 30. Of realizing your truths. Of actualizing your reality. And, I recently was asked by a reader, if I was happy.

He said he follows my blog and wants to know if I am sad. I guess I lied. I told him I am happy. Because, I don't have much to not be happy about. I have friends, and a great job, and a great family and tons of other wonderful things happening in my life. But, I seem to be missing reality. Reality seems to be passing me by and I have no idea. Reality seems to be knocking on my door and I stay in bed fearing it is a creditor or my landlord. Reality is....

that I am not attractive.

that I am not doing what I came here to do.

that I am sadder than I ever realized.

that I am older than I ever intended to be.

that life is not a passing fancy.

that my friends are not always my FRIENDS.

that truth takes some digging.

that I have not learned enough to move on.

that I will always fuck up.

that I don't know how to live and let live.

that I make mistakes.

that he did love me.

that he still does.

that he lied. that they will lie. that i will too.

I am drunk. i am sad. I am publishing this post no matter what.

Reality check.

Job-Check
Money-Check
Friends-Check
Family-Check
Love------?
Truth-----?

What does it take to receive the check marks I deserve.

Tactile

2007-04-13T21:00:00.000-04:00

The sadness of it all is actually wearing off and I am beginning to see the humor in it.

The anger is still on the surface, but I find myself giggling a little inside when I think of telling my girlfriend on the phone about the kisses. I called them sloppy, sappy, sorry smooches. This is kind of comical in a cute sort of way.

The disgust element is lingering but the laughter seems to be winning by just a nose.

Ultimately, I ask you, how do you feel about unrequited affection? Or better yet, affection that is reciprocated but with an apologetic tone and a placating impact.

He says he is a tactile person. How scientific. Such a scholarly way to put it.

It's touchy feely, sweet thang. And you all touchy and no feely.

I wished my writing were stronger. My descriptives more detailed.

Forgetful and Regretful

2007-04-03T04:59:00.000-04:00

I can't believe it. The elephant walk happened this year on March 27th. One week ago. I can't believe I missed it.

Every year about this time. Usually between St. Patrick's Day and March 30th, I watch my all-time favorite movie Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind. This is how I learned of the Elephant Parade that happens yearly (about the same time) when the circus is in town.

The scary part is that I watched Eternal Sunshine, on March 26th (which was really after midnight, so therefore March 27th). Cosmic timing is everything in my life. I won't miss next year's. Not for the world. Even if I don't live in the city, I will come back for this.

The quote goes..."How happy is the blameless Vestal's lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot: Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each prayer accepted, and each wish resigned." Alexander Pope

IF

2007-04-03T00:58:00.000-04:00

If I left would people notice? Would they miss me? Would they move on quickly?

If I said I love you would you run?

If I never changed jobs would you judge me?

If I moved would I survive?

If I went bald would I still be attractive?

If I asked for the truth would it still sound like a lie?

If I order another drink....?

If I lie about my day do I start to believe it?

So Help Me God

2007-03-29T21:07:00.000-04:00

I couldn't really tell you the truth. Even though I am known for speaking my mind. It's still not the whole truth. Although, I know you see through my in-genuine smiles and half-hearted hugs. So, you are, at least, aware of my truth existing. You just don't know what it says.

Here lies the truth.

The truth is, he is not smart enough for you and I can't be around you when he is around.

The truth is, I want you to want to see me-not hope that I am around when you drop by.

The truth is, I respect you too much to be witness or accomplice to your poor choices.

The truth is, I get jealous of your free time. The amount of it. The way you utilize and misuse it.

The truth is, I get tired sooner/quicker than ever.

The truth is, I hate when you don't text promptly.

The truth is, I need to be touched no matter how much I recoil.

The truth is, I am not always looking for something more/better.

The truth is, I can be so happy being unhappy.

The truth is, I don't pay enough attention to my happy.

The truth is, I probably need you more than I should.

The truth is, I probably love you more than you do me.

The truth is, I am loving myself...for the first time in a long time.

Don't be Sad Get GLADD

2007-03-27T21:51:00.000-04:00

I happened to be lucky enough to attend the Gladd Media awards on Monday night at the Mariott Ballroom in Times Square. Sitting with my boss, his partner, and various other successful GLBT business persons and creative types.

I bumped elbows with Tom Ford, smiled and shared a joke with Julianne Moore, shook hands with Kate Clinton, thanked Cynthia Nixon for her generous donation, made google eyes at Robert Gant and tried to remind Heather Matarazzo of our fleeting but fun friendship back in '01.

I listened to Whoopi Goldberg crack us all up with her straight forward quips and loving acceptance of a community that has kept her afloat. I listened to Cynthia Nixon find a sense of humor about her late blooming. I soaked up Rosie O' Donell's politics mixed with genuine thanks and humbleness at the success of her family cruise line and the documentary that I had no idea existed about it. I was warmed by John Water's confident manner and truthful approach toward the audience.

Then came the montage of video footage and media coverage in the last year. The good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful.

I cried.

Nothing too intense just small, sniffly tears.

My visibility as a gay man is more powerful than I will ever know. Each person who takes a stride in public to be recognized, accepted, themselves, etc., is making crucial steps and huge advances in the way we are perceived, portrayed, treated and ultimately understood.

Everything has to do with everything. From Ann Coulter to Rosie O' Donell. From coming out to killings.

It has only been 40 years since the movement really became a movement.

Progress is evident.

I felt empowered, inspired, accepted and safe Monday night.

That doesn't happen very often.

Thank you for being GLADD.

This Just In...

2007-03-25T17:30:00.000-04:00

It's been awhile. I know.

It is also very rare that I journal within my blog. Lately, over the past year I have only eluded to my life or written from various perspectives. Sometimes, I have even tried my hand at fiction. But, mostly I have tried to keep a "James Frey" approach to my writing. A fine line between reality and fiction. True emotion or assignment of such. I write in vague metaphors which some "writers" can not stand, other's relish. I stretch myself as a thinker. I give you only a taste of what I might be going through with little to no explanation. Or I rely on a funny story from my past that is guaranteed to garner comments.

This blog exists solely for my own needs. It scratches an itch I have. The itch to try all the uncharted areas of my creativity. The itch to express myself. The itch to gossip safely and anonymously (sort of). The itch or urge rather to be read and understood. The desire to find commonalities among other thinkers and evolving human beings out there.

The blog stems from the creativity and thoughts of other's. Specifically, it's beginnings come from Joely's company. One of my best friend's blogs. This blog has been many things. It's been a bitch fest, a vent system, a piece of art, a lesson in loneliness, an exercise in storytelling, etc. Through her thoughts I found other thinkers. Too many to name here. Some are linked other's are not...yet. But, there are so many people out there with so much to say. Your blogs and your comments often stir my thoughts enough to provoke me to write. Thank you.

I never want to be a Stephanie Klien or a Joe.My.God. or a Perez Hilton. (Or maybe the longing is so deep it hasn't penetrated me yet.) I just want to write when I feel like it and when I have the time.

Lately, things are going well for me. I am surviving work. I am learning to live by myself more and more each day. I am trying to relax my thoughts and my reactions. I am looking at myself in the mirror again and content with what is reflected back at me. I am deepening my personal relationships. I am making goals. I am taking the baby steps needed to reach them. I am working on my tolerance. I am focusing on my future (one tiny fragment at a time). And I am not feeling guilty for much of anything anymore. That is the biggest step. I have been sad and lonely because I feel guilty for silly things, unimportant things, and things that have passed and there's nothing more that could be done.

I have a lot more to say than this. I just wanted to post an update.

This just in.

Life just IS right now. Nothing too fabulous or tragic to report.

I am Being.

Emergency Contact

2007-03-08T21:25:00.000-05:00

It was most definitely an emergency. It came with sirens in the form of moans and screams, lights in the speed of my movements, and urgency in my anxious gut throwing me on an airplane in a two week spontaneous decision. Hell, it practically came from a megaphone that was magically attached to my shower head while I sang my heart out.

At least that's how my mind would describe it.

I needed contact with another. Physical, emotional, genuine, tangible contact. I needed to feel flesh. I needed to smell skin. I needed to hear another's heartbeat. I wanted fingers intertwined and legs draped. I wanted tongues to touch and run. I wanted breath to breathe life into me. I needed to know I was real. That my body still had feeling. That my soul still had energy and connection. It felt like an emergency.

Emergency Contact.

Over the course of the past few months, I have had to brave my doctor and then a dentist and soon the dermatologist.
With these visits comes a lot of paperwork. Forms with check lists and redundant information that is located on my driver's license, my insurance forms, my medical records, etc. Questions about my sexual activity, my allergies, my family history, my habits.

Then there is always the emergency contact section.

I always pause when I reach this point in the forms. My pen or number 2 pencil hovers over the blank space.

I don't have anyone to put on the emergency contact.

I certainly can't put the beautiful man who, only recently, satisfied my longing and craving for emergency contact.

I guess the emergency is over. But, I still need the contact.

You know, in case of an emergency.

Pet Shop Boy

2007-02-27T00:47:00.000-05:00

I have spent the past 8 months in a haze. A foggy version of myself either simply going through the motions or standing motionless. In the scattered and tattered moments of bliss I do have the pleasure of experiencing, I have either been removed from my current state by way of alcohol or sex or I have been performing.

This haze has made me "unrecognizable" to some. But, mostly it's just made me fade into the background of life.

It began by me trying to move on from the last relationship only to realize I had begun the process over and over again feeling unsatisfied with the tactic at hand each trial.

It spiraled by me trying to get over the "getting over" phase of the "end of the affair", as I now dub it.

It blinded me when karma left the building only to leave me with pesty reminders and audible drips that could only be remedied by professionals.

I am coming out of the dark as Ms. Estefan tried to sing to us. In this light I have made unbearable realizations about myself and other's. I have become bitter and jaded when I always remained the realist with a deep sense of hope buried inside. I have transformed from a trusting all-American boy to a cynical, plotting lil' bitch. All the while wishing and hoping for someone to take me seriously.

I am beginning to realize why you didn't call back. Or why you didn't enjoy my body. Or why after two dates, or one sleepless sleepover, or drunken bed tumbling, or nicotine kisses, or intoxicating promises that you will never find comfort in my soul as a home.

I am just a lonely boy on display inside this pet shop we call community. I can look so cute and cuddly and you will come inside and ask to hold me, and touch me, and tease me and play me. Then you will think hard for only two minutes about the responsibility I will become, the nuisance I could be, the dependence I am already demonstrating and you will drop me back into my shredded newspaper box having satisfied your urges only to leave me longing for more.

Why is this so much easier for you?

The pet shop boys sing What Have I...What Have I...What Have I Done to Deserve This.

Big Yellow Taxi

2007-02-14T21:27:00.000-05:00

For the past couple of months or more, I envisioned some sweet dinner with only 6 to 8 of us at some circular table in a very secluded section of a dimly lit Hell's Kitchen Establishment. Every night, I would put my headphones on and drown in the "going away soundtrack" I created for us. While listening, I would envision the perfect toast. The toast would be precise, succinct, personal, sensitive, and touching enough to draw tears without sobs. I would draw on all the music we both loved. The songs you introduced me to. The songs I shoved down your throat and you eventually swallowed with sweet aftertaste. The prose and poetry from each song would fit together the way we once did. As if they were forming their own hit song together.

There would be lines like...
It's been a busy day with some heavy seas. But you've done your best. I know you've got a lot of strength left. Everything is temporary, But I can be someone to fall back on. Because, don't it always seem to go..."that you don't know what you got till it's gone." Paved paradise and put up a parking lot.

I miss you.
We miss you.
There are so many songs that speak of you, to us, with me.
There are words I never said. The toast never happened. The cake mix still sits in my barren cupboard. I wanted you to have one last piece of poke-and-pour before you moved on.

DUE DATE

2007-02-13T18:50:00.000-05:00

They sat across from each other. The artist and the republican.

She talked of the latest Patty Griffin CD. He talked of Hedge Funds and numbers. Words like facilitate and procure dashed out of him in short bursts like the sound of keys on a computer.

He was handsome though. Must have made time for the gym at 5:30 every morning. She was beautiful too. But, not in a gym kind of way. She was beautiful with ease and grace. Hair never had a comb through it but was still luxurious. Not much more than a gloss and a powder to touch up her already smooth and contoured complexion.

"How could their friends even begin to think this would work?" They both thought.

But, they also both thought it was time to broaden their horizons. Opposites attract, so went the old saying.

After a painful 53 minute dinner with wilted spinach, a fish and a meat entree, and small wine glasses cramped with Pinot Blanc, the conversation hugged the line and made a sharp turn toward talk of families and babies.

He was so focused on his career and accumulating his prized possessions. The car, the house, the property, the IRAs, the 401Ks. He needed to secure these things before bringing a child into the world. (This means, "I don't want a child to distract me from the miserable money-making life I am leading right now. I am just too selfish to focus on the life of anyone else.")

She was staring her thirties square in the face and realizing 10 years had gone by without true love or even a glimpse of life with another. She was tired of using the city as an excuse for the lack of love and affection in her world. She frequently had thoughts of Gerber, and burping, and the smell of a baby's skin. In her dreams she would be walking down a crowded street with everyone staring at her as she breast fed this enormous adult sized baby. She was the girl in her circle that oogled at passing strollers and could be found rubbing her un-pregnant tummy as if she were willing it to grow a baby without the proper ingredients.

"Do you enjoy your job?" she asked the Banana Republican.

"I enjoy the paycheck and the perks," He replied with one eyebrow raised as punctuation.

"So, what you mean is you don't really like your job at all, you just suffer gladly for the money?"

He stared at her with a perplexed look on his face. The first sign of some sort of thoughts running through his mind. After a pregnant pause, he said...
"I am not suffering through anything. I am prospering. I am building for my future."

"A future that doesn't involve anyone else but you? Who will ever see the back seat of your SUV? What good is owning a home on the island or a brownstone in the city if it stays empty for years on end? What you are building is a platform hardly large or strong enough for even yourself to stand alone on." She spoke these last few words as a slow fade or losing air. Similar to the last song softening after the DJ calls last call. She realized she had, yet again, said too much-gone too far.

"And a baby is my salvation?" He asked. Leaving another nine months for her to respond. Finally." I have my own ideas of the future don't assign me yours," and with a fast and furious scribble of the pen the tab was signed and the deed was done.

She walked all the 40 blocks home despite the winter winds, with her iPod repeating the soundtrack from Grey's Anatomy. She made a pit stop at Hot and Crusty Bagel Cafe for small cup of Hot Cocoa. She cried herself to sleep in a bed filled with coffee stains and strewn papers, while lifting her shirt up and pulling at the fat above her hip bones.

He hailed a taxi, messaged all his pig-headed male friends from his blackberry then arrived at his high raise only to stay awake for exactly 45 more minutes. The time it took for him to lay out his plans for tomorrow and sort through life's paper work.

Everything But The Girl

2007-02-01T15:49:00.000-05:00

Everything here is telling me I should be fine.
But, I am missing you everytime.

I will be back with you. You will be back with me.
We will have much to read.

Is there anyone out there? Cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe.

Throw me a rope to hold me in place.
As I walk past your door where you don't live anymore.

Like the deserts miss the rain, my heart misses the release.

I will return to this writing and to this relationship and that relationship. It's time to stop Wallowing.

I miss you and I miss you.

Wallowing

2007-01-10T19:43:00.000-05:00

It's not that I don't like you.

It's not that I don't want to see you, or be with you, or hold you, or kiss you, or touch you.

It's not that my feelings have changed.

It's me.

It's always me.

I woke up this morning and decided I didn't want to see anybody. I woke up this morning and created a mess of problems in my mind that I could sift through just enough to give me an upset stomach and the pangs of a migrane on the left side of my head.

I lied to you.
I don't have to work.
I don't have any conflicts.
I don't have pressing matters or things standing in the way of our plans tonight.
I am not sick.

I am in the way of my own self.

So, I spend the evening alone over coffee and a stale sandwhich. I type this up before retreating to the last row of a theatre to listen to the strings pluck out the tunes from songs such as....
OUR BODIES ARE THE GUILTY ONES
TOUCH ME
and
WOUNDED.

I am may not be good at much when it comes to love and peace, but I certainly know how to wallow with the best of them.

It will all blow over tomorrow.
As it always does.

Minty Fresh Memories

2006-12-28T11:00:00.000-05:00

Walking.

Through the city this past weekend.

Mostly alone.

I found myself in Hell's Kitchen.
No surprise.
I passed by the old apartment. I stopped in to say hello to Angela at The Coffee Pot. I even ate at Zen Palate. I contemplated a glass of Wine at Riposa. But, decided against it. After all, it was only 5:30p.m. and I hate that place anyway. 5:30p.m. on Christmas Eve of Christmas Eve is beer time, not wine time in my book. So, after one $3 Rolling Rock draft at Cleo's Old Faithful, I reluctantly walked north toward The Shops At Columbus Circle with gift giving intentions. I approach the deli that lives on the southwest corner of 9th Avenue and 49th Street. A deli I pass by frequently with rare attention paid, but today was lonelier than most for me and I found myself drawn to it. Perhaps it had to do with the season or maybe just my hangover. But, for some reason I went inside. I didn't need anything so I bought some gum. I left the deli and found myself heading west on 49th Street even though that was out of my way. Only three strides west and it hit me. This is the corner I told you to meet me on the night we reconnected after some awards show. The same deli where I waited with such intense nervousness and anticipation. I believe I even kept my fingers crossed, hoping you would pick me over the present company at that dank bar we both were in.
That night, I told you to meet me on that corner not knowing whether or not you would or wanted to. I texted you and then ran inside to grab some gum. I then proceeded to devour a whole cig in under 2 mins. This was in an attempt to remain calm and appear cool, only to fail miserably and bring my heart rate up. I remember tossing the gum in my mouth and then chomping on it ferociously. I rubbed the half chewed piece on my teeth aggressively. I guess I was hoping to either sand away the smoke and booze or pass on, by way of osmosis, the minty goodness. I stood there licking my lips and slathering my moustache with it's minty juices hoping to mask any taste or smell of tobacco and nicotine. I was trying to make a drunken-sunrise-walk home as romantic and hopeful as possible. If we were to FINALLY kiss, even at 5am on a topsy-turvy Sunday, I was going to make sure I made the most of it. I went as far as to take the Orbitz out of my mouth and roll it between my fingers in case you kissed my hand. (Freak) Because I probably wanted you to do that. I know I wanted you to kiss me. Kiss me hard. I know I wanted to find a corridor or a quiet stoop and kiss you back. I wanted you to kiss my neck, cheeks, lips...whatever. I remember wanting your kiss more than I ever wanted another kiss. I also remember I was pretty drunk and couldn't possibly properly compare the weight of all my life's desires in just few short minutes. But, it didn't matter. That was all I wanted at that hour of that given day. Or at least the alcohol told me so.

(God to think...? What if you had never kissed me? All that gum exercise would have amounted to nothing.)

But, you did.
You kissed me. I think it's safe to say you kissed me first.
You kissed me with confidence and passion. The perfect see-saw of kisser and kissee by both of us. It was breathtaking. Oh, alright, who am I kidding. It was sloppy and uninhibited. It was lustful and ravenous. It was a year's worth of pent up passion well oiled over the past few hours and loosely falling into place. But, I remember it so vividly.

I remember debating whether we were going to go home with one another. I remember holding your hand and walking/stumbling you home. I remember exchanging numbers and making promises to call. Why after all those years did we not have each other's number? I remember it being muggy and humid. Was it the summer or the brink of fall? I remember you tasting like cigs and booze. All my gum tactics pointless because you smoke too. I remember not caring. I remember liking it all. All of the way it was unfolding.

I knew when I saw you inside the bar that night. The look of excitement and surprise in both our eyes. I knew we would kiss. Maybe not that night but soon there after. I knew we would experience something. It was bound to happen after a year or more of over the counter drugs being doled out to you for free and pleasantries exchanged with a longer hug than normal. Or better yet, a lingering gaze full of curiosities across the room with a barrage of men between us. You always could arouse me without even a touch of hand.

I walked you home that night realizing your powerful energy and saying hello to a new possibility.

Tonight, I walked you home again.
Christmas Eve of Christmas Eve.
I walked west on 49th Street past the evergreen trees lined up outside the deli. I was wishing I could bring you a Charlie Brown Christmas tree and a bottle of cheap red wine that we would finish and eventually toss off of your rooftop. Then I would crawl back into your arms where your mouth would be barely brushing my ear as you softly whispered your woes about all the Christmas music I was forcing you to listen to.
I walked you home tonight and smelled your cologne with a hint of burnt hair from your flat-iron. Cosmic timing played a part and Coldplay come over my iPod and it reminded me of your laptop that sat at your corner desk in your bedroom.
I walked you home tonight. I sat on your old stoop and wished I still smoked. I sat there talking to you in my head. Basically telling you this story that I write now. Now that I think of it, I probably looked a little homeless and crazy. Oh well, I have looked worse before.

I pulled out a piece of the gum, chewed, and breathed in it's minty freshness. Then I said good night and hoped your nose was itching from someone thinking about you.

O Holy Night

2006-12-26T10:25:00.000-05:00

White Christmas there was not.

There was no egg nog or plump stockings. I didn't open any presents on Christmas Eve or Day. I spoke only to my mother, missing my father and brother in the hustle and bustle of the time zones and functions. There wasn't a cookie jar full of fattening treats. There weren't any children traipsing and tripping through the house (apt.). I had only two presents under my tree that stood only three feet tall. If we are being honest, the day was lacking a blustering thrill of anticipation. Not to mention pumpkin pie and stuffing.

But, there was still the 24-hour "A Christmas Story" playing on TBS. I had three hours of Christmas music shuffling on my iTunes. I put on my lumberjack socks. I made Hazelnut coffee with soy milk and cinnamon. The lights on my tree remained on from 4pm Christmas Eve until I left the house on Christmas night. Christmas Eve consisted of a steak dinner and a private viewing with Chrissy of my all-time-favorite Christmas movie..."Emmett Otter's Jug Band Christmas!" I can't imagine a more worthy recipient of this invite than Chrissy and he did not disappoint in his appreciation of the film. We each drank a bottle of pinot noir, then breaked with a cup of java, then toasted with Champagne to our budding but bonding friendship from 2006 before calling it a night well after midnight.

Christmas Day began with reluctance. I had to fight the blues away. I wrapped myself in two blankets on my sofa and began my marathon of "A Christmas Story." Since I still don't have kids of my own, I become a kid myself on Christmas morning. This time instead of screaming for more presents and crumpling all the beautiful wrapping paper I'd torn through, I whined a little inside my head. I wanted my mommy and my stocking full of reasons to visit the dentist. Instead I buried my nose in the aroma of my coffee reminding myself to be grateful for all of the simple pleasures of life, including the flurry of holiday text message greetings that bombarded my razor from 9 a.m. on. I waited to hear from the Nurse, as we had planned to spend Christmas Day together regardless of no longer existing as a couple. I was excited for him to see my pathetic but adorable little tree and how clean the apartment was. I also had more things on the wall since last he dropped by. Overall, I felt that my apartment was a cozy place to begin Christmas, even if you were alone.

I pieced together a festive ensemble for the day's travels. The Nurse and I were going to spend some time together at my place first then we would join The Bears for a holiday/birthday dinner. Blake was born on Christmas. I checked movie times for Dreamgirls, hoping to find a time to include that in my Christmas plans. I put the finishing touches on Blake and Joe's Christmas package and waited.

I returned dozens of messages. I swept up any stray pine needles. I poured myself another cup of coffee, then another, then another.

Needless to say, things don't always work out the way you plan. But, I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and made the most of what was left of my day. I had honey baked ham and cheddar mashed potatoes. The Bears bought me a Kelly Clarkson concert T that fits perfectly. We watched clips from old musicals and past Tony Awards telecasts. I even took one cough induced hit from the peace pipe that was passed around.

I raced downtown to try and catch a showing of Dreamgirls, but it was sold out. So, instead I saw some movie about the year 2027 and how women by then will have been infertile for 18 years. It didn't matter what movie I sat through. The popcorn and the soda are enough to keep me happy for two or so hours. I mean it too. You should see the way I shift in my seat and make myself comfortable with a giddy and hungry smile stretched across my face during the previews.

I finished the night by curling up with Harry Potter book 3 and my down comforter. My Christmas mix began it's shuffle. Joni Mitchell hummed softly in the background. I have been growing up for years. But, this year was a big reality check. Christmas wasn't ever going to be what it was when I was 10. It didn't hurt-this realization. It made me yearn for something I couldn't put into words. I was melancholy. I may have been a little lonely too. But, I wasn't sad. After all, it was Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year.

Joni sings..."Oh I wished I had a river I could skate away on...."

Side Show

2006-12-17T14:30:00.000-05:00

The midwest can be so awful. It's a hurricane or tornado of ignorance. But it is also a sanctuary of family values and breeding. It's a whirlwind every time I go. This time was no different.

I was sucked into the vortex or maybe even the eye of the storm. I sat peacefully in the center watching the mess fly around me in an uncontrollable flourish of debris and destruction. Except where the eye is usually peaceful, this time I sat with discomfort and my eyes took in all that I witnessed. People. People genuinely happy. They don't need to be fluent in three languages. They didn't need to make more money. They didn't need to have traveled over seas. They didn't need a glass of pinot noir. They didn't need to discuss politics or the golden globe nominations. They didn't need a pair of ugg boots. They didn't need to check their email, blackberry, flight status. They didn't need Chanel Platinum or degree body heat activated.

They were happy with their English language saturated with poor grammar and a red-neck dialect. They were happy with their 21,000 dollar teaching job with benefits and summers off. They were ecstatic about their honeymoon to Orlando or Vegas. Coors Light brought a smile to their face and kept them looking cool and easy going. Telling the same work story over and over paired with a college memory kept the laughter up to par and the conversation at a steady pace. A pair of Faded Glory simple black pumps will dress up all there required functions for the year. They didn't need home computers, their cell phones were used only when they travel, and almost everyone drove back to the hometown with no flight delays or lost luggage. The secret was out....most everything was strong enough for a man but made for a woman.

I realized this weekend that I am not okay with my life as a whole. I realized it has a lot to do with my sexuality. I pride myself on my level of comfort in my own skin. But, I am spoiled. I live in a gay metropolitan city. I work in a reputable gay establishment with 90% gay employees. I have had only gay or straight female roommates. I went to theatre school. I work in the arts. I live in Manhattan.

I live a sheltered life. No different than the one's that my heterosexual, anti-cosmopolitan breeder friends do.

I want to be like everyone else. I want what everyone wants. The easy life. The American Dream. I don't hate it. My life. I don't believe I chose it. My sexuality. I don't think it can change. My sexuality. But, I am not happy. My life and my sexuality. I want what everyone else wants.

I want children. I want my parents to become grandparents. I want to wake up on Christmas morning with a floor full of presents and the house full of cheer and voices. I want for us to be on top of each other with so many family around. I want to take my son outside to go sledding or snowman making. I want to swap pictures of Tristin's first lost tooth and Trinity's first time being a flower girl at the latest wedding. I want to stuff my face with horrible fatty foods. I want to watch football and actually care. I want to have Brenda Lee and Dolly Parton's Christmas Album on repeat. I want my refrigerator to be stocked with Velveeta and 2% milk, instant coffee and home-made bread and cookies. I want individual pudding snacks for all the nieces and nephews. I want dog biscuits for Jake.

I want people to stop looking at me. I want people to stop whispering. I want people to stop dodging the question. I want people to stop telling me how good I look. I want people to stop showing me pictures of their kids. I want the guys to stay at the table and talk instead of step into the lobby to watch the game. I want people to stop being afraid of me. Afraid for the children to be around me. I want the hot football jock from High School to treat me the way he did when he didn't know. I want my outfit to not stand out. I want people to not care. I want people to stop hating, judging, over-thinking. I want to stop being the Side Show attraction at very low budget, dirty and dingy carnival.

Reply All

2006-12-11T11:53:00.000-05:00

Thank you for your email.

Brief and to the point.

But a moment out of your day, albeit fleeting, that you took to think of someone else.

These gestures are energizing.

Why go through life shrugging our shoulders, flipping our wrists or rolling our eyes? These gestures will not move us or anyone forward. When three simple sentences or a hug can motivate the change we wish to be in the world.

Sit up straight today.

Lying

2006-12-09T17:01:00.000-05:00

My ipod was discovered one week later.

I won't even speculate as to why it was gone and suddenly appeared in a random drawer at work. Somebody is lying.

But, thank goodness it is back, because now I can really lie on my sofa and add a melancholy soundtrack to my uneventful days. All the while picking up my phone and emails, only to lie to my friends and family about my busy day.

12 hours later, I can rip the earphones from my ears toss them on the coffee table and lie to myself about how I am not depressed. How I am not unhappy. How this too shall pass. It's only a phase.

"I am just tired. Overworked. " I tell myself.

I lie in my bed, lying to boys, lying to friends, lying alone. I get up only to move to another place where I can lie and possibly create new and more interesting lies.

I lie back and touch myself. My fantasy lies to me. I lie on my back lying about the pleasure I am forcefully trying to experience.

The second movie I watch ends with the lead actor documenting hundreds of people's answer to the same question.

"What do you believe to be an absolute TRUTH?"

iMiss my iPod

2006-11-30T16:38:00.000-05:00

It's been almost a week since my iPod was stolen.

I don't know who took it. But, I forgive you.

I think of you everyday. Whoever you are.

You are walking around with my music. My stories. A part of me. I had playlists on there that were tailored to Lynn, the Nurse, Chris. I had lists that were specific to my feelings. There was a sleep list. A California list. A Karaoke List.

I feel a sense of violation.

Your iPod is engraved on the back with my initials (CR+ music = True Love). Do you feel anything when you look at the back of it and see those initials. Maybe it's a coincidence and your name is Chester Robertson.

I hope you love music as much as I do. I hope you love my music. I hope you learn something about the person who created that iPod.

What I hope you learn is how to be sorry for taking something that ultimately can become so personal to another person.

I forgive you because of all the things I just gave you.

You should feel lucky. You have just be enriched by my music, my stories, my life.

A song

2006-11-20T13:18:00.000-05:00

The thrill of standing in a pool of warm light and the power of a hushed crowd can overwhelm a performer. But, it was exactly those ingredients that made for an amazing flourish of adrenaline that fed my performance last night.

The song was called "Just Like Magic."

It couldn't have been more appropriate.

Last night was like magic. There was magic everywhere. Magical performances. Magical meetings. Magical laughter, applause, screaming and hollering.

I live in a city that is so full of life and character. I work in a bar with so much talent and creativity. I am a part of a community, at a workplace, in a city that makes me proud and happy.

I am so glad I made it out of my small town life, but more importantly my small town mentality. I could stand on that stage last night and be embraced by my audience, my peers, my friends.

It was not always like this.

"I will not take these things for granted."

Revolving around Evolvement

2006-11-16T13:28:00.000-05:00

I want to scream.

You look at me like you always do. You don't have a clue.
I can't tell you what I am really thinking.

In this age of provactive thinking and stubborn mindsets, we all look like we are clawing for an inch of platform on the ladder of individuality.

You don't get it. I don't mind. But, sometimes.

Don't say I trust you. Don't say I need you. Don't be so sure.

You cling to the rough edges of this world like the frayed ends of the scarf that twirls between your index and pointer. Like a security blanket. With nervousness and aniexty you hope the world around you will remain to blame.
In a world of self-analysis and self-reflection, when do we see ourselves evolve. We pull out our mirrors to reflect on ourselves when we know people are seeing us, reading us.
Then we stop.

It's about one moment and one second. Sometimes we have to go around an unexpected bend. There nothing is the same as it was before the sharp turn. Your life may be different than you planned.

Plan. Plan on facing it. Face the facts.
The fact remains, I am not you. You are not me. You do not know all that you think you do.

The choice is yours. As it is mine.
Continue spinning around the outside of evolvement with your skirt spinning and lifting with the wind sometimes with reckless abandon sometimes with nauseating dizziness. OR, or...

Step inside the world that is evolving and stand still. Be a witness. Learn just from your stillness how the evolvement will orbit you through this life, and then...

Scream.

I want to see, feel, be the change I expect in others.

Feed Me...Read Me

2006-11-08T20:20:00.000-05:00

I am beginning to feel like Audrey 2 in "Little Shop of Horrors."

I want more. I want you to feed my ego. I want you to stroke it. Nice and easy at first and then just pump it until my head swells and you can't stand to be around me.

This attitude rarely comes around. I have never cared much about what people think. I have never cared if people cared. But, sometimes, you do care. Sometimes you want to know. Not the bad stuff, but the good.

So today is one of those days. I am out and about soley for my ego. Looking for someone to say they think I've got it. Someone to say "that's hot!" Someone to say they read it.

This too shall pass, and I will continue to write about nothing and little somethings again and again. With no expectation and especially no ego.

Scents Memory

2006-11-05T22:33:00.000-05:00

If I could put time in a bottle....

September 8th, 2001

The weather was terrific. It was warm without the balm. The breeze was slight; warning you of a "light jacket evening" to come. TallBoring Gary and I packed a lunch and walked all the way from Murray Hill to Battery Park City. We found an unpopulated stretch of grass surrounded by blooming bushes and a few large shade trees. In front of us mostly sky and the buildings of Jersey City. When we laid on our backs the Trade Centers stood so tall you could see them without arching your head back. We hadn't been dating for more than two or three weeks yet. The conversation was never difficult between us, but it was never flowing either. Per his suggestion we both packed a book.

Gary always smelled of nearly nothing. His scent so light and airy it was as if he bathed in Woolite and dried and powdered with Snuggle fabric softener. Nonetheless, on September 8th, 2001 I began to smell Gary as we soaked up the late summer sun. Not just his neck, but the small dent in the center of his chest where maybe a dozen hairs lived. The downy hair in his armpit. I smelled his forearms and felt their smoothness. The smell that resided on either crease of his nose. I reached up his shorts and stroked his inner thigh and then smelled my hand. It turned me on. It began to turn him on. He eventually took the hint and threw down his copy of the latest Alan Hollinghurst novel. We kissed so sensually and so tenderly. We caressed with secret passions. And I smelled him. He smelled so real. So perfect. So new. So clean. I kept smelling him. As I smelled him I become almost ferocious. I was making a memory.

"Your smell, it's everything. It's perfect. It's barely a smell yet so fragrant. It's shampoo and sex. It's soap and slutty-ness. It's sweat and tears. It's salt and sweet. It is here with me but yet it hardly exists. How is this possible? Am I crazy for loving this?" I thought to myself.

Eventually, Gary had to pry me off of him. Although, he did have a huge grin on his face and a smile stretched across his shorts. I am sure he didn't expect me to have this side to my personality. We finished the afternoon fighting to keep our hands off of each other. We strolled back to his place and rolled and frolicked among his sheets and pillows; all which radiated his scent.

Years later I would be in need of some basic moisturizer while vacationing in California. I stopped at a SaveOn picked up a bottle of Lubriderm (the one with purple writing). The instant I applied the lotion, butterflies burst from their cocoons in my gut and my testicles rose up with anticipation.

I am a complex man who appreciates the simple pleasures of life.

But, I would love to put the smell of September 8th, 2001 into a bottle. Just to have forever. To return to as a reminder, when I feel I can't find the simple things to love and adore in another man.

This Woman's...

2006-11-03T14:42:00.000-05:00

My mom wakes up at 6:00 a.m. Even on weekends.

She does her stretches and her aerobics; the same set of exercises she has been doing since 1987. Religious exercises that shape her mentality more than her body. She then tidies up the house, packs a lunch for herself and puts out some ground beef to thaw. Jake is now at the door wagging his tail demonstrating the canine pee dance. While she waits for Jake to do his doody, she rummages through her purse for the first of what will be numerous times looking for nothing in particular. A quick breakfast of 1/4 cup of Grape Nuts with skim milk then she hits the shower and spends 20-30 minutes "putting her face on." This prep, with her age, now includes plucking a few random hairs on her chin and upper lip. After the hair spray and earrings are placed it's back to the purse to take inventory of what she may or may not need in there for the day.

Mom sits in the car for a few seconds. I imagine she is giving herself a pep talk. I imagine she is prepping herself for her day. She goes through her mental check list. With a deep starter breath she puts the key in the ignition of her Dodge Caravan and when the mini-van revs the car speakers vibrate enough for her to realize that her boyfriend was the last person to drive. She quickly brings the volume down to barely a whisper of a song. She pulls out a folded piece of scrap paper where she scrawled the address of a vacant apartment. She checks the time and puts the car in drive. She doesn't hear the lyrics unfolding silently through the radio. She only hears a background filler of the faint sound of a female's fragile, air-filled vocals...

"Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside
This woman's work.
This woman's world."

Across town, at the only hospital, my grandmother paces the halls outside Ray's room. In between visitors and passers-by offering their condolences, she talks to herself. It's hardly audible because she doesn't want people to think she is crazy. But, she is. She doesn't feel it happening, even though everyone else can see it. She furiously chants about Ray, curses God, reprimands her children. She scolds the weather, the timing of it all. She aches in her stomach from the sobbing jabs and the starvation grief brings out.

A life is leaving her. It's only a matter of time. A life she shared. Her new life, if you can call it that, will be so foreign after Ray. She's forced to leave the house after his death because it isn't her's and because my mom thinks it wiser for her to downscale her life. The thought of a tiny apartment makes my grandmother's breath short and her hand clutches at an imaginary strand of pearls.

There is a nurse about 10 feet away sitting at the Nurse Station. She is eating one of the hospital's pudding cups, catching up on her charts. The tiny, dusty, beat-up AM/FM radio is softly adding a calming white noise to the otherwise anxious and chilly hospital hallway. She notices my grandmother. She nods an understanding smile her direction. My grandmother stares at her blankly and takes a seat.

Grandma clasps her hands in prayer. She hasn't decided to pray for his life or to pray for his soul to depart from pain. She bows her head, silently sobs and as she begins to greet her lord with unknown words, the voice on the nurse's radio heartbreakingly sings...

"I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking..."

My mother hurriedly signs the lease for the apartment she just viewed in an attempt to beat the trepidation to the dotted line. Grandma will like it. She will spruce it up and make it her new home. Mom has to do these things for grandma. All these things that will need to happen while grandma grieves.

As the dear life of our beloved Ray passes, my grandmother moves into a new life and my mother takes on a new role in life. She begins the last cycle of her mother's life by parenting her parent.

The song remembers when...

"Oh, darling, make it go,
just make it go away now."

A Conversation....

2006-10-30T02:02:00.000-05:00

ME: "I don't know. I guess I am just not happy."

HE: "Is anyone happy? Anyone we know, anyway?"

ME: "Thanks for saying that."

HE: "Well...you know."

A fleeting moment of happiness

The Lost Chapters of....

2006-10-27T23:31:00.000-04:00

He wakes up with his eyelashes clumped together forming a prison cell over his eyes. The sun blasting through the window penetrates the bars of mascara that have incarcerated his eyes for the five short hours of toss-and-turn sleep he assumes he just had.

As soon as the gates open his eyes start itching and burning. He is squinting and rubbing his eyes like a newborn. The taste in his mouth is a combination of tinfoil, cardboard, and excrement. Equal parts of each. The room is intensely dry but cozily warm, with just enough breeze from a cracked window to keep anyone under the down.

He looks at the digital clock with it's ruby red numbers and reads 9:45
He thinks, "Already!" and "It's Only?" at the same time.

He turns to the other side of the bed. There's no one there even though no one's left.
He himself is no one.
Only glitter traces both his and the other pillow.
He retraces his steps.
Unfortunately, he can't remember anything that follows his impromptu number at 2:00 a.m.ish.

His desire for coffee is strong enough to evoke the muscles in his arms and legs to conjure up some semblance of bodily movement.

He stops at a mirror in the hall.
The blood in his eye's hit's him like a shot.
Before he can self deprecate the sweet saliva begins to form in the back of his throat and the intense, rapid swallowing increases.
He makes it to the bathroom in time, because he is a pro.

With two drops of Visine and a spoonful of Listerine, he's standing upright with his shoulders back and proud. At least outwardly.

No one is still there in the bed.
No one knows and no one cares.
It's back to the neighborhood of make believe.
Where he doesn't appear to have a life that could be a chapter in an Augusten Burroughs Memoir.

SIGNS (Post #5)

2006-10-13T13:58:00.000-04:00

December 31, 1999-2000

I sit on the roof top of my friends’ apartment in Silverlake, CA. Some of the people are on acid, some are high from smoking pot, and some are drunk (or wasted rather). It's a new year. A new millennium. I ring it in with cheer in my hand and a pang in my heart. I miss Doug. We ended it just shy of two years. I am loving California. It's my first visit. It makes me hate New York City. I work too much in NY. I am in debt because of NY. I dropped out of school just to stay in NYC. I am barely surviving. But, I am not an oblivious idiot. This is a vacation. Life isn't always a tab of acid and unlimited miles on a rental car.

I met Rob the Z-Man December 31st, and it's inevitable. We are hooking up January 1st. I knew it before midnight and now it is nearly 4 a.m. I let myself get into Rob's TransAm even though I barely know him. But, I joke inside my head that it's been a year. We met in '99 and are gonna finally fuck in 2000. But, when I get into Rob's TransAm, I am really looking for validation, intimacy, love, tenderness, and acceptance. He drives drunk and high all the way back to Sherman Oaks while the sun comes up. We get into his bed that is draped with black curtains boxing it in. This pad is made for fucking. He must know what he is doing. He is older, taller, leaner, and bigger. He is much bigger than me. I ask him to do it. I tell him to do it. I almost command him. "Just DO IT," I say. He doesn't even hesitate. He attempts, but I am tense. So tight, I can't. He keeps trying. It hurts, but I feel like I need it. He turns me over. I bite the pillow, clench my fists, and sob silently. "What am I doing here?" I might have even said this out loud.

I get it now. Maybe not in that pillow biting moment but what followed, I did. Everything happens for a reason. The universe is teaching me-to grow, to strengthen, to listen. I will get through this. Z-man hears my cries. He stops. He lies on top of me and kisses my ear. He asks me if I am okay. I nod yes. He stays on top of me ear to ear, brushing my right arm with his fingertips for what feels like hours but is probably a few minutes. He doesn't ask me anything. He doesn't move. I would never have predicted this tenderness in him. I finally turn over. Our faces are centimeters apart. Through my tears I crack a small smile. He just looks me straight in the eye....and says..."You're a virgin, aren't you?"

I return to NYC grateful to the Z-Man and slightly rejuvenated. I am of course, s little ashamed of my failed attempt at a raunchy, racy loss of virginity, but ready to march through life with a restored faith in man and, more importantly, in myself.

SIGNS (Post #4)

2006-10-12T13:31:00.000-04:00

January 1998

I felt I was ready for love. No one else seemed happy for me, or should I say, ready for me. I had moved on from humiliating myself in front of women to wearing my heart on my sleeve in front of men while hiding and lying about it. There had been the 30 something guys I lied to about my age. There had been the 80s fanatic Andrew who broke my heart. The closeted celebrity driven acting student who, shortly after toweling my cum off his chest, told me we could never be and he wasn't even "really gay." Then came Doug. The secrets Doug and I had to keep from everyone. It was so much work and pain. No one wanted us together. I fought and battled with Doug and with those smothering us. It effected my school work, my social life, my sanity--his too.

I came to this city to be myself. But who was that? At this point, I had people dragging me out of the closet. I had other's tell me my acting career would be over if I admitted to being gay. I lost friends who knew me when I was "straight." I thought bisexuality was safer and more accepted. I couldn't distinguish between which gay friend was truly a friend or which ones wanted to sleep with me. And I had people who didn't believe I was old enough to even understand anything.

This wasn't how I imagined discovery in the big city.

That night, I took the stage in a new musical called "The Human Heart." "How apropos," I thought. My parents were in the audience oblivious to my "other" life, oblivious to my strains and struggles. Oblivious to who Doug was to me as we shared the stage. Oblivious to the human-ness of my heart.

My character Sam was to committ suicide in the end of Act I. He couldn't take it. Sam couldn't last long enough to make it to the second act. He felt misunderstood and lost. His perspective on life left nothing at the next bend in the road.

Where was his hope and faith? Maybe the same place mine had gone?
Over the weeks of rehearsal and performance I had developed a very unhealthy connection to Sam and my own personal life's Act I.

So, the end of Act I approaches and as the music speeds up and crescendos, Sam pulls a gun out of his pocket and stands at the top of a wooden stairway with it pointed to his temple. The prop gun goes off and Sam is supposed to drop and dangle over the banister. Instead, my body began to shake as the gun approached my head. My knees were buckling and my heart was beating rapidly. Sweat immediately covered my forehead as the migrane made it's home behind my eyes in an instant. I pull the plastic trigger and begin to topple over the railing only to fall completely over and crash to the stage floor 8 feet below me. The sound of the audience was that of utter amazement of how real the suicide looked.

As I laid in a pile of sawdust and sheet music, the universe began to speak softly to me again. The signs were flashing before my mind's eye as I lay with my eyes closed. Love, too, was speaking loud and clear. As were the stage manager and a dozen actors, and I awoke from my brief blackout with Coca-Cola and aspirin being lifted to my lips.

The show finished. I didn't tell my parents about my fainting spell or my aniexty. I remained cool and collected as any actor could. I recall introducing Doug to my parents as "my friend." It was all too fast and far too brief.

But, I stayed in this life and in this city for two more years looking for Doug to love and save me.

SIGNS (Post #3)

2006-10-10T16:31:00.001-04:00

May 1997
Only a few short weeks after my arresting token debacle was the end of the year party for my college. I had completed my freshman year. There was beer, pot, dancing, and sexuality flailing about and crashing into one another on the dance floor. Proud boys approaching me. Knocking on my closet door. Asking me to join them on the dance floor. I denied them all the while brushing their shoulder, hand, thigh before returning to the next girl in line to disguise me.
Later that night, in a drunken attempt to use the public bathroom in my dormitory, a cowardly boy found me in the dark and bravely made his descent into me. It was a crash landing. I survived. But, with injuries.
I awoke on my stomach. My cheek was drenched in my own saliva. I pulled my pants up and looked in the mirror. I left the 2nd floor bathroom with baggage.
What kind of sign from the universe was this?

SIGNS (Post #2)

2006-10-07T21:07:00.000-04:00

May 1997

As Desiree and I were being hand cuffed, shouted at, and shoved into the back seat of a cop car on Broadway and 79th Street, I couldn't help but think that I might be able to get away with never telling my parents about this.

We were poor college kids (18 and 19 years old) desperate to get the hell out of the dorm (crack house) and create some sort of fun. We emptied our pockets. Collectively, we had enough money and tokens for two round trip subway rides, two huge cafe au laits, and maybe some sort of pastry. We chose to go to BMW's on 7th Ave and 21st Street. It stood for Beer Music Wine. But, they were also a cafe, so no ID check at the door. But, they had live music and it was free. 10:30p.m. and we were out the door and on our way to the subway.

It wasn't until after fingerprints, mugshots, 9 hours in a holding cell and a court date set for the second week of June, that I realized there was no explaining this to my parents. "Ma, Dad...umm I have been arrested, but it's nothing to worry about. I was just trying to save a little money. We pushed both of us through the turnstile on one token. They were undercover."

Now I would have to stay in NYC to attend court whether my parents liked it or not. I re-booked my flight, missed a wedding rehearsal dinner (that I was singing for), all for $1.50 token violation by two piss-ass-poor college kids. I sat in a diner with Desiree and picked at my cheese fries, ignoring the universe that was practically spelling it out for me.

SIGNS (Post #1)

2006-10-06T14:42:00.000-04:00

August 1996

With a grin from ear to ear but a heart rate of a marathon runner, I wait for my luggage at the baggage claim area of La Guardia Airport. I am not sure how I managed the three huge suitcases and two carry-ons, but I make it to the yellow taxi line with a look of utter astonishment. I made it to New York City. I was about to get into a taxi all by myself. I confidently direct my cab driver to my destination, all the while checking the cheat sheet my Resident Director dictated to me over the phone. I put the cheat sheet back into my file folder, toss the folder in the back window and gaze out as we drive over the Triborough Bridge. We arrive on the Upper West Side and I step out of my first NYC Taxi. There's a doorman and 20 floors of stories awaiting me. The driver slams the trunk closed. I tip him. The doorman asks if I would like a cigarette. I ponder my freedom to decide for myself and realize I left my file folder filled with every single important document an 18 year old boy from Iowa could possibly need in the back window sill. Documents that include my birth certificate, insurance papers, social security card, bank documents, traveler's checks, you name it. I leave my luggage at the front door of my building and proceed to chase the taxi from 77th and Broadway to 73rd and Broadway. I feel like I am running faster than I ever did while competing in high school. I jump the median on Broadway and scream at the old lady who is opening the door to my fate just outside Citarella. I scare her enough to have her raise her hands over her head as if I were to arrest her. I retrieve my files and plop down on the curb to cry and, also, to decided if I should listen to what the universe might be trying to tell me.

On "Pretty..."

2006-09-27T19:41:00.000-04:00

He approached the microphone ferociously and to everyone's surprise had placed a high speed fan at the foot of the stage on the floor. When the song hit the first chorus of "Since You Been Gone" his version of Kelly Clarkson would have blowing locks of music video hair as an exclamation point to the song's message.

The crowd went wild with screams and applause. The fan was the essential element to the performance, and it blew the audience away, sweeping them into the concert hall he had created in his mind's eye. His nerves slipped off of him every so smoothly and the remainder of the song's performance was a rousing success. As a matter of fact, he won. He wasn't aware the evening was a competition and not just a staff talent showcase, but by surprise he took his place in line while the audience decided the fate of he and his other talented employees. He was the manger of the club and politely claimed his title while handing over the top prize to his runner up. His debut in drag performance and a winner. Not too shabby.

He looked pretty. That's what everyone said, anyway. And if you could get past the idea that you knew who he was, he truly did. The makeup was done by a professional ex-Mac make-up artist turned Drag Queen of The Year! The hair was made up of two wigs piled on top of each other. What a heavy load that must have been. The outfit sickly replecated that of the Kelly Clarkson smash hit video. His body was lithe and lean with muscles lightly casting their lines along my exposed arms. There was work involved in this transformation to pretty. A few people crowned him as "K.C. Sunshine!"

But, It's all about the fan. His beauty and success wouldn't have such impact without the fan. The Fan solidified it for the audience. From the speck of glitter serving as a nose piercing all the way to the fan. This Queen was going all the way and leaving no detail unnoticed.

He didn't feel "pretty" per se. He felt funny. He felt frisky. He felt oddly sexy, but, not pretty. He accepted his accolades and awestruck looks with a flair of diva-ness and an air of modesty. He wasn't used to this attention regardless of how many people "knew" him. This pretty thing had it's perks. Being "pretty" was a good thing. People give you things. People dote on you. People fondle you. People even get out of your way.

It wasn't until a month later when he doned a dress again that it dawned on him that this is how it must be for the pretty boys too. He began to realize that the pretty boys he worked with everyday knew they were pretty and life was easier for them. For one imparticular; his right hand man. His right hand man was more like a left hand man. Awkward, sloppy, untrained, frustrating, difficult but less used and abused than the right hand thus...prettier.

His assistant is pretty to most people, sexy to some, hot to others, and icky to few.

But he is pretty to all the right people. He can get what he wants or better yet, get away with what he doesn't. It's infuriating to many but particularly the manager. It's as if this assistant has been blessed with the fan. A fan that works a lot like K.C. Sunshine's fan did in the performance. Just when you least expect it he turns on a switch and he looks radiant and beautiful to those he needs to manipulate. Everyone is blown away and swept into the land of distraction. Their heads nodding yes to questions they don't hear. Their mouths gaping open to eyes that can not see. People moving out of the way for him and giving him all that he wants and doesn't.

I do it too, sometimes. I see how the other's treat him and I follow suit.
My prettiness was put on. One shot deal. I have tried carrying around that fan. It does nothing for me.

His is part of his make up. He's increasing his personal load by carrying around a fan to help lighten his professional load.

What a lot of work being pretty is.

Stop. Change.

2006-09-16T19:46:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, when two people talk long enough with one another (say hours) and thoughts are free flowing, bouncing of one another like the discussion is made of rubber, discoveries can be made.

She told me to stop trying to change. Stop trying to make the change happen. Especially with the intangible. Let it change on it's own.

Let it.
It.
My feelings.
My emotions.
My thoughts.
It.
My heart.

I have always been the guy, like so many others, who pushes forward, moves on, plows ahead, etc., etc. "Shake it off!" The phrase used by so many coaches in my childhood and adolescence.

My friends are my life coaches. They coach me to get up off the couch. They coach me to take a breather and plant it on the bench when it's time.

One of my favorite coaches is pushing me to stop forcing change. To relish. To languish in my state. The good, the bad, the beautiful. Until it or I change or not without force. She reminded me that we live in a society geared and focused on getting over, moving on, or as she likes to say-'push it to the wayside.' When something sad happens we have millions of suggestions being thrown at us as 'how to' move on. When tragedy strikes we have dozens of people and things urging us to remember to laugh.

I agreed.

I don't want to get over it. I don't want to move on. I'm not ready to pretend it didn't happen. It won't happen. It never happened. I don't want to force myself to go through some given set of circumstances to prove my life can go on. I don't want to make the "normal" bold strides with the expectation of a certain outcome that will only be false and contrived by me. I don't want to stop missing you. I don't want to stop dreaming. I don't want to stop hoping. I don't want to stop fantasizing. I don't want to stop feeling. I don't want to stop aching.

I want to brood, plan, ponder. I want to yearn, desire, reminisce. I want to long, laugh, and cry. I want to hold on. I want to keep believing. I want to toss and turn. I want to sigh.

Until it slowly evolves into something else. Until IT transforms from tears to laughter. From anguish to relief. From intolerable to consolable.

I am not ready to make anything happen. I am just letting "ME" happen. The most I can do, right now, is deal with IT, and the rollercoaster ride IT brings with it.

I need an Ace or a King

2006-09-15T15:00:00.000-04:00

Recently, my friend joely posted on her blog with the title Solitaire. It was a haunting title for me. Lately, I have been passing my subway time by playing the solitaire game that comes with my Motorola Razor phone. I go through solitaire phases. Sometimes to kill the time I read, other times it's ipod listening, then there are the solitaire times.

Solitaire times usually come when my mind can't stay focused on a book because it will run back into the wilds of my racing thoughts. Solitaire times usually stay around a bit too long when my emotions can't seem to listen to a whole song with out using the song as a background track to the stories of my life.

The biggest issue I am having right now with the solitaire on my razor phone, is that I have yet to win a single game. I can't remember if I ever have won a game of solitaire on this phone and I have had this phone since October of last year. But, it has really begun to upset me in the past few months. The paranoid me thinks, "What does my phone have against me?" The perfectionist control freak in me thinks, "What wrong moves am I making with my cards? The self-deprecating me thinks, "Maybe I don't know the game of solitaire and it's not the game for me."

I want to scream at the screen of my phone when I have run out of options with my solitaire cards. I have to reluctantly give in to failing at this silly game. I flip my phone closed and open again to start a whole new game.

Somewhere on the other side of the technological world there is a dealer of those cards and this dealer has yet to deal me one workable hand of the simple game of solitaire.

Somewhere on the other side of the world there is a guy who is winning at solitaire. He may even enjoy the game. Maybe he was so good at solitaire, he's advanced to games with more than himself.

I am on the other side of this world losing. Playing day after day. Desperately trying to learn to win a game against myself. Equally frustrated and sad at each loss.

I don't think I am cut out for solitaire. I don't know how long I can keep up this losing streak before caving into my side of the world.

I am moving toward the acceptance that solitaire is not for me. I am not cut from a solitary cloth. I am not made to be solitary.

But, if I never learn to conquer solitaire, will I ever be ready for the games that are played at the next level?

"You gotta fast car"

2006-09-05T17:20:00.000-04:00

I am not sure if Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car" was as much a part of his youth as it was mine, but that song was so heavy with hurt. I remember not really knowing what it was about for the first few years after it was released. I remember later in college thinking it was such a weird song to have become so successful. Now, years later her self-titled album found it's way back into my life and I've discovered how many other songs on her album I love. The song "Baby Can I Hold You Tonight," which was later a shitty boyband cover. The song "For You," that only people who really gave the full album a listen will remember and love. As I sit down to try and recap the past week of my wild and crazy ride through my state of mind and California state, I can't help but think of that song. Although, the song's lyrics when you listen to the whole thing don't truly reflect my week in sunshine and bliss, a few of them will have to do for this post.

"We'll take this fast car and keep on drivin'" she would sing.

Rosas was a fast car. Rosas was the name he assigned her. Not for reasons you might expect. The car is not red or pink, it doesn't have a name similar to a flower or a petal, and Rosas owner was not of the latin or Mexican persuasion. In fact, the fast car is a sleek Mazda3. Black with a sunroof, and soft black leather interior. Four doors. Because he hates the idea of himself or anyone for that matter crawling in the back seat. Besides, the doors on two door cars are so much heavier and large. Rosas name was assigned shortly after he arrived in WeHo and met the numerous flower sellers that stroll the Santa Monica Boulevard strip at night approaching bar hoppers and restaurant goers offering "rosas." Except it must be typed phonetically so that you may see how it sounds when the short and stout Mexican mama offers them to you or when Carlisle, Rosas' corn-fed, white, southern boy owner speaks her name in an over pronounced Spanish accent.

"Rothath?" "4 dollath."

This is how he spoke to his car whenever referring to her. "Oh, look how pretty Rosas (rothath) is after her wash." Some would say it's childish. I called it charming. Because he said it with such earnesty. He wasn't joking. Mazda3's name was Rosas. Besides, I have aunts and uncles who still name their cars. We all have, at one point in our life, named our cars. I just haven't had one in ten years, so I forgot how much people really get into referring to their car by their new given name. By day 4 of 8, I was ridin' the Rothath (rosas) Band Wagon with the best of 'em.

I never could have imagined the view from Rosas while on the Pacific Coast Highway. I mean I knew it would be pretty and unique, but I had no idea it would be breathtaking and fantastical.
Every twist and turn revealed a different view of the sky, ocean, mountain. Just around the bend would be a scene from some movie about uncharted land or undiscovered country. I never tired of the next turn or bend in the road.

With the sunroof open and the music on just loud enough to be filler during silences and soft enough to allow conversation to be effortless, we drove the 8-9 hours. We stopped nearly two dozen times for yet another perfect photo opportunity. I remember Carlisle laughing at my fear of heights and brushing it off with the utmost confidence. Like a parent who let's go of their kid's bicycle seat when you first take the training wheels off. With a nonchalance that should be studied, he laughed at my dramatic display of fear and told me to brave it or stay in the car. So, there now exists a photo of me clutching a bridge that must have been 200-300 feet above a thin river of water branching out to meet the ocean. The look on my face after braving my fear (slightly) is that of genuine fear and dramatic interpretation of fear. It's priceless to say the least.

Rosas has a Bose sound system. She has been blessed with good, strong senses. The 80s collection CD I purchased in LA specifically for only one song comes up on Rosas' disc changer. I ask Carlisle if he minds if we skip to track 18 and then start the CD from the beginning. He is an easy type of guy, so, of course, gives me the okay. I know how crucial it is for the driver to like the music. Especially if that driver has driven the entire stretch so far. So, needless to say, Carlisle's best interest was at hand-not my need to hear "Hands To Heaven" by BREATHE. So, there its--the sun, the clouds, the breeze, the winding road, the edge of the country, the ocean and the song of all 80s love songs playing at perfect volume. Carlisle let's me sing along and doesn't say a word when I don't hit the high notes and turn to silent lip synch. His hand reaches across the gear shift and gently falls onto my thigh. Nothing else. No eye contact. No squeeze. Just a delicate hand draped ever so gently across my trembling thigh.

"Tonight I need your sweet caress..." the song belts.

His hands are beautiful to me in this moment. How have I never noticed the strength and beauty in his youthful hands? How have I never noticed his knuckles and the soft light hair on his wrist creeping slightly onto the back of his hand? The color of his string tied bracelet suddenly complements his skin tone on his hand and arm. His shirt is rolled to just below the elbow exposing the perfect amount of a forearm with soft viens appearing across the top and several more barely visible along the bottom of his arm. Like roads, they eventually intersect at the bend in his elbow. I feel this intersection with my first two fingers softly gliding over his skin then slowly back down to his hand and all the way out to his middle fingertip. I continue to sing the song. Again, I miss the high note and mouth the words instead.

"Tonight you calm my restlessness, you relieve my sadness..." the songs moves into the saxophone instrumental break.

The song. His hand. Bring me back to Henry's Skateland in Smalltown, USA. I asked Stephanie if she would meet me by the fir tree and kiss me on the lips. We did too. I relay a bit of my 80s past to my younger travel companion. He doesn't recognize the song. I don't mind. I don't bite back with a bitter banter about the good ol' days, or how old I never intended to be. I just give him more details about why I loved this song and why I still do. He nods his head a subtle yes and agrees it's a pretty song. He doesn't need to recognize it. He recognizes what it means to me. He doesn't need to think it's pretty. He thinks it is and because I do.

His hand makes it's way back to the wheel during sharp turns, but it eventually finds it's way back to my thigh. Never caressing. Never squeezing. Never sexual. Only intimate. Only soft. Only a reminder. Only a gesture. If I lift a finger his finger meets mine listening to the debate of whether they should intertwine or not. So available. So easy. So comfortable.

For months, I have been starving for affection. Taking it in brushed elbows and arms of strangers around the waist. Taking hugs from friends for a moment too long. For months I was convinced it was something I needed. Taking pats on the ass as compliments. Taking drunken thrusts as attraction. Taking drunken kisses as meaningful.

I begin to think of Tracy Chapman's song..."You've gotta fast car...is it fast to enough so that we can fly away...I gotta feeling that I belong....Aye, I gotta feeling I could be someone, be someone,...be someone."

All I needed was in that fast car, Ms. Rosas (rothath)! The surge of positive energy that came from Carlisle's gentle hand hit me like the waves that were crashing into the cliffs 300 feet below our winding road. I wasn't starving for affection. I was yearning for meaning, simplicity, and truth. Thank you Rosas for being that fast car. Carlisle, "just remember when we were driving, driving in your car speed so fast I'd feel like I was drunk, and city lights lay out before us and your arm...."

No words to say. No words to explain. This feeling inside. I have....

Airports

2006-09-05T05:53:00.000-04:00

Even if I weren't sad. Even if I didn't miss him. Even if the vacation had sucked. I would still feel a grey, cold, chalky sadness in my throat and heart when climbing through an airport. I hate them. Airports.

Looking back at my crossroads...a really bad metaphor

2006-08-26T19:18:00.000-04:00

People use the phrase "at a crossroads" far too often. They always say it the same way too. They take a deeper breath than normal and force themselves to speak the cliche with the utmost confidence. "Sounds like you are at a real crossroads in life," they say with a air of authority. Like they've been at that same crossroad before. When in actuality, I believe that "standing at a crossroads" is a fleeting moment in comparison to the road you just traveled and the road you end up choosing.

When I reflect on my "standing at a crossroads" moments, I see myself stopping, resting to catch my breath, looking in all directions and then taking the road my heart leads me to. Just like that, I am no longer at a crossroads. I am now on a different road. I am scared when I end up taking the "road less traveled." I am sad when there is no one "on the road" with me. And, often taking the new road is far more challenging and emotion filled than the "standing at a crossroads" moment. But, the saddest and most unfortunate thing is that the people who over use the "crossroads" phrase are generally the people still standing at them. I am not so far from my most recent crossroads that I can't still look back and see the ones I love still standing at them either scared to choose or more frightened not to try. Or worse yet, not able to admit that life moves on an endless winding road with twist and turns and if you continue to make house at the crossroads, you will only be forced to play a continuous game of chicken while dodging those who come to your crossroads and actually make a choice fully embracing the risks.

A metaphor that, now that I have over used in every way possible, will hopefully never find it's way back into my vernacular.

Sensorial Sentimentality from April 2004

2006-08-21T14:56:00.000-04:00

Now, I pray this is not too much for you.
Please don't run. This is my retelling of it.

The smell is not pleasant. The noise obtrusive. The subway platform is sprinkled with passengers. I feel as though I can hear a collective sigh as we all gaze deep into the tunnel searching for the next approaching coach home. Alas, no trace. In my case, I am on my way to your home. I catch my self checking my reflection in the C LOCAL across the platform. Not in the window. But in the dark box designated for the train label. It serves me better.

Should I read? Listen to music? And my heart beats. I think people are looking at me. I pace back and forth. Eight steps North. Eight steps South. To the rhythm of my heart. I carry on like this. Only stopping periodically to check my reflection again. As if my nappy wisps of hair have really moved on the platform that seems to be devoid of any air. My coins are dancing the Tarantella with my fingers. I realize I am doing it, and I hate that I am. I can't stand that sound. It reminds me of old people. Of people in line at the grocery store. People from my hometown. People at a bar. People who aren't really listening. I stop.

Inside the train. I sit up straight, without my back touching the seat/bench. A sure sign of my uncomfortableness with my own nervousness and insecurities. I am such a control oriented person, I try to force my heartbeat to match the revolution of the subway wheels. Chung-CHUNG. Chung-CHUNG. To no avail. It disobeys me and continues to patter away briskly. The next thing I know. The street.

Your street. I am walking. Turn left, a gust of wind. "MY HAIR!" I feel like I might have said this out loud. Not at a volume anyone could hear but me, but, nonetheless, still out loud. The homemade bouquet/note I plan to present to you is being ironed out between my hands. Building number 712. Apt #52. "Should I ring the doorbell or just knock?" I think to myself. So, I do both. I also think to myself, "Why can't this door be more of a reflective surface?" You don't answer the door. I am actually glad. It gives me more time.

"Shit!" did I say that out loud? I hope not. There you are with domestic-esque, kitchen thingys in your hands. "God he is so handsome." I tell myself. "God my mom would say, it looks like he makes a good husband." I think to myself. "God stop thinking about your mom right now." "God just stop thinking and say HI."

Pleasantries exchanged. My unconventional bouquet. One kiss. Three more. Each one a little more brave than the other. Yellow looks so good on you. Red looks so good on me. We look good together. Being in the kitchen adds an aroma to the moment. Citrus in the air, bread too maybe. And a warmth. My nerves ease slightly. I detect excitement in your eyes. Could it possibly match mine?

Dinner. Savory. I remember wanting to remember the spice of the pepper mixed with the sweet of the citrus. I remember wanting to remember the moist beads of your forehead from cooking. I wanted to look at more than your ass in those gorgeous pants. I wanted to make you laugh. Typical of my nature. There is so much I want to remember.

My thoughts speed through me. Smell him. Dior? Right?
Kiss him, again. Make a toast. No, too many words. Words can scare people. Just make a memory.

The movie. Hilarious. Interesting. Your laughter sporadic but genuine. Your body pressed to mine. The instantaneous comfort lingering between. Both so unsure of what to do with it.

The bedroom. A place that is yours not mine. A body that is yours not mine. Explorers on an expedition without a map. Where might X mark the spot on him? Where might X mark the spot on me? I believe in buried treasures. I believe in sparkling discoveries. I don't believe they happen in one expedition.

Morning. The cool breeze of the oscillating fan mixed with the warmth of the red sheets. It is a new place. It feels foreign to me too. I try not to be afraid. Even though I may not speak the language, can I get along in this place? I was happy. I was scared. Then I was happy again. Then I was with you. Then my concern, my heart, my mind, and my soul were with you. "Where is he?" I think. "Where should we be?" I question. A kiss good-bye unlike any kiss I have given or received yet. Not bad, but in an all-together different family than all the others.

The day continues. I smell you. It is sense memory. That damn cologne. It is not just in my sense of smell, it is now in my mind's nose. I read your email and write my own. I sigh. Relief that is. A sigh of comfort and joy. Another long breath out. Then I sense something. I need a breath mint. I had chicken with garlic sauce tonight. Thank God for curiously strong mints.
Thank God for curiously strong words.
Thank God for curiosity and strength.

We will talk soon, and let us both fear a little less and feel a little more.

Coming Home

2006-08-19T19:29:00.000-04:00

The summer heat that fills my apartment feels stronger because I have been drinking. I begin to shed my clothes as I turn the key. I make my way down the hallway leaving a trail of belongings behind me: shoes by the door, bag on the door knob to my bedroom, keys thrown on my bed, socks outside the bedroom door, pants outside the bathroom, T-shirt on the bathroom floor, underwear next to the end table, rings on the coffee table, bracelet on the floor next to the sofa because I am too tired to even begin to stretch out and reach the table since I have already found myself on my back on the sofa.

At first, I lay there debating whether to masturbate, smoke, or turn my headphones up even louder to drown out the silence in my apartment and the screaming and shouting in my head. I feel something poking me in my upper back. It's one of the three books I am reading right now. I must have fallen asleep yesterday while reading it. I have three books that I read all at once. One for home in the living room, one for home in the bedroom, and one that stays in my bag for travel time. Most of the time I only ever finish one out of the three. I grab the book that's buried in the sofa and actually attempt to open it up and pick up where I last left off. After re-reading the same three sentences and doing that "baby head bob thing" while on the edge of passing out, I toss the book and pull myself to sit up. I am never as drunk as I am tired. Well, hardly ever anyway. I stare at the T.V. and can make out a foggy version of myself reflected in it's dark monitor. How appropriate. I haven't turned my T.V. on in over two weeks. I really should disconnect the cable now that "So You THINK You Can Dance" is over. I reach for the secret stash of cigarettes but think better. So, it's off to the kitchen for the obligatory glass of water and on to the computer.

It is here where all my thinking happens. I open up the same three windows in the same order every time I log on this late of a state. First up, the AOL instant message box. Not that anyone I know is on at 4:15a.m., but I must be available for human contact at all times. Who knows maybe Nash will sign on and we can toss witticisms back and forth. Second window up is the ITunes window, where I immediately go to my "SLEEP" playlist. ON this playlist are songs that are undeniably beautiful but no one should be listening to them alone, drunk, at 4:17a.m. on some idle Tuesday. These are sad songs. Slow and soft songs. Sappy and sweet songs. Suicide songs. Suffocating songs. Finally window three is up. Here, I go back and forth from my two email accounts, to my friendster account, to my seadcody.com and randyblue.com accounts, to my blog, to joely's blog, to greek's blog, to RJ's blog, to Launderlusts blog, back to the emails. I search my inboxes for some correspondence. I will take anything. Maybe a boy sent me a smile from Friendster. Maybe that girl from the theatre company wrote about the class she's teaching. Maybe the actor's from work need more advice on their upcoming show. There is never enough in my inbox. At least not enough of what I want. I guess I can be greedy. I think about things. I think about writing down all the things I am thinking about. I check my blog again then back to my inbox. Then I begin to think about who I really want to write to and what I really want to say. "No time like the present." Isn't that how the saying goes? I am drunk and lonely and vulnerable. I am convinced that everything I think right now is how I truly feel. The alcohol has loosened my grip on my own self-censorship and I am ready to cut loose.

I want to write to The Nurse and say stupid shit about missing him but at the same time I want to tell him what hurt me. I want to make a list and check it twice. I want to just laugh with him and tell him my obsession with Travis on SYTYCD. I want him to say sorry. I want to say sorry. But...I don't.

I want to write to Dad and share with him my post about his visit and remind him that I am still thinking about all the ABUSE, yes, ABUSE that he brought into my world. I want to tell him that I think he can be so ignorant sometimes. I want to thank him for still loving me after my coming out. But...I don't.

I want to write my brother and shake him and tell him to listen to people. I want him to know that sometimes people tell you what to do because it's for the best and they are actually thinking of you. I want to tell him to breathe and let things out not just in. He will feel the difference. But...I don't

I want to write to the boys I met last week, last month, yesterday and ask them all what they really think of me? Is my naked body disgusting? Am I bad kisser? Was I too drunk? I want to tell them that I don't have time for games and that the grass will always been greener so please for fuck's sake just decide what you are ready for. I want to scream at them when they go too long without calling. I want to tell them how special I am. But I realize they should know that. I want to tell them how fragile I can be especially when I protest not to be. But...I don't.

I want to write my friends and yell at them for being fickle and fake. I want to remind them that I love them and even when I get wrapped up I still think of them. I want to scream when they don't make time for me. I want to shake them when they make bad choices in love and friendship. I want to remind them that we are our own best families. I want them to just listen sometimes, because there is still so much you don't know about me and it may not be pretty. But...I don't.

I want to write my congressman or my president and scream and yell about the lack of compassion and understanding for all the middle men in this world. I want to make them cry. I want to know why? Why? WHY? But...I don't.

I want to write to all my fantasy celebrity friends. To Ellen with love and laughter. To Kelly with admiration, adoration and respect. To Emily with sympathy, compassion, understanding and encouragement. To Oprah with ideas, thoughts, opinions, and thanks. To Meryl with deep admiration and inspiration. To Travis with lust, giggles, fear, and goosebumps. But...I don't.

I just listen to the songs over and over. Maybe it's Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol, or Hide and Seek by Imogen Heap. Maybe it's Somewhere Only We Know by Keane or Fields of Gold by Eva Cassidy. Damien Rice, Cyndi Lauper, Jason Robert Brown. It doesn't matter. They take me away.

I end up smoking one of the stashed away parliament lights. I sit on my window ledge of my fire escape and breathe in-blow out. If I just lay here what would happen. The songs echo my own thoughts. I throw out the half smoked fag and retreat to the sofa. I curl up. I hug my pillow like I am squeezing the life out of. I force myself to cry. I am not sad. I am not lonely. I am just stupid. I am looking for something and I don't even know what it is. I have a longing but it doesn't draw me to anything specific. So, instead this is how I come home to myself every night. (Not every night but often) I know it won't be like this forever. I know it won't be like this tomorrow. But for tonight, it's exactly what I didn't know I needed or wanted.

Blogfish (A blog that is selfish)

2006-08-15T14:31:00.000-04:00

In a world of selfishness, a city of shallowness, and a circle of self-involvement I hesitate to even relay the experience from my last post and then proceed to use this post to comment on it.

In my world, when you talk about not being selfish you get reminders signed, sealed and delivered by your friends, your colleagues, your peers, and strangers telling you that you are just like them. Selfish. Because if everyone else is selfish like us we can rationalize it. It soothes the pain of our own embarrassing admission of being completely and utterly self-involved. We listen to a friend, a co-worker, a guest on Oprah talk about how they are trying to be more selfless and thoughtful and we roll our eyes and sigh. We call them self-righteous. Because we can't stand that "new age' bullshit. Don't start that "be a better person" tirade. Stay with me in this bottomless pit of self-involvement, seclusion and oddly enough exclusiveness. Because we actually believe (especially in NYC) that being selfish is important to survival. Because we believe in order to get anywhere in life everyone has to be (and I quote) "a little bit selfish." Maybe to a certain degree this is true. But, we metropolitan, cosmopolitan, 9-5ing, wine and dining, manhattanites have gone too far. We have cut out any middle ground between selfish and self-righteous. Because we need things to be cut and dry. Linear. Like the streets we tread on daily. A grid. Where each person can fit into their own categorized square box. And then proceed to not think outside of it.

As I continue on with my "tirade," even I can't help but think I am sounding self-righteous. But, if sounding self-righteous is the first step in realizing other people are around me, then I will risk it. If sounding self-righteous is the worst outcome of learning how to thrive in this world instead of just survive, then I will risk it. If my blessing from Sherman has me talking for days, weeks, months about the change it has stirred in me and that sounds self-righteous, so be it.

I want to surround myself around caring, nurturing, generous and selfless people. I want to stop letting all of my life's little issues bring me down. I want to stop using my issues and the state of down as an excuse for my attitude and behaviors. I want to stop expecting people to understand. I want to let go of my frustration when they can't. I want to stop making it about me. How do I do that?

I turn around and post on my blog. One of the most selfish things to exist. I fail miserably by writing in my blog, making it all about me, then posting it for the world (a dozen or so readers) to see.

Self-righteous is defined as piously sure of one's own righteousness; moralistic. And, pious is defined asprofessing or exhibiting a strict, traditional sense of virtue and morality; high-minded; commendable; worthy.
Those things don't sound so bad to me.

But, I have years of jaded, bitter, lonely, selfish learned behaviors to unteach myself.

Sherman's Blessing

2006-08-12T21:56:00.000-04:00

3:58 a.m. Thursday, August 10th.

I called out to the driver of the taxi to stop on the far corner of my block on the upper west side of Manhattan. I handed him ten singles and said good night. I slid across the back seat to exit, according to the law, on the curb side of the taxi. As my tired ass slowly glided across the black pleather seat it bumped into something. I urgently fumbled for the object, assuming it was my precious razor phone falling out of my pocket or better yet my grip. What I found was a very bulky, black leather wallet. In my dazed state of exhaustion and confusion I almost handed it to the driver passing the ball of responsibility into his court. Just before making the hand-off, I remembered that I didn't trust an ounce of one single, solitary cab driver in this stinkin' city. So, with reluctance, I tightened my grip on the massive brick of a wallet and proceeded up the five flights to my apartment.

Inside my apartment, I immediately got to work on tracking down the individual who's wallet was left behind. I leafed through the right side of the bifold wallet. There I found Sherman's Driver's License, his four credit cards, his two bank cards, his social security card, his insurance cards, his Medicare card, his medical supplies delivery service card, his senior citizen Metro Pass, his crumpled instructions for what pills to take, how many and when, his veteran's benefits card, his library card, a few receipts, and two random business cards for Jewish organizations. On the LEFT side of the wallet was all of Shirley's cards. Her driver's license, her Medicare card, insurance cards, prescription cards, MTA pass, everything but credit and debit cards on her side of the wallet. I stopped and pondered why the man would be carrying all of his wife's life of identification in his wallet. The thought crossed my mind that she may be crippled. The thought crossed my mind she may be dead and he carries her with him this way. The thought crossed my mind that maybe when two people get this old together (83 and 80) they are together every moment of everyday and it only makes sense to carry it all in one place.

After a 20 minute 4 a.m. call with AMEX, no luck. I did close down Sherman's card for him but there was nothing I could do at 4 a.m. I rifled through the wallet again and created my own story for Shirley and Sherman. They lived in Brooklyn (at least when the licenses were issued). I wondered if they had a huge apartment. I wondered what war Sherman was a veteran of. World War II perhaps. He would have been 20 years old the year that victory came to the Allied Powers. I wondered how much money was on their senior citizen metro passes. The longer I looked at his photo on the veteran's card and her photo on her i.d., the more I felt for them. Losing your wallet sucks. But, imagine being a senior citizen with your life's most important documents and nearly $150 in cash gone in the 37 seconds it took to pay and leave your taxi cab.

I went to sleep. I think I had selfish dreams about winning lots of money or being given some cash reward for my find. Then I jumped to a completely unrelated dream where Travis from "So You Think You Can Dance," was in a play that I was directing and I asked him to create some choreography for me. We both (in the dream) loved the song "It's Not Up To You" by BJORK. He was delightful to work with and had massive amounts of respect for me as a director and an artist. The last dream I remember having involved me walking on this elevated runway that was probably 100 feet wide and the entire length of central park. It was just suspended in mid-air. I was walking with purpose and was sweating. It wasn't a cat walk it was like an airplane runway. There were very few people on it with me and I was walking/running much faster than all of them. I wasn't afraid of what was at the the end. In my dream I knew the runway was coming to an end at 59th Street and I knew that whatever happened I would be okay. I zoomed to the end and when the runway ended I kept going. I wasn't flying. I was still walking. But, I was suspended just above the streets at 20 or so feet. No one could see me. I was floating. But sadness came over me. I started to step inside my own dream for fear that I was dreaming of my death. I abruptly woke up and looked at the clock. 11:53 a.m. Thursday, August 10th.

I spent the remainder of my morning (ah..em afternoon) tracking down Sherman and Shirley again. I called a few more of their credit cards and finally found out that one of them had already been cancelled by Sherman himself. A few of the companies I spoke with tried to phone him but no luck. I gave each company I spoke to my name and phone number just in case they got in touch with him.

Finally, it dawned on me to try doing an internet search. (internet in my own apartment is a new thing...so I was a little slow on the uptake) There it was. His name and the matching address on his i.d. But, in order to get his number you had to pay for the "extra special" search. I did it. I got the number and I called. It rang and rang. Then it rang some more. I hung up feeling defeated and on the brink of fed up. This 'do-good' crap isn't paying off, I thought to myself. Ten minutes later I tried again. I must have let it ring a dozen or more times. Just when i was about to flip my phone closed, a fumbling receiver makes it's way to a quiet, scratchy voiced man with the sounds of phlegm forming in his sinuses...there is a least a six or seven second delay in his "hello."

"Is this Sherman _____________ ?" I ask.

"Who is this?" He asks after another six or seven seconds.

"Is this Mr. Sherman and Shirley ___________?" I ask once more.

"This is he. Who's this?"

"I have your wallet, sir. My name is Clem. I found..."

He interrupts me. "Who is Clem?"

"Sir," I say over him, "I found your wallet in taxi cab in the wee hours of the morning on my way home from work. I work in the service industry until very late that's why I was in a cab." I was so desperate for him to trust me that I had to try and prove my sobriety and responsibility for being in a cab at such a late hour. The power of our elders, I must say.

Then came a painfully long pause. I actually said "umm sir?" He finally spoke in an even more hushed voice than before peppered with more gravel in his throat.

"Bless you." He said so simply.

After a twenty minute conversation about where my office was located, what my cell phone number was, how to spell my name, and a few repeats of all of that, we made a date to meet in the lobby of my office at 5:30 p.m. It was about 3:10 p.m. at this point. He had a very long commute ahead of him living on the extreme edges of Brooklyn. I flipped my phone closed and folded the wallet with the seeds of a smile planted deep within my soul. I flipped back open my phone to call a friend and share my story. I was only minutes into the story when a call beeped in. I was sure it was him. I don't know anyone with a 718 area code. (And that wasn't intended to be snobby) I hung up with said friend and retrieved my call waiting.

"Clem? It's Sherman. What time did we say we'd meet?" He then repeated the address again for the eighth time, the spelling of my name for the fourth time, and my phone number for the sixth time and we said good-bye. Well, I did at least. He just hung up the phone with no salutation.

I made my way downtown clutching to the wallet for dear life. God forbid I finally locate the guy and then I end up leaving it on a subway seat. I exit the subway in midtown and head toward my office. I try to imagine his height and if he wears his age or not. I step into the lobby of my building and his back is to me. I instantly know it is him. One, because there is only one other person in the lobby and they are a busy bustling by. Two, because he is eyeing the six elevators with such focus and anticipation. He is early. So am I. I hope he hasn't waited long. I pause for a moment and take in his frail little frame, his oversized white canvas shoes, the plaid button down that is also too large for him. He must be 5' 7" and weigh about 100lbs. I don't want to startle the gentle man, so I walk timidly around him in a sweeping circle so that I may have our first introduction happen face to face.

"Sherman?" I inquire with a huge smile that says 'trust me...I am harmless."

"Clem." He replies with an air of exasperation. Like he has been holding his breath all this time in the lobby until I appeared in the flesh. I am sure the thought crossed his mind that he made this long trip into Manhattan only to be played by some cruel teenager.

"Here you are, sir. " I handed him his wallet like it was the book report I wrote for "Lord of the Flies" in the fifth grade. With pride and honor.

"Thank you, young man." There are lots of breaks and pauses for breath in his speech. "You are...such an honest man....There aren't too many people like you." Periodically, I nod thank you and give an aww shucks expression. He is not finished talking though. Everytime the break in speech is long enough for me to believe he has said his peace, he begins again.

"May I call your parents?" What for? I think to myself. "I want to tell them how proud of you they should be. I want to thank them for doing something right in raising you to be the selfless, honest person you are today."

I thank him for the gesture. He says he wants to give me something for my troubles while reaching into his pockets. I explain how it was no trouble and reach out and stop his arm from digging any deeper into his trousers. He then proceeds to explain why all of his wife's identifications are in his wallet. And, without turning this into a hallmark commercial (if it hasn't already) let's just say his wife was in the hospital the night he lost his wallet. He needed to have all of her information in case any emergencies or formalities had to be dealt with. He looked so tired. Yet, when he looked at me, he looked surprised by the world. He began to mutter thank yous softly to himself while looking down at his payless shoes. I stood there silently. He just kept shaking his head in disbelief or of awe. I didn't know if I was supposed to ask questions or stay still.

Then the greatest thing happened. He reached for my right shoulder then my left one and with a grip stronger than you'd expect he started to shake me a little. It's hard to put into words. I am a much better demonstrator than storyteller. It was like he wanted to throw his arms around me but he shook his arms instead when they made contact with me. This was probably to remind himself I was a stranger and to keep me at arm's length. He knew my shoulder wasn't the one to cry on. He was looking down again. Finally his grip loosened slightly and as it did he looked up with tears down both of his cheeks weaving through the rivers of lines etched on his experienced face. I sank in his rivers. I dove into this stranger. I hugged him with all the emotion I could muster for a man I hardly knew. I told him things would be alright. I told him to keep his money and go buy some flowers for his wife. I cried with him. One, because I wanted him to feel safe in doing so with me. Two, because he moved me.

"God Bless you," He said. "Even if you don't believe in a God, and I am not asking you to, someone or something has blessed you. I hope you continue a blessed life and get everything you deserve."

I began to thank him repeatedly. I suddenly felt thankful for him and this experience. I wanted to ask him to keep in touch. I wanted to go to Lenox Hill Hospital and meet his wife. I wanted to walk him to a cab. Instead we parted with awkwardness and waved good-bye.

Sherman shuffled out of my lobby while I proceeded to the elevators of my work life. He ended up stopping twice before leaving the building all together to look back in my direction. He couldn't see me because the brightness of the sun outside contrasted and made the lobby appear dark.

Ding. The elevator arrives. I step inside and ride it to the seventh floor alone, allowing myself to squeeze out all the tears I could in the seconds it takes an elevator to climb seven floors. I must have looked like I was ringing out a wet rag. I scrunched up my face and wept silently for five to ten seconds. I was trying to get it all out and not carry it with me.

Sherman fell into my lap and walked out of my life in 13 hours. But he did so with the deepest sincerity I had ever witnessed and a flourish of vulnerability that will stay with me for a lifetime... I hope. He made me think. He made me feel. He made me proud. He made a difference.

The Visit...Part I

2006-08-04T12:44:00.000-04:00

He sits next to me, and after 29 years of being my father and not always playing the role I might add, he still can't say it, admit to it, embrace it, apologize for it, see it or hear it.

"IT," being most of his actions.

The rationale he creates for his behaviors in the past has only gotten worse over the years. There is an excuse for everything. Everything he kicked in 1985. Everything he threw in 1991. Everything he left in 2000.

He sat on my couch for the first time in ten years with little forgiveness, remorse, self-reproach or sadness. He did admit to having regrets. That's a step. But, not a step in the right direction. No complaints and no regrets is my motto. "All you give is all you get," goes the song. I will admit that just the fact that he wanted to talk this candidly about the past and the present is his way of giving all he can in order to get back all that he has wanted from his son throughout our life and relationship. I am not overlooking the leaps and bounds he has made as a person since the divorce, since my coming out.

"I know I got out a hand a few times, Clem....but...I wouldn't call that abuse." He says to me facing forward as I sit to his left looking right at him. If he really believed he didn't abuse me (and my brother) wouldn't he be able to look me square in the eye and say it with confidence? I didn't even bring up the topic. He did. How did we get here? He asked if there was anything about my childhood that still affected me. I talked about all the financial hardships we faced and the way we dealt with them as a family still has an affect on me now. He took this sharp turn himself. He wanted to talk about this part of my childhood. He was still haunted by my childhood. Before jumping up off the couch to explode, I realized this. He does know, somewhere deep inside his mind and/or heart, that he was abusive. He does know it shouldn't have happened. He does take some of the blame. Before I began my tirade on the meaning of abuse and who can decide what is considered abuse, I took into account how difficult it must be for a father who wants his sons to love him in a way they never have to sit and fully accept blame and call "IT" abuse. It's an nasty word. It's an ugly misdeed.

But, I told him. I told him that was exactly what "It" was. You did abuse me...us.

I could have sat on that couch and given him specific examples. I could have used the most horrific ones. The ones that left spider vein bruises across both of my buttocks. The ones that sent me flying over the loveseat. The ones where my head came close to cracking the pavement while I humiliatingly pissed my pants at 12 yeas old. But I didn't. I didn't need to. He didn't need to hear it. He knew. He knows the times. He mentioned the time Cole and I disappeared to the creek to play and shouldn't have. He mentioned the time I begged to come in from the rain with my sore shoulder and I just couldn't throw (didn't want to throw) another pitch.

He didn't say he was sorry. He said he regrets "some" of what he did to me...us. I realized that if I want to continue to have a relationship with my father, if I want to send him into the afterlife with no resentment and anger, if I want to make the most of the last half of his life on earth with me, I was going to have to forgive him without an apology. I have grown used to this throughout my life. It wasn't something new I had to do. I had forgiven him for each instance when they happened and he didn't say sorry. He might have said the words back then but they didn't come from him. Mom would always be standing right beside him coaching the next phrase out of his mouth...

"Tell the boys your sorry," she would coax.

"I'm sorry boys." He would say mechanically.

"Tell the boys you love them," mom would encourage.

"I love ya." He would mumble.

He still gargles those words to this day. But, I know that he does indeed love me. I love him too. I know that he is sorry. I forgive him too. Some things are just known. They don't need to be said to be known. I would love to hear 'I am sorry' someday. But, I don't NEED to hear it in order to forgive him. I don't NEED two little words to move on in my life. I don't NEED those words in order to patch the remaining holes in the tattered and torn relationship between us.

I think, maybe, that is unconditional love? When you don't need anything from the other person and you can love them wholly and fully? Maybe? When there isn't one or two little requirements you need to meet in order to share my love with you? Is this close to what unconditional love is? Maybe.
Maybe it's just between me and my Dad.

There's more to the visit to come.

Can't take the heat!

2006-08-03T14:24:00.000-04:00

No matter how often I shower...
No matter how little clothing I wear...
No matter how much darkness I surround myself with...
No matter how high the AC is on...

I still fee like a raisin. Wrinkled, sticky, chewy, gummy, gooey, doughy, not that tasty but still good for you.

Make it stop!

Sending me on a Rollercoaster Ride

2006-07-23T02:20:00.000-04:00

It begins when I look at him. The attraction on my end is instantaneous. He, on the other hand, is aloof. He doesn't show signs of reciprocation or signs of repulsion. He is entirely too neutral. There are a few others around too. All attractive and enticing in their own ways. I set my sights on one and pull my focus toward him.

From a distance, he looks so intimidating, magical, breathtaking, sweeping. I am filled with anticipation and fright. I am sure he looks better than he really is. I am sure up close I will see the parts that make him up and hold him together. I am sure he won't look as beautiful up close as he does from a far. I want to run to him. But, I know that the sooner I get there the sooner it is over. As I approach, my heart rate quickens as my nerves tighten. What if I don't like him? What if he doesn't do it for me?

He makes me wait for him. Others are waiting too. He makes me share him with others. He makes me jealous.

Finally, my chance has come. I hop on his train (of thought) knowing he is the only one with the path insight. I give up all control. (Which is so unlike me.) We go slowly at first. Climbing up the hill of introductions and pleasantries with the utmost caution and intensity. The anticipation is killing me. I can see the top and it looks like it could be exhilarating. With all my insecurities and fears tightly packed inside my soul and wrapped in my body with a smile for a bow, I hold on tight and let it ride.

There is a huge fall and my breath get's taken away. Then I brace myself for another uphill climb. This one is faster, smoother, and feels like a blink in time. There are ups and downs and more twists and turns. We pull up to the end and I leave. I am exhilarated. But I am tired, shocked, excited and scared. I can't decide if I should do it again or if he even cares that I do it again. Will it feel the same if I do it again?

I get on line hoping it will be worth the ride again. I do it again and again.

I am a rollercoaster junkie...

This can be a good thing and a bad thing in life.

Conversations

2006-07-21T17:53:00.000-04:00

I sometimes wish that my phone calls could be recorded and broadcast on a low-budget late night Public Access Show. All there would be is a really cheezy photo of me pursing my lips and nearly blowing a kiss, or, better yet, giving you my best abercrombie and fitch close up. My hair would be photoshopped darker, my lips pouty-er, and my cheek bones more severe. And then a photo of whom ever I am talking to spilt screened next to mine. This photo would be one of those "caught on the street photos." Maybe they are tripping on the sidewalk or sucking too intently on the straw in their frappacino. Or, it's a photo of them lifting an oversized club sandwich or something of the sort toward their gaping mouth.

Then you would listen to whatever conversation unfolds. Regardless of how stimulating or dreary. If you chose just the right picture of me and the person on the other end, and you spilt screen them next to each other, it wouldn't matter what was being said. It would always be slightly entertaining or mildly interesting at the very least. You would associate this conversation with the two images you were looking at and begin to make assumptions and conclusions about me and the unlucky friend or colleague gorging on french fries and mayonnaise.

If it was done just right, I could take the most mundane conversation and make it entertainment. I could also always make myself out to be the good guy.

This is what goes on in my mind when we talk on the phone. Or at least after we have finished.

Good-bye!

Don't Cha'?

2006-07-17T16:24:00.000-04:00

Don't you want to see me naked? To see if I live up to your standards. To see if I will look good/right/whatever-enough to maintain it...with you. Isn't that what's important? Longevity. Of sex. Of the body. Of the attraction.

Don't you want to kiss me? To see if I use too much tongue. To see if I follow AND lead. Don't you want to know what I taste like? Don't you want to know if it's compatible? IT being the kiss. Isn't kissing amazing? Are you afraid of it's impact? Don't you want to know how the kiss will hit you? So you can take a step forward/aside/...back.

Don't you want to hold my hand? To see if it's strong. To see if I know which way to intertwine our fingers. To see if it happens without effort. Or, are you afraid of hand holding because you don't need to be lead, followed, tugged in any direction?

Don't you want to just wrap yourself around me? To see if you are giving into the inevitable or turning away from what haunts you. To see if holding me or being held is a genuine desire or if it comes from the origin of loneliness, desperation or a search for safety. What if I am safe? What if I used you? What if you need me?

Don't you want to tell me everything? To see what I think. To see if I can understand you. To see if I will walk away. Isn't that the hardest part? Understanding. One another's shit.

Don't you wished you could hear your heart? If we could, though, would we listen?

Don't you wished it was easy...easier?

Don't you wished you knew?

Body over Mind

2006-07-10T00:14:00.000-04:00

The doctor shook my hand with a soft, subtle, warm and trusting smile on his face. He first asked me how I'd been, remembering a small detail from the previous visit. This increases his validity and overall stamp of my approval.

I lied. I told him through a graveled voice that things were going well. (Too many beers the night before this appointment and bummed 2! cigs)

He asked me if I had finally settled into my new place or if things at work had slowed down enough to get some much needed rest to kick of the remaining straggles of a cold.

I lied. I told him I had been sleeping a full 7-8 hours a night and work was easing up on me. (Insert a yawn--no joke--he giggles, I ponder the meaning of the word straggles)

He took a seat, crossed his legs and then proceeded to confidently read off my results of all my lab work. HIV--Clean...Hep--Clean...Syph-Clean...Kidneys--Great...Liver--pause--Good...(was he serious? my liver results read good on a medical lab report? whoa, maybe Bikram Choudray is on to something here...) He was so pleased with my lab results he used the word superb to describe my cholesterol. Like he was looking at an A+ book report I had brought home. He even got back up from his seat to show me the nation's averages, stating that I was in an "ideal" range. He was a bit too close to me. We were almost cheek to cheek. And, although my doctor isn't hot, he's still a thirty-something, not over weight yet, gay, male, DOCTOR!! and I was so happy too, that I wanted to hug him and kiss him on his cheeks. (Is that wrong?)

He said that my health was in excellent condition to enter my thirties. I smiled while the pangs of a burp began to make a small incision of indigestion on the walls of my heart. He began to fold up his files. I swallowed the burp while he wasn't looking. (El Centro restaurant mixed with Stella Artois)

"Is there anything else I can help you with today, Clem? Any questions." He asked so sincerely.

I lied. "No, Dr. Everret, thank you."

I would like to take this opportunity to thank my body for plowing along against incomparable odds. My body is kicking while I keep giving it a lickin'. Don't let those medical records fool you though. Just cause my blood and my organs are warm and functioning doesn't mean everything inside me is in agreement. I am grateful my mind and body can agree to disagree.

My Brush with Keanu Bergin or Patrick Reeves

2006-07-08T18:54:00.000-04:00

He walked up to me. He was drunk.
He threw his right arm around me forcing me to lean away from his naked torso. (Earlier in the day he said he would be going shirtless later and hoped I could handle it) WHA??

He looked at me with his chin down, eyes up toward his brows and head slightly cocked to one side. This is his look. He has perfected it. It's this studied nonchalance that is undeniably deliberate and as fake as Keanu Reeves' voice. It doesn't work on me. It didn't work on Matt, it repulsed Tim, and freaked Brian out. Lucas was the only one used to it and he knew how to ignore it. He was trying to come on to me. He could feel me resist his pull but he insisted on holding tighter. He had to see that my face was turning frantically side to side to dodge his beer and whiskey breath but he brought his mouth closer and closer to my face. He had to know that what he was doing looked like an after-school special about teenage girls learning to say no. He began to say the most ridiculous lines of crap to me. ON top of the crap he said, he delivered it in this syrup-y, affected, pouty-lipped voice.... (insert Keanu's voice mixed with the crazy husband in Sleeping with the Enemy that Julia Roberts is running from, Mr. Patrick Bergen)
"you look hot today. do you think I look hot?"
"You wanna kiss me, don't cha'?"
"Come on, Clem! Oh, come on!"

At this point it sounded like it was heading deeper into the plot of a Lifetime Television for Women Rape Movie. But, for me it was the opposite. It cracked me up. The laughter started in my groin. I tried to stifle it. But, to no avail. The laughter came popping out like a pot of boiling water with the lid on. At first, the lid would pop open for a quick millisecond letting a drop out, and then it would pop open with more frequency until I was bursting with laughter and I flipped my lid. It probably hurt his feelings. I probably looked a little crazy. But, I couldn't help it. It was so bad it was good. It's like Elizabeth Berkley's acting in SHOWGIRLS. It repulsed me and made me sad, but, ultimately, I was entertained.

He didn't stand a chance.

Call it a defense mechanism, my laughing, but it was funny. No one wants to be pinned against a wall and forced to do something they don't want to. I am not overlooking the violating aspect of this. But we were in a public space with lots of people watching. He wanted to make a scene. However, he was three sheets to the wind. The scene he gave us was like watching William Hung sing "She Bangs" with the utmost confidence and reckless abandon. He gave us SHOWS, honey. And, I gave him audience reaction. Just not the reaction he expected.

The cocky son of a bitch!